Man, Friends and Seinfeld crack me up. Have you seen the Seinfeld about Jon Voight's car? Absolutely hilarious. They all are. That has nothing to do with the following story. Just a note.
I felt like a speed demon on the trail today. I was trying to catch up with the handsome/pretty one with the heart on his shirt. He didn't notice me. Ever. No matter how sweaty I got. Story of my life, ha. Really, he was pretty. I swear, I just wanted to know where he got his shirt. Or, if I could take it off for him, hahaha.
Sometimes, I think people are looking at me, and then I realize they're just looking at my Thomas the Train/Tank back pack. Hey, I may not be stylish, but at least I'm semi-original.
At least I got a good walk in. Hope you're reading THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR!
Hope you have better luck getting laid today than I did. Here is a fiction sample for you.-- C.A. Mac
Jesus, Jimmy
-- orig. published in Analecta 25: the Art and Literary Journal of the University of Texas at Austin
All right. There were some fights. Food scattered all over the kitchen, a fork mark on the side of Dad's neck. She had thrown it at him. She liked to throw things. When I walked into the kitchen, I ducked.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. That was how she got my attention. "Moe! Get up, Moe! You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
"I work the night shift!" I yelled back. Something like that.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
And there was my hand through a glass door because she pushed me into it. Then her calling the cops on me for attacking. Which I didn't, but there was blood there, and it was my fault like it was always my fault. Then it was me choosing between juvey hall and the psych ward. Then me choosing again.
So I hung out at Jimmy's basement mostly. We did ridiculous things like drink cases of Milwaukee's Best and smoke stuff and knock down walls. And sometimes, Jimmy got his guns out to show off to me. How Jimmy never ended up in jail, it's a wonder. He liked guns and guns like Jimmy. One time, we built a bonfire out in Jimmy's backyard. Jimmy burned things like books and chairs while I played my Dad's guitar in the basement. Through the sliding glass door, I watched Jimmy dance around the fire shooting his gun. Flash got me stoned. We called him that because he used to be all athletic and run real fast. He used to do everything fast -- walk fast, drive fast, pick up women fast. Stuff changes though. He made us crack up and turned into the dealer for us. There was money in it. When he was stoned, Flash cooked up these plans to save the world, then forgot them in a flash. He was a dreamer. We all were, like how we thought we could ace tests without studying at all. I always did okay, but there was the time when Jimmy saw my score and wrote "Eat shit" on my test. Then he dropped his pants. Boy, we both had to call our moms from school on that one. It was nuts.
While we burned things, Jimmy's mom slept upstairs. Either that or she went out with her boyfriend to Blueberry Hill for a drink, which usually turned out to be ten drinks. Her boyfriend was an electrician, and that came in handy when Jimmy drank too much and broke lamps. Me and Jimmy were just glad we had a place to hang out and do ridiculous things and not get yelled at. Jimmy's mom had a bad back and she was crazy too, quiet crazy. She took drugs for it, the kind that make you all loopy like you're half-dead.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "Moe, you bring me some hangers." And when I forgot, "Boy, I can see your titties when you wear that tank top." Mom said that 'cause I was big for fifteen. I was pretty built freshman year, but I kind of let myself go after that. Me and Flash were big and silly. Jimmy was bigger and sillier. Jimmy's mom was quiet crazy. My mom was loud crazy. That's why me and Jimmy hung out and knocked down walls.
--
I'm getting out today, which is a good thing because I'm playing my guitar tonight in the jazz band competition at school. All I've thought about for the past two weeks while I've been in the psych ward is how the hell I was going to get enough practicing done. They told me to think about all this past stuff, and I've thought about it, and I've written at least five new tunes about how Mom told me we were going to the doctor to get my ingrown toenails removed. Instead, she started chain smoking and drove me here, threw me in the loony bin. Not so bad, really. When you're fifteen, and in the loony bin, and your mom's loud crazy, it's kind of nice to get away for a while.
