An American Evening
Guy walks into the diner. Brown fedora, gray suit. Huge. Looking for his Skippy.
Randy Newman on the jukebox: I don't wanna talk about the war. . . . Cookie yells out: "Got smoke! . . . Fire in the hole! . . . Goggles with grits!"
"Skippy! . . . Baby! . . . I know you're here, please, I just want to talk!"
Manager suited up like a little jerk from Manager School. "Please sir, the customers. Let me give you a cup of coffee, see what's your problem."
Guy says "I eat spuds like you for a snack before lunch. On the run. Not even a glass of milk to wash you down."
I can see the weasel thinking fast of kung fu movies he's seen. His eyes are closed and his face has this nasty dream-look. Thinks he'll jump straight up, legs whip out horizontal kicking faces both sides. The faces collapse, spray of blood and teeth. All the bodies stay poised where they've been kicked, then topple at once, graceful and dead. Manager's eyes now wide open like a predatory fish.
"Skippy! I know you're here!" Dylan: . . . God said to Abraham give me a son. "I'll kill that bitch. Skippy! I love you."
"Sir, a cup. How about some nice grits?"
High school kids in tuxes and corsages, girls like toys in chiffon. A straggler, safety pin earring, Megadeth tshirt, black shockmop, chrome stud pants, skin like a cadaver, pink skunk tattoo on one cheek. On my right. Left cheek.
"Skippy!"
"What can I getcha?"
Football Tux No. 1 says "We haven't seen a menu."
"Next!"
"Skippy! I didn't mean it!"
Chiffon No. 1 says "Could we see a menu, please?" Giggles. In my face.
"Next!"
The Manager again: "The thing is, sir, we're starting to fill up and you're exciting the customers and I don't think your friend is here."
"Skippy!"
"Next!"
"Wouldn't she have come out, or at least, uh, made a run for it?"
The same Chiffon: "We've never been here before, or at least I've never been here before. We don't know what you have."
Metalboy: "Gimme some grits. and woodja please not pile 'em on my toast this time?"
"One grits, toast on top!"
Tux Number 1 says, "Hey, miss, how come Dickie Death here gets served before us? We were first."
"Next!"
. . .watching the detectives . . . he's so cute. . . .
The big guy's saying, "I put fucks like you on a wooden stick and toast 'em over a leaf fire. Mince 'em up with some nice potatoes and ketchup, call 'em Nerd Fries."
"Sir."
Chiffon No. 2: "Dwight, I don't like the way he smells. I think he's been sitting in something nasty."
Football Tux No. 2: "Hey! Getthefuck over away from my girl, dickwad."
Metalboy: "Hey it's magnetism, man. It's like pulling me. Like a black hole, everything gets sucked in, nothing ever comes out."
Chiffon No. 2, sniffling: "Dwight, I think we should leave now. I'm scared."
"Next!"
" . . . you don't believe . . . we're on the eve . . . of destruction. . . ."
"Baby! Skippy baby! I'll make everything right!"
Cookie: "One grits with a hat. Watch the smoke."
Shady-looking guy with a nightmare mismatched suit–same cheap stripe material, but the jacket's a little small and the pants are six sizes too big and a foot too long. Rolled into huge cuffs, one to the ankle, the other to the knee. Shiny perfect blue Italian wingtips. It's my Buster. My heart does that bump-and-grind thing it always does when I see him: "Baby! I been waitin' all night for you to show. Longest shift of my life."
Football Tux No. 2: "Can you just tell us what would be on the menu if you had one?"
Football Tux No. 3, whispery voice just loud enough for his friends: "Skippy. . . . Skippy." All the others giggling and snorting.
I try to be firm but polite: "You boys behave. I know your mother, Dwight."
"Then why won't you give us a fuckin' menu?"
"Next!"
My Buster looks at the kid with eyes like a Gila Monster with sunstroke. His hands go deep into his giant pockets.
"Whatthefuckeryou, man, in a band or somethin'?"
"Yeah, whatthefuckeryou, man?"
Chiffon No. 2: "Dwight" (sniffles), "Let's go now, I'm gonna get in trouble."
Metalboy: "Can I get some more grits? And do you have like, a sausage?"
"One grits, pork on the side!"
. . . in the sand. . . . is this world . . .
Disturbance at checkout. The Manager is up at head-level, legs extended straight out to the sides, tie straight up covering his nose and one eye. The guy's beneath him, big meat hand on each of his skinny thighs. He's pounding his head straight up against the ceiling, bringing him down to chest level, pounding him up again. The tie slips down revealing a face with an odd grin where a cry of terror should be forming. "Stop that," I say, and the guy drops the Manager like a used tissue. "If you do that again, you're out." He looks like he's going to cry. "Don't cry. If you cry, you're out. Now sit down and behave. Have some coffee. Talk to Buster, here, he aint much to look at but he's got a sweet personality. One cup! You want grits? One grits! Toast? Toast on top!"
Football Tux No. 3, louder. "Skippy."
Chiffon No. 2: "Shut up, you dope!"
Metalboy: "Hey, you guys comin' from a costume party? Whereja get the neat Barbies?"
The Manager's looking like he wants to think about rustling up the nerve to slide over towards the phone, and I give him a look. Then I look at Buster, and Buster gives him a look, like a hatful of baby rattlesnakes. He sits back down.
if you come . . . to San Fran Cisco . . .
Football Tux No. 4 doesn't have a girl, is looking surly. "Look, chump, you aint with us."
Metalboy: "With you? I thought you escaped from somewhere."
Chiffon No. 3: "Francis, tell Monty to stop it."
"Next!"
