Showing posts with label James Marx. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Marx. Show all posts
Double Word Score
By James Marx
Lights were on. You could tell someone was up. I went to the window, where I thought he’d be. I could hear the Clash. It was some acid-reggae Clash. The window was opened about six-inches. I put my lips up-close to the screen, and tapped twice on the glass, “Psst…”. His response was instant, “Okay.”
I walked around, to the gate, pulled the string, and kicked. There’s a unique type of kick that’s used on a back gate, at 4:43 a.m. With the neighbors’ master-bed window so close, there must be some etiquette observed.
He was standing at the slider, behind the screen. He took up the whole length of the doorway.
I always forget how tall he is.
“S’up?”
“S’up.”
It was nice in there. I shut the screen. He locked the screen, and slid the door almost-shut, and pulled the curtain closed. Once inside Jim’s place there was a feeling of calm that always came over me. It’s like, you know you’re safe. There’s a calm about the room. Everything’s ambient and is in it’s place. The lights are on, but it’s not in your eyes. The television’s on, muted. The music’s always playing the soundtrack to the movie that is Jim’s life. The music’s never loud, or in the way. Smoking is ok in his room, or outside. I walked over to his dresser and grabbed the lighter, lit a smoke. I saw the 'tray’. Jim used a Van Halen framed-mirror, about 8x10. It was one of those things you win at the carnival, if you pop a balloon with 2 out of 3 darts. It was perfect. In the grooved wooden frame rested a white plastic pen with the ink-stem gone. It was the ‘straw’. A huge line of crank stared at me. Beneath it was evidence of another, fatter, longer line.
Jim knew I was courteously waiting for the go ahead. It’s just respectful not to assume.
“This shit’s pretty-good”, he said. His back was to me. He was skipping songs. I knew he meant the dope.
“Cool”, I mumbled back, over my shoulder; then, went down hard, for the blast.
Left, right; both sides, one breath. At our level, it was just automatic. No long, noisy, snorts; quick, quiet, and it’s put away. The tray is always kept in arms-reach of where he sits. You could stand right next to it, though, and never notice it. The wood frame was exactly the same shade and type of wood, as the bookshelf. It was a tall, narrow bookcase, full of books. At about waist-height, were tall books; and atop those, just enough room to slide the ‘tray’. The dope had already been put-back in it’s place. Only Jim knew where that might be.
There’s that awkwardness, next, after you’ve done a line of someone-else’s dope. The obligatory ‘thank-you'; as if, you are acknowledging that they have just ‘kicked-down’; and, something, someday, is owed. At Jim’s, though, thanks isn’t messed with. It’s just understood, with a quick nod. Usually, just being jolted into the pain of gagging one down is all the thanks necessary.
Sometimes, I can sound a little awed by him. He's intense. Very warm-hearted, but you can see emotional scars that have healed-over. Some are worn proudly, like a tatoo.
I don't mean to sound so mesmerized. He's not my hero, or anything. He's a sad situation. So much talent, and, nothing. Nothing you can see, from the outside, anyway. From where the normies see it from, Jim's not even on the map.
“This songs so cool” Jim states in a barely audible mumble that maybe 3 in 100 people could understand.
He starts banging on a set of imaginary drums imitating Topper Headon, as ‘Bank Robber’ starts. The volume goes up. It's barely louder than the whispered-grunts and mumbles, that must be made to talk. I figure, someone ‘normal’ could have us on video tape, with a close-up shot of our lips, with the sound turned way up; and, still, not be able to get more than half of what we’re saying. Roseville has no dialect; but, old-school, druggy, white-boys do.
“S’got'sm good drip”, I gnarled-up at him, like I was swallowing acid-reflux. He answered back with a smile, and a nod; acknowledging the compliment. The smile is missing a tooth in front, but it comes so rarely that it warms you instantly. Jim’s smiles are usually with his eyes. His attention to hear you and understand exactly what you tell him are only assumed by those who know his intellect lets very little go by mis-read. When I first met him he seemed like he ignored or didn’t hear me. Then, after a certain part of his music goes by, or he finishes with an off-distant thought, he’ll answer you exactly as you intended to be heard.
The time of night had already been reached, where it was too-late to sleep. Work was only a couple hours away. Besides, the 'shit' was, indeed, good. It's usually good. New, 'good' is just a bonus.
