Born in the Year of the Butterfly Knife: 1 Read online

  It’s all people wanna hear. I might be the only one who knows.

  I’ll tell you.

  It was a strong beast. It was a supernatural experience real enough to send an agnostic knee first to choir practice.

  Whether you believe it or not, I know what I saw.

  A lot of folks ask me what the difference is between angels and demons.

  Well, not much except one is ugly as dog shit and shoots fire out his ass and pisses hot lava.

  I seen both. But I actually couldn’t tell the difference. Demons usually got long chins and hefty limps from fallin’ to earth. Angels don’t wear white or showboat their wings. But they do carry electricity and whisper a lot. Does this sound crazy? Shit’s biblical.

  First off I must have you know that I am not insane and I am not a certifiable drunk.

  I do drink a Gentleman jack Granddad on special days only. It ain’t my fault that the good Lord made every day feel special to me.

  So back to spilling the story about the Stallion.

  Cousin Luke was nobody’s cousin. He had been in the Temecula area for as long as anyone could remember. He wasn’t too well liked. He had the face of a goat and that weird flakey skin. Some ignorant folks called him the hunchback.

  His back was fine.

  He was actually very different than the famed hunchback cause Cousin Luke was a proud man and liked the public, it’s just that the public didn’t take much to him.

  He was a little tough to look at. Never saw him talk to a woman except to ask for more coffee. I saw a child starin’ at him once in Bixby Park and he grabbed the child by the ears and said sternly,with a deliberate passion, ‘ Look, look, look boy! You are gazin’ at the design of the heavens.’ He stared at that boy, peeled his own eyes open with his thumbs, till the toddler pissed his drawers.

  The police told Cousin Luke to stay outta the main town, for the sake of the children, but the poor son of a bitch needed certain food and arthritis medicine so he was kinda up a crick.

  Mighta led to him stealin’ at night, but there was no proof.

  Almost a year later a crime was committed. A woman’s body was found near the Mill and there wasn’t much of a trial.

  They knew who they wanted to bring down before the investigation even began.

  I knew he was too weak for manglin’. I don’t know. Not much evidence. People really pulled a Jesus on this one and claimed they knew he was the one, in their hearts.

  There was about six of us invited to the hangin’. I showed up with a big stick cause I didn’t want anyone lettin’ out their transgressions on this poor fella.

  He sat there, resting in a cheap saddle, rope knotted behind his neck like blonde summer braids. A statue, balancing among the sycamore limbs.

  He didn’t plead for justice. He had a look on his face like he had just eaten a flavor of jellybean he had never tried before, and then he looked proud.

  I think he enjoyed bein’ the center of attention for once, for somethin’ other than his looks.

  He looked at me as if he was sorry that I had to be there to witness what humans were capable of.

  A strange thing occurred when the horse was beckoned to run by the hangman. It didn’t budge.

  The other men with revolvers cracked the horse with whips and twigs.

  The Stallion still did not budge. Cousin Luke’s arms were bound, head covered in burlap. Chin up.

  They cracked the beast’s ass until dusk waiting to see the rider’s body snap and sway but again, it would not run from under the rider.

  I interrupted and reminded the gentlemen that we had not asked Cousin Luke for his final prayer.

  “Are you the prayin’ type, boy?” asked Jim Murphy.

  Cousin Luke’s chin rose higher into the air like a bride’s bouquet.

  “Gentlemen. I was never at home here,” said Cousin Luke, “but I felt most at home when I heard other people pray…when I was outside the church. Everyone sounded scared. So no, I don’t pray. Soon, I’ll be close enough to God to feel the lightning in his spit, so why bother. I did write somethin’ down I’d like to read to you gentlemen, but you’ll have to remove this burlap, for just a spell.”

  Danny Hatch slowly lifted the cover with the tip of his shotgun and retrieved a letter he found in Cousin Luke’s trousers. I kept it to this day. I can hear him readin’ it.

  “Lord, if I die an honest man

  let me first be honest with you.

  Men can take my life

  but none shall steal my pride.

