Biden Our Time

In a time of global insanity and national buffoonery, Joe Biden is exactly what we need. 

Lunch Pail Joe near hunert year old and a multiple loser running for President, isn't witty, clever, or charismatic. 

He's just plain old Honest Joe, a decent guy with a big heart. And right now there's nothing we need more than decency and normalcy.

He aint no radical and they got no hold on him. When it comes to agenda, the Progressives will have wait in line alongside Conservatives and hope for compromise, i.e., Americans coming together to work out our differences. 

Biden doesn't hate minorities, women, or even Republicans. In this "worst of times" he is the best of us. And that'll do. We'll get used to the gaffes; in fact it'll be refreshing after the long national nightmare that was Donald Trump.

DC can finally be boring again, and we can all get on with our lives, sans the drama queen that was the Donald Dumpster fire. A breath of fresh air will sweep in and take that giant weight off our shoulders, like a slumbering bear in the warm glow of spring, shaking off the stagnation of long cold winter.

America will awaken with burst of energy and national pride as working men and women lead a charge we haven't seen since post world war: to rebuild highways, rail lines, on-line communications, and most of all, our imperiled communities that have long suffered under the strain of Trump divisiveness. 

There's a bold new wave ahead of us, and a bright new future. A brave new world that has good people in it. America is ready to lead, all we need is a leader - Joe Biden, a man who believes in the people.

The President's Men Called It "Rat-fucking"

 

A review of Steve Ely's "Ratmen."

Amazingly good stuff. I'd finished Sick City by Tony O'Neill, so of course was worried there'd be nothing else that well-written. But greatly pleased to find my copy of Ely's book. 

Which was sent to me by the publisher Geraint Hughes with the message "whadda think of this?" I'd ordered a Ridgwell, and asked if he had anything else that good.

Also mentioned he wasn't aware I lived in the States and shipping charges are outrageous! Told him to thank W Bush for destroying US Postal Service by trying to privatize it, as he'd done to the military. 

Whereby all entry level jobs in food service, carpentry, personnel, heavy equipment, and so forth, are now done by private contractors like Bush's friends Halliburton (which Dick Cheney used to run) and Blackwater (run by Betsy Devos' brother).

Anyway, I regress. So Hughes sent me the book ten year ago, and I began reading after finishing the Ridgwell and fearing there'd be nothing that good left to read. But "Ratment" was so excellent, I started reviewing it at The Guardian whilst halfway through the book. (I used to send my reviews as comments in their reader section 'til they got wise to that.) And then all this stuff happened, and I quit reading and writing for lotta years.

So, back to the book. You know all those shows on Netflix, Amazon, HBO, that are 'sposed to be so clever? I betcha Steve Ely could write screen plays 'bout an eco-warrior that'd raise the hair up off the back yer neck down to yer arse. Cuz he writes that good, and seems to know exactly what he's writing about. So if everyone would read the book, we could all discuss it at Sam Jordison's discussion group, and try to figure out what it means.

I asked all these questions a decade ago: who're the rats? Immigrants flooding to Europe, minorities in other parts of the world, anyone who doesn't look like us? Or just filthy little vermin at war with humans for control of the planet, re: Bill Ectric's story 'bout Easter Island. If so, could be a metaphor for the Covidicus wot currently gots us in its grip.

But you see why we need a big discussion group for to input everyone's opinion. And so Hughes gotta re-publish it so everbuddy gots a copy. Anyway, I oughtta say something about the the book. Ely tells a great story - he's good at it. And writing like you're not gonna find elsewhere. The tone, the mood, is quiet deliberate desperation like ticking before it all blows up. One scene I'll mention: the kid on the bus going to work, sees the goth girl fondling her pet rat. She smiles and lets him hold her pet. He drop kicks it down the aisle and into the bus window. And the boss tells him "settling little scores got nothing to do with settling bigger scores."

Yeah, seriously good stuff.

Cancelling Culture

Ever been to confession? "Forgive me Father, I've had impure thoughts." "Yes, my child, that's about the only thing nature wants us to do." 

So...how's that a sin? Worse yet, how can anyone tell us what to think. These are the basic questions of existence. 

And if you wanna trash Columbus for being impure, please consider plucking out thine own eyes. (Just do it, you'll feel better being blind deaf and dumb.)

Better yet, get some Inquisition-ers to decide what's okay to think, and what isn't. "Works for me" Uncle Joe Stalin, Mao Zedong (Mousie Dung), Heinrich Himmler, et.al. Them boy wrote letters too - sign on, if you don't approve of free thinking.

I feel like I'm wasting my time with the intellectually defective. But I always feel that way. That's the trouble with a lifetime search for truth and the knowing of things. It's a lonely path. But we gots a theme song "I don't wanna take advice from fools..." So, wot the fock, methinks I'se better off.

Even though the sad fact of idiots is their numerical superiority, I take comfort that they never amount to much. They don't run things, build things, or really get anywhere in life. Their only power is that of a mindless mob. Like Hitler's crowd. 

It's troubling when they find a false god to lead them. But even Adolf didn't last, or Jim Jones, or Joe McCarthy. They can wreak a lotta havoc though. Mao destroyed China, Pol Pot murdered two million people.Others have done worse.

And if'n y'didnt know, folks came to America to get away from that kinda shit. Quoting Santayana "history can be a bitch." Especially since "Scotty doesn't know." So...look at yerself and tell me "are you Scotty?" Or you got the balls to try & find out wot life's about? 

It's a free country...for now. Don't fuck it up, just cuz you can. The search & rescue folk at Howard AFB told me it was a foul rotting mess, removing all them bloated corpses from Jonestown.

Just Get Along

A review of Thomas Chatterton Williams' Unlearning Race Self-Portrait In Black And White

Race is artificial nonsense. And it all depends on who's selling what - cuz people will believe anything. Example: we know what we see with our own eyes. Whether you live to be ninety, or die young; that was your limited share of forever. But we're told from birth to sacrifice this life for the rewards of an unseen unknowable "afterlife." And most people believe that shit, either wholly or in the back of their minds. That's why soldiers die in battle - they've been conditioned to think others matter more than them. Conditioning works, but never in our own interest.

The author was told by his father that he's black and "don't you forget it." Even though his mother's white. Which I guess is the same for Barack Obama, Tiger Woods, and many other people. Williams uses the great soccer player Neymar as an example. In Brazil, if you're mixed race, i.e., part white, than you can't be black - which is the opposite of the American color rule. Now if this all sounds quite stupid, believe me, it is. About as intelligent as children trying to find the right crayons to color black and white people. But like I said, people will believe anything cuz they're just too dumb to think for themselves. Or too conditioned as "followers" to even try.

But let's back up and take a closer look at a couple things. Why would Williams senior tell his sons they're black...and warn them against the evils of white people. Well, he'd seen racism with his own eyes. And despite getting a PhD and sending his son to Georgetown, he was conditioned to believe that success for black people depends entirely on one's own doing. That it is accomplished in spite of the "repressive system" and not because this system, imperfect as it is, still has room for anyone to achieve whatever they set their sights on.

