Just Wait ‘Til Hazlin Comes!

“When Hazlin comes, the sun will shine a little bit brighter.  Brighter than it does today, at least.  I can’t account for the illumination of the sun in past centuries or anything, considering the birth and death of Christ, the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and other phenomenon.  No, I can only consider the way I’ve seen the sun in recent years, and I can surely guess that the sun will shine a little bit brighter.
           
            “She’ll come in a great big box with holes poked in it so she can breath, of course.  My mailman will have to use a dolly to get her to the door.  His name’s Lorne and he has large teeth, but he doesn’t ask many questions, and I like him.  The postmark will say ‘Tolyatti’, which is almost as exciting as the gift inside.  Until I open it up and see Hazlin.  What a beautiful girl!  Her hair will be long and black, her eyes a rustic brown, and her teeth will be of normal proportion.  The first thing I will do is put a bow on her head.

            “’Come out into the light!’ I will shout, but she won’t understand a word.  I had tried to tidy up the house for her arrival, but failed miserably.  The rotten fruit will still adorn the kitchen table, a turned over milk crate, and the stained carpet will remain untreated.  I will be so embarrassed. So embarrassed.  But there will be no time to fret over spilled milk, or other rotting liquids, because Hazlin will finally be here, and the fun is to commence!

            “I’ll take her to the park and show her all of the trees and grass that I can only assume Russia lacks, from maples to oaks, and all of the others in between whose names are not important.  I can lie to Hazlin, because she will never know, and I do.  ‘Airplanes are powered by giant popcorn cookers, Hazlin,’ and she will nod, and I will smile.  Airplanes aren’t powered by popcorn at all.  It’s much more scientific, and involves nuclear generators, I’m sure. 

            “I had found a small violin at a pawn shop on the boulevard, and I will have to play for Hazlin, for if she could speak English, I know she would insist.  I have never played before, but I’m sure she hasn’t either, so the squeeks and squalls will pass for her first lessons in Western culture.  If I clap my hands, she will too, and we can both laugh for hours.  She uses the restroom a lot, and I wonder if she is sick. ‘If you don’t stand up before you flush a toilet, the suction will pull you down into the sewers!’  She nods.  That can’t really happen.  The holes are rarely big enough.

            “Every night I will peek into the room I prepared for Hazlin and make sure she is sleeping.  If she stays awake too long, she will be worth nothing the next day, and I will have to lock her in the basement.  She screams so loudly when that happens, and I fear it will upset the neighbors.  Lorne even seems less friendly on those days.  I also check to make sure she is wearing her bow.  It seems to fall off quite often, more frequently when I am not around to manage it, but I find it an adorable accessory.  ‘Sweet dreams, Hazlin.  Pull the covers high, so the goblins don’t pick at your flesh.’  She never does.  It wouldn’t matter anyway, because the covers can’t protect you from the goblins. 

            “I will wake her every morning with breakfast in bed.  Eggs and sausages, which she will eat as though she had never had them before.  I don’t think Russia has eggs, or at least from chickens.  I don’t think they have cow’s milk either, but instead, perhaps goat’s milk.  Maybe they eat goat’s eggs, as well.  It is conundrums like this that have most likely plagued the Russian people for years, because the milk and eggs of cows and chickens are bound to be more beneficial to a daily diet than any fixture from a goat, or big-horned sheep at that.  My father told me that the Russians are very poor, and I believe the words of my father.  You can’t possibly make much money selling the eggs of goats.  I certainly have never bought any.

            “I will take Hazlin to the biggest parties in the city, and introduce her as my fiancé.  I will instruct her to smile through the entire evening, and she will do as she is told.  ‘You’re very beautiful,’ the tuxedoed gentlemen will say, and I will hit them with a steel-tipped cane.  They know she’s mine, and yet they dare to cross me.  ‘They have penises that ooze poison darts,’ I will tell her. ‘Don’t touch.’  She will nod, and cross her arms.  That of course is not true.  It’s a very rare condition that exists only in Central America.

            “But Hazlin will stop smiling, I know.  She will turn frail and bent, like a sunflower wilting without water, and she will rarely eat.  I try to cheer her up the best I can, through violin and vaudeville, but she will not smile.  ‘You had better eat, Hazlin,’ I will say with a spoon dangled in front of her mouth.  ‘Any food that does not get eaten will have to be taken to the shelters.  People are starving!’  She will nod and take tiny baby bites.  Sometimes I will wonder if she knows I’m lying, but I can always reassure myself.  The starvation vaccine surely has surely yet to reach the Russian shores.

            “Eventually Hazlin will begin to ripen, and turn a shade of blue that no longer compliments her bow.  The smell will be most unpleasant, I assure you, and the rotten fruit on the kitchen table will seem angelic by comparison.  But you have to grow up, Harrison.  All good things must come to an end, and you know that.  Your father told you the same thing when your mother died, and father was always right.  ‘Your mother was a saint,’ he would say, and I would always nod, even though we rarely attended mass.  I imagine she was certainly deserving of the promotion.

