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

Reworked Tune

There's more to be done, but it's getting there.

NotWhatYouWantToGive

Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian

Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian

10-3-12

There were four passengers on the shuttle: Felix, (a tall, lean Vietnam Veteran with a hat stating so), Wet Brain Todd, a small young Eastern European woman, and myself. As we waited for Time To Go the driver and I were talking about China’s new aircraft carrier. This went on to the dispute between China and Japan over a set of islands. Felix, whom I know to have opinions worth hearing, entered the conversation. He began to make a point, and I was happy for his input.

However, Wet Brain Todd, who had appeared to be unconscious, began mumbling. As the mumbling didn’t seem to be words, and Todd’s eyes were closed, Felix assumed it was drunk sleep babble, and attempted to wait it out. When the mumbling lulled we all assumed Todd was done, and out. Felix resumed speaking,

And so did Todd. He apparently thought the subject at hand was not worth a discussion, because “IbeenAfghasstanIkillfifteenmuhfuhkin’people. Sowhat? Maaaaaaaaan.” All this with his eyes closed.

To be clear Todd was not in the current conflict in Afghanistan. He’s 50, going on 51. He claims to have been in Afghanistan when he was 17. He’s claiming to have been in Afghanistan in 1978. When we had NO ONE in Afghanistan.

He also claims to have had a Fight Club behind Gilley’s, where he’s made $500 a night fighting people.

Todd says many things.

Felix attempted to resume talking, Todd would not let him. He kept slurring some crap about “Iknow’bouthisshit”.

The tension finally peaked when he said “Nonono. Iwasinthemilitary. Iknow.”

At which point Felix leveled a look so incendiary that I thought Todd’s breath and hair would catch fire. He then announced that he was going to be quiet, as he didn’t want to be the source of disharmony. There was some minor back and forth between the two men, but an unhappy silence descended over all of us.

There was a feeling that things could turn really ugly with one wrong word. Todd had even offered to step outside with Felix, though the latter was too civilized to indulge. It’s an awful form of tension, and we smothered under it.

About 90 seconds later I spied a cyclist approaching through the mist.

“Incoming Bike”, I announced. The driver moved to help the rider rack their bike. Unfortunately Todd, now awake, noticed my turn of phrase.

“Incom’nbike? THATsoundsmilitary, maaaaaaaaan!”

‘Fuck’, thought I. ‘This will be the worst ride ever.’

Then driver and rider entered the shuttle. The new arrival, a man from Glasgow named Chris, said in his burr “Hoo’s eerrrywahn doon tanay’?”

Most mumbled ‘alright’.

Todd said “Hey, ‘scuseme. Wha’youjus’say?”

“Doon’ werrry, suhn. Whan ye bin in the coontrry a coopla yeuhrrrs yull beguhn to pick oop tha acsuhnt. Yull underrrstahn’ tha prrroper Anglish we speak ‘roond heerrre.”

“Wha?”

“A coopla yeuhrrrs. Yull be floont.”

I was snickering at the lovely break in tension, but this wasn’t the end of it. Todd had more questions.

“A’youGerman?”

That brought the laughter. Felix followed up with, if I recall correctly, “Can’t you hear he’s Russian?”

More laughter.

“Nuh. Se’iously. Whe’yafrom?”

“Istanbul.”

More laughter.

“Huh?”

“He’s a big Turk, Todd.”

“Really?”

More laughter.

Meanwhile we’d set out for Kittery. During the ride every time Todd said anything it was instantly upended by Chris, and spiked by Felix. He finally just sat and looked mystified at everything that Chris said.

Eventually even the young woman, who had been trying to be quiet, and avoid notice while Todd was ramping up, was laughing freely.

As we neared the end of the ride Chris said “Ut’s ulwehs an advainture ahn the shuttle. Yuh ne’errr know hoo yerrr gwin to meet. Boonch a crazay Uhmerrrricans. And a Scotsman!”

“I thought you said you were French!” said Felix, as Todd said something like “Wait, wha’?”

Todd stayed on, the rest left, and we all had a laugh. Todd fell asleep in his seat.

As he was leaving Chris pulled up next to Todd’s window and pounded under it to wake Todd up. He then shined his bike light into Todd’s face.

“Wehk oop! Ye’ve to goo hoom! Arraight?! G’Naight!” And he rode off.

As we stood outside reviewing the ride, from in the shuttle the driver and I heard “Thefuckdude! Thefuckin’sjgagndanognroagaoighhjsdhgk!” 90 seconds later Todd figured out how to undo his seatbelt to come out a yell at ME for waking him up.

The driver corrected him and pointed at Chris’ back as the man pedaled off into the night.

Swaying in place and confusion, Todd said “Awmaaaaaan…”

And I left, thinking at some point I need to thank that Glaswegian for rescuing that whole situation from awful, and turning it into one of the best gut laughs I’ve had in while.

Reminded by Portugal 3 Denmark 2, Group Stage, Euro 2012

You get used to things

And

In so doing

Assume

Some things

Must be

And can’t be changed, that to even try would guarantee failure & looking foolish for it.

June 2002

I’d become used to

Toilets full of blood I couldn’t explain

Nights bereft of memory

A life of neither hope nor direction

Mornings of “Whose blood is that?”

And

“Do I have any friends left?”

And when my drinking failed to kill my unnamed hurt

I hoped it would kill me

But it failed to do that.

I assumed that there was no other way

No possibility of my sobriety

But I had no other ideas left to try.

So I spent several insomniac nights

Channel-flipping

Chain smoking minutes

My drying blood turning liquid once more

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

The 2AM Litany of Loathing

The background noise of a certainty that this was doomed to fail

I was sure to die of drink.

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

Why bother drying up? Dammit it’s too late to buy whiskey…

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

Soccer.

Stupid drunk: you forgot the World Cup was starting. Is this a repeat? No, it’s in Asia! It’s live at 2AM! Hope?

USA! Vs

Portugal.

We’re fucked. Portugal are tipped by some to win it all.

We’re going to lose, and I’m going to die drunk.

But USA won

3-2

I accepted the challenge,

The gauntlet thrown by our National Team doing what was assumed they couldn’t possibly have done,

And I have done for myself

What I assumed I couldn’t possibly have done,

And have done it now for 10 years.


Chris Walters, June 2012