The second one is the leaking dumpster. It is by the grocery store. Go there shortly after it is filled with rotting and bruised fruit. And vegetables. And chicken and meat. Watch the tiny river of waste water. It will flow downhill into the parking lot. The colors are always changing. Linger as long as you can. Step into it a few times. Get the liquid on your shoes.
The third place is up the alley. There is an old garage with some holes in the door. Walk in. It is cold and damp in there. It smells of motor oil and grease. There is sawdust on the floor. Old tools are on the wall. Sit down in the corner and close your eyes. Meditate. Pray. Lay down and dream of your own internal combustion.
There are lots more Sacred Places around here. I told you this was a short list. We have talked about this before. We will talk about it again. You are always asking me. And I am always trying to answer you.
Foto of the Dead Dog(Close-up of A Tooth)
You were asking me to take some fotos of the Sacred Spaces and Places. You know that I do not own a camera. So I went to the Superstore and bought one. I got one of those one time use ones. It was on sale for four bucks. Well I drove around the neighborhood and took some fotos. I took one of the little river formed by the water leaking from the dumpster at the grocery store. When I took it the water was frozen and there were lots of different colors. Primaries and secondaries. I went to the garage down that alley. I took several shots of the outside focusing on the hole in the door. I got a few from the inside. I took some fotos of the tools on the wall. The hacksaw. The hammers. The screwdrivers. The oil spot and saw dust on the floor. I got a nice one of the push broom in the northeast corner of the garage. After I used up the whole roll of film I took it back to the Superstore to be developed. The only foto that came out pretty good is the one above. I took several of the dead dog. But the sun was real bright. And the angels were singing real loud. All I could hear was " and Bingo was his name, oh". If you look real close you can see a reflection of one of the angels on the tooth. It is on the drop of blood right near the gum line.
OK there ain't no foto above. Last time I moved it got tossed.
The Hallway
Always recalling the hallway, I am. "Little Freddy, come and have some Kreplach soup. I made too much" I think we lived on the third floor then. Mrs. Gorchow always made too much soup. She lived alone. But cooked for a big family. Later she became a Scientologist I think. All these widow ladies and their soup. Kreplach, matzo ball and chicken noodle. The one old lady in 300 made Swedish meatballs. She would not talk about her past. She said something bad happened. Would not talk about it. She said "Don't do what I did" But she would not tell me what she did. I was a little kid and did not want to hear about it anyway. But I keep wondering if I did it without knowing it. Some old guy lived in that corner apartment on 2. He walked with a carved and painted cane from Mexico. One time he told me how he had worked in a nursing home out in California when he was young. Says he met Frank James there. Frank, brother of Jesse James the bank robber. I never believed that story. I wish I had asked him more about it.
Fast forward forty years and 2 blocks west. Different apartment house. Same kind of hallway. John lived across the hall. He had been kicked out of monk school. Always typing, he was. The click of his old manual typewriter was always there as background noise. He was writing his autobiography, he told me once. I talked to him at the quick shop on 14th street last year. He is driving a truck now. Larry was a retired astrologer. His apartment was full of boxes of research and charts he had done of murderers and their victims. He did several charts for me. I could not really understand them. Larry and his wife have moved to a nursing home. Some older woman use to call me about once a month and ask for Henry. I told her that she had the wrong number. She said Henry had given her that number. She was positive. I told her that I had it now. She did that for about 5 years. Then she stopped calling.
Now, I make too much soup.
Always recalling the hallway, I am.
If the Shoe Fits
Someone dear to me likes to walk in to second hand stores try on the used shoes and when they find the perfect pair they put their old shoes on the rack and quietly walk away.....
Someone else walked out of the desert, looked at the City, left his old life behind in a dumpster, slipped on his new identity and quietly walked away....
A third guy, some kind of saint, use to walk down by the river, and when he would see a fresh body floating by, would crawl up inside of it and quietly walk away....
.
This last guy was hard on his bodies. He had to do a trade every so often. You might see him down by the big rivers. I don't know what he looks like. An everyman I guess.
An anyone.
