Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

The throbbing fault between his brain and his skull is starting to dim. It’s the frozen corn and the food, meat more precisely. The past month Grig’s been swiping donuts from banks and tire shops, shucking packets of oyster crackers into his mouth two at a time, sneaking fistfuls of olives and cherries from bar trays, and seconds later be chased into the street by some thick-necked goon. Meat. He hasn’t had meat in a long time. He feels his strength warming, his head rolling back and aligning above his shoulders.

The plaster on your ceiling is on the outs.

Add it to my to-do list. The old man has me rehab these places one at a time. Live free or die.

You got it wired TonyO.

Somewhat. Somewhat. But we’ll talk about that later. Jesus, you didn’t give that fucking bird one half of a chance.

It was him or me.

Head better?

Better. Yeah. I’m gonna just lay back again for a minute.

Take that crummy sweater off first wouldja.

Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

Grig wakes up.

You awake?

Bug eyed and bolt upright, second time today. Who the fuck is that?

It’s me kid. Jesus. I got the chickens.

I musta. Fuck.

You were twitching man. Like a junky.

Damn my fucking head Tony. That guy really put it to me.

I got a bag of frozen corn.

You’re gonna make that now?

No dumbass. For your head. Put it on your head. Polish ice pack.

TonyO holds the bag against Grig’s head.

See how it shapes right around?

I get it. I get it. Thanks.

Two chickens, a couple cokes. Have at it.

Jesus I’m hungry. Thanks.

Grig twists open the plastic clamshell. Grease and seasoning pool in tiny channels under the carcass.

You got any bread? This is good, this grease. We can mop it up with the bread.

His fingers tear away a leg and thigh, he’s sucked away most of the skin and meat before TonyO can begin to answer. Still the bag of corn pressed against his temple.

I got some. Christ kid. You weren’t kidding.

Don’t they sell cold soda at that store? Grig’s cracked a can of cola and it foams up and spills over his knuckles.

Only in those shitty plastic bottles, which I hate. I like it better out the can.

Sure fine.

Couch Hemorrhage Dream (PGM con’t)

There’s a cul de sac, a court they call it, a dozen miles south and west of a major Midwest city, tucked away off the interstate, lost in a maze of identical beige houses, new trees thin an silly under the punishing sun. You’re safe here. There’s no trouble. It was here, throwing rocks at new windows, stealing skin mags from a convenience store, hiding in the empty retention pond. Someone has a pack of mom’s cigarettes, a pint of dad’s bourbon.

We get old enough to drive, but we can’t leave. We circle the perimeter, farmland ten years ago now shopping centers, schools. From a certain overpass, at the brave edge of wandering, you can just see the downtown skyline, a crenellated smudge. Hold up your thumb and its gone. Sitting on the cement slope, traffic hissing underneath their dangling feet. Summer dirt and exhaust tighten their faces, thicken on their throats. The two boys, slack shouldered, hair straight and greasy over their eyes. Warm beer and cigarettes.

Why do you come to this place?

Where the fuck else can we go?

Man.

 

If you want to go, then go. It’s right there. It’s not like it’s fucking Alaska or China or someplace. It’s right out there.

It ain’t that fucking easy. There’s work and finding a place.

You’re a pussy.

Fuck you.

Scared.

 

The Hot Club of France

Couch Hemorrhage Dream (PGM, con’t)

You gonna go back, pick up another loop?

Fuck that.

Les wishes he could be as cool and detached as Vince. Wishes he could relax but he keeps looking around the corners of the transformer.

I think I might. I can’t go home with no money.

Just say you didn’t get out today.

Yeah. I could say that.

You went out twice yesterday right.

Yeah, one was a double.

There you go.

Wednesday is a big day usually.

Whatever. Go back if you want. I’m done.

You wanna walk home?

Let’s cut through the tracks. Let’s go see where Corbin killed himself.

Shit. No way man.

Pussy.

There’s like a million trains.

Not in the afternoon. Not til like four do they start running more. Now it’s only every half hour.

