Out'a My Way

Back in a second...

2004-12-15T21:34:00.000-05:00

I swear I'm comin' back to this, probably by the weekend-ish, though I have some X-Mas stuff to attend to.
Excuses, excuses.

Short break...

2004-11-23T11:51:00.000-05:00

I'm on vacation in Texas, so this "novel" is on the back burner until the middle of next week. I was falling far behind in my word count long before I left on my trip last friday, so 50,000 words in thirty days was a bit of a long shot, almost from the beginning. Better luck next year I guess. I wouldn't have started this without something like "NanWriMo" to jump start the process for me, though, so not meeting a deadline isn't that big a deal for me.
I will continue this story and bring it to its natural conclusion (whatever that is) at a slower (not by much) pace of two or three chapters a week.
Meanwhile, I'll be making an occasional entry on mah woman's blog "here", regarding my latest trip.

Later...

Eight

2004-11-14T22:52:00.000-05:00

On stage a clergyman or someone dressed like one, sings about his servitude to his vampiric mistress, presumably the nun next to him who trades vocal duties and sings about her devoted slave. I get the point, but the lyrics are just plain bad, bordering on awful. While the signing is live (also not very good), they are band-less, save for an interpretive dancer on stage, so the music is canned. Goth karaoke. Yuck!

The crowd is eating it up, though. The singers are known as The New Covenant and they enjoy a cult following in the fetish scene, I hear. Whatever.

“Dude! Where’ve you been? We thought we lost you.” Geoff crept up behind me. The priest continues to sing praises to his mistress. It’s the third song in their set. Not much on variety are they?

“I was upstairs.” I didn’t like yelling in places like these. I don’t go out a whole lot, so I’ve never gotten used to raising my voice over loud music to be heard. I can be loud when I want to, usually, but in places like this, I hurt my throat.

“So, whatdaya think? Cool place, huh?”

“I like it.” I did like it, generally speaking. Though this is NYC, the mix of people here strikes me as unusual. I wonder if it’s because of my own preconceived notions of freakiness (not necessarily a bad term) and race? I damn near expected to be the only black man in the house and I’m just an observer (or is that voyeur?). Had the other Negroes present been gay, then I might not have given it another thought. There’s nothing unusual or shocking about black homosexuality, but straight black men who like getting whipped, literally…that’s interesting.

The mix of straight and gay is also interesting, and to me, the idea that the two could occupy the same nightspot in near equal numbers (I didn’t take an official survey – I’m just guesstimating), is surprising as well as appealing. There was a time when “appalling” would’ve been a better word, but that was a long time ago.

“I love this band!” Geoff nods in synchronicity to the prerecorded rhythms. I look back at him and change the subject.

“Where’s Joanne?”…at the top of my lungs.

“She’s getting ready. She goes on in about twenty minutes.”

“After these guys?”

“Maybe, but she’s gonna be upstairs. What’re you drinking?”

“Soda” I was pretty much down to the ice, of which there was plenty.

“Lemme get ya a beer or somethin’.”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

“I’d like to see what you’re like when you’re wasted. You’re too uptight sometimes. You should be having fun.”

“I *am* having fun, except this band sucks.” Two women in front of us turn their heads and aim icy glares in my direction. They look like they just came out of a twenty year old Flock Of Seagulls music video. I finish my drink, not giving a shit about their bad taste in music.

“I can’t believe you don’t like The New Covenant. They rock, dude.” The ladies return their attention to the stage show. “We’re gonna try to do a show with them. You know, opening for ‘em.” I can’t tell if Geoff is as enthusiastic as he sounds (about the band) or if he’s merely an opportunist. I simply nod my approval, avoiding an argument…for now.

“I’m going back upstairs.”

“Right behind ya, dude.”

The narrow stairwell that bridges the two floors is constantly flowing with traffic. This sort of thing would normally annoy the hell outta me, but I’m fine with it for now. Me and Geoff navigate through a stream of people who are flowing into the opposite direction (of course), and on the way I make eye contact with a number of the seductive and/ or bizarre looking females who walk past us. I’m not much of a flirt, so I don’t stop to talk or anything like that. Stopping in the middle of this stairway might not be a very good idea anyway. Conversely I avoid eye contact with males here, when possible. I don’t consider myself a homophobe, but I know I’m in kinda an anything goes situation and I don’t want to inadvertently give out the wrong signals. Let’s just say that, however much I like this place, I’m still a little self conscious.

We’re greeted by loud, unrecognizable (to me) techno, and the floor is a bit more crowded than when I left it. I walk towards the dance floor to be closer to the stage. I can see the platinum haired beauty has been joined by a voluptuous woman in her late forties. Shoulder length red hair parted in the middle, corseted in black leather, almost completely revealing her breasts, she exudes a sense of power. Behind her and the younger girl, are a trio of gentlemen in suit and tie. In the center is an older man (Fifties?) who looks Hispanic. He is flanked on both sides by clean cut blondish youths (brothers?) who appear a little too young to gain entry into a place like this or any nightclub, for that matter. The red queen had the ear of the girl in white. The trio stood by almost like statues, and as I made my way towards to front of the stage, going no further than the third row, I’d completely forgotten about the “devil” on the other side.

