by Ron Charach
cab’s foot takes to sort o’ movin’ slowly right—sideways as if he were drawin’ a line between his authority and these-here ass-embled emotivists. He kicks a bit o’ dirt—his hands near his spangled triangle, hoverin’ over his shooters. Isosceles stance.
An’ the mob’s thinkin’ Why isn’t Will Gordon sayin’ somethin’ an’ a couple o’ men start to cock triggers—waitin’ though for Gordon to call off cabana with a good ole-fashioned explanation.
Kyaaaaaaaaannnn!
Kee-yaaaaaaaaannnn! Keeyaaaaaaaaaannnn!
ricochets cab’s volley—lettin’ fly—the hot lead meltin’ in flight an’ whizzin’ an’ buzzin’—makin’ you wish there were still subway entrances to dive down as the mob disperses for its ko-llective life. An’ cab’s guns keep blazin’, one firin’ then t’other and t’other agin ’til there’s thirty or more shots comin’ from each barrel—an’ shots goin’ on even as he slides in another ammo clip— an’ it’s clearer than day that there’s two sets o’ semi’s at work a-boomin’ an’ a-blastin at the mob of the day. When that mob’s been coaxed into absence even Will Gordon takes flight like the afterthought he is—cryin’ an’ cursin’ himself as his shame starts t’rapidly eclipse his revenge. Wishin’ he’d have taken up gun-slingin’ ’stead o’ pharmacy—half-wishin’ he’d had the courage to freeze-dry his grief on the end o’ one o’ them warnin’ volleys whistlin’ overhead.
An’ when cab’s done, he does sort o’ a half-twist t’ward them two other stutterin’ gats ’at was helpin’ him along—an’ standin’ there proud as a horse’s dick at the races is big ned. With galloway jest hidin’ ’tween ned’s filthy faded originals—awaitin’ cab’s decree.
cab jest veers in an about-face an’ heads back into ma’s to wash up, motionin’ for trapper dan to wipe the dirt off his facsimile of a face—fixin’ him with eyes that so clearly say pig that the trapper starts feelin’ the end of his nose t’see if it’s mor-phosed into a snout from the heat o’ cab’s glare.
cab’s veerin’ like that means he’s glad that big ned came ’round when he did, maybe glad enough t’even let snake-eyed galloway crawl across the earth for another day. ’Cause cab always shoots them ’at would flee him as soon as he sees ’em—if’n he’s gonna shoot at all. He pulls none—’ceptin’ his own.
galloway ever-so-thankful to ned. Weren’t that a fine idea for ned t’suddenly switch t’wards helpin’ the otherwise-pre-occupied cabana? (Instead o’ pluggin’ him from the rear.)
How ever-fuckingly thoughtful of him! How spawn-fucking-taneous. Congratu-fucking-lations!
—We’re actually back in his good graces, you an’ I, ned—he’s grateful! cabana’s grateful! Who knows just how useful this new good will towards us may yet turn out to be...
But all big ned’s thinkin’ about is PUSSY an’ his li’l reward—an’ he lets his oversized bawd o’erhang the petitionin’ galloway as he looms t’be serviced.
But galloway pulls away. In his humble opinion: a clause that might limit the amount payable. The contract specified cabana’s life and not some meager act like breaking up an essentially leaderless mob of town simpletons posing as a posse determined to transform a druggist into a sheriff.
But galloway ain’t ezackly hankerin’ to tell big ned a simple no dice— reasonin’ that if he does, the far-from-vegetarian ned might just reach down into his throat an’ rip his tonsils out an’ eat ’em right before him, which’d be a mite distasteful so he simply tells him…
A place. Where to find her. A field ’at galloway really does own but which is not the right field—one that’s occupied by faux cows and Henry Moore sheep that just might lure the ever-tumescent ned away from the cows. Tells ned about this field in con-fie-dential man-to-man whispers, an’ wouldn’t you know it, the propuhtee is a mere three and a half miles away. Three and a half miles, ned, then Ouch and O-my!—she gets to savor your freshly steaming loaf deep inside her.
Ned steams off in search of a far-away girl-on-paper—lumberin’ fast as he can albeit dead-opposite to the direction where Louise actually is currently changin’ diapers on her whingin’ Jamie-boy. An’ galloway pens the followin’ note in preparation for when ned seethes his way back with even bloodier-shot eyes:
BIG NED: HAROLD GALLOWAY HERE. HAVE GONE TO VISIT TENANT ON ONE OF MY MORE EXTENSIVE HOLDINGS. ANNUAL GENERAL MEETING THIS TIME OF YEAR. WILL RETURN SHORTLY. SORRY I MADE A MISTAKE IN THE DIRECTIONS TO THE GIRL. WHEN I GET BACK, I’LL BE SURE TO GIVE YOU THE RIGHT DIRECTIONS, TO MAKE GOOD AND SURE THAT YOU LOCATE HER. CAN’T YOU JUST TASTE HER?
