You
you're writing love poetry
but you ain't got a girl
you
you're a soldier without a war
you
you rent instead of own
you
you're so alone
so alone
you
you gave up the drink
you're only friend
you
maybe too much soul
for a white boy to carry
you
you think jazz speaks to you individually
you
you're rebelious days are over
so you're so you're
so alone so alone
Vet's prayer
Dear Jesus
You've delivered me through the storm but my war as just begun. Thank you God for jazz. It eases my mind but you give me peace of mind. I feel comfort knowing I can speak with you when ever I feel like it.
Life won't always be smooth sailing on calm seas. When the tide changes I know I can call on you. When the bullets are blazing you are my armor.
As a young babe I sang Jesus loves me and I know you always will.
Love,
Jason
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Raised on Motown but in a punk band
I was in middle school. I was heavily influenced by 80's punk rock. I liked black flag, social distortion, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, or anything that had that kind of sound.
I was also in a band. I thought of the name. We called ourselves despite the other members disaproval RIOT.
It was just the three of us. I was the tone deaf lead singer. B. was on bass guitar, and S. played the drums. S. could also play the guitar. He would come up with the music, he would teach it to B., and then I would write the lyrics.
Since we were to young to drive, Friday's were our practice days. The three of us would ride B.'s bus, and get off at his bus stop.
One song's lyrics had a straight edge message. Like I said before I was influenced by bands like MInor Threat. This was also the first time I started writing, and usually when you first start to write poetry and lyrics, they are terrible.
One of our songs was called Fences. The first verse went something like this, "You think you're cool but you're a fool, you have no hope so you do your dope."
The chorus would go something like this, Be a man find away out or something.
Anyway it was a straight edge song, but meanwhile when we were getting off B.'s bustop, we were smoking hash and marajuana, and what not.
At the time I thought it made my vocals sound better-kind of raspy.
S. wanted me to sing not scream which is what I usually did.
We practice a few times and tried different guitar players. They of course hated my vocals.
One day S. volunteered us to play infront of our middle school. It was us that would only play two songs and a NIrvana cover band.
We played Fences, and I can remember the stares we got. Most of my classmates listened to Green Day or NIrvana nothing like this.
We also covered "My Girl," by the Temptations. Barry Gorby or whoever wrote that song would have probably been insulted.
We played my girl because the school band learned it. B. was in the band, he taught us. My dad played Motown all the time so I knew the lyrics.
After we PLayed "My Girl," and our two song set was over, the music teacher, whose name was Mr. Lipps came up to me and asked, "What was that!?"
I didn't know how to answer.
The Nirvana cover band went on after us. I think the students enjoyed them alot more then us. I didn't understand this at the time, because I thought we were more original. I started hating NIrvana, and to this day apart of me still does.
I was also in a band. I thought of the name. We called ourselves despite the other members disaproval RIOT.
It was just the three of us. I was the tone deaf lead singer. B. was on bass guitar, and S. played the drums. S. could also play the guitar. He would come up with the music, he would teach it to B., and then I would write the lyrics.
Since we were to young to drive, Friday's were our practice days. The three of us would ride B.'s bus, and get off at his bus stop.
One song's lyrics had a straight edge message. Like I said before I was influenced by bands like MInor Threat. This was also the first time I started writing, and usually when you first start to write poetry and lyrics, they are terrible.
One of our songs was called Fences. The first verse went something like this, "You think you're cool but you're a fool, you have no hope so you do your dope."
The chorus would go something like this, Be a man find away out or something.
Anyway it was a straight edge song, but meanwhile when we were getting off B.'s bustop, we were smoking hash and marajuana, and what not.
At the time I thought it made my vocals sound better-kind of raspy.
S. wanted me to sing not scream which is what I usually did.
We practice a few times and tried different guitar players. They of course hated my vocals.
One day S. volunteered us to play infront of our middle school. It was us that would only play two songs and a NIrvana cover band.
We played Fences, and I can remember the stares we got. Most of my classmates listened to Green Day or NIrvana nothing like this.
We also covered "My Girl," by the Temptations. Barry Gorby or whoever wrote that song would have probably been insulted.
We played my girl because the school band learned it. B. was in the band, he taught us. My dad played Motown all the time so I knew the lyrics.
After we PLayed "My Girl," and our two song set was over, the music teacher, whose name was Mr. Lipps came up to me and asked, "What was that!?"
I didn't know how to answer.
The Nirvana cover band went on after us. I think the students enjoyed them alot more then us. I didn't understand this at the time, because I thought we were more original. I started hating NIrvana, and to this day apart of me still does.
Friday, May 6, 2011
5/6/11
Fortress in the sky
forming alliances with
the trees blowing of steam
the sun is hidden like the queen
she will hear later about the attack
on dry ground
the precipitation charges
slickens the road
and windows
seek sheltor
the birds with no name
attack bluejays
trying to set up sanctuary
stray cats retreat back unto the drains
the breeze doesn't discriminate
the limbs of the trees bend but don't break
as the weekend begins
the highway hums
as cars venture back home
plans cover up the grounds like puddles
the cat still sleeps on the quilt
I am watching the dopplar radar
the storm looks like a swarm of bees
they don't sting
but keep growth alive
a war that has been fought several times this spring
a car stereo yells as the car goes by
the fortress in the sky reassembles
winds die down then breathes out again
finally quiet
except for the news fading on tv
blue skies smile but fortress is still protecting the queen
peaking through to see the enemy covered
in thin sheets of water
Is the sky retreating?
no thunder or lightening
words into lines into phrases don't capture the observation
reality is far more exquiste then the art that tries to cage it
forming alliances with
the trees blowing of steam
the sun is hidden like the queen
she will hear later about the attack
on dry ground
the precipitation charges
slickens the road
and windows
seek sheltor
the birds with no name
attack bluejays
trying to set up sanctuary
stray cats retreat back unto the drains
the breeze doesn't discriminate
the limbs of the trees bend but don't break
as the weekend begins
the highway hums
as cars venture back home
plans cover up the grounds like puddles
the cat still sleeps on the quilt
I am watching the dopplar radar
the storm looks like a swarm of bees
they don't sting
but keep growth alive
a war that has been fought several times this spring
a car stereo yells as the car goes by
the fortress in the sky reassembles
winds die down then breathes out again
finally quiet
except for the news fading on tv
blue skies smile but fortress is still protecting the queen
peaking through to see the enemy covered
in thin sheets of water
Is the sky retreating?
no thunder or lightening
words into lines into phrases don't capture the observation
reality is far more exquiste then the art that tries to cage it
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The Meaning of Life
Holding your girlfriends hair back
as she vommits in a stranger's toilet
then having to kiss her afterwards
pushing down garbage with your bare hand
only to create more room for more garbage
all you can eat buffet
free refills
depending on a six pack and a pack of cigarttes
for life support
waiting on a potential right hook to your jaw
broken bottles on concrete
time on your hands
Then not having enough time the next day
Too much
as she vommits in a stranger's toilet
then having to kiss her afterwards
pushing down garbage with your bare hand
only to create more room for more garbage
all you can eat buffet
free refills
depending on a six pack and a pack of cigarttes
for life support
waiting on a potential right hook to your jaw
broken bottles on concrete
time on your hands
Then not having enough time the next day
Too much
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
would love to hear what you think
Fighting my battles
There have been several battles I have fought as a child. A battle for a child is what helps form their personality rather it is a victory or a loss. Some battles can be a small as sitting still during church, but other can be so big that the person will think of them for the rest of their lives. These are some experiences that have for some reason stuck with me.
