An End

An then she died. But there wasn’t anything before that. At least, not that she could think of. Which is why she let her body sink into the soil and let go of those roots she had so loosely tapped hold of. Or they let her go and she fell, sinking deeper and deeper to the bottom of an emptiness so big and wide that it swallowed her whole. It was over. And all of the beginnings she had placed together did not equal one moment of truth, not a solid kernel of potentiality, not a smidgen of actuality put into place.

But it was her destiny to watch these things die with her. The first memory of cherry blossoms, the scent of denial. Who she was then did not respond to her last moment, it did not call her back. It did not know her name. Its silence mocked the vacuous horizon that wept not one single tear drop of rain.

 

Sincipation

Bobby and I, we were hitting the sticks. We were trapping johns like it was Sunday. This is our gimmick, Bobby says to ya. Let’s go way-ho the what’s know. Now, in the glist of all this, a small gang of charlamores huddled in the briar, down by Clutie’s way. I hear Clutie holler, hoot-hoot horay.

“A peace for you and a fire for me.”

And the onlookers were naught. But then, just there, I spotted a beige-headed girl, knee deep in philanthropy, and she was intrigued by the moor.

“I say,” says she, “But aren’t you the proprietor of this ensemble?”

Ole Cloot was demonstricied. Touched by the sweet reprise. “Sew up your ears, little dear. There’s more of a war to be fought here. I’ve got a pocketful of empty. But you can always park your sphere in the rear.”

Bobby and I, we were coursing comestibles, down by Clutie’s way. And every day and every day. Low and bestowed comes hither a wandering sag. So says the sag, “Means me to look for treasure. Is this the rainbow’s end?”

So says I to the sag, “What? No. The rainbow points to another way. Here’s only where the sky begins.”

Bobby was sore and indigenous. “Say it isn’t so. That these poor feet have walked for miles and gone nowhere. Say it isn’t so, Brethren Bear, that all I say and do is for null. And a dull null, too. Have you not seen me in past times six weeks writing dissertation upon discourse about the boundless ladder to infinity? I say no. We are God’s creatures all, six feet or small. There is a light out yonder. Here’s where we begin to find her.”

Clutie and I, we were counting brass. Seventy-five hundred or so more is what we need for the ship ashore. Clunk, clunk, clack. Cloot shoots three and gets a score. “My homerun for you,” he says. “We’ll have you in Nazaruth none too soon.”

Meanwhile, back at the Sickly Sweet, Loe was catching an earful.

“I’ve been reading a lot about this so called wonder thing you’ve been yipping around town about. Seems to me that the matter is solved. And that assortation you’ve been marbleing about with. I just don’t like the looks of it. Not one crumble. Least of all to say that the Rabble are up in armour. Do you understand how important I am? They’ll be none more of this. AND NONE MORE OF THIS! I will not fall for your ignorant foibles. Off to bed with you. And dream about the real. Do YoU uNdErStAnD?”

Go, Loe, go, and catch onto a falling star. Jim Morrison did not die. He just found the right door.

 

Monolog

id say i was o bout foteen when i first seen my daddy. he was a biggen man, biggen anyone i done seen befo. yet i do member his voice was gentle like tiny birds. only he took ta usin harsher words. i did not like ta talk much ta him, i member, cept ta say thank you, sir when he done give me two quarters an a bottle of ice cold cola he done bought me. didnt seem like much needed ta be said tho cuz he didnt make no mind of my silence. if he was ever wanting ta know somin hed just go ask mama. id hear him saying ta her all da time, aint dat boy be drivin yet? gotta git dat boy a set of wheels. bout how old till dat boy be operatin a vehicle? once dat boy gits it about himself ta haul some lumber, you send him ta me. ill put his sorry ass ta workin fo me.

an den, not long after my seventeeth birthday, he come over ta fix da stove an i heard him saying ta mama in her boudoir, goddammit merleen, dat boy needs a piece of ass ta make him strong an virile like his daddy. why you lettin him hang round yoself allday like it be Sunday evryday? boy needs somin. i dont rightly know what tis, but it somin gonna make him a man sos he can be workin fo me now. bout time he be puttin his sorry self ta some good. goddammit merleen, hes as scrawny as a chicken whats got no fat nor feathers.

