Hannah packed an enormous picnic lunch and drove her geriatric Sunbeam Alpine roadster to the academy. Coming abreast of the green, she saw the two of them seated beneath the banyan tree, deep in discussion. Mister Radcliff truly loved Mango. How neither she nor he could say. The wicked boy with a club foot needed so much. A father, a tutor, a lover. Briefly the man from Oxford was all three to Mango. Strict in every way.
There was always a niche for her little car.
"Hola, my fine cavaliers!"
Mango chirped, "Oh, look out! She's after the both of us."
Mister Radcliff stood up to greet her. "Good morning, darling."
Mango enviously watched them kiss.
He loved the both of them. Hannah he could only fantasize about.
She caught his eye and smiled. "And what were you two discussing in such earnest?"
"Beatnik typing."
*
Mister Radcliff smoked one of his Virginia Number 3 cigarettes, and then another, as Hannah read the poems. Mango had run off to play with The Deadknockers.
"I thought the boy was coming with us," he said. "You packed for three."
"He didn't want to."
"What a wild one!"
"This beatnik typing is quite good. Spontaneous. Stream of consciousness."
"Free association gibberish."
"You don't see the pain?"
"James Dean angst. Rebel Without A Cause, and all that."
"You don't fool me."
"Oh?"
*
The roadster buzzed up the two-laned hardtop. Hannah steered with one hand and veered onto the shoulder, almost losing control. She expected Mister Radcliff to complain. Instead he laughed. A fatalist, she assumed.
"Ho! That was a close call! Hah hah hah!"
"Where do you want to go?"
"I want to see your secret garden."
"How did you know I had one."
"Because you are such a private person."
"Yes."
She turned off the road and onto a dirt lane that switchbacked over the piedmont.
*
It was a small glen surrounded by Australian pine. Long-needled boughs would catch the tail of a wind. Upon its release a great sigh would rise up. As she led Mister Radliff along, Hanna tiptoed like a fairy princess. In a hushed voice she said, "There were deer and rabbits and whippoorwills and we all told our stories. Guess who told the best story."
"The whippoorwill."
She laughed softly.
He took her by the waist and brought her to earth.
"Wait," she said. "I want to prepare our spot."
*
They made love upon the grassy nave of a forest cathedral. He groaned and ejaculated deep within her warm grinder. Its tiny muscles continued to grasp and knead his cock. He withdrew just as she let loose a gyser of her own. He kissed her muff and aoused her with his tongue. She cooed and warbled until her exhalations grew reedy. He laid his cheek upon her quivering belly and smiled. Giving pleasure to a woman was truly wonderful. Again his hand explored her mound of mystery. The thatch of fur felt heavy and slightly nappy. He laughed quietly.
"What?"
"Just a joke. Nothing to it."
"Tell me."
"Another time." He kissed her deeply, putting a gentle hand upon one breast. The nipple felt like a minnow rising to the surface of a lake.
Later, weary and apart, they gazed at the shifting sky.
"Your beauty is something from Goya. The Naked Maja."
"Keep it up, darling. Keep it up."
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
shadowboxing
Palm wine and cane liquor. The empty bottles seemed to collect by magic. His excuse for drinking was that it helped him to write poetry. Images flashed like strobe lights. He typed fast, capturing their brilliances before they faded away.
Peaks of euphoria. King of the world!
Then his brilliance began to fade.
Mango wept.
*
"Beatnik typing." Mister Radcliff sniffed, reading a manuscript on canary paper.
Mango grinned. He liked the word beatnik.
Onto the game, he replied, "I'll do better."
Mister Radcliff expected competence from any author. When disappointed, he sniffed. Always applying Aristotle.
Then at last he found a poem Mango had written while sober. Tenderly he smiled. "Ah, here is one I can follow."
Mango had seen this awesome black man at the market down on the wharf. Selling conch fritters. Hefting a live conch from a tank of seawater and splitting its beautiful shell with a ballpeen hammer. Beheading the creature with a huge kukri knife, and then chopping the meat into slivers. They went into a deep-fry vat and were seasoned with pinches of spice and wrapped in newspaper.
The man sang out like one of The Tarriers. "Hey-yo! Get yo fresh fritters an' chips!"
Women probing avocado, banana, guava, yucca and lime, eyed the man while ribboned daughters winked.
Mango drank in this scene as if it were papaya nectar and wrote the poem on the spot.
Mister Radcliff rolled up his white sleeves, about to work.
"Look here," he said. "Your women are not merely searching for the best produce. They are fondling this magnificant man. Actually judging him with an erotic eye. This is a marvelously phallic poem."
Mango knew what the word meant.
"Phallic?"
"Of course. Down here. See? You say you are aroused. And you are ready to ride the big yellow bus into Spanish Town."
"But I am not the man in the poem."
"Of course you are."
Peaks of euphoria. King of the world!
Then his brilliance began to fade.
Mango wept.
*
"Beatnik typing." Mister Radcliff sniffed, reading a manuscript on canary paper.
Mango grinned. He liked the word beatnik.
Onto the game, he replied, "I'll do better."
Mister Radcliff expected competence from any author. When disappointed, he sniffed. Always applying Aristotle.
Then at last he found a poem Mango had written while sober. Tenderly he smiled. "Ah, here is one I can follow."
