Empathy for My Devil

Cast of Characters:
Iggy - The Id (naked, baretoothed, reptilian, driven and impolite)
Sarah - The Superego (the better angel of his being, righteous and high minded)
Edward - The Ego (the poor bastard who listens to and manages both voices and has to live in the world)

Edward St.-Pierre started awake for the fifth time in eight hours amidst the combined drone of the box fan, the noisy computer, and the ambulance's diesel outside the window pierced through by the ringing of the telephone. Five minutes later he was in his car wheeling vaguely toward the emergency room.

"USMC", he mused. Things hadn't changed that much in civilian life, it's still a god damn slog. " You Signed The Motherf***ing Contract, Uncle Sam's Misguided Children" and, his personal favorite, "You Suckers Miss Christmas". "USMC" means same shit, different day or everybody-knows-this-sucks-but-we're-doing-it-anyway.  He giggled and swore out loud at the deceiving empty streets and the blinking traffic lights well aware of the river of chaos running underneath.

The emergency room was typical - stand there for 5 minutes while everyone pretends not to notice you, and then you say to the air "I'm from Crisis, is Clancey medically cleared?" - the fucking helping professions.
They said he was, but of course they never checked, and you find the guy is alive but cannot wake up and certainly can't engage in an assessment after his failed suicide attempt with alcohol and pills.
"Hey! psst! down here!", Ed looked down toward the foot of the bed and noticed that the man had an enormous big toe, and where its nail should have been there was what appeared to be a small human face, "you've got to help me, this guy's trying to kill me!"

Irritation Nation

I thought there was some calculus for combining minutes of REM sleep and milligrams of caffeine, but I've lost track of the whole damn equation. I can tell you this, I was irritated by a guy riding a bicycle and smoking a cigarette simultaneously, by the drug dealer in the parking lot of Store 24 (he said "you look familiar" - feeling me out, you know - I answered "I'm not), and by the humid night that locks this little city down like so many fireflies in a jar. You can go to the tent revival with the furious Pentacostals and listen to the man shout hoarsely in Spanish and in Tongues, or you can sit in a hot store front church in front of a fan, or you can stand in line at a club with tall shoes and a short skirt and an army of meatheads in black t-shirts and stupid facial hair, or you can be one of the many casualties of the drug game up and down this street sulking alone in a stairwell burnt by baking soda when you needed crack, or in with a couple of others getting ready to beat someone down for what's left of his SSDI check, or in front of me in an emergency room trying to explain away the fact that you smashed all the upstairs furniture, scared the crap out of your elderly mother and shouted at the police to get them all out of your house when there just wasn't anybody there. You've got some choices. What do you want to do? If you want my clinical opinion - RUN.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pz_lhF0XxbY&feature=related

Vic Chesnutt- Everything I Say

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rPyQFmGmb4


I can't get over how powerful this is.

It's Not You, It's Me

I just checked my e-mail and found that Rob over at Six Sentences included one of my chunks in his most recent effort called Half A World Away. That was a cool surprise. I submitted "Singing Lesson" - about 800 words  - to decomP literary magazine tonight. I took out the links to You Tube videos, though I like having them in there if only it was a quicker transition from story to video and back again.

I'm semi-delirious after working 20 hour days for the last 7 days and nights. Should get myself some shut eye while it's quiet here. I'm at work now.

It’s Not You, It’s Me
by Glen Green

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to slander
Fairbanks and its people, most of whom are fiercely
independent, rugged, able, friendly, funny, hospitable
and colorful as all hell. "There's only two kinds of
people up here - people who wouldn't live anywhere
else and people who couldn't live anywhere else."

Winter lasts forever there and, at its peak, there's
three hours of twilight taking the place of the sun.
Just getting out of bed is a hero's journey, yet the
people there somehow laugh and play and work and
love and dance, and I'm telling you, some of those
smiles will thaw you all the way through. I found a
door there that opened upon a dark passage, and
when I "hellooed" in something "hellooed" right back,
and so I entered of my own free will. But I did have
scruples, and - just like the man said - because of
those, I would lead one confusing fucking life.

Singing Lesson

It was my twenty-first birthday, a block or two off Broadway, and I was drunk without the usual temptation to cut my own throat with broken glass. The sun was out, things looked good, something like magic was starting to work, and I had so far stayed out of its way. I walked past a little Japanese noodle place, just about empty in the late afternoon, except for a hard-luck man sitting at a piano singing his karaoke version of The Summer Wind. He had the look and feel of schizophrenia about him, lucid for now, and he sounded a lot like Sinatra to me. I went in, sat down, ordered an Orion beer, and applauded. The singer thanked the absent crowd and me, flipped me his Zippo, and winked.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGqsNkisoTM

"Thanks, you're beautiful"  he said, and I started to believe him. He seemed to have the run of the place, like maybe Mamasan let him sing when there was no one else around. He continued his Sinatra medley, and I noticed his overstuffed, weather-beaten backpack in the corner.

