Madmen of the Mountain

It’s 1983 or so. I’m in front of the TV. Of course. Eating microwave popcorn. Of course. Watching Falcon Crest. Of course. I think to myself “It’s amazing. These people don’t even need to act. Their hair does it for them.”

Suddenly a giant slug lurches into the living room. We’ve had an infestation since the dam burst. I try and ignore him for a while, focusing in on Lorenzo Lamas’ hair. But the slug is so damn big I want to vomit. Instead I check myself, mechanically drawing handfuls of popcorn to my mouth.

Then my Uncle Lance comes in and pats the slug on the side like he’s a horse. “C’mon boy, let’s take you out back and hose you down.”

Later on I can’t contain myself any longer.

“What are you doing with that slug, Lance?”

“What about it?”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Shows what you know, son. That slug is a genius. He told me all about the future. About these space cars called Hybrids. Also everybody owns a walkie-talkie and uses them like it’s no big deal.”

“Oh come on, how would a slug know all that?”

“Use your head man. It’s in the soil. The future is written in the soil.”

Alright then I admit it. I didn’t go on any trip. I don’t know why. I guess I choked. I don’t like going to new places. But at work everybody was pressuring me.

“Luke you have all these vacation days.”

“Luke you better cash in on your vacation days.”

Like I’m committing this crime by not going somewhere. Also I’m just paranoid about it. About them getting together when I’m not around and plotting against me. But that I suppose is another story. Anyways I go down to the bus station with my suitcase. I made it that far. And I take a seat right across from the ticket window. Basically I’m halfway on vacation. I’m just trying to decide where it is exactly I’m gonna go to.

And then this ridiculous man sits down next to me. He ruined it. It’s his fault. He said his name was Carlos. Carlos Manipuloso. Yeah it sounded suspicious to me too. But he was sitting there looking defeated. First he lets out this big sigh. Hugggggghhhhh! And then another big sigh. HUGGGGGGGGHHHHH! Like he is trying to telegraph his defeat all the way up to Heaven. Then he just starts weeping. Uncontrollable weeping and he is clutching this framed photograph. Oh it was one of those pictures that comes with the frame. But that was all part of the manipulation. A brilliant scheme. And boy how I fell for it. You know about my weakness for Hispanic people. Not that he really looked Hispanic. But still.

And so Carlos tells me how the woman in the picture is his wife. How she is being held hostage in this house in town, but he can’t call the cops cause of course they are in on it. So he’s got this scheme that I could play a pizza delivery man. The Drug Lords will open the door for some pizza guy just not for him. So after I distract the drug lords, Carlos goes in and rescues his wife. Some scheme, right?

We get the pizza outfit together and Carlos and I drive to the house. I ring the doorbell.

“Who the fuck are you?” asks one of em.

“I brought a pizza” I say, holding up the box with an inviting smile. He narrows his eyes at me, trying to maintain the tough-guy exterior, but I have this sense he is starting to crack.

They invite me into what is essentially the safe house. All of these gangsters are collapsed in a living room with shotguns, handguns, and semi-automatic weapons. The Boss is sprawled on the sofa catatonically watching reruns of “I Dream of Jeannie.” Strangely he does resemble Larry Hagman if Larry Hagman was a Columbian Drug Lord.

“Did Carlos send you?” he asks.

But I play dumb. “That’s twelve bucks for the pizza, not including tip…”

I notice the woman sitting next to the Drug Lord. She doesn’t look anything like the woman in the framed photograph. Where the hell are you Carlos?

“You seem pretty tough, just barging in here and disarming all of us,” observes the Bossman.

“You can be the king of this whole operation, but its not instantaneous. There will be training. You’ll have to learn to look and act like a gangster.”

“You guys don’t look or act like gangsters.”

The Boss just nods his head bitterly. I sense the others breaking ranks. The room feels ready to blow. I move towards the door.

“Enjoy your pizza guys. Its on me.”

Outside Carlos was still sitting with the motor idling. I didn’t look him in the eye.

As the stringy Russian dabs foam on a pasty businessman, the news breaks about Michael and advances quickly from spectacle to melodrama. I am called to the chair.

The barber seems drunk on antiseptic. In an accent sour as herring he babbles:

“Jackson, the other actress die, the rain- these are signs!”

“Is that Nostradamus?” I ask in that nonchalant voice you use with insane people.

“Nostrodamus, I- Ching, the Mayans.. you name it. This is sign… You know prophecy of 2012?”

“No, please enlighten me”

“Jesus is gonna return and the Jews will have to pay”

Of course they will.

I just sigh as he opens the straight razor and aims for my throat.

MOODY MORNING

J train lurching bleery eyes
Bushwick yawns below
tombstones are the tenement teeth
the people rubbing spray paint
out of crusty eyes
too many visions last night
tagged inside those walls
the faded hands crush
coffee cups and blink 1, 2, 3

this train is trying to get somewhere
it has some kind of will
twists its spine up out of the river
and calls the stops with a
“bing-bong”
like it’s a toaster oven or a microwave
and not some rambling mononlogue
about “how the sky and the earth
just aren’t getting along anymore”

Wake Up Brooklyn!
it’s a sausage and egg on a roll

Wake up!
the cranes all look moody
these forlorn eaters
playing with their knives and forks
at the murky counter of the Hudson River

Wake Up!
don’t ya’ know the bodegas
are winding up their bacheta music
this day is a diamond facet
concealed by clouds
Go ahead, cry your heart out Heaven!

when the doors of the train part
people drop like thoughts
and we’re having a conversation
about somewhere familiar
you’ve never been before