Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Rain on the Way Home (Blogophilia 9.7)

Rain was speckling the windshield, turning streetlights into starbursts and oncoming headlights into energy fields he didn't understand. Didn't matter anyway. A flick of a lever started the wipers on their slow, rhythmic pace. Click Clack...Click Clack....  As Jeremy drove, the car bomb scene replayed itself in time with the noise.Click Clack...Click Clack... Chaos and destruction was what his life kept coming back to. Chaos he was used to. Destruction was going to be a new experience.

Ole Harry here, back with you geezers  on WOFT.  You remember the Golden Age of Music of the late 1970's? Oh, wow. Don't I sound like your mother? The tone she would use talkin' about how Acid and 'Ludes would give you flashbacks? In honor of that sentiment, he is Jimmy Buffett with "We Are the People Are Parents Warned Us About..."

The steel drums coming from the speakers seemed to turn off the noise in his head. The rain began to slack off. Roswell Road was deserted as he drove closer into the city. All he wanted was to just blend into the pavement unnoticed so he could get started. In the darkness of the car his thoughts came back into focus. It was time to redress all the crimes and deprivations he had been exposed to.

So, how to go about it? Research everything first. Errors using inadequate data are much less than those using no data at all, right? Where had he heard that before? It wasn't HST. Some computer genius, he guessed.

 He'd never been around anything explosive. First stop will be going online and doing some research. He'd have to be careful, of course. Don't want to tip the hand too soon. He thought about hacking the neighbors WiFi connection, but he knew it would be better if he logged on from several places and use the IP scrambler app he'd found.  That way, if someone looked, it would seem the info request came from Canada or Ohio or something.  And even if they got past that, it would only lead to a Starbucks.  That was easy enough.

It's now 3:30 in the AM and you ARE having flashbacks?Well, take another hit from the Old Fart bong. That reminds me. We at WOFT haven't forgotten our roots in R & B and romance. Let me pull one off the back wall. Here is "Love Shack.."

"...I'm going down the Atlanta Highway...".

The old farm house! The old barn would be perfect for the build and and there were no neighbors. Jeremy had no idea if anyone was living on the property, but he would drive out later and find out. The light at Peachtree turned yellow. He just blew on through it. Just a couple more blocks to home and the beginning of the new phase. 

Finally, there was the target.  Those two stinking assholes...Walter Murray and William T. Jackson...just the thought of them made him sweat. They had conspired to ruin his life. He blamed them more than Mother or Sarah, who they claimed died in the fire. Sarah wasn't dead. He wasn't believing that. Mother just said she was sent away for being a temptation. She was dancing, but dancing with another man other than him. Images of the white room they talked to him flashed in across his field of vision.They badgered him into confessing to it, emphasizing Sarah's last suffering breaths. It was their fault he spent so long in that locked room.

Murray and Jackson.  Tried and convicted of false witness and hatred. The jury of voices recommended death and he agreed. He had thought about shooting them over the years, but he couldn't risk having any guns at the house Probation searched the place regularly. Bombs made more sense in that they could be assembled anywhere and then transported to a predetermined location, like a ghetto complex where no one asked questions about broken down cars and dead bodies.

The thoughts began to jumble again as he turned into the building lot. The decidedly Mediterranean motif of his place was so jarringly out of place here in the rich part of town. It fit Jeremy, though.  He was out of place anywhere anyway.  

Friday, April 18, 2014

Riding Home (Blogophilia 8.7)

Jeremy became more alert in the cool night air. The Toyota hadn’t been towed yet. Breathing in, he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The glow from the Kroger sign warmed him.  He faked calling the taxi; he knew the bartender was going to take his keys.  And he need time to think on how exactly to bring the ascendant swine down to their appointment with the butcher.

