T-LA—6

00034:409:51

By now I was slumped over with my arms tightly crossed against my stomach. The Coff-EE PL+S I had used for inspiration had dropped me off by the side of the road. —Unceremoniously I might add. I leaned forward with shortened breaths and waited for the knife of my hatred to turn outward. Surely there were enough objects passing by on which to turn my scorn: the woman across the street disabled by her eating habits, the teenagers smoking on the corner dressed like sad clowns—they were practicing styles of shooting they had seen on translator—a black guy walked by with a flesh-colored Band-Aid where his moustache would’ve been... —but it wouldn’t work. —Why the fuck did they want me dead?

—No one would smile until I had proven myself, until I had better shoes. I needed money. —To sleep —to shuttle between the meaninglessness of what I was and the nothingness of what they were —So they would mistake my movement for progress. So they could —and would —and love me, —For a day anyway, —No—fuck that—I needed a hand, a kiss —a light breath on my cheek—someone to cover me up when I rolled over —something.

I looked down, my pants were dirty from lying on the bench. I sat up and a torn envelope came halfway with me. “Jerry Ongle,” it said, “State Cost Insurance.” If I was able to cry I would have. I felt like a piece of shit—the ‘amount to nothing’ my dad’s stockbroking bitch of a girlfriend had predicted —who was she? —Barrotine?, Barovich? —yeah, that’s right —the Barowitch.. —And my hatred came down pure —like rain, —fertilizer. What joy these monsters must get when they’re right.

—And then I doubled up—and I’m sure you know this—self-hatred is nothing these days —you’ve got to hate the hate, the cliché of your own death—that no one understands but everyone knows —that the sorry-assed sap next to you had the same condition and got over it —through a series of workshops —that every bookstore has forty titles under seven bucks on it —that all the evidence is right—and it’s been figured out so well it’s on bumper stickers and you’re the one who’s fucked-up... —And not even that makes you special.

‘—Welcome to the human race, Julius.’

It smiled as it got these last digs in—this alien, this nedotykomka did—and I responded involuntarily —my face squeezing from the inside and tearing where the muscles hit the bone. I opened the notebook I had used as a pillow and found one line like a time capsule: “mouth frozen like rusted train parts”. —Not much for 24 hours —and pretty much useless in terms of money. I turned the book sideways and read my headline —and remembered copying it excitedly from the box by the Federal Building even though the same issue awaited me at home: ‘Do Cultural Factors Affect Plane Crashes?’ It meant a lot to me. And nothing to anyone else. The article had been about foreign pilots and how and if people asked questions in different places in the world, —and of course the notion of planes—the frontier of technology —millions of dollars —being crashed —people being killed —by something so arcane —Well you get the idea, —oh, and I needed a nap.

And after my nap I’d have to eat and then most of my day would be shot. —what the fuck was I doing anyway? I watched an A-couple walk laughing from their parking quad. They knew about The Little Thai Express too —So what exactly was it that I had? —Semi-gloss pants? —no. —Freedom? —Well if you count lying incapacitated on a bench instead of walking with a woman —yeah. Watching instead of being a part of, yeah —what was it—Time? Joy? integrity? the lame-ass truth? god? angels? demons? art? —how could it hurt to be poor in a town so wretched? —so crammed, —so full of absolute nothing? I swear if that woman—a sorority girl probably—grown up but barely—she probably had an annoying laugh and was bad in bed —I swear if she had stepped up right then I would have gone —would have stopped everything. —Moved, sold, washed, cologned, anything —you can see I feel better —and so must have a story somewhere —but maybe I’m still willing...

—Let it never be said that I didn’t try.

A car swung down and the door opened. I contemplated rolling off the bench or trying to make it to a wall somewhere but the absurdity of that killed me too. It’s stupid and everyone knows it: for every invisible service of our privilege—for every concierged can opener—we are indebted twice —once to the new procedure and once to disable it—“Do I lock the door?” “No they lock themselves, —put up the window and get the light.”

—There Ms. Shoe, —now you got me—corny and predictable —and half-written, too —Turned too far towards audience.., —Tone disrupted, confusing! [Underline! Underline!] Rewrite! —Probably with a Really? in there somewhere, too. —No wonder we drank all the time.


00034:517:32

Dixon was waiting for me in the alley when I got home, —oblivious to the dumpsters that slapped my olfactory nerves constantly. —Do I need to say that the landlord hated it when we used the front entrance after dark? —Dixon’s specialty was spray painting —well used to be—he was known everywhere as E-Go —but recently it seems he’s more about visibility —or hunger. —To me anyway —and he doesn’t have much control over either. Not like you’d expect from an expert. —I think the propellants exacerbated his condition —one sneeze and something sends him running —something vital to his new chemicals but in stark violation to several laws of normal physics. —With no means of regulation thus his appetite has taken over his entire nervous system.

