Another Saturday Night: W/ Soundtrack

ANOTHER SATURDAY NIGHT
A Charlie Byrne Grind

This can go two ways.

First, bad…second, easy.

I’m hoping for easy. If easy comes then I can blow this ratty bungalow and finally go home and get some sleep. Take a couple of Tylenol PMs, stick in my spongy, blue earplugs and crank the window fan for some white noise. Clock a good eight hours in the zero. I’m whipped and could use it. But things going easy look like they’re fading fast.

They are three of them—all jacked up on Saturday night whoo-hoo party-tude at the Jersey shore, well fortified and ready to rock. Bunch of muscled-head carpenter dudes down from Jenkintown, Pennsylvania. God. I really, really, really hate Wildwood.

I notice a mountain of crushed Yuengling beer cans crowning an over-flowing plastic trash can stuffed with Chinese carryout cartons. The television is on low broadcasting the Phillies-Mets game and, of course, the Mets are getting shelled. No great shock there, but I could give sweet fuckall about baseball.

One of the three creaks on the arm of a saggy wicker couch blowing on the ragged cherry of a poorly-rolled joint. Cherry-puffing guy wears…wait a second…are those man-capris and pukka beads? Jesus.

The third one and the biggest of the three stands like sentry by the back kitchen door with a super-tight black Under Armour t-shirt and jeans. Big isn’t exactly on the dime, stacked granite is more like it. He finishes the look with a backward-turned Phillies cap. He absently spins the squared foundation of a bottle of Jack Daniel's on the kitchen counter that, if the bottle had a fuel gauge, should be blinking an eye indicating it’s way past refuel time. Everybody except me is heavily sunburned. Even with the ditch weed stench drifting from capri-guy’s joint the air is choked with cheap cologne. It’s just after ten p.m. and the official blue envelope from the court lays unopened on the coffee table.

“Look, guys,” I say, easing my stance, “I’m just doing my job here.”

Granite sentry with the bottle of Jack in the kitchen coughs into a fist bigger than three of my own, “Asshole.”

I’m thinking, hmm…maybe I shouldn’t have shown up with my disarming look, my droopy surf trunks and my extra-loose madras shirt covering my nylon side-draw holster with my sub-compact Beretta. Maybe I should have flashed my license and been more professional. Worn a tie and jacket because—hey—they’re probably too wasted to check and see that I’m not real law anyway. If I have to bail, well, the flip-flops on my feet were also not a good call. Hard to haul ass in flip-flops. Doable, but you kind of look like a dork. But it’s July, humid, and still in the eighties well after dark. The madras shirt clings to my shoulders like wet paper. Man, serving papers on a Saturday night just plain sucks.

“That court order over there is just for Paul here,” I say pointing at Paul eased back in a blue recliner, “This has nothing to do with you two. This is Paul’s problem. Paul’s ex-wife is hurting. His kids, Christine and Hannah, they’re hurting too. It’s not about anyone else, it’s about Paul here. That’s what I was told and that’s why I was hired. Plain and simple. Find Paul, deliver that, be gone.”

Paul waves a hand. “Just shut up, man.”

I look at him. He doesn’t return my stare.

Paul finally looks up at me, mustering a look I’ve faced a hundred times. Dramatic threat, the hard man, big ol’ pissing match until someone’s makes a move, an eye gets raked open and someone’s front teeth get folded in with a jabbed elbow. That look might’ve stared down plenty in his day, but I know Paul has a record. His broadcasted badass loses weight when potential jail time is in the wind.

Like the other two Paul looks like he lifts a lot of iron. Too much of a whole lot and no legwork from the spindly look of things. I will say this though, he does spend a lot time with his hair care products. Got the mussed a-hole look down pat.

Paul drains the rest of a beer and crushes the can. “That bitch Carla has got more than enough money, mister court appointed man, and I’ve been paying her, ai’ght? Got it? I’ve been paying her.”

“Okay.”

“She’s been bleeding me dry, doesn’t even let me see my kids no more. Blows everything I give her on Cheetoes and TV dinners and getting her goddamn fatass nails done, so don’t even think abut laying down some self-righteous bullshit on me tonight, ai’ght? I pay her regular. I have receipts.”

“Receipts.”

“Yeah, receipts. Check my checkbook.”

“I don’t need to look at your checkbook, Paul.”

“You think I’m lying to you?”

“No. You say you’ve been paying your ex-wife, I believe you.” I didn’t believe him, but my job is not to channel douchebag veracity at least not with three to one odds.

