- is so loud that it's hard to hear the person next to you. So when Hector walks into the joint and finds Truman and takes a neighboring seat, all he can do is nod when Truman turns to him and pats his shoulder and opens his mouth a few times. A few songs later someone who sort of looks and acts like a server walks by and Truman flags him down and makes some motions. Next time the guy comes back he's got two stiff drinks on a tray. Truman pays.
The music is coming from a band seated on a low stage that looks like it was pieced together with odd bits of plastic and a soldering iron. They've got rows of drums in different sizes and two girls and a guy are beating on these non-stop. A tall, lanky girl with a sax stands off to the side blowing notes and someone of indeterminate gender is working a set of keys that's situated on a stack of milk-crates. The music is big and booming and it sounds pretty good, and with a drink in hand Hector starts to get into it. Each song just rolls right into the next with enough of a lull for people in the audience put in a shout or yell. Truman throws in his own contribution a few times.
The last number is a long one that builds to a fever that makes it hard to sit still. Hector can feel his feet moving every which way and his hand fidgeting with the empty glass. The drummers are going nuts now, switching and sharing instruments and beating their heads with the time, sweat leaping from their slick foreheads. The sax is going up and down the register like some insane kind of weather, the player's fingers are a blur. The keys sound impossible. The piece grows bigger and the whole room is sound and then - it stops. No one up there is moving. He feels. Heartbeats.
The audience goes off like a bomb. By the time the sax player puts down her instrument she's got half-a-dozen drinks in her face. The kid on the keys throws back a mop of hair. It's a boy.
Hector's ears are still ringing when he gets them another round. They pass through an open doorway into a darker room. The overhead speakers start putting out some canned music, nothing like what they just heard. People at the other tables are leaning toward each other talking low or staring at anything but each other. He and Truman take a seat in a corner. Truman opens.
"Where've you been?"
"Nate's place."
"Nate. The hell is that guy?"
"Don't know. Been there six days now and I haven't seem him. Left his alarm on though."
"In that place? It's a piece of shit, what's there to alarm?"
"Clock alarm. You know, wakes you up?"
"Yeah I know I've seen them. Not in awhile though. Had this one, man it'd scare the shit outta me in the morning so bad so's I'd wake up before it killed me. So what Nate, he skip town or something?"
"Don't know. He left a note, but it doesn't say much."
"He in trouble?"
"I was gonna ask you same. You hear anything?"
"About Nate? Lemme think . . . "
"I'll get us another round."
Truman makes a slight nod, he's already wrapped up in other conversations, sorting through all the names he hears. Hector watches the bills disappear beneath the bartender's palm and tries not to think about how many more of those he's got left in his back pocket. Course there is that stash he found in Nate's sock drawer.
He's shaking his head when he takes the drinks and returns to the table. Gotta be desperate to do something like that.
Truman has that look, so Hector sips his drink and waits.
"Yeah. I heard something. In connection with the Sheep."
Hector puts down his drink. He sighs. No wonder that look.
"Yeah," says Truman, shaking his own head. "Fucking unpleasant, ain't it?"
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Her name -
- is Alice. Full name Alice Husniyah Brandt. Name like that, you figure there's a lot of history, right? Alice doesn't get into it much, but get enough bourbon into her and you'll hear something along these lines: Mom and Dad meet in college at a friend's house. The friend is studying film and likes to put on pictures with a projector he jacked from the store-room. That night he was playing some weird fairy-tale number by some weird fairy-tale guy who was into weird fairy-tales. It was ok, lots of color and money up there to see, but like they say, the book was better.
Anyway the film is about some girl Alice who goes to weird fairy-tale land and learns a thing or two. Mom and Dad see maybe two minutes of it before they make one another, after which that's all they care to see. Years later, Mom is showing and she and Dad have a dinner party and the subject of names and history comes up, and their film friend, who now peddles phone software in tiny countries, reminds them about the first time they met and the film and a few other things that most people didn't care to remember. But the name of that girl, Alice, that sticks, and Mom and Dad stick it on the birth certificate months later.