The image of the car bomb blinked silently in his mind.  Twisted metal shredding bodies.  "In Kandahar, a car bomb was detonated in front of a local police station…" . The words came out involuntarily.  Echolalia, he thought.  Common among the autistic and epileptic was what the article at the hospital had said.  Didn't someone say he was autistic at some point?  The doctors never could agree on what they thought of him.  And he didn't care. The reaction voiced what was inside.

He wondered if Kandahar could be replaced with Sandy Springs, Dunwoody or Atlanta.  All the authoritarian pigs who had bugged him for being a crazy drunk?  After all, isn't that what those crazy people over there are doing? Striking out against the pain and unfairness of this life?

It took three tries to put the key in the lock.  Maybe the taxi would be a good idea? Nah, he'd get some chatty Indian dude that smelled like last week's curry.  Not that he hated them.  They were pawns struggling against the system like everyone else.  But anyone like that would be a potential informant and he didn't want to expose anything too early.  Finally, the door opened and he spilled into the smooth cloth seat. He started the car and turned out on Hammond Drive.

The car had been Mother’s. He didn’t miss her, but her death did let him have a few things, like the car.  Beige and bland, it melted seamlessly onto the suburban Atlanta street. Nothing about it stood out and he liked that, especially since there was no other traffic. Too much attention had been paid to him already, especially by the police.  Flipping on the radio, he found the oldies station.

"Hey, Heidy and Howdy… It's Harry Handy, your randy, dandy late night DJ keeping you company here on 96.2 FM-WOFT, Old Fart's Radio. Radio for the Geritol Generation, still doing it after all these years…

Mother said to him many times she wished she had the abortion.  He was evil, pure and simple.  But he did have his uses in taking care of her disabled sister.  Aunt Sarah would spill things on the kitchen floor and Mother would make him clean it up by hand.  He still had scars on his knees from the blisters.  He was diligent and when he would finish, the grout was a white as when it was first installed.  Mother never acknowledged that.

 For you lonely drunks out there, and you know who you are, here's one from the 1960's… B.J. Thomas' Hooked On A Feeling...

Once in a while, Aunt Sarah would have him help with her baths.  Jeremy didn't mind because this was the only human touch he ever got.  He would guide her into the tub from her crutches in silence and turn the water on.  The wet curly hair and alabaster skin scented with floral soaps bought a little pleasure. Sarah was highly allergic to most flowers and there were never any in the house.  Mother didn’t like them anyway. 

When they would finish, he would towel off her backside carefully, following the exaggerated curve her back. He would knead the stiff muscles until they were pliable, and then hand her the towel to complete the front.  Sarah's cat would watch this from the top of the commode, amused at the process.

Once, he reached too low between her legs as he washed.  She slapped him hard enough to leave a mark and left with no explanation. He was stunned, and never repeated the move. Mother stopped the baths after he began to be aroused.  It was just too dangerous and she couldn't afford another mistake.  

Mother's scent lingered in the car, mocking his thought process.

So, are you hooked on your significant other's feeling?  No?  Here is a fan favorite..Drivin' and Crying, "Straight to Hell".

He thought back to thefire.  Conflagration filled his mind.  He could see the matches...a gasoline can, leaving the house, seemingly on a cloud.  Flames licking up from the basement windo. Did he really do that? Then an image of Sarah's cat, with all the fur totally charred off the small body came to his mind.  He remembered crying over it at the time. The cat was the only thing in the house that ever showed him any affection. Now, it was just a frozen memory.  

After the fire, he spent a very long time in a padded, windowless room with two large, smelly men with rolled up sleeves. The walls were stained where people had made contact. Were they slammed up against it?  The men badgered him mercilessly about what had happened.   As they wrote notes on their clipboards, they left the impression was he was going to go away for a long time.  The handcuffs hurt his wrists. He knew he was going to get his revenge at some point.

…For you Nikon enthusiasts, I have a special treat, Paul Simon live singing Kodachrome…

And now he may have a plan. 

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Never Again (Blogging Lounge #7)

Never again….

A phrase that makes a liar out of anyone who utters it.

