Out Like A Lamb

“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?” - Albert Einstein.

All I could hear was the ocean. It took me a couple of seconds and senses later to realize that I was actually sitting on the beach. It was hot and bright. I got to my feet and heard a voice coming from behind me.

“Friend, friend, get off of the beach. Get off of the beach!”

I was drowsy. I turned around and saw an oLd man standing on a concrete path about 25 yards away from where I was standing. The urgency in his voice caused me to run towards him.

“Are you okay?” He asked me his question before I could ask my question.

“Yea, yea I’m fine…”

“You know you’re lucky, right? It’s dangerous on the beach.”

I was extremely confused by his latest statement, but I was just regaining my bearings and I wanted to know where I was.

“How did I get hEre?”

The old man started laughing and his body language showed signs of relief. “Friend, you’re asking the wrong question. Come inside, friend.”

I couldn’t understand why this old man kept calling me “friend.” We weren’t friends. I’d never met this man before in my life.

Everything was so blue. The sky and the ocean. The man took me in his house and it was blue. It was soothing. My previous environment was nothing like this. It was all gray. It was bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they were all gray. I was very grateful that the man invited me into his home. The old man and I had a long coNversation about how I wound up in his house. He had a very intriguing ability of avoiding questions. No new information was presented to me. He only told me to stay off of the beach. I obliged.

The old mAn lived with his old wife. They had never had kids. I couldn’t believe how happy they were together. They offered me a place to stay and although I was reluctant at first, I obliged. I suppressed any feelings or thoughts of a former life. I let my past go. I hope no one misses me, and if they do, I hope I said goodbye before I left.

Fast forward. Say it.

After a few weeks of getting accustomed to this house and this family, I began to venture out into the town they lived in. It was a quaint little town. There were antique stores, sea-side restaurants, and white picket fences. It was the sort of town where Veterans took care of their families, the boys went off to war, and the girls waited patiently by the window. It took me awhile to get used to this. I was from a place where husbands cheated on their wives, neighbor stole from neighbor, and the sons and daugHters got high and fucked in their parents beds. I know I wasn’t normal before this, but I certainly wasn’t normal now.

It’s always easier to stop at the beginning. Do you believe that she missed…

Have you ever seen a baseball get hit so hard that the seams literally come unraveled? That is exactly how I felt. Whichever seamstress stitched me up didn’t do a very good job to begin with, but I knew that with one swift blow I would fall to pieces. I had dreams of my skin falling off of my body and standing in a dark room exposed. Only bones, muscle, and fatty tissue would be visible. I felt alone and vulnerable.

Needless to say, I had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t the bed or the room. Both were quite Comfortable. Let me describe the room. It was about the size of a bedroom you would find in any hotel or motel. The walls were painted blue and there were portraits of ships and sailors everywhere. The old man told me once about the time he served in World War 2. He is probably the most interesting man I’ve ever met. The bed I typically tossed and turned in was a twin size bed with white sheets and a comforter that had a floral pattern on it. Sometimes I laid on the carpeted floor instead. It was also blue, but a darker shade than the wall. I had a window and a lamp that sat on an end table. I had my own bathroom that was already furnished with shampoo, soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and deodorant. There was no toilet paper, though. It was as if the old man and his wife had been waiting to find some stranded young man for years. A stranded young man that didn’t need toilet paper. I bought some of my own.

The sheriff shot the deputy. Who is the sheriff?

The view out of my window was of the beach. I loved it. I needed the serenity. The old man’s wife told me that reading helped her sleep, so I went to the local library to check out some books. I had never read much before this, so I though I’d give it a try. I walked to the library and was looking through some mystery novels when I noticed that the young girl working behind the counter was the most beautiful girl I had seen in my entire life. My face got red just from looking at her. I never get nervous. What was this feeling? In a state of confusion, I rushed out of the library.

It took me a few nights without sleep to really gather my thoughts. I went back to the library and faked an interest in literature to spark a conversation with the girl. Her name was Renee with three “E’s.” She made it a point to tell me that. We were the same age. We wound up talking for a half an hour when she abruptly ended the conversation. She had to get back to work, but she said I was a good listener so we made plans to talk further the next day. I didn’t sleep that night for several reasons.

Our first real conversation went great. I didn’t talk too much about myself, but I found out a lot about her. She was attending the local university as a creative writing major. She said she loved to read and write. I asked to see some of her writing, but she refused. She was not originally from this town but had lived here for the past 3 years. She said she loved guys that were well-read and had an interest in writing. She loved men that could sing. She loved men that had seen the world. She loved men that were always there for her. She loved men that she could leave.

Stop that.

She worked in the library because she obviously loved everything about literature. I wanted her to like me, so I started reading. I wanted to become so familiar with Hemingway, and Dickinson, and Austen, and Dickens, and Twain, and Stevenson, and Wollenstonecraft, and Shelley that I could quote them on command. My life became completely consumed by books and Renee. I visited the library to see her regularly and we began seeing each other. I still couldn’t sleep.

