“Spffft,”
The plastic arrowhead water bottle eases back down to the brown stained wooden desk it’s come to marry over the years.
“qwwwa,” “qwaaaaa,”
Yellow and green viscous liquid dribbles down the thin plastic rim to meet its thick brown cousin. The smell of old moldy mint and rich leather fills the air of the tiny dimly lit room. A tarnished green antique lamp sits at the corner of the desk Leonard has so awkwardly deposited himself behind (visual: an elephant shoved into a horses stable). It has been in Leonard’s family for generations and it still serves its purpose well, shedding light on the 1998 IBM holding the Phillip’s fortunes . . .. and, unusually, quite a respectable amount of fetish porn (Animal Husbandry, only literal).
“Farming is business and business is farming,” or that was the closest thing to a motto the family abided by. It was carved into most of their doorposts, carved into all four desk legs, and muttered every dinner with prayer; it’s origins really a mystery. Leonard’s brother Jeb even went so far as to get it tattooed on his own hide; infection only lasted 3 days ending in an unexpected addition to the family plot and the farming business in Leo’s lap. Tattoos were out from then on, and like all dynasty’s Leonard was happy to be living his father’s life. Old family hearsay would explain that when this strangest of phrases first was challenged it was cause for a shouting match between Lee’s great great Grampy Ted and his partner at the time Ronald Pillsbury. Words were had, three shots were fired, blood was spilled and two bottles of scotch emptied before the men came to an agreement. The motto would stay and Ronald would try his luck in another occupation; something that put less stress on his small feminine hands and jealous soul, perhaps baking would work for the young food enthusiast.
“Spfft, spffft.”
More brown grainy fluid runs down the easy grip ridges of the sport bottle. Good Ol’ Leo picks the hardened tobacco from out between his thick fingernails and rubs the residue from his calloused hands.
“Alice, we got anymore mint grizzly!?”
“Nah Lee, you been goin’ through that stuff like its free beer day at the Limpton Fair.”
Leo adjusts the chew, feels the good burn and looks up from his computer to the open door.
“Sheeeee-itt, well how bout the Copenhagen Rodney got me for my birthday this year, we had two cases.”
Silence as Leo and his wife hold a beat; the most predicament of predicaments for sure. He looks around the office, studies it, as if answers to unasked questions lay within its walls and floors. And what an office it is; straight out of Farmer’s Office monthly. The blinds stained with layers of dust and something that looks like old Campbell’s tomato soup; the floor formerly covered in linoleum but now more closely resembling a human skin rug with a horrifying case of Vitiligo.
“Damn’t Lee, I’m trying to get my dress cleaned up for the meeting, you know this; been planning it for months, try the dresser next to Little Ray’s room, and for god’s sake put on your good overalls.”
Little Ray’s room, little Ray’s room? He couldn’t go near there, how could he approach such a foreboding reminder of the past, not today.
You see, it is true and can be attested to that Ray’s room is off limits; Lee’s wife Randy knew it, Lee knew it, even the dog knew it. It’s been off limits ever since Randy instituted the sanction on the rambunctious 5 year olds room two years ago after his bed was found empty and his window left open. The room was a reminder, a relic of sorts, owed to parental negligence. This room was an after school special hosted by Dean Cain and a trip to 6 months worth of couples therapy. But on second thought maybe today was the day to walk by Ray’s room, to turn on the lights, to dust off his old toys, to change the sheets on his bed and make his favorite meal. . . .a welcome home of sorts. This day shall further forth be deemed “Little Ray Day!!!” . . . . .Let’s not get carried away.
