~Larimer Street in Denver~
~it’s the place to be for the in-crowd~
~sports junkies, girls on the make~
~the haves pushed the don’t haves out years ago~
~it used to be skid-row~
~I liked it better then~
~spilled some blood there~
~not all of it my own~~George’s Hands~ His knuckles were pushed back, forever swollen in his huge hands whose fists had made him king of the Larimer Street Bars. Quiet and soft-spoken, he took this sixteen-year-old kid under his wing. I worked the yard with him at a scaffolding company. It was my first job and he was my boss.
George took me to the bars some Friday nights after work. The Yellow Cab would pick us up and drop us off in skid row downtown. When we walked into the bars loud voices hushed in respect. Madmen and wild women parted and made way for me and my gentle giant friend.
George put my hand to a wrench, taught me to drive the Case forklift, though he never drove a car and I asked him why. He swore me to secrecy then showed me a document from his wallet that stated his driver’s license was revoked for the remainder of his life for driving getaway cars from bank robberies in the thirties and forties.
Within a year I was George’s boss. He pushed me ahead of himself, told me I would be a man of words, that he was a man of hands. A year later, when George was fifty-six years old, his cigarette smoking and bar room brawling days caught up with him in a rush. I’ll not forget his gasping breath, its halting whoosh as emphysema put him down.
I had helped George tag all his tools and wondered why he would paint them bright orange to separate them from the others in the shop. At seventeen-years-old, after my first pall bearing, George’s wife asked me to gather them up and bring them to her. When I brought them to her house she informed me he meant for me to keep them, every single one of them. They were many, amassed over twenty hardworking years. I loaded them back into my hotrod Mustang, shed a tumble of hard-bitten tears. I have been haunted and blessed the whole of my life by memories of George’s hands.
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Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Fists was surly that night which was unusual because he didn’t usually wax surly unless you got on the wrong side of him. You didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Fists. Oh no, you didn’t. He’d been out of sorts of late because Tinker, the guy who wrenched for him, had disappeared a few days ago. This, in and of itself, wasn’t all that unusual. Tinker was a drunk and had a liking for meth when in the process of doing what he liked the most, diving to the bottom of a glass. He showed up late for work more often than not, red eyes, puffy cheeks and shaking like a flea-bitten old dog. What was a bit unusual this time is that he hadn’t shown up at all. Oh, and Fists’ crank was gone too, a whole ounce, three thousand dollars worth after the cut.
Willy handed Fists a baggy with white powder in it. “Here’s the half ounce of mannitol, all ready for the cut. I got a commitment for half a ‘Z’, twelve hundred bucks.”
“Later!” Fists said tersely. He tossed the bag on his desk. “We got something to take care of tonight. I need your help.” He handed Willy the keys to his Eldorado. “You drive. Take I-70 east to the Last Chance exit. We’ll get off there.”
Willy took a deep breath, got in the Eldorado and backed it out of the garage. He waited in silence as Fists let the dogs loose and locked up the shop. His mind was loco-looping, wondering what the hell was going on. He didn’t like the feel of it and wasn’t about to ask Fists any questions. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Fists. Oh no, he didn’t.
The moon was around ninety-nine percent and Willy let the Cadillac have its head. Smooth as a baby’s butt at a hundred miles an hour. “Slow down!” Fists ordered, “You’re behaving like a pig magnet.”
“Nice night for a ride,” Willy said offhandedly, thinking wistfully of His and Fists’ Harleys parked in Fists’ shop.
“Not tonight,” Fist said, “Just drive.”
Last Chance, Colorado, A blink into Kansas and you missed it. Willy followed Fists’ instructions, took the off-ramp and bump-bumped the Eldorado across the rough dirt road in a farmer’s field. “Stop and open the trunk,” Fists ordered.
Willy breathed a little easier. Now everything was beginning to make sense, hideout guns and cash. That’s what was probably in the trunk. They were out here to do a deal, maybe take someone down. Fists wasn’t usually so closed mouthed about details.
Willy turned the key and the trunk popped open. Fists stepped forward and smashed the trunk light out with the butt of his forty-five. “Should have taken care of that before,” he said.
Willy blinked his eyes. Had he seen what he thought he saw in the instant of bright light before Fists put it out? Tinker, a bandana stuffed in his mouth and bound with cable ties. Fists gave him a nudge from behind and placed a set of wire cutters in his hand. “Here, cut him loose.”
Oh, this wasn’t going well at all. Willy and Fists had talked about him making his bones but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go that far in and he sure as hell didn’t want to earn them by offing Tinker. Tinker was a drunk but Willy had a soft spot in his heart for alcoholics and drug addicts. His father and brothers were of that ilk. They usually hurt themselves more than anyone else.
Willy reached into the dark cavern of the trunk. He had to feel his way to the plastic ties binding Tinker’s ankles and wrists, difficult because they were trussed up and linked together behind his back. “I hog-tied the sumbitch,” Fists offered.
Tinker climbed out of the trunk. “Thanks, Willy,” he said sheepishly.
“Get that pillow case out of the trunk,” Fists said to Willy. He took Tinker by the arm. “You come with me.”
The pillow case had some heft to it, something metal clanking together suspiciously. Willy wasn’t about to risk a peek or put his hand in there. He followed Fists to where he had taken Tinker. They were silhouettes bathed in the moon of the still night, so dark and desolate a mantle of stars was visible. Moon or man could not own their light in the true domain of earth and space. Tinker was on his knees. Fists’ hands held his gun, arms stiff, a shooter’s stance, the barrel of the gun pressed tight against Tinker’s forehead. Fists twisted it a bit and a trickle of blood ran down the man’s face.
