Joe Urso

TWO STORIES

THE COLOSSEUM

SUMMA VITA

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                                                   THE COLOSSEUM                                             

                                                                                                  

     The University of Twenty Thousand Dollars a Year should have paid well on my investment.  After eighty thousand dollars shouldn’t I expect a return?  Shouldn’t I expect -  after years of internships, paying my dues, and hard work - my investigative reporting to reach some ears?  But nooooo.  See no evil/hear no evil/read no evil.  I know; nothing was guaranteed in the fine print.  But I didn’t need to spend that kind of money!   With a few lessons from The University of Experience It For Yourself, plus fifty bucks, I could have walked a few blocks down from the campus and published my articles with The Whores.  The News would have flown around town.  My articles would have landed on 50% of The City’s male population and then reach their wives and significant others during dinner conversation.  At least I must have a case for fraud!  Today my articles are published on a Syrian web-site for English readers: Mamoun’s International News.  But don’t think I’m complaining.  I have the feeling I’ll be publishable in The Middle East for as long as The Pax Americana can spread itself over the World like butter in a frying pan. 

     There are three photos from The Vietnam War I keep stashed in my memory.  I was just beginning my teenage years.  Why have I held on to them?  To remind me why I spent that eighty thousand dollars. Their effect was like the visual experience of standing on your head  for the first time and seeing pictures of Life which were always in your way  but you usually just walked over or stepped on.  You see,  those who were ordained  to open my eyes to The World tried to pour cement over  them instead.    They put glasses on my face trying to make me see the world as  institutional gray.   They attempted to cajole me into accepting my life was controlled by men in steel gray suits who always have and always will pound the same shrill sound and beat the shit out of me if I start whistling dixie, so I should just  forget about listening to the beat of a different drummer.   They didn’t like these pictures.

     First the picture of the naked girl running up a dirt road chased by napalm bombs dropped by Who Know Who.  After seeing such a sight who couldn’t help but to wonder why wonder why wonder?  On this planet of Human Beings all of us who have loved and suffer for the necessity of it, what End could justify such an act?   Or how about that picture of a White G.I. with his head wrapped from a battle wound being carried away in the arms of a Black G.I.  A mixture of Black and White, human colors, not institutional gray.  And not something you would have seen on the six o’clock news in the summer of sixty eight unless The One was fighting The Other.

Then there was that scene of The Buddhist Monk in the middle of The Street.

     If a picture can speak a thousand words.

     Bullshit.  I bet he held his own Eastern Style Barbecue because people were speaking too much and listening less.  Words have become redundant;  I see that now.  Now I see how a single action by an Unknown Underdog can change a million people beginning with changing just one.

     I was online listening to the news and trying to book a flight to San Francisco. I decided to begin the footwork on a story about the decline of French wine imports linked to American Anti-French sentiment over The Iraq War.  My working title:  “Selective Memory Strikes Again - Who Remembers Lafayette and Yorktown?”  Then my ear caught a report on NPR about a woman in Seattle who is acknowledging the night she became a Rape Victim by holding a sky diving fund raiser.  The event will,  I quote, “Support Victims and raise awareness for The Public to push for tougher State and National Sex Offender Laws.  There will be plenty of food and lots of fun.”   Public supervision of Private Citizens.  Special kind of Citizen that is.  Well those Pedophiles and Perverts deserve all the punishment The Public can give them right?

     I almost seriously thought it might be a pitch for a new sitcom.

The Twilight Zone meets Monty Python.  Then I had to ask myself why anyone would celebrate the night She or - should I say it?  Are you ready?  Thought it was a certain crime committed by a certain gender against a certain other gender? Veni vidi vice versa.   Imitation is the best form of flattery and what was once a Male World full of Male Sin has become a Male/Female World with double the trouble and not enough confessional booths to go around - let alone Priests.  Now Men and Women are both getting paid and  The World is better off for it.

     But what do I know? I could be a Pathological Liar.  But if I am it’s not my fault!  It’s proven you know.  The brains of Liars are grayer than the brains of George Washington Clones so it seems  we can’t  help ourselves.  I see a Liars Anonymous Group in the offing.  Have to organize a fund raiser. 

     I decided this event called for a little investigative journalism.  I’ll be fair; I’ll ooze professional objectivity and integity.  Hang on.  In-teg-ri-ty.  But off the record, wouldn’t you like to know where I really stand?  On the Q.T. I’ll let you in on my secret: I’m The President for United Underdogs of The World. Oriental chapter.   Good and Evil mean nothing to me.  Whoever is on The Bottom is all that matters, and The Big Foot up The Poor Man’s - or Woman’s - Ass is what I’m after. Not that I ever do Them any good.  Maybe some harm. 

Think I’m taking a side and violating my professional ethics?  Caveat Populi:  Underdogs aren’t allowed to join Teams.  Underdogs have no voice.  Underdogs stand alone and are roundly kicked when they bark too loud. Especially when They wake The Neighbors from a  Deep Sleep. 

     Since most of The World believes The Underdogs, like The Poor, will always be with us I expect to be constantly employed until I retire.  Nations and Fortunes have been made - and lost - under the grip of such illusions.  Those of us who feed off the meat of human suffering are always full.  Want to know what really disgusts and attracts me about  The Underdogs?   It’s the in-your-face-action of the doggy copulation dance!  But there is an obstacle in finding Them: Underdogs never shit  in Public Parks.    You can only  catch a glance of Them pissing on the walls in Outcast Alley or shitting in their cages under the eyes of whoever passes by.  So I  checked  with one of The Local Underdog Keepers.  I had a contact in State Parole.

     Jack and I shared a dorm room in college.  Jack graduated, joined the marines, went to Vietnam.  I hit The Streets.  Jack came back, stayed back, married, kids, and rejoined the military under the guise of State Parole.  I never returned, married not on your nelly, kids yeah right, and I still smoke weed.  And we’re still friends.

