Jacob was feeling good, and why shouldn’t he? His law firm had the best month that he could remember, his daughter was in a good school, making good grades, his son just got a promotion at the law firm, and his wife was at that bitch of a stepmom’s and, for the next week all he was going to do was get fucked up and party with stripers. He was damn happy he stepped out on a limb and got the condo in the city. Of course the wife had complained at first, but after reminding her who brought home the bacon, (and lots of it) and making the case that being closer to the firm would allow him to be more productive, she finally saw it his way. Of course the diamond tennis bracelet didn’t hurt either.
After a night of cocaine and other vices, Jacob always found it helpful to eat a few Hydrocodones to take the edge off the come down. As he was driving home he could feel the warm sensation starting to wash over him, each wave a little more pleasant. “Yes”, he thought, "it had been a good night, and sleep will come thankfully soon".
Any nagging residue of guilt for the things he had done would be fixed by the drugs and the fun he would have tomorrow. "Besides", Jacob mused, "everybody had fun, no one got hurt, the girls and the drug dealers made a few bucks, nad I got what I needed, and I deserve it. Capitalism at it’s best, and lord knows it’s been good to me".
He settled into the plush leather of his Porsche. The best thing about having a Porsche is knowing how the little people looked at him when they saw what he was driving, and how the word spread throughout the club what he was driving. Strangely enough, he always tended to get more attention from the girls when he drove the Porsche. As well he should. He had done this for himself, he made it. He made it because he was smarter, harder working, and more cunning than the rest. "That’s justice", he thought. The only justice that’s worth the name, the people who have things are the people who work hard, and the people who have the guts and the capability and brains and the upbringing to make it. That’s a man’s job, to provide, to make it, and men are rightly ranked by how well they do in this respect.
For people like us, the millionaires, perhaps we more than men in a weird way. Jacob liked this thought. Everyone needed people to look up to, to emulate, and the little people have guys like us, guys who could push their way to the top while they stalled at the bottom. He laughed out loud at the perfect sense it all made. Without us, their betters, they would be more inclined to be skeptical, and skepticism is the mark of a sick society. People need their royalty, there betters. We show that you can make it in America. And, it gives them a sense of place to be ranked below us. It’s a good system.
Walking up to his apartment he was startled by a voice from behind, “Excuse me sir”.
He spun around. Standing a few feet from him was an old man in torn rags, with a long dreaded beard. “excuse me sir, I’m sorry to startle you, I’m a traveler and I don’t know anyone in this town, I’m looking for a warm bed and perhaps a meal. I’m an old man and I’ve traveled a long way, and still have far to go.”
Jacob was stunned. His brain clattered, "How the hell did this trash get in the gate! Where the hell did he come from, he just came out of nowhere! Probably because he has lots of experience sneaking up on people, he looks like some kind of dirty pervert. Needs money I’m sure. What a looser. How can people let them selves sink so low. I guess that's justice too".
Jacob was stunned at the call of the bum, “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are but you must be fucking crazy if you think anyone in their right mind is going to let you in their house. Most of you guys just ask for money, but you have some balls.” He started to reach into his pocket.
The bearded man responded, “I’m sorry to have offended you sir, it’s just that where I’m from travelers are offered hospitality, it’s the law, I thought it was universal."
Jacob laughed “The law, ha, you must be from Cuba or Uzbekistan or something. I don’t care what you barbarian communists do, in America everyone rows his own boat, that’s fairness, no one rows it for you and you are not asked to row anyone else’s, that’s justice, but since I’m in a good mood all I’ll over you a few bucks, even though I know it's wrong, or more exactly, unjust.
The old man raised his hand “I’m sorry sir, please keep your money, I wanted hospitality,not money, travelers should always be offered hospitality, as long as they don’t take advantage. You have queer ideas of justice . You know, where I’m from, to break the law of hospitality is a terrible offense, punishable by strict retribution.