Northside Dogs
This world, she has a dark side. She also has a memory. That dead dog over there has shiny teeth. Just like diamonds they shine. Al Capone use to own that house on the corner. Almost every year someone new buys it. They say no dog will go down into the basement. Something is down there.
Charlie's dog, a big air dale, got run over. It happened right there, on Jackson Street.
Duke, the Reverend's mutt would try to mate with all the human legs. Ladies from the church. Kids from the neighborhood. To Duke, any leg would do. The Reverend did not seem to care. Just took it in stride. Duke was just part of God's plan and a lesson for us all.
Everybody knew Major. He was a big Saint Bernard White and brown. Walked real slow. Back then all the dogs roamed free. All the kids knew all the dogs. Major would let the little kids ride on his back. Just like a horse.
During that big flood in '54, Jingles, a white and brown rat terrier, would chase the rats. They had been driven by the rising water, up the hill and out of the sewers. Kids with rocks and BB guns and Jingles chasing the rats. Now my landlady has a dog that looks and acts like a reincarnated Jingles. He even answers to Jingles when I call him.
There was a strange white German Shepherd. We called him Ghost. We would only see him after dusk. One night, I was sleeping in a tent, in Charlie's backyard. I woke up and Ghost's hot wet tongue was licking my face. On warm summer nights, Ghost still passes thru my dreams. I never had a dog of my own.
Tom, who use to live up the street, died last week while I was out of town. Heart attack they say.
He was trying to get on disability, but the government kept turning him down. Tom and his brothers had lots of dogs. I don't remember their names.
Watching A Tall Skinny Guy Eat a Chicken Pot Pie
It was lunch time. We were in Boston. Down near Faneuil Hall. Durgin Park. Very old restaurant. Tourist place. But locals like it too. We walked in. Went upstairs. Sat down at a long white table.
Big white room. Mouthy waitress. Long menu. I ordered clam chowder. He ordered the prime rib.
A guy walks in. Older guy. Balding. Tall guy. Skinny guy. Plaid shirt. Khaki work pants. He sits down near us. Waitress asks him if he wants the usual. He says yes. But wants her to read the order to him.
She reads it. Chicken pot pie. Side of peas. Side of carrots. Side of mashed potatoes. Side of chicken gravy. Two extra plates. Iced tea.
We eat our food. The tall skinny guy waits. His hands are folded. His hands are resting on the table. The waitress brings his food. Now the ritual begins. He unfolds his hands. Puts the napkin in his lap. Puts an empty plate directly in front of him. Spreads the mashed potatoes evenly over the plate. Then he puts the cooked carrots on top of the mashed potatoes. Then the peas on top of the carrots. Then with his knife and fork he carefully removes the crust from the chicken potpie. He puts the crust on the other extra plate. Then he pours the pot pie filling on the vegetables. The side of chicken gravy goes on next. Finally he puts the pie crust on top of everything. He takes a deep breath. He looks at his creation. Turns the plate slightly to the right. Then to the left. Picks up his fork with his right hand. Then in a blur of metal and food, he consumes it all in under a minute. Sated, he takes another deep breath. Takes a sip of ic
ed tea. Leaves a tip. And stands up and walks away. What did I just watch? A tall skinny guy eating? A food ritual? A sacrifice?
These days there are lots of saints, gods and closeted serial killers walking the streets. It is hard for them to compete with reality TV and viral videos. But sometimes you can see them doing almost ordinary things. Eating food in ritualistic ways. Reading newspapers upside down. Sitting on park benches waiting for the squirrels to feed them. Shoplifting diapers, malt liquor and beef jerky. Look for them in the corners of your eyes. That is where they hide. Not quite in plain sight. According to the most recent statistics there are around 108 active serial killers, 666 gods and 36 saints active in the average metropolitan area. Watch for them.
Maybe You Should Not Eat There
We had to go to that other city. The one south of here. One hundred miles south. We had to do a few things. Take care of a little business. Personal business. Then we had to eat lunch. We were real hungry.