next time i saw my daddy, he come ta da house an he said, boy, weesa goin ta town tonight. an sos we did. we went ta bout six or seven bars, me drinkin whiskey all da while, just like my daddy. an when it was time i was fixin ta go ta sleep, daddy said, boy, you go lay yonder dat bush til ya puke it outta ya. we aint done wit dis yet. an i did. an da next day, after bein sick worsen da day i et all dem cakes wit da bright red cherry gunk what tasted like sweet bubblegum, sicker even, my head all stuffed with heavy noise an darkness an my guts all disturbed an ankshus, daddy done got me up from da bed an headed me out da door an we done did it all over agin. same as i would do evry night of my life in da dere afta, only with less of da sickness den was usual. after while, i didnt notice it no more.

soon, i went ta work fo my daddy, hauling lumber from place ta place. he paid me da same mount as evry otha fella he had workin fo him haulin lumber an sweatin an swattin bees an skeeters. i even learned me ta chew. an daddy didn treat me no differ dan da othas. i kinda liked it like dat. i was bothered wit bein differ all da time. when you haul lumber fo a livin, it makes you all restless like fo activties otha dan drivin from place ta place, an i didn’t want ta be givin no one any reason ta be finding activty wit me.

my first day on da job i seen two fellas goin at it over a can of cola. i figured it weren’t goin ta take much, so i was ever so careful like not ta be stepping where i knew i ought not ta. but, like i says, it didn’t take much. like dis one time when olmessy, dis dawg we had hangin round da lumber yard, she starts hollerin at somin in da trees outtaways bout da yard, an bix, da talless, skinniess blackess man you ever did seen, he starts yellin somin bout how olmessy done gots da fever. an olmessy was somin of a particular favrite thing ta franklin mercer, who was da oldess an dumbess lumber hauler we done had, an franklin mercer got his stupid self all heated up bout da riot bix was fixin ta set on olmessy now. she aint got nottin but coon inner sights. yall leave dat dawg be. but bix keeps on sistin like it was da fever an he goes an gits daddy an he says ta him dat he needs ta be loaded up dat big ol gun he gots in da trailer. cept da only gun got loaded dat day was belonged ta franklin mercer. he had a habit of keeping one in his truck jus in case of need be fo it. an franklin mercer done pointed dat gun right at bixs high up dere head an says, aint nobody gonna kill dat dawg. only dawg gonna be killed here today is you, nigga.

i aint never had a reason ta say dat my daddy was a good man, but, on dat day, he done just bout what you might think any good man would do. he done walked right up ta franklin mercer holding dat gun up in tha air an he says ta him all calm like, franklin mercer, you da best lumber hauler i got. i sure would preciate it if you didn’t shoot dat gun now. i sure would hate ta see you spend da last few years a yo miserable life in prison on account of a messy ol dawg. put dat gun a yos back in yo truck an git on home an sleep it off. an so franklin mercer did just what my daddy done told him ta do. an when he was gone, my daddy said, goddammit bix, if you aint da craziest damn nigger i know fuckin wit da damn craziest an dumbest cracker in dis here yard like dat. now shut yer sorry mouth an go shoot dat dawg. an bix done did xactly what my daddy done told him ta do.

written for danny, freed from deliverance.

 

Serious Internal Error

Nonskippy Disk shines his teeth in the mirror. Pluffy, the non-organic puppy, shakes his head and waddles his tail. Bark, bark, he says. He’s not a real dog, you know. He’s one of those kind that you put the batteries in behind the tail.

I’m off to work, Nonskippy Disk shouts to his wife, who is plugged in to her hair dryer at the moment.

I’m gonna do it, Nonskippy thinks to himself. I’m gonna make her so miserable that she’ll leave me.

Later that same morning, Nonskippy is shooting electrodes through his veins with Mickle Copper, the carry-out guy.

I tell ya, Mickle says between shots, I’ve been the carry-out guy in this company for so long, I can’t remember what it’s like to carry in. You’re a lucky bastard, Nonskip. Hopefully, one day, you’ll never get to where I am.

Yeah. Too bad about your promotion.

At six past seven, Nonskippy calls it a day, and heads back home where his wife and children lay in steel vats of hydrosolution. Tomorrow’s the day, he thinks to himself, that I’m gonna make her pay. Yes, tomorrow’s the day.

Somebody turned their back on me, so I had to turn my back on someone else. That’s all I was thinking. Honest.

So you’re saying that, pretty much, you had no choice? You were just designed to have an error in that matter of fact?