Something had blown in Jacobs eye, and he was getting sleepy, the Hydrocodone was working it’s magic. He was rubbing his eyes and yawned, “listen old man, my eye burns and I’m very tired, I tried to give you a few bucks and that’s all I can do, so spare me your silly lecture and get the hell out of here before I call the police.”
Jacob turned to go. He had a hard time negotiating the elevator to his condo because his eye was burning a little. When he got upstairs he washed his face with warm water and felt immediately better. The wine and hydrocodone were working fine. He walked to the balcony for one last smoke. He didn’t realize how early it was. The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon. “Good god” he thought, “I’ve been at it all night, like I was 18.” The sun was spilling red over the city. Jacob couldn’t remember the last time he had seen such a red sun rise. He went to bed, and dreamed he eye was being ripped from his skull.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Christmas Gift (variation on a theme in MO
Jack had not seen his son Daryl since he had went to prison five years ago. Jack had been trying to recover from alcoholism for 3 years, and felt deeply guilty about the way his son had turned out. Daryl was moved to a holiday unit so that the two could visit for about two hours in the reception room of the complex, which was specially designed for such occasions. Jack was very nervous about the meeting, but his sponsor in AA insisted that he go and tell Daryl how he felt and make amends. He felt that he had consistently let Daryl down, and that his criminality was the result of the terrible upbringing he had.
Daryl’s mom was killed while driving drunk, and at the time Jack was working shift work at a plant, six days a week. Jack’s brother Sam offered to help out by looking after the boy at night. Sam was a high school civics teacher. Sam molested Daryl at a pool party to commemorate his 6th birthday, and continued to do so until Daryl finally talked to his youth minister about it three years later.
When the story broke in the press and Jack had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill his brother, who was out on bail awaiting trial. As he was kicking in the door to his brother’s house the cops showed up, and Jack brandished a gun. It was a small town and the cops knew about the issue and were able to talk Jack out of the homicidal rage he was in, promising that justice would be served. After a very tense 30 minutes of negotiation Jack finally went along silently, and was charged with attempted aggravated assault. He was denied bail, but was shortly released after his brother had been sentenced to a 25 year bid.
Jack was put on probation, but was not able to successfully complete it because he took to drinking and drugging very hard, and got a string of DWIs and DUIs. Things spiraled out of control until Jack went to prison on felony DWI and child protective services arranged for a home for Daryl. The families he was put with were good people, but were unable to handle Daryl’s increasingly violent and disruptive behavior. He skipped from family to family until he went to Juvenile Detention for threating to kill the principal of his school at 16. At 18 he held up a liquor store and while doing so called the Korean owner a lot of racist names. After the owner began to protest his treatment Daryl pistol whipped him. Daryl had gotten Nazi tattoos in Juvenile Detention and the DA pushed for a hate crime conviction. The hate crime charge didn’t stick and Daryl accepted a plea for 8 years. He was sent to a “gladiator camp”, which is what they call units reserved for young violent criminals, but Daryl was a not considered an easy target, so mostly his time was without major incident and he managed to stay out of segregation. By the time Jack got out of prison Daryl had already began his stay.
As soon as Daryl was sentenced the youth minister Francis, who he had originally told about the abuse began writing him. Francis was very faithful in this task. As a result of the constant advice by the minister, Daryl attended church regularly in prison and enrolled in one of the few vocational programs the state cared to offer. There was a long waiting list for each but Francis was able to write the warden and get Daryl moved to the top. He learned to weld and got a high school diploma. Francis encouraged Daryl to begin thinking about his life critically from the day he went in. He also sent him religious and political literature to read. Daryl began to feel that it was not entirely his fault that he did what he did, and that there was a spiritual and political way out from the physical and mental pain the world inflicted on him.
