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Showing posts with label Memoirs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memoirs. Show all posts
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Out Takes - Bar Stool Prophets by Ethan H. Minsker
DOING SNOW ANGELS IN THE DOG PISS: JANUARY 1998
A month more of winter and it would be done said the news, but standing outside at 1 a.m. in the cold I couldn’t see the end. The street lamps glowed with a soft halo as the snow fell. Avenue A was devoid of people and cars. The blizzard kept most people hunkered down at home. It was quiet except for the occasional plow and the snow crunching under my feet. I just wanted to see the snow and had no direction in mind. I owned the street and walked down its middle for a few blocks, then was forced onto the sidewalk when a plow passed. Scooping snow off the top of a parked car, I made a snowball, packed it tight, shaved down the bumpy spots. A figure made its way towards me, the jacket hood of their jacket was up and filled with a giant head.
“Hey,” the figure said.
I peered into the eyes and recognized Cinda. “What’s up, Big Head?” I said.
We had stopped hanging out when I started working at the bars. I had the impression that she thought I was better than her, cooler, or that she thought I thought so.
“Don’t fucking call me that!” she said, hitting me hard on the arm. “Some guys are following me saying fucked up things.”
“Where?” I looked around but saw nothing and added, “What did they say?”
“You know, like ‘Come back with us, baby, and we’ll keep you warm.’”
“How can they even tell you’re a girl?”
“I don’t think they care.”
I looked again. There were three of them. An orange knit hat peeked out from under the hood of the largest one. He mumbled something as they passed.
I took the snowball and hit the largest one in the center of his back. I wanted to hit him in the head, right on the orange knit hat, but my aim wasn’t that good. He turned and came back. It took a moment before his friends knew he wasn’t walking with them.
“Hey, what’s your fucking problem?” He was European, maybe German.
“Why, are you guys giving her a hard time?” I asked. “There are three of you, and just one of her?”
“Fuck you, man!” He gave me a shove.
The two friends came and tried to pull him away. I grabbed my brass knuckles, and when the big one lunged for me, I punched him in his chest. His arms crashed to his side. He stepped back rubbing the spot. “Let’s go,” he said to his friends and they took off.
Cinda looked at me. Her lips stretched into a stringy smile. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t think it would turn into a fight,” I said and wiped the sweat that had formed on my forehead. “Well, maybe a snowball fight. I haven’t seen you in such a long time, you should come by the bar.”
“I’m not going to that bar,” she said snarling.
“Why?”
“It’s a hipster bar.”
“Not on the weekends. Then it’s bridge-and-tunnel. The weekdays are for the locals.”
“Yeah well, I’m not cool enough to hang out there.” Cinda was a constant curmudgeon.
“Don’t you want to see Orlando?”
“Why? You ruined him,” she hissed.
“What does that mean?”
“He used to be nice and polite. Now he’s a rude coke-head.”
“I have nothing to do with that.”
“You’re the one who started taking him to bars when he should have been staying in high school.”
I had nothing to do with his drug habits and wasn’t going to take the burden. I had already gone through the guilt and surmised that if he was susceptible to coke it didn’t matter the environment. In New York City at some point he would encounter it and it was up to him to say no. “What else have you been up too?”
“Art school. I have to finish one more class.”
“You should have been done long ago.”
“I got into a fight with one of my teachers.”
“A fistfight?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I had to switch schools. I go to Parsons now.”
“Why did you get into the fight?”
“I didn’t like what she said about my art. She was a stupid cunt and would always give me shit so I couldn’t take it anymore. I slapped her good.”
As we said our goodbyes I realized it was best that she didn’t want to come to the bar. I didn’t need any help getting into fights.
***
A week later I was in the Z Bar having a soda when a tall man sat next to me. An orange knit hat was tucked in his jacket pocket. He had a wide-open face with sandy hair. The German.
“It was you who hit me with the snowball?” he said.
I looked at him and smiled. I knew everyone in the bar, and he didn’t. “Yep.”
With a goofy smile, he said, “You punch very hard.” He took a sip of beer.
“I had on these.” I pulled the brass knuckles from my pocket and dropped them on the bar in front of him.
“They work well. I need some of those.”
“You can get them in Chinatown if you look around.”
“Hey, thanks… No hard feelings,” he said and held his hand out.
We shook.
A month more of winter and it would be done said the news, but standing outside at 1 a.m. in the cold I couldn’t see the end. The street lamps glowed with a soft halo as the snow fell. Avenue A was devoid of people and cars. The blizzard kept most people hunkered down at home. It was quiet except for the occasional plow and the snow crunching under my feet. I just wanted to see the snow and had no direction in mind. I owned the street and walked down its middle for a few blocks, then was forced onto the sidewalk when a plow passed. Scooping snow off the top of a parked car, I made a snowball, packed it tight, shaved down the bumpy spots. A figure made its way towards me, the jacket hood of their jacket was up and filled with a giant head.
“Hey,” the figure said.
I peered into the eyes and recognized Cinda. “What’s up, Big Head?” I said.
We had stopped hanging out when I started working at the bars. I had the impression that she thought I was better than her, cooler, or that she thought I thought so.
“Don’t fucking call me that!” she said, hitting me hard on the arm. “Some guys are following me saying fucked up things.”
“Where?” I looked around but saw nothing and added, “What did they say?”
“You know, like ‘Come back with us, baby, and we’ll keep you warm.’”
“How can they even tell you’re a girl?”
“I don’t think they care.”
I looked again. There were three of them. An orange knit hat peeked out from under the hood of the largest one. He mumbled something as they passed.
I took the snowball and hit the largest one in the center of his back. I wanted to hit him in the head, right on the orange knit hat, but my aim wasn’t that good. He turned and came back. It took a moment before his friends knew he wasn’t walking with them.
“Hey, what’s your fucking problem?” He was European, maybe German.
“Why, are you guys giving her a hard time?” I asked. “There are three of you, and just one of her?”
“Fuck you, man!” He gave me a shove.
The two friends came and tried to pull him away. I grabbed my brass knuckles, and when the big one lunged for me, I punched him in his chest. His arms crashed to his side. He stepped back rubbing the spot. “Let’s go,” he said to his friends and they took off.
Cinda looked at me. Her lips stretched into a stringy smile. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t think it would turn into a fight,” I said and wiped the sweat that had formed on my forehead. “Well, maybe a snowball fight. I haven’t seen you in such a long time, you should come by the bar.”
“I’m not going to that bar,” she said snarling.
“Why?”
“It’s a hipster bar.”
“Not on the weekends. Then it’s bridge-and-tunnel. The weekdays are for the locals.”
“Yeah well, I’m not cool enough to hang out there.” Cinda was a constant curmudgeon.
“Don’t you want to see Orlando?”
“Why? You ruined him,” she hissed.
“What does that mean?”
“He used to be nice and polite. Now he’s a rude coke-head.”
“I have nothing to do with that.”
“You’re the one who started taking him to bars when he should have been staying in high school.”
I had nothing to do with his drug habits and wasn’t going to take the burden. I had already gone through the guilt and surmised that if he was susceptible to coke it didn’t matter the environment. In New York City at some point he would encounter it and it was up to him to say no. “What else have you been up too?”
“Art school. I have to finish one more class.”
“You should have been done long ago.”
“I got into a fight with one of my teachers.”
“A fistfight?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I had to switch schools. I go to Parsons now.”
“Why did you get into the fight?”
“I didn’t like what she said about my art. She was a stupid cunt and would always give me shit so I couldn’t take it anymore. I slapped her good.”
As we said our goodbyes I realized it was best that she didn’t want to come to the bar. I didn’t need any help getting into fights.
***
A week later I was in the Z Bar having a soda when a tall man sat next to me. An orange knit hat was tucked in his jacket pocket. He had a wide-open face with sandy hair. The German.
“It was you who hit me with the snowball?” he said.
I looked at him and smiled. I knew everyone in the bar, and he didn’t. “Yep.”
With a goofy smile, he said, “You punch very hard.” He took a sip of beer.
“I had on these.” I pulled the brass knuckles from my pocket and dropped them on the bar in front of him.
“They work well. I need some of those.”
“You can get them in Chinatown if you look around.”
“Hey, thanks… No hard feelings,” he said and held his hand out.
We shook.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Outtakes from Ethan Minsker's Upcoming Book, The Bar Stool Prophet
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Monday, November 29, 2010
Outtakes from Ethan Minsker's Upcoming Book, The Bar Stool Prophet
On the Cutting Room Floor
Outtakes from Ethan Minsker’s Upcoming Book,
The Bar Stool Prophet
Saturday, I was out walking Darby along Fifth Street between A and B when three little dogs spilled out of a Cadillac and darted straight for her. The owner was in the car, and he didn’t react at all. They were barking, but not in a friendly way. They wanted blood. Circling around us, a white dog bit Darby on the paw. Darby howled. I stumbled forward and swiftly kicked the white dog back into the open door. The other two dogs scampered out of my kicking range.
“What the fuck man?” the owner said in broken English. His hair was in a pompadour. “Why you be kicking me fucking dog?”
Puerto Rican. Maybe Dominican. The music coming from his car was the same I heard in the bodega on the corner.
Darby bared her teeth at the man. I held her leash tight. I had protected her from the dogs, and now it was her turn to return the favor.
“Back the fuck up!” I shouted at the guy. He looked at Darby, then at me. We were on the brink of violence. He didn’t say anything. I knew he didn’t want to fight. Now it was my choice. I could have pressed it, but I walked on down the street pulling Darby. The threat to Darby was gone. Fuck it. He was only trying to protect his dogs. I thought of his hair. It was characteristic of the young rocker crowd that used to hang out in the bars. We would probably have been friends if we had met at the bar. There was no need to fight. At the corner we stopped, and I checked her paw. I didn’t find anything. She always cried more than she was hurt. It was typical of her.
Finally, I dropped Darby off at home and went to work. I was late.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Excerpt cut from "Rich Boy Cries for Mama"
After years of writing and editing and re-writing and more editing, here are some final pieces that have been cut from Ethan H. Minsker's upcoming book, Rich Boy Cries for Mama. These weren't cut because they're crap, they were cut because an overload of interesting stuff might hurt the reader's mind. And it makes the book flow better. Enjoy!
