Sometimes it all works out

[you may wish to first read the initial part of this story –it’s in Around Town, entitled Just across 8 Mile, another day in the burbs and posted on July 31, 2010]

The porch plants couple thought themselves good-hearted.  They felt bad, peeking out their window (like everybody else on the block), while Durell scurried back and forth along 30 yards of his worldly possessions.  All of which were now strewn alongside the curb in the pouring down rain.  They saw Durell stamp his feet and heard him cry and moan.

They heard him shout to the scavengers pulling up in cars and pick ups, “don’t even think about it!”  They watched as he finally slung a couple black plastic bags over his shoulder and set off to cross the street.  He started a dozen times, but would stop, twirl and run back as another vehicle stopped to look over the piles of goods.  “Don’t even think about it!” he screamed.  Over and over.

They watched as he finally made it to the other side of the street.  Durell twirled again at the sound of another old pickup truck.  But this last time he shook his head, dropped the bags, threw his hands in the air and groaned loud and long enough to wake the dead.  He then picked up his two bags and left, not once looking back again.

The porch plants couple, Dan and Sally, didn’t know Durell but people told them he regularly came and bought items at their summer yard sales.  What happened was a shame.  Poor guy.  Still, they told each other, he just didn’t take care of business.  It wasn’t so much that he didn’t make arrangements before having his belongings tossed out on the street.  It was that he didn’t show up at all while his stuff was put by the curb.  He told Donnie he was coming back but…

Durell didn’t come back to grab a few things.  He didn’t come back with someone in a truck or car.  He didn’t come back to ask friends and neighbors to store something.  He didn’t come back at all.  Not until it was too late.  And as Rose had said, “all that gonna get gone.  What don’t get gone is gonna be ruined by the rain… everybody gonna be grabbin, why not us?”

The porch plants couple discussed all this as Durell disappeared into the night.  Dan said, “I wouldn’t have taken a damn thing if that dumb shit had just showed up.”  They sat in a living room filled with framed pictures and paintings, next to a dining room now filled with a steamer trunk, a thick planked antique cedar chest, assorted art and knick knacks belonging to Durell (don’t even ask about the basement and garage!).  “We don’t even know where he went, or if he’ll get another place,” they told each other.

Their daughter Beth walked in the door at 9:30 that night, looked around and exclaimed “You’ve got Durell’s stuff!”  Sally started to explain the whole situation, but Beth said “I know what happened.  Durell came in and asked the boss if he could borrow a shopping cart, but Mike wouldn’t let him.”  Hmmm.  Then she added, “He’s so sweet.  He comes by the store every day and tells me something nice or makes me laugh.”  Oh.

Dan and Sally knew they couldn’t keep the stuff now.  But they didn’t want some crazy homeless dude stopping by at all hours over the coming months.  They didn’t want him to rummage through the house and then just grab one of his things.  Dan ended up writing a letter to Durell listing his goods and telling him to call and arrange to pick them all up over the next 30 days.  He went over and asked Rose if she had seen Durell carrying on that night.  “Yeah.  That dummy!  He shoulda came sometime durin the day.  Now I feel like poop.”

Dan told Rose that he and Sally weren’t going to keep the stuff; they were giving a letter to Beth to hand to Durell when he stopped by her store.  Rose nodded her head and responded, “it the right thing to do.  I’ll do a letter she can give him too.”  They both agreed that a lot of eye catching yard sale stuff was going to be lost.  Still; what goes around comes around.

When Durell got the letters he put one hand to his heart, fanned himself with the other and went, “ooooooooooooooooooooh.”  Then he didn’t call.  As the weeks went by Rose said, “Nobody else is returning anything to Durell.  Maybe Venus had the right idea when she said ‘I ain’t givin back shit’.  Damn, I even tole him in the letter I’d bring him the stuff in my truck!”

Durell finally stopped over.  Unannounced in the middle of the night.  Later, like he was firmly reminded, he called and arranged a day and time.  He didn’t show.  Weeks more had now gone by.  Both Rose and the porch plants couple were getting sick of holding onto a lot of stuff they weren’t going to use, or sell at their upcoming yard sale.  “I guess I won’t sell anything, but if that boy don’t get his ass over here it all goin back out the street where I got it,” said Rose.

