DIOGENES

 

It seems as though I’ve spent much of my life in search of a reliable narrator and they’re a lot less frequent than you’d think. It’s way past the point of Democrats and Republicans flailing in the dogshit of ideology; the narrative of TruthTM these days is less a dichotomy and more a smashed mirror, with various shards of divergent shapes and sizes all over the floor, precarious to touch and hard to pick up and sift through without cutting yourself to ribbons.

On any given day I might ask, father, what is the lesson? I might get nine hundred lessons from nine hundred mooks all presuming to be a father of one sort or another. Well, stand between the sun and me, douche…I might say, tell me a story, storyteller, and it’s anyone’s guess what that might invite….you might get the nice classic Jane Eyre or the nudge-nudge-wink-wink edition complete with flesh eating zombies. Or tomorrow’s grocery list. What passes for a story these days? Gone is the time when you could leaf open THE NEW YORKER and find the new literary lions cutting their teeth. THE NEW YORKER isn’t J.D. Salinger anymore.

“Then again,” I aside to my neighbor at the bar, “I don’t think J.D. Salinger is even J.D. Salinger anymore.” She gives me the side-eye and excuses herself.

They all seem to do that these days.

It’s a lively night, regardless. The noisy sons of bitches are engaged in their usual strip poker match over at the big table. Taggart ups the ante by throwing in a nine pound Silver Surfer doll. Pops throws all his cards down and demands a new hand. Turk lights the whole pot on fire and it’s all just in the middle of the table, burning merrily away, and it just makes my heart swell with Patriotic sentiment---that’s when the fire department bust in and hose the whole table down, and then everybody’s throwing punches. Time to hit the floor.

I know this isn’t an ordinary night when the reinforcements come in with the big hose. It’s about a foot wide and gushes gallons of mayonnaise at a high pressure----and when you see a big oak table like that collapse you realize how much damage mayonnaise can do.

It hits me that this isn’t the regular town fire department when Beggs decapitates the fire marshall. The big tip-off is when the fire marshall’s head sprouts wings and grows to the size of a big man’s torso.

Goddamn killer androids.

It flies around the bar cackling for a while and eventually seizes Elsie, the barkeep’s daughter, in its mouth---it flies around for a while before the real fire department shows up. They’re all armed and they start taking pot shots at the head.

At this point I feel torn from my role as terminal observer. “Watch out for Elsie,” I shout.

The fire department deserve the benefit of the doubt, of course; they are professionals, after all. Soon they’ve blown that confounded android head away and Elsie’s safe and Taggart has even offered to mop up all the mayonnaise. He’s a sport. It’s drinks on the house, and the barkeep’s two cats, the blue one, Hitler, and the pink one, Bill Clinton, come to the balcony, and the fire chief is pointing and laughing at the cats and the cats are pointing and laughing at the fire chief.

We all lose track of time. Old Spike starts hammering away on the piano like a speedfreak and Elsie leads everybody in a singalong of “Bonny Barbara Allen”. The Denby boys from across the lake arrive on horseback and everyone buys them a round---they buy their horses a round, too. And everyone’s singing and laughing and joking and the barkeep and Elsie are laughing and joking as are the crazy sons of bitches and the fire department and the cats and the Denby boys and their horses and a good time is had by all, and hell if I don’t even have a swell time.

And Bert, who works over at the Reactor, grew an eleventh finger---really just kind of a mini-finger….not utilitarian at all. Damndest thing.

copyright 2021 C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions

DREAMING PART ONE

  

    I like to take all the nice things I see and collect them---it's a weird deal----I've got this funny collection full of all these peculiar items in the world that make me feel good; Memorabilia, souvenirs and all that, but mostly it's just stuff I can look at when I'm pissed off or stressed out and it puts me somewhere else and makes me feel a lot better about everything.

    When I was eleven my Mom gave me a scrapbook. One of those scrapbooks you stick photos in, like a family album or something. She gave me this scrapbook and told me I could put anything in it that was important to me.

      I think she wanted to get me off on the right start, so she kicked off the first couple of pages for me. They are easily my least favorite parts of the book; it's all snapshots of me when I was little and birthday cards and stuff from when I was like a year or two old, boring shit like that. Well, okay, maybe it's not totally boring, I bet anthropologists in a few centuries could have a blast with it, but to me it's just sort of depressing and I don't like to look at that stuff.

       So anyway, when she gave it to me, I started to throw stuff in there like there was no tomorrow. It got funny as hell, because I was eleven, and I was throwing anything in there that meant anything to me. I was just whipping out the scotch tape and throwing things onto the pages like a plastic army guy who had his head missing, stupid magazine ads, some pictures from a Batman comic, an Iris I picked, long-since wilted, a hot wheels car, an old shoelace....stuff like that. Pictures of meat in the newspaper supplement. Eleven-year-old kid nonsense. 

    

      I got bored with it, because when you're a young kid you get bored with everything real quick, and then you move on to whatever. But I never throw things away if I can help it. This past Summer I unearthed the old scrapbook again and looked at it. It was great. I was all bummed out over something or other at that time and the contents of the scrapbook really busted my shit up. Being that it was such a dandy remedy for what ailed me, I decided to start collecting shit again.

      I'm older, now, and a little more mature, though I stress “a little”. I still have this scrapbook that's a heel of a lot stranger than most.

     I don't have too many personal things in it; no pictures of me or my parents or relatives, past the first couple pages my Mom threw in there---just different stuff. Big, splashy pictures of sunsets and mountains and islands and oceans and whatnot...places I'd like to go someday. I have this one page that's a cutout yearbook picture of Cheryl Kingsley from every year since eighth grade. It's the only reason I get the yearbook every year. It's the only use I have for it. All Cheryl's pictures are neatly arranged, all churchlike, on that one page. That's the shrine page, the holy page, the page page I have to prepare myself for up in my head before I look at it. 