It was September and we were back at school. I was fifteen now and a bit taller. I had bought a pair of army boots and wore them all the time. I wanted a leather jacket but my parents wouldn’t buy it for me, and I didn’t have enough money. They didn’t like the idea of their son in a biker jacket. If I had asked for a blazer and tie, I’m sure they would have gotten it for me. I had everything I needed, except a leather jacket. The other kids whose parents had money treated me like shit, so I didn’t want anything to do with them. I wanted to dress down, like a poor rebel. Sometimes I was ashamed of all the things we had, especially if I was at Pierre’s house. He didn’t even have his own room. He slept on a pull out sofa.
I had on a new Clash shirt. The image was of the band standing in an alley. I rolled up the sleeves. My hair was spiked to complete the look. Charlie’s fat head came bobbing around the corner and then stopped in front of me.
“What are you doing after school?” His bad breath came wafting up at me.
“Nothing.”
“Cool, let’s hang out.”
Charlie went down the hall. Pierre stood in the doorway of his next class talking with an ugly girl. There weren’t many black kids in the Lab School. I wondered if there were just less black kids who were dyslexic. It was more likely that they just didn’t know about it and were doing badly in the public school. Pierre was lucky in a way; at least his adopted white liberal mother figured out that the city would pay for him to be at the Lab School.
Later that night, Ted knocked at my door, his raggedy mutt sitting at his side. I followed behind, not speaking, when we passed the back of Nazi Shawn’s garage. Nazi Shawn’s mother was yelling at him.
“I don’t understand. Every day I wash the car and it still smells of piss. Are you pissing in the car?” I wondered where Sermon’s car was; maybe I could piss in that too.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Last Ramone: June 2005
“I have saved the lives of two people,” I said. ”The first time I was in the gym sitting in the hot tub when I noticed this attractive Asian girl holding onto the edge. She was in her late thirty’s but still looked great. I wanted to talk to her but didn’t want to be that guy. You know the kind that bothers any girl in his reach. I’m not clever when it comes to picking up girls so I just watched her as she was moving around the side of the pool and periodically dipping her head under the water. I was trying to figure out what was going on, why she was acting so strange. When it hits me. She is trying to teach herself how to swim. She’s crawling along the wall moving into the deep end. This is not a good plan. She is now standing in the five and a half -foot deep side and this girl has got to be under that. Maybe five feet but I think she was shorter then that. I look around the room. The lifeguard had gone. An old woman is swimming in the lane next to the girl, but she looks lost in her own world. The Asian girl pushes off from the wall. She’s doing good, kicking. It’s kind of a dog paddle, but she loses the rhythm and her head goes under for a moment. She starts to panic and kicks and splashes trying to reach the wall again. The lady in the lane next to her keeps swimming. The girl starts to cry out. Help! Help! I stand up calmly and walk over to the pool and leap over the lady swimming. I come down in the lane next to the Asian girl. She is in a real panic now, splashing and crying out. Her eyes were filled with terror. I moved closer without letting her grab me. I heard if you let them grab you, you might get drowned trying to save them. So I’m careful not to get too close. I gently put my hand on her back and give her a push over to the edge. She grabs onto the side like a cat catching its fall.”
“Have you seen her again?” asked a customer with a pint of Stella in front of him.
“Yes, I showed her how to swim,” I said.
“Did you date her?” He had a European accent, and was in his thirties. I picked up his three dollars and rang it in the cash register.
“No. I guess I could have asked her out and she gave me the vibe like that would have been fine if I did, but it didn’t feel right. Like I did something right for once and asking her out would have ruined the good deed I did. Maybe she planned on that? Maybe she wanted me to save her. It was kind of hot teaching her how to swim. She had a tight little body. I had her lie down in the water and I held her afloat by gently lifting her under her belly with my hand. I got her to kick and that’s how she learned how to swim.”
“Who was the second life you saved?”
“Hang on,” I said. “Let me get some things done first.”
4pm and I had just opened the bar. I counted in the bank. Took out my twenty-five dollar shift pay and put it in my wallet. I pulled the juices from the refrigerator. Lined them up next to the well and soda gun. Cranberry I used the most so it was the closest to me. Grapefruit on the far side, with orange juice in the middle. I turned on the lights, making them bright for the daytime. The neon light outside flickered on. A man walked in carrying a bucket with a brush stuck in it. It looked like tar or grease. He didn’t have to say a word for me to know he is trying to scam me. I read it his dress, and posture, even his stink. My eyes bumped up against him with a cold stare that made him look at his shoes.
“I’m here to grease the gates,” he said.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I barked and pointed to the door. He made a little hop as if he was a bunny and I was a wolf.
“What?” he said moving back toward the door. I pointed outside again and he got my meaning.
“What’s that about?” asked the customer.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “You get all kinds of scam artists trying to get some money out of the bar. That’s an old one. They find some bucket with crap in it then go around to all the bars looking to make a few bucks, but if you put that stuff on your gates you’re really going to be screwed.”
I sauntered to the other end of the bar and took out a box of candles. Filling the jigs with a squirt of water, I dropped the candles in and lit them. I spread them out along the bar and windows. I put three over the cash register so I could see the keys. A girl came in and headed straight for me. I knew what she wanted from the smile on her face. Customers don’t smile like that.
“I can fill in,” she said as she slid her resume towards me. “Waitress, anything you need.” She had a nice body so I didn’t mind keeping her in my orbit for the moment.
“They haven’t hired outside the bar since December 19th, 97,” I said coyly.
“Why’s that?” Her smile vanished.
“It’s the day we opened.”
She picked up her resume and walked out the door. I lined up a row of chairs to cut off the back room. I couldn’t watch the back from the front, and I didn’t want people going downstairs to steal from the basement.
“Do you get a lot of people looking for jobs?” asked the customer. His foreign accent was thick and I couldn’t place it.
“Mondays are my only day shift. So yes, on Mondays I do.” I walked over to the DJ booth, looked through the CD’s. I took the least scratched and put it on. T-Rex’s “Rip Off.” I raised the volume. I looked around the room for the chalkboard and found it behind the trashcan. Old beer and other bar crap had spilled on it from the night before. I wiped it clean with a rag then dried it off with napkins. Finding a small piece of white chalk I wrote.
Happy Hour
Till 8PM
$3 beers and well drinks.
Outside, I chained the sign to the bar gates, then look down the street for pretty girls. No one worth a second glance. I could hear the bass notes of the T-Rex song coming from inside. I ambled back in the double doors. The two sets of doors were meant to keep the music inside and the complaints from neighbors to a minimum. Walking behind the bar I grabbed the lemons and limes on my way to the other end. There was already a stool there. Its seat was beaten and had cigarette burns. I pulled the cutting board out from under the bar. The first lime was rotten and I threw it away. The second looked good. I cut off its ends, being sure to curl my fingers under so I didn’t cut them too. I cut the lime in half and sliced it down the middle so it could rest on the edge of a glass. Then I divided the lime into four pieces big enough to squeeze juice out of, yet small enough to fit in the neck of a Corona bottle. “Logical Song” by Supertramp came on and it reminded me of beach trips when I was a kid. I looked up to see the door opening. I watched everyone who came in the bar. Sizing them up. Are they looking for trouble or a drink, maybe a job? I recognized this guy. Skinny, dark skin, he was from South America, but I wasn’t sure what country. Ernie was a junkie low life and worst of all he never tipped me. He looked poor but his family had money. The word in the neighborhood was that they paid to keep him here, in America, and to keep him from embarrassing them at home.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I was on my feet and walked fast around the bar to meet him.
“I’m friends with the owner,” he said under his bowl cut. He looked like the last Ramone. “They let me in here all the time.” I grabbed him under his arm. “I don’t care. You can’t be in the bar when I’m here.” I manhandled him outside, took a step back and locked the door. He flipped me the bird. I smiled and waited until he was down the block before I unlocked the door.
“Is this how your Mondays are?” asked the customer.
“Pretty much.” I grinned. “Where are you from?”
“Germany.”
“Visiting?”
“No. I live here.”
“Welcome to New York.”
“I’ve been here for close to four years.”
“Hey, I would take as much welcome as I could get.”
“I guess that’s true… Thanks.”
Keep them smiling, keep them tipping, even if you’re not really saying anything. But that’s only if they need it. Sometimes they come to the bar just to sit quietly, to get away. You have to wait for that look. The look of loneliness that begs for conversation. Giving bar advice is the same and I will only give it when backed into a corner. I’m not your therapist even if I know more than you. I finished cutting the lemons and placed them in the trays next to the other ones on the bar top. The cherries and olives were from the night before. I didn’t know if they are a day or a week old, but since I didn’t want to get the cherry dye on my hands I left them. The German saw a pretty girl walking outside the window and his head turned to follow her. I caught the end of the show as she made the corner. “What Is And What Should Never Be” by Led Zeppelin came on. The German looked at a map. He’s been here for four years and still needs a map? Tourist. The best way to make you a target in this city is to pull out a map. The second is looking up. New Yorkers never look up, they have seen it all before. I sat at the stool and slapped down my notepad and begin to write. The German was watching.
“Are you a writer?” he asked.
“No. I just write sometimes.”
I reached behind me and grabbed a copy of my fanzine, Psycho Moto # 21, and handed it to him. He flipped through the pages. The white paper reflected a soft light on the German. It was as if the zine was glowing. “It’s kind of a magazine I do. I write and put it together, then have my friends make copies at their work.”
“How much is it?”
“It’s free. Most people read it in their bathrooms.” He smiled.
I looked at the clock on the microwave. It read 5:30, but it was on bar time meaning it was really, 5:15. Every bar in the neighborhood had their clocks set 15 minutes fast so at the end of the night the customers would be done with their drinks and out the door. The bartenders could call last call 15 minutes early, but rarely did. If a customer complained about being rushed out the door, he always got the same speech.
“I follow the bar’s clock and when it says it’s time to go, it’s time to go.”
-from Bar Stool Prophets by Ethan H. Minsker
“Have you seen her again?” asked a customer with a pint of Stella in front of him.
“Yes, I showed her how to swim,” I said.
“Did you date her?” He had a European accent, and was in his thirties. I picked up his three dollars and rang it in the cash register.
“No. I guess I could have asked her out and she gave me the vibe like that would have been fine if I did, but it didn’t feel right. Like I did something right for once and asking her out would have ruined the good deed I did. Maybe she planned on that? Maybe she wanted me to save her. It was kind of hot teaching her how to swim. She had a tight little body. I had her lie down in the water and I held her afloat by gently lifting her under her belly with my hand. I got her to kick and that’s how she learned how to swim.”