Surprised!  Listen to his John -  I had a call last week from a woman who said a Sex Offender just moved three doors down from her daughter’s school. A Concerned Mother right?  I asked her what she would like me to do.  “Get him out of there,” she said. “Where to?” I asked. “How many doors down would be safe?”    What a pain in the ass!  Sometimes I wish I was back. . .well I’m getting old and not use to being tolerant.  When I was younger I didn’t have to be.  She just went on and on.  “You’re suppose to protect American Families not put them in Harm’s Way.  Don’t you know what These People are capable of.  If something happens to my daughter I’ll sue you!  What did you say your name was?  How do you spell that?”  Am I surprised!  Hell they’ve organized one in this State.

    The magic words I wanted to hear.  I should have guessed; I only needed to take a walk in my own backyard.  Anyway I detest airplanes and traveling far from home.  If only Columbus felt the same.

–Look at it this way Jack - it’s not like Nam where you couldn’t see The Enemy in The Jungle or among The Friendly Faces in Saigon.  At least over here The Enemy is living right next door or just down the block.

--“Over here!  Over here!”                                                    

–Jack what the hell-

--You know the song John! From World War One. “And The Yanks are coming-“

–It’s “Over There” Jack.

–I know.   

 A Silence sat between us as if we were at a national shrine taking in a minute of silent prayer.   A minute when the mind wanders where it will and often far away from the solemnity of the occasion.  The girl who just walked by the bills that haven’t been paid I’ll have that for supper and smoke a joint before the night settles me down to sleep.  A daily routine any ant would be proud of.  During that silent minute that knows no Time I imagined myself as The Enemy Three Doors Down.  How ironic that the language of Two World Wars becomes the language we use to describe the people among us!  As if we just can’t get enough.  That’s the problem isn’t it?

     But have you ever wondered what it must be like to be The Enemy in your own backyard?  Oh don’t give me that shit about crimes have to be punished sins have to be cleansed and the people have to be protected.  Odds are you’ll be killed by a car sooner than A Bad Guy so where are the prisons for all The Car Dealers? Who’s doing the punishing the cleansing and the protecting? 

Didn’t your God say something about he who is without sin cast the first stone? What about the price “These People”  pay for a thirty second behavior?  The punishment never quite seems to end you know.  After prison you’re still waiting  for the knock on the door watching  every pair of eyes asking  permission to go bury your mother and worrying  about having to pay for your sins because you know you don’t have that kind of money.  They hijack your blood  coveting your  DNA tell you where you can’t  live and work and will lock you up again just because you may have given The Hee Bee Gee Bees to a Proper Citizen.   You’re out of the closet and you’re naked to the world.  You’re free fodder for The Many who are still hiding on their knees on a Sunday pew and loving the fact that you’re out in the open.  And the tragedy lies when you realize the easiest way around the constant fear is to become The Bogeyman.  The History of Crime and Punishment 101.

–You’re a Camus  man John right?

–Professor O’Leary!  Didn’t you get the highest grade in his class?

 –This is off the record.  I think this Registry thing is a bunch of crap as do most of my colleagues.  Maintaining a sense of the absurd I’m still able to digest it all.

Get this -  within twenty-four hours of The Sex Offender Registry becoming  New York State Law, the DCJS office in Manhattan was flooded with hundreds of calls from men - most of whom never received a speeding ticket in their life let alone a felony conviction - inquiring whether or not they were on The List.  Can you believe it!  Camus could have used this in a book.

–“The Colosseum.”

–What was that?

–Just a thought Jack.

--Lettermen could have used this episode in his monologue that week.

     The Twilight Zone has met Monty Python. 

–That’s New Yorkers for ya.  Just don’t give a fuck.  God whose crazy here!  Am I crazy Jack!

–Yes.  But I still love ya  John.

–So how do you put your better judgment to sleep Jack?                

–Mortgage payments and the kids’ college expenses are big-time motivators for what I put up with nowadays.  What else can I do?

     Historians think Caesar Augustus was big on The Roman Family because of a sense of moral rectitude.  That’s what an education in a pale room will get you. 

On The Street we know different.  We know a man with a family can be controlled.  Kept in check.  Towing the line.  Paying taxes.  Will fight and die where The Man - oh excuse me - or The Woman sends him.  The fight worth dying for  that was always boiling underneath his skin waiting to beat up  all The Bullies and all The Bullshit in The World has turned into a cup of latte.  I wanted to tell Jack to take a stand and make some noise or he’ll be heil hitlering it soon.  But  why should I pick on a friend?   I let it go.  But if I hear him baaaaing  I’ll be back to  put a bullet in his head.    That’s what a friend would do.       

–So Jack where did you say that sky diving thingy is being held?

–Damn John I would have told you!  You never did trust anyone.  Can’t blame you buddy.  Actually I hope you ruffle some feathers for me.  I’m tired of hearing these people complain.  You’d think they were living in a country where they are making a dollar a day, are forced to eat rats to survive, and watch their children starve.  Christ!                                      

     Jack suddenly jumped to his feet, opened the door of his office, looked down the hall both ways, locked the door, then sat down before lowering his voice:

–Fuckin cry babies the whole lot of them.  I’ve had it up to here with them.

--You mean they called Parole to publicize The Event?

–Heard about it from one of my parolees.  He did ten years for a sex offense he never committed, then another ten on parole, then another ten under this Sex Offender Registry Law. 

–All that after doing ten years in the joint?

–Christ can you  imagine!  A prison cell isn’t enough for These People.

–He could have killed somebody for less time.

–Calls me up last week all worked up about The Event and stuttering like a fool.  He stutters when he’s under a lot of stress. 

     Jack kept running at the mouth but all I heard was his lips flapping away.  I listened to him talk the talk and do The Crawl.  Why do we worship Certain People who do our dirty work for us and get crucified for the favor?  After we give Them a serious whipping that is.  See ya later Jack.  Till next time.     

