Wednesday, August 12, 2009
For the Wailing Wall
We wail for the Mothers and Fathers lost to war, and for those who will keep the children
We Wail for the countless scores who continue to die, and for those who will return to us, lost of humanity
We wail for those who have returned to us unable to care for self, and for the care-givers who will give up the rest of their lives to take care.
We wail for those who are fired upon by friends and for those friends who will never know when.
We wail for the "manchild", who cannot wait to die for country that fail the child again and again and again.
rc.
We wail for the Mothers and Fathers lost to war, and for those who will keep the children
We Wail for the countless scores who continue to die, and for those who will return to us, lost of humanity
We wail for those who have returned to us unable to care for self, and for the care-givers who will give up the rest of their lives to take care.
We wail for those who are fired upon by friends and for those friends who will never know when.
We wail for the "manchild", who cannot wait to die for country that fail the child again and again and again.
rc.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Wedding Planner.
roycrosse.
A decadent affair at best, every leg of the wedding ceremony will take place at a different and far away resort location along Jamaica's sprawling north coast. This would be Harold’s second wedding. There is something very odd about a young couple at the cusp twenty first century willing to spend large chunks of money to be trapped in the Cinderella Syndrome. The kind of thing you might see on “Reality TV”. Not only was the affair tiresome, it was wasteful. Between waiting for the shuttle bus to be transported from one end of the coast to the other… the rehearsal dinner, the bachelor parties, the ceremony, the reception, the brunch after the ceremony on a neighboring Island: another shuttle bus followed by a short boat ride will get you there…and on and on…the predictable long white dress with miles of fabric trailing the bride’s backside.
Pounds of rose petals pave a bridal path framed by a dozen near waist high clear acrylic tube containers holding extra long stems of white orchid like flowers. The tubes stood like fence posts spanning a man made pool parallel to the shoreline. All this, on a clear and sunny day in May, at an exotic bayside resort, nothing about this affair is tropical casual or bear any relation to the life that will begin at the end of this extravagant affair. The resort is a longstanding Jamaican tourist landing hugging one of the island’s better beaches where locals dare to thread. Ceramic and terrazzo floors, Morris style furniture complimented with bamboo and Rattan chairs and tables, expansive entrances planted with lush tropical vegetation circular driveways with Royal Palms and hot pink bougainvillea bouncing in the wind. A grand and beautiful setting very familiar to Hollywood Royalty.
We are early or the bride is late. We are waiting. The bride crosses the large not for swimming pool stepping on concrete platforms while two able bodied men rush to keep up with the dress tail that wants to fall into the chlorine treated water spilling over its own edge; all so yesteryear you wanted to laugh out loud. The minister, a dark skinned quiet man conducts the wedding ceremony. I am hungry. I sit in my tailored store made suit and wonder.
That Saturday afternoon, I left my friend's villa in Silver Sands at 2.30pm to be on time for 5.30 ceremony. But the bride wedged between Colored People Time and her obligation to imitate every detail of the Eurocentric ceremony will be late by more than an hour. While we wait, a lone saxophonist dressed like a hotel waiter play long forgotten melodies on an instrument that has long lost its luster. He walks from table to table but no one cares.
Happy friends and relatives bask in the decadence. They don’t seem to mind the waiting, the bad planning, the uncertainty of what to do or where to go next, like underlings at a school picnic we wait and wait and wait. In fact, one lady admirer of the bride, mother of the groom thinks this is all very cute and piles on the praise for the wedding planner who is indeed the same bride. The couple exchange vows. Sunlight is fading. I am hungry. The bride without warning fumbles out a small white box double the size of a cigarette package. And after some polite tugging and twisting pulls open the container. At the end of an accordion like paper fold she releases two dozen yellow butterflies. Immediately, a hand full of them fall into the pool their little wings now too wet to navigate their way out of the water and they die, another gets plucked out of the sky by a flying creature and to my surprise the crowd seem pleased…beautiful, a woman behind whisper. Now I am hungry and pissed off.
