tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17628833228720065252024-03-07T21:13:14.996-08:00New Fiction by Derek TenchWeekly short stories.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-89405329069012052922009-04-23T21:55:00.000-07:002009-04-23T22:03:14.096-07:00Top 10 StoriesHey everyone. Thanks for checking back, been awhile. I’ve just added a list of my top ten stories. So check out the sidebar. If you’re new, it’s the place to start. And if you’ve been here before, dig these again. And of course, thanks for reading my stuff.<br /><br />-DerekDerek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-75004742753758313202009-03-09T20:39:00.000-07:002009-03-09T20:48:26.858-07:00A Blog PostFifty-two pieces in fifty-two weeks. It's been a whole year. I'm taking a break. Not from writing, just from this blog. Just for a while. I have some other things I'm working on. Please check back from time to time for updates. Maybe more stories. And thank you for reading my stuff. Hate to get soft, but it means a lot to me. Take it easy.<br /><br />-DerekDerek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-45151841968149247112009-03-02T21:37:00.000-08:002009-11-03T18:47:31.268-08:00Can You Hear The Singing? Sounds Like GoldThere he was, smoking a cigarette in the cold. Thirty five degrees but with the wind chill, something like seventeen. No jacket, no sweater. No coat. Only a long-sleeved flannel shirt, rolled to the elbows. And he flicked closed the rusted, wick lighter and he blew smoke out his nose.<br /><br />“That’s him. Aw shit. That’s totally him.” <br /><br />“Who? Where?”<br /><br />“Right there, smoking. Oh man, that’s him.” I was losing my shit.<br /><br />He looked around. No eye contact with anyone, barely anyone for eye contact. And then, she wasn’t standing next to me. She was right in front of him. Shaking hands. He gave her a cigarette. She walked right over and bummed a cigarette. From him. Like asking Bill Gates to spare a dime. Like asking God to give a damn.<br /><br />In the dark, I watched. I waited. My tickets in hand.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />A casual music fan, I am not. When dropping coin enough to see a show—and in the age of Stub-Hub legalized scalping, that can be several coins—I expect a show. What I don’t expect, listening to a crew of drunks run their mouths—this is not a bar. Listening to a couple poseurs chat it up, just here for bragging rights. Listening to a few kids who don’t know shit about rock and roll as they talk through a set. Their mommies—holding car keys—gossip in the row behind. I am not a casual music fan. And casual music fans I do not suffer.<br /><br />Cell phones sounding off.<br /><br />Grooving hippy dancers. Feeling vibes.<br /><br />That prick yelling, “Play Free Bird!”<br /><br />At one show, a mother held her baby’s arms—barely old enough to stand—and danced around the pit. This until security interrupted. Said she’d have to pop some ear plugs in the kiddie. My thought: If you can afford concert tickets, you can afford a babysitter. Me, I can’t afford distraction.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Onstage later, he wore the same flannel shirt from the alleyway. I had asked for the cigarette butt she’d bummed. She called me disgusting. I had reached down to grab his butt. Her look froze me and caused second thoughts. But later, in the concert hall, what did that matter.<br /><br />A few power chords before the drums kicked in, steady behind. Until the first chorus when the bass and lead guitar joined and the keyboardist started messing around. That was when I grabbed my pipe. <br /><br />One hit, deep and held onto. A quick spark of my disposable lighter. Exhaled upward and I pass it to her. <br /><br />And from thin air. Like how a near-death experience must look. I see nothing but brightness.<br /><br />Right there, flashlight in my eyes, a black-shirted security guard. Myself, hands in the air, like <em>don’t shoot</em>. The goon stares me down for a few beats too long. He looks hard. I look high. <br /><br />And this at a rock show. A full-grown man can’t smoke a bowl. Because somewhere, there’s a baby with earplugs.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-28315730654228575442009-02-23T20:55:00.000-08:002009-02-23T21:09:27.801-08:00A Day In Haiku<strong>7:05 am</strong><br />Between toes it seeps.<br />Like oatmeal with hair: cat sick.<br />Me, more a dog guy.<br /><br /><strong>9:12 am</strong><br />Coffee pot near dry.<br />Office rules: Kill it, fill it.<br />Have a smoke instead.<br /><br /><strong>1:47 pm</strong><br />A scotch with my lunch.<br />Many—a lunch with my scotch.<br />Next,fake productive.<br /><br /><strong>5:20 pm</strong><br />Cars for days, rush hour.<br />Springsteen on the radio.<br />Tramps like me, stillborn.<br /><br /><strong>10:02 pm</strong><br />Wife says she’s on rag.<br />Same excuse was used last week.<br />Jerk in sink, goodnight.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-25980049296302246342009-02-16T21:59:00.000-08:002009-02-16T22:13:00.924-08:00Blossoming All OverLegs or breasts, he asked me. <br /><br />And I said, you mean like dark meat or white? <br /><br />No, he said, what I mean is, are you a dude who digs the strong thighs, solid calves? Or a full set of titties? Every guy, he said, every guy is one or the other. <br /><br />And I said, neither. Really, have to pick something, guess I’m an ass man. Yeah, I like a nice round ass.<br /><br />No good, he said. Can’t count it. We’re all ass men. The ass, that’s what leg guys and breast guys agree on. Either the climax of the thighs or another set of round, meaty bumps. Both ways, it’s a point of compromise.<br /><br />So I thought. And after a beat or two, okay, mark me down for boobs. But a great butt can get me into trouble.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Along with many of the best ass kickings, this one was dealt in a piece of shit dive. Where the mugs were chipped and not a damn person had any ice in their drink. Where the exposed brick wasn’t a bit trendy. Where vomit pocked the gravel parking lot. Between shots of well whiskey and pints of draft beer, I was working on a broad. Oh, and she had an ass like two kegs of Pabst.<br /><br />What I sat through was an hour and a half of bitching. First about her husband, to whom she was on-and-off separated. Then kids, three of them, all sounding like little jerk offs. Finally, her boss and coworkers, everyone taking advantage. Her making them rich. And throughout I followed. Every worthless anecdote, registered despite being so shitty my eyes kept trying to touch my nose.<br /><br />That was it. Finished waxing pathetic and up she stood. Off to shoot pool with some prick in a denim shirt. And denim vest. And jeans. For shit’s sake. And I held it down at the bar awhile. Another shot. Another pint. Another shot. Then watching her bend over the green felt, ass in the air like two hills waiting on a yodeler. I walked right over. Smacked her hard on the rear. And made a b-line for the parking lot.<br /><br />But before I could think about dodging puke, I was off the ground. Not going anywhere. My eyes saw red then my upper body cracked then I’m screaming. Right here, I was kicking my feet, eight inches from the floor. The bouncer, a pony-tailed Tongan or some such, he had me by the collarbone. Raised to eye-level. Fuck’s the matter with you, he said. Ahhhhhhhhhh, I said.<br /><br />Dropped and I landed hard. My shoulder was jutting at a fucked angle, the collar bone disconnected and almost stabbing through the tent of flesh. Why shouldn’t I fuck you up, he said. Ahhhhhhhhhh, I persuaded. Then the heel of his boot was up. Then down. I slept pretty solid for a pretty long time.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />What he asked me was, flowers or chocolates? So I shrugged and didn’t say a thing. Flowers or chocolates, again, you know dude, like for a chick. Like for Valentine’s Day. <br /><br />So I said, both, I guess. Cover all bases.<br /><br />He clucked his tongue. He said, for the sake of argument dude, pick one. Are you a flowers guy? Are you a chocolates guy? <br /><br />I went with chocolates. This, I said, because if <em>I </em>had to receive one. That’s what I’d prefer.<br /><br />Very selfish rationale, he said. And wrong. Correct answer: flowers.<br /><br />Didn’t know I could be wrong. I told him as much.<br /><br />Listen, flowers are the perfect gift. So beautiful for a couple days and dead. Then, buy her more. On and on without end. A perfect gift for the woman who has lots. And the woman who has little.<br /><br />Chocolates, I say, they come and go too. Perishable too.<br /><br />Totally not the same. Chocolates grow tiresome. No, what’s palatable to the eye endures far longer than what’s palatable to the…well the palate.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Dark wood, the color of coffee without milk. Whittled, chip by chip, into human shapes. One, a man, sombrero pulled low, accordion on his lap. The other, a man, head back laughing, holding a drink with a thin wire straw. Both, on the bottom, green felt. Bookends, handcrafted and pretty damn fine.<br /><br />Placed in a bag with scrunched, pink tissue. The handles tied tight by ribbons. Scotched taped to the side, a construction paper heart and written in Sharpie: Happy Valentine’s Day Babe.<br /><br />When presented she started to tear. Blinked it out and said, so heavy. I can’t imagine…<br /><br />And then the heart was torn off. The ribbon snapped. The tissue paper flung by wads. The bag itself ripped in two. Left behind in the mess, in the wrecked cocoon of wrapping: two carved, lacquered, pretty damned exceptional bookends. Really, the only bookends she would ever need. The finest bookends she could ever hope for.<br /><br />Oh, she said. Aren’t those interesting. Beautiful.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-3092529203097021102009-02-09T20:07:00.000-08:002009-02-09T20:11:36.682-08:00Fever DreamSomething like being buried alive. Cold earth everywhere. Damn cold. Over my lips so breathing comes only in dirty, shallow sucks. Eyes pulsing with the beat of my heart and so hard I can feel it in the back of my skull. My head. Like I was smacked with a shovel. <br /><br />Not moving for maybe hours or years or maybe minutes. The ridge around my nostrils fills with yellow sweat. So too my forehead. My eyelids. Something like darkness, eventually it gives way. <br /><br />Skyscrapers made of tree branches made of Styrofoam. And inside the elevators move back and forth—never up or down—but that does not matter. Security guards at the front desk remove my coat and underneath I have nothing. No jacket, no sweater, no shirt. No skin, no muscles, no bones. Nothing.<br /><br />“You’re looking for the twenty-second floor,” says nobody in particular.<br /><br />And they are right, of course. Though this is the first I’ve heard of it. But in the elevator there is no button for the twenty-second floor. So all I do is hit the button for the second floor twice. Very fast. And hope for the best. <br /><br />Metal doors part and this is not the twenty-second floor. And this is not the building. But this is where I am so this is where I should be. <br /><br />“C’mon. If we don’t get out soon, the fish won’t be much for biting,” says a man who looks nothing like my father but is my father. I don’t even question, I follow.<br /><br />At the pond, there are no fish. So I dive in, swim five yards down, I bite my own line and I reel myself in. I fillet myself. Marinate in lemon and butter and pepper. I light a wood fire under a portable grill, and I cook myself until I am no longer pink in the middle. Then I dine and I am good.