With that thought Alan got outof bed and found gleaming red and gold by his feet a O.E. 800 bottle. 40 ounces of what Alan could readily abuse. He was ready for the days abuse. Picking the bottle up and taking a drink, Alan decided to put shoes and a shirt on. One of his three pairs of jeans, all skinny and black, was already on his body. His studded leather belt and studded leather wrist straps(the product of slightly altered S&M gear)were already on him also. The shirt was were he started having problems. Turning toward the 40 in his right hand periodically to chug, Alan searched the bare floor, sparse bed, unsanitary kitchen, and desk fruitlessly for his shirt. He gave up, knowing one was somewhere in the closet and that he needed to start his telephone sales.
Alan swaggered over to his stolen desk with the sales catalogs, customer list, and the also stolen red telephone. The telephone was a world in which he ruled. Through the microphone, speakers, and endless electrical connections Alan could talk anyone into buying everything. He was a compulsive and skilled liar so he could easily talk people into buying the office supplies that his telemarketing company supplied without the bat of an eye. He told the truth even when he lied. The people missed the lies, they weren't looking for lies, they were looking for the truth and that was all they heard.
Once at his desk he started making the calls, flipping through the catalogs, and selling his bullshit. His fifth customer was a bit skeptical, but Alan gently assuaged his doubt.
"So you can ship the ink cartridges in two days instead of the standard two to three weeks for a small fee," the customer inquired. Alan knew the sale was made he just had to seal deal with his tongue's transparent film of lies.
"Oh, of course. We can ship it any time you'd like." Alan wasn't lying. His company really could ship anything whenever they wanted, but the company wouldn't. Alan couldn't even request special shipping for phone orders because the company followed a no exceptions policy based on the principle of saving every dime they could.
"Well, how much is two day shipping?"
"It's $3.65 for packages ove 10 pounds."
"Excellent! I'll take the 100 ink cartridges with two day shipping then."
"Well, I'll put you order down and you just need to send a check to the sales office at 11035 Wessex St. in Baltimore."
"What's the zip code?"
"Oh, that's 770709. Sorry I almost forgot to mention it, but as soon the check clears your pakcage will be on its way."
"Great. It was nice doing business with you and I hope to do it again," said the customer attempting to be friendly.
"The pleasure was all mine." Alan really meant what he said. He enjoyed lying through his teeth and felt no sympathy for the man with the insincerely friendly farewell. With everything said Alan hung up and kept going at the phones until 3 o'clock.
He needed to put a shirt on, get his Supplementary Security Income check, cash it, get cigarettes, and meet up with his friend before his date. So, he went to the closet and dragged out the last relatively clean shirt in there. The shirt was stolen from drunk girl at a party. The shirt was white with a target, like the ones used for shooting practice, printed over the heart and had a red wine stain from the party all over the front so it seemed like Alan might really have been a human target. As soon as the shirt was on Alan left for the Social Security office to get his Supplementary Security Income.
SSI is cuckoo money. They give it to crazy people to keep them off the streets. Alan worked his ass off to get on it. Everyday for three weeks he went to the Social Security office acting out of his mind. He enjoyed it. The scamming and the insane antics were his specialty. He'd go in the office shit in a cup and offer the clerk a sip. When the clerk didn't accept, he'd yell and fling the cup. Then he'd start apologizing to the chair for not offering it some feces. One day he brought in a kitten and started accusing the animal of molesting him. Alan would go on crazy rants about his hero Idi Amin while drinking his urine out of a cup. He'd say that Idi Amin was his brother and was coming to take over Baltimore. Idi Amin,the Ugandan dictator that drank his enemies blood and ate their entrials, really was Alan's hero, but the only time he could appropriately talk about him in public was when Alan was trying to get on SSI. Eventually he got on it and now he reaped the benefits. Alan loved his SSI scam more than any other and loved picking up those checks. The scam was his way to fuck with the government and a golden opportunity for petty cash.
