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.
Friday, November 25, 2011
babtism
Baptism.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
Babtism
Baptism.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Time is
Look around you. You might think all this is sold. It looks solid, it looks so hard. No light gets through it. It takes up so much space. It is all so extended. You might think it stretches on and on and on. You might look up and see it looming above you like a terrible tower. Or descending onto you. A griffin, a gorgon, clawed destroyer. You might think it so inevitable. All of it. All so hard. All so authoritative. But the thing is, all the things we think matter, don’t, because all of it is burning. It’s all going down. All of it. All the things you think have so much power, so much authority. None of it means anything. It’s all a great gamble, and the game is fixed no matter how you play. You will lose if you play. In the end we all loose. This is a death machine. All of it. It grinds away day and night, its gears meshing, ripping through everything. But it is made out of paper. It rests upon sand. It is rotten. It is decaying. All the death it produces will ultimately swallow it, and we will live, we can live, we will be free and live.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The White Boy’s Yucatan 1.2: (Coba)
For the Reader: The area around Coba is not as built up as described, but it’s getting there, and it will soon be just as described, (if it isn’t already), as is the case with places like Xel Ha, Chizan Itza and ESP TULUM! The writer has been to all three places as a small boy and more recently (like 3 summers ago or so). Now Tulum is a tragedy. The biggest place to eat outside the park is called “Mayan Burger”. The events depicted here are otherwise quiet true.
Not more than ten years before, the village surrounding the pre-Columbian ruins of Coba, in the south of the Yucatan Peninsula, was only accessible by a 4x4, and only during certain parts of the year. Locals did most of the “tourist” trade. You caught a “tourist guide” in Playa Del Carmen at one of the local hotels and rode out to the park, if the roads and god’s allowed. The locals provided guides, jeeps, housing, and food, and some had special guides for surfing, or any other pleasurable sport or social activity you might be into. Adam vaguely remembered his dad had once bought a large bag of sweet smelling tobacco from a guide, and smoked it with him as he drove the jeep like he was invincible. When the surf board flew off the top of the jeep and the fin was damaged, the tour guide gave him one of his once they got to the huts. But now you couldn’t smoke in the tour busses that left from the resorts, and you couldn’t expect Club Med to give you anything.
Since the area had been re-named “The Mayan Yucatan” things had changed considerably. In the old days for instance (more-less than a decade ago) many of the people’s meals had come out of two large spring fed lakes, (lakes Coba and Macanxoc) that bordered the park. Now there was a sign that said “no fishing” and the huts surrounding the lake were gone. In their place was now a large resort complete with 5 star dining and a disco. International corporations, mostly from Europe and North America, along with a Mexican government devoted to “Market Fundamentals” had turned the place into a nice little strip mall in the jungle. The area around the entrance to the (now gated) park was full of large shops, and the road had been improved to allow for tour busses, bustling with kids who weighed almost as much as the bus. However, once you got into the park proper, it was relatively un-touched, and towards the back of the park, it was pretty empty because not that many tourists were willing to walk the distance to get to the bigger ruins. But out-side the park was all show: A Mayan themed shopping experience.
Most of the people who lived in the area tended to be darker that Mexican’s of the north, shorter and stocker, with wide shoulders. Many of them still spoke a form of Mayan/Spanish that was distinct from “proper Spanish”. Most of the signs were in Spanish, then English, then that dialect, which also looked to be spelled in a very distinct way.
About a half mile from the gate, the pavement stopped and you had to walk back, or catch an expensive four wheel ride. About a quarter mile from the gate one single little grass roofed hut was selling cold drinks and fruit. The place was very popular because most of the tourists (especially those brave or broke enough to walk) were not accustomed to the heat and humidity, and not smart enough to bring water. Adam and his family were no exception. While they stood in line for the wildly overpriced refreshments, Adam noticed a little boy who looked like he might have been from the area, walk from behind the refreshment hut and disappear a little way into the jungle that hugged the dirt road. After the tourists left the stand and walked a little way up, they were confronted with a dollar bill lying on the ground. Most if not all who saw it would stop to pick it up, but then SURPRISE! It jumped back a bit. Some would chase it like the jack-asses they were, almost into the jungle, until they noticed the fishing line tied to it. When Adam saw the spectacle, he stopped and pointed it out to his dad, who sighed and asked “what do you think that’s all about?”
Adam told him how he had seen the little Mayan boy disappear into the jungle.
Adam’s dad frowned and remarked “I guess he’s got us figured out.”
Adam started to walk on and saw that his dad was standing very still, looking serious, and raising his binoculars.
“Adam, look over there, look at that it’s a Green Jay, I think the people here call it a Seyeis Eb, or something. Very cool! Jay’s are some of the smartest birds, and they are cooperative breeders too, but also very territorial. Go figure.”
Adam looked through his binoculars and was impressed. The bird had an inquisitive look, and was making a lot of noise. It was iridescent in the light, as if it was lit from inside. Bright green and blue and black. Perfectly made.
“He might have a nest around, or one of his group’s has one around. They help each other out you know, they alert each other to danger and the males and females work very closely to raise the young. It is not uncommon for one female to feed another’s chicks.”
