It’s me,

Seventy-

four

Out from

behind

mDesk

You might rec

ognize me

with my

shoulders like

this

who knew i

would walk out

and sing,

dag, yo

i like

it out

here

the wheels and

the trees

sun

more gin

please

Oh, Two-Oh
you dazzled a
monochrome cat
transformed

Two up
three back
to the side
back and then
gone.

just like
a mini
MALL

All those yards made
the kid chew faster
chuggin down full
belly field

Grass on my zubaz
mud in the hair
yes, lions
love to lose

And this heart belongs
to Barry though it
loves a poster
chicken

Colonel Sanders you
left just right

We raise a breast
in misty fall wonder

cheers to talent
beer for mo-
town

I scuttled through
the alley and
your eye
it stuck to mine

You turned again
no smile just
pleasant knowing

There we are
and gone
around the
bend

Scratching, swinging
specific with fury and
he looms

Smiling that monster
has no pointed
teeth

But he
but it will
reap the carrots

And waking angry
we’re all in
the shade
today

Please somebody and tell the birds

And the salt man too
Yesterday and tomorrow
are similar; not same

My apologies to beaks

A butterfly bruise for your
bicep or mine might
not cut it

or paste over holy
that gaping ozone
tear

Brewster’s hand is unconventional. It was maligned during the liberations of Vietnam and Kuwait. His weekends are as complex as most — coffee, morning news, pop tarts, grocery store, post office, couch, Montel, Taco Bell, skin sites, beer, bed.

He used to work at Al’s Hardware and Mr. Video. Now things are different. A driver goes places — makes sacrifices, takes a few for the team. Less Montel, more Taco Bell.

Yes, Brewster Middleman loves his new job. Hank doesn’t yank him around — even pays for his gas. It’s interesting work. He drives an old hearse equipped with a hydraulic backend. Doesn’t ask questions — just picks up cargo, drops it off…gets the job done.

His appearance is unassuming: wavy, dirty blonde hair just greasy enough to stay in a neat pile, round-rimmed spectacles, tight-fitting stone washed jean jacket, drab corduroys, and an untucked oxford button-down shirt. The sparse everyday traffic dissipates as he rolls slowly down the street. No need for a police escort in Westerly — folks are genuine, polite…genuflecting.

His old Toyota didn’t eat up as much gas, but the new ride is smooth as a magic carpet. Feels like he’s always driving in the clouds — home free, not a care in the burg. And Hank. Hank is nice — even had the tailor sew him a special pair of gloves — three fingers and half a thumb.

But days turn into nights as he comes home in time to see home fitness infomercials and static. Only fire hot cheetos and powdered milk remain in his cupboard. He nods off and then the phone rings.

“Brew, Baby. I need a quart of Vaseline and some scissors, you up?”

“Mmyeah. Be right there.”

The familiar smells of formaldehyde, leather, and freon command his trance. He’s back on the road — a familiar path glows ahead. Ol’ Herbie turns himself and there it is…the 21st century: iridescent and unsympathetic hulking dominance lording over barren asphalt.

***

That’s a decent enough beginning. Enough to shout at me from under my desk lamp across the room — FINISH ME.

I was probably about to write something fantastic, profound even, when my phone rang. It was Larry.

“Goddamit, Craig. They’ve finally done it – crashed the Chrysler. Meet me tomorrow for breakfast.”

They had lived in constant fear of such an event. Never did they leave the house without road flares and a cumbersome pile of flammable, wooly blankets. In fact, it was that morbid fascination…preoccupation that had kept me away from the ill-fated semi-annual family excursion to San Antonio.

Tired of the hemming and hawing about danger — alligators, airline terrorists, SUV rollovers, child abductions, socialist hurricanes…I had, much to the chagrin of the fam, decided to take a break. I’d just sit one out and try to make some progress on the story.

I would have been writing about Brewster’s ex-wife. I could have dedicated an entire chapter to her drunken escapades. Linda, the abusive ex-nurse with the acerbic wit and bad hair of a daytime court judge; her shrill voice had anthropomorphized my mid-afternoon migraine.

But this call from Larry had brushed the memory of Linda aside for the moment. The heaviness didn’t hit squarely, but lurked around the perimeter — waiting for an open hole in my psyche — a vulnerable scar leftover from a deep, old nasty gash.

So, the big, fat, stoic silence grabbed my spine and held on tight. I’m sure several seconds passed. I heard Larry’s breath: even and steady after all these years — the deep slow breath of a scuba diver: a man accustomed to the bends.

