Prose, Poems, Reviews & Ramblings
Prose Poems Reviews + Ramblings
Acknowledgements
“A lie is profanity. A lie is the worst thing in the world. Art is the ability to tell the truth.” Richard Pryor
Thanks to friends and family too many to name. This is a gift to myself to relinquish writings of the past year and give them life; to give them names and a place to go, a true home. God is Great.
Shoutout to Ezekiel Wright-Robinson, For Keeps Books, 12pub, Playytime, Slumberland & Oyster Knife Literary Collective.
Dream Team
"I want to take my rightful share of life by force, I want to give lavishly, I want love to flow from my heart, to ripen and bear fruit. There are many horizons that must be visited, fruit that must be plucked, books read, and white pages in the scrolls of life to be inscribed with vivid sentences in a bold hand." - tayeb salih
"I couldn't care less if the guy I'm guarding has HIV. I'm going to slam him anyway. - Dennis Rodman
As I pulled up, I noticed that most of the cars were on the side of the Winn Dixie and the wing spot; the beauty supply shop is closed on Sundays. Something seemed off as I didn't see the normal congregation of cars and trucks near the shop. With my senses dulled from smelling wings hard fried, I approached Nappy Root quickly as my stomach grumbled.
I walk into the barber shop. There's not a soul in the place, so that means all the barbers are able to cut, all three of them. And they weren't eager to cut me either, no one jumped, no one moved. I think often of the video when Quavo walks in and the barber damn near karate chops his client straight out the chair. I expect no high royal treatment here - i'm an unclaimed client, courting whoever is getting to me right quicker. Regardless, I approach Barber A.
"Shadow fade; it’s growing to the back so I wanted to get it back higher but not too boxy."
"got u, got u"
He starts the cut, lacklusterly, but I have faith: his clippers are clean and aren't cutting me to fucking shreds. So I relax.
Until barber A continues to stop in the middle of the cut.
Then it hit me instantly: no one was in the shop as I went a. in the middle of church on sunday b. in the middle of the olympic basketball game between USA and Serbia.
It was genius - a clean getaway. "I'll start planning all my cuts during games, " I sat thinking. Until I snap back to reality and realize Barber A was entranced with the game; and I of course was able to see only glimpses of it through various spins and neck turns.
Trying to connect with him (in attempt to save my hairline, as I couldn't see the mirror either) I open conversation.
"Did you see the last team USA game," opening my eyes slowly, making sure hair didn't drop down and blind me. "USA barely got by against South Sudan."
"Yeah, Man" he dryly responded - I could have sworn he was cutting my hair with the head of a gecko, one eye looking at my head and one glued to the TV screen in the far right corner of the shop.
However, my plan worked - at this point he was less reluctant to respond and buckled down cutting; he chose a different setting on the clippers and locked in to finish the fade he started.
But then he started again, "But yeah I saw that game; really just an exhibition but, good." Success, I thought - Rapport established; the grip loosened on my head. As he relaxed, so did I.
So I started again, "Yeah it was wild, it took Lebron in the final seconds of the game to hit a lay up for a game winning play - and they were surprised he got it honestly. Or surprised he had to work that hard"
He scoffed a laugh, puffing his nose heavily like a dragon. "Well me, I'll tell you .Honestly - i'm not a fan of this era of ball"
"Really? well, What you mean by that" "I mean, that USA got there because they ass expected to be there. And not just be there, but be there and win. And of course, who wouldn't want them to win? Who wants to see them lose?"
A flash of thoughts instantly came into my head of the US men's national "soccer" team getting their ass beat over and over again, Copa America, World Cup, Olympics; it doesn’t matter. And the sportscasters they have telling them they suck are some of the black players that know they suck from experience. So no, I didn't want to see team USA lose unfortunately.
So, he was right - even though the USA continues to be on the wrong side of history every single year, I couldn't just sit around to watch Lebron lose. Nobody wanted to see them lose. But back to his speech -
"Team USA wouldn't stand a chance against the Dream Team, they barely beat Sudan! The states came up against a team that JUST got a practice facility let alone a basketball program! "
And once again, he was correct. With USA Playing against South Sudan (they are a team that's less than 15 years old) it was amazing to see them go against what is really the Best in the "West". As of 2024, South Sudan gained independence in
July 2011 - this makes the nation the youngest country in the world by technicalities. The conflict of the country has been overshadowed by countless other atrocities that also deserve their own spotlight during 2024 and recent years. Civil war, hunger, and more have hit the nation - however the basketball program of the Sundanese showed their prowess with making the greatest players of the NBA sweat and giving them a run for their money.
All this while a humanitarian crisis is going on with food, a war between the Sundanese Armed Forces and the Rapid Support forces; not to mention countries like the United States, UAE, and Saudi Arabia all having vested interests to gain more control in the region for various reasons (resources). I then think of the NBA starting a development league in South Sudan while so much shit is going on there. But back to the game, as that's where they say our focus should be.
"You give them a couple years and wait as these niggas keep getting softer over here."
Another point on the board for barber A - even The European academy structure of sports puts many kids light years ahead of AAU and American public education and athletic opportunities. But waiting for these niggas to get "softer" is what did hold me up. In an era with Draymond and others, that point could always be argued by someone who knows the game way more than me.