“So if they’re territorial why don’t the fight with each other, I thought they cooperate? Or I guess they do both?”
“Well, they do both, They are also known to watch other jays burry food, and come back later to dig it up. I don’t think we know exactly how they determine whether a fellow Jay is in the extended family group, or whether you are competition. They click up at any rate, and aren’t they pretty to look at!”
As they walked past the chirping jay Adam couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy. His dad’s words echoed in his ear; “he has us figured out.” As he passed the gringo bait he thought he herd laughter coming from the jungle. “He had us figured out”.
At the gates, the tourists had to line up to get tickets. In doing so they were given a sort of lecture by a employee of the park. Do not throw trash on the ground, pack out what you pack in, camping permits to the right, no narcotics, don’t feed the monkeys, poachers will be prosecuted severely, the bikes only go two miles back to the Nohoch Mul pyramid and if you fall while climbing it we are not responsible, etc..,
Adam asked his dad “Are their many monkeys, I don't remember that?”
“Lot’s. That was along time ago you were here last, you probably just don't remember.”
“Do you think we’ll see any?”
Jerald smiled “Probably, they will see you at any rate, they let each other know about our presence too, like the Jay’s. You’ll see. But they can be very friendly, especially if they think they’ll get a hand out.”
It wasn’t long before Adam heard a series of gut piercing screams floating down from the canopy. Spider Monkeys scuffled above him, dropping leaves, making a noise that you have to hear to understand; A high pitched scream, like a screeching near whistle and grunting and a lot of commotion above your head. A noise like “The humans are here. Well we are here too! Here I am, here we are, and you can’t get us and don’t fuck with us!”
A little way down the path Adam was stopped dead in his tracks by small black spider monkey that was sitting in the middle of the path about twenty feet ahead. A tiny ball of fur, big black expressive eyes, dark brown fuzzy fur with a white belly. The two just regarded each other. Like when you look into the eyes a smart good dog and you know there is some sort of inter-species connection, like you guys are thinking about each other, maybe each thinking “look, it’s another creature, what a trip!” The tiny thing just sat very still at first, and looked. A fur ball with big black eyes. Adam moved to get an energy bar, and the little monkey started jumping sort of, sitting and then jumping a little. Then he thought better of it and just sat down on the path. Then the monkey jumped a little, and sat down again. The two creatures just stared at each other. Just sitting, looking. It had very long arms and long legs and a puffy round body and a long tail. After about 10 seconds of stillness and staring another larger monkey cautiously came onto the path, slow, scooped up the little one and ran up into a tree. The little one clung to the other’s back with it feet and hands and tail.
Adam walked on to Nohoch Mul, the stepped pyramid. From the top of it, by the little cool stone room with slick walls where millions or billions of humans had run their hands among the stone, putting the oil of themselves on it and rubbing it smooth, where their was an alter and a little indention on the floor, where humans had once cut each other’s guts out and ate or burned them for the pleasure of the thirsty god’s, looking toward the park, the world was so green and green and green stretching, a thick robe of green, so much wildness and life and potential, but to the other side, toward the city, grey and smoke and shops, where the future lies buried in the still beating guts of the present and has yet to be cut out.
Not more than ten years before, the village surrounding the pre-Columbian ruins of Coba, in the south of the Yucatan Peninsula, was only accessible by a 4x4, and only during certain parts of the year. Locals did most of the “tourist” trade. You caught a “tourist guide” in Playa Del Carmen at one of the local hotels and rode out to the park, if the roads and god’s allowed. The locals provided guides, jeeps, housing, and food, and some had special guides for surfing, or any other pleasurable sport or social activity you might be into. Adam vaguely remembered his dad had once bought a large bag of sweet smelling tobacco from a guide, and smoked it with him as he drove the jeep like he was invincible. When the surf board flew off the top of the jeep and the fin was damaged, the tour guide gave him one of his once they got to the huts. But now you couldn’t smoke in the tour busses that left from the resorts, and you couldn’t expect Club Med to give you anything.
Since the area had been re-named “The Mayan Yucatan” things had changed considerably. In the old days for instance (more-less than a decade ago) many of the people’s meals had come out of two large spring fed lakes, (lakes Coba and Macanxoc) that bordered the park. Now there was a sign that said “no fishing” and the huts surrounding the lake were gone. In their place was now a large resort complete with 5 star dining and a disco. International corporations, mostly from Europe and North America, along with a Mexican government devoted to “Market Fundamentals” had turned the place into a nice little strip mall in the jungle. The area around the entrance to the (now gated) park was full of large shops, and the road had been improved to allow for tour busses, bustling with kids who weighed almost as much as the bus. However, once you got into the park proper, it was relatively un-touched, and towards the back of the park, it was pretty empty because not that many tourists were willing to walk the distance to get to the bigger ruins. But out-side the park was all show: A Mayan themed shopping experience.