I took my place in the usual 'co-pilot' position. In every room, there's always a place, that's the next-most logical spot to sit. Jim's spot-to-sit was, naturally, the captain's-chair. The captain is the guy who's house it is. He picks the most advantageous spot to be. The room is set up around that spot. In arms-reach of the remote, and tunes, computer-screen, ash-tray, etc. In the garage, the living room, it doesn't matter. There's always that best spot to be.
I lit another smoke and grabbed the mouse. Scrabble would do for an hour when the sun would start to crack. Then, I’d get on the road and mingle-in with the commuters to my place, or to a job if I had one going.
- - -
By James Marx
Lights were on. You could tell someone was up. I went to the window, where I thought he’d be. I could hear the Clash. It was some acid-reggae Clash. The window was opened about six-inches. I put my lips up-close to the screen, and tapped twice on the glass, “Psst…”. His response was instant, “Okay.”
I walked around, to the gate, pulled the string, and kicked. There’s a unique type of kick that’s used on a back gate, at 4:43 a.m. With the neighbors’ master-bed window so close, there must be some etiquette observed.
He was standing at the slider, behind the screen. He took up the whole length of the doorway.
I always forget how tall he is.
“S’up?”
“S’up.”
It was nice in there. I shut the screen. He locked the screen, and slid the door almost-shut, and pulled the curtain closed. Once inside Jim’s place there was a feeling of calm that always came over me. It’s like, you know you’re safe. There’s a calm about the room. Everything’s ambient and is in it’s place. The lights are on, but it’s not in your eyes. The television’s on, muted. The music’s always playing the soundtrack to the movie that is Jim’s life. The music’s never loud, or in the way. Smoking is ok in his room, or outside. I walked over to his dresser and grabbed the lighter, lit a smoke. I saw the 'tray’. Jim used a Van Halen framed-mirror, about 8x10. It was one of those things you win at the carnival, if you pop a balloon with 2 out of 3 darts. It was perfect. In the grooved wooden frame rested a white plastic pen with the ink-stem gone. It was the ‘straw’. A huge line of crank stared at me. Beneath it was evidence of another, fatter, longer line.
Jim knew I was courteously waiting for the go ahead. It’s just respectful not to assume.
“This shit’s pretty-good”, he said. His back was to me. He was skipping songs. I knew he meant the dope.
“Cool”, I mumbled back, over my shoulder; then, went down hard, for the blast.
Left, right; both sides, one breath. At our level, it was just automatic. No long, noisy, snorts; quick, quiet, and it’s put away. The tray is always kept in arms-reach of where he sits. You could stand right next to it, though, and never notice it. The wood frame was exactly the same shade and type of wood, as the bookshelf. It was a tall, narrow bookcase, full of books. At about waist-height, were tall books; and atop those, just enough room to slide the ‘tray’. The dope had already been put-back in it’s place. Only Jim knew where that might be.
There’s that awkwardness, next, after you’ve done a line of someone-else’s dope. The obligatory ‘thank-you'; as if, you are acknowledging that they have just ‘kicked-down’; and, something, someday, is owed. At Jim’s, though, thanks isn’t messed with. It’s just understood, with a quick nod. Usually, just being jolted into the pain of gagging one down is all the thanks necessary.
Sometimes, I can sound a little awed by him. He's intense. Very warm-hearted, but you can see emotional scars that have healed-over. Some are worn proudly, like a tatoo.
I don't mean to sound so mesmerized. He's not my hero, or anything. He's a sad situation. So much talent, and, nothing. Nothing you can see, from the outside, anyway. From where the normies see it from, Jim's not even on the map.
“This songs so cool” Jim states in a barely audible mumble that maybe 3 in 100 people could understand.
He starts banging on a set of imaginary drums imitating Topper Headon, as ‘Bank Robber’ starts. The volume goes up. It's barely louder than the whispered-grunts and mumbles, that must be made to talk. I figure, someone ‘normal’ could have us on video tape, with a close-up shot of our lips, with the sound turned way up; and, still, not be able to get more than half of what we’re saying. Roseville has no dialect; but, old-school, druggy, white-boys do.
“S’got'sm good drip”, I gnarled-up at him, like I was swallowing acid-reflux. He answered back with a smile, and a nod; acknowledging the compliment. The smile is missing a tooth in front, but it comes so rarely that it warms you instantly. Jim’s smiles are usually with his eyes. His attention to hear you and understand exactly what you tell him are only assumed by those who know his intellect lets very little go by mis-read. When I first met him he seemed like he ignored or didn’t hear me. Then, after a certain part of his music goes by, or he finishes with an off-distant thought, he’ll answer you exactly as you intended to be heard.
