Not so Subtle

Midnight in Rumble Park

by Tim Weaver

Box was leaning up against the trunk of a maple tree in Rumble Park, staring at the full moon. Even though he was technically working he kept getting distracted by its glow. Box snapped out of it then looked around for customers. Nobody in sight. So, he returned to his vigil of the moon. In the middle of the park there was a tall Greek column and on top of it there was a statue of a bald eagle. The moon cast the gray stone in a pale light. Since there were no working street lamps it was the only light to see by.

A red Honda pulled up to the curb in front of Box and he walked up to it. Inside there was a regular named Moe who was rumored to have done peyote. He gave Box a ten-dollar bill and Box handed him a dime-bag without exchanging a single word. Moe drove off and turned around the bend and out of sight. Rumble Park consisted of one large circle of grass, about a quarter mile around. It had been one of the Snakes’ best places to deal but things had cooled down since the big commotion. SLSS had moved in but it was always a long, messy process of taking over a neighborhood. New customers, new area, new language. Box knew better than anybody that it was never easy and always dangerous for a while after a takeover. And so when he spotted two figures in black approaching from a distance, he instinctively reached into his pocket and fingered his whistle. The metal was cold but comforting.

Since he could not make out any identifiable colors on the two figures, he didn’t cock his weapon. They were both dressed in all black and they wore hoodies pulled up over their heads to hide their faces. The shadows were several yards away still and so Box occupied himself by glancing at his watch. It had an electronic blue display that flashed the time, 12:12 AM. Box shrugged and stepped out from under the shade of the tree to greet his guests. Their faces were finally revealed in the powerful moonlight. Brown skin, dark features, probably Indian with a dot or something, Box thought.

“Yo. What you want?”

“What you slingin?”

The taller one on the left had spoken. Box shook his head and stomped his oversized Air Zooms on the grass.

“I ain’t slinging nothing, officer.”

“Aint no cop. What you got?”

“I got hydro, jack, greens, what you want?”

“Have you got any salvation?”

“The fuck is that? Y’all Rumble park niggas gonna have To update the lingo. It’s a new game here and I ain’t heard of no fuckin Salvation.”

“Don’t worry my friend, we can grant you some.”

“Huh?”

The two figures stepped closer to him.

“Tell me, what size toe do you have, friend?”

“Ah SHIT.”

Box realized who they were and in a flash, he shoved the taller one and then took off running. The two black hoods took out guns and started firing as they chased after him and shouted:

“Allah Akbar!”

The Shieks weren’t really a gang per se. Rather, they were a vigilante neighborhood watch group started up by local Muslims who were pissed off at the gangs. They rounded up a group of young, hard hitting kids and gave them a holy mission: to wipe out the scum that dealt drugs and poisoned children in their neighborhood. Usually, they wore all black but besides that didn’t have any colors so that the police wouldn’t get suspicious. The Shieks preyed on dealers, throwing them beatings, stealing their shit and sometimes sending them to the morgue. Now they were after Box, who was using a battle cry of his own.

“Shit. SHIT SHIT!”

On top of its perch high above the park, the stone eagle watched the chase unfold. The two shadows pursued Box around the circle of the park as he dodged between cars and hid behind trees, occasionally firing a round or two over his shoulder. Despite their horrible aim, Box knew he had to get out of the park if he was going to survive the encounter and so he made a break for it. He popped up from behind the cab of a Chevy and fired several shots, then made a move for the street. Bullets screeched by over his head and he ducked and stumbled. Box made it to the street and was only feet from a fence that led to the safety of the highway when he tripped.

The fact that the sneakers he’d ganked from Ronny were a size and a half too big for him had never come into play, until now. When you run, you need a tight fit, otherwise if you’re not careful you can trip over your own hasty feet. Just before reaching the curb Box stumbled over himself and landed flat on the blacktop. The wind was knocked out of him and his whistle went skidding away from him. His cell phone also fell out of his pocket and when it hit the curb, it flipped open. Box groaned and tried to crawl towards his gun but he had broken his right leg. The footsteps of the two shadows finally caught up to him.

“Crawl you pig. Crawl!”

One of the shieks kicked him in the ribs and Box coughed hard and cursed.

“Fuck you towelhead!”

They kicked him again and commanded him.

“Crawl to the curb.”

“And if I don’t?”

The barrel of a gun pressed up against the back of his head and Box began to whimper. His hands were raw from scraping on the ground. As he quivered and pulled himself towards the curb, the skin on his hands burned.

“Shit ain’t fair man. Come on I’m just tryin to make a living, what you got against that?”