In my own urban back yard back in the I go to great lengths to cultivate flowers and other plant life just to attract butterflies and birds, a kind of natural wild life habitat for less than human creatures that compete for living turf in an ever changing environment...now I am paying good money to cross the Atlantic so I could witness the destruction of butterflies all in the name of ornamentation. A plan, I am told, hatched up by a bride no less than thirty plus years old and educated at some of the best learning institutions between the Americas.
The couple signs the wedding certificate. And a bevy of hired video and still photographers let loose, following the couple’s every move. I mean very move. They are walking sitting, talking, smiling, kissing, drinking, waiting, meeting and greeting guests. If one is used to weddings as you have imagined by now that I am not, photos must be common fare, but this one is way over the top particularly since most attendees now carry their own still and video cameras. And to be sure the following day after the brunch the couple will be interviewed on video camera in separate locations. Reality TV anyone?
We wait another long spell for nothing in particular. Then, again for another shuttle bus this time to be driven off to yet another far off resort, the great house where the reception will take place. The bus takes on an ever so long trip on broken down half paved roads twisting and turning through the hill side on the edge of roads crumbling under the pressure of the Bus, pieces of dirt tumble down the sides as we pass the thick brush grazing the windows. It’s a dark night, no moonlight here and then when you think you have lost all connection with civilization the bush opens up to a most extra ordinary resort, The great house.
The converted sugar Mill is tucked away far in the Jamaican hillside surrounded by a patchwork of Colonial Villas built from local stone a long ago with old money. I climb the winding uneven steps to the central hall, on the way is a rusted sugar cane grinding mill. It's nine thirty. A very old and sad donkey is standing in the black night fastened to the mill just for the hell of it. The animal is tired and would do well with a blessing of food and a little hug, maybe a good brushing of the coat. I find out later, that the donkey was hired to stand there in its tired old coat just so we can look at it. Now I am hungry and irritated to near breaking point. Champagne is served with mango wedges on the rim of tall glasses. Since I am not a drinking man I settle for the less exotic Tonic water with lemon wedge. We are seated and wait on the married couple’s arrival…we are waiting. It is now Ten pm. And I am really fucking hungry not to be confused with angry.
“I see white plates”. Ten thirty we are served diner. Lobster. Between the long irrelevant speeches, the foul jokes from drunken tongues and the… I remember the bride when she was just a little girl bullshit,.. It's midnight. The music is a cadre of old dance hall cuts; the sound is fading in and out or simply cutting off abruptly. Blasting from two sets of six plywood box speakers on opposite sides of the circular concrete hall all the size of domestic freezers. Two computers and four turn-tables sit on top of an arrangement of amplifiers pre-amps and other techno age gadgets non of which helps the music. It is agreed that the music is not only bad, but not entirely suited for the occasion. The bride still in her ceremonial outfit and diamond speckled finger her man firmly in toe smiles happily through it all just as they should. The bride is happy. It’s her day. The bride’s maids in all black out fits enjoy the night. The donkey remains standing like a concrete figurine with an old coat, no mango wedge, no water, no one is talking to the donkey, no one is looking.
The booze is flowing as it should, and if you are up for it you can have a Cuban cigar hand rolled in front of your very eyes by a pleasantly rounded Jamaican lady.
The cake, the kiss, did anyone even notice the emerging jazz singer, who easily fades into the background, no one is listening. The DJ prevails. The music stops mid tune. Then, two songs are playing at once, dancing resumes. The electric slide but only a few women take the bait. I request some reggae. The DJ is polite and agrees but goes on playing the same old tunes.
The kiss, the garter belt, the tossed bouquet and anxious next in line to be married girls and boys, every “heard about” wedding ritual old and new is played out. The girls are drunk, the men are weary and two very ordinary people are about to begin a new life at the end of a much anticipated Honeymoon at still another far away resort, on borrowed money. And Jamaica lives on to play out another wedding saga.
Note: I am told that Jamaicans take their weddings very seriously and the game players are forever upping the antics. I watch my newly weds fade into the night near morning and I wonder what kind of life they will make planning to start a family right away with No Money Down.
--
http://roycrosse.neoimages.net/
roycrosse.