<br /><br />My back is twisted into knots that are twisted into knots all the way down to the base of my spine.<br /><br />Eyeballs throbbing so hard, I peel the lids open with two fingers. They are gummy and wet. The ceiling is white. Please be sweat. I’ve soaked all through the sheets.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-45973908065844268102009-02-02T19:39:00.000-08:002009-02-02T19:45:50.965-08:00A Short OneTwo bottles of red wine between us and my tongue is black. The buzz nice, but inefficient. Anyways, it makes this whole lame exercise a little more fun.<br /><br />Overall the process is not complex. A few cords plugged into a few slots. Run the disc. Setting up the router is straight forward. Still, I’ve never been too handy. <br /><br />She yells to hurry up. I shake an empty bottle at her, stick out my black tongue. Give me time, I say. <br /><br />And what does it matter? Today, pretty much a throwaway. A paid holiday. There is no wrong way to live it. Sleep until noon. Drink too much wine. Set up the wireless. All this is fine.<br /><br />What to name the network, I ask. Ask again. But she is asleep, sprawled across the bed and snoring through deep maroon lips. <br /><br />So the network named and a third bottle opened. On the bed, she’s still crashed out. On the couch, I slug wine. My laptop connected. All this is fine.<br /><br />Times are good. A day with no work but full salary. Connected beyond six inches from my desk. In the living room. On the shitter. <br /><br />Ah, what America’s about. Casual drinking and money for nothing and wireless internet. Freedom, what an abstract idea that is. To spread its gospel around the globe, difficult to get behind. By contrast, had it been Operation Iraqi Paid Holiday—if these were the principles to diffuse—maybe the public heart would be won more readily. <br /><br />All this is fine.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-54217561332150376842009-01-26T21:46:00.000-08:002009-01-26T21:54:06.695-08:00Thoughts Before Passing OutGiven a choice, I’ll opt for the bus over the subway. True, this may increase travel time—as much as twenty minutes additional. But what’s lost in efficiency, it’s more than made up by scenery. Once—out the window of the M103—I caught two bums, the first urinating on the second. The second, of course, sleeping hard. At the light, corner of Fourteenth and Third, I saw even steam rising off the hot flow. I guessed, when bum number two woke, he’d find himself stuck. Glued to the sidewalk by frozen piss.<br /><br />Contrast that scene, if you will, with the regular view from the Six Train. Black tunnels interrupted by cement platforms. Nothing really. I don’t mean vagrants avoid the subway, far from it. The subterraneans, though, tend toward a couple flavors. First, the two dollar hotel guests, sleeping on the train—often stirring but never waking. Their sandaled feet caked in shit. Second, the folk intent to sing, tell stories, bemoan. Panhandlers really. To cope with these, I recommend headphones.<br /><br />Now, I’m reminded of a particular ride. Into Brooklyn on the L Train. Somewhere between First Avenue and Bedford, passing underwater—no escape—one passenger rose and addressed the crowded car. Dressed well enough, this man, probably not homeless. He kept on, orating all through the tunnel and three stops into the BK. Of what he spoke, I don’t know—I was grooving to Journey on my iPod. But his arms flailed and he made eye contact with near everyone. Finished, he collected—not linty change—but dollar bills. A fist full of moist cash. I offered nothing—but thought about donating a five-shot if he’d run through his story again. So affecting I imagined it. I didn’t, but it was a good idea. I’m full of good ideas.<br /><br />On the subject of good ideas, here’s another. Fights with the wife, they’re unavoidable. Mainly because of the drinking. Not about the drinking. But <em>because </em>of the drinking. Like how last month I might have let the C-word slip in reference to her mother. Might have. Don’t remember. Based on hearsay really. That, and the fact I woke on the couch. So much I remember. And my point: when she decrees a night on the sofa my fate—and it happens man, it happens. What I tell the kids is, Daddy’s got a cold. Daddy doesn’t want to make Mommy sick. Daddy will be a good boy and sleep on the couch. This, it saves the little guys some worry. And bonus: come morning, with a major hangover, faking ill ain’t all too hard.<br /><br />And other good ideas too. Bottles worth. When the days move slow and the nights are alive. And each day gives birth to wilted promise. Bottles worth. Each night I can taste something fresh. Even if it won’t digest. And, if I may be candid, that is my story: I drink. And for a handful of fuzzy moments, dreams cease to be dreams. I am the splendor. The fulfillment of the unfulfilled. Bottles’ worth. And I forget, not just who I am, but the evolution I always expect. I can enjoy triumph unearned. I have so many idas.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-39312271197672472782009-01-19T21:33:00.000-08:002009-01-19T21:43:41.497-08:00...But You Can't Come Back All The WayShe is a distinguished looking woman. Deep lines in her face, like swaths of permanent marker. Hair pulled tight into a bun, save a few stray wisps. A beige parka, fake fur collar, to protect against the cold. And her purse, compact and solid and tube-shaped, it sits beside her on the park bench.<br /><br />She looks solemn, this woman. Her posture straight. Her eyes focus ahead, always. For hours. For days. On the concrete wall at the park’s edge. Children play handball against a mural of chipped and faded paint. For weeks. For months. The cold is no bother. Nor the snow, so easy it is to brush off her parka. Rain is another matter. And sleet, that’s worst. Like a terrible milk shake poured from the sky. Cold as snow, piercing like the rain. But somehow heavier than either. <br /><br />She is a serious woman. Rarely does she speak, but instead smokes cigarettes at a steady interval. Thin, brown ones she keeps in a chrome case. Keeps in her purse. The smoke she takes in deep and thoughtful drags. And lets go in directed plumes. Filters, yellow with nicotine, gather at her feet and on pleasant days birds peck them and carry them off. When the weather is not so fine, they are buried in the snow. Or torn apart by the rain. <br /><br />She is troubled, this woman. The steady eyes. The cigarettes, sucked to nothing in three puffs. The routine, unbroken. Rarely she speaks but when she does, she speaks of the mural. Laid it down, she says, stroke by stroke, her own brush. This was decades ago, she says. Somewhere between three and four. By now everyone has forgotten this, her work. The children playing handball, even they do not see it. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />This was years ago. People look back and say the neighborhood was much better. They say it was clean and safe. A young girl could walk home after dark. All by herself and without worry. That, and never have to step over a littered soda bottle or fast-food container. People look back and say these things, the good old days. But they are wrong. The only change is this: then they were young. And now they are old. <br /><br />A lifetime ago, that’s when this was. When everyone was an artist or a poet. And sleeping on mattresses without bed frames was cause to brag. Sharing food and drugs and beds. An odd moment, a sepia snapshot of history. When they judged one another not by the sum of their assets but by the sum of their dreams. Tomorrow? Never. <br /><br />This was a world ago. The day she went down to the park with her paints and her brushes. On the concrete divider, a safe partition between the basketball court and four lanes of traffic just beyond, she sketched first with white chalk. Women blending into mountains dissolving into clouds. And every day she would paint. The old men playing chess made foolish moves when she bent over to exchange brushes. And every day she would paint. Until all she could add were the most diminutive details. And still, every day. <br /><br />A dream, that’s when this was. Before the artists and poets became addicts and nobodies. Before they realized the sum of their dreams could not buy even a cup of coffee. And one by one the old men stopped showing up to play chess. Replaced, one by one, with men not quite so old. And she gave up adding details. She let the mural be.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-5045304374157306962009-01-12T22:33:00.000-08:002009-01-12T22:53:34.429-08:00The World and Winston<strong>The Usual</strong><br /><br />This is the sum of forty-seven years on earth. My great achievement. Proof of my existence. Are you ready? Payoff for a life lived. My high water mark. Check it out: I enter Pinnacle Deli, approach the counter, I say, “The usual.” Nothing more. <br /><br />Like setting off a Rube Goldberg machine, these two words have feet sliding and arms twisting and eggs landing on the skillet, a hiss. Toasters toasting and coffee pouring. The end result: an everything bagel topped with two eggs over easy (yolk runny enough to moisten the bread, not so thin it’s dripping down my fingers) and a large coffee (light, two sugars). But only, “The usual.”<br /><br />Here I peak. God bless these folk. Who’ve set aside a small piece of their memory (a chunk of brain that could hold football statistics or their daughter’s imaginary friend’s favorite color) for this poor fool’s breakfast. <br /><br />So if I leave no other footprint upon departure from this sticky planet, let that be my legacy. And when other men dine with wives, families, remember: their meals may be spoiled by argument, or worse, silence. But Winston’s is always perfect at only two words.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Rules</strong><br /><br />As best I can figure, the difference between laws and rules is this: laws apply always. Rules need only be followed in public. Murder is never appropriate, regardless of forum. But letting rip an outrageous fart—acceptable when seated alone on your couch, of immeasurably poor taste on a jam-packed bus. Here is my problem: so many people don’t get the between-the-lines nature of rules.<br /><br />On the stoop, I watch my breath and I watch dog piss slowly freeze into hazardous ice slicks. Who walks by is this 20-something with a sharp pea coat and a pair of white Velcro shoes. Exactly what I mean. In your private residence, go on and get your kicks. But among the general population, Velcro shoes: kosher only on those under seven or over seventy. Take some pride in yourself. Try not to slip.<br /><br />Rules, I’ve gone far to abide. Never, not even in childhood, was I to make a disturbance, a scene, a splash. If, in addition to <em>most athletic </em>and <em>most likely to succeed</em>, my senior class had voted on <em>most anonymous</em>, I’d have been a shoe-in. Unless, maybe I’d kept too low a profile. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Games</strong><br /><br />When typing smack over internet checkers, I follow two rules: first, keep the salty language in check (“fool” not “fucker”). Second, never threaten an opponent’s person (Yahoo! <em>will </em>involve authorities). That said, WinningWinnie61 doesn’t suffer fools.<br /><br />I will jump and double jump. Sacrifice pieces, set up shots. Triple jump. Blockade. And throughout, a running commentary at screen’s bottom. Your collapse, play-by-play. Sometimes, no response. But you read. Sometimes, a curt reply. You’re fuming. Sometimes, I might just bring out the best in you.