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��A GOOD THING
CONTACT _Con-3D1B1ACC1 \c \s \l Robert Cody


Hank looks up at the top floor of the Stratmore hotel in front of him. Hank picks up a half of a cigaret he sees a kid stomp out on the sidewalk. The kid offers Hank a fresh cigaret.
"Waste not, want not" says Hank, as he lights the stomped-on half of a cigaret.
"Just take a full one," says the kid, holding an open pack of Marlboros. "I got enough to go around."
Hank shifts his focus from the cigaret between his fingers to the kid standing in front of him. The kid wears clean, pressed khakis, a sweater made to feel as soft as pussy (the kind to which Hank was never given the chance to grow accustomed), and some gold chain. The kid’s eyes are lucid at ten at night. The kid has a kind, understanding smile.
Hank reaches out and takes some of the sweater in between his index finger and thumb. The kid steps back blindly into a parked car.
"Merino wool or some shit," Hank says under his breath.
He throws the half-cigaret on the ground and draws in close. The kid can’t step back any further.
"I ought to cut you," says a dead-eyed Hank, half-joking as he takes the offered cigaret. Hank turns and walks to the nearest bar, a fresh cigaret between his teeth.
*
Hank sits at a table on the floor of the Gold Dust Lounge, drinking rum Coca-Colas, and watching the house band play "(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction" before transitioning into Van Morrison’s "Gloria". A gaggle of middle-aged women dance, blocking the pathway to the men’s restroom. They call out to men (who are full of piss and shit) as they pass, in a fashion reserved for younger women with a kinder relationship to gravity.
Hank gets up from his chair and dances for a moment with the gaggle of women before relieving himself in the urinal. Hank chuckles. He would have fucked any one of them.
*
Hank crosses Powell Street with a big, dumb smile on his face. Five rum Coca-Cola’s later, he is forty dollars above water and as he should be. Hank is Hank and Hank is drunk.
He enters the Stratmore and asks how much for a room. The woman behind the desk keeps her eyes down, locked on the magazine she’s reading. The woman points to a sign above her head.
23$ A NIGHT.
Hank puts a twenty and a five on the desk. He leans slightly to the right and reads the title of the magazine the woman is reading - - Movie Mirror, an ancient film magazine with Mae West on the cover.
"Too much of a good thing can be simply wonderful," says Hank.
"Is that right?" The woman trails a sentence on the magazine page with her index finger and taps the page twice at the end of her sentence. She closes the magazine, looks up and smiles at Hank.
"Mae West said that," says Hank.
"I believe she did," says the woman. She cracks her knuckles above her head, extending her arms and pushing out her bust. She slides the bills off the counter into her pocket and hands Hank two dollars change.
"What the hell are you doing reading a magazine twice your age?" Hank asks.
"We have piles of them in the basement, collecting dust. Might be worth something if I could get the owner to let me sell any of them."
Hank follows the woman into the elevator and then to his room on the fourth floor. Hank stares at her plum of an ass, an ass not unlike his ex-wife’s, as they walk the hallway to his room. He has an erection. Hank is Hank and Hank is a man.
He walks into his hotel room and closes the door. He lies down on the made bed without taking off his jacket and thinks about the woman behind the desk, thinks about how great it would be if she were to sit on his face. He handles the remote and turns on the television. He stands up, falters, and falls to a knee. He lifts himself up and carries his dead weight into the bathroom. He tries out the faucet and flushes the toilet. He takes out his cock and gives it a couple of tugs, but his erection had been lost with the fall to his knee. He turns off the television and leaves the room.
Hank walks the hallway towards the stairwell and sees his reflection in the window at the end of the hall. He takes a hold of his gut and sucks it in and out. He thinks of Elvis, shooting out televisions, and does a roundhouse kick for his own amusement. The woman comes up the staircase. Hank, in a threatening forward-leaning stance, blushes. The woman takes a step back and giggles.
"What the hell you doin’?" says the woman.
"Practicin’ my kar-a-té. A man’s got to stay fit." Hank makes a flurry of his hands and legs. He kicks once to the right of the woman’s thin frame and then once to the left of her. "I see I could take you down easy. Well, if I were in a pinch."
The woman laughs, "Don’t be so sure."
Hank corrects his stance, extends his hand.
"Name’s Elvis, but my friends call me Hank."
"It’s a pleasure, Hank. Lorene is the name my mother gave me, but Lord knows I might’ve fared better with a name like Elvis."
"Wouldn’t we all’ve."
The woman’s hand fits perfectly into Hank’s. He feels the blood rush to his cock and knows no fall to the knee could possibly shake this erection.