“Shut up pig!”

Another kick to the ribs and Box found himself flung over next to the curb. One of the Shieks grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face up to where the sidewalk met the street. Box vomited. A voice from the shadow over him boomed.

“Kiss the curb.”

“Come on man don’t do this shit man.”

“I said kiss it!”

Box slowly opened his mouth and pressed his teeth against the hard curve of the pavement. Tears began rolling from his eyes like dams burst open by an explosion. He turned his neck slightly and saw his phone lying open a few feet away from him. A light on the screen flicked on and a message rolled across the screen as a corny ringtone filled the air. The words on the screen read: Home Calling.

“Shit. They’ll be looking for him. Just do it and let’s go!”

“Alright, pig. You have a nice night.”

Box tried to cry a “please” but his tongue licked the bitter ground and the sound was muffled. He squeezed his eyes shut and anticipated the boot to his head, but it never came. Instead there was a loud crash and Box felt his back on fire. Gun-powder burned the fragile hairs in his nostrils and he shivered and writhed. The Shieks ran off and the bullet in Box’s back sank deeper into his flesh. After a few moments, the display on his phone went dark and the ringtone was silenced. Sergeant Rodriguez found him lying face down in his own blood a few minutes later and picked up the boy’s phone to dial 911.

and why did you call me?

The man’s voice is annoyed. Deep and annoyed.

I clear my throat and try to think of a creative way to phrase telemarketing.

“We’re a commercial lender operating out of Chicago, and the call you received was part of an outreach program for new customers…”

“Ok bye.”

The man hangs up and I am relieved. Another bullet has been dodged. This is why they have me answering the phones; not because I have an awesome radio voice or because I know so much I can answer almost any question a caller might have. I’m answering calls because nobody else wants to deal with guys like this. Guys who our automated machine has called four times in the last week, whose numbers we acquired by God knows what means.

I’ve been put into position to take the hits. The first line of defense from the angry would-be customers who have no interest in what we’re selling and why we’re calling. Occasionally one of them will ask for our business hours. Otherwise, they’re an unwanted intrusion into my normal routine of pretending to work in Excel. When I was interviewed I boasted that I could type 90 wpm. Somehow over the course of my day, that number drops to around 10. Luckily nobody is really paying attention to the work that I’m doing. The only question is if I’m working the phones correctly. Today I’ve been chided twice for not picking up the line fast enough. I explain that I was caught up in my work. It’s hard to pick up before the third ring when you’re blazing away, entering valuable information into a database that no other human eyes will ever see. I was actually googling pictures of Jessica Alba in a swimsuit.

This is the highlight of my day.

After a while even Ms. Alba in a light blue bikini can’t hold my attention. So, in order to pass the time I read the news. Stories about mass protests in some country I can’t pronounce, earthquakes in Peru, bombings in Jordan. Pictures of people running and screaming to flee the horrible, oncoming fill in the blank.

At times like this, I envy them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HIg3Uz_0O0

This man is famous. Perhaps I shouldn’t say man, not because he believes himself to be a woman, but because he’s 19 years old. In any case.

I felt ready to rant about the kind of society that would make Chris Crocker famous: what kind of sick, twisted, stupid people would flock to watching these kind of videos?

But then I thought, that’s exactly the kind of mentality that has produced Chris Crocker, and so many others like him. This idea that anyone can be famous has brought out the lowest common denominator in a great many of us. People have bought into this idea that fame is the greatest thing a person can achieve in America. Look at our tv shows, our magazines, our idols. Fame is not something noble in of itself. Do you know who else was famous? Dahmer. Is that something to aspire to?

No.

And if you believe that fame is such a glorious calling that you’re willing to do absolutely ANYTHING to get the world’s attention, then that is not society’s fault. That is your fault.

The world does not revolve around you, Chris Crocker. It never has and it never will.

Grow up

I see life in deeper shades of blue

there’s a cover on my camera lense, always deeper shades of blue.

everything i see is not what i think it is, everything i feel is not reciprocated.

what do other people see? i can only wonder, my own eyes are usless- all my senses are dulled.
i am blinded by the blue.

So, today I was riding along in my automobile. It’s a rather fine piece of machinery; a Chevrolet 2004 Lumina. In the midst of this ride, I began to feel a sort of strange sensation in my abdomen; a heavy sort of feeling. For some time I was puzzled as to what it meant. However, now I know that the sensation could only be described as diarrhea.

So I’ve decided the culmination of my Je’sus story is going to be a battle of the bands. The villain, Luis raps angry about immigration and alienation and Je’sus does a ballad about ungratefulness. Both are parodies of simple poetry and the notion that anyone can be a musician. I won’t give away too much yet. Here is the savior’s monster ballad.