“Who was the second life you saved?”
“Hang on,” I said. “Let me get some things done first.”
4pm and I had just opened the bar. I counted in the bank. Took out my twenty-five dollar shift pay and put it in my wallet. I pulled the juices from the refrigerator. Lined them up next to the well and soda gun. Cranberry I used the most so it was the closest to me. Grapefruit on the far side, with orange juice in the middle. I turned on the lights, making them bright for the daytime. The neon light outside flickered on. A man walked in carrying a bucket with a brush stuck in it. It looked like tar or grease. He didn’t have to say a word for me to know he is trying to scam me. I read it his dress, and posture, even his stink. My eyes bumped up against him with a cold stare that made him look at his shoes.
“I’m here to grease the gates,” he said.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I barked and pointed to the door. He made a little hop as if he was a bunny and I was a wolf.
“What?” he said moving back toward the door. I pointed outside again and he got my meaning.
“What’s that about?” asked the customer.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “You get all kinds of scam artists trying to get some money out of the bar. That’s an old one. They find some bucket with crap in it then go around to all the bars looking to make a few bucks, but if you put that stuff on your gates you’re really going to be screwed.”
I sauntered to the other end of the bar and took out a box of candles. Filling the jigs with a squirt of water, I dropped the candles in and lit them. I spread them out along the bar and windows. I put three over the cash register so I could see the keys. A girl came in and headed straight for me. I knew what she wanted from the smile on her face. Customers don’t smile like that.
“I can fill in,” she said as she slid her resume towards me. “Waitress, anything you need.” She had a nice body so I didn’t mind keeping her in my orbit for the moment.
“They haven’t hired outside the bar since December 19th, 97,” I said coyly.
“Why’s that?” Her smile vanished.
“It’s the day we opened.”
She picked up her resume and walked out the door. I lined up a row of chairs to cut off the back room. I couldn’t watch the back from the front, and I didn’t want people going downstairs to steal from the basement.
“Do you get a lot of people looking for jobs?” asked the customer. His foreign accent was thick and I couldn’t place it.
“Mondays are my only day shift. So yes, on Mondays I do.” I walked over to the DJ booth, looked through the CD’s. I took the least scratched and put it on. T-Rex’s “Rip Off.” I raised the volume. I looked around the room for the chalkboard and found it behind the trashcan. Old beer and other bar crap had spilled on it from the night before. I wiped it clean with a rag then dried it off with napkins. Finding a small piece of white chalk I wrote.
Happy Hour
Till 8PM
$3 beers and well drinks.
Outside, I chained the sign to the bar gates, then look down the street for pretty girls. No one worth a second glance. I could hear the bass notes of the T-Rex song coming from inside. I ambled back in the double doors. The two sets of doors were meant to keep the music inside and the complaints from neighbors to a minimum. Walking behind the bar I grabbed the lemons and limes on my way to the other end. There was already a stool there. Its seat was beaten and had cigarette burns. I pulled the cutting board out from under the bar. The first lime was rotten and I threw it away. The second looked good. I cut off its ends, being sure to curl my fingers under so I didn’t cut them too. I cut the lime in half and sliced it down the middle so it could rest on the edge of a glass. Then I divided the lime into four pieces big enough to squeeze juice out of, yet small enough to fit in the neck of a Corona bottle. “Logical Song” by Supertramp came on and it reminded me of beach trips when I was a kid. I looked up to see the door opening. I watched everyone who came in the bar. Sizing them up. Are they looking for trouble or a drink, maybe a job? I recognized this guy. Skinny, dark skin, he was from South America, but I wasn’t sure what country. Ernie was a junkie low life and worst of all he never tipped me. He looked poor but his family had money. The word in the neighborhood was that they paid to keep him here, in America, and to keep him from embarrassing them at home.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I was on my feet and walked fast around the bar to meet him.
“I’m friends with the owner,” he said under his bowl cut. He looked like the last Ramone. “They let me in here all the time.” I grabbed him under his arm. “I don’t care. You can’t be in the bar when I’m here.” I manhandled him outside, took a step back and locked the door. He flipped me the bird. I smiled and waited until he was down the block before I unlocked the door.
“Is this how your Mondays are?” asked the customer.
“Pretty much.” I grinned. “Where are you from?”
“Germany.”
“Visiting?”
“No. I live here.”
“Welcome to New York.”
“I’ve been here for close to four years.”
“Hey, I would take as much welcome as I could get.”
“I guess that’s true… Thanks.”
Keep them smiling, keep them tipping, even if you’re not really saying anything. But that’s only if they need it. Sometimes they come to the bar just to sit quietly, to get away. You have to wait for that look. The look of loneliness that begs for conversation. Giving bar advice is the same and I will only give it when backed into a corner. I’m not your therapist even if I know more than you. I finished cutting the lemons and placed them in the trays next to the other ones on the bar top. The cherries and olives were from the night before. I didn’t know if they are a day or a week old, but since I didn’t want to get the cherry dye on my hands I left them. The German saw a pretty girl walking outside the window and his head turned to follow her. I caught the end of the show as she made the corner. “What Is And What Should Never Be” by Led Zeppelin came on. The German looked at a map. He’s been here for four years and still needs a map? Tourist. The best way to make you a target in this city is to pull out a map. The second is looking up. New Yorkers never look up, they have seen it all before. I sat at the stool and slapped down my notepad and begin to write. The German was watching.
“Are you a writer?” he asked.
“No. I just write sometimes.”
I reached behind me and grabbed a copy of my fanzine, Psycho Moto # 21, and handed it to him. He flipped through the pages. The white paper reflected a soft light on the German. It was as if the zine was glowing. “It’s kind of a magazine I do. I write and put it together, then have my friends make copies at their work.”
“How much is it?”
“It’s free. Most people read it in their bathrooms.” He smiled.
I looked at the clock on the microwave. It read 5:30, but it was on bar time meaning it was really, 5:15. Every bar in the neighborhood had their clocks set 15 minutes fast so at the end of the night the customers would be done with their drinks and out the door. The bartenders could call last call 15 minutes early, but rarely did. If a customer complained about being rushed out the door, he always got the same speech.
“I follow the bar’s clock and when it says it’s time to go, it’s time to go.”
-from Bar Stool Prophets by Ethan H. Minsker
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Dojo
Red’s ability to fight wasn’t instinct alone; it was something he’d learned over many years studying under Master Woo. Red began teaching and now Dash wanted to be his number one disciple.
Dash asked me to come and watch as he tested for his yellow belt. I sat with the rest of the families, along the wall on the far side of the Dojo. On either side of me were suburban wives and the little brothers and sisters of other students who were testing that day. Dash had to do what essentially is a dance routine. He seemed like he did it right and gave me a thumbs up before sitting, legs crossed on the floor next to a line of students. We all sat quietly watching until the main event.
A black man testing for a second-degree black belt, out-sized Red, standing at 6’2”. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been born tall, but Red wasn’t swayed. The man should have acted small or bent his knees; the bigger the man, the more determined Red was to knock him into the dirt. After breaking boards, Red had a small cut on his heel. It wasn’t going to be easy for the tall black man, especially since Red became agitated when he got cut.
The test started and the two men circled, spun around each other and snapped out kicks and punches. Wherever Red struck his opponent, there was a small triangle imprint left from his bleeding heel. Red was taking it easy on the fellow at first, yet it was obvious he held control. His aggression increased and each strike was such a fast flash, it was hard to spot. Only the small red triangle remained as a confirmation. Then Red was struck across the face with a punch. His eyes erupted with anger. He lost control and jumped with a roundhouse that landed on the back of the man’s head. Red dropped to the floor and kicked the man’s legs out.
-from Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
Dash asked me to come and watch as he tested for his yellow belt. I sat with the rest of the families, along the wall on the far side of the Dojo. On either side of me were suburban wives and the little brothers and sisters of other students who were testing that day. Dash had to do what essentially is a dance routine. He seemed like he did it right and gave me a thumbs up before sitting, legs crossed on the floor next to a line of students. We all sat quietly watching until the main event.
A black man testing for a second-degree black belt, out-sized Red, standing at 6’2”. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been born tall, but Red wasn’t swayed. The man should have acted small or bent his knees; the bigger the man, the more determined Red was to knock him into the dirt. After breaking boards, Red had a small cut on his heel. It wasn’t going to be easy for the tall black man, especially since Red became agitated when he got cut.
The test started and the two men circled, spun around each other and snapped out kicks and punches. Wherever Red struck his opponent, there was a small triangle imprint left from his bleeding heel. Red was taking it easy on the fellow at first, yet it was obvious he held control. His aggression increased and each strike was such a fast flash, it was hard to spot. Only the small red triangle remained as a confirmation. Then Red was struck across the face with a punch. His eyes erupted with anger. He lost control and jumped with a roundhouse that landed on the back of the man’s head. Red dropped to the floor and kicked the man’s legs out.
-from Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Girls and Big Mac's
1987 I was Seventeen. After school
In McDonalds, I noticed two tables of girls. One girl sat by herself, and the other was packed. They all had on the same light blue uniform from NCS, Sister’s school. I recognized the black girl sitting by herself. There weren’t many black girls at NCS, so she stood out. Nicole, Sister’s best friend. I hadn’t hung around her. When Sister and she were at home they went to her room and closed the door. Nicole was small and her skin looked like dark chocolate. She had buck teeth that she hid under a tight lipped smile. She was sitting by herself and some other girls from her school were giving her a hard time. I was familiar with taunting and quick to identify it. This is probably why Sister doesn’t like the other girls at her school, I thought. But Sister had a weapon against them. She had the highest grades in the school. They could say what they wanted but in the end Sister was smarter than all of them. I glanced at the other table. The girls were giggling and pointing at Nicole. Nicole sat erect. All the girls at the other table were hot and I would have loved chatting to any of them, but I also knew what it felt like to be the retard. “Hold on a second Dash, I got to do something.” I walked over to Nicole and sat down facing her, with my back to the other girls. “These bitches giving you a hard time?” I raised my voice to make sure they heard me. I turned to face the other girls. “You have a problem with my little sister?” I had on my leather jacket, my hair was bright orange, my jeans tight and black, my boots black, too. I looked crazy and ready to fight anything. They said nothing. “Then keep your fucking mouths shut!” I wheeled back to Nicole. My face turned cheerful. “How’s it going?”
