JOCKEYING FOR POSITION

This is what I find most encouraging about the writing trades: They’re all mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.
—Kurt Vonnegut

I have this new student, call him white-boy if you will, kind of looks like a red-faced Chris Daughtry. Anyway, he’s one mad-at-the-world motherfucker.

“How am I gonna get my GED when you’re never here?” he asks me, or should I say BLAMES ME.

I know what I’d like to say, I’d like to ask him “Why’s it so important now you ASSHOLE? It wasn’t important when you were in the public school system.” Instead, I keep my mouth shut.

He continues his rant, about how the tutors aren’t helping him, how the other students are too loud, how he can’t concentrate. He pulls ear plugs out of his waxy orifices for emphasis.

“Look,” I say, “if you really want to learn, you can block out all kinds of noise.” I start fiddling with my wedding ring for—oh, I don’t know—emphasis.

He storms out of the classroom.

An older black prisoner approaches my desk. “You know,” he says, “that guy got his ass tore up by a bunch of young black guys last week.”

“Oh yeah,” I say.

“Yeah, for using the N-word in the dayroom.”

“Really?” I say, displaying my fake-ass disbelief. “He called them a bunch of Nigerians?”

We both start laughing. I tell him about the time I saw a “white lawn jockey” in someone’s front yard. The laughter continues.

"Had to be Detroit," he says.

Fixodent, the Sleet Lady, & Ivan Prokopchuk

While walking my dog along the shoulder of a busy road Saturday morning, I saw a mini-van in a deep ditch, parallel parked, its doors kissing the ravine, its windows caked with dry mud—a telltale sign that it had been there overnight. Don’t ask me why, but I thought I’d get a little closer, investigate, checkout the damage.

Then I saw movement inside and had to get involved. So I extended the dog leash while lowering myself down the embankment. I tapped on the driver’s side window. “Are you okay in there?” The driver, an elderly woman (probably in her early 70’s, I’m not good with ages) lifted her head from the steering wheel and managed to crack the door. “You okay?” I asked.

I had difficulty understanding her because her dentures kept popping out of her mouth and she kept pushing them back in with each slurred syllable. I think she said something about a “tow truck” and “waiting.” Later, my wife, who is infinitely smarter when it comes to science, explained that alcohol dissolves Fixodent.

Anyway, as I climbed out of the muck, a vehicle pulled over and two women got out and approached me. I told them about the lady trapped inside, that I didn’t have a cell phone. They volunteered to make the necessary phone calls. Realizing that I had done my part as the first responder, I dismissed myself from the situation.

As I continued on my walk, I could hear sirens in the distance and knew that everything was under control.

Today’s photograph is titled: “Harry Wentworth’s Stockcar, Owendale Speedway – 1975.” His son (leaning on the car) was the gun-toting kid in my flash memoir “The Trigger Man & His Accomplice” at Sleet Magazine. I’m the kid standing next to him. Speaking of Sleet Magazine, the Sleet Lady is back with a brand new Spring Issue coming up (click here ).

Lastly (but most important), Canadian Writer Ivan Prokopchuk checked himself into a hospital a few days ago. Hopefully he’ll be feeling better soon. Send your regards here .

"DEAD GIRL, LIVE BOY"

Why am I smiling? Why am I perfectly content with the image of an unwed mother and child, devoid of a father-figure, walking along Lake St. Clair, a lake that Michelle Brooks, author of “Dead Girl, Live Boy” describes in her novella as “a body of water that is beautiful in all seasons, but as polluted as a septic tank and unfit for swimming”? Why is it that I’m almost certain that that unwed mother is still wearing a wedding ring she stole from an ex-boyfriend, a wedding ring once adorning the finger of his dead wife? “I stole it because he kept it in this pretty little box like she was the most special thing in the world.”

In “Dead Girl, Live Boy,” the narrator, Josette, a social worker for Planned Parenthood and one-time Detroit auto show model, tells us about her ordeal as the legal guardian of her older brother Josh, a self-mutilator who “carved a grin underneath his mouth.” Together, both brother and sister have formed this toxic relationship where childhood games of “Head on a Stick” and “The Ceiling or the Floor,” have left them in perpetual survival mode, and for good reason: the childhood trauma they suffered at the hands of their father. We discover early on that something is seriously amiss with this family when their mother, who had wanted to keep their outward appearances intact, had warned them not to get into bed with their father. Josette says, “We never crawled into bed with him, but I can’t say we were always good at keeping him out of ours.”

