Story Written For And Read At Undead Beat Night 10-10-13

Blizzard

Chris Walters, October 10, 2013

Nobody noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes. People bought that “kind brother” act. I can’t be surprised; people see what they want. I see dead eyes, a mouth faking humanity. What others think are just foibles I see as symptoms, a pattern of indicators straight from a text book.

I’ve seen them before, years ago. I was young, they were young, neither of us very sophisticated. Back then I was too high and uninformed to be sure what I was seeing, they too inexperienced to conceal themselves effectively.

My friends just called them “dicks” and, after they started their predations, “con-artists”; I saw them as creatures with no conscience, who saw us as stupid sheep on which to prey. I didn’t know the terms “sociopath” and “psychopath”. I just said “monster”.

For their own comfort my friends liked to believe I was speaking dramatically, and, after pulling together to drive the offender away, paid them no more mind. I knew that these creatures would become worse over time, but for my friends it was ‘out of sight, out of mind’; “Who cares? He’s gone. He’s someone else’s problem.” I figured someone else had said the same thing before he became our problem.

Now, with 10 years sobriety, and an underutilized psychology degree, I’d found another one, a middle aged hippy, at an AA meeting, speaking fluent Programese, mouth smiling or sobbing, lifeless expressionless eyes recording every last reaction. I remember thinking his torrent of carefully rehearsed phrases hid his character like a blizzard obscuring a man’s shape.

It was the fourth time I’d seen him when I realized that, before and after meetings, he only spent time with newcomers, particularly the young ones who’d responded most emphatically to what he’d shared. He would talk like a much younger man, but with the experience of his age, and they’d Pavlov for him, taking his slyly phrased orders, thinking they were fulfilling requests from some who thought them a friend and equal.

I saw that he had a knack for spotting young people with father issues, and providing them praise and validation they didn’t know they’d missed out on, lowering their defenses. However, when one of the older members, someone with gray hair and decades sober talked to him, someone obviously respected in the group, he’d kiss their ass, obsequious as Eddie Haskell.

I tried to tell others about my observations, but AA doesn’t allow for “gossip”. It also dictates that anyone can change if they want to, patently ignoring scientific studies on certain personality and mental disorders. I was told it wasn’t my business, to keep my own side of the street clean, that minding someone else’s business was a danger to my sobriety. When I pointed out his false smile I was told we all ‘fake it till we make it’.

There was a young woman named Rachel in the meetings. She was 20, and 2 years sober. She’d had a hard life, raised with no father, dirt poor, with everything against her. Yet she was trying, not accepting the hand she was dealt. She was sober, working, going to school. Her mother had been a stripper, then a hooker, then dead, but Rachel was going a better way. I was fond of her. Not romantically; more like a fan. I just enjoyed her progress as a purely positive thing, and I rooted for her. She was full of light and hope and that gave me hope. We never spoke; I just looked forward to her sharing, like a favorite TV show.

When she started hanging around with him, though, I could take no more; I knew he’d hurt her, and I had no way to prevent it. I moved away. For 3 months I was in a new town, with new meetings, and had started to relax the vigilance fostered by him. Then, one winter day, Rachel showed up at my morning meeting.

She had bruises, and would cover her mouth when speaking, like she wasn’t willing to show her teeth. She shook when any men approached. She shared that her boyfriend, an older man she’d met in the program, had made her feel so special, but after she’d let him move in, started beating her, and making her feel worthless. But he still acted like a great guy in public, especially meetings. Her own sponsor wouldn’t listen to her, such was the monster’s craft.

She escaped when he had messed up her face. He’d told her she was to stay home until her face healed, took her phone and keys, and walked to a meeting 2 blocks away, leaving her car in the driveway.

She’d had an extra set of keys, so packed some essentials, and fled. Now she was here, shaking, avoiding eye contact, appearing afraid to cry, startling at noises. I was wracked with guilt, and rage; this was my fault, and I couldn’t get past it.

When the meeting ended I got in my car and drove. I had a 2 hour drive, and rehearsed confrontations in my mind. I couldn’t escape it, though; words would do nothing. He couldn’t feel guilt, and no one would believe me. They would just call it gossip.

It started snowing as I drove, and the radio said a blizzard was on the way. I kept going, my anger building with the snow. My plan was just to find him; what happened then I couldn’t predict.

He had no car of his own. If he was to go to a meeting, in this weather, it would be near his house.