<br /><br />WinningWinnie61: What could you hope to accomplish with that move buddy?<br /><br />FlyingKingFaLife : strategy <br /><br />WinningWinnie61: Gotcha. Hey, can I ask you a question?<br /><br />FlyingKingFaLife: ?<br /><br />WinningWinnie61: Faux hawks and you?<br /><br />FlyingKingFaLife: dude. what’s your issue?<br /><br />WinningWinnie61: Wait for it…<br /><br />WinningWinnie61: …you’re both over!<br /><br />FlyingKingFaLife: damnit<br /><br />WinningWinnie61: Disappointing effort buddy.<br /><br />FlyingKingFaLife: whatever man. i gotta go take my lady friend out for dinner<br /><br />WinningWinnie61: Remember, you need at least a basic skill set before calling your moves a “strategy.” And review my play. You cross a talent this caliber but almost never. <br /><br />FlyingKingFaLife has signed offDerek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-62620659660427196052009-01-05T23:01:00.000-08:002009-01-05T23:08:08.214-08:00Sketches of SuburbiaI.<br />Out of the concrete island, three lanes on either side, grows a weeping willow. Drooped branches, hanging just above traffic, brushed by the none-too-rare SUV. In the winter’s lack of sunlight, the foliage atrophies to banana yellow. Such is the contrast between milky sky and cartoonish leaves, that one could almost expect the Lorax to appear. To speak for the tree. To decry the Hummers and their bastard barber jobs.<br /> <br />II. <br />Until five years ago, a locally owned hardware store operated on Piccolo Street. It was replaced by a juice bar. Replaced by a pizza joint. Need a claw hammer, now you’ll have to drive a mile down the highway. Home Depot. Admittedly, their selection is every bit as extensive. Better even. Up till last month, day laborers lined the fence at the property’s edge. But with the economy crushed the work dried up and most of those men—plaid shirted and mustachioed—traveled back to Mexico. More opportunity to be had. <br /><br />III.<br />The bartender laughs and jokes. In the restaurant behind, families eat quesadillas and cheeseburgers. The bar and grill. A kid, flat brimmed baseball cap, hooded sweatshirt, goatee on chin only, he says, “My man, get me a glass of water. But make it seem to be a real drink, would ya? I don’t wanna look like a pussy.” So the bartender hands him a short tumbler. Ice, a wedge of lime, two thin black straws. And back with his crowd, the bro impresses all by how quickly he drains the vodka tonic. <br /><br />IV.<br />Night falls and neon lights up. No more highchair crowd dining but the barroom is shoulder to shoulder. Most early-twenties and lost. Some early-thirties and sad. They bullshit and argue and piss on the bathroom floor. They tell the bartender he doesn’t deserve a tip, all he did was pop a beer. Outside, cigarettes are bummed and smoked and bummed again and the men and man-children stare into darkness at the town which is, by turns, their kingdom and their purgatory. Exchanging stories of girls whose asses they were this close to pulling. Guys whose asses they were this close to kicking. This close, always. <br /><br />V. <br />Christmas lights twist around the willow’s limbs. Ensuring its unearthly appearance is not missed in the late hours. One thing so bright and obscene even a drunk driver could not hit it. Unless, of course, on purpose. This is suburbia. An artificial small town. Ornate and comfortable. Where the paper is delivered every morning, the mail every afternoon. Safe and stable. This is suburbia.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-35607979732913172122008-12-29T23:30:00.000-08:002008-12-29T23:44:24.212-08:00Overnighter<strong>11:45 p.m.</strong><br />“Look at that bunch. Tell me, are those people you’d be comfortable dying with?"<br /><br />Strange question. I have no answer. So I hand him his scone, blueberry, and his change, sixty-five cents. But he lingers. Still fifteen minutes until he boards and becomes the flight attendants’ problem. For now, I guess, he’s mine.<br /><br />“That’s what I ask myself whenever I fly. I look at my fellow passengers and I say, ‘Billy, worse case scenario: would you be okay falling from the sky and meeting your maker with these folks?’”<br /><br />This is graveyard shift. This is <em>Molly’s Muffins</em>, a coffee-stand in the international terminal. It’s rare to work in the service industry and have no regular customers. But here people come and go. From everywhere and to everywhere and at all times and I never serve the same person twice. <br /><br />“You know,” he says. Pretty much a monologue by now. Couldn’t call this a conversation. “People always say, ‘you’re born alone and you die alone.’ But that needn’t be true. Me for instance, I have a twin. And if I die in a plane crash, I’ll have proven the exception to both rules.”<br /><br />Can I get him with anything else, I ask. He stares off at the crowd. “They seem alright,” he says. <br /><br /><strong>3:23 a.m.</strong><br />Working nights, sleeping days. You fall out of rhythm with the rest of the world. I never see my friends anymore. Same for family. I can’t catch the primetime television lineup and I eat my dinner at eight in the morning. I’ve lost touch. I no longer empathize with the problems of day dwellers. So when some cranky old lady, red-eyed and sleepless, moans something awful about our over-priced water bottles, I care so little I don’t even try to justify it. <br /><br />“Four dollars! Four dollars for water! It falls from the sky for Chrissakes. And you’ve got the nerve to charge four dollars. This is one hell-of-a racket.”<br /><br />After the summer 2006 revelation that terrorists had planed to blow up transatlandic flights with chemicals smuggled aboard in water bottles, all outside liquids were confiscated at the security checkpoint. In the wake of this development, my manager inflated the price of bottled water an extra buck fifty. So yeah, it’s a racket<br /><br />“This is robbery. I ought to call the police. Ugh! How do you sleep at night?”<br /><br />But of course, I don’t sleep at night. “Ma’am,” I say. “There’s a water fountain near the restroom. Maybe you can find an empty bottle in the recycling bin and fill it up.” <br /><br />“You’d have me root around in the trash like a bag lady? My Lord! You people are despicable…” And on and on she went. Until finally, she ponied up four dollars for the bottle. They always pony up the four dollars. <br /><br /><strong>6:55 a.m.</strong> <br />When the sun starts its rise, my stomach turns. The clear, cool morning forms underneath the dense night. No more mystery. All is laid bare.<br /><br />And waiting for my shift to expire, I find myself privy to a thorough explanation of the benefits of child dentistry. “Another thing, they don’t have coffee breath. Oh man. Back when I dealt with adults, used to drive me ill. Reminded me of grandma’s kisses.” And while he says this, I should point out, he’s finishing his third cup. Forty-five minutes into his layover. <br /><br />“Oh oh oh,” he starts so suddenly. “I almost forgot the best part. Baby teeth! When the kids start coming to me, I don’t even pay attention. Cavities? Who gives a shit. Those are just practice teeth.”<br /><br />I shrug. “And when the baby teeth pop out,” he taps at his chompers with his index fingers. “Then I have half a mouth worth of work. Fucking cake walk. And my hygienist does the lion’s share. Most of the day I’m in the back, dicking around on the computer.”<br /><br />Across the terminal, my daytime replacement has arrived. She walks through the metal detector and past the newsstand. “Ha ha. And all these suburban mommies, I can charge whatever I like. Nothing’s too much for their babies.”<br /><br />And I reach in the drawer and pull out my timecard. My sunglasses. I punch out. Grab a danish for the road. And behind me, as I work through the terminal’s morning crowd, I hear, “Four dollars! Who the hell do you think you are?"Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-89296350535634414152008-12-22T21:01:00.000-08:002008-12-22T21:24:57.010-08:00Three Scenes of ChristmasIn the stool next to mine is a man with a blood red suit, furry white trim. He orders eggnog and says, “Gotta stay in character.” I think he’s talking to me. But I don’t know. I don’t look up from my pint. <br /><br />Only a special breed of loser congregates in bars on Christmas Eve. The sort without family or friend or sense of tradition. One rung up from hermits and vagrants. Our only consolation, the bed—or futon, or cot—to which we’ll eventually retire. That and alcohol. <br /><br />The man orders a second eggnog. It’s thick and milky-yellow and looks pretty much the same way it will when it comes back up. “You the Macy’s Santa?” I ask him.<br /><br />“No.” And I can smell the bitterness in his words, even over the brandy. He pulls at the silky beard hanging from an elastic band around his neck. It snaps back hard. “That's the major leagues, dude. They only hire Santas with real beards. A year long commitment for a five-week job.” <br /><br />I nod in sympathy. The clock reads five past eight. Happy hour’s gone and I’m not one to pay full-price. Even if it is the holidays. “Take it slow,” I tell Saint Nick. “Rudolph’s the one with a red nose.”<br /><br />And he laughs but his belly doesn’t really shake. Total second-string Santa. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />From the bar, I take a scenic route home. So cold out, the air is almost unbreathable. You have to suck hard to get anything and it burns your lungs like a kid’s first drag on a cigarette. The week-old snow has either turned into some sort of soft-serve mud in the gutter or a slick, well-trampled layer of ice on the sidewalk. Twice I nearly slip and brain myself. These extra-few blocks, I’m not walking for exercise. What I want is to hit up the market, grab more drink. <br /><br />The big glass door is bordered with multi-colored lights. Has been since Thanksgiving. I push through and walk to a cooler in the store’s rear. There are clear bottles and brown bottles and green bottles and slapped across are labels in every color. Add to this the glimmer of Christmas lights. <br /><br />I allow myself a minute of window-shopping. In the spirit of the holidays. But really, I haven’t any option. I grab a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor and turn towards the counter. There’s a reason every other commercial is for Bud Light but you never see one for malt liquor. Cheap brew with high alcohol content, that sells itself.<br /><br />Waiting to pay and some guy enters talking all loud into his cell phone. Everything is, “Do you want me to pick up some milk?” and “I’ll be home in a few honey.” When he passes, I see his scarf is Burberry, tag facing out. So he makes more than you. He claps his phone shut and sidles to the counter. Of course, he’s buying a sixer of some micro-brewed winter ale. Labels on the bottles, very festive. <br /><br />I pay partway in change. When I move for the door, the micro-brew guy says, “Hey buddy, enjoy your Christmas.”<br /><br />I mumble something like, “Fuck your mother,” before almost eating it on a patch of ice.<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />In space—I’ve been told—No one can hear you scream. Well New York—where people commute underground and work high in the air and live one stacked on another on and on—New York sure-as-shit ain’t space. <br /><br />So sitting on my couch, sipping my bottle, it’s really hard to hear the weatherman on the news tell me Santa’s slay has passed over Ottawa. My neighbors are yelling. About responsibility. About money. About drinking too much and screwing too little. Then three blessed beats of silence before, “Get your ass back in bed or I’ll tell Santa to fuck off.”