You can’t help but feel the shockwaves, one ripple after another, as Josette self-medicates herself with prescription drugs (Vicodan, Fiorcette, codeine, xanax, valium, darvocette, percodan, Demerol …) and alcohol, has reckless sex, and finally admits how messed up her life has become. Her confession: “… I have a terrible fear of choking and yet I swallow more shit than anyone I know.” Her continuous need for companionship, to not be alone in the world, extends beyond her damaged brother to a married man, the married man’s son, and a bartender. None of which bring joy to her life. Her self-realization: “Is this what it means to be burned out—to be somewhere and not be somewhere? To do something well and not feel it? That would encompass most of my sex life.” Her fear of getting old: “…I dream that I have aged overnight, my dark circles blacker, my hair cut into layers, my skin grey and worn. In the dream, I tell myself that I have to accept how I look, that this new look must become what I consider beautiful, that I must live with it.”

Brooks’s fictional narrative has a dark, spooky edge to it—and why not? It takes place in Detroit from Halloween to Christmas—“… the season of rotting jack-o-lanterns, fallen leaves, the coming winter which always last longer than a person can endure …” Josette explains, “It’s strange to think that neither one of us has ever lived anywhere else, so the city acts as its own haunted house, memories like ghosts, lingering and ready to make you feel their chill the minute you stop expecting them.”

I guess what really intrigues me about “Dead Girl, Live Boy” is the imagery and foreshadowing throughout. One such example is the brother’s reaction to Josette’s divorce: “Josh hung up on me and sent me an e-mail the next day that had an attachment about a man who’d stabbed his girlfriend and buried her alive. She’d crawled out of her grave and arranged to break into a house and call 911 before passing out.” Another grave yard reference occurs earlier when Josette talks about her future ten years from now and how her parents may be dead by then: “I know that I will visit their graves often, if for nothing else, to make sure they’re still in them.” With lines like that, how can you not feel uncomfortable? How could you not want to see the aftermath of this train wreck in the making?

I strongly recommend that you read “Dead Girl, Live Boy” by my former mentor,  Michelle Brooks. She’s one hell of a writer. It’s been five years since I sat in her fiction writing class, but I’m stilling learning from her and hope to one day collaborate on a project, even if it’s to shag coffee and sharpen pencils. Here’s the link if you’re interested in purchasing her novella: Storylandia presents: "Dead Girl, Live Boy".

MOOSEHEAD: A MIDWESTERN TRAGEDY

Everyone’s impressed with that Chrysler / Eminem Super Bowl Commercial: Imported from Detroit; but it’s not the Motor City I’ve grown accustomed to—heck, there’s more brand identification in that cheesy, glittery, ball-dropping “D” used to ring in the New Year: a decline in education, a decline in jobs, and/or a decline in pay. Everything going down down down except prices. Try buying a new vehicle under those circumstances; might be easier stealing one.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud to be a Detroiter, which includes those outer-rings of suburbia. Who doesn’t need a good conversation piece when out of town?

“Where’re you from?” a stranger might ask.

“Detroit,” I’d answer, which is code for yeah, I’m a badass, don’t mess with me … I’m so baaaad I’m gonna go all Bollywood on you by chirping that ridiculous song by T-Baby:

“It’s So Cold in the D.”




—Why?

—Well, why not?

I’m no more of a badass then your grandmother, or your elderly neighbor. The only difference: I’ve seen the worst product of human potentional enter my classroom on a daily basis.

First, let me apologize for the T-Baby link. It’s a poorly executed song paying homage to yet another dead body, another homicide stat—I’m fairly certain the guy in the video didn’t choke on a hotdog at the Coney Island. If “It's so Cold in the D” is really about some fallen victim of the streets of Detroit then he’s definitely turning over in his grave. It’s a shame when someone fails in their attempt to elevate the aftermath of murder into an “art form.” You’d be better off watching Detroit 187.