The rest of her name comes from Mom and Dad. Mom is Iranian, though she picked up the habit of calling herself Persian from her own folks when she was small. Dad is German - West, not East, he would always remind people, and always he'd get a vacant look. Married, they take on his last name, but Mom see, she wants a piece of her culture thrown in for good measure, and claims the middle name. Dad doesn't mind, he's married to a beautiful woman that he regularly calls Princess and his PhD is wrapping up and he's father of a cute little girl that doesn't cry or fuss but just sits there, staring directly at things like she's already got it figured. Life couldn't be more perfect.
Before Alice is one, Mom gets caught in one of the riots that followed the Golden Gate bombing. To those concerned she looks the part enough and gets beaten to death. When Dad gets the call, he shuts the cell and walks to the baby room and stares into Alice's crib. She stares back with Mom's eyes. That night, after finding a sitter and IDing the body and dumping himself into the nearest bar, he stares at pictures in his phone and then pulls up a translator and types in the one thing on his mind. Beautiful. Husniyah.
Alice Husniyah Brandt. By the time she'd lived on this Earth for one year, she'd already had a helluva history. It was only for starters.
Anyway the film is about some girl Alice who goes to weird fairy-tale land and learns a thing or two. Mom and Dad see maybe two minutes of it before they make one another, after which that's all they care to see. Years later, Mom is showing and she and Dad have a dinner party and the subject of names and history comes up, and their film friend, who now peddles phone software in tiny countries, reminds them about the first time they met and the film and a few other things that most people didn't care to remember. But the name of that girl, Alice, that sticks, and Mom and Dad stick it on the birth certificate months later.
The rest of her name comes from Mom and Dad. Mom is Iranian, though she picked up the habit of calling herself Persian from her own folks when she was small. Dad is German - West, not East, he would always remind people, and always he'd get a vacant look. Married, they take on his last name, but Mom see, she wants a piece of her culture thrown in for good measure, and claims the middle name. Dad doesn't mind, he's married to a beautiful woman that he regularly calls Princess and his PhD is wrapping up and he's father of a cute little girl that doesn't cry or fuss but just sits there, staring directly at things like she's already got it figured. Life couldn't be more perfect.
Before Alice is one, Mom gets caught in one of the riots that followed the Golden Gate bombing. To those concerned she looks the part enough and gets beaten to death. When Dad gets the call, he shuts the cell and walks to the baby room and stares into Alice's crib. She stares back with Mom's eyes. That night, after finding a sitter and IDing the body and dumping himself into the nearest bar, he stares at pictures in his phone and then pulls up a translator and types in the one thing on his mind. Beautiful. Husniyah.
Alice Husniyah Brandt. By the time she'd lived on this Earth for one year, she'd already had a helluva history. It was only for starters.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
"Good morning . . .
. . . you're fucked!"
It's the radio station he listens to. Really, an actual radio station, broadcasting on the FM dial at 90.3, a lower part of the band because it's probably based out of a rented wreck that may or may not have a living landlord. The callsign is KFCK, and you can probably put two and two together to make four and the reason why as change.
". . . this is KFCK on a bright, sunny morning that is just as dishonest as your cheating wife, you sorry sonofabitch . . ."
Way back there was this fast-food chain that tried to sue for trademark infringement, something about conflicting initials. It got some press, and the station responded with call-outs for money, drugs, acts of vandalism, and anything else to stick it to the Man - or, as they phrased it, "the Colonel." Months later the company went bankrupt and every location went from shiny purveyor of heart-stopping gut-bombs to anonymous graffiti-coloring-book cinder-block. The DJs on KFCK - all three of them - declared a week-long drunk and played trash-metal the entire time - in fact, the same track for almost four days straight. To the uninitiated it looked like an example of indy media sticking it to the establishment, but it took only grade school reading to learn that it really had something to do with illegal genetic markets and quivering masses of vat-bred flesh that tasted something like chicken.