     In Ancient Rome Citizens filled The Colosseum to the brim to watch convicted criminals served a la carte and drool over gladiators killing.  The Good Romans pulsing with anticipation, pissing on their togas,  and safe in their seats leaned into the arena to see blood spill.

Devotees of The Egyptian God Osiris who started the resurrection business first  waited to see if The  Hebrew Son  would winch away his faithful Believers.  Fathers brought their unruly sons to watch lions eat These People who dared rebel against Roman Law.  All Violators were prosecuted to the fullest extent of The Colosseum unless coins were rattled.   So what if 2,000 years later The Innocent are still swept away with The Guilty and The Guilty still  hiding behind The Innocent! When everyone is six feet under God will know the difference.  Soothing consolation during The Age of The Computer.  Besides what’s wrong with a lynching without a body to lynch!    After all we aren’t Barbarians.  Reminds me of a jingle I once heard:                          

The Story of Rory Who Never Slapped Back

                  There once was a boy named Rory who never slapped back.
                  He decided on this course after grabbing a girl’s ass.
                  His Neighbors ran  into a rage,
                  Boxing Rory’s ears -   throwing him in The Cage,
                  The Mob’s Eyes gazing while his were over glazed.                                                  
                  And  Rory regularly got the shit kicked out of him
                  Dragged over the floor of the prison’s gym.                 

                  Rory knew that punishment comes calling after you offend.
                  That’s the way The World spins.
                  So when  his nose bled and his bones bruised,
                  Eyes hiding under a cloak of blue,
                  Rory wondered - did not anyone in The Mob ever offend?
                 And would he repeat the ten-second Sin again?

                 So goes the story of Rory who never slapped back. 

     How should I dress for a Crime Victim Party?  Formal?  Casual?  In uniform?  Or like the college kids today the boys looking like plumbers and the girls dressed like medieval peasants.  One must consider such things.

     The Coordinator of The Sex Crime Victims Event - or SCVE -  and her many Assistants were handing out programs detailing the day’s events at the entrance gate of Calvary County Airfield.  The introduction on these black and white printed tightly bound programs read:.  “Welcome to the first annual Sex Crime Victims Event.  Sky diving professionals from the military and private diving clubs will perform during The Show.   Community and National support groups located underneath The Big Tent invite you to come in and meet with them.   A modest entrance fee is required at the booths bordering The Airfield.    Food and drinks to be sold by local vendors.  Craft vendors will also set up shop on the grounds.   Fireworks at night.  Designated drivers from local cab companies available.  All are welcomed.”    

     All?

          I could be one of Them too you know.  No The Bad Guys I mean.  It’s possible.  Why not?   I have enough skeletons in my closet to crowd a graveyard. 

How about you?  No I don’t expect the answer.  Only the lone honorable Polar Bear stands true on the cold clear looking-glass of an arctic ice sheet roaring in the face of bear-skinned covered Hunters.

     I hung my Press Card over my chest before I queued up at the entrance gate.    Surveying the landscape I gauged  The Mob arriving at The Airfield.  People dressed for the occasion - a Saturday picnic in The Park or a sunny afternoon out garage sale hopping.  Everyone wore bright colors and that weekend glow seemed to protect each individual like a smear proof shield.  Well almost everyone.

     Observing The Show I heard a voice carried by the wind and sounding  like the cry of a Blind Man -  the cry that can’t see itself and isn’t afraid of what it might do.  A staccato speech hurling itself at The Mob and  punching unprotected body parts before settling into a stutter.

   “When our prison time  is over why are we stttt-ill being punished!  Who is writing the laws that ssss-ay we are to be punished until we die?  And why?  Stand up for the ci-ci-ci-vil rights of Sex Crime Victims and Offenders too.  Write your State Legislator. . .”

      Now who says shouting into The Wind is useless!  It was Jack’s man.  But even I cringed trying to fit my feet in his shoes.  Not me.  I prefer my invisibility. 

When I throw rocks  I’m never exposed.  What do you prefer?

     What a pair of balls it takes to stand up to The Mob!  Let me see if I have them. . .  Is he a Man of Heart or  just a Crazy?  But  the line between Hero and Anti-Hero is just a spider web.  Both  know how - and when -  to act.  Both can stand up to The Mob.  And both have had intimate relations with The Sinner and The Saint inside each of their hearts.  Besides, who’s  closer to God - The Man in The Mob or The Man standing alone?

     The Stutterer was experiencing a  self-imposed  exorcism of sorts.   His words were arrows targeting The Mob and inflicting mean glances, looks of shock,  the scurrying away, taunts, and whispers of disapproval and disgust.  The Stutterer grew fearless.  The stuttering stopped.

     I was in The Mob but not really one of Them.  Only I knew The Stutterer  was innocent.  His actions made sense to me; only The Guilty hide.  Innocence is out there; Innocence Is.  But never never tell on yourself.  Those still in hiding will jump all in your ass looking for a dark hole to sneak into.  The Mob will kill for  the truth because they lack so much of it inside their hearts.  Only those who lie to themselves  need The Play of The Justice System  to prove to the mirror someone  else is guilty too.   

For now The Pack of Dogs have  already let loose,  hot on the scent,  looking for an Underdog who barks  too loud and reminds all The World  all  Dogs shit outside.  And before Dogs shit they smell each other’s. . . 

     Food vending vans crowded the grounds inside the entrance to the airfield.  Makeshift bleachers stacked in the round gave the airfield that cozy amphitheater

feeling.  Red awnings slung over the top three bleachers protected some of The Mob from the glare of the sun.  A placard placed right before a fake columned archway reminded The Mob why they were there:

     “Proceeds from all ticket purchases and a percentage of the vending profits will go to our local Rape Crisis Centers, The Sex Crime Victims Litigation Fund, and Lobbyists for Tougher Sex Crime Laws.  Thank you.  The Staff of The SCVE.”           On a platform decorated with Red, White, and Blue bunting a carnival-like spinning wheel stood next to a locked box filled with raffle tickets.  The winner of the prize to be called before the fireworks start in the evening.    A State Legislator and other Vips cliqued and clacked on the middle of the platform while introductions and speeches waited in the batters’ box.    People entering the grounds soon grouped and gaggled around the bleachers and in front of the platform.  Fodder for The Legislator:

     “Fellow Citizens of this Great State.  We are here today to support The Sex Crime Victims of -”

     My feet were planted firmly  near the front rim of the platform while the beating sun beat time with the tired cadence of a politician’s plea.    My weighted eyelids were doing pushups until I heard the opposition’s cry grow  in strength. 

