Just a Few Things I've Noticed...

Here are some thoughts for the New Year.

• Football officiating is getting worse. I've always wanted to write a novel based on a crooked a ref who throws games. Think of how easy it would be... One fake, non-reviewable call in a close contest would do it. Now, as I watch the refs bumble, stumble, err and screw it up, I often wonder whether my fiction idea is not already fact. Can some of these calls really be anywhere near impartial?


• Why is Obama an African American? When did we decide that half-a-Black is Black? Oh, wait! I'm sure there must have been some court decision during Reconstruction affirming just that. But if that's the fact, isn't it time for a change?


• The First Lady is almost as wide as the new Prez. I have a feeling she's not much on nonsense. That's great!


• I saw (a nauseatingly large number of times) a TV ad for a Ford truck. The ad was composed entirely of men grunting, yahoohing, groaning, burping and for all I know farting in admiration of the product. Someone at Ford thought I might want to buy a truck based on this. That's so weird that I don't really have anything more to say about it.


• I saw another ad and haven't yet figured out what it's for. Blue background, people telling me about I'm-not-sure-what, but I should go out and get one. Or maybe two.


• Speaking of ads, I just made myself an espresso and forgot to put the cup beneath the spout. I do this at least once every other month, and Starbuck's best decaf ends up on my kitchen floor, which is taking on a rich, brown color. But this time, since I recently purchased Sham Wows (really, I did), I managed to mop up the mess in a minute. I am humbled. These things work!


• I am selling my 1990 Ferrari Testarossa. It's red and gorgeous and when I'm rich and famous, you'll regret not buying it. Get in touch with me if you're interested. Thierrysagnier@hotmail.com.

Here's installment 65 of Wasted Miracles.

***
“Course I’ll help. Whaddya want me to do?” Joe the Cop balanced a cup of Starbucks coffee on one knee, holding the top with two fingers. It was too hot to drink even though he’d been blowing on it for five minutes. He looked down into the cup with an unhappy expression. “You’d think they could figure something like that out, wouldn’t you? I mean, it shouldn’t take a genius to know that if you order a coffee to go, you want it so you can drink it, not juggle it.”
Mamadou said, “Sir?”
Joe the Cop kept staring at the coffee cup. No one had called him ‘sir’ in a long time and it didn’t register. Colin said, “Joe, here’s what we need you to do.”
***
Later, Colin dropped by Orin’s house. Marsha was on the front porch sitting in her husband’s rocker sipping Red Zinger.
“I wish Orin were here, Colin. He’d know how to handle this stuff. I can’t reach him, though, tried a bunch of times and left messages but he hasn’t called me back yet.” She sipped, thought, sipped. “But yeah, of course, you get Josie out, bring her here. It’s been a while since I dealt with crack addicts, used to get them all the time in the emergency room when I was with Fairfax Hospital. So you bring her here and we’ll get her stabilized, find the best place to put her in for detoxing.”
Colin nodded, could hear her voice was full of doubt. “We’ll be careful, Marsha.”
She gave him a wry look. “Yeah, you’d better. Something happens to you, I’d never forgive myself. And Orin, he’d get even more impossible to live with.”
***
Catherine’s eyes were wide, her lower lip was quivering. “I mean, what do you know about this man Mamadou? How do you know you can trust him, Colin? What if something happened? And Joe? Why would a policeman go along with something like that? It’s illegal, isn’t it? You’re going to break into this drug dealer’s home and try to snatch Josie? What if she gets hurt?”
Colin didn’t really have answers, chose his words carefully. “You have to trust somebody, Catherine, and unless you want us to bring back a corpse, we’ve got to act now.” The image had the desired effect. Catherine closed her eyes, shuddered.
“We’ll bring her to Marsha and Orin’s house. You know where they live, off Gallows Road? I’ll call you when we get there. Marsha’s a nurse. She’s handled druggies before, knows what to do.” He fell silent, waited for Catherine to nod her head.
“It’ll be all right, you’ll see. We’ll get Josie back and she’ll be fine.”
Catherine nodded again. There really wasn’t much of a choice, was there?
***
When the Zulu came into the room, he found Comfort squatting in front of Josie. The girl was trembling, her limbs palsied. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. The Zulu thought she might be unconscious. Comfort said, “She’s coming down very hard, Dingane. I don’t know what you’ve been giving her, but if you stop like this, it will kill her. I’ve seen it before.” He said it without inflection, this was information the Zulu should know.
The Zulu sighed. It was taking far too long and his patience was wearing thin.
“So what do you suggest?”
Comfort shrugged. “Her health is not my business, Dingane. But she needs to be weaned off. If you want her to live, that is.”
The Zulu nodded, his face a mask. “I will get her something. She can’t die yet.”
As soon as he left the room, Comfort brought his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Listen, Miss Stilwell. Listen very carefully.” There wasn’t much time. He hoped she was rational enough to listen and understand. He lowered his voice even more and when he was finished asked, “Will you remember this? You must! It’s your only chance.”
***

A Shameless Plug

I belong to a group of about a dozen writers from all over the country, and once a year we get together. We call ourselves the Red Dogs, after the title of one of our member's novel, and it's a jolly reunion. We exchange gossip, eat a lot, review each other's literary efforts, and devote two full days to a writing workshop led by an established author or publisher.

This year, we're meeting at Hueston Woods Conference Center, a lovely site in Ohio bordering a lake, and we have retained the services of Robert Gelinas.