<br /><br />Tomorrow maybe—just some hours from now—maybe they’ll cheer up. Over torn wrapping paper and Tonka trucks and waffles with sausage. I think, if I wake early enough, I can listen to them come together on Christmas morning. And how creepy that would make me, I’m embarrassed by the thought. <br /><br />Tired and drunk and looking forward to New Year’s, when getting blitzed is a mainstream custom. Roll my empty. Uneven revolutions until it clanks against the far wall. Slouch. When I fall asleep, Santa has just been spotted above Boston.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-29508199146444012952008-12-15T21:53:00.000-08:002008-12-15T22:01:18.137-08:00Troll's DeclineOnce was, folks feared the bridge. On its far side grass grew tall. Beyond was anyone’s guess. But in time, all that remained was a well-worn path to mundane countryside. The change in condition, a testament to the poor work ethic of The Troll.<br /><br />Time was, nobody dared step foot on the bridge. The Troll, he would bellow from below and his inhuman growl would freeze blood and liquefy bone. He requested neither money nor services from would-be travelers—the shrieks of children, the hurried footsteps of once-courageous men in retreat, this was reward enough. <br /><br />But The Troll got sloppy. In later years, one was likely to find the poor sap sprawled on the creek bed. Sleeping off a case of cheap beer or stoned silly on a stick of weed. His roar regressed to nothing but a mumble and he did little to dissuade townspeople from crossing the bridge that—not long ago—he had tended with territorial fervor. <br /><br />At most he’d toss a few empties—of which there was no shortage—at an oblivious wanderer and fall back to sleep. On one occasion, he caught a young girl with a drained fifth of Jack Daniels. The thick glass and squared-off bottle resulting in seven stitches. The locals were angered, even a little disgusted. But not frightened much at all. Mostly, they shook their heads at the fallen creature. The pathetic beast. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Listen good, I tell you what’s what. Troll still hate people much as always. Still hate sad little girls and big angry men. Troll hate and hate because that what trolls do. But here my point: I such a troll, I even hate trolls. Really, this make Troll most troll of all.<br /><br />Townpeoples say, “oh, that Troll. All he like is drink boozes and smoke dopes.” But townpeoples—how Troll hate them so—they is wrong. Troll hate the drinks and the smokes too. But it make I think less about hating little sad girls. And it make I think less about hating big angry men. And it make I think less about hating trolls. Also, make Troll sleep good. <br /></span><br />So, one day, as happens to those in a freefall of spirit, The Troll hit bottom. What occurred was this: After draining four Olde English tall boys and punctuating with a joint—fat as a baguette—The Toll succumbed to a comatose slumber. Upon waking with a killer hangover-headache, he discovered the townspeople had played quite a prank. His hair—once black and oily and streaked across a blemished forehead—was dyed the most obscene shade of green. And more than that, it was washed and combed and spiked into some sort of Don King styling. It goes without saying, The Troll hated his new ‘do. <br /><br />And I wish I could say The Troll rebounded. That after this unfortunate episode he went back to the same fiend all of us wanted him to be. I wish I could, but it just wasn’t so. Truth is, no one knows for certain whatever became of The Troll, though rumors abound. <br /><br />Some say he moved to the city, developed a smack habit, blended in among the dirty, misshapen addicts of urban alleyways. Some say he filled his pockets with stones—from bitty pebbles to near-boulders—leapt off the bridge that once he protected and into the icy creek below. <br /><br />Other folks—those more into the whys than the whats—they see the Troll as a tragic figure. A wretch who realized all too late that he was full of love. A pitiful soul whose broken disposition had skewed a passion for menace and uncrossed creeks and tall stalks of unmolested brush growing like over-moussed hair.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-83238933357651566712008-12-08T21:47:00.000-08:002008-12-08T22:02:05.920-08:00No Good DeedOften the phrase is repeated, <span style="font-style:italic;">the road to Hell is paved with good intentions</span>. And poetic though it is—cute and clever and pleasing to the ear—this saying amounts to little. For if no good is ever intended, than all good is left to chance. And that’s just no good.<br /><br />But this thought has not yet come to Kenny. All that tomorrow. Right now he is settled into the well-worn ass groove of his sofa. The television on, tuned to CNN and Kenny reads the quick moving ticker at the screen’s bottom. Looking for a clue or a hint. Anything for encouragement. Anything to reinforce his theory.<br /><br />But all he gets: last night’s hockey scores and something about a tornado that tore across central Kansas. Then the threat level, still yellow, not at all promising. So Kenny flicks off the set and ponders. What, oh what shall he do. <br /><br />Finally, a decision: action before apathy. If he does not act. If his fear is actualized. The guilt, it will gnaw at his core. More every day until nothing exists at which to gnaw. So, rubbing the small piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger. The little scrap that plunged him into this mess. Rubbing the piece of paper until the ink smears and colors the contours of his fingers a dirty blue, Kenny resolves to make a trip to Henry Clay Middle School in the morning. Personally, he will tell them terrorists have plotted a bombing. On their campus. In three days.<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />Any number of things can drive a man mad. One factor, quite possibly, is the piercing, unavoidable cold known only in select corners of our often-temperate country. The sort in which you dare not chatter teeth for fear the impact will splinter your taut, frozen cheeks. Another, waiting in great hurry for your bus, long past the time you are expected at work. Watching bus after bus pass in the opposite direction and wondering what your eighty-dollar Metro Card, what your thousands in taxes have bought. <br /><br />So, it is understandable if, experiencing both these aggravations, Kenny was not quite himself when finally he boarded the cross-town earlier that morning. And if mistakes were made—and no doubt they were. And if someone must bear the blame—and no doubt that someone is Kenny. Well then, let us remember this: his mindset was colored by forces outside his control. Let us not be too hard on the fellow. <br /><br />And it was in this sour mood that Kenny found himself in the rear of the bus, staring at his watch and cursing with vile disregard for any who sat near him. Damn this and screw that and other words as well, too distasteful to repeat. And then he saw it. Just a torn corner of notebook paper, some figures scrawled across. Maybe that, but maybe more. <br /><br />On one side, a possible codename, a location: <span style="font-style:italic;">#108, Henry Clay Middle School</span>. On the other side, something slightly more sinister: <span style="font-style:italic;">11-21-08 Pop!</span> And today being November the eighteenth, Kenny knew: if he intended to intervene, the road to valiance ever-narrowed. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />So let us jump ahead. Now, twenty-four hours removed from that vexing bus ride. A sleepless night past his ill-fated decision. Now, Kenny sits in the administrative office of HCMS. His ass half stuck in the misshapen groove of a couch where many a sick child has awaited the nurse. He pled his case, delivered the single damning clue to Mrs. Feldworth, the principle. All to do now is wait. Wait, he assumes, to be declared a hero. <br /><br />But then this, Mrs. Feldworth returns and with a curl of the forefinger, beckons Kenny follow. A sucker for authority, he obliges and finds himself in a nearly desolate hallway—it is, after all, smack in the middle of third period. Nearly desolate, except for Mrs. Feldworth and a freckled boy of about twelve. <br /><br />“Michael, please demonstrate to our visitor the meaning of your note,” this being Mrs. Feldworth. And his face flushed so red his freckles almost vanish, the boy walks to a dented locker. On its door a plaque reads 108. The kid twists a combination lock right until it aligns with the number eleven. Left to number twenty-one. Right again to eight. Then,<span style="font-style:italic;"> pop</span>! And the locker swings open. “Thank you Michael. Please return to the computer lab.” And red as Michael’s face had been, Kenny surely beat it. But such is the road to hell, they say.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-29519659183348160702008-12-01T21:38:00.000-08:002008-12-01T21:49:51.348-08:00GuntherI have full faith in karma. I’ve seen it move swift and accurate right before me. How an ancient will attest to hearing the roar of God in an earthquake. So too I believe in the ebb and flow of karmic justice. A belief so embedded in personal anecdotes that no amount of scientific evidence to the contrary could ever change my mind. <br /><br />The way a man, having just stiffed his taxi driver on the tip, is smacked across his head by the side view mirror of a passing bus. Not with the force to brain him, just wake him up. I’ve seen it. The way a middle school bully finds himself in the emergency room. Nothing serious, just a broken hand. I’ve seen it. <br /><br />And this was on my mind the day Gunther asked me to hit him. He jogged up, sucking wind while I finished off a cigarette break. And he said, “Punch me. Hard and in the face. Make sure to leave a mark or it’s all for naught.” And I almost forgot to ask him why. Just let myself become a vessel of universal balance. Because this was Gunther. And karma’s a bitch. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />There’s a reason Caring Christmas Charity won’t allow you to wrap Wish Tree presents. Gifts bought for disadvantaged children, likely they’ll receive nothing else this holiday season. There’s a reason Caring Christmas Charity requires all gifts be donated in their original packaging. And that reason is Gunther. <br /><br />Two years ago Gunther selected three cards off the Wish Tree—a giant aluminum Douglas Fir that each year cast it’s shadow over the strip mall. Every card with the name and address of an underprivileged youth. Also, a present they hope to receive. The idea being: those whose circumstance permitted could fulfill the holiday wishes of a child. Like I said, Gunther picked three. <br /><br />What these kids discovered on Christmas morning wasn’t a Tonka Truck and it wasn’t a Barbie Doll. It wasn’t a Gameboy and it wasn’t a stuffed unicorn. The three kids Gunther chose, what they received on Christmas was a box of coal. Kingsford self-lighting charcoal briquettes to be accurate. Maybe the only gift they got. So this year, when you give to Caring Christmas Charity, don’t wrap your donation. Thank Gunther for that. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />Now, this much I’ll admit. For the longest time I had wanted to shake Gunther. Just grab him by the shoulders and shake him and demand to know what his goddamn problem was. For so long I’d wanted to do this, that when he asked me to hit him, I shot a quick uppercut before asking questions. This because I figured it wouldn’t leave a mark. A free shot. <br /><br />“Fucker,” he said after his jaws clacked. “In the face bro. Bust my lips, blacken my eye, get my nose bleeding. No uppercuts.”