On sudden inspiration I left the highway 2 exits early. I knew there was a liquor store there. I paid cash for the cheapest bottle of vodka they had. The snow had quickened, and my driving slowed, but I resumed my trip.

I got to the church where the meeting was held 15 minutes before the start. I had been going at 15mph or less for 2 hours since the liquor store. Visibility was about 10 feet. I entered the lot by the farther of the 2 entrances. Unsurprisingly the parking lot was empty; too much snow for most people to risk driving. Someone had at least shoveled the snow banks at the entrances left by the town snow plow.

I parked far from the door, and contemplated. If he was home I could leave the car and walk there, but how to get him out? And what would I say?

I wasn’t ready to admit why I’d bought the vodka.

I looked toward the basement of the church, the whole building just a vague shadow in the thick wet whiteness. The lights were on. I couldn’t see inside, but there was someone there. I put on my gloves, put the vodka in my messenger bag, and got out of the car. As I got closer I saw a snow shovel by the door outside. I walked up to the window of the kitchen, and looked in.

The place was set up for a meeting. There were snacks, and the tables and chairs were all in place. But no one was there. I heard a voice near the door, and hid. It was him. He was talking to someone on the phone. He was angry, and his façade was in danger of cracking.

“But I set everything up!”, he said, then listened for reply. “So? It’s winter! It snows! The janitor shoveled out before he took off!” “Yeah, well, I left my boots in my car, when she stole it, and I just have my

sandals!” “Fine! Don’t come crying to me when you drink!” he yelled, hung up, and

stepped outside. He was 5 feet away from me, but separated by snow and a corner of wall.

“God damn it!” he yelled, and I heard something hit the wall and shatter. A piece bounced near me, a bit of pink plastic, a shard of a conspicuously girly phone. He then went back inside.

Before I could retreat to my car the lights went out, and he emerged. He couldn’t see my car through the snow, and with the lights now out, couldn’t see me though I was within grabbing distance. He started walking right past me, and I followed, matching my steps to his.

It was difficult because he was walking poorly, wearing flipflops in the snow. Fortunately he was too cold to pay attention. I still didn’t have a plan when I heard the snowplow returning. It sounded like it would arrive shortly  after we reached the street. I knew what to do now.

I increased my pace and closed the distance between us, getting within a foot before saying “Hey, man”. The plow was now within 200 feet.

He startled and turned losing his balance, but catching himself.

“Oh, hey!” he said, putting on his act immediately, though his teeth were chattering. 150 feet.

“Rachel says ‘hi’”, I said and went into action. I stepped hard on his bare foot, while slamming my forehead into his nose. I followed this with a shove using everything I had. It worked perfectly; he hit the asphalt backwards, his skull bouncing. He was badly dazed, and trying to sit up. 100 feet.

I had the vodka out, opened and in his mouth. His unfocused eyes fluttered, but after resisting and spilling some vodka he began to swallow. 50 feet. I ducked behind the remnant of snow bank left by the janitor, leaving the bottle in his grasping hands, and watched. The snow covered him just enough to obscure his shape, and with the low visibility he couldn’t be seen at all unless you knew to look. The plow then covered him, a heavy wet snow bank burying him completely, and the driver never saw.

I stood and inspected his tomb. There was no sign of movement. I waited another 5 minutes, letting the plow return to increase the pile. I then returned to my car, idling with no lights, and waited through one more pass of the plow.

I got the shovel that had been left outside, went to the far entrance, and removed enough snow to drive out. The trip took all night, but I returned to my new home without incident.

The next day the local news had a report of a body being found in a church parking lot. The church’s plow man had begun plowing out the lot, and uncovered the body in the process. There was damage from the plow, but it was believed that the man, who was found with a half empty bottle of vodka, had passed out and died of exposure. The man had no ID, so fingerprints were being run by police.

That night the news had more on him. His fingerprints linked him to a dozen disappearances of young women around the country. I emailed a copy of the story to my former sponsor, with the words “I told you so.” I got a reply with a bunch of program babble about it not being my job, my only job is to stay sober, blah blah blah. And I thought stupid sheep, blind in the snow.

Excavating

I’d been asked to find them, but couldn’t.

It started with the tail light

to my bike;

it flew off

or walked off

while the bike was chained.

So I began riffling

through boxes,

knowing an old one

was likely in an unlikely place…

I thought they were gone,

as I was expecting
ammo boxes,

hinged and clasped steel

that contained them

for 20 years;

the notebooks,

the rantings,

the scribblings

of my some boy

I’d grown to hate.