I got Dad's guitar with me. They don't let me keep it in my room because they're afraid somebody might steal it. They keep it behind the counter until I ask for it. It's not so bad here. Quiet. Kind of like a vacation.
So we go to meetings where we talk about how we feel, and I tell them I don't know why I'm here, that I'm just here, that Mom's loud crazy and I got no problems. Those whitecoats just nod and smile, looking at me all sad, the way Jimmy's mom looks when she does come down from her room, which is a one-in-a-million thing. The girls here talk and cry a lot. The boys here listen to me play tunes and beat on things when we're allowed to make noise. While I strum, I miss Jimmy and Flash, and I wonder how they're holding up. And I feel bad 'cause I know they don't like too much time without me. They need me to keep them from doing stuff that's really stupid, like stealing picnic tables from the neighbors. But that's another ridiculous story.
All right. So all week long I've been ignoring that guy with the sleep disorder. He kept banging on the wall the way my Mom did, all loud, trying to get my attention. I've been ignoring the pill suicide girls and the kid whose mom deserted his family on his birthday. I played my part in the psycho drama, the part of one of the suicide kid's abusive older brothers. That was some fun. All week long, they kept coming to me, and I listened to their stories and tried to help, but there's just no helping some people. Besides, I had to practice for the jazz band competition. Jimmy and Flash were looking forward to it. We had ridiculous plans for after the competition, whether or not I played well. They promised me that when I used my one phone call on them.
So I sit here with Dad's guitar and wait for her. When she pulls up in her AMC Eagle, yelling, "Moe!" out the window, waving her cigarette at me, I just sit and sulk.
"Get in," she says.
I get in because I got to get to school fast for the competition. I can’t drive yet and Flash is the only one with the car, but his is on blocks in Jimmy’s backyard because of the night we got all drunk on wine coolers and had the munchies. We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and ate straight off the all-you-can-eat bar. When we got back, Flash ran straight into the side of Jimmy’s house. That was after we trashed the Cedar Ridge apartment complex across the street. Jimmy had to get a new brush after that because he left his floating in the pool there. Slipped out of his back pocket.
Dad’s guitar sits in the backseat behind me, same way it sat the day after he had his first heart attack, which was the same day Mom asked him for the divorce. It was the same day that gunfire and explosions went on in Jimmy’s backyard, and we stole a birdbath from his neighbor. A week later, Jimmy’s mom smoked in the basement, ashed in the birdbath and said, “Where’d this birdbath come from?” And Jimmy said back, “Moe’s mom gave it to us.” Jimmy’s mom smiled and went up to her room with a bottle of Wild Turkey and got all quiet.
Mom rolls up her window and lights one smoke off of another. “How you doing?” she asks me, stretching her neck like a bird so she can see over the dash. Mom is skinny and wrinkly. Makes me wonder how I turned out so big.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I say back. I feel like playing some blues. Maybe Muddy Waters. Miles Davis. Yeah, Jimmy and Flash would like that.
“Moe, we got to hurry. You got the jazz band, and I got people coming to see you,” she says.
I always thought it was funny that I had to play my electric with no amp because she was always telling me to shut up, but when people came over, she wanted to show me off.
“Yeah,” I say. She doesn’t talk anymore, and I’m glad because I’m trying to remember chords in my head. I move my fingers to make sure they still work.
When we get to Wilson High, my school, Mom drops me off at the door, and I rub my hands together because they’re cold, and it’s hard to play when they’re cold. Jimmy and Flash are there and they pat me on the back. Jimmy is stoned for sure and Flash is too I think, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with Flash since he wears glasses and when he takes them off, his eyes are just slits all of the time.
Jimmy pats me on the back again, and we walk back behind the school, where I smoke a blunt with them. We huddle together like three big bears.
“Was it a shithole?” Jimmy asks me, pulling that new brush out of his back pocket. He got the new one the time when we were fucked up and Flash was running around Food Lion yelling, “I’m available for any fourteen-year-old chicks,” while Jimmy was busy stealing pot pies, and while I was busy keeping track of them.
Jimmy brushes his greasy hair back so that it’s all slick.