We stopped at that old place. Been there since 1948. Started as a fruit stand. Painted red, white and green. We parked in front. Big parking lot in back. Parking on the side too. We sat at the table by the window. Red and white checked table cloth. Carafes of ice tea on each table. Movie fotos on the walls. Family fotos on the walls. Capone in his hat. It was Tuesday. Linguini with buttery clam sauce. Minestrone soup, a salad and bread. No little bowls of black vinegar. No little bowls of olive oil. This ain't that kind of place.
A big guy walks in. No neck and yellow eyes. Takes a table near the kitchen. Talks with the cook. Yells at somebody on his cell phone. Gives me the evil eye. Looks at a list on his yellow legal pad. Names and numbers. Makes more calls. We finish our bowls of pasta. He finishes his bowl of pasta. Everybody feeling better. Spumoni ice cream for dessert. Chat with the waitress. Pay the check and leave a tip. Walk out of the place. His eyes follow us out. We nod at each other. He was an earner. Doing his job. Taking a lunch break. We had to do a few things. Take care of a little business.
Personal business.
Howie
Hey, you remember Howie? I remember Howie. What a jerkoff! But I liked the guy. Don't know why. But that's how it is. Let me freshen up your memory. He was the guy with the old grey Dodge. Always stalled at the worse friggen time. Liked to bet on the dogs out at Sodrac Park. Bragged about how he could pick em. Bleached his hair blonde so he could look like one of the Beach Boys. Could not swim but wanted that surfer look. Never had much luck with the babes. He went out with Judy once. She tried to kill herself after only one date with Howie. We use to always give him crap about that. She grew up to become a billing clerk at the hospital.
Wonder what ever happened to Howie? I will tell you what I know. Look the guy graduates from college. A miracle. That was 1970.
So he gets this job out in San Francisco. He is working for a finance company. His job was to be a collector of overdue accounts. His clients are scum. That is what he told Stew. Said they were losers and he hated his job. But he liked San Fran. The hippies and all that free love stuff. He lived with his cousin and her husband. Stew said that something kinky was going on. I don't know anything else about that part of it. But use your imagination. I know you got one.
During this time he gets himself a bunch of credit cards. Uses other people’s names. After about a year he moves to Hawaii. Lives like a king off of the cards for a few months. Then everything comes crashing down. He had to get out of there.
Moved to KC. Worked as a night clerk in lots of cheap hotels. Heard he was a snitch for the cops. Then he got married. Manages an apartment complex for old people on the Kansas side of the river. Probably has something going on. That's the last I heard.
You got people down in KC. Ask them if they heard of him. If you hear anything, let me know. I need to talk to him about a mutual friend. Don't worry. Nothing serious. It is a personal matter.
The Interruption
Trying to sleep it off. Knock on the door. It's that fat cop again. Same as last time. Won't you be. Won't you be. Won't you be my snitch. I don't know nothing. Leave me alone. Back to bed. Can't sleep.
One Stop Gun Shop
A couple of years ago. A Friday it was. I stopped at El Napolito. A bar by the bean processing plant. I just wanted a beer. I walked up to the bar. Nodded at the other guys on both sides of me. Ordered a Negra Modelo from Luis. Squeezed the lime wedge and the juice trickled into the bottle. Opened the salt packet. Poured a little on the rim of the bottle. Nursed the beer for an hour, maybe. Made a few handshake bets on the upcoming De La Hoya title fight. Two guys at the corner of the bar had been talking to one of the bar tenders. I recognized one of the guys. By reputation he was one step up from a street dealer. By dress and swagger he was king of the world. The other guy...never seen him before or since. The two guys got up and left. I moved over to that corner of the bar. The two guys had been in my regular spot. I liked it because I can see the whole place. Who comes in. Who goes out. The pool tables. The dance floor. And everybody else at the bar. It is dark in that corner. So, other people can't see me that well.
The two guys had left some garbage on the bar. A couple of beer bottles. Coors Lite. Some lime wedges. Salt packets. Empty Marlboro pack. And a napkin with some writing on it. I turned the napkin around so I could read it. It was a list of guns and prices. Like "9mm 550" and "25mm 175". The bartender that had been talking to them came over and cleaned up the garbage and wiped the bar clean. Took the price list, too. I did not get a chance to finish reading the list.