A decadent affair at best, every leg of the wedding ceremony will take place at a different and far away resort location along Jamaica's sprawling north coast. This would be Harold’s second wedding. There is something very odd about a young couple at the cusp twenty first century willing to spend large chunks of money to be trapped in the Cinderella Syndrome. The kind of thing you might see on “Reality TV”. Not only was the affair tiresome, it was wasteful. Between waiting for the shuttle bus to be transported from one end of the coast to the other… the rehearsal dinner, the bachelor parties, the ceremony, the reception, the brunch after the ceremony on a neighboring Island: another shuttle bus followed by a short boat ride will get you there…and on and on…the predictable long white dress with miles of fabric trailing the bride’s backside.
Pounds of rose petals pave a bridal path framed by a dozen near waist high clear acrylic tube containers holding extra long stems of white orchid like flowers. The tubes stood like fence posts spanning a man made pool parallel to the shoreline. All this, on a clear and sunny day in May, at an exotic bayside resort, nothing about this affair is tropical casual or bear any relation to the life that will begin at the end of this extravagant affair. The resort is a longstanding Jamaican tourist landing hugging one of the island’s better beaches where locals dare to thread. Ceramic and terrazzo floors, Morris style furniture complimented with bamboo and Rattan chairs and tables, expansive entrances planted with lush tropical vegetation circular driveways with Royal Palms and hot pink bougainvillea bouncing in the wind. A grand and beautiful setting very familiar to Hollywood Royalty.
We are early or the bride is late. We are waiting. The bride crosses the large not for swimming pool stepping on concrete platforms while two able bodied men rush to keep up with the dress tail that wants to fall into the chlorine treated water spilling over its own edge; all so yesteryear you wanted to laugh out loud. The minister, a dark skinned quiet man conducts the wedding ceremony. I am hungry. I sit in my tailored store made suit and wonder.
That Saturday afternoon, I left my friend's villa in Silver Sands at 2.30pm to be on time for 5.30 ceremony. But the bride wedged between Colored People Time and her obligation to imitate every detail of the Eurocentric ceremony will be late by more than an hour. While we wait, a lone saxophonist dressed like a hotel waiter play long forgotten melodies on an instrument that has long lost its luster. He walks from table to table but no one cares.
Happy friends and relatives bask in the decadence. They don’t seem to mind the waiting, the bad planning, the uncertainty of what to do or where to go next, like underlings at a school picnic we wait and wait and wait. In fact, one lady admirer of the bride, mother of the groom thinks this is all very cute and piles on the praise for the wedding planner who is indeed the same bride. The couple exchange vows. Sunlight is fading. I am hungry. The bride without warning fumbles out a small white box double the size of a cigarette package. And after some polite tugging and twisting pulls open the container. At the end of an accordion like paper fold she releases two dozen yellow butterflies. Immediately, a hand full of them fall into the pool their little wings now too wet to navigate their way out of the water and they die, another gets plucked out of the sky by a flying creature and to my surprise the crowd seem pleased…beautiful, a woman behind whisper. Now I am hungry and pissed off.
In my own urban back yard back in the I go to great lengths to cultivate flowers and other plant life just to attract butterflies and birds, a kind of natural wild life habitat for less than human creatures that compete for living turf in an ever changing environment...now I am paying good money to cross the Atlantic so I could witness the destruction of butterflies all in the name of ornamentation. A plan, I am told, hatched up by a bride no less than thirty plus years old and educated at some of the best learning institutions between the Americas.
The couple signs the wedding certificate. And a bevy of hired video and still photographers let loose, following the couple’s every move. I mean very move. They are walking sitting, talking, smiling, kissing, drinking, waiting, meeting and greeting guests. If one is used to weddings as you have imagined by now that I am not, photos must be common fare, but this one is way over the top particularly since most attendees now carry their own still and video cameras. And to be sure the following day after the brunch the couple will be interviewed on video camera in separate locations. Reality TV anyone?
We wait another long spell for nothing in particular. Then, again for another shuttle bus this time to be driven off to yet another far off resort, the great house where the reception will take place. The bus takes on an ever so long trip on broken down half paved roads twisting and turning through the hill side on the edge of roads crumbling under the pressure of the Bus, pieces of dirt tumble down the sides as we pass the thick brush grazing the windows. It’s a dark night, no moonlight here and then when you think you have lost all connection with civilization the bush opens up to a most extra ordinary resort, The great house.
The converted sugar Mill is tucked away far in the Jamaican hillside surrounded by a patchwork of Colonial Villas built from local stone a long ago with old money. I climb the winding uneven steps to the central hall, on the way is a rusted sugar cane grinding mill. It's nine thirty. A very old and sad donkey is standing in the black night fastened to the mill just for the hell of it. The animal is tired and would do well with a blessing of food and a little hug, maybe a good brushing of the coat. I find out later, that the donkey was hired to stand there in its tired old coat just so we can look at it. Now I am hungry and irritated to near breaking point. Champagne is served with mango wedges on the rim of tall glasses. Since I am not a drinking man I settle for the less exotic Tonic water with lemon wedge. We are seated and wait on the married couple’s arrival…we are waiting. It is now Ten pm. And I am really fucking hungry not to be confused with angry.
“I see white plates”. Ten thirty we are served diner. Lobster. Between the long irrelevant speeches, the foul jokes from drunken tongues and the… I remember the bride when she was just a little girl bullshit,.. It's midnight. The music is a cadre of old dance hall cuts; the sound is fading in and out or simply cutting off abruptly. Blasting from two sets of six plywood box speakers on opposite sides of the circular concrete hall all the size of domestic freezers. Two computers and four turn-tables sit on top of an arrangement of amplifiers pre-amps and other techno age gadgets non of which helps the music. It is agreed that the music is not only bad, but not entirely suited for the occasion. The bride still in her ceremonial outfit and diamond speckled finger her man firmly in toe smiles happily through it all just as they should. The bride is happy. It’s her day. The bride’s maids in all black out fits enjoy the night. The donkey remains standing like a concrete figurine with an old coat, no mango wedge, no water, no one is talking to the donkey, no one is looking.
The booze is flowing as it should, and if you are up for it you can have a Cuban cigar hand rolled in front of your very eyes by a pleasantly rounded Jamaican lady.
The cake, the kiss, did anyone even notice the emerging jazz singer, who easily fades into the background, no one is listening. The DJ prevails. The music stops mid tune. Then, two songs are playing at once, dancing resumes. The electric slide but only a few women take the bait. I request some reggae. The DJ is polite and agrees but goes on playing the same old tunes.
The kiss, the garter belt, the tossed bouquet and anxious next in line to be married girls and boys, every “heard about” wedding ritual old and new is played out. The girls are drunk, the men are weary and two very ordinary people are about to begin a new life at the end of a much anticipated Honeymoon at still another far away resort, on borrowed money. And Jamaica lives on to play out another wedding saga.
Note: I am told that Jamaicans take their weddings very seriously and the game players are forever upping the antics. I watch my newly weds fade into the night near morning and I wonder what kind of life they will make planning to start a family right away with No Money Down.
--
http://roycrosse.neoimages.net/
A Homage to Fathers everywhere.
roycrosse
Okay, so in a little more than a week America will celebrate Father’s day, well, for the finicky celebrate maybe over stated but you get my drift. Mother’s Day on the other hand takes no prisoners and celebrate is the word. Daughters and sons, husbands and baby daddies alike all put a heavy shoe on the accelerator, no stopping this Hallmark invention. The prodigal son the hooligan even wayward daughters all succumb to the Mothers Day call.
Dinner reservations are made days if not weeks in advance, service clubs arrange excursions and other worldly festivities for the occasion and the local Diner can be expected to attract a line to be matched only by Wal-Mart on a Christmas Season sale day. On the high end, a well maintained Mother could be gifted a Holiday in the Tropics a day at the Spa and FTD flowers at the doorstep. In some cases the entertainment world cough up special events, tickets for concerts, the symphony and new shows are added to the entertainment roster. Stores will mount displays that remind us at every turn Mother deserves your attention, your time and your money. Husband-fathers are reminded that a dishwasher is no longer an appropriate gift for the deserving Mother. Indeed a man can hardly go wrong if all he can manage is to remember.
Think of the dude who never calls home, he ignore pleas for ongoing communication with the family clan, but on Mother Day all he has to do is show up with an 8 x 10 card dripping with glitter and all is forgiven, and if it plays a jingle, he can fuck up for another year.
