Resuscitated Marilyn

The other day I went to my usual cafeteria. I had to spend some time with the people. I don’t talk to them, I just move between them as a ghost and stare at their arms going up and down to fill their mouths with coffee before a few words and a smile, and a sorry, and “oh my God you didn’t!”, and all those beautiful fucking children driven around with no father and a looney for a mum. But hey! This is London, and everybody’s got a chance to live their life the magazine way.

Fuck them.

In the night all this façonnable ass kind of living turns into Doctor Hyde, especially on Fridays, when outside a pub or a spit of a disco they shout at each other as they forgot what they were that same morning before, and their voices get inside your window and sound like a lousy horror picture. Like in a big tragedy they holler at one another with just half of the passion they’d wish they had the next morning at the council-paid pantomime. Oh you can feel the big stretch  if you’re not from around here. All those self-confident looks strolling around, you could break them with a snap of a finger, or making up some new lines their magazines didn’t predict for the current week. It’s like they’ve been brainwashed by all that global shit about a charming way of life that they don’t remember what they were, and their premature instincts have to wait for the darkness to fall and for their glass to be empty. Funny thing, the only real moment for them it’s when they get miserable at night. You see women getting ugly and in a second they would take it on men that would fuck them off so soon you can’t stop laughing on your bed. Every fucking Friday night, same story. So, every Saturday morning, I taste the epilogue of their big alcoholic exploit when they try hard to show a civilized look that reminds me of an uneducated bitch with a whig, a hot ukrainian upper-class illiterate babe with a fur, a high-heeled nespresso-dream broad with her mouth open all the time, a Fifth-Element dope hipster, Brick Lane type, that would cry her ass out all of a sudden, but later at night of course, again.

I’m confused, not flattered. So I watch back inside my coffee and back to those faces. Laughing time is finished. But there’s a girl, tight Levi’s and ranchero boots on, madras shirt, Monroe haircut, big lips, French nose, tits standing high like bayonets. She’s different, the way she moves and all. I stand up and walk to her. Can I sit with you?, sure be my guest. No lines reading, she must be the same at night when she’s gonna ride my dick at the crazy rhythm of Sonny Terry’s harmonica. Yeah!

You’re American right? A silent nod of affirmation. I knew it. She’s not from the big city, she’s from Paris Texas. Oh well. I say “oil wells” instead and she’s not hurt by the joke, she bursts into laughter as a kid. Kiddo, I say. Your country produced all the shit this people read as the Bible. You played them. Oh yeah? And she goes: these poor tea-smelling losers. And we laugh together like kids, sons of a wild exaggeration we don’t need to explain anything. Cause we like each other, and people that like each other are kids, don’t read lines, they just go with the flow. So I say to myself, today is an endless highway. And eee haaa and hallelujah and kiss my ass! And we laugh and laugh till it’s night outside and I feel like the Bad Lieutenant with a resuscitated Marilyn.

We go home and talk about the promised land that it’s in the people. Then as promised people we make love and laugh at each other’s face while Sonny Terry screams as promised.

Then we sail to America, settle down, have few kids, buy a minivan, a tv set, and we still don’t know each other.

That’s the secret.

Old Buick

We don’t know our history. We don’t know what a city is capable of. And since the city is made of people, we don’t know what we’re capable of.

It wasn’t a day like another. Or at least I’d rather think it wasn’t just another day. Alright: I mean, you don’t feel the danger before you’re past it. They call it panic, and in our dull existence the present is just a dead momentum in which you consider you’re gonna be alive one day. Cause the past is merely the things you’ve done. They deteriorate and as a corpse they stink and make you wanna do it again: like smelling your own farts. You got another chance to feel alive, and whenever it gets to that there’s no such thing as good and evil, cause you’re not allowed to choose and it’s all bullshit the idea of stepping out of the door and taking a direction. You got the dog in front of you and you’ll have to shoot it. You wanna chase dames? Alright, that’s your problem pal. You’re gonna get cornered and feel the same again, only with someone else’s fart under the linens. The only thing you need is a car and a trunk. You make sure you put there your twelve gauge and some clean shirts. You shave ready as it’s gonna be the last time you do it, have a nice meal, boots on, comb your hair and take a good look at that beautiful body they gave you to play someone else’s rules.