       Actually, though I largely don't like to stick personal pictures in it, there are always exceptions to the rule and I have my eighth grade school picture in the scrapbook. I hate pictures of me like a cossack, but that one was pretty mean. My Mom hates it. I think it's cool. I was wearing this denim jacket, and I looked all bedraggled and scruffy and dazed and my hair was all unruly and longish (Dad would have probably called it “long”. He thinks everything is “long”.). I looked like a real hoodlum or something. It was like I was in some old movie, getting my mugshot taken for prison.

          So there's that book, which nobody sees, but then there's this other one, like this little notebook, which I write in, and no one ever sees that, either. But it's a little red book, old-fashioned diary book I found in a flea market, with a little lock on it. I write in that book all the time. Yeah, I know, who writes in books anymore? I do. Poetry, ideas for stories, mostly dreams. The ones I remember, anyway. I hate the idea of “diaries”, or “journaling” but okay, so think of it as my dream book.

     Sometimes I think dreams are important----a lot of the time they're probably just your brain throwing up----sometimes I need to write them down, though, because I think about them and I think maybe they might mean something, and I'm wondering if they're trying to tell me stuff about the future, or everyone around me, or maybe just inner stuff about myself. I don't know, maybe it's all just brain vomit, but I always think about this stuff and wonder about it. 

     The dream I had last night I remember in crystal-clear detail, which is real different....it is for me, anyway. Usually my dreams are all hazy and mixed up. This one wasn't, though.

     In the dream, I was home, sitting at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios. My parents were in the other room, watching TV. After I got done eating the cereal I decided to join them and see what they were watching. 

   

     The Good Guy was on the screen, as was usually the case, going through the day-in-day-out, accepted ritual of emptying a gun into the Bad Guy. This time out, it was western times and they were dressed like cowboys. Sometimes it's modern times and The Good Guy is a cop and the Bad Guy is a crook. It's really always the same story.

    I looked over at my parents and they were frozen. They were just bolted in their chairs like a pair of zombies, staring straight ahead.

    I was crying, then, crying real hard. The Good Guy, on TV, kicked the fallen Bad Guy in the ribs and spat on him. The Good Guy always does those things. My parents just stared straight ahead.

      “Mom, Dad,” I said, and I was crying so hard I could barely talk, “I'm wrong. I'm always wrong. I'm sorry I'm wrong.”  They kept staring straight ahead at the Good Guy, like I wasn't there.

     After trying a little longer to no avail, I left my parents frozen in their chairs. I walked halfway across the house so that I wouldn't have to see them anymore. Then I set about attempting to fly.

     I always fly in my dreams and I do it the same way every time. There's a knock to getting airborne, or at least I dream that there is. I guess it's similar to getting on a bike. Some people can ditch the training wheels faster than others. I was one of those flyers who needs a good head start.

     I got off the ground the way I always do in these flying dreams—basically the technique I use is to climb up the doorway in a spider walk and then just let go. If I get it right I can stay afloat in mid-air.

     

     I made it after maybe two or three tries, which is usually what it takes. The first few seconds of one's hover are the most tenuous, and it always feels wicked white knuckles to me. You need to be bouyant in that time and not do anything stupid, like land back on your feet. That could ruin the whole thing.

      I successfully got past those first few seconds of instability and settled gently into float-mode. It felt good, real, pure and alive, as it always does in these dreams. I felt myself rise from five feet off the ground to six as I swam through the air toward the front door. 

    I seized and turned the doorknob, gave the wooden barrier a shove and let myself out. Once I'd gotten out the door it was easy to fly up to eight or nine feet. The best thing about flying is that once you get going the easier it becomes. 

    

     I flew down the length of Dearden Street and turned left on Richdale Road, which I followed down half its length until it intersected with Cook Hill Road. When I fly in my dreams I find that I almost always stick to the roadways. I don't know why. Fear of getting lost?

      Cook Hill Road is this steeper-than-the-steepest hill that causes people in our neighborhood a lot of trouble in the Winter. I looked and saw these two kids barreling downhill on their bikes. The local kids live Cook Hill, riding downhill and playing daredevil. It's one of those roads you can build lots of speed on with your bike. It's cool, like being on a rollercoaster.

     The part which kids never consider is that the hill spills out onto Windham Street, which is the main road. The traffic there, and there's always a lot of it, careens by, both ways, at forty miles an hour. So it's always pretty dangerous. Kids never think about that shit.  

      The two kids hit Windham Street and swerve in opposite directions, one nearly falling off her bike. When they saw there wasn't any traffic headed their way, they both rode across the street to the 7-11.

     Me, I can fly, though, so I bypassed the 7-11 and headed up Windham Street towards downtown Brookdale. I flew past the fresh vegetable stand that's only open part of the year, the garage that's owned by the old Korean guy, and the Delprete House, this old house that's been empty and rotting away for decades. The kids all say it's a murder house, but I don't know how true that is. 

     Further up I saw a dead squirrel in the road, another daily sacrifice we make to the cruel, grinning, chromefaced god of automotive convenience. 

     I tried to look away, but I looked away too late. The little grey body seemed like it had been stretched out on the rack or something. Its inner meat dominated the scene, plastered all over the pavement looking like some creep had decided to garnish the poor thing with salsa for a joke.

     I shut my eye and my jaw loosened and tightened in involuntary spasms. I didn't see its face, but I'm certain that, had I chosen to look further, I would have seen the last expression it wore, and I know it would have been twisted in pain.

     I opened my eyes in time to see an oncoming tree before feeling my forehead scrape the bark and then I was in the gully in Springfield in the back of Freddy Dugan's house. I was in first grade again. Freddy and Lucci were there, throwing rocks at me. One hit me square in the forehead, same exact spot that had collided with the tree, and I saw the blood and then there was a loud screech.