He continues - "I mean a couple of the stars on the bench probably have their nails painted"
"Well what about Dennis Rodman in his prime?" I replied, and instantly regretted. Mission : get a clean cut. “It's not always a round table discussion” I say internally.
Barber B in chair looks up from phone with me in subtle agreement and nods.
"Well damn, You're right - Rodman played hard and had mind games. He would fuck with Karl Malone, put a knee in his legs and just wrestle with some of the biggest guys in the game with no fear. Whether the hair, the fits, the girl he was with - Rodman was fucking with them."
We all agreed on Rodman's strength, agility, and ability to be larger than life.
"90s NBA felt like WWF. They looked and acted like wrestlers who would beat your ass with a Rick Flair attitude - And Rodman brought that out. Rockstar, sci-fi, party boy: anything the league didn't want a 6 foot black man from New Jersey to be."
"You damn right about that, Lebron traveled for that win and you know he's gonna cry about a foul or some shit about Bronny very soon" Barber B said as he scoots up from his chair to the table to finish his lunch.
"Exactly, so painted nails or not; these niggas soft!" barber A chimes back in.
All 4 of us laugh. Cut Finished, USA wins, and the shop quiets back down. Somehow, me included, folks still don't want to see team USA lose, Dream team or not.
Regardless, we better watch South Sudan and the rest of the world as it will keep spinning with or without us, regardless if we acknowledge.
Joan, Carrie
Darren Star, Kelsey Grammer. They must know something.
She carries a load She laughs, she writes, She’s not Carrie, in Joan, I see her: knows what she wants n gets. She damn sure knows, can't be broke nor can he or worse be broken shes Lynn and Maya, Coin alongside the loin She strives to go higher.
me?
Sometimes i'm William. It's okay to be William. no capers as Don Draper. Detective Alonzo will tell you King Kong aint got shit on you.
Darren Star, Kelsey Grammer. They know something.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
I've heard the music. I've needed my own private room to shut away everything outside - Dogwoods, water, flat rock, red clay. The need to get away from the very place that made me; yet the place that understands can shoo others away; these are the ones most who feel they are true outcasts. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers - a review of prose & the people in it.
To start, let's begin with Fountain City. I was born in Columbus, Georgia - Tuesday, October 3rd. I was born during a tornado in 1995 in a valley - it was like God telling a dark joke to Ma.
"In 1910, despite the black population making up more than 37% of the overall population of Columbus, segregation laws made the Carnegie library use restricted to whites only"
Carson was born 1917 and was 10 years old when the Great Depression really hit the city - she was a lover of "high and low" art - classical music, folk tales and everything in between. Sometimes I can feel when a writer played or wanted to play music way before they sit at the typewriter. She was a piano player who went to Julliard but returned home to Columbus where she wrote The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. There's a certain rhythm to her writing; I feel the lack thereof can sometimes be felt if writers haven't played anything or are tone-deaf. It can be felt in how plainly Carson puts the plot on the page and how the story beats on to the next character and their own story; similar to people trading off bars of four and soloing. Carson wrote a piece of
beautiful music at the age of 23 and some would say she was in a Jordan prime then.
As of 2024, the library on Macon Road in Columbus is one of the most equipped and impressive public libraries in the American South - while the museum closed for renovations, it was the space that housed all traveling exhibitions and also the one of the largest voting precincts of the community. In 2017, Hilton Als, cultural critic, visited the Columbus Library for the hundred year anniversary of McCullers’ birth.
Right behind the library is another notable building that is somewhat new to most residents: the Rainey-McCullers School of the Arts. When talking with a local bookstore owner, I asked if he saw the move coming; Columbus as a city recognizing Carson's and Ma's achievements for what they were; nothing short of excellence. By paraphrasing his reply, he told me that love and affection is very new for Carson's work, as the city since I was a child gave more love to Ma and her contributions.
Columbus was one of the last true Confederate citiesSherman didn't get to burn shit so the residents grew older alongside the dark history of the city. From it being a mill company town, the city of Columbus was then shaped by the textile manufacturers to Coca-Cola to the few oligarchical families who now donate to keep the art scene funded.
Everyone has their heroes - Martin, Malcolm’s etc (& so many more that should and could be named); They were martyrs; who only after death, were recognized as a saint and hero to not only his community but all. Carson ain't them, and she ain't holy - However it seemed as if the city were holding her up to an even higher regard after she was recognized in the canon of American literature nationally and worldwide. Faulkner, Bukowski, Capote and more gave her flowers while she was here and it took years for the city to note even that and give her her historical recognition. Only then was it
okay for them to recognize the non-traditional white women who congregated with ideas that would have had her in hot water if she kept living within McCarthy America. However, the flowers are being given and it is better than some more somber stories within American literature of forgotten greats.
When I research her now, I usually get three things: her relationship to other famous writers/her husband, her illness, and her sexuality. It's almost as if the works are mentioned briefly in passing. She is buried in upstate NY and it reminds me of many Columbus natives who leave and don't want to come back. However, through and through, connecting with her literature has reconnected me to my birthplace and to understand deeper that outcasts, black sheep and others have always existed; in towns smaller than Columbus.