You don’t fit in, you just fit inside a coffin with your senses switched off for good, that’s where you belong now. And forty years in this place tell you this, you don’t need to pay a shrink just to be afraid to do the last move. You don’t need a god to pray and feel a little less lonelier in a too much well-known solitude. You don’t need a father, cause he’s dead already and he would just pretend that you could have had a better life here in Boston.

He wasn’t a poor man, he gave you everything but the will to appreciate life now that your childhood is gone and everything is just re-chewing the memory of a blind passion. You don’t see beauty no more, you just stick to rotten things like yourself now that you got old and they got old with you; things with four decades or more on their backs.

Rusty things that still work one last time though.

America has provided you with clean brand-new things. Knights of Columbus celebrated your achievements; your black Cadillac has been hand-washed by the hands of strangers; a tumor has been removed by a well-paid glove; your ex-wife got one last big check and finally tried cocaine; your son is a grown-up now and forgot the way he used to love you despite everything. What if he still would? I’d say that fathers are supposed to die anyway. So I’ll steal a car, one of those rusty crates that still got a motor. One of those you used to watch under the sun with your first gin-cut Cherry-Cola in your hand. There’s no use leaving them sitting beside the curb of a forsaken neighborhood. Owners look at them as they look in the mirror. Vanity it is, nothing more. Stuck in the past with immobile things all around waiting for a future that never comes. It don’t exist! And if you wanna celebrate America and yourself you do it with a gun in your trunk. No middle way, no compromise. So, defrost the lobster and have it the Boston way. Three cans of icy-cold beer and I’m already in Brookline under those twisted trees. The old Buick with the baseball-smashed windshield is still there. Purple as an old dream, silent as the truth. In that dirty back seat you made love for the first time and broke that irish cherry; you married her, had two kids, back to work, moved to a bigger house in South End, divorced, paid alimony, back to work, millions, women, coke, and finally back to that old Buick again.

Look up in that project, your father’s smoke is not coming out the window no more. Play-time is finished and your black Cadillac is frowning at you from the other side of the road under those twisted trees. Leave it there, that car it’s the damnation itself. You got your twelve gauge with you and that’s all you need. Buick’s door is open, everyone’s got the ticket for the end he wants I think. It’s so easy, so tempting that I smile as a kid for the first time in years. I reckon that if my kids would see me now they would love me again the same way I did with father whenever after he threatened me to put my head in the vice. I used to pee in my pants, and in the night I wondered if he would have done that for real. Than I’d go to his room and see him laughing on Lenny Bruce and loved him again.

My kids didn’t get that same chance with me. Friends are gone, now there’s just a bunch of people like me wandering around my pool with their square cigar and some baseball tickets for their subordinates.

I think that even if we had a crack seven years after those towers came down we still wouldn’t have had the chance to be ourselves again. We were once, no doubt. We had the cards, we had curiosity, and no church or shiny country club can’t give it back to us. No health insurance, no mortgage last payment, no organic food in the table, no secret blowjobs. No family now that I fucked up and real friends would just show up late.

We were something when we felt the dust under our shirts and there were leaves on those trees even in winter. We were Americans. Mobility and risk used to flow in our young blood and we would sleep like babies with the shout of crazy Buicks racing under our windows.

We were and now simply we’re not, and when you aren’t you have to be coherent with the fact and close the curtains. You’ve always been a kid, so close that rusty door and suck the gun now.