     The screech turned out to be my alarm clock. It was Monday morning, time for school and once again my slumber and peace had been raped by the crazy house in my head.

                                                Copyright 1989 C.F. Roberts/2021 Molotov Editions

       DON'T COME KNOCKING DEPT. # 947: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know back as last year ended I was talking about doing a final bag-and-tag of the Trump years. It's been almost six months and to be honest I got less important things to do. There's enough stupidity and fuckery in all directions to go around and I divorced myself permanently from politics during the primary. The further away from it I get the better I feel, and if you ever need me to come help you get your boy, or girl, or whoever, elected, look elsewhere. I ain't your ally, buckaroo. I gave at the office.

                                      Thank you, drive through----

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

MAX ROACH & CLIFFORD BROWN-The California Concerts 1954

FUNKADELIC-Funkadelic

HAWKWIND-Astonishing Sounds

     

And Etc.

 

THE PINK MUSIC NOTE CANDY

I wanted the pink music note candy. I saw it in a picture book. It looked exquisite beside the illustration of the smiling child. The child in the picture was delighted; the pink music note candy was within her grasp. I knew that, the way it looked, the pink music note candy would be the sweet pinnacle of all candy taste joy, its petal-colored softness melting into my palate would be heavenly.

I went to the living room where my parents were entertaining some aunts and some grandparents. They were occupied in their austere, adult way, having coffee and talking. I told them I wanted the pink music note candy. They told me there wasn't any. I showed them the picture in the book. They told me there wasn't any.

I threw a temper tantrum, then, demanding the pink music note candy. I saw the picture. I knew it was there. I upset some of the china on the coffee table. They scolded me and sent me to bed. There I cried all night, weeping and screaming for the pink music candy. I never saw that picture again, nor did I ever hppen upon the pink music note candy. My life has a hole shorn in it now and I suspect it shall ever be so. It will always be devoid of something because of that ethereal childhood pleasure missed. The long ago tantalizing picture burns in my memory. My days are a weary quest. I crave the pink music note candy, and I must have the pink music note candy.

1993, rev 2021

CITYSCAPE

all becomes abstract and unreal

color and sense dulls

people gaggle and gobble in the wings

like Thanksgiving turkeys primed for martyrdom

life tumbles ahead in oceans

distorted through the haze of

tinted bottles

1993 rev 2021

copyright 1993 C.F. Roberts, 2021 Molotov Editions

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

REDD KROSS-Hot Issue

REDD KROSS-Born Innocent

STARCRAWLER-Devour You

THE GOOD GUY

 

Excerpt from the forthcoming novel, THE BIG UGLY

jackie

JACKIE

I need all of you to understand one thing

listen to us, jack

Pigs hung this man on a cross because he was a GOOD GUY

they told us it was a bad thing jack a VERY BAD THING

copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts, 2021 C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions

SCENES FROM AN IMAGINARY MOVIE: HELLO, UGLY 11-13

 

TRIGGER WARNING: AUTHENTIC DIALOGUE

1. INT. THE GYMNASIUM, BROOKDALE HIGH SCHOOL. A SECTION OF THE BLEACHERS IS PULLED OUT AND THE BOYS’ GYM CLASS ARE SEATED ON THEM. MOST OF THE CLASS ARE DRESSED FOR GYM; TEESHIRTS, SHORTS, SWEATS AND SNEAKERS---WITH THE EXCEPTION OF A SMALL CONTINGENCY OF STONERS, WHO ESCHEW GYM WEAR AND GIVE OFF AN AIR OF PRACTICED DISINTEREST. DOWN TOWARD THE FRONT, BRYAN HARRIS AND A NUMBER OF HIS FRIENDS, ALL POPULAR JOCKS, HANG TOGETHER AND LAUGH AND JOKE. SEVERAL ROWS BACK, THE CAMERA PANS ACROSS JACK AND A MOTLEY ASSORTMENT OF CAST-OFFS: BLINKY EPSTEIN, A SMALL, INTENSE, BESPECTACLED BOY, MARC HODGE. A LANKY, AWKWARD, EFFEMINATE BOY WITH AN UNEVEN HAIRCUT, AND HANNIBAL, A SKINNY, MEAN-LOOKING KID WITH RATLIKE FEATURES.

THE CLASS IS BEING LECTURED AND BERATED BY COACH BELLOW, A CRAGGY, 50ish GYM COACH. ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GYM, THE GIRLS’ GYM CLASS IS SITTING ON ANOTHER SET OF BLEACHERS AND THEY ARE BEING LECTURED BY THEIR GYM COACH.

BELLOW:

I know a lot of you ladies have been habitually turning up out of uniform (BRIEF CUT TO THE STONER KIDS, LOOKING BORED) and not participating, and we’ve been going real easy on you….that is OVER as of this semester. You don’t show up in uniform, you don’t participate, you get a failing grade for the day!

\

JACK (V.O.):

There’s this long-running myth that we youngsters go to P.E. to get some much-needed circulation and to help build our young bodies. It’s a crock of shit, of course. This class has, since the puberty heyday of Junior High, revolved around our dicks, and not much else. It’s a big, staged battleground, where we get our manhood tested, and not everyone wins.

DURING DIALOGUE AND NARRATION, A SILENT SCENARIO PLAYS OUT:

JACK GAZES OVER AT THE GIRLS ON THE BLEACHERS ACROSS THE GYM. CHERYL KINGSLEY IS ONE OF THE GIRLS IN THAT CLASS. HE STARES WISTFULLY ACROSS THE GYM AT HER. SHE APPEARS TO BE LOOKING BACK. SEVERAL ROWS BELOW, BRYAN HARRIS GAZES AT HER AND SMILES. CUT TO CHERYL, LOOKING BORED BUT ALSO SMILING.

