    
H_i_c_k_s_o_n
Regular Poster
Username: H_i_c_k_s_o_n
Post Number: 63
Registered: 05-2006
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, August 08, 2008 - 04:40 pm: | 
|
An excerpt from TANTRUM by
C H A R L E S D. E L L I S O N
A GHETTTOHEAT PRODUCTION
Walking past Broad Street delusions is the anonymous, homeless and dirty dread-headed dark man of no darkness, but the blackness of bad happenings consuming him. It’s not time that weathers the man as much as the distance of many endless avenues, nameless streets and missed beats thrown off by skips, and fits of gambled fate.
The man owns little beyond an empty wallet and a ripped backpack that survives the dogged survivalist terrain of his depressing, urban adventure. This is what he does, how he exists—the day-in, day-out of a vagabond walk that never ends. And so on this day, the man tackles a long stretch of Broad Street, tripping over buckled sidewalks when, for no reason because, his life has no reason, worn sneakers from the local shelter, suddenly spring a right turn into a gas station.
There’s nothing unique about this particular gas station since it resembles every other gas station in the city that has pumps, broken car vacuums and dingy mini-marts selling junk food, expired condoms and cigarettes behind bulletproof windows.
The man then attempts to add a little personality to it, adjusting into street-beggar mode while sticking his hands out: “Excuse me—do you have a dollar for a bite to eat?” He poses a very strategic question, because it somehow cracks the irritated faces, and gritty Nicetown dispositions of people passing him by. A polite question, but it’s also fast and pointed enough, yet touching in his acclaimed search for food.
Which is bullshit, the man thinks, because there’s a methadone clinic only blocks away where I might be able to grip a bottle of Oxycontin to wash the day’s sins away!
Most ignore his requests for random charity; a few are pretty damn nasty about it. But, a good number offer loose change and crumpled dollar bills—a rare few out of compassion; the rest—out of guilt or something like that. He despises the occasional smart-ass who will test his “bite to eat” by offering to buy the food instead. Those walks to the carryout across the street waste time, and he gets vicious heartburn from the MSG. But the man has little choice but to play it off.
We will call him “Dread”. His identity is unknown because it is filed away in abandoned houses, train yards, warehouses and cardboard boxes under bridges. There are the humiliations, of course: the muggings at night, drunken kids looking for a bum fight; he might score nauseating sex from an infected crack-head, who requires his scarce dollar for the next fix.
At some point, Dread figured he was all worth forgetting. Driver’s license, Social Security card, and an old photo of a daughter Dread thinks is his—all of that is at the bottom of a brown, polluted Schuylkill River. Strangely enough though, he possesses a library card. The books keep a fraction of sanity maintained, and the man always brings them back on time.
While at the gas station, Dread stops for a moment to case the scene. It’s morning, and the stressed-out people are moving about their business quickly, moving briskly in an effort to end the day, as soon as they humanly can. They all shower him with petty looks and pitiless stares, as a frigid fall wind blows through Broad Street.
The ominous, refitted brick and metal frame of an abandoned clothing factory rises above Broad and Lehigh like a haunted Scottish castle on an urban landscape. Within two years, Dread expects a multi-million dollar condominium park to replace the old factory halls across the street from the gas station. If he doesn’t get harassed by the impending police presence in the wake of yuppie emergence on his corner, then Dread anticipates new revenue streams from wealthier individuals. He argued this point just yesterday with another lost, dingy soul under the Ben Franklin Bridge, while on an extended evening drink binge.
“Them yuppies movin’ in? That’s loot, son! That’s guilty, modern professionals tryin’ to get a conscience, so they throw money at you!”
Dread was talkative that night, lit and limed on a killer pint of rum he snatched from the corner liquor store. All Dread could see was a blurred crescendo of Camden’s skyline lights, dimpling the Jersey side of Delaware, and the distorted, hamburger meat-face of his other homeless friend—who was just as hopeless as Dread.
“Dread—what you talkin’ ‘bout? That’s called gentrification, my friend. And I will bet that it’s not as progressive as you make it sound. It’s overpriced condos, rising property taxes and poor folks getting pushed out of homes, because of unfair property assessments,” his friend piped on about the evils of outsiders moving into blighted neighborhoods, as if he had personal knowledge about it. Perhaps it’s the reason behind his present misfortune.