“You regret lying to me?” Fists asked.
Tinker groaned, an animal sound deep and lost inside. “Agh, yeah, I am..”
“I got customers,” Fists said softly, tapping the pistol against Tinker’s head. “You lie to me and I lie to them. I don’t like that.”
Tinker pressed his face into the gun. “I didn’t mean to. I’m no good. Just.. just.. you know.”
“You been running your mouth in the bars,” Fists said. “Telling everybody you don’t care if I find you. Well, here I am.”
Fists stood away, tucked his pistol into the back of his jeans. “Stand up and take your clothes off,” he ordered.
Tinker struggled to his feet and began to walk round and round in a tight circle mumbling incoherently. “Undress that sonofabitch,” Fists said to Willy.
Willy took a step forward. He reached out and touched Tinker’s arm. Tinker jerked away. “No, please!” he begged. “I know you’re pissed cause I took your speed but I’ll pay you back, Fists. I promise! I’ll work for nothing, show up on time every day. Please!”
“Did you hear me?” Fists addressed Willy. “Or was that cockroach making too much noise?”
Willy grabbed the front of Tinker’s shirt. Tinker turned to run and the shirt ripped from his body. “Get ‘im,” Fists said softly.
Tinker fell face first into the freshly plowed earth. Willy, a football player in his high-school days, had run him down and shoulder tackled him at the knees. He pulled Tinker up from the ground and marched him back to where Fists waited on the moonlit path. “What are you gonna do?” Tinker whined plaintively.
“You won’t like it,” Fists chuckled. He pulled the forty-five out and pointed it at Tinker’s head. “But it’s better than being shot in the head. Now take your clothes off, all of them.” He leveled the gun, took a step forward, and nestled the end of the barrel into the spot between Tinker’s eyes. “A man should always have a choice. I respect that. You didn’t. This is your choice.” The distinct noise of the metallic mechanism of the pistol owned the moment as Fists pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “Last time. Take your clothes off.”
Tinker pulled down his trousers. He had begun to choke and sob. His hands were shaking terribly and sharing some inconsolable rhythm with the gurgling sounds coming from his throat. “Pull down your boxers,” Fists said.
Drool running from his mouth, Tinker was barely coherent, literally shocked out of his mind at the mere prospect of what might be about to happen. Fists nodded at Willy and he pulled down the man’s boxer shorts. Fists stepped forward and slapped him on his bare ass. “Ya know, Tinker, I could have had you the first day you screwed me around.” He waved his gun toward the moon. “I waited for that because I wanted you to see the full light of your mistake.” He chuckled. “And I need light to do what Willy and I are about to do about you.”
Willy was almost as apprehensive as Tinker. He had no idea what Fists’ plans might be but hoped it wasn’t what he was thinking. He couldn’t do that, no way he could do that. He glanced at Tinker just as Fists slapped him hard in the chest. Tinker fell flat on his ass, a loud oomph of air rushing from him, forced out in a surprised gush. “Take his shoes off!” Fists ordered. “I want him butt-assed naked and we’re running out of time. We got things to do.”
Tinker stood on his tiptoes, arms reaching for the sky. “Turn around,” Fists whispered. “Now bend over and grab your ankles.”
“Oh, God, God…” Tinker moaned.
“Now for your part.” Fists grinned at Willy. “Go clean him up. He done shit and pissed all over himself, then fell in the dirt, poor l’il guy.”
Willy used the rag of Tinker’s shirt to wipe him off. “Make sure he’s dry everywhere,” Fists advised. “We gotta have ‘im tight ‘n dry.”
Good God, Willy thought. This is some crazy shit. Any sympathy he had for Tinker was quickly dissipating as he began to wonder how he was going to handle the next few minutes of his life. “Hand me that bag,” Fists said. “Then go over and reach into the hidey-hole of my ride. We gotta get ready for the next part.”
Willy returned with a can of WD-40. Fists smiled at him, dark and evil. He took the can of lubricant from Willy’s hand. “Good stuff.” He unscrewed a false bottom from the can, palmed a vial, winked and tossed it to Willy. “Have yourself a blast o’ that. Tell me what you think.”
Willy held the vial up to the moonlight, squinted his eyes to better see its yellow/white powder contents. “Hurry up!” Fists said impatiently. “We don’t have all night.”
The cap of the vial had a tiny plastic flip-out spoon which Willy used to scoop out some of its contents. He placed a finger on his left nostril, applying pressure to hold it closed, while he inhaled the powder up the other side of his nose. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, extending his arm, offering the vial back to Fists.
Fists waved him off. “Do the other side. I can’t have you runnin’ around in circles on me.”
Willy laughed and loaded up the other side of his nose. Fists took the vial and quickly had a couple of blasts for himself. He stashed the vial back in the base of the WD-40 can and handed it to Willy. “Well, what do you think?”
“Holy shit!” he repeated. “It’s great! I feel like someone’s taking the back of my head off.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He held it up for Fists to see. “Bleeding like a stuck pig. That stuff’s a little raw.”
“Yeah,” Fists agreed. “A brother of mine cooked it up to help cover up shithead here rippin’ me off. Made me a good deal and did it quick. Too quick maybe, he didn’t cure it right.” He glanced thoughtfully at Willy. “Hey, while we’re dealing with Tinker here, you be thinking about something to name this shit. It’ll smooth out some with that mannitol but it won’t take the yellow out. Shooters won’t like it one bit.”