Gelinas is an author and the owner of Arche Books, a small publishing outfit in Florida. He's also a workshop leader who has put together a high intensity series of lectures and exercises for writers who really want to get published and haven't managed to do so yet.

Lets face it, a writer's life is seldom a fulfilling one. I remember reading years ago that the average annual income of all writers--from Stephen King to the lady at the church who does the newsletter--is $360. Additionally, less than one percent of writers' output ever gets published, so we're not talking a high success rate here. I've been fortunate; a couple of my books have made it into print, but I am still a neophyte and need all the help I can get.

I mention all this because this year we have decided to open the workshop to a small group of ambitious folks who are serious about their writing. The workshop will be held May 28th and 29th, though we suggest participants plan to arrive the 27th and leave the 30th. Cost is $800, and this includes three nights at the conference center, all meals, and the workshops and workshop materials.

It's a pretty good deal, all told. If you've been thinking that it's time to finish the novel you started writing a decade ago, give this gathering some thought. If you want more info, email me at thierrysagnier@live.com, and I'll give you all the information I have.

Here's installment 64 of Wasted Miracles.

Mamadou dropped by later that day. “I tried to call but you were out. Things are all right?”
Colin nodded. ”Went to talk with a friend.”
“Catherine?”
“No. Someone else.”
Mamadou nodded, then asked, “But Catherine, she’s doing well? Bearing up?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
Mamadou was thoughtful for a moment, said, “When I lost Amelie, I thought the purpose of my life was over.”
There was an awkward silence, then Mamadou said, “I couldn’t... protect her from the same thing threatening Catherine’s daughter.”
Colin sensed Mamadou wanted to say more. He waited but the Senegalese had ceased speaking, was staring at something outside the window. Finally, Colin said, “I’m sorry.”
Mamadou blinked, rubbed his eyes, changed the subject. “So we have the same news. Yours came in slightly rougher form, I take it. Tell me about it, I’ll fill in what I learned from Aunt Mim.”
Colin did, there wasn’t much. “They were here when I came in, whacked me around, tied me to the machine,” he pointed to the Monkey Ward device. “They asked me about Herbie, and I told them what I knew, which is nothing. They mentioned the Zulu, asked why I was interested in ‘his woman.’ Their words. Then I managed to break free, and that’s pretty much it. Oh, yeah,” he smiled, “I vomited on their shoes. That made them pretty angry.”
Mamadou laughed out loud. “Yes, I’m certain it did.” He peered at Colin. “But you’re all right?”
“A little sore.”
“And quite lucky. The Zulu is a very nasty person, according to Aunt Mim. It’s fortunate you’re not a lot worse off.”
“Aunt Mim knows about him?”
“Aunt Mim knows about everybody.” Mamadou paused, walked to the sofa, sat. “So she knows about the Zulu, who really is a Zulu, incidentally. There’s a man named Comfort who works for him, and Comfort as been buying take-out food and bringing it back to the Zulu’s house. A lady neighbor noticed that because it was unusual to see Comfort at all. He doesn’t socialize much. And suddenly he’s coming home with bags from Burger King, almost as if there are guests at the house. And yesterday, this man, Comfort, appeared briefly on the front porch of the house with a young blond woman. The lady neighbor noticed that too, and more. The lady is a retired hospital worker, she spent 20 years watching addicts come in and out of where she used to work, and even from a distance she can see the young woman is under the influence of something. She guesses crack. That’s what it looks like to her.”
Colin closed his eyes, lowered his head. “Bastard.”
Mamadou nodded, continued. “This isn’t a neighborhood with a lot of white faces. A white one, a blonde one at that, stands out.” He paused, added, “I think it’s about time for us to intercede.”
***
Comfort didn’t like the Zulu’s new employees, they looked like thugs, had no finesse. He was vaguely pleased they’d been hired to do the strong arm stuff. Truth was, Comfort really didn’t have the heart for it anymore. He’d done it many years, in many places, it had been part of his job and he took a certain pride in doing any job well, but in fact he hadn’t enjoyed it much, not really. He could remember the first time he’d killed a man. It had been far messier than he’d planned and he’d learned some valuable lessons. The subsequent deaths he was responsible for had all been as surgical as could be managed. Until Herbie. He sighed, opened a window to let fresh air in.
He was in the efficiency apartment he’d been renting for close to two years though he’d never spent more than ten nights there. The Zulu didn’t know about it or, if he did, didn’t care. The rent was cheap, the building nondescript and not as well kept as Comfort could have wished, but the neighbors never asked questions and at least the hallways were clean and didn’t smell of urine.
It was sparsely furnished, sparsely decorated. The walls were bare save for a tourist poster from better times that entreated tourists to visit Nigeria. The poster showed a lakeside resort with white sands and mostly white people gazing at a red sunset. It read, “Come to Nigeria and Fall in Love.” Comfort wondered if anyone in the past two decades had come to his country for that purpose. He doubted it.
An adequate stereo played selections from a Muzak station, a small color television was tuned soundlessly to a sitcom featuring a black family with a bellicose father and three hapless teenagers.
Comfort sat at his desk, a yellow legal pad before him. The numbers he was multiplying, adding and sorting through, he’d already seen a hundred times. But it pleased him nevertheless to go through the calculations again. He did it twice, smiled to himself. Soon he could go home.
This pleasant thought was vaguely disturbed by the image in his mind of the young white woman in the Zulu’s basement. He hoped she wouldn’t die, or that if she did, he would not have to witness it.
It worried him slightly that she had not yet told the Zulu what he wanted to hear. The idea of helping her was tempting--a few words from him would do it, but Comfort was not yet completely at ease with the notion. He had not come this far to be led astray by a wisp of misguided compassion. He wondered whether leaving the girl alone with the two new thugs was a good idea. They probably wouldn’t harm the girl, had certainly been given orders not to touch her, but you never knew.
Comfort glanced at his watch. The girl had been without drugs for eight hours now and her cravings would be fierce. He glanced at his watch again, nodded to himself. He’d finish his calculations and go see her, maybe give her some milk laced with sugar to lighten her suffering.
He wet the point of his pencil with a flick of his tongue, focused on the numbers once again, hummed along with the music coming from the radio.
***