Well, yes, that’s pretty much what I mean. Are you going to reprogram me now?

Hum, says the thinker to the tinker. Hum, hum, hum. Never seen this one before. It’s hard for me to say. I’m not sure I know the code.

Please don’t destroy me. I’d like another chance at this. I haven’t been failing in any other ways.

There was that time when your fan stopped fanning.

Yes, but that wasn’t my fault.

No. No, you’re right. It wasn’t. But still, I’m not sure. Usually, when we’re not sure about something, we’re real sure what to do.

Destroy?

For times like these, Nonskippy was programmed to automatically shut down. Because he didn’t, he saw this as a kind of reflection of good things to come. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that he would survive. After all, dozens of other disks and datas have made similar errors, and yet some of them are still working. In fact, the president of the very same company that Nonskippy works for was once almost a complete system failure.

I’m on the news these days, Nonskippy says to Mickle Copper over electrodes. Have you seen me?

Yes, I thought that was you. Shame about your wife. So what happened?

Thinking, Nonskippy wonders himself, and then spits out a log.

Serious internal error, eh? says Mickle. Gee, some guys have all the luck.

 

Mark

No, no, no. This is all wrong. What are these kids thinking? Enlightenment and dogma intertwined with rejection? That’s not it at all. What kind of heretiti.. here… heretics am I dealing with here? Do they not understand anything at all? Have they not been paying attention to me? Am I a spook speaking in tongues? Should I have said it with different words in different phrases or to the tune of some John Lennon song? Is that all they will listen to? Is that all they will hear?

No. That is not the way. Stay. Sit. Suck.

I would like to express my disconinsertion at this blasphemous buckfuttery… nick, nick, nick… blasphemous buttfuckery… nick, nick, nick… blasphemous blastitudes!

Handel! Beethoven! Chopin!

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Who is calling me now, shooting sharp splinters in my weary ears? Hello? Right, right. Right. Alright. What? No, no, no. That’s a grave miscalculation. Ejaculations! Not how it transpired at all. Right, right, right. Goodbye. Ringing in my ears.

Haydn. William Tellme. Exactitudes.

The nature of these words, wasted words, virilious words, I cannot say… nick, nick, nick… will not utter, of which you have writ… nick, nick, nick, printed indelibly upon your scandylous pages, be founds me to my very core. Befuddling, indeed. That it has been said of Paul, ordinamiously Saul, that he was a trinket, a salesmen of tirades and of tilliney. I assure you he was not. That his heart was wretched, his mission incomplete, his mind manipulated to succinct degrees. This is unfounded, untrue, and unestablished. I would like to amplify the amptitudes of his art: Paul was a successor, the king of the King, seeking to make just the mighty, the meek, and the meritless. And for this he was branshisized. Blackballs. Blacklisted.

Ignatius. Aquinas. Philomarkus.

It matters fuck, fuck, fuck when I cannot speak. They tit me off, tit, tit, tits, and I cannot absolute my thoughts. Hard on.

Goddammit!

Titwas. Shit, shitshit.

It. Was. Completed.

Mark the Educator thumbed through his notes on the prophets, wondering if this seemed like an outrageous assumption, as the boy with the round glasses had stated. What if Hitler had claimed prophecy too?

But he didn’t. He dare not.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

Matthew

Matthew, saint of indecision, was walking from here to there on a rainy December day, circa 1989, with nothing in his pocket but the truth, bound by an unholy statement of time and place, knowing only what was the beginning and what will be the end, and that, somewhere in the middle, the truth had become distorted. Cold, wet, and tired, Matthew slipped his limber body into a crowded New York deli and undid the buttons of his drenched trench coat. He was late, as usual. Glorious Surrender, a name she called herself, was waiting patiently in a booth near the john. She waved at Matthew as he ducked politely through the mass of confusion.

“You’re late,” she muttered.

“I know.”

“It wouldn’t matter, but that I’m expected to be somewhere soon. Do you have the money?”

Matthew thought for a moment. A short and to the point waitress asked him if he wanted a drink. Matthew did not respond.

“Asshole,” said the waitress.

Glorious Surrender became impatient. “You don’t have it, do you?” she asked.

Matthew smiled. He was known for being a man of small words of material worth.

“What should I do?” Glorious asked, knowing he would barely answer, but still have something clever to say.

“Put it on my tab?”