            “I will have to pack her back into her box, and wrap the cardboard round in cellophane.  The holes won’t do much good now.  I’ll dig a big hole out back and drop the box deep inside.  My final words will be simple but direct: ‘Be careful of the worms down there,’ and I’ll toss the dirt on top.  I think she’ll be fine though, on account of the cellophane.

            “And every once in a while I’ll miss Hazlin and her soft, subdued smile.  But I can’t quite miss her yet.  Just wait ‘til Hazlin comes.  The sun will shane a little brighter when Hazlin comes.”

The Top Albums of 2008: A Year In Disgusted Review

The end of the year is near, and getting nearer by the hour, so before everyone else gets their mitts on an editorial gem such as this, I must do it first.

THE TOP ALBUMS OF 2008

That’s right.  The top albums of 2008, not my favorites, or perhaps personal choices, no.  None of that bullshit.  This is the definitive list, compiled from only the most impressive, dignified, and well-regarded source: Alex Denison.  I listened to over 75 albums from the year, and couldn’t take it any longer.  The year was fairly weak.  But I will post my top 25, with little write-ups for the top five. 

Now before some of you indie gods lynch me for the lack of 2008 list mainstays, (Fleet Foxes came in at 27 on my list, the Mars Volta even further down, and Deerhunter?  Forget it,) I have to say that the two most heavily defended genres, indie and metal, both were considerably weaker than anticipated.  So chill.

The List:

25.  Amon Amarth – Twilight of the Thunder God (Death Metal)
24. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – Dig Lazarus Dig!!! (Post-Punk, Rock)
23. Andre Williams & The New Orleans Hellhounds – Can You Deal With It? (Soul)
22. Made Out of Babies – The Ruiner (Alt-Metal, Post Hardcore)
21. The Tallest Man On Earth – Shallow Grave (Folk)
20. TV On the Radio – Dear Science (Indie Rock)
19. Intronaut – Prehistoricisms (Metal)
18. Isobel Campbel and Mark Lanegan – Sunday at Devil Dirt (Folk-Duet)
17. Have a Nice Life – Deathconsciousness (Shoegaze, Post-Rock)
16. Q-Tip – The Renaissance (Hip-Hop)
15. Beck – Modern Guilt (Indie Rock)
14. Coil – The New Backwards (Ambient Industrial)
13. Bonnie “Prince” Billy – Is It The Sea? (Americana, lowered due to being live)
12. Opeth – Watershed (Progressive Metal)
11. Steven Wilson – Insurgentes (Progressive Rock)
10. Secret Chiefs 3 – Xaphan: Book of Angels Volume 9 (Avant-garde)
9. Al Green – Lay It Down (Soul)
8. Nurse With Wound – Huffin’ Rag Blues (Industrial)
7. The Melvns – Nude With Boots (Hard-Rock)
6. Antony and the Johnsons – Another World EP (Chamber Pop)

5. Matt Elliott – Howling Songs (Folk)
Another moody release from musician Matt Elliott brings forth a galleon of Spanish guitar melodies and haunting vocals.  The final in his “Songs” trilogy, (the previous edition being the magnificent “Drinking Songs,”) this release might be the weakest of the three, but still remains an amazing piece of indie-folk, dueling guitars against computers to create a sound of melancholy retreat.

4. Portishead – Third (Trip-Hop)
Maybe it’s due to the lack of material that they produce, or maybe it’s because no other female vocalist in the business dabbles in music quite like this, but Portishead’s “Third” was completely unique among 2008 releases.  Again, not nearly the brilliant piece of history that is “Dummy,” this album still was able to rise above the majority of this year’s music, combining her operatic vocals and bass-heavy beats to create a piece of intense beauty.

3.  Erykah Badu – Amerykah Pt. 1 (Neo-Soul, Hip Hop)
This is one of my biggest surprises of the year.  I expected the same manufactured bullshit that gets shoveled into our ears every year: black women forced to sing “conscious” soul music while being backed by an enormous amount of hip-hop mainstays and big names.  Instead, this album actually IS completely conscious, socially and internally, and Badu is brilliant not only in song, but in rhyme, and the entire album plays out like a theatrical performance rather than a print.

2.  Current 93 – Birth Canal Blues EP (Apocalyptic Folk/ Industrial)
Easily one of my favorite bands, Current 93 get back to the weird and scary music that got me involved with them in the first place.  They put out so much music, (often repetitive and re-prints, full of new ideas backed by old ones, and just bizarre drones,) that its easy to forget about them, and pass over a new release that actually breaks through.  This breaks through.  It’s scary, it’s odd, and it’s just a taste of the new album that is coming out in 2009, (accompanied by the new Antony & the J’s disc, I will be content in the occult and estranged for the year.)  Wonderful production, and full of David Tibet’s too-deep-to-be-reality lyrics.

1. Randy Newman – Harps and Angels (Piano Pop)
They made fun of me.  They said I was delusional, misguided, corrupted by the media.  They said I was revolting against the truckloads of monotonous indie garbage and continuous four-chord sludge metal riffs.  I’m not.  As I said about the Current 93 release, I believe the best kind of music is the kind that can elicit an emotional response, whether it be fright like Birth Canal Blues, or absolute pointed comedy like Harps and Angels.  There is so much going on, so many little pokes, that I couldn’t help but love it.  I’ve said it many times, I’m a 45 year old in a 20 year old’s body, and the theme of middle aged decline connected with me like it shouldn’t have.  Delightful.