"When I was seventeen, it was a very good year.."

He looked at me when he sang and, no shit, I got goose bumps.

"It was a very good year, for small town girls, and soft summer nights..."

And now I was crying. My friends were back in one of the buy-me-drinkee-bars probably wondering what the hell happened to me, but I couldn't leave, so I ordered Santori whiskey and stayed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Byna9YnVzCM&feature=related

During his break I awkwardly approached him, thanked him for the music, and gave him back his Zippo. He received it graciously - seemed kind of regal - like he was used to handling the adulation of toungue tied fans. I told him I was about to eat some noodles and asked if he'd allow me to get something for him. He ordered soup and tea. We ate at separate tables and did not speak. His break was measured and professional.

Returning to his microphone he said, "ladies and gentlemen, this beautiful kid is going to join me for a duet".

Singing in public was not something I did, except when running through the dusty hills of Camp Pendelton, but like I said - there was magic at work, and who was I too refuse? I joined the singer on his piano bench and paged through the book he handed me until I found "House of The Rising Sun". The microphone made me shy and my timing was off, but I got through it and wasn't too bothered by the presence of the couple who joined us in the place.

Like any good teacher, the singer wasn't going to let me get off easy.

"Not bad kid, but you've got to let it go. Don't sing from your mouth, sing from your tits!"

We did "King of The Road" next, and it felt pretty good and earned us a little applause.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rxrmr4nJgqA&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgANuwSNsok
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rhApYxZisBI

One of my friends came in toward the end of the song, called me crazy and said he thought I'd run off to Tijuana. We ordered more drinks, another friend came in, and the place started to get busier. The singer, he kept doing his thing, and if you were just walking in and you didn't look too closely, you'd think he was the paid talent. Some time passed, the drinking continued - except for the singer, who never had anything stronger than tea - the lights dimmed into evening, and there was a soft vibe in the place. I still didn't feel like cutting my throat, or anyone else's, and I just let this magic happen like warm oil and sunshine.

The singer addressed the growing crowd with the same command he had over the invisible one.

 "I'm going to call my beautiful friend up here for another duet",  and the piano opened  "My Funny Valentine".

I want you to know what it felt like. It was real still and warm inside, and as we sunk into the softness of the song, I could swear there were beams of light coming out of me. I closed my eyes because I could feel the magic thing looking at me up close, and you never, never want to look it in the eyes.
 
"...you make me smile with me heart..."

Man, it was so quiet in there and that song felt like a part of me just flowing out... unhindered, unbroken.

"Each day is Valentine's Dayyy..."

Opening my eyes, I found an elderly woman had joined us and with her hand on my shoulder she sang this beautiful "la, la, la" finale into my microphone.

Applause - I saw the tables were almost full and people had come in from the sidewalk, I was disoriented.

The singer squeezed my arm and said "that's the one" with tears in his eyes, and in that moment I loved everything.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0xC8dKysLA&feature=fvw
End.

Something About Human Nature

I.

The line of running cabs are parked out in front of the bars and it's 2 am on Two Street in February hovering right about 40 below. I took my place in the line and noticed a man lying in the snowy street bleeding so, after a minute of sizing up the scene, I get out of the car to check on him, but before I get far another cabbie calls me over. At the same time, a group of three young Indians come out of the bar, walk up to the man and stomp on him for awhile, and I mean stomp him until that man is scary still. I start to say something and the cabbie next to me grabs my elbow and squeezes hard,

"SHUT the fuck up, Greenhorn".

The young men laugh a little and go back inside, a thin cloud of frozen breath rises from the bloody mouth of the still man - this was there second trip.

"White man offered a squaw money for sex", says the cabbie, "It's Native Justice, stay the fuck away from it".

II.

It's the same corner on a different night with even colder temperatures - that "hurts to breathe" cold, like dry fire, and your breath doesn't even want to come out. There's a dog tied to a light pole right there on the corner - spotlit and whining in the unbelievable cold outside the bar. An occassional drunk staggers by and gives that dog a double take - "it's too fucking cold, man"- and the cabbies are talking among themselves about what ought to be done to the owner. That dog is walking in place, and just crying, trying to keep his pads from freezing to the sidewalk. Finally the owner comes out, unhitches the dog, and approaches one cab after another until he gets up to my station wagon and I tell him to get the fuckin dog inside before he kills it. I take him to where he wants to go in silence and disgust, dog curled in a ball in the warmth of the car, and he tips me $300 and says "the rest of those motherfuckers wouldn't even take my dog".