“Yeah, man. The people in there were so crazy, made me think I’m pretty normal.” I take the brush from Jimmy and get slick too. Got to hold up my image. I’m a slick, fast blues man. I feel my goatee. It hasn’t grown much.
“Did you meet any women?” Flash asks me, pulling a flask from his pants, taking a swig, then passing it to me. He doesn’t slick his hair ’cause it’s not worth it — his hair’s so curly the brush just gets stuck there. But he pushes his glasses up on his nose even though they’re already pushed up there. Habit.
“One. She liked to hear me play, but the nurses watched us close. Made me leave the door open. Treated me like I was some kind of nutcase,” I say.
“Too bad,” Flash says, “Hey man, you can stay at my place if stuff with your mom is tiring you.” He takes another swig and goes, “Geez, ahhh,” then smacks his lips. Something like that.
“Yeah, like your mom wants another kid running around. She’s already got ten,” I say. I think about it though. Whenever I went to Flash’s house, his dad would cook me gourmet things like eggplant Parmesan. There was just something about his house. No matter what, me and Jimmy could walk in there looking and smelling like bums, but Flash’s house always smelled good. And Flash did too. My house smelled like smoke. Jimmy’s did too, only not cigarette smoke — his house smelled like smoke from burning things because Jimmy just liked to burn things.
I pick up Dad’s guitar and go around the school to the backstage, where I get ready, and where Jimmy and Flash say to me, “Don’t kill yourself,” which means good luck. Jimmy brushes my hair where it’s sticking up and Flash puts a pack of smokes in the pockets of my jeans. I pull them up. They’re a bit loose. That’s what happens when Mom puts you in the psych ward. You get loose jeans. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause I’m big and Flash’s dad’ll cook me up something soon, like he did the last time I was in there — cooked me up some roast duck with wine sauce, which is something.
When I walk into the rehearsal room, the kids are already warmed up. They all stare at me, like they are thinking, There’s that big Moe, who was sent to the psych center. He must be nuts. But they keep on warming up, and as I tune my guitar, my hands feel bigger and bigger. My body feels bigger and bigger. And Dad’s guitar feels ridiculously heavy. I feel sweat coming down my head, messing up my hair where Jimmy brushed it. But I am strong, strong like Dad. I am a fighter, like Jimmy when he threw that kid into a mirror at his house and glass went everywhere. “Shit,” Jimmy said. “Bad luck.”
“Ready. The crowd’s waiting.” Mr. Slosher says that. He’s the gym teacher, but he’s also the music teacher. In gym class, he laughs when he calls my name for attendance. “Oh, it’s Tuesday. Moe must be here.” I only go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s band practice days. Always get an “A” in gym though. Mr. Slosher likes me ’cause I play a mean guitar. He says I know how to improvise.
We follow him because he’s got the suit on — me, the keyboard player, the bassist, and the drummer. One big bear and three little kids. We follow Slosher the way Mom follows me around the house, watching me, waving her cigarette like an extra finger, saying, “Moe, why you always look at me like that?”
Slosher opens the curtains for us, and the four of us go out on stage, waiting for the good part. I breathe deep and think of Jimi Hendrix. I look at Charles, the bass player, and nod. And he nods back. I feel all loopy and daydream about his dark face fading into Jimmy’s pale one. I picture Jimmy standing next to me on stage, saying, “Look at my new gun, Moe. We’re gonna tear some shit up tonight.” And I look at the skinny, angry drummer, wishing it were Flash beating on them, saying, “Come over. My dad made some linguine.” But when the curtains open, and I look out at the parents, all I see is Mom’s face, wrinkly and smiling. She even claps.
I stare at her while I play Dad’s guitar. I’m not thinking about what I’m playing, but somehow, my fingers move because Slosher says I know how to improvise. I keep staring at Mom and thinking of songs in my head, songs about people just like me and Flash and Jimmy, people that do ridiculous things. When it’s over, and the crowd’s making some noise, I think I see Dad out there too, smoking a cigarette in the back of the auditorium because he has to smoke in order to cough and get stuff out of his lungs. And that is the stupid thing about all of it. Not that he has to cough, but that he’s not there at all.