Now, a couple other little awards.

Best Comeback:
Metallica – Death Magnetic (Thrash Metal)
Finally, Metallica came back with an album that sounds like Metallica.  It was loud, and it was fast, and Lars didn’t fuck up the drums that bad, and I really, really liked what I heard.  For the first 4 minutes of every song at least.  Cut down on the almost ten-minute tracks, and this might have cracked my top 10, instead of ending up at 26.  Still a promising listen.

Runner up: Neil Diamond – “Home Before Dark.”

Biggest Disappointment:
(Tie) Kanye West – 808s and Heartbreak (Hip Hop)
George Clinton – George Clinton and His Gangsters of Love (Funk)
Both of these albums suffered from the same ailment: over production.  Kanye with his autotuned vocals and lack of bitey lyrics that I expect from every one of his outputs, and Clinton resorting to silly vocal effects and less than impressive synthesized melodies in old age.  For some reason though, I feel like if they got together, I’d like it.

Runner Up: The Gutter Twins – “Saturnalia”.

Worst Collective Genre:
Indie music as a whole is just boring.  Whatever you want your definition of indie music to be, and whether indie is even indie at all anymore, I have just gone ahead and changed my definition to boring.  The Fleet Foxes album was cute and popsy.  And boring.  Same with Deerhunter.  Same with almost every other little group of white kids with skinny jeans and cigarettes in the pocket of their neo-retro-scum western wear shirt.  Mars Volta dropped the ball. TV On the Radio was alright, not mind blowing, and only Beck really grabbed my interest past initial listening, and even he was half assing it.  Maybe he’ll get out of the loop and start making real folk albums, or just real, emotional, music.

Runner Up: Metal, (i.e. Meshuggah – “obZen”, A Storm of Light – “The Ocean Wept Within,” and Grails – “Doomsdayer’s Holiday.”

That’s all.  If you feel there’s an album I should definitely give a listen to, let me know, and I’ll check it out.  I probably already heard it, and I can tell you why I didn’t like it.

Otherwise, keep listening. 

A Fine Suit.

The world would be a lot different if I had a nice white suit. Maybe not different for the entire world, lord knows I can’t solve global hunger with the acquisition of a fine piece of attire, but it would be a hell of a lot different from a solo perspective, and that’s just the best perspective I can offer. When one starts delving into other people’s perspectives, it can get you into a lot of trouble, trust me.

I’m talking about a silky-white silhouette of a suit. So clean it glows in the dark. A damn fine suit, not a pimp suit. Certainly not a gimp suit, and shame on you for thinking about it. Waltz downtown and scoop up a white fedora with a black bow, and some wingtip shoes that shine like size thirteen white diamonds. Drop two big ones on the counter, wink, and escort myself back to the street.

I can do that you know. In a white suit. You wear something like that, and it changes a man. You start drinking whiskey sours and gin, as much as you want, and the worst thing that could possibly happen is you wake up one morning next to a supermodel. Bucket of quarters beside the bed. “Where the hell did all these quarters come from?” you may think to yourself, but in the back of your mind, you know. You threw up all those quarters, and now you can saunter down to the arcade and throw them at teeny-boppers in mini-skirts and little punks with their goddamn green hair.

“If you would have told me twenty years ago that I would see kids walking our Texas towns with green hair, and bones in their noses, I just flat out wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Signs and wonders.”

“It’s a dismal tide.”

Lord knows you don’t need a supermodel with a suit like that, Junior. A supermodel would look like downright trash next to you, or shall I say me, considering I am the one with this brilliant idea. A modern-day Mark Twain, with twice the wit and half the body odor, and all the mystery of Leon Redbone on a steamship to Panama. Maybe I play trombone. Hell, more likely I don’t. But every once in a while I might carry that case down the street whistling some old Dixie tune that you can’t quite put your finger on. There’s a reason. It doesn’t exist. Dip inside some hole in the wall that you can never find, and the only thing you have to remember is the distant sound of that silver slide trombone. You know, the one I can’t even play.

Maybe I’ll hold up a liquor store. In that fine white suit, of course. Climb up on the counter with a cigar dangling out of my mouth and demand to see the manager. The clerk peeks his oversized zit of a head into daylight, and I put that cigar out right on his forehead, and grab the whole register. Hell, I’ll leave it in the middle of the street. I don’t need something like that dragging me down. Don’t need the sweat stains on this nice white suit. I’ll call the cops on myself just for the chase. But always stop in for a drink first.

I don’t give a damn if it’s two-piece, three-piece, four-piece, or eight-piece. I’ll buy enough to form a twelve piece – an acapella group that tours the varnished streets of Borneo in winter, and rents a summer home together somewhere south of Baton Rogue. We play poker. I always win. But I don’t show up for the rehearsals. No time for that. To be honest with you, I don’t show up for the performances either. And to top it all off, all the other suits I bought were made out of polyester, and they’ll be laughed out of town. And I’ll laugh as well, in my silk stitched white suit. White shirts on weekdays, red ones on the ends, but always a gold pocket watch with large hands close to heart. Lord, is a mustache too much to ask?