That got some press, too, but most people thought it was a viral tie-in to a popular tv series. The producers of the latter did nothing to correct this, and cashed the upped ratings in on a weekend retreat to some obscure island full of drink, drugs, dames, and, get this, the last standing location of said finished franchise. Apparently there were scrawny chickens to be had there, too.
That ain't Fate, either, just one of those coin-ci-dinks that bobs above the global stew like some patterned prize. Some people swear by this shit, even make religions out of it. Those guys on the island? Thirty-three counts of VD, eight nights in a local jail, five intra-corporate marriages, eleven children conceived, nine abortions, and one death due to misadventure. Insurance policy? Company owned, company directed, all costs and profits absorbed and accounted for. Business class tickets home. In-fight movie. La di da.
Every morning the white alarm clock fires at 6:37. It beeps and shakes and jumps on the plastic table and plays KFCK at far more decibels than the human ear is ready for at this hour. He cannot explain this time. Nor can he explain the radio station, which, though bold and brave amongst the noise that throngs the atmosphere, he can't stand. The music is usually shit and the DJs are usually way too gone to commit full sentences, let alone anything resembling a thought. So it all comes out as some kind of raucous dribble: short tenacious songs, sometimes less than 20 seconds - kind that used to be called "jingles" - intermixed with a voice ranting along one octave about conspiracies in conspiracies in conspiracies. (One of the DJs took this so deep that she finally decided that the source of the conspiracy lay within herself, and without pause she electrocuted herself on the soundboard and died on the air. This may have been a world first, but by now, no one was keeping track).
He hasn't gotten up at this hour since . . . well, he doesn't remember. Been a few times he's stayed up till this hour, but that's voluntary and yeah it hurts but it can't be as bad as this. He's tried smacking the big, faded button atop the alarm and going back to sleep, but the damn thing lights up again after so many minutes, and keeps doing so. Once, after a really bad night, he tried to outlast the snoozes, but nothing doing, that thing kept going until finally he shoved it under his pillow and stamped into the shower.
Which he does now, after only one snooze. And for at least the dozenth time he wonders why anyone would want to get up at a time like 6:37 - why not 6:30? why not 7:00? - or why anyone would want to listen to this god awful station?
It is a mystery he'll never solve, because the answer lies with someone who's disappeared - the same someone who used to live in this place - the same someone that he came to visit for a favor, instead finding an open door and a hot stove and an instant-noodle wrapper on the table, bearing a violent scrawl that looked something like, "FOUND AND FUCKING FLYING!"
He waited a few days, crashing on the couch because he had nowhere else to go. Then he decided fuck it and slept in the bedroom - where he was first awakened at 6:37 by beeping and shaking and jumping and KFCK, and where he first found that, other than the big faded button that shut up the machine for some minutes at a time, there was nothing else to press, slide, hold, tap, or voice.
". . . and they put it right through your ears and eyes and your fucking mouth right into your fucking mind and it makes you feel crazy as shit . . ."
At least the shower had hot water.
It's the radio station he listens to. Really, an actual radio station, broadcasting on the FM dial at 90.3, a lower part of the band because it's probably based out of a rented wreck that may or may not have a living landlord. The callsign is KFCK, and you can probably put two and two together to make four and the reason why as change.
". . . this is KFCK on a bright, sunny morning that is just as dishonest as your cheating wife, you sorry sonofabitch . . ."
Way back there was this fast-food chain that tried to sue for trademark infringement, something about conflicting initials. It got some press, and the station responded with call-outs for money, drugs, acts of vandalism, and anything else to stick it to the Man - or, as they phrased it, "the Colonel." Months later the company went bankrupt and every location went from shiny purveyor of heart-stopping gut-bombs to anonymous graffiti-coloring-book cinder-block. The DJs on KFCK - all three of them - declared a week-long drunk and played trash-metal the entire time - in fact, the same track for almost four days straight. To the uninitiated it looked like an example of indy media sticking it to the establishment, but it took only grade school reading to learn that it really had something to do with illegal genetic markets and quivering masses of vat-bred flesh that tasted something like chicken.