Inaugural Hi-Jinks

On the day of the Obama investiture as President of the US, I will be unable to use any of the roads or bridges leading to Washington, DC. In other words, even though I live a few minutes from where the soon-to-be-prez will be celebrated, I (and all the rest of my fellow North Virginians) will be stuck at home. No Obama T-shirts for us, or key chains, hats, posters, etc.. We will be second-class citizens. It's galling, particularly since no such restrictions exist for Marylanders, our scrappy neighbors to the North. They will be able to come and go as they please, thank you, and buy all the presidential crap they can get their hands on in DC. Also, they'll get to enjoy the extended bar hours and drink til 4 a.m. Now that's really tempting!

Am I upset? Not really. It's going to be a zoo. The buses and subway will run, or so I understand. I imagine that if I really wanted to, I could use these public conveyances, but I'm no fool. There will be close to 4 million people doing exactly that--sardining themselves--and I don't find that at all appetizing. All in all, it might be easier to swim the Potomac at that point in the river where legend has it George Washington flung a silver dollar. Plus, I haven't been invited to any of the inaugural events, surely a mistake on someone's part, but today I am in a forgiving mood.

Some Washingtonians rented their homes out for inaugural week, and will themselves be heading for Florida or Vegas. Others are having parties--my local Giant Food store is offering Time for Change deli platters that look suspiciously like the Lets Keep Things the Same platters. One friend is thinking of doing a personal pay-per-view programming effort. He will allow you into his house to watch his gigantic-screen for $20, refreshments not included. I think this is the essence of America--entrepreneurship in time of economic difficulties. I really admire that.

Here's installment 63 of Wasted Miracles.

***
With Joe the Cop gone, Colin tried to reach Mamadou, Catherine, Orin. No one was home but Marsha, Orin’s wife. She listened to Colin’s story and ordered him to go to the hospital.
Colin refused. “It’s not that serious. And if I go there, I’ll have to explain what happened and the police might be called. I don’t want to get involved with that.”
“Then come over,” Marsha said. “At least I can take a look at you, patch you up.”
So he did. Orin was in Pennsylvania roadtesting a new gizmo for wheelchair users. “I have no idea how it works,” Marsha said, “but it allows people to use this little device and change traffic lights.” She touched his head. “God, Colin, you’ve got a lump there the size of a goose egg.”
She wrapped ice in a towel, pressed it hard against the wound. He winced, groaned. She shushed him. “You really ought to go and get checked out. You could have a concussion. What’d they hit you with?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see it.”
“Well,” she pressed the ice down harder, “you’re lucky you’ve got a thick skull. But we knew that before, didn’t we?”
He nodded. His neck still hurt. “What I’m trying to figure out is how they knew anything about all this. I haven’t exactly been shouting from rooftops. Catherine wanted to keep everything quiet. And I’ve never heard of this guy, the Zulu.”
Marsha bent down, inspected her work. “The swelling seems to be going down... Well, it seems to me the best thing to do is figure out the odds here. How many people did you tell, and how many can you trust.”
“I’ve done that already.” He recounted the conversation with Joe the Cop.
Marsha was quiet for a moment. “What about Joe? He mentions it to other cops, they talk, word gets around.”
“No. I don’t think so. Joe knew how important it was to Catherine to be discrete. She didn’t even want him involved in the first place. I trust him. He’s been my pigeon for awhile, I know him pretty well.”
Marsha asked, “So who are the people you don’t trust?”
“Lars. He’s an asshole. But he has nothing to gain. Mamadou, the limo guy. He volunteered to help. It wouldn’t make sense for him to set me up. Mollie Catfish--”
“Who?”
“A girl, Josie was her sponsor.”
Marsha smiled. “That’s really her name?”
Colin nodded, winced. “She knows Josie. Met the boyfriend, Herbie. Didn’t like him, said he tried to hit on her.” As an afterthought, he added, “She’s a dancer. At a club downtown.”
Marsha looked thoughtful. “Lots of drugs in that kind of crowd. I used to know some dancers, back when I was working in a free clinic. They’d come in for tests, some were trying to get drugs, Valium, Xanax, Prozac, pretty much anything they could get their hands on. Lots of them were users. The money’s good, lots of tips, a lot more if they were willing to do parking lot duty.”
“Do what?”
“Parking lot duty. Go out with the customers to their cars. Quick sex.” She looked momentarily embarrassed. “A busy girl could make a lot of money that way. Here.” She took Colin’s hand, put the ice pack in it. “Hold that there for a few minutes. Anyway, the women I met always seemed to know who was selling what. Really well plugged in. So maybe it’s the dancer.”
Colin thought that might make sense, wasn’t sure. “But why?”
Marsha shook her head. “Hey, I’m no psychic. I’m offering suggestions. Someone comes to your house, beats the heck out of you, there’s got to be a reason, that’s all I’m saying. And it seems to me your friend Mollie is the weak link. I don’t think this other guy, the drug dealer, Herbie? I don’t think he rose from the grave just to get you roughed up.”
***

Things I Have Learned, Part I

Be honest--like me, on January 2, you participated in and heard the collective sigh of relief: It's over, hallelujah. We bid a not-so-fond adieu to 2008 and look to the new year with hope, wonder and trepidation.