“Yes.”

Well, fair enough. I shouldn’t have bothered you much further, considering the time you put in to creating those magical little worms that shit this beautiful suit, as well as the bed sheets I am accustomed to, and the dresses worn by every little girl I take to the midnight shows and leave. Step out for some air, and just get distracted by the city, I suppose. That suit tends to make me wander. It lights up a path that I can’t just ignore, and before you know it, I’m on an airplane to nowhere with my hand on the thigh of a stewardess named Clarissa who says, “I’ve never seen such a nice looking suit.” Damn right you haven’t.

Is that suit like the hair of Samson? A necessity to my vitality and overall strengths? I wouldn’t go that far, and neither should you, if you knew what was good for you. How dare you to ask. If not for these Atlas-esque shoulders holding up the enormous weight of such a burdensome article, this piece would never be lifted! Forever destined to pull down a hanger in the back of a store room, and I just can’t let that happen! It is my duty, if not my responsibility, to adorn this handsome suit and attack the world head on. Mustache or not, (goddammit,) I will share that cross on my dying day, and maybe take it for myself. Might as well. This suit accompanies the mahogany quite well.

“Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence in society.”

Is it hard to believe that a man in a white suit once said that, (actually and factually,) with a straight face filled with sincerity? I find it only logical. And as a matter of fact, due to this concept, I must consider all others to be naked in the presence of such a wise choice of style, and therefore, all matters of true importance, foreign, domestic, or otherwise, must be tackled by a prince in white. I’ll modestly raise my hand to volunteer, (if I must,) and accept yet more responsibilities that the rest of you can’t seem to handle. Perhaps if you all keep quiet, you’ll get a candy cane or sugarcube, or a smack in the head for the hell of it.

With a suit like that, you can’t just fade into oblivion. You have to go out like a shooting star. Die in the driver’s seat of a comet aimed toward heaven. Nailed right next to Christ himself, (just not through the fabric, please,) to attain a proper ritual. You don’t put such a prestigious life into the hands of anyone less distinguished than yourself, and by damn, it seems that I’m the best looking one here. No shotguns, handguns, hand grenades, grenade launchers, flame throwers, or the like. Just a well placed rope in a not-so-well lit attic. Simple, and more importantly, clean. A well preserved body, and a well preserved suit.

It’s the kind of suit that looks as good on a dead man as a live one, if not better, and continues the trend of male envy, as well as female swoon. That is, if anyone had attended the final offering of it’s beauty. Nevertheless, the people would have merely been a distraction, and I can not say I weep on account of their absence. Instead I cheer on behalf of the celebration of a life so rich in eloquence and prosperity, drown in drink but never the weightier, corn-fed but pure-bred, a roman sculpture of a human being who could not be laid to rest in mere marble, but instead chose the only fitting garment: a fine white suit.

“So, open the doors already. I forgot my overcoat.”

“I think you’ll enjoy yourself here, dear friend. With such a lovely silk stitched suit. My son wears one just like it, although made of pure white light.”

Then I would rather burn in hell. I mean, my body, naturally…

Don’t Waste That Wink

The bottle says triple distilled,
Couldn’t care less, as long as it’s filled.
And the cups can hold the drink.
The women come, they laugh, and leave,
Walk down the hallways, or rather weave.
One brushes by me, and turns to wink.

The lights, they twinkle on their eyes.
Their hiked up skirts, exposing thighs,
That on a Tuesday I would fail to see.
A friend of mine receives a peck,
He looks at me, says, “What the heck?”
He suggests the door, and then they flee.

A blonde girl next to me starts to slouch,
Her head slides against the vinyl couch,
I grab her quickly, grin, and pull her up.
She looks at me and then soon smiles,
Says I remind her of a boy named Miles,
My lone rebuttal is to hand her a cup.

Inside each cup is a combination of hope,
No long lost prayers, no kiss from the Pope,
Just a mixture of “maybe” and “could.”
And with each drink, a girl tends to learn,
About her priorities, and for what she yearns,
And the matter turns to whether she should.

I can admit I’ve regretted some decisions,
But the drink in me gives me crazy visions,
About love and life, and the future spawn.
A naked girl in a disheveled bed,
And the words, in passion, I might have said,
As I hold her, lifeless, before the dawn.

But when I wake up, I feel the pain,
As the girl rolls over, and not in vain,
Says without thought, “I must have had a few.”
I always smile, and rub my head,
Perhaps thankful she’s not dead,
And get dressed quickly, having received my cue.

But that girl in the hall winked at me,
I was dazed, but I could clearly see,
I didn’t have to prowl for scraps.
But I had lost her long ago,
Inside her hair, a large pink bow,
That scared away the scum, perhaps.

But when I woke up with a blonde,
I wished I had a magic wand,
To make her cute face go away.
I longed to have that flowing bow
On a dinner date, with a late night show,
In front of her door, with an awkward sway.