That got some press, too, but most people thought it was a viral tie-in to a popular tv series. The producers of the latter did nothing to correct this, and cashed the upped ratings in on a weekend retreat to some obscure island full of drink, drugs, dames, and, get this, the last standing location of said finished franchise. Apparently there were scrawny chickens to be had there, too.
That ain't Fate, either, just one of those coin-ci-dinks that bobs above the global stew like some patterned prize. Some people swear by this shit, even make religions out of it. Those guys on the island? Thirty-three counts of VD, eight nights in a local jail, five intra-corporate marriages, eleven children conceived, nine abortions, and one death due to misadventure. Insurance policy? Company owned, company directed, all costs and profits absorbed and accounted for. Business class tickets home. In-fight movie. La di da.
Every morning the white alarm clock fires at 6:37. It beeps and shakes and jumps on the plastic table and plays KFCK at far more decibels than the human ear is ready for at this hour. He cannot explain this time. Nor can he explain the radio station, which, though bold and brave amongst the noise that throngs the atmosphere, he can't stand. The music is usually shit and the DJs are usually way too gone to commit full sentences, let alone anything resembling a thought. So it all comes out as some kind of raucous dribble: short tenacious songs, sometimes less than 20 seconds - kind that used to be called "jingles" - intermixed with a voice ranting along one octave about conspiracies in conspiracies in conspiracies. (One of the DJs took this so deep that she finally decided that the source of the conspiracy lay within herself, and without pause she electrocuted herself on the soundboard and died on the air. This may have been a world first, but by now, no one was keeping track).
He hasn't gotten up at this hour since . . . well, he doesn't remember. Been a few times he's stayed up till this hour, but that's voluntary and yeah it hurts but it can't be as bad as this. He's tried smacking the big, faded button atop the alarm and going back to sleep, but the damn thing lights up again after so many minutes, and keeps doing so. Once, after a really bad night, he tried to outlast the snoozes, but nothing doing, that thing kept going until finally he shoved it under his pillow and stamped into the shower.
Which he does now, after only one snooze. And for at least the dozenth time he wonders why anyone would want to get up at a time like 6:37 - why not 6:30? why not 7:00? - or why anyone would want to listen to this god awful station?
It is a mystery he'll never solve, because the answer lies with someone who's disappeared - the same someone who used to live in this place - the same someone that he came to visit for a favor, instead finding an open door and a hot stove and an instant-noodle wrapper on the table, bearing a violent scrawl that looked something like, "FOUND AND FUCKING FLYING!"
He waited a few days, crashing on the couch because he had nowhere else to go. Then he decided fuck it and slept in the bedroom - where he was first awakened at 6:37 by beeping and shaking and jumping and KFCK, and where he first found that, other than the big faded button that shut up the machine for some minutes at a time, there was nothing else to press, slide, hold, tap, or voice.
". . . and they put it right through your ears and eyes and your fucking mouth right into your fucking mind and it makes you feel crazy as shit . . ."
At least the shower had hot water.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
One Lump or Two?
You have to ask yourself: What kind of people will survive in this world? Used to be you could say wear this do this say this think this buy this sell this love this hate this war on this and befriend this and presto! you're golden baby. Used to be you'd say "golden", and that's what it was, even if all the money in the world was a pissy phantom that came and went like, well, like money does I guess.
Course a lot of it could be chalked up to fuck-ups - remember chalk? Was that guy who'd go to the front of the classroom and rub against the whiteboard - no, shit, not that, what'd we call it? - anyway he'd rub against it and then turn around covered in dust and with that big southern grin he'd say, Give me a hug.