I was in kindergarten living in a subdivision outside of Charleston West Virginia. In my neighborhood there were woods to play hide and go seek. Occasionally we played war. One day we were in the woods, and we found a tree house in one of our friend’s back yard.
In those days I played with my brother and our neighbor across the street. I don’t remember what exactly we were doing in the tree house. I guess we were just messing around like kids do. Suddenly the neighborhood bully heard us. I don’t remember his name but I remembered he had blond hair. On this particular day he had his bee bee gun which was a in the shape of a rifle. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have a bee bee gun.
He started loading it up. Then he started shooting at us in the tree house. The bee bees would either ricochet inside or hit the roof and bounced off. The three of us were ducks on a pond. I started crying hysterically. I think we all did. He kept shooting at us.
I looked up at my older brother with tears in my eyes.
“Are we going to die?” I asked innocently.
My brother wiped the tears out of his eyes, and whispered.
“When he loads again that is when we will run for it.”
We waited as he ran out of bee bees. Then he stopped shooting.
We stepped down the ladder and jumped out of the tree house running for our lives.
We didn’t surrender. We did, however, retreat.
Next in the fifth grade I was at Cherry Hill. It was called Cherry Hill even though nobody ever saw cherries on it. Sometimes underagers went there to drink and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes that was where kids would fight their nemesis of the school day which usually drew a crowd. The hill was usually used for sledding in the winter, but that day in Roanoke Virginia it was spring.
I was with a friend of mine, however my thoughts were distracted. A couple days before my speech therapist said I would never talk like the other kids. I wasn’t sure how I could tell anybody because I didn’t think they would understand.
My friend and I just had gone to 7-11 and our mouths were full of candy. The 7-1 that was in my neighborhood, which was considered to be a rich neighborhood. However when you first entered the houses weren’t as big as the once further up the street.
A kid came out with his brand new bike. It was a Schwinn, and it looked expensive. My parents bought me a Huffy, and it didn’t matter who I was with they usually brought it to my attention that my bike wasn’t as good as their bike.
That was how the rich kid made his presence known. I said a few words the wrong way (because of my speech impediment) and He started to mock me, and make fun of me.
It proved I would never talk like the other kids. I didn’t know what happened but I think the mocking on that day and all the other days mounted up. The words I couldn’t say festered inside me. Imagine wanting to say something but you can’t because you know either someone would not understand or they will mock you. Because of my speech impediment I was a quiet kid by choice even though I had usually had a lot to say. Eventually I took the rich kid’s bike and sent it riding down the hill without a passenger.
I was in awe at the bike when it went further than you would expect a bike to go without someone on it. Finally it hit a bump and went sailing in the air, and then came crashing down.
The rich kid went running down the hill. He dropped to his knees crying over the bike.
I actually started giggling. My friend asked me.
“What is he doing? It is just a bike.”
We eventually went to our separate homes.
That night my parents got a call. It was the rich kid’s mom. I remember knowing exactly who it was. I figured I was in trouble. My brother was there to, and I remember wondering if he was going to help me out.
My mom got off the phone. I figured that I would be grounded which meant no tv or trips to 7-11 to buy candy.
Both parents asked me about the events of the day. I explained to them what I was thinking. My brother just listened.
Surprisingly my dad gave me a high five, my brother laughed and my mom didn’t ground me.
There have been several battles I have fought as a child. A battle for a child is what helps form their personality rather it is a victory or a loss. Some battles can be a small as sitting still during church, but other can be so big that the person will think of them for the rest of their lives. These are some experiences that have for some reason stuck with me.
I was in kindergarten living in a subdivision outside of Charleston West Virginia. In my neighborhood there were woods to play hide and go seek. Occasionally we played war. One day we were in the woods, and we found a tree house in one of our friend’s back yard.
In those days I played with my brother and our neighbor across the street. I don’t remember what exactly we were doing in the tree house. I guess we were just messing around like kids do. Suddenly the neighborhood bully heard us. I don’t remember his name but I remembered he had blond hair. On this particular day he had his bee bee gun which was a in the shape of a rifle. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have a bee bee gun.
He started loading it up. Then he started shooting at us in the tree house. The bee bees would either ricochet inside or hit the roof and bounced off. The three of us were ducks on a pond. I started crying hysterically. I think we all did. He kept shooting at us.
I looked up at my older brother with tears in my eyes.
“Are we going to die?” I asked innocently.
My brother wiped the tears out of his eyes, and whispered.
“When he loads again that is when we will run for it.”
We waited as he ran out of bee bees. Then he stopped shooting.
We stepped down the ladder and jumped out of the tree house running for our lives.
We didn’t surrender. We did, however, retreat.
Next in the fifth grade I was at Cherry Hill. It was called Cherry Hill even though nobody ever saw cherries on it. Sometimes underagers went there to drink and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes that was where kids would fight their nemesis of the school day which usually drew a crowd. The hill was usually used for sledding in the winter, but that day in Roanoke Virginia it was spring.
I was with a friend of mine, however my thoughts were distracted. A couple days before my speech therapist said I would never talk like the other kids. I wasn’t sure how I could tell anybody because I didn’t think they would understand.
My friend and I just had gone to 7-11 and our mouths were full of candy. The 7-1 that was in my neighborhood, which was considered to be a rich neighborhood. However when you first entered the houses weren’t as big as the once further up the street.
A kid came out with his brand new bike. It was a Schwinn, and it looked expensive. My parents bought me a Huffy, and it didn’t matter who I was with they usually brought it to my attention that my bike wasn’t as good as their bike.
That was how the rich kid made his presence known. I said a few words the wrong way (because of my speech impediment) and He started to mock me, and make fun of me.
It proved I would never talk like the other kids. I didn’t know what happened but I think the mocking on that day and all the other days mounted up. The words I couldn’t say festered inside me. Imagine wanting to say something but you can’t because you know either someone would not understand or they will mock you. Because of my speech impediment I was a quiet kid by choice even though I had usually had a lot to say. Eventually I took the rich kid’s bike and sent it riding down the hill without a passenger.
I was in awe at the bike when it went further than you would expect a bike to go without someone on it. Finally it hit a bump and went sailing in the air, and then came crashing down.
The rich kid went running down the hill. He dropped to his knees crying over the bike.
I actually started giggling. My friend asked me.
“What is he doing? It is just a bike.”
We eventually went to our separate homes.
That night my parents got a call. It was the rich kid’s mom. I remember knowing exactly who it was. I figured I was in trouble. My brother was there to, and I remember wondering if he was going to help me out.
My mom got off the phone. I figured that I would be grounded which meant no tv or trips to 7-11 to buy candy.
Both parents asked me about the events of the day. I explained to them what I was thinking. My brother just listened.
Surprisingly my dad gave me a high five, my brother laughed and my mom didn’t ground me.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Taken from the book When We Were Young
Boxing Party
It had been planned for a while, and I already knew about it, but everyone wanted me to be there because Captain was the first, then there was Boozer, a mutual-drinking buddy of our friend Scar, and then there was Old Man. It was all going to be at Old Man’s house. My expectations were high, and it gave me something to look forward to. I invited the other dishwasher Blink. Blink would enjoy it. He used to tell me several stories about how he would start a fight at a bar.
“It’s easy, man; all you have to do is look for a couple at the bar. Guy and girl. Then you walk up to the bar ignoring the dude and you buy the girl a drink and start talking to her. Then you usually have to talk some shit to the boyfriend. After that when you leave chances are the boyfriend will follow you with his friends. I did it to some frat guys. I got a fat lip.”
“How often have you done this?” I remember asking.
“A couple of times. Sometimes I just feel like fighting.”
“Don’t we all,” I concluded.