When the cops buzzed Jack into the reception room Jack was so nervous he was shaking. The reception room was crowded and hot. People of all kinds filled the tables set up in the middle of the floor, or lounged on couches or played with children in a little corner with the too few toys the state brought in. Jack immediately spotted Daryl at a table and walked directly over to him. The two shook hands stiffly. The two sat and Jack immediately told Daryl what he needed to tell him. He told him that he felt he had been a terrible father and that he felt directly responsible for all the harm that had come to him. He told him that he was working hard to stay sober and put away money so that when Daryl got out he would have a little cushion and he wanted to do right by him finally. He told him that he was making good money and that if his son needed to move in with him he could. Daryl just sat quietly and listened. He wanted to rewind time, to make it all better, to make the pain stop. He wanted to stop the hate and the anger and the overwhelming rage and alienation that had driven him all his life. He wanted to tell his dad that it was ok, that it would be ok, that he was going to work hard and get sober and that life would be fine and that mom was watching over them both. But he didn’t say much of anything, he mostly simply listened, and when it was over they were both crying and they hugged for a long time. Daryl simply said that he was going to do right when he got out and that was the only planes he had, beyond that who could say? Then they went over to the couches and watched football saying little.
On the drive back Jack felt incredibly light. He felt the lightness and stillness that comes after a great emotional surge, the satisfied satiation of the soul. One small voice disturbed his spent state. As he slowed for a stop sign he suddenly knew in a quiet way he would no longer have to kill Sam when and if he was released. He stopped at the stop sign and put the car in park. The day was cold and grey and blanketed by thick grey clouds. High up in the cold air he could hear the harsh call of geese moving south, following their star mapped soul to a climate where food and warmth were abundant. Jack stepped out of the car and looked up, but could not see the geese. He could only here them, and assume that they were there, looking down at the world from their great and beautiful distances, detacthed and perfect like the gods.
Daryl’s mom was killed while driving drunk, and at the time Jack was working shift work at a plant, six days a week. Jack’s brother Sam offered to help out by looking after the boy at night. Sam was a high school civics teacher. Sam molested Daryl at a pool party to commemorate his 6th birthday, and continued to do so until Daryl finally talked to his youth minister about it three years later.
When the story broke in the press and Jack had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill his brother, who was out on bail awaiting trial. As he was kicking in the door to his brother’s house the cops showed up, and Jack brandished a gun. It was a small town and the cops knew about the issue and were able to talk Jack out of the homicidal rage he was in, promising that justice would be served. After a very tense 30 minutes of negotiation Jack finally went along silently, and was charged with attempted aggravated assault. He was denied bail, but was shortly released after his brother had been sentenced to a 25 year bid.
Jack was put on probation, but was not able to successfully complete it because he took to drinking and drugging very hard, and got a string of DWIs and DUIs. Things spiraled out of control until Jack went to prison on felony DWI and child protective services arranged for a home for Daryl. The families he was put with were good people, but were unable to handle Daryl’s increasingly violent and disruptive behavior. He skipped from family to family until he went to Juvenile Detention for threating to kill the principal of his school at 16. At 18 he held up a liquor store and while doing so called the Korean owner a lot of racist names. After the owner began to protest his treatment Daryl pistol whipped him. Daryl had gotten Nazi tattoos in Juvenile Detention and the DA pushed for a hate crime conviction. The hate crime charge didn’t stick and Daryl accepted a plea for 8 years. He was sent to a “gladiator camp”, which is what they call units reserved for young violent criminals, but Daryl was a not considered an easy target, so mostly his time was without major incident and he managed to stay out of segregation. By the time Jack got out of prison Daryl had already began his stay.
As soon as Daryl was sentenced the youth minister Francis, who he had originally told about the abuse began writing him. Francis was very faithful in this task. As a result of the constant advice by the minister, Daryl attended church regularly in prison and enrolled in one of the few vocational programs the state cared to offer. There was a long waiting list for each but Francis was able to write the warden and get Daryl moved to the top. He learned to weld and got a high school diploma. Francis encouraged Daryl to begin thinking about his life critically from the day he went in. He also sent him religious and political literature to read. Daryl began to feel that it was not entirely his fault that he did what he did, and that there was a spiritual and political way out from the physical and mental pain the world inflicted on him.