We say "never again" when our head and body aches after a long binge, yet pick up the bottle the very next day.

We say "never again" when our belly is extended from gluttony, yet prepare double the food we need.

We say "never again" when we see children starving, while we eat the meal.

We say "never again" when we wake next naked next to a stranger, knowing the cold comfort in anonymous pairings.

We say "never again" when we see the poor robbed of their few belongings, yet another generation of thieves are always there.

We say "never again" when we see the enslaved free, but millions return to indenture.

We say "never again" when we see the corpses of the latest massacre, yet the zealots and jealous  who wish domination will not be swayed. 

 Never again should we speak it.

The words prove how utterly flawed we are. 

Thursday, April 10, 2014

3 Sheets (Blogophilia 7.7)

"Paranoia is just another word for ignorance."

Scotch spun in the glass as these words sprung from the page. Thompson was right, of course. He feared for of a lack of knowledge. The world is crazy. Can't explain why he spent three days in the nuthouse any other way.

Shrugging his thin shoulders, he took an unfiltered cigarette out of his battered leather jacket.and placed it in his mouth. Couldn't smoke in the bar, so he just chewed the end like a cigar. The bitter juice jolted his nervous system and muted the drag from the shots. 

They knew him well here at 3 Sheets. He had been coming here since before he could legally drink, because they never carded. Comfortably dark room and always the same seat overlooking the bridal shop. The Crack Kroger across the parking lot with it's comforting blue neon glow. Always the same drink, Cutty Sark on the rocks.A very ritualistic existence.

Counselors, Lawyers, Cops...all those pigs were watching, asking questions. Where was he going? Why did he have that notebook? What's the meaning of the tattoo on his arm. Hassling from the time he got up until he went to bed, looking to destroy his own little corner of life. And the rules...stupid ones like not being able to smoke in a bar. Whiskey and cigarettes went together. Everyone knows that. 

"In a nation ruled by swine, all pigs are upwardly mobile."

Thompson is right again. They were all pigs ready for slaughter. To make ham, he needed to study methods.  Learn how the machinery interacted and devise gambits against the master plan. He shifted in high stool and tossed amber liquid down his throat. Sweat formed at his temples as the alcohol and anger rose. Quit drinking and take their chemicals. Yeah, like that wasn't a trap to silence him.

Steely Dan began to drift from the sound system. Deacon Blues could be his theme song. "..So useless to ask me why..." Yeah, the dream was bought and paid for. But there was only one game in town. And he'd been drinking scotch whiskey for years.

Catching the bartender's eye, he signaled for a refill. His voice was distant as it reached his ears.  "You drivin' tonight, Jeremy? You look just a bit tipsy."

"Nah. I'll call a cab when I'm ready". He slurred. "I'll pick up the car tomorrow. Just bring me another Cutty, Thanks."

With a sigh, the bartender pulled the bottle up and filled the glass. 

"O.K., But let's make this one the last. Last call is ten minutes."  With that, the bartender turned and went back to taking inventory. The bar television was showing a recap of a random car bombing somewhere. Images of smoke burned and indelible image in his mind.

A light was beginning to form in the back of his mind. Jeremy knew how he could do it. Pulling out his cell, he dialed the taxi. After clicking off, he rose from the wooden chair. Steadying himself against the snack machine, he tossed a C noted on the bar and stumbled into the cool night air. 

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Red Rice (Blogging Lounge 6)

When I was a little, my mother would make Red Rice.

It is a humble dish, adapted from the Gullah settlers during the depression.  It's combination of leftover meat and vegetables was designed to fill bellies with low cost. 

But even to this day, I equate this dish with weekday dinner. It didn't matter what Mom's sobriety level was that night, she never would mess this recipe up.  And I would eat until my heart's content. 

When I was in college, my own ability to make this dish earned me more than one couch to stay on.

But now, I rarely get to eat it. My wife and kids hate onions and bell peppers.

I need to take a vacation.

So, I can eat it again.  

Savannah Red Rice