<br /><br />“Woah, woah. What’s the score here? What are you getting out of this?”<br /><br />And funny thing was, Gunther thought about it for a second. Like he could say, “nothing,” and I’d buy it. As if this was for kicks on both our ends. But then, “I can’t be late. Maurice said I clock in late again and he’s gonna fire me. Just be a pal and bust me up. I’ll tell him I was jumped on the way over.”<br /><br />So while his plan seemed pretty weak, I happily obliged. A quick jab to the crook of his nose, then a hook to the eye, then a slap or two just for the hell of it. And repeat until I drew blood. Because I figured, no matter how it ended, Gunther deserved this. Plus me, I was having fun. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />Two weeks before, we had been out barhopping. Returning home down damp sidewalk, I figured I had bought a good three rounds more than Gunther. That, and I spent the whole night playing wingman. Still, only the two of us passing over the dark boulevard. This, at 2:30 in the morning. <br /><br />“Check it out,” Gunther said and made a quick b-line up the stoop of some random apartment building. Like giving a high-five, he slapped the buzzers for all fifteen units. Even from the street I could hear the dull ring. The wrong letter guessed on Wheel of Fortune. Then, “Let’s go.”<br /><br />And as we ran down the block a chorus of “Hello’s” and “Who’s there’s” and “What the fuck’s” called after us. Angry and part-asleep.<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />So things went like this: I finished my break and moved inside, commenced working. Gunther held tight, this to ease any suspission on Maurice’s part. But believe me, I stuck by the boss man’s side. Waiting for Gunther’s enterance. <br /><br />When finally Gunther pushed through the revolving door, he looked even better than when I’d left him. Or maybe worse. What you see depends on where you stand. Anyway, he was still bloody and bruised but the guy had torn his t-shirt so it hung loosely over one shoulder. And he must’ve been doing jumping jacks or some such shit because perspiration dripped from his busted nose like a leaky faucet. <br /><br />“Maurice, Maurice,” Gunther panted as he hurried to make audience with our boss. “Man, so sorry I’m late. But these guys, they jumped me in the park. Maurice, they beat me bad, they took my wallet.”<br /><br />Maurice scratched at his beard. He looked at the caked blood and the purplish eye and the glassy sweat. And he said, “Well Gunther, this must be the worst day of your life. Because you’re fired.”<br /><br />And karma caught right up with Gunther. Just how the man, counting dollars in his wallet, doesn’t see the oncoming bus. Just how the bully missed my face and cracked his fist on the locker behind. Karma caught right up with Gunther the way it catches us all. By our own invitation.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-35374657353530989422008-11-24T21:09:00.000-08:002008-11-24T21:16:53.253-08:00Oh Well, Fuck ItI. (Oh Well)<br />They played the game often. Not a game really, for there never was a score. Never much in the way of winners and losers. More an ongoing conversation. But unlike a conversation, where one subject begets the next and onward. The way tides wash ashore but no two waves contain the same water. Unlike a true conversation, the topic never changed. Stagnant. <br /><br />“How about this one,” Dan led. “Christopher Walken and Willem Dafoe.” <br /><br />“Excellent,” Tommy now. “Both creepy middle-aged dudes.”<br /><br />“Emphasis on the creepy.”<br /><br />“Totally. Also, bonus points since each has played a whacked-out Vietnam soldier.” Of course, there never were any points. <br /><br />It went like this: name two actors who are exactly the same. That’s all. Where one makes the other redundant. Unnecessary. <br /><br />“Okay, my turn,” Tommy says. “Brad Pit and Matthew McConaughey?”<br /><br />Dan squints like he’s reading the fine print, then “Naw. I can’t give you that. Certainly you have the beefcake, eye candy thing going…” (At this point, it should be noted, Tommy squints right back at Dan). “But really they play completely different roles. Brad Pit has some chops. McConaughey, he’s a bum.”<br /><br />“Okay, Matthew McConaughey and Keanu Reeves?” <br /><br />“Passable.”<br /><br />And the two sit for a while, mull it over. Neither comes up with a new pair. Maybe because both are out of ideas. Maybe this. Or maybe sometimes, giving up makes you less a failure than continuing on. Sometimes. <br /><br />II.(Fuck It)<br />It was a total chicken-shit thing to do. Ronny figured this much. Anyway he sliced it, they had fucked him so hard he couldn’t even walk right. Metaphorically of course. Literally, they had fired him at a completely inopportune time: the Friday before Thanksgiving. For them, a good move saving some paid holidays. For Ronny, a majorly shitty Turkey Day on the horizon. <br /><br />So after stewing for the whole of the weekend. For the whole of the weekend plus Monday. Plus Tuesday. After stewing, Ronny boards a downtown bus heading toward his office. His ex-office. <br /><br />What he meant to do was this: let his former boss know exactly how heartless Ronny’s termination was. Because really, even if he was a horrible employee. Lazy or rude or smelly. Even if he were all these things, to fire him on the eve of Thanksgiving was just plain fucked. And Ronny would let the boss know and Ronny wasn't about to mince words. It was not like he had been counting on the reference. <br /><br />But when he enters the tall building’s lobby, the grizzled security guard greets Ronny same as always. Ditto the young (and Ronny always thought cute if it weren’t for the buzz cut) receptionist on the eighteenth floor. In fact, on his march to the corner office, no less than four of his ex-coworkers smile and welcome Ronny like nothing happened.<br /><br />And then the realization: whether or not he was around, these people noticed no difference. <br /><br />So Ronny turns and moves in the direction of the elevator. Maybe he lost his nerve. Maybe this. Or maybe sometimes giving up makes you less a failure than continuing on. Sometimes.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-7469119950190014212008-11-17T21:03:00.000-08:002008-11-17T21:17:58.351-08:00The Work That We DoThe kid drove down the block at a crawl. Entering license plates into his phone, not every car but just those likely. For the most part anything manufactured in the past five years. Nobody’s going to owe much on some ancient rust farm. <br /><br />Outside was gray and threatening rain. Late autumn, but pretty much winter already. It was so damn cold. The kid loved this weather. All calm and peaceful. At the stop sign, he sent a text to dispatch. Stating the area—seven hundred block of Cedar Drive—and a list of license plates.<br /><br />Out of maybe fifteen cars on the block, only five had been worth listing. Out of five, the kid would be lucky if even one hit. Still, there was always the eight hundred block. And the nine hundred block. And after Cedar Drive, there was Maple Lane. Twenty-five bucks a hit and the kid was set on recouping his gas money today. At least that. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />The truck left the yard, heading north on the Boulevard. “The fuck are you listening to?” Chester, he was in the passenger seat, kicked the tape deck. Lightly. But still. You don’t do that.<br /><br />“Bob Marley, man.” Arnold pronounced it “mon” in some sort of wannabe island speak. Really, the dude was fifty-six and so white his undershirt looked tan. He sounded foolish but at least he didn’t go off about Chester’s kick. “Everyone loves Bob Marley. He’s like the pizza of the music world.”<br /><br />And when Chester didn’t say shit, just looked straight ahead, Arnold asked him, “Seriously?” <br /><br />“Gluten allergy,” Chester said. “Pizza rips my insides apart. Same with all sorts of breads and cakes and crackers and…” <br /><br />“Well, fuck me. If you aren’t the most anti-American bastard ever to ride shotgun in my tow truck.”<br /><br />“Anti-American because I don’t like Jamaican music and Italian food?”<br /><br />So Arnold only nodded, acknowledged the point, and drove ever northward. Eventually, “I hate making pickups way out here. In the city you jut nick some car right off the street and the shithead owner will spend three hours trying to remember where he parked. Here, you’ll likely get shot just walking up the driveway. Fuck me.”<br /><br />Chester agreed, but didn’t ask for further exposition. He had heard the speech before. Then finally he called out, “Target on the left.” This just as the tow truck lumbered onto the 700 block of Cedar Drive.<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />Parked at the bottom of the driveway, the tow truck of course, blocking any hasty exit. And this is where Chester waited, looking to the cloud covered sky and leaning against the rig’s front bumper. Waiting as Arnold walked to the house, knocked on the door, maybe convinced the owner to submit easy. Maybe. If they were lucky. And maybe the owner wouldn’t be home. And they could nab the car and go without static. Maybe. If they were really lucky.<br /><br />But no. Chester saw the door swing open even while Arnold still knocked. And though he could hear but bits and pieces of the conversation, what with posting up thirty yards from the house, there was no question the owner wanted to keep his automobile. Arms in the air and the dude was babbling without pause, no opening for Arnold to work with. So this would take time. Chester reached into the front pocket of his shirt and removed a cigarette. He blew smoke straight up and the plumes disappeared immediately, camouflaged by overcast sky. <br /><br />Always, Chester had liked the crossbars on back of the tow truck. He couldn’t help but think of a crucifix every time he looked at them. Each time they hoisted a vehicle up, it always felt so damn poignant. What this meant, Chester could never be sure. Maybe machines are the gods of our time. But no, he didn’t like that. Maybe he sacrificed these people, displayed their troubles on the cross. They suffer in order that he be saved. <br /><br />Then, “But I need my car to do my job!” This the owner screamed so loud as to be perfectly audible across the yard. <br /><br />“No.” Arnold, just as loud. “I need your car to do <span style="font-style:italic;">my</span> job!”<br /><br />Even if they had to call the police, Arnold and Chester, no matter what, the car was theirs. Another sacrifice. Another payday. And Chester asked himself, why? And Chester answered himself, because of the times. <br /><br />The owner, trailed by Arnold began out into the yard. Further from the house. Closer to the car. Overall, Chester took this as a good sign. “Listen buddy,” Arnold to the owner. “We got no real use with your car. We don’t want it for keeps. Just make a couple payments and it’s yours again. Simple like that.” And the man nodded and bowed his head and handed his keys to Arnold. <br /><br />Chester pulled some leavers. Lowered the crossbars. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />A couple chimes sounded when the kid entered the convenience store. He walked to a cooler in the back and removed two large cans of beer. At the register he handed a twenty to the clerk. Covering the drinks and a few gallons of gasoline. <br /><br />Back in his car the kid held up a crisp white envelope. Inside, the remaining few dollars. His sack of gold. His day’s work. Then, he kissed his cell phone gently and drove off down the boulevard.