Dread snorted.
Speech slurred.
Back slumped.
Genitals burning from some unknown STD.
“Seems like people livin’ there should’ve been takin’ better care of the hood,” Dread stated, laughing and spitting spittle of rum. “Now they want to get vexed because ‘The Man’ then moved in, and figured how to make profit and high life off rundown homes.”
With an unorganized band of raggedy vagrants and addicts crowding around them to listen in, that evening’s conversation carried a political talk show tone quality to it.
So, in the meantime, Dread watches his progress arrive: the construction crews banging away, nails hammered, wood split, massive cranes slowly moving unidentifiable objects in mid-air. The noise scrambles the concrete serenity of a Northtown morning, transforming it into a cluttered, neo-ghetto symphony.
Contractors and day laborers with scarred fingers and aging faces, bleed the filth of work that flows into puddles of caked drudgery on stubbed chins. They’re like a battalion of ants building out a mound of dirt, but it’s a louder, stronger, defiant intensity, that rocks cold metallic atmosphere, and stirs stained pigeons into wing-flapping fury.
Angry birds looking for breadcrumbs and cigarette butts flutter about the building’s noise in aimless drift. Dread sees glimpses of opportunity in this, but his sanity is long consumed by a defeated, soul-worn rough. The man’s life’s file is heavy from the weight of unkempt locks bearing on the skull. Pacing asphalt amid the alcoholic ads, lottery billboards, and scent of price-gouging fuel, Dread pokes his soul for new answers.
“How can I find work with the hard hats banging away up there?” he asks while scanning the organized chaos of construction. My situation, Dread continues, is as dry as that salty stretch of burning funk I can’t seem to shake. Damn! he curses inwardly. That funk of no direction, funk of regression, that odor of no hope, broken promises and exhausted salutations.
It’s here where the BANG! CLANK! BANG! CLANK! of a ground excavator is overheard, blasting the bitter silence of the begging man’s introspections.
I am in need of a much-needed break from misery, Dread cries. I am misery. …A gig sure could reverse it! he screams back at the excavator, and the GOD Dread thinks will hear him. Dread looks at the building again, contemplating what dirty or worked hand to shake, hammer to pound, and slab of timber to cut.
Suicide is not an option.
Total self-destruction holds no meaning for Dread. Long ago, he learned that men made not only livings, but strove to build legacies in life and death. At least Dread had that much right.
Something, he struggles to guarantee himself, will give.
Giving did give in the form of a pricey SUV, turning a hard left into the mini-mart parking lot. Immediately recognized and registered with affectionate glee, is the face of its celebrity driver. There’s momentary excitement around the gas pumps because, everyone seems to know this cat.
It’s like a blessing to Dread. Is it final reprieve for the homeless soul in the face of blistering torment?
Or, supposes Dread, a bowl of soup on a famished day?
When the driver appears, however, there are no scenes of Roman gladiators on chariots, or tunic-wearing plebes blowing coliseum horns to announce his arrival. It’s a muted entrance. The driver is only stopping for gas.
It just so happens that he’s an elected official, a rather well known city Councilman with a controversial populist appeal. Light bulbs are blazing in Dread’s head, dimmed and near expired like the exposed bulbs burning wires at the housing project. Still, the man’s thoughts on this opportunity (for Dread’s the eternal opportunist) are of no deliberate speed; nor did he expect the corresponding, almost metaphysical qualities of this meeting of chance.
While eyeing the sophisticated vision of three-piece suited political high life dismounting trendy automobile, Dread is inspired to mental heights that once teased him as unattainable for many years.
Here, flushes Dread into a jubilee of twisted hair locks, is my chance.
Councilman, moving in no perceived rush, parks his vehicle to pump number “5”, being superstitious. Men of influence duly appreciate the significance of luck, even during moments when they need simple necessities such as gas.
(We digress for a moment here because the reader is perplexed about detailing insignificant details like gas pump number “5”. But, it’s not that insignificant because Councilman won his first election against a heavily funded incumbent by a slim, yet respectable margin of only 5 points. Therefore, it’s necessary that he pay homage to “5” when the opportunity presents itself.)