“So, we’ll eat then…”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

I flipped the lamp switch and hopped into my cozy twin bed, wondering if I was a protagonist or antagonist.

We met for lunch the next day at a small taco establishment. He stepped out of his anonymous brown compact, adjusted his spectacles, and walked toward me with an outstretched hand. I shook it. His face, more than ever, was shaped by a slight but pervasively detached dread — resigned to the inevitable like a veritable old monk.

I’m always cautious of that hand as though I might crush it — a small bird — through carelessness. Yet, that so-called hand is the least vulnerable thing about him; it twisted my sweaty palm like a loose doorknob.

“Tacos” I said.

A faint smile traced his lips; he nodded.

“Yes, Cousin.”

Giacone’s was a real stand-up joint serving beer for breakfast with a wedge of lime for posterity. He ordered two fried fish and egg tacos with extra hot sauce. The spicy scent kept Larry civil.

The cashier displayed her shiny teeth, biting her lower lip. Brown hair rested loose on the shoulders of her white-collared blouse. Larry stared back intensely. A grin flickered near the corners of his mouth as he collected his change.

I quickly ordered a carnitas, hash brown, and egg burrito and we sat down at a quiet table near the vacant adjacent lot. The near constant eye contact shook the pit of my empty stomach.

“So, I guess we should… Maybe we can…”

“Your order,” she interjected. Her steps were quick and light. Leaning far over the table, she placed the trays before us.

“It’s alright. I have the spare time… to, you know, arrange it. I just need a….”

“Can I help you with anything else?” Her hands rested firmly on her hips. Her head cocked to one side; she looked back and forth between us, tapping a menu slowly on her thigh. Larry rolled an orange toothpick between his thin lips, leaning back slightly in his chair.  The hot breeze pushed empty taco wrappers past our feet and traffic slid by on the adjacent street.

“We’re good,” I said.

The beers were ice cold in small frosty mugs. We sat munching. His face hadn’t changed a bit; only slightly deeper were the creases of middle age present in his leather-shined forehead. I glanced sideways at the thousands of tiny open pores, each representational of another Bloody Mary, extra Tabasco. The same spectacle-magnified pale blue stare carved a beam of concentration over my right shoulder as tiny bits of salsa-fried cod dribbled down from lips to chin.

I looked down and my beer was empty — didn’t remember drinking it. I sucked on the lime rind as consolation. The bitter beer aftertaste waltzed with the sweet citrus remains.

“A favor,” he whispered.

She walked back toward the stand, turning once to catch our eyes.

***

His car, beastly old symbol of reliability; it shuddered; trembled like a sea-weathered old sailor in the grips of pneumonia. Gasping, wheezing, smoking, then sputtering, Brewster still kept the faith. That is until flames shot out of the hood.

He sailed out of his open window into the dewy grass. Quickly up on his feet, he burst into his apartment, snatched the fire extinguisher, pulled the pin, and coolly doused the flames. Through the smoke, he glanced down at his digital watch. It chirped the half hour and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

He walked across the parking lot, hoisting the fire extinguisher slowly above his head.  And with loping desperation, he crashed it through the driver side window of an ’86 Camaro. Brewster’s arms were bleeding beneath his cardigan sweater. He did not know this, but he did know that his hands were busy boosting the first car he had ever owned.

The back wheels fishtailed slightly along the moist asphalt with controlled recklessness as he pressed the accelerator further toward the floor. The red light up ahead blinked “look both ways.” He flew through several such lights, heading straight for the only store still open. With minutes to spare, he spun the car into a CVS parking lot with a screech from hell. His legs jogged for the first time in years and once inside, he sprinted for back of the store. Grabbing a large tube of lube, he continued out the back. Piercing alarm tones followed him into the parking lot as he jumped back into the roughly idling Camaro. Visibly bored employees walked out the open back door to catch a glimpse.  They witnessed a cloud of smoke and a near accident leaving the parking lot. A green blur shot down the main drag of Corgansville. Security tapes would turn up surprisingly little more evidence: three rear angle action snapshots of a denim-clad figure wearing dark tinted aviator sunglasses.

But Brewster was heading for less than anonymity on the outskirts of town. Hank, by most accounts, was a pillar of unparalleled justice…except for the small issue of timeliness.

***

Prison hadn’t changed Larry.  He still didn’t look capable of murder. I suppose that’s why the judge and jury saw it fit to convict him of manslaughter rather than murder, eight years instead of twenty.