In Als' Unhappy Endings article on McCullers’ work, he notes that Carson's use of classes and tropes are similar to the Russian realists who were popular at the time of her being active. Although the settings are vastly different, social orders from hundreds of years ago hold similar weight in Gothic southern novels - high class families live far away from the harms of the class under them while these same people actually are most subjected and vulnerable to the crimes of their own class. The rich, in fiction and reality, have an ability to at least fight for their innocence, or at least the right for a court trial. Even if guilty, they stand and say, "hell no I didn't do that. And I can prove it" There are way more differences between Dmitri Karamazov and Willie, Dr. Copeland's son (black doctor character), than similarities; but they both belong to classes within the novels that wrote their fate from the first page.
I feel McCullers truly represents herself as multiple characters, split between multiple tropes. She sees herself in the tomboy Mick of course yet realizes her queerness
within the character Biff. Her cultural understanding is shown through the doctor, a "rich" black man; and her frustration is made physical as Jake Blout. There's more to the characters that meet the eye however.
"To me the most impressive aspect is the astonishing humanity that enables a white writer, for the first time in Southern fiction, to handle Negro characters with as much ease and justice as those of her own race," - Richard Wight on Carson
At times throughout the book I know Carson spent time with black people. I know this for a fact. Specifically black people of Columbus, and being of the time, the mill residents of Bibb City.
The largest issue I have is with the vernacular or lack thereof; I didn't exist then but I know damn well that most of the black characters didn't speak that way. The adaptation of the black man's southern english is the language of McCullers black characters yet something tells me, black people just didn't talk that way. Country or city, rich or poor, Code switched or not; there's a lack and disconnect but showed her dedication to tell a raw story.
Her work is worth the read and time - She’s one of the largest names that have come out the city; since then it’s just been Wayne Brady recognition. You don’t have to read and respect what came before you, but personally, it sure does help understand what’s to come.
Bright / Mine Bright
Rose of your cheeks, bright, bronze. Never needing a ray of the light you provide.
The Sun shifts, by the pull of the planets, A war of worlds, Creating and sustaining gravity.
Olorun, Oshun, Jesus, and the Prophet All gather in the morning. Seeing the warmth come through of the dayNot through their own blinds n tapestries of heaven, but from the same eyes of yours that form the full moon.
Mine
You say, I may, Cross your mind. I know, You will, Burn forever in mine.
Ode to Ms. Kimberly White (1967-2011)
Owner of Energy Skateshop
"I did it!"
"You ain't do that shit." Ms. Kim said smiling, her eyes now looking down at me in wonder. Deep in her voice you could hear the playful hesitation that she wanted to believe, and she continued to smile at me. Photosynthesis is playing on the small screen perched in the corner of the shop - a week or two before this interaction she personally introduced me to Dill, AVE, and Rob years before MTV.
I show Ms.Kim the bottom of my board. The standard Flip logo - not the iron cross logo , but this was the Rolling Stones iconic tongue popping out from under my deck; an early Geoff Rowley pro model. There were marks that started to show wear and tear of it actually being skated and Ms. Kim studied the board closer.
"I swear to God I did" I said; my eyes widening, lifting the board higher.
My mom would be on my ass if she heard that. But it was true, I actually did do it. Behind the glass counters full of Rictas and Thunders, Ms. Kim peered down at little ole me, still holding up high the back of my board - the deck had the true wear of some decent board slides.
"ok ok, look at that. You just got the board an' little man already got some tricks on lock. So show me - I've seen a couple of kids rub the bottom of they board against a curb to show others that they know what the hell they are doing. So, show me."
This is it - me as an 11 year old, my big time sponsorship break.
We go outside the shop and there's a simple set up in the parking lot that she cleaned up herself and still shared with the surrounding shoppes. A 5 foot quarterpipe, 6 ft flat bar, a curb - This set up was nothing special but everything to me with my world being introduced to what a spot was. This was one the first spots outside of Atlanta Foundation at a time where you only got a (indoor) park if your Georgia town or suburb was big enough. So there was Christ Community Church, the Spot located right across the river in Alabama; There was Mammoth, The Skate Shed and the Cuckoo's Nest, which are the main shops in the city. Only Cuckoo's remains as the local with of course Zumiez looming within a mall across the city. But before I experienced any of these, there was Energy Skate Shop.
Now outside, Ms. Kim with her back to the shop, her hands shielding the bright afternoon sun from her face. I'm now in the parking lot, now balancing on the board. I start to give my hardest pushes to get some decent speed; not knowing if she waxed it just out of jest before - I slow down with a tail scape, then I pull up on the flatbar at a decent speed, pop, hit it 1/4 the way in - a good two second boardslide. Success.
She slowly nodded, a satisfied coach never needing to yell or beat down. The look on her face was the "damn...okay. I see you" I never knew I needed - it wasn't from a family member who loved me anyways or from someone patronizing; but from a
person who actually knew the world I wanted to know deeper; deeper than I ever would.
Growing up, Ms. Kim was the first person that epitomized what being DIY was, what being cool was. She didn't give a fuck; From what I knew, which was very little, was that she was a black woman, had a son who also skated, and traveled a lot. I didn't realize that this was not too common in the early 2000s: a Black woman in the South, late 30s running a Skate shop by herself. It's as she appeared within my hometown as she's always been here, as if an great aunt had raised her here but she left very early to see the world - I still don't know what or how she was introduced to skateboarding but she always introduced me and others to legends; being a student of the game was an understatement.