Most of the people who lived in the area tended to be darker that Mexican’s of the north, shorter and stocker, with wide shoulders. Many of them still spoke a form of Mayan/Spanish that was distinct from “proper Spanish”. Most of the signs were in Spanish, then English, then that dialect, which also looked to be spelled in a very distinct way.
About a half mile from the gate, the pavement stopped and you had to walk back, or catch an expensive four wheel ride. About a quarter mile from the gate one single little grass roofed hut was selling cold drinks and fruit. The place was very popular because most of the tourists (especially those brave or broke enough to walk) were not accustomed to the heat and humidity, and not smart enough to bring water. Adam and his family were no exception. While they stood in line for the wildly overpriced refreshments, Adam noticed a little boy who looked like he might have been from the area, walk from behind the refreshment hut and disappear a little way into the jungle that hugged the dirt road. After the tourists left the stand and walked a little way up, they were confronted with a dollar bill lying on the ground. Most if not all who saw it would stop to pick it up, but then SURPRISE! It jumped back a bit. Some would chase it like the jack-asses they were, almost into the jungle, until they noticed the fishing line tied to it. When Adam saw the spectacle, he stopped and pointed it out to his dad, who sighed and asked “what do you think that’s all about?”
Adam told him how he had seen the little Mayan boy disappear into the jungle.
Adam’s dad frowned and remarked “I guess he’s got us figured out.”
Adam started to walk on and saw that his dad was standing very still, looking serious, and raising his binoculars.
“Adam, look over there, look at that it’s a Green Jay, I think the people here call it a Seyeis Eb, or something. Very cool! Jay’s are some of the smartest birds, and they are cooperative breeders too, but also very territorial. Go figure.”
Adam looked through his binoculars and was impressed. The bird had an inquisitive look, and was making a lot of noise. It was iridescent in the light, as if it was lit from inside. Bright green and blue and black. Perfectly made.
“He might have a nest around, or one of his group’s has one around. They help each other out you know, they alert each other to danger and the males and females work very closely to raise the young. It is not uncommon for one female to feed another’s chicks.”
“So if they’re territorial why don’t the fight with each other, I thought they cooperate? Or I guess they do both?”
“Well, they do both, They are also known to watch other jays burry food, and come back later to dig it up. I don’t think we know exactly how they determine whether a fellow Jay is in the extended family group, or whether you are competition. They click up at any rate, and aren’t they pretty to look at!”
As they walked past the chirping jay Adam couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy. His dad’s words echoed in his ear; “he has us figured out.” As he passed the gringo bait he thought he herd laughter coming from the jungle. “He had us figured out”.
At the gates, the tourists had to line up to get tickets. In doing so they were given a sort of lecture by a employee of the park. Do not throw trash on the ground, pack out what you pack in, camping permits to the right, no narcotics, don’t feed the monkeys, poachers will be prosecuted severely, the bikes only go two miles back to the Nohoch Mul pyramid and if you fall while climbing it we are not responsible, etc..,
Adam asked his dad “Are their many monkeys, I don't remember that?”
“Lot’s. That was along time ago you were here last, you probably just don't remember.”
“Do you think we’ll see any?”
Jerald smiled “Probably, they will see you at any rate, they let each other know about our presence too, like the Jay’s. You’ll see. But they can be very friendly, especially if they think they’ll get a hand out.”
It wasn’t long before Adam heard a series of gut piercing screams floating down from the canopy. Spider Monkeys scuffled above him, dropping leaves, making a noise that you have to hear to understand; A high pitched scream, like a screeching near whistle and grunting and a lot of commotion above your head. A noise like “The humans are here. Well we are here too! Here I am, here we are, and you can’t get us and don’t fuck with us!”
A little way down the path Adam was stopped dead in his tracks by small black spider monkey that was sitting in the middle of the path about twenty feet ahead. A tiny ball of fur, big black expressive eyes, dark brown fuzzy fur with a white belly. The two just regarded each other. Like when you look into the eyes a smart good dog and you know there is some sort of inter-species connection, like you guys are thinking about each other, maybe each thinking “look, it’s another creature, what a trip!” The tiny thing just sat very still at first, and looked. A fur ball with big black eyes. Adam moved to get an energy bar, and the little monkey started jumping sort of, sitting and then jumping a little. Then he thought better of it and just sat down on the path. Then the monkey jumped a little, and sat down again. The two creatures just stared at each other. Just sitting, looking. It had very long arms and long legs and a puffy round body and a long tail. After about 10 seconds of stillness and staring another larger monkey cautiously came onto the path, slow, scooped up the little one and ran up into a tree. The little one clung to the other’s back with it feet and hands and tail.
Adam walked on to Nohoch Mul, the stepped pyramid. From the top of it, by the little cool stone room with slick walls where millions or billions of humans had run their hands among the stone, putting the oil of themselves on it and rubbing it smooth, where their was an alter and a little indention on the floor, where humans had once cut each other’s guts out and ate or burned them for the pleasure of the thirsty god’s, looking toward the park, the world was so green and green and green stretching, a thick robe of green, so much wildness and life and potential, but to the other side, toward the city, grey and smoke and shops, where the future lies buried in the still beating guts of the present and has yet to be cut out.
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