ON MY WAY TO MY MEETING I’LL DROP IN ON HER. WILL TELL HER TO SPRUCE HERSELF UP REAL NICE DOWN-BELOW FOR YOU.
EVER YOUR FRIEND AND ASSOCIATE,
H. GALLOWAY
On his way t’leavin’ town—ole sly harold stops in at Carla’s bar seein’ as it’s mornin’ and none of the eight are there. Learns from Lucy that Gordon’s young son Gary bled to death, real ugly-like—leg caught in a bear trap. Clucks his tongue with an oh-my-Gawd kind o’ flavor and com-poses the followin’ note, to druggist Bill Gordon:
DEAR BILL:
HAROLD GALLOWAY HERE. UNSPEAKABLE SORROW ON LEARNING OF YOUR RECENT TRAGIC LOSS. ONE OF MY BUSINESS ASSOCIATES JUST INFORMED ME ABOUT IT. WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS… SUCH THINGS ARE BEYOND CREDULITY, EVEN IN THESE FRAUGHT TIMES. CONDOLENCES TO YOUR FINE WIFE SHEILA. THE DEAR LADY MUST BE BESIDE HERSELF WITH SORROW.
WILL REDOUBLE OUR EFFORTS AT SAFER NEIGHBORHOODS AND COMMUNITIES. OUR THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS ARE WITH YOU AT THIS TRYING TIME.
YOURS WITH FOND REGARDS,
HAROLD GALLOWAY
ACTING PUBLIC SAFETY MINISTER
But Bill Gordon is dead by the time the note reaches his home, the steel grillwork still tight across the front of his pharmacy weeks later. Never to return to work. Instead, broke through an emergency exit of the biodome, throwin’ himself down on the burnin’ desert sand and breathin’ the ferocious air to his heart’s delight—then snuffin’ his indignation by blowin’ his brains out with a reconditioned revolver he’d been handed by one of the townies before he marched off to ma’s.
galloway arranges for Gordon’s widow Sheila to stay on for a while in the suite above the store—sort of keep the name Bill Gordon ’round these parts a while longer. Shakes his head over the little bundle of a boy named Gary to whose above-ground-burial funeral he plans to con-tribute still more o’ those new dollars that bear his very own signature.
That’s life for you—one endless game of recycling.
katydid, katydidn’t
Night.
You can’t see dirt at night. Still the added weightiness of cold night air gives the illusion of depth. And fills in another sensation: taste. So that you taste the dark. And it tastes thick.
henry morgan lying across the sofa, one leg crossed on the other, looking out at the night through the big bulletproof one-way window at ma’s, looking over the sprawled bodies of six other sleepers, snoring away in the sound sleep of those who know not what to ask. The window frames the senseless block of black, its stars inconsequential as crumbs—a picture you could look away from easily if there were something else to turn to.
For a moment his gaze falls on black amos barton, whose ebony skin blends with the room, except for the bluish shine from a line or two in his craggy face. But henry’s eyes turn right back towards the night. And are riveted.
’Til now he hadn’t really looked at it. Hours ago he sat there on the polar bear rug binging on thawed Sara Lee cake and savoring the moment. When a voice he knew to be Bill Gordon’s croaked out the death-word cabana—while henry’s gun remained snug in its holster, all that fateful afternoon. How he licked dark chocolate from his fingers without even liking its taste while his ears listened in on what was going down outside. How he’d excused himself and went to the back room to try and nap rather than
take a flying leap at the inevitable.
It was tailor-made terror—for an honest druggist who would knock the profit margins off prescriptions whenever someone couldn’t come up with the money and who would patiently try to explain to someone with the IQ of a shirt-size exactly how to take their precious medicine. And to think how henry just lay there licking his fingers clean. Finger food. Bugger’s banquet.
henry morgan’s eyes press shut fighting a soul that wants night-data, that wants to contemplate life outside the high-tech window. His eyes flicker their little night-brushes, their paper-thin walls that have managed to close out so many worst-case scenarios.