Leonard was a farmer, his father Harry a farmer, his father before that and before that and a century before that; all farmers. Leonard knew his calling; he would take walks with Ray and in a very paternal way explain that all of these acres of natures joy would someday be his own. Ray would listen attentively while sucking blackberries and studying his fathers face. Leo would mimic the Lion King in a very Jeff Foxworthy meets James Earl Jones sort of way claiming “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” Ray would smile like it was free cotton candy day at the Limpton fair, grabbing his father’s thick stained fingers while imagining himself a young farmer, with a wife, a golden named Sammie, and a fondness for the chew much like his father. Ray’s dreams were Leo’s dreams, were the dreams of a whole line of Phillips; the force was strong in these men. Ray already had responsibilities; he maintained the chicken coop, he brought the slop to the pigs, he rode a John Deer jr. right next to his father as they surveyed their golden corn in the late summer evenings. These were the same chickens that went unnoticed and began to reek of death when Ray disappeared, the pigs that slowly starved and began to decompose like the town’s memory for young Ray, and the little tractor that hadn’t moved an inch except to sink since Ray had gone missing.
The town had mourned, search parties had been sent out, dogs had been rewarded with treats for their hard work, but the trail was cold. Ray had seemingly vanished from the small Kentucky town that he had called home his short five years on earth. Overtime Leonard became complacent; he would lock himself in his office, again searching the walls and floors for answers to whispers of questions. He started to rot away quite literally and figuratively as chew became his diet and his teeth started to pull away from his skull. Randy mourned in a different way; bathing 10 times a day was her way of ignoring her impulses for a sweet final release. She would wash her hands manically and clean every inch of the home; but if her eye should ever spot a bit of filth she would scrub until her hands bled. The deep, sticky, red leading to more "filth," which she would then try to scrub again from her hands and floor only adding to the mess and obsession. Leo’s office was off limits to her and it remained one of the last signifiers of how cruel time had been to the Phillips. The soil, animals, and crops were dead and farming didn’t seem a hell of a lot like Leonard’s business any more.
But today, today is the day the grass starts growing again; today the Phillip’s wake from their dismal two-year slumber. A letter had come in the mail two months ago to the day, the writing was unfamiliar, the address was obscured, but the message was clear. For some reason or another, from some person or another Ray would return. What had been gained, why’d he been taken, where are the answers? None of that clear, but he would return to rule the kingdom and till the land like Phillips before and before. Randy believed; and Leo, well Leo had to believe or else his destruction would truly be complete. So today was a happy, joyous day. It was Randy and Leonard getting ready for church, it was family dinner at Denny’s, for god’s sake it was joyous like the Limpton Fair. It was a day for the best overalls, the best dress, pomade slathered hair, only one shower for Randy, and the promise that Leo would quit the chew that had quite unfortunately burned holes through his gums. This was the rebirth after the apocalypse for the Phillips.
So Leonard tentatively mounts the creaky wooden stairs in search of the Copenhagen; a last fix. One last wad and then spit it out for little Ray’s grand arrival; a trade even: his crutch for his sons loving embrace. With each stair a new weight seemingly falls from his body, with each stair a month of stress shed and a younger man revealed. He makes his way down the haunted hallways towards the room preserved in time and a small humming can be heard, a familiar song, yet not a song Leonard knew. A gust of wind dances down the hall as he gets closer to Ray’s room and the hum become’s audible. Around the corner, an open window, a cold gust of air shocks his senses as the curtains violently jerk about. Little Ray’s drawings and scribbles of short stories blow about the room as if to communicate. It looks like a proud parents refrigerator exploded. Leonard get’s closer to the window confused, did Randy open it up to air out the room? As he approaches he spots something nearly covered by the bookshelf, in the corner kneels a small, dirty, frail thing; the source of the sound. It teeters back and forth slowly with its chin resting on one knee, a switchblade in hand carving something into the old dry wood. With each breath Leonard creeps closer as the little unaware human brushes wood chips away from his messages. Leo sucks in his breath and holds it, approaching this young living definition of suspicion and notices the whole floor has been carved, every board covered in words. Could this be young Ray? After two years could he really be back like Leo and Randy had hoped and prayed? As he gets closer to this child he realizes that not only has he carved something into the wood, he has carved these words into his own skin over and over again. Blood leaks from his body finding its way through the literary maze of scabs covering his frame and culminating at the handle of the knife. As he carves his hand drips visceral cave drawings all over the floor. Leonard gets closer to this mystery child and notices a familiar birthmark on his right forearm. He reads the scratch that can be found virtually everywhere on this small child and within this small room: “Farming is business and business is Farming.”
