and onions that have unskinned on the floor,
a home where the walls were like her lips
on your own before night or morning.
[Back to Table of Contents]
In Defense of the Boll Weevil by Kenneth L Clark
Here in Dothan
I am Alabama, red
dirt fingernails
and muscadine.
—
Cotton fields & peanut
farms circle Southern
commerce of garage sales,
scratch-offs.
—
& the blue laws our indigo stomach suffers.
—
Here in the South,
America plays tin-can
castanets for the trampoline
brigade, lines up on farm
roads to wave hello.
—
Says to the cloud-cloth of October, Lay down
beside me, and hum.
—
I heard them say,
Let us leave Dothan
as we arrived, unbound
by the bracelets of bills
and bad planning; let us
return to the universe
we keep alone, inside
of us on travels
—
and between dreams
when we are not
who we want to be
but who we were.
—
[Back to Table of Contents]
Catholic Girls by Kenneth L Clark
It's painful
to remember girls
from Chapelle
who were known
to be loose
& carefree.
—
By any adjective
to me it meant
one thing:
—
at the lakefront
they'd
roller-skate by
or worse, walk
a slow stroll
that contained
the 2nd degree
of unavoidable
gravity.
—
What killed me
was how they wore
their uniforms
as if plaid skirts
and saddle shoes
lacked magic when
we knew they
had to
—
or last week
when I cleaned
our bathroom
& your hairbrush
free from loose
strands, & picked
up your panties
for the wash—
—
how the things
you have remind
me that to taste
nectar we first
pierce the fruit.
—
Please oblige
me one favor
and put on
this skirt
—
and giggle.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Item 27 by Mike Procter
So I'm going through my list and I get to Item 27, “Off someone". And I can't really remember even putting that one down, but it's there on the list. And the list is sacred. I can't just start dropping things off because they're inconvenient, or there's no point in having the list in the first place. The list exists to push me to try new things. Step outside of my comfort zone.
I compromise and change it to “Have someone offed", because I'm pretty sure that's what I must have meant. I add some quotes around the word “offed” to show that it's not a real word, and I realize I'm stalling. But how do I start? Putting aside the fact that I don't even have a victim—recipient? target? target—I haven't the faintest idea how to go about finding a person in the “offing” business.
But then, if it was easy, it wouldn't be on the list.
I reconsider doing it myself. I don't have a gun or anything. Obviously, I could get hold of a knife, but I'm kind of shy and knifing someone seems like such an intimate act. I am always considerate when it comes to other people's personal space. I mime a couple of experimental stabbing motions and confirm that it's just not for me.
And what about the victim? I mean ‘target'. I glossed over my lack of one but, really, the target provides the whole motivation for this type of undertaking.
Yet again I find myself getting bogged down in the details. No wonder I never get anything done.
I decide my original intention must have been to go through the exercise of arranging the deed so as to be prepared should the need ever arise. Makes a lot of sense, as this is clearly not as straightforward as one would hope.
I change it to “Research having someone ‘offed'” and immediately feel more content about the whole thing. This is still an important, difficult goal, but an obtainable one.
I'm back to having to find someone in the profession of killing people. I don't bother looking in the yellow pages, although I do have to resist the urge a couple of times. How stupid would it be if the answer was there all along?
The problem, of course, is how to look for a referral without overtly advertising one's desire for the service. I get around this by way of a simple, but quite clever, ruse.
"Those movies,” I say, possibly to a colleague at work, “they are soooo unrealistic. I mean, they make it look like everyone just happens to know someone who happens to know where you can hire a contract killer. As if.” I can be quite a good actor.
As I expected, most people are eager to prove me wrong. I love taking advantage of human nature.
I eventually end up with an address from a guy I don't even know in Accounting. He says I can check it out if I don't believe him and I, continuing my act, respond, “Yeah, right. I'm really going to hire a hit man."
The address turns out to be for a bakery, which—I know from watching The Sopranos—is, in fact, a “front". I watch the place and wait until there are no other customers. I enter. The smell of fresh-baked pastry distracts me. Killing and cookies don't seem to go together somehow.
The man behind the counter has a no-nonsense air to him. That helps. “What can I get you?” he asks.
"I would like to enquire as to your prices to perform a certain ... service,” I say.
"Oh yeah? What kinda service?"
"I would like to have someone terminated with maximum persuasion."
He looks at me, confused. Then he smirks. I hate it when people smirk. Even assassins.
"You mean ‘maximum prejudice'?” he asks.
"Uh, yes.” Crap.
"'Cause I ain't never heard of no ‘maximum persuasion'."
"Yes. Okay. Maximum prejudice. Excuse me."
"Hey, Jerry. Get this. This guy wants someone terminated. With ‘maximum persuasion'."
Jerry really seems to find this hilarious. While the two of them enjoy a good laugh, I make up my mind not to give them my business. I'm very sensitive to poor customer service.