But it was just the steel;

the paper had been moved

to a file crate,

milky plastic clear enough

to show words,

and somehow

I’d stained all thought

of this crate

with a curse

(Whosoever opens this box

shall incur the wrath

of an arrogant child, time

and memory,

and will know

no happiness

for all their days.)

thus had forgotten it;

an erasure hurts less

than a lurking fear.

But

looking for a light

I opened it,

and found pieces

that had pleased

Beat Night crowds,

Open Mic sign up lists,

and strange scraps of

beer-washed blurred ink

smeared fountain pen

babble.

And no pain.

I continued my excavation

finding genealogical information

sent by a cousin I only knew briefly

and electronically.

A 21 year old Stockpot placemat

with demons and dragons

doodled by Trevor Bartlett.

Psychological test results

from when I’d finally had enough

of pain

and painful questions

and started to learn

the whys.

Strange, disparate,

unlikely

time-capsule finds.

But these were not the items

that merited a curse;

I’d opened the Pandorica,

the most dangerous thing

in the universe

awaited.

I picked up the first notebook

and read my words

from longer ago

than the writer was old,

and felt relief:

it was from the time before

the shattering,

and the boy was writing Love

in hubris

and too many words;

it was cute,

but not dangerous.

(Nor was it good,

but I had expected

psychic pestilence;

weak poetry

was welcome.)

I read through

all the notebooks,

until I found the first one

that showed my character

breaking.

(Having hated myself

through all grades

I crafted a man to play,

practicing through high school,

and perfecting him

after I graduated.

But he was much cooler

than I actually was

and much of him

was fabrication,

a construct to distract

from the desolation

of his birth.

He was named for a fake

and I

was left with no one to be

that I could stand,

just someone who couldn’t

keep himself safe

at as a child,

but couldn’t accept that

his safety

at that age

had been another’s job.)

I traced the initial cracks,

and

feeling sorry for the boy,

put the notebook

back in the crate;

I remember all the pieces

he’d end up in,

and there was more to read:

notes from women who once set me alight

but burned off my life like touch paper;

entries of what I called The Journal Of The Immaculate Bastard

unconsciously combining hubris and self-loathing in the title

under which I recorded events of the day;

the beginning of a play I started with someone

I can no longer stand;

A note about the requirements

my first freshman literature class,

3 books and a notebook that matter less than the class itself:

“LI123 Sec A

David Wallace”

(Later I learned his middle name

was Foster);

all evoking unexpectedly tender, even happy memories.

And The Folder:

grey, embossed with an Emerson College seal

in gold,

falling to pieces,

and overfilled

mainly

with results of one semester of poetry class.

Pieces from a Puerto Rican student who’d only taken the class as a requirement

but turned out to be excellent;

“Geese Are Mean Fuckers” detailing the cruelty of a girl’s sadistic father;

A piece by a southern poet named David Evans

I remember looking like David Koresh

who devastated me with humor or truth;

And a poem of mine

that I feared seeing

and feared more the professor’s note upon,

a word painting of parental insanity, dark, brutal,

and full of itself;

but with one note from professor Martín Espada:

“Very Good Poem!”

I put The Folder

in the crate
having seen my work

was worthy of the company

of the others therein.

And I put the crate

with its clear-enough sides,

in a place where it can be easily

drawn out,

and not forgotten.

Chris Walters

September 25, 2013

Beat Night Piece 4-18-13

(This piece was written at the bar at the Press Room during the first part of Beat Night. It was performed with the full the full band, with Larry Simon making a now rare appearance. Larry Simon and Scott Solsky- guitar; Cynthia Chatis- flute, vocals; Scip Gallant- keyboards; Mike Barron- drums; Chris Stamba- bass; Frank Laurino- percussion; and the legendary David Amram- piano. That was an extraordinary privilege for me.)

Red is dead.

I found out yesterday

as I was talking about the guy

who replaced him

as the ironically titled

Stableman

for the carriage company

I drove for;

I was told

Red is dead

& has been

for two years;

I was just a little upset

& said

Well, he was an obese

elderly

alcoholic

so I’m not surprised,

I just wish I could have been to the memorial;

They still have his cane hanging at the D-Street Tavern;

I used to throw knives

outside the barn

after work

into a 3” thick

7x3 foot

cardboard target

with Red’s outline traced on it (his idea);

Red watched me

one day

failing to stick

a new set of knives

& becoming angrier

with each throw;

He stopped me

& said in his

weird speech

a hybrid of Quebecois

and long drunk years

“Da fuck’s ya problem?”