-655321
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Snowglobed
It was the New Year by now, Jim imagined.
Time slows down in the cold, and when you lose track and can’t access the $75 a month clock/alarm that makes calls, but you don’t make any, and receives calls, but you don’t get any, time goes a lot slower. His eyes seemingly bugging out of his noggin, tears freezing down his cheek…luckily, a bubble, he remembered, would help him breathe.
- Seven-Butter
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Roses are. . .
Anna had a tendency towards red, like lips, cherry popsicles, rose petals, a brand new ferrari, even a fire hydrant in a perfect neighborhood. For her it was a red summer top, rouge cargo shorts, red checkered chuck taylors, Victorias secret “Body by Victoria” thong, tennis cut red nike socks; she had a whole closet, an arsenal of red. The literal Red riding hood of her time. “I just like it she’d say, I don’t know why,” and then her face would get rosy with embarrassment.
Red was also the color of blood; deep red, like rust went for a swim in a glass of ocean spray. Thick puddles of the sticky, salty, liquid would poison her thoughts; yet make her smile with what can only be described as a sense of relief. Doctors attributed this affliction and fascination with the vibrant hue to a day in Anna’s early life now referred to as her “rebirth.” “Rebirth,” because the experience, the very fierce awakening the young child was exposed to was like a damaged Phoenix springing from the fires of hell . She had only vague memories of that period in her life. She remembered the car mostly, the thick brown leather seats with claw marks from ginger’s feline rage. She remembered sleeping in mom’s lap as 50 states went by in 50 dreams. There was the diner in Kentucky, the Motel 6 in New Orleans, the library in Maine. There were friends for 3 days and new older men who mother would take for walks that would end in ice cream for Anna. Mom always had ice cream and her scent; always like the ripest of peaches on picking day in Georgia. Yes, Anna did remember some things, but only flashes like a coma took hold every month and wrapped her in a cocoon. And then darkness. . . .darkness. . . .darkness and finally
Red
It was truly a day that shook the small Arkansas town from its sleepy embrace. August 5, 1989, that was when Anna was found, when darkness turned to dirty rouge. The police report described it as a massacre of horrific proportions; in reality it was a wholesome little blonde girl crying in a massive puddle of human life surrounded by pieces of her rotting mother. It was soon reported in “The Little” daily paper that this mystery child had been sitting in a pile of viscera for 3 whole days until she was discovered by the Taylor kid. The coroners would say it was simple, her mother had been stabbed to death, 15 times in fact, yet there was no evidence on the scene, no id on the victim. Who was Anna and why was she here? Who was the victim? All unanswered questions. It was as if the devil himself had dropped in to slay an angel and shake up this small southern town. The authorities would try and talk to Anna, but all she would do is giggle to herself and stare. They would offer her ice cream and treats and dolls and games, anything to speak but her red red lips were shut. There was always ice cream but it never made her mouth move. Anna was stained that day in the most simple of terms.
One of the local school teachers and his wife decided that this young thing needed a home, needed love, an education, a family, and they took her into their life. It was a tough period for them; barely making it by financially in a town that gave sideways glances like they were a traveling freak show because of a daughter that wouldn’t speak. Gradually Anna got more and more comfortable with her family, her mother would take her shopping, her father would take her fishing. A new child entered their lives and Anna loved her brother more than her confused understanding of the value of human life would allow. 1 year after the accident she began to speak and proved to be very bright. Her thoughts flowed like an artist and “she was the most articulate in her class” her teachers would say. Then on her 9th birthday (perhaps because of regression, perhaps because of some subconscious indicator, or perhaps just because little girls are predisposed) it was a red elephant, a red skirt please, I want a red balloon, a red bike would be nice. Her parents were never suspicious they would just say Anna wouldn’t you like to try another color. But no Anna had a new religion, it was the worship of this morbid hue. Scientifically it was called Chromoluda but in the Luntz household it was “Anna’s stage,” “She just likes the color,” or “Girls will be girls.” But really it was quite odd.