“Better now… You know you’re too white to be my brother,” she said. I thought of Pierre and how when we were kids somebody said the same thing to us.
“Maybe I’m adopted?”
“Maybe.”
Dash slid in next to me. He leaned his crutches next to the table. I noticed a few of the girls watching him. That probably made a deeper impression on the girls than my threat. One girl pointed at Dash and whispered something in her friend’s ear.
From Rich Boy Cries For Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
In McDonalds, I noticed two tables of girls. One girl sat by herself, and the other was packed. They all had on the same light blue uniform from NCS, Sister’s school. I recognized the black girl sitting by herself. There weren’t many black girls at NCS, so she stood out. Nicole, Sister’s best friend. I hadn’t hung around her. When Sister and she were at home they went to her room and closed the door. Nicole was small and her skin looked like dark chocolate. She had buck teeth that she hid under a tight lipped smile. She was sitting by herself and some other girls from her school were giving her a hard time. I was familiar with taunting and quick to identify it. This is probably why Sister doesn’t like the other girls at her school, I thought. But Sister had a weapon against them. She had the highest grades in the school. They could say what they wanted but in the end Sister was smarter than all of them. I glanced at the other table. The girls were giggling and pointing at Nicole. Nicole sat erect. All the girls at the other table were hot and I would have loved chatting to any of them, but I also knew what it felt like to be the retard. “Hold on a second Dash, I got to do something.” I walked over to Nicole and sat down facing her, with my back to the other girls. “These bitches giving you a hard time?” I raised my voice to make sure they heard me. I turned to face the other girls. “You have a problem with my little sister?” I had on my leather jacket, my hair was bright orange, my jeans tight and black, my boots black, too. I looked crazy and ready to fight anything. They said nothing. “Then keep your fucking mouths shut!” I wheeled back to Nicole. My face turned cheerful. “How’s it going?”
“Better now… You know you’re too white to be my brother,” she said. I thought of Pierre and how when we were kids somebody said the same thing to us.
“Maybe I’m adopted?”
“Maybe.”
Dash slid in next to me. He leaned his crutches next to the table. I noticed a few of the girls watching him. That probably made a deeper impression on the girls than my threat. One girl pointed at Dash and whispered something in her friend’s ear.
From Rich Boy Cries For Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
D.C. Tripping
It was 1988 I was 18 years old and it was the day before I went off to SVA.
“Take this.” Baxter handed me a small piece of paper. It was acid.
“What’s this for? I turned it over in my hand.
“We are both leaving soon. So tonight we will have some fun.”
Pierre and Ukala had on strange smiles.
“Are they already tripping?”
“Oh yeah, for a few hours now.”
I put the acid on my tongue and let the saliva build so I could swallow it.
We piled into Baxter’s minivan and drove to a girl’s house on Capital Hill. Her mother was a lobbyist for the streams and rivers.
“You okay to drive?” I asked Baxter.
His head swiveled over to me as if invisible strings suspended it; his eyes looked dark since his pupils were completely dilated. “You are always safe in the minivan.”
I felt the acid. I could see details in the shadows, and reds were vibrant, piercing my retinas. Driving past the Capital building, its whiteness cut into the night sky. It looked like it would have made a nice party hat for a giant Prussian general. A few blocks later we backed into a parking space up the street. Looking out the window, I saw the corner and chuckled to myself. “Crack.” Pierre overheard me. “Fuck you, man, I’m telling you, it was the Mayor and he was looking for rock.” The rest of the car burst out laughing. “The mayor of D.C.’s a crackhead,” Baxter said as he stepped out of the minivan. “That’s funny.” We made it to the girl’s house, running in and pulling the door shut behind us. As a group, we stayed in one room, unwilling or unable to separate, making it to the basement office some time after three a.m.
The girl made the mistake of showing us the business phones, with conference calling and speakers. Pierre was the first to try it. He dialed the 7-Eleven and then the Tenleytown Minimart that was across the street from the 7-Eleven, putting the phone on speaker and mute at the same time.
“Hello. This is 7-Eleven.”
“Tenleytown Minimart. What can I do for you?”
“You called me.”
“No, you called me.”
They hung up and Pierre called back a few times, as the conversation escalated.
“Why you calling me… asshole,” said the Tenleytown Minimart.
“I’m going to kick your ass, bitch. I didn’t call you,” said the 7-Eleven.
We laughed, and I pictured a fight between the two clerks at the halfway point between both places.
“Wets carl swarm one erles,” said Ukala.
I dialed the numbers I remembered.
“Hello” said Charlie
“What’s up?” said Paul.
“I don’t know. You called me.”
“I didn’t call you.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?” said Charlie.
“I think someone’s playing a prank on us,” said Paul.
The room exploded with laughter. But they couldn’t hear us on the phone.
“Well then hang up,” said Charlie.
“Let’s go,” said Baxter. A faint blue light filtered through the basement window.
Baxter’s pupils had returned to their normal size.
“I don’t want to leave,” said Pierre. “It’s scary out there.”
“You’re safe in the minivan,” I said.
The minivan pulled us up the hill. The branches overhead and the buildings were flashing red and blue. Nobody said anything since they weren’t sure if they were seeing anything at all with the acid still churning in their systems. Reaching the top of the hill, we saw that there was a sea of police cars packed tightly around the side of the Capital. At the center of the activity was an armored Humvee which had crashed onto one of the cement pylons that ringed the Capital.
“What the fuck? I told you it wasn’t safe out here. It’s fucking World War III,” said Pierre.
“Oh man, I feel the acid again,” said Baxter. “The road’s moving like the back of a snake.”
“There is a cop behind us,” said Ukala. I turned and saw the cop car following close behind.
“Baxter, just keep following the snake back,” I said.
Pierre dropped his head into his lap and groaned. “I can’t go back to jail tonight.”
“Everyone just look ahead and act natural,” I said. Pierre lifted his head and we sat perfectly straight. I was going to jail. College, forget about it. Mother and Father were going to be pissed. Damn Baxter and his plan. I knew better than to be led down the hole by Baxter. There was silence in the minivan. “Is he still behind us?” said Baxter.
“Look in your rearview mirror,” said Pierre.
“Yeah, right! I got one of those,” said Baxter. “I’m wasted… I don’t see anything.”
Everyone in the car turned and looked out the back window at the same time, and there was nothing there.
The minivan parked on the side of Mother’s house.
“You want to see something,” I said to the group. They followed me into my neighbor’s back yard. In front of us stood a nine-foot grizzly bear carved of wood with a two-foot erection. “What the fuck!” said Ukala and I reminded him to keep his voice down. Next to it was a puddle, but since it hadn’t rained, I leaned down to have a closer look. I was seeing the reflection of the bear and its giant erection standing over me, when a beautiful gold fish the size of my forearm swam up to the surface, looking at me with its eye before heading back for the deep. “Oh shit!” I jumped back. “I must still be tripping. Let’s go to my house,” I said as I walked out of the backyard, checking the second story to make sure no one was watching us. The clock read 7:45 a.m. Baxter put a tape on the stereo.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Fugazi. It’s a rare live demo.”
“I saw them play at D.C. Space. It was their second show. It was some kind of secret thing, and I snuck in without knowing who they were. It was great.”
I laid my head under the speaker and listened. Ukala turned on the television. The morning news was showing the scene we had witnessed at the Capital and I expected to see cops leading off someone we knew, but it was some deranged-looking man in his late twenties.
“An armored vehicle was stolen from a base by a former national guardsman and driven over one hundred eighty miles followed by, at times, more than a hundred law enforcement vehicles,” said the newscaster just before they cut to an officer at the scene. “We couldn’t shoot his tires out, so we had to wait for him to run out of gas.”
“That was real?” said Pierre, surprised.
from Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Misker
“Take this.” Baxter handed me a small piece of paper. It was acid.
“What’s this for? I turned it over in my hand.
“We are both leaving soon. So tonight we will have some fun.”
Pierre and Ukala had on strange smiles.
“Are they already tripping?”
“Oh yeah, for a few hours now.”
I put the acid on my tongue and let the saliva build so I could swallow it.
We piled into Baxter’s minivan and drove to a girl’s house on Capital Hill. Her mother was a lobbyist for the streams and rivers.
“You okay to drive?” I asked Baxter.
His head swiveled over to me as if invisible strings suspended it; his eyes looked dark since his pupils were completely dilated. “You are always safe in the minivan.”
I felt the acid. I could see details in the shadows, and reds were vibrant, piercing my retinas. Driving past the Capital building, its whiteness cut into the night sky. It looked like it would have made a nice party hat for a giant Prussian general. A few blocks later we backed into a parking space up the street. Looking out the window, I saw the corner and chuckled to myself. “Crack.” Pierre overheard me. “Fuck you, man, I’m telling you, it was the Mayor and he was looking for rock.” The rest of the car burst out laughing. “The mayor of D.C.’s a crackhead,” Baxter said as he stepped out of the minivan. “That’s funny.” We made it to the girl’s house, running in and pulling the door shut behind us. As a group, we stayed in one room, unwilling or unable to separate, making it to the basement office some time after three a.m.
The girl made the mistake of showing us the business phones, with conference calling and speakers. Pierre was the first to try it. He dialed the 7-Eleven and then the Tenleytown Minimart that was across the street from the 7-Eleven, putting the phone on speaker and mute at the same time.
“Hello. This is 7-Eleven.”
“Tenleytown Minimart. What can I do for you?”
“You called me.”
“No, you called me.”
They hung up and Pierre called back a few times, as the conversation escalated.
“Why you calling me… asshole,” said the Tenleytown Minimart.
“I’m going to kick your ass, bitch. I didn’t call you,” said the 7-Eleven.
We laughed, and I pictured a fight between the two clerks at the halfway point between both places.
“Wets carl swarm one erles,” said Ukala.
I dialed the numbers I remembered.
“Hello” said Charlie
“What’s up?” said Paul.
“I don’t know. You called me.”
“I didn’t call you.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?” said Charlie.
“I think someone’s playing a prank on us,” said Paul.
The room exploded with laughter. But they couldn’t hear us on the phone.
“Well then hang up,” said Charlie.
“Let’s go,” said Baxter. A faint blue light filtered through the basement window.
Baxter’s pupils had returned to their normal size.
“I don’t want to leave,” said Pierre. “It’s scary out there.”