With that, Glorious reached into her handbag and pulled out a scrap of brown paper.

“I want you to know that I’m only doing this because I believe in you, I trust you, and I know that you will be wise with this information. Otherwise, I’m going to jail. You know that, right? You know that this could be my last remark.”

Matthew took the paper and, without looking at it, folded it twice and slid it into his wet coat pocket. “You can trust me,” he said with a reassuring sense. “I’d really hate for this to be your last anything.”

“So how long are you sticking around for this time?”

“Don’t know yet. As long as I have to.”

“You gonna see her while you’re here?”

“Hadn’t thought about it. Maybe.”

“Well, you should.”

Matthew thought for a moment. He did not want to have this conversation. It seemed unlikely to him, however, that it could have been avoided. “Where is she?” he asked.

“Same old place. Must be kind of hard for her since you left.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Maybe? Listen, jackass, you had a lot of nerve doing that to her.”

“I don’t disagree.”

Glorious thought for a moment. “Anyway,” she continued, “I think it would be for the best. She’s been kind of lifeless since you left.”

“She’ll be okay.”

“Maybe.”

In the rain again, Matthew looked around for a sign. There were signs telling him where he was, where he wanted to be, and how he came to be. But nothing told him where he was about to go. He thought to himself, that maybe he would go and see her, and maybe she would be okay. It took him several months to forget about her. Not that he did forget, or even that he could, but that, with time, the memory of her seemed further and further away. He thought about what he wrote in his letter. I am not abandoning you. This is not the end. We will see each other again. Someday.

Now capsized in a sea of guilt, Matthew prayed to the Lord for forgiveness. Then he looked out upon the world before him, his hand fingering the paper in his pocket, and exhaled deeply. Perhaps that someday would have to wait.

 

Akbar and the Low Maintenance Caterpillar

 

Akbar was an elephant. Or, at least, he wished he was. Akbar was a small, insignificant person, and he often got lost in the woods. Sometimes he would try to speak up and be noticed, but that only made things worse.

One day, Akbar devised a plan: if he could only do something so spectacular that he would be made famous for, then somebody would have to notice him. But what could Akbar do?

And so Akbar thought long and hard about his predicament. He thought about it so much that he neglected to notice a crack in his tea cup. That is, of course, until he poured his tea into it, and drips of hot Earl Grey drip dropped onto the floor. And what makes this matter meaningful is the line of sight that it afforded Akbar, for there on the floor of his tiny, rent controlled apartment was a caterpillar. A thick, fuzzy, greenish caterpillar.

Akbar did not despise creepy crawlies like most of the people he knew. Instead, Akbar found them to be a quick source of comfort to him, being much smaller than he was, and, therefore, less intimidating than his fellow man.

Still, people always seemed to notice the littler things of this world more than they did Akbar. No sooner had he spotted it when both his aunt and his sister and his very own dog jumped and yelped and eewed and oohed about it.

“Look,” shouted his sister, “a caterpillar on the floor!”

And, as Akbar looked at the caterpillar, a spectacular thought occurred to him: what if he could be more like a caterpillar than himself? Who could ignore a caterpillar?

Akbar reached down and let out his finger for the caterpillar to crawl upon. He then studied the thing with amazement, noticing how it moved itself along the length of Akbar’s arm with wriggling, and how quiet it was as it went. For such a small thing, it demanded a lot of attention. Akbar noticed that it did not even have a smell to announce itself with; all it did was move about on its merry way, ignorant of the attention that it owned. Jealousy overcame Akbar; why should such an unwilling creature possess such power? It hardly seemed fair. Try as he might, Akbar could not achieve so much as a glance in his direction, yet here was this little, low maintenance caterpillar stealing the show.

“Kill it,” his aunt shouted. “It’s disgustingly awful!”

“I would like to keep it,” said Akbar.

“Kill it already,” his sister demanded, to which his very own dog replied, “Bark! Bark, bark!”

Days later, Akbar could not get the little caterpillar out of his head. It was helpless in the fight to save its life, and, though it asked for nothing, it received the agony of his sister’s heel and the bite of his very own dog. All of this, thought Akbar, because it was so small and insignificant like Akbar himself. Akbar grieved for the caterpillar. He felt that even he had done some wrong to the small creature in the guise of his jealousy. If only he was not so small and insignificant, perhaps he could have prevented the caterpillar’s untimely death. Akbar vowed to never let such a thing happen again. One small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

On his way home from school that very same day, Akbar saw another caterpillar on the leaf of a maple tree. This one was somewhat larger than the last, and much greener. Akbar reached out to grab the leaf and the caterpillar seemed to look up at him. This touched Akbar.