“Sure,” willy said, casting a worried sidelong glance in Tinker’s direction.
“Go spread his butt cheeks,” Fists ordered, all friendliness gone from his voice. He was definitely in back to business mode.
Here we go, Willy thought. Tinker jerked violently when Willy touched him. “Knock it off!” Willy hissed. “This will be over before you know it. You’re just making it worse with your bullshit.”
Fists, in his directorial voice, intoned, “Turn his asshole toward the light.”
Tinker shuddered as Willy arced his body around. “He has dirt on his ass,” Fists advised, “Wipe ‘im off again.”
Willy picked the rag up from the ground and pushed it up and down Tinker’s butt crack. He heard Fists pick up the pillow case behind him, whatever was in it clinking and clanking in the still darkness. “Hold ‘im just like that,” Fists crooned. “We gotta start in the tight spots.”
A tiny steel ball ding-ding-dinging against the inside of a tin cup. Willy’s mind jumped back to his poor-boy childhood, aggies and steelies, turf wars in the housing projects. He glanced back at Fists and just didn’t get it. The man was standing there casually shaking a can of spray paint as if he was preparing to prime a gas tank on his Hawg. Hold ‘im tight,” he said. He held the nozzle a couple of inches away from its target and began to paint Tinker’s asshole. His eyes were next and under his arms. Then came the pecker. Willy had to hold Tinker’s balls up because he was shaking and gasping and literally couldn’t get hold of himself.
Fifteen cans of florescent green spray paint, that’s what was in that old pillow case. Fists stood back to admire his work. He had Tinker turn in slow circles, tried to talk him through a pirouette but the man was way past being able to manage such tricks. “Hey, Willy,” he said. How do you like that? Is that better than killing a man or beating him up or what?”
“I don’t know,” Willy replied. “I just don’t know.”
“Must be all right if I put one over on you,” Fists mused. “Did I miss anything?”
“Hell,” Willie said, “That man is green everywhere but the bottoms of his feet.”
“Good man!” Fists exclaimed. He gave Tinker a shove. “Sit down. You ain’t done yet!” He tossed a can of paint to Willy. “You finish ‘im off. Get the bottoms of those feet and in between his little tootsies. I’ll lay us out a proper line on the mirror before we send him on his way.”
Willy was relieved to finish ‘im off as it were, glad it didn’t seem to require a bullet or baseball bat as finish ‘im off usually did. Tinker kept trying to ask him questions but Willy refused to engage. He had a feeling this was going to turn out okay, no dead guys or anything.
“Go get yours!” Willy jumped at the sound of Fists’ voice. He stepped away and Fists ordered Tinker to his feet. If it was going to happen, now would be the time. While he was on the way to the car, sixteen steps, or when he was inside with the hundred dollar bill straw giving himself another nose bleed. It didn’t though. He returned to Fists and Tinker and found Fists in a campfire stories kinda mood. “See,” Fists said to Tinker. He tapped him on the nose with a stiff finger. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”
Tinker winced as he forced his eyes wide open, flinched when Fists’ hand moved. “Burns, don’t it?” Fists said. He pulled a tissue from his shirt pocket and dabbed at the corners of Tinker’s eyes. “You’re just skittish as hell, aren’t you?” he chuckled.
“Farmers hereabouts been reporting flying saucer sightings longer ‘n we been alive,” Fists said in a conversational tone. “Most of ‘em pack iron for skunks, eagles, coyotes, any critter posing a threat to their critters. Don’t know how they’d react to a green man come to the door.” He looked off to the west. “Denver’s about forty miles from here,” he said. “That’s where Willy ‘n me are going.” You can too if you care to. Thing is, me being a man of my word, I’ll kill your ass first chance I get.” He pointed to the east with a crooked finger. “Kansas that way, Dorothy, Toto, and all that shit. Scarecrows and tin men, maybe they’ll think you’re just another strange character jumped outa some writer’s brain.”
Fists pulled out his pistol, made a big display of ejecting a shell and jacking a fresh one into the chamber. “One with your name on it,” he said to Tinker. “I’d get packin’, I were you. Make your choice.”
Tinker went to Kansas.
“Clean up this mess and let’s get out o’ here,” Fists said to Willy. “I’ll drive back. You drive too damned slow!”
Interstate 70, speedometer pinned, four o’ clock in the morning, beatin’ the sunrise to Denver. “Well hell,” Fists pulled his fingers through his beard. “What we gonna call it?” He made a cluck-cluck sound with his tongue. “I wanna draw some connection to tonight’s events but not directly and I want something catchy, some snazzy assed thing to draw in the shooters. We gotta move this stuff quick to cover our ass.”
Willy stared through the windshield, mesmerized by the predawn silhouette of the Rocky Mountains against the sky. He glanced across the car at his friend, green fingers tapping out a beat with ZZ Topp, “Easing down the highway in a new Cadillac.”
“How ‘bout ‘Florescent Horizons’ Willy said dreamily.
“Goddam if that ain’t it!” Fists slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. He flipped the vial across the seat. “Glad you was with me tonight, Willy. Let’s get to shakin’ and bakin’! We gon’ make some Florescent Horizons.”
So they did, down the road, singin’ with the radio, “I’m bad, I’m nationwide!”
