Lake George

Saying anything to a parent was an unforgivable admission of weakness, a puny disregard for the essential rules of suburban summer, but worse, a denial of faith in the order of things, of the triumph of right.  Sacrilege.  So slaps then, and hammer punches, and hair pulling.

 

We believed in fair play, even odds, a just world.  America pulled up by its own bootstraps, where preparation met opportunity and hard work was its own reward. 

 

We rooted for the underdog because were all liked to think we were underdogs ourselves.  If and when we made it, we would celebrate our triumph, but feel no guilt about refusing to help someone else along because they were underdogs too, weren’t they?  And who would be so depraved as to deprive an underdog of his chance?

About that time with the M&Ms

He should have known better but he just liked the kid’s face.  He had that young grin, falling over himself to please.  Remembered that kind of feeling, at least when it was genuine to him.  A paper route.  Bicycles.  Baseball cards.  That’s the look the kid had. 

He hadn’t had anything sweet to eat in forever, and after a month of baked beans and tuna, a buck-fifty bar of chocolate was on the money.  Coming up from the subway, a snot-faced kid with a buzzing mumble: skewme suh, skewme suh, sport our team?

Stupid.  Stupid hunger and an earnest grin on a 10-year-old face.

Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

 

            Okay, so what’s this angle you have cooked up.

            Remember Haltek?

            The trucker, from on Allport.

            That’s him.

            He was a fucking product.

 

The way he walked.  Crippled arm against his chest, the other swinging wildly in compensation.  Rolling forward, flailing, clearing the path of unseen adversaries.

             Still is kid.  Still is.  But we got something on him.  Something good.

Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

So Tony?

            So what?

            Let’s here it.  I know you’re sitting on something.

            Still sharp.  Even hung on shit bourbon with a wrench to the head.  You’re still sharp.

            Go on cutie pie.  We can talk here?

            Sure sure.  Just spics.  Them that speak right could care less anyway.

            Okay then, so let’s talk . . .

 Drumroll

Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

So here we are. Grig’s wiping donut grease through his hair, feeling it collect behind the creases of his nostrils. Savoring the rare oiliness of eating more than once within a day, the sheen on his skin, under his fingernails. His gut is tight against his belt for the first time in more than a month.

You want more donuts? Artemio lets me have as many as I want because I haven’t raised rent on his fat spic ass since his kids were at Clemente.

TonyO shouts that part, Artemio cocking one eyebrow up from his doze on the corner stool. Yeah amigo. Youse the best kind of friend.

No, no thanks. I’ve had plenty. They’re plenty good.

Cinnamon in everything. Dusted in the coffee. In the Mexican chocolate in the donuts. Spics love the cinnamon.

So Grig old boy. You got plenty of food in you.

First time in a while. Thanks.

Feeling alright? Head alright?

Everything’s still on a tilt.

He really stung you a good one. Old Grig, he would have ducked that and come up from the basement. Pow!

Old young Grig you mean. Now I’m just old old.

Yeah. Ain’t we all. Good one.

Pacific Garden Mission – Even Cold, This Coffee’s Decent (con’t)

        This is the way we build things.  On notions.  On myth.  Our foundation is totally ephemeral.  You know?  We believe something is good.  We want to believe.  But it just takes a second of giving it a good look and you realize that life is really just an endless string of incidents that are pretty much frustrating, annoying or undesirable.  Bills, getting sick, a pipe breaks under your kitchen sink and shitwater goes everywhere.  I know, I know, sometimes we win a scratch off, or smell popcorn or I don’t know what the fuck.  But that’s like a partly sunny day.  A day that’s more cloudy, with a little sun coming through, right?  That’s partly sunny.  Because if it was partly cloudy, that would mean mostly sunny with a little cloud cover.  So I think life is partly sunny, for the most part, and there’s times, like  cancer or car accidents that it’s just a godforsaken joke.  Who, here, anywhere, asked for one second of it?

Pacific Garden Mission – Even Cold, This Coffee’s Decent

        I’m tired of people trying to fix me.  All this advice about going with the flow, about being your own best friend.  Maybe they never thought about the fact that I like being broke.  Call it what you will, I just the see the world the way it is.  It’s not all this mystical extraneous shit.  That doesn’t work for me and I’m sorry if I don’t see it as one giant celebration.  I mean I’m not a gloom and doom type, I can appreciate the happy times.  I like milkshakes and cartoons and carnival rides, whatever.  But I’m not going to fucking pretend that there’s some kind of justice around the corner, some kind of redemption.  It’s all a ton of bullshit.

Cheap as Wisdom (PGM) con’t

            Yella’s open coat fans over his body, blood from his shoulder and the wound in his abdomen pool around him.  The rookie’s back from the car with the first-aid kit.

            He’s lost a lot of blood already.  Jesus, he’s punched out.  Ambulance is on the way.

            Shot in his hip isn’t even two hours old.

Who’s the Korean?

Guy who owns the shop?

I’ll like to hear what he has to say.

Cheap as Wisdom (PGM) con’t

Listen boy.   You hold your hands out at your side.  Keep em clear of your fucking pockets.  Got me?

            Yella’s hands drift out of the folds of his coat, ragged fingernails rimmed black.

            Hold your palms up partner.  Let’s take a look.

            The hands roll over slowly, the palms slick with blood.

            Christ. 

            Under the coat, now Haltek can see the clotted gauze, the tape.

            You’re hurt buddy.

            Fuck I know it.

            We’ll make a call for you.

            The Korean’s gonna fix me.  The Korean.

            Go call an ambulance junior.

            I’m not leaving.

            Do it.

            Castellano takes a back step, his hands still at his holster.  Yella drops to one knee, reaching into his front pocket.

            Haltek barks, draws, but Castellano’s bullet has already hit.  The left shoulder, spinning Yella flat, facedown on the sidewalk.  His arm flies forward with the impact, flinging the small revolver into the street.  Good shot.

Cheap as Wisdom (PGM) con’t

Yella takes a step.  Castellano’s arm wheels under his coat, but he doesn’t draw.  Haltek is unmoving.

            Who are you waiting on friend?

            Fuck you talkin about.

            You’re waiting for someone.  The guy who opens the store, or you got a friend work’s here?

            Fuck you know about it?  Fuck you know?

            Another step.  Menace.  Haltek’s gut pinches, not just fear and not just thrill.

            Let’s just you and me have a quick conversation friend.  Just a few words.

            His chest is heaving visibly under the cheap trenchcoat.  Haltek notices that he’s shirtless underneath.  The left front pocket bulging.  Castellano’s hand is on his unsnapped holster.