The party was Saturday night, and Blink and I had to work our usual day shift. It used to be just me, but now we split up the prep work.
Saturday mornings, we were both usually hung over, but it didn’t matter since we hardly had any customers. All we had to do was stick to the list: cleaning and gutting squid, deshelling shrimp, deveining shrimp, rinsing off vegetables, cutting off the stalks of fennel, the dreaded forty minutes of hell that came with making polenta, eggplant parmesan, scrubbing clams, and ripping out beards of mussels. That Saturday we were both a little excited about getting out as soon as possible.
“I’m walking over with Boozer and Scar,” I said energetically.
“I used to work with Boozer and Scar,” Blink announced.
“Really? That’s cool.”
Most of the list we completed the day before, after I cleaned the clams and Blink made the eggplant parmesan. The only thing we had to do was to clean and gut 50 lbs. of slimy stinky snot-like squid, but first we went outside to smoke a cigarette.
“You got a woman in your life?” I asked.
“Had one, but things changed right after I told her I was going to trying to change to be the man she wanted me to be.”
“Women don’t wait.”
“You got a girl?” he asked.
“Had one in the summer,” I said apathetically.
“What happened?” Blink asked.
It was an easy question, but the truth was the guy in the summer didn’t exist anymore. I wanted to fight him, and that fight was not far off.
“It didn’t work out. Just another crazed daddy’s little girl who should be sent to the Middle East and sold to the tyrannical dictators to be used as a human sacrifice.”
Blink kind of snickered and realized there was still a little bitterness there.
“Settle down man; we’re boxing tonight,” he said, trying to extinguish the rage.
I changed the subject.
“Check out the wall. You can still see some polenta that fell out of the window.”
We both laughed.
“It’s like a monument to your first day working here,” I said still laughing.
“Man, I didn’t know what to think of you after that day.”
“I value my goof-ups. They build character.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sometimes I think I have way too much character.”
We went back inside, walked up the stairwell, and into the kitchen where the boss was rinsing the pasta.
“Are you boys having fun? I shouldn’t be doing this shit; this is your job!”
The boss went back to the line. “From now on, smoke one at a time.”
Blink rinsed the rest of the pasta, and I started cleaning the squid. Blink delivered the pasta to the boss, and then came over and started our two-man assembly line.
I would clean the squid by ripping the jelly-like body out of the capsule, and removing brain mass out of the capsule that looked similar to the thickest snot. I would put the split organism on Blink’s cutting board where he would slice the capsule into several strips, yank out the long tentacles used to capture the squid’s prey, slice it just above the two dead eyes and then remove the beak by punching through the remaining legs. Repeating the process, it took us about two hours to go through 50 lbs. of squid.
I had already scrubbed the clams, and Blink was done with the eggplant parmesan. We checked to make sure the cooks had everything they needed for the evening shift that night. The only thing we could do now was peal garlic, and pick parsley. I called first dibs on parsley so I could avoid the blazing garlic hands. Blink said he had no preference. We sat at the bar drinking bottled coke, talking shit to each other and counting down the seconds to quit time.
“The fire department didn’t work out for me,” I said still feeling the loss of a dream.
“Ah man, that sucks.”
“Maybe that’s why I feel like fighting.” There was no emotion in my voice.
“I don’t think I want to fight you anymore,” Blink concluded.
“It’s all in good fun, man,” I reassured him; “It’s a give and take. You’ll deliver some blows. I’ll deliver some blows. No big deal, I need this.”
Blink smiled and shook his head. “All in good fun.”
“What are you going to do now since the fire department didn’t work out?” Blink asked.
“Think of another plan,” I answered.
The dishwashers for the evening shift finally showed up so Blink and I were able to switch our cokes to bourbon and ginger. The cook who arrived said he had enough parsley so I switched to garlic.
“This is going to be fun,” Blink said in anticipation of the fight.
“Yup, I have high hopes,” I said.
“Knights in White Satin” came on the jukebox randomly, and I started singing, “Knights in white cotton,” as the anticipation grew with every sip of bourbon. The bartender was usually friendly with our free drinks after the shift. I could only taste the bourbon so I couldn’t complain, and worrying would be a waste of my time.
Blink and I reached for our glass at the same time, which was a source of relief for our burning fingers from peeling garlic.
“You know what my family motto is?” I asked.
“What?”
“Every day above ground is a good day,” I answered.
“Right on. I think that’s enough garlic.”
I was out of cigarettes, but Blink was willing to bum me out one of his god-awful menthols. I couldn’t complain.
“So are you going to call me, man?” Blink asked.
“Yeah when I get there, I’ll check out the scene, and if it’s lame, I will probably not call you. We’ll probably hangout though since you already know Scar and Boozer.”
“Cool.”
“Scar and I have been talking shit to each other. I have to fight him, too,” I said.
“This is going to be fun.”
We were told to move by the bartender, because some customers wanted to sit down at the bar. We signed our time sheets, and left later to meet up with the two fisted solution. It was all in good fun.
***
Scar and I were at Boozer’s place along with Boozer’s girlfriend. Scar matched the boxing gloves and looked up at all of us.
“What time does it start?” he asked.
“I think it starts when we get there,” said Boozer.
“I probably shouldn’t box you, Boozer. I would hate to kick your ass in front of your girlfriend.” I said.
“Girlfriend?” Scar questioned, “When was the last time you got any, Jonah.”
“What the hell is this small man syndrome?” I said knowing how to push Scar’s buttons.
“We’re boxing!” Scar announced.
“We’re boxing first,” I concluded.
“I need a few beers in me first,” Scar mumbled.
“Damn, you boys are starting the shit talking early,” Boozer’s girlfriend laughed.
I nodded with a chin up to Scar; he did the same back to me. It was all in good fun.
“Are you fellas ready to go?” I asked. The anticipation felt like a muscle spasm after a long busy shift.
Scar guzzled down his beer. “Yeah.”
We started walking to Old Man’s house; there was a slight chill in the air. The conversation was about work and paying rent. I wasn’t involved in the topic of conversation; it was the last thing on my mind.
“What are you thinking about, Jonah?” Boozer’s girlfriend asked.
“Boxing.”
“How’s work?” Boozer asked.
“It’s work,” I snarled.
Scar looked at me. “You’re crazy!”
I lit up a cigarette. My hopes were high.
When we showed up at Old Man’s house we found out he didn’t have his usual keg so the three of us chipped in for a case of beer to split. Scar and I voted us out of the block and a half walk for beer since we were going to be getting our exercise very soon. This forced Boozer to actually move for once.
“I hate beer.” Boozer’s girlfriend complained.
“I’ll pick you out something,” assured Boozer.
Boozer left and came back with two twelve-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 for his poor girlfriend, who didn’t like beer.
“Only the best for my girl!” Boozer laughed.
Boozer’s girlfriend shook her head and rolled her eyes. Boozer was used to this response, so he didn’t care. Besides, he had his beer.
“It’s orange, baby. You like orange.”
The four of us drank in the kitchen and wondered why there was no one else waiting to box.
Scar especially was starting to get antsy. “Where is everybody? Aren’t we supposed to box? I’m gonna ask, Old Man, what the deal is.”
He walked into the next room where everyone was drinking and watching TV. Then he came back.
“I asked Old Man if we are going to box here tonight, and he said, “I hope not?”
“Was his girlfriend with him?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Scar answered.
I threw up my hands, as the fun seemed to have slipped away. “That’s why.”