     “Why are  you clamoring for extra-judicial  punishment after prison time is served?” 

     Now there’s a question no amount of money will answer.

    “Support therapeutic and transitional counseling programs instead.  Give us the chance to regain our common humanity.  Don’t celebrate punishment and victimization.  Support the healing of criminal behavior.  Write your other Legislator. . .”

     “Oh we’re gonna write him all right.”

     “Listen to him go on and on.  I bet he’s a pedophile.  Get’s a chance to lust after all the kids here.  Asshole.”

     “Look at him!  Probably never had a girlfriend that’s why!  No life.  Why in hell did he come here?  Honey where are the kids!  God dammit I told you not to let them. . .” 

     “Doesn’t like punishment does he!  Well he never should have. . .”

     “Begging for the mercy he never showed his Victim. Victims probably!  You know what those people are like.”

     The Victims.  The Offender.  And The Mob.

At the sound of the bell. . .

     Extra-judicial punishments!  Now that rings the same bell and calls for a  salute.    Judges without Robes.  Identification cards issued.  Private information on file with The Local Authorities.   Travel permits mandatory.   Certain jobs need not apply.  WE will watch THEM for your protection.  God will sort out the real Bad Guys from The Good Guys at the last judgment.   Now where have I heard all this before?

     The Stutterer was in the ring  playing the ropes and waiting to make his move. The Mob was ready but wary; I placed my  bet with The Mob.  Hey!  A fella needs to make some tax-free cash once in awhile!   So  I followed them toward a huge circus-like tent as they buzzed and droned double file past The Stutterer through another phony columned archway.  I had to approach him much closer now,  but it felt like he was the one approaching me.  This  Christ without a Cross baiting  The Crowd along a  Via Dolorosa.  What did I just say!  Stop basking in shock.  After all I’m talking about  two convicted felons here.

     The tinglies of anticipation were working me over as I entered the tent.  Public service booths were staggered between the food vendors hawking fried dough for $2.00, a slice of pizza for $3.00,  and $4.50 cups of lemonade. 

Bright and big ink jet printed banners - fifty some odd booths each with a banner 50 bucks for a printer cartridge X reams of paper equals. . oh excuse me lost in thought there -  bordered the tops of each Booth identifying their messages:

                             

WOMEN AGAINST SEXUAL ASSAULT
MEN AGAINST SEXUAL PREDATORS
LAWYERS FOR SEX CRIME VICTIMS                 

We’ll make them pay up after their time is up 

                HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS AGAINST HALLWAY GROPING
                                    MOMS AGAINST MOLESTATION    

The Heat was thick in the air mainlining through the microscopic skin pores of The Mob.  Tension tasty before the first rock is thrown. 

     “Now kids this is why I am always warning you about. . .”

     “I bet that creep won’t come in any further.  Surprised someone hasn’t smacked him yet.”                        

                     GAY TEENS AGAINST SEXUAL HARASSMENT    

     “There Honey why don’t you go check out that booth.  You see I told you you’d be represented here!  Your father and I will meet you later.  Here’s  some money Sweety be careful!” 

     It was Theatre a la mode.  Two actors  twined together like a tapeworm in an intestine.  The One feeding off the shit of The Other.  

The Other accepting  his fate because it’s the only fight  you can never lose.    The One bloated and blinded from the waste, betting on another intestine for survival  before it skin peels off like a leper  and it dies of exposure.                                   

        THE HOLLY WALLY WEBSITE

                    Making America’s neighborhoods Sex-Offender Free
                               Do you know who lives on your block? 

                     LEGISLATORS FOR TOUGHER SEX CRIME LAWS
                        We’ll fight for your right to live free and protected 

     “You see Honey!  I told you we should have voted for my guy!  Your man wanted more counseling programs for these Creeps.  Can you please get your son before he loses a hand playing near that machine!”

     “Yes Dear.” 

   COMMUNITY POLICE OUTREACH - LOCAL CARPENTERS’ UNION #69

                  Building your Homes and protecting your Neighborhoods 

     Taking off my sunglasses  I recognized Mark and his sister Dina.  They were sharing space in the same booth.  As I made eye contact and moved toward  them, they turned around and with a delayed reaction move they were  out of the booths in separate directions.  Well you’re bound to run  into people you know when you don’t want to.           

                 

UNITED FORENSIC PROFESSIONALS UNLIMITED                   
We uncover the evidence that uncovers The Offenders      

Taking off my sunglasses again  I noticed another familiar face.

That  made three: Carpenter, Cop and a Colleague of mine.  Ahhh  don’t be too surprised!  Do you really think you’re the only one who has suffered?  The only one who has sinned and wants to remain in The Dark?   I wondered how they dealt with the sweat that snuck out their pores on an unforgiven night has they waited for that tap, tap, tapping on their closet doors.  I slipped my sunglasses back on and laughed to myself.  The justice that counts the most is the justice you never see.

     “Good afternoon!  This is Jim Janus reporting live from Calvary County Airfield on this sunny day which is turning out a huuuge crowd for the first annual. . . ”

     I felt like a Time Traveler stuck inside an Hieronymus Bosch painting entitled “Peasants Partying on Any Good Friday.”                                

     “With me now are Mr. And Mrs.____ whose daughter-”

     Upstaging Jim The Husband thrust his face an inch from the mic and began to orate like a Cicero in The Senate denouncing a Caesar.  Like The Man said all the world is a stage, but he didn’t bother mentioning most of The Players are hiding in The Closet.