"Just give me a dozen whole-wheat buns,” I tell him, not wanting the trip to be a total loss. I evaluate the tone of my voice and find it satisfactorily curt.
"Sure,” he says. “Would you like those with or without persuasion?"
"In fact, make it half a dozen. After all,” I move from curt to terse, “I don't know if they're any good."
He stops chuckling. The smile disappears. The lips disappear.
Too bad I don't have “Insult people who kill for a living” on the list.
He slaps the bag down on the counter. I pay him and hold my hand out for the change, but this too is dropped on the counter. I have to move fast to prevent a stray quarter from rolling away. I leave quickly.
I decide to put Item 27 on hold. I start to eat one of the buns and go on to 28: “Meet Eminem".
Huh.
Maybe he'll know someone.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Mad Dogs—nonfiction by Christian A. Dumais
The lesbians are on the bed doing what lesbians do w
ith their clothes off.
"You like, Amerykanin?” asks one of the lesbians.
"Tak.” I'm sitting a few feet away drinking a beer. My participation is not required or wanted; this is only meant to be an exhibition. I look outside the window and see that it's light out already. I close my eyes to remember what darkness is like and I feel sleep wanting to take over. I can't remember the last time I slept. I think it was yesterday, but yesterday feels like my fifth birthday—only I know this can't be true because I'm not wearing my Superman Underoos.
With my eyes closed, I can hear the lesbians, their kisses connecting and disconnecting, their sighs rising and falling, and their fingers clicking in a liquid vacuum. And while I appreciate these sounds, I can't help but wonder how it is I got here in this strange little apartment in Krakow with these two Polish women. I don't even know if I have money for a taxi back to the hotel—Do I still have a hotel room?—let alone the train home tonight.
Blaming myself for my current situation sounds easy enough I guess, but I'm not known for taking the easy way. And besides, in this case, the journey towards personal responsibility seems more important than the destination. Instead, I think of the cold bastards who took me out tonight, who bought most of the drinks that've replaced my precious blood with sweet, sweet alcohol, who disappeared one by one as the evening progressed in this dark city, and I decide to blame them.
But that's not fair, is it? If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be here with the lesbians, who are now using toys. No, I must absolve these fine gentlemen and instead focus my frustration on the organization they work for: the Secret Service.
Why did they take time out from protecting the second most powerful man in the world to completely screw up my life?
Were they under orders to doom me?
* * * *
Just twelve hours ago, I was at the hotel bar charging ridiculously expensive beers to someone else's room when the bar began to fill up with Americans. The mood of the bar altered dramatically, as if someone had opened a window to let the winter air in. The bartender—a man who had been smiling and laughing with me minutes before—served the Americans with a cold indifference.
The Polish have a genuine love for Americans, but they frown upon us when we congregate in large groups, where we're harder to influence under their hospitality. While they're kinder and more intelligent in ways we'll never properly understand, our confidence makes them nervous, which is why they'd rather deal with us individually, when we're quieter and less likely to cause property damage.
There were two groups of Americans in the room. The men in suits discreetly ordering drinks at the bar were Secret Service, in town with Vice President Cheney. The other group, who were noiser and less formal, were either college students on holiday or business people who had just discovered alcohol.
The latter group appeared to be going out of their way to proclaim that they weren't just Americans, but very important.
"It's a shame the beer's good but everything else sucks,” said one of them.
"This place is trying too hard to be America anyway. Identity crisis much?” said another.
"Like this country has a chance,” said a third.
The agents finished their drinks quietly and wandered away—all the while maintaining the dignity and politeness they had arrived with—yet these people remained, interrupting their myopia only to complain about the service and make fun of the locals, embarrassingly unaware that most Poles know enough English to understand the gist of what's being said. They even took the time to observe my aloofness and my clothes and label me a “Polish guy who believes he's rich,” whatever that meant.
America has a bad enough name these days without this kind of nonsense. There's just too much unfocused anger floating around to be this crass. America is a brand name that's been tarnished: slightly recognizable, clearly not the same. If you're American, you see this better from a distance. It's like watching a beautiful sunset ruined by a series of massive clouds. It's just one of those sad little events that breaks your heart wider than you thought it ever could. It hurts us even though we know it represents change and that to resist it would lead to even more heartbreak. It hurts just the same.
I believe that's where all this new anger is coming from, this dissent: it comes from broken hearts.
These people—with their innate obliviousness, thoughtlessness, and tactlessness—represented everything I detest about my own people. Not that I'm better than them; I've probably done worse. But when you're the considerate American in a room full of crass Americans on foreign soil, their behavior inevitably gets reflected on you. And that might have been fine if I were like them, a tourist without a care in the world. But I'm not like them. I haven't had the luxury of enjoying the prosperity the currency exchange rate provides or the ability to take Poland for granted, with the detachment that appears to be unique to Americans, in a long time.
