Joey Cloudy online

chapter 23

TRAMP: New Yearz Eve The Pit 2000-2001 – (parts 1 & 2)

“They were all in love with dyin’, they were drinking from a fountain

That was pourin’ like an avalanche comin’ down the mountain”

-The Butt Hole Surfers/Pepper

New Year’s Eve, December 31st, 2000

Since walking in on Ernest’s party, the week before Christmas, Aaron and Ahmad had spent very little time in the room Aaron lived in at the Hearthside hotel. They had been busy after work, attending various literary events, poetry readings, open mikes, writers’ workshops, and hanging out with the local literati. Nights were spent sitting in twenty-four-hour diners drinking strong coffee, smoking cigarettes, talking to their new friends, all of whom were creative artists of some kind, musicians, painters, cinematographers, dancers, and actors.

They were both tireless because they were learning so much, meeting new, interesting people who were interested in creating things. It was the one thing that they all had in common, the desire, the primal need to create. Spending a little time with them once a week seemed to be enough to help keep them focused. They needed to be reminded occasionally that they were not their job. They were artist, it was like an octane boost for the soul. Like soldiers at war, everyone had suffered losses over time; it was part of the game. Some had lost friends, others had lost lovers, wives’ husbands, children’s entire families for the sake of their art. Each of us was fighting our own private war against mediocrity, ignorance, and anonymity.

Of course, since he’d smoked up his entire paycheck, again, Ernest couldn’t pay his share of the rent that week, so it all fell on Aaron. At least he’d gotten that POS ’78 Datson out of the deal. After they finished up at the gallery, they carefully drove home on the slushy roads listening to the news on the radio. Aaron and Ahmad were hanging out in the room, chilling as the weather was getting worse by the hour. Aaron had figured it would be best to skip the poetry reading at the bookstore and just relax for the evening. Texas drivers were bad enough on clear roads, but they drove like deranged maniacs on snow and ice, and all day the weathermen had been chanting black ice with a feigned morose tone that barely contained their collective glee at having something to announce other than the usual boring weather.

Aren’t we going to the bookstore tonight? The reading of the Imaginary Poets Society’s weekly readings tonight isn’t it.

I had planned on skipping it tonight, the weather to nasty.

Ahmad turned back to the video game, obviously disappointed. Dad, we should go to the reading tonight.

Dude, the whole things degenerated into a booty call for Mona and Trevor. They don’t give a damned about creating a true and accessible literary community; all they care about is hooking up after we sit through yet another “for Mona” poem.

No, Dad, I think you should go there and not let them run you off from something that was your idea to begin with. It’s as much you’re reading as it is anybody else’s. It’s New Year’s Eve, Dad. I bet it’ll be fun, like it used to be.

Aaron mussed Ahmaad’s hair, and he laughed.

Still braided, Dad, ya can’t mess it up.

I’ll tell you what, let’s drive down to Brothers Pizza for supper, and if the roads aren’t too bad, then we’ll see if that schlep car I bought from your uncle last week will make it to the bookstore. Ok.

Great, it’s gonna be fun, Dad, you’ll see. I got a good feeling about tonight. I’ve written a ton of new stuff. I can’t wait to hear what Trevor and Brandon have to say about it.

Aaron was proud of his son. He’d been reading books that were being read by college students who majored in poetry and were becoming respectable writers in their own right. He felt honored to have the privilege of watching this boy grow into manhood. He would be twelve on his next birthday this May on the 10th. He couldn’t wait to see what he would be like in ten years. He was an extraordinarily talented human being.

It wasn’t that hard to convince Aaron to go to the poetry reading at Paperbacks Plus bookstore; he was still as enamored of Trevor and Brandon as Ahmaad or Mona, more so if they knew the truth. Despite his growing jealousy of the affair between Mona and Trevor, he still valued Trevor’s opinion of his work above all others. Get your coat, son, we’ll creep on down to Brothers, grab a pie, and see what the roads are like, then see what happens next. You’re right, you know, it’s New Year’s Eve. Anything could happen.