But who is Dad, what does he get a passing mention? Where is the class project making little cards for daddy stamped with lip-stick kisses, no gilt trip here, no Television Special, no worries anywhere even an outstanding Dad could easily be ignored without penalty. I say lets show Dads some respect. In by gone days the best a Dad could expect was a tie he would never choose for himself or a pair of out dated ugly brown socks… that was pretty much it. Now thanks to a joint effort between Home Depot and Black & Decker a Dude could look forward to a reduced power screwdriver for all of $9.99 or a weed-whacker . Piss on that I say, hire a gardener. It’s not okay to give Mom hardware - no mix-masters, cook ware or tools of any kind for dearest Mother, but it’s okay to give Dad a discounted half ass tool form the Hardware store…no, no, no Mama girl keep your stinking hammer.
It’s the Obama Age people, time to wake up to the new man. Give Dad a break. Forget the circular saw and all the DYI bull shit…how many toothbrush racks does a man need. Send a man some flowers, yeah what’s wrong with that scenario…what about a day at the Bed & Breakfast near the lake with the guys. Buy a man some free time. Be creative. How about some flying lessons, or sky diving, better yet rent a Harley for the day.
Mothers, if you are out of pocket and want to show your love the least you can do is cook him a good meal massage the body down with sweet oils and for heavens sake give the man a blow-job. I say “Rise up Daddies” demand some respect, yeah man!
roycrosse
Okay, so in a little more than a week America will celebrate Father’s day, well, for the finicky celebrate maybe over stated but you get my drift. Mother’s Day on the other hand takes no prisoners and celebrate is the word. Daughters and sons, husbands and baby daddies alike all put a heavy shoe on the accelerator, no stopping this Hallmark invention. The prodigal son the hooligan even wayward daughters all succumb to the Mothers Day call.
Dinner reservations are made days if not weeks in advance, service clubs arrange excursions and other worldly festivities for the occasion and the local Diner can be expected to attract a line to be matched only by Wal-Mart on a Christmas Season sale day. On the high end, a well maintained Mother could be gifted a Holiday in the Tropics a day at the Spa and FTD flowers at the doorstep. In some cases the entertainment world cough up special events, tickets for concerts, the symphony and new shows are added to the entertainment roster. Stores will mount displays that remind us at every turn Mother deserves your attention, your time and your money. Husband-fathers are reminded that a dishwasher is no longer an appropriate gift for the deserving Mother. Indeed a man can hardly go wrong if all he can manage is to remember.
Think of the dude who never calls home, he ignore pleas for ongoing communication with the family clan, but on Mother Day all he has to do is show up with an 8 x 10 card dripping with glitter and all is forgiven, and if it plays a jingle, he can fuck up for another year.
But who is Dad, what does he get a passing mention? Where is the class project making little cards for daddy stamped with lip-stick kisses, no gilt trip here, no Television Special, no worries anywhere even an outstanding Dad could easily be ignored without penalty. I say lets show Dads some respect. In by gone days the best a Dad could expect was a tie he would never choose for himself or a pair of out dated ugly brown socks… that was pretty much it. Now thanks to a joint effort between Home Depot and Black & Decker a Dude could look forward to a reduced power screwdriver for all of $9.99 or a weed-whacker . Piss on that I say, hire a gardener. It’s not okay to give Mom hardware - no mix-masters, cook ware or tools of any kind for dearest Mother, but it’s okay to give Dad a discounted half ass tool form the Hardware store…no, no, no Mama girl keep your stinking hammer.
It’s the Obama Age people, time to wake up to the new man. Give Dad a break. Forget the circular saw and all the DYI bull shit…how many toothbrush racks does a man need. Send a man some flowers, yeah what’s wrong with that scenario…what about a day at the Bed & Breakfast near the lake with the guys. Buy a man some free time. Be creative. How about some flying lessons, or sky diving, better yet rent a Harley for the day.
Mothers, if you are out of pocket and want to show your love the least you can do is cook him a good meal massage the body down with sweet oils and for heavens sake give the man a blow-job. I say “Rise up Daddies” demand some respect, yeah man!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Thing About Cats.
First, there are moody Cats, you know- not now Cats
fat Cats and slow go easy now Cats.
Slick Cats, and sly Cats.
