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Hi, Courtney smiled and again said, Hi……..Hi……..Hi, she twisted her lanky body, smoothed out her long hair, Hi…..Hi…Hi, the sub said hi back to her; a wider smile, clapping, grunting, happiness….

In one day sir….you have ruined all the progress we’ve made with Courtney over the past two years, the teacher’s aide said with a flip of the Breck girl hair and a tiss tiss tiss……

It is inappropriate for her to say hi every five seconds to people, more scolding, more teaching of normalcy in a non-normal world where people speak in signs, laughter rings occasionally, and naps are taken to the sounds of computerized thunder storms……

The substitute looked at Courtney, looked at the Breck girl, again looked at Courtney, Hi…..Hi…..Hi, he said, Hi Courtney….Hi, more laughs, more claps; wet pants, soaked with piss dripping to the tile floor……

See….see….This is what happens……she needs social graces….Now you’ve done it…..

Are you hoping for her to spend a night at the fucking opera? he looked at Courtney again, walked to the closet and began filling the mop bucket, Hi Courtney….hi….

Hi….Hi….Hi…..uh….uh….uh, jumping and swinging side to side with piss pouring, Hi…hi….hi…

Yes Courtney……hi…..

 

Voices scream outside the door….down the hallway comes smells of Sunday vitals seeping through cracks and crevices……family dinners after a weekly cleansing of  souls……………….

Chicken fried steak…..mashed potatoes and white cream gravy with speckles of black pepper clinging throughout….Turnip greens and hamhocks……salted to taste……Southern soul food….the French never had it so good……

Doors slamming….the heater over-heating…..The glorious sun comes through broken blinds letting us know that life still exists……And those smells……..taking me back…..every Sunday to afternoon naps…..picking tomatoes in a garden……shooting hoops under flood lights high above……high school heroes……Green and Goshen…..

Harmony Grove…..Harmony Grove…..five kids fighting for the last biscuit on the dinner table…..daddy takes all…..Dogs lapping up leftovers…..country talk….small town ways…..Southern ventures……blessings…

It’s a long way from St. Louis to Harmony Grove……..but then again……..anything south of the Western Gate is Arkansas anyway…..

….pick-up lunch…..

what…..no….what….

I gotta watch every dime….all…every single one….

yes…

she’s watchin’ everything…..every little move……

she’s….

yes…..all the time…..Jimmy did you bring home this receipt….that deposit slip…..where’s the checkbook…..

bustin’ your balls……

right….

why?….

I slipped-up…….I wasn’t watchin’…..too much pressure…..

Slow-down…..slow the fuck down…..

I go to the spa on 41st Street…..$220…..fuck…suck….she’s askin’ where the money went……

for what…..she’s entitled….

she thinks this……

First off…..why $220…….crack whore on Stanton Island…job….same service…..fifty bucks….

Listen…

No…..what….the wife won’t blow…..right….why…..cause she’s union…….She’s the fucking shop steward for God’s sake…….that would be beneath her……

Pete….

I’m tellin’ the truth…….a whore…..a temp……labor intensive no questions asked……you pay them to leave……

Right…..

Your days are numbered my friend……

Yes…..right…..yes…..I don’t know…….

fucking numbered……..hire a scab…….

Miller warned, When they’re done kid….they’re done….you can count on that….You’ll weep a little….bellow out blaming all….the world…society…America….her gynecologist…..protestants……The Vatican…..all of God’s supposed creation…..She was finished ‘fore she even started…..

And why is this?…… so cold……so cut……’Cause she can…..Sell all stocks….dump the bonds…..everything must go….Volume….volume…volume, he gave a wink and slurred more Brooklyneese….

They are the true patriots…… true Americans….they understand completely this concept of winner take all….in the workplace…..the bedroom….so forth…..from Emma Goldman… to Saint Hillary……there is no losing…..only play to win don’t you know….no gloves….Those were discarded long ago…….

This fear of being alone is our weakness…….we’ll put up with the greatest atrocities without question…….and for what……cuddling…..warm milk and cookies……surely not solace….don’t let a happy man fool you….he’s as miserable as the rest of us……

So be it…….Let’s get a drink…..

Walls and floors filled with feces; colors of shit brown, greens, yellows, black; a Pollock portrait of excrement, an essence of abuse, neglect, hard-living from one generation to the next……..and the beat goes on…….

Kids marched into the street by Family Services; no-one took notice, absence unfelt; crack cures all aches and pains…..just ask the ten-spot whores…..the moms and pops gone for hours in search of cash money motherfucker……..waitin’ for the man…….

The model from ACTION NEWS was first on the scene, Sir……can you comment on your neighbors?……What do you know of them?……..

Mr. Brown scratched his gray whiskers on an old black face, Well…..day say dere weren’t no food in dat house, his Jamaican tongue paused, If dat be da case…….den I got one question…..Who cooked da neck bones……

Whose Knocking……nobody’s home….

Just pests having a field day….mice…..rats…..rodents of some kind……what’s the difference…..their taking over…..vote Trump…….

Whose knocking………go away…….

Tomato sauce stains on the stove….Voltaire’s Candide on the bookshelf……the ramblings of Pope Pius IX……a refrain from action…………..