Reminds me of a story my friend Gene told me when we were in high school. Gene's dad had fought for America in the Korean War (as young men are conditioned to do). But while in the Army, his best friend got in a fight with a black soldier and was killed. So Gene's dad forever impressed upon him the evil of black people. I argued this with him and he responded "how would you feel if your dad's best friend was killed by a black man?" Death, you see, is pretty much an end to someone's eternity. So it's rather final.

And fifty years later, here we are, unconvinced still. But the author decides not to be black anymore. After the soul searching angst of renouncing "the long struggle" against oppression; as well as all the greatness of black people - he's decided that these and all other facets that made him black for thirty years (or thirty centuries) no longer define or limit him. Seems simple enough since by all appearances, Williams is viewed by others as Mediterranean or Arab or whatever "the other" sees as similarity.

But is this the blueprint for how we should view race?

I've an analogy. In the movie Odds Against Tomorrow Harry Belafonte and Robert Ryan hate each other because of race. It's part of the plot, but needn't be. Belafonte and Ryan could hate each other because they're so different: Belafonte, the handsome young carefree night club singer with the pretty wife and beautiful little daughter. Ryan the older, bitter, uneducated loner. Belafonte is loved and admired by all; Ryan isn't. They're opposites who despise what the other represents. But it really has nothing to do with race.

No doubt the ability to push this hatred on camera is made easier since Ryan and Belafonte were friends off camera, so no worries about acting out "hate" in a movie. Their mutual friend in the show, Ed Begley, doesn't care about race. He just wants them to get along so they can all rob a bank together. And that's the whole key - to work together for mutual success. It's a great film, but with a very gloomy title.

Back to Williams' story. Cinematically, Williams' father should have failed miserably just to prove the point of "systemic oppression." And (in the movie version) should've made sure his sons continue a tradition of failure. But he doesn't. He ensures his own success and that of his children. But sadly, not everyone does. It seems we're so conditioned to accepting failure, we instinctively act out these roles - accepting how others define us instead of being bold enough to define ourselves. If that's the message Williams wants to convey - read & heed.

Won't Get Fooled Again

With of without corinavus, Americans are a sick stupid people. Faced with the choice between an exceptional leader like Bernie Sanders who stands for the "dignity of all people" and somebody else - Hilree Clinton, Donnjay Trump, Joey Biden - we always make the wrong choice. 

We vote against our own best interests cuz we too fucking stupid to know better.

We're the parable Jesus told about choosing the free ski boat or...what's in the mystery box. We take whatever crap the salesmen sell us, every goddamn time. How can we be so fucking dumb? Are we innately stupid, so easily duped, or just suckers just waiting to be conned? Duh...fuck yeah! 

Nixon v McGovern - let's take the crook. Carter v Reagan - gimme the Corporate shill. Bush v Kerrey - I want the draft dodger, not the war hero. Fokking morons. You want the fool who most resembles your own pathetic failures. Mindless little mice following the pied-piper carnival barker who sells you poison cuz he convinced you it's just what you need.

Okey dokey - you get what you deserve. Donnie Trump - the worst piece of self-dealing crooked malignant dog shit ever to host reality TV. Hopefully the Duck Dynasty guys will try to primary him. 

White Guys w Guns

When I was a college student from small town midwest, we'd go to New York for Christmas. Our excuse was "theatre seminar." They give you college credit fer going to plays and writing a paper. Pretty good deal. 

But the cool thing was - kids from all over the country, N'Joizy to California, alone together drinking and partying. California girls are fun. 

Christmas Eve was cold dark night and big fluffy snow starts t'droppin' from the sky like paratroops. And I'm so anxious to go to Central Park and watch it fall, and see God's present to his eager children. I almost do, but so fearful of being killed by gangs who roam the park "wilding" mugging, killing, and off-limits for humans after dark. 

A couple years later I'se selling cars in Hot-Lanna and a little old retired Army colonel comes in to buy. I'se makin' small talk, so when he says he just lef' New York, I tell him that story. And he tells me his. He went to Central Park late at night and got attacked by angry young men who came at him with knives. "That's terrible" I tell him. "Yeah" he says "three young men lost their lives that night."

But there's more...twenty year later I'm in a tourist in Rome with my kids. Our first day here. And now I'm up at 4 am with anxiety, afraid of what I've got them into. Down in the hotel lobby there's a mini bar so I grab a whiskey. And I see this old guy and his wife gettin' ready to go out. "What's up" I ask him. He smiles "Rome is amazing this time a night."

Some places seem sinister, people are leery. Don't make eye contact on 8th Ave at night. Other places are easy, get lost in the crowd at Leicester Square. Wander around anywhere in Venice, it's all the same. 

When I was a small town kid, when the sun went down, the fun began. But old people get up early to catch every second of daylight. Cuz whatcha can't see - could kill you. Fear begets fear and it ends in death.

Reading Books (part 4)

Not that I wanna do a running commentary on books I'm reading but's like Mel Brooks' History of the World, part 2. Ten year 'go was writing a review* of Steve Ely's "Ratmen" whilst reading it - cuz was so good, why wait til y'gits to the end, huh? And now...I'se doin' the same damn thang all o'er agin (Oregon fer Nort by Nort Westers). 

And or slacked by anudder slog. So, Marc Grossberg's "The Best People" reads so very well, just that I don't like any of the characters, so's hard to relate. Like, remember that tv show JAG? Man, I hated them scummy righteous-ass shitheads so bad. Make y'wanna read Henry Baum's book "Golden Calf" 'bout gettin' rid a Tom Cruise as a public service.

So...TC Williams' "Unlearning Race" seems t'be mostly about how "whitey" done ruint everthin and everbuddy 'cept fer those who benefit which is like - all of us? Well, maybe not the continent of Africa which isn't suffering from "whitey" intervention. Am I being snarky here?

And Darran Anderson's "Inventory" is so beautifully written and so tragically told - kinda like Erie itself, no?

Flash forward (or backward)(or both at same time) re-reading Ely's "Ratmen" is like finding there's great stuff even after you's read Tony O'Neill and worried that nothing would ever compare. Damn that young rat killer can tell a tale. And shout out to Geraint Hughes who done sent me the book with the eloquent inscription "Christ-Jayzuz, shipping costs to US are outrageous!" And I eloquently replied "I 'preciate it."

*(figured I could post my reviews in the comments section of The Guardian books, and New York Times book reviews. But they got wise t'my scam and quit giving out the links to my cleverly insinuated craftsmanship.)

PS - did I mention I recently reviewed Ben Myers' "The Offing"

Georgia Christmas

Christmas is nice because you get all those toys, enough to last all year. I remember thinking about that when we're at the A& P grocery store, Grandma and me, and Shell, my sister. I see up above the counters where the food is, they have toys up there so you can look at them as you walk through. There's a Jungle Jim safari set that has a toy rifle and scope and a safari hat and a pistol and a safari belt. That's what I want. That's all that I want. 

