Happy Shack: part 7

 The next installment! If you need to read them all, click the Happy Shack label at the bottom of the post.
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We picked our way back through the dreck and rivulets of decomp juice, me stealing glances, her strangely quiet. I’d been hoping to kiss her goodbye at the Happy Shack, but now it didn’t seem right.

Tucson Blues

Woke up this mornin’ got them Tucson Blues.
Woke up this mornin’ got them Tucson Blues.
The sun ain’t risin, and it’s already 82.

Swamp cooler’s silent mama. Couldn’t pay your ‘lectric bill.
Swamp cooler’s quiet. Couldn’t pay your ‘lectric bill.
Yeah the city’s gettin’ hotter and the border hotter still.

Woke up this mornin’ got them Border Patrol Blues.
Woke up this mornin’ got them Border Patrol Blues.
Yeah, they say sticks and stones will hurt ya. That ain’t nothin’ to what a bullet can do.

Woke up this mornin’ got them Tucson Blues.
Woke up this mornin’ got them Tucson Blues.
The sun is a risin’  and it’s already 92.

Well I’m going to the desert. Baby, do you wanna come?
Said I’m going to the desert. Baby, do you wanna come?
Well there’s so much shit in Arizona, baby your bound to step in some.

If you wake up in Mexico, and you got them walkin’ blues.
Just head for the border and bring your runnin’ shoes.
Cause the coyotes are hungry, and the minute men are too.

Woke up this mornin’ got them Tucson Blues.
Woke up this mornin’ got them Tucson Blues.
The sun is up now’  and it’s already 102.

Happy Shack part 6

“Sharks? I don’t worry about sharks. As long as you stay off the major tracks, you know, where they give a glitch to plow, you’re fine. Sharks aren’t too fond of the smell of dreck.”

Bobby was a magician.
Not the poof-cloud-of-smoke kind, but the real kind.
The kind that taps into the electricity of life, of smiles, of blood.
The kind of magic I’m talking about is the kind that silences
the snickers and jabs on an entire bus,
or at least the back four seats,
which might as well be the entire bus.

Unless, of course, you're talking about the front seat
behind Ms. Super-piano,

which was more a throne than a punishment.

Bobby was a magician of the heart and sometimes wondrous science.
After Alec Morenovich made Silly Putty for the science fair
(Seriously! The kid made Silly Putty),
after I had sent my piece-of-shit albatross electric glider

on its last mission (a suicide flight off the living room roof),

he made crystals from household chemicals.

The night went like this:
Glass Joe on pause
(decidedly not punched out)
A cavernous stock pot set on his desk
with a bare bulb standing in for a Bunsen Burner.
Orange Juice
Lemon Juice
Skim Milk
Dish Soap

Mouthwash

Woolite
Ranch dressing
Karen’s perfume
Green food coloring
Salt
Sugar
Crushed black pepper
Crushed red pepper
Corn
One Marlborough Red
Saliva

With a wooden spoon, I stirred,
holding my nose as Bobby stood guard,
probably reducing Lisa to tears in the process.
I don’t remember ever leaving the pot
(I would never shirk my duties with science on the line)
and perhaps this is where the magic came in.
In mid stir, my spoon clacked against something hard.
Deep down, below the bubbles,
beneath the floating mats of pepper and spume.
Down among the corn, but not corn because it clacked.
Bobby watching over my shoulder as I carefully slid it
up the long metal side, never dropping it once,
my breath held still and quiet.

I later learned that the white crystalline formation
was not born of Woolite, tobacco, and Karen’s perfume,
but a common pebble of quartz, lifted from the driveway
and plunked into the stew when I wasn’t looking.
But here’s where it gets strange, because I never wasn’t looking.
Somehow, Bobby had snuck the pebble in
under the intense scrutiny of science.
Magic.

When Bobby told me of his trick,
giggling over a piece of Shoreline Pizza,
I could have poured the pot
(spume and all) right over his head,
but deep down, swirling among the corn
I smiled at the magic of it all.
Because Bobby was a magician
not of smoke and playing cards,
but of pinching cigarettes
of Punch Out and Zelda
of uncontrollable laughing fits,
and electric summers.

Happy Shack: Part 5

The next installment!

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“You can’t be in here.” A male voice cut through the black. It came from my left.

Happy Shack pt. 4

Behind Happy Shack, spewing out and around the back door, were piles of broken down restaurant equipment, greasy guts now rusted to shit. I sat on what looked like an old heating unit, it’s warmth long since spent, sent out into nothing until it becomes nothing itself.

Legados

Hey all! Come see my pot in person at the Raices Taller Gallery. It has been selected as part of the "Legados" show in honor of the legacy of Cesar Chavez.

The gallery is located on 218 E. 6th. St. I'll be there at tonight at the opening reception, but the show runs through April 16th.

Happy Shack pt. 3

The next installment. Also re-read part one, as I added a paragraph to describe the world better. Hey...it's a work in progress!

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The Sweet Slurp was the color of emeralds and every ice chip was a diamond on my tongue. Not just from the cost of sweetener. No, my friends, I was celebrating a victory!

Gato Gimme-Gimme

Just fired this last night! The ash clouds on top came out perfect. Didn't expect the blue-ish gray.

Happy Shack pt. 2

Happy Shack: Net 11 is what we like to call home from about midnight to dawn, when the thermometer reads “Goddamn Cold” instead of “Freeze Your Nuts Off Cold”. I say dawn, but we usually got kicked out before that. Once we stop buying, the serving machines stop serving, and if you hang around long enough, the sharks will nab you for loitering, and nobody wants to deal with that, especially when it’s cold enough to--well you know.

