Raw skin and burning dirt.
An old Navajo walked out of the station eating an orange. I nodded to him and smiled. He said nothing. He stood next to me under the hood.
“What is it?” his voice was angered, aggravated and aggravating.
“I don’t know.”
“What happened?”
I told him. He walked away slowly and came back with another. He got behind the wheel and cranked it. His buddy stayed under the hood. I walked inside the station and bought a drink.
They were standing over the engine, laughing. His buddy had one tooth in his head. I asked the first one what was wrong with it. He wiped his hands down his shirt and shook his head, smiling.
“It’s very bad.”
I stared at his friend. He nodded and smiled. I looked at his tooth.
“How bad?”
The other one answered. He was the boss.
“Head gasket’s blown. Much money.”
“How much money?”
“We’ll do it for nine hundred.”
I only had six hundred on me. I told him.
“Nope. Fix it here or we tow it to the junkyard.”
I had the extra key in my wallet.
“Alright. Fix it here.”
I asked him how long it would take. One solid day. I took my bike out and rode into town, into that place.
The car lots there were useless. They either had nothing I could afford or anything I would trust. I rode back. They had the van on the lift in the garage. I found the boss again.
“Listen. I really only have six hundred dollars. Can’t we do something here, I mean, we’re both people.”
He scowled.
“You’re not my people. Nine hundred dollars. That’s a good deal. Somewhere else you’d pay twice as much.”
“Well, I don’t have it.”
He looked me up and down.
“Where do you live?”
I shook my head. He smiled.
“Maybe you can work here for the money.”
“Where?”
He laughed.
“I’ll make the call. Job’s hard. Very hard. Maybe you’ll quit.”
I asked him what it was. He uttered one word: digging. He told me I could sleep in the van until I paid it off, but he would charge me a little extra for rent. I thought quickly about catching a bus, but there was nowhere I wanted to go. I couldn’t hitch a ride out with my bike and my things. Arizona was not an option. I told him to make the call.
I slept in the van that night in the garage. It was still dark when one of the Indians banged on the door.
“Get up! Time for work!”
I had the sheet of paper with directions and set out on my bike. It was a four mile ride through the dusty roads and paths. I saw the site. A long, long line of Indians on their knees with narrow shovels trenching into the ground, a truck going slowly in reverse with a giant spool of cable they laid carefully into the trench. They were shirtless and moving quickly, and the foremen screamed at them. They were an endless line ripping a tear in the desert, the line of dark red backs and elbows moving like a long machine. I was my soul after death and I was standing at the gates of Hell.
I found the lead foreman and told him who I was.
He yelled.
“YOU’RE LATE!”
I tried to explain. He threw a shovel in my hands.
“Three feet deep and two wide. NOW!”
I squeezed in between two big Indians. The foreman ran up and nudged me with his boot.
“NO! You bring up the FRONT!”
He walked me up to the front of the line. It was a long walk. The Navajos peered at me with my shovel, and they jeered me. At the front of the line the foreman pushed me to the lead. I’d had it with him. I turned and held my shovel to swing at him. He jumped back and pulled out a long blade. I yelled at him.
“FUCK YOU!”
The line burst into laughter. The foreman laughed with them.
“Just dig, white boy. You’ll quit before an hour.”
He put the knife back in his boot and walked away. I dropped to one knee and saw the ditch. I would work the day then sneak out with the van before the Indians came back to the shop. I began digging. The other workers laughed. Their laughter made me angry. I dug furiously for an hour. I made sure to stay in front of them, to beat them with a widening gap. One of them yelled at me to slow down. I heard his friend.
“Don’t worry. He’ll get tired.”
I thought of all the things that sickened me. I found a reservoir of hatred inside my arms. I dug on. Three or so hours passed. It was time for everyone to drink.
It was a long wait for the water ladle. There was a huge steel trough and we all lined up to drink from that ladle. When my turn came I took two or three gulps then another foreman grabbed it.
“That’s too much, white boy.”
Everybody laughed. They still had ten minutes. They found corners of shade by the trailer and sat. I walked back to the ditch and kept at it. They yelled at me to take a break. The foremen told them to keep quiet, that they were disgusted that a white boy was making them look so bad. I kept digging. I was yards out from them. They had to cut their break short. They were moving as fast as they could, but I had plenty of hatred in me. At one point a foreman blew his whistle and we stopped. He ran over with his tape measure and stuck it in their part of the ditch.
“Too damn shallow!”
A big worker stood up and looked at me. He ran his finger under his throat. I asked him if he was tired, and the line howled. I kept going, faster and faster, delirious from the heat. My skin was burnt.