Whose knocking……enough already…….

Schubert plays…..changing to Bach….changing to Herr Mozart………changing to……..you get the picture…..it smells like tuna fish………

Whose knocking…..I’m warning you…….

Lights on…….an album keeps skipping……and scratching……….snoring like a buzz saw……just leave me alone……Nobody’s home

I can make a $100 on a weekend selling this shit, said Shorty, leaning over a coffee mug, tapping a finger, counting cases of Nutty Buddies below his stool. He gave a glance at the redhead waitress with the prison tattoos and missing teeth. She poured another while he tore open cream containers; held his hand just above the rim,” Whoa, that’s good honey.” She smiled, looked at Shorty’s girl,”You want some too honey?” Kit nodded, thanked her with a broad grin revealing some missing chompers of her own.

You know what people say when they see us two……they be sayin’ what that nigger be doin’ with that pretty white girl, Kit stirred in some packets of sugar and stashed a few in her purse. They be sayin’…… how’d that shine pull that one off?……..You know that’s what they be sayin’, they laughed…….Ah…Kitty…..years ago I could have pulled it off……could have made you mine, Kit leaned over and kissed Shorty’s filth caked face, You still could, she looked at him, flirted some more….

Don’t you be teasin’ me now girl…..don’t you be doin that, Kit gazed at Shorty, a lick of the lips. Me….tease?…….Never…….never…….I loves you Shorty…..

I love you too baby girl….

There was no toilet paper to be found in the men’s room stalls at the shelter; just a foul smell. Knowledge checked both stalls; the one for handicapped, wider, better to stretch out…… take care of business…… smelled the worst; upon further inspection the evidence was clear: a brown mass floating upon murky water while barely clinging to the side of the bowl. This mass had no defined shape…. no length…. nor width; just a thick coating waiting to be flushed down the pipes.

The other stall…… less wide…… confining… had water rising to the top….. ready to spill out and flood with a stagnant golden liquid; traces… markings left behind on a cracked seat; dark black streaks lingering from the past; a choice had to be made…..a gamble….a roll of the dice.

Knowledge walked over to the sinks…. ran lukewarm water over his hands; no soap in the dispenser; ran the wetness through his greasy thick black hair and pulled five long paper towels with the magical wave of a hand.

“Eeenie meenie miney moe,” pointing at each stall to the syncopation of his voice, “catch a junkie by his toe,” eyes closed and continuing to point back and forth, “if he hollers let him go,” the pointer finger was beginning to slow-down, “eenie meenie miney moe,” eyes opened and the thick finger pointed at the handicapped stall: some guys have all the luck.

Knowledge pulled in his breath and quickly opened the stall’s heavy swinging door….. pushed the small steel bar into place for a secure lock and continued holding his breath. He stood as far away from the shit -filled toilet as possible….. turned his head to the other side with pinky extended, “Don’t overflow motherfucker…..do not overflow….,” whispered while pushing down ever so gingerly on the silver handle only to discover……nothing……..no resistance at all; the handle flapped up and down while a slight gurgling sound surged from the depths of the bowl.

He walked out of the stall holding all that was bound up inside of him……mumbling to himself, “Fucking bums.”

A babe in her arms, two clinging at the legs while the bus stopped, started, potholes, speed bumps, and homeboys staring at fresh new prospects: body bouncing under a tee-shirt stating, STOP THE MESSING…..GOD IS BLESSING……

And then I told him he better have my money’s on the first……..sit down Tyrell….you better sit your nappy ass down, a smack and a shove was committed, no-one blinked an eye, not a noise was made…….

I be tired of this shit month after motherfuckin’ month…..late…late…late……and most the times nothin’ at all…..I said sit your black ass down boy ‘fore I give you’s a whoopin’…..Hold-on, she bellowed on the phone, I said hold-on, a babe’s cries would soon be silenced, Don’t you be startin’ now too, switched to the left arm for striking purposes, I said stop all’s yalls shit now, suddenly a seat opened……

‘Bout motherfuckin’ time you give me somethin’ in this life…….Yea…..I’m still here……hold-on…..Jermaine you better sit down on that floor right now, a threat with a backhand, Next stop Grand……Grand Avenue will be the next stop, and the beats kept beating from headphones, the loud talking moved to a higher scale, and dashing looks at this guy, that girl, whose holdin’? whose packin’?, What the fuck you be lookin’ at?……

Move forward………just move forward…….and stop the messin’……..a god is blessin’……..a god is blessin’…….

Listening to Bill Evans play Gloria’s Step……..thinking of meals at Apostle’s Church on 9th…….hard crusty breads slathered in butter done up by seniors sitting and talking, sitting and talking while the mounds of margarine go down and down and down; save me a piece for the road…..

Men in dirty coats and fingerless gloves feast on glazed Thai chicken and a kale with lentils salad finished off with a nice balsamic blend, Hey….you gonna eat that? a pile of rolls is never high enough….

A piano plays Who Can I Turn To and Camelot while women from the neighborhood wait on the crazies, the addicts, the down on their luck’s, the cons, the former big shots, and the never had a chance; all of us got here some how…..don’t ask……

Apostle’s Church for lunch Monday through Friday………For there is simply not….a more congenial spot……