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~Five Points~
~we were younger than men~
~never quite boyz~
~down there in Denver~
~they called these black streets~
~Five Points~
~because there was~
~a convergence~
~a star~
~the five points of them~
~a Jesus Saves neon light~
~night~
~soup kitchen & after-hours joints~
~“wha’ d’ya want”~
~“white boys, c’mere”~
~“lookin’ for some girls”~
~“little bit o’ action”~
~there were two hungry whores~
~an Indian & a black one~
~my brother ‘n I bought ‘em restaurant food~
~three meals each~
~& they sent us on home~
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Five Points is stanza LXVI from the epic work, Quodlibet
published in its entirety by Howling Dog Press
Staying with grandparents, nine-year-old Timmy defies grandmother’s orders. He receives a scolding & her hand on his back side. He turns his back on her, just walks away.
~a man on fire~
~in an empty room~
~six ways out~
~indecision rules~
Chapter Four
~Children ... It’s Elementary~
Denver, Colorado
Fall, 1959
There was nothing Timmy could do to rectify the situation but he couldn’t stop thinking about it so he ignored Grandma’s voice, sobbed and kicked stones, and continued to feel sorry for himself. He enjoyed a bit of relief from his problems as the larger stones jarred the bones in his toes and gave him something else to think about. He knew they were right, Grandma and Grandpa. They shouldn’t have to take care of Daddy and his family. He wondered if he really was a dirty little bastard. As they always said, Grandma and Grandpa, they had worked hard and raised theirs. This should be a time of peace and rest for them. Grandpa was employed as a baker afternoons and nights and Grandma was a cookie packer for the Bowman Biscuit Company. They were trying to lay a little money aside for their retirement. Grandma had varicose veins and her legs hurt. She stood her place on the assembly line six nights a week, two to eleven. She rode the city bus to work and back home with the midnight crazies. Grandma didn’t drive.
Timmy blinked his eyes in surprise when he realized he had reached the crossroads at the bottom of the hill. Cars swished back and forth on Hampden Avenue a few steps away. He turned to his right, squinted his eyes, and stared at the building where his mother worked. Coors and Pabst Blue Ribbon neon signs winked at him and, his favorite, Hamms ... the beer refreshing with the big smiling bear and the blue running water. He wasn’t so sure about his decision to walk down the hill now. He felt a tight fist form in his chest and knew he was between a rock and a hard spot when he recognized Daddy’s truck parked by the front door. There would be hell to pay for leaving Grandma after she had ordered him to turn around and come back home.
Timmy was in a quandary. He had never seriously considered running away before but this might be just the situation for it. He wished for Jerry. His brother wasn’t very good at getting along with Momma and Daddy but he knew all about running away and making it on his own. What would Peter and Lisa and Leda do without him, Timmy wondered ... and Momma. He didn’t have long to worry about the problem as Daddy came staggering out the front door of the bar. He started to climb in his truck, then noticed Timmy standing by the side of the road.
“Get yer ass over here!” he ordered. When they were both seated in the old truck he administered his favorite punishment where Timmy was concerned, an open handed slap to the top of his head. “What in hell gets into you, Timmy? Ma’s all shook up now. She thinks you’ve run away. She really got pissed when she called here to talk to your mother and they called me to the phone. I’m afraid you’ve messed it up for all of us with that bullheadedness o’ yours. She don’t want me drinkin’, y’know?”
The top of Timmy’s head smarted and he winced in anticipation of another slap as he replied sadly and truthfully, “None of us do, Daddy.”
Daddy surprised him by rubbing his head affectionately. “’S okay, son. You sit tight while I run in ‘n tell your mother you’re all right. I think I found us a place to live. We’ll pick up your brother and sisters and go have a look. I’ll talk to Ma when we get to the house but you’re gonna have to apologize to her for your behavior.”
Daddy went into the bar and came right back out. He drove his old Ford truck up the bumpy dirt road and parked in front of the little house on the hill. There was a clothesline set up at the back of the driveway just in front of Grandpa Webber’s car. He kept rabbits in hutches against the rear wall of the house and was busy outside tending to them. He waved nonchalantly and walked behind the house as Daddy and Timmy came up the driveway behind his Packard. “Go see your Grandpa while I go inside and have a couple words with Ma,” Daddy ordered. “I don’t even want her to see you since you took off without her permission. You hurt her feelings and there’ll be hell to pay.”
Spending time with Grandpa Webber would never find itself on the list of things Timmy would like to do. He knew better than to argue with Daddy. His head still smarted from the slap by Daddy’s hand, so he walked slowly past Grandpa’s car toward the rear of the house. “Don’t walk so God-damned close to the car!” Grandpa warned, “You God-damned brats are bound ‘n determined to scratch the shit out of it!”
Timmy sidled over next to the house. When he came to the corner, Grandpa was standing next to the hutches holding a large rabbit. “Get a handful o’ clothespins out ‘o that bag,” he said to Timmy. Timmy stepped over to the clothesline and did as he was told. Grandpa was right behind him with the rabbit clutched close to his chest. It was kicking and clawing furiously with its rear feet. Its nails were long and blood oozed from a deep cut on Grandpa’s wrist where it had scratched him. “Nice bunny, bunny,” Grandpa cooed. He scratched the rabbit behind the ears and rubbed the back of its neck. “Bastard bitch scratched me,” he muttered to himself. “Gimme a couple o’ them pins,” he said to Timmy.
Timmy handed them to him while Grandpa lifted the rabbit up and bent one of its ears over the thick clothesline wire. He clipped the ear to the wire with the pins and held his hand out. “Gimme two more,” he ordered. He took them from Timmy with his free hand and fixed the other ear to the line while gripping the animal close to his body. It was struggling madly, its eyes wide, wet, and full of fear. Grandpa hugged the rabbit close and made purring sounds deep in his chest. He massaged the back of the rabbit’s head and neck while slowly releasing it until it was hanging sedately by its ears from the clothesline. With a deft flick of his right hand he dealt it a blow to the base of its skull. The animal shuddered, kicked a couple of times, and then slowly relaxed into its death.