Then there are warm cuddly Cats, fussy fuzzy Cats, lean Cats, fat ass Cats
and I just don’t eat anything Cats.
Soft squishy Cats, colored Cats, shy Cats and long hair Cats.
Street Cats and bedroom Cats. Short hair Cats and no hair Cats.
Cats for jumping Cats for climbing Cats fore playing, Cats for walking
Cats for stroking and just plain pussy Cats.
There are Country Cats, City Cats, sleeping Cats and out of the jungle Cats.
House Cats striped Cats fluffy Cats catty Cats.
And curled in the corner Cats.
Majestic Cats Photogenic Cats, the neighbor’s Cat.
cat posing on the mantle place Cats. Hanging out the window Cats.
kitty Cats.
Not to forget the ever loving “Cool Cats” and that black Cat.
Pussy Cats can be mysterious, alluring, commanding
giving more Cats giving less Cats.
drawing against your hand Cats.. but always wanting Cats.
There are self reliant assertive Cats, not to be confused with loner Cats
or people Cats.
There are attractive Cats, good to hold Cats, your hand on the hair Cats,
responding to your touch Cats. Imperial Cats. Snuggle to your face Cats,
purring softly Cats.
Sweet sweet ass bitchy Cats. And all you will ever need Cats.
So don’t you be running off saying any old thing about cats... Lady!
rc.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
The Man the Woman and a Dog
by rc.
The man shouted, “ Bitch I would kill you” the loud piercing voice of a woman screamed out in strained bursts. Bitch, Bitch. The man echoed again. I will kill you woman.
It was too dark to get a good look out the window. I waved my hand in front of the motion detector and the warning light came on but the noise was coming from the adjacent building three lots across and still in the shadow. As my eyes adjusted to the night outside I could make out the figure of a man standing with his face towards the back of the building on my right, the top half of his body naked. I could not see the details of his face but I could see the well formed body of what appeared to be a strong robust man, his upper body with beads of moisture either from sweat or the light drizzle that came before the screams. He shouted curses again with threatening gestures in a haphazard erratic manner, over and over again, punctuating his threats...Bitch….Bitch.
The woman was either too close to the back of the building or in the step-well below street level, either way it would be difficult to see her if that’s where she was.
The man paced the concrete in semi circular movements going in one direction then the opposite like the routine of an ancient ritual dance heaving his arms back and forth the way you would row a small boat, but without the calm and grace of rowing. I could kill you woman. His voice is dark. Bitch, motha-fucker.
It was past midnight and for August the wind was cool and soft. It purred through the alley gently bending the top of a large wild bush on the opposite side of the building. The man now in recess sat on the metal housing of the air conditioning unit for the apartment building that sheltered him from the street, there in the long narrow space behind the building he was safe from scrutiny, or so he thought. To improve my view and get a better feel for what was taking place I went up to my third floor where through a small bathroom window I could poke my head.
I still did not have a wide enough view to see where the woman might be hiding. Lights went on in the building above him but no one appeared at the windows, nothing changed except for more lights that went on then and off again, and for a good spell he remained sitting, his body heaving with rage. I imagined muscles tight teeth clenched veins raised close to the skin. A body so fused with anger that it could bust out of its skin explode right there on a cooler than usual August night, the total mass of this body spilling out on the large metal cube oozing unto the concrete melding with the dirt and pee and the refuse of transients, becoming one with the pieces of food and rubbish from the nearby dumpster seeping into the cracks of the imperfect concrete pavement.
If the women was beaten up if she was injured if she could not be seen because she was folded up in the dark near the back door in the far corner, that must be it. My mind played
the scene over and over. More lights came on in the building but no one could be seen at the windows. I wondered why. I toyed with a number of scenarios that might explain the mystery woman to me, who was she, was she capable of running away. The questions rushed through my mind like images from a bad movie in fast forward mode, no resolve.
The Redbrick apartment building sits on the corner of Boundary road and Court Street.