Commotion way back in the corner, by the jukebox. Chiffon No. 2 is blocked. Tall, redheaded stout girl in denim vest over tight horizontal red and white stripes, blue jeans, bike boots, staring very calm but won't let her at the slot. "I just want to hear something different. You've been playing your like weird stuff and I wanna play something we wanna hear." Bike woman's got one eyebrow arched up about four inches over the other one, and her tongue flicks out like a little flame, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she turns around and puts a fiver in the bill slot and starts punching numbers. Chiffon reaches out her hand to touch the woman's shoulder and I shut my eyes tight.
"Skippy!" yells the goon.
"Skippy!" yells the football player. I nod and Buster pinches the boy's nose shut and sticks a wad of paper napkins in his mouth. Buster's a wonder for security. When the kid pops his eyes open, Buster wags his finger back and forth in front of them. The kid looks at me, pleasantly terrified, and I wink at him to let him know he's safe if he plays dead for a while.
The big guy is on his way toward the jukebox screaming Skippy Skippy Skippy. Football Tux No. 2 thinks the goon is making for his Chiffon girl and unfortunately steps in the way.
"One grits with a hat! Fire in the hole!"
paved paradise . . . and put up a parking lot! . . .
Metalboy: "Can I get one more order of grits?"
"You can have these for nothin'. He won't be needin' 'em."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"It's okay. You're a nice boy. Next!" The one Chiffon girl is stuck between the big guy and his Skippy and there's no telling what'll happen over there. The other two are on the floor seeing to Tux No. 2's injuries. Tux No. 4 is up, his fork in his hand and American
Commando fantasies in his head. Buster could fix this, but it turns out Tux No. 3 is having a kind of emotional breakdown–hard to do with your mouth full of paper napkins, but he's really sobbing away, and Buster can't stand that kind of display. He's got the kid's head on his shoulder and he's crooning to him, singing along with the Stones: the things that you wanted . . . I got them for you. . . ."
So Tux No. 4 is well on his way to engage the fray. Things haven't looked this bad since the Manager's father, the Owner, splattered those miscreants over the mac and cheese bill. But the Manager's no Owner. He's still glassy-eyed, still carp-eyed. Buster would say potato-eyed, but Buster can be ungenerous where other men are concerned.
"Skippy, baby, I'm sorry, sorry, forgive, please. . . ." He takes a second to toss the Chiffon out of the way. She hits the side wall like a cat-toy, lands in a soft pile of rose-colored bows and ribbons. "I never meant it and I'll never do it a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a."
Have to hand it to this kid, he did it nice and quiet and it looks for all the world like he stuck that fork right in the big guy's kidney, straight through his cheap suit and shirt and all. On my right. Right kidney. Still standing there going "a . . . a . . . a . . . a . . . a," and doesn't seem like he's going to stop soon. Doesn't look like it hurts him, doesn't even look mad. He's like a stuck needle on an old song: hey Joe . . . where you goin' with that guh . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . only it's "a" not "uh." Though they sound pretty much the same, with a fork in your kidney. Buster lets his ward's head down easy to the counter, picks up one of the napkin dispensers and dispenses the Tux with it. Uses the flat of it so it won't leave a permanent mark like the sharp edge would–he explained this technique to me previously on one of our dreamy dates. He pinches the goon's chin between two fingers and lowers his head so he can see his eyes: they're rubbery, sort of. No, more like silly-putty with hunks of glass in it. No one's removed the fork. Still holding him by the chin, Buster leads him back to the counter and sits him beside the sobbing Tux. Then he goes back and sets the crumpled Chiffon back on her feet and gives her a soft shove in the direction of the Ladies. Finally he wags his head at the big woman, who looks at him bored, looks back at the jukebox, then straightens herself up and follows him to the counter. And there they sit: crybaby in a tux, gasping goon, sweet Buster, and bitchy biker woman. Behind them, the Chiffons have got their stomped Tux up on a chair and are taking care of him. They'll be taking care of him for the rest of their lives. The metal kid's on his way back for more grits–didn't appear to notice any of this. The Manager's sneaked out the front, probably going to fetch the old man, who'll show up with his money and his muscle. The Van Morrison song about making love behind the stadium is on. Cookie's yelling about smoke and grits, the redhead's looking more and more like a transexual wrestler, and if my shift ends when it's supposed to end, Buster and I won't be hanging around to hear her tell her side of the story.
The Interrogation
Two of the girls were still able to sit upright, blood dripping off their faces onto their white school blouses. A man with a white cane had made his way as far as the brick wall bounding the schoolyard, and was tapping his way first left, then right, then further left, then further right. There was a corner on each end, but he didn't know it yet. A muscular woman in a blue uniform asked the girls if they were all right. They pointed towards the merry-go-round, where three other girls were fighting with knives. A man in a bad suit came by and asked the woman in blue, "What the hell happened here?" The woman in blue said, "It's the first day of vacation, Chief." One of the girls reached out then and grabbed her arm, then spoke through her broken front teeth: "It's not a vacation; it's a holiday." The woman slapped her hard, and the Chief said, "Send them home."
Ekleksographia:
Wave 4.1.c
August, 2010
Fiction
Jerry McGuire
Jerry McGuire has published two books of poems, The Flagpole Dance (Lynx House Press, 1991) and Vulgar Exhibitions (Eastern Washington University Press, 2002). Much of his work is poetry, drama, and experimental fiction done in collaboration with musicians, dancers, and visual artists, and designed for specific performance environments. Most recently film-maker Allison Bohl and animator/painter Yeon Choi have produced works incorporating his poems, voice, and digital soundscapes. He teaches Creative Writing, poetics, and film studies at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette.