Friday, July 31, 2009
Chino, a short story
By Dan Gerics (c) July 2009
"Yo, Chino! Hold up!"
I caught up with him in the alley next to the Capital Theatre. He turned and swung at me in a reflex, presumably thinking I was someone he'd grifted, or more likely, the brother or ex-boyfriend of a girl he'd played. My brother had always been better at playing suckers than playing women, certainly better than I had been at either.
That's just the way it is. Whether you get along or not, there's always a big brother and a little brother. Chino was older, street wiser. He took care of me, defended me from dad, somehow convinced me that in spite of the booze and neglect mom loved me.
He left town after we had our falling out, just after dad died. He was nineteen, I sixteen. Though his leaving was surely due to our disagreement, I envied him the balls it took to just hit the road at nineteen with no money and no job and gas enough to get to the next county.
We’d fought about mom after dad died. He was through with her. Who could blame him? She’d let dad get away with his physical nonsense and never bothered trying to do right by her two kids. Chino had already said, “fuck her” long before he felt free enough to leave. I, on the other hand, had felt the need to try and heal myself and her, to have a relationship with at least one parent before we all died.
I never blamed Chino for his choice. I’m sure he thinks I did. That sucks.
Apparently he’s back in town. He left eight years ago. Last I heard he was just outside Chicago, still grifting and living shill to shill. I saw him today, the day I died, at lunch time. I was eating at the Lunch Studio when he breezed past the window. I paid the bill and went out to follow him.
By the time I hit the sidewalk he was nowhere in sight. I trotted down Saginaw street, south toward Court, peering into windows as I past. Then I thought of Paul’s Pipe Shop a few blocks ahead (he used to love that place) and picked up my pace.
I described Chino to the guy behind Paul’s counter. He said he’d been in and bought some Drum tobacco and a pack of cloves.
“Did you happen to see which way he went?” The guy shook his head.
I left him counting lighters and headed back up Saginaw, the way I’d come but on the other side of the street. I spotted Chino up ahead of me and shouted, “Chino!” just as he turned right, disappearing down Third Street.
I sped up and rounded the corner in time to see him disappear down the alley. I sprinted after him, thoughts of reconciliation fertile in my brain.
"Yo, Chino! Hold up!" I shouted.
He spun around and hit me with a glass bottle. Clearly he was ready for me. Thinking he was being tailed, he’d turned the bottle over in his hand, holding the neck like the handle of a club. The bottom of the bottle hit my right temple, sending sparks across my vision. I fell back, lost my footing and felt a quick sharp pain on the back of my head as I hit a metal handrail. The earsplitting crack of my skull fracturing must have been heard a block away.
Immediately numbness began to flood my body, the whole of the world seemed to be growing dark. I felt a sudden desperate urge to let him know who I was, that I meant him no harm, only to tell him that it was ok, that I’d forgiven him, that there was nothing to forgive, to reconcile, beg his forgiveness. All this before it was too late, before the falling darkness became complete.
I couldn't move, couldn't raise myself up off the concrete. It took all my strength to speak. I could only manage to whisper his name.
As I lay, blood ebbing, recognition darkened his face. He grabbed my head and turned it roughly so he could examine the right side of my neck. He found what he was looking for, what he'd have given anything not to find, the scar from dad's belt. He knew.
He sort of froze up for a moment, like a digital image from a dirty dvd, then let out a sad sigh, still holding my head in his hands, and very softly said one word, "oh," before everything went dark.
"Yo, Chino! Hold up!"
I caught up with him in the alley next to the Capital Theatre. He turned and swung at me in a reflex, presumably thinking I was someone he'd grifted, or more likely, the brother or ex-boyfriend of a girl he'd played. My brother had always been better at playing suckers than playing women, certainly better than I had been at either.
That's just the way it is. Whether you get along or not, there's always a big brother and a little brother. Chino was older, street wiser. He took care of me, defended me from dad, somehow convinced me that in spite of the booze and neglect mom loved me.
He left town after we had our falling out, just after dad died. He was nineteen, I sixteen. Though his leaving was surely due to our disagreement, I envied him the balls it took to just hit the road at nineteen with no money and no job and gas enough to get to the next county.
We’d fought about mom after dad died. He was through with her. Who could blame him? She’d let dad get away with his physical nonsense and never bothered trying to do right by her two kids. Chino had already said, “fuck her” long before he felt free enough to leave. I, on the other hand, had felt the need to try and heal myself and her, to have a relationship with at least one parent before we all died.
I never blamed Chino for his choice. I’m sure he thinks I did. That sucks.
Apparently he’s back in town. He left eight years ago. Last I heard he was just outside Chicago, still grifting and living shill to shill. I saw him today, the day I died, at lunch time. I was eating at the Lunch Studio when he breezed past the window. I paid the bill and went out to follow him.
By the time I hit the sidewalk he was nowhere in sight. I trotted down Saginaw street, south toward Court, peering into windows as I past. Then I thought of Paul’s Pipe Shop a few blocks ahead (he used to love that place) and picked up my pace.
I described Chino to the guy behind Paul’s counter. He said he’d been in and bought some Drum tobacco and a pack of cloves.
“Did you happen to see which way he went?” The guy shook his head.
I left him counting lighters and headed back up Saginaw, the way I’d come but on the other side of the street. I spotted Chino up ahead of me and shouted, “Chino!” just as he turned right, disappearing down Third Street.
