Here Are Some Nights, Here's A Dream
Almost a dream, anyway. The best I can offer: It's the middle of the night and I'm driving through the completely empty streets of the city and I come to a red light at this intersection. There's a cop car right there on the opposite side of the intersection, parked along the curb, facing the green light. I sit there at that red light for what seems like fifteen minutes, and during this time I don't see another vehicle pass through the intersection. I sit there for a few more minutes until I figure there must be something wrong; the stop light must be broken. It's three o'clock in the morning and I have no intention of sitting there until the sun comes up. I finally just run the red light, and the cops immediately pull me over and stomp my fucking ass.
I've been living in a crouch for weeks. Sitting alone one night I listened to Skip James followed immediately by Mahler's Ninth Symphony, and I wondered if perhaps this was the first time in the history of the planet that anyone anywhere had played these two recordings back to back. It certainly seemed to be in the realm of possibility, and if I got even more specific I increased the odds: Skip James' 1931 Paramount sides on Biograph, followed by Pierre Boulez and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra's recording (for Deutsche Grammophone) of Mahler's Ninth. Yes, surely I had made some kind of gloomy history. There could be little doubt. Sitting there on the floor of my cluttered room I had, in fact, become a sort of obscure pioneer. How was this any different from the exploits of those lunatics who plodded across the ice at the top or bottom of the world just so they could say they'd seen some nothing that nobody else had ever seen? Who's to say? You plant your flags, I'll plant mine.
I've got nothing. I've got fifteen minutes of nothing. Eight hours of nothing. No, not that unspeakable Budweiser lamp, not that plastic pineapple drink glass, not that Hair Bear Bunch lunch box, not that bleached out Colt 45 tee-shirt, not those gawdy three dollar sandals, not that Army Surplus store Desert Hat with the chin strap, not those truck stop sunglasses, not that gesture where you put your index finger and your thumb to your lips, squint your eyes, and pretend to inhale. Not that belt buckle that folds into a pot pipe, not that big leather wallet that's connected to your belt loop with a big chain, not that fake Mexican accent, not that CB lingo routine, not those barbecued pork rinds, not that big can of Foster's Lager, not that big, ironic peace sign necklace. No, no, please, no, anything but that.
And please don't cry "BINGO!" when you have nothing but "I-N-G." Don't sit there mulling over those sad days when you were forced to gag down wax-paper cartons of warm milk that had been sitting there for hours unrefrigerated in the coat room of your old kindergarten class. Come down from there right this instant. Turn down that stereo. Tie your shoes. Blow your nose. Straighten up and fly right. Wake up and smell the coffee. Don't talk with your mouth full. Look at me when I talk to you. Wipe that smile off your face. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Show your grandmother your new braces. Apologize to your sister. I will not have you talk that way in this house. You are not going anywhere until you take off that ridiculous hat. What do you have to say for yourself? I'm not going to ask you again. Put down that Submarine gun and come out with your hands in the air.
That should be Submachine gun.
My wife told me that I have some work to do, and I don't exactly understand what she means, even as I recognize the apparent general truth in her words. I spend an inordinate amount of time splayed on the floor, the position in which I am most comfortable, my head rocking at the margins of sleep. I have spent years becoming this man. Slowly becoming this man splayed on the floor, staring at the dim, dusty astronomy of my skull. I fully understand that one small half-turn of something in my head and I could be lost forever.
At least it's not like the old days, when I had wee beasties in the floorboards, full-throated bastards, every one of them, belting the old tunes long into the night. With nary a pound of flesh to spare, and nothing on what you might call the gainful side, alone I'd sit with tears welling in my eyes, bare- and slight-chested as a rubber chicken, staring into a fire that was there only in my dreams, rocking myself like a porcelain doll. When the whiskey ran away with my tongue I'd join the wee beasties; I've a lovely tenor, or so I've been told a time or two, but my old landlady had little tolerance for popular song, particularly in the small hours, and she wasn't bashful about going after the ceiling with a broomstick.