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-69670332715035162722008-11-10T21:18:00.000-08:002008-11-10T21:25:36.711-08:00Drunk TankIII.<br />The crust rubs from my eyes and I crumble it to the floor like a clump of granola. My mouth tastes sour, gummy saliva. I roll around from my back to my side to my belly to my other side. No matter how I lay, I’m thirsty as hell and really have to pee. I wonder why these problems don’t cancel each other out. Then I push myself into a kneel, eyes still closed. <br /><br />And when finally I peel the lids apart and look around, I want to lay right down again. Me on a smooth, cold, concrete floor. A drain right smack in its center. Cinderblock walls dimpled where people have tried to carve initials. Or punched over and over. A deep sink and a rusty faucet. And of course, the bars. So I cup my hands and slurp from the sink. So I piss into the drain and it leaves me winded. Then I collapse back to the ground. And I try to sleep. Hope to wake someplace other. <br /><br />But nothing. I crawl to the cell’s corner and prop myself against the wall. I cough hard and deep and feel like something’s about to come up and nothing does and I try to spit toward the drain but mostly it runs down my chin and my neck. Must have had a massive night.<br /><br />II.<br />The air was cold and sharp and even though there wasn’t anything in the way of a breeze, I ran so fast my hair blew wild behind. Whatever they spoke of, now it was so far back. And now even further. And now further. Sucking wind but still not about to slow down. Did I tip enough? When will they look for me? Will they look for me? Further.<br /><br />So at the stoplight I stopped. Not because I had to, I was on foot. Not because I was tired, though a tightness gripped my chest and soon weaseled outward. Why I let up there, the sunburst of traffic light grabbed me. Needed inspection. Like a red, glowing sea urchin reaching out to puncture. Some crazy stuff. And I huffed hard and saw my breath float before my face and swatted it and only tired myself further. Then, when the burning in my lungs became a sinking in my stomach, I leaned down and puked on the candy-apple red hood of a parked car. Chicken wings and liquor and stomach acid. <br /><br />For a second I stood. Cocked my head and looked at the lumpy mess. Like pink oatmeal with brown curds. Something like that. Then with my finger I swirled it around, spread it out. Like a big sunburst, like a sea urchin. Something like that. And the paint, it was eaten away. Beneath was dull metal and nothing more. I sunk down against the car. Tried to recuperate, find my bearings, rest. And maybe I slept some, I can’t recall. But next I knew, a police officer was hustling me to the back of a squad car.<br /><br />I.<br />“My problem is this: every time I shit, I masturbate. Because, you know, I’m just sitting there and I’m bored.” This was what I had to listen to. This was an interesting conversation. So I flagged the bartender, I ordered another drink. “Dude, ever heard of reading?” Another friend asked. “Okay, okay. But check this out man. I think I’ve trained myself into a fecal fetish. Like, I’ve done this so many times that now, turds get me horny.” And this was an interesting conversation. So I drank. <br /><br />“Get this dude,” one of my friends, it matters not which, said this. “How come when something is child proof, it means a child can’t do it. But when something is fool proof, it means even a fool <span style="font-style:italic;">can</span> do it?” All sorts of intellectual musings. So I drank. This was what I looked forward to all week. At my desk. With my reports and my coffee breaks. The thought of Friday night. This was it. <br /><br />So I drank. And when someone, it doesn’t matter who, when someone asked me what I was thinking, all I said was, “I gotta run.” Not like a euphemism, I just had to. So I chucked a fistful of ones onto the bar, a tip. And I walked into a jog into a sprint and out the door. And my friends’ eyes, they burned holes in the back of my head. Blistering, hot, warm holes. Just holes.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-57392057710136091642008-11-03T20:30:00.000-08:002008-11-03T20:42:45.346-08:00AbsenteeYou say, don’t vote. That nothing good ever comes from it. You say, when somebody votes they’re just cannibalizing themselves. Like eating fingers right off one’s own hand, it might provide some nutrients. But the short-term benefits don’t equal the never-ending inconvenience. I ask you, like sticking your foot in your mouth? But you’re not amused. <br /><br />When one votes, no longer can they complain. You say this, but I beg to differ. No, no, you raise a hand and shut me up. Then, if you didn’t vote, you’re not responsible for any problems, the mistakes of those elected. It’s the other way around… I start but you’ll have none of it. Think if nobody voted? Nobody at all. What would happen then? And while the prospect frightens me, you just smile and gaze at the horizon<br /><br />If I must vote, you tell me, if I’m too brainwashed by all this ‘civic duty’ bull. If I’m caught up in the whole ‘make my voice heard’ scheme. If I must vote, you tell me write-in candidates are the way to go. Instead of throwing my lot in with the narrow choices provided, pick the <span style="font-style:italic;">real</span> best person for the job. You say, vote that friendly grocery store bagger for head of the Tourism Bureau. You say, vote Jesus for president. You say, only if I <span style="font-style:italic;">must</span> vote.<br /><br />While we’re on the topic, while you’re on a roll, don’t pay taxes either. Refuse to buy bombs for wars you don’t support. Refuse to bail out companies that would never bail you out. And I say, that’s illegal and you just shrug. And I say, what about building hospitals and paving roads. And again you shrug. So what if we build hospitals, you declare, not ask. Paying taxes won’t cover our health insurance. And roads? You say that you don’t own a car. <br /><br />Sounds like you have a problem with democracy. I say this to you. I say, maybe it’s not perfect but surely it’s the best we’ve got. And you thank me for that chestnut. You ask, did I eat a big bowl of cliché this morning? So what, I scream, what is any better? And, acting all cool, you say, anarchy. Like riots and violence and lawlessness, I ask. You tell me I’ve listened to too much punk rock. You say, true anarchy, everyone governs themselves. Responsibly. It’s the ultimate one-man-one-vote. Anarchy, it’s the ultimate democracy. <br /><br />Closed minded, you call me. Ignorant and naïve. You ask me what I studied in college and you shake your head when I answer chemistry. Even though you knew this already. I say, what about you and your liberal arts degree? And a smile on your face like this was all set up, you ask if I know what liberal arts means? You say, it’s not painting pictures of blue states. It means the processes and disciplines used by free peoples in order to remain free. And you chuckle like all that crap you said before is now gospel.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-9277081451316019472008-10-27T20:56:00.000-07:002008-10-27T21:06:57.638-07:00Torn GenesI.<br />The album held hundreds of pictures. Polaroids and photo lab developed. Candid amateur shots and old sepia hued professional portraits. Every one of them, the subject is someone I’m related to. Somehow. <br /><br />A great great great uncle in Union Army uniform. My Mother’s cousin with long greasy hair and a bright poncho. Some guy with some woman and some child standing in front of some house, all of us sharing some DNA. Dad, with a crew cut and a football. <br /><br />And on every page a half dozen relatives, though few of us have the same last name. How I’m a Stevenson even though I’m just as much a Goldman. How my Mother’s a Goldman even though she’s just as much whatever Grandma’s maiden name was. How I’m <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> too, even though I’ve got no idea what that is. But connected only to my Dad’s Dad’s Dad’s Dad. Even though dozens, hundreds of people are kin just as close. <br /><br />A family tree, more like a family forest. Genetics losing out to tradition. Somewhere, a common ancestor.<br /><br />II.<br />Over a cup of pink grapefruit tea, one afternoon my neighbor told me he had engineered a half-chimpanzee half-human. A himp, he said, that’s what they called it. Same idea behind mules. And just the same, the himp ended up sterile. <br /><br />But a mule serves a purpose, I said. The temperament of a donkey and the strength of a horse, a perfect pack animal. Whatever purpose could a himp serve? Why would you create such a thing? And my neighbor—a long retired government scientist, old and approaching senility—he said, because we could. <br /><br />The creature made in a lab with beakers and microscopes. By people who wore baggy white scrubs with baggy white caps and thick plastic goggles and thought how not why. Implanted into the womb of a female chimp. Probably, he told me, it would have worked better with a human mother. The way a female horse carries the seed of a male donkey, the superior species allowing the fetus to develop within. Probably, he told me, that would have worked better. But a woman giving birth to such an abomination, it would have been cruel. <br /><br />A freak of nature, I said. A freak of science, He said, if you need to be accurate. Nature gave us a common ancestor. Science, a common descendent. <br /><br />III.<br />Once a friend of mine—and maybe he was just an acquaintance—drunk he told me a secret. This was three in the morning, in the lounge of our college dormitory. Nursing the final third of a bottle of Southern Comfort. Mixed with Dr. Pepper it tasted just like bubble gum. <br /><br />What he told me was, he had fallen in love with his cousin. And at this point maybe I should have up and left. Or said, bro you’ve had too much. Or just laughed real hearty and allowed him to play it like a joke. But instead I didn’t. I didn’t and instead I asked him, bro is she hot?<br /><br />My acquaintance, he mostly ignored that. Instead he answered whatever question he wished I had asked. He said, we didn’t grow up together so it ain’t weird or nothing. He said, we met for the first time last summer, at a family reunion. He said, she’s like a stranger. Like a total stranger. Her being my cousin, it’s just a messed up coincidence. <br /><br />So I told him, sure bro. And when he made me, I promised not to tell anyone. What he said was, it’s just a messed up conscience. What I think now, there’s something to be said for a common history.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-25996923628086130772008-10-20T21:30:00.000-07:002008-10-20T21:45:33.242-07:00Chrome Horse DiplomatWhat most people never think about is, there’s so much goddamn road. For days I could ride straight. And not like a car, where everyplace I go really I’m still in one spot. On a motorcycle I’m somewhere new every mile. Every inch. On a motorcycle I’m everywhere all at once. <br /><br />And today, on my Sunday. On my day off. What I’ll do is ride out for five hours. Ride out and then ride back. Then sleep into tomorrow and another workweek. <br /><br />This, what I’m about to say maybe it won’t sound like anything too agreeable. But once I rode right through Iowa with no stop. What it must’ve been is something like the time of year to sow. And through the whole of the state, all told just more than two hundred miles, only thing I smelled was fertilizer. And like I stated before, maybe on paper this doesn’t sound too agreeable. But nobody I know ever caught a ride on paper. <br /><br />Like once, in the mountains near Lake Tahoe, when I guess the butterflies were in migration. Each one against my visor like the impact of bubble gum popping. Until they hit with such frequency that I couldn’t wipe the beige splatter away fast enough. And waiting it out in a hardware store dwarfed beneath the pines, I listened to a guy play Billy Joel’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Piano Man</span> on an acoustic guitar.