BELLOW:

Anyway, ladies. As the weather’s bad and we can’t put your sorry butts through too much wear and tear, I’ve got paperwork to do, so you get to play Bombardment.

(AN ASSISTANT COACH DRAGS OUT A LARGE SACK OF PINKISH-PURPLE KICKBALLS AND DUMPS THEM ON THE FLOOR.)

GENERAL RELIEF AND EXCITEMENT FROM THE BOYS. THE ASSISTANT COACH PUSHES A SLIDING PARTITION CLOSED, SEPARATING THE GIRLS’ END OF THE GYM FROM THE BOYS. JACK WATCHES CHERYL DISAPPEAR BEHIND THE PARTITION.

BELLOW:

Harris and Redmond! You guys are captains. Now, behave yourselves, girls…(HEADS OUT BACK, LEAVING THE BOYS MORE OR LESS UNSUPERVISED).

BRYAN HARRIS AND PHIL REDMOND, ANOTHER OF THE JOCKS, CHOOSE

PLAYERS. EVENTUALLY IT WHITTLES DOWN TO THE STRAGGLERS.

REDMOND:

Hannibal.

HANNIBAL JOINS REDMOND’S TEAM.

BRYAN (pointing out Jack):

Shit-for-brains. (JACK REFUSES TO MOVE) What are you, deaf? (JACK STANDS, DEFIANT) Pettet! Come on! (JACK CONCEDES TO STEP IN WITH THE TEAM, FOLLOWED BY SNICKERS. ONE BOY SAYS, “DUUHHHH”.)

BRYAN:

Fuckin’ space cowboy…

REDMOND:

I’ll take Hodge.

MARC HODGE JOINS REDMOND’S TEAM. ONE OF THE OTHER KIDS CALLS HIM, “FAGGOT”. SEVERAL OTHERS LAUGH AND MAKE FART SOUNDS.

BLINKY, ODD MAN OUT, JOINS HARRIS’S TEAM.

BRYAN:

Hey, trade.

REDMOND (LAUGHING):

Yeah, right?

BRYAN:

Come on! Blinky for Levine---whaddya say?

REDMOND:

Sure, guy….

BRYAN:

Okay….check it out. The Jew and the mouthbreather, here, for Levine. You outnumber us.

REDMOND:

Throw in Quinn.

BRYAN:

Cut me some slack, man, you outnumber us!

REDMOND:

Yeah, with cannon fodder! (Bryan looks upset) Alright---tell you what---I’ll take your trade and you’ll STILL be cryin’ for your Mommy at the end of this game.

BRYAN:

That’s what I’m talking about….now we’re cookin’ with gas.

REDMOND:

Jack, Blinky, come on. (JACK AND BLINKY CROSS OVER AND LEVINE, A BIGGER, STRONGER KID, GOES TO HARRIS’S SIDE. SEVERAL OF THE KIDS START CHANTING, “JEWBOY” AT BLINKY.)

BLINKY:

HEY! (STOPS HALFWAY. GETTING IN LEVINE’S FACE.)

You’re Jewish too, you fuck. Why don’t you say something? (LEVINE SMILES AND SHRUGS. ONE BOY YELLS, “COME ON. YOU PUSSIES!”)

LEVINE:

I might be half Jewish, but I’m not a whiney kike like you, Lipschitz.

BLINKY LETS IT DROP AND ANGRILY CROSSES TO THE OTHER TEAM AMIDST CATCALLS.

HODGE (to Blinky):

They’re bigger than you---they’re stronger than you. Too. Do you wanna be a hero? Do you wanna die a virgin?

BLINKY:

Fuck you, man---grow some balls, or at least some dignity!

HANNIBAL:

Okay. Girls---you can have your family spat later---let’s put the hurt on!

THE TWO TEAMS CONVERGE IN BATTLE. BOMBARDMENT IS A VARIATION OF DODGEBALL, WHERE TWO TEAMS ARE ARMED WITH A DOZEN OR SO BALLS. RATHER THAN BEING “OUT” WHEN HIT, PLAYERS IN BOMBARDMENT ARE SIMPLY ABSORBED INTO THE OTHER TEAM. THIS GOES ON UNTIL ONE TEAM REMAINS.

BALLS FLY AND SEVERAL BOYS ARE HIT. BLINKY TAKES A BALL DIRECTLY TO THE FACE. HODGE IS HIT IN THE LEG AS HE TRIES TO FLINCH AWAY FROM THE BALL. JACK MAKES IT PAST THE FIRST ROUND. HE SEIZES A BALL FOR HIMSELF, THROWS IT AT BRYAN BUT MISSES. HANNIBAL HITS A LARGER BOY POINT BLANK IN THE STOMACH. AS THE KID FALLS OVER, HANNIBAL SEIZES THE REBOUNDING BALL AND HITS HIS FALLEN VICTIM IN THE FACE WITH IT.

HANNIBAL:

Suck on that, Biff!

MORE BALLS FLY BACK AND FORTH. KIDS ARE HIT AND THEY TRADE BACK AND FORTH ON TEAMS. AT ONE POINT, JACK ENDS UP ON BRYAN’S TEAM. DODGING A BALL, JACK STUMBLES PAST BRYAN, WHO “ACCIDENTALLY” ELBOWS HIM IN THE FACE.

CUT TO: THE GYM LOCKER ROOM. CLOSE-UP ON BRYAN HARRIS, IN THE SHOWER.

BRYAN (Booming like a foghorn):

CUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNT!!!!!!!