III.

My first week on the job, and I'm hustling, but making next to nothing, in fact it's costing me money to put gas in the cab. It's late, the bars are closing, and I'm flying - taking short hops from bars to house - two and three dollar trips, most of them beligerent or hardly conscious, and I'm being mostly civil and taking abuse. Finally, I get a good trip of about 10 dollars. It's a woman who stopped being young many years ago wearing a beautiful fur parka that she made herself. When I pull up in front of her house the meter says $10.60, and she tells me -without even checking - that she's got no money. I'm pissed now - this is premeditated - and before I can even ask about whether anyone inside the house has money, she has unzipped me.
 
IV.

When you lie down with dogs, you are a dog, and you should not be surprised when a dog bites you.

 I drove to her place to collect on about $200 in rubber checks that I accepted when I was still the stripper's driver, and knocked on the door and discovered a very tall man waiting there for me.

He was 1) wearing the colors of a certain well known motorcycle club, 2) holding a nine millimeter pistol directly up to my left eye, 3) holding a business card up to my right eye, and 4) saying that he'd been hired to do a job and my body would never be found.

I was 1) realizing that I was friendless and alone in this cold world, 2) noticing that my thought process slowed to a crawl, and I was not afraid - I was stupid, 3) remembering the name of one of my fellow cabbies who was loosely affiliated with this particular club. Then I was talking quickly but very calmly saying that this guy could vouch for me.
My tall aquaintance gave me 24 hours to make this happen, and I left feeling mildly sick and sort of dizzy and I felt as though I was painted flourescent orange in this endless and unbroken expanse of white.

V.

I went to my room - as transparent as a fishbowl - and sat on the bed and gagged weakly. Every face I saw was twisted and horrible and the sun rose just above the horizon and then went down again like some search plane completely indifferent to my wet matched signal fire and frozen stumps. I used the pay phone to call the dispatcher and asked for Crazy Rob, who by some miracle was driving this day and by a second miracle promptly called me back. I told him about my meeting and he was quiet for a minute and then said,

"You're fucked...don't go anywhere"

I must have fallen asleep, startled awake in darkness, realized I was alive, got dressed, and went in for my shift. I drove in this sort of ghost world, my head feeling scoped - like JFK, every fare was an assassin, and I was stiff and resigned to death.

"Zero Nine, go to two", said the radio - my cab number being invited to an alternate frequency.

I went, what else was there to do? - "This is Nine, go."

Crazy Rob said, "Someone wants to talk to you, Nine".

It was the tall fellow in the leather jacket,

"Yeah, don't worry about that shit back there, but you might want to avoid the bitch, she's got a .38 on the table waiting for you and a story that you tried to rape her. If I see you again, I'll get you a beer"

"Roger that," I said,"you won't".

More from Fairbanks

On this night, Lorraine was drunk like I never saw her and spilling out all over. She's one of the bar tenders that very nearly had me killed because I was a clean-cut white boy from nowhere who showed up driving the bar trade around nights in a cab - FBI or some kind of narc, for sure. Tonight, her tongue is loose because she's facing an indictment for dealing coke out of the bar, and she's scared and naming names, but only to me, and here is where I'll prove I can be trusted. My cab is a confessional and a crime scene and I am bound by a special kind of confidentiality, the kind that keeps you breathing. I carry her down the icy walk into her place - she gives me the keys - and straight to her bed, where I pull off her boots and she starts to unbuckle my belt disoriented and misunderstanding the transaction entirely. I sit with her and talk to her quietly, holding her hand, stroking her hair - she's crying now.

She quieted down after a long time of crying with me making all kinds of reassurances, and I promised to drive her to the court myself tomorrow to help her get through it. She kissed my hand and said alright, that she was fine now and going to sleep, so I took my leave. I'd been tied up with her for a couple of hours now and I'd be lucky if I'd even make gas and lease by morning, so I was ready to get back to it. Something told me to go back though, and I wasn't clear if it was the voice above my waist or the one below that was talking, but I went back. I still had her key, so I opened the door softly just in time to see her take a little .22 caliber Derringer out of a drawer. When she saw me she took off, with me lighting out after her, and she put the little gun to her head.

I slapped that gun out of her hand hard - we both scrambled for it across the floor - and she was wild. I came up with it, and she pounded and slapped and scratched on me until I had to pin her to the bed. She started the crying again, and I laid there with her until she finally passed out, then I sat in a chair a while longer and felt this good and bad thing pushing and pulling again, so I took the pistol with me and left.


The court date came and went and she never spoke of that night or any of it. But when she called for a cab from the bar for one of her customers, I never heard anymore comments about narcs or FBIs. About a month after it all blew over, I ordered a beer from her after my shift and paid her with two bucks and a little pistol.