As many of you know, I'm an alcoholic and addict who has not needed to drink or use drugs in almost 18 years. This never ceases to amaze me, and I can say with total candidness that I don't know how any of this occurred. I don't know if my chromosomes or environment are to be held responsible for my ailment, and I don't know why I have, so far, managed to stay clean. The former is of no import. I do not blame my parents or grandparents; my immediate surroundings both as a child and as an adult are innocent. The latter--sobriety--is far more meaningful and interesting. I think I have managed to stay clean through a regimen of fear, avoidance and faith. And a bunch of varied sayings and adages I've picked up over time. So, as we start a brand new year, I thought I'd share a few of these with you. Some are self-evident, others, I hope, will provoke some thoughts. Enjoy!

Things I Have Learned

1. I can be right or I can be free
2. People do the best they can
3. Nobody ever woke up and said, “I think I’ll be an asshole today.”
4. My first reaction is always wrong
5. Not every day has to be the best day or worst day of my life
6. I can’t erase the past but I can turn the page.
7. I’m powerless over alcohol, no matter who it’s in.
8. The less I mess with my future, the better it gets.
9. Faith is not jumping from A to B. It’s jumping from A.
10. I may be powerless but I’m not helpless.
11. Stop putting quarters in the jukebox if it don’t play your song.
12. It’s not whether we get it, it’s whether we do it.
13. Live in the process, not the goal.
14. Normal people tailor their behaviors to their actions. Alcoholics tailor their actions to their behaviors.
15. Don’t stand in the idiot spotlight.
16. You can’t work it every other day at a time.
17. No matter how far down the road you go, you’re always the same distance from the ditch.
18. Drinking is for reward or relief
19. Acceptance is not approval.
20. Honesty is having one story.
21. Crying doesn’t pay

And just in case you're still reading, here's installment 62 of Wasted Miracles.

Chapter 16

The door was still open ten minutes later when Joe the Cop walked in, a broad smile on his face. “Hey, Colin! I’m glad you’re home, I wanted to tell you about--Jeezus Christ what the hell happened to you!” Joe stood in the doorway. He sniffed the air. “Oh man, it smells like a distillery in here. You OK? Did you...” He let the question hang.
Colin was on the couch. His head hurt and he was rubbing the back of his neck. “Just fine, and no, I didn’t.”
Joe’s eyes were wide, taking in the tipped over Monkey Ward machine, the weight plates on the floor, the puddle of water in the kitchen. “Holy shit! What happened?”
“Had a visit. Two black guys, wanted information about a dealer called Herbie.”
Joe looked blank.
Colin continued. “Herbie was Josie’s boyfriend, except that he’s dead. I’m pretty sure it was the guy in the paper. These two guys seemed to think I knew him. I didn’t. They didn’t believe me.”
“What two guys?”
“Don’t know. Ever heard of someone called the Zulu? They were his people. He’s got Josie.”
Joe went to the kitchen. “Jeez. What a mess.” He foraged in the refrigerator, came out with a quart bottle of ginger ale. “Zulu. That rings a faint bell. Listen, you OK? Want me to take you to the hospital or something? You look kinda rocky.”
“They tried to pour some vodka down my throat.”
Joe came closer, inspected Colin’s face. “Oh jeez. That’s shitty.” He peered closer. “How’d you feel?”
Colin tried to smile but it hurt his face. “I think that if I’m going to have another drink, I’d prefer to pour it myself.”
Joe nodded. “Yeah. So. Want to go to the station? Try to ID them?”
Colin shook his head. “But can you go there and hit the computer? Search for Zulu, maybe find out who he is? I don’t understand any of this, why they would come here, how they’d know we’re looking for Josie... It doesn’t make any sense. Only people who know about it are you, me, Catherine and her husband. And that girl, Mollie Catfish. And the limo guy, Dioh.”
Joe counted in his head. “That’s what, seven people? Hard to keep a secret. You told the African guy? Shit, there it is. He probably told the other spade. Simple as that.”
Colin thought about it, decided against. “I don’t think so. Me and Catherine saw him. He’s straight.”
Joe looked doubtful, stood. “OK, I’ll check. Zulu. That’s Z-U-L-U. I’ll look under the AKAs.” Halfway to the door, he turned. “Almost forgot. Wanted you to see this. Maybe it’ll cheer you up. It goes into the record books.” He pulled a newspaper clipping from his notepad, found his reading glasses, put them on his nose. “Today’s Post. Listen to this. ‘A man driving a stolen car was shot to death early yesterday by a man apparently upset that his frolic in an open fire hydrant was disrupted by the car’s presence on the street, D.C. police said. Blah blah blah. The gunman and a woman who disrobed to join him were enjoying the rush of water from an open hydrant blah blah blah. A short time later, a 1988 Chevrolet Cavalier that police later determined was stolen drove onto the street.’ This is where it gets good. ‘Police said witnesses told them that the man enjoying the water became upset at the driver. He got up and took a handgun from a man standing nearby. The man walked to the car, fired several shots into the windshield and then fired several more through the passenger window. The driver was dead at the scene.’ Can you imagine that? Running around naked with your girlfriend in front of a hydrant and just offing another guy. You gotta admit, that’s rich.” Joe folded the clipping, replaced it in his notebook. “I’m keeping that one, nobody would believe it.”
***