Aaron had been skipping the Nighthawks Poetry Society’s readings for weeks now because he was having a harder and harder time pretending the feelings for Mona weren’t real. That and the fact that he had a philosophical difference in the definition of what constituted good poetry. A textbook schism was forming between himself and the only people that he respected. He didn’t want to stop being a part of what they were doing, but it was really as much a class issue as an artistic aesthetic.

They were a bunch of privileged suburban soft boys, and his approach to poetry was alien to their tender pink ears. Their approach to poetry was influenced by hundreds of years of dead white men. Aarons was influenced by his life, rock music, hip-hop, pop culture, comics, Richard Pryor, Dolomite, television, and movies as much as he was by English literature. In his mind, they were still his teachers and he, their student. He put on a big, lined denim railroad man’s jacket over his sweater and jean jacket, made sure Ahmaad’s winter coat was zipped up under the London fog trench coat that Jen had given him a few weeks ago, and his gloves were on before they headed out into the grey cold slush.

Ice was forming under the slush of the half-melted snow. Nevertheless, the road crews had been busy all day salting the roads, so the mile and a half they drove down the service road from their hotel room just north of Forrest Lane was in pretty good condition all the way to the small strip of shops at Walnut Hill Lane. They both looked at the Fox moor apartments a bit nostalgically as they drove by it, remembering the good times they’d had painting, playing video games, and hanging out with Ashlee and Victoria in the good old days before being evicted from their apartment there and becoming a modern-day gypsy. He turned right at the light by the Shell station and pulled into the parking lot of the shopping center behind the gas station. Aaron parked the car, feeling his spirits being buoyed by the idea that they might actually have a good time at the reading tonight. He really wanted to go; he missed the camaraderie of the old crew more than he cared to let on.

There were no customers inside Brothers’ pizzeria, but the place was busy with the cooks getting the takeout orders ready for their delivery guys. Ahmaad bounded into the restaurant, and Aaron found his enthusiasm contagious. He followed him inside with an equal amount of optimism, carrying him along. They ordered their food: a vegetarian calzone with the works and two large root beers. They played Street Fighter on the aging video game machine under the television tuned to the news as the weatherman continued his black ice mantra. When their order was ready, they sat down at a booth in the middle of the restaurant and looked out at the darkening snow as the temperature dropped like a stone and the snow continued to fall in big wet flakes. It was nearly dark by the time they finished eating, but they had plenty of time before the reading, so they decided to head on over to the bookstore and hang out until the reading began.

The car started up without a problem, but it wouldn’t budge. Aaron knew from growing up working on cars with his father that the sound he was hearing meant the death knell for this car. The gearbox was fried. Aaron realized that his brother Ernest had fucked him again, the son of a bitch had known the transmission was going out, and that was why he had given him the car in exchange for his half of the rent. Mother fucker. Aaron grabbed the few items in the car that he valued, and the two began the long, cold walk home.

Don’t worry, son, we’ll stop at the laundry room of the apartments and warm up on the way, then we’ll go into the Chevron on the corner of Forrest and seventy-five and get some coffee and hot chocolate before we push on to the room. We’ll be fine.

I’m not worried, Dad, he smiled. They took off northbound across the parking lot for the mile-and-a-half trek back to the hotel. What about the car, Dad?

Put it in a bucket and fuck it. It’ll cost more to fix the damned thing than it’s worth; besides, I don’t have a couple of grand lying around anyway. Let’s bounce my nigga’ you’ll always be my nigga’ even if you don’t get no bigga’.

Ahmad laughed. He liked it when his dad called him his nigga’; nobody else was allowed to call him a nigga’ without a fight, but when his dad called him his nigga’, he said it with love, and he was proud to be one of the chosen few who his daddy addressed with such a term of endearment. Hell, he’d walk all the way to Oklahoma as long as he was with his daddy; it would be like walking around the block.

