by John Crawford
ONE—roll call. Amplitude can you hear me. The Mobtown King is here, post-heartbreak, a lease-scrambling kind of heartbreak, splitsville gone. His sweet girl is gone for good. (The Mobtown King is single and ready to mingle.) He is nefarious now. He rubs hands and foreheads with The Man With the Hands. They are going to disassemble and relocate and otherwise repossess the Domino Sugar factory-sign. Because since she’s without him it’s the “LAST THING SHE HAS LEFT IN THIS CITY.” They have everything they need to pull it off. A truck and a Lowe’s rewards card. And the spirit. A fixer who lives in Philadelphia (the city of brotherly love) who says he will front four hundred clams and turn it to the guys at city hall who will in turn provide the big bucks. The rest of the money will come later, he is told. He lingers on the street corner and waits for the Man With the Hands and perspires and thinks well let’s get this show on the road. It’s a pale evening and the mist burns the glow. Roughly dryly perspiring. She used to really like the way he perspired. Thick tactile doughy sweat. He’s been waiting for two hours and every fifteen minutes he’s been walking back to his mom’s place to check the answering machine. Last time he had a call from Todd who said you will NOT believe what I just saw.
TWO—it so happens that Bill Reeves was hearing from Big Mick who was hearing from Moe at the exact right time, and Mick told him (he said) it’s been in the air that your brother is in a bad way with the bugs, Bill, and you should see him pronto if you haven’t already. He whispered it between the musicology stacks at the Enoch Pratt and Bill had Brahms on his mind and forgot but remembers now and thinks well I’m just about close to there anyway so I may as well stop by. He has some trouble getting there because the fuzz are parked all down the Willard-T by the shopping center for some reason and they’re unyieldly. But he gets there and Richard is already standing on the steps with his head in his hands and he looks bummed. Bill says hey Dick I’ve heard you’re in a bad way, and Richard says how did you know and Bill shrugs and says it’s in the air, they’re saying. And he says I was hearing you’ve got this bug problem. Richard says boy do I. He says I’ve got these sprickets and I can’t get rid of them. He says they show up every morning and they’ve got big long legs and they look at me when I get out there. He says they have big gross eyes and they are gross. He says it’s been months and I’m approaching my limit. Bill says well Dick have you tried squashing them to send a sort of message, and Richard says of course I have. He says I get on my big soccer cleats every morning and I rush out there and I stomp on them and I tear them apart and I yell at them and I say nasty things. I say things like go back from whence you came you… you FREAKS. Bill says your soccer cleats and Richard says yeah and Bill shakes his head and says no man your problem is that you’re using the wrong gear. He says I have some snowshoes in my car. Richard says oh shit.
THREE—scene legend Leonard Kranz since graduated from city college and working now at the pet store on the Fred. He is allergic to dogs. They have a dog-wash there and he’s tasked with laundering the towels from the dog-wash, and with carrying the roll of quarters to the laundromat while his eczema flares and he becomes slick with the itch and his skin itches. He carries all the towels in his arms that itch and the quarters in his hand and he thinks the whole walk over that for his troubles he’s going to filch a dollar from the roll and buy a bag of skittles or peanuts from the detergent dispenser machine. Because what the hell. But he’s still yet to square the twenty clams he pulled from the register earlier on a calzone and diet soda mission—a fact which will come to a head, eventually. Life is short. The door goes ding when he walks in. The laundromat has all kinds of characters. Gaylord National is starching and pressing his pinstripe shirts. Linda-on-Bentalou is trying to yogi some laundry detergent from Roger who is oblivious. Parisa is excited to see Leonard intoning polysyllabic Farsi but Leonard is rudimentary at best. There’s a guy in a Chuck-E-Cheese mascot-fit, mouse head on the bench, waiting for his street clothes to finish drying. Leonard says hey man what’s your story and Chuck says there’s been a horrible tragedy.