Mango had seen this awesome black man at the market down on the wharf. Selling conch fritters. Hefting a live conch from a tank of seawater and splitting its beautiful shell with a ballpeen hammer. Beheading the creature with a huge kukri knife, and then chopping the meat into slivers. They went into a deep-fry vat and were seasoned with pinches of spice and wrapped in newspaper.
The man sang out like one of The Tarriers. "Hey-yo! Get yo fresh fritters an' chips!"
Women probing avocado, banana, guava, yucca and lime, eyed the man while ribboned daughters winked.
Mango drank in this scene as if it were papaya nectar and wrote the poem on the spot.
Mister Radcliff rolled up his white sleeves, about to work.
"Look here," he said. "Your women are not merely searching for the best produce. They are fondling this magnificant man. Actually judging him with an erotic eye. This is a marvelously phallic poem."
Mango knew what the word meant.
"Phallic?"
"Of course. Down here. See? You say you are aroused. And you are ready to ride the big yellow bus into Spanish Town."
"But I am not the man in the poem."
"Of course you are."
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
hannah's men
Cap began sleeping late. He would remain in his room until he was certain he would not encounter Hannah. He knew it was her nature to clean up any mess she found in his pub. And Jimmy-Scamp could be trusted to complete bar preparations.
The dark wood beams gave him a pleasant snug feeling. The row of white trimmed windows added to the ambience of a captain's chamber aboard a windjammer.
Yet a stone resided where his heart had been.
Soon after hearing that his beloved Hannah had begun sleeping with Mister Radcliff, Cap began to ail. Physically as well as mentally. His bowels refused to function right. His appetite had expired. He felt stoved up, as if something had torn loose from his gut. His pepperfried intestines ran plumbed with crushed ice. He killed insects obsessively, hunting them in every cranny.
*
Today shortly after seven o'clock she knocked and called for him.
Twice.
And he listened to her going away.
*
A five foot mirror was nailed to the closet door. He admired himself with extreme vanity, completely aware that the glass distorted his reflection, making him appear thinner, taller, thus younger to a degree. By jowl and chin and waist, youth sang again.
He studied this most excellent image.
In the eyes it was still there. The hurt.
How long had it been since he had been so amourously horsekicked?
*
On the way down to the galley he met her as she was climbing the stairs. Wearing that mauve gingham gown, she allowed her bosom to brush against his, her eyes seeking his.
"Good morning, my captain. Are you feeling better?"
He stormed past her, boots clubbing down the stairs, leaving her confused, perplexed, and frightened.
"Cap! Cap! Speak to me!"
He whirled and confronted her, eyes full of rage, blistered in betrayal. "How long is that white faggot staying at the inn?"
"Mister Radcliff?"
"Mister Tip Top Cheerio Radcliff. Who else?"
"He has not told me."
The wounded old man pounded on to the galley. She followed meekly. Then with a fury she had never seen in him before, he spat upon his immaculate galley deck. "Chinga! Mierda!"
"Don't curse, Cap. Please."
*
In the dimness Cap lighted his tallow candles. His altar to the holy saints was littered with coconuts and cowries. All afternoon he had sat there upon the floor drinking yerbabuena and thinking of Hannah Ramirez and how she had often walked past his door and down the hall, her buttocks swaying as if she were leading a conga line. Now with the coming of night he was stoned enough to call forth his Orishas.
The mayombrero witch he had visited in Spanish Town specialized in revenge. Black magic.
Cap learned all that he could from this blind man with white eyes.
He learned of the danger.
*
Evening seeped into the room. Orishas from Cap's imagination arrived subtly, perhaps as a lavender mist. Above Mister Radcliff's sweat-soaked bed, bloody veins in the marbled plaster revealed death-threats. His brain bubbled and throbbed and a thousand icepicks swarmed between his ears.
A whole day had passed and he was not yet dressed.
There was this memory. A gentle thump on the door. His laundered clothes had arrived. No one was in the hall when he retrieved the parcel. No one saw his nakedness.
Too bad. I am quite remarkable.
*
Then, at last, that cryptic knock. Hannah.
"It's open."
Hannah slid inside and latched the door. The gloaming grew palpable in the room. She asked the man sitting on the edge of the bed with a bottle of Pinch, "Have you given up living?"
"Is my dissipation that complete?"
"You stink from the soul on out."
His laugh sounded like a death-rattle. "Make yourself at home. Have a drink."
She shuddered. "No. I hate whiskey."
"I'll shower and gargle. Won't be long. Promise."
He excused himself and disappeared into the bathroom.
Something else smelled badly. The bed linen. Evidently he had been shooing away the maid on the past few afternoons. Hannah Ramirez did not make love on soiled sheets. While Mister Radcliff cleaned his body she would clean his bed.
When he emerged she was sitting in the wicker chair and sipping her Dubonnet. His nakedness amused her. He seemed to be a handsome man.
He had doused himself with Royall Lyme. "Whiff!"
"Whiff is right." Giggling and feeling much better.
Then he asked her about the ceiling.
The dark wood beams gave him a pleasant snug feeling. The row of white trimmed windows added to the ambience of a captain's chamber aboard a windjammer.
Yet a stone resided where his heart had been.