A Very Good Day

For the past few years, I've been spending most holidays by myself. I don't like them, have a tendency to become anti-social. If I am ever rich and famous I will spend the requisite moneys to hire a shrink and learn from where my aversion stems. But that's not really important.

I had a wonderful Christmas eve. Went to an AA meeting that was SRO, which always happens around the holidays. Family, expenses, expectations all take their toll on alcoholics in recovery or not, and the holidays bring out both the best and worst of us all.

I changed the strings on my pedal steel guitar, all 20 of them, and re-tuned the damn thing. That occupied 90 minutes. I fooled around with some music-recording software and figured something out, and that made me feel very smart. I wrote a couple of pages of a novel I'm working on, did household chores and gave thanks that I was not in Bethesda, Maryland, where I lived years ago. A giant water main broke there, flooding roads qand carrying cars away. Thankfully, no lives where lost. I understand it made the top of Fox news nationally..

I wondered about the stupidity of some home-grown terrorists who decided to have a training video transferred onto DVD. They gave it to the engineer at the shop offering this service, and the young man, a high-schooler, took one look at the tape, heard gunshots and Arabic and called the cops. The bad guys were arrested. I wondered why the bad guys were convicted just yesterday when the incident happened in 2006.

I read that Obama exercises 90 minutes a day, and find that laudable. I cooked a superlatively good two-inch-thick filet mignon without burning it, (four minutes a side in the broiler, then four minutes in the oven) then watched an Englishmen (particularly sweet, that) making faces as he ate giant worms in Africa.I read The Elegance of the Hedgehog, translated from the French and highly recommended to anyone who wants to deride Kant and/or the utter silliness ofphenomenology.

I drove around and thought I am amazingly lucky. I have friends and people who care for me. I live in Fairfax County, Virginia, one of the wealthiest area in the country. The country, despite the recent economic downturn, remains the standard that most other countries aspire to. So I am blessed.

Thanks to all, and to all Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Animists, Wiccans, Zoroastrians, Taoists, agnostics, atheists, and any and all other I may be overlooking, I wish you the best of the day and the season.

Here's installment 61 of Wasted Miracles.