That bartender was gone the next time I came in. Luis said he never even called in to quit. Luis said the guy was from someplace else. The king of the world was pulled over the next week. Cops found something. He will be in the Lincoln Nebraska Home for Retired Pharmaceutical Salesmen for the next twenty years.
Going to Meet the Boss
Everybody knew who he was. We all knew where he lived. He was a private kind of guy. Had a big car. A Lincoln. Black. One day, Cheese stops me on the sidewalk. He was called Cheese because of his weird smile. He worked for you know who. He says his boss wants to talk to me. I am thinking that I don't know why. I was not into anything. Nothing at all. Just a guy in the neighborhood. But I was real curious. So I said OK. Cheese said to stop by tomorrow at noon. I went over there. He liked to work out of an old house. I rang the doorbell. Cheese answers the door. The house was kind of dark inside.
Lots of curtains. I was starting to regret my coming over. Well I was there. It was too late now. We walked into the dining room. He used it as his office. He asked me to sit down at the table across from him. Cheese walked out and shut the door. He starts talking to me. Just small talk. Weather, sports and such. Then he says that he has had his eye on me for a while. Now, I am beginning to feel a little squirmy. There are a lot of stories about this guy. But nothing sexual, if you know what I mean. Well he clarifies things. He says that I am an upright guy by reputation. Whatever that means. Maybe it means I have not been caught yet. He then says that he called me in to thank me. I said for what. He says that I should know. I said I don't know. He says don't I remember last Saturday. He says that I helped an old lady who had tripped on the sidewalk in front of the Safeway. She was carrying a sack of groceries. The paper sack had ripped open and stuff had spilled all over. I had helped her pick up her groceries. Then I carried it the two blocks to her house. He says that lady was his godmother. He says that I can come to him if I need something. Just ask. That's all. I said I don't need anything right now. But I will remember. Cheese came in and walked me to the door.
I never got to collect on that debt. I moved out of town for a few years. When I got back I heard that Cheese and his boss left town one night and nobody knows nothing about what happened to them.
Skinny Guy in a Sharkskin Suit
We were driving down Hamilton. We were in the green car. Heading to the Horizon Cafe. Thinking of pancakes. Slowed down for the railroad tracks. Looked to the right. Looked to the left. Again to the left. Those track
s run straight. Straight in both directions. Going into the cottonwoods. Silver green softwood giants. Over on the left side. Right by the tracks. Skinny guy in a sharkskin suit. Skinny guy under a black hat. Pacing back and forth. Aura of misfiring synapses. Looking in all directions. Seeing nothing. Out of place. Not Dallas. Out of time. Not 1963. Waiting to hop a freight train. Back to his conspiracies. Back to his footnotes. Back to the Starlight Lounge. We were driving down Hamilton.
We were in the green car. Heading to the Horizon Cafe. Thinking of pancakes.
Where Can you Spend the Winter if it is 1941 and You are in Northern Minnesota?
I won't be going back. Not anytime soon. Maybe never. It was August 1964. Boundary Waters. Not sure what lake it was. Not Moose Lake. Maybe part of the Man chain of lakes. This Man. That Man. No Man. I don't remember.
It was a grey day. We beached our canoes so we could have lunch. Spam, rye crackers and some raisins. After lunch, I walked up a little trail. Maybe twenty five yards from the beach was a clearing. There was a small cabin. An emergency cabin. Maybe 10 feet by 10 feet. One door and one window. Opened the door and walked in. Wooden frame bed. Rolled up brown wool blanket. Potbellied stove vented to the outside. Small table. One chair. Cupboard. Flour. Sugar. Salt. Flour. Matches. Knife. Fork. Spoon. Bowl. Cup Plate.
Lots of names and dates were carved on the wooden cupboard. Jack 1955. Bill. Larry and Greg 1951. You get the idea.
Factory Town Page 2