On her 12th birthday she went as far as painting the walls and ceiling of her room the color of a radio flyer, getting paint all over her red shag rug. Her friends would avoid her room asking if they could play downstairs where the AC was on. Her parents were just happy that she was becoming a normal young woman, besides the obvious obsession with rose, rouge, rojo, red. They would never speak of where they found her and she would never ask about it. Though the older she got the more this color began to take over her life. There was the Christmas photo when the red contacts made their debut. Strangers would feel sorry for the family, citing their daughter as an unfortunate albino because of her beady mouse eyes.
Life was as normal as it really could be for a child with a past so mysterious and morose Charles Manson wouldn’t open her fan mail. Shortly after Easter on her 13th year of living Anna became a woman. Anna became a woman and lost herself for good on the same very day. It was a constant struggle with her, as if she was always chasing an image of her former self down a mouse hole or through a strange door quite like Alice; but on this day she was much too tired to keep running. Anna’s parents called and called and called, “Easter Dinner!! Anna ham!” her brother even tried “Anny Bananny, come sit next to me. . . .Anny.” When there was no response they went upstairs, knocked on the bathroom door, no response, her father busted it in grunting as it came down. There sat Anna in the middle of the cold tile floor like a marionette without a master bleeding and bleeding from between her legs. Who knew a teenage girl could bleed this much, in the most serious of explanations it was the period even science couldn’t explain. Anna wasn’t dead, she wasn’t alive, she was somewhere in between; and that was permanent. Anna sat there in this state staring at the white white walls with a small look of confusion on her pretty face; a look that was also permanent. Tears were inevitable, the family cried, their tears were clear and they watched as red came for its lost child.
Red was also the color of blood; deep red, like rust went for a swim in a glass of ocean spray. Thick puddles of the sticky, salty, liquid would poison her thoughts; yet make her smile with what can only be described as a sense of relief. Doctors attributed this affliction and fascination with the vibrant hue to a day in Anna’s early life now referred to as her “rebirth.” “Rebirth,” because the experience, the very fierce awakening the young child was exposed to was like a damaged Phoenix springing from the fires of hell . She had only vague memories of that period in her life. She remembered the car mostly, the thick brown leather seats with claw marks from ginger’s feline rage. She remembered sleeping in mom’s lap as 50 states went by in 50 dreams. There was the diner in Kentucky, the Motel 6 in New Orleans, the library in Maine. There were friends for 3 days and new older men who mother would take for walks that would end in ice cream for Anna. Mom always had ice cream and her scent; always like the ripest of peaches on picking day in Georgia. Yes, Anna did remember some things, but only flashes like a coma took hold every month and wrapped her in a cocoon. And then darkness. . . .darkness. . . .darkness and finally
Red
It was truly a day that shook the small Arkansas town from its sleepy embrace. August 5, 1989, that was when Anna was found, when darkness turned to dirty rouge. The police report described it as a massacre of horrific proportions; in reality it was a wholesome little blonde girl crying in a massive puddle of human life surrounded by pieces of her rotting mother. It was soon reported in “The Little” daily paper that this mystery child had been sitting in a pile of viscera for 3 whole days until she was discovered by the Taylor kid. The coroners would say it was simple, her mother had been stabbed to death, 15 times in fact, yet there was no evidence on the scene, no id on the victim. Who was Anna and why was she here? Who was the victim? All unanswered questions. It was as if the devil himself had dropped in to slay an angel and shake up this small southern town. The authorities would try and talk to Anna, but all she would do is giggle to herself and stare. They would offer her ice cream and treats and dolls and games, anything to speak but her red red lips were shut. There was always ice cream but it never made her mouth move. Anna was stained that day in the most simple of terms.