Akbar took the caterpillar home. He let it wander around his room. He named it Pedro, and swore to protect it. So, when Akbar’s sister came past his door, Akbar announced his intentions.

“I have a caterpillar in here. You can’t touch it.”

His sister gave him a curious look and then immediately walked away. She did not seem all that interested in what Akbar had to say.

After dinner, Akbar produced the thing from his pocket, and let it crawl about on the palm of his hand.

“What’s that?” asked his father.

“It’s a caterpillar,” said Akbar. “He’s mine.”

“Suit yourself,” his father replied.

Before he went to bed, Akbar put his new friend into an old mayonnaise jar. He went out into the yard and collected a few small leaves and put them into the jar for the caterpillar to eat. Then he sprinkled some water in the jar, in case caterpillars get thirsty. Akbar was content with what he had done. He slept peacefully, knowing that, somehow, what he had done was heroic.

As soon as he woke up, Akbar went to check on his caterpillar. It had eaten most of the vegetation, and it seemed quite content it its little jar of a home. Akbar debated whether he should bring it with him to school. As the sun shone gloriously on his pale face as he made his way down the street with Pedro in his pocket, Akbar knew he had made the right choice. Half the day had come and gone without anyone suspecting a thing, not even noticing when Akbar would sneak a look into his pocket to check Pedro’s progress.

“How do you like school?” he asked his fuzzy, new friend.

Pedro looked up at Akbar as if to say that he did not mind either way.

“I know what you mean. It is kind of… ordinary,” Akbar said with a grin. He felt less alone now, with Pedro in his pocket. And he liked feeling bigger than he actually was.

When it came time to eat his lunch, Akbar gave no thought whatsoever to sharing his leafy greens with his trusty companion. He took the mayonnaise jar out of his pocket, sat it on the table before him, and unscrewed the top. “Just let me know if you get thirtsty,” he said, and then dropped two healthy sized pieces of vegetation into the jar.

This little bit of odd activity caught the attention of one clever luncher. Akbar heard a short voice from behind him. “What is that?” it wanted to know.

Akbar sat quietly. No one had ever spoken to him in the lunch room before. It couldn’t possibly be… but what if it was? If felt like it. By all calculations, it almost had to be. He hardly knew what to do. So Akbar did nothing.

“Can you hear me?” asked the voice, now coming around to sit beside him at the table. It was a girl, and she was rather curious indeed. She peeked her nose into the mayonnaise jar and gave it a sniff. “It’s a bug!” she exclaimed.

“It’s Pedro,” Akbar muttered slowly.

“Hi Pedro!” said the girl into the jar.

Akbar had it in his mind to speak something else to the girl, as she was clearly interested in getting to know Pedro, but the words wouldn’t come together in his mind. At least, not in any way that he felt he could express them to her. As he sat there looking at her looking into the jar, Akbar noticed her cheeks. She might have been a plain girl, but all Akbar noticed were her soft, rosy cheeks that made him think of a reflection of falling snow that he once saw in a red glass ball hanging on his grandmother’s Christmas tree. It gave him a curious sensation that made him feel hot and cold at the same time. He hardly knew what he was saying when the words came pouring forth like a bad plate of clams.

“Would you like to pet him?”

The girl stood upright and smiled. She was at least a foot shorter than Akbar, with shiny brown hair and bright blue eyes. “May I?” she asked politely.

Akbar held out the jar for her hand to reach in and gently stroke Pedro. At this, Pedro became excited and held his head up high. He seemed to like the touch of the girl. Pedro wiggled and made his way around her finger. He began to crawl up the length of her index. “He tickles,” the girl said with glee. “Can I hold him?”

“Sure. But be careful. He’s got a mind of his own.”

“I can see that!” the girl exclaimed as she held Pedro up in amazement, wondering at his squirm. “He’s incredible. And so big! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Akbar sat and watched the girl play with Pedro. It filled him with a warmth he never felt before. He wanted to stay there forever, watching the girl watching Pedro, but the bell rang and the moment was over. “Oh, I’ll be late for Algebra.”