  I wore your sport coat made of knives

  begging the world to touch me,

  telling everyone they were gifts…

  and oh how I wanted to open them all up.

  I never hurt nobody.

  I was a machine gun jammed by the seeds in Eve’s mouth.

  I was a Christmas tree kicking presents into the fires of midnight.

  I was a war over Colombian placebo.

  I was a boxer that couldn’t stop swinging at the shadows.

  I was tempted, but never hurt nobody.

  Temptation is a talented opponent, Lord.

  My eyes were scissors etched with a yes cutting the child from the hem of her dress.

  I took her to the Mill to relieve her of child, by her request, but I did not know how to do it right.

  She told me it was easy and that she could guide me through it..

  I did not have the strength in my hands to finish.

  I reckon she tried on her own.

  I, born in a trophy case that remained empty I, created in the image of who?

  I was born in the year of the noose.

  I was born in the year of the butterfly knife.

  Lord, my photo album is empty

  and I am glad

  no more

  will have to carry it.

  Lord, this heart

  is a corpse.

  Send the night

  to come bury it. Amen.”

  It is a strange thing to weep in front of strangers who hate you and don’t know you. I think Luke felt that.

  Jake put the bag back on Luke’s head.

  I took the letter from his bound hands. The men continued to crack the beast and still it would not budge. I watched the stallion’s face. I looked upon the shine of its eyes. No stallion can bleed in a beating without a flinch, but that’s exactly what happened.

  I thought this animal was from the fields of angels and demons. They hit its ass with all they had and it wasn’t moving.

  The bag turned towards me. I don’t know if he was smiling under there or laughing but it scared the dickens out of us and we ran. I did not look back.

  A corn farmer and assistant pastor, Terry Prine came by three days later to see if anyone had claimed the horse. It was understandable cause it was a good plow horse and no one knew where it came from.

  He swears he just about swallowed his tongue when he saw the man still sitting among the tree limbs, unfed, head sheathed moaning upon that horse.

  Twilight sighed down and the pastor watched him from the trees.

  The farmer claimed he watched the Luke’s chin finally dip as slow and heavy as the sunset.

  The horses legs lurched forward and the body finally fell.

  It swung like a lopsided pinata.

  Terry swore the snap of the noose from the limb was the loudest he’d ever heard.

  He said his body swung there like a pendulum and that the horse ran faster than Roman chariots straight into that black, crackling sky.

  NINE THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED

  LIGHT YEARS AWAY

  My name is Todd Anderson. T-O-D-D. I am 5 feet, 9 inches tall. I am 320 pounds. I have had sex once and it was expensive.

  I work at a convenience store on 7th and Cherry in Long Beach. You can come visit.

  We have more beef jerky and energy drinks than the other leading convenience stores.

  We have magazines. I like the ones with bikini girls next to lowered tr
ucks.

  I don’t get it, but I like it. A woman’s bikini area is like Cuba. It’s not that I’ve never been there, it’s just that I don’t feel very welcome cause I don’t speak the language.

  A man without a name tag takes the leftover mags back and destroys them if they don’t sell. I feel sorry for all that work put into something that no one gets to see. No one gets to know how great the thing was, or even all the various things waiting inside. No one will ever know. Trashed from the get go.

  I work with an autistic guy named Jerry. He has a girlfriend. I believe him. I believe in good people. I believe in music. I don’t own any records.

  Actually I’m not sure how you can believe in music. I’m not sure how that works.

  I drive a Datsun. It has graffiti on it. Certain gangs throw rocks at it. I don’t even know what it says. Maybe it says, ‘throw rocks’.

  I don’t lie, cheat or steal. I don’t have a girlfriend. Maybe that’s ‘cause I don’t lie.

  I don’t have a bike, anymore. I put a sign on it that said ‘please don’t steal me.’

  A little girl stole it. I don’t think she could read.

  I don’t exercise. I don’t like sweating. I sweat a lot. I drink Gatorade. I have their t-shirt. It says “Is it in you.” That’s a funny one. I wear it cause it makes Jerry laugh. And me too.