After the next hour everybody hated me. I didn’t care. I would never see them again. We worked until dusk. At the trailer where I had my bike chained the tires were knifed, and they were watching me. I paid them no mind, picked up my bike and carried it on my shoulder up over the hill where they couldn’t see. Then I set it down and collapsed. I watched the hot and dead sky turn circles over my body, and I remembered the pier in California, meeting Greg, my genius painter buddy from Vegas, and Roll, another genius painter who had just moved to Vegas from Florida, and they were in town by the pier, and we rode our bikes all day, practicing new tricks in front of the ocean. I remembered back further, to jumping on a Greyhound bus from Phoenix to Venice Beach, with three hundred dollars in my pocket, the first time I’d left home. I liked it there, and I lied about my age to get my first construction job I had found in the paper while drinking coffee in front of the ocean with my first girlfriend. She was seven years older than I was, with plenty of neurosis. Her name was Kim and she lived by the beach there in Venice. In six months she became the enemy, and I escaped her one morning while she was asleep. On the hot dirt, I thought forward from her, to a beach house where I had been a renter, living with an after-hours alcoholic and her lazy eye and her husband, Cliff, who was a psychologist and latently homosexual, which occurred to me on the hot dirt was the reason he always had a pipe in his mouth. I remembered leaving there, and my laundry getting stolen from the dryers in San Diego, and I remembered going to jail in Tijuana and being beaten over and over. But mostly I remembered nothing, and it was supposed to be dusk but the sky wouldn’t budge. I heard the rumbling of tires coming behind me. I picked up my bike and kept going. They blew by, yelling, hooting, flipping me the bird, leaving me in a cloud of dust. I set it down and walked it. A mile before the station the two mechanics pulled up in an old car.
The boss nodded at me.
“We fixed your van.”
I stared ahead and nodded. I felt him look at his buddy and smile, then look back to me, “See you in the morning.”
I nodded ahead. They wouldn’t see me in the morning. They wouldn’t see me again.
The van wasn’t in the garage windows. I walked around back and dug the key from my wallet. I threw my bike in the side door and sat behind the wheel. I could see the last traces of sunlight crashing into the desert. Then it was dark. I turned the key. It purred. They had done a good job. I crawled in back and laid on the couch. The van had no wheels, they had it set upon jacks.
Apathy.
I can't ever genuinely keep a conversation.
No tears, I just drift away and let my eyes roll into my head. The other guy talks for me.
My friends cry on my shoulder, or into my ear at 6 in the morning.
My feelings are bare.
The cutest thing, my hamster; Porkchop.
I find him stiff, and my emotions copy.
When things get bad for me,
I turn myself off. Let the other guy deal with things.
Helps me relax.
I sometimes feel the words come out of my mouth, but don't know what I'm saying.
I don't even fear death.
AGNESS
SCENE 1
9/12/89
Dear Mom,
Me and Age are having an amazing time here in Ukraine! We just visited this beautiful place called Saint Sophias Cathedral. It made our eyes melt! Ill send you some pictures in my next letter! We are planning on going to plenty more land marks on our trip.
And don't buy me any presents for my birthday. I'm 18 and Age is all I need. He is so sweet, adventurous, and treats me like a queen. I couldn't ask for anything more. I can see it now mom! "Mrs. Maria; Mrs. Maria Estel Ventur."
On our first night, we stayed in this foreign, strange, and dirty little hell hole of a motel. We spent 30 minutes talking with the manager who knew almost no English, trying to tell him we wanted to stay the night. He kept flapping his rotten gums on and on in Ukrainian, and kept pointing to a greasy, fluorescent-lit fast food joint across the street. He finally understood when Age brought 20 dollars out of his wallet and moved the mans fingers to point at a room.
Our room was small, and none the less uncomfortable. My bed was squished down, springs poked out of the mattress, and the wallpaper was at least 20 years old. It was awful, but Age was my night in shining armor. He brought me roses from an old, shattered greenhouse down the alley, and snuck pillows out of an unlocked, neighboring room from down the hall to cover the springs. Did I mention he was sweet?
It was hilarious because the house-cleaning lady didn't even notice him as he snuck behind her. I watched from our door as the plump, little lady was basically dancing her way through the hall with ear plugs in, pumpin' up when he walked right behind her. Then when she did notice, she started going crazy and yelling at the manager.
We laughed our butts off the whole night, cuddled, and bounced around the room. I wish to stay here forever. Our love is so strong mom.
I love you so much mom, and I miss you so much my stomach hurts. Don't worry, the days will fly by like the wind and we will be together again. I will write when my heart needs you to hear. Till then. <3
SCENE 2
9/17/89
A bulky, obnoxious phone rings loudly, hanging on a wall in the Slayn residence. Maria's mother comes to the phone with surprise, curls her long brown hair behind her ear with the phone now pressed against her face.
Familiar emotional sniffles prod and poke her ear. "Maria? Maria is that you? Honey? Whats wrong? Tell me please." Her brow rises with sympathy, and her grasp on the phone tightens.
"He couldn't swim.-" Maria shakes, and tears seem to flood the phone line.
"MARIA?" An uprising of motherly concern overwhelmed the phone line. "Maria sweetie? Come home!"
"The ring," She weeps. "I didn't know about the ring."
A dark sorrow envelopes her mothers ear.
"Maria, come home please."
#moretocome #act3comingsoon
Fame
We pulled up to the house. It looked like a country club. We were flash-bulbed getting out of the limo.
“I thought this was a fucking party,” Lionel said, “not a premiere.”
“Whichever magazine’s covering it probably paid for almost all of it,” Anjelina said, “ignore it.”
“Bottom-feeding motherfuckers.”
The living room was like a marble warehouse. A fountain, statues, and faces everywhere. I saw a free corner and stood by a bust of Spinoza. Billy and Amanda stood with us. Anjelina whispered in my ear that she was going to hunt for friends. Lionel motioned a server over, and we lifted glasses of wine off a silver tray. Two young blondes who had a reality show were being followed by a camera crew. They were famous for nothing. No talent, no souls. They came from rich families and nothing else. The taller one saw me, and she ran over with her friend. She looked at the camera, “That’s John Edmonds. He’s hot.” She looked at me, “You’re hot.”
The cameras and lights were on us. She went to hug me. I stopped her, “Beat it.”
“Huh?”
“Beat it,” I said, “you moron.”
The little one started to say something. I glanced at her, then back to the taller one, “And take your little brother with you.”
They walked off. The cameras stayed on me. I looked at Lionel, “Pieces of shit.”
I looked at the lead camera guy. They left. Billy broke up laughing with Amanda. Lionel looked at Christine, “So much for Anjie’s other woman theory,” he laughed and patted my back, “I love you.”
Christine took my elbow, “Same here.”
Almost every face from celluloid, print, or the tube was floating around us. Mostly very short people. Cocaine was around.
Two actors buzzed by, then another one stopped and shook Lionel’s hand. He looked like he was about to fall over. He walked away. Lionel sipped his wine, “You know what they say, When in Relapse.”
“All the beautiful abuse. This is fucking great.”
“I know, a line right into the heart of the beast.”
Sexy Mexican Maid
On my back listening to music
old albums from the mornings of
youth: waking up lean, ready, relaxed, hair in mouth
and touching shoulders
the world out there full of color and blood
the sand and sun and salt water waiting
the bikinis waiting without expectation
the songs of then, like the one this morning,
the careless yet loving caress
of not knowing
the song's intro bringing me back to those mornings
waking up in my rented room on the beach:
California, 18 or 19 years old
wild-eyed and mad with the words, fast, beautiful,
without stress, without care, without bother for anyone
else's opinion, without the need to shield myself
from the eyes and hateful intent
of dicks and cunts
I was unaffected by their drain
and sometimes I still am
but the years put wear on a man's heart
his skin, his mind, his instinct
and without being careful, the past can spill over into the future
but mornings like this come more often as we cut loose the hateful faces,
let the shitty intent of others
roll off our backs
and keep our eyes on the Sun and surf and cities and towns and fields bathed in moonlight
the present spilling out before us
with what is earned
and nothing else
leaking its way to the
future
the center opens
and we
walk on in.
With Impunity: an old-fashioned love poem.
I was supposed to stay in the
labor fields, the kitchens, the delivery jobs
the sites of suns and nails and hammers and hatred
all the lemon of yellow drained, the remaining
hours of night saved for the typewriter, then a
battle into sleep before the next one started as
ugly as the last
To awake on my back with the arch of your foot
upon my shin, your breath in my ear, your
fingers curled atop my chest, the smell
of your skin like the orange blossoms
that scent the sidewalks beautiful
in the dirt of what was
an old city, an old job, the old wreckage of blood
and blister and bone,
sweat and purple skin
I rest my hand upon your naked spine
while your ribs meet mine like fingers lacing
all the suns now falling to death, to give me
one back, up high
A letter in my inbox says
congratulations on the writing,
you’ve made it
but I made it long
before this,
back in the old apartment
when we danced our first dance
slow
and
certain.
Walking In L.A.
We were up early and driving to thrift shops around the city, then into downtown, where we parked and had coffee. The actual city of Los Angeles was rarely depicted in film, but it was a city, skyscrapers and pedestrian traffic with vendors and beggars, with lawyers and pick-pockets and steel edges. We walked the steps of Angels Flight, and my heart was blown to bits by the music in Arturo Bandini, the life of Fante’s words. All of Los Angeles in the afternoon, the working hours, when the city was less molested and timeless, a black and white lens.
Caged.
It’s one o’clock in the morning, Helena. The deputy just made a cell walk, looked in on me, and kept walking. I walked to the door and read the time on the clock. My hand is sore from writing, and my heart is broken from these pages, but I owed them to you. I’m going to try to get some sleep now. Hopefully I can sleep through shower call and breakfast, to rebuild a shred of health. I might dream some of these paragraphs in color, or I might dream of you and your long dream hair, or maybe I’ll dream of Angel running through a bright field, making her way into my arms again. Or maybe I won’t dream. Maybe I’m all out of them. I hope that I am.