Boozer’s girlfriend rolled her eyes. “I thought there was going to be boxing here tonight.” She seemed to have no preference either way after a few sips of Mad Dog. Suddenly she jerked herself away from the bottle of Mad Dog and decided she did in fact like the taste of beer. Not wanting it to go to waste, Scar, Boozer, and I passed around the bottle. It reminded us of cough syrup.
“I’m going to call Blink and tell him to come over, even though nothing is going on,” I said, remembering my promise to Blink.
He sounded disappointed over the phone; Blink decided to come over anyway even though I apologized, because boxing hadn’t been on some of the other partygoers’ agenda.
We all sat in the kitchen drinking, occasionally kicking around the empty boxing gloves. It was just us, those who might have been seen as the weirdoes or freaks who scrambled the words one time or another, “I hope I don’t waste away,” or “I want to do something more.” Some were college students with no place else to go, dropouts, struggling artists, high school jocks without the scholarship, two job slobs. It was only one night of our lives, hopefully, something better would happen next weekend.
Blink, finally came over after he spoiled himself with some expensive Irish beer. We toasted, and Scar and I decided we might as well go at it. Old Man, entered his kitchen to get some more beer. Scar and I were pulling on the last glove with our teeth.
“You’re actually going to box?” Old Man inquired.
“That’s why you invited us over, isn’t it? Help me move the table from the middle of the floor” Scar said, maybe overly motivated to kick someone’s ass.
Old Man grabbed one end of the table, and I grabbed the other. We moved it out of our way, while Old Man grabbed another beer.
“You all are nuts,” he announced.
“Only with the gloves on.” I surrendered.
Scar smiled.
He was shorter then I was. The bike accident he was in a couple of months prior gave him his name. With Scar it was either a scar, a broken bone from a punk show or a bike accident. This permanent memory started below his left eye, and headed south to his mid-cheek. It made him seem taller to a stranger.
Scar and I stood in the middle of the kitchen and took off our shoes. Blink used his watch to keep time. We weren’t going to fight in rounds since we all knew our black lungs would be the ones to throw in the white towel so we had a time limit.
Scar and I touched gloves. I, immediately, used my longer reach against him, because back in Boozer’s apartment I couldn’t get past the scar. He was at perfect fist level for me. It was hard for him to get on my inside. He was able to fling some shots up to my jaw. Hearing the ruckus, people from the next room started rolling in to watch the fight. I landed a few more blows to Scar’s head, and he did the same to mine.
“Time!” Blink announced.
“You two are crazy,” said one of the strangers from the next room.
Scar and I ignored the comment.
Scar pointed at me with his glove. “You are too tall.”
I started rubbing the left side of my face. “This side of my jaw hurts.”
We both broke open a beer. No one won, no one lost; it was all in good fun.
“I don’t want to fight you again,” Scar said as he shook his ringing head.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “Who’s next?”
We recruited some other fighters to enter the makeshift ring while we rested. It was now Boozer’s turn. At first glance he looked like anyone else. A string stretch across chest read Abercrombie & Finch. He went to a different college close by. He and his opponent strapped on their gloves. We were all expecting a close and even fight. They looked like the same size and the same height. It looked like it was going to be an even blow fight. Instead, Boozer got his ass kicked. Everyone thought he at least looked tough before the fight standing there with the gloves on smoking a cigarette. Thank God he could paint.
During the monsoon of punches, his girlfriend yelled. “He’s just an artist! Take it easy!”
The poor Boozer didn’t throw one punch, although his guard was always up. The opponent’s punches broke through his raging beer face. There was nothing Boozer could do, but wait, punch, jab, jab, but wait, punch jab, jab, punch jab jab...
“Time!” Blink yelled, fearing the safety of his friend as he jumped in between the two fighters, stopping Boozer’s branding. We later found out that Boozer’s opponent was friends with a golden glove who taught him what he knew about boxing. We called him the Ringer.
Boozer walked back to his already opened beer with his usual smirk on his face shaking his head. His girlfriend gave him that look of sympathy that causes every man to confess. Boozer was in love. They kissed. He wouldn’t have admitted it but I think Boozer actually blushed (or maybe his face was just red from all the punches).
Captain couldn’t make it that night for a similar reason. He was meeting his girlfriend’s parents. We each had an extra beer for him, because it wasn’t the same without him. We weren’t very good with parents, and since Captain was meeting an airborne ranger we hoped for the best. I was ready to box again.
“Blink!” I yelled.
He looked up from his beer and his watch.
“Okay.” He gave a gesture to Boozer’s girlfriend to be the timekeeper.
“Ready!” Boozer’s girlfriend announced.
We touched gloves. This was personal. To motivate myself, I thought, this guy who smoked the god-awful menthol cigarettes might be planning to take my job. It wasn’t the best job, but it was my job. Just the menthol cigarettes in his front pocket was reason enough to go bare knuckles.
“Go!”
With two hard left jabs to the face I felt the sting like I felt from the steel wool used to scrub the pots and pans with the thick layer of grease. His shots were coming. We both had to work tomorrow.
He landed a right hook to the temple. I felt it. Yep, I thought. We were fighting for the same job. Two left jabs, a right hook, and another right hook. I waited, hesitantly for him to deliver his two right hooks. It was my job. It was one of the lowest jobs to have, but it was mine. He shook his head after feeling some more blows by yours truly. The scrapping went on, and we were still entry-level employees when it was over. We had a beer to celebrate.
There was no response from the other would-be fighters for the next fight. I looked at Boozer giving him an invitation.
“I don’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted to drink tonight,” said Boozer.
“I don’t want you to fight anymore either,” said Boozer’s girlfriend.
Scar found himself a new recruit. The new fighter was an art student who said he had never done anything like this before. He must have said it a thousand times; walking to the gloves like he already knew what the result of the battle would be. Scar began talking shit. Both fighters put on their gloves. The art student took off his glasses. Blink took his watch from Boozer’s girlfriend, and she put her arms around Boozer. Scar and the art student touched gloves.
“Go!”
The art student was taller then Scar, but Scar had no problem taking advantage of the rookie’s lack of experience. The art student let his presence be known, however, with his first right hooks ever thrown at someone. The art student took more blows to the head as his senses fell to an institution that had no deadlines or assignments. All that was inside these walls was time. It seemed the art student began learning a different lesson when he reacted to Scar with a furious upper cut that stopped Scar in his tracks. Yet Scar’s smile was not falling from his face. Scar hadn’t seen a textbook for three years, and the art student had probably only seen his mother’s kitchen. These were two lives that wouldn’t normally intersect.
“Time!” Blink yelled.
Scar, bummed the art student out of a beer, and then they both exchanged bruises and glassy eyes. In this room, no one was better than anyone else.
Blink went to get some more recruits, and then he came back.
“Some guy wants to fight now, too.” Old Man said apathetically, because anything could happen at Old Man’s house.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“He’s finishing his beer,” Blink answered.
“Why isn’t he in here?” I asked lighting up a cigarette and starting to strap on the gloves.
“He’s finishing his beer,” I mocked.
Old Man brought out his camera, thinking that he could use the footage for his video class. The new recruit finally showed up, bragging about his wrestling background.
“I went all-state in high school.” A dream that could only exist in his glory days.
He strapped on the gloves and I stared through him, seeing my way already paved. I wanted to beat the bullet out of Hemingway’s head, pound on Bukowski’s big white belly, torment Steinbeck’s soul, and blacken Kerouac’s free spirited eyes. This fight would be about rejection. I could see the rejection letters from my writing right in front of me, and he was wearing boxing gloves.
Blink managed the time. Everyone in the house was now in the kitchen.
We touched gloves, as the newly formed crowd in the kitchen grew silent.
“Go!”