     “And if The State lets him out before WE think he got what he deserved-"

Beads of sweat began sneaking not successfully down his forehead.

     “we will sue in Civil Court.”

     To sue or not to sue.  Maybe that’s The Question?

     Standing behind the left shoulder of the cameraman I knocked on The Door.  The transformation in his face was immediate; it was as if the camera was off and Jim was no longer looking at the world.  The world was now looking at him.   I remember how he swore under oath and not The Truth but The Lie set him free. That day  under the bridge.   College boys will be college boys. 

     “Well Mr.- excuse me - let’s assume he will eventually be released.  Statistics show Sex Offenders . . .huh, sorry, excuse me for a moment.”

     If sweat could speak a thousand words I’d  pay a lira a letter to read a copy of the speech.  I melted with  The Mob.  Back to The Action.                                                                                                                       

             THE ASSOCIATION OF SEX OFFENDER INVESTIGATORS    

     Could they be Ex-Offenders who are now Investigators!  I know I know!  But since all things are possible. . 

     I was on a roll.  Two more doors to open. 

–Hello Dina!  I see you guys are joining in on a little community service.  Good for you.  Haven’t seen you since - well it’s been a long time.    Seems like yesterday when you use to babysit us.  Was that your little brother Mark I saw back there!  I thought so.  One of New York’s finest now.  Imagine!  Are you alright Dina?  You just turned white as a sheet.

     It seems to me what’s even more amazing than the internet as the new human link is the wireless connection of pain an Individual shares  with Humanity.    No  matter the color of our skin or which side of the fence we sit, the century some lived and the ones where others will, Suffering is The Constant and The Great Equalizer.  And the pains it instigates and secrets it hides  never seem to vanish with time.                                                                 

     Well what Family doesn’t try to keep its Dirty Linen in The Closet?

     “Boycott this event!  Don’t celebrate victimization!  Heal criminal behavior instead!  Know the facts instead of acting on your fears.”   

      Mark stood in the middle of the walkway leading into the tent between  two rows of booths.  His police sergeant’s badge polished with blinding effects, the string looped through his nightstick  hugged his thigh, his right hand hugged his nightstick.  Wearing his supervising look he supervised himself over into the tent  approaching a  booth:

                     THE CONSORTIUM OF PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES
                                          AGAINST SEXUAL ASSAULT 

     Well well well!  Why not ask a pyromaniac about his feeling on why  that Buddhist Monk chose  self-immolation?  But then again,  maybe a pyromaniac would know.

     “What a bore.  What’s he trying to do now?  Just not the place for his protest.  I wish someone would shut him up.”

      Serious drama took its cue from the opening stage door signaling   Sergeant Mark’s entrance  to the tune of  The Stutterer.  It seemed as if The Sirens summoned forgotten nightmares from Mark’s unconscious life.  He  began touching his badge, grabbing his club, tugging his cap, losing his patience.  The invading rhythms of The Stutterer’s plea entered The Tent and blitzkrieged their way into the ears of The Mob.  Mark’s face and ears turn red; suicide for The Stutterer I thought.  Why do desperate men  put themselves  in harm’s way for a cause?  Because it’s their cause.  It’s the cause that struck them down to the ground and the cause that picked them back up.  What the hell too many questions to think about!  No wonder The Mob is itself.

     “Ok pal time’s up!  You’ve had your say now pack it up and call it a day.”

     “I have a right to be here like anyone else!  Here’s my ticket.

 

     Click.

–Christ Izzy how bout asking first!    

–No one asks permission anymore baby you know this.  Besides you should be honored.  You’re the first photo on my new camera phone.  Top of the line baby  look!  What will they think of next.  Watch next year they’ll be smaller, thinner, and will wipe your ass for you.

–They’ll be taking them to the grave.

     Isidore Pesotito the editor-in-chief’s personal assistant child of the world overall pain in the ass my contact.  Better go along let him lead might need him later.  As soon as he approached I got the nervies started to doubt myself again.  Guys like him put the fear of the devil in me.  He looks just like that kid who spit in my face when I was a boy whenever I see him in somebody else I’m back carrying my school books walking home wiping saliva off my mouth.  Scars never quite heal that’s why they’re scars and there’s about three billion people out there that will remind you you’ve  got them.  Reason has nothing to do with it experience reigns supreme.  There’s always an upside isn’t there Izzy arraigned this assignment scheduled my itinerary even rented this row house identical to all the others in this back street neighborhood of Madrid. 

I remember my mother warning me “Piero a lopo” when I slid out of the house on Friday nights.  She had the flair for language “If you want to do something go do it don’t wait the sum-a-na bitches will do it instead of you and they always fuck it up.”  My mother what a sword for a tongue cutting down and clearing away all in front.  Don’t blame her a bit I never spent my childhood in air raid tunnels eating rats and hiding from Nazis to hell with proper speech. 

     Here we are not the same as the others the house sits back a bit instead of  kissing the street curb covered with trash.   A front garden grows two red rose bushes running wild up their trestles guarding the front door.  The lawn  uncut  the face of the house whitewashed and clean.  Sanctum Corpus.  Your body’s temple.  Your one refuge left standing.  Entering the Holy of Holies.

–Jesus Christ!

     Christ!  The Creator rest your soul well this is a church isn’t it a personal church.   Izzy’s arms  miming the number one hit on The Vatican’s top of the pops faster than Paganini on a violin.  You should always enter The Holy of The Holies with respect and awe life’s mysteries are in the house.  No more respect and awe left out there that’s why there’s no more mysteries.  Nihil Sacrare.

     Click Click Click.  Buzzzzzz.

     Proposition:  The camera phone has to go.  Should I teach him a lesson?  I’m getting too old for this Robin Hood shit besides this is life living  just another random act a little non-morality play break a leg until the curtain closes.  Wait I have a pair of magnifying glasses better read the fine print on the play’s program “Welcome to your life!  So you thought it was your own to live as you like.”  I’m a player at The Big Roulette Table waiting until I empty my pockets for The Dealer to spin my win.  Waiting and watching until an Izzy sticks his hand on the wheel.  Vita interruptus.