“Why’d you have to come messing with me, man? I’m on vacation.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Well, you know what? That’s a shit gig, man.”

“Tell me about it.” I let out a heavy breath. “Look, if you say you’re up to date, hey, you’re up to date. I’m cool with that. Take it up with your lawyer if you have issues.”

Sentry bulldozer slugs down the last of the Jack and bangs the empty bottle down on the kitchen counter. It sounds like a gunshot from across the room.

“I say we fuck this dude up, Paulie.”

Paul raises a hand. Hulking guy huffs and starts cracking his knuckles like walnuts. A bull poised to charge, but in check for now.

I move toward the front screen door. “I’m going to go now, Paul. You guys have a nice evening.”

Even as the screen door pops closed behind me I hear and feel heavy motion in the bungalow.

Move, Charlie, move.

I cross the porch and I’m down the stoop when I hear the back door slam open and muffled shouts inside the bungalow telling hulking granite guy to just hold up, just hold up a sec, just chill out. I’m on the sidewalk as hulking guy freight-trains out the alley coming straight at me. His fist is raised like he’s ready to chuck a javelin and at the last second I skip a side-step and he sprawls into the street, plowing straight into the side of a slow passing Dodge Ram pickup truck. Hulk bounces off the Dodge and goes down hard in the street. Hmm. Hulk no like. Oh, well.

Lucky for me a police cruiser turns the corner like an angel. Hulking granite dude flips over and lurches to his feet, but he notices the cruiser as the lightbar on top sparks up.

I ease down the block to my Camry, whistling. I pop the locks, climb in, and pull away. Hulking guy screams obscenities after me. I can see in my rearview mirror as I head down the street that the pickup driver is out and getting up into hulking dude’s grill. They’re equally matched. People and kids on their way home from the boardwalk gape and stare at the sideshow. Hey, it's almost as cool as fireworks. The cops break things up.

I take a left at the top of the street and head north. It's slow going, but I expected that. Man, beach traffic in the summertime is such a bitch.

I poke on the radio and an oldies station is playing Yusuf Islam, a.k.a. Cat Stevens’ popping cover of Sam Cooke’s “Another Saturday Night”.

Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody, I’ve got some money ‘cause I just got paid…

Gospel that.

Words to Write By: Robert Heinlein

"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards." - Robert A. Heinlein

Words to Write By: Sam Shepard

"You're never going to see the truth. [It's] what you're shooting for always and you always miss it. Every once in a while, you catch an edge of it. That's what's you hope for, I think, as an artist." -SAM SHEPARD

Pie Hole Check

Well, gee...that's comforting. 75% of Americans are unfit to serve in the military? Gee, amigo, tell me something we don't know. Is this a shock to anyone? You may want to look at all those KBR food service rations...hip deep in bacon and carbs. How about Dunkin Donuts in Baghdad? We all know who owns them, don't we? Two words, people. One begins with the letter "f" and the other starts with "y".

Today, Some of My Top Heist Flicks

It's hard to choose and maybe there are some more but these...these for me are what I go for.

Number 5: The Hot Rock...I remember when my Uncle Doc took me and my brothers to see this as a kid...Uncle Doc told my folks we were going to see some Disney picture. I thought NY seemed so amazing.



Number 4: The Killing...Stanley Kubrick. Black and White. Scary clown masks. 'Nuff said.



Number 3: Reservoir Dogs...Saw this 3 times in a row at The Railroad Square Cinema back to back when I lived up in Waterville, Maine. Stunned. I might have gone back to see it once more.



Number 2: Ronin...De Niro. De Niro, De Niro, De Niro.



And Number 1: The Pope of Greenwich Village. This is a film I can watch anytime, anywhere. The scene at Monmouth Park where all the golf caddies used to blow their loop money when I was growing up. Hot towel shaves. The Italian food. The best.



Finally, the other night I read Bryon Q's "Dirty Bits" post on the writers blog DO SOME DAMAGE. It got me thinking about sex/love scenes, so I felt inspired to give my character Charlie Byrne a little action--the short "The Damage Done" is up at A Twist of Noir. Jump here.