One of the local school teachers and his wife decided that this young thing needed a home, needed love, an education, a family, and they took her into their life. It was a tough period for them; barely making it by financially in a town that gave sideways glances like they were a traveling freak show because of a daughter that wouldn’t speak. Gradually Anna got more and more comfortable with her family, her mother would take her shopping, her father would take her fishing. A new child entered their lives and Anna loved her brother more than her confused understanding of the value of human life would allow. 1 year after the accident she began to speak and proved to be very bright. Her thoughts flowed like an artist and “she was the most articulate in her class” her teachers would say. Then on her 9th birthday (perhaps because of regression, perhaps because of some subconscious indicator, or perhaps just because little girls are predisposed) it was a red elephant, a red skirt please, I want a red balloon, a red bike would be nice. Her parents were never suspicious they would just say Anna wouldn’t you like to try another color. But no Anna had a new religion, it was the worship of this morbid hue. Scientifically it was called Chromoluda but in the Luntz household it was “Anna’s stage,” “She just likes the color,” or “Girls will be girls.” But really it was quite odd.
On her 12th birthday she went as far as painting the walls and ceiling of her room the color of a radio flyer, getting paint all over her red shag rug. Her friends would avoid her room asking if they could play downstairs where the AC was on. Her parents were just happy that she was becoming a normal young woman, besides the obvious obsession with rose, rouge, rojo, red. They would never speak of where they found her and she would never ask about it. Though the older she got the more this color began to take over her life. There was the Christmas photo when the red contacts made their debut. Strangers would feel sorry for the family, citing their daughter as an unfortunate albino because of her beady mouse eyes.
Life was as normal as it really could be for a child with a past so mysterious and morose Charles Manson wouldn’t open her fan mail. Shortly after Easter on her 13th year of living Anna became a woman. Anna became a woman and lost herself for good on the same very day. It was a constant struggle with her, as if she was always chasing an image of her former self down a mouse hole or through a strange door quite like Alice; but on this day she was much too tired to keep running. Anna’s parents called and called and called, “Easter Dinner!! Anna ham!” her brother even tried “Anny Bananny, come sit next to me. . . .Anny.” When there was no response they went upstairs, knocked on the bathroom door, no response, her father busted it in grunting as it came down. There sat Anna in the middle of the cold tile floor like a marionette without a master bleeding and bleeding from between her legs. Who knew a teenage girl could bleed this much, in the most serious of explanations it was the period even science couldn’t explain. Anna wasn’t dead, she wasn’t alive, she was somewhere in between; and that was permanent. Anna sat there in this state staring at the white white walls with a small look of confusion on her pretty face; a look that was also permanent. Tears were inevitable, the family cried, their tears were clear and they watched as red came for its lost child.
-655321
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Evening Run
Jim left the house at 7 PM. The sun dipped below the horizon, replacing the orange hews with pale violet. Memories of the harsh day at the office faded in the first one hundred meters. He ran at a slow pace. He felt good. He always felt good on his evening runs. This evening the air felt particularly cool against his skin. Everything was still.
He turned on Bronson Canyon. As he ran, the houses and streetlamps gave way to dark groves of trees. A deepening of the breath, a quickening of the stride. He let his mind wander into familiar zones of uncertainty. He thought of his life. It was fine. He had always been some sort of successful. A good student. Always had a girl on his arm. Good at sports. Really good at running. All American in track. Great job. But there was something missing. A void. Something just wasn’t there. And with every step, it became clearer and clearer.
He had grown up on the outside.
He never got picked on.
He never acted in the school play.
He never had a “most embarrassing moment.”
He never got upset.
He never had anything to say at the party.
He was that guy. Oh yes, that guy. Wait, which guy? Oh yeah, I remember him. Never really knew him though. Did he talk? His life was dull.
Thoughts cranked through his head like celluloid through a projector. And then he saw it. Lights in the distance. A car? No, an SUV. It was close enough to see that now.
As the vehicle approached Jim contemplated suicide. He thought carefully about all the people he would hurt if he jumped in front of it. The list was shorter than he had predicted. He could almost read the headline, “Corporate Pawn Killed by SUV on Run.” Not too bad.
He wanted to cry, but he laughed instead. It was the most spontaneous thought he had ever had.
The SUV charged forward. It seemed to speed up the closer it got.
The last lap.
400 meters.
200 meters.
100 meters.