A few days later Durell saw Rose in town, told her he rented a storage unit and was coming by at 4 that afternoon for all his stuff.  “Nothing like him just up and deciding,” Dan said when he got home and saw Rose, “What if we weren’t available?”  At 5:30 Rose said, "5 more minutes and I’m tossing stuff out on the street.  F^ck his sorry black ass.”  Then Durell showed.  On foot.

“You need something to haul ALL your stuff,” said Dan.  Durell came puffing back an hour later pulling a big wagon with wooden slatted sides.  As Dan pulled stuff out of the house and garage, Durell bounced up and down with glee.  “The steamer trunk, oh my!” and, “I LOVE this table!”  and, “Be still my heart, the Marilyn Monroe mirror!!!”   When the dozens of pictures and paintings were put on the back porch he ran up to them and clapped, “My pictures, my Pictures, my PICTURES!”  As Rose carted stuff over while Durell was lovingly packing his goods in the wagon, he got teary eyed.  Durell touched everything, telling where he got it and how much it meant to him.

It took Durell three wagonloads and a couple hours to get his possessions moved to the storage unit.  He laughed, cried and jumped for joy the entire time.  He said “thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”  When he left with the last load Rose and the porch plants couple looked at each other.  “I feel good now, don’t you?” said Rose.

Two weeks later the porch plants couple and Rose were hearing around town how these three dear people saved all of Durell’s treasures for him.  “It must have been some other guys,” said Rose, “we only got an itsy bit of it all.”  Dan, thinking of the thick planked antique cedar chest still in his basement, and the heavy silver arc lamp that Rose sold for $50 at the yard sale replied, “Yes, it must have been some other folks.”

JDA©8/28/10

Demons, graveyards and razor-sharp steel i.e. the lighter side of life.

Do you like scary movies?  Not me, seen too many shadow creatures pop up out the gloom.  Some like fu^king on cool marble slabs, I got too many buried friends.  Always carry a blade, stuck one man and sliced another, but it ain’t any solution.  Not under a full moon, not on moonless nights and not when the dog pack is howling.

Now I lay me down to sleep

Ten years old, woke up blind;
only lasted 30 days, no big deal.
At nineteen, woke up in a cell.
Iron bars didn’t scare me, not that first time.
Woke up broke, woke up hungry
and woke up drunk too many times
on dirty sheets, near filthy toilets,
and once –
in a swamp
naked, bloody and all alone.

Woke up on fire.  Twice.
One lesson was don’t smoke in bed.
The other?
Don’t fall asleep.
 

akaKeisha©August 24, 2010

Black & White, sexy seedy secrets.

We movin along slow, passing potholes and dark alleys.  In a rundown part of a rundown town.  Half industrial, lots of razor wire.  Half boarded up, broken out, boiled over shacks and two/three storied tiltin stoops.  And half vacant lots, with doorless frigerators, burnt sofas and weeds. Here and there hoopdevilles  sittin on rims.  Over that way a pack of mangy, rib showin mutts.  Over there behind a dumpster some raggedy ass pissin.  Buncha working girls struttin their stuff, even more posing, wigglin and waving.   Lone dudes cruising the stroll, front windows down to shop the meat market.

Comin up on big concrete box, steel door, no windows neon BAR with the A out.  Lottsa cars parked up an down the street.   Three big ole hogs right out front.  Looks like that’s our destination.

Friday nite in a hot July.  Two white guys I with lookin for some reaction.  Got my stone face on still.  Took me through the Holland Tunnel into the Jersey stink to show me they know a place do some drink.  I’ve been in NYC two months, tryin on the ‘if you can make it there…’ thing.  Bustin my black tail, not raisin a fuss.  Office guys finally ask me come along, after work TGIF.  Take me to some vanilla bean, 101 variety of ferns, nobody dancing “tavern”.  I say, “sheeeeeeeeeet, you want me sit here drink PurpleGinFreezeSplash with 3 olives shaken or stirred?”  So… here we are.