Soon after hearing that his beloved Hannah had begun sleeping with Mister Radcliff, Cap began to ail. Physically as well as mentally. His bowels refused to function right. His appetite had expired. He felt stoved up, as if something had torn loose from his gut. His pepperfried intestines ran plumbed with crushed ice. He killed insects obsessively, hunting them in every cranny.
*
Today shortly after seven o'clock she knocked and called for him.
Twice.
And he listened to her going away.
*
A five foot mirror was nailed to the closet door. He admired himself with extreme vanity, completely aware that the glass distorted his reflection, making him appear thinner, taller, thus younger to a degree. By jowl and chin and waist, youth sang again.
He studied this most excellent image.
In the eyes it was still there. The hurt.
How long had it been since he had been so amourously horsekicked?
*
On the way down to the galley he met her as she was climbing the stairs. Wearing that mauve gingham gown, she allowed her bosom to brush against his, her eyes seeking his.
"Good morning, my captain. Are you feeling better?"
He stormed past her, boots clubbing down the stairs, leaving her confused, perplexed, and frightened.
"Cap! Cap! Speak to me!"
He whirled and confronted her, eyes full of rage, blistered in betrayal. "How long is that white faggot staying at the inn?"
"Mister Radcliff?"
"Mister Tip Top Cheerio Radcliff. Who else?"
"He has not told me."
The wounded old man pounded on to the galley. She followed meekly. Then with a fury she had never seen in him before, he spat upon his immaculate galley deck. "Chinga! Mierda!"
"Don't curse, Cap. Please."
*
In the dimness Cap lighted his tallow candles. His altar to the holy saints was littered with coconuts and cowries. All afternoon he had sat there upon the floor drinking yerbabuena and thinking of Hannah Ramirez and how she had often walked past his door and down the hall, her buttocks swaying as if she were leading a conga line. Now with the coming of night he was stoned enough to call forth his Orishas.
The mayombrero witch he had visited in Spanish Town specialized in revenge. Black magic.
Cap learned all that he could from this blind man with white eyes.
He learned of the danger.
*
Evening seeped into the room. Orishas from Cap's imagination arrived subtly, perhaps as a lavender mist. Above Mister Radcliff's sweat-soaked bed, bloody veins in the marbled plaster revealed death-threats. His brain bubbled and throbbed and a thousand icepicks swarmed between his ears.
A whole day had passed and he was not yet dressed.
There was this memory. A gentle thump on the door. His laundered clothes had arrived. No one was in the hall when he retrieved the parcel. No one saw his nakedness.
Too bad. I am quite remarkable.
*
Then, at last, that cryptic knock. Hannah.
"It's open."
Hannah slid inside and latched the door. The gloaming grew palpable in the room. She asked the man sitting on the edge of the bed with a bottle of Pinch, "Have you given up living?"
"Is my dissipation that complete?"
"You stink from the soul on out."
His laugh sounded like a death-rattle. "Make yourself at home. Have a drink."
She shuddered. "No. I hate whiskey."
"I'll shower and gargle. Won't be long. Promise."
He excused himself and disappeared into the bathroom.
Something else smelled badly. The bed linen. Evidently he had been shooing away the maid on the past few afternoons. Hannah Ramirez did not make love on soiled sheets. While Mister Radcliff cleaned his body she would clean his bed.
When he emerged she was sitting in the wicker chair and sipping her Dubonnet. His nakedness amused her. He seemed to be a handsome man.
He had doused himself with Royall Lyme. "Whiff!"
"Whiff is right." Giggling and feeling much better.
Then he asked her about the ceiling.
Monday, April 4, 2011
chatham house
From the heights of Spyglass Hill they gazed out upon the Spanish Main. Hannah had stumbled during the climb and brused her knee. Mister Radcliff suggested they pause for a moment. He sat beside her in the thrashing tall grass and remarked: "The view is positively inspiring."
"When I was a young girl I would tarry here after school."
A sapphire sea spanned the points of romantic imagination. Midway, cobalt patches of cloud-shadow drifted windward like flat whales.
A lonesome zephyr moaned through a nearby copse of Australian tea trees, tawny bark rustling like pages of an open book. Imported a century ago to drain marshes, the tea tree proved too successful. It conquered indigenous flora and became the bane to local landscape gardening.
"What an odd-looking tree," Mister Radcliff remarked.
"The melaleuca. Its oil is good for skin troubles."
*
They roved on and came upon the crumbling estate of Arthur Chatham, heir to the fortunes of empire. The first Chatham was a slave-trader and the second Chatham was a planter of tobacco. The family emigrated from Virginia to Jamaica to remain loyal to the Crown. Chatham sugarcane was distilled into quality rum with worldwide distribution protected by the Royal Navy.
Arthur Chatham was born into a generation of idle rich. He studied art theory in New York and nudes in Paris. After a year or two of debauched extravagence his trustees cut him off. He booked a steamer to New York to plead his case.
The head trustee laid it out in blunt Runyon-esque argot: "No soap."
Not one to assuage insult, the trustee added, "Don't worry, young man. The money will be there upon your maturity."
Arthur Chatham moved to The Village, wore black turtlenecks and combed his ash-blond hair like Carl Sandburg. Forced to work for the first time in his life, he had the good sense to exploit his artsy goodlooks. A bookstore near Columbia quickly hired him. He was the perfect clerk for those evenings when college girls browsed for something interesting.
"Excuse me. What poet are YOU currently reading?"