But you don't say anything. When you ain't got money, you don't go around saying "I want this" or "I want that." I mean, just be puttin' people on the spot, just make everything awkward and the whole day all screwed up and no fun anymore. So you just hope. You just hope that someone sees you staring at the safari set and figures that's the only thing you want in the world. Then Christmas comes and I don't get it, but that's okay. Got other stuff.

And all that's so relative anyway. I mean people wouldn't even know what I was talking about 'cause even though we don't have much, we got, you know, everything we need. I mean, sure I go down to my cousin's house, they live like a hour south of us in a little town (takes two hours when Granddad drives).  And at their house, there're rooms filled with toys, everything, new bicycles lying on the ground out in the rain. This one big room at the end of the house, they call the "playroom." It’s kinda nice, but kinda sad too.

But you know, little as we got, we still had enough to hire a black girl to watch us kids when we were little, for like five cent an hour, during the day. That's before blacks were allowed to work in the South and like fifty years after Grandma was getting ten cent an hour at the sweat shop up north. Imagine, hiring people to do domestic work for five cent an hour. But like I say, blacks weren't allowed to have jobs. The only black person I ever remember working at a real job was the girl who ran the elevator in Davidson's department store. All dressed up in her maroon red uniform with fancy trim and white gloves, just to push the lever that said which floor you were going to. I thought that was a pretty neat job. Wanted to do that when I grew up.

Oh, and the cab drivers too. Older black ladies take cabs, I guess, like to the grocery store, because they don't have cars I suppose, and they take the black cab because whites and blacks don't ride in the same cab, so they have their own company.  You don't really think about this as being grotesquely insane when you're little, it's just the way it is and you don't even wonder about it. More concerned with the Jungle Jim toy, you know. On main street we walk past the black movie theater that's on the far west end of the street, I think. They always have all these neat posters of monster movies like "Lizard Man" and stuff like that. I'd like to go to that theater, but can't, not allowed.

But the west end of the street there, maybe that's where Colored town starts, I don't know. Don't know where blacks live in my own hometown. Aint that weird? I think there's a Colored grocery store a couple of blocks south of our house; that must be part of Colored town too, but the one time I was there, I see it's run by white people, just blacks shop there. Anyway, Dad gots this sad story he tells and you can see there's a lot of emotion in his throat when he tells it. He's walking there past the Colored theater on the sidewalk and this older black man, grandfatherly-type guy's coming toward him. The old man steps off the sidewalk, lowers his head and tips his hat. And you know Dad comes from this background where younger people 'spose to show respect to their elders, and say "yes ma'am" and "yes sir" and kinda defer to people who are old. So when the old guy does that, it just mortifies him, a moment in time your brain never forgets.

When I'm older, I go to Kress's five and dime, walk down those old worn wooden floors way back to the back of the store where the two water fountains are, and drink out of the one marked "Colored" so as to say "fuck you" to the whole white supremacist system. Not much of a statement but it makes me feel better. I mean Lester Maddox is Governor and he used to be this eighth grade graduate who had a couple of fast food restaurants. One in Atlanta and one here in Athens. He makes a statement too - won't serve blacks. What a guy. And people walking around outside his restaurant carrying signs and so forth, but nothing much comes of it 'cept gets Lester elected.

Martin's marching non-violently to Selma but all hell breaks loose, I guess. Me and Shell walk the ten blocks to Catholic school and pass the KKK building on the way. That always scares me. The KKK doesn't like Catholics. There's a rumor that one of the clan guys from here in Athens was involved in killing someone over in Alabama, but I never heard anything more about it. But up there in Atlanta, young Stokely Carmichael is telling the crowd to fight violence with violence. They arrest him for "inciting to riot." I like Stokely. He's cool. But he gets arrested all the time, wherever he goes. Hear it on the news all the time. I don't think anybody ever got any civil rights in this county but for Stokely Carmichael inciting people to riot. Maybe they should put his image up there on Mt. Rushmore. Yeah.

Off Beaten Paths

I finished reading Ben Myers' book "The Offing" and there're some good ideas here; with a romantic charm and a definite "Walden" feel to the story. Young fellow goes out in search of knowing and finds mentor-ship. And that's good. When we're young and malleable, we desperately need mentor-ship or we're likely to go straight to hell. Good point, essential even.

Obviously the young fellow didn't get the help he needed from school or parents which is too bad, but also "too true" for much of our youth today (or always, I guess).  Reckon they said the same thing fiddy or hunnert year ago. But maybe we're more attune to it today. We've reached a point in evolutin' where we achingly see a common humanness in Dickens' street urchins, that keenly reminds us...of us.

But with absentee parents and unavailing schools as non-guides, how many gonna be lucky enough to run into a brilliant sage who'll teach us the meaning of life? I dunno, but I appreciate Myers pointing this out. Is like the whole crux of the matter.

And the concept of telling a story by way of telling someone else's story seems like a novel approach. Or maybe not, but is a clever double-meaning sentence, no?

Anyway, the story is the story of Robert uncovering Romy's story - a dead poet, so to speak. Romy sort of died to live forever, which worked okay for Jesus but is a tough act to follow. Basically, I wouldn't recommend trying that. Reminds me of Buddhist monks who self-immolated to protest stuff during the Vietnam War. Was pretty sensational to see on TV but has a limited run for the burning monk.

Myers' interplay amongst the three characters - Robert the youth, Dulcie the sage, and Romy the dead poet - is artfully done. Dulcie, the ancient non-mariner is a remarkably heroic older lady (aren't they all) who has seen and done it all. But that's just the beginning for her. And we should properly respect - revere even - all our tribal elders for the knowledge and history of their life years. What they've witnessed and learned is a ready-at-hand encyclopedia we should avail ourselves of. But somehow, foolishly, we don't.

But there's an excellent point to Robert's quest - if you wanna find out what life's about - go look. See what there is to see and y'might learn something. Good advice for everyone, but especially the young. Don't settle for the yoke and chain (kinda mixed metaphor, but you get the point). Check out the path less traveled by and see where it goes.

And the metaphor of the Phoenix or Jesus, is a good thing. Especially as there's a hinting of impending danger ever-present in the story. But it seems tied to an enigma, or an anchor maybe. The dilemma being: no one wants to be the drone working in the coal mine for to warm the toes of aristocrats. But if everyone were to realize that - how would we ever keep our feet warm?

Thing is, if everyone were to wake up and face this fairly obvious truth - yer little more than cattle yoked to the cartel of industrialized capitalism...then, wouldn't we really really need a planet-wide re-make of our entire economic structure? Yeah, reckon so. And since the ultra-wealthy who thrive off this system, own and control everything and everyone - the chance of change is about as likely as Romy the dead poet rising like Venus on the half-shell.