As Alan walked through Washington Heights main entrance he saw Delilah. Plunk was her last name he thought, but the name seemed almost too weird to be true. She cast him a suspicious glance as he walked by her. Delilah probably thought he was crazy and the other tenants probably had a similar idea, but Alan thought they were all crazy too. Alan was glad that the other tenants couldn't judge him, at least not with any credibility. I mean what evidence of abnormality could Nicole, for example, throw in his face that he couldn't throw back at her. He'd he plumber yelling about "the bitch" stiffing him and stealing his wrench, so he knew she had nothing on him.
Alan made the walk, six fucking blocks, to the Social Security office. The wind was cold, but he was stoked for the money, cigarettes, and date that would lead to more money, so he bore the cold with a pleasant frustration. He felt like he fought the good fight against the wind to secure his cash and he could overcome the wind for the violent pleasures the day had waiting.
Once he was at the office and had picked up his check he really had to piss. So, he whipped it out and started pissing on this ladies dog to show the people he was really crazy. Not only that, but the reaction someone has to their pet being urinated on is hilarious. The lady with the dog went hysterical. She was dumbstruck and completely offended. People that don't know what to do get violent and this lady was no different. She started yelling and searching for her mace, but Alan ran out singing "You Bet I've Got Something Personal Against You" by Black Flag.
He walked back to Washington Heights, but stopped Manny's to get cigarettes and pineapple white owls. He'd gotten $375 dollars in Supplementary Security Income for the month, so he called his friend to come over and smoke the weed he was about to buy.
Alan walked out of the apartment, up one story, into the hallway, and to apartment 215. He knocked and he waited for the click. The door slid open as far as the chain would let it as Marcus peered out. For some reason he was being cautious today. "Come in," he said as he pushed the door shut, unhinged the chain, and opened it all the way. Alan walked in and sat down. Marcus followed inquiring "what it'd be today."
"Just gimme a quarter of some mids. Thirty, right," Alan demanded.
"Yeah, just hold on while I weight it out. You sure you don't need anything else."
"No, I got a date with a girl whose paying me out the ass and not fucking me in it so I'm holding off until later."
"Sounds good. Here you go." Manuel handed Alan the sack and Alan handed him the money.
Alan left telling Manuel he'd see him later and headed to his apartment where he put on the Archies and started rolling one up. He loved oldies. He got that from his dad who was in a low-rider gang. He was singing along to "Sugar, Sugar" as his friend walked through the door.
"Hey, how's it going." That was his friends usual greeting.
"Good, and you." That was Alan's usual response
"You know, it's allright,but I got jury duty and I don't know what to do."
"Do you have the form they sent you to fill out." Alan knew what to do and he was sure his friend would appreciate the help.
"Yeah,why?"
"Lemme see it." Alan held out his hand as his friend passed over the form. Then he grabbed a thick felt tip marker and wrote in all capitls "VIVA LA ANGEL DUST."
Alan handed the form to his friend and said "Just send that in and they won't fuck with you again."
"I guess that's one way to deal with it. It's sure a lot better than actually going to jury duty."
"Yeah it is," Alan said as he lit the blunt and started smoking. After 3 hits he passed the blunt to his friend who started hitting it.
"So, when is your next show?" Alan wanted to know because he was gonna plan something and he knew his friends in the band would do anything for him to make sure he didn't do anything bad.
"This saturday. It's at venue about a mile away. Do you want to go with us and get in free?"
"Yeah, that's what I was waiting to hear." Now, Alan had confirmation that Delta 88, his friend's band, was going to patronize him all day with the hope that if they did he wouldn't do anything totally out of line.
After the blunt was done, they ate lunch and Alan told John, his friend, he had to go shopping for his date. John had to meet up with his girlfriend, the lead singer for their band, so they parted ways.
Alan went shopping and got a red button down shirt and black slacks for his date using the Supplementary Security Income. He smoked a cigarette on his way back thinking about how awsome the night would be-lots of money, heterosexual relations(his favorite), and heroin. "I gotta get syringes he thought." Alan stopped by the pharmacy on his way back to Washington Heights and picked them up. Luckily, although only in this situation, he was diabetic, so he had access to plenty of syringes. He'd sell them to other junkies too. That was another one of his scams.