From behind her milky earlobe came the tart essence of lemon verbana. Her eyes were deep and warm as Mexican chocolate.
She smiled her hello.
"Right now," he replied. "Mina Loy. An imagist, tough as nails."
"Oh, I didn't know she wrote too. I loved her in 'Manhattan Melodrama.'"
With his expert gentle touch he led her by the elbow to the poetry nook. Thinking it would be best if she discovered for herself that he had not been praising Myrna Loy.
*
During that first winter his loft went arctic. His models shivered, and nipples budded like blueberries. When excused from sitting they snuggled into the kapok sleeping bag.
He experimented with mediums of glass and wire, but could not express himself the way he desired. One night he succumbed to joining Doris Miller from Sioux Falls in the kapok sleeping bag and fucked her. Then she fucked him.
Afterward, she explained what she understood about art theory.
And Marcel Duchamp.
Exhaling a plume of hashish smoke she opined: "There is no such thing as the objet d'art. Art does not exist in and of itself. It is a conduit through which we express ourselves."
"Goes without saying."
Then he struggled out of the kapok sleeping bag and stumbled across the bare boards. His big toe nailed the pisspot and sent it skittering away with a splatter. He picked up the manuscript of his work in progress. Art theory, naturally.
Worthless, he thought. Utterly worthless. But with a little cold weather snot the paper should make excellent spackling.
*
Over the years his art bloomed and cross-pollinated. There was his Picasso's Apollinaire period. His Gris "Woman with a Basket" period. And finally, his Arthur Chatham period.
"He sold the Jamaican property and moved to Saint James during World War Two and funded a militia and a yacht for subchasing," Hanna said breathlessly as she and Mister Radcliff climbed the green-pitted coquina steps.
"Colorful man."
"A local hero."
"I understand he died of syphilis."
"He did sleep around."
The ancient steps ascended to a wide mezzanine shaded by a brawny banyan tree and guarded by a sandstone manticore. Beyond, amid smothering melaleuca, stood Chatham House.
*
The iron gate was corroded with verdigris and sprung open, swaying in the wind with a siren song.
Mister Radcliff leaned forward and kissed Hannah. She replied with a bold kiss of her own. Above them in the great banyon two budgerigars sparred in a clash of feathers. The many chambered house of boughs lowed a warning.
"When I was a young girl I would tarry here after school."
A sapphire sea spanned the points of romantic imagination. Midway, cobalt patches of cloud-shadow drifted windward like flat whales.
A lonesome zephyr moaned through a nearby copse of Australian tea trees, tawny bark rustling like pages of an open book. Imported a century ago to drain marshes, the tea tree proved too successful. It conquered indigenous flora and became the bane to local landscape gardening.
"What an odd-looking tree," Mister Radcliff remarked.
"The melaleuca. Its oil is good for skin troubles."
*
They roved on and came upon the crumbling estate of Arthur Chatham, heir to the fortunes of empire. The first Chatham was a slave-trader and the second Chatham was a planter of tobacco. The family emigrated from Virginia to Jamaica to remain loyal to the Crown. Chatham sugarcane was distilled into quality rum with worldwide distribution protected by the Royal Navy.
Arthur Chatham was born into a generation of idle rich. He studied art theory in New York and nudes in Paris. After a year or two of debauched extravagence his trustees cut him off. He booked a steamer to New York to plead his case.
The head trustee laid it out in blunt Runyon-esque argot: "No soap."
Not one to assuage insult, the trustee added, "Don't worry, young man. The money will be there upon your maturity."
Arthur Chatham moved to The Village, wore black turtlenecks and combed his ash-blond hair like Carl Sandburg. Forced to work for the first time in his life, he had the good sense to exploit his artsy goodlooks. A bookstore near Columbia quickly hired him. He was the perfect clerk for those evenings when college girls browsed for something interesting.
"Excuse me. What poet are YOU currently reading?"
From behind her milky earlobe came the tart essence of lemon verbana. Her eyes were deep and warm as Mexican chocolate.
She smiled her hello.
"Right now," he replied. "Mina Loy. An imagist, tough as nails."
"Oh, I didn't know she wrote too. I loved her in 'Manhattan Melodrama.'"
With his expert gentle touch he led her by the elbow to the poetry nook. Thinking it would be best if she discovered for herself that he had not been praising Myrna Loy.
*
During that first winter his loft went arctic. His models shivered, and nipples budded like blueberries. When excused from sitting they snuggled into the kapok sleeping bag.
He experimented with mediums of glass and wire, but could not express himself the way he desired. One night he succumbed to joining Doris Miller from Sioux Falls in the kapok sleeping bag and fucked her. Then she fucked him.
Afterward, she explained what she understood about art theory.
And Marcel Duchamp.
Exhaling a plume of hashish smoke she opined: "There is no such thing as the objet d'art. Art does not exist in and of itself. It is a conduit through which we express ourselves."
"Goes without saying."
Then he struggled out of the kapok sleeping bag and stumbled across the bare boards. His big toe nailed the pisspot and sent it skittering away with a splatter. He picked up the manuscript of his work in progress. Art theory, naturally.
Worthless, he thought. Utterly worthless. But with a little cold weather snot the paper should make excellent spackling.
*
Over the years his art bloomed and cross-pollinated. There was his Picasso's Apollinaire period. His Gris "Woman with a Basket" period. And finally, his Arthur Chatham period.