Big rectangular bar fills the room, a two pole stage in the middle.  Neon drink em up signs, reds and blues and oranges, all sizes, on the walls.  Otherwise smoky and dark cept for the lights on the girls.  Two on, two off workin the money.  Place is bout full up:  Four, five slick back eyetalians, three beer belly bikers, few old black guys you know gonna be nursing that one beer all night, couple young brothers being real cool, soft suits putting off wifey and kids, some college boys whooping, scattered old farts drooling and a couple hard cases down the end.  Two half hos tending to drinks, the dancers and me, blouse buttoned up to the neck, the only females.

Me fresh outta college, raised to be polite.  Dudes I’m with  know the way of the world, one or the other gonna try an change their luck sometime, but right now they both on full protect mode.  Nobody gonna fuck with this lil picanny on their watch.  Maybe that’s good.  This a place man can find a game, some flake, a piece, Chinese acrobat, whatever he want.  Look around real good, every nook, door and cranny, as they cute escort me all the way over front of the far pole, sit me tween em.  Can smell the trouble brew an boil up stains, but got the feel of nothing ever gonna get out of control too long.  Fine by me, but I’m in my comfort zone.  Didn’t just get off the bus from back the Bama pines.

The redbone tender comes over front of me, hard staring, points to the bikers, saying “Bull wanna buy you drink.  He da big one.”  I take a look, they all topping 300 and lookin to be bout 7 foot if they straighten up.  Give em a smile and nod, look slow at the white boys flankin me, say to the gal, “You tell Bull thank you.  Be honored to have my first on him.  And my good friends here wanna buy him and his buddies a round.”  Pull a Jackson out my own bag, hand it to her, “this for you.  Get me a Johnny Black, water on the side.”  She look at the paper, stuffs it in her safe spot, nods and says, “want some ice honey?”  Yeah, we friends now.  Gonna sit back, enjoy the show.

Two young thangs shakin, bakin an popping bout the stage tittie flashin.  The dark one   peeking at money on the bar, searchin eyes see who like her stuff.  Tit, pussy, ass, floor work – you got the money, she got what you want.  The milk chocolate has the college boys locked up, ka-ching ka-ching, an she don’t leave em cept long enuff for them to wave bills in the air, beg for more.  The two off dancers circulating now, keeping the crowd cool with a smile, touch, or short word.  Make em all think might be sittin with em next break, laugh at their jokes, admire their studly, party with em maybe.  Rotation time - milk chocolate runnin to the potty, the other one goin right over stand by one the hardcases, rub her boobs on his shoulder, wait til he tells her the play.

Ms. Moneymaker mocha girl legs up on the stage first.  Glides from one pole to the other, gives a hip, roll an wink to every suit.  Then makes a beeline right smack front of us, does a shuffle wiggle, and fuck me long look to the guys with me.  Cunt.   Takes both boobies out from her top, jiggles em.  Damnnnn… those some long ass purple nips.  But neither boy paying attention now, the white thing on an high stepping.  Lookee lookee at that…

Blonde hair hanging to the shoulders. Gotta be six foot, not countin the heels.  Legs up to her eyes.  One piece outfit with a hundred slits, aint nothing underneath and most everything look like it pop out any second now.  Titties, jus right bouncing, touch me touch me, and not a bad ass.  She moves good for a white girl.  Hmmmm… got her some rhythm. Yeah, she moves real good.  Saunters round the edge, workin the whole stage.  Stop one two three, rock an sway, makin eye contact, showin a different piece, different part, different rock an roll to the whole bar, bein Dream Queen for each an every one.  Owns the stage.

Boys with me all in.  Nother round bought with a Cnote.  Five to the redbone, twenty for her to give to Dream Queen, rest stayin on the bar.  Yeah, like that.  White girl aint even did nothing yet but they don’t care.  She has… charisma; an they just got paid.  She strolls over now an gives em a move this part, shake that, roll this, wiggle something else.   Gives a look, bats her blues real real slow, promising golden pussy delights .  Good thing I like liquor, looks like we here awhile.  Lean back, take a sip, look around.