Once back at his apartment, he took a shower, ate some toast, and brushed his teeth. By the time he was done with everything the clock said seven fifteen, so he smoked a blunt to the head to pass the time. He thought about what the girl might look like and what she would talk about as he smoked and listened to the Archies again. He listened to them a lot when he was in a good mood. He changed clothes and stepped out on the landing for the fire escape to smoke a cigarette and hoped he could find Manuel later. Finally he walked to the park as the clock struck eight.
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Charlie's feet seemed to have a mind of their own, and his legs were shaking because he had never bought a gun before. Just as he started to let his mind wander, he came across a pay phone and thought of Billie Jean.
Jamming his hand into his pocket he fumbbled to find two quarters to stick into the coin slot. The coins clinked pleasingly, and every push of a number left Charlie's ears ringing with a melodic note. It rang.
A gruff voice answered the phone, "Hello. Who is this?"
"What the fuck. I should be asking the same question. What little rat-bastard of a man is picking up my girl's phone?"
"Oh," the rat-bastard said followed by a chuckle, "You must be Charlie."
"Yeah and you're a dead man," Charlie hissed back. "Could you put Billie Jean on the phone?"
"Whatever," the bastard replied.
"Hello?" Billie Jean said softly.
"Billie Jean what the fuck is this bullshit? You a hoe or something now?" Charlie screamed.
"Charlie, please baby, understand; what was I supposed to do six months ago when you suddenly left talking all crazy about some mission for your mother."
"I told you. I have to do this. It's for my mother. I thought you loved me Billie Jean. I thought you would wait," Charlie said, squeezing back the tears.
"You didn't even know the woman Charlie, she left you on the steps of some church in Brooklyn when you were one year old. She didn't love you baby." Billie Jean said.
"Don't talk to me about love you slut. You threw away three fucking years of us away on some dude who sounds so dumb he could pass for a cave man. And I can smell his stank ass breath over the phone," Charlie yelled, the tears were flowing freely now.
"But..." Billie Jean stammered.
"No. Don't start with me Billie Jean. You're dead to me," he said.
Charlie slammed the phone onto the reciever and punched at his face, trying to beat the tears away. He stummbled away from the phone. He felt the world caving in on him.
As he turned away he bumpped into Alan Douglas. Charlie knew to well Alan's schemes, he regularly tried to use food stamps at the Chinese spot.
"Hello there Charlie," Alan said.
"Whats up Alan, who are you ripping off now?" Charlie said.
"Well no one at the moment. I'm on my way to a hot date. Say, why are you looking all water eyed?" Alan asked.
"Nothing. My girl is fucking some random dude right now. Its cool though, I got better shit to do," Charlie snapped back.
"Well, last time a girl cheated on me, I pushed her into a wood chipper, but I might have over reacted a bit," Alan said.
"Thats cool Alan. Whatever. I gotta get going," Chalie said turning to leave.
"Me too," Alan said, "I'll be actually getting some tonight!"
Charlie didn't even hear him, he was already sprinting down the block because it had begun to rain. He didn't mind though. The rain washed all over his face, and the tears rolled away with it. He was tough, he didn't need her anyways. He kept a steady sprint all the way to the neon lights of the dingy old pawn shop. He looked down into the reflection of a puddle, and smiled.
"Time to get a gun," he said to himself, ducking into the door of the pawn shop.
Going Out
He cannot follow one simple request. It's not that I do not understand our relationship enough to think of asking "why?" Over the time we have worked together I have learned the only thing he respects are sarcastic remarks and his payment, and his tactics of implementation upon his duties slightly resemble a hurricane. I, being too much of a good individual, feign ignorance to his misdeeds, not to say of course that my actions are technically what you would call "legal."
Is it because he was bred to be annoying, or does he enjoy watching me suffer? I remember an incident involving a random shooting, myself suffering a shot to the hand, where he refused to acknowledge that I could not pay him on the spot for "taking the guy out."
I said, exhaling into the empty air.
"There's no helping it."
So its up to me? Fine, I should have the efficiency required to fulfill this task. I suppose I shall head to the local grocer.