ANOTHER BOY (Picking up the yell):

Clit-TORIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE CAMERA PANS DOWN THE ROWS OF LOCKERS WHERE THE BOYS ARE CHANGING. DOWN ONE ROW WE SEE A VERY LARGE BOY GRAB BLINKY BY THE SHOULDERS AND SLAM HIM, HARD AND REPEATEDLY, INTO THE LOCKERS. HANNIBAL IS PULLING OFF HIS SHIRT AND OBSERVING THE SCENE DISPASSIONATELY.

LARGE BOY:

WHAT?! WHAT?! You little kike faggot----don’t you EVER! TALK! BACK! To ME! AGAIN!

THE CAMERA MOVES TO THE NEXT ROW. JACK IS CHANGING UP. ONE BOY, BILL COURTNEY, ADDRESSES JACK.

COURTNEY:

Hey, Jackie----whaddya think of Debbie Lord?

JACK (V.O.):

Bill Courtney is not my friend and he doesn’t care what I think. He’s trying to fuck with me.

COURTNEY:

Well, I think she’s fuckin’ hot, man---I can just see her spreading her legs in front of me, that hot monkey of hers open wide, and that clit of hers shooting out six inches for me to taste….

JACK:

“Hot Monkey”?

BEHIND JACK, A TUBBIER BOY NAMED BILLY ARSENAULT SITS DOWN.

BILLY:

Don’t waste yer time, Courtney---Jackie’s not interested in girls, are ya, Jackie-Wackie?

JACK GLARES AT ARSENAULT.

COURTNEY:

Woah-ho-ho, careful, Billy, I see his nostrils flaring.

BILLY:

Aw, it’s cool. Me and Jack have an understanding. Why doncha come on over and suck my left nut just once, Jackie?

JACK:

Why don’t you come suck my ass forever, Arsenault?

BILLY:

Gee, Jack, I didn’t know you were that kind of girl!

COURTNEY, AT THIS POINT, IS TEASING MARC HODGE WITH PHIL LEVINE. HE HAS FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT JACK.

COURTNEY:

Hey, Hodge. ever fart?

HODGE:

What?

LEVINE (stupid & slurring):

“Whuuuuut?”

COURTNEY:

Do you ever fart?

HODGE(after a long, nervous pause):

Yeah. Yeah, I fart….

COURTNEY:

I don’t!

HODGE(dumbfounded):

What? Y-yes, you do…..I….

COURTNEY AND LEVINE:

\

ONLY DWEEBS CUT THE CHEESE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (LEVINE SNAPS HODGE’S ASS WITH HIS TOWEL. HODGE FLINCHES AND TRIES TO GET AWAY.)

LEVINE (laughing):

Faggot! (FARTS LOUDLY)

CUT TO: JACK WATCHING THIS SCENARIO WITH DISGUST. BEHIND HIM, BILLY ARSENAULT GRINS.

BILLY:

Whatsamatter Jackie-poo----you saving it for Marc? You wanting to give him the high, hard one in the butt? (JACK GLARES AT BILLY ARSENAULT AND WALKS OUT OF THE AREA) Oh, Jackie, don’t walk out on me now!!!!!!!

12. OUTSIDE IN THE HALLWAY. THE BOYS ARE LINED UP IN THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE GYM, WAITING FOR THE BELL TO RING. JACK,

LOOKING SICK TO HIS STOMACH, IS TOWARD THE FRONT OF THE LINE.

SNIPPETS OF CONVERSATION POP OUT OF THE CROWD---“MY DICK, YOUR SISTER.” “FAGGOT.” “POONTANG”.

JACK (V.O.):

We’re not civilized. It’s a fucking Barbarian testing ground, and people love and support the shit, top to bottom. It’s a joke. Making the Grade. Proving you’re Man enough. Maybe, deep down, people have this stupid-ass need to be powerful and strong and moronic and bigoted and ass-kicking. Maybe it’s all just nature. Maybe that makes me the unnatural one. They’d agree to that, I’m sure. I think I’d rather be dead than have to live by their Nazi Jockstrap code of ethics.

DISSOLVE TO A FLASHBACK OF THE MANDATORY PEP ASSEMBLY FOR THE HOMECOMING GAME IN NOVEMBER.

JACK (V.O.)

It was an assembly for the Homecoming Game. Brookdale Nuremburg. Why the hell are these things Mandatory? I mean, why do we all have to go? All more Master Race Mania. People can hype up all the bovines into a bloodthirsty frenzy---we must be fiercely loyal to our alma mater and rally behind those real men, The Brookdale Lions.

THROUGHOUT THE NARRATION THE CAMERA PANS ACROSS THE GYM AND WE SEE FACULTY MAKING EXCITED SPEECHES, CHEERLEADERS DOING THEIR ROUTINES, THE LIONS (Brookdale’s football team) CHARGING INTO THE GYM AND EVERYONE CHEERING AND GOING BERSERK. THE CAMERA FINALLY SETTLES IN ON A MALCONTENTED, APATHETIC LITTLE SECTION OF THE BLEACHERS. JACK AND A NUMBER OF OTHER OUTCASTS SEEM TO BE STOICALLY TOLERATING ALL THE GOINGS ON.

JACK (V.O.):

Everyone was having the usual conniption fit, making the wave, stomping and yelling. It’s been a black mark regularity since Junior High that there’s always one Deviant little section at these things who don’t act up, never make noise….that’s cool by me, ‘cause I guess that’s where I belong in the scheme of things. We are a sad lot….so unpatriotic. So lacking in pep.

VOICE:

Jack!!!!!

JACK LOOKS DOWN TOWARD THE FLOOR. CAROL GATES AND HER BEST FRIEND, ZOE MILLER, ARE STRAGGLING IN. ZOE, DWARFED BY CAROL, LOOKS LIKE A BOHEMIAN NIGHTMARE.

JACK:

Zoe! How’s your attitude?!