The man killed his boss. Self defense? I’d like to think so.

As he finished his beer, I eyed him sideways, admiring the strength of his maimed hand. Sweat rolled down the outside of the bottle. I pictured it gasping for air…losing liquid life. My mind wandered to shouting in the driveway of a first rate mansion. Through the immaculately rounded hedges, I saw streetlight shine off a black metal pistol. It cocked hollow and then came the fleshy sound of an arm falling forcefully out of socket.

I’d been in the courtroom; heard the testimony. Witnesses described a “grotesque gurgling sound” audible from the balcony above. I saw medical x-rays and crime scene photos. The thought of that crushed larynx made me grasp my throat. And I hailed our waitress for another beer.

Larry kicked my foot under the table. He cleared his throat. I had, after all and against my better judgment, agreed.

“I’ll have another, please…and my friend here…he’d like to know what time your shift ends.”

She brushed a piece of hair back behind her left ear and smiled.

“I’m Linda,” she said. “And you are my last table.” 

“They’ll be men yet,” he sighed, elbowing me in the ribs. I shook my head, but couldn’t hold back a smirk.

“A little bit of the devil in all-of-em,” I said. “Boys…”

“They say times change, but it’s only the weather.” said Father Kaveatz. He grabbed a high ball glass of scotch with his meaty hands, wiping the glass’s perspiration on the front of his tight, black cassock. A quick swig smoothed the crease of tension from his tan forehead and he stared down at his dining room table. He unwrapped a small stack of letters, pulled his silver letter opener from the top desk drawer, and sat down. He made quick work of the envelopes then patted down his pockets.

“Can’t read a damn thing without my glasses.”

I watched his dark eyes closely for a moment or two. And all while, I twirled the rosary in my habit pocket, testing my strength by resisting the strong urge to scratch the itch underneath my rayon apostolnik.

“May I?” I asked, reaching toward the binoculars. He nodded and I carefully positioned them in front of my bifocals. My skinny, wrinkled fingers struggled to control a tremor. Still, I saw Craig Simmons, Damon Jones, and little Michael Stenson. Their faces were twisted and barely audible screams reached my old ears. But the action moved too fast. A bit dizzy, I set the binoculars down on Father’s desk.

“Such violence,” I mumbled. “After all this time, can’t we find a better…”

“We’re all animals,” he said as he took a long slug. He sucked down a wet breath, exhaled fragrantly, and stared out the window again.

“Sister, the sooner they realize…the sooner they’ll be ready.”

I watched him watching for what must have been five minutes. The smooth rosary beads felt cold against my aching fingers. I must have been in communication with the Holy Spirit, because I don’t remember thinking a single thought. Once back in focus, I pulled Father’s eyeglasses from the third drawer down and placed them on top of his desk. He was still deep in thought as I exited the room.

James clothesline-tackled Craig, catching his throat in the crook of his arm and twisting through the collision. The ball flew into the air for a moment and through the gauntlet of saliva, I snagged it, scampering past the nearby end zone marker. I spiked the ball mercilessly and with what was considered the appropriate display of triumphant male aggression, I raised my fists to the sky. Thank God for James and his physical prowess. Damon now owes me 15 friendship bracelets.

Shrieks of pain and the sound of flesh slapping flesh brought me down from my cloud. Damon, drooling with anger, slammed James’s head into the dirt. Like any oxford playground gang member, I sprinted to his aid with wild swinging arms. Hands from behind closed around my neck and I swung around, kicking for the groin.

To think, it had all started as a lovely metaphor: football. Alas, we removed the formalities and carved our own fiefdoms. Each day after, we chose sides and clashed with righteous anger… only bringing the ball along for liability insurance.

All so Roman, all so Catholic – blood in the sand, blood in the grass – conflict mediation, ego adjustments…guilt. It takes a lot of industrial bleach to turn mud blood white.

A non-nun sat my brother and I down on the curb. Our Ivan Drago crew cuts glistened in the afternoon sun. I fidgeted, rubbing at the dirt between my eyes. He twiddled his daydreaming thumbs.

“The twin terrors,” she stated like a detective. Her arms swung behind her back as she paced back and forth in front of us. “You will be sitting in the hallway during recess for the next two weeks.”

Thank heavens nobody inquired about the Spanish. Our holy land was in good hands.