The past will hammer your gut and bludgeon your brain. It will push you even though you can’t go any further; it doesn’t follow the rules, while it delivers cheap shots that can only leave you stunned. Move!
Jab…jab…jab…. He delivered the blows.
I had my guard up, but slightly blacked out, yet still standing. I threw a couple of jabs to his jaw, and temple. Then I was pushed to the wall again. I was standing straight up as he landed a hook coming out of nowhere. I wondered what was holding me up. It wasn’t the past; it wasn’t my car or my job. It wasn’t my parents or the rent. He delivered more blows to my head. The punch blurred into my deceased heroes; they were supportive like a guardrail. Maybe it was punishment for thinking about using spell-check or thinking that maybe I could be the exception. You could die a thousand times and still have to wake up the next day.
When Blink yelled, “Time!” I asked for more.
I landed a few more shots, and the strangers did the same. I was still standing.
When it was all over, the stranger went back to his beer lying on the table before he entered the kitchen. I was stumbling on my own two feet, smiling and chuckling like a predator that had been caged by something more powerful.
“We have to do this again,” I said still smiling at the stranger who now saw in full view the damage he had done. He dropped his sore jaw, when he saw I was taking the beating a little too well.
“Your cheek is bleeding.” Boozer said.
“Really,” I said. “Can I bum a smoke?”
He gave me one and lit it for me.
My eyes were tied down by surviving the winter, a shitty job, and this life with no instructions or direction. I was doing the best I could with no guarantees.
My whole face seemed like it was slouching as I exhaled drags, dancing out from the corners of my mouth. I was willing to take anything that thought it could knock me down. I was tired of taking it like a man, and I was not going to be defeated by anyone.
I opened another beer. I turned around to offer one to the stranger, but he was gone. He apparently didn’t get it. I could only come to the conclusion that maybe he, too, had something to prove, and he thought he had met his match.
Blink, Old Man, and I walked into the hallway to view the footage from Old Man’s camera. During the fight, Blink would sometimes look back at me with inquiry after every blow to my head, daring to ask if he should call “Time.” I had some trouble focusing on the tiny screen of the camera.
“How am I still standing up?” I asked.
Blink and Old Man shook their heads. They didn’t know. The recruit walked passed us drinking his beer, pretending he had no interest in the footage by Old Man.
After the footage, I slid my sock feet to the floor, using the wall as a guard. The hallway had gotten longer somehow. I eventually entered the bathroom, and shut the door. I stared in the mirror, slightly swaying to maintain a balance. It looked like I had aged twenty-one years with the two shiners and soft pillows underneath my eyes. .
“You haven’t lived unless you failed,” I said softly to the image in the mirror.
Blink finished his six-pack and decided he was ready to go home. We gave him some beers for the walk. Boozer, his girlfriend, Scar and I eventually left as well. The sounds of the city sounded like they were under water. At least I knew how to walk.
“Hey man, are you sure you’re okay?” Boozer asked.
“Never felt better,” I answered.
***
We stopped at a convenience store, Scar picked out a donut, Boozer bought a bag of chips, and I was ID’d for cigarettes. The lady behind the register hurriedly compared the person on the ID to the person who was standing in front of her. She must have thought it was a robbery. I smiled back; showing all my coffee-stained teeth.
“You look so innocent in this picture,” the lady said.
I paid her for cigarettes, and went outside to wait for Scar and Boozer. Scar was the first to come out.
“She didn’t charge me for the donut.” Scar announced.
“She was probably scared of my black eyes.”
Boozer came out scratching his head apprehensively. “She didn’t charge me for my chips.”
“Nice lady,” I said.
Scar passed out back at Boozer’s place, and I walked back to my apartment. It was still early for Saturday night/Sunday morning when I hit my uncovered mattress, already in the grips of a tranquil abyss. I promptly awaited the best sleep in my life.
The best sleep was behind me when I started making coffee in the early afternoon. A letter from the fire department and the telephone bill were there as well. The letter from the fire department, of course, told me officially what I already knew, that I couldn’t go on to the next stage of competition, which was the agility test. But somehow I felt that I had just passed an agility test, and I was still standing.
It had been planned for a while, and I already knew about it, but everyone wanted me to be there because Captain was the first, then there was Boozer, a mutual-drinking buddy of our friend Scar, and then there was Old Man. It was all going to be at Old Man’s house. My expectations were high, and it gave me something to look forward to. I invited the other dishwasher Blink. Blink would enjoy it. He used to tell me several stories about how he would start a fight at a bar.
“It’s easy, man; all you have to do is look for a couple at the bar. Guy and girl. Then you walk up to the bar ignoring the dude and you buy the girl a drink and start talking to her. Then you usually have to talk some shit to the boyfriend. After that when you leave chances are the boyfriend will follow you with his friends. I did it to some frat guys. I got a fat lip.”
“How often have you done this?” I remember asking.
“A couple of times. Sometimes I just feel like fighting.”
“Don’t we all,” I concluded.
The party was Saturday night, and Blink and I had to work our usual day shift. It used to be just me, but now we split up the prep work.
Saturday mornings, we were both usually hung over, but it didn’t matter since we hardly had any customers. All we had to do was stick to the list: cleaning and gutting squid, deshelling shrimp, deveining shrimp, rinsing off vegetables, cutting off the stalks of fennel, the dreaded forty minutes of hell that came with making polenta, eggplant parmesan, scrubbing clams, and ripping out beards of mussels. That Saturday we were both a little excited about getting out as soon as possible.
“I’m walking over with Boozer and Scar,” I said energetically.
“I used to work with Boozer and Scar,” Blink announced.
“Really? That’s cool.”
Most of the list we completed the day before, after I cleaned the clams and Blink made the eggplant parmesan. The only thing we had to do was to clean and gut 50 lbs. of slimy stinky snot-like squid, but first we went outside to smoke a cigarette.
“You got a woman in your life?” I asked.
“Had one, but things changed right after I told her I was going to trying to change to be the man she wanted me to be.”
“Women don’t wait.”
“You got a girl?” he asked.
“Had one in the summer,” I said apathetically.
“What happened?” Blink asked.
It was an easy question, but the truth was the guy in the summer didn’t exist anymore. I wanted to fight him, and that fight was not far off.
“It didn’t work out. Just another crazed daddy’s little girl who should be sent to the Middle East and sold to the tyrannical dictators to be used as a human sacrifice.”
Blink kind of snickered and realized there was still a little bitterness there.
“Settle down man; we’re boxing tonight,” he said, trying to extinguish the rage.
I changed the subject.
“Check out the wall. You can still see some polenta that fell out of the window.”
We both laughed.
“It’s like a monument to your first day working here,” I said still laughing.
“Man, I didn’t know what to think of you after that day.”
“I value my goof-ups. They build character.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sometimes I think I have way too much character.”
We went back inside, walked up the stairwell, and into the kitchen where the boss was rinsing the pasta.
“Are you boys having fun? I shouldn’t be doing this shit; this is your job!”
The boss went back to the line. “From now on, smoke one at a time.”
Blink rinsed the rest of the pasta, and I started cleaning the squid. Blink delivered the pasta to the boss, and then came over and started our two-man assembly line.
I would clean the squid by ripping the jelly-like body out of the capsule, and removing brain mass out of the capsule that looked similar to the thickest snot. I would put the split organism on Blink’s cutting board where he would slice the capsule into several strips, yank out the long tentacles used to capture the squid’s prey, slice it just above the two dead eyes and then remove the beak by punching through the remaining legs. Repeating the process, it took us about two hours to go through 50 lbs. of squid.