This would turn into that swift blow that would make me unravel. .

Why is it that loyalty…? God, I hate this question. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by?

sesir nus eht erehw, tsae eht ni uoy ees ll’I

I decided that the only way I could truly impress her was to write her a story. I wanted her to be so enamored by my words that she would fall in love with me, just like the stories in some of the books that I’d read. My obsession went from reading to writing. I started to expand my vocabulary and worked on my prose and syntax. I developed my own style but I had a problem. Nothing I could think of satisfied myself, so why would it satisfy her? The dark blue carpet of my room changed to a fast food playpen full of crumpled up pieces of paper lined with scratch marks and fuck ups. The lighter shades of blue that had once decorated my walls had given way to the assorted colors of Post-It notes littered with streams of unconsciousness. My room had become a mess of random words and phrases. I was throwing different colored paint at the wall and praying that one would stick.

In my head I secretly referred to Renee as “Ms. Steak.” Mis-stake. Get it?

All I did all day was write. My public behavior was still serene, which was a stark contrast to my erratic behavior behind my closed door. The old couple became somewhat concerned, but since I still appeared to have my hygiene and bearings intact, they let me do as I pleased. I still did not sleep. Most nights I stood in the center of my room in the darkness racking my brain for an idea. Luckily for me, I had no friends to lose, but I can imagine that if I did have friends they would have left me stranded in that room.

In the same sense that every child wants to grow up to be a hero, every grown up wants to die with someone. The failure rate is astounding. We are not heroic and we all die alone.

“Play the one in Drop D.” Children were laughing June. “I tied my heart to your words, double knotted and a noose.” I don’t want them to sing sad songs anymore. But they just get sadder.

For weeks I struggled. Occasionally Renee would take the train back to her home. During these periods I rarely left my room or put down my pen. In case you were wondering, I write with a very expensive pen. Sometimes I would unscrew the tops and take out the ink stick and let it bleed all over my papers. I would get it in on my hands and my face and some of my clothes, but it would wash off. Sort of how I would later have to wash other things out of my life. Or sort of how I washed up on that beach. Or sort of how I’ll probably wash away with the tide.

Renee came back to the town one weekend with a dramatic change of heart. She no longer thought we should see each other.

Pitch. Swing. Contact. My seams fell out. One by one by one by one by one by one by one until there was nothing left. Batter up.

Where did we go wrong? Was there ink on my hands? What were we talking about? I’m still not sure what happened. I felt like I was choking. I was alone in my room gasping for breath. There were so many questions like: Why is it that loyalty…? You know I hate this one. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by? This is wrong. I am wrong and you were right and I’m sorry for it.

A moment of clarity. Epiphany. I sat on the beach Indian style searching for seashells. The grass was too high. I think. When was the moment of clarity? I think when the tide rushed in. Or was it out? I don’t think it was anywhere near here. The old man just wanted me off of that beach. So many questions like: How calm could I pretend to be?

Everything was frenetic at once! Do you believe that she missed… believe that she missed anything? Do you?

A week or two later I felt fine. My room was still a mess, but I didn’t want to sweat the small stuff. I even went back to the library to check out some books. Checking out books! I was cordial with Renee, but I wasn’t going to the library to read. No fucking chance. When did I ever read at the library? Never. I finally found words for her. I finally wrote her my masterpiece and I was going to mail it to the library. Post-script and put out against the elements. I actually didn’t write a post-script but I meant to. I just forget a lot of things. (I hope my hair looked okay.)

It read something like this:

“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

No. No. No. That’s not right. Excuse me.

[This is usually when the page breaks. Or when the film runs out. I said it was easier to stop at the beginning.]

Page break.

It read something like this:

“I am well read, but I don’t read. I am well versed, but I don’t sing. I am well traveled, but I rarely leave. I am always here, but I’m never home. I am heartbroken, but I’ve never been in love. I am tired, but I’m barely awake. I am never home, but I am always here. I am alive…”

I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy. I think that was how it went. It might have been different. It should have been different. Maybe I left something out. Do you believe that she missed anything? I hope nothing was left out. I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy.

I mailed the letter to the library. I don’t know if she ever received it because I left that town the same day. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even the old man and his old wife. I greatly appreciated what they did for me, and I regret that I didn’t thank them in person. I left with just the clothes I had on and my money. If there is one thing I want her to know is that the next time she got on that train, I’ll be in a plane. She did not do the leaving. I did. I left. All for the librarian. If I had time I would explain myself. Are you listening? I am out of fucking time. I hope I didn’t leave anything out. I hope didn’t leave anything. I hope I didn’t leave. I’m already gone.

Everything was calm at once.

I’ll never be an accomplished writer because the sad truth is that if you’ve read one love story you’ve read them all. Don’t they always turn out the same? Every time. Don’t you always want more? That’s the key. You have to leave something to be desired. So I will end this the same way I’ve always ended everything. I come in like a lion and go out a like a lamb.

I still don’t know why the old man was so worried about the beach.