And as Jim started for the middle of the road, the unthinkable occurred.
The SUV swerved, and for a brief moment Jim saw something silhouetted in the headlights. A small animal. And before he could duck, it hit him like a water balloon. Literally, like a water balloon. He slowed to a stop.
A skunk had been running across the road, at the very moment of Jim’s attempted suicide. The SUV hit the skunk with such force, that one of the front tires, while applying over 2 tons of pressure to the abdomen, forcefully severed the bladder and propelled it through the air. It connected with Jim’s face and burst on contact. Like a water balloon.
The SUV continued on its course, and for a moment Jim wanted to call out. But he continued running. When he got home he couldn’t differentiate between the sweat and the skunk urine that soaked his clothes. He had quickly gotten used to what was at first an unbearable smell. After his shower it seemed ever less noticeable and when he woke the next day for work it seemed to be gone. Back to normal.
At work he was made fun of and became somewhat upset.
He had a story to tell at the party.
He had a “most embarrassing moment.”
A student adapted his story into a play at the local high school.
The skunk had not only saved his life, but it had improved the overall quality of his life. 1 year later Jim set out on his evening run. The air was cool and still. He turned down Bronson Canyon as he always had, when an SUV swerved out of control and hit him.
Jim was pronounced dead on the scene.
-Cornelius
He turned on Bronson Canyon. As he ran, the houses and streetlamps gave way to dark groves of trees. A deepening of the breath, a quickening of the stride. He let his mind wander into familiar zones of uncertainty. He thought of his life. It was fine. He had always been some sort of successful. A good student. Always had a girl on his arm. Good at sports. Really good at running. All American in track. Great job. But there was something missing. A void. Something just wasn’t there. And with every step, it became clearer and clearer.
He had grown up on the outside.
He never got picked on.
He never acted in the school play.
He never had a “most embarrassing moment.”
He never got upset.
He never had anything to say at the party.
He was that guy. Oh yes, that guy. Wait, which guy? Oh yeah, I remember him. Never really knew him though. Did he talk? His life was dull.
Thoughts cranked through his head like celluloid through a projector. And then he saw it. Lights in the distance. A car? No, an SUV. It was close enough to see that now.
As the vehicle approached Jim contemplated suicide. He thought carefully about all the people he would hurt if he jumped in front of it. The list was shorter than he had predicted. He could almost read the headline, “Corporate Pawn Killed by SUV on Run.” Not too bad.
He wanted to cry, but he laughed instead. It was the most spontaneous thought he had ever had.
The SUV charged forward. It seemed to speed up the closer it got.
The last lap.
400 meters.
200 meters.
100 meters.
And as Jim started for the middle of the road, the unthinkable occurred.
The SUV swerved, and for a brief moment Jim saw something silhouetted in the headlights. A small animal. And before he could duck, it hit him like a water balloon. Literally, like a water balloon. He slowed to a stop.
A skunk had been running across the road, at the very moment of Jim’s attempted suicide. The SUV hit the skunk with such force, that one of the front tires, while applying over 2 tons of pressure to the abdomen, forcefully severed the bladder and propelled it through the air. It connected with Jim’s face and burst on contact. Like a water balloon.
The SUV continued on its course, and for a moment Jim wanted to call out. But he continued running. When he got home he couldn’t differentiate between the sweat and the skunk urine that soaked his clothes. He had quickly gotten used to what was at first an unbearable smell. After his shower it seemed ever less noticeable and when he woke the next day for work it seemed to be gone. Back to normal.
At work he was made fun of and became somewhat upset.
He had a story to tell at the party.
He had a “most embarrassing moment.”
A student adapted his story into a play at the local high school.
The skunk had not only saved his life, but it had improved the overall quality of his life. 1 year later Jim set out on his evening run. The air was cool and still. He turned down Bronson Canyon as he always had, when an SUV swerved out of control and hit him.
Jim was pronounced dead on the scene.
-Cornelius
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
U.N.D.E.R.G.R.O.U.N.D.