Happy Shack pt. 1

A rough beginning to a short story that's been bouncing around in my head for about a year now...

3.4.11- Edited. I added the last paragraph. Helps explain the worlds a bit better.
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Happy Shacks on the lower levels look just like Happy Shacks at the upper levels. Same immaculate white light, soft, no shadows. Same white paper hats, same white teeth gleaming from behind mechanized smiles. You’d think the dreck showers would dull that gleam, but nope. Happy Shack remains unblemished and the whites stay white.

Brittle wire break and lights out.
Flashes of colbalt and crimson and clench.
“Where are my goddamn papers?”
An ear lit red-orange and calavera eyes.
Empty holes.
“Ah, he’s just doing his job.”
Paper the color of Pepto that later reads: DIRT INTERIOR.
Not dirt. Clutter.
Maybe some dirt.
“Press hard. You’re making four copies.”
My life laid out in the dust:
two cardboard boxes of student teacups
A Single Shard
yellow bag
car seat
travel mug
small plate
toast crumbs
two dog leashes
pride

The yuppy drove a black beamer.
At least that’s the car I’ve given him
in the flickering Kodachrome film
that loops golden-green behind my eyes.
He probably wasn’t a yuppy.
That’s a label that popped up a lot
when my dad and uncle got together.
Dusty was hit hard in the ribs
after sprinting onto Beaver Brook Rd.
The yuppy’s vision was likely obscured
by curtains of bittersweet
(Southern Connecticut kudzu),
and he probably was driving too fast
to notice the dog had escaped the confines
of Dad’s rattle-trap van,
and in a burst of sawdust and beer cans,
bounded off to meet his maker.
(a yuppy in a black beamer).
Uncle Dougie and Turbo Ned chased the bastard
because the yuppy didn’t do the right thing,
which is to stop and at the very least apologize.
So they peeled out in their pickup
(at least I think it was a pickup)
petal to the metal down black rat snake roads
hot from baking in the sun.
My dad, his tall, thin frame folded over a limp brown dog
like that Picasso’s painting of an old man and his guitar.
My dad. He didn’t get into the pickup to chase down
the asshole yuppy speeding in his beamer.
The asshole yuppy who pulled over
and Uncle Dougie and Turbo Ned
(probably riding his bumper and weaving)
blew right by him.
Uncle Dougie and Turbo Ned who later said
they hadn’t gotten a good look at the car.
And my Dad too distracted by a small dog dying in his arms.
And the yuppy in the black beamer
pulled over by a curtain of bittersweet
watching the pickup disappear down the road.

"The Wonk" Mug

When do bones cease to be creepy?
We never shield our eyes from the bright white
of the driest desert-punished remains,
but should a chunk still cling, blackened gristle with fur
we clutch our bellies, pinch our noses,
and turn our backs on the inevitable end.
When does flesh turn from muscle to food?
Is jerky still jerky when a rib lies within?
Boneless, skinless, white meat sans veins, blood and death.
Fish with heads cleanly removed and not a scale in sight.
I‘d like to see a DIY butcher shop.

What’ll it be today Frank?
I dunno, what do ya think, son? Pork chops?
Pig it is.
(enter Thursday night supper)
Here’s your hammer!

...I can’t do it son. I can’t do it.
That’s okay, Dad. I like carrots too.

We all dance delicately,
boned, gutted, skinned, and filleted.
Cleaned and packed.
Carefully put on ice next to a ubiquitous leaf of kale.

Abuelos Bowl for My Daughter.

Vostok

The saguaro cactus, when exposed to subfreezing temperatures will produce a wobble. One can see this wobble on a hike through the desert. The tender cells atop each column are given the responsibility of producing the next years growth. Quite a task for youth. The wobble, a dip in the vertical rise of the cacti, occurs after sustained cold temperatures.

This morning in my car (heat blasting), I heard on the news of a buried Antarctic lake. A blue heart, liquid menthol within a white square of peppermint gum. The lake (Vostok) lies beneath two miles of ice and is the size of New Jersey. Russian scientists are drilling down for a sample of ancient water.

At 5:15 am I turned on the water in the bathroom, but all that came out of the faucet was a belch of cold water no more than a quarter cup. Not enough to wash my hands let alone a shower. I circled the house in search of busted pipes, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. It seems our tiny bungalow is frozen solid. Tucson has become Lake Vostok, and somewhere down in our pipes is liquid water. Nothing to do but wait for the sun to thaw us out.

Wake up to NPR.
Find largest button.
Press gently.
Close eyes.
Wake up to NPR.
Find longest lever.
Slide feet into wool-lined slippers.
Pull hoodie over the head.
Teapot on if the bladder can withstand
the stream of water from the refridgerator door.
Corral the grounds into a screen cup.
Shake out water.
Compost.
Return to dark bedroom for
pants
shirt
tie
underwear
socks in shoes for later
belt
sounds of baby breath between a snore, a wheeze, and a whistle
Dogs up and out before cacophony of ears and collars.
Enter kitchen
Find smallest button on the right.
Press gently.
Find vertical rocking lever.
Press top twice. Gently.
Listen to NPR
Coffee. French pressed.
Sit. Socks. Shoes.
Dog lacing figure-eights under legs.
Dishwasher “undone”
Toast. (two beeps)
Dogs fed. (sit, lie down, roll-over, okay)
Butter and honey/jam/cinnamon sugar
Lunch of fruit in plastic sack
(to be reused in future art room ceramics projects).
Dogs in.
Find legs, arms in bed.
Avoid them.
Find cheeks (one large, one small)
Kiss them.
Pause to make out the shape of a family.
Turn off dining room light.
Leave home dark and sleeping.