A four story low rent complex at the epicenter of the Arts District with a mix of low and high rent tenants, and there was Leroy the broken old man who sometimes talk to me about a previous life as a gardener for the County. Now retired, Leroy survives on a rent subsidy and tells mostly invented stories to anyone that would listen. Could Leroy could see the woman from his window. And what about the woman in the apartment above Leroy, the quiet one with four children, all girls, can she see the crouching woman? In the evenings when her small apartment can no longer contain their childish exuberance she would take them to the asphalt parking lot across the street. And there they would play to their hearts content with their plastic bicycle and brightly colored toys on the smooth black surface fenced in by a heavy metal mesh. They pranced about at full speed tumbling down and crying and standing up again playing in all the ways that children play. And the quiet woman would stand with them her wings spread wide like a large bird hovering over its brood looking after every need. But she was the quiet one she was famous for that, even if she did see the crouching woman no one would know.
The Arts District was designated almost five years ago at the hand of then Mayor Hollyman, a charmed but ambitious politician who now sits in the governor’s mansion in Annapolis. Since that time the district with a modest mix of commercial and residential stock has attracted several artists, new galleries and performance spaces, Andy’s Arts Supply Store and the infamous Red Box Restaurant- Bar, where good weekends are measured in kegs of beer, good exotic Pizza, animated crowds and live music. The People Core and the New Strand theaters would draw new audiences to contrast Exit-Theater, arguably one of the best theater companies in the City with patrons coming from the outer suburbs. Old players like King University and Howard Art College would put on new faces and add stunning new architectural components to their already impressive footprint. This expanding enterprise of the Creative Class and its new audiences would compete for turf where old prostitutes lie and drug vendors work to establish new trading posts.
The Avenue, six lanes wide with potential its median punctuated with green plantings and Public Sculpture struggle to thrive in the shadow of the Blue Motel, where old habits linger and threatens to cast doubts on the rail blazing new comers. The same district where the Trans-Modern Festival first fleshed itself out to public scrutiny with its uncharted performances, hard percussive sounds and other noise that approach music, at least that’s what they called it. A red carpet fashion shows and make believe Hollywood activity. But people walked the streets for two days, bought and sold food, trinkets and danced in the street when the mood was right.
In a moment the alley is flooded with white light two squad cars a small white police truck and the thumping beat of a helicopter. The man ducks behind the metal encasement putting on his shirt in a hurry. The police climb out of their cars slowly flashlight in hand but not overly cautious. They walk toward the back alley where the man is hiding, search lights mounted on the cars scan the area. He is quiet. Then, with the aid of the helicopter’s beam circling the building they see him. He is almost too anxious to fess up taking out his wallet and identification in advance. The exchange between him and the small squad of law men is mundane, no sprawling legs on the concrete or hostile antics by either side, no handcuffs, in fact the exchange though long with lots of back and forth between cars is surprisingly civil, even suspicious.
In time, the police satisfied with their investigation would leave the scene calling out as they leave Okay Tyrone. Each car would take a different path out of the alley. And Tyrone too would soon leave the scene but without a trace of the woman.
I close the window after the excitement and prepare to shut down for the night.
Before I could settle into what promises to be a good sleep, before I could surrender to the plush mattress soft sheets and eventual slumber she was screaming again with ear splitting peaks and valleys. I am not dreaming it’s her again a repeat performance. I got out of bed.
My brother awaken again by the noise, joins me, together we search for the source the noise knowing that it is the same players. This time it’s in front of us on Boundary road and as we get closer to the front window on the top floor the noise is clear and hard. Drawing the screen away from its frame we stuck our heads out the window. The large rust colored metal sculpture stood at the center of the median like a monument to the August night, its barrel like forms reminiscent of something old something from the industrial age, maybe.
And there on the right of our building just below us there he was again, the same man, tearing the shirt off his back and over his head in spastic movements, then scratching and snapping his skin furiously as if he was being attacked by thousand alien insects. He got the knit shirt off balling it up like a rock then threw it on the ground hard. The screaming started again, but no woman in sight.
The man was in plain view under the canopy of Rays Funeral Home next door. Then a dog barked a strong big bark, a German Shepard maybe or something of the nature, then the woman screamed again then the dog, back and fourth the two voices played call and response with amazing timing. We looked at each other puzzled, then shocked, then amused. No woman, no dog, just a man clear out of his fucking mind making loud hysterical noises fighting his own demons on a cooler than usual August night.
The End.
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