As the premium grade fuel floods the man’s vehicle, public official glances at his platinum watch, with faint attention to the warehouse re-emerging like street Phoenix in his home district. Only two blinks away comes Dread.
“Councilman, sir,” the homeless man approaches.
“Yes, sir,” the politician brightly smiles—his vote-grabbing smile; the smile with the handshake and pulling arm. Only this time, he’s not shaking hands.
Politician prefers distance, rather than exchange with the homeless man before quaint niceties erupt into election-year promises he knows he can’t keep. Besides, conversations with the homeless seemed to always stray south into philosophical explosions, jaundiced further by mental illness.
They became forced forays, dominated by the less fortunate one in the discussion. You couldn’t impose the good life you lived by fecklessly shattering the interrupted dreams of the other.
“Sir,” inserts Dread, “what I need more than a spared quarter is a job. Would you happen to know anyone in search of extra hands at that building across the street?”
The dreaded man is, indeed, bold.
Do I know anyone? Why, of course I do, Councilman silently smirks. I let the developers bring the damn plans to me, let them plot and snake their way through City Hall since I needed the war money in my campaign chest. I wanted that seat bad! Needed to make the gentrifying compromise so I could make a difference, elsewhere.
Sizing Dread up, the politician notes his slim, formerly athletic frame, and somewhat sturdy straightness in posture. Dread comes off clean on some level, an honest, good work ethic clean. He seems to be a man who tries—at the very least—down, but not all out.
Dread seems fit for this type of work. No harm in an innocent reference steered the foreman’s way. And Councilman reserves the oddest feeling of instinctive comfort with this broken soul on Broad Street.
Never mind that Dread is homeless, and no mention of that swank body odor permeating the formalities between them. Everyone, according to Councilman, deserves a second chance.
In fact, once this tank is full I’ll walk him over there, Councilman thinks. Not enough good deeds to bless my day so on with it.
Plus, people are watching. Politician has to do something.
“Certainly, friend. Give me a second and I’ll introduce you to the supervisor,” the politician lies. Even though he knows the middleman who arranged the campaign contributions, Councilman could care less about an obscure construction site foreman. But, everyone recognizes the politician—or should if they don’t.
The clout alone should offer a miracle of sorts, a bit of momentary public relations and image boosting for a legislator, once accused of consorting with aggressive, urban developers, at the expense of the poor.
Dread is as stunned as his smile draws long. Out of months, near now going on years, is a wallow of self-pity and inner loathing that has reached its end. What better note, what sweeter taste than Dread’s town’s most celebrated public son, snapping the vicious cycle into oblivion. That’s much unintended joy, and too much to swallow in one chilly fall morning. It isn’t the usual “Dread day”, hence his signal to absorb the silver lining of daylight and Heaven bestowed, when Hell had frozen over dozens of previous nine lifetimes.
Small talk bursts into an assault of changing subjects as they cross the street. It goes from light conversation, to heavy bit on the homeless man’s life. Every detail and inch of Dread’s soul pours onto the sidewalk.
As Dread banters on while Councilman winces in quiet desperation, a staring finger seated against the trigger of an automatic rifle goes unnoticed, some several hundred yards away. Its menacing barrel is still on the mark, ready to burst twenty-five sleek rounds into Councilman’s back.
The scope on the gun is steady.
An assassin has been following him all day.
The gunman smiles briefly, shining pride at the dented sedan he personally outfitted and rigged for this mission. Every window in the vehicle is covered in a deep black tint, so no one on the outside can see him. The rifle barrel gently fits into a small front windshield hole while propped atop a three-legged stand, gripping the dashboard.
The car itself is barely noticeable. It fits in nicely with the usual long, depressing stretch of old, gas-guzzling American sedans—some abandoned, which line any typical Philadelphia street.
All that moves are the gunman’s drops of sweat, moistening the black steel barrel. The weapon gradually trusts its mark as the targeted politician continues his conversation, unaware of unwanted attention behind him.