“You’re safe in the minivan,” I said.
The minivan pulled us up the hill. The branches overhead and the buildings were flashing red and blue. Nobody said anything since they weren’t sure if they were seeing anything at all with the acid still churning in their systems. Reaching the top of the hill, we saw that there was a sea of police cars packed tightly around the side of the Capital. At the center of the activity was an armored Humvee which had crashed onto one of the cement pylons that ringed the Capital.
“What the fuck? I told you it wasn’t safe out here. It’s fucking World War III,” said Pierre.
“Oh man, I feel the acid again,” said Baxter. “The road’s moving like the back of a snake.”
“There is a cop behind us,” said Ukala. I turned and saw the cop car following close behind.
“Baxter, just keep following the snake back,” I said.
Pierre dropped his head into his lap and groaned. “I can’t go back to jail tonight.”
“Everyone just look ahead and act natural,” I said. Pierre lifted his head and we sat perfectly straight. I was going to jail. College, forget about it. Mother and Father were going to be pissed. Damn Baxter and his plan. I knew better than to be led down the hole by Baxter. There was silence in the minivan. “Is he still behind us?” said Baxter.
“Look in your rearview mirror,” said Pierre.
“Yeah, right! I got one of those,” said Baxter. “I’m wasted… I don’t see anything.”
Everyone in the car turned and looked out the back window at the same time, and there was nothing there.
The minivan parked on the side of Mother’s house.
“You want to see something,” I said to the group. They followed me into my neighbor’s back yard. In front of us stood a nine-foot grizzly bear carved of wood with a two-foot erection. “What the fuck!” said Ukala and I reminded him to keep his voice down. Next to it was a puddle, but since it hadn’t rained, I leaned down to have a closer look. I was seeing the reflection of the bear and its giant erection standing over me, when a beautiful gold fish the size of my forearm swam up to the surface, looking at me with its eye before heading back for the deep. “Oh shit!” I jumped back. “I must still be tripping. Let’s go to my house,” I said as I walked out of the backyard, checking the second story to make sure no one was watching us. The clock read 7:45 a.m. Baxter put a tape on the stereo.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Fugazi. It’s a rare live demo.”
“I saw them play at D.C. Space. It was their second show. It was some kind of secret thing, and I snuck in without knowing who they were. It was great.”
I laid my head under the speaker and listened. Ukala turned on the television. The morning news was showing the scene we had witnessed at the Capital and I expected to see cops leading off someone we knew, but it was some deranged-looking man in his late twenties.
“An armored vehicle was stolen from a base by a former national guardsman and driven over one hundred eighty miles followed by, at times, more than a hundred law enforcement vehicles,” said the newscaster just before they cut to an officer at the scene. “We couldn’t shoot his tires out, so we had to wait for him to run out of gas.”
“That was real?” said Pierre, surprised.
from Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Misker
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Aqua Duck
1988 Washington D.C.
The aqueduct ran parallel to the Key Bridge. No longer in use, over time most of it had been reduced to rubble. The ruins sat just off the canal that flowed below M Street and had been a favorite drinking spot of punks for more than a decade. Reading like a juvenile’s diary, the graffiti embossed on the arch of the Key Bridge became my entertainment when conversation ran dull. “Eat the rich. Punk’s not dead.” Dates went as far back as ‘78, but most of the scribbling had been done in the ‘80s. Things such as iron crosses etched in black marker or three x’s carved over two bars like Washington’s flag of three red stars and to red bars. It was a symbolic of D.C. Hardcore. I had five days left until I moved to New York.
Paul and Charlie chugged Milwaukee’s Best in a contest of who could finish first. I slyly whipped out my marker, turned my back to the two, and added to the arch. “Charlie is a pussy.”
“Hey Charlie! Check this out. Someone wrote that you’re a pussy on the wall!”
Paul finished off his can and hurled it into the water. Charlie came in at a slow second and in his dopey stride, stumbled over to see what I was so fixated on.
“That could be any Charlie,” he said.
I pointed to the crude stick drawing I had done that had a giant head.
“Oh, man! Fucking assholes. You got a pen?” Charlie was an easy target.
“No,” I said.
Paul sniffed the bold lettered “Charlie” on the wall and commented that it smelled fresh. I noticed a new tattoo on Paul’s neck. It was a car, but not a cool car or a hot rod. It was a beaten up wreck like the cars he owned. Charlie’s stare then focused onto me. I pulled the marker out of the inside pocket of my leather jacket and scratched out the “Charlie” and replaced it with “Ukala.”
The aqueducts were a summer camp for the young punks and we were their counselors.
Harboring runaways, underage youth, and underage drinkers, it was a prime location for loitering kids. We mingled with bums on the prowl for a free drink. Bums bought booze for the under-aged and in return, got alcohol for themselves with our parents’ money. Well, at least Charlie’s and mine, Paul was poor. The dirty old bastards had another advantage in this exchange; they got to hang around and hit on our girls, but they were old and feeble and couldn’t do anything even if they wanted to.
The aqueducts provided four escape routes: two ways along the canal up to Georgetown via a dirt trail that ran up a steep hill and two others that ran down a path along an embankment. Parole and truant officers or a cop on the beat sometimes showed up. We’d disperse like a football team breaking a huddle. In the midst of night, we could hear their cars pulling up on the road below. Their flashlights could be seen bouncing through the underbrush in search of a pathway up. A cop usually tripped over a fat tree root midway up the trail, making sneaking up on us unlikely. But most often the authorities overlooked the area. I had walked that trail so many times that I knew where to step without making a sound. The downward paths led onto the end of K Street. The Whitehurst Causeway ran overhead and the Potomac River was about a hundred yards away. Most people used the end of K Street as parking and many petty thieves used the street as a hunting ground to steal from cars since it was tucked away under the causeway and brush surrounding the woods.
Paul broke into a car at the end of K Street and took a stun gun. It was sticking out of his back pocket when he took the marker from me and wrote under the arch: Paul kicks ass. Kiss Army. I had a vision of him when we had been around seven or eight and he had had the Kiss make-up on. Then Charlie’s endless prattle echoing off the arch brought me back to the present. His voice had a nasal sound, like his giant head was slowly collapsing inwards. I could smell fermentation and decay coming up from the bottom of the canal. What next, I thought. I was already bored and tried to stifle a yawn. I craned my neck to look at Paul. Paul’s eyes were riveted on a jogger on the other side of the canal. He had had that same look when we were kids, and I knew he was about to do something bad. During the daytime, Georgetown residents jogged back and forth along a gravel trail that lined the canal and even though it was dusk, there were a few left-over runners making their way home.
“I want to test this out,” said Paul, pulling the stun gun out and telling me about the car. “Maybe he was a cop?”
Then without warning, Paul turned to Charlie and pressed it against Charlie’s ribs, and a spark shot through his side. Charlie dropped to the ground, moaning and rolling from side to side.
“It works!” exclaimed Paul with a blank expression.
A jogger, unaware of a stun gun in the hands of Paul, pounded the pebbles. Sneakers tied snugly to his feet and headphones probably piping Billy Joel into his ears. He ran past Paul, who crept up behind him and stunned him. The man fell onto his side and momentarily lay on the ground randomly kicking as the residuals of shock passed, then rose confused and staggered away. Charlie was getting up when Paul handed me the stun gun.
“Go ahead, try it,” said Paul, motioning for me to shock Charlie again.
I looked at the hard plastic weapon. It was heavy in my hand. I squeezed the trigger. A blue spark shot out in the air. Charlie gave me a pathetic look. “No thanks.” I gave it back to Paul.
“Yeah, you were always the good guy,” he said.
From Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
The aqueduct ran parallel to the Key Bridge. No longer in use, over time most of it had been reduced to rubble. The ruins sat just off the canal that flowed below M Street and had been a favorite drinking spot of punks for more than a decade. Reading like a juvenile’s diary, the graffiti embossed on the arch of the Key Bridge became my entertainment when conversation ran dull. “Eat the rich. Punk’s not dead.” Dates went as far back as ‘78, but most of the scribbling had been done in the ‘80s. Things such as iron crosses etched in black marker or three x’s carved over two bars like Washington’s flag of three red stars and to red bars. It was a symbolic of D.C. Hardcore. I had five days left until I moved to New York.
Paul and Charlie chugged Milwaukee’s Best in a contest of who could finish first. I slyly whipped out my marker, turned my back to the two, and added to the arch. “Charlie is a pussy.”
“Hey Charlie! Check this out. Someone wrote that you’re a pussy on the wall!”
Paul finished off his can and hurled it into the water. Charlie came in at a slow second and in his dopey stride, stumbled over to see what I was so fixated on.
“That could be any Charlie,” he said.
I pointed to the crude stick drawing I had done that had a giant head.
“Oh, man! Fucking assholes. You got a pen?” Charlie was an easy target.
“No,” I said.
Paul sniffed the bold lettered “Charlie” on the wall and commented that it smelled fresh. I noticed a new tattoo on Paul’s neck. It was a car, but not a cool car or a hot rod. It was a beaten up wreck like the cars he owned. Charlie’s stare then focused onto me. I pulled the marker out of the inside pocket of my leather jacket and scratched out the “Charlie” and replaced it with “Ukala.”
The aqueducts were a summer camp for the young punks and we were their counselors.
Harboring runaways, underage youth, and underage drinkers, it was a prime location for loitering kids. We mingled with bums on the prowl for a free drink. Bums bought booze for the under-aged and in return, got alcohol for themselves with our parents’ money. Well, at least Charlie’s and mine, Paul was poor. The dirty old bastards had another advantage in this exchange; they got to hang around and hit on our girls, but they were old and feeble and couldn’t do anything even if they wanted to.
The aqueducts provided four escape routes: two ways along the canal up to Georgetown via a dirt trail that ran up a steep hill and two others that ran down a path along an embankment. Parole and truant officers or a cop on the beat sometimes showed up. We’d disperse like a football team breaking a huddle. In the midst of night, we could hear their cars pulling up on the road below. Their flashlights could be seen bouncing through the underbrush in search of a pathway up. A cop usually tripped over a fat tree root midway up the trail, making sneaking up on us unlikely. But most often the authorities overlooked the area. I had walked that trail so many times that I knew where to step without making a sound. The downward paths led onto the end of K Street. The Whitehurst Causeway ran overhead and the Potomac River was about a hundred yards away. Most people used the end of K Street as parking and many petty thieves used the street as a hunting ground to steal from cars since it was tucked away under the causeway and brush surrounding the woods.
