Can-I-gettaCan-I-gettaCan-I-getta; that’s what he says, or sort of sings to himself, over and over, faster and faster as the afternoon slides forward. The melody is disjointed, not exactly familiar, even to him, but still enormously pleasing – a stress reducer. Like so many of his habits, the quickening staccato-shot toward an unreachable crescendo that would drive others insane, instead works to steady him, make him feel like himself. The old boot that he is. Old and worn in, not out. The bump and scar on his shin where his hammer strike missed the bumper he was detaching. The heaving chest that grew ever so slightly with each moment of adulthood. The crazy mind that spins out songs and exclamations all day in bursts of glee, about penguins and hot rods, donuts and trailer parks. Eh-eh-eh, Eh-eh-eh… he’s off on another tangent – a car racing downtown, 20 miles in 20 minutes, in traffic. Better use the shoulder. Caaaaaan-I-gettaCan-I-gettaCan-I-getta…
Walking, if that’s what one would call it, was what he liked to do most when he was drunk. The animated chattering and amorous canoodling of the tavern culture carried much charm, but it was his walk to his flat, after his snoot was full, that gave him the most sublime joy. The magic in the bottle seemed unfailing; it numbed his aching, prematurely aged joints, and at the same time, provided air soles to his shabby shoes. Sidewalks became trampolines, curbs turned to starting blocks that would launch him into an intersection as if he were spring loaded. The restrictive grid of the city turned curvy and forgiving, very forgiving, with walls like billiard cushions, and soft green parkways like table felts. The world moved then too, but faster than his vision, which was on a slow watercolor delay. If it was windy he could push back against the breeze with his hands and the baggy arms of his greasy overcoat. If it was rainy his feet would become an entire percussion section. Often he’d sing along the way, his gait, propelling the rhythm as he seemingly traversed among the clouds. The cacophony of sounds were his arrangement, and yet he was generous in sharing its majesty, a remnant of an aria, a stomp, with the occasional passerby. There was no straining of the vocal chords, no pain at all. Odes to joy along the wet nighttime streets.
It was walking that was his favorite thing to do when he was drunk.
King’s Club King’s Club! Ain’t a king no more, don’t wanna be. Wish I’d known before.
The words repeated over again in his head and in sinc with his steps. He was marching away, for good this time but no one knew. To the coast, all the way west this time, not just to the Badlands and back, but all the way. L.A. Airsoles might be heavy out there but they sure add bounce to his trip over here, on the colder, harder pavement. Bricks bricks bricks he’d miss them, the color changing bricks that are everywhere here. Gold to red to purple to blue, morning to night and then sometimes neon-kissed under the club marquees. Alien bricks or at least garish immigrants among their cousins. There were still old street lamps in this neighborhood, the city was late to change anything around here, and the golden glow above, a hundred dying suns, would be missing out there, replaced by a boozy, sinking disc seen against the smog’s dirty screen. He’d buy a pair of swim trunks – everyone swam in cut-off’s here, and maybe a Vespa to glide the few blocks to the beach. Perhaps later, a big hog, or a Bel-Air with a rag top to head up and down the PCH. Up to San Fran and down to Tijuana. Ain’t a king no more, and nobody knew. How could he tell them. How could they understand. Anything different scared them. A hundred black leather greasers lined up against the alley walls around here, all watching the world go by. And now he’s going by. Bye. Past the corner and across the gas station lot, through the prairie yard over the viaduct, past the water tower and the guy with the gun, under the fire escape jungle and down the gangway. To the depot.
Wish I’d known before, wish I’d known before, the depth of the shame and the sadness, the opening that next morning and the promise of reckoning, sunlight, and escape.
King’s Club King’s Club! Ain’t a king no more and don’t wanna be.