<br /><br />And when he’d finished I asked him, aren’t you being irrelevant? And he told me, “Sometimes that’s the point.”<br /><br />But in a car I’d never have felt the hundreds of insect kamikazes. Just turned on the wipers. The way I’d never have heard <span style="font-style:italic;">Piano Man </span>as played on guitar. Not even noticing the hardware store in my rearview. The way I’d have thought Iowa smelled of dangling tree-shaped air fresheners and stale coffee. <br /><br />In a car, my Sunday would be a waste. My day off. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />Halfway through I roll into the parking lot of a diner. All tall steep roof and giant empty windows. Inside, twenty maybe thirty booths. And not one occupied. Here, as far as I go. Everything after, just closer home. <br /><br />Before I can walk through the greasy glass door, a man standing outside and smoking a cigarette, he grabs my arm. “You’re running from something,” he says. And I say, no. “You’re running to something,” he says. And I say, no. “Out of guesses,” he says. And I say, just trying to move. <br /><br />The man tells me long ago he was a preacher. Or a priest. Then one day he came to the realization, if there’s a God, then we’re all screwed. And if there’s no God, then we’re all screwed. So the man, and maybe he’s an ex-pastor, he says, “Now I aim for peacefulness. A standard more concrete than Godliness.” He says, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. Gandhi said that.” And as I walk into the diner I say to the man, no. I say, that leaves the whole world with piss-poor depth perception. <br /><br />I sit at the counter in the vacant diner and order a hamburger. The waitress looks at me for a beat. Two beats. Three and I know she expects something from me but what it is I can’t tell. Finally, “How would you like that done?” And she sighs. Medium. I ask what beers she might have and she lists, counting on her fingers, “Budweiser, Bud Light, and Heineken.” Then, “Oh, and cans of Milwaukee’s Best for a buck.” And I say, if it’s the best of Milwaukee than it’s good enough for me. She walks back to the kitchen. <br /><br />When she returns and I pop open the aluminum can, I ask her, is she alright? And she says, “Yeah. Yeah I’m alright.” And I wait a beat. Two beats. Three and she goes, “That’s the problem. I’m always alright. Time was, as a little kid, I would be over-the-top happy one moment and devastatingly sad the next. Time was, just a candy bar, a stubbed toe would get me going. Now, I’m always alright.” I say, time does that to us. And she says, “It does.”<br /><br />When my burger arrives I bite into it and then pull a few flakes of oatmeal from my teeth. The grain added to the meat like coke cut with baking soda. Stretching the product. The waitress asks me what I do. I say, all sorts of things. “Like, for a living,” she says. And I tell her, I’m a mailman. “So you drive a truck down the street at a crawl. Same few blocks everyday?” And I say, Yeah. Exactly. <br /><br />I tip well and then walk to my bike. Through the window, I see the waitress pocket the cash and smile.<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />The sky shifts from red to black and I’m thirty miles from home. Tomorrow, another day of work. Another day that will be alright. <br /><br />But nothing like the day I drove through Texas. Across roads freshly paved and so smooth I could’ve mistaken them for polished marble. And I thanked the Lord for mild weather and rain would’ve killed me and I laughed and sped up and left Texas behind. <br /><br />Nothing like topping out at 120. The way I don’t even feel like I’m moving anymore. I just stay still and watch as all around trees and fields and mountains sail past. Like a rollercoaster. Like flight <br /><br />Nothing like the way I can ride straight for days. Because there’s more than enough road in this country for anyone, I don’t care how wild you are. There’s so much goddamn road.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-32008618881068645022008-10-13T22:06:00.000-07:002008-10-13T22:34:01.361-07:00Boom or Bust<span style="font-weight:bold;">I.<br /></span>From the waitress Ben orders a cup of coffee, Doug a turkey sandwich. “And two pickles,” he says to her back. “Coffee for lunch?”<br /><br />“Times are tight buddy.” Ben coughs into his hand. “Looks like I may lose the rental on my chair. A lot of guys I used to see every week. Now they aren’t about to part with thirty-five bucks for a haircut.”<br /><br />“That’s how you do it? The chairs?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I pay every month for the right to cut hair. What I make beyond that is my living.” <br /><br />“Shit, Ben.” Doug shaking his head. “You must be the only fucker I know gives his boss a paycheck. You took a hit?”<br /><br />“What can I say, plight of the Lower Manhattan barber. When things were rolling, sometimes I’d give the same guy a shave five days a week. Lots of clients like that. But it went south.”<br /><br />“Well next time one of those Wall Streeters comes in for a shave, cut the fuckhead just a little. For me.”<br /><br />“Next time?” Ben reaches over the table, accepts a cup of black coffee from the waitress. “Ha. There’s no next time buddy. A few haircuts a day I can pull in but nobody’s buying a shave. Hot lather and a straight razor, easily replaced by a can of foam and a disposable.” And he winces. Maybe the coffee burns his mouth. But probably not. “Fucking economy.”<br /><br />“Let’s be real man. You lose your job. What then? Work out of your apartment?”<br /><br />“No, no. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll travel around. Like during the Great Depression. Ride the rails, eat beans from a can, play the harmonica. Didn’t you have a cousin who was a hobo?”<br /><br />“Not a hobo, a drifter. There’s a difference. And my family doesn’t talk about him much anymore. Got thrown in prison. He was a cat rapist.”<br /><br />“A what?”<br /><br />“He would climb through windows and sexually assault woman. Like a cat burglar. But worse. We don’t talk about him anymore.”<br /><br />“See, I was thinking something different.”<br /><br />“Huh? Oh, well that’s fucked up too. They’re both fucked up. Either way, this whole idea you have about hitching west with a knapsack of essential tied to a stick, it’s a bit romanticized.”<br /><br />“True, I’m just thinking out loud.” And snapping his fingers Ben makes the waitress’ eyes, points to his cup. “Maybe I could work with you. Or for you.”<br /><br />“Don’t think so man. My job, it’s not something you can jump into. And besides, you have a real skill. There’s always been a place for barbers. Really, it’s not something a machine can do.”<br /><br />“True, I’m just thinking out loud.”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ben</span><br />Back against the brick wall and smoking a cigarette, he looked at the skyscrapers. Manmade mountains. Unable to withstand erosion. Filled with used to be clients and sometimes their used to be offices. His whole day had been a cigarette break.<br /><br />Ten bucks a pack in this city. Ben stepped to the sidewalk’s edge and threw his butt into the street. Can’t pay rent on the chair means can’t pay rent on the apartment means ten bucks for fucking cigarettes. He turned and faced the barbershop window. Five empty chairs and a stack of unread Playboys. The kid who swept hair was fired Tuesday.<br /><br />“Whoa, Mr. Richmond. How’ve you been?” Ben waved to a man rounding the corner, waved him over. The man, wearing a suit and with a paper under his arm and a briefcase in his hand. A hat. Ben forced a smile. “Mr. Richmond, how’ve you been?”<br /><br />“Well, you know.” Said the man. He looked from side to side but never into Ben’s eyes. “How has anybody been around here? Around anywhere lately. Bumpy. It’s awful bumpy.” Side to side, then at his watch. “But things will straighten out. I’m sure they will. They always do. Maybe next week I’ll be in for a shave.” And the man moved to step past. <br /><br />“Sure thing Mr. Richmond. Hey, maybe even a haircut. Hell, you haven’t been around in three weeks.” Ben patted the man’s arm as he shuffles by. “Must be awful shaggy.”<br /><br />The man stops. Removes his hat, his hair trimmed short. Buzzed close to the scalp. “See, I bought myself a set of clippers. An investment.” And he laughed at his own choice of words. “Cost about the same as a cut. And well, I think I did a decent job.”<br /><br />“Sure Mr. Richmond. Sure. You’ve got yourself a nice shaped head.”<br /><br />“Well Ben, I’ll be seeing you.” He set off.<br /><br />“Sure Mr. Richmond. Sure.” Then to nobody, “Guess I’ll take my lunch break now.”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">II.</span><br />Ben stares into his third cup. Doug crunches a pickle. “Man, I told her two.” Staring holes in the back of the waitress’ head. <br /><br />“She probably didn’t hear you.”<br /><br />“Maybe. Or maybe you got her pissed, snapping for attention. And I suffer. You know that’s really fucking obnoxious right?”<br /><br />“I guess, but it works. Three cups and I’m feeling a forth can’t do no harm. Got to make a meal out of it.” The cup tilted to the ceiling, drained. Ben raises his hand, about to snap but the waitress is already on her way over. “You can’t argue results.”<br /><br />“You’re gonna be buzzing out of your mind man.” Then to the waitress, “Dear, do you think I could get another pickle? Thank you.”<br /><br />“There you go, show a little initiative.” Ben stops a beat, sighs. “Election’s in three weeks. Who’s your man?”<br /><br />“You know me, raised by my grandma, a total FDR Democrat. So that’s where I’m at. Plus the guy wants to set a date to end the war. Man, eight years ago we were peaceful and prosperous. Look at our sorry asses now.”<br /><br />“Where you’re coming from I can appreciate. But for me, there’s a moral code above regular black and white, right and wrong. For me, nothing’s more important than loyalty. Like if you, my buddy, like if you got in a brawl. Called some dude’s girl a whore. I’d have your back. Even though you were in the wrong, it’s the right thing to do. That’s where I stand on the war. We may be wrong. But my loyalty lies with my people. And we fight to win.”<br /><br />“Goddamnit Ben, that’s the most ridiculous shit I’ve heard all day.”<br /><br />“But…”<br /><br />“I mean, what you said about being a hobo was pretty bad. But this, you topped yourself man.”<br /><br />“But,” Ben holds up a hand. Stop. “The situation I’m in now, I have to vote with my pocketbook. And your guy’s offering the tax cut. Long as you’re pulling in under two fifty. I don’t know if that applies to a big shot like you.”<br /><br />“Doesn’t matter. I don’t pay taxes.”<br /><br />“You don’t pay taxes? Kind of nullifies your stance as a Democrat.”<br /><br />“It is what it is man. But drug dealers don’t get W2 forms.”<br /><br />“So how do you handle your money?”<br /><br />“Some is in the bank. But I’m careful, a deposit around my birthday, a deposit around Christmas. Keeps things looking legit. The rest, it’s hidden. None of your business.”<br /><br />Laughing, Ben rolls his eyes. “Come on buddy, just a hint. Please.”