  I don’t eat much. I feel heavy. I do feel heavy. I don’t make friends easily. I don’t win. I’m not a loser, but I don’t win. I mean, usually I don’t, but every dog has his day. And every day has…um. Every dog has his day. My day was today.

  When I first met Jerry, I used to think he was rude.

  “So how old are you?”

  His body jumped to attention. It was as if my question bolstered rigamortis.

  “The largest birthday party ever held for an individual was for the legendary Colonel Harland Sanders on September 8, 1979 to celebrate his 89th birthday in Kentucky. 35,000 people ate chicken!”

  “What the fuck?”

  Now I realize that his facts are his answers. Kinda. I like it. If I ask him when he was born, he’ll state some random fact about 1979. I think he’s cool.

  He carries around a picture of this woman. She looks normal. 20’s. Kind of cute. Big mole on the cheek. Old timey glasses. The weird thing is that he keeps it in a small frame and takes it with him everywhere, clutching it like a bible.

  “I think Virginia Slims go in the bottom and Newports on the top. Jerry, let me ask you somethin’, you carry that picture around everywhere you go and I’m assuming that that’s your girl? O.K. This might seem too personal so you don’t have to answer, but do you and your girlfriend ever get it on? I’m just wondering, not to be perverted.”

  His face pauses for a moment like he’s in the hot seat on a game show and then switches to the face of the kid that stole the cookies.

  “The world’s fastest oyster opening is 100 in 2 minutes set by Mike Racz in Invercargrill, New Zealand, 1990. Home of a fast motorcycle.”

  “I guess that means you’re good in the ‘ol sack, buddy? I bet you are.”

  He high fives me.

  “The world’s longest sausage stretched for 28.77 miles made by M & M Meat Shops in Ontario, Canada, 1995.”

  If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t still be workin’ here. His heart is as big as my gut. I envy him. He’s got the innocence and the courage I always wished for.

  I do believe in good people, but I am starting to believe that except for Jerry, they have all been raptured into Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

  We get a lot of weirdos.

  The guy that drops off the fountain syrup is a real piece of work. He has a ducktail for a hairdo and chews his gum so that his jaw reveals the maximum amount of smack action.

  “Sup, Jerry Curl. Sup, Toady Camboady? -smack-smack-smack. How’s the toadstool?”

  “It’s Todd.”

  “Sorry about that, Toady. Sign this. Whoa, who’s the babe in the frame? What you don’t talk, Rain Man? Whatevs.”

  I don’t know why people wanna be like that. I’d rather be ignored. As he exits I realize there is not much compassion left in me for jerks. If I had some terminal illness, I would just go around waxing and stabbing idiots around Christmas time and then I’d drive off a cliff with Susan Sarandon or something. At least I’d feel like I accomplished something. I know what you’re thinking…poor Susan Sarandon.

  “Delivery guys used to be so sweet. I swear to God, Jerry. I hope that guy has a dumb life and a real painful death.”

  “September 19, 1981, more than 300 people were eaten by Serrasalmus, or piranha when an overloaded passenger boat capsized as it was docking at the Brazilian port of Obidos.”

  “I hear that.”

  Most of our days in the shop are spent secretly making fun of mean customers.

  It’s brought me close to Jerry. He’s been a good example to me. He has taught me to not blow my dough as much. I buy dumb stuff. I can’t help it. Most of my paycheck goes to magazines and lottery tickets. I never win. Not even a dollar, can you believe that? Some people find money. But I love playing. It’s exciting. The whole idea of the thing.

  The lottery reminds me of life. Some people waste their life trying to win and then some buffoon comes along, finds one in the gutter, doesn’t even try and is set forever. It’s hilarious.

  “Jerry, You take two scratchers and I’ll take two scratchers. I tell ya, If I had the money, I’d take a flight out of here to somewhere exotic…like Arizona. I would sit on those rocks in Sedona, those red, huge towers of boulders where they say there is a vortex and I would sit up there with a big ol’ box of Gatorade and I would just sweat, I would sweat all damn day until the sun cooked away my skin, till I was skinny again, like when I was a kid. I would look so good. I will let all this hurt just sweat out of my pores and I’d leave it in that vortex and I’d pay for all of my friends…well, I’d pay for you to come visit me and we’d go to some river and feel …I dunno, light. Maybe get one of those nice, lowered trucks and just sit around waiting for the photographers and girls in bikini’s from east L.A. to show up. The I’d take some steroids and get strong and I’d tell everyone off who was a jerk to me. What would you do?”

  “MMmmm. The biggest burrito was 4,217 pounds and was created by El Pollo Loco, Anaheim, California, 1995.”

  “That sounds delicious. “

  We scratched them tickets. We lost.

  “Why is it whenever the devil pisses in the wind, it blows back in my face!

  My God! Let me win…something! Let me fucking out of this shell. Give me a fucking running start for Christ’s sake! Gimme one wish that isn’t wrecked. Man.”

  There was an awkward moment.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never gone off like that before.”

  “The worst battle in history was the 880 day siege of Leningrad by the Germans during World War 2. 1.5 million Russians died and over 100,000 bombs were dropped.”

  “Have you ever wished for something, Jerry?”

  He let out a long slow breath.

  “Yes.”

  I was silent. Yes? He had never said yes or no to me before in over 8 months.

  He grabs my hand, sets my ticket down and walks me over to the rack. He opens up a Time magazine. In the back is an advertisement for learning English as a second language. The woman holding the box is in her 20’s. Kind of cute. Big mole on the cheek. Old timey glasses. It’s the same picture. The same one from his frame.

  He stares out over a tub of bottled Pepsi and a wall of Pemmican beef jerky.

  His chin lowers. He begins sniffling. I stare at the cigarettes. Either his girlfriend is a model for ESL or there is no girlfriend.

  “She’s not your girlfriend, is she Jerry?”

  He nods his head from left to right. He is sobbing.

  I say “It’s O.K., man. It’s O.K. I think we should tie one on.”

  I poured two cola-flavored Slurpees. And we sat there. I think I know what he wishes for. He beg
ins,

  “The most massive star is estimated at being 200 times greater than the mass of the sun, in the Carina Nebula. It is 9100 light years away. It is called Eta Carinae. It is also the brightest.”

  I feel my face collapse like a stack of plates into my hands.

  Tears come creeking out of my faucets.

  A customer and his wife are trying to buy some peanut butter cups.

  They’re staring at me from behind the counter and he says, “You all right, buddy?”

  “Yea. I am. Thanks.” He finally leaves. Jerry puts his arm around me and gives me a nice hug. His Slurpee is empty so he takes a sip of mine and then hands it to me.

  He says, “Eta Carinae is 6.5 million times brighter than the sun, but we can’t see it.”

  “I’m sure it’s beautiful, Jerry. I wish we could see it.”

  from IF LOVIN’ YOU IS WRONG,

  THEN I DON’T WANT TO BE WRONG

  COMPLETING A DUMB PUZZLE

  COMPLETING A DUMB PUZZLE

  This poem was born out of the idea of your wrists as escape hatches and what if blood didn’t come out, but rather the voice of someone you cared for telling you to not do it. Stop cutting yourself. I saw a tattoo a fan got of the word escape down the arms with a padlock. I was hoping to see a gopher.

  I stare like bad television

  at your dancer’s form while you rest

  not knowing where I belong.

  I found you

  the way your foot finds your other arch

  when you dream on your stomach.

  I have overdosed on the small pills of this farewell sleeping.

  Wizzing your ahhhhhs.

  I went to get my stomach pumped at the hospital d’resistance.

  They found flecks of your tongue, sap from your bones, fingernail chips,

  lipstick chemicals, liquid vaginal magic and a note:

  Hold me with the word escape painted down your arms

  and brush off the pairs of large buck teeth in the closet

  and we’ll run from the bed

  through the wall

  and charge into the earth as gophers in love

  back to the dust

  where we belong.

  AQUANAUT