It was a long nap, not as long as some, but better by an hour than the one yesterday. The resonant wind in his curls brought a freshness beyond sleep to the customarily stale early evening. This troubled him for a moment, nothing troubled him for much longer than that, but for that brief interlude he wondered if he’d been pursuing the wrong discipline. Maybe he should abandon his commitment to napping and instead figure out why his hair felt so right in the slight gale. Was it the product choice, the Tenax, that made the difference up there? How could it be so different than whatever he’d stolen from the apothecary aisle last month? Maybe it was the increasing length of the locks – he’d been saving money by avoiding regular haircuts. Or maybe – perhaps this was it, the way he slept had unmatted or otherwise arranged his hair just right, and now it caught the breeze like a sail. If so, he could chalk it all up to mere coincidence, and he wouldn’t have to give up napping, a relief indeed, for he didn’t know what else he’d do on all his idle afternoons. He tied up that rationalization like a sailor. Smirking, he fixed a gaze through his sunglasses at the setting sun, and presently turned in the opposite direction, heading into the night.
Continuing the expeditions of Jeff MacNelly, James Kilpatrick, and Eugene McCarthy, with apologies.
The Super Delegate
Like a message from prehistory, a multitudinous swarm, or a darkening sky, the general election pestilence of the Super Delegates casts a pall over the hopes of common pols. Thundering home the message of the elders, the SD stifles the cries for reform and change that, in one of nature’s ironies, pop up in sequence with the SD’s quadrennial pre-election appearance. The Super Delegate has extraordinary strength in numbers, as each SD carries a power weighted greater than its pitiful cousin, the lowly, simple Delegate. En masse, the SD population can sap the energy from a primary season and decimate interest in a convention. It can eviscerate expected television ad revenues for convention week, and cause the unemployment of hundreds of advance people. The SD is, as such, widely reviled, and yet, in keeping with the country’s norms, is also left unchecked to continue its plunder of political reason. However, the changing times bring snippets of news from the field: poachers hunting outside of election season, under the radar of parties concerned, may be slowly but inexorably thinning the Super Delegate herd. Check back in four years.
She didn’t know the girl, she was sure of it now. In the walk from the department store she had rifled through her memory, cross referencing facial features, hair style, voice, clothes, posture, gait; and found nothing. Now, she felt more anxiety, even more than she’d felt when she heard the comment as she marched through the cosmetics department. But now she questioned: had she heard it – would a stranger be so rude? Was it just her imagination running away with something she could not be sure of? Again the rifling started, the Rolodex shuffle; maybe she knew the girl, maybe…
She caught her reflection in a store window. She hated the way she looked when she was submerged in obsessive thought – her eyes looked smaller and her face longer, her chin tended to jut out. She thought she looked like a brooding old spinster at best, at worst: an angry man about to rampage through the streets. Not the desired presentation for a woman of twenty years who woke up this morning vowing to shine like the rising sun.
He was a big guy, tall and broad shouldered, his black jacket doing little to conceal the bulk. However, he was as shy as he was big, and more than that, sad and morose. He always looked like he’d just been crying, even though that seemed out of the question, as his personality was clearly cobbled from Gary Cooper parts. He would loom over his friends in front of clubs, looking about, almost disinterested, his shaggy hair falling into his face. Rarely speaking, he nodded his head at the bar when he wanted something, as if unsure anyone would respond to his verbal requests. He wished to take up as small a space as possible. Still, he was big, and his size brought with it a natural presence that, even if he’d rather it not, brought him some attention.
He had the air of the graveyard about him. Even if he was at a party, he looked like he was ruminating in a cemetery. There was something deep and dark on his mind, though not dangerous, and if anyone can be comfortable bearing such burdens, he seemed that one. Comfortable in a chosen skin; black leather, as it was for everyone in those days.
One evening he and his friends passed a vagrant outside a shuttered storefront. A week later he received one of those friends at his house, and when he had turned his back on his visitor, the friend noticed a stirring in an adjacent room. Quickly, thinking it an intruder, the friend rushed in and found the vagrant, unnerved but cleaned up a bit, and apparently staying in the abode. The friend turned to his tall and broad host, who, of course, said nothing, then the friend looked around the room. There were photographs, at least a dozen of them, affixed to the walls and leaning on tables, of a young woman the friend had never seen.
“You got somethin to say to me?” the friend inquired, somewhat pointedly. Predictably, there was no response, just the slightest bow of the head, which somehow completely took the edge off the moment. The friend inhaled as if to make another inquiry but held the breath. He turned to look at the photos before exhaling and, after grabbing the big guy’s sleeve, he left.