So the other option is what? Those of us enlightened few who've escaped the coal mines can tread water, drift, or float somewhere in between the aristocrats and the drones on our own mid-level island. Well, beats working, I guess. And it's a way out, of sorts. The knowing that we've all unlimited potential, the impossibility of ever making that a practical reality for everyone, and the usefulness (or not) of making everyone aware of this tragic comedy.

Well, perhaps it's a start. A beginning of our quest, so to speak. And I'm very fond of the Walden quality of Myers' book. It's very peaceful, calming, green and tranquil. Charming even, despite the hedge rows. 

But as Myers' young character was wending his way through the brambles, I was out there in the back yard plucking Lambs quarters from patchwork grass. And thinking, old-time farmers knew this of the soil - how things grew together and maybe why. But sons of their sons scoffed misunderstanding "dollars per mechanized acre." And a once-world of small farmers tilts now toward Bayer Corporation owning Monsanto's patents on half the world's food supply. Stick that in yer craw and ruminate.

Oh well...there're valuable lessons here, and it's a grand story. 

Into Darkness

forty-five years ago I worked here
amid the hustle and bustle of the world's
largest seed company and none of us knew
how much fun it would be
to be young and green and alive forever

and twenty-five years ago I played softball
here with the kids but we didn't know 
it's what life's all about
and we thought it would never end
when the girls were young and their life
was a game

and fifteen years ago I went fishing here
with my dad and we knew it was almost over
and so it was, and so it is
and this year, this year is like all of the same
so lonely and alone and all alone with the memories
of how wondrous and grand it all must have been

Don't Look Now

forty-five years ago I worked here
amid the hustle and bustle of the world's
largest seed company and none of us knew
how much fun it would be
to be young and green and alive forever

and twenty-five years ago I played softball
here with the kids but we didn't know 
it's what life's all about
and we thought it would never end
when the girls were young and their life
was a game

and fifteen years ago I went fishing here
with my dad and we knew it was almost over
and so it was, and so it is
and this year, this year is like all of the same
so lonely and alone and all alone with the memories
of how wondrous and grand it all must have been

Exceptional

Watching the documentary "Primary" about Kennedy and Humphrey in 1960; and distraught to tears by the absence of leadership in America and around the world (aren't we all). 

Clearly leaders like John Kennedy - good looking, witty, intellectual, athletic - aren't so very rare as to be so seldom (almost never) found. Exceptionalism abounds in this country and others. 

The insurmountable obstacle is - mediocrity (by definition) greatly out-numbers exceptionalism. And mediocrity so fiercely guards its position of power and authority as to instinctively recognize its greatest threat is any and all things superior to the mediocre. 

Mediocrity so thoroughly fears and hates the exceptional - for its very survival, it has to stifle, smother, and snuff it out wherever and whenever possible. These are the facts and they are obvious. They are self-evident and true by the very definition and meanings of the words "mediocre" and "exceptional." 

As a green eager youth, I applied for a job as a waiter at a nice little Italian restaurant. The owners sons were management types, and one of 'em interviewed me. "Where do you expect to be in five years?" he asked. (Wot the fock, I'm applying for a minimum wage job here, shit face.) So I says "I reckon...if promoted on my ability, I'll be the manager here."

Geez, idiot-boy aint got sense enuf but to ask stupid questions he got out of some "how to interview job applicants" book. What a maroon. And like my years in the US of Air Force. "Our mission is to fly and fight, and don't you forget it." No dip shit, your mission isn't to fight wars, it's to keep the peace. If yall weren't run by fokking combat pilots who only know how to war, you'd understand that. 

But in the Air Force, only combat pilots are promoted to command positions, so how the fuck would they ever know any better. You get promoted based on "combat kills" not on who gots the best ideas of how to do things the best way. Is how it is.

And the really cool thing is - there's little or nothing we can do about it. In a democracy, the fucking stupid identify with their own kind - Ronald Reagan, W Bush, Donnie Trump. In America "anybody" can be president. That is, any fucking idiot who the majority of other fucking idiots can relate to. As Chris (shithead) Matthews oft said "who would you rather have a beer with?" Well, obviously a moron like W Bush, not a bright academic-type like Al Gore. 

Wot the fock? We choose leaders cuz we wanna swill beer with 'em? How focking stupid could Chris Matthews be? (Again, if you've ever watched him on tv, that too is self-evident.) And now our nation selected the leader via a bunch of stupid cunts squealing "lock her up" like squealing "sieg heil" at Nuremberg rallies.

And the fucking fools don't even know any better cuz most of 'em got no fucking idea what Nuremberg is. Schools don't teach that shit, and them fuck heads wouldn't get it, even if someone tried to teach 'em. They's born stupid and raised ignorant. Shit, they's Republicans or Tories, or whatever the fuck corporate executives recruit to shill their products for 'em. And to keep the fuckin' filthy rich aristocrats in charge of everything with a fucking moron puppet as a mouthpiece to entertain the masses.

And no matter how hard you try - you can never outnumber the mediocre. To paraphrase Ma Gump "stupid is...and stupid does."

Racism and Equality

Whenever we divide ourselves along racial lines like "whites" and "minorities" we affirm that race defines who we are. People who do that - are racists. They define themselves and everyone else by skin color. And not in an objective or abstract way. To them - white is evil, black is good. Their problem with America is based on slavery and Article 1 of the Constitution.

But not really. My granddaughter says her friends want to raise hell when they're young because "you can't do that when you grow up." I corrected her - they want to raise hell - because they're too dumb to know any better. They've no clue of how to wisely spend their time. The rest is simply rationalizating, an excuse for their ignorance.

Same for racists - it isn't that people were enslaved and counted as "three-fifths" human. It's that they don't understand what that means. The Constitution of 1787 excluded Native Americans completely. Black activists hate that America counted them as only three-fifths "human" but fail to recognize that Indians were counted as "zero" human. How racist can you get?

Native Americans were given "human" status by Act of Congress in 1928. Prior to that, they were largely exterminated via genocide and/or exiled at gun-point to harsh concentration camps called "reservations." Now that'd be something for "activists" to bitch about. 

And if you say "we only care about our own people" then I'd say you got a lot in common with White Supremacists.

The other "elephant in the room" is slavery. Consider - why didn't European ships pick up white slaves from Europe before coming to America to process and harvest sugar in the Caribbean or cotton and tobacco in the South? Cuz - the only people selling slaves were black Africans - who were selling their conquered enemies. And like it or not, that's a fact.

Alex Haley's movie "Roots" depicts white slavers as being so clever and skillful that they could go to the largely unknown and unexplored (by Europeans) continent of Africa, and entrap black Africans who knew their own land better than anyone. And that actually happened - rarely. The vast majority of black African slaves were captured and sold by other black Africans. Y'see truth can be more cruel than fiction but it's good to know anyway. 

It doesn't make it right, and it doesn't excuse anyone from their part in the evils of slavery. Just this - don't blame white Europeans for slavery anymore than you blame black African slave traders - the guilt is equal. 