<br /><br />“A lot of gold. Been valuable in all sorts of civilizations for thousands and thousands of years. I figure if shit goes down, if the dollar isn’t even worth its paper or if zombies rampage. No matter what, gold is fucking golden.”<br /><br />“How’s business been lately?”<br /><br />“Surprisingly man, never better.”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Doug</span><br />Walking up the stairs from the 79th Street station, he saw the van right away. With curtains along the side windows and the color of split pea soup and totally the most conspicuous place to transact. Like everyone’s mental image of a stoner-mobile. <br /><br />All day long going uptown then downtown then midtown then cross-town. He was winded from so many jogs over the subway stairs. And now this prick might as well have a sign suction cupped to the window, <span style="font-style:italic;">Pothead on Board</span>. Doug popped the passenger door, hopped in. And staring straight said, “Around the block, my man. Drive.” Because like they say about moving targets. <br /><br />Inside, the van smelled of cigarettes, the guy dressed in mesh shorts and a Knicks T-shirt. “Christ,” Doug said, hiked his thumb toward the van’s rear. “You got Shaggy and Scooby back there?” The guy grinned, looking far prouder than the situation warranted. <br /><br />“So what’s up,” Doug, the paranoia evaporating. “No work toady?”<br /><br />“Called out dude. Not about to be canned with a month and a half of sick time in the bank. I earned those days.” The guy made a left onto 76th. <br /><br />“The normal?” Doug said. Then, “Worried about your job?”<br /><br />The guy, he nodded and reached into his shorts. “Nobody’s said anything. But you know. We’re in New York, the total epicenter of this shit.” And he pulled out a wad of bills, sorted them with both hands, using his knees to steer.<br /><br /> “I’m not looking to talk myself out of business. But if you’re so concerned, maybe you shouldn’t blow cash on a sack.”<br /><br />“Dude,” said the guy, arched his eyebrows and tucked his chin. “Dude, I’ve had tuna sandwiches for dinner all week. I make my sacrifices. But peace of mind is a fucking blue-chip.” And he laughed a little. <br /><br />Doug opened his book bag and felt inside. Quick eye contact between the two and they shook hands. Slowly, clumsily. The guy, all that time driving with his knees. “Can I take you anywhere?”<br /><br />“Actually I’m trying to get downtown. Wall Street.”<br /><br />“Whoa dude. I was thinking more like the subway station.”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">III.</span><br />An empty coffee cup and a plate of crumbs. And a pickle. “All that bitching and you didn’t even eat the thing,” Ben says this. <br /><br />“How’s she going to bring it after I finish my sandwich. That’s way past pickle time. Go ahead man.” Doug points to the slimy thing with his chin. “Get a little food in that stomach.”<br /><br />Thinking for a good moment but then Ben grabs the pickle and eats it in three bites. The brine dripping from his moustache. “Thanks.”<br /><br />“Back to the barber shop?”<br /><br />“Suppose so. See if I can wrangle up some business.” <br /><br />“Well, there’s always next week.”<br /><br />“There’s always next week. What about you?”<br /><br />“Me, shit I’ve had five pages since we sat down. I’ll be traversing this island till midnight.” Doug pulls some bills from his pocket, smoothes them on the tabletop. “Don’t worry man, coffee’s on me.”<br /><br />“Thanks.”<br /><br />“Same time next week?”<br /><br />“Always. Next week.”Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-70662873891993191322008-10-06T20:11:00.000-07:002008-10-06T20:19:46.696-07:00Fortunate Son“I know you,” said The Voice. “I know who you are. I know what you have coming to you.” And The Voice was smooth and syrupy and all Jason Barnes could get. Around his head, wrapped like the invisible man, four or five yards of duct tape. His eyes covered so tight he was getting a migraine. <br /><br />“Scratching his way to the top,” said The Voice. Jason knew the headline well. “Local resident Jason Barnes of River Drive came up big in the Pot O’ Gold scratch-off lottery game.” Reading, louder as the sentence went on, The Voice. “Now he’s set with a cool hundred grand.” The dollar amount spit like spoiled milk. <br /><br />What Jason wanted to do was yell. Yell for help. Yell for mercy. What Jason wanted to do was yell but he couldn’t do more than taste the bitter adhesive side of duct tape. And thinking maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to a profile in the local paper. Or at least not posed for the picture.<br /><br />“So what will happen here is three-fold. First, I’ll tell you what I need. Then, I’ll demonstrate the gravity of the situation. And third, you will graciously assist me. Understood?” And Jason mumbled something through a gluey mouth. “Nod,” said The Voice. And so Jason did. <br /><br />* * * <br /><br />“I don’t believe in luck for the same reasons I don’t believe in God. First, neither can I see. And second, neither has done me any favors. Everything I have, I have not by the grace of God. Not through good fortune. Everything I have, I have because I took it. Everything you see around you is mine because I grab opportunity by the proverbial balls. Well, of course you don’t see it. But imagine.”<br /><br />Jason imagined he was in a mildewed basement, maybe a single overhead light bulb swaying from an extension cord. Nothing but grease stains and concrete and a roll of duct tape. Places like that were for situations like this. So Jason imagined. <br /><br />“And moreover. I recognize no claim with a basis in luck. What has randomly fallen in your lap may just as well have fallen in mine. I have just as much right to the fortunes of fortune.”<br /><br />Hollow footsteps bounced off the floor, further away each clack. Then the sound of rummaging like a tin of Altoids shaken. “What I need of you,” The Voice now across the room. “Is your PIN number. And before you decide whether or not to abide, let me prove how serious I am.” And like punctuation on his sentence a low mechanical hum rose from the same corner in which The Voice now resided. <span style="font-style:italic;">Bruuuuuuummmm</span>. <span style="font-style:italic;">Bruuuuuuummmm</span>. Then the footsteps again. Advancing this time.<br /><br /> “We’ll only do this once.” The Voice so close Jason could feel its heat. “So long as you cooperate.” And now louder this time <span style="font-style:italic;">Bruuuuuuummmm</span>, the unmistakable roar of an electric drill. He thrashed and squirmed and jumped but Jason was duct taped tight to the chair. And as the bit burrowed through his jeans, his meat and chinked against bone, Jason prayed, oh Lord let me crawl from my skin. <span style="font-style:italic;"> Bruuuuuuummmm</span>. His whole body tightened. Legs flexed, asshole puckered, stomached clenched, his teeth bit down and splintered. And his mouth filled with grit. And blood. And then he slept.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />The room was bathed in the swath of light from a desk lamp. Floored with hardwood panels. Not really how Jason had imagined. Then he looked down and saw the drill bit still deep inside his knee. Denim, brown and sticky with congealed blood. And it struck him, his head was no longer wrapped tight. And it struck him, this whole deal was totally fucked.<br /><br />“What…fuck…what’s happening?” Jason coughed through broken teeth. <br /><br />“What is happening?” The Voice standing behind him. “What is happening is, you are about to give me your PIN number.” <br /><br />“What…why…why?”<br /><br />“Because if you don’t, I’ll take your other knee.”<br /><br />“1486…1486, what the fuck. What fucking good will that do you?”<br /><br />“Are you in shock? Have you forgotten who you are? Or what’s in your bank account?”<br /><br />“I’m Jason Barnes. And I won the lottery. $100,000 to be paid over twenty years. That’s five thousand a year before taxes. And I won’t receive my first annuity until next month. I’m broke bro. I’m fucking broke.”<br /><br />What seemed like an hour passed in only a few beats. Then The Voice, it said, “Goddamn Jason. I guess we’ve both had some horrible luck today.”Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1762883322872006525.post-72329714533053203502008-09-29T21:14:00.000-07:002008-09-29T21:23:27.488-07:00Starting LineupIt explained so much. This little folder of spreadsheets and graphs. Almost like any of the hundreds maybe thousands thrown about the office. An easy accident to slip into the copy pile. But not like other folders. It explained so much.<br /><br />Milton made the discovery. Not discovery really, but figured out what it was. Something a little more important than discovery. Halfway though the copy job and half an hour after the office closed. Just the two file clerks left to finish the day’s load. Out of the corner of his eye, Milton saw his name on one of the spreadsheets. This at six in the evening.<br /><br />So what they did was what anyone would do, the two of them. They let the Cannon imageRunner finish. Then they each—Sarah and Milton—grabbed a copy of the file and sat at the long maple table in the conference room. At seven o’clock they punched out to avoid suspicious timecard activity. But still they sat around the table. With the files. Late into the night.<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />The documents titled Off<span style="font-style:italic;">ice Fantasy League 2008</span>. Each page listing all employees as divided into two teams. One managed by Mr. O’Leary. The other, by Mr. Rabinowitz. Graphs tracking every employee’s statistics across a range of categories. Among them, Coffee Pot Refills. <br /><br />Over Chinese take-out the file clerks studied papers. Milton, slightly jealous that Sarah doubled his output in the Pages Copied category. But even so, he was a head above everyone when it came to Filing Efficiency.<br /><br />Still, more than settling personal wagers. What this folder provided was answers to longstanding mysteries. Why had Bruce—the low-billing lawyer with a coke problem-not been fired months ago? Well it was Bruce who single handedly won the Most Bathroom Breaks category for Mr. Rabinowitz. Every week of the year. Of the season. <br /><br />Why did Molly serve as secretary to only one lawyer? All other secretaries handled the workloads of two, sometimes three. It was a nasty trick by Mr. O’Leary. A sabotage of the Phone Calls Answered category on his opponent’s roster. <br /><br />Closer to dawn than sunset, the file clerks at last went home. Each retaining a copy of the folder. The original returned to the oversize desk in Mr. Rabinowitz’s office.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />The next morning office business went as usual. More or less. Milton made sure to brew the day’s first batch of coffee. The gurgling hot pot then finished almost solely by Sarah. Which of course resulted in numerous visits to the lady’s room. <br /><br />Gradually through the week both Milton and Sarah made more and more calls to Molly. Mostly saying, “Uh…wrong number.” Sometimes just hanging up. Either way. So long as the stat was counted. <br /><br />In a month Bruce was gone. No longer keeping pace with Sarah’s caffeine-fueled piss breaks. Molly assigned a second Lawyer. O’Leary figuring she was taking personal calls with the free time. Figuring his plan backfired. And slowly Old Man Rabinowitz began addressing Milton as “Champ.” Just an office nickname. More and more O’Leary would call Sarah his “MVP.” Out of affection. For a job well done.Derek Tenchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02998404080640905982noreply@blogger.com0