Maybe I’ll meet her in coffee shop,
A crowded ballroom, a cold bus stop,
Maybe she’ll come by once again.
No more nameless girls in skirts,
No more harmless one-night flirts,
And all the drink that keeps me sane.

I’ll wait here until she soon comes back,
Inside a room no longer black,
Of the tasteless morals of a lesser age.
She’ll walk right in, take a drink, tell her name,
And tell me I can end the game.
We can walk out.  End the page.

Bent But Not Broken.

He took off his hat to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead and stared deep into the eye of the sun.  It stared back, and he conceded.  Junior turned toward the car and gave a quick smile to Rebecca. She gave no reciprocation, and he slowly retreated back to the Taurus.  He had promised her no more breaks, but it was a long drive. 

“Sorry,” he said, turning the key.  “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”  She gazed hypnotically out the passenger side window at a windmill across the street from the Shell station.  It looked like the blades had not turned for centuries, and Rebecca began to wonder whether she had ever actually seen a windmill outside of the old movies she watched when she was younger.  Junior certainly never had.  For one reason or another, Fillmore County, Georgia had no windmills.  Some would venture to say no wind.  Junior didn’t know anything about that, either.  He took the exit back to the interstate.

The eastern front of Kansas had been particularly taxing on Junior.  There was nothing remarkable to see, and even less remarkable things to hear.   The choices were clear: any number of country stations and a few Christian alternatives.  He liked Alan Jackson as much as the next guy, but he had grown up with Skynard and the T-Birds.  Rebecca didn’t have much input.  She had tuned it all out of her mind several hundred miles ago when they crossed through Missouri, and it was even less diverse. 

The familiar sound of a small cackle came from the back seat.  Rebecca quickly turned around, and Junior glanced into the rearview mirror.  He saw his own eyes glaring back, and it startled him.  He had never looked so tired.  So broken.  You could count the purple rings under his eyes as simultaneous days of stress, much like the age of a tree.  He licked two of his fingers, and slicked each of his eyebrows.  A small grin spread across his face, and he gave himself a wink before directing his attention back to the road.

Rebecca’s fingers were spinning circles around each other in an attempt to calm herself.  She desperately needed a cigarette, but she already gone so long without one and she certainly wasn’t going to light up in the car.  Junior had been so proud of her, and that was the lone bright spot of these past few weeks.  She pulled at the sides of her t-shirt, still adjusting to the extra weight.  She needed that cigarette.

The car was Rebecca’s father’s.  Junior owned an ’86 Chevy, but it would never make it all the way through the Midwest.  Together they earned less than ten grand, and never planned to make much more.  Junior always said, “money brings out the evil in a man,” but Rebecca had always kept her mouth shut over the matter.  Today was a day in which she wished she had more than the clothes on her back.

Once again, the sound came from the back seat, and Rebecca immediately turned to address it.  “It’s okay, it’s okay.  Soon Ava, real soon,” she said turning back toward the front seat.  “She looks just like a rabbit back there, tucked in between those covers looking out at us.  Just like a rabbit.”  Rebecca liked to repeat herself, and Junior liked it, too.  Ava even seemed to like it. 

The Nebraska border was within five miles when Rebecca really began to get nervous. Why couldn’t Junior just get a job that provided health insurance?  Did he ever even think of that?  She decided it was better just not to work herself up about it at this point because it wouldn’t change a thing.  She would have years to think about it, and why waste her time now.  She turned to look at Junior.  He was tapping his thumbs against the leather of the steering wheel, seemingly trying to distract his own mind.  She turned away. 

Ava was packed tightly into a carrier, wrapped twice over with pink and purple blankets.  The woman who had turned them down at the adoption agency sold it for half price.  Forty-seven dollars.  Junior lifted it out of the backseat, and began walking toward the hospital front doors.  The letters were bright white against the old pale orange brick.  “Lawton County Hospital.”  Rebecca rushed to catch up with him, and grabbed his hand before they went through the automatic doors.

They swept past the check-in desk, and went right to the waiting area where chairs lined the walls of a light purple room.  There was an elderly man stooped over in a chair, and a middle-aged woman with her arm in a cast, each looking impatient as they waited. Both nodded toward the couple. Rebecca and Junior moved behind them toward the back wall, sitting the carrier in a chair.  Junior looked at Rebecca, and gave a stiff tilt of his head.  Rebecca waited for a few moments, looking at Ava.  She slid her thumb across Ava’s forehead and gently squeezed her earlobe before turning and walking away.  Ava giggled, and Junior began to sweat.  He looked around, seeing only the two patrons ahead of him.  He looked down at Ava with a warm smile and winked.  She blinked and kicked her feet as Junior made his way past the crooked man. 

Junior tripped over the man’s cane, and stopped to pick it up.  “It’s a beautiful baby,” he croaked in a voice that sounded as though he had swallowed a jar of thumbtacks.  “What’s her name?”  Junior hesitated. “Ava. Her name’s Ava.”  The old man was bent over too far for Junior to see the expression on his face, but he seemed satisfied.  Looking to his left, the woman nodded and smiled approvingly.  The old man grasped his cane.  “You’ll grow up faster than you ever wanted to, and it will break your heart.  Then she will, and it’ll break your heart again.”  He coughed, and Junior walked out the automatic doors. 

