In Nine Kinds of Pain

by Leonard Fritz

upstairs and probably fucked her to death. Probably to death. That’s how it usually turned out. So, this must have been the wining-and-dining period for Man Number Two before the honeymoon period, in which case Frady felt as though he got in on the ground floor.

  Ronald Frady knows that since his situation changed, since he flipped from good guy to bad, he’s been getting more respect in his building, especially from the brothers. As a straight cop, Frady would get harassed, batteries thrown through his windows like clockwork, tires slashed every Saturday night, all kinds of shit spray painted on the building about him. Now, now that he’s flipped, he runs the building by Pimp Rules. With Pimp Rules, a brother keeps his pimp hand strong. Frady, through the course of however long it took for word to spread throughout the building, bitch-slapped every person who lived within the sound of his deep voice. And his pimp hand is now strong.

  Ronald Frady knows that this is a bigger deal than just the stuff and the money that was in the bag that Baby probably stole. It is worth much more than that. It is the lead-in to what Frady hopes will be a big score. If goes went well, which it hasn’t so far, Frady assures himself a piece of the traffic that will come over next week across the Blue Water Bridge to the north (which is the largest entry point into the U.S. for secured shipments). It is a great scheme, well thought out, relying on the government’s own idiocy to make it work. Michigan is one of the few headless states that allows Canada to ship its garbage to its landfills (as if the people from Michigan don’t make enough of their own garbage). Ontario will ship any type of crap over to Michigan: bloody syringes and other medical shit, dead animals, toxic waste, anything that prevents their own country from remaining clean and pure. And if the government discovers that the garbage is too toxic for the people of Michigan (if it has more glowing green stuff than is normally allowed by law), the state fines them $1,000. (And that’s in U.S. dollars!) And then lets them keep dumping garbage. Knowing this, Frady’s crew decided to pool their overflow and buy the dump in Lenox Township and have special contents hauled there—the first gift-wrapped (bow included) order, a ton of pot. Literally, a ton. Brought over through customs in a garbage truck. But Frady told his Canadian friends to keep the bloody syringes to themselves, dump them in some other sap’s landfill in Michigan.

  Frady is using the Solid Waste Interstate Transportation Act of 2001 to his advantage.

  Just one of the many things that Frady knows.

  God Bless America.

  Outside of Dallas’ House

  The heat of the sun soaks Father Costa’s clothes, the sweat draining from his frail pallid form, yet the chill won’t leave him. He hopes the chill will leave him. He can sense the end; the inevitable, the battle to be waged inside the green-and-orange arena where his love awaits him. But he isn’t sure with whom he will battle yet—will the battle be with his Father’s ancient adversary Satan, or will the battle be with his Father in Heaven?

  God, or Satan; sometimes he can’t tell the difference between them.

  He needs Mary now. He needs her to be with him here, beside him. He wants to see her face again and for her to hold him in her eyes with adoration as she has done on many occasions before. Her arms would close about him, and she would take him to her breast with delicate tenderness. He needs his Mary now. He will find her, and he will be crucified.

  “Father in Heaven. Please hear me now.

  “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked of me. I’ve done everything you’ve wanted. You wanted me to spread your word, and I did that. You wanted me to preach to the people, preach peace and love and obedience of your Laws, and I’ve done that. You’ve asked me to keep pure my body, not give it to woman, and I’ve done that, too. I’ve done everything. I’ve done whatever you’ve asked of me. If you had asked for more of me, I would have accommodated you, you know that. I think you know that what I say is true.

  “But you haven’t asked more from me, that I know of.

  “I’ve been told by many people that I will die very soon. I’ve been told that I’ll be crucified, that I’ll die a horrible and painful death. I’ve been told that it was foreseen of me, in the books of the Scripture, to die at the hands of murderers. And I want to know . . . is that the truth? Is that what was decided for me, even before my birth? That I be executed? Or was that set aside for another, one of the prophets that crowd the streets of Jerusalem? Is it their fate to be crucified, or is it mine? What is my fate? I want to know now.