There’s a devilish, grim reaper quality to the assassin’s patience—the iceman will cometh, the smoke of mirrors boasting an evil mystique behind the loaded finger. He has carefully actualized the situation, plotting multiple scenarios in his trained mind: If I hit him from here, the blood will splatter there, but if I catch him from that angle, he’s less likely to die slowly. If I lower the scope another inch, one or two rounds will enter the skull and exit an eye socket or nose, yet if I shoot like this, gauging wind speed, bystanders will be more distracted by the sound than the image of a politician, falling to the ground in a spray of his own blood.
The assassin imagines himself plotting endlessly through the thick grass of a South American jungle, ignoring the bites and nibbles of antagonistic insects, all irritated by his presence and nature’s wild.
Back in the real world, he’s pressing the gas slowly, moving stealthily past stop signs and crosswalks. The assassin has been moving like this since Councilman left his City Hall office, the assassin careful not to blow cover on his marked path, each step driven, and as deliberate as the brain counseled reflex. Concentrating on the plot at hand plows through each gust of wind this cold morning, the target unconscious of the pale hand casing him through tinted windows.
When the shots pop and the bullet rounds push lethal heat from its chamber, few witnesses today can actually say they saw it. If they claim to have watched the whole event unfold, they’re lying because it all moves too fast and superhuman for normal consumption.
Yet, instead of hitting the politician, the first few rounds drills right into Dread’s unsuspecting head and back, pushing the hot metal’s rapturous call for a killing. To his horrible end and hard luck, the homeless man’s cheeks explodes into a fierce vinculum of blood and oxygen, propelling a violent clutch for red air; followed by the epileptic crawl on crimson-stained sidewalk.
Dread shakes fast in his last, virtuous, silent probe for vital signs, frantically watching Councilman’s eyes dwell on the split orifice in the man’s head; a flood of burgundy flesh once recognized as Dread’s face. Perforating tissue ruptures a deep canal of veins breaching the temples, and final flashes of consciousness.
The politician falls quickly to the ground for cover and a split-second reaction to break Dread’s fall to asphalt. He holds the wounded homeless close in his lap, pressing forward for answers in a lawless stream of thoughts.
It all moves fast—very fast.
Councilman’s still dodging a salvo of bullets coming from several different directions, and has managed to pull himself and Dread behind a construction dumpster.
This man took a bullet…for me? Was that for me?
And it is here when life fast reverses before him, politician randomly thinking of the day thus far: the morning shave, splashing his election-ready grill in a hurried throw of cologne; the smiling Korean lady at the local cleaners, handing him fresh-smelling, heavily starched shirts. It is here Councilman silently swears to meet the unholy assailant, the barbaric son-of-a-•••••, the ignoble punk who housed him, and his newly-found friend, now dying in politician’s arms; Councilman’s suit and new shirt soaking in a warm spin cycle, of an unfortunate stranger’s blood.
Every eye at the corner of Broad and Lehigh saw politician shoot back. He aligned the rifle pops with their origin, and marked the unmarked car with dark windows. But, besides Councilman, no one else caught eye of “…the other guy”, the unknown gunman was too quick.
“Was like…light speed,” a kid went “OOH-OOH” in debriefs with homicide detectives, struggling to piece the broad daylight shooting together. Witnesses only caught politician’s angry hand pull a .45 from a hidden rib holster. As he fired back, Councilman’s pops popped louder than the first shots of the invisible gunman. Pinching flashes, loud blasts, and smoke rose from the Chevy, as burning tires sped away; the perpetrating weasel with no license plate.
The sting of city wind chill falls upon the open wound in Dread’s head, violated by rocky shreds of broken glass, and GOD forbidding whatever else. An unexpected punch of drilling steel transgressed his skull a second within the span of time he saw the rifle, pushing Councilman out of harm’s way.
Perhaps this is what Dread’s life was all about, what had prepared him all this time—to save this important man’s life at the expense of his own. In those seconds, the countless nights staying warm on the steaming subway vents seemed worth it, his homelessness the training ground for this profound moment.
Seconds later in death, Dread’s brain finally collapsed into a soup of warm cranium pus, marking the grand opening of a new anatomical outlet.
Broad and Lehigh becomes very silent.
 |
Email This Page