Paul broke into a car at the end of K Street and took a stun gun. It was sticking out of his back pocket when he took the marker from me and wrote under the arch: Paul kicks ass. Kiss Army. I had a vision of him when we had been around seven or eight and he had had the Kiss make-up on. Then Charlie’s endless prattle echoing off the arch brought me back to the present. His voice had a nasal sound, like his giant head was slowly collapsing inwards. I could smell fermentation and decay coming up from the bottom of the canal. What next, I thought. I was already bored and tried to stifle a yawn. I craned my neck to look at Paul. Paul’s eyes were riveted on a jogger on the other side of the canal. He had had that same look when we were kids, and I knew he was about to do something bad. During the daytime, Georgetown residents jogged back and forth along a gravel trail that lined the canal and even though it was dusk, there were a few left-over runners making their way home.
“I want to test this out,” said Paul, pulling the stun gun out and telling me about the car. “Maybe he was a cop?”
Then without warning, Paul turned to Charlie and pressed it against Charlie’s ribs, and a spark shot through his side. Charlie dropped to the ground, moaning and rolling from side to side.
“It works!” exclaimed Paul with a blank expression.
A jogger, unaware of a stun gun in the hands of Paul, pounded the pebbles. Sneakers tied snugly to his feet and headphones probably piping Billy Joel into his ears. He ran past Paul, who crept up behind him and stunned him. The man fell onto his side and momentarily lay on the ground randomly kicking as the residuals of shock passed, then rose confused and staggered away. Charlie was getting up when Paul handed me the stun gun.
“Go ahead, try it,” said Paul, motioning for me to shock Charlie again.
I looked at the hard plastic weapon. It was heavy in my hand. I squeezed the trigger. A blue spark shot out in the air. Charlie gave me a pathetic look. “No thanks.” I gave it back to Paul.
“Yeah, you were always the good guy,” he said.
From Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
Friday, December 4, 2009
Cowboys and Indians
“Running Bear is the only 100% authentic American Indian I have ever met,” said Edgea. “Not any of that ‘I’m a quarter Cherokee, half Choctaw, 1/18 Blackfoot’ confusion. At what point do you drop the title of Indian from your bloodline?” We were at Dupont Circle. I didn’t want to be there, but Baxter wanted to pick up some acid. My eyes swept over the scene, wondering if I might find the ghost of Ronnie Motherfucking Collins there.
“Do you think he would tattoo us?” asked Baxter.
“I think if you have the money, he will tattoo anything.”
I had seen the Indian with long black hair, tanned skin, a husky build, large belly, and a speckling of poorly done tattoos at shows. I guess what they say about barbers is also true of tattoo artists. If there are two barbers you go to the guy with the bad hair cut. Running Bear had a taste for drink and an authentic Indian name, but he also went by his white name, Duane. He was every bit the Indian we cowboys imagined, a Navajo from the Navajo Nation. He would later tell us that his wife and children lived in a trailer on the reservation, making them among the wealthiest in their destitute community. Running Bear traveled the country seasonally, tattooing out of the rooms he rented, making work and living space the same thing, sending a portion of his earnings home to support his family. His earlier tattoos were thick-lined designs speckled with dots, hammered out with guitar strings. Only when viewed from a few feet’s distance could a person decipher the images. In the 1980s, tattoo artists didn’t ink faces or hands. Running Bear had no problem tattooing any part you wanted. He didn’t care how old you were, or if you had infectious diseases. If you had the cash, drugs, or booze to trade, he would do the work. If you had a problem with the finished product or an angry mother came around wanting to know who had tattooed her 15-year-old child, Running Bear packed up his tattoo gun, sterilizer, and a few bags of old band shirts and moved on to the next town with his brothers in tow.
When Baxter and I decided to get tattoos, we knew that the work had to be done in one sitting. Driving out to Virginia, we parked behind a pawnshop, then walked into the building next door, up one flight. We found his apartment, a one bedroom with a basic kitchen. A kid was there before us, so we settled in for the wait.
Weasel, the ringleader of the skinhead/gay-bashing incident that would happen a few days later, was about to get his first tattoo. Baxter and I waited restlessly for our chance under the gun.
“Is it going to hurt?” whined the Weasel.
“Uh, yeah,” Running Bear answered without hearing the question.
“I'm on Quaaludes. Will they dull the pain?” His face was devoid of color. He took a sip of his third beer and squirmed in the barber’s chair.
“Okay, I want a star on the corner of my eye.”
“What? Girls get stars.” Running Bear said, brushing the long, black stray hair from his eyes. His head was always tilted forward and his hair hung in front of his face like a curtain.
He puffed at the joint squeezed between his fingers before passing it to his brothers, two of whom always traveled with him and lived off of his tab. All three brothers would have drunken fistfights, waking up in the late afternoon, covered in scrapes and bruises. None would remember the reason behind the fight or where it had taken place. The smallest one started complaining about his bloody knuckles. The Weasel just sat there, like a lump of shit, wasting prime time. I wanted to hold him down with one hand and punch his face with the other, but that wouldn’t get me tattooed any quicker. So I just sat there, and from the look on Baxter’s face, he was thinking along my lines, too.
“I'll get a tear drop instead,” the Weasel decided, but he didn’t know if that’s what he really wanted. After giving it a few more minutes, he would decide on something else.
“A tear drop means you killed someone,” Baxter interjected. It also meant you were in a Latino gang, but the Weasel wanted a new image. Either way, during the next few days he would come close to murder, get arrested, and then bailed out by his father, go on the run with his dad’s help, and eventually escape the conviction by moving to Israel.
Running Bear's eyes glazed over. Sucking in the last bits of the joint’s smoke, he shrugged and dipped the tip of the tattoo gun into the thimble-sized cup that held murky black ink. With his index finger and thumb, he spread the skin just above Weasel’s cheek, adjacent to his eye. Duane dropped his foot onto the pedal and the gun begun rattling off its ticking hammer; it was a noise I would soon associate with the onset of pain. He lightly pressed the tip into Weasel's skin and made small circles. The Weasel’s eye filled with black ink. He cried out and shoved Duane’s arm away and ran to the bathroom to flush out his eyes. "He's getting a tattoo right there. What does he expect?" Baxter shook his head.
Making it back to the barber’s chair, the Weasel braced himself again. But before Running Bear dipped the needle into the ink, he whined, “Just do the outline.”
“It's a small dot that will take a minute,” Running Bear scoffed. It was rare that Running Bear spoke at all.
“Just the outline,” the Weasel echoed.
A few seconds later, it was over and the Weasel slapped a $100 bill into Running Bear’s hand for a tattoo that had taken ten minutes and dashed out the door. Running Bear called the hundred dollars the “Moron Tax.” Baxter's tattoo took two hours to complete and depicted an HR Giger alien ripping through his flesh. $60. Mine, a serpent slain by a samurai, took an hour and a half. $60. They were both sizable pieces, prices slashed due to the fact we had brought our own case of beer. Between Baxter and me, Running Bear and the Brothers, it was gone in 30 minutes. Running Bear’s work ethic, tattooing hands, faces and underage kids, kept him out of the legitimate tattoo parlors. But somehow we had found each other, and for us he was cheap and we didn’t need our parent’s permission.
“This is good,” said Baxter as I tried to forget the stinging feeling on my arm. “It marks the beginning of something new. Your going to college in New York and me off to California.”
At Baxter’s house, I pulled off the bandage. The image of my tattoo was stained on the inside. Charlie stopped over and was as excited as us to see the tattoos. The skin was red and raised but the image was clean and black.
“I’m going to get one,” said Charlie.
“Sure. I can hook that up,” said Baxter.
Charlie wouldn’t stop talking about it. Listening to him grew tiresome.
“Baxter, shut him up before I go nuts,” I said when Charlie left to use the toilet. “When he’s alone, I bet he talks to himself.”
“He’s not that bad,” said Baxter. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“No, thanks.”
I smiled at Baxter. The next day, Baxter drove Charlie out to Virginia to see Running Bear and in a short time, Charlie had a large, black-lined tribal piece, lines that swirled to points, a fast growing ivy of pure abstract designs. They say tattoos are addictive; Charlie had become a junkie. A few days later, Running Bear left without warning and went back to the Reservation.
-From Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
“Do you think he would tattoo us?” asked Baxter.
“I think if you have the money, he will tattoo anything.”
I had seen the Indian with long black hair, tanned skin, a husky build, large belly, and a speckling of poorly done tattoos at shows. I guess what they say about barbers is also true of tattoo artists. If there are two barbers you go to the guy with the bad hair cut. Running Bear had a taste for drink and an authentic Indian name, but he also went by his white name, Duane. He was every bit the Indian we cowboys imagined, a Navajo from the Navajo Nation. He would later tell us that his wife and children lived in a trailer on the reservation, making them among the wealthiest in their destitute community. Running Bear traveled the country seasonally, tattooing out of the rooms he rented, making work and living space the same thing, sending a portion of his earnings home to support his family. His earlier tattoos were thick-lined designs speckled with dots, hammered out with guitar strings. Only when viewed from a few feet’s distance could a person decipher the images. In the 1980s, tattoo artists didn’t ink faces or hands. Running Bear had no problem tattooing any part you wanted. He didn’t care how old you were, or if you had infectious diseases. If you had the cash, drugs, or booze to trade, he would do the work. If you had a problem with the finished product or an angry mother came around wanting to know who had tattooed her 15-year-old child, Running Bear packed up his tattoo gun, sterilizer, and a few bags of old band shirts and moved on to the next town with his brothers in tow.
When Baxter and I decided to get tattoos, we knew that the work had to be done in one sitting. Driving out to Virginia, we parked behind a pawnshop, then walked into the building next door, up one flight. We found his apartment, a one bedroom with a basic kitchen. A kid was there before us, so we settled in for the wait.
Weasel, the ringleader of the skinhead/gay-bashing incident that would happen a few days later, was about to get his first tattoo. Baxter and I waited restlessly for our chance under the gun.
“Is it going to hurt?” whined the Weasel.
“Uh, yeah,” Running Bear answered without hearing the question.
“I'm on Quaaludes. Will they dull the pain?” His face was devoid of color. He took a sip of his third beer and squirmed in the barber’s chair.