As they finished the last leg of their frosty sojourn up Coit Road, climbing the ice-covered hill towards their hotel, Aaron felt his pager vibrating in his pants pocket. He checked to see who was calling him and had mixed feelings when he saw that it was Mona. No sooner had they walked into the room than the telephone rang. Ahmad bolted across the room to pick up the receiver.

Dad, it’s Mona, he said, smiling as he passed the phone to Aaron.

Hi. She said her soft voice in a neutral tone. You are going to the reading tonight at the bookstore, aren’t you? It was a challenge, practically a dare.

No.

I really wish that you would come tonight.

Look, ya’ll don’t really want me there. The only reason you go anyways is so you can hook up with Trevor. You don’t even write anything or read, so what difference does it make whether I’m there or not?

I just like it better when you’re there is all.

We’ll we were planning on coming since it’s New Year’s Eve and all, but my car just died, so now that’s out of the question.

If I can get you a ride, will you come, please? It would really mean a lot to me. The readings just aren’t the same without you.

Fine, we’ll be ready when ya’ll get here.

Aaron.

Yeah.

Thanks. (She meant I love you, and they both heard what she truly meant.)

I miss us. (She heard him say I love you. They both heard him speak with two voices.) Aaron put the phone back on the cradle and turned to Ahmad, who was beaming.

Well, my nigga’ looks like you got your wish, Aaron said with a widening grin. We’re going to a poetry reading!

Hell ya!

An hour later, they were riding down the slick highway in Trevor’s white Mercedes towards Nat and Mona’s apartment. The three men all got out of the car and followed the ice-covered sidewalk that led to Nat’s apartment to pick up Mona. Aaron knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, Nat answered the door wearing nothing but a tattered pair of dingy boxer shorts. He was happy to see Aaron and Ahmaad, but he looked like he was ready to murder Trevor when he saw him bringing up the rear of the trio of visitors. Nat turned in a huff and walked back to his desk.

She’s upstairs getting dressed, he said with his back to everyone as he sat playing Doom on his computer. Everyone navigated carefully through the trash-covered living room and found a place to sit while they waited for Mona to come downstairs. Aaron and Ahmaad took their seats on the black futon while Trevor sat in the recliner to the right of the sofa behind Nat’s seat at his computer. Ahmaad scribbled in his notebook as Queequeg circled his feet, purring. Trevor and Aaron watched Music videos on the floor model television, not really looking at anything in the uncomfortable silence.

Fifteen agonizingly awkward minutes later, they heard her stumbling down the stairs. Dressed in her usual black on black ensemble. Trevor stopped fidgeting with the buttons on the color of his pale blue Stafford was the first one to get up from the recliner he was sitting in and head for the door brushing his navy-blue sports coat and khaki trousers with his palms as he walked, attempting to remove the cat hair that now clung to his clothing, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. Aaron and Ahmad got up from the futon where they had been sitting and followed Mona towards the door.

What time will you be back? Nathan asked Mona pleadingly.

I already told you I’ll be back before midnight. She said impatiently.

Is that a promise? Nathan asked.

Yes, damn it! I told you I’d be back in time! Mona screamed, exasperated as she grabbed her book bag and followed the boys out into the frozen darkness.

“What is there to write about when you’re fat and happy?”

-Robert Cochran

TRAMP

New Yearz Eve The Pit 2000-2001 –part 2 of 2.

“Now I know I’m being used

That’s okay man ’cause I like the abuse

Now I know she’s playing with me

That’s okay ’cause I’ve got no self-esteem”

-The Offspring

New Yearz Eve XXX 2000-2001 –part 2.

“Now I know I’m being used

That’s okay man ’cause I like the abuse

Now I know she’s playing with me

That’s okay ’cause I’ve got no self-esteem”

-The Offspring

Mona was riding shotgun while Trevor drove the Zinc white Mercedes into the snow covered darkened streets of East Dallas, Ahmad and Aaron sat in the back seat in silence listening to Trevor ramble on about black ice as he drove and Mona held the search button on the radio releasing it when she heard Gibby Hanes distinctive twang as he sang the chorus to “Pepper”. While his passengers serenaded him, singing along with the radio, Trevor drove on vigilante, beware the black ice. Despite all of the snow and ice on the roads, the ride to the east Dallas upscale neighborhood of Lakewood location of Paperbacks Plus bookstore, was uneventful. They were all surprised at the turnout for the Knighthawks Poetry Salons’ weekly workshop and reading.

All of the unusual suspects had braved the weather and made it here tonight for the New Year’s Eve reading. Richter, Caroline, Reagan, Emily, Brandon, Courtney, Carlos, Brittani, Enrique, Margaret, Brandon, Katrina’s decade-old yellow Volkswagen Thing was parked in the parking lot, covered with stickers like a school kid’s notebook. Married people begin to look alike over time. The same can be said for pet owners. If anything makes a statement about the owner in America, it is your choice in automobiles. Peugeot- Reagan, Saab- Richter, Audi -Stephanie, Toyota- Don, Lexus- Arial, and Saturn- Patricia. Aaron stood on the icy sidewalk in front of the beige brick two-story building, finishing his smoke.

The small woman wearing a long military green wool coat, a handknitted scarf wrapped around her neck like Doctor Who standing in the winter shadow beside him, identified herself as Azure. My wife, Li Len, is inside already, and Li Len hates your poetry, but I like it even though I don’t understand all of it, and it’s terrifying in some passages. She said with a shy smile. She was a lot like Mona, a highly intelligent, quirky sort.

He stood next to the slender greying stranger listening intently as she spoke between sips of Starbucks coffee held in mitten covered hands; she had published her latest book tracing the origin of written language the source of all alphabets have roots that are found in symbols used by the most ancients tribes in the heart of Africa, she speaks to him of codex’s and lost keys and linguistics Kuno form, Sanskrit, clay tables and styli’s and parchment and papyrus and rice paper and scrolls cave paintings, ancient temples and runes and hieroglyphs lost lexicons languages long forgotten syntax a book of dead tongues, as if he were one of them.

I’d better head on in she said I’m really looking forward to hearing you read tonight. She waved and disappeared into the aisles of the bookstore.

Aaron stopped in the poetry section of the bookstore, before heading upstairs to the poetry reading, to see who else was working tonight. Katariina was busy at the counter ringing up customers when he came inside. She seemed to be in a rather festive mood, and he wondered if she had been getting high tonight, celebrating a little in the storeroom earlier, perhaps. He set his pack on the floor and perused back issues of all the literary magazines when she crept up on him from behind.

Hey, Babe, there you are! Aaron felt her arms wrap around his shoulders as she hugged him. Her natural double D breasts pressed against his back as she gave his neck a playful nip, then nuzzled up against him, humming. The woman exuded a sage-like aura; being near her was like stepping into an ancient temple. Looking into her eyes, you could see hidden vaults of wisdom. She wore strategically torn jeans and a flannel shirt over a turtleneck instead of her usual vintage rock band tees. Her wild silver-streaked ebony hair hung down in a big, loose wave that threatened to curl at any moment. She carried the scent of the cinnamon and chocolate hot cocoa she was drinking with her in the fibers of her clothes and hair.

When I didn’t see you with Mona, Trevor, and Ahmaad, I figured you’d be here in poetry or philosophy.

Am I soooo predictable? Aaron wailed softly as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

Yes, in the best way. You are a monster of habits. She grinned her lips against the nape of his neck. I have some good news for you. I guess you saw the new posters with your picture when you came in. We have gotten you on a feature billing. I tried to get you a solo feature, but they said they needed you to read with a quote, “white, preferably female writer for diversity”. Helps with the federal funding of the non-profit. I have some ideas I’m working on to get you a better venue later. So don’t lose faith. Do you have any copies of your book with you? We need copies to sell at the reading.

I don’t have a book; I just have a lot of poems.

Wow, I assumed after all the years you’ve been doing this and hosting so many varied readings that you had one.

I’m sorry, I didn’t think I had enough good poems for a book.

You know, I’ve seen some of these slam people printing their first chapbooks within a few months of beginning their careers as poets. Mona says you had a file cabinet full of poems when she met you.

I started writing songs in grade school, just never stopped, plus I was working on some prose sci-fi.

I forget that you’re 10 years older than the rest of these kids until I see that bit of grey in the beard, you look like you’re their age. It’s very charming.

This is all very new to me.

Well, you have until May to get a book of your poems in a collection. Are you free Saturday night? I know our last date ended on an odd note, so would you like to do it again?

Yeah, I can come over.

Bring a bunch of your poems, and we’ll get started picking the ones for the book and figuring out the order. Do you have anyone in mind to write the forward?

Nathan just started a publishing company. I’ll ask him.

I’ll give you the name I was going to use for my next book to use for your book of poems.

How many poems do I need for the book?

18 or 108, so long as they’re up to the quality of the work I’ve seen in that notebook of yours.

I’d better get up there. Thanks for everything, Katariina.

She smiled. Thank you for dropping your notebook. She drawled.

Aaron pulled his hair up and tied it into a topknot of a ponytail, showing the shaved sides and back of his head before pulling off the leather biker jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he carried his ALICE pack like a briefcase in the other hand. He headed out of the poetry section, passing the hallway just past the old-fashioned chromed water fountain, glancing at the philosophy section, he decided that he’d check on his way back to see if they had any Ayn Rand that he didn’t already own. Up the flight of steel-reinforced concrete, steel, and cement stairwell. Down the yellowing tiles of the hallway past the silver sheet metal and steel doors of the elevator.

In the reading room, they were just getting started. Ahmad enthusiastically read a few of his new poems for Trevor and Brandon to critique. They offered suggestions and pointed out the best lines in the poems. This was the first time many of them had been here for the reading in months, most having been put off by Trevor and Brandon’s literary snobbery, others finding Aarons particular brand of avant-garde poetry profane, obscenely pornographic some even called to complain to the owners of the store the next day only to be told that nothing that happens upstairs has anything to do with the bookstore they just rent space in the same building. Apparently, he’d offended the delicate sensibilities of most of the English majors attending the reading when he was still a fixture, vocal, passionately engaged, many considering his critiques of their writing militant challenges to their intellect. It was a long way from the masturbatory, well done, good job, usually offered as everybody locked their mouths onto each other’s crotches. Daisy chains were accustomed to at literary events such as this.

Reagan, Li Len, Richter, Stephanie, Don, Arial, Courtney, and Patricia all read as well. Mona and Trevor, as usual, read nothing, and Aaron kept his new work to himself. He no longer felt the need to share his work with anyone. Having never been one who was in much need of having his work validated by those who imagined themselves to be his peers. In the cosmic view of things, these people are not his peers; they were merely his contemporaries, a group of persons with a shared timeline.

He couldn’t remember the last time Mona or Trevor had written anything new. He wondered why they continued to show up, why even bother with pantomime? He couldn’t understand why they kept showing up here every week, perpetuating the charade of being writers. They were merely going through the motions, trying to hurry up and finish here so that they could get out of the bookstore and park somewhere secluded to get in a quick screw before he dropped her off afterwards at Nat’s.

After the reading at the bookstore, most agreed to meet up at CJs, aka The Pit, just off 75 across Central Expressway from the Parks Cities/University Park for coffee and diner food while continuing conversations they’d begun in the bookstore concerning the literary merit of Burroughs.

I don’t even like their stuff. Mona stated flatly.

I thought you loved the Beats?

Nah, I just thought it was fun to read all that “Steely Dan III from Yokohama…the oversized steam-powered strap-on dildo” in Naked Lunch smut in the public library.

Aaron laughed knowingly, keenly aware of her legendary prowess with her own 18” lavender latex monstrosity; cast from the genitals of a Derby-winning stud, she affectionately refers to as Barney (after the Dinosaur). “Let’s play William Tell.” … a shot glass falls to the floor. It is the only Burroughs I have memorized, he added in conclusion.

I stand by my opinion on the matter as stated. William Burroughs was not only a terrible shot but a terrible writer.

I only half agree with you; Burroughs was an excellent marksman.

Damn, that was dark. Trevor spoke, not looking up from his notebook. I read Katariina’s review of your new opus, well done, sir; she’s known as one of the most vigorous and discerning critics of literature living, only surpassed by Bloom.

She’s certainly savaged my last book. Brandon said with an ironic grin on his broad, bespectacled face. I felt violated after her review.

Mona laughed as she recited a passage of the scathing commentary from memory.

She said your writing had all of the passion and lyricism of prison sex, drunk on toilet wine, face down on your first date. With every slippery simile, my mind drops the soap. Its failings intellectually are surpassed only by the soullessness of its execution. I may agree with the author’s politics that cannot save this poet from falling on its own sword.”

I remember it was one of her more forgiving reviews. Jaqueline added with her East End accent. Aaron passed a copy of Leaves of Grass to his cornrow-wearing youngest here, Ahmaad, read this when you get some time, let me know what you think. The lanky Jenco jean-wearing kid slipped out of the London fog trench coat, took the book from his father, and leafed through the pages while Jaqueline continued. You can’t see it because you’re right in the middle of it. But since I’m something of an outsider, I see what’s really going on. Aaron, this row you’ve been having with your mates Trevor and Brandon isn’t just about poetry; it’s about a woman.

Mona flashed a shocked look at her friend as she continued unperturbed, sure, there is a real schism between Trevor and Brandon’s Deep Image school leanings and your more Avant-garde absurdist approach, ya’ I know you think you are a beat writer, Aaron, and so do they, but you both got it all wrong. Aaron, when I read your work, I see as much Eliot and Pound as I see Ginsberg and Burroughs in your poems. I don’t write poetry, but I am a reader and I’ve been watching all of you long enough to get a feel for ya. That deep image school search for manhood was never for Aaron; he’s a black man and a veteran of the United States Marine Corps.

All that existential angst of middle-class white men looking to prove their manhood can never serve Aaron; he’s already evolved beyond everything they stand for as a literary moment. The diminutive platinum blonde girl kneeling in the neighboring booth was directly behind Mona with her arms draped over the dark-haired woman’s shoulders. When she finished talking, she rested her chin on top of Mona’s head and smiled.

Ya see, Aaron Mona said softly. It’s just like I told ya when we first met, Girls like me make great friends but lousy girlfriends. Trevor laughed, still reading over the latest scathing review of Aaron’s new poem by Professor Jackson, his mentor on campus.

So, Brandon asked, holding the lapels of his navy blazer before adjusting his glasses and sweeping a strand of blond hair out of his face. Did you see the review of Aaron’s poem in the University Press? Professor Jackson may as well have pulled out a flamethrower the way he roasted your poem. He called it a blight upon the human senses; he even quoted Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar when he only half-jokingly suggested that we “kill him for his bad verse.” Hit you with the three “S”s: Solipsistic, Sophomoric, and Self-indulgent. Said he reached more profound and greater depths, digging the lint from his navel.

He compared it to The Wasteland, so you’re in good company. Aaron

No, Brandon corrected, he said it was a wasteland graffitied with poor grammar, bad spelling, and profanity.

You know, I heard that before Katariina X. Mueller bought the store, she was a punk rock groupie, toured with Wendy-O and the Plasmatics. Stevie said.

I heard that story is bullshit. Regan chimed in. Wendy-O is from the Park Cities / University Park, but so are Princess Buttercup and the Wilson brothers, Wes Anderson, and Richard Linklater.

Wrong, she, the blue-eyed blonde with the pageant winner smile, corrected, those guys are from Houston and Austin. ….and she did time in Florida.

Bullshit, she is practically a hippie. Mona said defensively.

Shanked a bloke with a broken beer bottle is what I hear. Jaqueline Thumper Anderson stated her East Ender accent thickening, straight into the bloke’s carotid artery in a barroom brawl in New Orleans in the 80s. Bleed out like a right stuck pig right there, all over the tavern floor. Word on the street is it was self-defense, room full of witnesses. Lad dies. She only did time for parole violation and the stash she had on her when she was nabbed by the bobbies.

Bullshit. Aaron says Aunty Bubbles in not a murderer Kat is basically the mother Teresa of wayward poets.

Did a duce standing on her head up in Juliette. Reagan stated flatly the tall lean kid running his fingers through his lengthening curls of his blonde hair. My sister in-law was there at the same time for assault.

Are you hearing this? Mona asked incredulously.

She used to read poetry when she opened for Wendy-O and the Plasmatics. The waiters offered as she refilled their coffee. I’m the same age as the girls you’re talking about, and I saw them perform here at a warehouse in the west end, it was either 79 or 80. It was before they toured with Kiss. Katariina. She comes on stage one night with a gigantic axe and chops up a police motorcycle while she recites her poetry. Wendy-O, not to be outdone, comes onstage the next evening comes onstage wearing bondage gear and nothing but crosses made of electric tape for pasties, carrying a chainsaw. Climbs on the roof of a cop car and cuts it in half during their set.

Fucking Legend. Jaqueline said, admiring the waitress’s punk provenance. You lucky twat, I’m jealous. Hannah smiled triumphantly and left to check on the other tables.

You’re a fucking golden goddess, Hannah! We love you! Aaron said.

Aaron, being the oldest at this booth, offered. I saw her do the chainsaw bit on Saturday Night Live when I was a kid. Pretty sure I sprayed my shorts the moment I saw her on stage. She looked feral. Of course, I fell in love with her.

What I’m still trying to wrap my head around is Katariina in her punk heyday taking an axe to police bike.

Mona spoke in a staccato burst of words. Allen Ginsberg used to stay at her place whenever he was in Dallas. He was friends with her and Professor Stanco.

Who is this Stano person? Aaron asked. I knew about her and Allen.

He’s Tommy’s older brother.

Tommy? The guy that tends bar at the Balcony Club with Rod?

Mona laughed, yeah, his family owns the bar and the theatre.

I’ll be damned, I sure as hell did not know that.

Mona smiled, caressing Aaron’s calf with a bare foot beneath the table as she played with a lock of Trevor’s hair, nonchalantly twirling around her index finger.

Just because her family’s well off doesn’t mean she didn’t get a drug case; that part I can believe. She was a punk rock groupie doing heroin. Of course, she went to jail for drugs. But seriously, Auntie Bubbles, she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Katariina’s practically a nun, she’s sooooo peace and love.

The reading at the bookstore was scheduled from seven until nine pm Sunday evening. The bookstore closed at seven on Sundays, but Mona had a key, so locking up wasn’t a problem. After several cups of strong diner coffee sipped while some of the group played songs on the ancient juke box, and others sat at another table writing an exquisite corpse.

Ahmad, Brandon, Trevor, and Mona sat at the booth farthest from the front door but closest to the juke box. Chrissie made a beeline from the parking lot straight to the juke box; she must have put in a couple of fives as usual when she DJed. Tracy Chapman Fast Car was followed by Satellite. Ahmaad played Help I’m White and I Can’t Get Down’, and Janis’s ‘Summertime. His rendition of the song had even the truckers, junkies, and whores, along with the poets and the employees, most in tears, all rose to their feet when the song was over and gave the 11-year-old boy with the otherworldly voice a rock star’s standing ovation. Ahmaad stood in front of the juke box and took a bow, beaming.

The waitress arrived with the pot and poured everyone a coffee, then took their orders. Ahmaad had his usual pancakes, bacon, and sunny-side-up eggs, which he called scrumptious eggs. Mona ordered waffles and a bowl of grits. Trevor and Aaron both ordered double meat chili cheeseburger jalapeños on the side with fries, and Brandon, pulling a chair over to the booth, ordered the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and fried okra

The tweeker-looking stick figure of a woman, her skin an unhealthy pallor, a frail, hollow-eyed, gaunt figure, was swallowed by the white cotton-blend dress of her waitress uniform. She looked so emaciated looking as if she’d spent the last year in a concentration camp. Her lack of body fat exaggerated her already animaie, like bloodshot, hurried hazel eyes, several inches if dark brown hair could be seen beneath the washed-out blonde. Behind the counter, next to stainless steel sinks dwelled their coffee and left a check behind the register in the middle of the U-shaped counter that ran the length of the diner.

The waitress liked the poets that showed up once a week after their Lakewood reading, they knew how to tip and the most obnoxious thing they did was sing along with their favorite songs on the jukebox, dance badly, and read poetry (Some of it’s pretty good). The crackhead hotel behind them kept the place busy with dope fiend drama. The worst thing she could say was some of them were sorta stuck up, there’s a headline for ya, rich kid grows up to be a snob.

Trevor took care of the Check as usual, leaving the tip to the others. Brandon placed a twenty under his coffee cup, Aaron tossed in a ten mona and Ahmaad each left a five each. As they were headed out the door, David Bowie’s ‘Queen Bitch’ began to play. The roads were slicker now, especially the entrance ramps still, the little Front Wheel Drive Mercedes handled exceptionally as Trevor drove even more cautiously, ominously chanting his black ice mantra as he drove with even greater caution on his way back than ever. Repeating his narrative on black ice, reiterating the words again and again as if it were a great line he had just read in a Lorca poem.

Where’s Mona asked Nat as Aaron and Ahmad entered, and he noticed she wasn’t behind them. She said she’d be right in, Ahmaad offered reassuringly as he plopped down on the futon. It’s ten till she’ll be right in.

She’s sitting out there in the parking lot with that son of a bitch right now. At five minutes until midnight, Nat jumps up from his seat in his recliner. This is bullshit, he mutters, storming out the door. In a pair of baggy Levi’s, his dock martins’ shoes, and a red flannelled shirt unbuttoned.

The parking lot is dark as he turns the corner and begins walking through the snow-covered ice towards Trevor’s car. The mirror tinted windows are steamed with condensation he can’t see anyone still he thinks as he approaches the car if they have gone for a walk as he creeps up on the driver’s side of the car and taps on the window seeing only the glow of the street lights his own reflection as it slides down in science fiction silence on its track he sees only his own shivering visage as he peers into the in the mirrored tint on the window.

Within the shadowed confines, he sees the top of a familiar head pop up for a second twirl in a slow circle before disappearing back down beneath the open window, from his view. He steps closer and peers inside to see Trevor fully reclined in the driver’s seat fingers tangled in his fiancés hair both hands tightly gripping around Monas’ head guiding her as she worked feverishly to get him to cum before midnight while Trevor tried to hold out until the final stroke of the new year pushed the switch to lower the window having gotten too hot with the heater cranked up on high and now with her working sucking on his pecker as if it were the end of the world. Suddenly, He goes limp without finishing in her mouth.

What’s wrong? she asked, her mouth half full of softening cock. As she raised her head, a silver string of saliva stretched from her open mouth, lassoing the glands on the head of what she now only held in her hand. Mona looked up to see Nathan, mouth agog, staring into the car at Trevor’s limp spit shined prick as he ejaculated in his pants.

Aaron and Ahmad stood in the debris strewn living room junk halfway to their knee’s; comic books, old issues of dragon magazine empty pizza boxes, comics plastic star wars figures, half empty plastic cups of soda filled with multicolored molds, moist balls of regurgitated cat hair’s, forgotten old school books and rattan swords, dirty clothes, and a single LEGO brick watching the ball drop in times square, their lighters held over their heads singing old lang sign.

Outside the familiar blast of gun fire ringing in 2001 the new year watching the Reunion Tower ball lights as they flashed the new year’s eve count down ball light exploded in an electronic dance around the spherical building at the edge of down town, behind the cityscape fireworks flashed exploding in technicolored brilliance over the flood plains of the Trinity, they stood shoulder to shoulder swaying butane lighters held aloft as they raucously singing old lang sign. Outside, the familiar blast of gunfire rang in the new year 2001.

-about the author JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in the literary journals: Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, TX.