Yeah.

So let’s go.

Vince slides down the cement ledge, dropping to a narrow shelf of gravel below.

You want your cookies?

Leave the fucking cookies. Let’s go.

Yeah.

Couch Hemorrhage Dream (PGM)

You find the hidden places. Behind the strip malls. Underneath viaducts. Distant clusters of trees on vacant farmland. Here is where we disappear.

Something pops in that time between little league and the slow drag through high school, a nameless appetite, a hunch with nothing to wager on.

It’s all so fucking flat here, Vince says.

He’s got a pack of Marlboros, clipped from his step-brother. He can’t quite draw but it’s enough to let it hang from the corner of his mouth and burn.

It’s two days after the Corbin kid threw himself in front of a commuter train. Everyone in Glenlake has that same stupid expression. Disbelief, eyes wide and little round mouths sighing consternation.

Why would anyone do that?

There must have been some real problems.

Vince and Les have stashed themselves behind the grocery store across the street from the entrance to the country club. It’s two in the afternoon, aching summer heat and they’ve each blown the eight bucks caddy money they made off this morning’s loop. Cokes, corn chips, gum, a turkey sub, a whole thing of oreos. Behind the grocery store, leaning against a dull green transformer, feeling the hum in their chests. Below, they can watch the freights inch across the Central Ave. overpass, throw rocks and try to hit a switch signal. A commuter train roars past, orange and black, headed for the city 45 minutes away.

Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

TonyO lives on the top floor of a three-flat his old man owns. His old man owns a few three-flats on this block, and TonyO is supposed to keep an eye on them, collect the cash and send it to his old man’s PO box in Lauderdale. He tosses the beer in the freezer.

Nice setup.

Nice for me. The old man thinks rent’s been the same for the past five years. Cookin his brain, all that sunshine. Don’t sweat the couch. If something moves, just punch the cushions a few times.

TonyO follows the advice with his whisper-wheeze laugh, hard on the back of his throat.

So sides pizza, what else you got a taste for?

We can’t do pizza?

Can’t do pizza. Too late.

How about some Chinese?

Shit. Pure shit.

So what then? I’m fucking famished Tony.

The supermarket on Clark is open 24 hours. They do those chickens. You know.

Like a bucket of fried chicken.

No no no. I mean. On the thing. The gizmo that spins.

Rotisserie chickens?

Yeah yeah. They got those at the supermarket. They’re good.

Sure.

Only four bucks. We’ll each get one. You lay down, I’ll be back in like twenty minutes. Don’t bleed all over my couch.

Fuck you.

Grig lays back on the couch, feet up for the first time in forever. The whisky, the headache, the crushing fatigue. They hit him between the eyes and he’s asleep in seconds, twitching under the cone of lamplight, hands curled under his chin like claws, eyes ricocheting under fluttering lids.

I’m a hero like Robert DeNiro

Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

Awright. Take them aspirins and finish your drink. We’ll get out of here.

You got nothing to eat here Tony?

Shit, candy and popcorn. You hungry?

I was before that wrench. I could eat.

Good sign. Good sign. The appetite comes back so we know our man is healthy. We’ll go back to my place, order a pizza.

Sounds great.

Hey goon, grab me a sixpack and you pay for it.

Aw Tony, c’mon.

And the mirror too. You ought to pay for that.

We get those free from the distributor.

Well, you ought to pay for it anyway. Gimme that fucking beer.

Grig is still weak-kneed. TonyO slings his arm over his shoulder, walking him down the street. He has a pint of Old Granddad and is holding it to Grig’s mouth.

Another sip kid. Take another.

Yeah yeah yeah. Easy. I’m okay.

Jesus you stink. Where the hell have you been?

Baltimore.

That explains it.

Aw fuck Tony. My fucking head.

What happened to those fighter’s reflexes buddy?

I ducked the punch, not the wrench. Enough with the booze okay?

One more sip. Feelin better right?

A million bucks.

Here we are. Straight to the top.

Bill and Les