When the cops buzzed Jack into the reception room Jack was so nervous he was shaking. The reception room was crowded and hot. People of all kinds filled the tables set up in the middle of the floor, or lounged on couches or played with children in a little corner with the too few toys the state brought in. Jack immediately spotted Daryl at a table and walked directly over to him. The two shook hands stiffly. The two sat and Jack immediately told Daryl what he needed to tell him. He told him that he felt he had been a terrible father and that he felt directly responsible for all the harm that had come to him. He told him that he was working hard to stay sober and put away money so that when Daryl got out he would have a little cushion and he wanted to do right by him finally. He told him that he was making good money and that if his son needed to move in with him he could. Daryl just sat quietly and listened. He wanted to rewind time, to make it all better, to make the pain stop. He wanted to stop the hate and the anger and the overwhelming rage and alienation that had driven him all his life. He wanted to tell his dad that it was ok, that it would be ok, that he was going to work hard and get sober and that life would be fine and that mom was watching over them both. But he didn’t say much of anything, he mostly simply listened, and when it was over they were both crying and they hugged for a long time. Daryl simply said that he was going to do right when he got out and that was the only planes he had, beyond that who could say? Then they went over to the couches and watched football saying little.
On the drive back Jack felt incredibly light. He felt the lightness and stillness that comes after a great emotional surge, the satisfied satiation of the soul. One small voice disturbed his spent state. As he slowed for a stop sign he suddenly knew in a quiet way he would no longer have to kill Sam when and if he was released. He stopped at the stop sign and put the car in park. The day was cold and grey and blanketed by thick grey clouds. High up in the cold air he could hear the harsh call of geese moving south, following their star mapped soul to a climate where food and warmth were abundant. Jack stepped out of the car and looked up, but could not see the geese. He could only here them, and assume that they were there, looking down at the world from their great and beautiful distances, detacthed and perfect like the gods.
Friday, December 23, 2011
The Party
The Party
We stood in small groups talking about all the interesting things we were doing or wanted to do or told ourselves we would do. The House was full, college kids mostly, and a few of us old duffers milling around. The music seemed to get louder as the night went on, or as I got drunker. Most of us men engaged in pissing contests. I couldn’t quite keep up but I tried. Any intellectual or pseudointellectual jargon drew me into the discussion. I can be smart too. Look at me I’m smart too. I can say interesting things. I wondered how much of it was for the women. The music got louder and louder, we all tried to talk over it, but it was hard. Kids spilled out into the back yard where the keg was. Everybody talking and talking and laughing and talking and some dancing. We pumped and pumped at the keg. A warm creeping delirium began to wash over me, the kind that starts in the middle of your guts and slowly spreads, the kind that makes you forget who you are.
I was watching Kate. I stared at her because I could never place her in context. She seemed tight lipped and hid a seething rage or pain or both, and seemed always terribly out of place, unable to relate, a spring wound to the breaking point, ready to explode. We barley spoke, but I felt a secret affinity to her, like the mother ship dropped us both off in the middle of this alien world and we both knew they were not coming back to get us. But still we were miles apart. I was convinced she hated me. Or maybe not and we just couldn’t really make the connection that friendship requires. We didn’t speak the same language.
The men mostly kept talking. It seemed like the women entirely drifted away from our ego and beer fueled n symposium. Our navel gazing grew louder and louder, more aggressive, more determined to make some theoretical point. The more we talked and stepped on each other’s toes, the more I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to smash something, or to fly away, or vibrate to the point of breaking into a thousand tinny pieces. One guy in particular got more convinced and began to dominate the conversation. In the end it usually boiled down to one or two contenders, and everyone else became spectators, or moved on. Someone began yelling. Good, I liked the yelling.