Sitting at the bottom of the deep blue sea,

Catching fishes, for my tea!

We all jump up,

With a one, two, three!
　
William Wallace

Nickles And Dimes

Setting: Mid 1920’s
Location: Brooklyn, mainly the neighborhood of Bensonhurst
Tone: Past-Tense

“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

This is typically how it went. It was Brooklyn. There was murder, rape, assault, theft, and extortion. Even though most of us were from Dyker Heights we stayed in Bensonhurst. Nobody really gave us any problems, mostly because they knew who we were. This was our neighborhood and nobody could ever take that away from us. The Jews took up about half of the population and even though they had their little gangs they knew deep down we ran this fucking neighborhood.

Most of us were 2nd generation. We were the soldiers, the ones that carried out the orders. The ones above us were the ones that came from Italy. None of us were made men yet, but because we were in the organization by either family or friends, we basically had a license to do whatever we wanted. But we kept ourselves straight. We didn’t fuck around on our girlfriends or wives and we didn’t fuck around with the drugs. That was for whoever lived out in Manhattan. We didn’t want that shit around here.

It was business as usual this time of year and business was booming. They say that there’s no business like show business. They are wrong. Fall was creeping up on us and it was coming in a hurry. The leaves were changing on the trees and the cracks in the sidewalks were loosening up. It was getting darker earlier. Everything was turning gray.

For the sake of storytelling, I’m going to leave all of my personal business out of this. Who I am, the location of my birth, my marital status, and the possibility of my parole aren’t relevant to this. Don’t get nosey.

These fucking speakeasies were popping up everywhere. It was starting to get a little out of hand, but we were doing a pretty good job of keeping the profits in our pockets. Our speakeasies and blind pigs were exactly that: ours. As a soldier, my basic responsibilities were to go the speakeasies and get the money that they owed us. Why did they owe us money? Because we owned the neighborhood and if there was money to be made, we were going to be making it. If the owner gave us trouble, then we gave him trouble, and the owners typically obliged because they don’t like our trouble. It was that easy.

Was it violent? Yes, at times. I didn’t really give a shit, though. That was how it was. I wasn’t trying to change the world. Who the fuck was I? I was a foot soldier doing my job. If you look down on us then you are not only a hypocrite, but you are denying yourselves basic instincts needed to survive. Every man born into this world has three traits that are inherent. Fight, fuck, and eat. The “Napoleon Complex” is not limited to small men. We all have it. We have a burning desire be the alpha dog. The weak will not survive. I was not going to be weak.

Stop. Rest. Intermission. Concession.

[Break]

Resume.

I was dying to be something that I wasn‘t. I was dying to be something more than I already was. I made good money. I supported my family. What’s next? Sun, cradle, moon, hearse? That can’t be right. But I don’t know what’s right.

If you ever thought that coming to this city was a good idea, then you are wrong. It’s so bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they are all gray. I’ve watched this city ruin good people. Innocence is a vice. I’m not even so sure that anything innocent exists in this societal black hole. We tried to act like we were saints, which in itself made us sinners. We justified our actions with the thought process that even though what we were doing was a moral injustice, it was okay because our actions were culturally accepted. I used to have a defense but now I don’t.

The specifics are not important. I don’t remember the date. I met some friends at a diner on 18th Avenue. We then went to meet with some of the made men. One of them told me that a guy on the Boulevard had recently opened up his own blind pig. The Boulevard was our area and he was trying to make money. We don’t get fucked. Myself and two others were instructed to pay this man a little visit and, hopefully, work out a deal with him. We drove. I rode in the back.

We arrived at the location, went inside, asked for the owner, and found him. We convinced him to sit down for a brief meeting. He was stubborn. The job was so predictable sometimes. The three of us were pretty seasoned veterans just waiting for our chance to accept more responsibility which meant more money, more privileges, and more glamour. The owners of these fucking places barely had anything to offer us anyway. If there was any extra money to be made it was nickels and dimes.

Since he didn’t want to co-operate we took him outside. We started roughing him up a little bit. Nothing serious had happened yet. Yet. A pedestrian walked by and asked us what was going on. I turned around and said, “There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

“I’m going to call the police.”

“Either you can shut the fuck up and keep walking, or you can go next. What’s it going to be?”

The pedestrian left. I’m not sure if they ever called the police or not.

Shortly after the pedestrian walked away we continued to extort the owner. We had beaten him pretty good. I pulled out my gun and fired three shots. My partners were dead. The owner and I were still alive. I think the third shot ran astray. I helped the owner get to his feet and he began thanking me. I did not speak to him. I searched through his pockets and took his money. He had exactly 45 cents in nickels and dimes. I looked at the change in disgust. I studied the coins. My face was imprinted on every coin. The years were foreign. I didn’t know what to say or think. The man shot me with a nickel plated .380. I stopped on a dime. I looked up at him from the ground and he ran away.

A wise man once told me that you should believe none of what you read and half of what you see. And there’s nothing to see here, so keep it fucking moving.

WW