Grandpa winked at Timmy. “That’s tame meat right there. It’ll be tender in the pot, melt in your mouth. She died real good, didn’t she? Kill ‘em fightin’ an’ the meat’s gamier ‘n hell. Ever had rabbit stew, boy?”
“No sir,” Timmy replied. Watching the slaying of the rabbit, he was reminded of Grandpa Jim’s rooster in Missouri and hoping he wouldn’t have to partake in the meal soon to come. As it turned out, he didn’t have to eat rabbit that evening. Daddy called him over to the house to help gather up his siblings and their belongings while he and Grandpa Webber said goodbye. Timmy’s emotions were all screwed up. Being walloped by Grandma, head-slapped by Daddy, and witnessing the death of the rabbit by Grandpa Webber was just about all he could take. Not quite, he thought, now he had to face Grandma.
“Don’t you ever turn your back and walk away from me like that again,” she admonished sternly when he entered the house. Her eyes always looked like they were swimming behind the lenses of her thick glasses. They were wet now, full to the brim with tears soon to be spilled. She pulled Timmy to her, hugged him to her breast and wept for a moment. Her tears ran down her cheeks and onto his forehead, then into his eyes. He imagined they burned more than his own did. She took a deep breath and pushed him away, held him at arms’ length, her hands on his shoulders. “You look out for Peter, Lisa, and Leda, hear me? I’m sure gonna miss all of you around the house.”
Timmy was struggling with tears of his own. He felt as if he was abandoning Grandma Webber. After her complaints, he couldn’t understand why she was crying when Daddy was doing what she had asked, taking them somewhere else to live. It was difficult to believe they’d be missed in the Webber household. “You have to stop drinking,” Timmy heard her stern rebuke of Daddy as he and his siblings piled into the truck.
“I’m tryin’, Ma,” Daddy replied, “Doin’ my best.” He hugged her, waved at Grandpa and the dead rabbit, climbed into the truck, let out the clutch and pulled slowly away from the curb.
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~Larimer Street in Denver~it’s the place to be for the in-crowd, sports junkies, girls on the make~the haves pushed the don’t haves out years ago~it used to be skid-row~I liked it better then~spilled some blood there~not all of it my own~
~George’s Hands~
His knuckles were pushed back, forever swollen in his huge hands whose fists had made him king of the Larimer Street Bars. Quiet and soft-spoken, he took this sixteen-year-old kid under his wing. I worked the yard with him at a scaffolding company. It was my first job and he was my boss.
George took me to the bars some Friday nights after work. The Yellow Cab would pick us up and drop us off in skid row downtown. When we walked into the bars loud voices hushed in respect. Madmen and wild women parted and made way for me and my gentle giant friend.
George put my hand to a wrench, taught me to drive the Case forklift, though he never drove a car and I asked him why. He swore me to secrecy then showed me a document from his wallet that stated his driver’s license was revoked forever for driving getaway cars from bank robberies in the thirties and forties.
Within a year I was George’s boss. He pushed me ahead of himself, told me I would be a man of words, that he was a man of hands. A year later, when George was fifty-six years old, his cigarette smoking and bar room brawling days caught up with him in a rush. I’ll not forget his gasping breath, its halting whoosh as emphysema put him down.
I had helped George tag all his tools and wondered why he would paint them bright orange to separate them from the others in the shop. At seventeen-years-old, after my first pall bearing, George’s wife had me gather them up and bring them to her. She said he meant for me to keep them, every single one of them. They were many, amassed over twenty hardworking years. I loaded them back into my hotrod Mustang, shed a tumble of hard-bitten tears. I have been haunted and blessed the whole of my life by memories of George’s hands.
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The Turner family has moved back to Colorado from Montana. It is winter & the family is destitute. Tim Turner’s half-sister, Phyllis, & brother-in-law, Jerry, have agreed to let the family stay with them until Tim finds work & is able to take care of his wife & children. Uncle Jerry despises his nephew, Timmy. It is late & all are asleep. Seven-year-old Timmy is hungry, decides to take a chance & get himself some bread with sugar on it.
Excerpt from “Momma’s Rain,” a novel by Tom (WordWulf) Sterner.
~when love comes crawling~
~a child is born~
~reality of years~
~& the babe is torn~
Chapter Two
~Children of Chance/Endings~ Denver, Colorado Winter, 1957 He tiptoed up the seven steps in his stocking feet, peered cautiously into the sleeping kitchen. It was eerily lit by the face of the clock and bluish shafts of light from the street lamps outside. Aunt Phyllis was a cleanliness freak. She kept plastic covers on the furniture. Her kitchen was all sharp and gleaming edges. Timmy felt the house watching him, a stranger in its midst. He took the last step up and stood outlined in the doorway. Nothing moved and neither did he. The sound of his breathing was a roar he wished to silence. How did Jerry do this, he wondered.
The refrigerator was a giant white monster standing just to the left of the door. His back against the smooth wall, he shuffled sideways until he stood before it. His hands trembled as he walked them up the side, to the top of the big metal box. A low rumble issued from inside it and he shuddered with fear. He felt as if it was a night watcher, a monster machine installed to keep food cold and gobble up thieves and trespassers. The rumble settled itself into a steady hum and Timmy realized it was the motor of the thing, a sound he had never noticed in the daylight hours.