"He sold the Jamaican property and moved to Saint James during World War Two and funded a militia and a yacht for subchasing," Hanna said breathlessly as she and Mister Radcliff climbed the green-pitted coquina steps.
"Colorful man."
"A local hero."
"I understand he died of syphilis."
"He did sleep around."
The ancient steps ascended to a wide mezzanine shaded by a brawny banyan tree and guarded by a sandstone manticore. Beyond, amid smothering melaleuca, stood Chatham House.
*
The iron gate was corroded with verdigris and sprung open, swaying in the wind with a siren song.
Mister Radcliff leaned forward and kissed Hannah. She replied with a bold kiss of her own. Above them in the great banyon two budgerigars sparred in a clash of feathers. The many chambered house of boughs lowed a warning.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
hashamaki!
Mango gimped along on his club foot. His running game was nil. Yet within his zone of influence he was invincible at play. Fierce as a gamecock. And it wounded his pride never to be invited to play socially sanctioned soccer. So he developed body and mind in seclusion. Like that of a samurai warrior his mind was steely, and multifaceted as a gemstone. In physical training his spirit guide was Tarzan. He climbed banyan trees, he stood waist deep in the sea and practised standing jumps, and swam alongside the riptide. His daily jog up the piedmont to Spyglass Hill tightened muscles, improved breathing, and added stamina.
At age fifteen he was a marvel.
That was when he discovered Japan. He read of the Divine Wind.
He would play soccer not as a game. It would be a form of meditation.
And like the brave Kamakazi pilots of old, he tied a hashamaki around his head.
*
The Deadknockers were outcasts, misfits, criminals, and they loved combat.
To join them you had to have the balls to ask. To boldly go where you have never been before.
"You want to play ball with us?" The blockheaded boy named Gigante sneered down at Mango. Then he thumped the soccer ball off the head of a ga-ga teammate.
Mango stood, arms akimbo. Legs wide apart. His center of gravity exactly where it should be.
A strip of white cloth with chicken blood caligraphy was tied around his buzzcut.
"Try me," Mango leveled. "I'm full of surprises."
Gigante placed his enormous hands upon Mango's hard little shoulders. "Who are you supposed to be? The Karate Kid?"
Confident, relaxed, and ready for anything, Mango's eyes glittered with anticipation. He taunted Gigante: "Don't push me."
The gentle giant guffawed. And pushed the little blighter with all of his might. Next thing he knew, he was sitting on his duff.
"Ha ha ha ha hah! Good one, Nagasaki! Help me up."
Mango gave his new friend a hand. "I told you I'm full of surprises."
"Yes, you did. Ha ha ha hah!"
*
Their fierce play could hardly be called soccer. Rules of engagement allowed them to advance the ball in any manner short of killing an opponent. The big difference from rugby was they were not permitted to carry the ball.
The arena was called "sticker stadium." Sandspurs and fireants. Perhaps a coral snake.
One Saturday afternoon they pooled enough money to buy theatre tickets and attended the Bay Theatre, a converted dance hall at the end of a dark alley. The movie was "Braveheart."
Ever after, these hooligans painted themselves blue.
And "sticker stadium" would resound with a clamor harkening back to the Battle of Stirling.
At age fifteen he was a marvel.
That was when he discovered Japan. He read of the Divine Wind.
He would play soccer not as a game. It would be a form of meditation.
And like the brave Kamakazi pilots of old, he tied a hashamaki around his head.
*
The Deadknockers were outcasts, misfits, criminals, and they loved combat.
To join them you had to have the balls to ask. To boldly go where you have never been before.
"You want to play ball with us?" The blockheaded boy named Gigante sneered down at Mango. Then he thumped the soccer ball off the head of a ga-ga teammate.
Mango stood, arms akimbo. Legs wide apart. His center of gravity exactly where it should be.
A strip of white cloth with chicken blood caligraphy was tied around his buzzcut.
"Try me," Mango leveled. "I'm full of surprises."
Gigante placed his enormous hands upon Mango's hard little shoulders. "Who are you supposed to be? The Karate Kid?"
Confident, relaxed, and ready for anything, Mango's eyes glittered with anticipation. He taunted Gigante: "Don't push me."
The gentle giant guffawed. And pushed the little blighter with all of his might. Next thing he knew, he was sitting on his duff.
"Ha ha ha ha hah! Good one, Nagasaki! Help me up."
Mango gave his new friend a hand. "I told you I'm full of surprises."
"Yes, you did. Ha ha ha hah!"
*
Their fierce play could hardly be called soccer. Rules of engagement allowed them to advance the ball in any manner short of killing an opponent. The big difference from rugby was they were not permitted to carry the ball.
The arena was called "sticker stadium." Sandspurs and fireants. Perhaps a coral snake.
One Saturday afternoon they pooled enough money to buy theatre tickets and attended the Bay Theatre, a converted dance hall at the end of a dark alley. The movie was "Braveheart."
Ever after, these hooligans painted themselves blue.