With Nightly news on, I remember my parents looking up at the TV saying, "Wait that's Ms. Kim."
"Damn, another break in at the skateshop?"
The news camera pans to a messy visual of glass shattered, shit everywhere. It's the second time she's been broken into - and the worst part is that they were on cam. After this happened, she became more guarded but never lost her spirit and sense of community. She knew some shit head skaters that she personally opened her doors to did this - yet she said nothing. No one is saying that she knew exactly who it was, but that day and others, she let us know that running to police for help isn't the way to solve real personal problems if those people weren't ever there to protect you.
So, she preserved, as always. She also designed a shop hoodie that was a budweiser logo flip that got me sent home from elementary multiple times. Plus, thinking of all the good memories; she helped Jeremy of the Skate Shed plan lock ins
and contests, and she was always my favorite MC on a mega phone during a best trick competition.
If she was around today, I knew she would be the first to show me teams like Public Housing and Purple, plus talk about the shit spot that the industry has shops in. It's the little things like seeing an edit on YouTube and I know she would love all the dumb shit that comes along with the tricks now.
"Stop pushing mongo, you can be ready to pop instead of shuffling to get right on your board!" she said. She taught me in the shop to look at things for what they truly are; that the Jackass crew are letting you know they are literally a bunch of asses; and MTV ain't giving you a show trying that shit yourself outside. Seeing Nyjah grow up, she's the one that told me he himself got some issues to deal with; so don't idolize prodigies. And "Always get up. Shit ain't perfect, live and learn."
As I try to keep learning, Ms. Kim lives on, far after passing away. The shop closed in Columbus years before she passed but it wasn't her first shop nor her last. She loved, fought, and rode for her community. This still doesn't do you justice, but you are missed and forever loved.
The Sellout
Short review of The Sellout, a novel by Paul Beatty.
“That’s the problem with history, we like to think it’s a book that we can turn the page and move the fuck on. But history isn’t the paper it’s printed on. It’s memory, and memory is time, emotions, and song. History is the things that stay with you.”
The Sellout by Paul Beatty is a satirical novel that focuses on an officially unnamed character. This character, nicknamed Bonbon, is a black homestead farmer/surfer from Dickens, Los Angeles (think Watts, Compton) who was homeschooled by his father, an un-orthodox social scientist. His father gives him a rigorous home schooling complete with psychoanalytic theory, black history, and field experiments involving Bonbon as the control and test subject. One experiment that comes to mind is his father taking him to the rural South to whistle as a white woman on her porch in front city regulars and recording reponses. His father, being a respected member of the community, served two roles. First, as the Nigga Whisper, talking down suicidal/homicidal people in the community and also being the leader of the Dum Dum Donut Intellectuals (a society that meets at the local donut shop to discuss community affairs that includes the local black elite, Piru Bloods, Hoover St. Crips, and neighborhood members in between.)
Bonbon finds out that Dickens has been un-incorporated and has been removed from all California official maps/legislation - he then goes on the quest to reestablish his home town by re-installing some good ole familiar power structures that have been used before: he segregates the schools/buses and reinstitutes slavery within the city of
Dickens, California. “Who was I kidding? I'm a farmer, and farmers are natural segregationists. We separate the wheat from the chaff. I'm not Rudolf Hess, P. W. Botha, Capitol Records, or present-day U.S. of A. Those motherfuckers segregate because they want to hold on to power. I'm a farmer." The book follows Bonbon's reinstitution of his city and the national backlash that follows. This is a straight onslaught of comedic genius. In an interview someone asked Beatty why he wrote the book - he responded "Cause I was broke". What's good about satire and his satire in particular is the weight of it's comedic power and how it relates to others, especially culturally - Beatty wears the heavy crown and it fits. It's not just black comedy and satire, but black American satire, the irony of being a Los Angeleno, the Latin/Asian American satire etc etc etc.
“Daddy never believed in closure. He said it was a false psychological concept. Something invented by therapists to assuage white Western guilt. In all his years of study and practice, he’d never heard a patient of color talk of needing “closure.” They needed revenge. They needed distance. Forgiveness and a good lawyer maybe, but never closure. He said people mistake suicide, murder, lap band surgery, interracial marriage, and overtipping for closure, when in reality what they’ve achieved is erasure.”
Beatty covers redlining, gentrification, American minstrelsy, and black social theory all while Bonbon goes on a quest to find himself with help from neighborhood friends like Marpessa, his and off bibliophile bus driver girlfriend and Hominy, an older man who was a black understudy child star of the Little Rascals.
“I'm so fucking tired of black women always being described by their skin tones! Honey-colored this! Dark-chocolate that! My paternal grandmother was mocha-tinged, café-au-lait, graham-fucking-cracker brown! How come they never describe
the white characters in relation to foodstuffs and hot liquids? …. That's why black literature sucks!”
Bonbon, while on the search for himself, not only finds himself but the importance of what it means to have a small town identify within a place that usually gets eaten up by the larger metropolitan area: the stories, successes, sufferings of people anywhere are important and keeping their histories intact are forever needed.
Backwards
A short story
THE TRUTH
if you should see a man walking down a crowded street talking aloud to himself don’t run in the opposite direction but run towards him for he is a POET! you have NOTHING to fear from the poet but the TRUTH
ted joans I.
Down the street, here he comes. Strolling, styling, reclining and re-winded.