He stood against the brick, outer wall of the walk-in clinic, wearing foakley sunglasses and a sporty polo shirt tucked into bright red basketball shorts. The accompanying red and white sneakers completed his “am I an assistant high school basketball coach?” wardrobe. His beginner’s beer belly confirmed this as he rubbed his goatee with concern.

“It’s just crazy.” He paced around with the monologue apparently continuing inside his head for the moment.

“Yeah, but the TV news and internet make it seem that way. Weather’s always been unpredictable,” said the woman behind me.

The others in line chimed in now — nodding their sentiments as we all waited for the clinic to open.

He started up again.

“I’ve been an administrator at a Christian school for over five years. We ain’t never seen nothin’ like this. Flooding everywhere. People just tryin’ to get out.”

The line compacted and shuffled closer to the sliding doors. A nurse stood just in sight, dutifully unlocking as the clock struck 1:00.

First in line, I received my new patient paperwork and settled into a waiting room chair. It was quick, repetitive work and I handed it back two minutes later. By then, it seemed I was third on the list. My chest pains were not deemed as crucial as the looming, sweating obesity of those around me. Gads, they could have croaked at any moment.

“Mr. Koop, what seems to be the trouble?”

“Chest pain.”

“I see. Now, is it stabbing, throbbing, or pressure?”

“Feels like someone is sitting on my chest. Sometimes, at night, it…”

“I see. Good. Now let’s get that shirt off. We’ll fix you up for an EKG.”

“It gets worse when I try to sleep. Also, I’ve been stressed. Do you think…”

“Just lay down right here and…”

I removed my shirt quickly and climbed carefully onto the sanitary paper patient pad. She began lubing me up for the suction cups.

“When I breathe in it feels like…”

“Now, we’ve reached the portion of the test where you shouldn’t talk. What’s the name of your insurance company?”

“Anthem. One time the doctor told me…”

“Please, don’t speak. The test.”

She pointed to the electrodes on my chest. A minute later she removed them and said,”You can put your shirt back on — the doctor will be with you shortly.”

True enough, she was in shortly. If nothing else, this care was prompt. I rambled through my disjointed list of symptoms and she stared at me somewhat sympathetically–the look you might give a dog struggling with a cone around its neck.

“Pleurisy. Take two Aleve, twice a day. Unless you want a prescription for something stronger.”

“Aleve works for me. Can I still drink coffee. Run?”

“I don’t see why not. Just take it easy.”

She left the room quickly, scrawling onto her medical clipboard all the while. I poked my head into her tiny office.

“So I can…”

“Yeah, you can just go. No need to check out.”

I breathed a little easier as I headed for the door. Alas, it was locked and I stood befuddled.

“Mr. Koop?” called the Nurse Ratched clone at the front desk. “I’m going to need your co-pay.”

Thirty-five dollars later I felt some measure of relief. Not dying today…I thought.

Bill nodded his head slowly, looking down with solemn concentration. Blue and red chips were spread across his Disabled Veteran’s Lodge Super Bingo Board. He laid down a red piece and turned his eyes to Darryl.

“I used to sit around after school and watch tv — man… those commercials with the big jets. Respect. I just knew I’d be coming back with a medal and a girl on each arm. Great job, big house.”

Bill continued nodding as he scrutinized his chips carefully. His cane rested at his side — leaning against the heavily worn, eight foot wooden table in front of them.

“But, look. My leg is gone — shrapnel torn to hell. Can’t get no job. All I get is lip. Thank you, brave servicemen and women. Ultimate sacrifices. Yeah, how ’bout thanking us with some body armor — maybe some benefits. I can still see Sgt. Tua’s blood everywhere. It don’t wash out.”

“BINGO!” Bill stood slowly, holding his winning card in hand. The excitement caused a tremor in his hand. “FREE dinner,” he mumbled excitedly.

He gently lowered back into his seat with one hand placed on his lower back for support. He turned his full attention to Darryl now — taking off his large bifocals and cracking his long, wrinkled fingers.

“They’ll burn for this,” he said. “Big oil cowboys.” He sighed and a pained look crossed his time weathered face. Reaching instinctively for a cigarette, he found nothing in his shirt pocket.

“We had reasons. It was a damn mess, but I like to think we did some good. More than bad anyhow. This endless… what we’ve got now… Greed. How’d they rope you in, young man?”

“No place to be. Minimum wage or the Army. Dad said get out, Son. Be a man. You know what? He cries when he sees me. I cry too. Some men we are. I tell you, Pops. I got a whole squad of boys still over there. Only family I got. What am I gonna do here?”