He took a deep breath to settle himself down and, with a halting resolve, let his hands do their hungry raccoon business on top of the refrigerator. They found the open half loaf of bread in front and moved it aside. When he felt the next loaf, a full one, he undid the wire tie. Though the heel was his favorite part, he shuffled past it and the first half dozen slices. After pulling two from the middle of the loaf, he fluffed the bread back in place, retied the wire and placed the half loaf back in front of the others.
This done, he worked his way slowly across the kitchen, thankful for the cover of darkness but wishing he could see better. Uncle Jer took sugar in his coffee so there was always a big bowl of it on the table and a spoon ready for him to use. Timmy laid the two slices of bread down side by side on the table. They stared balefully at him, large blank accusing eyes, and white holes in the dark room. He had never stolen before but then he had never been this close to sugar bread. His raccoon hands were unable to find the spoon so he held up the bowl and tilted it toward his body. Sugar sifted over the edge and piled itself up on the bread eyes.
From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a shadow shape. All at once he was unable to hear the tick-tick of the clock or the now-comforting hum of the refrigerator. His heart beat, thumpity-thump, like a bass drum. It thundered in his ears, erased all other sound with its pumping of fear through his brain. Terror owned each of his senses and, in its monster grip, his love for sugar bread was forgotten. He knew what the blind know and never mind how. All doubt aside, there was someone in the kitchen with him.
Fear owned him as Timmy summoned up the courage to turn from the table and face whatever was behind him. He managed to turn around and, just as he did, a shape hovered over him. He was assaulted by its tobacco breath. Terrified, he felt a scream in the very pit of himself. Before it made its way out, a strong hairy hand planted itself firmly over his mouth and another clamped like a vice onto the back of his neck. He was dragged backward through the kitchen and thump, thump, thumped down the stairs. He had been physically punished by Momma and Daddy but this was something very different. Momma and Daddy loved him; the thing that had him now hated him. That knowledge flowed into him from the unforgiving grip of its claws, the spittle of its breath on his face.
“I got you, Little Jesus! I knew it was you sneakin’ around and gettin’ into the bread!” Uncle Jer pushed Timmy’s face into the cot and hissed into his ear, “I’m gonna take my hand from your mouth, you slobbery little bastard. You so much as squeak and I’ll tear off your fuckin’ head and shit down your neck! Do you understand?”
Timmy nodded his head in the iron grip of his uncle’s hands. Uncle Jer let go of him, turned him over, on his back, and pinned him to the bed. Timmy inhaled a ragged breath, a half sob, and stared into the monster face a fraction of an inch from his own. The eyes in the face were darker than the night. They glowed menacingly in the hatchet of Uncle Jer’s face. Hate lived there and nothing else. He wiped the hand with Timmy’s saliva on the front of the boy’s coat and glared at him in disgust. His voice was a feral snarl, dripping with the promise of pending violence. “It’s all about you with your Mom and Pop, ain’t it boy? Well, I got somethin’ else for ya. Mebbe a l’il bit what your brother gets all the time. You ain’t a pimple on his ass, boy.”
He put his hands around Timmy’s throat and squeezed slowly. Unable to breathe, the weight of his uncle’s body pinning him down, Timmy glared back into the dark face with a growing hatred of his own. Uncle Jer laughed low and mean, released the pressure on Timmy’s throat, and then slapped him lightly on both cheeks. “Go to sleep, Little Jesus. Steal from me again, cross me in any way, your ass is mine.” He got up and left the room without another word.
Timmy pulled himself up and huddled against the wall in the corner of the creaking cot. He tucked his feet under him and felt his body trembling violently. Cold sweat swarmed over him. It started in the bare toes peeking from the holes in his socks and crept across his body to the end of each standing hair. Ice is cold but fear, that lone province of low dread, is frigid beyond any material liquid dimension. His eyes would not close in sleep. They were afraid, in fact, to blink. He was trapped in the cage of Uncle Jer and Aunt Phyllis’ house. If he told his parents, trouble with no end would begin. Where would he and his family go? What would they do? He drifted into an eerie and fearful half-sleep, alienated in a bare and square world, halfway up the stairs and halfway down.
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~Momma’s Rain~ (excerpt – chapter one)
Momma is getting ready to go to work. She is speaking to her oldest of four children, Timmy, telling him to tend to his three younger siblings. Six-year-old Jerry has been punished and is standing in the corner for eating the last two slices of the family’s bread. It’s a cold winter night. Momma is saying goodbye to her children.
Excerpt from “Momma’s Rain,” a novel by Tom (WordWulf) Sterner.
~for life is a fiction~
~birth~
~a sad truth~
~death~
~a just reward~
~still children smile~
Chapter One
Children in Passing
I don’t like Country Western music
Billings Montana
Winter, 1957
Momma came in, picked Lisa up and kissed her chubby cheek. She glanced at the boys. “You guys behave yourselves and no going outside. Keep the door locked. Daddy will be right back to fix you something to eat. Lisa’s other diaper is soaking in the toilet. Rinse it out and hang it by the stove, Timmy. If she needs changed before it’s dry go ahead and use a dishtowel instead of a diaper. There’s one hanging from the oven handle on the stove.” She set Lisa on the couch, gave Timmy a reassuring smile, and hurried away.
The front door slammed shut. The children heard the sound of Daddy’s old truck starting up and pulling away from the curb. Jerry turned around, stared imploringly at Timmy. “Let me out of the corner.”