“Hey Julius.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, just around.” He paused a corny pause. “Hey, do you have a cigarette, I mean, could I have a cigarette please?”

He rocked back and forth.

“I’m over here E-Go.”

His eyes stayed on the ground. They were opened wide.

“E-Go, I’m over here.” I put my face under his and looked up.

He looked up for a second but quickly returned his gaze to around his knees. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Julius, can I have a cigarette?”

“Yeah, but listen to me. —Can you listen to me?” I hate it when I say shit like that.

“Yeah. I can.” His voice got small.

“Well listen, you can’t wait for me in here—so close.” I motioned with my hands meaning the alley. “I’ve told you this a million times —it’s getting kind of old. You can’t stand in here and wait for me and you can’t bug people coming in here. If you come to see me and I’m not here you have to go and come back later. Or wait around the block. —D’you understand?”

He gave a slight indication.

“Alright, —come on. —Have you been taking your medication?”

“Sure. —Oh, I was Julius. But my doctor told me not to for a while.” I turned around and he showed his small teeth. “He said it was fogging up my head. He said that when he went to the hospital there was a horse behind the curtain, and they had to give it medication because it was dying…”

“—Hm...”

“—And he told me not to come back, my doctor told me not to come back for a while. —That’s what horses do, Julius, they give them a shot when they’re gonna die —just like people when they’re gonna live.” He rocked on his heels and seemed pleased with his answer. I smiled toward his chest—amused but not wanting to agree to his face. “And sometimes the same needle is on the tray —and sometimes...”

“—Okay Eegs, okay. I know, just remember what I told you.”

“What?”

“What’d I just tell you?”

“—Whad’you just tell me?”

I tried not to laugh. “I told you, that if you come here—and wait for me —if you stay for very long —well, even if you stay for a short time—the cops’ll come and they won’t like us. Remember?”

“The cops don’t like us...”

“Well, when they have to come here and talk to us they don’t —and if they do, I might have to move. —Do you understand?”

“I never stay here for a long time, Julius. I never will, —or do —I guess. —I never do that.”

We stood silent for a moment—me to let it sink in and him because he knew he had to to get a cigarette. He rocked gently and bit his lower lip —he was a mess really —wearing high-water pants with a ridiculous number of shirts tucked in. He seemed to quiver—and the whole mess was covered by a v-neck sweater with no sleeves and a long loose-knit scarf. —Light blue primarily.

He was wearing socks as shoes —tube socks covered with the type of footies you’d get in a hospital or on a long JAL flight. The right one, on his left foot, was holed to uselessness, —it looked like a spat, spats? —a spat?

“—Damn, E-Go, you don’t have any shoes!?”

He looked down consciously as if he had not already been staring at his feet. There was a plastic bag of wet clothes next to the dumpster, —and unmentionable stains.

“I don’t know.” —He tried half-heartedly to make it a question.

“—Where are your shoes?”

“I don’t have them. They didn’t fit.”

They did fit “—They did fit E-Go —what’d you do with them?” —little of my fondness for him was left.

“Can I have a cigarette, Julius?” He moved his feet up and down.

“Yeah, —let me go get one. I’ve got a pack upstairs.” I opened the door and went in and closed it deliberately behind me. —Every time E-Go opens his mouth people like him less. I guess it’s no surprise he doesn’t talk much.

—I ate dinner with him once and crazy shit came out of his mouth. He talked about his father and kings coming from other planets on chariots and shit. —It all wove together into one thing for me.

I made it back downstairs and he was still there, his nose pecking forward like a pigeon. “Here you go. You can smoke it in the loading dock but don’t smoke it in the alley, okay? And smile if you want. —It wouldn’t kill you.” —I hate it when I say shit like that, too.

“I will.”

“And what size are your feet Eegs?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“They’re pretty big.” He bit a tiny portion of his lip between his eyeteeth.

“They’re pretty big,” I repeated.

He walked over and leaned against the edge of the loading dock. It was a yellow piece of metal dented and scratched by years of long-gone trucks. E-Go lit his cigarette and stood smoking with one arm across his stomach holding his other elbow. The other hand held the prized cigarette, —his snorkel to a world of relief beyond.

“What’re you doing now E?” —He had frustrated me so much I had forgot I had nothing to do.

“I don’t know. —Nothing?” His last word was small. But then he smiled, “—smoking a cigarette?” —and laughed what was for him a big laugh. “Oh, and I have something for you.” He checked a few pockets and pulled out a piece of folded paper.

“What is it?”