Piece of Cake

Yeah we gotta split he said. At the Corner of Dreams there was nothing, no bums, no lobos, no nothing. Charlie Matthews had left his De Soto at the DX Station twenty minutes away, between Cincinnati and Main. Where the hell is Charlie? Should be here any minute…, oh yeah? Yep. The fact that the big oilman Gilcrease wasn’t there guarding his temple of money didn’t make the boys smile. It was a lot of dough alright but it wasn’t a laugh. Strange kinds of dogs were barking under the iconic golden driller, running fast from nowhere to be shot by the man. And they were finally shot, a whole bunch of crazy pitbulls just before the boys had climbed over the fence.

One hundred thousand dollars wasn’t too bad for 1957, not bad for a lonely old man and three no-good juveniles. The money bag was lying on the boardwalk between their booted feet. A piece of cake they thought, and looked at each other to be sure they all agreed with it. They did but there was no Charlie down the road where the dawn was slowly rising moisturized by the Arkansas waters. The lonely man knew it was always a matter of time: they all could dodge the bullet now that there were no guns, and the black wells were still breathing in that night when the high buildings along the Broken Arrow were watching them from above like silent instruments of doom.

Swear to God, whispered the man and "lemme take care of him", said the shortest kid spitting brown saliva on the asphalt. The Twin, the only one who knew Charlie, held his heater under the belt smelling with doubting eyes the warm scent of sugar coming out from the Avalon of Black Gold, Tulsa Oklahoma.

Why in a hurry? He thought. Why don’t we just walk home? It’s so quiet in here… but it’s gonna be quieter at the old man’s living room. Shorty was staring at him. He was secretly bothered by his calm and abruptly asked what was his take on Charlie. Don’t have any, the other said keeping his eyes away from Shorty. He dig okay and that’s all... and Shorty went: well, you have to do something about your attitude dude or I'm gonna teach you when to shut up or talk with some respect! Yeah? And who’s gonna make me huh? You? You bet I will! Shorty shouted like an angry kid. The old man slapped him and looked at the other as if he was hiding some secret knowledge from everybody, as if he was the real enemy: I need to know whose side are you on here kid… you’re the only one who knows Charlie and I need you to tell me if he is or ain’t what and where we expect him to be tonight. We ain’t got time to lose okay? The Twin stared at the old man's face for longer than ever. He knew Charlie, he was his buddy, and he should have known better before that, now that the cards were on the table. They had spent together an entire childhood sneaking inside the big Admiral drive-in for a movie and a nice bottle of Cherry Cola and gin, driving crazy in the sunny street every evening, chasing somebody else’s girl. They had always been one thing together, one thing only, and they sure asked for trouble this time. But the street was talking that night, suggesting somehow in a low whisper what to do, where to go, what lies to tell and finally split and take his boots up to Owasso, or Sperry, in those parts of the town where a poor boy could dream and have a house of his own with a nice stove in it, a TV and a car. Charlie was waiting for him up there, the Twin knew it, ready to play dominoes he would have waved his hand from the porch as if anything had really happened that night. He’s not a rat, the Twin said to the man. If he’s not here something must’ve happened to him...

And we’re supposed to walk our asses downtown and steal a fucking car just because he’s not a rat? He’s not here now son, that’s all it matters to me… The man lit up his cigarette and never said a word again till it was out. You gonna get you share now boys and we’ll part right here! He handled a bundle of maybe twenty-thousand to each of them and kept the big slice for himself. Nevermind though, it was a big piece of money for those boys, more than they ever imagined.

The Twin was heading north dreaming Crutchfield playground when a black shiny Brougham pulled over and a white face said hello to him. He got scare, he knew those men, the oilmen from whom they had stolen that money. Here’s your money, I don’t need it sir… I don’t want no trouble and I should’ve called it quits right from the beginning… He passed the money to an elegant hand and stood there waiting to be excused, a dummy in the middle of the street. A pale driver drew a gun and shot him in the face, then the car went on and did the same with the rest of the boys. The old man was found in his warm living room with no arms and his dick stuck in his mouth, the money still in his pocket.