That part of my honeymoon ended a few months after I moved here.
* * * *
Three hours later, feeling slightly tipsy on an empty stomach, I met up with a group of agents in the hotel lobby. I was briefly introduced to everyone as the receptionist called us some taxis. There were five of them, their suits replaced with casual attire that was too light for the winter outside. Their handshakes were firm and their eyes met mine confidently.
Their ages ranged from the late twenties to the late thirties. Fashion-wise, they looked like they belonged together. However, physically, they didn't have that Stepford quality I'd expect from the Secret Service, that chiseled, squinty-eyed, three-genes-removed-from-Clint-Eastwood look. Some were tall, some were short, some were fit, and some weren't (though even the least fit could probably have hurt me badly without breaking a sweat). To be honest, they looked like frat boys. And though they no longer looked official without their suits on, they still exuded an aura of authoritativeness—a trait that most law-enforcement officers have a hard time shrugging off.
They were also extremely tired. Not only had they been working twelve-plus-hour days, they'd been doing the bar scene in Krakow the previous two nights with the same intensity they put into their workday.
"I feel like absolute shit,” said Bruce, one of the agents. “I'm not doing the drinking thing tonight."
"That's what you said last night,” said another agent.
"And the night before that,” added another.
"I mean it tonight,” Bruce said. “Christ, I can't believe how strong the beer is here."
"The beer's stronger than magic,” I said.
Bruce stared at me blankly for a few seconds before saying, “Well, magic shouldn't taste so fucking good."
"It'll taste better tonight."
He gulped and his eyes appeared to water. “I was afraid of that."
* * * *
I sat in the front of the taxi. Bruce and Alan, a tall agent with thick eyebrows, sat in the back. Two of the other agents followed in another taxi behind us. I told the driver where to go in my broken Polish. He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. The snow was falling outside in huge pieces. It was by far the worst weather I'd seen in Poland. Considering the poor visibility and the taxi's high speed, the driver must've thought the weather was normal.
"What's it like living here?” asked Alan.
I turned around in my seat. “It's great. I live in Wroclaw, about four hours away by train. This is my first time here in Krakow."
Bruce leaned forward. “What's Wroclaw like?"
"It's a lot like Tampa, meaning it's too small to be a city, too big to be a town, and its identity relies on its inability to know what it truly wants to be.” The taxi stopped at a red light. “How's Krakow been treating you guys?"
Alan said, “It's been great. The people're nice. Well, there was.... Oh, never mind."
Bruce laughed and tapped the back of his hand on Alan's chest. “He got punched in the throat on the first night."
Alan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, apparently I was saying s
ome guy's name wrong—not rolling my r's like I'm supposed to or something—"
"It's a genetic thing, too, isn't it?” Bruce interrupted. “Either you can or you can't do it, right? Like sexual stamina."
"Right. It's genetic. So anyway, the guy punched me in the throat."
"How did that go?” I asked. “The poor bastard had no idea he was messing with people who're trained to kill."
"It's not like that, not at all. I was cool with it and I handled it well. I felt he simply communicated his concern in a poor manner. I was more worried about the other agents. Some of those guys're ex-football players and love an excuse to mess someone up. But, like I said, I was cool. Other than that minor incident, it's been great."
"A Polish girl called me a dog!” said Bruce.
"What happened?” I asked.
"The bathrooms here're fucked up. You're either a circle or a fucking rhombus or something, and I didn't know what I was."
"A triangle. Women're circles."
"I know that now, yeah, thanks. I didn't know what I was the first night. I didn't want to go into the wrong one. I ask the guys here which bathroom I'm supposed to use. Some of them say circle, some say triangle, because, you know, it's more interesting to fuck with me. I'm thinking, so it's going to be like that, is it? Fine. I'll wait it out."
It was Alan's turn to laugh.
Bruce continued, “There were these beautiful girls at the table next to us. Eventually one of them got up to go to the bathroom. So I stand up and lean over to watch her and see which room she goes in—which is a circle, by the way."
"Like we told you!” Alan interjected.
"Right, right, thanks. So anyway, the other girl at the table sees me doing this and thinks I'm checking out her friend's ass. That's when she tells me that I'm a dog. She was nice enough to say it in English so I'd understand. Loudly, too."
"The funny thing is,” I said, “you couldn't tell her the truth. That would've sounded worse."
"Oh, no way! I told her, I told her. I said I didn't know which bathroom I was supposed to use. I felt like I was four years old. It was great. Some secret agent...."
They mentioned a few other “concerns” they had with the town, but, overall, it seemed impossible to dampen their enthusiasm. For every punch in the throat, there were four stories about a Polish person doing something incredibly generous. They seemed really amazed at how munificent Eastern Europe was as a whole, from the service to the women to the prices; they seemed hesitant to mention anything remotely negative about Poland.
GUD Magazine Issue 1 :: Autumn 2007 Page 19