Tears brimmed up in Timmy’s eyes. He bit down on his sore finger to stop them. “I can’t, Jerry. He’ll find out, then we’ll all be in trouble.”
“How’s he gonna find out?” Jerry challenged. “Who’s gonna tell?”
Peter sat on the edge of the couch. “I will,” he said, a cruel grin on his little-boy face. “I’ll tell ‘cause you took the bread an’ got me in trouble. It’s all your fault. You knocked me off the couch when I was sleepin’.”
Jerry took a step from the corner, threatened Peter with a raised fist. “I’ll pound your face, you little brat! You ate half!”
Timmy ran between them, pulled Jerry’s arms behind his back and forced him back into the corner. He gave Jerry’s head a swift bump against the wall for good measure. “Stay there! Don’t be picking on smaller kids!”
“Yeah!” Peter agreed smugly. “You’re a stealer, Jerry. You’re bad!”
Lisa began to wail. She was hungry, upset by all the commotion. Timmy picked her up and she stuffed a thumb in her mouth. She snuggled against his chest and closed her eyes, sucking contentedly.
Daddy didn’t come home after taking Momma to work. The children were hungry, and there was nothing in the house to eat. Timmy pumped some water and they sipped at it but water is a poor substitute for food. Lisa and Peter cried and Jerry moaned and groaned, then finally slid down the wall and rested in a bony pile.
Timmy roamed around the confines of the shack, despairing for a crumb but, as on many a previous night, there were none. The night was long and the radio was singing. His siblings asleep, Timmy went into the kitchen and sat at the table. He rested his head on his arms, ignored the growling of his stomach and drifted into a troubled rest. A few hours later he heard a rattling at the door. He stepped quietly across the room and peeked out the window. It was Momma come home from work. As he unlocked and opened the door, a car pulled away. It was soon lost in its’ own steamy exhaust in the freezing winter night.
“Where’s Daddy?” Momma asked upon entering the house.
“He never came back,” Timmy replied, “I been worried.”
She kissed him on the forehead and handed him a heavy paper bag. It was greasy wet, close to falling apart.
“Never mind your Daddy for now,” she said, “Thank God for the Big Boy.”
Big Boy was the restaurant where Momma worked as a waitress. She wasn’t allowed to take food home but she would bus the tables she waited on and dump the leftovers from the plates in a bag she kept hidden in the kitchen. On nights when Alvin, the cook, brought her home she could sneak the bag out past the owner. The next trick was getting it past Daddy; he didn’t approve of his family eating garbage.
Momma touched Timmy’s face with her cold hands and kissed him again. She glanced at the clock radio wailing Country Western, Marty Robbins all dressed up for the dance. “Twelve thirty,” she murmured, “He’s probably at the bar. That gives us ‘til two to eat. You start sorting and fixing. I’ll get the kids.”
Timmy set the bag on the table and opened it. Though it was full of rotting salad, coffee grounds, and cigarette butts, all he noticed was the smell of food and best of all... meat! He grabbed a piece of chicken fried steak and wolfed it down, coffee grounds, cigarette ashes and all. He had never tasted better food. Momma came back into the kitchen and smiled at him while he wiped his face on his shirt- sleeve.
“They look so peaceful, I decided to let them sleep while we get everything ready,” she whispered. “Tonight we’ll have a feast. I see you found some of the steak. It was the Big Boy special today. There’s lots of it in there.”
They worked together, mother and son, to scrape cigarette ashes, egg yolk, coffee grounds, and soggy napkin off the meat, and began to warm it in a pan on the old stove. Experts at this, they even managed to salvage some mashed potatoes and corn on the cob from the bottom of the bag. The cigarette butts went in Momma's apron pocket to be worked on later. They didn’t have to wake the younger children as it turned out. Peter and Lisa came stumbling into the kitchen, their noses following the aroma of food cooking even before their eyes were ready to open. Momma smiled. “Go get Jerry,” she said to Timmy.
Jerry was standing up straight and stiff, nose stuffed into the corner. He flinched when Timmy touched his arm. “Come on, Jerry,” he whispered excitedly, “Momma brought some really good stuff home from work for us to eat.”
Jerry turned his head from the corner; eyes big and round, he stared at Timmy. His mouth made one word. “Daddy?”
Timmy tugged at his shirtsleeve. “Come on, Daddy’s not home yet. You better hurry up!”
“Wait!” Jerry pleaded. “Is she... Is she in a good mood?”
“The best,” Timmy replied, “Now come on.”
Jerry shielded his eyes from the light as they entered the kitchen. They ate and ate, then sat around burping and smiling like contented chipmunks.
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~nothing to learn~
~whom follows the example~
~trade wisdom for freedom~
~paupers & fools~
Chapter Eight
~Children: The Mother Blood~
Winter, 1960
Denver, Colorado
Timmy’s father failed to come home after work. Momma assumed he was at the bar. She sat and talked through the night with her oldest son. The next morning she discovered her husband was picked up for driving while intoxicated. She spent the entire day struggling with the problems surrounding bailing him out of jail while taking care of her children. Timmy is her counsel, a sympathetic ear and so much more. We join the story there.
Momma got up and reached for her purse. She opened it, took out a large bottle of cheap aspirin and sprinkled some into her hand. These she popped into her mouth and washed down with a glass of water from the sink. It was one of those surreal moments when another in your company slips away. There they are, right in front of you but... She used a spoon to crush a half dozen more aspirin into a saucer. These she pressed into the holes of her aching teeth. She lit another cigarette and drew deeply upon it. She had her Cherokee Grandmother’s high cheekbones and, with her cheeks drawn in, she reminded Timmy of an Indian princess.