Night goes on.  Men come and go, street ho pops in now an then.  Otherwise, same old same old.  Except pretty soon, Dream Queen camping here with my boys after each set.  Turns out they got some patter, long with bottomless boola wads.White girl flirtin with me too.  Boys like it, she givin em sweet dreams.  Vamping, showin me her sexy.  Flashing peaches and cream.  An yeah, she a natural blonde.  Ask me sweet, soft, sensual, sultry, “Want to help me change costumes?”  Each and every rotation.  This last time I almost went.  Now I know what they mean, bi-curious.  She knew it too.

Getting near closing time now.  Crowd has thinned out to maybe a dozen.  But Dream Queen on for the last set, still snaring any wallet she want.  Does a drumroll strut to where we still sittin, then hops down from the stage, comes directly front of me.  Big smile.  Opens up her vest so only I can see.  See them stiff pink nipples.  Letting me know this one’s for me.  A private show, forget everyone else.  Little look this, little look that.  Not dancing.  Giving an exhibition.  Licks her lips.  Raises both arms, stretchin to the ceiling, turns around.  Spreads her legs, bends her knees, shows me her backside.  Wags it oh so so so slow.  Around again facing me.  Rubs her hands up, down, across, all over.  Does it again.  And again.

Song ends.  She stops.  Stands there givin me a come hither.  One my boys, his mouth open, jaw bout to the floor.  Other one goin, “oh yes.  Fuckin A yes!”  I reach over to the pile of boola, grab a twenty and hold it out to her.  She takes it.  Rolls it up real tight.  I’m thinkin she gonna pull out a vial, dump it and suck it up right on the bar.  Stead she takes the hand holdin the bill, moves it slow motion up to my lips, says “open your mouth.”

I do it.  Another tune blasting now, colors swirling, temperature rising.  She sticks the bill in about halfway.  I close my lips around it, she opens hers.  Puts her face front of mine, whispers “give it to me.”  I lean in a little, she closes her lips over the other half, can’t be a pussy hair from mine.  I feel their warmth.  Feel my nostrils flare, taking air in and out.  Feel hers doin the same.  Time passing.  We just there.  Breathe in and out.  I’m starting to feel heavy, swelling.  Melting into her eyes.  Our lips wrapped round that bill.  Not moving.  Gotta remember to breathe.  In and out.  In and out.  All of a sudden, the tap opens – I’m gushin wet.  Wet, wet, wet.  Breathin hard through my nose.  Damnation.  Tarnation.  Fuck me.

Music stops.  She pulls back a little, I open my lips an let her take the bill.  Gasping.  Dream Queen winks, turns, climbs back on the stage.  I’m about to jump over the bar, hop up after her.  Sniff, kiss, lick, suck any damn thing she want.  Grab a hand, stick it tween my legs.  She want more, I got two more holes.  She don’t wanna do me, I’ll hump her leg like a dog.  If only my feet would cooperate.  Come on feets.

Moments pass, lights flash off and on.  It’s closing time.


akaKeisha©August 20, 2010

Every man's dream

Every man dreams of imparting wisdom and sage advice.  He wants the listener spellbound, marveling at his keen wit and penetrating insight.  He wants him hanging on every word.  At least that’s how it is by the time a man reaches grandpa age; dreams of exotic adventures and erotic escapades have retreated backstage (in the bloom of one’s 20’s, the morning’s first thought, the day’s goal, and the night’s dream was about getting sumpin sumpin good). At age 60 we want an audience - any audience- to hush when we speak.  We want our every thought viewed with awe, as a pearl of wisdom with remarkable acumen.

Many of us old timers fulfilled one or two of those exotic and erotic flights of fantasy.  Sometimes it was almost as good as we dreamed.  But very few have anyone hushed - or even listening - to our advice. Not our friends or neighbors.  What can we possibly know that they don’t? Certainly not the wife; our wisdom?... hahaha. Our kids?  Nephews and nieces?  The youth on our block, at our church or on the bus? We can spout off about 10 seconds before their eyes glaze over and they start texting their 99 best friends.

Perhaps we should discard our fondest dream.  Would anyone remember, let alone apply, our wisdom? A dozen teenagers at a suburban mall were asked, ‘Can you tell me who King Solomon was?”  Nope, no clue.  A dozen twenty somethings, and twelve 30 somethings were asked the same question.  Only one had even the vaguest idea.  To be fair, it might have been different if 8 year olds from Sunday School were asked.  Most of them remember King Solomon as the one who threatened to cut a baby boy in two with a sword, giving half each to the two women who claimed motherhood.