So why aren't we demanding "reparation" be paid to black Americans by the African nations who sold slaves in the eighteenth century? Well, cuz that'd be stupid. All those folks are long dead for hundreds of years now. So...why the fuck are we keeping this hatred alive? Cuz just like slavery two hundred years ago - it makes money. 

A very clever (and lazy-ass way) to get what others got is to shame them into thinking they they got theirs illegally and thus owe you part of their ill-gotten gains (beats workin'). But not really. Beggars and whores give up their self-worth for whatever they get in return.

So let me tell you what equality is. It's in your head. If you want to be equal - be equal. Don't try to talk it or write it. Don't try to buy it or even demand it. Just do it. And then forever put it to bed and forget about it. And I don't need no "ethnic" dolls to play with. I see Stokely Carmichael - and he looks just like me.

Soundless Voices

Everyone wants to believe their voice matters, that their existence matters. When I was four years old, my cousins were visiting - was Easter or something. I had a sore on my knee and Grandma wrapped it up with a poultice. 

But the kids were all playing laughing running in the front yard in warm spring sunshine, and then everyone ran to the backyard. I was the youngest and couldn't run, couldn't keep up, so I got left behind.

Some years later, sitting at the big folding table at Uncle Orrie's house, in the big open room at the end of the hall, the play room just for the kids. My older cousins talking about life and Bob Dylan and what it all means. Us younger kids sitting there listening, imagining someday we'd be like that - have opinions that matter, and others would listen to us and learn the meanings of life.

Like Baby Face Nelson or Dillinger, gangsters from the Depression - is something just to get your name in the papers so that people know who you are. Doesn't even matter if it's good or bad; just that you're known, so you're not a nobody. Not a wallflower at school, or in life. Someone who doesn't count, whose existence has no meaning. Dylan says "let's go see that guy" at some club in the Village "I hear he's got something to say." 

That's what matters, and what makes us matter, or so we think. So we've been schooled to believe - our worth is measured by what others think of us. So we desperately want them to hear us, to be charmed by our amazing wit and brilliant insight. Not only that, all our being, our existenz, has been an effort to see and do it all. To experience and learn it all, like Hegel, and to tell others. Not just so they know the right path to follow, but so they know who pointed the way.

John Kennedy dies and the whole nation mourns cuz he was an important man, a great man. Other folks die and no one cares or even notices. Their life was meaningless, a nothingness. And they're well-aware of it. At 16, 17, or even younger, they know their life doesn't matter and never will. And try to self-destruct that what God made so comically and tragically pathetic.Thousands die in wars that are won by the great men like Eisenhower, who maybe never fired a shot at the enemy in his whole life. Some people count and others don't.

And today in the here and now - nobody posts on Twitter or Facebook anonymously. Cuz how'd you know if thousands or millions of people saw that clever remark or brilliant insight. We might say something so profound - it influences 8 billion other people (per Sartre's ripple effect ). Which is like the whole point, of talking anyway. 

Listening 

another day in the march toward death
I rage this silent war
with all the vanishing traces of my being.
in the ceaseless stomp of the soundless parade
and the sounding celebration of the disappearing crowd.
it is too clear.  
it is too sharp.
the silence screams the loudest scream of all.
the silence tolls the muteness of it all.
the quiet clarifies the shape
to be.
to obfuscate,
obdurate in high-sounding phrases
of a scaling of Olympus 
to abjure the decision,
to procrastinate the sentence,
to confiscate the word
to be.
I do not hear them.
to be dead.  
no, do not say that.
to be blind amid the struggle to be insensate of pain:
inanimate surrender to the obsequies,
the daily eulogies that pass for common speech,
the sittings and the watchings not to feel.
to be removed...
feet first, go slowly,
not to run, not to touch;
hear sounds, see acts, feel moods
and never make them,
never make them,
make them objects 
make objections.
make a sound 
like a whisper in a cave.

Favorite Books

Wull, my own, of course. But wot happen was this - was demobbing from military service in Italy - what most folks (including base commander) thought was a multi-year vacation in Alpine ski resort. 

So with nothing to do & no one to do it with, I got books from local library, wot were awful - Snopes Trilogy by Billy Faulkner - wot sucks shit, big time. So...had no recourse but to start writing my own books.

Mine was a sci-fi thriller metaphor: young officer meets enchanting young green-skinned girl on far away planet (was largely autobiographical). And as the planet is being warred upon by evil Earth military, the officer manages to expose this to world-wide TV media who (unfortunately) are in cahoots with military-industrial complex (basically a true story). 

But young green girl say "not to worry." As she... (debutante-like) "becoming" or (Heideggrer-like) "physis" ...real powerful priestess of her tribe (real perty too) she'll soon be able to place her thoughts into the minds of all 'em half-wit earthlings. Unfortunately, that part's fiction, or not.  Anyway, was a nice idea. And subsequent books were actually published and not bad 'tall, in my opinion. 

Dangerous

The girl reading a magazine from the rack. Headphones on, listening to music, oblivious to the world except who’s doing what in Teen Star Magazine. Imagining herself in their world, their lives, to have it made at such a young age, anything everything you’d ever want. Where she is, where she lives, in her mind. A secret life she shares with them, more real than real life. And nobody knows but her.

Late afternoon, warm winter sun fading into cold wind. No one in the store, just the bright fluorescent lights, the girl and the clerk behind the counter. Watching the clock wondering if he shouldn’t do some clean-up or stock the shelves. Or just look at the pretty girl reading the magazine. Little angel, sex kitten who wandered into his realm. Something to look at, think about. Her narrow shoulders under slinky sweater, sweet young ass in tight blue jeans.

Wanting to go over before she leaves and never see her again. Go over and say hi, ask her what her name is. Maybe bump into her by mistake. Make contact, feel her being, her universe, become a part of it. But she’d laugh at him. Not on the outside, but inside to herself, she’d be laughing. Lowly store clerk, middle-aged pudgy going bald, working for minimum wage. Not even morning shift where you could pretend you’re the manager and nobody’d know the difference. But at least you can watch her. Your lucky day, such a hot young girl lingering in your store, right here in front of you.

A huge black man comes through the glass door, pulls a ski mask down over his face, gun in hand. “Gimme the cash” he says through clenched teeth. The clerk opens the register, scoops the bills out onto the counter. Not even time to be afraid, just do what you’re told. “And the stuff underneath.” The clerk shudders, voice hurting his ears. Imagining these are the last words he’ll ever hear. Lifts the drawer, grabs up the big bills and checks, puts them with the rest. The black man pushes them into a pile, stuffing bills into his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the clerk in front of him. The girl has her back to them, doesn’t even notice, lost in her own dreams of what could be.

The big man grabs up the last of the bills. Now to get out. The whole thing less than a minute, and nobody knows anything. It all happens so fast. Slick smooth perfect except for a couple of cops coming in to get some hot coffee. He turns, they look up, eyes meeting at the same instant. They reach for their guns. “Don’t” he says loudly. The girl looks around, awakening from daydreams, what’s going on. He grabs her, puts the gun to her neck. Glances back at the store clerk. “Don’t be a hero” he warns.