I had already scrubbed the clams, and Blink was done with the eggplant parmesan. We checked to make sure the cooks had everything they needed for the evening shift that night. The only thing we could do now was peal garlic, and pick parsley. I called first dibs on parsley so I could avoid the blazing garlic hands. Blink said he had no preference. We sat at the bar drinking bottled coke, talking shit to each other and counting down the seconds to quit time.
“The fire department didn’t work out for me,” I said still feeling the loss of a dream.
“Ah man, that sucks.”
“Maybe that’s why I feel like fighting.” There was no emotion in my voice.
“I don’t think I want to fight you anymore,” Blink concluded.
“It’s all in good fun, man,” I reassured him; “It’s a give and take. You’ll deliver some blows. I’ll deliver some blows. No big deal, I need this.”
Blink smiled and shook his head. “All in good fun.”
“What are you going to do now since the fire department didn’t work out?” Blink asked.
“Think of another plan,” I answered.
The dishwashers for the evening shift finally showed up so Blink and I were able to switch our cokes to bourbon and ginger. The cook who arrived said he had enough parsley so I switched to garlic.
“This is going to be fun,” Blink said in anticipation of the fight.
“Yup, I have high hopes,” I said.
“Knights in White Satin” came on the jukebox randomly, and I started singing, “Knights in white cotton,” as the anticipation grew with every sip of bourbon. The bartender was usually friendly with our free drinks after the shift. I could only taste the bourbon so I couldn’t complain, and worrying would be a waste of my time.
Blink and I reached for our glass at the same time, which was a source of relief for our burning fingers from peeling garlic.
“You know what my family motto is?” I asked.
“What?”
“Every day above ground is a good day,” I answered.
“Right on. I think that’s enough garlic.”
I was out of cigarettes, but Blink was willing to bum me out one of his god-awful menthols. I couldn’t complain.
“So are you going to call me, man?” Blink asked.
“Yeah when I get there, I’ll check out the scene, and if it’s lame, I will probably not call you. We’ll probably hangout though since you already know Scar and Boozer.”
“Cool.”
“Scar and I have been talking shit to each other. I have to fight him, too,” I said.
“This is going to be fun.”
We were told to move by the bartender, because some customers wanted to sit down at the bar. We signed our time sheets, and left later to meet up with the two fisted solution. It was all in good fun.
***
Scar and I were at Boozer’s place along with Boozer’s girlfriend. Scar matched the boxing gloves and looked up at all of us.
“What time does it start?” he asked.
“I think it starts when we get there,” said Boozer.
“I probably shouldn’t box you, Boozer. I would hate to kick your ass in front of your girlfriend.” I said.
“Girlfriend?” Scar questioned, “When was the last time you got any, Jonah.”
“What the hell is this small man syndrome?” I said knowing how to push Scar’s buttons.
“We’re boxing!” Scar announced.
“We’re boxing first,” I concluded.
“I need a few beers in me first,” Scar mumbled.
“Damn, you boys are starting the shit talking early,” Boozer’s girlfriend laughed.
I nodded with a chin up to Scar; he did the same back to me. It was all in good fun.
“Are you fellas ready to go?” I asked. The anticipation felt like a muscle spasm after a long busy shift.
Scar guzzled down his beer. “Yeah.”
We started walking to Old Man’s house; there was a slight chill in the air. The conversation was about work and paying rent. I wasn’t involved in the topic of conversation; it was the last thing on my mind.
“What are you thinking about, Jonah?” Boozer’s girlfriend asked.
“Boxing.”
“How’s work?” Boozer asked.
“It’s work,” I snarled.
Scar looked at me. “You’re crazy!”
I lit up a cigarette. My hopes were high.
When we showed up at Old Man’s house we found out he didn’t have his usual keg so the three of us chipped in for a case of beer to split. Scar and I voted us out of the block and a half walk for beer since we were going to be getting our exercise very soon. This forced Boozer to actually move for once.
“I hate beer.” Boozer’s girlfriend complained.
“I’ll pick you out something,” assured Boozer.
Boozer left and came back with two twelve-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 for his poor girlfriend, who didn’t like beer.
“Only the best for my girl!” Boozer laughed.
Boozer’s girlfriend shook her head and rolled her eyes. Boozer was used to this response, so he didn’t care. Besides, he had his beer.
“It’s orange, baby. You like orange.”
The four of us drank in the kitchen and wondered why there was no one else waiting to box.
Scar especially was starting to get antsy. “Where is everybody? Aren’t we supposed to box? I’m gonna ask, Old Man, what the deal is.”
He walked into the next room where everyone was drinking and watching TV. Then he came back.
“I asked Old Man if we are going to box here tonight, and he said, “I hope not?”
“Was his girlfriend with him?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Scar answered.
I threw up my hands, as the fun seemed to have slipped away. “That’s why.”
Boozer’s girlfriend rolled her eyes. “I thought there was going to be boxing here tonight.” She seemed to have no preference either way after a few sips of Mad Dog. Suddenly she jerked herself away from the bottle of Mad Dog and decided she did in fact like the taste of beer. Not wanting it to go to waste, Scar, Boozer, and I passed around the bottle. It reminded us of cough syrup.
“I’m going to call Blink and tell him to come over, even though nothing is going on,” I said, remembering my promise to Blink.
He sounded disappointed over the phone; Blink decided to come over anyway even though I apologized, because boxing hadn’t been on some of the other partygoers’ agenda.
We all sat in the kitchen drinking, occasionally kicking around the empty boxing gloves. It was just us, those who might have been seen as the weirdoes or freaks who scrambled the words one time or another, “I hope I don’t waste away,” or “I want to do something more.” Some were college students with no place else to go, dropouts, struggling artists, high school jocks without the scholarship, two job slobs. It was only one night of our lives, hopefully, something better would happen next weekend.
Blink, finally came over after he spoiled himself with some expensive Irish beer. We toasted, and Scar and I decided we might as well go at it. Old Man, entered his kitchen to get some more beer. Scar and I were pulling on the last glove with our teeth.
“You’re actually going to box?” Old Man inquired.
“That’s why you invited us over, isn’t it? Help me move the table from the middle of the floor” Scar said, maybe overly motivated to kick someone’s ass.
Old Man grabbed one end of the table, and I grabbed the other. We moved it out of our way, while Old Man grabbed another beer.
“You all are nuts,” he announced.
“Only with the gloves on.” I surrendered.
Scar smiled.
He was shorter then I was. The bike accident he was in a couple of months prior gave him his name. With Scar it was either a scar, a broken bone from a punk show or a bike accident. This permanent memory started below his left eye, and headed south to his mid-cheek. It made him seem taller to a stranger.
Scar and I stood in the middle of the kitchen and took off our shoes. Blink used his watch to keep time. We weren’t going to fight in rounds since we all knew our black lungs would be the ones to throw in the white towel so we had a time limit.
Scar and I touched gloves. I, immediately, used my longer reach against him, because back in Boozer’s apartment I couldn’t get past the scar. He was at perfect fist level for me. It was hard for him to get on my inside. He was able to fling some shots up to my jaw. Hearing the ruckus, people from the next room started rolling in to watch the fight. I landed a few more blows to Scar’s head, and he did the same to mine.
“Time!” Blink announced.
“You two are crazy,” said one of the strangers from the next room.
Scar and I ignored the comment.
Scar pointed at me with his glove. “You are too tall.”
I started rubbing the left side of my face. “This side of my jaw hurts.”
We both broke open a beer. No one won, no one lost; it was all in good fun.
“I don’t want to fight you again,” Scar said as he shook his ringing head.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “Who’s next?”
