conspiracy of firmaments pt. 2
He was talking about State Street in the 70's:
"There used to be this guy who'd stand under the big marqui at the Oriental Theatre, sweating grease and half-dancin' in dress shoes, who'd tell all the women that they were going to Hell for wearing pants and they'd laugh and keep walking. Nw he stands in front of Old Navy where he can catch fags and tell them they're going to Hell for holding hands and they roll their eyes and swallow their tongues and keep walking. Every night he gets down on his knees at the foot of the bed like a child and asks God wht happened to all the men and women in America and every night God would laugh and roll his eyes."
I think it was supposed to be some kinda parable. I don't have a clue as to what the fuck it was supposed to tell us but Mad Matt seemed really fucking pleases with himself about it, smiled so his teeth showed real big and crooked and caramel colored in the fire and spit at his toes. I don't think he told it to us so much as himself or maybe the flames.
We were roating chicken on a spit in an old drum. Every few minutes we'd have to shake off water the wind blew in from the lake. The fire would fart and grumble but didn't go out. I spat in the lake and we were even.
Matt stood still; eyes on the fire. Warming his hands, eyes on the chicken like we would fucking take it from him. The chicken danced and kicked its arms, its big fat legs. made for a real showy death scene. Of course, it was dead when we got it. Didn't have a fucking head on, but we weren't gonna take it from him. It wasn't like that. It was a gift.
I wanted to go to the beach and have a barbecue, but it was too cold by the beach, and no one called me back so me and Ronnie went to the Curve. The Curve is this cement rim around the lake near all the museums right where downtown turns into the South Side. Sometimes there are other kids here partying, sometimes late-night anglers and unlucky squatters with no place to rest with their poles and bindles and backpacks and buckets; sometimes hobos like Mad Matt and his friend; there's a cul de sac that runs between all three museums that gets lined with cars at night like an assembly line full of people getting blow jobs. I always want to be one of those guys in that row of cars, but sometimes it's fun to watch. Either way the Curve's usually spotted with bonfires and me and me and Ronnie anted a barbecue.
Mad Matt's friend didn't say much, not a word since we got here. Just sat there and read this dogeared paperback. The flames lit up the face of the book, which had no cover. Something by James Joyce. It cast a shadow over his face so all you could see were these flesh colored eyes. I looked at him and then looked at Ronnie lookin at him and Ronnie turned towards me sippin a beer with his face lit up and his eyes all wide.
I'm gonna fuck with him.
He said it without speaking and before I figured it out he'd leapt on top of the guy. Hovered over him, squatting like a frog and grabbed his collar.
"What are you? What the fuck i wrong with you? You're gonna sit there and read your book and drink our beer and eat our fuckin chicken and not say shit to us?"
He shoved him.
"You think you're fucking better than us?"
He shoved him.
"You fucking bum."
And faster then we could fuckin realize he snapped and and cracked Ronnie's head with a pint bottle of Brandy. Backwash seared his eyes and he was slapping at his fucking face all blind as he fell back over himself at the bums' feet. The bum hacked and coughed, seemed like he couldn't stop, choked in his breath and spit to the side, picked his book up off the ground, brushing Ronnie's leg with a stiff knuckle, and dropped the pages back in his lap. Catching his breath and realizing he was still holding the top of the pint broken in his hand, he put it down at his right, replacing it with a can of beer, pulled the tab, cocked his head and drank as white foam trailed down his shirt. Between the old man's legs Ronnie started laughing. He was bleeding from the top of his head and the laughter only forced out more blood.
"I didn't think that old bastard would waste his fuckin booze."
He said it like 'ooze', disgusted and a little nervous. He braced for a foot to come down, laughing and crying. Nothing happened til Mad Matt started laughing, and watching him cracked me up. The other bum, whose name I still didn't know, started laughing last. he looked around before he did it, and it came out as a hard wheeze. He reached out and helped Ronnie to his feet, offering him his half-beer. Ronnie tipped his head back, brushing off pieces of dirt and glass, and poured the excess over the wound, flinching and throwing himself back in a twitch and awful face.
"Fuck, that stings."
"Why the fuck did you think that would help?" and I laugh, all for of us do, just realizing how drunk I'd gotten. Ronnie shrugs.
The wind came in and sprayed us with salt, and the fire told us to shut up, as it tugged at parts of the chicken. Fat begins to melt, with the roasted skin drooping under. I peel it as best as I can, losing most to the fire. The white fat like pours out like pus. I shove a strip of brown between my teeth, spitting immediately. Mad Matt looks at me like an idiot.
"It's too hot...and it needs salt," and proceeds to pull the rest from my hand and tears in like nothing's fucking wrong.
Ronnie stands, quiet again. Bleeding. He doesn't want to go to the hospital. Good, because I don't want to get caught. Or go home. He doesn't even want me to go to my truck to look for a bandage. He wipes his head with his t-shirt. The faded evergreen cotton a soupy brown now.
Chicks dig scars, he jokes. I wonder how anyone can be so fucking untouchable.