As for Charlie Matthews, he had finished to change a flat tire ten minutes after his friend was shot by those men. He turned to the Corner of Dreams and looked for them. A deep silence and no police. The town really seemed to be owned by the shadows. Charlie saw his friend’s body, he put him in the trunk an buried him in Crutchfield playground, right beneath the broken maypole they used play with. Then he parked his red De Soto, stepped on the porch and had a cigarette watching the stars. He was broke, didn’t have a woman and a friend now, but he wasn’t a rat.  

Pine Bluff

6:00 a.m, 25th  of December, 1965. Jefferson County patrolmen got high with a quarter of rye waiting for the Man to finish his fucking dessert. “He's the Grand Master of Suck my Dick!” says Bobby grabbing and squeezing his balls. Randall, a tall black guy from Joplin, doesn't really care. He got a call from downtown two hours ago and he just wants to get done with it, even if it was a fucking KKK Dragon he wouldn't give a shit. “I don't give a shit”, that's what his Cap would say to him anyway.

A black sedan was parked right in front of the black&white. “Is that a driver Randy?, asked Bobby staring at the black windshield of the Lincoln. It was hard to prove but someone was in there, and the more he didn't move the more you could bet on it. Randy had bet a nice homemade Christmas lunch on it, and  Bobby a good excuse to stay away from his wife and maybe spend a spare hour or two at the nearby joyhouse. But it don't look good, “these people sure like to go for another cigar...” said Bobby throwing away his cigarette butt. The weather wasn't so cold and Randall imagined for a moment that Florida should have been quite the same now, but he hardly put together a thousand last year and had to buy them clothes for the kids, so he'd never know. Bobby tripped up twice before reaching the radio, then he turned it on. “Hey Bob?”, Cap was talking kind of strange for his usual, he liked to shout things in your hears, and “Yes sir...”

It was just his third week in Arkanso, Randall started to watch around and began to shake. All the white supremacy was there: a big colonial estate with thin white pillars, a white big shot with all sorts of fancy jewels on him ready to be escorted who knows where. It could have been the fucking woods for what he knew, but he tried to stay away from that thought. “Bob? Is your partner there with ya?” Bobby exercised his voice two times, “Oh yeah Chief... Randy is right here, catching a cold, you know how it is...”; “ok, listen to me now boys... I want you to be prepared for this, cause things like this only happen once in your lifetime, you got it? Mr. Burke is on his way out right now, listen to me carefully... This is not what you expected, all right? But I want you to act like everything's under control cause my ass is on the line this time, you hear?; “sure thing Chief! What can it be, c'mon... Me and Randy, you know... we did see a lot of strange stuff here in Pine Bluff sir... We collared a freak just yesterday...”;“don't crack wise with me boy, just do as I say, or swear to God I'll kick your fat polish ass till it's purple, understand? I'll hold on, I wanna hear what happens down there...”

A big crack and the marble gates started to move. The two officers kept staring at it. Bobby looked at his watch pretending not to be scared by the strange melody that was coming from out there, slow and pretty loud. Randall forgot all about the white man when he saw the real Beast, flash and bones, big gold and white apron hanging from his belly, black riding coat, black shiny shoes, tux trousers, white shirt and blue bolo. That was it, that was him, Mr. Burke with his two black twisted buffalo horns raised in the air of the night. A small dwarf, the chauffeur, stepped out of the car and opened the back door. Burke stopped on the red carpet, a choir of old men was singing “Silver Bells” inside the house. He brought a long cigarette to his mouth and lit it up, then he looked at Bobby and smiled, “take me to the joyhouse, ok?”

Bobby and Randall obeyed orders, crying all the way from Morris Street to Kendall Avenue. Mr. Burke was very polite and asked them both to join him. Their bodies were found on December 27th inside a big room, all naked and with no dick on 'em, their faces in a puddle of blood. The brothel had closed few weeks ago thanks to the Methodist Church in town, but Bobby didn't read the paper, or maybe it wasn't even that, cause incredible things like that only happen once in your lifetime.