The curtains were drawn over the stage as preparations were being made for Joanne’s presentation. Geoff was right next to me, on my left. Some of the people around us were dancing to Bowie’s “Scary Monsters, (and Super Creeps)”, while others stood, like us, nodding our heads to the music. I’m not much of a dancer.

Seven

2004-11-10T23:59:00.000-05:00

I’m being bombarded by “Regret”. New Order’s “Regret”. Before that we had Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus”, and prior to that, something by White Zombie. Lights are flashing. Some people are dancing, some are sitting at the bar, while others stand around and chat. I just stand there and I take it all in.

Did I mention I don’t like crowds? Probably not. Well, I don’t like crowds, but occasionally I find myself drawn to large masses of people. I like how I can just disappear and cease to exist within a collective. At times it seems that if one wants to be completely alone, the best way to do it is to submerge oneself in an ocean of people. Sound like a paradox? It is. It’s probably why I brought it up in the first place.

I’m not really a part of this crowd, though. I stand apart, taking it all in. I feed off of the rhythm, but I don’t dance. I feel the excitement in the air, but I am not aroused. I drink, but I’m not drunk. Okay, I’m drinking a Sprite…, or a Seven-Up. I don’t drink alcohol except for certain occasions, weddings, or if I’m traveling. Even then I take it light. I don’t plan on drinking tonight.

Oh, yeah. It’s Tuesday night. After work, but hours before the early a.m. asswhoopin’ I got. I’m at Redemption. Actually this place is only Redemption on Tuesdays. The rest of the week it’s Suspiria. I have no idea what kind of place Suspiria normally is, but I’m guessing it’s just a normal dance club.

That’s pretty much what this place is. Granted, the women are scantily clad, as are a few of the men. There’s a forty-ish dude laying face down on the floor. He’s wearing a French maid’s outfit and he wants people to walk on his back. I walked around him on my way to my own little corner where I can watch the shiny patent black leather, the piercings, the shaved heads, the wigs, the exposed flesh, the faces covered in make-up, zippermasks, muzzles and gags, the giant transvestites who hover over everything like strobe lighted goddesses, the bare chested brothers in turbans, Arabian swords at the ready, the seventy-two year old man, giddy as hell as he is led to and fro on a short leash by a slender young maiden in colonial garb. This is not the freak show I was expecting, exactly. As a matter of fact, the whole affair seemed quite natural to me. This was simply “Cool”.

One corner is where one could find the bar. There was a stage currently occupied by two female dancers who caressed one another as Prince sang “If I Was Your Girlfriend”. In between the bar and the dance floor, against opposite walls, were two seating areas, each with a couch, a small table, and two or three additional chairs. Intutitively, I steered clear of them. I suspected those areas were reserved, though I chose not to ask anybody. In the area, closer to the entrance, stood a slight man in a tux, with his face painted red and two small horns appended to his forehead. He paid attention to no one in particular. Not the two young men behind him, hand cuffed to each other, nor the rest of the club’s current occupants. He held what seemed to be a martini in his left hand, smiled briefly and took a sip.

I glanced at the other seating area and noticed a girl sitting there by herself. She appeared to be waiting. For what? Or who? She momentarily glared in the direction of the red faced man, and her countenance revealed an amused contempt. Perhaps I’m misreading that. The red faced man, raised his glass to the girl, smiled, and took another sip. One of the hand cuffed young men whispered something to the other, who promptly raised an eyebrow, lowered it and then grasped his companion’s hand (which was never far away because of the hand cuffs). They both seemed concerned about something. The red faced man seemed content, and the girl seemed like her patience was starting to wear thin.

There was something about the way her nose and mouth protruded from her face that made me think she was Jewish. I generally find young Jewish women exotic and hot, though I don’t think they age well for some reason. There are exceptions, of course. She was about five foot – two inches (I’m guessing – and that doesn’t include the two or three inches on her heels), had short platinum blond hair. Her head seemed a little large for her smallish body, currently wrapped in some sort of white satiny material from her torso to her upper thighs. It laced up in the back like a corset and looked constricting. It was hard to tell if was enhancing or imposing her figure. The outfit was completed by matching white arm-length gloves and knee high laced boots, it’s high heels I’d just mentioned.

She looked at me for a second. It appeared as though she recognized me and was trying to remember what my name was. Perhaps I’m misreading the situation. She’s turned her attention from me to the small crowd on the dance floor. Marilyn Manson is singing “Great Big White World”. The red faced man is looking at me, now. I can’t read him. He’s completely emotionless, still holding his martini glass. Suddenly, I wonder what’s become of Geoff and Joanne. There’s a basement floor to this place. I think I’ll go check it out.

next...

Six

2004-11-09T22:53:00.000-05:00

“Succotash to the man. For selling drugs to the brother man, instead a’ the other man.”

David Bowie’s “Fame” just came on. Whenever I hear that intro, I can’t help but trigger Professor Griffs’ line in Public Enemy’s “Night Of The Living Baseheads”. Samples are changing the way we remember songs, now. Despite the fact that I was a Bowie fan long before I became a PE fan, I now remember the beginning of “Fame” as a sample in another song, rather than as the song itself. Aretha Franklin’s “Think” conjures 3^rd Base’s “Gas Face”. Diana Ross’ “Upside Down” makes me think of Puff Daddy. Sly And The Family Stone brings me to Janet Jackson.