ZOE (yelling):

My attitude sucks!!!!! (THE TWO GIRLS SHUFFLE OFF IN AN ATTEMPT TO FIND SEATS)

SEVERAL MORE SHOTS OF CHEERLEADERS FORMING PYRAMIDS, PEOPLE CHEERING AND JACK’S LITTLE SECTION OF BLEACHER LOOKING APATHETIC.

CUT TO: SCHOOL LETTING OUT---JACK MAKES A QUICK EXIT INTO THE STUDENT PARKING LOT. CHERYL KINGSLEY AND A GAGGLE OF HER FRIENDS CROSS JACK’S PATH. THE GIRLS ARE IN MID-CONVERSATION.

CHERYL:

…Heard she’s going with Steve…

JO ANN :

OH-MY-GOD!

AMY:

He is SOOOO hot….

JILL:

But SHE’S so….

JO ANN BREAKS FREE OF THE GROUP AND GETS UP IN JACK’S FACE.

JO ANN:

Oh, HI, honey, you’re so CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTE….

THE GIRLS EXPLODE INTO LAUGHTER. JACK CONTINUES ON, HEAD DOWN. BRIEF SHOT OF CHERYL, LOOKING BACK, NOT LAUGHING. JACK DOES NOT SEE THIS.

A FEW ROWS OVER, A MOB OF KIDS BURSTS OUT OF THE GYMNASIUM . IT IS MADE UP OF MEMBERS OF THE FOOTBALL TEAM AND OTHER KIDS. THEY ARE CARRYING A LARGE, PAPIER MACHE CAGE CONSTRUCT WITH A LARGE POSTERBOARD SIGN ON IT, READING, “STOMP THE EAGLES”.

JACK WATCHES AS THE MOB STORMS ACROSS THE STREET AND OFF SCHOOL PROPERTY. THE KIDS FORM A CIRCLE AND THERE IS MUCH COMMOTION, JUMPING AROUND AND CHEERING. JACK DRAWS CLOSER, STILL MAINTAINING A COMFORTABLE DISTANCE. IN THE CENTER OF THE MOB, TWO BOYS HAVE TAKEN THEIR SHIRTS OFF. THEY BEAT EACH OTHER BLOODY AS THE OTHER KIDS CHEER THEM ON. THE FIGHT EVENTUALLY GRINDS TO A HALT, AND EVERYONE BRINGS THE TWO TIRED, BLOODY COMBATANTS TOGETHER TO SHAKE HANDS AND MAKE UP. AS THE TWO ATTEMPT TO DO THIS, SOME OF THE CROWD VIOLENTLY SHOVES ONE BOY INTO THE OTHER AND THE BRAWL STARTS UP AGAIN. IT DOESN’T LAST LONG, THOUGH, AND EVENTUALLY, THE BOISTEROUS MOB BREAKS UP AND RETURN TO SCHOOL GROUNDS TO PACK IT IN, CATCH THEIR BUSES, DRIVE HOME OR WHATEVER.

JACK PASSIVELY WALKS ACROSS THE STREET TO GET A LOOK AT THE TABLEAU. THE GROUND IS ALL TORN UP, TORN BITS OF CLOTHING, RIBBON AND THE PAPIER MACHE CAGE, WHICH LIES IN RUIN, ARE STREWN EVERYWHERE. THE “STOMP THE EAGLES” SIGN BLOWS BY LIKE A TUMBLEWEED.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MESS, JACK FINDS A DEAD BIRD, OBVIOUSLY A SACRIFICIAL “MASCOT” FOR THE OPPOSING TEAM, THE EAGLES, THE BIRD HAS LITERALLY BEEN STOMPED TO DEATH. JACK GLARES AT THE DEAD BIRD, DOUBLES OVER, VOMITS AND BEGINS CRYING UNCONTROLLABLY. EVENTUALLY, HE REGAINS SOME COMPOSURE, SUMMONS HIS STRENGTH AND DIGS A SMALL HOLE IN THE DIRT. HE PUSHES THE BIRD INTO THE HOLE WITH HIS FOOT AND PUSHES THE DIRT BACK OVER IT. HE PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER AND LIMPS BACK TO THE EDGE OF THE ROAD.

BEFORE HE CAN CROSS, A SMALL, BLUE CAR ZOOMS BY. IT IS FILLED WITH KIDS. “STOMP THE EAGLES” IS SCRAWLED ACROSS THE CAR IN SHAVING CREAM. ONE BOY HANGS HALFWAY OUT THE WINDOW AND LEERS AT JACK.

KID (tongue hanging out):

MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

THE CAR SPEEDS AWAY. JACK STARES AFTER IT, LOOKING WOUNDED.

JACK(V.O.):

It was the face of everything people stand up and cheer for. (AS JACK’S NARRATION CONTINUES, THE SCENE DISSOLVES BACK TO HIM, STANDING IN LINE IN THE HALLWAY.) This world is a meat factory. It’s a slaughterhouse jockeyed by goons who wear the hallowed school colors. I can dream up plenty of nice images and memories to make me say, oh, it’s not that bad---then the dead bird pops up again and proves me wrong. Hell, it was patriotic! It was good, clean fun! It was for pride, for the fucking Lions! It was apple pie and “be true to your school”.

THE BELL RINGS, JERKING JACK OUT OF HIS FUNK. HE BEGINS MOVING FORWARD, BUT IS OBVIOUSLY STILL DISTURBED.