But night’s fingers ease under eyelids and stretch them open to yank him from the blackout. Tears begin to well up and nearly overrun the barricades. When suddenly he is bailed out—by his ears. Because he can hear the night cry out and its sound takes his mind off everything that took place on the day of the confrontation. What the night says is Katydid. Katydidn’t. Crickets are using the silence as a backdrop, the silence that traps your sense of awe like a net.
Katydid. Katydidn’t. Katydid. Katydidn’t.
Right now some trigger-happy crickets are leaping over the white clouds covering the two Gordon corpses, father and son—rubbing their legs together in an old creaky fiddler’s number and depriving the bodies of the power that silence bestowed on them. On the roof of an old warehouse other crickets move slowly along the broad wooden beams and beyond. They climb across another bloodied cloth, their bandy legs squealing Katydid. Katydidn’t. The dried blood on the blanket flakes off as the wind-up crickets pass against it, their every move revealing more and more of the thin, white, blood-marbled meat to the indifferent night. A leg John Gideon stored aloft instead of surrendering it to galloway’s self-feeding dry-ice dumpster—a leg there might still be a use for. Katydid. Katydidn’t chirp the crickets of the soul. Columbine to Taber, Virginia Tech to Dawson. Au-ro-ra, dark night Au-ro-ra—Newtown, Newtown, Newtown.
The absurd little to-and-fro soothes henry morgan, so that his eyes finally close and he is whisked away—like some important captured foreign diplomat too powerful to torture—to a land of deep, forgiving sleep.
Corporealization
black amos barton and the racial question
Now it might seem kind o’ strange to have one black man kickin’ up his slinky legs on the coffee table at ma’s an’ sort of chompin’ on a powerful see-gar and laughin’ with a lifetime’s worth of pearly whites. ’Cause if’n there was only one black man, several questions might come to mind: lak, mebbe he is about t’be e-radicated, seein’ as how he is a my-nority group. And if’n that’s the case, how does he dare set around chompin’ on that ashy volcano o’ his, smellin’ up ma’s drapes an’ damn near poisonin’ the bread dough with it whenever he struts into the kitchen? His very name black amos barton shows that these-here questions of pig-mentation were not en-tirely overlooked.
Still another query pokes up its beady little head: why in the hill had black amos b. refrained from bringin’ in other blacks; I mean why ain’t there more than one black in the fust place, given that the com-munity was not entirely closed to their entry? Is he alone on accoun’ of tokenism? Or see-lective advertisin’? Does a space-age plastic dome a gated community make?
Well, you take more than a passin’ look at black amos barton with an eye to studyin’ him an’ one thang comes to be purfectly clear: he ain’ gonna hang around ma’s in any in-fear-ior capacity. He’d only hang out if’n blacks were considered t’be at least a bit better ’n whites. Course cabana’s color don’t serve as much of a guideline bein’ as it’s an indeterminate silvery grey varyin’ down in spots to rusty russet.
black amos elbowed his way into the big eight six months ago. In them days number eight was a nineteen year old—’bout the age that billy is now and that kid went by the name o’ shakey quent. His pre-eight name was Quentin Dirge, but they gave him the name a-fore-mentioned, on accoun’a he was a mite epileptic.
Now, this little malady was put up with for quite a while. Any group ’at can hack the likes of trapper dan won’t fret too much over a bit o’ harmless cryin’ out, fallin’ down an’ shiverin’ an’ shakin’ an’ such, ’specially when quent would usually fore-warn everyone present with a bit of an aura, consistin’ of awe shee-yit! Here it comes—duck!
So quent’s membership went on in good-enough standin’ ’til one day the eight were ’bout t’set down to table with ma, when quent wen’ on one of his little tremor-binges straight-off without no aura and in the process knocked over a bowl of pipin’ hot to-mato soup onto cabana’s munificent lap.
cab didn’t say much—he sort o’ smiled as the steam ate its way into his legs an’ rose in a billow from his now see-through buckskins. Didn’t say much at all. But the next day in Carla’s bar on the bullshittin’ board there was this announcement:
VACANCY BEIN’ CONSIDERED IN BIG EIGHT.
ONLY FAST GUNS NEED APPLY (NO MUTATIONS, PLEASE).
FOR MORE—HIT QUENT.
harold galloway
EXECUTIVE ADMINISTRATOR to the big eight
Two days later—bet yo’ ass no one else had the moxie to apply—Black Amos Barton (still bearin’ the stigma o’ capitals) rode up to ma’s decked out in a eight-hundred-dollar royal-blue silk blousey shirt with a vest half-cotton, half-ramie and spurs of pure silver astride his appropriately Manichean white mare. The horse—formerly an Appaloosa—had had the gray painted over with Wite-Out, and Barton held the pommel of his saddle and leaned wayyy back—crackin’ the odd joke or two as if he were high-sidin’ and low-ridin’ through a Cleveland slum in a repossessed Cadillac Escalade.