With his eyes bushed and heavy, Bill parked his flipside on a dourly looking chair next to the fireplace. The heat from the nearby flames gently nuzzled his soul as he slowly elevated his feet to an equally dourly looking ottoman. As a babe-in-arms his mother and nana would take turns imparting the young Bill with yarns of his esteemed father in that same chair. Pictures though show the chair was much better for the wear in those days.
Fredrik, the mounted water buffalo purchased one inebriated night hung above the fireplace. Perhaps his biggest critic, Fredrik looked on with a smirk swathed over his visage. Bill had been here before, tuckered and stretched tight, wasted from another days work, but this felt different. Almost final even. Even Fredrik looked tired.
Nobody ever told him the life he chose would be an easy one, but that could quite possibly be because nobody had ever come up with such a peculiar walk through their days. A cowboy by day, a hip-hop recording artist by night. While not quite as stirring as a faceless vigilante valiantly struggling with the scum of sullied comic book conurbations, Bill would argue that his pseudo artistic persona, waxing poetic on such forces as ecological devastation, famine quandaries in various pitiable countries, and the insatiable voracity of crooked non-profit organizations was of greater consequence. I’m not sure just what Fredrik would have thought, but alas, he could not speak, so Bill would never know. Now, it should also be noted that at the time a British band who called themselves The Beatles had just played the Johnny Carson show so nobody even knew what the fuck hip hop was. Not even Bill.
So, how did Bill, with dirt in his finger nails and a love for rhymes, turn out to be one of the biggest musical inspirations of all time? Well, it was mostly all, if not entirely all, because 2,403 miles away in the concrete and glass playpen known as New York, the boss’s daughter had a pretty face.
************************************************
Lewis, the long-limbed greenhorn, probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the tape if it hadn’t just left the clutches of Jane’s right hand. Lewis studied the tape like a child, reading and re-reading the scribbled phrase “Lonesome Cowboy Bill” over and over again. Finally, after his vision blurred in an attempt to locate just one of Jane’s fingerprints he decided to give his ears a few minutes with it. Sad, weird, and terrible. Lewis couldn’t last more than a song before hitting eject and going on with the rest of his day (i.e. daydreaming about Jane’s naked body).
Unlike the tape, but much like the right hand that left it, Jane was rather perfect looking. A nubile nineteen year old, she was born and raised in The City, to which Lewis, an outsider via Freeport, always fantasized about. Being from New York and being from Freeport just weren’t the same thing, certainly not to Lewis. After meeting her in the elevator, he quickly memorized her bio in the new employee handbook and later that night, in the comfort of his bedchamber, tried on no fewer than sixteen different wardrobe mishmashes with the sole aspiration of getting her attention the next day.
Dauntless enough with his attire choice, Lewis, accompanied by dark eye liner, navy blue mascara, and his new shiny wardrobe, fingered his guitar and whispered a melody.
{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to see him in the rodeo)
{A#}{A#}{D#}{Dm} (When he's riddin', going too darn fast)
{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to here the people ...)
{A#}{D#}{A#}{D#} (Lonesome Cowboy Bill, he's a ...)
{A}{A} (Oh)
Those chords, those words, roused for whatever reason from that god awful tape, from a stranger 2, 403 miles away in Elko, Nevada (which wasn’t at all megalopolitan boomtown of New York, or even Freeport for that matter), would go on to change Lewis’s life forever. It even changed his name.
Soon after, he wrote a song for Jane, and not much longer after that Lewis traveled up and down the eastern seaboard playing shows in dingy clubs and making nice with famous artists. He named a band with a gent named John after a clothing texture, painted bananas with his friend Drella, and after that, released his own solo record, but not before changing his name to Lou, because quite simply, Lewis was a name unbecoming of someone who walked on the wild side. All of the New Sensations and perfect days to follow, as farfetched as they were, traced right back to that pretty girl’s right hand and the tape dropped from it.
By the time all of this had transpired though Bill had flown up past the clouds. By all accounts all that was left of the lonesome cowboy was a ramshackle hut atop his promontory ranch, still occupied by Fredrik, but whose smirk was replaced with a frown. His only company was a half drank bottle of poor man’s whisky, an empty pill box case, and the quiet solitude brought on by a wrangler’s dreams unrealized.