BILLY (moving up behind him):

Move yer big, fat smelly ass, you faggot retard! Some of us have to get to…

JACK WHIRLS AROUND AND THROWS A RIGHT CROSS TO BILLY ARSENAULT’S JAW. BILLY FALLS BACKWARD INTO THE CROWD. STILL HOT, JACK TURNS AND CONTINUES WALKING, VERY QUICKLY. BILLY STAGGERS BACK UP THROUGH THE CROWD AND SLAMS HIS LOOSELEAF NOTEBOOK DOWN SQUARELY ON JACK’S HEAD. HE STUMBLES OFF TO THE SIDE AND JACK CONTINUES WALKING.

JACK:

What was that----a piece of paper??? (CONTINUES WALKING, VERY QUICKLY) (V.O.): I figure I save about as much face as he did. I pretend I’m walking away with dignity…just a little, just a tiny bit….

13. INT. SENIOR COMMONS ROOM, BROOKDALE HIGH SCHOOL. CLOSEUP SHOT OF ZOE MILLER. P.O.V. JACK. SHE IS SCANNING JACK’S HEAD FOR ANY POSSIBLE INJURIES. ZOE IS A PETITE, BOHEMIAN BRUNETTE WHO WEARS GLASSES.

JACK:

Any blood?

ZOE:

Nope…sorry, Jack---no big, brave battle scars today. Only thing wounded is your pride.

JACK:

Figures. (TWO JOCKS LOOM INTO THE SCENE)

JOCK #1:

Hey, Zook---isn’t this OUR usual seat?

JOCK #2:

Yep. Hey, Misery Chick! We’re evicting you.

ZOE:

Suck me until I bleed.

JOCK #2:

LISTEN, bitch…

JOCK #1:

Hey! Buddy! You need to try and control your woman---keep her mouth shut!

JACK:

She’s not “My Woman”. And please---suck her until she bleeds. (THE TWO SEEM TO SILENTLY DECIDE IT’S NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE AND THEY WANDER ON. JACK AND ZOE SETTLE DOWN.)

ZOE:

Smell the genius in THIS room!

JACK:

So, Zoe, how’s your attitude?

ZOE:

My attitude sucks.

JACK:

Atta girl. How’s your day been?

ZOE:

Well, I was up ‘til two in the morning, working on some new sketches, and that wasn’t real good for me, but inspiration is sometimes a cruel mistress---so I’m fairly exhausted, still.

JACK:

I’ll bet.

ZOE:

Then there’s Home Ec, and I can’t stand LeBeau, she’s such a cow---I think she picks on me, personally---takes out all her rage against feminism and 21^st century thought on poor little Miss Miller. Sexual Revolution? All my fault. Watergate? All my fault. The stupid economy? Guess who? I’m her own private nightmare, you know…

JACK:

That’s what I keep hearing. So, other than the heartbreak of Cow Economics, how’s life with the Zoster?

ZOE:

Oh…..alright, I guess….I was talking to Carol last night…..

JACK:

Yeah?

ZOE:

Oh, God, she was going on about this weekend camping trip she’s going on with her brother and a few of his friends…she kept giggling and laughing and cutting out of the conversation and saying, “stop it! Stop it!” And I asked her who she was talking to and she said, “oh, it’s my boyfriend, he keeps tickling me!”

JACK:

Who’s her boyfriend?

ZOE:

She doesn’t have one…she’s been doing this for a couple of weeks, now---she makes them up.

JACK:

Jesus Christ!

ZOE:

I know, right? God, Jackie, I just don’t know what to do with her!!!! (THERE IS A LOUD RUCKUS OUTSIDE THE COMMONS ROOM) What the fuck?!

KIDS BEGIN FILING OUT TO SEE WHAT’S GOING ON.

JACK:

Oboy! Go, lemmings, go!

ZOE:

Don’t be so cynical, young man---the entire foundation of our culture is built on the desire to rubberneck at car accidents, and you know that you want to! Future generations depend on it!

JACK:

Yay, future!!! Before too long we’ll be making toast with shoehorns and riding around the skies in flying cars---we’ll be just like the fucking Jetsons!

ZOE:

I know, right? Come on---before the carnage is over---let’s be good Americans!

(THE TWO GATHER UP THEIR BOOKS AND BAGS AND HEAD OUT INTO THE HALL)

JACK AND ZOE BLUNDER INTO A LARGE BOTTLENECK IN THE HALLWAY. IN THE MIDDLE OF IT, BRYAN HARRIS AND A STONER ARE SQUARED OFF IN A FIST FIGHT. KIDS ARE SURROUNDING THEM, THROWING THEIR FISTS AND CHANTING, “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

JACK SEES CHERYL, LOOKING DISTRESSED, ON THE OTHER END OF THE HALLWAY.

KIDS:

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

JACK LOOKS OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SEES SEVERAL KIDS HOLDING UP THEIR CELL PHONES. HE LOOKS MOMENTARILY PERPLEXED AND ANNOYED BY THIS AND TURNS BACK TO THE ACTION. PEOPLE ARE CHEERING ON EITHER ONE OF THE TWO BOYS. BEFORE EITHER OF THEM CAN MAKE ANY HEADWAY, THREE TEACHERS INTRUDE AND BREAK UP THE FIGHT.

TEACHER:

Okay! Break it up! Everybody get to your classes! (BRYAN AND THE STONER KID ARE HAULED OFF BY THE TEACHERS. THE CROWD DISPERSES.)

ZOE:

Gladiatorial contest’s over---let’s go, Jack--- (GRABS JACK’S ARM. JACK LOOKS BACK OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SEES CHERYL WANDER OFF LOOKING DISGUSTED)

HANNIBAL (Turning up behind Jack & Zoe):

Looks like Biff got a chance to show off his dick size again….Cheryl has to be on the bottom tonight.

JACK (looking annoyed):

Biff…what, Hannibal? You mean Bryan?

HANNIBAL:

Bryan. Biff. They’re ALL fuckin’ Biff!

ZOE PULLS JACK BACK INTO THE COMMONS ROOM.