The girl placed her finger on the edge of the mayonnaise jar and let Pedro decline.

“Will you bring him back tomorrow?” she asked.

“Okay,” Akbar replied, not wanting to sound too eager.

“Good. I’ll look for you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll even bring some bush leaves in for Pedro to munch on.”

Akbar felt tall the rest of the afternoon. When his sister passed him in the hallway and burped in his face, he did not mind. “She’s so immature,” Akbar said to Pedro. “She knows nothing about life. But we do!”

The next day at lunch, Akbar sat at the same table and began feeding Pedro his leaves. He hadn’t looked around for the girl. He didn’t want to seem obvious. He had faith that she would return, and that she would have not forgotten the bush leaves for Pedro.

“Hi Pedro!” he heard from the rear of the room. He looked over and saw the girl, and she was not alone. She had a boy with her. A tall boy. They made their way over to Akbar, and he could see that she had not forgotten the bush leaves.

“Do you think he’ll like these?” she asked elatedly.

Akbar held the jar out for her and she dropped in her leaves. He dared not look up. He did not want to see her cheeks.

“I never did ask you what your name is,” she said.

“Akbar.”

“Oh! You’re Akbar,” she said with a slight giggle. “I’ve heard about you.” Akbar did not know what that meant. “Anyhow, I’m Boo.”

Boo held out her hand. Akbar shook it limply. He smiled at her, but he did not look at her cheeks.

“This is Bob,” she said, pointing to the tall boy. “I told him about Pedro yesterday after school and he just loves bugs.”

Bob peered inside the jar. He did not seem all that interested in what he saw. Pedro was buried under three layers of leafage. “Neat,” was all Bob said.

“Well, it was good seeing you again, Akbar. Bye, Pedro!”

Boo and Bob walked away and Akbar reached in to rescue Pedro from his heavy load. When he uncovered his furry friend, he looked at him as if to say, “How could you let this happen to me?” Pedro looked up at Akbar and gave him a sympathetic wiggle.

That evening, Akbar decided that it was wrong for him to keep Pedro confined in a mayonnaise jar. He knew that loving someone meant setting them free, and Akbar knew that he loved Pedro. He took him to the maple tree where he found him and let him crawl out onto a big leaf.

“Good bye, my friend. I shall miss you.”

Akbar cried a little as he fell asleep that night. He had never let go of anything before. He had never had anything to let go of, except maybe his grandmother, but that was a long, long time ago.

A few days passed and Akbar had resumed his ordinary life, when he heard his sister screaming in the front yard. “It’s so huge!” she was saying. “And beautiful!”

Akbar followed his mother and his aunt outside. His mother spotted it first. “Oh my goodness, it is lovely, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” responded his aunt. “And so majestic!”

“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” said his mother. “It must be rare.”

“Must be,” his aunt agreed.

“I want to keep it,” said his sister. “It would look so pretty in my room.”

Akbar looked at the majestic thing. It was a butterfly the size of a maple leaf, and it was full of tremendous colors and life. The butterfly looked up at Akbar and gave him a sympathetic smile just as his sister bent down to grab it.

Akbar threw his hand out to block his sister’s greedy claws. “Leave it alone,” he said with a brevity he had never known.

“Huh?” said his sister in befuddlement. Even his mother and his aunt seemed to gasp with bewilderment.

“Leave it alone and let it be free. It’s not a pet,” said Akbar quite firmly.

His sister said nothing but backed away from the butterfly and looked down upon it with admiration. They all stepped back and watched as the butterfly fluttered its striking wings in the air and began to take flight. It flew first up to Akbar’s left ear, flittering about for a moment as if to whisper something. Akbar smiled and the butterfly flew off into the big, big world.

 