“Okay, I want a star on the corner of my eye.”
“What? Girls get stars.” Running Bear said, brushing the long, black stray hair from his eyes. His head was always tilted forward and his hair hung in front of his face like a curtain.
He puffed at the joint squeezed between his fingers before passing it to his brothers, two of whom always traveled with him and lived off of his tab. All three brothers would have drunken fistfights, waking up in the late afternoon, covered in scrapes and bruises. None would remember the reason behind the fight or where it had taken place. The smallest one started complaining about his bloody knuckles. The Weasel just sat there, like a lump of shit, wasting prime time. I wanted to hold him down with one hand and punch his face with the other, but that wouldn’t get me tattooed any quicker. So I just sat there, and from the look on Baxter’s face, he was thinking along my lines, too.
“I'll get a tear drop instead,” the Weasel decided, but he didn’t know if that’s what he really wanted. After giving it a few more minutes, he would decide on something else.
“A tear drop means you killed someone,” Baxter interjected. It also meant you were in a Latino gang, but the Weasel wanted a new image. Either way, during the next few days he would come close to murder, get arrested, and then bailed out by his father, go on the run with his dad’s help, and eventually escape the conviction by moving to Israel.
Running Bear's eyes glazed over. Sucking in the last bits of the joint’s smoke, he shrugged and dipped the tip of the tattoo gun into the thimble-sized cup that held murky black ink. With his index finger and thumb, he spread the skin just above Weasel’s cheek, adjacent to his eye. Duane dropped his foot onto the pedal and the gun begun rattling off its ticking hammer; it was a noise I would soon associate with the onset of pain. He lightly pressed the tip into Weasel's skin and made small circles. The Weasel’s eye filled with black ink. He cried out and shoved Duane’s arm away and ran to the bathroom to flush out his eyes. "He's getting a tattoo right there. What does he expect?" Baxter shook his head.
Making it back to the barber’s chair, the Weasel braced himself again. But before Running Bear dipped the needle into the ink, he whined, “Just do the outline.”
“It's a small dot that will take a minute,” Running Bear scoffed. It was rare that Running Bear spoke at all.
“Just the outline,” the Weasel echoed.
A few seconds later, it was over and the Weasel slapped a $100 bill into Running Bear’s hand for a tattoo that had taken ten minutes and dashed out the door. Running Bear called the hundred dollars the “Moron Tax.” Baxter's tattoo took two hours to complete and depicted an HR Giger alien ripping through his flesh. $60. Mine, a serpent slain by a samurai, took an hour and a half. $60. They were both sizable pieces, prices slashed due to the fact we had brought our own case of beer. Between Baxter and me, Running Bear and the Brothers, it was gone in 30 minutes. Running Bear’s work ethic, tattooing hands, faces and underage kids, kept him out of the legitimate tattoo parlors. But somehow we had found each other, and for us he was cheap and we didn’t need our parent’s permission.
“This is good,” said Baxter as I tried to forget the stinging feeling on my arm. “It marks the beginning of something new. Your going to college in New York and me off to California.”
At Baxter’s house, I pulled off the bandage. The image of my tattoo was stained on the inside. Charlie stopped over and was as excited as us to see the tattoos. The skin was red and raised but the image was clean and black.
“I’m going to get one,” said Charlie.
“Sure. I can hook that up,” said Baxter.
Charlie wouldn’t stop talking about it. Listening to him grew tiresome.
“Baxter, shut him up before I go nuts,” I said when Charlie left to use the toilet. “When he’s alone, I bet he talks to himself.”
“He’s not that bad,” said Baxter. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“No, thanks.”
I smiled at Baxter. The next day, Baxter drove Charlie out to Virginia to see Running Bear and in a short time, Charlie had a large, black-lined tribal piece, lines that swirled to points, a fast growing ivy of pure abstract designs. They say tattoos are addictive; Charlie had become a junkie. A few days later, Running Bear left without warning and went back to the Reservation.
-From Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
Sunday, November 15, 2009
From Rich Boy Cries for Mama
Rock Head
“Your mom’s a whore,” said Paul. Mother’s last words floated in my mind, “You would like school if you tried to make more friends there.” It had only been a week since the ski trip. Paul was sitting in front of me on the school bus and had turned around to give me this bit of information. He had short wavy brown hair and a pug nose. His features seemed too large for his face. “She’s a whore!”
“Don’t say that,” I told him. I could feel my defenses rising. I wanted to start calling him names, but Patsy did a good job shielding me from the vocabulary I needed as weapons.
“And your sister’s a lesbian,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant but I knew Paul didn’t mean it as a good thing. The bus headed to the Lab School. It shook and rumbled down Wisconsin Avenue. Paul’s hair was slicked back and he had on a leather jacket with the collar turned up, emulating “Fonzie” from Happy Days on TV.
“They are both whores.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Whores, Whores! WHORES!”
Next to me was my Star Trek lunch box. I gripped its handle tightly and each time he said “Whore”, I banged it against the back of his seat.
“WHORES! And what are you going to do about it?”
I swung the lunch box high over his head and brought it down with all my strength. Paul’s head was harder then I thought it would be and when I hit him, his head didn’t move. The other kids were quiet. Paul was quiet. Then the blood poured from his head. The other kids started screaming. The bus driver looked back and stopped. He called for an ambulance. Immediately, I wanted to take it back. I closed my eyes, thinking hard, trying to stop time and go backwards. But when I opened my eyes, everyone was looking at me as if I were a monster.
I felt remorse wash over me or maybe I was afraid of what Mother would do to me. Tears started running down my face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t even cry. “I’m sorry. Please be okay.”
The paramedics made their way to where he was sitting and wrapped his head with gauze.
“Paul. I’m sorry,” I said as he walked off the bus. He stuck his thumb up in the air and, just like Fonzie, said “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.” I knew he wasn’t going to be mad at me. From then on, I would feel obligated to try and be friendly with him.
I was suspended for three days and cried for the first two until Mother said, “When I was your age, I was playing around with a baseball bat and my friend walked up and I hit him in the head. Just about killed him, but he got better and everything was okay.” I felt a little better. I wasn’t the worst person on Earth and Mother had been bad too. She really understood how I felt. “But I want you to be nice to that boy from now on, okay?”
I nodded.
On my first day at the Lab School, I had seen Paul’s tennis shoes sticking out from under the timeout box. In class he was always getting in trouble. He didn’t have any friends, but Mother made it clear I should try and befriend him.
I found him at lunch. His back was turned to me, but I could see white make-up at the fringes of his face, up near his hairline and around his ears. I sat next to him. He turned to me, his face was covered in black and white makeup with a silver star over one eye, just like a member of the band “Kiss”, he explained. I had no clue who Kiss was and thought he made it up. He wanted to be anyone other than himself. I understood the feeling. It was the nature of being dyslexic.
I was about to say I was sorry when he burst in with, “We can be friends now!” He sounded desperate.
“Okay,” I said and, with that, the contract was made.
At my house, he didn’t wear the makeup; that was only on school days. We went outside and he grabbed a discarded sandwich bag that was lying on the sidewalk. He used it to pick up a pile of old dog poop, walked over to my neighbor’s car and slapped it down on the windshield, wiping it across the glass, in a motion that, if he was using a rag instead of crap, might have buffed it nicely.
“Why did you do that?” I said to him, utterly confused.
“Why the hell not?” he said back.
Paul was hyperactive; his outbursts were due to the chemical imbalances in his head. His dyslexia was related to being hyperactive. It made it impossible for him to focus. They grouped dyslexics on our inability to learn but, in fact, there was a wide range of reasons why we couldn’t learn. My difficulty was with codes and symbols; other kids could read them perfectly but once they were done, couldn’t remember a thing. Paul’s was hyperactivity. But at the time Paul was entertaining. I never knew what would happen next. And, in part, that was why he did the things he did. If it was disgusting, people gave him more attention, even if it was just to run away.
We went into the house. Mother had made breakfast of sausage, eggs and toast. Sitting at the table, I filled my plate and made myself an egg and sausage sandwich. Paul looked at the sausages, then turned to me.
“Is this pork? I’m not supposed to eat pork.” He could play with poo, but couldn’t eat pork?
“I think so,” I said. “It tastes really good. Try some.” I gobbled it down.
He shook his head.
“Why can’t you eat it?”
“I’m Jewish.”
“My dad’s Jewish but I can eat it.”
“If you’re Jewish you’re not supposed to, ” he said.
I didn’t understand.
“It looks good. What does it taste like?”
“It tastes great. Salty and sweet at the same time,” I said.
He picked up a few links of sausage, eating the eggs first, then stabbing the sausages with his fork. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said just before taking a bite.
He finished the rest.
We suffered the same torture at the Lab School from older bullies like Sermon. Out of the two of us, Paul was by far the tougher.
“You stink like shit,” Paul said to Sermon. Sermon punched Paul so hard he fell down, but when Paul got up he just said it again. Sermon kept beating him, but Paul wouldn’t take it back. I hated Sermon but I hated Paul too sometimes. Why would Paul want to get hurt again? He was so desperate for attention and watching him get hurt made me feel bad. When Sermon stopped and walked away, Paul called after him from the floor with a bloody lip. “See, he even knows it! You stink like shit!”
Physically, Paul had been a bit shorter than me, not husky, but not frail either, with brown wavy hair that he kept in check by constantly combing. His brown puppy eyes seemed to beg for forgiveness, but then he would just be bad again.
Every day before we went to the playground, Paul would stop by the nurse’s office, his face painted like “Kiss”. He had to pick up his Ritalin. At lunch Paul walked over to a kid who was eating his sandwich from a paper bag. The boy was pulling the crust off his bread. Paul stood behind him for a moment to make sure I had an eye on him, then slapped the kid hard on the top of his head. The teacher grabbed Paul by the tender part of his arm and quickly pushed him toward the door. Paul smiled on his way and stuck his tongue out, wiggling it like Gene Simmons. He was drinking in the attention from the other students, his audience, slowing his exit. The teacher pushed with more force. The timeout box, which was more of a chair with blinders, sat next to the receptionist. I could tell when Paul was in it by his tennis shoes. They were sad and beaten, worn down and out. He periodically painted them white with Liquid Paper, but they never looked new.
His house was in North East and his was the only white family on the block. Walking into his house for the first time, I passed the living room, looking through the clear plastic sheets meant to keep in the heat. I could see that the floor had fallen into the basement.
