Claremont, North Carolina (Don't Go There) Part 1
One can discover the genuine roots of a town by walking its streets at night.
But in the morning, the sun shines. A light breeze that doesn't smell like death blows through the parking lot of Wilma's Barbecue Restaurant. It smells like nothing. Although it's early in the morning, the lot is full. Citizens will break their fast only at Wilma's. A cartoon pig on a sign benevolently looks down at the lot. This pig is gleaming happy and does not hold the knife and fork displayed by the Cannibalistic Barbecue Sign Pigs across the Southeast. This pig was drawn just before they told him the True Meaning of a Pig's Life.
Eggs and sausage and bacon and pancakes and delicious pan fried potatoes are eaten while laughter strikes around the dining room like vitamin C lightning. Nobody vomits. Laughter encouraged by coffee, but not addicted to it.
If the owner sees the scarecrow hanging from the ceiling fan, he should start playing poker.
Citizens walk in and citizens walk out. What a beautiful day. What a beautiful restaurant. What a beautiful town. Breakfast may be over at 9, but different parts of the surprised pig are served well after the horizon digests the sun.
But the night in Claremont treats the day like a favored but mentally-handicapped child. When it's bedtime, it's off to slumber for day in the dark folds of night to slobber in a pillow and dream about raindrops on the stove.
Wilma's is closed. Interstate 40 roars like the rush of blood in the ear.
In the darkness, it's time to walk.
Writing Assignment
ENG 101
Fall 3051
The genetic scientists sat around the conference table watching the vid displaying images from the colonized planet of Yartopia. Their eyes reflected the horrors that flashed by, and their mouths sagged open, struck witless by what the Banana Constable of Space and Some Drive-Ins had brought to them. They watched a native of Yartopia being beaten to death on a basketball court by three fishermen. The weapon, a frozen leg of lamb signed by Roald Dahl. An albino Duckman gleefully dropping cannonballs from the roof of the Ossified Bone Tower on unsuspecting civilians below. A woman, crying hysterically, strapped down to a table while three bald men dressed in Barberstripes shaved her head. A little boy with violet eyes holding up a Heroin Snack Bar with his magic pea-shooter, screeching, "Gimme smack, gimme smack, smack, smack, smack." A city exploding into nothing. All very bad things. The vid ended, and the Banana Constable stepped up onto the table wearing a very grave expression underneath his rainbow kerchief.
"You see, gentlemen and women, Yartopia is in chaos. It will soon be devoured in its own muck, unless you create the ultimate cyborg to send as an emissary and leader to assuage the sin of Yartopia. I cannot go, because I haven't had lunch, but you must put your minds together and come up with ten characteristics, four of which are super, with which to program the cyborg to save Yartopia. Good luck!" The Banana Constable danced the teapot dance and disappeared for lunch. The scientists are you. Get to it.
Fall 3051
The genetic scientists sat around the conference table watching the vid displaying images from the colonized planet of Yartopia. Their eyes reflected the horrors that flashed by, and their mouths sagged open, struck witless by what the Banana Constable of Space and Some Drive-Ins had brought to them. They watched a native of Yartopia being beaten to death on a basketball court by three fishermen. The weapon, a frozen leg of lamb signed by Roald Dahl. An albino Duckman gleefully dropping cannonballs from the roof of the Ossified Bone Tower on unsuspecting civilians below. A woman, crying hysterically, strapped down to a table while three bald men dressed in Barberstripes shaved her head. A little boy with violet eyes holding up a Heroin Snack Bar with his magic pea-shooter, screeching, "Gimme smack, gimme smack, smack, smack, smack." A city exploding into nothing. All very bad things. The vid ended, and the Banana Constable stepped up onto the table wearing a very grave expression underneath his rainbow kerchief.
"You see, gentlemen and women, Yartopia is in chaos. It will soon be devoured in its own muck, unless you create the ultimate cyborg to send as an emissary and leader to assuage the sin of Yartopia. I cannot go, because I haven't had lunch, but you must put your minds together and come up with ten characteristics, four of which are super, with which to program the cyborg to save Yartopia. Good luck!" The Banana Constable danced the teapot dance and disappeared for lunch. The scientists are you. Get to it.
Bucketdream
Dream
I walked south, sunshine piercing my eyes, encouraging growth to the young wrinkles at the corners. Ahead was a sprawling apartment complex shifting like shadows of trees along a traveled highway. I was looking for somebody, engorged with an angry happiness. I didn't know why I felt this way. Upon rising out of thought, I found myself surrounded by the complex. Screams of children, barks of turtles( I know that turtles don't bark, but the dream was master) thrummed within my ears. I smelled beef being cooked and didn't feel hungry.