Je’sus:Ungrateful one.

You’re blind and dumb.

You see my face

But still you shun

my gift.

You won’t be there

when dad comes home

you will not know

and you will roam

forever

in the desert

in scorching heat

cuz you cant see

i’ve got death beat

but even then

i love you still

Ungrateful one.

In the past this condition has been called wanderlust. I can see why they stopped calling it that. But, I understand the feeling very much.

Being the imaginative, somewhat crazy person that I am, I find it hard to focus on things directly in front of me. No matter where I am, chances are I’m thinking of being somewhere else. I got this huge astrological profile a few months ago and it said I had a need to travel, that I will never be happy in one place for very long.

In class last night I found myself working on a story, not hearing a single word of the lecture, completely immersed in my pages.

Today at work I would rather be almost anywhere else, doing anything else in the world.

We’re not built like this. Human beings are not supposed to sit in the same seat and perform the same function over and over and over again every single day. It’s madness. I want to do so much, I want to see so much of the world, but I’m chained to this fucking swivel chair.

Escapism isn’t doing it for me anymore. I can read all the books, play all the video games, do all the drugs in the world and I would still be here in this time and this place and in this body.

I think I’ve thought of a cure.

Reality transplant.

…

Speaking of unreality, today the Senate failed to restore the right of habeaus corpus.

Here are the tallies:

http://www.firedoglake.com/2007/09/19/habeas-restoration-cloture-vote-tally/#more-11731

This is why you cocksuckers have an 11 percent approval rating. Look at the party lines. I see 2 Republicans who voted for the restoration. Two. Kudos to them for not joining in the partisan douchebaggery and actually doing your duty to defend the constitution. As for the rest, please do the American people a favor, and die.

Up and down the line, this government has forgotten who its boss is. Remember former, disagraced, pathetic attorney general Alberto Gonzalez? “I serve at the pleasure of the president.” No, you do not. You serve this country. Not the fucking president. Not your fucking party. the COUNTRY damnit.

It’s time that we reminded them.

So today I am 23 years old. Good number. Yesterday we celebrated by playing baseball and drinking. That was fun. Now I am not sore at all. Thanks to everyone who came out.

I visualized positive results for the game. And it happened. Perhaps the technique of positive visualization can be applied across the board.

This is going to be a good year. Bad things happen but now I think I know more than ever that every day is a gift.

I have felt old for quite a while. I tell some people that I feel more like I’m 37 or 38. When I was in high school I felt like I was 56. So I think I’m feeling younger as time goes on.

Party.

If you really want to give me a birthday present you could break Rex Grossman’s legs. and arms.

I have not decided who I am going to vote for yet in 2008.

In fact, I have not decided if I will vote at all.

Yes yes I’m a spoiled little punk who doesn’t appreciate the great sacrifice and blah blah blah blah blah.

What I see is not democracy. I see an ever widening circle of negligence. The two party system has failed us. The sooner that we realize this, the sooner we can get back to practicing real democracy. (The illusion of democracy, of course. The rich will still run things either way.)

If the vote were to take place today there’s a good chance that Hillary Clinton would win. This is an incredible turning point, a landmark in our history. (Not the world, there are many women presidents and prime ministers on the other side of the globe.) A woman president. Just think of it! A shining beacon of reform and progressive values, not even a century after women weren’t even allowed to vote, one of them is running the country. How proud we all would be.

Not so fast.

A Clinton victory would not represent any real ideological progress. The last four presidents would have been:

George H. W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Hillary Clinton.

Does anyone else see a pattern here? I thought we were supposed to be past legacies and monarchies and ruling elite families. Is that not what this country is all about?

Nay. More illusion. Nay I say.

Both prior Clintons and Bushes did very little to deal with the environment and conversely, helped globalization grow by leaps and bounds. These are the two major intertwined problems facing our world in the long term. I see Iraq and Afghanistan as products of globalization as well, so I will lump them in there. (I am aware it’s more complicated than that. It’s a blog, give me a break.)

The thing that we need to do is to break out of this cycle of electing the same people with the same priorities over and over again. There has not been a REAL reformist president since Kennedy. Look very closely at the candidates. Do any of them even remotely resemble JFK in ideology? If you say Obama, i’m going to shove a stick up your ass.

If you really paid attention (look up their donors) you would see that none of them have our interests in mind.

Until this changes, until I see a candidate that wants to dramatically change the way we do business and practice democracy, I am going to leave my ballot blank.