ZOE:

OKAY, back to reality. Wednesday we do the library, right?

JACK:

Huh?

ZOE:

The library. We agreed on that, right? Hello? Report for Bannister’s Class? Sacco/Vanzetti trial?

JACK:

Oh. Oh. Oh. Shit---that’s due next week, huh?

ZOE:

You are correct, sir! You win the Prize. Wednesday is still good for you, right?

JACK:

Yeah! Sure…

ZOE:

Cool! Am I driving?

JACK:

Could you?

ZOE:

I suppose…hey---hanging out with Blinky tonight---he’s wanting to play Magic: The Gathering. You wanna come?

JACK:

Huh? Oh---no, I’ve gotta work tonight, and then I gotta read a couple chapters….

ZOE:

You sure? It’s gonna be me and half a dozen virgins----I’m going to need SOME protection….

JACK (laughing):

Naw---wish I could----I’d prefer it. (THE BELL RINGS)

ZOE:

Damn!!! Okay---gotta go---seeya!

JACK:

Yeah. Seeya. (THE TWO GO THEIR SEPARATE WAYS. AS JACK WALKS DOWN THE HALL A WAYS HE IS STOPPED BY MRS. ROSEN, AN ENGLISH LIT TEACHER)

MRS. ROSEN:

Jack!

JACK:

Hey, Mrs. Rosen….

MRS. ROSEN:

Jack, you’re one of my best students---how would you feel about doing me a favor?

JACK:

Will if I can…what’s up?

MRS. ROSEN:

I have a student in one of my classes…this student is finishing up the same unit you are….she’s sort of floundering on Thomas Hardy. How do you feel about tutoring?

JACK:

Tutoring?

MRS. ROSEN:

Just help her get through JUDE THE OBSCURE, Jack. I think she’s sincere in her desire to do well----just see if you can prevent her from flunking the unit.

JACK:

Yeah, I guess it’s mot much of a problem!

MRS. ROSEN:

GOOD! That’s my boy. (SHE HANDS HIM A PIECE OF PAPER) So, how did you feel about Mr. Hardy?

JACK:

I liked it---had a really profound effect on me. (SECOND BELL RINGS) Hey, Mrs. Rosen…? Could you do me up an admit slip?

MRS. ROSEN:

Oh, absolutely! (SHE SCRAWLS A NOTE OUT ON A NOTEPAD) Thank you, Jack! (SHE HANDS HIM THE ADMIT SLIP AND HE HEADS OFF. HE GLANCES DOWN AT THE NAME OF THE STUDENT HE WILL BE TUTORING)

CUT TO: A CLOSE-UP OF THE NAME AND PHONE NUMBER. IT IS CHERYL KINGSLEY’S.

JACK (V.O.):

Oh my god.

Copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts, 2011 C.F. Roberts, 2021 C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions

This little curio is from roughly a decade ago, when I took my novel, HELLO, UGLY, and over a couple of different drafts, adapted it into a screenplay. Special thanks in these efforts went to my eternal support system, Heather Drain, and to some other faraway friends whose screenplay work provided me with a template to work from. I'm aware of some basic theories on screenplays----the later draft was more an According-to-Hoyle workable screenplay, the stripped down sort of which I might hand to a film studio, where a lot of blank spaces are left for the director to work with and fill out as he or she might please.

     This one...? Is from the first draft, which you might call my "Director's Cut". If I were the filmmaker, this is the version I'D make!

      The new edition allowed me a good opportunity to update things---after all, in the late '80s, when I wrote the original book, everyone didn't have a cell phone. Things like YouTube and TikTok and Social Media were just a zygote in some media mogul's eye at that stage in the game.

       Much of the dialogue stays pretty much the same and maybe some of my younger, more politically gentle readers might be taken aback by some of it----or maybe not. This is what locker rooms sounded like when I was a kid, and despite the hype I can't imagine they're any different or any more enlightened now.

     Decided over the weekend that my first book-length project for 2021 is to do a final rewrite/update of the book, and I'm changing the working title from HELLO, UGLY to THE BIG UGLY. Be ready. 

NEW YEAR 2021: IT IS ACCOMPLISHED (Move Along! Nothing to See Here!)

 

BURNT SUNFLOWER: SELECTED POEMS 1991-2020

Johnny Kissed

About Your Cesspool

Good American

Sleeping on a Mattress

Indigo

The Icon and What I Plan to do to Her

Archangel

Paul said "Steel Pig Woman"

Urbanite Comedy

Coke

Rainbow Land

Meat and Chrome, Mockingbird Sonata

When the Big Car

Paisley

Bottom Level

Burnt Sunflower

The Sleek Young Elephants

My Own Private Jonestown

Last Will and Testament

THE EVANGEL: TALES OF THE IRRATIONAL

The Great Tradition

Three Significant Days in Othmar's Life

Snapshot of the Rural Pogroms

Faith

The Day the Sun got an Eye Gouge

Boil Order

The Crazy Fuckers

Hubcap Diamond Star Halo

Fat Chance

trinityTrinityTRINITY

After Carnival

Hannibal Shooting Fish in a Bucket

The Seven Virgins of Eufaula

Second Coming

Bottle Brigade

Blankenshipp's Confession 

The Song of Roland

Queries as to the Well-Being of Officer Gurwitz

Fort Apache the Exchange

Junkyard King

The Windshield of a Moving Car is Hard, Especially when you Drop on top of it from 30 Feet

The Walk

Uncle Drew's Lysergic Backbrain Apocalypse (Slight Return)

Give Up the Sun

Wet

Coup d'Etat

The Shrill

*********

PROJECTED FOR 2021

HELLO, UGLY (rewrite)

HOME

zebra zebra LION zebra

INDIGO (A Novel)

Happy New Year from the Firefly Abode