“Just something I found. I know you’re into that weird shit.”

—Schizophrenia, I just heard on the radio, is a solid evolutionary fact, —not a mistake. —Nothing survives without biologic approval. E-Go is the one, who five-thousand years ago, would have heard voices —and wandered off alone. One in a thousand E-Gos would find a new grassland—or valley —or the sea —well, assuming he was the right race he would have—and the rest of him would have died. —A thousand years ago he would have been entrusted with visions and medicine. Back a hundred and he’s burning at the stake. —And today? —shit, —today he’s just another piece of shit that can’t be fit. —Or won’t be fixed—I swear without salt peter we’d all be animals—this shit’s too fast for genetics —So now everyone talks medication. And lives without knowing.

I unfolded what he had given me. It was legal sized—Xeroxed on one side and had been stapled to something exposed to at least two rainstorms. The yellow paper was headlined “A TRUE WRITTEN STATEMENT by MOHAMMED AL-BEIN” and was illustrated by copies of the author’s antiquated INS and Social Security cards. Underneath was a photo booth picture of Mohammed standing with his arms crossed. The statement detailed Mohammed’s travails. It seems he had been incarcerated against his will in Massachusetts where he had been forced a truth serum that the FBI used to make him disclose the details of his knowledge: baseball bats, monkeys in aluminum hats, wildfires, —a Secret Service agent in brown shoes punched him as he was approached by the President and his penis had been injected with germs to change his gender. His face was placed on the translator as a sign of impending havoc; armies of rats were being trained to deliver single words of a scrambled code through the sewers; he was being chased for an expired sexual harassment case for which he was entitled $40,000; the trainer at a marina in Florida had hidden certain films in a fish fed to a whale who was then released into the wild and now desperately tracked by Mohammed—in his cigarette boat (built from a kit to resemble a Scarab)—by the FBI, and by several monkeys—all because Mohammed had refused to send a handbag to his mother overseas that had had its lining replaced with boiled cocaine. And they had tapes of him fighting with the mayor.

It ended with the following paragraph:

“I arrived in [city] in July, [year] where Community Standards Agents took my image and made an animal of it. They took all my other images and turned them into gay people and food. They took my soul away from me, the light out of me, the brain cells out of my head and stopped my normal brain functions, trapping me in a doll. The Messiah wanted me to be his son and ordered me to be King of this country. The U.S. Government burned some of the Messiah’s and the Father’s people. Others they turned into half-men, half-women and chopped off their legs and their tongues. They have put people inside translators, turned people into audio tapes and wild animals and people have been reborn from their asses. People have been buried on the moon and hooked into a space satellite. They have taken people of graves [sic], burned them and treated them like guinea pigs. I am in this world from another world that has been burned... and I am the only one who can save this world before it is too late.

“DISCOVER IT”

“—This guy’s crazy!” E-go smiled.


[sung] It seems so long ago, none of us were very strong/Nancy wore green stockings and slept with everyone—


I breathe the land of my city. The scrapers that darken as they rocket skyward conduct telluric currents that appeal to the modern gaps between my nerves. A sunbeam tucked between two monoliths grows more somehow —instead of an unfolding over years and across plains clutched by mountain ranges every day offers a full spectrum of potential. Days and weeks then, and seasons and years. And with the anonymity of a crowd even the love we crave is hidden deliciously in plain sight. We see, we see we see but are forever thwarted—delicious confusion multiplies into its own reason; feedback, then distortion —becomes more pure and golden than AM radio. Living among so many lost souls—every one a silent prophet, a missionary angel bound and gagged... —just as concrete is too many tiny sharp rocks to cut our feet, the city is too many tiny jabs to hurt. —To uncover the broken fingers, the bleeding ulcers and chronic inflammations that keep us comfortable and quiet, to expose them all at once is to go insane. To feel the relinquished potential of even one mature heart breaks the mind. I was not floating mid-room at all, but had deliberately chosen a life below the floorboards, protected from all those careless feet of eyes.

—But to learn this is nothing either, nor to say it. My heart cares little for the appetite of my busy ears and eyes. They will follow anything that moves—they ascribe meaning to certain pens and public transportation —only silence appeals to my salvation—the explosion that will rocket these floorboards into at least a peephole. I still love my fetishes—the slow flipping of my city’s magazined pages—I just want to taste their lasting root, that’s all.

“—When thought is closed in caves, then love will show its root in darkest hell.” —Where Blake may have meant a warning I see opportunity—to a people trapped at the top—backwards perfectly —monochrome and safely getting paler, who can think on anything... —I can imagine nothing better. —So close off my impotent words and let me realize the scrape of violence they have mediated…

I asked E-Go if he wanted to hear a story.

He did.