My “D” consists of public school failures who think they’re the cat’s meow, who think they’ve got nine-lives. I’ve got this student, can’t spell for shit, he’s been working on his memoir—as if people are dying to know all about his troubled past. He doesn’t think he needs an education.

“Hey teach,” he says, “how do you spell juice?”

“It rhymes with moose,” I answer. I continue with my paperwork.

“How do you spell moose?”

“M-O-O-S-E.”

He’s busy writing each letter. An older gentleman, waiting for the finished product, takes a peek. “Hey teach,” he says, “I think he just spelt goose.”

It’s definitely cold in the “D.” Not all high school dropouts can become millionaire rappers. But there's still hope for Detroit. Check out the following link for more on the gritty, real Detroit:

http://www.palladiumboots.com/exploration/detroit .

A DANGEROUS JOB

My neighbor power washes his uniform and equipment. I’ve seen him by the side of his house. I asked him, “How often do you need to do that?”

“After most fires,” he answered. He went on to explain how his employer couldn’t afford to clean his gear. “I hit it with the hose,” he said, “as often as possible. Knock off the asbestos and whatever hazardous building materials are on it.”

***

I had my roof re-shingled this summer. My wife paid before the job was finished. The roofers had promised to paint the fireplace chimney to match our new shingles. I said to my wife, “How do you know they’ll return to finish the job?”

“They’re Detroit Firemen,” she answered.

We waited for approximately two months … but with good reason: The roofers were busy with hospital visits. Their coworker and fellow side-job man, a 31 year old fireman, suffered paralysis from the waist down when a building collapsed on him. He hadn’t entered the burning storefront; it simply fell on him as he stood on the sidewalk.

***

The fireplace chimney did get painted. I pulled into my driveway and saw one fireman standing on the roof spray-painting the metal flashing. He waved and I waved back. His ladder blocked my garage door and I thought about moving it so I could hitch my boat to my car. I only had a few good hours of fishing before darkness arrived. I decided it wouldn’t hurt for me to wait. A few minutes later he climbed down and said, “You’re all set.” I thanked him.

***

My neighbor gave me an update on his coworker’s status. He said they were raising money to help his family. “It’s the little things,” he said, “like the loss of income from his side-jobs, or who will cut his grass or shovel his snow.”

I agreed. I bought a tee-shirt. It’s the least I could do.

MONDAYS WITH MITCH, NO THANK YOU

It’s getting to the point where I’m no longer interested in reading the Detroit Free Press, especially when it comes to the opinions of Mitch Albom regarding police procedures. He thinks it’s wrong to have a camera crew tagging along with our Men in Blue, that it’ll somehow influence their actions. He writes: What on earth is a television crew doing in this mix? This is real life. Real bullets. Real blood. Real funerals … scribble scribble scribble blah blah blah. This after writing: Let me repeat a few words … police, murder, gun, dies.  (Full Article Here)

You, Sir Mitch, have never worked in Law Enforcement, so why the Monday morning quarterbacking? Why not inform the gang bangers and their families about the reality of THEIR actions. A 7-year old girl is dead because of a murderous thug. Why focus on the methods of a special police task force unit? Why the implied belief regarding a grandmother’s statement that she never touched the police officer whose handgun accidentally discharged? She (through her blind eye) was protecting a killer. She (through her blind eye) was oblivious to the stolen cars in the backyard. She saw nothing; until now. Now she has a high profile lawyer drooling over the possible “footage” implicating the cops. Now they’re looking to get paid.

You, Sir Mitch, want us to believe that the filming of such events clouds the judgment and actions of the police. You, Sir Mitch, are assuming these specially trained men want their every move, every decision, documented for all to see. Nevermind that they're risking their lives to get dangerous criminals off the streets. You, Sir Mitch, need to stick to sporting events; from what I’ve heard (and read), you can spin one hell of a story—even when you’re not at the game but say you are. Stick to your nonfiction, and please, please, please, make it truthful because your fiction is flat-out lousy.

About the picture: After several sightings and complaints about one huge ass bullfrog terrorizing my wife’s pond, she said, “You need to get him out of here. He’ll eat all our fish, toads, and peepers.”

“Consider it done,” I replied.