–Come on John!  This is the one baby!  To hell with ETA, bullets, bombs, and drugs.  This will make the real headlines!  Hey wait a minute. . . the bank told me the previous owner defaulted on the mortgage.  You mean they never even checked to see - holy shit!  They’re on the racks now!   All we gotta do is turn the screws.  You and me we’ll get these Bank Bastards now!

     Buzzzzz.  Click Click.  Buzzzzzz.

     The Devil has invaded someone’s Holy of Holies slithering around this personal church tempting me with his mobile phone promising fame.  Man does not live on fame alone.   Next couple of seconds I’ll have to rebuke or join  him.  One or the other. . . make nicey for now.

The only way for us mere mortals to beat The Devil is to convince him we want to ride on his train.  Caveat mortalis - make sure you don’t enjoy the ride. 

  –Put the camera up for a minute Izzy.  Suave.  Suave pal. 

     I can feel his vibes.  He’s not going to let this r.i.p have to play him.  Slow him down.  Revenge a dish best eaten cold.  Wait awhile then I’ll have him over  the same barrel.  Let’s see how much bark he’s got.

–What do ya think we should call The Police first no?

–Of course of course we’ll call The Police baby.  First how bout The Boss.  Oh baby he’ll cream in his pants.  He’s been waiting to give the stick to these Bank Bastards. 

     Surrounded by The Head Devil and his Head Helper now.  Slow down the attack some intelligence gathering first.  One of Sun-Tzu’s rules know your enemy’s strengths and weaknesses through secret agents.  Preferably disposable ones.

–So what’s the deal between The Boss and The Bank?

–You see one of the board members use to- 

     So Izzy will please The Boss at any price.  We’ll see about that.  Tip lightly.  I might hoist myself on my own petard. 

Tip lightly.  Jane and John Q. Public might want Izzy’s pictures.  Hunger for safely staring down sin and suffering happening in someone else’s house cancels compassion and critical thinking.  Watching less painful then participating by the grace of God go I.  Isn’t that  what happened to Christ hundreds watched him die on the cross millions now wear the cross but who is going to climb the cross?  Izzy and The Boss war on two fronts.  I have no reserves.  Wait and launch a surprise attack.

     Izzy the cockaroach.  Cockroaches are super insects indestructible and clever.  Some Jungian fear associated with them too as soon as you spot one you shudder  anxiety boiling your brain at the thought of getting close.  It’s almost as if these cockroach meetings foreshadow the risks we take if we inch ourselves closer to people.  Oh you can step on a cockroach that just before death sound it makes a crack then a smoosh  but its twin brother sister and several hundred cousins waiting in the dark corners of your home will just step over its carcass and pay you no mind.

     Proposition:

     With feet bigger than the ones we plant on cockroaches human beings  step on each other too crack smoosh  probably for the same reasons.  We’ve evolved from civil war to civil war.  Any amount of cruelty is news of the day any disrespect doable.

     Therefore:

     No need to wonder why wonder scratch your head or rub your eyes when the youngest and the brightest configure how to cash in off your carcass.  So what’s the final figure on the sum of your life?  Who has the last word one Judge or two?

     In conclusion:

     Veni vedi vici then what.     If  how you live matters than how you die does too or vice versa. 

     Hope I will die well long lines of mourners at my  wake yeah right but if  I don’t die well. . .what if the company I’ll be keeping at my wake are long lines of flies buzzing around my carcass?  It’s all a bit of cosmic foreplay pitched by The Big Comedian.  He who laughs lasts.

–Damn these little shits!

–Tsh tsh  you silly man what do you expect Izzy butteflies!

     The battle commences.  Take note:  I’m wheedling my way into his not-so-good graces.  Caveat combatant:  When fighting an enemy by hook or by crook  look too long in his mirror your goose is overcooked.  If all goes to plan no one will win just the one left standing who cared the least for his own carcass. 

–So John we call The Boss first agreed?

Izzy suave pal.                         

–Suave my ass don’t give me your fly bitten conscience act.  How long has this. . .has this been here?  A few weeks maybe a couple of months no?  Jesus maybe more.  Calling The Police hah The Police!  You don’t fool me I know you you want The Police around about as much as you want these pests.   And what about the family!  Stop and think John - maybe this person was one of us.  One of us.  No family, abandoned,  alone in the world.  Alone in death.  Who will remember?  You, me, and now maybe the world.  Think on that!

     He’s right we are alone in this world  a bond with a  partner or even a clan there’ll always remain one sitting in a chair looking at old photos.   Alone I said not lonely know the difference lonely a state of mind alone a state of being.  My mind is not me.  Alone in this world independent and free scurrying around town like a baby mouse who won’t be around next week.  Never ask for where the mouse is running it’s running away from thee.   Time to give him the upper hand so I can take it from him later.  If you would weaken someone you must strengthen him first.  Don’t quote me it’s not mine.      

–People should see this tragedy and know this story.  This story - that’s you John. Take another  look around.

Not only did The Bank Bastards take the home but in doing so  took the last breath.  I’m not the journalist here but I’m the one seeing!  I’m your other half John the one who can help you bring this death into the light.  You know it’s The Right Thing to do!  And if we don’t do it you know who will?  Someone else baby and the somebody else’s are right around the corner.  Suave my ass! 

     That was a hell of a salvo I’m hit with some shrapnel first blood drawn.  A Crusader who knows what’s Right is in my face feeding me his version of salvation until I vomit or die.  I’ll take damnation instead salvation is for the dead.  Besides last time I checked this is the year 2007 the hope for salvation died with The Middle Ages. 

–That’s right baby it’s going to be done with or without you.  You know this now yes?