When they give me the plaque for "Most Valuable Jazz Band Member," all I can think about is how good it is going to look on that wall, that wall that Mom always bangs on. And as she takes me home, all I think about is where the plaque should go, somewhere between my poster of Jimi and the one of B.B. King. So, when I ask Mom for nails, she says, "Moe, we can't be ruining the walls."
But I do it anyway. I search through Dad's old work shed and find a big one and pound it in. Bang, bang, bang on the wall. I hang that plaque there, and when she comes in and throws things and takes that plaque away, I duck and keep hitting the wall. Bang, bang, bang. I hit it until there's a hole there, then walk over to Jimmy's to cool off. I'll get that plaque back. Something like that.
Me, Jimmy, and Flash hang out at Jimmy's and play pool. Jimmy is good and liquored up by the time I get over there to tell him about the plaque.
"That ain't right," he says, sitting on top of the pool table. It doesn't matter if we do that. The table has all sorts of dents and slants in it.
"Yeah," I say, drinking Jimmy's Mom's Wild Turkey.
"That just ain't right," Jimmy says, hitting his fist on the table, knocking the eight ball with the side of his big hand.
"Boys, we need to have a little meeting," Flash says, pulling bud out of his jacket.
The three of us move to a holey couch, sink in it, smoke and get all quiet until Flash says, "Man, you're gonna be all famous on stage someday and none of this shit will matter."
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say to him.
Jimmy's red eyes open, and he jumps up to get them, but he only makes it to the pool table. He lies down on it and gets all sleepy.
Flash puts his arm around me. He feels warm and smells like some food I can't put my finger on. "You're gonna be all famous, and I'll be the cook for your band." He takes his glasses off and starts cleaning them on his sweatshirt. The glasses are clean, but he cleans them anyway. Habit.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna make some noise." I pick up Dad's guitar by the neck and begin to strum the blues, staring at the birdbath. Flash gives me a noogie and fills up the big bong. Jimmy talks in his sleep. I play until I can't move my fingers. Then I shake them and play some more until I'm sweating, sweating like I'm on stage with thousands of people staring at me, yelling my name, smiling, smoking their cigarettes, letting me hang up my plaque. Me and Flash get stoned off our rockers and laugh at Jimmy who wakes up when his Mom comes down the stairs when she gets back from Blueberry Hill and thinks she better check on him for once.
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say because it's too quiet, crazy quiet.
"Mom, does your boyfriend stick his dick in light sockets?" he asks her. And she shakes her head and walks to the upstairs, which I have never seen. She doesn't talk back to Jimmy because Jimmy has guns. She just stares like a crowd stares before the music begins when Mr. Slosher says, "You ready?"
Jimmy laughs all loud crazy then starts nodding off again, spread-eagled on the pool table. Flash goes over, pokes his shoulder 'cause he's worried Jimmy might choke on his puke or something ridiculous like that. Sometimes, it's hard to wake Jimmy unless you stick forks in his mouth. And then he'll just wake up and puke in the birdbath.
I keep yelling, "Let me see your guns," and Flash keeps poking him, until Jimmy wakes up and punches him in the mouth. "Let me sleep," he says.
"Jesus, Jimmy, it's me," Flash says to him, wiping his mouth, which probably hurts and will hurt more tomorrow. The whole scene will stick in his mind like a bad tune.
Jimmy opens his eyes up some more, rubs them, and says, "Sorry man." Flash and I know he means it 'cause he messes his hair up when he says it, and that means he's telling the truth. Sometimes the truth is messy that way. Then Jimmy slurs, "Hey, Moe, me and Flash'll help you get that plaque back, even if I have to beat the shit out of your old lady. She probably stuffed it under your dad's old clothes in the basement or something," right before he passes out for real, when there's no waking him.
"All right," I say. And sometimes it was.
-- C.A. MacConnell