To refresh your recollection, “King Solomon was greater in riches and wisdom than all the other kings of the earth.  The whole world sought audience with Solomon to hear he wisdom God had put in his heart.”  1Kings 10: 23 – 24.   Not only that, he was the greatest builder of his time and reigned for 40 years.  The Queen of Sheba came at the head of a great caravan to test his reputation.  She was overwhelmed with King Solomon’s achievements, intellect and wisdom as well as the splendor of his realm. She left him vast quantities of gold, spices and precious stones as a tribute to the world’s wisest man.

 
King Solomon also had 700 wives of royal birth and 300 concubines.  (He must have got sumpin sumpin good once in a while.) To top it off he wrote a couple books you may have heard of… they’re in the Bible - Proverbs and Ecclesiastes.  He lived every man’s wildest dream.

If few have heard of King Solomon, if there are those that haven’t read portions of his books… what’s grampa’s chance of fulfilling every man’s dream?  Of imparting timeless wisdom to a rapt audience?  Zero, zilch, nada some would say.  Still; once in a while someone will ask us what we think of such and such a situation.  Our hearts began to pound.  Memories from years of experience race through our minds.  We do mental calculations of all the variables, permutations and gender/generational factors.  Then we speak.  It takes about 20 seconds for us to realize the questioner was only being polite.  Darn.




PPJ©8/12/10

Growing up Blue-Collar

The neighbors had names like Dubicki, Kurkasian and Bertolini.  The men never called a repairman.  They could tell what part was broken and knew how to fix it.  They knew how things worked, having grown up when autos, washing machines and other contraptions had three moving parts.  The guys admired and critiqued every mechanical addition and improvement. When the old man said ‘the whatsit connects to the whosit and turns the thingamajig’ he knew what he was talking about.  He had worked on it before there was a whosit.

Blue collar men raised their boys to help every time something needed fixing,improving or tearing down.  The boys sweated on the roof, under the car, next to the sump pump and by the fence.  They became familiar with their father's hand powered tools.  Muscle cut wood, and more muscle made a hole with an “eggbeater” drill.  The endless fascination with circular and jig saws, electrical drills and all other power tools originated with great sighs of relief.  It also explains every man having pound, bang and kick in his arsenal of tools.  If dad wanted to see if the whatsit and whosit were tightly connected, if he wanted to dislodge something clogging up the works, if it was necessary to wedge or maneuver some &#!^!#* thingamajig – pound, bang and kick were essential techniques.  They still are – ask any mechanic or repairman.

The Dubickis, Kurkasians and Bertolinis all wanted their sons to be a white collar worker.  Someone who worked up front in the plant office, wore a tie and didn’t have to wash up and change at shift end.  The guy who came out on the floor once in a while, wandered around the thudding machines and then quietly told the shift supervisor about the next project.  The shift super then told the foreman, and the foreman cursed and barked orders.  That’s how you recognized a foreman – he did a lot of cursing and shouting.  He was the one you talked to when you wanted a job.

It took very little effort to get a job in Detroit, Cleveland and other industrial towns back in the 1960’s.   You got a ride to factory row, walked by the gate trucks came in and out of, over through the big doors and into the smoke, steam and stink of the plant floor.  “Need someone?” you asked the foreman.  If not, you just walked out the lot and over to the next building.  Manufacturing plants lined the road for miles.  Every Midwestern town had a factory row; Detroit had 100’s of them.

A resume wasn’t required, although it was best to shave and not be falling down drunk. Within a few hours a foreman would bellow, “so ya wanna work?  You’ll be doin that (pointing at a guy pounding on some machine), be here ready to go at 3:00.”  It was always the afternoon or midnight shift; the guys with seniority filled the day slots.  Blue collar kids didn't mind afternoons or nights, they knew about shift differential.  The extra hourly dimes added up when you got time and a half for overtime, double time for Sundays and holidays.  After a month of sweat, grime and aching muscles a guy could head to the used car lot and plunk down cash for that V-8 Ford.


DJO8/7/10