Walking down and down the hill.
Still sleepy-eyed and grumpy, I have the same morning complaints internally. Waking up slowly, walking into the bathroom. Another day, another day. Heading down the hill, I start actually feeling my physical body meet my mind and spirit; the daily dance of life.
Walking down the hill, finally waking up, I trudge on to my first stop of errands. “Don’t talk to me until I have my coffee!” - random ass coffee mug, mom tee shirt/apron, etc.
The saying held relevance; I’m a fiend - and the first interactions I have are on my morning journey.
Crossing the street without the crosswalk, I always feel like I’m playing game of Frogger when I’m jaywalking. If you're new to Frogger, it's a video game about a frog within a 8-bit world who is trying to stay alive and just cross the streetleaping, maneuvering, and using a bit of espionage to make it to the other side.
As the day becomes awake and full of life, F. Pizarro Avenue is a sure death-wish. Our apartment is located within the long hill, alongside banks, credit unions, other apartments, and a shopping/apartment complex owned by Williamson properties. The Williamson properties alone raised the rent for everyone in the neighborhood, kicking out the Deep End bars and artists that attracted us to the area. We should have saw it coming, but now, we enjoy the remaining culture of what’s left.
Now, however, on F. Pizarro Ave, there are less cars and traffic before 10am, so crossing the street is a little more manageable. Honestly, it’s a dumb thrill of mine that I need to cut out. Not overly stupid, just the right amount, and to be honest - we all have these things. Saving a couple more minutes by crossing here instead of waiting for the long light at the bottom of the hill seems worth it. “I’ll time myself on the morning commute, just to find out.” I never time myself and always chose to somehow play Frogger with my life.
I step to the sidewalk and look both ways twice. I jet across the street along with a young woman, who was cautiously following my lead. Reaching the bottom of the hill after a two minute stride, I arrive at my morning 5 minute safe haven.
PIONEER BEAM COFFEE CO.
Est. 2007
"Pioneer Beam Coffee - Always Awake"
Entering PBCo., I grab water from the fridge, walk towards the register and see Dalton and Himari behind the counter; hustling away.
I approach the counter slowly. Seeing their high spirits always lifted mine, even before they offered coffee and conversation. Himari and Dalton always have something new to talk about as if it’s the first time they’ve ever met my ass. I love it and look forward to both of them - It’s always quick conversation but I started to cherish the small moments, especially interacting with humanity and the world around me.
Dalton kicks off the morning banter.
“Hmm..What will it be? Same old, same old?”
I nod but this doesn't matter. Dalton already has his head turned around to pour the hot coffee and almond milk together in a coffee cup. Ebony & Ivory. Placing the water bottle on the table, I speak up playfully.
“What if I wanted something different?”
“But you don’t!” Himari chimes in cheerfully before Dalton can reply.
Agreeing silently while nodding, I chimed,
“Damn, Himari, I reckon you right.” I felt seen and predictable. At the same time, the comfort that is always there between us still exists. It was really my mind overthinking.
“How the morning been so far? What’s new?” I asked, addressing them both.
“It’s been straight, we can’t complain honestly." Dalton says. "Nothing new. When the temperature starts to drop, we can close those doors. That makes it way more serene here honestly. We don’t have to deal with a line forming outsidejust taking it one customer at a time.”
I walk to the coffee counter to grab my necessities. The sugar, napkins, etc; preparing myself for the taste test. 4 white sugars; It should be 1 or 2.
Mari begins to prepare herself a drink on her small downtime and walks over to the stainless steel, dual Boiler espresso machine. Fancy coffee shit looks like it should honestly be used in bio-tech research labs and I love the engineers who operate these contraptions daily. If the world doesn't salute you, trust me, you are loved and honored by many.
“You forgot to tell him, Dalton. Early this morning, Guy with notebook, long sleeves." Himari said, as she gathered ingredients.
“Ooo yeah, that wasss way earlier this morning.” Dalton replied, as he brushed hair out his face. “It almost felt like it was yesterday. Go ahead Himari, tell him the rest.”
Himari finishes the cappuccino she’s making for herself, brings it over to the register counter and begins again.
“So, dude walks in the side door, so me and Dalton can’t really see him since we were in the middle of rush hour, like 7 am. We knew he wasn't a regular; Shit was hectic as usual, but we saw all of the normal people from the weekday rush. As we start to serve the customers and the line dwindles, we see him getting closer to the counter. It was bizarre; he was
standing backwards. We say ‘next customer’, bro is still in here. Waiting in line backwards.”
I start to flavor my drink as Himari’s story continues. At this point, you can see Dalton waiting for her to get to a particular part. I spoke up before she started again,
“So how did my mans open the door if he was walking backwards? That’s what I would love to see... Anyways, that’s besides the point. What happened when he got up here?"
Himari, as she bounces youthfully putting her hot drink down“Wait! I don’t wanna spoil it! Just listen.”
Dalton glanced over to Himari and they traded childish looks.
Himari continued the story where she left off before I interrupted. She continues,
"He just asked for a cup of hot water for his tea. Backwards. That's the end of the story."
We all looked at each other carefully.