Rebecca was sitting in the passenger seat with the door open, wiping tears from her cheeks.  Junior stopped a few feet short, preparing something to say.  He couldn’t think of a thing.  He walked up to her and pulled her toward him, and held on to her for a long time.  Cars droned through the parking lot for a long time before Junior let go.  He kissed Rebecca on the forehead, and moved toward the car.  The engine started with ease.

It was a long haul back to Georgia.  They were going to try and make it with only one hotel stop.  Rebecca cried for a long time after crossing the state line, but Junior remained quiet.  He felt as though he had rightfully avoided something, whatever it is. He was bent over in the driver seat, with his arms crossed over the wheel, using his elbows to steer.  The Kansas night was cold and dull, but he liked it.  His body felt lighter, and his eyes were alert.  He had avoided something.

He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Rebecca a pack of Marlboros.  She cracked the window and took a light.  By the time they crossed the Missouri line, the pack was gone, and the tears had stopped.

Lucas: A Continuation

10:28 P.M. I winked at the little Asian girl behind the counter, and she immediately looked down.  It’s alright sweetheart, I’m not after you.  You’re too fat for my taste.  And considerably too Asian. 

A blonde on each arm is the only way to travel in Dallas.  A blonde on each arm and a cowboy hat.  In Dallas, the blondes were less expensive. The one on my left was named Caprice, and the one on the right was named Cecelia.  I don’t imagine those were their real names, but who gives a damn?  They’re whores.  Beautiful whores.  As long as I keep my wallet open, and they keep their legs in the same condition, I think we’ll get along just fine.

3:14 A.M. I can’t seem to pry my body away from the stool.  My face is shaking as though my entire skull might self-destruct, sending my eyeballs into the same pool of filth as the rest of the evening.  I’m not sure how long my head has been draped over the lip of the bowl.  I slowly peek over the edge to find it half full of thick and bloody puke.  “Better than shit,” I sputtered as a hearty glob of something attached itself to the rim, forming a mucus bridge to my lopsided mouth.  My hands are numb and they slide right down the sides of the bowl leaving my chin as the only thing holding me up.  I let myself fall to the floor. 

Coronas and ketamine.  That’s all it was.  Fucking coronas and ketamine. Easy to find in Dallas, and a considerable amount of fun on a Tuesday night.  But it had never hit me this hard before.  Well, the ketamine at least.  It’s a twenty-minute high, tops.  Twenty minutes at a time, but you have to keep yourself on course or you’ll blow it all for nothing.  As I lay trembling on the floor, I realize I didn’t blow it all for nothing. Except for that fucking hat.

I could hear crying from the other room.  Obnoxious crying that was only amplified by the substances.  I smashed one fist into the linoleum to push myself up to my knees and eventually my feet.  They weighed six, seven tons at least and had to be shifted across the floor.  The crying stopped for a moment when I tipped over the care basket on the edge of the tub.  Shampoos and creams scatter across the floor.  A goddamn obstacle course. 

I lean against the edging of the bathroom door, one arm hanging below my knee, the other holding me up.  One of them was sitting with her back to me on the bed.  I couldn’t remember her name anymore.  She had wrapped herself in the sheets and swayed back and forth as she sobbed.  “Shut up,” I barked looking down at my socks.  They were covered in puke.  “We’ll figure this out, but you have to shut the fuck up.” 

I stumbled forward and tumbled onto the bed.  It was a queen, and all of the covers had been tossed to the floor, leaving just the girl and me.  I pulled myself on my stomach to the edge of the bed and looked over.  The other one was underneath the coffee table.  The left side of her head was bashed in, and my black dress belt remained tightly latched around her neck.  I chortled and rolled onto my back looking at her upside down, like a bewildered little boy with a kaleidoscope.  She wasn’t quite as pretty as she had started out.

“Makeup won’t fix that up, will it sweetheart?”  She didn’t laugh.  What the hell did she know, she was a whore.  Jesus, Big Doc and the firm are going to kill me, I thought.  “You still had a good time, didn’t you?”  Again, she didn’t respond.  She better have had a good time.  She made one hell of a mess.   Goddamn whores.  I should have just bought the cowboy hat.

I sat up on the bed and the room did a complete rotation.  “Half of the shit in this room would look better on the ceiling,” I laughed and slapped the mattress.  So it was bad.  I knew it was bad, and it wasn’t going to get any better, so why bother.  The suckers at the firm will be scrambling for days on how to handle this, and they are going to end up dividing responsibilities to the low-ball attorneys. Probably Jack Ludwick, or Jesse Dartmouth.  Couple of fucking suckers. We cover each others’ asses down there. One more hit of K.  And a damn corona.

I moved to the coffee table, accidentally nudging the girl’s head as I shuffled to the scene.  There’s a few ways you can take ketamine. Some people snort it just like cocaine, but for Christ’s sake, are we that primitive?  You can also inject it like heroine, but why bother with that mess.  The easiest way is to drink it.  And with a corona, it’s like killing two birds with one stone.  An easy drink, and wait for the show.