"If you wanna stay at my folks' house, we'll have to go soon. I gotta be back before my old man wakes up." We both now, but I'm always the one that has to say it. I sip my beer.
"You never call Frank your 'Old Man'," Ronnie tells me later, "Why do you want to impress those fuckup bums so damn much?"
Guilt, I think. And it's not the bums I'm trying to impress.
We devour the chicken. Mad Matt eats the most, followed by Sam, who is the other bum. We laugh. The whole time Matt is telling me about State Street in the 70's and Maxwell Street in the 60's and Lincoln Park in the 50's. He doesn't seem like he belongs in any of those placs. Sam finishes his book and smiles. It's a joke he refuses to let us in on. Ronnie asks if he can borrow it. Another fucking joke. ronnie doesn't read. Can, but doesn't.
"Oh, for you?" And Sam throws it in the fire, which is dying. The flame jumps up a tad, thans us in red and orange. "Enjoy."
We go back to my truck parked on blow job lane. At 3:30, there are only a few cars left. We decide we're too fucked up to drive s we'll sleep for a half hour. I close my eyes for fifteen minutes as Ronnie traces the stars over the planetarium. By the time we pull into my parents' garage it was nearly five. We slide in through the basement window, into an iron sink. Ronnie bangs his head and the blood starts to go again. We'd have to bee up by seven but we'll probly skip. Once we get out of the house we'll call in for each other at gas stations, get high and go to the woods by the river. The first thing Ronnie does is grab a can of Hamm's from Dad's fridge in the Rec Room. I tell him not to. Dad counts.
"It's cold," he says, holding it against his head (closed this time). When I turn my head I hear it pop open. Fuck it. I grab one for me.
We unfold the couch and turn on cartoons. Some kids are trying to disguie a small dinosaur in sunglasses, a backwards baseball cap, and the fat one's jacket. Ronnie takes off his shirt, which is covered in blood and smells like beer and Old Spice and smoke and Brandy backwash. We hide it inside the couch with the empty cans. The dinosaur accidentally smashes the principal's Lambourghini but everything works out alright. I offer onnie the couch bed and take a pillow to the floor.
"Faggot. What are you, afraid you'll get turned on sleeping next to me?"
"Shut up, asshole."
Obediently, I climb into bed breathing hard. The springs creak every time I adjust, but he's already snoring. I close my eyes hard, the springs creak and I can feel his breath on me. I close my eyes tighter so it squeezes out a drop of liquid. It feels like a tear, but it's not. I grit my eyes tighter, so that nothing can escape, and they only loosen when I fall asleep.
"There used to be this guy who'd stand under the big marqui at the Oriental Theatre, sweating grease and half-dancin' in dress shoes, who'd tell all the women that they were going to Hell for wearing pants and they'd laugh and keep walking. Nw he stands in front of Old Navy where he can catch fags and tell them they're going to Hell for holding hands and they roll their eyes and swallow their tongues and keep walking. Every night he gets down on his knees at the foot of the bed like a child and asks God wht happened to all the men and women in America and every night God would laugh and roll his eyes."
I think it was supposed to be some kinda parable. I don't have a clue as to what the fuck it was supposed to tell us but Mad Matt seemed really fucking pleases with himself about it, smiled so his teeth showed real big and crooked and caramel colored in the fire and spit at his toes. I don't think he told it to us so much as himself or maybe the flames.
We were roating chicken on a spit in an old drum. Every few minutes we'd have to shake off water the wind blew in from the lake. The fire would fart and grumble but didn't go out. I spat in the lake and we were even.
Matt stood still; eyes on the fire. Warming his hands, eyes on the chicken like we would fucking take it from him. The chicken danced and kicked its arms, its big fat legs. made for a real showy death scene. Of course, it was dead when we got it. Didn't have a fucking head on, but we weren't gonna take it from him. It wasn't like that. It was a gift.
I wanted to go to the beach and have a barbecue, but it was too cold by the beach, and no one called me back so me and Ronnie went to the Curve. The Curve is this cement rim around the lake near all the museums right where downtown turns into the South Side. Sometimes there are other kids here partying, sometimes late-night anglers and unlucky squatters with no place to rest with their poles and bindles and backpacks and buckets; sometimes hobos like Mad Matt and his friend; there's a cul de sac that runs between all three museums that gets lined with cars at night like an assembly line full of people getting blow jobs. I always want to be one of those guys in that row of cars, but sometimes it's fun to watch. Either way the Curve's usually spotted with bonfires and me and me and Ronnie anted a barbecue.
Mad Matt's friend didn't say much, not a word since we got here. Just sat there and read this dogeared paperback. The flames lit up the face of the book, which had no cover. Something by James Joyce. It cast a shadow over his face so all you could see were these flesh colored eyes. I looked at him and then looked at Ronnie lookin at him and Ronnie turned towards me sippin a beer with his face lit up and his eyes all wide.
I'm gonna fuck with him.
He said it without speaking and before I figured it out he'd leapt on top of the guy. Hovered over him, squatting like a frog and grabbed his collar.