Dalton rolls his eyes. He laughed and said, "I mean you asked if anything new happened. That's the pinnacle of excitement on this fair morning. I mean, I made the hot water and was a little lost on what he wanted me to do with it next. Felt like a stick-up - like when spongebob and patrick robbed the bank and had the sock over their own face so they couldn’t see. I held the cup out and he grabbed his tea (from behind) and walked backwards right up out of here. We saw him continue down the hill. He's outside at the other end of the park, according to another customer. Before he left, he was writing in this notebook - small, black composition."
Himari jumped in - "Dalton was freaked. He's tryna hide it now."
The shop was now empty as they wrapped up the short story.
Curious, I asked Dalton why he was freaked.
"Tons of symbols, man, like I really couldn't decipher it. Not hieroglyphics or like runes. It was a complete new language on the page. I couldn't read it or understand, but it was for sure felt. He brought an essence to the room. A heavy one, and that was the creepy part."
Himari sipped her drink and smiled and lifted her eyebrows, allowing Dalton's details to add color to the strange instance.
So, after that, we tried daily to truly understand him. It's not like someone assigned me to find out more. Backward walking, loud talking - the man the myth the legend.
II.
"Why the hell are you walking backwards?"
Striding past me slowly in a careful fashion was the man. Walking backwards.
"Because I can." He softly replied.
That was that. There was an answer. We ask questions and want answers, but people want a particular kind of answer. If it is not the answer we seek, people continue to ask the same things. I couldn't argue with him honestly. He was just walking backwards and I felt the need to question him.
Two families sitting in the man-made business park are relaxing, enjoying their quiet mid-morning snacks and company. They now take full notice - they start to watch the interactions between me and then man. We both are speaking,
but the conversation started with him. I am speakinghowever most eyes are on him. These are not friendly staresthis man has somehow interrupted their morning book, coffee, or whatever the hell they got going on. Bothered, concerned, they clutch their purse and wallet first, and then clutching close the runts of the group.
The man looked into the sky as there was only a small roof over his head. First, looking up to the sky and then down upon the families in an eerie gaze. Then, with a booming voice,
"ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?! HUH!"
If only a certain amount of attention was captured with the backward movement and the small talk between us, now full attention is here. All eyes are on him. I say internally to myself "If not entertained, they damn sure are scared."
Time seems to move slower. He looks dead into the eyes of the dozen people staring. He echoes his heart’s sentiments again, louder as he slows his stride.
"Are you NOT entertained? Hm? I said ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED!"
He continues his walk, and slows, almost to a stop where I have set up camp for the morning. Looking again to the crowd, and then back to me, in a more gentle, timid tone -
"Spare a dollar? or any change..?"
It was for sure the man Himari and Dalton and I were fascinated with, for whatever different reasons. I looked up from my book, coffee, or whatever the hell I was holding that morning. The gaze from both families held the air around the small park.
I didn't have any paper bills, so I hit the good ole shrug and "na".
He smiles and continues without being upset at my answer.
Holding a notebook, walking backwards, he continues down. Walking down and down the hill. The man, the myth, the legend.
III.
When I see him, I am reminded. His image calls to me and he literally reminds me of a friend, a departed friend. My friend left this world very young - too young. Tall, lanky, built like a tree. Not fast with all his movements, but swift and full of pride..
When I see this man, I'm always reminded. There is obviously more in common between me, my friend, and this man than I think. Seeing and interacting with him helps me understand the similarities. And the differences (if any).
The daily dress of the man is centered by a faded red flannel. There is this stupid misconception around people who are without housing; that the condition is similar for all and these people don’t care about themselves. "They don't have any clothes." "They stink." There are many people I've met with more clothes than you can imagine; however their attitudes and inherent feelings surrounding humanity and people with less than them is honestly worse than any musk or smell on earth. He is fortunate enough to have changes of clothes, so depending on the day, a white or red, or different colored tee can be found underneath the flannel. Blue jeans, regular tennis shoes. His hair growing and interlocking.
Standing outside and watching the sunset, we see the man of the hour again.
From a distance we make out the flannel.
He is not outside looking in. We are the ones being voyeuristic. He needs to understand very little about this world. Distant languages are known to him, methods of movement can be changed because of his own will. I am the one looking in on him, into his world, seeing everything around me differently with each interaction with him. I question him. We question others. The world and society within it produces what we see and we judge the products. We are mostly walking against the tide and thinking he is going in the wrong direction.
Walking down and down the hill. The man, the myth, the legend.
Nano [Chapters I-III]
IFunerals today hit different - and require a type of digital audience; Theo leaned back into the pew and thought of what were "real" funeral services were like. Services for war heroes, unsung poets, men who became fat and wicked with their wealth, and women who loved and lived life fully.Burying the dead - via live. And now The dead man lives - via hologram projection This service had no pomp. Relatives were shown on screens around the chapel and it made him nauseous.
Theo thought about his own death; not about how he would die, but the funeral itself. A live go-go band playing, dancers from Allure, Onyx, and Magic on a Monday at his funeral, a potluck of love, his favorite dishes, great weed - why not? Bring life to his last celebration on Earth. Going out seem fun. It could be stylish - it must be. That's why we took a little longer on those funeral plans. Looking down at his suit pants, he was upset he let Chris choose the rental shop. He didn't own a black suit because he said most people didn't unless you were a FED. Or Men in Black. ‘But Men in Black were FEDs, weren't they?’ said Theo internally; he sat perplexed.