Fall 08'

In the fall of 2008 my then teacher Loren Bell gave his creative writing class an assignment to pick up two magazine clippings and write a short story. I picked up a picture of two kittens in a basket and another of a mountain. Still untitled, mainly have been saving it under "Baby Girl"

It was colder than when I usually awake up before, when daddy pick me up with both arms from mah bed an’ curried me out of mah room to the outside. I rub my eyes with mah fists an’ aks’im “Daddy where we going?” an’he said “Hush babe.” He grabbed my slippers wit me still in his arms an’ set me right in fron’a the door an’ I aks agin’ “Daddy where we going?” The sky was still purple an’ the sun ain’t over the mountains yit, but he made me put’em, on anyhow. “Daddy why do we gotta git to work so early daddy?” An he din’t answer, just grabbed hold’a my hand and we started walkin’ down the path away from home. He looked straight on toward the ocean an’ din’t say a thing, looked like he was gunna yell o’ getting ready to say a prayer and we kept on walkin’. I yawned and kept rubbin’ my eye with my left hand. (I think the semicolon takes away from the authentic tone the story is written in)I looked back over my shoulder at our house and the master’s house and the whole ranch as we finally hit the road (highway refers to something too modern for this story), crossed it, and wonderin’ why daddy ain’t waked them up so early in the mornin’. I looked up at his tall face an’ his bottom lip stuck out more den usual so I laughed a lil’ bit an’ he finally looked down at me wit big eyes an’ a stare I ain’t even seen on’im before, made me stop gigglin’. Well we make it across the road and past the dunes on the path that led to the beach an’ the sky was a lighter purple den before and the moon was a little ways closer to the horizon an’ daddy ain’t said nothin’ yet. We walked along the sand an’ my Daddy started hummin’, hummin a song he hums when he’s about to start workin’ or about to run the carriage into town or after he prays and gits in bed with Mama. Then he mumbled a bunch of words, and I could only make out ever couple ones with waves in my head. We walked the seashore till finally the moon was into the ocean an’ the mountains started to turn from black to brown, and things around us started gettin’ orange. We curved around a cliff up a flight of stairs that the master had Daddy build into the dunes, up and back to the road. We walked along the roadside when all a’sidden Daddy stopped and crouched down an’ he finally smiled, started puttin’ my strayed hairs behind my ears with one’a his big ol’ hands an’ his eyes turned red an’ he told me “You stay here, little girl, I’m walkin’ down this here road alone.” I tugged at my white nightie wit my hands and said “What you mean, Daddy?” an’ he replied, “You see there’s a heaven awaiting me, my child, to play into the nights and days, so don’t you weep girl, don’t you cry.” He got back up on his legs and started walkin’ away an’ I begin to worry but I stood there like he told me an’ I wailed out “but Daddy, kitten needs a feedin…an’, an’ so do the pigs an’ black dog, an’ brother Lucas an’ the baby too-“ an’ he says to me, “I know it’s up there baby, an’ when you grow up, real strong, when you grow tall we’ll meet again, baby, an’ I’ll see you.” An’ he turned away. I watched him until he got smaller. I watched the pink of his hands until they stopped swaying, I watched the stitches on his jeans( perhaps call his pants ‘trousers’ or another similar word to fit into the time period) fade and the holes in his back pockets disappear until he was only a black shadow in the distance, on the road. Mah knees began to shake, an’ I worked hard to keep my stomach from comin’ out and I squeezed my eyes real tight to keep the tears from fallin’, an’ the fields around me an’ the sand on the beach and the hay in the roads an’ the mountains were yellow now an’ it was morning an’ I know the master’d be up an’ orderin by the time the sun got over the mountains an’ behind the home, so I took my self back the other way up the road through the field on the dirt path, past all the crickets an’ birds an’ flowers growin’, past the chicken coop and the pigs pens an’ the tractor, an’ the cows that needed milkin’ an’ the chickens feedin’ an’ the weeds a’pullin, an’ the master’d be up by the time that mean ol’ sun hit just over the mountains an’ behind the home. An’ brother, kitten, baby, an’ the dog too. I walked past the pillars, into the quarters where Mama lay dreamin’ still so I shook her with mah two hands so she let outta noise like a puppy an’ rolled away from me and I shook her harder from behind an’ I say, “Wake up! Wake up, Mama, don’t you sleep so hard!” an’ she yawns an’ rolls over an’ opens her eyes right to left an’ says “Heaven almighty, child! It ain’t time yet!” and yawns agin an’ I says “Old man is gone, Mama” an’ she waked and sat up with big eyes at me, real open, an’ says “What you mean baby, what are you talking?””Old Man told me the blues is like the ocean an’ to think of it when I’m alone, then he kissed my head said he’d see me in heaven an’ then he walked the road.” My throat started hurtin’ an’ my mama grabbed me to her bosom and begins to cry out real loud an’ I can’t hardly breathe until my eyes are leaking into her night dress and she yells, “Oh baby, my babies! I knew this day would come!”

This is a part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra...

ON THE TARANTULAS

Behold, this is the hold of the tarantula. Do you want to see the tarantula itself? Here it hangs; touch it, that it tremble! There it comes willingly: welcome tarantula! your triangle and symbol sits black on your back; and I also know what sits in your soul. Revenge sits in your soul wherever you bite, black scabs grows; your poison makes the soul whirl with revenge.