"What are you? What the fuck i wrong with you? You're gonna sit there and read your book and drink our beer and eat our fuckin chicken and not say shit to us?"
He shoved him.
"You think you're fucking better than us?"
He shoved him.
"You fucking bum."
And faster then we could fuckin realize he snapped and and cracked Ronnie's head with a pint bottle of Brandy. Backwash seared his eyes and he was slapping at his fucking face all blind as he fell back over himself at the bums' feet. The bum hacked and coughed, seemed like he couldn't stop, choked in his breath and spit to the side, picked his book up off the ground, brushing Ronnie's leg with a stiff knuckle, and dropped the pages back in his lap. Catching his breath and realizing he was still holding the top of the pint broken in his hand, he put it down at his right, replacing it with a can of beer, pulled the tab, cocked his head and drank as white foam trailed down his shirt. Between the old man's legs Ronnie started laughing. He was bleeding from the top of his head and the laughter only forced out more blood.
"I didn't think that old bastard would waste his fuckin booze."
He said it like 'ooze', disgusted and a little nervous. He braced for a foot to come down, laughing and crying. Nothing happened til Mad Matt started laughing, and watching him cracked me up. The other bum, whose name I still didn't know, started laughing last. he looked around before he did it, and it came out as a hard wheeze. He reached out and helped Ronnie to his feet, offering him his half-beer. Ronnie tipped his head back, brushing off pieces of dirt and glass, and poured the excess over the wound, flinching and throwing himself back in a twitch and awful face.
"Fuck, that stings."
"Why the fuck did you think that would help?" and I laugh, all for of us do, just realizing how drunk I'd gotten. Ronnie shrugs.
The wind came in and sprayed us with salt, and the fire told us to shut up, as it tugged at parts of the chicken. Fat begins to melt, with the roasted skin drooping under. I peel it as best as I can, losing most to the fire. The white fat like pours out like pus. I shove a strip of brown between my teeth, spitting immediately. Mad Matt looks at me like an idiot.
"It's too hot...and it needs salt," and proceeds to pull the rest from my hand and tears in like nothing's fucking wrong.
Ronnie stands, quiet again. Bleeding. He doesn't want to go to the hospital. Good, because I don't want to get caught. Or go home. He doesn't even want me to go to my truck to look for a bandage. He wipes his head with his t-shirt. The faded evergreen cotton a soupy brown now.
Chicks dig scars, he jokes. I wonder how anyone can be so fucking untouchable.
"If you wanna stay at my folks' house, we'll have to go soon. I gotta be back before my old man wakes up." We both now, but I'm always the one that has to say it. I sip my beer.
"You never call Frank your 'Old Man'," Ronnie tells me later, "Why do you want to impress those fuckup bums so damn much?"
Guilt, I think. And it's not the bums I'm trying to impress.
We devour the chicken. Mad Matt eats the most, followed by Sam, who is the other bum. We laugh. The whole time Matt is telling me about State Street in the 70's and Maxwell Street in the 60's and Lincoln Park in the 50's. He doesn't seem like he belongs in any of those placs. Sam finishes his book and smiles. It's a joke he refuses to let us in on. Ronnie asks if he can borrow it. Another fucking joke. ronnie doesn't read. Can, but doesn't.
"Oh, for you?" And Sam throws it in the fire, which is dying. The flame jumps up a tad, thans us in red and orange. "Enjoy."
We go back to my truck parked on blow job lane. At 3:30, there are only a few cars left. We decide we're too fucked up to drive s we'll sleep for a half hour. I close my eyes for fifteen minutes as Ronnie traces the stars over the planetarium. By the time we pull into my parents' garage it was nearly five. We slide in through the basement window, into an iron sink. Ronnie bangs his head and the blood starts to go again. We'd have to bee up by seven but we'll probly skip. Once we get out of the house we'll call in for each other at gas stations, get high and go to the woods by the river. The first thing Ronnie does is grab a can of Hamm's from Dad's fridge in the Rec Room. I tell him not to. Dad counts.
"It's cold," he says, holding it against his head (closed this time). When I turn my head I hear it pop open. Fuck it. I grab one for me.
We unfold the couch and turn on cartoons. Some kids are trying to disguie a small dinosaur in sunglasses, a backwards baseball cap, and the fat one's jacket. Ronnie takes off his shirt, which is covered in blood and smells like beer and Old Spice and smoke and Brandy backwash. We hide it inside the couch with the empty cans. The dinosaur accidentally smashes the principal's Lambourghini but everything works out alright. I offer onnie the couch bed and take a pillow to the floor.
"Faggot. What are you, afraid you'll get turned on sleeping next to me?"
"Shut up, asshole."
Obediently, I climb into bed breathing hard. The springs creak every time I adjust, but he's already snoring. I close my eyes hard, the springs creak and I can feel his breath on me. I close my eyes tighter so it squeezes out a drop of liquid. It feels like a tear, but it's not. I grit my eyes tighter, so that nothing can escape, and they only loosen when I fall asleep.
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