The clerk has to decide. They keep a gun below the register. He could save the girl, save the store’s money, or die trying. But the black man is so big, so huge. You might shoot him and just make him mad. Why is he so big, it isn’t fair. This one chance in life, and it’s no good. Cower behind the counter, watching and not do anything. The cops standing like statues, waiting for the big man to make a move. The whole thing, all fucked up. Grab some cash and go, but these guys gotta show up for their coffee break. How could that happen.

The big man’s heartbeat pumping in his ears. The lights, the store, like a blur. Then it clears. He’s in charge, everyone waiting on him. “Throw me the keys” he tells the clerk. “What?” “The store keys, throw ‘em to me.” The clerk reaches in his pocket, feels the outline of metal keys on a ring, tosses them to the black man. He takes the girl, pushes past the cops to the glass door, using her as a shield. They can’t shoot, can’t do anything, just watch. He locks the door, then runs for his car, parked along the far side of the store, engine running. The girl so light he hardly notices.

Behind the wheel and driving away, find some traffic, not be the only vehicle on the quiet streets. The clerk’ll have another set of keys, the cops’ll be on the radio. Or no…they’d run out the back way. Maybe in the squad car already, looking for him. Gotta find traffic to hide in. Or ditch the car, go on foot. But the girl…shoulda left her in the parking lot, but didn’t. She could give ‘em a description of the car if you did that. Maybe get the license plate. They could trace the car back to him, borrowed from a friend, and he’d tell ‘em who he loaned it to. What else could he do. But now what.

Whadda y’do. What, what. Have to think. The girl. “Shut up!” he yells. She’s shaking whimpering like a little puppy, doesn’t even know it. Scared to death he’s gonna kill her, or worse. She doesn’t know what to do. You’re supposed to talk to them, when you’re kidnapped or taken hostage. Make them think you’re human like them. Not just some object to be disposed of. She heard that on tv or someplace. Talk to them, but what do you say. They didn’t tell you that.

Just talk, say whatever’s in your head. “You gonna kill me” she asks. Too loudly, voice trembling, not the right thing to say. Don’t wanna give him any ideas. He looks at the girl, small, pretty thing, somebody’s child. What’s she doing in that store, all alone. Why her. What are you supposed to say to her. Whatever comes to mind. “I oughtta rip your clothes off, fuck you to death.” No…that didn’t come out right.

The girl shudders, her mind categorizing. They’re talking, that’s good, but not going right. It has to connect. “I guess…if you’re going to kill me anyway…then it doesn’t matter; whatever else, y’know.” But it’s funny, tragic, and so terribly funny. You save your self, all this time. Say no, push the boys away. Saving yourself…just to be raped by some monster. These crazy variables, unplanned for, unaccounted.

He looks at her. So tiny, trembling, trying not to. He checks the mirror, no flashing lights. Eases into traffic. What did she say. “I’m not gonna hurt you” he tells her absently. “You promise.” “Huh? Yeah, sure.” That’s better, she thinks. The monster’s almost human. You can talk to it, but there’s nothing to say. “I’ve…never had sex, before” she says. What the fuck, why’d she tell him that. Shit. Dumb thing to say.

“Huh?” he glances over at her, still focusing on the road, looking for the cops. “How old are you?” “Fifteen.” “Nah…” he shakes his head, she doesn’t look that old, more like a kid. “Yeah” she says “I’m small-boned.” That sounds stupid. Something you’d say to your aunt you haven’t seen in a long time, and she asks you your age.

“I’m not” he says. Obviously, big hulking monster. “Back…where I’m from, fifteen year old girls be dropping out babies like flies.” Dumb thing to say, ‘like flies’ sounds like you’re ignorant, stupid.

“Where you from” she asks. “Here…around here.” Born here, grew up here, and now come back to die. Doesn’t make any sense. He pulls onto a side street, seedy decrepit buildings, boarded up, broken out windows. The wind blowing through everything. “Hey, don’t be asking me that stuff. I don’t want you…knowing about me. Okay?” “Sure. I didn’t mean anything.” Pulls the car into an alley, parks between a couple of old buildings. Finds a back door, kicks it open, dragging the girl with him.

Down a flight of narrow steps, basement apartment, abandoned like everything else. Whoever lived here took off with the cold weather. Took what they could carry and got out. He switches on a light, haven’t even shut off the electricity yet. Probably find a new tenant at the end of the month. That’s how it is. Everybody’s gotta live some place. Ratty furniture, foul smelling, you barely notice when you’re running from the cops. He sees the girl, the look on her face, horrified.

“I’m sorry, about this” he says. “I just gotta, think. Figure things out.” “It’s okay. Just… the smell.” She looks around the room, should sit down, try to make things seem at ease. But where can you sit, in this filth. “Don’t…try to run” he tells her “okay?” “I won’t.” “I just gotta think.”

She sits down on the torn up sofa, leaning forward, not wanting to lean her back against it. The big man drops down beside her, his huge bulk almost bouncing her off. Awkward, to be so big, not like other people. Pulls the ski mask off, beads of sweat underneath. His face and head even more frightening without the mask. A giant with its great large mouth, flattened nose, bulging red eyes full of terror. The girl shudders, wants to scream, run, get away from here, from him. Her teeth chattering with fear.

“Wh-wha-what’re you gonna do” she asks. “I dunno...wasn’t ‘sposed t’happpen like this.” He’s calming down, broken almost, back here in this slummy hovel. What can he do. How do you hide when everybody knows who you are. Big hulking monster, check the files for a physical description, his name on top. The girl can feel it too, like when you’re done running. Everything was moving so fast, adrenaline pumping, senses alert. Then you stop, you’re here, and you know you’ve lost. Hurts to look at him. A monster of a man, defeated, crushed into little pieces.

His huge body sagging the weary couch down to the floor. Him sitting there, leaning forward, staring at the floor. She reaches her hand out to his. “It’s okay” she says. “No, no, it isn’t. Look around, look at this…filth, garbage. This is me, this is what I am.” “It doesn’t have to be.” “Whatta you know.” He squeezes the girl’s hand. Too hard, could crush it with his huge meaty grip. “Ow!” She pulls away. But he didn’t mean anything, just the fear anger panic. “I’m sorry.”

Wringing his hands, like sorry sums up everything. Everything he ever did, ever was. Sorry for ever existing. “It’s okay. Just don’t…give up.” He looks at her. Pretty little kid, got no idea of what it’s like here, the real world. She wouldn’t last five minutes. Shakes his head. Thoughts rattling around, how every step in his whole life had led him to...here and now. And it pours out of him, as if to find some meaning to it. Or just to waste time, til it's over; like a last testament or words on a grave stone. Just so someone would know.

“By the time I was your age, had a rap sheet…a mile long. The baddest bad ass on the street. Never thought I’d…live long enough to worry about it.” “How old are you?” “What, huh? Oh, I dunno, thirty…seven, I guess.” ‘He’s old' she thinks. Close to her parent’s age, but they have jobs, a home, family. And this guy, this place, how, why does it come to this. So awful.

His breath is labored, panting. Oughtta be thinking about how to get outta here. But it’s no use, there’s no way out. Easier to just talk to the girl, lose yourself in meaningless words about nothing. Killing what little time there’s left. It’s up to her, if they’re going to make it. “You can still…be anything you want to” she tells him. “There’s time, plenty of time, to be…whatever.” “Yeah. Thing is, I’m no good. Got no schooling, y’know. Can’t hardly read or write. Can’t hold a job. Never...a good one anyway. Shit, who cares. Fuck it, huh? Fuck all of it.”

He looks around, the sleazy dirty room, and it’s all clear to him. “I’m a criminal. A fucking lousy con. And that’s it.” “You’re not…a bad person” she says. He turns toward her. “Look at me. What do you see?” She looks into his eyes. “You’re big, really big. And, kinda scary…at first. But you could be something. Something good. You could. I know it.”

“You’re a nice kid. But you don’t know shit.” “Oh yeah. Well, this isn’t…what you want. Is it? It’s not what I want. What’re we doing here?” “I wish…I wish, everything was so easy. Like you say. Snap yer fingers. Just like that.” Thoughts running through his head. Something about Alice in Wonderland or Dorothy or something. Click your heals, close your eyes. And you’re…here. Back home. Come back home to die.

“So let’s just go” she says. “Get outta here. Just leave.” The big man takes a deep breath, tries to relax, not worry about it. “When it gets dark, I’ll drop you off somewhere. And then…make my way, I guess.” “No! Unh-uh, you won’t. You’re gonna…get in a shoot out with the cops. And they’ll kill you. That’s what’s gonna happen.” He doesn’t say anything, makes her even more upset. “You think it’s like a game. You give up and they shoot you, and the game’s over.”

Surprises him, how she can put it into words, the ideas spinning around in his head. Like reading his thoughts, but they’re all spelled out when she says it, not jumbled up bits and pieces like it is to him. “So what’s your idea” he asks.

“We can go to my house.” “Where’s that?” “A little town up north.” He doesn’t follow that. “I’m not from here.” “Then whatta you doing here?” “We’re visiting my aunt…for Christmas, y’know.”

Yeah, Christmas time. People do that, go…visit somebody, relatives, or whatever. He’s seen that in movies on tv, but never paid any attention to it. Never did it, so it doesn’t mean anything. Something other people do. Like everything else, a part of life he’ll never know, never understand except by its absence. Things other people do. People who have money, friends, relatives; and Christmas means something besides its cold outside, or they serve a special meal in the jail or prison. Hurtful, like everything else.

So what, no time to think about it now. Oughtta make these last few moments count, be worth something. “What’s your name, kid?” “Huh?” She hesitates. “Um…it’s Ginger, okay. But I hate that name.” “So whatta they call you?” “Gin, or Ginny; that’s what I tell people.” “That’s nice” he says “I like it.” “What about you? What’s your name?” “Me? I’m Ben.” The girl wonders why he’d tell her that. But better to not reason everything out. “Is that what your friends call you?”

He laughs at that. “Don’t have any. People I know, just use you, for whatever.” Then he’s serious again, down in the dumps. “I’ll tell you something…makes me so mad, I can’t stand it.” Clenches his fists, like getting ready to kill something, makes her nervous. “The guards…staff at the jail, the prison, they call me…King Kong. Like I’m some kinda fucking ape, or something. And I can’t, do anything about it.” “How come?” “One time” he says “when I didn’t know better, a guy called me that. I punched him, hard, in the face. And they beat me, over and over and over. Oh well, hospital ward aint bad. Just, takes a while to heal, is all.”

The girl thinks about it. Great big man, could break you in half if you make him mad. And yet, he’s helpless as a little kid, when they got him behind bars. Like a rat in a cage. Funny, strange, being so big and strong doesn’t really mean anything. “Is it…okay, if I call you Bennie?” Makes him smile.

“What?” she asks. “My momma used to call me that…a long time ago.” “Where is she now, your mother?” He looks at her face, so smooth, clean, beautiful young kid. “You don’t wanna be asking that stuff. Just…make you feel sad, is all.”

Looks up at the windows, getting dark out. “Time to get going.” “Where” she asks. “I dunno…your house, I guess. If that’s what you want.” The girl smiles, it’s gonna work out, everything be okay. Like the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders, you can finally relax, breathe easy. The big man gets up, takes her hand. Then the door bursts open, three angry young men with guns. “We just want the girl, that’s all.” The big man reaches for his gun, they shoot, and he goes down. They grab the girl and take off.

Hours later, the big man face down on the floor in a pool of blood. It was quiet, blank, peaceful almost. Something starts screaming in his head, yelling for him to get up, get up get up! He can’t. The blood dried, sticking to the floor. Eyes won’t open. Forces himself up onto hands and knees, feels the blood leaking out again. Rubs his eyes, makes his way to the kitchen sink, splashes water on his face. Trying to focus. There was a girl here. Ginny…that’s her name. He has to find her, get to her, find the guys who took her. Looks at his watch, it’s late. His heart racing, hoping there’s still time.

Finds a flimsy towel, rips it in half, ties it around his head. But it’s hard to move, dizzy, legs weak, unsteady. It doesn’t matter, he’s gotta find her. Outside the air is cold on his face. That’s good, helps bring you around. Lightheaded, but it doesn’t matter, just makes you more dangerous. Down the street a few blocks, turn up the alleyway. Steps lead down to dirt and debris below. He pounds on the door and they let him in. An all-night bar of sorts, hole in the ground for the dregs and leftovers. Old fat man behind the bar. Hokie Shavers, a fixture in these parts for as long as anyone can remember. The big man staggers in, a wounded bear looking for something to kill.

“Whatta you hear” he growls. “Heard you was dead.” Old man looks him in the eye, shows no fear. “I need answers” says Ben “don’t have time to fuck around.” Big crazy giant, bloody towel around his head. The little old fat man, drying whiskey glasses with a bar towel. Sets the glasses down, leans forward against the bar. Hands reaching for the sawed-off double barrel. Ben comes around behind the bar. Sees the shotgun leveled at his waist. Means nothing to him.

“You owe me” he says “I saved your boy’s ass, back in slam, dozen times or more.” “Yeah…you’re right. I owe you. But I aint fixin t’die just to pay you back.” The words mean nothing, just wasting time, and the big man’s in a hurry. “Where’s the girl, who took her. If you know…you better tell me.” Old man has to decide. If he talks, they’ll find him and kill him. That’s a given. But if he doesn’t, the big man’ll break him in half, right here and now. He raises the shotgun, finger on the trigger. The big man doesn’t care. “If you gonna kill me, get it over with.” He walks forward slowly. Reaches the old man and takes the shotgun from his hands.