Meanwhile, Kate slid in and out of tight groups of people arguing about world affairs and then gave it up and began dancing. More and more the women began to drop out of these little contests and dance. Some wildly. Someone turned up Birdy Nam Nam and more slowly began to crowd the living rooms turned dance floor. Some of the men turned to look, but most just kept arguing. Matilda began to dance wildly, arms spread, spinning. All began to sweat. The men stood around the perimeter. I wanted so badly to dance but I was too afraid. I watched them like a raptor, whishing to be one of them, or close to them. What must it be like to be so beautiful and graceful? What must it be like to dance with total abandon, in love with yourself, like no one else exists, like the world was made for your body and the animal purity of it's motion and sweat and the flex and release of it's muscles, to dance as we did around camp fires, as we did when we could still hunt along planes where the air was full of sage and the harsh call of geese, and great herds of bison,to dance as we did before theory became our weapons of choice. I thought how badly it wanted to resolve my mind into my body entirely, but someone quoted Freud and so I returned to the conversation that was still raging in the corner.
We stood in small groups talking about all the interesting things we were doing or wanted to do or told ourselves we would do. The House was full, college kids mostly, and a few of us old duffers milling around. The music seemed to get louder as the night went on, or as I got drunker. Most of us men engaged in pissing contests. I couldn’t quite keep up but I tried. Any intellectual or pseudointellectual jargon drew me into the discussion. I can be smart too. Look at me I’m smart too. I can say interesting things. I wondered how much of it was for the women. The music got louder and louder, we all tried to talk over it, but it was hard. Kids spilled out into the back yard where the keg was. Everybody talking and talking and laughing and talking and some dancing. We pumped and pumped at the keg. A warm creeping delirium began to wash over me, the kind that starts in the middle of your guts and slowly spreads, the kind that makes you forget who you are.
I was watching Kate. I stared at her because I could never place her in context. She seemed tight lipped and hid a seething rage or pain or both, and seemed always terribly out of place, unable to relate, a spring wound to the breaking point, ready to explode. We barley spoke, but I felt a secret affinity to her, like the mother ship dropped us both off in the middle of this alien world and we both knew they were not coming back to get us. But still we were miles apart. I was convinced she hated me. Or maybe not and we just couldn’t really make the connection that friendship requires. We didn’t speak the same language.
The men mostly kept talking. It seemed like the women entirely drifted away from our ego and beer fueled n symposium. Our navel gazing grew louder and louder, more aggressive, more determined to make some theoretical point. The more we talked and stepped on each other’s toes, the more I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to smash something, or to fly away, or vibrate to the point of breaking into a thousand tinny pieces. One guy in particular got more convinced and began to dominate the conversation. In the end it usually boiled down to one or two contenders, and everyone else became spectators, or moved on. Someone began yelling. Good, I liked the yelling.
Meanwhile, Kate slid in and out of tight groups of people arguing about world affairs and then gave it up and began dancing. More and more the women began to drop out of these little contests and dance. Some wildly. Someone turned up Birdy Nam Nam and more slowly began to crowd the living rooms turned dance floor. Some of the men turned to look, but most just kept arguing. Matilda began to dance wildly, arms spread, spinning. All began to sweat. The men stood around the perimeter. I wanted so badly to dance but I was too afraid. I watched them like a raptor, whishing to be one of them, or close to them. What must it be like to be so beautiful and graceful? What must it be like to dance with total abandon, in love with yourself, like no one else exists, like the world was made for your body and the animal purity of it's motion and sweat and the flex and release of it's muscles, to dance as we did around camp fires, as we did when we could still hunt along planes where the air was full of sage and the harsh call of geese, and great herds of bison,to dance as we did before theory became our weapons of choice. I thought how badly it wanted to resolve my mind into my body entirely, but someone quoted Freud and so I returned to the conversation that was still raging in the corner.
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