And "sticker stadium" would resound with a clamor harkening back to the Battle of Stirling.
deadknockers 2
In 1492 Spain expelled the Moors and the Jews who refused to accept Christ. The Converted Ones had by then gained a relatively decent standard of living. Yet to many Christian-born Spaniards this had become irksome. The materialistic and extravagant lifestyle of a successful "converso" rankled feudal sensibility. For although he attended Mass, genuflected at correct moments, and received the Body of Christ in Holy Communion, his day-to-day philosophy was but a form of secular humanism. He pursued the arts and sciences of Moorish Spain. And the traditional Jewish study of law and finance remained his passport to success in the mundane world.
For ten years now Torquemada had been torturing and executing all manner of heritics. The Church was mightily pleased with his results. So it was decided somewhere in secret that Torquemada apply himself to the "Jewish Problem." Attrocities were benignly ignored by all.
Also in 1492 as everyone knows, Columbus discovered San Salvador.
Not much later a Guzman, destined to manage a ship's store, departed for Hispanola.
Reuben had been the first of Itzaak Guzman's descendents to return to Spain.
He studied language and played soccer at the university in Madrid. He made his Christian parents Chubby and Isobel Guzman extremely proud..
*
Chubby heard someone coming up the street, squeaking on crepe rubber soles. He finished snipping the twine on a bundle of assorted magazines from the distributer and, without looking up, he greeted Constable Merryweather.
"What can I do for you, good officer?"
"We should sit down, Mister Guzman." Already the constable was unconsciously tugging his gunmetal gray handlebar moustache.
"Uh-oh. Serious talk. What's my boy done now?"
*
The Deadknockers emerged from their field mindless mud creatures, too weary to speak.
Mango grinned, showing the bloody gap where a tooth had been kicked free. His hashamaki miraculously remained tied around his head.
"Hey-yo, Mama Calderon!" He called to the stout black-robed woman standing with a parisol at the obliterated chalkline. Her nose and ears were troubled with skin cancer. She was never seen outdoors without her parisol. Rain or shine.
"Santa Maria!" She exclaimed, "You are sorely hurt, young man."
"Esta nada."
"It is NOT nothing. It is something. Come here."
She wiped blood from his face with his shirt-tail. Frowning, she commented on his dental hygene as well as his injury.
"I am not quite so handsome now," he boasted.
"You have a badge of battle."
"It is grand."
"Now go to that rascal father of yours and have him send you to a good dentist."
Crushing him with a maternal bearhug, she thought: This is better than all the hot chocolate in the world.
Mango was the dearest thing in her life. Once she took him to bed. And committed a Mortal Sin. She wept beneath his birdlike body and begged God's forgiveness.
At that time Mango wondered what he had done wrong.
*
By the time he returned to his crib Mango's jaw was throbbing like a jackhammer cracking concrete. He went straight to the spicebox where he stashed surplus medication and picked out a couple of Darvon tabletes.
He left a message. "This is Mango. Got a tooth knocked out playing soccer. Hurts like hell. Book me a dentist right away."
In the fridge were two Heinekens Jimmy-Scamp had swiped from the Jolly Roger. Mango drank them with the Darvon and settled down. He flipped through a new issue of Outside. Then his attention settled upon the lava lamp. His pain drifted toward the ceiling and vanished.
Sometime later he found himself gazing at a poster on the wall.
It was a campy facsimile of a Federal Theatre billboard circa 1937. "Big Blow" by Florida writer Theodore Pratt, author of the popular regional novel "The Barefoot Mailman." Mister Radcliff had purchased it at the Saint James fleamarket. Its artwork showed people on the run amidst clawlike trees and streaming clouds.
Deep within him lurked a memory of thrashing fronds outside a casement window. Throwing shadows against the wall.
For ten years now Torquemada had been torturing and executing all manner of heritics. The Church was mightily pleased with his results. So it was decided somewhere in secret that Torquemada apply himself to the "Jewish Problem." Attrocities were benignly ignored by all.
Also in 1492 as everyone knows, Columbus discovered San Salvador.
Not much later a Guzman, destined to manage a ship's store, departed for Hispanola.
Reuben had been the first of Itzaak Guzman's descendents to return to Spain.
He studied language and played soccer at the university in Madrid. He made his Christian parents Chubby and Isobel Guzman extremely proud..
*
Chubby heard someone coming up the street, squeaking on crepe rubber soles. He finished snipping the twine on a bundle of assorted magazines from the distributer and, without looking up, he greeted Constable Merryweather.
"What can I do for you, good officer?"
"We should sit down, Mister Guzman." Already the constable was unconsciously tugging his gunmetal gray handlebar moustache.
"Uh-oh. Serious talk. What's my boy done now?"
*
The Deadknockers emerged from their field mindless mud creatures, too weary to speak.
Mango grinned, showing the bloody gap where a tooth had been kicked free. His hashamaki miraculously remained tied around his head.
"Hey-yo, Mama Calderon!" He called to the stout black-robed woman standing with a parisol at the obliterated chalkline. Her nose and ears were troubled with skin cancer. She was never seen outdoors without her parisol. Rain or shine.
"Santa Maria!" She exclaimed, "You are sorely hurt, young man."
"Esta nada."
"It is NOT nothing. It is something. Come here."
She wiped blood from his face with his shirt-tail. Frowning, she commented on his dental hygene as well as his injury.
"I am not quite so handsome now," he boasted.
"You have a badge of battle."
"It is grand."
"Now go to that rascal father of yours and have him send you to a good dentist."