Hilarious, he was so damn funny I'll never forget. Yeah and these people'd get written up and there's their picture in color and sometimes they looked like the millions they had - billions probably - and sometimes they really did look bent and in the article'd be all these charges and facts about how they fucked with everybody's money and now it was gone even though the way they fucked up was that it wasn't ever really there to begin with, I mean people'd think it was there for awhile and sometimes enough of them thought so so that'd grow like a weed and those people would sing and dance and get drunk and pat each other on the back and whip out a shiny card and buy lots of shiny things. Boo-ya! That's another I ain't heard in awhile.
Use to be shiny things were one way to survive in the world. But not in this one. No way mister.
Blackboards, that's what they were, blackboards. And whiteboards was the one you used the markers on. Think they still use them some places, where they can afford them. They had them screens too for awhile, ones you'd touch to do stuff. I used one once when I was visiting a college buddy. Man the office he had, could see the whole city from there. He had this little coffee table too with a service or something on it, little cups and plates and bowls and cubes of sugar. When's the last time you saw a fucking cube of sugar, right? And I remember this: he offered me some coffee and I don't drink coffee but I say yeah sure let's have some coffee and then - know what he asks me? - he goes: one lump or two?
Damn! I mean damn, where'd he get that? One lump or two?
Course a lot of it could be chalked up to fuck-ups - remember chalk? Was that guy who'd go to the front of the classroom and rub against the whiteboard - no, shit, not that, what'd we call it? - anyway he'd rub against it and then turn around covered in dust and with that big southern grin he'd say, Give me a hug.
Hilarious, he was so damn funny I'll never forget. Yeah and these people'd get written up and there's their picture in color and sometimes they looked like the millions they had - billions probably - and sometimes they really did look bent and in the article'd be all these charges and facts about how they fucked with everybody's money and now it was gone even though the way they fucked up was that it wasn't ever really there to begin with, I mean people'd think it was there for awhile and sometimes enough of them thought so so that'd grow like a weed and those people would sing and dance and get drunk and pat each other on the back and whip out a shiny card and buy lots of shiny things. Boo-ya! That's another I ain't heard in awhile.
Use to be shiny things were one way to survive in the world. But not in this one. No way mister.
Blackboards, that's what they were, blackboards. And whiteboards was the one you used the markers on. Think they still use them some places, where they can afford them. They had them screens too for awhile, ones you'd touch to do stuff. I used one once when I was visiting a college buddy. Man the office he had, could see the whole city from there. He had this little coffee table too with a service or something on it, little cups and plates and bowls and cubes of sugar. When's the last time you saw a fucking cube of sugar, right? And I remember this: he offered me some coffee and I don't drink coffee but I say yeah sure let's have some coffee and then - know what he asks me? - he goes: one lump or two?
Damn! I mean damn, where'd he get that? One lump or two?
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Once Upon a Time
A caravan was intercepted by bandits. The men hired to defend the caravan grabbed their rifles and swords and daggers and circled round and there was much fighting and much dying; still they were outnumbered, and the bandits overcame them and gathered up their spoils. That night the captives were corralled by a large fire and tied together with heavy rope. Amongst them was a poet, who had hoped to travel to frontier towns and see the mountains and rivers and hone his craft and bring many words to people who were predominately occupied with survival - this poet stood amongst the throng of bonded defeatists and raised his voice so that the leader of the bandits could hear him. Said the leader, Alright, give us your words. So the poet was freed and placed in front of the fire and he stood tall and spoke of ancient times and ancient ways, bringing forth images of young maidens and hearty warriors who hoped to woo them - of fierce animals and the mighty feats committed to slay them - of faraway lands and hidden treasures - and the leader sat nearby surrounded by whores who hunched as beaten creatures do, and this leader drank from a flask made of animal hides and chewed on half-cooked meats and spit towards the fire from time-to-time - and when the poet was at his peak, gesturing with his hands towards the sky, invoking old names and old ways and cautioning the doings of modern man, this leader stood and drew his blade and with one swipe lopped off the head of the speaking poet so that it flopped to the ground and bounced once twice thrice and, after a few more movings of the lips, grew still. The cries of women and men alike followed the poet's expiration, and those who remembered this time best recalled first the sparks that flew off the fire and faded in the night air. The leader stood by the severed head and wiped his blade along the body of the person nearest, and he stared at the head for some time and then spat and turned and walked outside of the cast of the fire, and soon after camp was broken and what sleep that could be had was taken - and when the sun rose again the bandits broke camp and urged the captives towards the town where they could be stood and sold as slaves. Behind them all lay the corpses of the fallen and the poet among them, and but a few suns passed over before even this remnant was taken by the soil and buried beyond memory.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Where to look
In a house of mirrors you look around and see only falsity. Be cautious and:
-Do not lend a ready ear to music
-Do not see portents in smiles
-Do not let sugars steer your tongue
rather: look to the places where light cannot fall - for in dark spaces we may only touch and grope and guess at what lies there, and such mystery is too much for the fancy that flips at the slightest suggestion, the merest mirage, the captive caprice. At night our fears are greater than our delusions, and such wicked dreams are the meeting of that which we do not understand and that which we most yearn for and in these dreams there lies more truth than any words inside the ardent pauses of a drunken poet.