The individual apartments weren't so strange. Balconies and sliding glass doors on each one, the bottom floor open, a stone path leading to each slab of cement. But trying to look at all of them simultaneously made me dizzy. They connected to each other in a mazelike fashion, spiraling around each other, several levels high, connected by rope bridges with wooden slats.
I went around a corner and singled out an apartment on the ground floor. It was that one! I knew it! Running onto the patio I yanked open the sliding glass door. The air inside was so cold, snow fell when it came in contact with the heat outside.
Inside, the TV was on. Three women sat side by side on a very small couch. One was a woman I worked with two years ago. I hadn't seen her in a year and a half, but she smiled at me as if that time was five minutes ago.
"Hey, Todd. How are you?"
"I'm good," I said, just standing there, obsessively hating these obligatory greetings uttered every day. "How are you?"
"I'm good. How are you?"
I didn't say anything. I knew if I did I would be there forever. Instead, I noticed that her daughter sat in the middle. She was a big, tall girl who smiled at me frozenly, as if by the air or by the enormity of her infatuation with me.
The woman on the right was grotesquely fat. I had never seen her before. Even in the sterile cold her unyielding stink offended me. The end of the wooden sofa on the left was an inch higher than her side. She ignored me.
I took all three of them in a glance, feeling sourly disappointed. I was not looking for these women.
"I have to go. Bye."
She tried to pull me into her circle again. "Bye, Todd. You have a good day." The last syllable rose in pitch, expecting a response. I shut the door. I began to curse, and the viciousness of my language wounded the air around my head. Blood pattered on my shoulders, my arms. I shrieked, terrified, and ran down an enclosed corridor summoned from thin air by my fear. A small ramp at the end halted at the cross-section of one of the bridges. My chest slammed into the wooden slats, and the bridge swayed lazily. I looked down. The tips of my boots protruded over a white abyss. The bridge stretched the length of it, for the width was insignificant.
Several loud barks startled me and I glanced up to see an enormous dog running ahead of four others on the other side of the gap. They ran through thick grass of an untended lawn, around several vehicles bereft of wheels. The lead dog was bigger than a donkey, and its teeth made its head seem shrunken. An old man sat on a concrete block, yelling, "Get that shitblister, Bucket! Get him for coming round here!"
I started to back up, but Bucket growled and leapt onto the bridge, sinking its teeth into my forearm.
"Oh, God! Let go of me! It hurts!"
My stomach began to ache from the pain, and the old man, laughed, farted, laughed, farted. "How's he taste, Bucket? He taste good enough for me?"
Bucket made a noise. The top half of his body hung over the rope railing. I forced myself to look at my arm and gasped. No blood. Bucket's teeth had sunk in the flesh clean, as if I was made of clay.
"Sir, please call your dog off. I didn't mean to come down this way. I'm just looking for somebody."
"Bucket, don't eat him all up. Save some for me!"
I would get no help from that guy.
Gritting my teeth, I jerked my arm down, causing Bucket to flip over the rope and fall into the gap. His tremendous weight threatened to pull me with it, but my arm ripped away and the abyss swallowed the dog. The other dogs barked and jumped after their leader.
My forearm was gone, but the stump was smooth and pink, as if a year had passed.
The old man screamed. "Bucket's gone! I can't walk around in his head no more! Gone!" He got up from the block and began to run toward me. Each step shook the ground, my body, like a train. I pirhouetted and bolted up the ramp through the corridor, emerging into wonderful sunlight. The shaking had stopped and immediately I felt safe from any danger. I stood in grass in some sort of courtyard. A parking lot was in the middle, hosting a single mustang covertible. In front of the parking lot was a couch. Sight of the couch coaxed out overwhelming exhaustion, and I sighed and ran, jumping on it, falling asleep at once.
The sound of women's throaty laughter and whistles woke me. Four gorgeous black women sat in the Mustang, staring at me with aggressive smiles. Still half-asleep, I raised my left hand and gave them one of the grins that work. They whistled louder and the car backed up and left the lot.
My right stub bristled with needles from having been slept on. I sat up and shook it. As the circulation energized, my forearm and hand coalesced before my eyes. To me, it was ordinary. Another cup of coffee, another blink.