  “Have you condemned me to this earth to violently scrap me? Is that my fate, the fate that they speak of? Tell me, Father, for I’m listening. I want to know now, and I want for you to tell me.

  “This is just the beginning. I feel it. This is just what you’ve wanted of me, to spread your word! Your word is now getting spread! I’ve spread your word throughout everything you’ve asked of me.

  “Why could I have not given myself to a woman? What did that have to do with my ministry? Why is my celibacy relevant to my preaching? I never made the connection. I still haven’t. You ask for my body to be pure as the Great Temple is pure, yet I come to Jerusalem and the Temple is anything but pure! Sinners flock to the Temple as flies to stables! They vandalize and foul your holy ground! A brood of vipers are in command! And my body as the Temple, you ask? I am appalled by the comparison!

  “My soul is distressed, Father! What can I do? Who can I turn to? I want you to know that I wish to be saved from undergoing this hour of trial! Save me from my destiny! Father, I ask you this: Who will save my soul?

  “If my death, my gruesome death, be your bidding, then tell me so! Show yourself to me, Father! Make your name known to me! Show me how different I am from the prophets on the streets of Jerusalem. Speak to me! I want to hear from your own voice that you wish me to be executed, otherwise I will not accept my execution! I will not accept my fate!

  “I ask you to stay away from me from now on! You wish for me to die, but you don’t take my spirit while I sleep, or carry me from the earth in a fiery chariot! Instead, you have those who live on this earth destroy me! Why? Why are you asking me to suffer so? Take me back to Heaven in a fiery chariot, Father! Please, I beg of you, don’t ask me to allow myself to be crucified!

  “I want you to confront me yourself. I want you to stand before me and ask me to be executed. That is my wish. If you are the Almighty God in Heaven, then you will show yourself to me and ask me to die! If not, if you do not wish to show yourself to me, then I will turn my back on you! I will lead my life, spreading your word as a prophet, give myself to my beloved Mary and have many children by her that will spread your word as well.

  “But if you do not face me, or confront me, then your will not be done! I will reject my Cloth and reject your service and live for myself!”

  Father Costa nearly passes out by the fire hydrant.

  Baby Remembers

  Baby realizes that she’s drifting in and out of consciousness and decides that, if she has to choose, she will stay inside of her own head for a little while.

  She remembers when she was a little girl going to school and the kids making fun of her because her braids were always so tight and knotty. She remembers that the only time they didn’t really make fun of her was on the playground. She was always the fastest kid around, in or out of school. When she would run, she would feel as though she was running alongside the wind and racing against it, and that it couldn’t keep up. Her feet were naturally fast. She was the best in the neighborhood at Double Dutch, too. She never had shoes that would keep because of her fast feet. She would always break them down too quickly. It wasn’t her fault, though—the shoes were usually hand-me-downs from neighbors or friends or cousins and were already on their way to the garbage pile anyway. She would still get smacked by Mama, though, for tearing up her shoes. She would think, years later, about her ability to run fast, and how Mama should have been proud of her, not mad at her.

  She could dance, too. She knew all the moves. When she was really, really young sh
e would hear the older girls talk about trying to get the chance to dance on “The Scene” which made Baby want to dance on “The Scene,” too. The show came on at six o’clock on the pre-CBS owned Channel 62 <“It’s six o’clock and it’s time to rock, and we rock, rock, rock ’til seven o’clock.”> and when Baby was caught watching it one day by her mother, she was scolded. “You ain’t dancing on no ‘Scene,’ ” her mother told her. “Them’s East Side niggas, and you ain’t involvin’ yourself with none of them!”

  “The Scene” was cancelled by the time Baby was seriously considering taking a bus down Jefferson to the studios, and the show was replaced by “The New Dance Show” which was cancelled when CBS took over the channel, but Baby still danced, mostly in private, mostly by herself, mostly because her mother didn’t like the way the boys looked at her when she danced, her newly formed young breasts shaking, their eyes burning a hole through her tight shirt.