-mildredratched
Fredrik, the mounted water buffalo purchased one inebriated night hung above the fireplace. Perhaps his biggest critic, Fredrik looked on with a smirk swathed over his visage. Bill had been here before, tuckered and stretched tight, wasted from another days work, but this felt different. Almost final even. Even Fredrik looked tired.
Nobody ever told him the life he chose would be an easy one, but that could quite possibly be because nobody had ever come up with such a peculiar walk through their days. A cowboy by day, a hip-hop recording artist by night. While not quite as stirring as a faceless vigilante valiantly struggling with the scum of sullied comic book conurbations, Bill would argue that his pseudo artistic persona, waxing poetic on such forces as ecological devastation, famine quandaries in various pitiable countries, and the insatiable voracity of crooked non-profit organizations was of greater consequence. I’m not sure just what Fredrik would have thought, but alas, he could not speak, so Bill would never know. Now, it should also be noted that at the time a British band who called themselves The Beatles had just played the Johnny Carson show so nobody even knew what the fuck hip hop was. Not even Bill.
So, how did Bill, with dirt in his finger nails and a love for rhymes, turn out to be one of the biggest musical inspirations of all time? Well, it was mostly all, if not entirely all, because 2,403 miles away in the concrete and glass playpen known as New York, the boss’s daughter had a pretty face.
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Lewis, the long-limbed greenhorn, probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the tape if it hadn’t just left the clutches of Jane’s right hand. Lewis studied the tape like a child, reading and re-reading the scribbled phrase “Lonesome Cowboy Bill” over and over again. Finally, after his vision blurred in an attempt to locate just one of Jane’s fingerprints he decided to give his ears a few minutes with it. Sad, weird, and terrible. Lewis couldn’t last more than a song before hitting eject and going on with the rest of his day (i.e. daydreaming about Jane’s naked body).
Unlike the tape, but much like the right hand that left it, Jane was rather perfect looking. A nubile nineteen year old, she was born and raised in The City, to which Lewis, an outsider via Freeport, always fantasized about. Being from New York and being from Freeport just weren’t the same thing, certainly not to Lewis. After meeting her in the elevator, he quickly memorized her bio in the new employee handbook and later that night, in the comfort of his bedchamber, tried on no fewer than sixteen different wardrobe mishmashes with the sole aspiration of getting her attention the next day.
Dauntless enough with his attire choice, Lewis, accompanied by dark eye liner, navy blue mascara, and his new shiny wardrobe, fingered his guitar and whispered a melody.
{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to see him in the rodeo)
{A#}{A#}{D#}{Dm} (When he's riddin', going too darn fast)
{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to here the people ...)
{A#}{D#}{A#}{D#} (Lonesome Cowboy Bill, he's a ...)
{A}{A} (Oh)
Those chords, those words, roused for whatever reason from that god awful tape, from a stranger 2, 403 miles away in Elko, Nevada (which wasn’t at all megalopolitan boomtown of New York, or even Freeport for that matter), would go on to change Lewis’s life forever. It even changed his name.
Soon after, he wrote a song for Jane, and not much longer after that Lewis traveled up and down the eastern seaboard playing shows in dingy clubs and making nice with famous artists. He named a band with a gent named John after a clothing texture, painted bananas with his friend Drella, and after that, released his own solo record, but not before changing his name to Lou, because quite simply, Lewis was a name unbecoming of someone who walked on the wild side. All of the New Sensations and perfect days to follow, as farfetched as they were, traced right back to that pretty girl’s right hand and the tape dropped from it.
By the time all of this had transpired though Bill had flown up past the clouds. By all accounts all that was left of the lonesome cowboy was a ramshackle hut atop his promontory ranch, still occupied by Fredrik, but whose smirk was replaced with a frown. His only company was a half drank bottle of poor man’s whisky, an empty pill box case, and the quiet solitude brought on by a wrangler’s dreams unrealized.
-mildredratched
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