I flick the light switch off, and the girl on the bed sucks in a large breath.  “Shh,” I tell her.  “It’s just better this way.”  It’s a lot like short-lived PCP, and the best way to use it is in the dark.  Too much and you’ll be a schizo, and no one wants that.  But with just the right amount, you trip.  110 mg.  Wait it out.

3:37 A.M. You’re a dinosaur Lucas.  Remember that.  A fucking dinosaur.  A triceratops. You have horns you stupid son of a bitch!  Horns!  Dissecting the name, I’d venture to say three!  But what the hell do they eat?  Berries or something?  Fuck that.  I’m a meat-eater. I eat meat.  Doesn’t matter the goddamn kind.  I have sharp teeth goddammit!  Flesh-tearing fangs! Concentrate Lucas.  Remember, you are a dinosaur.

The lights were flickering on and off, and I didn’t even realize I was doing it. The girl sat on the bed trying to cover her ears from all of the noise I was making, still wrapped in the used sheets of the night.  I was coming down fast.  Too goddamn fast.   I had lost my horns. 

I swayed back and worth in front of the coffee table, probably more effected by the alcohol than anything.  That little girl’s face wouldn’t stop looking up at me.  Who the hell do you think you are?  I’m Lucas fucking Phillips! I was once a dinosaur, and you were not, you understand?  I don’t think she did.  I slowly pressed my foot down on the side of her face, and I could feel the blood through my sock.  It was still warm.  I pressed too hard and broke her jaw.  Cheap whore.

The one on the bed heard the crunch, and let out a quick gasp of fright before grasping the sheets tightly toward her mouth.  I turned around with a smile three sizes too big for my face, the room still moving in and out like the beating of a heart.  One beat, and the walls are pressed out like a cartoon explosion had altered all of it’s dimensions.  The next, and the walls were pulled, trying to resist a black hole in the center of the room.  She couldn’t look at me.

I grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her to the floor, and dragged her to the bathroom.  She didn’t quite scream, but cried so loudly it made my brain hurt.  She looked up at me from the vomit-covered floor. “Please.  Please don’t.”  I still had that giant smile on my face.  I could see it from outer fucking space.  I pressed her face down into the toilet bowl and held it.  She kicked and gargled, making the sounds of a Louisiana bog.  Finally she stopped, and I let go, falling quickly to the floor.  I laughed.

4:49 A.M. “Yes.  Yes, Terry I know how late it is.  Ha.  Right.  Early.  But something happened, and we are going to have to have a chat, you and I.  I don’t remember their names Terry, but they were blondes.  You should see this hat I bought.  Anyway, they were blondes and they were beautiful, but now they aren’t, they were whores, and we are going to have to fix that.  Right? Whores with shiny teeth. Terry, you don’t speak to me like that.  I have been a dinosaur, goddammit.  Now, I need phone numbers.  Jesse Dartmouth.  And a dry cleaner. Just remember Terry, I made you, you son of a bitch?  Don’t forget that.  I’m a dinosaur. Fax me.”

The room was seven-hundred a night. The whores cost me two grand.  The beer and K was cheap.  Worth every penny. 

A Whore and An Angel

My body spreads out and a white pillow swallows the back of my skull. She lays next to me looking up at the ceiling with a Camel dangling on her bottom lip.  I had always wondered how women pulled that off so well.  Every asshole with a fedora can roll a cigarette around his mouth, but only a woman can wear one as an accessory.  Everyone hates smokers nowadays.  I couldn’t care less.  And the way that she sports that Camel actually makes me wish I did it myself. 
           
            She rolls over and dangles her arm over my stomach, planting a kiss on the side of my face.  I run my calloused fingers through the back of her hair, and she breathes a little bit harder, like a giggle.  It’s been fourteen months since I last saw her, and she looks just as beautiful, if not more.  I used to think that the people who say “absence makes the heart grow fonder” were a bunch of pricks.  What do they know?  A weekend without a phone call isn’t absence.  It’s space.  But fourteen months can make the toughest man ache.  Not that I’m the toughest man.  But I might crack the top ten in the law community.

Perjury, n.  – the deliberate, willful giving of false, misleading, or incomplete testimony under oath.  It’s not murder, that’s for damn sure.  Hell, it’s not even molestation of the truth.  They should just change the definition to “covering someone’s ass.”  That’s all I did, and I would venture to say that’s what every perjurer has ever done.  In my line of business, it’s the right thing to do.  You don’t pull an associate under the bus.  It’s part of being an attorney.  Lying is just a necessity to get the verdict you want, and when Lucas killed those two hookers outside of Dallas on a business trip for the firm, someone had to provide an alibi.  We drew straws. 

            So it turns out Lucas wasn’t having Martinis in my apartment on the night of the eighth.  Maybe I just couldn’t recall.  I’m a lawyer for Christ’s sake, of course I recall.  But that’s all beside the point.  I did the best I could.  My testimony alone can’t refute plane tickets, hotel check-ins, hotel check-outs, receipts, rental cars, and so on.  But I fucking tried.  Lucas was doomed from the start.  Three people have been executed in the state of Pennsylvania since the death penalty was enacted in 1976.  Tom Ridge is a heartless bastard.  Lucas is going to be number four.  Lethal injection.  He had once called the presiding judge a dike in closed chambers.  Poor decision in hindsight.  But she was a dike.