     Wait I have another option here I could switch sides why not it was done before battle during The Middle Ages.  Who am I to assume I should be fighting The Good Fight for someone else who can’t the someone else might not have even wanted my help might have wanted to die just like that.  That’s the tactic he should have used might have flipped me from the getgo but instead he pushed up on me just like a Crusader thinking he possesses the copyright on righteousness.

Me a knight in shiny armour?  Hmm. . .  not on your nelly. 

–Izzy if I didn’t know you better I’d say you’re trying to push up on me.

–Push up?

–Twist my arm.

     Izzy The Younger deadly dark good looks slim hungry in the eyes and yes suave   a bit too suave  nudge nudge know what I mean.  I  fear the final confrontation I can smell it coming I’m watching it grow without guidelines it’s hanging in the air like the humidity before a steady soft four inch rainfall.  Think first think it through if I can still think I can take this anywhere I want to.

     Proposition:

     No one is as fearsome as they want you to believe.

     Conclusion:

     If someone is trying to push up on you it’s because they’re just as afraid.                 

Resolution:

      Do not  push back just make him think that you will.  Got it!  Only fear him who doesn’t try to make you afraid.  Everyone else is just pretending.

–Ah yes I see!  Push up - I like it I like it!  So Johnny  it’s The Boss first we call The Boss baby.  I will now confide in you.  It’s true I am looking out for myself but-

--But for once The Boss  might just kiss your ass.   I understand.  Who doesn’t want to get off his knees and get a-head instead  right pal?

–Don’t play your word games with me pallll this is about biz-a-ness!  Who are you trying to protect!  Aren’t you the man who gives the finger to Authority?  The Champion of  The Underdog  The Journalist with the reputation for fighting the good fight and turning a story upside down so The World can see the real deal.   I’m giving El Cid the sword and the cross here and you expect me to believe you want to join a monastery instead! 

     A monastery now there’s an option rest retreat rethink play the sidelines watch The Game and pray The Winners are The Good Guys.  Wait a minute!  Didn’t El Cid fight for The Crescent too!  Now there’s a man who knew first hand all The Head Honchos wipe their ass the same way and the side you’re on doesn’t matter.  What you do matters and if you miss the mark is God really keeping  score?  The Scorekeeping God and The Crusading God six of one.  Maybe this Scorekeeping God is keeping score on what we don’t do?  Oh yes inaction the privilege of all good citizens  the real opium of  The Masses.  Caveat Spectator: the drama continues when the curtain’s down choose not to get involved and you’re still sinning that’s why everyone is a Sinner. 

What’s the year 1302 or 2007  all good citizens they still think we not them of course we Sin when we masturbate  wear the wrong clothes eat certain meats on certain days decreed by The Town Crier God cousin to The Scorekeeping God both grandchildren of The Crusader God if ever I heard a bunch of crap.  Thus spake Zarathustra  Sin is sitting on the sidelines.  Explains why The Head Honchos who send The Young Men into war are The Biggest Sinners in town  sitting on the sidelines counting corpses is safer than producing them in The Big Show.  Simple fear moves  the world it drives helpless mice at the sound of a pin dropping it gases up commuters scurrying to work on Monday to get a paycheck on Friday.   Simple fear that’s why The Head Honchos don’t do war The Boudicca Way one woman against The Head Roman and one corpse to count  now that takes a pair of balls!  Just a simple mathematical problem  to get The Young Men to do your dirty work for you the wisdom and cowardice of age and power plus the hunger and courage of youth and innocence equals a deadly combination.   Enough of this philosophical shit where’s Lamont Cranston when you need him?        

     Click Click.  Buzzzzzz.  Click Click.  Buzzzzzzzzz.

     He’s deleting old photos probably of his mother emptying his weapon to make room for more bullets snapping away democratically without prejudice.

Let him think he’s getting his way.  Let him believe he’s on the mound pitching and calling the game.  Join the enemy before defeating him.  Duplicitas Invincibilis.

–You’re right Izzy what’s the difference!  You might as well finish up shooting first then let’s get on the blower and call The Boss.

     That was easy enough usually is keep him occupied for awhile.  Lamont Cranston  reincarnated a few weeks ago.  11 pm on a wet misty  night I’m in my apartment a noise in the street it’s not God.  I went to the window and looked down from the twelfth floor like a god take your pick watching four teenagers play but refusing to referee the game.  Four teenagers hanging around the parked cars yelling and shouting not giving a rat’s ass about the old couple below me trying to sleep or the baby above me suddenly screaming.  One of them had a  pretend gun but with real gun sound pointing it at his friends pulling the trigger killing a silent night.  Must be a new game Let’s Play Hoodlum replaces Hide and Seek.  Then right out of the fog into the street light comes The Shadow.  There he was pulling around the corner in his SUV still in uniform an off-duty cop stepped out onto the street unsnapped his holster hand firmly on his gun looking for Liberty Valence.   Shouting “Put it down!” he took the gun away from the kid then vanished back into the night.  Silent night reincarnated all quiet on the western front.  The four teenagers left.  School is out. 

Lesson is over.   Oh for the good ole days when the rod wasn’t spared to teach a kid the difference between respect and disrespect.  Nowadays. . .oh what the hell why bother reminiscing.

     Look at him splitting his time dodging the little shits and snapping away like a 2007 paparazzo shooting a 1958 Marilyn Monroe.   The little shits pay me no mind.  Pictures everywhere let’s look which one is it a boy or a girl  the remains in that chair don’t care. I’m looking at an anonymous autobiography  encased in frames on coffee tables propped up inside book cases and decorating this long continuous white shelf supported by pilasters running around the three walls encasing the chair in the middle of the room.   Not in how we live but in how our carcasses rot are  we all equal.  What sits in that chair is pure democratic equality.  Six of one a bunch of flies or a gang of family members eating away your remains.  Searching frame to frame these sacred photos are sentinels protecting one of their own.  Which one?

     Buzzzzzzz.  Click Click.

–The Boss is going to cream in his pants when he sees these.