This Show

Like most, there are media images stuck in my head from childhood. But one of the scariest, most hellish, most terrifying for me was THE PRISONER. At the time I had no idea what the show was all about, but I knew it unnerved me on a deeper level that I couldn't understand. Something deep was wrong. Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know, political allegory, individualism vs collectivism and the weird Penny-farthing logo symbolism all that, but at the time...phew. This show and "UFO" and "Space 1999" just freaked me all out on a regular basis, but I couldn't stop watching. Now that Mad Men is over I am very much looking forward to AMC's updated version. Still, Patrick McGoohan's glare at the end credits of the original still gives me the shivers.

FFB: Our Word Is Our Weapon

I think this is the Friday Forgtten Books post where I catch hell.

By typing this right now perhaps I'll get tagged by some supercomputer over at the NSA’s black box building in Greenbelt, Maryland. But, hey, you know...playing it safe leads to a very dull life. If those DHS smarties actually think I’m some sort of "subversive" well, let's just say they've been snacking on the wrong beef jerky.

The book I want to talk about today is called Our Word Is Our Weapon: Selected Writings by Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos. Briefly, Subcomandante Marcos (or Delegate Zero as he is sometimes called) is the enigmatic leader of the EZLN (the Zapatista Army of National Liberation). No one knows for sure Delegate Zero's true identity, but many in power surely want the man dead. What is known about El Sup is that in the mid-to late 90s he organized a small army of impoverished Indians in the Chiapas region of Mexico to rise up against the Mexican government’s wholesale rape of the indigenous Indians' land, rights, and culture. Imagine sticks against guns and you have a fairly accurate picture...kind of like an updated Oliver Cromwell slaughtering the Irish only way south of the border.

For a short time the EZLN had some traction on the world stage. Their popular support peaked in early 2001, but then the world crumbled into its present doom spiral and their largely peaceful revolt was soon lumped in with all the other terrorist bogeymen. President and fat-cat U.S. crony Vincente Fox was "replaced" in a sketchy election with ultra-conservative Felipe Calderon (more business as usual) and the hammer came down. The EZLN dove for cover. Perhaps for good, but not likely. The Mexican people have deep scars dating back centuries and the truth is scars never really heal. Victims' scars are the maps of assailants' hubristic folly, follow them long enough and they'll lead to the towering strength of the willful heart.

So, one might ask... why all the hubbub, Kieran? Gee, I guess I forgot to mention that under Chiapas is probably the motherload of Central American oil. Funny that. My hunch is I don't have to draw you a connect the dots picture of who wants a piece of that action.

But back to the book and why I want to talk about it today. This collection is great, just freakin' great. Foremost, Marcos is a philosopher poet and quite the humorous storyteller. To connect with the illiterate and oppressed Indians he recognized that great truths can be conveyed in the simple telling of a story. Heroes and villains, triumphs against impossible odds, the silly crocodile and the wise bird. In this collection El Sup dispatches not only some of his most articulate intellectual arguments against neo-liberalism greed, but he also shares beautiful poems and funny stories to be shared with friends around a campfire or over a few glasses of beer.

Folktales are powerful. They can convey passions to even the smallest of children and the most jaded of adults. Their beauty lies in their universal humanity.

This Fall I am teaching some third graders about the power of good storytelling. We discuss and engage after reading tales from around the world. It's a shake-n-bake kind of cultural mix. And you know what? Children understand greater truths better than you think. It's amazing to see them light up and affirm that it's better to fight for fairness and justice, that is better to speak kindly and help those who are starved with want rather than just take and take and take.

Anyway---Our Word Is Our Weapon: Selected Writings by Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos. This is my Friday Forgotten Book.

As a comic book I loved KICK-ASS, but I do not have high hopes for this take.  Has that crappy Speed-Racer-hyper realism and goofy feel.  The comic had gore out the whazoo and I would have labled some parts a heavy, heavy R.  Not feeling it.  Hooray for Hollywood, screwing the pooch.

Anybody visiting Black Irish Blarney today needs to send out some solidarity and support to Irish crime writer Declan Burke.  The man's post today on CRIME ALWAYS PAYS challenges the balance of dreams versus practical demands we all face.  A reality check for all trying to hack through the lunchmeat and make a go of this crime writing business. 

Declan is a great writer and needs a virtual pat on the back, maybe a laugh, and definitely well wishes from our supportive writing community--a writing community like no other.

Be well, Dec, be well.

Scrolling the news on BBC this a.m. and hey, would you look at that,  my sadsack P.I.Charlie Byrne was way ahead of the plastic surgery in the nether regions curve last Spring when David Cranmer posted my story MAINTENANCE over on  Beat to a Pulp.  Not that we need to revisit that story, Charlie's grown a bit since then, but if you want to jump here.