Snapping back into attention, grief creeps up again and again. Theo is now focused back on the funeral; his active mind drifted the same way in church; no matter what type of service or place of worship he was in. Daddy’s dead, Daddy’s gone out - not for cigarettes either. Josephine held his hand and squeezed as the service continued. Her white nails glistened as she held his palm; he was of course glad she was
here. Theo squirmed in his seat, turning over his left shoulder, he peered back from where the family was seated within the first two rows. He recognized most of the people starting at the hideously bright projection located in the front of the chapel - all but two individuals.
Two men, Brioni suited, looking like a twin of Patrick Bateman's. Actually suited the way he joked to Chris aboutThey sat straight up, looking intensely on at the service while holding a straight face.
As Theo looked back, he caught a gaze straight into the eyes of both men. For half a moment, he looked deeper into the curved face of the man to the left - Theo recognized him. A chilled, dark chasm snapped him to attention again as a jolt of electricity told him he’s seen them before, at least one of them. Deep in the recess of his mind, his spine and primal senses urged him; "stay safe and be vigilant" ; his fathers words rang out in his mind now . An usher came up the aisle and offered the family tissues and blocked Theo's view of the men. He turned back around to look at the funeral.
Funerals bring out different emotions, he now realized. What if a comedian was to perform a quick set? Right here, right now - in the church house. Some jokes just to top off the gathering. The Great and respected Archbishop Katt Williams or Deacon Patrice O’Neal would be an excellent eulogist, Theo thought.
No one wanted to be at a funeral service for a man who took his own life. Most people don't want to be at any service of the sort. It was quick, life moves on, you know - so it goes. Theo knew his father was gone longer before. Mourning wasn't productive, efficient, and of course didn't feed the hungry. His father was robbed. Robbed beyond the grave, robbed before the grave.
Chris and Theo knew soon shifts would start. "Newton’s first law states that, if a body is at rest or moving at a constant
speed in a straight line, it will remain at rest or keep moving in a straight line at constant speed unless it is acted upon by a force."
Josephine looked softly at Theo and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t know what to say to Theo - when it happened, a week after, or anytime, especially now actually. Now at the funeral, Josephine was at a real loss of words. Before he knew it and before he was able to realize mourning is necessary, the funeral ended. The family standing outside in the sun, the projectors turned off.
“Baby, I’m going to go pull the car around. Stay here with Chris and your mama as long as you need. I feel like I’m in the way.” Josephine started off and Theo nodded in agreement. Jo increased her jot to the parking lot as Chris and Theo continued to roam until a voice caught them from behind.
“You were it. All he had were you boys. How you holding up? Eh? I know He holds me up. Yessir.” Uncle Richard started boisterously after them as Chris and Theo were heading for their cars. Aunty knew he was coming to bother the grieving and she started as quick as she could after her husband.
“Yeah, Unc, we are good.” Chris interrupted as he knew a lesson from him via up high was here. “We are going to be a-okay, just give us the time. Pop loved us, not this world. And we don’t blame him. Me and Theo here are going to be good.”
“I just want you boys to stay straight on His path. Whatever you do, make it honest, legal work. You hear me? I didn’t want to have this conversation here, I honestly didn’t. But you two don’t answer when I call.”
“By God leave them boys alone Richard. Damn! They just buried they daddy.”
Aunty scurried up right behind unc to set him straight.
“We're going to leave them alone right now and let them grieve as men. Right boys? Chris is a model man for Theo, a fine example. Let them figure this out. You know where to find me boys. Your daddy loved you; I was always trying to figure him out on Earth and now that he’s gone- honestly, the mystery continues. I’m going to get Rich out your way and get this old man some Cutty Sark. He needs the shit more than he knows.”
“You need to watch your mouth. We are in the parking lot of the House of the Lord. "Boys," Darting his eyes back and forth - Theo to Chris, Chris to Theo - "I mean it. Straight path- and Lord knows I mean for the both of you. Chris, you’ve never goneno other way but the world is becoming tougher and tighter for all of us. As for Theo, well, boy the straight and narrow path is all you got left. Remember, the expenses won’t all come at once; for the funeral, taking care of the family, making sure you both can eat, save and survive. You two are too damn smart for your own good and life takes HARD work. No other replacement. So, I’ll be dropping by.”
They were the force. They were the kindling of the fire that needed to be directly under them. Chris knew it and felt it, Theo sensed it. At the funeral, Chris and Theo decompressed as they have been pulling jobs from the past 4 weeks; Amex credit card scams, skimming portions of phone app purchases from phone wallets, and studying cyber security layouts and system designs for flaws - this was as to prep Chris and Theo for the so called big one.
And it was here. The real test was coming, the real job loomed. It is Sunday, Daddy’s funeral. The offices of Pullman.io and multiple other companies are going to be closed tomorrow - for good ole MLK day.
"Tomorrow." Chris said. Looking at his brother, he was sure. He never needed to check in his heart and mind twice.
Theo draws a cigarette outside the church from his left jacket pocket. He trusted Chris. One last cig for one last job. Pop would be proud. Newport and Kool would be A-OK if they had one less customer and after today, Theo didn't mind if he discontinued their business relationship. He had bigger and better things to be thinking about - Josephine pulls the car around. Theo hops in while Chris starts to head towards the train station.
II.