My miniature refrigerator had not been supplied with calorie-heavy foods since yesterday, causing my deduction capabilities to fall drastically. My house guest the baron does not seem to take well to the food I provided him as well. Cats need certain nutrients I realize, but one of Brone's three main dislikes has affected my eating habits, and I'd rather not give the creature to Mrs. Lampshade. Animals, kids and women. There's nothing wrong with any of those things that I can think of...Do you speak in that arrogant way because the nature is carved into your DNA?
I heave a heavy sigh and decide to rest my eyes before heading outside. Going outside is dangerous in general. In Washington Heights, its fairly certain you will be attacked by one thing or another. I have evidence that numerous tenants have the capability to do so. Of course some rooms have been inaccessible, this is probably a good thing, It is not my job to break into every apartment anyways, my job is to analyze and find the solution to the puzzle. One bounty hunter under my supervision is not enough manpower to solve the problems of this town, and I have no intention of calling a full-scale operation into play for every town I visit.
SLAM.
The new polished door gleamed back at me. The two deadbolts which secured it in place were much more calming than the rusty old locks on the old door. Of course, the lack of numbers on my door may raise some questions. I at least, in all my effort in this place, will locate that missing number 6.
Chilling wind blew across my feet, making me realize that I should have worn socks this time, but the feet I stuffed onto the soles of my shoes felt cramped enough already. How could anyone put things like these on their feet all the time? Especially women, high heels must reduce a lifespan by at least 7 years. But I have owned these long enough to wear them into a soft, raggedy pair which is comfortable. Unfortunately it seemed to be raining. My feet would get wet no matter what, why bother wearing shoes?
What to buy? Pudding is good, as well as coffee, tea, sugar cubes. To balance the nutrition in my body I should buy different flavors of jell-o, possibly a cup of ramen and protein. Even I know that my body could deteriorate from nothing but sweets.
"Dansa med oss Klappa era händer Gör som vi gör Ta några steg åt vänster Lyssna och lär Missa inte chansen Nu är vi här med Caramelldansen O-o-oa-oa..."
One of my cellphones erupted in the fast paced Swedish tune. Which person was I on this one? It is hard to micromanage.
"This is Lambo Bovino."
"Were you seen?"
"That is fortunate, he is ranked high on the list of individuals whom would not leave a witness alive."
"Please head to the Washington Heights apartment complex, and go to room #_____. It should be empty, you may lock the door from inside, and wait if you wish."
"Very well."
How annoying, why would they call me with business when I am out in public? I still have an errand to attend to, the client may wait as long as he cares for his life.
I slowly stalked past the flower shop, hunched over and thinking about what puddings they may have in stock. I kept my eyes to the sidewalk, it's hard to stare at so many bright colors without blinking. Blinking is easy, realizing that you may have missed something in those milli-seconds is hard. Not to mention the involuntary impulse to blink is irresistible when raindrops hit your face.
Excuses.
I cannot abide this place. The insufferable pressure. I can't sleep, there is no time. So many things to fix, the entire populace is littered with despicable fiends. I will not look at it directly. The only way to observe is from behind a veil, otherwise I would go blind. Justice shall take hold in this place. Justice is holding me here.
"Butterscotch. Delicious."
I allowed a small smirk to pass by my mouth. I was already in Manny's Groceries observing the selection. Looking around on the street is not something I do, I have no time to observe and worry for my own safety while I'm outside. People shouldn't even know I'm here really, unless they require my assistance, or I want them to know. Why on earth do you think I would hire that man?
Twenty packs of pudding are quite difficult to handle when you usually only use the tips of your fingers to hold things. Coupled with a large bag of cat food, I am going to collapse any moment. The checkout counter was swamped with customers, and the man in front of me was tapping his cigarettes on the counter. Pineapple White Owls were stuck in the back pocket of his black jeans. I'm just going to assume he has purchased them. No, I should be slightly more vigil, let me just slowly- There. I hope he enjoys Pocky. He already has cigarettes, and from the small marks on his arm I can see he enjoys plenty of heroin injections. The leather straps on his arm are modified S&M straps,(I'm quite certain I have seen the brand before,) I wonder if he is a male prostitute. The clip of money in his pocket seems to suggest so.