Thus I speak to you in a parable- you who make souls whirl, you preachers of equality. to me you are tarantulas, and secretly vengeful. But I shall bring your secrets to light; therefore I laugh in your faces with my laughter of the heights. Therefore I tear at your webs, that your rage may lure you out of your lie-holes and your revenge may leap out from behind your word justice. for that man be delivered from revenge, that is for me the bridge to the highest hope, and a rainbow after long storms.

The tarantulas, of course, would have it other wise.

Accidental Short Stories

Write letters. They are personal, so exciting, and a great way to get some pent up energy out. If you're like me and have many hours in the night to kill try writing somebody... I dont know anyone who wouldn't appreciate a well thought out (or not!) letter, especially now a days when communication is less sacred to a lot of people and easily obtainable.. i wonder how much is hidden behind a screen..

My friend wrote me from across this grand ol fuckin land this past February and the letter included a story...


Nameless... By L. Rawson

Even though we are not allowed music I have found ways to hear it by singing aloud or writing down my favorite songs so they play in my head as they are appearing on the page. I met this guy, we call him Cook. He is about five foot seven, wiry but strong, and he is half Cherokee Indian and half Black. We call him "Cook" because he sings Sam Cooke songs all day long and they are right on key!
He has taught me a lot in only a few days. His father, The Cherokee, was aptly named "Crazy Horse". That was his legal name. He was born on a reservation in Oklahoma to alcoholic parents. Growing up he had no schooling whatsoever. He spent his time roaming the reservation looking for good places to fish and getting into small trouble with local boys. When he was twelve he whitnessed his father's murder at the hands of his mother. He did not understand at that young age but later learned that she killed his father because he was a vicious drunk and it was "only a matter of time before he would have killed her".
Crazy Horse grew tired and frankly bored of the reservation and its chaotic, drunk society and decided to leave when he was only fifteen. He felt great remorse because he would be leaving his three young sisters behind but reasoned that he would go insane if he did not discover the rest of this great country that once belonged entirely to his people. It took him a long time to finally end up in Philadelphis, for he had no car and little money. IHe would hitch-hike his way to different cities - to St. Louis to chicago, to Cleveland, and all the small earthly towns in between. Whereever he could find work he would settle for awhile and save his money until he wanted to move on. 

One cool night, while in a a seedy Southside Chiacago motel room, Crazy horse grew tired and frustrated. He was nervous and confused like he had never been before in his life. Though he was still young, only nineteen, he recalled back on his four years of travel and could not recalled when he was uneasy or unsure. He knew he had to leave oklahoma at fifteen, it was very cut and dry. And in ever town or city up until that cool in night Chicago, Crazy Horse felt that he had reason and purpose to be where he was. but that night in his motel Crazy Horse could not pull his racing mind and so he ventured downstairs to a local bar. He had seen first hand the destruction of alcoholism on his reservation and he knew firsthand the sorrow and loss cause by it yet he simply never connected the two ideas in his head; the action of drinking and the reactions of death and destruction. He simply thought, perhaps, that these who did bad were that way by their nature - and the alcohol was neither here nor there. Forgetting his upbringing and his family heritage's history, he stepped into the corner bad, fascinated by its lights and the noises of jubilation emanating from the doors. He sat down inside and drank beer until he was warm. After that he drank ever day for the next fifty years. He eventually made it to Philadelphia and married a beautiful black girl named Sherry. He settled down and worked hard. He raised Cook and six other children in South Philly. one day when cook was only fifteen his father took him and his older brother, Marcus, back to Oklahoma, Crazy Horse told Sherry that he was old and tired, and by the time the alcohol had taken a horrendous toll on his body and mind. He wanted to take his two eldest boys back to the reservation so they could claim their "head rights" before Crazy Hose died. Cook did most of the driving from philadelphia to "The Land of Green Rivers", Oklahoma, while Marcus slept in the back. After almost five days, they graced upon the reservation. Crazy Horse was asleep in the back seat at the time, but he awoke immediately as they arrived on his land. He directed Cook to where he grew up but they came to find that it was no longer there. The reservation had changed drastically in the time that Crazy horse had been gone. All the marvels of Technology and Progressive Society were in place everywhere - casinos, new cars, clubs, nice restaurants - everything. After stopping at a local bar that Crazy Horse recognized as owned by one of "his own" Cook and MArcus learned that everyone was just like their father - old, disgruntled, and drunken Indians wrung dry by working the tired earth and by years of drinking alcohol everyday. After hours of drinking and associating with old indians, Crazy Horse directed the boys back to the car and out on a long drive into the lower Ozark Mountains. This time Crazy Horse drove. Cook and Marcus passed out on the,  but on they both reasoned that they must have been driving for hours, for the place they found themselves in was different from anything they had seen anywhere - let alone in Oklahoma so far. In front of them was a steep mountain, but it was covered in rolling grass and had a river running down and through it. Outside of the car the boys stood at the river's edge with Crazy Horse beside them. He told them that this was his land, and the land of their people, he told them to care of his children, their brothers and sisters, and that he was in fact, sorry. Then he jumped into the river and let it take him away.