A Letter Found In An Old Biology Textbook
Listen, Leonard, it's true what you've probably heard by now. It's one of those things that happens around here that you can't believe. You remember what happened some years ago with Neil and the compost pile, well this was a worse deal all around. Mickey had the .22 and the hog came at him and somehow got him off his feet and the rifle discharged and Mickey got it right in the ear. We haven't figured it out yet, and I don't suppose we will. Dwight's running for mayor, and he was on the television last night giving a speech and waving his arms around and shouting like a madman about the fact that we've given the Indians such a hard time in this country. Tom Keck, who Dwight's running against, pointed out that to the best of his knowledge we don't have a single Indian in this town, and Dwight shouted, "I rest my case!" It's always something with our people, Leonard, but you know that better than anyone. How's Oslo? Thanks for the postcard of the statue. Never heard of the fella. Ma wishes you'd write her a letter now and again so she'd have some idea what you're up to.
Eternal Lacrimation Is A Sorry Occupation
The whisper of the old crone had been crawling in the King's ears for weeks. By now, he figured, the madwoman's words were burrowing in his brain. A sneeze carried to him from a distant chamber --the Queen had a cold. A moment later he heard clapping, a snatch of a cheerful tune. The odd bird he had married would dance and sing alone to her heart's content. Bodies stacked like cordwood outside the walls, and the daft Queen remained the picture of happy oblivion. The woman never seemed to sleep. The King heard her solitary revels long into the night. She was getting wine from somewhere, he was sure of that.
He had a headache. The smoke from the pyres had fouled his lungs. There was nothing to do around the damned place but walk; he'd had it with horses. All of his old chess partners were either dead or in exile. What a dreadful life, he thought. So boring, even with all the dying. His lunatic son served no one but God, and had burned every book in the castle. Not that any of them had been worth a damn. God Almighty, how he hated writers.
If he could keep any of his enemies straight, if he could pinpoint which of the scoundrels had planted so many crazy ideas in his wife's head, he'd have the guilty party flayed and strung up from a tree. At the risk of offending God he had already banished his son --he'd heard stories for weeks that the wrong-headed fool was wandering in a sack cloth and living in the surrounding woods. By God, the King felt pinched and set upon from all sides. There wasn't a damn thing left to eat in the place but roasted meat and stale bread. His one daughter had run off to Brussels with a rock and roll musician.
The King didn't have a single hobby that could sustain him. He'd been an obsessive counter for years, but he was even tired of counting. He'd saddle a horse and ride right out from under his miserable life if he wasn't such a poor horseman and so damnably overweight; what a mess he was --he wouldn't doubt he was carrying 20 stone on his tortured frame.
Listen to that: now the foolish woman was laughing herself sick. He went to the door of his chamber and listened. Oh, something was entertaining enough, by God, in this dark and baleful world. Not another sound beyond the lunatic raving of his wife. If he could find anyone left to do the job he intended to have the Queen's head cut off first thing in the morning and her body dragged deep into the dark woods by oxen. He would have her buried; it was the one concession he would make: he would not have her body flung upon the stinking piles of the common dead.
The King made his way to the North tower and gazed out at the wreckage time had made of his kingdom. He could see the bobbing torches borne by the roving bands of marauders. A stinking, sickening cloud hung low over the wretched scene. The loud guitars and absurdly booming bass of anarchy blasted from the portable stereos in the impromptu trailer encampments that were scattered throughout the dark woods, each of them, it seemed, more squalid and libertine than the next. The King was weary beyond words. There was no end to his misery. His campaigns of righteous vengeance had bequeathed him a kingdom of resentful refugees. He needed a new line of work.
There was no one left to talk to, no one he could trust. Even the ghosts had stopped talking to him; they now avoided the area around his chambers altogether, having apparently grown tired of his labored breathing, his ceaseless monologues, and the sorry spectacle of his rambles in the wee hours. He wished like hell he had joined his old friend Ruckert, who had bought himself an Airstream Trailer and was now armed to the teeth and living in the desert somewhere. While the King sat there in his dark and drafty castle, surrounded by death and complete anarchy on all sides, Ruckert was probably watching his Wolfhounds couple and drinking a cold Budweiser. Ruckert had been the smart one. The rest of the old gang had either hung or gone to the chopping block.
The King lit a candle and took a piss from the small window next to his bed. He could hear his feeble offering rattling in the leaves below. The fires were still blazing in the woods, and the music was raging louder than ever. The fleeing servants, he imagined, had already stripped the place of everything of value, and he imagined that the marauders would come for him soon enough, their murderous rage now driven by little but habitual stupor and boredom. They were welcome to what was left of him. He would content himself with the knowledge that he had been a King, and that was surely something. That for damn sure still counted for something in this world.
4:40:59 PM 
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