  She went to a school that was mixed, mostly Hispanic. Her most vivid memory of school and the playground was the time they decided to play “Roots.” In “Roots” all the black kids would “escape” and the “masters” (the white and Latino kids) would try to catch them and corral them up. None of the kids seemed to mind until word got out to one of the teachers that the kids were playing this game every day during recess, and the game was abruptly ended. Parents were called in, kids were suspended, tensions were raised, and all because of the game “Roots.”

  The funny thing about “Roots” is that the other black kids and her didn’t mind the game. It was fun. And since Baby was the fastest kid in the whole school, in the neighborhood, she would never get caught and corralled. She would always outsmart and outrun the masters, and they would get angry because they could never catch her. And then she was able to free some of the other slaves, and the masters would have to re-catch them, only long enough until she came along and released them again. The game was an ego-boost for her, and many of the other kids, black, white, and Latino, respected her skills at running and looked up to her for it. It was probably the last time she was looked up to for anything.

  The kids never played “Roots” outside of school because the black, white, and Latino kids, for the most part, didn’t play with each other outside of school. Most weren’t allowed to.

  Once she turned twelve, she began to develop more than the other girls, so she stopped running.

  ThursdayintoFriday

  Here is Wisdom

  You know that, in the case of the Mexicans from Mexico, you have to give them credit. They leave their families in Mexico to come all the way to Southwest Detroit via Texas, work for half a year, and then go back until the weather warms up in Midwestern America again. Some stay, the ones who pay triple the market value for their house. They decide to make a go in the Good Ol’ USA. And once they pay triple for their house, they decide to pay triple for the old car wash and turn it into a Mexican restaurant. And then buy what used to be Murray’s corner store and turn it into a Mexican restaurant. And then what used to be the bar on the corner and turn it into a Mexican restaurant. Maybe they should put their heads together and consider American Capitalism at its finest and realize that having one Mexican restaurant open for every Mexican family in the city isn’t such a profitable idea. But they’ll learn.

  You know that they are the city’s only salvation. You know that the Mexicans will save the city, and without them the city is lost. They are the life support of the city, the only thing keeping it going.

  Some Mexicans decide that an actual building for their business would be cumbersome. Some just open a tent on the sidewalk and sell their wares that way. They soon find out you need a vendor’s license. But maybe not; not if they’re fast enough. Most have carts, because wheels are better. They sell Mexican ice cream, which are flavored Popcicles. They sell corn on a stick. It’s just as it sounds—an ear of corn, on a stick. They sell melon and let you choose which one you want, and they slice it for you and serve it to you on a paper plate with a plastic fork. And they sell meats. What type of meats, no one is sure. It’s fatty, and you need strong teeth to pull it apart, and it’s sometimes served wrapped in a tortilla.

  And because of the summer infestation, all businesses either have a translator or cater only to those who speak the language. It’s good business, but bad for those who’ve lived in the neighborhood their whole lives. Because those who’ve been there their whole lives are now the outsiders. They are now the intruders. They are now the ones who don’t belong.

  And now they have one more reason to want to get the hell out of the city.

  The Man Who Would Be Savior

  “Father in Heaven, I choose to speak to you again.

  “I asked you to show yourself to me. I asked you to make your presence known to me and to tell me yourself, with your own words, that you want me to continue to spread your word. But you have yet to do so for me, to show yourself to me. Still, I haven’t given up on you. My faith in you tells me that you will show me the rightful path. Can’t you see how I care for you? I believe, Father, I truly believe. I just wish to see the rightful path now, now in my hour of need, instead of later. I can’t wait any longer. Tell me now, was the man who came to me, the man who died, was he the sign I’ve been longing to receive? Was he supposed to tell me of your existence? Tell me, Father, please tell me.

  “I feel as though the people in my parish have turned on me. I just know it. They scorn me under their breath for not being the church minister they anticipated, and they resent me because of it. They wish me gone. That is what you wanted all along, right? For me to leave this, what I felt was my calling? My fate is now written, thanks to you. Your will be done, whether I am willing or not.

  “Again, I tell you that my soul is distressed. Again, I tell you that my body is at its physical brink. Again I tell you that I realize my destiny, but I wish to be saved from this trial. Please, I beg of you, save me from this! Help me to do your bidding! Don’t abandon me! Save me, Father!