            Fourteen months.  Could have been much worse.  It was a cushy little pen with large windows.  I had been in a number of prisons in my day, you know, for clientele, and I had never had a defendant go to a place like this.  Hell, if they knew there were prisons like this, every one of them would break out and ring my neck.  Not one threat of ass rape.  Not one prison brawl.  I wore a shirt and tie every day, just like back at the office.  I made the same calls, and counseled the same assholes.  After a stay in there, I felt a lot less passionate about keeping my clients out of prison.  “If I can handle it,” I thought as I sipped my cappuccino the guard had just passed through the door, “those goddamn heathens can too.”

            When I got out all I wanted to do was see Leslie.  Unfortunately, I had to go see my wife first.  It wasn’t that I didn’t love Janine, because I did.  But I had been able to see her through my stint.  Leslie had no legal ability to see me personally. 

            “It’s good to see you without the glass, Jesse,” Janine said, passing a pitcher of iced tea in my direction.  She had apparently forgotten how much I hate iced tea.  If you’re not careful, it’ll stain your mustache and you’ll just look like you couldn’t afford anything but the sample of Just For Men gel.  Leslie would have known this. 

            “It’s good to see you too, babe.  It’s been too long.”  It had been four days.  Honestly, I had more privacy from Janine when I was free than when I was behind bars.  Back home, I could go weeks without seeing her, for “business trips,” and “important opportunities” that just couldn’t be wasted.  But every couple days the guard would tell me I had a visitor, and it would be Janine with a big smile on her face and a tear in her eye.  It didn’t make her look any less of a whore. 

            I grabbed my overcoat and briefcase and told her I’d be gone a couple hours to get some things organized at the office.  She smiled and nodded, picking up the plates from the table.  “Just like you, Jesse.  You’re all work and no play.”  Jesus Christ, she was stupid.  A guy can’t work twenty-four hours a day.  Men sleep just like all other creatures.  They also lie, cheat, and steal.  So stupid.  She couldn’t make it on her own.  I almost feel sorry for her, and whatever airline she would be a stewardess for should I die.  I hope it’s American Airlines.  Bunch of assholes. 

I walk right in the door. Leslie’s place looks exactly the same.  Not a thing has moved.  The gifts all placed out for everyone to see, as they should be.  The gold swan clock on the mantle, and the ivory figurines of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza guarding it on either side.  Those were my favorites, and I think they were hers too.  She stepped around the side of the kitchen cautiously.  I had forgotten how late it was, and I’m sure it scared the hell out of her.  But the second she saw me, she lit up as bright as midnight at a car lot.  Her clothes hit the floor before I could say hello.

That damn cigarette on her lip.  She shifts it from the left to the right. If it were that Camel I had to follow on a field sobriety test, you’d never catch me sober on the road.  The little noises she lets escape are enough of a thrill.  She pulls herself up and lets the cigarette fall.  She kisses me for at least ten seconds, and then falls back to the bed.  I could taste so much in just one of her kisses.

It was more than just the menthol and the warm after taste of smoke.  I could taste every man she had ever been with.  I could taste a guitar player with long greasy hair who would never make it out of his parents’ garage.  I could taste the drummer from his band, too.  I could taste a hint of a football player, maybe a lineman, and how he could pick her up with just one arm.  But he could drop her just as easily.  I could taste a romantic in a suit and tie who had cried with her on more than one occasion before offing himself in the front of his Lincoln Towncar.  Shotgun.  Wasted investment.
            I could even taste myself.  It was gin and coffee, and a pair of Italian shoes that I’ve spent way too much time talking about in over the past few years.  It was designer stubble and cancer jokes, right on her tongue.  But it also tasted like asshole, not in the literal sense of course, but like someone who had swallowed someone else’s bullshit for way too long.  As our heads moved away from each other, I realized it was all mine.

            She had engaging green eyes that you couldn’t get away from.  I was trapped inside her stare.  She ran her perfect little hands up the side of my thigh, and I grabbed them and held on tight. I rolled forward and plunged my head into my hands and squeezed the sides of my skull until I thought I could crush it.  Sadly, I couldn’t.  I stood up and put my suit back on in the mirror, tying the tie especially tight.  When I turned around she was sitting up in the bed, still naked, but covering her breasts with one arm.  I never understood why women covered themselves afterwards.  It’s not like we haven’t seen it already. 

            I took a bottle of gin from her pantry and filled a small glass, and drank it down quickly.  She still stared at me puzzled.  I threw a towel at her and walked out the door.  I heard her rustle inside to get dressed, but I was already down the stairs and out of the entryway.  I leaned on the horn as I sped away, and clipped a trashcan on the edge of the street.  “Nobody knows me, motherfucker.” 

            She called three times, and I never answered.  Janine had iced tea waiting for me when I got home.  Jesus Christ, she’s stupid.