“You’d think the ol’ “maverick” would care about us. Sure says he does. Says we should be thrilled about a gas tax holiday when every day is tax free day for fat cat oil execs and politicians.”

“Yeah, he’ll say whatever whomever whenever to get in. After that it’ll be the same ol’ bull.”

A warm faced old woman in a bright red sweater and polka dotted slacks approached the two men.

“Your prize, Bill.” She eyed him maternally and handed over a coupon covered in bright corporate logos. REDEEMABLE AT THE FOLLOWING PARTICIPATING RESTAURANTS, ” it said.

“Wanna get outta here? Get a hot meal?”

“No know it, Pops.”

They limped slowly for the door. Bill stopped to take a breath, then spoke.

“You know, Nixon was a “maverick” too. But, not even he voted to ok water torture.”

But, 2008 has been different. Soundbyte hungry media locusts viciously rampaged unabated — threats by television, radio, and yes…the world wide web.

This May, our collective blood boiled for change. We threw down our frisbees and flip-flops. Our ice cream cones melted in the streets to the sound of a third chin foreshadowing in the wind. The Tower of Limbaugh called out: “Cross the picket fence.” These ominous tones struck a chord in all surrounding Limburgs. Shotguns cocked, amens exclaimed, and our fate was sealed.

It’s almost June and we feel dirty. No amount of showering seems to tame the foul odor of status quo. Though FOX is not clever it’s still in my hair. ABC’s waste lies like a brick in my stomach. CNN has blackened my lungs and ruptured my ears.

My flip-flops are back, but I’m Dennis Kucinistench. What about the war? What of education? Tiny and ineffective, I’m just freshening up. Where is Spring and what went wrong?

She wondered how this could have happened, imagining his chewed insides churning in the bellies of the beasts below. He had been a large man with so much flesh. Looking out across the vast lake, she imagined his blood spreading out through the water. He was a part of the lake now; a part of this sulfur smelling ecosystem. His friends, these boys in men’s clothing, had their share of the blame. Her memories of drunken speed boating flooded back and she closed her tearing eyes. Not that anyone could stop John from being John. His legendary wild streak was well documented through bi-annual trips to the emergency room and high life insurance premiums. But, this was all so sudden. They looked like freshmen at the prom now, she thought. And rightly so—their shroud of invincibility, a sacred brotherhood, had been devoured as they stood, groping and helpless. Screaming, they had said, and then gone. The imagined, strobe-like reenactment repeated involuntarily before her mind’s eye. She felt each of their hands reassuringly grip her shoulders and released were the deep sobs she had held at bay.

Don’t make it so
yo’ shrouded in know

Tho’ Iraq is Iraq
It’s better than Nam

Mainly, please no
McCain

Lord knows he’s
on that bus

Trusting in god,
guns, burning that oil

Nixon on steroids
McCain Mark IV

Once, destruction was confined to countless microcosms packed together in a motherland of innocent bliss. A tight cycle of regeneration hummed along. Birth and death happened. But, just like Babel and Eden, greed prevailed. So, here we are one frosty 3am wake-up call away from annihilation.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no Luddite. I enjoy electricity and running water. But nights like these I get to wondering… What if those gnomes at the center of the Earth had just kept on hibernating? What if David the Gnome pedaled backwards? Could Pangea save us? Can I get a reset?

Think about the West — home of the pioneer spirit in its better days and destructor the next. A real He-Man in sensitive tights on steroids with a God complex. Think of the East — wickedly anti-human by some standards yet utterly peaceful on a personal level.

Al Gore told me that his Internet — a vast collection of pvc pipes — could flatten out this mess. We’d shorten these communication gaps. No more playing telephone, I believe he said. Ah, but he grew a beard and the rest is history.

If this crazy jigsaw never went AWOL, could this yin-yang world have kept it together? Moreover, can we overcome our historical, superstitious differences and recognize the vast commonality between us?

As always, time will tell. Or not.

She scrambles for shelter
a wet dog on deck
holding on

And squirms below father’s plump finger
Voices thunder and tremble
She wails like a siren

Innocent cries for justice and mercy
Without the words or why
A father repeats

Door swings open and he enters
A sibling with memories
Of such blood

Vengeance wound-up tightly
In quavering teen knuckles
Bitter blows rain

A regrettably bloody resolution
Worthwhile to notice her
snoring gentle sleep

Safe from the storm and snuggling into
dreams of pretty princess shoes
and gentle rocking waves