     Shut him out pretend he’s the one in the chair.  Focus on the pictures must be one of them the story of someone’s life from birth to that last breath fossilized in the air around  that chair.

I’m a Christopher Columbus searching for the undiscovered country of one ex-citizen left behind to rot. . .  that must be her she’s everywhere smiling on the wall  proudly poised on the shelf styling with friends on a coffee table.  This one I like revealing just her  face the rest unrevealing behind a tree in a frame hidden away in that bookcase. 

     Buzzzzzz.  Click.  Click Click.

–So John what do you think any clue as to which one - you know?

--Who can say Izzy.  Who can say.

     Tip lightly round him keep looking pretend I don’t know.  There she is  a shy little girl must be eighty years ago barefoot her black  hair already long.  Wait a minute the chair yes strands of long gray hair.  That’s the way it is isn’t it you’re gone but pieces of you remain everywhere you’ve breathed air there’s no dust to dust another lie.  Over  there a teenager she looks as if she owns the world some things never change never change the world never changes just is.  Incognito next to Izzy a young woman paying her dues.  There a mother and a wife you always stay married even when. . . Her  arms stretched over her family trying to hold onto that one moment you never want to become a memory.     Wife without a husband looking older than her years fess up to.

I can see the scar tissue lining her face like a knife peeling a potato not too deep or you’re going to eat potato chips instead of french fries.  Here’s the one I’ll always remember like that Goya painting peasant about to be shot arms erectus crux looking at death instead of closing your eyes to it.    Must have been during that other civil war her face vacant like a corpse suffering and death where is thy sting no longer.  The camera flashes and  soul is liberated for a second outed and naked caught off guard flashing the viewer the  individual freed from all restraints like Michelangelo’s David busting out of a marble slab. Oh yes this is her wonder who she is staring at in these photos now her carcass stares at me.  

     Buzzzzz.  Click.   Buzzzzz.  Click Click.

     I’m closer to the celluloid than I am to Izzy a closeness that conquers without the touch of skin.  It’s the closeness of human instinct that makes a New Yorker recognize a Mongolian.  The closeness of an epiphany that hypnotizes  your eyes as you watch red and yellow leaves fall off trees.  The closeness that bonds you with that old man in your neighborhood whose hand shakes on the leash while his dog walks him around the block.  The closeness that eases itself between you and your pet parakeet Billy after a decade of trying to get him to perch on your finger.  Well why not Billy?  Who’s to say a bird doesn’t deserve a memory? 

So what the love of my life is a parakeet!  Who’s keeping score?  If I don’t reveal what’s inside me who the hell is going to know me?  Billy in the cage sidestepping away stopping then back to me looking in through the outside the look he would give me I still have it in a frame the look without words speaking an infinity of emotion.  Bars may separate our bodies but. The closeness of souls crescendoing in a death I  finally got to touch the first and last time the carcass of the one I loved for years without touching nothing changed.  Now what kind of human being would I be if I let Izzy keep his camera and sell his pictures of her sacred place for a profit?

     I’ll just say this about love you show it by doing nothing it comes on the scene when you keep your mouth shut and sit your ass down.  That homophobe from the new testament had one thing right love bears all things endures all things is all things you see all by inaction!   Those who endure like photos in frames trees in a park and a child’s memory remain with Humanity The Bastards just get six feet under.  Will I be doing something Good what’s the difference between doing Good and feeling good I’m not the Good Man no not me I act instead of in-act when  something hits my heart and moves my ass.  But on G.P. alone I ‘ll never sit down and accept anything from anyone who flies like a bee and stings like a butterfly. 

Look at her carcass back at the photos back to the carcass by the grace of the devil there go I.   My life passing by proxy going going gone soon enough.  Should I fear dying if I’ll never know when I’m dead?   If Time is circular maybe I’m dead already I don’t believe in a  linear universe the line to walk is too straight and narrow.  What did The Nazarene say if you’re  standing at the beginning you already know the end.  There she is here she was here am I I can see what she’s done with her life what about mine?  Have I done anything more important than an ant building a hill?   Who will save The World the ant who can build a hill in a day or  The Fearless Leaders  who can’t keep the peace my vote is with the ants.  If I save her world do I save myself I also save water clean my ass and I don’t drive a car what more can I do.  Enough of these thoughts on the road to Damascus.

     Buzzzzz.  Click.  Buzzzzzz.  Click Click.

     You see I don’t care about her rotting corpse I care about me.  Saving myself.  I care next to nothing about the creature jumping around me swinging at flies and snapping away oh yes it’s a personal beef at this point can’t be helped I’m conscious of  every ounce of experience life hits me in the kisser with so everything is personal.  The weather the shouts in the street the thoughts in my  head all are personal.  In another life  I  closed my  eyes cut off my  ears  kept my  hands over my  mouth.

I was probably a Priest  praying for  The Bad Guys in public cursing at them in private I was pretending it was a pretend life.  Vita simulatus living becomes a love affair with yourself.  You feel cold all the time even in The Bahamas mama because the heat of passion penetrates skin deep only.  You converse on an inexpensive party line because one-on-one connections lead to expensive self-revelations.  Relationships are formal like a corporate meeting or by proxy like  reality T.V.   Look out your window see your life  if it’s not yours whose is it passing by in video clips and sound bites.  Reach out a hand you might get someone’s but the other is wrapped around a cell phone.  Hello you’re dead already just hanging round town waiting for your corpse to rot.

     Click.

     The verdict is in the camera phone gets the death penalty.

–Picture the headlines John! “Bank evicts - let’s call it an old man - who dies in his chair.  Corpse left to rot.”  Oh yes The Boss will take me to the ball!  Come on John d’Arc you’re brooding again we’ll have none of that.  Nothing you can do for. . .you know.  We’ll publish these photos and damn The Bank, watch them sweat, then shake them down for a few shekels.  Maybe I should call the city editor he can be here in a few minutes - no The Boss - no better call the city editor get his advice first.