I walked south, sunshine piercing my eyes, encouraging growth to the young wrinkles at the corners. Ahead was a sprawling apartment complex shifting like shadows of trees along a traveled highway. I was looking for somebody, engorged with an angry happiness. I didn't know why I felt this way. Upon rising out of thought, I found myself surrounded by the complex. Screams of children, barks of turtles( I know that turtles don't bark, but the dream was master) thrummed within my ears. I smelled beef being cooked and didn't feel hungry.
The individual apartments weren't so strange. Balconies and sliding glass doors on each one, the bottom floor open, a stone path leading to each slab of cement. But trying to look at all of them simultaneously made me dizzy. They connected to each other in a mazelike fashion, spiraling around each other, several levels high, connected by rope bridges with wooden slats.
I went around a corner and singled out an apartment on the ground floor. It was that one! I knew it! Running onto the patio I yanked open the sliding glass door. The air inside was so cold, snow fell when it came in contact with the heat outside.
Inside, the TV was on. Three women sat side by side on a very small couch. One was a woman I worked with two years ago. I hadn't seen her in a year and a half, but she smiled at me as if that time was five minutes ago.
"Hey, Todd. How are you?"
"I'm good," I said, just standing there, obsessively hating these obligatory greetings uttered every day. "How are you?"
"I'm good. How are you?"
I didn't say anything. I knew if I did I would be there forever. Instead, I noticed that her daughter sat in the middle. She was a big, tall girl who smiled at me frozenly, as if by the air or by the enormity of her infatuation with me.
The woman on the right was grotesquely fat. I had never seen her before. Even in the sterile cold her unyielding stink offended me. The end of the wooden sofa on the left was an inch higher than her side. She ignored me.
I took all three of them in a glance, feeling sourly disappointed. I was not looking for these women.
"I have to go. Bye."
She tried to pull me into her circle again. "Bye, Todd. You have a good day." The last syllable rose in pitch, expecting a response. I shut the door. I began to curse, and the viciousness of my language wounded the air around my head. Blood pattered on my shoulders, my arms. I shrieked, terrified, and ran down an enclosed corridor summoned from thin air by my fear. A small ramp at the end halted at the cross-section of one of the bridges. My chest slammed into the wooden slats, and the bridge swayed lazily. I looked down. The tips of my boots protruded over a white abyss. The bridge stretched the length of it, for the width was insignificant.
Several loud barks startled me and I glanced up to see an enormous dog running ahead of four others on the other side of the gap. They ran through thick grass of an untended lawn, around several vehicles bereft of wheels. The lead dog was bigger than a donkey, and its teeth made its head seem shrunken. An old man sat on a concrete block, yelling, "Get that shitblister, Bucket! Get him for coming round here!"
I started to back up, but Bucket growled and leapt onto the bridge, sinking its teeth into my forearm.
"Oh, God! Let go of me! It hurts!"
My stomach began to ache from the pain, and the old man, laughed, farted, laughed, farted. "How's he taste, Bucket? He taste good enough for me?"
Bucket made a noise. The top half of his body hung over the rope railing. I forced myself to look at my arm and gasped. No blood. Bucket's teeth had sunk in the flesh clean, as if I was made of clay.
"Sir, please call your dog off. I didn't mean to come down this way. I'm just looking for somebody."
"Bucket, don't eat him all up. Save some for me!"
I would get no help from that guy.
Gritting my teeth, I jerked my arm down, causing Bucket to flip over the rope and fall into the gap. His tremendous weight threatened to pull me with it, but my arm ripped away and the abyss swallowed the dog. The other dogs barked and jumped after their leader.
My forearm was gone, but the stump was smooth and pink, as if a year had passed.
The old man screamed. "Bucket's gone! I can't walk around in his head no more! Gone!" He got up from the block and began to run toward me. Each step shook the ground, my body, like a train. I pirhouetted and bolted up the ramp through the corridor, emerging into wonderful sunlight. The shaking had stopped and immediately I felt safe from any danger. I stood in grass in some sort of courtyard. A parking lot was in the middle, hosting a single mustang covertible. In front of the parking lot was a couch. Sight of the couch coaxed out overwhelming exhaustion, and I sighed and ran, jumping on it, falling asleep at once.
The sound of women's throaty laughter and whistles woke me. Four gorgeous black women sat in the Mustang, staring at me with aggressive smiles. Still half-asleep, I raised my left hand and gave them one of the grins that work. They whistled louder and the car backed up and left the lot.