“Don’t go in there.” Paul led me on and I didn’t mention it to him or the other kids at school.
His family was poor white trash, with four boys and two girls, His parents were messy. His mother was overweight and his father slouched. I felt lucky to have the parents I did.
The last day I hung out with him we aimlessly walked around his neighborhood. The front of Paul’s house had bare wood siding. In the corners, you could still see the green primer. The front door was filled with tan wood putty that hadn’t been sanded. The paneling had rotted away under all the windows. The steps were uneven and looked unsafe to use. The lawn was nothing more then dirt and patches and dead weeds. A broken down boiler, refrigerator and television sat on one side of the house. The walkway was cracked and uneven. Every other house on the block was well kept. As we walked away from his house, some kind of change in polarity had taken place inside him as if the further away he was from his house, the less shame he felt .
“Watch this!” Paul exclaimed. He strutted over to a black kid about our age and punched him in the face. The fight lasted under a minute. Paul lay on the ground, receiving blows by the dozen. The black kid, tired of the workout, finally released him. He walked over to me and said, “What are you looking at cracker!” Then socked me in the eye. I grabbed Paul and we ran away.
“Did you see that?” he laughed, unaffected. Paul's head was rock hard. His supernatural strength lay in his extra thick skull. It must’ve been at least four inches deep because he didn’t have fear of the pain that comes with a beating. My eye was already turning blue. I wasn’t as tough and I wouldn’t be going back to Paul’s house. At school the next day, I avoided him. At lunch he cornered me.
“Let’s go to the arcade,” he said.
“No. We will get in trouble.”
“No we won’t. After we can just go home.”
“I have to hang out with Dash.”
“Dash is an asshole.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s just some stupid fat kid.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Come on let’s go to the arcade.”
“No.” I walked over to where Dash was and turned my back to Paul. I could feel him watching me, then he faced the kid closest to him and slapped him hard across the face. The teacher sent Paul to the box. I wouldn’t hang out with him again until I was in high school.
-Ethan H. Minsker
“Your mom’s a whore,” said Paul. Mother’s last words floated in my mind, “You would like school if you tried to make more friends there.” It had only been a week since the ski trip. Paul was sitting in front of me on the school bus and had turned around to give me this bit of information. He had short wavy brown hair and a pug nose. His features seemed too large for his face. “She’s a whore!”
“Don’t say that,” I told him. I could feel my defenses rising. I wanted to start calling him names, but Patsy did a good job shielding me from the vocabulary I needed as weapons.
“And your sister’s a lesbian,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant but I knew Paul didn’t mean it as a good thing. The bus headed to the Lab School. It shook and rumbled down Wisconsin Avenue. Paul’s hair was slicked back and he had on a leather jacket with the collar turned up, emulating “Fonzie” from Happy Days on TV.
“They are both whores.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Whores, Whores! WHORES!”
Next to me was my Star Trek lunch box. I gripped its handle tightly and each time he said “Whore”, I banged it against the back of his seat.
“WHORES! And what are you going to do about it?”
I swung the lunch box high over his head and brought it down with all my strength. Paul’s head was harder then I thought it would be and when I hit him, his head didn’t move. The other kids were quiet. Paul was quiet. Then the blood poured from his head. The other kids started screaming. The bus driver looked back and stopped. He called for an ambulance. Immediately, I wanted to take it back. I closed my eyes, thinking hard, trying to stop time and go backwards. But when I opened my eyes, everyone was looking at me as if I were a monster.
I felt remorse wash over me or maybe I was afraid of what Mother would do to me. Tears started running down my face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t even cry. “I’m sorry. Please be okay.”
The paramedics made their way to where he was sitting and wrapped his head with gauze.
“Paul. I’m sorry,” I said as he walked off the bus. He stuck his thumb up in the air and, just like Fonzie, said “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.” I knew he wasn’t going to be mad at me. From then on, I would feel obligated to try and be friendly with him.
I was suspended for three days and cried for the first two until Mother said, “When I was your age, I was playing around with a baseball bat and my friend walked up and I hit him in the head. Just about killed him, but he got better and everything was okay.” I felt a little better. I wasn’t the worst person on Earth and Mother had been bad too. She really understood how I felt. “But I want you to be nice to that boy from now on, okay?”
I nodded.
On my first day at the Lab School, I had seen Paul’s tennis shoes sticking out from under the timeout box. In class he was always getting in trouble. He didn’t have any friends, but Mother made it clear I should try and befriend him.
I found him at lunch. His back was turned to me, but I could see white make-up at the fringes of his face, up near his hairline and around his ears. I sat next to him. He turned to me, his face was covered in black and white makeup with a silver star over one eye, just like a member of the band “Kiss”, he explained. I had no clue who Kiss was and thought he made it up. He wanted to be anyone other than himself. I understood the feeling. It was the nature of being dyslexic.
I was about to say I was sorry when he burst in with, “We can be friends now!” He sounded desperate.
“Okay,” I said and, with that, the contract was made.
At my house, he didn’t wear the makeup; that was only on school days. We went outside and he grabbed a discarded sandwich bag that was lying on the sidewalk. He used it to pick up a pile of old dog poop, walked over to my neighbor’s car and slapped it down on the windshield, wiping it across the glass, in a motion that, if he was using a rag instead of crap, might have buffed it nicely.
“Why did you do that?” I said to him, utterly confused.
“Why the hell not?” he said back.
Paul was hyperactive; his outbursts were due to the chemical imbalances in his head. His dyslexia was related to being hyperactive. It made it impossible for him to focus. They grouped dyslexics on our inability to learn but, in fact, there was a wide range of reasons why we couldn’t learn. My difficulty was with codes and symbols; other kids could read them perfectly but once they were done, couldn’t remember a thing. Paul’s was hyperactivity. But at the time Paul was entertaining. I never knew what would happen next. And, in part, that was why he did the things he did. If it was disgusting, people gave him more attention, even if it was just to run away.
We went into the house. Mother had made breakfast of sausage, eggs and toast. Sitting at the table, I filled my plate and made myself an egg and sausage sandwich. Paul looked at the sausages, then turned to me.
“Is this pork? I’m not supposed to eat pork.” He could play with poo, but couldn’t eat pork?
“I think so,” I said. “It tastes really good. Try some.” I gobbled it down.
He shook his head.
“Why can’t you eat it?”
“I’m Jewish.”
“My dad’s Jewish but I can eat it.”
“If you’re Jewish you’re not supposed to, ” he said.
I didn’t understand.
“It looks good. What does it taste like?”
“It tastes great. Salty and sweet at the same time,” I said.
He picked up a few links of sausage, eating the eggs first, then stabbing the sausages with his fork. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said just before taking a bite.
He finished the rest.
We suffered the same torture at the Lab School from older bullies like Sermon. Out of the two of us, Paul was by far the tougher.
“You stink like shit,” Paul said to Sermon. Sermon punched Paul so hard he fell down, but when Paul got up he just said it again. Sermon kept beating him, but Paul wouldn’t take it back. I hated Sermon but I hated Paul too sometimes. Why would Paul want to get hurt again? He was so desperate for attention and watching him get hurt made me feel bad. When Sermon stopped and walked away, Paul called after him from the floor with a bloody lip. “See, he even knows it! You stink like shit!”
Physically, Paul had been a bit shorter than me, not husky, but not frail either, with brown wavy hair that he kept in check by constantly combing. His brown puppy eyes seemed to beg for forgiveness, but then he would just be bad again.
Every day before we went to the playground, Paul would stop by the nurse’s office, his face painted like “Kiss”. He had to pick up his Ritalin. At lunch Paul walked over to a kid who was eating his sandwich from a paper bag. The boy was pulling the crust off his bread. Paul stood behind him for a moment to make sure I had an eye on him, then slapped the kid hard on the top of his head. The teacher grabbed Paul by the tender part of his arm and quickly pushed him toward the door. Paul smiled on his way and stuck his tongue out, wiggling it like Gene Simmons. He was drinking in the attention from the other students, his audience, slowing his exit. The teacher pushed with more force. The timeout box, which was more of a chair with blinders, sat next to the receptionist. I could tell when Paul was in it by his tennis shoes. They were sad and beaten, worn down and out. He periodically painted them white with Liquid Paper, but they never looked new.
His house was in North East and his was the only white family on the block. Walking into his house for the first time, I passed the living room, looking through the clear plastic sheets meant to keep in the heat. I could see that the floor had fallen into the basement.
“Don’t go in there.” Paul led me on and I didn’t mention it to him or the other kids at school.
His family was poor white trash, with four boys and two girls, His parents were messy. His mother was overweight and his father slouched. I felt lucky to have the parents I did.
The last day I hung out with him we aimlessly walked around his neighborhood. The front of Paul’s house had bare wood siding. In the corners, you could still see the green primer. The front door was filled with tan wood putty that hadn’t been sanded. The paneling had rotted away under all the windows. The steps were uneven and looked unsafe to use. The lawn was nothing more then dirt and patches and dead weeds. A broken down boiler, refrigerator and television sat on one side of the house. The walkway was cracked and uneven. Every other house on the block was well kept. As we walked away from his house, some kind of change in polarity had taken place inside him as if the further away he was from his house, the less shame he felt .
“Watch this!” Paul exclaimed. He strutted over to a black kid about our age and punched him in the face. The fight lasted under a minute. Paul lay on the ground, receiving blows by the dozen. The black kid, tired of the workout, finally released him. He walked over to me and said, “What are you looking at cracker!” Then socked me in the eye. I grabbed Paul and we ran away.
“Did you see that?” he laughed, unaffected. Paul's head was rock hard. His supernatural strength lay in his extra thick skull. It must’ve been at least four inches deep because he didn’t have fear of the pain that comes with a beating. My eye was already turning blue. I wasn’t as tough and I wouldn’t be going back to Paul’s house. At school the next day, I avoided him. At lunch he cornered me.
“Let’s go to the arcade,” he said.
“No. We will get in trouble.”
“No we won’t. After we can just go home.”
“I have to hang out with Dash.”
“Dash is an asshole.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s just some stupid fat kid.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Come on let’s go to the arcade.”
“No.” I walked over to where Dash was and turned my back to Paul. I could feel him watching me, then he faced the kid closest to him and slapped him hard across the face. The teacher sent Paul to the box. I wouldn’t hang out with him again until I was in high school.
-Ethan H. Minsker
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