He waited outside ma’s nearly an hour or two—roastin’ a bit o’ beans an’ reclinin’ on a field of indoor-outdoor—an’ knew eggzackly what he was waitin’ fer, havin’ heard from ole galloway that whenever quent went into one of his fits, the nearest of the big seven would grab him by the seat o’ his pants an’ throw him outside for to let the malady run its course—far away from the food. At about twelve noon—about five minutes after henry morgan switched on ma’s fluorescent strobe bug-light and told quent to watch it fer him fer a while—quent begun to fly off the handle, an’ bloody willy jumped up an’ slid a knife into his mouth between his teeth though galloway’s doctor-book recommended a pencil, an’ willy an’ ned sort o’ escorted quent to the door then heaved him outside for a round o’ twitchin’ an’ firin’ like a long roll of ladyfingers.
Outside while quent was a-shakin’ and a’ squirmin’ an’ flippin’ over like a flapjack in heat, Black Amos B. dis-mounted from his tall horse, kind of sidled up to shakey quent and drawled smoothly: —Draw.
Well quent’s hands may have started t’shake towards his guns as barton claims they did, an’ mebbe he did make a bold try t’sort of balance one of his guns a bit ’cept within a second he had four or five bullet holes in him an’ was more or less pre-occupied with shakin’ while his blood ran in rivulets into the gully—as though he was some sheep’s-gut bag o’ wine some drunken cowpoke or psyched-up cop had jest peppered with lead. Then amos b. kind of blew into the barrels of his pearl-studded guns, wiped ’em clean an’ walked real slow into ma’s winkin’—inquirin’ o’ the other seven who the lawn-sprinkler outside belonged to.
Now from the start things was a bit strained on accoun’ a the only black that ma’s place had even seen was this smilin’ old jokester named Tom who came to dee-liver the “milk” once a week—one of them galloway food substitutes that tasted like a combeenation of liquid plastic, Chi-nese melamine and water’d-down soy. Well whatever imp-ression that fella with the winkin’ ivories might’ve given o’ black men was somewhat suddenly erased when amos shot him thirteen times—sort of hastenin’ his re-tirement for the sake of eliminatin’ stereo-types and pushin’ reset on future race relations.
’Til now the question of col
or had never even bothered to come up, seein’ as how two things were true of the eight: First, no one could tell what the hell color dan was ’cause the trapper was always covered in mud of some kind or t’other. Second henry morgan, the older eight cousin, plum-near as old as galloway some said—who had busted his way into the eight jest a short time earlier—turned out to be a mite unusual anatomically, like he could also be a member of some my-nority group. ’Cause it was ob-served in the shower room that he was missin’ the li’l curtain off his centerpiece. Why once fat-ass jake en-quired —Jest why’s yores shaped so different from evuhbaddy else’s? To which henry smiled sort of defensive-like an’ answered —Cut myself shavin’.
Moreovuh only henry referred to it swingin’ back and forth by the unwesternly term of salami, which he later X-plained to the other seven was the name of an Oriental belly dancer he scored with in Bag-dad.
So the rumor that mebbe henry was a mumbo-jumbo Huguenot or a Romney Mormon or even worse a Jyoo—these various types of creatures emanatin’ from the my-norities index of one of galloway’s debriefin’ papers—set up for the eight a kind of what’s-the-point approach to individual differences so that they settled for acceptin’ jest about anythin’ that proved hardy enough to survive around ma’s.
Even touchy things like sexual myths or other such stories about blacks weren’t strong enough t’cause heads t’turn at ma’s. Shee-yit ain’t no black gonna bring down a neighborhood with the likes of trapper dan or big ned sloughin’ around. Moreovuh the myth that blacks spent everythin’ on their horses and outfits and near-nothin’ on their homes didn’t trouble no one here since everyone ’cept ned and henry morgan and o’ course cab lived at ma’s place anyhoo. Last o’ all: the myth that niggers have the biggest kaboos was jest blown to crap whenevuh cabana swung by. Though perhaps tellin’ly, only barton kept on his bulgin’ boxershorts—even in the shower—sort of keepin’ down the provocation of the man he knew was boss and we ain’t talkin’ hugo neither.