My right stub bristled with needles from having been slept on. I sat up and shook it. As the circulation energized, my forearm and hand coalesced before my eyes. To me, it was ordinary. Another cup of coffee, another blink.
Nightmare
Nightmare January 29, 2003
The nurse opened the door for me into the dark room. It was bright outside, but the light from the hallway was blunted fiercely by the inner darkness. I stepped into the room, unquestioning, and it was shut quietly behind me, manufacturing a quiet breeze against the nape of my neck.
In the dark, my shoes glowed, and my feet within them moved of their own accord. They led me to an aluminum folding chair. I sat down, and my left elbow smacked against the corner of the room. My shoes faded just as the front wall of the room was illuminated. The entire wall was covered by a white projector screen. The light allowed me to see that others were in the room with me. Clustered at the other side of the room, far away, were all the women I had been involved with in my life. They stared as one at the screen, feeding me only with their profiles. They were silent.
The screen flickered, and although I could see no projector, a slide came on. My heart jumped. It was me when I was six years old. I was small, with long, curly hair. A long-fingered hand held my arm. My mother’s. Another calloused hand rested on my shoulder, dwarfing me. My father’s. I was lying on a gurney and I looked terrified. Four brutish hands gripped the rails of my gurney.
My six-year old voice emerged from the still picture, freezing me. “Nooooo, nooooo,” it screamed.
The slide changed and I involuntarily jerked backward. My child-image was encased in two barbed platforms, stomach down, facing away from me. In an operation room. The image was three-dimensional, and my feet poked out into the dark viewing room. They spasmed. The four mean hands that had been holding the rails now all held sharp tools, which pressed into an unseen wound in my back. The picture moved crudely, hands stabbing, my body twitching in pain. My young voice continued to scream while the image unmercifully switched to a close-up of what the hands were doing to my back.
My spinal cord was open and four scalpels poked and jerked at the jell-like discs of my vertebrae. Amid my soft shrieks, I heard the doctors’ shadowy laughter. The image changed from the wound to me lying down to the tortured wound again. Back and forth first slowly, then the change quickened into a flash that bathed the viewing room in a wild light.
The pain became mine. I felt their cruel investigations chewing at my lower back and I bucked sideways, knocking over the chair and falling on the floor. I opened my mouth to scream and it emerged not as an adult’s, but the weary, horrified lament of a six-year old.
“Noooo, Noooo.” It said.
The screen blackened, and the agony left me. I sat up, disoriented, and another image arrived. I gasped. It was me, eight years old, staring directly at me. I don’t know how I recognized myself. The child’s hair was long, black, dirty and straight. His eyes were pinched, and underlined by thick stripes of coal exhaustion. He was starved, skin between his ribs like flesh runnels. Grotesque, ancient scars swallowed his entire upper body. He sat down, shoulders slumped. His attention on me was frozen, permanent.
Something moved at the four corners of the screen. Points emerging first, blades following, handles, then the wicked, gripping hands. Syrup’s progress, lazy but inevitable, coming for more.
I glanced to the right and noticed the women were staring at me. They opened their mouths in unison:
“So that’s why,” they said. “That’s why.”
The nurse opened the door for me into the dark room. It was bright outside, but the light from the hallway was blunted fiercely by the inner darkness. I stepped into the room, unquestioning, and it was shut quietly behind me, manufacturing a quiet breeze against the nape of my neck.
In the dark, my shoes glowed, and my feet within them moved of their own accord. They led me to an aluminum folding chair. I sat down, and my left elbow smacked against the corner of the room. My shoes faded just as the front wall of the room was illuminated. The entire wall was covered by a white projector screen. The light allowed me to see that others were in the room with me. Clustered at the other side of the room, far away, were all the women I had been involved with in my life. They stared as one at the screen, feeding me only with their profiles. They were silent.
The screen flickered, and although I could see no projector, a slide came on. My heart jumped. It was me when I was six years old. I was small, with long, curly hair. A long-fingered hand held my arm. My mother’s. Another calloused hand rested on my shoulder, dwarfing me. My father’s. I was lying on a gurney and I looked terrified. Four brutish hands gripped the rails of my gurney.
My six-year old voice emerged from the still picture, freezing me. “Nooooo, nooooo,” it screamed.
The slide changed and I involuntarily jerked backward. My child-image was encased in two barbed platforms, stomach down, facing away from me. In an operation room. The image was three-dimensional, and my feet poked out into the dark viewing room. They spasmed. The four mean hands that had been holding the rails now all held sharp tools, which pressed into an unseen wound in my back. The picture moved crudely, hands stabbing, my body twitching in pain. My young voice continued to scream while the image unmercifully switched to a close-up of what the hands were doing to my back.