Condenado

Mr. Clay was an honest man. He knew his way with convicts, and he just wanted to leave those poor bastards alone. Heeley State Prison was a joke, its death row complex had a long glass corridor and you could see cars and buses cruising on the highway from the cells, and if they had binoculars they would see those orange shapes of men breathing and leaning against the walls to have a chat.

From the small restaurant accross the road anyone could do that no sweat. That place seemed to be there for that same reason, its name glowing on the big sign in those very first hours of the day. Condenado.

A woman stood out there in the parking lot, miniskirt and a perfect whitey smile on her blonde head, waving her hands and shaking her ass to customers and taking orders, she must've been Miss Highway of Oklahoma State, whispered every morning Anspaugh to Frank Sally.

What do you care anyway?

It's not that I care...

Uh? You don't care now eh? You're fuckin' bustin' my balls every fuckin morning with this “super miniskirt” broad and now you don't care... And what's special with your eyes anyway pal? The broad's miles away!

You don't understand Frank... you really don't understand... I wanted to be her, see? I've always wanted to...

O Gee... Swear to God, I'm outta here...

There was a time, before I did that motherfuckin' lawyer, that I realised I wanted to be like her. These women can have anything they want.

Yeah? And how come she's a fuckin waitress?

She chose it.

Yeah?

Swear to God.

She chose it, uh?

Sure did, want a cig?

Yeah.

Ok, listen... You take a man...

Right.

...from the sewer, he ain't got a bit of style, he ends up killing for a living and who cares, right?

Humpf, yeah...

He wanna be someone but he just can't. Someone else made the choices for him a long time ago and that's it... You can't change what you are Frankie...

No?

Fuckin A! This woman's got the cards, no matter what...

This is pathetic, that glass shouldn't be there in the first place!

Why?

Why not?

I tell you what, and I'm serious now Frank... Those people's got nothing to do with you and me being here.

No? And why the hell are they spying on us all day?

Cause this is the way it's supposed to be... By showing ourselves we're giving them a chance not to make the wrong choice.

You said someone else chose for them already.

Yes I did.

So?

So that's the way it is...

Oh dude, you really are something, you know?

Thanks Frank...

Anytime.

Oh God, I don't believe this...

What?

She's waving at me!

Yeah, sure. Mr. Clay?

What is it, Sally?

I think it's time for this guy here to have his Monster's Ball, am I right?

In half an hour time Sally. You can tell your friend we're buying some food at the restaurant. I'll be here in ten minutes to take the order.

Sure chief, can I have something too?

What's wrong with your soup today?

Nothing sir, just wandering... You know?

I'll let you have a lollipop, ok?

Thank you sir, much obliged.

Be quiet now. The both of ya...

Slowly the day becomes brighter, a bunch of guards smoke their tobacco in the parking lot, waiting for the last meal to be ready. A tall light soda, a juicy T-bone, a buttered sandwich, a huge banana split, a piece of lemon cake, a milkshake with a cake spoon of fresh filter coffee, cause Mr. Clay doesn't need a nervous Anspaugh, and a tiny strawberry lollipop. It' all there. On their way to the prison, crossing the highway with the wind on their red faces, the guards meet the serious look of the waitress staring at them, and it's all gone. Dry wind blows down from the Ozark mauntains from where the ball of the sun has been thrown up in the sky, a big yolk that shines west, all over the road for New Mexico.

By the time Frank Sally had finished his lollipop David Anspaugh Junior was lying on his bunk with a stupid smirk on his face. He was already dead, two more white pills in his left hand and a small unfolded piece of paper in the other.

Mr. Clay opened the cell door and didn't say a word, he was dead, that's all it mattered to him. He took the paper from his hand. There were two lines written in pink, and his pants were all soaked in urine once he read it.

I know who you are Dave, I know your story and you deserved a better life with me.

Everyone deserves it no matter what, since there's no such thing as heaven or hell after it.

Yours,

Claudine.