FOUR—Andy Selvon miles upon miles away. Andy-Lou Selvon standing in Homestead Gardens ham-fisting a Toblerone and chewing on it. Andy-Lou “Louie” Selvon choking on it by mistake, and dribbling brown phlegm onto his other hand, which is holding a jar of garlic aioli. Andy watching the Christmas model-train roll by. And choo-choo quietly. Andrew-Lewis “Louie” Selvon wiping his hand on his pants and remembering the last time he was in Homestead Gardens, when he had a nosebleed while picking up houseplants his mom said were necessary to “spruce up the place.” Referring to his one-room above the laundromat with one window and tub mold from a previous tenant. Louie-Lou quietly grateful for a dry nose. The back half of the train comes around the bend. Andy missing his dad because that feeling never goes away. And hearing the vacant teenager on the intercom say excuse me patrons the gardens will be closing in fifteen minutes and thinking yeah I guess it’s about that time.
FIVE—A cool wind washes in from over that way. Jim walks up the hill double-back with Lena who is his niece and eleven. He fried kielbasa for dinner, has heartburn, really doesn’t have puke on the agenda but Jim is the kind of guy to think well when it’s time to puke. They are walking and Jim is burping. Lena is very precocious and plays the cello and they’re community orchestra rehearsal-bound, though Jim doesn’t play and his only job is to drop off his niece and take the long walk back home to his place where he will sit alone and maybe watch a movie. He says you look glum kiddo and Lena says she’s walking all this way down shitty-ass Bentalou just to play that one song from Lord of the Rings instead of something worth everyone’s time and talent. Like Brahms. (Lena really likes Brahms.) Jim thinks well you’ve got to give the people what they want but doesn’t say that and instead says nothing. He insists on carrying Lena’s cello case though she very clearly can carry it herself. She says I’m not sure I understand the point of sitting in our seats and sitting up and whoring out to Big Cinema if there’s nothing of substance to counterbalance it. Where’s the Brahms? (“Where’s the beef?” Jim says—a reflex.) He says hey don’t say whore but is otherwise stumped. He makes a face that shows he understands and emphasizes but won’t do much more than that. He’s pretty sure much of fatherhood is exactly like this. In his experience anyway. He says the only analog I can think of is, but then he has to burp again and the thought is lost, and then the moment is gone. They cross the street at the center and Lena takes the cello and kisses him on the cheek and says bye Uncle Jim and walks right into the place. On the way up the steps, she is lost in a sea of cases. Jim watches her go but already can’t see her. He turns to make the long walk back home but decides last minute to take the short walk behind the shopping center instead because he feels like someone behind the scenes is urging him that way. And Jim is not a very smart man, but when he feels something like that he knows enough to listen.
SIX—see (of course) Sawhide Sam eating another DiGiorno Stuffed-Crust Meat-Lovers Pizza from the Food Lion, in his bed, on the quilt he just washed and dried after the last DiGiorno Stuffed-Crust Meat-Lovers Pizza from the Food Lion, and he’s using his laptop to google “Andy Warhol Assassination Attempt” and then “Bobby Kennedy Assassination” and then “how did people react to Andy Warhol’s attempted assassination, and did people just stop talking about it two days later because of the very successful assassination of Robert Kennedy,” and then “Lou Reed Heavy Metal Music.” He’s got pepperoni grease all over his keyboard. This is the life, he thinks. And it is.
SEVEN—and I’m in town but not for long. Watch me get in my car and drive. I’m sent to pick up the Burger King and drop a letter at the post office, and instead I’m heading down and I’m driving west, far west, to the West Coast because I’m thinking I just need to get away from all of this. I’m driving on Fred and I turn off the radio and I drive. The cars there congest because there’s a fuzz jam ahead. They brought out the lights. There is glare in every mirror. I drum on my steering wheel but it is no use. I text and drive. My sister calls and says hey do you think they can take the pickles off my burger. I say it’s Burger King Julia of course they can take the pickles off. She says well can you have them do that for me, and I say of course I can. She says thank you and hangs up. I put my phone in the cup holder and I scratch my arms. The jam is moving up by the shopping center now. I rubberneck just like everyone else. There’s been a horrible tragedy in the parking lot. I get a good long look, but then the road is open in front of me and I drive. I turn on my windshield wipers and I turn off the radio, but I’ve already turned off the radio and so I turn on the radio. I don’t know how to say I love you to my siblings. I drive and I drive and I drive.
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John Crawford lives in Maryland and writes there too. John “Jack” Crawford made salmon last night. John Crawford is an editor for BRUISER. Buy his debut collection LEONARD! John Crawford coming to an outlet store near you. @jcrawfordwrote.
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