I sped up and rounded the corner in time to see him disappear down the alley. I sprinted after him, thoughts of reconciliation fertile in my brain.
"Yo, Chino! Hold up!" I shouted.
He spun around and hit me with a glass bottle. Clearly he was ready for me. Thinking he was being tailed, he’d turned the bottle over in his hand, holding the neck like the handle of a club. The bottom of the bottle hit my right temple, sending sparks across my vision. I fell back, lost my footing and felt a quick sharp pain on the back of my head as I hit a metal handrail. The earsplitting crack of my skull fracturing must have been heard a block away.
Immediately numbness began to flood my body, the whole of the world seemed to be growing dark. I felt a sudden desperate urge to let him know who I was, that I meant him no harm, only to tell him that it was ok, that I’d forgiven him, that there was nothing to forgive, to reconcile, beg his forgiveness. All this before it was too late, before the falling darkness became complete.
I couldn't move, couldn't raise myself up off the concrete. It took all my strength to speak. I could only manage to whisper his name.
As I lay, blood ebbing, recognition darkened his face. He grabbed my head and turned it roughly so he could examine the right side of my neck. He found what he was looking for, what he'd have given anything not to find, the scar from dad's belt. He knew.
He sort of froze up for a moment, like a digital image from a dirty dvd, then let out a sad sigh, still holding my head in his hands, and very softly said one word, "oh," before everything went dark.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Buzz Aldrin's Right Cross
Violence is not the answer.
Hmm. Well, that kind of depends on the question, doesn't it?
In general I abhor violence. I don't hit my kid. I'm anti war. I tend not to want to fight someone who insults me. I've been in two actual physical fights I can remember in my life. Looking back there were no winners in either of them.
Ok, that's where I'm coming from.
But if someone were to take my greatest contribution to humanity, the very meaning of my existence, and dump on it...
Not that I've done anything earth shaking that will be forever remembered in the annals of history. But let's say that I had dome something amazing, like say, BEEN ONE OF THE FIRST PEOPLE ON THE MOON. Let's say I was one of a team who, piloting a spaceship whose computing power was on par with a DIGITAL WATCH, sat on a huge rocket, basically a controlled hydrogen bomb, which blasted us away from our home, our wives, our kids, our earth, our safety, steered that fucking tin can TO THE MOTHER LOVING MOON! Let's just say I was one of those amazingly brave sons of...
Ok, now let us just say that some jack off (Bart Sibrel) wrote a book about that journey claiming that it, all the contributions it made to society, science, technology, the history of cosmology, the pride of our country, were all a lie, that they never happened. Let's say jerk wad published such a book. Reason enough to become violent? Probably. But no. Hold off. He has the right to believe and to say whatever inane bullshit he wants.
Ok, now let's pretend that fuck off jerk accosted me in public, calling me a “coward and a liar…”
I know this is old news but it’s been getting a lot of play lately as this year marks the fortieth anniversary of Buzz, Neil and Michael’s famous walk. And, I hate to admit it, I just heard about this story for the first time today on an SGU podcast.
Anyway, if you haven’t seen it, check it out. It’s all over youtube. In 2002, Buzz, age 72 (That’s SEPTUAGENARIAN, bitches!), was waylaid by Sibrel, who call Buzz a “…coward and a liar…” at which point Buzz made another historic landing of a fist on the guy’s jaw.
Sibrel sued and LOST! The judge said the guy had it coming!
Hmm. Well, that kind of depends on the question, doesn't it?
In general I abhor violence. I don't hit my kid. I'm anti war. I tend not to want to fight someone who insults me. I've been in two actual physical fights I can remember in my life. Looking back there were no winners in either of them.
Ok, that's where I'm coming from.
But if someone were to take my greatest contribution to humanity, the very meaning of my existence, and dump on it...
Not that I've done anything earth shaking that will be forever remembered in the annals of history. But let's say that I had dome something amazing, like say, BEEN ONE OF THE FIRST PEOPLE ON THE MOON. Let's say I was one of a team who, piloting a spaceship whose computing power was on par with a DIGITAL WATCH, sat on a huge rocket, basically a controlled hydrogen bomb, which blasted us away from our home, our wives, our kids, our earth, our safety, steered that fucking tin can TO THE MOTHER LOVING MOON! Let's just say I was one of those amazingly brave sons of...
Ok, now let us just say that some jack off (Bart Sibrel) wrote a book about that journey claiming that it, all the contributions it made to society, science, technology, the history of cosmology, the pride of our country, were all a lie, that they never happened. Let's say jerk wad published such a book. Reason enough to become violent? Probably. But no. Hold off. He has the right to believe and to say whatever inane bullshit he wants.
Ok, now let's pretend that fuck off jerk accosted me in public, calling me a “coward and a liar…”
I know this is old news but it’s been getting a lot of play lately as this year marks the fortieth anniversary of Buzz, Neil and Michael’s famous walk. And, I hate to admit it, I just heard about this story for the first time today on an SGU podcast.
Anyway, if you haven’t seen it, check it out. It’s all over youtube. In 2002, Buzz, age 72 (That’s SEPTUAGENARIAN, bitches!), was waylaid by Sibrel, who call Buzz a “…coward and a liar…” at which point Buzz made another historic landing of a fist on the guy’s jaw.
Sibrel sued and LOST! The judge said the guy had it coming!
A! Sometimes I love this country!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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