When the friends met up later that evening, nothing was said about the visit, nor would anything ever be said about it. Nothing really changed in the dynamic among friends, just as nothing had ever changed before, except in considering an incident which occurred shortly thereafter that would have never happened in prior times, in this way. A wisecracking bartender at a restaurant started in on the big guy, equating his silence for stupidity, The bartender made one crack too wise and two too many, and the friend who knew the secret lost his composure. Now, normally, busting up each other with put downs was the primary pastime among the friends and their acquaintances, but something, some small thing, had changed, at least that’s what coursed through the mind of the friend in the seconds that transpired while he grabbed the bottle of rye on the bar, smashed it, and started after the bartender.
I heard the shot as I was looking at his face, or at least I think that was how it happened, sequentially. I remember his head as a bit of a blur, as if it were moving just a bit fast for my senses, like the bullet that penetrated the adjacent brick and sent clay shards to scrape the left arm of his jacket. The speed of sound is slow, I remember from school, and because of that the audible crack of the shot gave me no clue to the distance of the shooter. Human reaction is slow as well, at least in stunned surprise, and if there was intent to aim and fire again then he was a goner, standing as he was perpendicular to but still against a wall, a blind man sent to a firing squad.
There was no second shot, just a disoriented mumble, and maybe a stumble, as the event came and passed. Mostly it felt like silence, though I must have heard the trickle of brick parts as they hit the pavement, but it seemed a long time before he said “What the hell…”. I grabbed the unscathed sleeve of his leather and pulled him around the corner into an alley where we ran like we did when we were kids. Thank God for Chicago alleys, always our hideouts, now our escape route. In the passage we went from numbness past fear and into silliness, laughing by the time we’d traveled a city block and out a side alley, into a busy diagonal intersection. We aimed to get lost in a crowd, but finding only small groups, we serpentined in and around until we ducked into a diner. We had a few bucks so we ordered coffee and fries, and examined the scars on his left sleeve through the cigarette smoke rising from the ashtray between us. Outside it began to drizzle, and I didn’t know why but I thought that if it was to become a hard rain, I would run outside and stand in it, my face turned up against the deluge.
The beret was raspberry and she bought it before anyone ever heard that song. She wore it on the back of her head in an ecclesiastical fashion, and she imagined the office of it all, the feeling of being separate, a tad off, different. On cloudy days like this her skin looked blue and she liked the way that complimented the color of her millinery find. To pump up the effect she wore raspberry lipstick as well, applying it throughout the afternoon within little vignettes she’d direct; next to the phone booth, bending to the chrome-framed side mirror of a parked car, in the window of the coffee shop where that beautiful man-child worked. There she’d feign absent-mindedness and linger a bit after she’d placed the cartridge back in her patent leather clutch, sometimes pulling at her sleeve a bit in an oh-so-cute way. She imagined herself fifty years older and doing the same thing, in a version of the same ensemble, and still not knowing whether she and the man-child would ever be together. She’d feel a strange pain in her hip joint.
Time for a movie, she thought. She knew a way to sneak in through the alley, so she didn’t have to pay, as she wasn’t working. She only worked when she had to, and she didn’t have to, not with her imagination, her raspberry things, and a way to get into the movies for free. She’d eat the complementary happy hour food at the club, and then sew her landlady’s curtains for this month’s rent. She’d take the remnants and make herself a skirt, maybe dye it indigo. Raspberry and indigo; she liked that, cool names for two adorable children. She wondered if the man-child would like to have a family…
The early morning sunlight bleached the lines from his face even as it seared a precious memory into his soul. Not long ago, it was dark, and not just dark, but opaque black dark, the peculiar kind of darkness you find at 4 am in a club where the walls are painted black. Even then, amidst the abyss, there were signs of the light to come, where blue neon hints at the dawn sky, and the glossy black surfaces sparkle like morning dew. Even then, he closed his eyes against the breaks in the darkness, fighting to stave off what was coming, testing his resolve against the bringer of light, of mornings, of mundane responsibilities, job, commute, commitment. Of course, he would fail, but the burning of the smile lines and the crow’s feet from his young but fatigued face served a small victory, rendering him younger to the morning eye, a five minute victory over the onset of time.
She was here. He knew it before he saw the note she left for him with an arrow pointing west.