We recruited some other fighters to enter the makeshift ring while we rested. It was now Boozer’s turn. At first glance he looked like anyone else. A string stretch across chest read Abercrombie & Finch. He went to a different college close by. He and his opponent strapped on their gloves. We were all expecting a close and even fight. They looked like the same size and the same height. It looked like it was going to be an even blow fight. Instead, Boozer got his ass kicked. Everyone thought he at least looked tough before the fight standing there with the gloves on smoking a cigarette. Thank God he could paint.
During the monsoon of punches, his girlfriend yelled. “He’s just an artist! Take it easy!”
The poor Boozer didn’t throw one punch, although his guard was always up. The opponent’s punches broke through his raging beer face. There was nothing Boozer could do, but wait, punch, jab, jab, but wait, punch jab, jab, punch jab jab...
“Time!” Blink yelled, fearing the safety of his friend as he jumped in between the two fighters, stopping Boozer’s branding. We later found out that Boozer’s opponent was friends with a golden glove who taught him what he knew about boxing. We called him the Ringer.
Boozer walked back to his already opened beer with his usual smirk on his face shaking his head. His girlfriend gave him that look of sympathy that causes every man to confess. Boozer was in love. They kissed. He wouldn’t have admitted it but I think Boozer actually blushed (or maybe his face was just red from all the punches).
Captain couldn’t make it that night for a similar reason. He was meeting his girlfriend’s parents. We each had an extra beer for him, because it wasn’t the same without him. We weren’t very good with parents, and since Captain was meeting an airborne ranger we hoped for the best. I was ready to box again.
“Blink!” I yelled.
He looked up from his beer and his watch.
“Okay.” He gave a gesture to Boozer’s girlfriend to be the timekeeper.
“Ready!” Boozer’s girlfriend announced.
We touched gloves. This was personal. To motivate myself, I thought, this guy who smoked the god-awful menthol cigarettes might be planning to take my job. It wasn’t the best job, but it was my job. Just the menthol cigarettes in his front pocket was reason enough to go bare knuckles.
“Go!”
With two hard left jabs to the face I felt the sting like I felt from the steel wool used to scrub the pots and pans with the thick layer of grease. His shots were coming. We both had to work tomorrow.
He landed a right hook to the temple. I felt it. Yep, I thought. We were fighting for the same job. Two left jabs, a right hook, and another right hook. I waited, hesitantly for him to deliver his two right hooks. It was my job. It was one of the lowest jobs to have, but it was mine. He shook his head after feeling some more blows by yours truly. The scrapping went on, and we were still entry-level employees when it was over. We had a beer to celebrate.
There was no response from the other would-be fighters for the next fight. I looked at Boozer giving him an invitation.
“I don’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted to drink tonight,” said Boozer.
“I don’t want you to fight anymore either,” said Boozer’s girlfriend.
Scar found himself a new recruit. The new fighter was an art student who said he had never done anything like this before. He must have said it a thousand times; walking to the gloves like he already knew what the result of the battle would be. Scar began talking shit. Both fighters put on their gloves. The art student took off his glasses. Blink took his watch from Boozer’s girlfriend, and she put her arms around Boozer. Scar and the art student touched gloves.
“Go!”
The art student was taller then Scar, but Scar had no problem taking advantage of the rookie’s lack of experience. The art student let his presence be known, however, with his first right hooks ever thrown at someone. The art student took more blows to the head as his senses fell to an institution that had no deadlines or assignments. All that was inside these walls was time. It seemed the art student began learning a different lesson when he reacted to Scar with a furious upper cut that stopped Scar in his tracks. Yet Scar’s smile was not falling from his face. Scar hadn’t seen a textbook for three years, and the art student had probably only seen his mother’s kitchen. These were two lives that wouldn’t normally intersect.
“Time!” Blink yelled.
Scar, bummed the art student out of a beer, and then they both exchanged bruises and glassy eyes. In this room, no one was better than anyone else.
Blink went to get some more recruits, and then he came back.
“Some guy wants to fight now, too.” Old Man said apathetically, because anything could happen at Old Man’s house.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“He’s finishing his beer,” Blink answered.
“Why isn’t he in here?” I asked lighting up a cigarette and starting to strap on the gloves.
“He’s finishing his beer,” I mocked.
Old Man brought out his camera, thinking that he could use the footage for his video class. The new recruit finally showed up, bragging about his wrestling background.
“I went all-state in high school.” A dream that could only exist in his glory days.
He strapped on the gloves and I stared through him, seeing my way already paved. I wanted to beat the bullet out of Hemingway’s head, pound on Bukowski’s big white belly, torment Steinbeck’s soul, and blacken Kerouac’s free spirited eyes. This fight would be about rejection. I could see the rejection letters from my writing right in front of me, and he was wearing boxing gloves.
Blink managed the time. Everyone in the house was now in the kitchen.
We touched gloves, as the newly formed crowd in the kitchen grew silent.
“Go!”
The past will hammer your gut and bludgeon your brain. It will push you even though you can’t go any further; it doesn’t follow the rules, while it delivers cheap shots that can only leave you stunned. Move!
Jab…jab…jab…. He delivered the blows.
I had my guard up, but slightly blacked out, yet still standing. I threw a couple of jabs to his jaw, and temple. Then I was pushed to the wall again. I was standing straight up as he landed a hook coming out of nowhere. I wondered what was holding me up. It wasn’t the past; it wasn’t my car or my job. It wasn’t my parents or the rent. He delivered more blows to my head. The punch blurred into my deceased heroes; they were supportive like a guardrail. Maybe it was punishment for thinking about using spell-check or thinking that maybe I could be the exception. You could die a thousand times and still have to wake up the next day.
When Blink yelled, “Time!” I asked for more.
I landed a few more shots, and the strangers did the same. I was still standing.
When it was all over, the stranger went back to his beer lying on the table before he entered the kitchen. I was stumbling on my own two feet, smiling and chuckling like a predator that had been caged by something more powerful.
“We have to do this again,” I said still smiling at the stranger who now saw in full view the damage he had done. He dropped his sore jaw, when he saw I was taking the beating a little too well.
“Your cheek is bleeding.” Boozer said.
“Really,” I said. “Can I bum a smoke?”
He gave me one and lit it for me.
My eyes were tied down by surviving the winter, a shitty job, and this life with no instructions or direction. I was doing the best I could with no guarantees.
My whole face seemed like it was slouching as I exhaled drags, dancing out from the corners of my mouth. I was willing to take anything that thought it could knock me down. I was tired of taking it like a man, and I was not going to be defeated by anyone.
I opened another beer. I turned around to offer one to the stranger, but he was gone. He apparently didn’t get it. I could only come to the conclusion that maybe he, too, had something to prove, and he thought he had met his match.
Blink, Old Man, and I walked into the hallway to view the footage from Old Man’s camera. During the fight, Blink would sometimes look back at me with inquiry after every blow to my head, daring to ask if he should call “Time.” I had some trouble focusing on the tiny screen of the camera.
“How am I still standing up?” I asked.
Blink and Old Man shook their heads. They didn’t know. The recruit walked passed us drinking his beer, pretending he had no interest in the footage by Old Man.
After the footage, I slid my sock feet to the floor, using the wall as a guard. The hallway had gotten longer somehow. I eventually entered the bathroom, and shut the door. I stared in the mirror, slightly swaying to maintain a balance. It looked like I had aged twenty-one years with the two shiners and soft pillows underneath my eyes. .
“You haven’t lived unless you failed,” I said softly to the image in the mirror.
Blink finished his six-pack and decided he was ready to go home. We gave him some beers for the walk. Boozer, his girlfriend, Scar and I eventually left as well. The sounds of the city sounded like they were under water. At least I knew how to walk.