Crushing him with a maternal bearhug, she thought: This is better than all the hot chocolate in the world.
Mango was the dearest thing in her life. Once she took him to bed. And committed a Mortal Sin. She wept beneath his birdlike body and begged God's forgiveness.
At that time Mango wondered what he had done wrong.
*
By the time he returned to his crib Mango's jaw was throbbing like a jackhammer cracking concrete. He went straight to the spicebox where he stashed surplus medication and picked out a couple of Darvon tabletes.
He left a message. "This is Mango. Got a tooth knocked out playing soccer. Hurts like hell. Book me a dentist right away."
In the fridge were two Heinekens Jimmy-Scamp had swiped from the Jolly Roger. Mango drank them with the Darvon and settled down. He flipped through a new issue of Outside. Then his attention settled upon the lava lamp. His pain drifted toward the ceiling and vanished.
Sometime later he found himself gazing at a poster on the wall.
It was a campy facsimile of a Federal Theatre billboard circa 1937. "Big Blow" by Florida writer Theodore Pratt, author of the popular regional novel "The Barefoot Mailman." Mister Radcliff had purchased it at the Saint James fleamarket. Its artwork showed people on the run amidst clawlike trees and streaming clouds.
Deep within him lurked a memory of thrashing fronds outside a casement window. Throwing shadows against the wall.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
deadknockers
Reuben was beloved by everyone as "Angel Eyes."
His obsidean orbs blazed like hellfire. Like a six-winged seraphim he possessed a severe androgynous beauty that caused many a heart to flutter. He was able to bed anyone he desired. When ever he cast a gaze into the stadium bleachers women swooned and men licked their lips. His smile out-dazzled the sun.
His prowess on the field rivaled that of Mango.
Always the gentleman, he played with high drama and finesse. His boldly won matches were uncanny.
Belonging to a lesser league, Mango never faced Reuben man to man.
This day Mango and Jimmy-Scamp sat on the highest bleacher, drinking palm wine from a miniature amphora. They heckled Reuben to the dismay of adoring fans.
A yellow-skinned woman the size of a Hummer hollered at them: "Shut your filthy mouths! You sons of black whores!"
Another Afro-Asian woman, smaller but no less vocal, barked: "Worthless borachos, go to hell!"
The punks looked at each other, amazed with their effect upon the crowd.
They shrugged and then directed abuse toward the two women.
"Hey-yo, Mama Zitas! Go home and wash your stinking pussies!"
Reuben looked up into the crowd and locked eyes with Mango. Behave yourselves. Or there will be blood.
Jimmy-Scamp nudged Mango. "We better pipe down."
*
The public address system rattled like a man dying of emphysema. Music from a recorded Wurlitzer organ hissed and popped. The crowd cheered as their heros positioned themselves to receive the ball. It crossed the field several times amid bitter strife. As the clock ticked down, the ball was marshalled violently toward Reuben. He took it and turned to launch it point blank for a guaranteed goal.
Then like Pallas Athena on the plains of Troy, Fate laid her terrible hand upon Reuben's play. He sliced the ball wide and the game was lost. His mates fell to their knees upon the hushed field and wept.
Shock and disappointment reigned in the home bleachers.
Even Mango and Jimmy-Scamp sat stunned and speechless.
A boozy Cayman man shouted: "Goddamn Spanish Jew. He cost me fifty pounds!"
Mango stood up and said to Jimmy-Scamp, "Let's get out of here."
*
Fans of the victorious team paraded through Old Town's grand colonial bars and hotels, some with balconied iron filigree. Soon the avenue was clogged with rowdies tossing beer bottles at cars. Reuben drove his Jeep Wrangler in the opposite direction and found himself in Spanish Town. He desired anonymity, but there was none to be had, and his hellbent quest led him onto the meanest of streets.
Everyone in the smoke-filled barroom knew him when he entered.
Dressed like a canecutter, he was too pretty to be a canecutter.
Red and black checkerboard flannel shirt and bluejeans with slit knees. Nice try. He looked more like a collegiate Sandinista. When he ordered a beer he spoke in high-toned Old World Spanish.
Big Jugs called to the barkeep: "Angel Eyes wants a cervay-tha!"
A man with a pox-scarred face sat at a nearby table. He asked, "Why are you dressed so shabbily, amigo?"
"I wanted to get away from my people. You can see that."
"Si."
Big Jugs added, "You should get away from here."
"I gather this is not the place."
"This is not the place."
Reuben drank his beer as calmly as he could before departing.
On the sidewalk a drunken man from Alabama cursed him. "Never thought YOU would shave points, son."
Barrel-chested burgundy Izod knit shirt. Khaki Dockers slacks with a blued snub .38 tucked in the waist like an old fashion belly gun. Pig eyes, set wide apart.
"Pardon me," Reuben groaned. "I must be going."
"Well, don't let ME stop you, son."
The street led away into a fog thick enough to blur neon signs. His Jeep Wrangler was parked at the mouth of an alley. Keys already in hand, he kept thinking: Got to get out of here. Got to get out of here.
*
Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman was not the innocent fool. He knew that island soccer was rife with gambling, most of it on the level of craps and penny-ante poker. There were Haitian racketeers who controlled the serious betting. In hotels, hotsy-totsy joints, even beachside cabanas. They had enforcers
that no one resisted. Zombie Ton Ton.