“I’m a dead man” says the old guy. “Whatta you mean; whatta you talkin about?” “Who you think…runs this place; everything around here, huh?” Ben looks at the man’s face; weary with age, fear in his eyes. Then it comes to him. “Jack Tucker.” The boss man, crime lord, his fingers in every dirty deal that goes on around here. Everybody knows that, but Ben can’t piece it together. “What’s he got to do with it?” “Money” says the old man. “Pretty little white girl, fetch a lot of money…if that’s what you’re selling.” Yeah…selling kids for money. That’d be Boss Tucker all right. “Where is he.” His voice is thick, tough, mean, like an animal.

Old guy looks at the clock up on the wall. It’s late, very late. “Might be…at one of his clubs yet, I dunno.” “Take me there.” “Now hold on. That’s insane. You can’t, you can’t do that. What’s wrong with you?” “I’m gonna find that girl. And kill anybody gets in my way.” Ben looks into the man’s eyes, and the guy knows he means it. His wrinkled old hands trembling, knees weak, shuffling through the back room, up the steps. Maybe just drop the guy off, and get out, nobody’ll know. They’ll kill him, and that’ll be that.

Get in his old car, parked in the alley, been sitting there forever. It’s cold, hard to start. The old man shivering against the cold. Should be inside on a night like this. Inside where it’s warm, have another drink and a smoke. Let your mind go blank until you’re tired, ready for bed. Not out here in this wicked cold, wind howling, so dark you can’t even see. A person could die out here.

The big man behind the wheel, revs the engine to get the car running good. “Where to” he asks. The old man giving directions, yeah…you wanna go to hell, I’ll take you. Not far, nobody else on the streets this time of night. A string of clubs, bars, liquor stores, on both sides of the street. The better part of the seedy part of town. A lot of money spent here, night after night where the people go who got no place else to go.

“Which one” he asks. “In the middle, the big fancy one” says the old guy. Park the car down the street, engine running. Check the trunk for tools. Flashlight, tire iron, jack, shotgun shells, hunting knife. Old man’s a survivor, gotta hand it to him.

Walking down the street quickly, the old guy trying to keep up. All these buildings, old brick painted over, three four five stories high. Offices back in the day when business was downtown. Now just bars and strip clubs, storage space, ratty apartments for the workers here. Down the alley, around back, rickety wooden steps leading up to an apartment. Get up to the roof from there. And across the roofs, look out over the edge down to the street, see where you’re at. It all looks the same up here. Cold, dark, windy.

Up the metal ladder attached to the side of the big building, fire escape. So cold your hands almost stick to the metal. The roof of the big fancy building, carpeted, clean. They use this in the summer, warm weather. Barbecue, drink beer up here. Bring girls up here from the clubs and bars down below. Must be nice. A rooftop doorway in the corner. Steel door, locked, bolted, no way in. Shoulda guessed that. Fat Jack would have everything locked, sealed up tighter’n a drum. Even the cops couldn’t get in. Back down the metal ladder, sees the old man just making his way up to the roof.

“It’s no good, all locked up.” “Coulda told yah that, if you’d a waited.” “Now what? How we get in?” “Can’t. Might as well go. Come back in the morning.” Old guy’s outta breath, cold, scared to death, not where you wanna be in the middle of the night. Ben ignores him. Looks for another way. Halfway down, back windows on one of the buildings, facing the alley. Dark, dirty, like they never been opened for ages. Got bars on the windows. Takes the solid steel bar of the old-fashioned tire jack, pries against the old soft brick. Sturdy, doesn’t budge. Leans all weight into it, all his muscle, and the bars pop loose from the brick of the building.

Inside full of boxes, dust, chairs, barstools, everything you might’ve had use for once, and don’t even know it’s still up here. Dark hallway, faint glow of an exit sign somewhere down below. He follows it, down to the first floor. Strip club. In the basement, dressing rooms for the girls, and for paying customers. A big room for storing case after case of whiskey and beer, glasses, bar supplies. Door on the other end leads to the fancy building, the night club. Through there, up the steps, another steel door bolted shut. Ben wedges the tire iron into the gap of the door. Pries against it ‘til the tire iron bends double. No use, the door set in concrete, impassible.

Finally the old man comes waddling up behind him. “It’s no use” he says, shaking his head. “Knock. Knock on the door. Wake somebody up.” “Aint nobody gonna be answering this door. Not this time a night.” “Do it.” Old man doesn’t have a choice, pounding on the door, trying to think up something to say. Pounding with his fist, and heart pounding in his chest. No way for an old man to die. Finally a light comes on, voice says whatta y’want. “Gotta see Jack.” “Go ‘way.” “It’s me, Hokie. Hokie Shavers, gotta see Jack. Right now!”

Door opens up a crack. Ben rips it open, grabs the big man on the other side. Gun at his head. “Jack Tucker here?” “Yeah…upstairs. In his room.” “You got keys.” “On the ring. In the door. One key, opens all the doors.” Ben slugs him with the gun. Grabs the key ring. Upstairs, down the hall, faint flicker of light from one of the rooms. Inside, the big fat man on a big soft bed. Velvet sheets, couple of pretty girls on either side of him, caressing, stroking. A movie on the big tv screen.

The fat man sees Ben, bolts upright, reaching for a gun. “Don’t do it!” he yells. Fat man slumps back down on the bed. “Ben King…thought you were dead.” “Yeah, and you gonna join me. Where’s the girl?” Tucker sizes the man up. Big mistake to assume those punks had killed him. Shoulda made sure. Too late now, but he’s just a big dumb con. Three time loser though, and that makes him dangerous. Lifers do crazy things. “That girl…cost me a lot a money, Ben. Maybe…we can make a deal.”

Ben moves toward the bed. The two naked girls scramble for cover. He sticks the gun in the man’s cheek. “Where is she!” “Next room, on the bed. Okay? Take her. Take the girl, and then get outta here.” A door leading to a room behind this one. Ben kicks it down, sees her on the bed, half-naked, hands and feet tied to the corners. Takes the knife and cuts her loose. She grabs him, hugs him tight, saying thank you, thank you, over and over. He puts his coat over her, big old coat like a tent. Lifts her up and goes back out the doorway.

The old man’s just coming into the room, double barrel in his hands. Fat Jack sees the old man, the gun. “Shoot him, shoot him, c’mon!” The old man doesn’t budge. Fat man runs toward him, grabs for the gun, and it goes off. The girls screaming, blood and guts everywhere. Ben steps over the body, nods at the old man. “Thanks.” “Go on, get outta here” he says. “I’ll make sure nobody follows.”

Ben takes the girl, out to the street, the car. Warm now, with the engine still running. “We gotta go to the cops” she says. “What? I can’t.” “I gotta tell ‘em. Big Jack Tucker kidnapped me…and you came and got me out.” “They’ll never believe you.” “Have to. My word against his. And he’s not gonna say anything, right.”

Driving away in the nice warm car. Little blonde girl wrapped up in the great big coat, staring straight ahead. “What did they do to you…back there” he asks. “You don’t wanna ask that” she says. “Let’s just get outta here.”