My spinal cord was open and four scalpels poked and jerked at the jell-like discs of my vertebrae. Amid my soft shrieks, I heard the doctors’ shadowy laughter. The image changed from the wound to me lying down to the tortured wound again. Back and forth first slowly, then the change quickened into a flash that bathed the viewing room in a wild light.
The pain became mine. I felt their cruel investigations chewing at my lower back and I bucked sideways, knocking over the chair and falling on the floor. I opened my mouth to scream and it emerged not as an adult’s, but the weary, horrified lament of a six-year old.
“Noooo, Noooo.” It said.
The screen blackened, and the agony left me. I sat up, disoriented, and another image arrived. I gasped. It was me, eight years old, staring directly at me. I don’t know how I recognized myself. The child’s hair was long, black, dirty and straight. His eyes were pinched, and underlined by thick stripes of coal exhaustion. He was starved, skin between his ribs like flesh runnels. Grotesque, ancient scars swallowed his entire upper body. He sat down, shoulders slumped. His attention on me was frozen, permanent.
Something moved at the four corners of the screen. Points emerging first, blades following, handles, then the wicked, gripping hands. Syrup’s progress, lazy but inevitable, coming for more.
I glanced to the right and noticed the women were staring at me. They opened their mouths in unison:
“So that’s why,” they said. “That’s why.”
Dream: Uninvited Refrigerator Cleaner
I woke up early this morning to the whining sounds of a baby crying. I opened my eyes and noticed commotion in the kitchen. The pretty neighbor who lives above me stood in the doorway to my bedroom, carrying a sack of what appeared to be black feed. She spilled a little bit on the floor in front of my bookshelf, then came to my bedside. One of my eyes was still glued shut by sleep, but I noticed she was dressed slick, pressed blouse and business skirt. She gave me a dazzling smile and said, “Remember that Francis account I was talking about once last month?”
And I was thinking, WTF? How did she get into my apartment? What the hell is she talking about as if I would know? But, the girl was very pretty. So I nodded, sitting up in bed. “Well,” she continued. “The deal went through, and now I can do anything I want. Come look.” I got out of bed and followed her into my livingroom. A well groomed dog sat on my reading chair, making that whining sound. My kitchen was brilliantly clean. My neighbor said, “Because you’re so nice, and never complain to the man about my baby crying, I decided to come down and clean out your refrigerator.” She made a sour face. “It was disgusting.” I opened the fridge and noticed it was unusually clean, but she had somehow switched the freezer section to the bottom. Also, the entire appliance was filled with individual bottles of Corona in wet paper bags. I shut the fridge. “I was wondering,” she said. “If you could watch my baby while I go to Citibank.” I turned to the chair and the dog had transformed into a chubby baby that looked like my nephew. She grabbed him and put him in my arms. “For how long?” I asked. “I’ll be gone for a few minutes.” Grabbing her purse, she stepped outside and got into her car, which had “EUROPE OR BUST” painted on the back.
The baby cried.
Dream Over.
And I was thinking, WTF? How did she get into my apartment? What the hell is she talking about as if I would know? But, the girl was very pretty. So I nodded, sitting up in bed. “Well,” she continued. “The deal went through, and now I can do anything I want. Come look.” I got out of bed and followed her into my livingroom. A well groomed dog sat on my reading chair, making that whining sound. My kitchen was brilliantly clean. My neighbor said, “Because you’re so nice, and never complain to the man about my baby crying, I decided to come down and clean out your refrigerator.” She made a sour face. “It was disgusting.” I opened the fridge and noticed it was unusually clean, but she had somehow switched the freezer section to the bottom. Also, the entire appliance was filled with individual bottles of Corona in wet paper bags. I shut the fridge. “I was wondering,” she said. “If you could watch my baby while I go to Citibank.” I turned to the chair and the dog had transformed into a chubby baby that looked like my nephew. She grabbed him and put him in my arms. “For how long?” I asked. “I’ll be gone for a few minutes.” Grabbing her purse, she stepped outside and got into her car, which had “EUROPE OR BUST” painted on the back.
The baby cried.
Dream Over.
Limerick
There was a young lass from Manchester
She’d lift her skirts if ye asked her
For a penny or two
Her skivvies off too
And soon she’s in her second trimester
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