Riding alone in the apartment elevator, my paper bag of pudding seems strangely small. This won't last me very long at all. Opening a door needing three keys is painfully difficult, you have to switch the arm holding the bag to search each pocket only to realize you left the door unlocked. Or did I...? Hm. I threw the large bag of cat food and puddings upon a small table, and walked over to my window. The rain blanketing the city made it difficult to observe at the moment. If the rain wasn't so difficult to predict, I would assume the flashing light I just saw was a rather large sword. There is no reason he would be running around simply because It was raining.
Another one? Every one seems to be heading for Oscar's Butchery tonight, perhaps a sample attraction for their little casino. Depending on whether it is "bring your blade" night, it may or may not be a busy night for me as well...Am I just bored, or is it loneliness? Impossible, I have a cat. I'm certain that people with cats cannot be lonely.
...
"Brone, be prepared to investigate please."
Naublus isn't creating his story. No, society is doing him the favor. Society is etching, carving, scraping, scrawling his mess of a story on a grey concrete block. Naublus isn't aware of this. Or maybe he is? "Urban blight" isn't in his vocabulary. He doesn't even know the word "city." He doesn't even know the word "I."
Everybody in Washington Heights knows the world "I," but they've never heard of "O." O. Peer into it. Dive into it. "O" is Naublus, his imagination, his day-to-day life. O is the tunnel Naublus' alarm clock bullets through. O is the sun whose milky light Naublus can't quite grasp. O is soul. An empty soul? O is Naublus' yawn. O is society's yawn.
"A, E, I, O, U." String them together and sound them out, and you get drawn-out, punch-less sneeze. Naublus' life is sort of like this. After gorging himself the Mongolian beef he picked from the bamboo tree (this is what he thought), he couldn't have felt more unsatisfied, more inadequate. And then this woman came and gave a sandwich? He said thank you, but he really didn't mean it. "What else am I supposed to say?" he asked himself. He slapped himself mentally for accepting the sandwich.
"What good is food anyway?"
"Why did I eat that Mongolian beef?"
"Why can I not think?"
Naublus' thoughts tumbled into an abyss of confusion and melancholy wallowing. He almost drowned, but the rush of commuters pouring out of the SMARTA train brought him back to the surface. As in a rehearsed musical number, they opened up their umbrellas - bright magentas, somber blacks, lively greens, sensual reds. Naublus hadn't feasted on so much color in a long time, and he was sure no one else noticed what a feast it was. Urban blight - of the brain. Back to life he was! He lay on the beer bottle- and cigarette butt-specked platform, below a "Clean Up, Baltimore!" advertisement. In the super-sized picture, a black woman with dreads and sparkly white teeth held the hand of a freckled, chestnut-haired boy of about ten as the walked through a M&M-green park. It was a little surreal, a little twisted, but it reflected Washington Heights' biggest selling point - diversity! That's right, diversity! Strange wonder why more middle class white liberals didn't move in.
A stubby but strong pink-skinned man lagged behind, holding hands with a Swedish woman twice his height. She donned a patterned bonnet, and Naublus recognized it as Swedish. It looked they were on a date (or had come back from one). A dance, perhaps? Naublus thought they should've looked happier if they'd come from dancing.
"Where did y'all come from?" Naublus asked on whim. His Southern accent was also on a whim.
"It's none of your business, granny!" the pink-skinned man forcefully replied. He wasn't particularly hostile, just angry.
Naublus was above gender insults and meanness in general, so he let the whim slide. Naublus was living again, and he had no time for "fussing and fighting, my friends." He proceeded to carve a picture of a Swedish pastry on his veiny forearm with a beer bottle shard. This is living, he thought. The blood spilled onto the brown and grey platform. The drops shook and whizzed until forming the words, "Hello Naublus!" He knew it was Lady Liberty again.
He talked to her. "What you want, ho?" Naublus couldn't control his offensive slang.
Lady Liberty condensed into being, this time hanging upside down from the "Washington Heights" SMARTA sign.
"I don't appreciate your language, Naublus," Lady Liberty tried to hide the fact that she couldn't speak clearly because of the blood rushing to her head.
"Pardon me, madame," Naublus bowed his head, "sometimes I can't control myself. Lady Liberty sighed and smiled. She was right again.
Naublus then blurted out: "But you know what? You are a ho!"
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