Are there people who, gazing upon a can of Campbell’s soup, think of Andy Warhol instead of lunch?

I just came down from the upstairs throne room, where I’d taken my after lunch sabbatical. Sometimes the world seems like a different place after you take a dump. You isolate yourself from the world, cleanse yourself of some of the garbage inside you, and when you finally emerge from exile, it seems as though the world itself is a cleaner place. It’s a refreshing feeling, but deep down, there’s something a little eerie about it, too.

“JEFF!!!! YOUR CALL IS STILL HOLDING ON LINE EIGHT!!! PLEASE PICK UP YOUR CALL ON LINE EIGHT!!!!” That’s li’l Bryan at the reception/info desk. Funny guy normally, but he gets annoying on the P.A. Another thing about shitting upstairs, is you don’t always hear if you’re being paged, which is both a good thing and a bad thing simultaneously.

I get to a nearby phone “Stationary department. Jeff speaking.”

“Hey, Jeff! It’s Geoff.”

“Geoff!! What’s happening?” One of the disadvantages of having such a common name, is that you meet a million motherfuckers with the same one, and at least two or three of them become your friends, which can lead to some tedious bullshit.

“Nothing much, man. Just thought I’d check up on ya. Had a good time Tuesday night?”

“Oh, yeah. It was cool. On the way home, I got jumped by these three big Mexican dudes, though. I think I got one of ‘em pretty good, but in the end, you know, three against one…”

“Oh, shit. Sorry to hear that dude. Wish I had a been there. I would’a had your back, dude. Why’d they jump you? Money?”

“Naw. They were kinda rowdy, like they just came from some party or something. One a them said something to me in Spanish and I didn’t like the way it sounded, so I was like ‘Speak English, bitch. You wanna fuck with me, fuck with me in English so I can kick your god-damn ass.’”

Just then I noticed this old lady staring at me. She was holding a child by the hand and he was looking kind of restless.

“Excuse me young man, uh… where is the bathroom?”

“Straight in the back, miss.”

“Thank you, very much.” Hah! I hope that log was cleaned up, or you’re in for some unpleasantness, lady.

“Still there?”

“Yeah, that’s some funny shit. That’s soooo not like you, dude. Getting into fights? I wish I’d been there to see that. Guess you were still a little woozy. So, um… lemme ask you…”

“What?”

“Did you fuck the tranny?”

“What? Tranny? Me? What are you talking about?”

“That girl you were talking to at the bar. Dude, *that* was a dude. I could’a sworn I saw you two leave together.”

Time comes to a screeching halt. We have to go back in time a little bit.

Geoff and Joanne both used to work here. He was in sculpture, she worked in paints. They’d known each other for years. They were practically married. Both managed to get jobs here together. I got to know them ‘cause I heard they were musicians. Geoff who sang and played guitar and Joanne who played everything else; bass, keyboards, drums. The band was named St.Angel, but it was pronounced Staingel. They were a couple of goth types who mentioned being in the fetish scene which I thought was cool. She was a dominatrix and he, the submissive. While at work they were fairly normal looking, dressing casually as most of us did.

Joanne’s jet black hair perhaps gave some indication of the “darkness” she embraced in her after hours, especially in contrast to her pale Irish skin. She was normally very quiet among crowds and not very talkative at work. Sometimes even when I hung out with them, she’d say very few words, but I never felt unwelcome in her presence. Geoff was of Polish descent (don’t ask me to spell his last name – I gave up on that a long time ago), and may have some Jewish blood. Interestingly, some bad experiences with some Hasidic neighbors has colored his views towards Jews, which has led to some heated arguments between us, but so far hasn’t threatened our friendship. I’d seen the band play a couple of times. I’m very impressed. Think Depeche Mode, but with a more aggressive feel. There were some arguments among members, lately, and it appears the group may be on the outs, which is too bad.

Joanne has started to go pro with her dominatrix thing and I think she’s begun to see paying clients. Geoff’s feelings on the matter are conflicted to say the least, but ultimately he supports her. He was the one who invited me to see her performance at a fetish club in the city. Then again, maybe she made him do it. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but my imagination was up to the task. Eyes Wide Shut came to mind. Constantly.

I actually hadn’t seen that film, though I read much about it. It had been somewhat controversial upon it’s release and some editing hadn’t helped matters. It was the editing that caused me to avoid the screenings and the DVD. I guess the reviews didn’t help much either, but I’d still like to see it un-edited. Perhaps I’ll download the European version some day.

I tried to fight the idea that a fetish club was a sex club where bizarre acts were openly perpetrated by folks in masks and tuxedos, well, masks, anyhow. I guess there may be a limit to how bizarre one can get with a tuxedo on. My rational side reasoned that this would be merely a place where folks who had certain inclinations would get together to meet others who shared their tendencies. My not so rational side was excited that I was gonna see and maybe be a part of some weird shit. At the very least I’d probably get to see Joanne spank somebody.

next...

Five

2004-11-08T22:05:00.000-05:00

Someone’s left a log on the side of the bowl. No biggie. We have something equivalent to an employees’ restroom, located near the attic upstairs. It’s inaccessible to customers and therefore not prone to mishaps like the one I just described. It’s also a great place to take a dump in peace. Senior citizens do not see a locked door as a deterrent and will knock and knock and attempt to hold a conversation with whomever’s inside. They never hear me say “Go away, I’m taking a shit.” In the rare situation I find myself on the downstairs potty, and one of these senile fools are banging at the door like their lives depended on it (who knows, perhaps it does), I deliberately take twice the time I normally would to come out. Fuck ‘em. For the most part I’d rather avoid the noise and go upstairs.

Some of the women folk don’t see going upstairs as an option, and that’s understandable. It can be a little scary up there in the darkness. In a room just past the toilet is where old dead machines and discarded sales racks and shelving reside, waiting for the day when they might be useful again. The scary part isn’t necessarily the dead space, the darkness, nor the silence, though those things may hold their place in some peoples’ fear. No. All that is just scenery. Danger often requires a combination of elements. Scenery is one such element. Opportunity is another, and that occurs when a potential victim finds itself at a convenient place and time (the scenery). The most important element, of course, is the stable of unstable freaks, and losers this store seems to attract, both as workers and as consumers.

Crazy customers aren’t a big deal. Considering what we sell (arts & crafts supplies), kooks and crazies are at least a quarter of our target demographic. Most of us enjoy that crowd to some extent and find them preferable to the old ladies who used to watch Bob Ross make “happy accidents” on TV.

The freaks who work here are a big part of the fun too, but, for some, they represent a great potential for danger and unthinkable nastiness. Here’s a brief run-down of just a few;

Vincent D’Amato – You’ve met him briefly. Full of shit. For the most part, that’s no crime. His social life is almost completely based upon hanging out in bars with his mother. He’s thirty five-ish and has never so much as held the hands of a woman not related to him. His relationship to reality seems to be his major failing, which is probably just a polite way of saying he’s full of shit. He has a tendency to stalk young female co-workers barely out of their teens and way out of his league. In my estimation he’s no threat to anyone.

Warren the driver – I don’t know his last name. I often just call him the driver. He’s about six foot, seven. Balding, blond hair, and thick bi-focal glasses. Stocky, but kinda dumpy, he emanates an odor that I imagined was something like wet live stock, more specifically, a wet pig (I say imagined because I have no idea what live pork smell like). He often seems to be hovering like a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade rather than walking. When we heard a former school bus driver had been hired, many of us thought the same thing: child molester. But this thought had mainly occurred in jest. Unfortunately some people live up to stereotypes. This forty-ish behemoth found himself gravitating uncomfortably close to young male co-workers. Like Vinnies’ prey, they were barely out of their teens, and sometimes they were part-timers still in high school. Still, he hadn’t done anything bold enough to get himself fired, though it seems he’s certainly tried hard enough. When making a delivery to a client, she asked him to open a package. He gladly obliged, kneeling so he could pull a bowie knife, sheathed, just over his right sock.

Rick Torey - Sixty years old, 250 lbs. and probably a cross dresser. He comes across with a demeanor similar to a 1940s New York City cab driver, but there’s something about his appearance - long press-on nails and his face, which appears as though he’d just removed a ton of make-up - that seems very inconsistent with his attitude. I’m not sure if that makes much sense. You’d probably have to see it. He works in the paper department.

Darren – a little snot nosed goth type. He doesn’t dye his hair or wear makeup or anything so obvious, but he won’t let go of the black trench coat. Do people still wear those? He’s actually okay, but he has a natural tendency to inspire peoples’ dislike simply by existing.

Ibo Fanaka – a name like that makes people think he’s from the motherland, but he seems plenty American to me. A likable guy, but one can be put off by 1) his need to preach the gospel (he rarely speaks, otherwise), 2) his turrets. At least I think it’s turrets. He has these occasional guttural outbursts, that are something like loud sneezes but without the wetness, the shh sound at the end. “Ah” without the “choo”. I guess that makes a little more sense, hmm? And 3) he’s got this really intense stare that seems to freak the ladies out.

I’m probably forgetting one or two. If they’re important they’ll come up. There are thirty plus employees in all and we’ve all got our issues. Even me, but we won’t talk much about myself right now. More on “me”, later.

next...

Four

2004-11-07T12:05:00.000-05:00

Pretty In Pink by the Psychedelic Furs. The original, not the one that became a huge hit with the movie of the same name. When the movie came out they re-recorded the song, and the first version which couldn’t have been more than a couple of years old just seemed to disappear. It might’ve been a hit, originally. I’m not sure. The popular stations in my area back in the early to near mid-eighties, were WBLS and 92 KTU, who played disco/R&B, and some college stations that played hip-hop. That song had been a staple of WLIR, which had been my favorite radio station in those days. They played new-wave, punk, post punk and stuff I couldn’t hear anywhere else except on college radio at odd hours of the night.

I’d gotten tired of what was being played on R&B stations. Rock was fine if it was Hendrix, AC/DC, The Beatles, or Led Zeppelin, but generally it got a little boring. My intro to LIR was a double barreled assault on my expectations for radio. While fiddling with the radio knob trying to find something decent to listen to, I came across a song called “Me And My Vibrator” by Suzie Seacell, which at the time seemed like the greatest song I’d ever heard in my life. That was followed by “Europa and The Pirate Twins” by Thomas Dolby. That song was just magical. I was hooked. I initially tuned in to that station just to hear the vibrator song again, but I never did. To this day I’ve not heard it for a second time, but for the few years that I listened to WLIR I was introduced to some great music, most (but not all) of which was hated my tiny circle of friends; The The – “This Is The Day”, Smiley Culture – “Police Officer”, Prince – “Ronnie Talk To Russia”, Rita Marley “One Draw (I want to get high)” as well as a host of now remembered 80’s acts who got their initial U.S. airplay on “alternative” radio stations like this around the country; Culture Club, Big Country, U2, Adam And The Ants, Billy Idol, Duran Duran, Eddie Grant, The Clash, Fishbone and more.

Anyway, I was listening to this song at work, and thinking to myself, “This is the original, isn’t it?” I’m really not sure if this is the case, though. It had been years since I’d heard either version, and hear I am listening to it on the Muzak system at work.

Yes Muzak, but it’s probably not what you think. First off I work in an Arts & Crafts supply store. It shall remain unnamed, um…just because. It used to be a haven for art students and freaky creative types like myself, but has grown to aspire to Wal-mart-ism, which just can’t work here. Sure the huge crafts department has always been a magnet for senior citizens, but the major draw for them is the restroom. We shall not discuss the horrors committed there, right now.

The music in the store was programmed with the intention of being inoffensive, which mostly means boring. Previously, this meant piping in the “soft rock” or lite jazz station through the PA and eventually crappy ambient recordings from the 50 cent bin from the CD section from the local discount outlet. Obviously I didn’t care for any of this, but it soon had to end. A string of legal difficulties and unpleasantries led to a general restructuring in the organization. This store was part of a national chain of independently run establishments about 40 strong. The new administration at the top decided to put an end to autonomy, and place each location in lock step with each other. The proposed intention was to avoid future legal troubles but the consequences were much broader. More on those later.

The music being played in the store up to now was unlicensed and therefore illegal. Any establishment that plays copyrighted music publicly, whether live or recorded has to pay fees to ASCAP, BMI, and SECAM. These are performance rights organizations that see to it that songwriters get paid every time their song is played on the radio or sung at karaoke in some bar. So the soft rock and the lite jazz radio and the crappy ambient CDs had to go.

Enter Muzak. When I saw their truck outside the store, I panicked. I remembered what that word meant back in the eighties; syrupy instrumental versions of known pop songs AKA elevator music. I wasn’t happy about what we had; I really wasn’t happy with what we were getting. Turns out I was wrong. Muzak now plays the actual recordings rather than the elevator versions. Perhaps they still do that too, but it’s occurred to me that it’s been a long time since I’ve heard “true” elevator music.

We get a lot of eighties songs, some soul classics, some funk (no George Clinton groups, though), some non-eighties pop and a smattering of some other stuff, like Bob Marley. It all gets mixed together randomly so it doesn’t wear on the nerves so easily, which is good. I think we’re hearing waaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy too much of Howard Jones, however. There must be at least four or five of his songs on the playlist. There’s only three Bowie songs (including “Blue Jean” – ugh), and two by Prince; “Kiss” and “Raspberry Beret”. Three if you count The Bangles tune, “Manic Monday” which he wrote.

I was in one of my aisles, stocking out tape. I deal with adhesives and the small amount of office supplies we carry. It’s Thursday. Payday. Despite how little I make, getting my check puts me in a good mood. Vinnie comes over. There goes my good mood. Vinnie D’Amato works in drawing supplies. Pencils, erasers, rulers, etc. He’s not a complete moron, but sometimes he comes close. Tell you the truth, I like the guy most of the time despite his flaws. Who among us is flawless?

“Yo!!! Jefff-Reiiiiiiiiiii!!! Whasup, dog?” The whole world speaks in ebonics, or what should properly be called jive. It shouldn’t bother me at this point, yet it does, especially coming out of this garlic knot.

“Hello, Vincent.” I responded dryly. I almost always do. I returned to my task.

“Yo, I didn’t see you around yesterday. Everything aiiight?”

“Yeah, I went out Tuesday night with a couple of friends. Got into a little fight on the way home.” Wasn’t in the mood for embellishments, so I added none. I was wearing my shades. I lifted them up so he could see my right eye. Wasn’t as bad as yesterday. As a matter of fact it was much better. Still, it didn’t look quite right. I’d give it a couple more days. Vinnie looked at me like I had pus seeping out of a crack in the inflammation.

“Damn, man. That don’t look good. Wish I had a been there. I would’a whipped up on some ass, som’ awful.” He’s told me and a few others that he has a black belt in Karate. He’s full of shit, of course. But I humor him. We all do.

“Yeah, it’s too bad. But what’s done is done.” I open up a box of masking tape.

“I got your back, dude.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

The moron walks away. I sense a presence behind me.

“Excuse me, young man, but I can’t seem to find one inch 3M masking tape.”

I’ve got it right here.” I say, pointing to the box below me. “How many rolls do you need?”

next...

Three

2004-11-05T01:25:00.000-05:00

Prince is in San Francisco playing a live rendition of (Rufus and) Chaka Khan’s “Sweet Thing”. Backed by his band, he’s playing some smooth guitar. He leaves the singing entirely to the audience at the Fillmore. I find the moment incredibly moving. I could almost cry, but I don’t.

I’m in a supermarket on Long Island, NY. I have my portable CD player on, and I’m listening to an awesome audience recording I downloaded earlier this year. I normally do my food shopping on Saturdays. Sometimes I’ll stop at the supermarket (Pathmark) near my job to pick up whatever.

Hempstead has four supermarkets, that I’m aware of; Stop and Shop, V&T (lots of Asian food and stuff), Associated and another not far from Associated, that keeps changing it’s name. I don’t go to the latter two. The store that’s now Associated (I don’t know if that space hosted another market, previously) once advertised in it’s window, something they called “ugly pork”. I realize that this village’s population largely stems from the south, but you know what? I don’t. I refuse to purchase food from an establishment that won’t even put in the effort to make their crap presentable. The store that keeps changing its name has a similar low budget look to it. I think I’d been in there once before, but it was very crowded and felt very closed in. Didn’t like it.

Stop and Shop, unlike other major supermarkets that opened here in Hempstead, has kept up its appearance and remains a very decent supermarket. This is where I do most of my shopping. I’m not too crazy about their poultry and fish prices, but they have a natural foods section, and there’s always stuff I need on sale.

V&T, I like better for fish, poultry and some fruits. There’s also a little sushi shop located inside.

Stop & Shop also has sushi. I consider picking some up for a late lunch, but first to the natural foods section. It’s a small area right past the floral department next to the front door. To add to its organic appeal, it has a wooden floor that sets it apart from the rest of the floor tiled store. The alternative milks are in quart sized cartons that don’t have to be refrigerated until they are opened. Traditionally this is how soy milk is sold, however, as it has become increasing mainstream, you can now find it packaged the same way cow’s milk is. In the dairy department in half gallon containers more familiar to consumers. The soy milk in these containers also have a consistency that’s fairly close to real milk, and doesn’t need to be shaken nearly as much (if at all). I’m guessing that the companies that still package soy milk the old way are suffering due to the mainstreaming of this product into something more familiar. I see prices falling sharply for the quart containers. I prefer the half gallons for the reasons stated above. However, neither almond nor rice milk are sold this way, so I continue to buy them in quarts. I get one of each and head towards sushi.

Prince and the band finish “Girls & Boys” and are about to go into “Mama Feelgood” with keyboardist, Rad on lead vocals. I think I hear my name.

“Yo, Jeff!!” I turn off the CD player and turn around. I see someone I know walking towards me with a shopping cart. He’s got milk (the regular kind), a carton of orange juice, a package of chicken drumsticks and some other stuff.

“Hey, Elvin. How’s it going?” Elvin also goes by the name Pop Nice. He’s a local hip-hop artist who’s ghost produced for some semi-big names and produces on his own as well. He’s got a nice recording set-up in his basement. I’ve played a little guitar on one of his projects. The name Pop doesn’t indicate his age as he’s probably a good five years younger than I am. Maybe he used to breakdance. I dunno. I just call him Elvin.

“Yo, Jeff, I was callin’ you, man.” He extends a hand, which I grab and shake. I pull the headphones from my ears, so he can see why I couldn’t hear him.

“My music gets a little loud.”

“Yeah, I see. What you listening to?”

“Got some live Prince.”

“Yo, that’s hot. Check it out, Jeff, I gotta favor to ask you” He liked to get right to the point. Which is fine by me. I’m not crazy about useless small talk. His favors never involved money, so I was willing to listen.

“Whatever you need, El.”

“I got this hot track that could use some live guitar shit on it. If you could come through, I’d really appreciate it.” He paused and looked at me like a third eye opened up on my forehead and winked at him. “Ohhh, shit! Yo, Jeff, what happened to yo’ eye, dude?”

I wasn’t thinking. I had a slight inflammation under my right eye. I should’a worn my shades, but it was a cloudy day. I don’t normally wear shades if it’s too dark. So I told a version of the story that made me seem much more valiant and, of course, victorious. I’d fought off three thugs who aspired to possess my wallet.

“Yo, G, lemme know if you need any them bitches taken care of, cuz you my nigga. I got your back. You know that, right?”

“Of course. Everything’s cool, though.” Okay, maybe I do have some friends with weaponry, but I wouldn’t want to go that route. Perhaps I was still a little steamed, inside. I’ll get over it in a couple of days, though. I’m not the stay mad type. “When do you need me to come by? I’m not really available till Saturday morning.” Not That I’d be terribly busy aside from work, but I’m an infrequent, and sloppy guitar player. Having a couple of days to warm up my fingers wouldn’t be a bad thing.

“Naw, Saturday is cool. Come through, though. I’ll make it worth your while. Word.” We both have some reliability issues, though it might be fair to say that his issues are bigger than mine. He has an occasional tendency to forget appointments, and perhaps that has led to a bit of a blasé attitude on my part where I myself haven’t fully accepted his open invitations to stop by his studio at anytime, and have also skipped an appointment or two. At this point I have every intention of showing up as I said I would.

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Two

2004-11-03T22:11:00.000-05:00

I’m being chased through my high school, which has suddenly become an airport and then a shopping mall. David Dinkins (he was Mayor of NYC, a decade or so ago) is right beside me. He’s wearing a chef’s hat and holding a ladle in his right hand. I don’t know what’s chasing us, but we keep running. I ask Dinkins if he’s the Cream Of Wheat man. He gives me a stern, disapproving look.

I don’t often remember my dreams. In fact, I think I’ve forgotten a great deal of that one. I gotta start writing them down. Some people feel that dreams are important, that they mean something. I think my dreams are just one more sign that I’m fucking nuts.

It’s only about eleven-thirty. Wednesday. I told them at work that I wasn’t coming in today. While I didn’t anticipate this morning’s violence, I knew I’d be out just about all night. I once went to work the night after a P-Funk concert. Except for the train ride, I’d gotten no sleep and got home in time to shower, get dressed and head to work. I spent the whole day in and out of consciousness. Insane. It was a great show, though. That was more than ten years ago.
Nowadays, if I can’t get at least a few hours sleep, I won’t go to work. That sort of thing doesn’t happen often, though. I’m not outgoing like that.

Reflecting on the incident, it’s probably best that it ended the way it did. Not because I was being a dick. But, because things like that have a tendency to escalate. Especially around here. You call me a name, I kick your ass. I kick your ass, you shoot me. You shoot me, my friends see you hanging out on some corner, drive by, aim at you, but hit four bystanders, including an A student, instead. Weird thing, how geniuses seem so often to lose their lives in shootouts and car accidents. At least in so-called “ghetto” areas. The cycle of violence I just detailed would probably just end in me getting shot. I don’t really know anybody with a private arsenal.

Hempstead doesn’t live up to it’s seedy reputation, if you ask me. I mean, shit happens, but generally, I don’t find it a difficult place to live. Maybe if I had kids, I’d sing a different tune. It’s possible I’ve just been lucky.

I never made it to Rite-Aid. Or Walgreen’s. Those kicks to the tummy ruined my appetite for a while, but I’m hungry now. Close as it is to lunch time, I’ll be eating cereal. Store brand granola. Hmm. Almost out of milk. Not the stuff from cows. I’m lactose intolerant. Never cared for that shit to begin with, unless you count snacks that use milk as an ingredient. I still eat some of those. Chocolate bars, cake, etc. The milk I drink nowadays alternates between soy, rice, and almond. I read somewhere that one can develop an allergy to soy from too much consumption. Don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m running out of soy milk, so I guess almond or rice milk is next on the agenda.

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One

2004-11-02T01:05:00.000-05:00

I hear the sound of a train, cruising through a crossing, horn blaring at no one in particular. The sound of steel caressing steel, creating a steady rhythm that comforts me. There is a train station only a few blocks from here, but it’s not a railroad crossing. It’s the last stop of the Long Island Railroad’s Hempstead line. The sounds I hear aren’t coming from that direction. They’re in my head. The sun’s taking it’s time to rise. So am I. I’m laying in a parking lot, reluctant to return to reality, but reality makes no hesitation returning to me. The soothing rhythms of my make believe railroad cars give way to the slightly bombastic thumping somewhere in the neighborhood of my left ear. I try to lift my head. So far, so good. Let’s see if the rest of me will cooperate. Bringing myself towards a sitting position, I pause to bask in my accomplishment.

I haven’t had my ass kicked liked that since… well, almost never. Not since I was a kid, anyway, and those fights and beatdowns (which were few and far between) were certainly not in this league. Aside from being semi-conscious for a little while, it seems I’m not seriously hurt. Oh, I’m in pain. I got a few bumps and bruises. And I still feel a couple of those kicks my stomach took, but otherwise I’m in good shape for someone who took on three guys. Actually I took on one of them, and the other two decided to join in.

Faggots.

Then again, who started it?

Even at four or five in the morning, it seems you can’t have the world to yourself. I’d been hanging out with a couple of friends in Manhattan (more on them, later). Instead of catching the LIRR back to Hempstead, I took a subway to Jamaica, and from there, the N6 bus. The N6 runs all night, pretty much, though with much less frequency than in the daytime. With a transfer, a trip to or from the city costs only $1.50. A great bargain compared to $5.25 for an off-peak ticket. The major trade offs are;

1) Even in the early a.m. hours, one is not guaranteed a seat on the bus, though it won’t be nearly as crowded as it normally is during peak hours of the day.

2) The seats on the bus, and the ride itself is not likely to be as comfortable as that on the Long Island Railroad. Ditto for the subway, though, I can comfortably catch a few Zzzs on the subway (not recommended, but I’ve never had a problem).

3) The subway/bus combo takes somewhere in the neighborhood of 2-3 plus hours (especially at that time of night) vs. 45-50 minutes on the LIRR.

Still, I’m cheap, and perilously close to being broke (I still have my wallet. I can feel it against my right ass cheek in my back pocket), so it didn’t seem like that much of a trade off to me.

So, anyway, I get off the bus, and instead of heading straight home, I decide to head towards Rite-Aid for some junk food. Rite-Aid is a drug store that also sells all sorts of other crap. Stores like this are opening all over the country, it seems, usually within blocks of each other, and I can’t quite understand why this is. Tonight/this morning, I don’t complain, because I suspect that this Right-Aid isn’t open 24 hours. Could be wrong, but if not there happens to be a Walgreen’s just two or three blocks down, and I know for sure that they’re open 24 hours a day.

I cut through a parking lot to get there. It’s really like, two or three parking lots, all empty at the moment save for a hand full of cars, one sleeping homeless dude, and three wanna-be tough-guy high school (maybe a little older) aged kids walking in my general direction. The parking lot is a short-cut to the strip mall that contains Rite-Aid, about a block away, and across the street, where my soda and chips await. This part of the lot covers the backs of shops that line one side of Main Street; Nakasaki’s, a Chinese-Jamaican restaurant (not as strange as it sounds), a hair salon or two, a small Caribbean market, book store, a bagel breakfast shop, etc. All the way down we have a bank and a few other small businesses also on the same side of Main. On the other end, we have the Asian supermarket, V&T. Very strange for a village that’s mostly African-American and Hispanic. Then again, there’s a chapter of the Polish National Club not too far from here, a reminder of this community’s previous inhabitants, I guess, or maybe some sort of bizarre Polish joke. The Asian market faces the far side of the parking lot, with it’s back facing South Franklin Street. This building has hosted at least one other supermarket, previously. I think it was Waldbaums.

So, I’m on my way to feed my craving for crap, and these three kids are going wherever they’re going, and I notice they’re headed directly towards me. It’s not that there was anything unusually threatening about them. I mean, everyone around here walks with a bit of “macho” in their step, right? Even some of the ladies. No. It was that, despite this huge ass space, this almost completely vacant parking lot, these three knuckleheads decide they’ve got to disrupt the path that *I’m* taking, to get where they’re going. These little hood rat bastards, couldn’t walk at a different angle and avoid me completely. No. Somehow these three punks have discerned that the course I was taking was somehow a thing of value, and that they would take it from me by making me go around them, by altering my path.

At the risk of sounding crazy (and who gives a shit if I am?), it seems this sort of non-sense is happening to me all the time. While I looked forward to the barely consumable goods I’d set my heart upon, I dreaded the process I normally go through to obtain them, especially at this time of night. I walk into a Walgreen’s, Seven-Eleven, or some other convenience store at some god forsaken hour and notice how quiet the joint is. There’s one cashier and he has no idea what to do with himself, he’s so bored. I browse through the aisles, looking at all sorts of candies, or nuts, chips and beverages. I make my selection. By then, I’d been in the store maybe fifteen minutes at the most. I head to the register, and there are five people ahead of me. I usually see one or two rush to the end of the line before I get there! This type of thing infuriates me, and it happens all the time!!!! There are more examples I’ll share with you later, if I remember.

The kids are a mere few feet from me now. They’re laughing among themselves, no doubt over something stupid. They seem to be oblivious to the iceberg in their path. I have no intention of giving way, but perhaps a small bit of courtesy is called for.

“Excuse me.”

Nothing changes except we continue to draw closer to one another, and a hint of rage exposes itself, uncharacteristically, I might add. Or perhaps not.

Somehow we manage not to collide head on. Instead, my left arm brushes against the shoulder of the young man in the center. This insignificant little action is not complete before the hint of rage releases a shade of my devil inside.

“Out’a my way.”

Everything stops. It seemed that even my heart ceased to function as there was no longer that rhythm deep within that reminded me of my own existence.

The laughter had become silence. The conversation, which had been about nothing in particular, had become nothing specifically. All eyes were on me, except those of the homeless dude who slept next to a tree, on an island of grass and concrete in the center of the parking lot.

Not a moment had elapsed when the fellow whom I’d lightly brushed and addressed as a lowly peasant, thus articulated his dismay;

“Nigga, what???”

The hint, which had become a shade, instantly became a manifestation, and I became not merely enraged or be-deviled, but an arrogant, angry god of storms who found himself raining blows of thunder and lightning mercilessly upon this mere mortal.

“OUT…

“OF…

“MY…

“GOT

“DAMN

“WAY..,

“YOU..

“STUPID..,

“LITTLE..,

“PIECE OF SHIT!!!!”

Something grabbed me. I think I might’a been drooling at that point. Maybe that came later. I’m not entirely sure. The guy who was not on the ground in a fetal position and was not the one holding me back, started to work me over a bit. I saw a couple of those punches, but soon all I could see were intervals of blackness, punctuated by flashes of stark whiteness. Before I realized it, I was no longer standing. I looked up at three shadows, and probably said something not completely coherent;

“Fug awww yu bishes!!!”

There were some sharp pains in my stomach followed by echo-y laughter and then, the sound of trains. In between the laughter and the sound of locomotives, I may’ve lost consciousness for a short period. I didn’t time myself, though. Who knows?

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Write A Novel In A Month? Why not?

2004-10-25T22:34:00.000-04:00

Sounds like fun. Gonna give it a shot.
November 1st - 30th.