“My knives are cheap.”

“Bu’shit. ‘s’not da knives. I can get any knife inta tahget.”

“Bullshit.” I said.

“Don’ b’lieve me?”

I shook my head, and he huffed and waddled into the barn

and returned with the cheap

neglected

kitchen knife

used to cut twine from hay bales;

“I’m gon’ stick dis inna tahget. Ya b’lieve me?”

“No.”

He walked 5 paces from target

turned

raised the knife

in an uncomfortable

stiff grip

and stuck the knife

into the outline of his own head;

I gaped;

Read Said:

“Wha’ I te’ ya? Any knife. Ya just go’ find da right grip.”

I looked skeptical

& he said, holding up his arm

“Look. My fucken’ wrist is fused. Don’ bend, don’ twist. 

But I foun’ da grip, and stuck da knife.

Wha’s yah excuse?”

I had none.

I took my knives

found the grip

and stuck them all.

Chris Walters

2013

Piece written tonight, and read at Beat Night (Knife)

(There have been minor revisions, as I hadn't edited at all before performing it; I cleaned up word choice in some spots, and smoothed out some phrasing, implementing the edits I envisioned as I read it.)

Having recently been saddled with a bully I've been thinking about other experiences I've had with them, thus this piece:

Knife

I’d been a target

            From my first day in York, 1^st grade;

                        Too Friendly

                                    Too Talkative

                                                Too Curly

            Too scared to fight back;

And that was just at school.

Up the street was an older boy, with roaming hands,

secrets, and a man’s stench; perhaps he somehow marked me as prey.

I was of the scapegoat caste, most others taking out

their horrors on us (I have to think someone got something from it all).

In 8^th grade something changed, felt more urgent

                                    & I went to Star Center Flea Market

                                                & bought a boot knife

6 inches of good steel for a bad feeling,

            A remnant of a foreign Army

                        to guard me during the war of adolescence;

I pulled it twice:

            The 1^st when 2 larger

                                    but younger boys

                                                demanded my watch

                                                on a path with no one watching;

                                    They fled, and for once, I didn’t;

The 2^nd…

            It was 9^th grade. To compensate for freshman terror

                        I was loud,

                                    And obnoxious;

Never having met anyone truly dangerous

            I ignored the warnings from the 3 senior rednecks

                        That they were no one to play with

And I tried to play with them,

A kitten biting tigers’ tails;

They knew how to avoid scrutiny

            And punished

                        30 seconds at a time

                                    Every time

We passed in halls, for weeks

            even after I surrendered;

The big one was the worst, being 300lbs and stronger than me by at least 5 times;

                        The other 2 threatened; the big one did;

Optimistically I’d started the year without my knife

            Ignoring my feeling

                        but by November I’d cut pockets

                                    in jackets

                                                for concealment

                                                            & Quick draw;

One day, crossing the courtyard between German

            & study hall,

                        Grey skies turning bitter,

                                    The wind gaining an edge,

The big one came from opposite

                        Grabbed me

                                    by the back of my neck

                                                folded me in half

                                    forward

                                                & unbalanced

                        As my own weight

                                    choked me

                        on his thick arm;

Before my breathway was narrowed entirely

            I

                        Smelled

                                                Him,

His man’s stench that reminded me

                        of roaming hands

                        and secrets;

There was panic, & resignation to instinct

            & a conscious choice

                        that stopping this

                                    was worth

                                                anything that happened

& I pulled my knife;

My head jammed into his fat belly

            (his shirt was too short to cover)

Our jackets made a tent

                                    concealing my hands

                                    from all angles,

                                    including his

And in the strange serenity of animal survival

            I chose me

            Over him

            And put the tip of my knife on his bare skin, and began to push;

That second

            Teachers

                        burst through two doors

Yelling for us to stop it;

Sudden breath filled my lungs

& as I stood

            I hid my knife in its place;

The big redneck stood me up straight, and made a show of putting his arm around me;

“We’re just playin’” he said,

            and the teachers left,

                        & we went our ways.

I was exhausted

            & conflicted:

Relieved I’d not been caught with a knife

            ready to enter another

But upset that I’d not even drawn blood;

            It felt an incomplete ritual

                        that the primal magic I’d tried to work

            Would surely fail now;

The next day I was too spent to care

            when the big one approached

            our table in studyhall,

                        for once

                                    in plain view of teachers;

I may have reached for my knife

by was disarmed when he asked

“Can I sit down?”

Chris Walters

'13