As Is

I spent the best years of my life making breakfast for that man, and I don’t regret one egg of it. From the very first moment that he walked into my life, I knew he would never leave. I could not let him, you understand, because without him there would be no magic, no trumpet playing in the next room. We had six children together. He named every one of them after some character in a book that he had been reading while I was expecting. He was reading and I was picking up dirty socks with the vacuum hose. Daisy was the first. He said, “Maybe she will be beautiful, tragically beautiful.” But she was only mildly attractive to most, poor dear. Then there was Gertrude. She came along during the Lawrence years. She died on us when she was just three years old. Caught a fever one night and never saw the sun again. Victor came after that by one year. That was the year that I swore up and down that my husband was having an affair. He only spoke to me on Sundays after mass. I would come home and find him welled up with dirty tears. But I never asked. It might have been Mary Shelley, but I never asked. Her words saw more of him than I did. After Victor was here, things changed. We finally had a boy. We were very protective of Victor. Devoted a lot of time to him. Gave him things we couldn’t afford. If he wasn’t around, we talked about him endlessly, just to keep him near. I had not expected to have any more. So when Catherine showed up, we had to cancel our trip to New Rochelle. But I was quit content with the world inside our home. I lived my life through the eyes of my children. And my husband told me stories about things that might have been elsewhere and otherwise. He played me songs about far off places. I was too busy to notice what was down the road. By the time Catherine was five, I was preggers with Benjy. I was only thirty eight, and not ready for an extra set of hands. My own hands were scrubbed too clean to hold anything anymore.

 

The Informer

I know a story. I know lots of stories. Like this one where this guy, he’s a police informer. He’s well known around town, gets around, basically just hangs everywhere, and no one, not a freaking soul, knows his real job. He’s that good. And this guy, he’s got a real wife. And because she loves the bastard so much, and loved him still when he really was a crook, she lives with this. He’s bringing home trash in the middle of the night just to get them high and loose and talking, and she just goes to sleep. Not much of a sacrifice, but hell. Anyhow, what happens to this guy is he meets up with this OCD named Hick, who, it turns out, works for Dominic the Spic, one of the biggest fuckers in town. Now, turns out that this guy is not only from Kansas, but he’s certifiably insane.

One night, the Informer comes home and finds Hick in the bed, on top of his wife, only she didn’t want him there. No, not at all. So he goes and gets his gun, which he knows is loaded, and he shoots Hick in the head three times, in the chest once, and in the nut-sack twice, once for each nut . Then he shoots his wife in the heart. There’s blood. It’s everywhere. Some his, some hers. And the Informer watches his beloved wife die.

This is not where it ends. After that, the Informer realizes that he’s doubly screwed. Once because he’s lost his beloved wife, and again because he’s just plain lost it. Since no one knows their real names for miles and miles, he puts his beloved wife’s body into an old freezer that doesn’t work and he hides her there. In the basement. Then he takes Hick out to the old mill and sprinkles him with drugs.

What a lovely picture.

Next day, the Informer informs the police of the incident. Someone’s killed Hick like the dog that he is down at the old mill. So much for that good leak.

Now he’s got to keep them from asking questions. Make it obvious, right?

So the Informer goes out and brutally kills each and every dirty bastard that has ever crossed Dominic the Spic. Dirty, filthy bastards. And the way he does it makes it seem more and more to the cops like they’ve got a real serial killer on their hands, someone who likes killing these dirty, filthy bastards. But it isn’t the Spic, because he’s got a broken leg. All the while, the Informer is bringing in leads and devices, crack pipes and empty guns.

Do you think they ever find out that he’s really the one they’re looking for?

Of course they do. It wouldn’t be a story without an end.

The Informer goes along with the plan as originally intended, not too sure if it will work. The last guy on his list just happens to be the Spic himself, who isn’t a hard one to do because of the broken leg and all. So the Informer wastes no time. He goes to the Spic’s house, ties him up real good and tight, and tells him the story of his life, about how he used to be just like the Spic and the Hick and all the other dirty, filthy bastards until someone ratted his ass out and he ended up doing six years in the Big House fighting for his life. Until it happens that one of the thugs he is doing time with tells the Informer about this job he had done, killing these dirty, filthy bastards one by one. But the guy got caught. Fucked up in the ninth inning. He got caught because he bragged about his dirty deeds to an informer, some guy named Jose, who he’d love to get his dirty hands on.

See, if you’re going to do a job, you’ve got to do it right, which means that no one gets out alive.

And that’s the story of the Informer’s life. And he tells his story to the Spic so he can remember it himself, and he can recall how, when he first got this job, he married his wife in the Low Down Dude Ranch Chapel out in Tennessee and a bird shit on his shoes. Then he recalls how he should have known right then and right there.

And then Dominic the Spic had two broken legs. And he’s dead.
One night later, the Informer comes home and finds Dominic the Spic in the bed, on top of his wife, only she’s been dead for six months. A pretty picture that looks better in a house full of accidental flames.

And I lied. They never did figure it out.