He knew you could go online with Las Vegas. VISA, MasterCard and AMEX accepted.
That said, Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman ignored the criminal infestation.
His game was clean. A joyous sport.
*
The machete bit into him with a whump.
Sticky with cane sap, the blade severed half the neck. Collarbone and esophagus were ruined. Flannel folded into the gash. It blotted up arterial blood. Again the awful blade zoomed down, missing the neck, and chopped into the deltoid. The assassin screamed. He had wished to decapitate the soccer player and steal the head. With an angry slash he lopped off the lower jaw.
There! That should terrorize the children!
Reuben's vision dimmed. Through the fog a red neon sign blinked: CERVEZA CERVEZA CERVEZA.
His obsidean orbs blazed like hellfire. Like a six-winged seraphim he possessed a severe androgynous beauty that caused many a heart to flutter. He was able to bed anyone he desired. When ever he cast a gaze into the stadium bleachers women swooned and men licked their lips. His smile out-dazzled the sun.
His prowess on the field rivaled that of Mango.
Always the gentleman, he played with high drama and finesse. His boldly won matches were uncanny.
Belonging to a lesser league, Mango never faced Reuben man to man.
This day Mango and Jimmy-Scamp sat on the highest bleacher, drinking palm wine from a miniature amphora. They heckled Reuben to the dismay of adoring fans.
A yellow-skinned woman the size of a Hummer hollered at them: "Shut your filthy mouths! You sons of black whores!"
Another Afro-Asian woman, smaller but no less vocal, barked: "Worthless borachos, go to hell!"
The punks looked at each other, amazed with their effect upon the crowd.
They shrugged and then directed abuse toward the two women.
"Hey-yo, Mama Zitas! Go home and wash your stinking pussies!"
Reuben looked up into the crowd and locked eyes with Mango. Behave yourselves. Or there will be blood.
Jimmy-Scamp nudged Mango. "We better pipe down."
*
The public address system rattled like a man dying of emphysema. Music from a recorded Wurlitzer organ hissed and popped. The crowd cheered as their heros positioned themselves to receive the ball. It crossed the field several times amid bitter strife. As the clock ticked down, the ball was marshalled violently toward Reuben. He took it and turned to launch it point blank for a guaranteed goal.
Then like Pallas Athena on the plains of Troy, Fate laid her terrible hand upon Reuben's play. He sliced the ball wide and the game was lost. His mates fell to their knees upon the hushed field and wept.
Shock and disappointment reigned in the home bleachers.
Even Mango and Jimmy-Scamp sat stunned and speechless.
A boozy Cayman man shouted: "Goddamn Spanish Jew. He cost me fifty pounds!"
Mango stood up and said to Jimmy-Scamp, "Let's get out of here."
*
Fans of the victorious team paraded through Old Town's grand colonial bars and hotels, some with balconied iron filigree. Soon the avenue was clogged with rowdies tossing beer bottles at cars. Reuben drove his Jeep Wrangler in the opposite direction and found himself in Spanish Town. He desired anonymity, but there was none to be had, and his hellbent quest led him onto the meanest of streets.
Everyone in the smoke-filled barroom knew him when he entered.
Dressed like a canecutter, he was too pretty to be a canecutter.
Red and black checkerboard flannel shirt and bluejeans with slit knees. Nice try. He looked more like a collegiate Sandinista. When he ordered a beer he spoke in high-toned Old World Spanish.
Big Jugs called to the barkeep: "Angel Eyes wants a cervay-tha!"
A man with a pox-scarred face sat at a nearby table. He asked, "Why are you dressed so shabbily, amigo?"
"I wanted to get away from my people. You can see that."
"Si."
Big Jugs added, "You should get away from here."
"I gather this is not the place."
"This is not the place."
Reuben drank his beer as calmly as he could before departing.
On the sidewalk a drunken man from Alabama cursed him. "Never thought YOU would shave points, son."
Barrel-chested burgundy Izod knit shirt. Khaki Dockers slacks with a blued snub .38 tucked in the waist like an old fashion belly gun. Pig eyes, set wide apart.
"Pardon me," Reuben groaned. "I must be going."
"Well, don't let ME stop you, son."
The street led away into a fog thick enough to blur neon signs. His Jeep Wrangler was parked at the mouth of an alley. Keys already in hand, he kept thinking: Got to get out of here. Got to get out of here.
*
Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman was not the innocent fool. He knew that island soccer was rife with gambling, most of it on the level of craps and penny-ante poker. There were Haitian racketeers who controlled the serious betting. In hotels, hotsy-totsy joints, even beachside cabanas. They had enforcers
that no one resisted. Zombie Ton Ton.
He knew you could go online with Las Vegas. VISA, MasterCard and AMEX accepted.
That said, Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman ignored the criminal infestation.
His game was clean. A joyous sport.
*
The machete bit into him with a whump.
Sticky with cane sap, the blade severed half the neck. Collarbone and esophagus were ruined. Flannel folded into the gash. It blotted up arterial blood. Again the awful blade zoomed down, missing the neck, and chopped into the deltoid. The assassin screamed. He had wished to decapitate the soccer player and steal the head. With an angry slash he lopped off the lower jaw.
There! That should terrorize the children!
Reuben's vision dimmed. Through the fog a red neon sign blinked: CERVEZA CERVEZA CERVEZA.
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