Fuck you Bacchus, your songs are old to me.
-Do not lend a ready ear to music
-Do not see portents in smiles
-Do not let sugars steer your tongue
rather: look to the places where light cannot fall - for in dark spaces we may only touch and grope and guess at what lies there, and such mystery is too much for the fancy that flips at the slightest suggestion, the merest mirage, the captive caprice. At night our fears are greater than our delusions, and such wicked dreams are the meeting of that which we do not understand and that which we most yearn for and in these dreams there lies more truth than any words inside the ardent pauses of a drunken poet.
Fuck you Bacchus, your songs are old to me.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Not Oink Nor Squeal
My temporary neighbors have a pet pig. Said neighbors are "temporary" because they are only staying in the adjacent house while they remodel it for people they know. Or something like that . . .
Useful advice: when discovering that your suburban neighbors own a pig, it is not polite to ask "Are you keeping her or planning on eating her?" The look I got . . .
The pig is called a pot-bellied pygmy, and she is as awesome as this alliteration suggests. Her name, of course, is Daisy, and she is gray with black spots and large, jiggly jowls. One of the owners gave me a small box of raisins, and first I was nervous about teeth and the legendary appetite of pigs and then I was surprised by how soft her snout felt when she ate out of my hand. The hair on her body is very short and wiry and smooth, and petting her felt like touching a rock with its own inner warmth. Her eyes cannot be seen beneath folds of flesh. She likes to look up and wail with a wavering tone that could be plaintive or huffy, and this sound does not resemble an "oink" or "squeal" in any way. She responds to her name and can move at a quick trot when she feels like it.
She lives in the backyard in a wooden shelter that's covered against the sun. I now know the origin of that strange wailing noise I heard three days ago while sitting at my computer.
I hope I get to chill with Daisy the pot-bellied pygmy pig again.
Useful advice: when discovering that your suburban neighbors own a pig, it is not polite to ask "Are you keeping her or planning on eating her?" The look I got . . .
The pig is called a pot-bellied pygmy, and she is as awesome as this alliteration suggests. Her name, of course, is Daisy, and she is gray with black spots and large, jiggly jowls. One of the owners gave me a small box of raisins, and first I was nervous about teeth and the legendary appetite of pigs and then I was surprised by how soft her snout felt when she ate out of my hand. The hair on her body is very short and wiry and smooth, and petting her felt like touching a rock with its own inner warmth. Her eyes cannot be seen beneath folds of flesh. She likes to look up and wail with a wavering tone that could be plaintive or huffy, and this sound does not resemble an "oink" or "squeal" in any way. She responds to her name and can move at a quick trot when she feels like it.
She lives in the backyard in a wooden shelter that's covered against the sun. I now know the origin of that strange wailing noise I heard three days ago while sitting at my computer.
I hope I get to chill with Daisy the pot-bellied pygmy pig again.
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