Outside the offices of Pullman.io, howling from a hungry wolf was heard from the thick glass doors. Anita, knowing something was wrong with one the accounts, didn’t even bother to ask. She didn’t know much more than what she came up with since Stephens kept her completely out of the loop of everything that actually mattered with Pullman.
"GET ME STEPHENS. I know he's out the office JUST GET HIM ON THE PHONE NOW."
"They wouldn't have known where to search if they didn't know how you move! Are you sure nobody has been watching you?"
Paul Stephens flew in hours after Bradley called. Stephens hung up the phone as Bradley spazzed on and on about a lost ledger and headed straight for the airport. Ledger, smedger. All he knew was that his capital had something to do with that disk, flash or floppy. Stephens walked briskly into Pullman, Brioni suited, freshly polished cap toe derbys.
"Stephens - why the hell didn't we have preventative measures? What did you and the security teams call them? Hot wallets. Why not any of the other storage uses? Even if its one wallet! This is exactly what my folks warned me about with these damn computers. 'Nothing is real until it’s on the net.' In my day it was the other way around. Should have
trusted my gut. Either way we put it, and I don't care how it's put - I need that account Bradley."
"Bradley, my share is gone for the time being as well if you must know. Whoever has this shouldn't know what it is and what it means. Some hacker kids are probably pulling a prank - so we have time...I have time. Don't alert the other partners or any shareholders. Between me and connections, I'll have them."
"A week. I won't be able to stall the bastards. I'll be back in Manhattan by tonight and my police connects won't be able to be used because that will send a red flag. All this depends you play this Stephens. I’ll just have to hire outside help to get this back asap.”
Stephens nodded and left briskly back out the glass doors. “Anita, how’s everything been?” Stephen nodded “Having a better day than you it sounds like.” “You can say that again. I’ve got to run-”
Anita, looking without emotion at Stephens, reassured him everything would be fine.
Working from intern to head of engineering, Anita Gladwell knew the company in- and out-: especially how the 2 story midtown office operated daily without the help of the blundering partners. When most hedge funds around 2005 were still very weary about venturing into anything outside the physical, Pullman started venturing into new markets like crypto and digital assets slowly over time. As stated before, it never was the partners or investors doing the real lifting, it was the underpaid analysts and mostly-overworked engineers at Pullman holding it down year after fiscal year.
8 years in and with enough seniority to look at a project and say "Hell no" - Anita has being doing projects that suit her fancy at Pullman. Chewing gum, she continued to look at her screen as the directors continued yelling. As the
impromptu director meeting continues after Stephens left across from her office, she continues to actively eavesdrop, her ear twitching gently similar to a doe in the road.
Anita, with her back turned to Bradley as he cursed again over the phone to another suit, smiled sardonically as she left her office.
III.
As the car speeds down the highway, Theo glances back from the front seat outside of the window. They weren’t being trailed even though Chris would say otherwise.
"You can say what you want, but the shit is a flash drive.”
As he continued to drive, his pace matched his speech..
"Shit was hot anyway, we can't keep hitting the same spots.” Chris gripped the steering wheel anxiously. “This time, no safe. No cash, nothing. We trail him and we are sure he is holding something, anything. And it's a flash. A goddamn flash drive.”
"It's not a flash." Theo said softly. He reached for his satchel in the back and brought out the parcel.
"What?" Chris, irritated, almost swerved as he looked sideways.
"It is a flash, but It's not a flash. Chris, take a second. Breathe, think."
Theo, holding the small silver key in his hands, gripped it tighter as Chris scolded him. He didn’t feel like explaining right now. The lights from the city glowed a nice color right around sunset. Chris was anxious, but still full of life and glad to be with his baby brother. Theo rode quietly as he held the trinket in his hand.
"If you're going to use your skills to our advantage, we have to work as a team and we have to get something out of it. You hear me Theo? We can't pull up on someone and then realize we have more work to do afterwards. That's not how this works. You move on the net, I move in the field. And we have to do both quick. Do you hear me Theo? I love you boy but if you can't do the whole job bro, it might not be for you."
"Give me a week. Give me one week to at least see what's on here before we go back out. Head home and we can do just that - see what's on here. I promise you, something tells me at least some info would be more than what's worth all our jobs combined. Encrypted or not, it’s from Pullman. If this is what I think it is,” Theo gripped tighter.
Theo looked over the thin flash drive and held it up in his hand, palm facing upward. Foldable, the device itself contained a micro-USB insert. Playing with his hair, he slides the device in his pocket.
As Chris drove, he looked on to Theo briefly, then back to the road. The surroundings that they grew up in were no more or at least were fading into a picture both have yet to recognize. Theo glanced back to Chris as he continued.
"You got 5 days T, after that, I'm moving on the next job with or without you. This was already hot enough. The next job moving solo on a small bank could have been easier."
Theo closed his eyes. Slowly opening them, he thumbed over the flash and felt out the engraved writing as he was reading braille that spelled out Pullman.
"Heard you.”
Untitled
To look, To yearn, and to see more within your smile, I hope to see nothing more, nothing less. The smile is ample.
"If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear", the monster says to Victor. The villagers' smiles are more than enough. yet, they did not smile back.
To cause a heart to move, Your smile is all that's needed. A warm smile that could send a soldier into a Serbian prison, and would need no blanket only pen and paper to write to you.a