“I’m sorry, Timmy,” she said, “What did you say, honey?”
He bit his bottom lip and looked away from her face.
“I said I wish your teeth didn’t hurt so much.”
“Thank you, Timmy,” she said distractedly. She mumbled a bit, twisted her mouth around this way and that. Timmy supposed it was to keep the aspirin wedged into her teeth. She gave him a sad smile. “Do you have any idea what time it is, honey?”
“The radio man did his midnight thing just before you got home,” Timmy replied.
She stood up and took a deep breath.
“I still have time then. Grandma Webber said she would help with money if I can find a way to go over and get it from her. I’ll go back to the phone booth and call the Dog House. If Ringo is there, maybe he’ll give me a ride to your grandmother’s house.” She tapped her cigarette on the ashtray until the ashes dropped off the end of it. “As soon as I get hold of the jail and see how much the bond is to get him out...then another maybe... Ringo can give me a ride downtown to the bondsman, then to the jail to get your Daddy out.” She stamped her foot. “Damn it!”
“Whatsa matter, Momma?”
She clenched her fists so tight her knuckles became white.
“This isn’t fair; it just isn’t right! You kids start school tomorrow. If I can’t find someone to watch the girls...” She sat down, put her head in her hands and wept.
Timmy reached across the table and touched her hand.
“I can get Jerry and Peter off to school, Momma. I’ll watch the girls while you get Daddy out of jail, then I can start school the next day. They don’t do that much the first day anyway, you know that.”
“I would just walk away,” Momma said.
“You would what?”
“I swear, Timmy,” she said softly, “If there was a way for us to make it, I would take all of you kids and just walk away.” She stifled a sob. “Just look at me. You should never see anyone like this, especially not your mother. I am so sorry, Timmy.”
She scared him when she was like this. He couldn’t understand how she could even consider such a thing. They had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. All of their relatives had suffered them enough. Daddy’s work and bar friends had suffered them. If the authorities got involved, they would never keep the kids together. They were too many. Momma was always saying Daddy would eventually straighten up and go on the wagon forever. In the end, everything would finally be okay. Momma had to be strong, she just had to. Timmy’s parents were falling apart and changing before his eyes and not for the better from the looks of it.
Momma touched his hand and startled the darkness from his thoughts.
“You’re as jumpy as your Daddy,” she said. “Listen Timmy, I don’t want you to worry about all this. You should be in bed getting rested up for school tomorrow. I’ll do what I have to do to get your Daddy out of jail and things just have to get better. I don’t see how they could be any worse. I don’t know what he’s in there for but maybe this will be that wakeup call he needs to hear that will straighten him out. You go in there and lay down with your brothers and sisters where you belong. I have a couple of more phone calls to make.”
Timmy opened his mouth to protest but was stopped as she pressed a finger to his lips.
“Let me handle this. It is mine to do. Your Momma is a big girl. You go in there and be safe with your brothers and sisters. When you get up in the morning, I’ll know more about what’s going on here. I’ll fill you in then.”
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a compilation of lies,useless information, bad jokes&little poems
For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism.
It costs about 3 cents to make a $1 bill.
intent of counterpoint
duelists in the dawn
portrait silhouette
baby is crying
A 6-year-old boy opened the family bible. He was fascinated as he fingered through the thin pages. Suddenly, something fell out of the bible. He picked the object up and looked at it. It was an old leaf that had been pressed in between the pages. “Mom, look what I found,” he called out. “What have you got there?” she asked.
In an awe-struck voice, he answered, “I think it's Adam's underwear.”
Spiders never spin webs in or on
structures made of chestnut wood. That’s why so many tall European buildings were built with chestnut beams. Spider webs
on a 50-foot beamed ceiling are a pain to remove.
a city on the move
weeping of mountain
witless romantic
the emperor sighs
A 6-year-old girl had just finished her
first week of school. “I'm just wasting
my time Mom,” she said. “I can't read,
I can't write and they won't let me talk!”
The first Band-Aid Brand Adhesive Bandages were 3 inches wide and 18 inches long. You made your own bandage by cutting off as much as you needed.
legends of God-speak
thin binding flesh
Momma’s smoking a cigarette
laughter from the whiskey bar
a compilation of lies, useless information, bad jokes & little poems
If you think nobody cares about you, try missing a couple of car payments.
Ten thousand insects are required to feed a single toad during the course of a typical summer.
left and right crosses
requirements of requiem
asleep in the choir
voice deeper than stone
Drugs may lead to nowhere, but at least it's the scenic route.
A sneeze travels at a speed of over 100 m.p.h.
let us taste his beans
the door of opportunity
three winds in a vacuum
outside waiting four more
Bills make it through the mail at twice
the speed of checks.
Quaaludes, the sex drug of choice during the disco era, were first developed to
fight malaria.
we were passed by Dilbert
a tin-can tuna melt
tryin’ to live in the hills
a writer of camp songs
A fool and his money are soon partying.
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she has fish eyes
ducks swimming ‘cross the sky
each drawer wears a masque
alone in the room
A clear conscience is usually the sign
of a bad memory.
Mosquitoes are attracted to the color
blue twice as much as to any other color.
life is a cross ties
footstep on the moon
sadder than spilt water
funnel of mercy
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many
is known as research.
Ants stretch when they wake up. They
also appear to yawn like humans before taking up the tasks of the day.
she listens to voices
owls sleep in the afternoon
for a slice of white bread
dreams of the kill
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