Chapter 15

Colin dropped Catherine at her house. She hadn’t spoken much on the way back from Mamadou Dioh’s garage, had merely said that she liked the man, asked Colin, “Do you really think he can help?”
Colin had nodded. “He knows a lot of people. Washington’s a small town.”
He caught the last half of a meeting at the Serenity Club, bought a plastic container full of salad and a ham steak at the Giant. In his mind he planned an early evening--a quick workout, food, an hour or two ambling the Net. Weights and the Web, then sleep.
As he came through the door to his apartment, something stunningly heavy hit him across the forehead. He staggered, dropped the Giant bag. A second blow caught him just above the navel. He coughed, vomited. A fist bounced into the back of his head.
When he came to someone had a handful of his hair, holding his head upright. A voice said, "Looka that! Man done puked on my shoes! On my shoes... Man, that's disgustin’. Brand new shoes, my Momma gave ‘em to me for my birthday. That's white man puke and now I'm gonna have to throw those mothers out. Ain't nothin’ more revoltin’ than white man puke..."
Colin felt a sharp ache, confusion. He wanted to say he was sorry, because he was. If someone had puked on his shoes, he would have been unhappy too. Especially if they were brand new and his mother had given them to him. It was a terrible, insensitive thing to do. He opened his mouth to apologize but the hand jerked at his hair, stretched his neck, slammed his jaw shut.
"Whaddya tryin to do," the voice said, "get me mad? Get me angry? Ain't pukin’ on my shoes enough? You just shut the fuck up, hear? Else I'm gonna make you eat them shoes, puke and all"
But it seemed important to tell the voice how sorry he was so he tried anyway. His efforts were rewarded by another sharp tug, followed this time by a gentle slap.
"Yo! You ain't hearin’ me, man? You don't seem to understand: what we have here is a precarious situation." The voice--it was a man’s--pronounced it "preecarious," with the accent on the first syllable. It didn't seem wise to correct him.
"Very precarious," he repeated. "Cause, see, I'm just this far from really bein’ pissed off over my shoes and all, and you ain't doin’ nothin’ to make me feel better. And I don’ think Harold likes you much either."
A very large presence swam into view, a broad expanse of tight black shirt over what seemed acres of chest and belly. A second voice, deeper than the first, said, "Man! Yore shoes is a mess. I wouldn't put my feet in those shoes for money."
Colin couldn't understand why they wouldn't let him say he was sorry. He'd replace the shoes, buy the man a new pair if it made him feel better. He tried to move his hands, to show he understood how the man felt, but his wrists seemed to be tied to... He was seated straddling the torture machine from Wards. Belts held his wrists to the crossbar, which was loaded with every weight plate he owned.
The deeper voice said, "Maybe the man's got a pair you can take. Looks to be about the same size feet."
The first voice bristled with disgust. "You want me to wear white man’s shoes? You crazy? Put my feet in some sorry fucka’s shoes that’s probably got some sort of white foot disease? Rot your feet off or something. Naw, man, this boy’s gonna buy me a new pair o’ shoes.”
A hand groped at his pockets, removed his wallet. There was the small tinkling sound of something metal hitting the floor.
“Yo. What’s this?” Howard held the large brass coin up to Colin eyes.
Colin said, “Chip.”
Howard held it up to the light. “Worth anythin’?”
Colin tried to shake his head. “No. Chip. AA chip.”
Howard addressed Harold. “Now the man’s stutterin’. A--a chip. A--a chip of what?”
With his free hand, Harold took the chip from Howard. “AA. Alcoholic’s Anonymous. That’s what this is. Whoo! Looka this, boy’s got seven years of no drinking. My dad had one like this, only it was for one year, and I know the sorry motha lied, he was nevah sober that long.” He handed it back to Howard.
Howard asked, “So it’s ain’t worth nothin’?”
“Not to us.”
“Well, sheeyit.” Howard tossed the chip away, it hit a wall, bounced on the floor. “So how’s he gonna buy me new shoes?”
Harold grunted, said, "Let's forget the shoes, awright? Let's just ask this nice man a couple of questions, find out what we wanna find out. Cause I got other things to do than stand around in a room that smells like puke."
The hand holding Colin’s head up found a new grip on the hair, pulled at it painfully. "OK, lissen up. Watcha wanta know about the Zulu’s lady friend? Why you asking all these questions? You ask us questions, we can probably tell you everything you want to know..."
Colin croaked, "Josie?"
Harold said, "Yeah, Josie. The white girl. You been all over town asking about her, about that dumb fucka Herbie. What's you're problem?"
Colin took a deep breath. His ribs hurt. His eyes were still looking at the first man's sullied shoes. "Herbie? He’s dead."
Harold dropped to a squat so his face and Colin’s were on the same level. "Well, no shit. Course he's dead. If he weren't dead, we'd be someplace else than here and Howard's shoes wouldn't be all messed up. What I want to know is, what do you want with poor old Herbie? He done something to you? Owe you money? Owe you dope, maybe?"
Harold and Howard. For some reason that sounded ridiculous. Black people aren't supposed to be called Harold or Howard. Especially not black thug type people. Colin shook his head. Every word he uttered seemed to leave him breathless. He wondered if he was having a heart attack, decided he wasn't but probably did have a cracked rib or two. He remembered the dull ache from martial arts. "Her mother’s a friend. Josie, I mean. That's all."
"Oh, man," Harold said. "Oh man oh man oh man. This guy's a hardass. Lissen to me, Mr. Marsh. You ain't in no position to be no hardass. Look at you, all those muscles and shit, probably work out a hunnerd times a week and look where you be? You got two plain ol’ street niggers who just took you out, tied you up and you puke all over their shoes? There's somethin’ here you don't understan’."
"A friend. Really. Didn't even know Herbie at all." It came out hoarse, between a croak and a whisper.
"No man, no man. I think maybe you did. And I think I'm losin’ my patience with this shit, it's borin’ me and I got a whole shitload of things I'd rather be doin’.” To Howard he said, “Gimme that thing.”
Howard and Harold exchanged something silver, square, solid. Colin braced himself. This was it. He was going to die. A few wet drops hit him in the face.
Harold stood over him, pulled back hard at his hair until his face was upturned, jaws forced open. Harold smiled slightly, neither benign nor evil. In his free hand he held a slim glass flask. Colin recognized the label. Harold tilted the flask.
Colin saw the clear liquid move gently to the flask's opening, pause there. He saw the slight curve before the vodka's surface tension burst. He saw the stream fall in slow motion towards his lips, felt it bounce off his nose, into his eyes, into his mouth.
It burned.
He gagged.
He tried frantically to close his mouth but Harold held his hair in ones fist, pulling, pulling, tearing the scalp from his skull. Colin whipped his head back and forth, retched, spit, tried to rid his mouth of the saliva, of the taste, of the elation.
Howard leaped back. "Mothafucka! You think you gonna do my shoes too?"
Harold guffawed, loosened his grip slightly. Colin jerked his arms up as far as the belts allowed, felt the Ward torture machine lift slightly, pulled harder. The machine swayed. Harder. It tilted. Harold's hand abandoned its hold, went to protect his face as the butterfly bars flew toward him. The machine was at a forty-five degree angle to the floor. It stayed there forever for a second and slowly crashed to the floor taking Colin with it. Weight plates scattered. A small one, a twenty pounder, came off the high side, sailed like a frisbee and hit Howard just behind the ear. Howard crumpled. His head made a nasty sound as it hit the floor.
The butterfly bar had caught Harold squarely across the nose and flattened it. He held two fingers to his upper lip as if trying to hold back the blood that already flowed past his chin and down onto his chest. He said, "My shoes! My dose! Now you fucked up my dose!"
The fall had torn loose the belt on Colin’s left wrist. His left hand scrambled to free his right one. His mouth was still watering and he sprayed spittle across the room. There was a moaning sound it took him moments to identify as coming from his own throat.
He scrambled to the kitchen, the two men momentarily forgotten. He lunged for the sink, batted the water open, grappled with the dish sprayer, aimed it full at his face. The water was stunningly cold. It ran into his mouth gagging him and he vomited again, felt his stomach muscles roll and heave.
Howard was in the doorway. He was laughing. "Mothafucka! You are a piece of work, ain't you?"
There was a knife in the sink. Colin’s hand reached for it. His eyes didn't leave Howard's. Howard was still smiling. The gash behind his ear had bled more than it should have. He touched it with a tentative finger, rubbed the blood between thumb and index.
"Piece of work," he repeated.
Then he turned away. Through the door Colin saw him grab the back of Harold's shirt, lift him effortlessly to his feet. "C'mon, boy. Let's go home." At the door, still holding Harold, he looked back at Colin. "Man, you leave old Herbie in peace, OK? I really don't want to have to come back here." He shook Harold like a puppet. "And my man here, I don't think he's got another pair of shoes."
[[[

Too Much Information

Lately I've been doing a lot of reading on Suzanne Valadon and Maurice Utrillo. Both were highly talented artists whose works are found in the best museums and beyond purchase by anyone but the wealthiest collectors. They lived in Montmartre, a Parisian neighborhood known for it's Bohemian allure, almost all their lives. Both were drunks, which is neither here nor there, and Suzanne was Maurice's mother. She died in 1938; he died in 1953 and they had what can only be described as a strange relationship.

But that's not what I want to write about, since all relationships are strange in one way or another.

No, what I'm interested in is the critics' fashion of parsing an artist's work--and by artist I mean a writer, dancer, musician, sculptor, the whole gamut of people who cannot but be creative--into meaninglessness.

Look at a painting; read a book. What happens? Your imagination, and the writer or painter's creation work together to form an alliance. This pact moves you in a way--you feel joy, sadness, revulsion on occasion, pity perhaps, even lust or envy. You and the artist form a symbiotic entente cordiale. He or she presents their work for your consideration, with the understanding that the artist is powerless over the audience. You, the audience, are willing to make a gift of time to the work. You read, you listen, you watch. In the end, both parties are affected by each other's willingness to devote a small period of life to pleasuring the other. An artist without an audience ceases to exist, and with no art there are no spectators.

The critics want to take this process over by dictating their views--which are assuredly more learned and educated than yours or mine ever will be. An author, critiquing Valadon's Nude Girl Sitting on a Cushion, writes: "...Valadon's intense characterization is translated through the deliberate distortion of certain forms, the importance of which is enhanced by their unexpected size... Most of the time the children's alienation is expressed through reductive images whose effectiveness is enhanced through their simplicity."

I have no idea what this means. Obviously the critic and I are not looking at the same work. I see a small pencil and chalk drawing of a young dispirited nude. It's an evocative work, and I suppose I resent the critic's muddying of what is, all in all, a very basic piece of art.

For the past few years I've spent a lot of time reading autobiographies of some noted painters, and I have yet to find one describing his or her work in the same language as that of the critics. I wish those who write or broadcast opinions on the quality of things such as art, literary works, and society as a whole would do their own thing instead of parsing the works of others. That seems like a waste of time, a second-hand way of relating to creativity without adding any creativity of one's own. Maybe it's just that I don't like critics.

Here's installment 60 of Wasted Miracles.

When the Zulu put down the phone his face wore a thoughtful but not displeased expression. He had learned not to question providence, knew that occasionally events take place that are beyond human understanding, knew as well that only very foolish people fail to take advantage of such moments.
It had not been a good day after all. A police sweep had closed the Sparrow Club and Dance Venue on Georgia Avenue the night before. He had never been there and wouldn’t care save that the club is owned by one of his best customers, and that on a good weekend up to a half-pound of the Zulu’s products was moved there. The Sparrow’s owner was now in jail facing many charges, and that didn’t worry the Zulu either, since there was a large buffer zone between him and the club-owner, whom he’d never met face to face. Additionally, the club owner was a very wealthy man whose lawyers probably at this very moment were preparing counter-charges since no doubt the man’s civil rights were violated.
What worried the Zulu is that he was not apprised of the raid, and he should have been. When one spends a minor fortune lining the pockets of various people in positions of authority, such things should not happen.
In another neighborhood the Immigration and Naturalization Services nabbed ten illegal immigrants who were also dealers. There was a front page story in the paper about it, how the INS drove three unmarked vans and just picked these people up right off the street. The Zulu should have known about that as well. The reporter’s account said neighbors cheered when one elderly woman managed to trip an escaping dealer with her cane.
The citizens’ patrol in Shepherd Park was also becoming troubling. This was a recent development, residents forming their own posses to rid their neighborhoods of undesirables. The Zulu knew the dealers would find another block not far away and that business would proceed as usual--these concerted efforts were almost always short-lived, but they wreaked havoc with the distribution schedule, and this he didn’t appreciate.
He drummed the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other. He looked at the notes he’d jotted while the caller was talking. Better safe than sorry, his great-great grandfather would say. Grasp the bull by the horns, anticipate rather than react. Colin Marsh, he thought. An Irish name? Or Scottish? Regardless of the man’s origins, the Zulu thought, there was no need for some misguided paladin to foul up the works. He picked up the phone, dialed a number.

The Flag, Part Deux

So what happened is that at first I hung the Fleur de Lys flag upside down above my house, which I suppose would have made me an anti-royalist. It wasn't my fault.... It was dark and cold, my fingers were numb. Anyone could have made the same mistake.

The next day, when it was flying properly, my next door neighbor on the right side knocked on my kitchen door. He's a nice enough man from the former Soviet bloc who solemnly detests his other neighbor, who is from the same former SB country. He asked if I was not taking chances flying this odd flag; someone had told him such a thing was illegal and he didn't want to hazard having the secret flag police maybe making a mistake and knocking on his door. I reassured him that it was perfectly OK but he seemed less than convinced. I caught his wife, who is a dentist, and his two Goths kids starring upwards with fear in their eyes. I spent some time on the Internet looking for the Virginia law that might apply, but it's hard to find a law permitting something since most laws are designed to be preventative.

A fews days later there were men cutting down the bamboo in the vacant lot behind my home. The stuff, it seems, has invaded nearby storm drains and caused minor flooding. My neighbor came over again and asked if I was sure about the law because the guys with the chainsaws cutting down the brush were obviously setting up a listening/viewing post, and this made him very uncomfortable. He asked politely whether I would consider taking the flag down and hoisting the Stars and Stripes. I demurred. Then he asked how much I thought he might be able to rent out his home to people coming for the Obama inauguration.
Since we live a few miles outside Washington, DC and near public transit, many homeowners in my area have let their houses out to Obamites for thousands of dollars through Craig's List and eBay. I suggested he call a rental agency and he apparently has done so. He now wears a large smile and plans to go visit friends in Canada during Inauguration Week. He hasn't complained about the flag recently. The men with chainsaws have gone away. The secret flag police has not swooped down upon us. Is this a great country or what?

Here's installment 59 of Wasted Miracles.

It took one phone call, Mollie thought she was smart, made it from a phone booth next to the Seven Eleven on Gallows Road. There was a lot of traffic, people pulling in and out of the parking lot to get coffee or foot-longs and she kept her back to the door so the customers wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t wonder why this woman was talking into the phone and there was a handkerchief wrapped around the mouthpiece.
She thought the man had a pretty sophisticated voice for a black guy, kind of English-sounding like those movies on Channel 26. He didn’t ask a lot of questions, said, “I see,” two or three times as she fed him the story, said, “Thank you,” before he hung up, which she appreciated. She liked polite people. One phone call. One million dollar phone call.
When she hung up she was shaking and there was a fine sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. Her stomach was churning so she went into the store and bought a hot pretzel with mustard from the Pakistani guy behind the counter. And since she felt lucky, since she thought today was going to be a day that would change her life, she bought three Powerball tickets, the prize was up to $4.5 million, can you imagine that kind of money?
She waited at the bus stop and munched on the pretzel. It was a bit too salty and she wished she’d bought a Big Gulp to go with it. She thought about what you could do with $4.5 million and that was simply too large a sum to deal with. So she pared it down to a million, say $800,000 if you sold cheap, which she was willing to do. For $800,000 you could get a very nice car, say a fully loaded Jeep Cherokee, Cherry Red with a killer sound system and lights on the roll bar. And a really decent apartment in Ballston, with a pool and a sauna and a place in the basement to exercise. Should she buy or rent? She remembered a guy she’d spent two nights with, he’d tipped her a couple of hundred, he was into real estate and he’d said always buy, renting is like flushing the money down the toilet. So, OK, she’d buy, a two bedroom condo would run, what? 175 to 200 max. OK, so that would leave about half a mil.
The bus pulled up, she got on, found a seat in the back. When she sat she noticed her legs were trembling.
With a half a mil you had to be careful, not go crazy and buy a Lamborghini. Half a mil was a finite amount of money. There were houses that cost that much and more, and then you’d have to get furniture, too. But realistically, who would want a place like that? You’d need a housekeeper and some guy to mow the lawn. She knew there were houses like that near Great Falls where the Kennedies used to live, and the notion of hobnobbing with such people brought a smile.
No, realistically, you invest, that’s how people get rich. You try not to spend the capital, live off the interest. She’d read that in the business section of Newsweek and the idea had appealed to her. She made a note in her mind to go to the library the next morning and read back issues of Forbes and Money.
She would move the dope through Bennie, the bouncer at the club, who knew absolutely everybody. Give him twenty grand, he’d jump at it, he was always bitching about being a bouncer, always saying that if he had a nest egg, things would be different. But she’d have to devise some sort of plan so Bennie wouldn’t rip her off. She made another mental note, Work on Plan.
The bus snaked down Gallows Road, cut right on Cedar Lane, melted into the traffic on Leesburg Pike and passed the Tyson’s shopping mall, which got her to thinking that one thing she would do when she got the bucks was treat herself to a full day’s shopping at Tyson’s II where all the better stores were. Nothing too fancy, no mink coat, but maybe a couple of pieces of nice jewelry, like a decent watch, and a Gucci purse. Spend maybe eight or ten thousand in one day, wouldn’t that be a hoot?
The bus lurched, there was a squeal of tires, a blasting horn. One thing, sure as hell, no more public transportation. She changed the color of the Cherokee from Cherry Red to Midnight Blue. Cherry Red cars attracted cops, no sense looking for trouble, it generally came without an invitation anyway.
Maybe she’d scam a little of the dope for her own personal use. Probably no one would notice, she’d get a box of baby laxative, two scoops of that stuff in, take two scoops of the China White out, who would know the difference? And if someone bitched, she’d say it was Bennie, he did it, the cheating motherfucker. You want your dope? Take it out of Ben’s hide.
***