“Hey man, are you sure you’re okay?” Boozer asked.
“Never felt better,” I answered.
***
We stopped at a convenience store, Scar picked out a donut, Boozer bought a bag of chips, and I was ID’d for cigarettes. The lady behind the register hurriedly compared the person on the ID to the person who was standing in front of her. She must have thought it was a robbery. I smiled back; showing all my coffee-stained teeth.
“You look so innocent in this picture,” the lady said.
I paid her for cigarettes, and went outside to wait for Scar and Boozer. Scar was the first to come out.
“She didn’t charge me for the donut.” Scar announced.
“She was probably scared of my black eyes.”
Boozer came out scratching his head apprehensively. “She didn’t charge me for my chips.”
“Nice lady,” I said.
Scar passed out back at Boozer’s place, and I walked back to my apartment. It was still early for Saturday night/Sunday morning when I hit my uncovered mattress, already in the grips of a tranquil abyss. I promptly awaited the best sleep in my life.
The best sleep was behind me when I started making coffee in the early afternoon. A letter from the fire department and the telephone bill were there as well. The letter from the fire department, of course, told me officially what I already knew, that I couldn’t go on to the next stage of competition, which was the agility test. But somehow I felt that I had just passed an agility test, and I was still standing.
Monday, May 2, 2011
5/2/11 Bin Laden is dead. I picked a fine time to quit drinking
It is Monday which meant I had to wake up at eleven for my one on one with Dr. Bradshaw. I was bebopin' down the road to 103.7 the river when it came on. Bin Laden is dead. It took every muscle not to wreck my car. That was one of the reasons I joined the army. I turned it up.
I arrived at Mcguire, smoked a cigarette and went to Dr. Bradshaw's office.
There was a spring in my step. My head was clear but still solid mentally. It was as if America gave a great sigh of relief to the once lost in the world trade center and the once lost in war.
I showed up at Dr. Bradsaw's office to find a note on the door. She was sick. I showed up for nothing. Then I remembered that my other doctor told me to go to the blood lab. I did so.
In the waiting room, I shared my sentiments with a man who was waiting on his dad. He said that the old timers the once in vietnam said there will be a retailiation.
I told him how over the years I had become a woose. I didn't like war or guns or any of that. I told him how I wished the soldiers would be sent home.
Finally my number was called.
I sat down in the blood room or whatever they called it.
I had only black coffee today I asked if that was okay. The blood lady said that was fine.
As she was putting the latax or whatever around my arm to bring out my vein, I told her I had to settle down because I didn't want it to affect my blood test.
She told me everything is okay.
When she was done I left.
I went back outside and smoked two cigarettes. I talked with this volunteer who used to be in the Navy during the first desert storm.
He said he found out last night, he said after I gave him a cigarette because he had none.
I told him I had just gave up drinking and now I really wanted a beer.
He started laughing. That's good.
He went on to say that he was introduce to alchohol in the Navy. His first experence he got really drunk so drunk that his wife had to drive him home. One of his friends passed out and they painted his toe nails and put fritos or something on his nails. We both laughed.
I gave him aother cigarette, thanked him for volunteering, and then waited in line to get my car at the vallet.
The line started to get longer.
An older man cam up to me. He had something in his hand I thought he wanted to give me.
"Where did you served?" He asked.
I told him I didn't see combat, and that I was at Fort Irwin. He walked away with what looked like coaster for drinks in his hands.
I got my key for my car and decided just to walk to it instead of waiting for the vallet to pull it around.
I drove back home wanting a beer very badly.
I went to Kroger ignoring the voices in my head that wanted cool and refreshing libations.
I settled on a six pack of IBC diet root beer.
I went to check out and asked for three pall mall blues shorts. I could tell that the check out girl was a few windows short of a sky scraper so thought this maybe a problem but I was in a good mood so I didn't mind.
At first she came back with one. I put three fingers in the air and said three. She came back got two more and held them in the air. I nodded. They were 100's not shorts. I thought maybe my speech impediament got in the way. I didn't complain. I paid and left.
Now two bottles of root beer are in the freezer. I'm writing and waiting for them to get cold so I can celebrate.
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN AFTER 9/11.
TURN UP THE WAR
can't stand to hear
mozart ringing
stagnant brainwaves
revolve around
outlets and ower surges
sparking the black out
inside
speechless at the sight of the fiasco
flesh melts off
skeletons
yet still shreiks
revenge
while
entering the melting pot
colors
blood death and tears
phase out
the red white and blue
a car reads "nuke'em" (in Richmond Va)
a writer calls peace treason
thoughts delayed
in combat fog
now they are planning
an opposition
united by tragedy
I arrived at Mcguire, smoked a cigarette and went to Dr. Bradshaw's office.
There was a spring in my step. My head was clear but still solid mentally. It was as if America gave a great sigh of relief to the once lost in the world trade center and the once lost in war.
I showed up at Dr. Bradsaw's office to find a note on the door. She was sick. I showed up for nothing. Then I remembered that my other doctor told me to go to the blood lab. I did so.
In the waiting room, I shared my sentiments with a man who was waiting on his dad. He said that the old timers the once in vietnam said there will be a retailiation.
I told him how over the years I had become a woose. I didn't like war or guns or any of that. I told him how I wished the soldiers would be sent home.
Finally my number was called.
I sat down in the blood room or whatever they called it.
I had only black coffee today I asked if that was okay. The blood lady said that was fine.
As she was putting the latax or whatever around my arm to bring out my vein, I told her I had to settle down because I didn't want it to affect my blood test.
She told me everything is okay.
When she was done I left.
I went back outside and smoked two cigarettes. I talked with this volunteer who used to be in the Navy during the first desert storm.
He said he found out last night, he said after I gave him a cigarette because he had none.
I told him I had just gave up drinking and now I really wanted a beer.
He started laughing. That's good.
He went on to say that he was introduce to alchohol in the Navy. His first experence he got really drunk so drunk that his wife had to drive him home. One of his friends passed out and they painted his toe nails and put fritos or something on his nails. We both laughed.
I gave him aother cigarette, thanked him for volunteering, and then waited in line to get my car at the vallet.
The line started to get longer.
An older man cam up to me. He had something in his hand I thought he wanted to give me.
"Where did you served?" He asked.
I told him I didn't see combat, and that I was at Fort Irwin. He walked away with what looked like coaster for drinks in his hands.
I got my key for my car and decided just to walk to it instead of waiting for the vallet to pull it around.
I drove back home wanting a beer very badly.
I went to Kroger ignoring the voices in my head that wanted cool and refreshing libations.
I settled on a six pack of IBC diet root beer.
I went to check out and asked for three pall mall blues shorts. I could tell that the check out girl was a few windows short of a sky scraper so thought this maybe a problem but I was in a good mood so I didn't mind.
At first she came back with one. I put three fingers in the air and said three. She came back got two more and held them in the air. I nodded. They were 100's not shorts. I thought maybe my speech impediament got in the way. I didn't complain. I paid and left.
Now two bottles of root beer are in the freezer. I'm writing and waiting for them to get cold so I can celebrate.
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN AFTER 9/11.
TURN UP THE WAR
can't stand to hear
mozart ringing
stagnant brainwaves
revolve around
outlets and ower surges
sparking the black out
inside
speechless at the sight of the fiasco
flesh melts off
skeletons
yet still shreiks
revenge
while
entering the melting pot
colors
blood death and tears
phase out
the red white and blue
a car reads "nuke'em" (in Richmond Va)
a writer calls peace treason
thoughts delayed
in combat fog
now they are planning
an opposition
united by tragedy
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