The time of night had already been reached, where it was too-late to sleep. Work was only a couple hours away. Besides, the 'shit' was, indeed, good. It's usually good. New, 'good' is just a bonus.
I took my place in the usual 'co-pilot' position. In every room, there's always a place, that's the next-most logical spot to sit. Jim's spot-to-sit was, naturally, the captain's-chair. The captain is the guy who's house it is. He picks the most advantageous spot to be. The room is set up around that spot. In arms-reach of the remote, and tunes, computer-screen, ash-tray, etc. In the garage, the living room, it doesn't matter. There's always that best spot to be.
I lit another smoke and grabbed the mouse. Scrabble would do for an hour when the sun would start to crack. Then, I’d get on the road and mingle-in with the commuters to my place, or to a job if I had one going.
- - -
Killing Cooperatively
by James Marx
It was just-enough liquid to induce a nic-fit.
Then he wiped his chin clean of his spit;
and drew back his fist, like a bear would his paw.
He smiled, and flung it hard into her jaw.
"I only get..only get one every hour."
He said, with a short breath, and
short on his will-power.
'He's dying a slow death', she thought
to herself, in an answer to pain.
...and tuning it out, like an over-played song,
she asked if he thought it was going to rain.
She knew that he couldn't keep this up too long.
Champions. Neither about to give in;
but, not seeing, really, how either could win.
Criminals. Each, in their innocent ways;
living to put-down, what each of them says.
Heroes and villains, and all other roles,
combined into something they each call their souls.
Together. They're beckoning to be apart.
Forever. They work at refining their art.
She stuck out the bottom half of her lips
and...somehow, placed accent resembling a grin.
"Let's go to bed, now", she lifted an eyebrow.
"It isn't time, yet", he lit up the cigarette.
"Look at the clock. We'd better restock".
...and pouring the last of the bottle of booze,
they put on their clothes, and looked for their shoes.
- - -
by James Marx
It was just-enough liquid to induce a nic-fit.
Then he wiped his chin clean of his spit;
and drew back his fist, like a bear would his paw.
He smiled, and flung it hard into her jaw.
"I only get..only get one every hour."
He said, with a short breath, and
short on his will-power.
'He's dying a slow death', she thought
to herself, in an answer to pain.
...and tuning it out, like an over-played song,
she asked if he thought it was going to rain.
She knew that he couldn't keep this up too long.
Champions. Neither about to give in;
but, not seeing, really, how either could win.
Criminals. Each, in their innocent ways;
living to put-down, what each of them says.
Heroes and villains, and all other roles,
combined into something they each call their souls.
Together. They're beckoning to be apart.
Forever. They work at refining their art.
She stuck out the bottom half of her lips
and...somehow, placed accent resembling a grin.
"Let's go to bed, now", she lifted an eyebrow.
"It isn't time, yet", he lit up the cigarette.
"Look at the clock. We'd better restock".
...and pouring the last of the bottle of booze,
they put on their clothes, and looked for their shoes.
- - -
Jacking the shower
By James Marx
“You just want there to be a reason to pawn that necklace. You just couldn’t wait to hear me rattle-off those bills, and then you could talk yourself into it”. She shouted this from the bathroom, with windows open through out the house, as she stripped for a shower.
She was right, but she was on a roll. I’d gone upstairs to get stoned, ‘before dinner’. So her favorite thing was to try and make it such a drag and be such a buzz-kill, that I’d then be sorry and regret having chosen to get high.
She’s in the shower, now. She’s still yelling.
She went on for a minute or two, over-talking the sound of the porcelain shower. I guess she’s taking a rest. Feeling the water cleanse her pores and wash away her feelings, her resentments. Showers help her think things out.
“He’s probably watching porn. He’s done it before when I shower. He knows I’ll look. I only look to see that he’s taking care to cover his tracks. It’s a dead give-away.”
She hadn’t heard him walk out of the office yet. She couldn’t help but listen for it. The ‘office’ was the name Jim had given Amanda’s room, since she’d moved out, and he’d moved in. He wanted it to be the office to fill the emptiness created when he’d lost his house; the house that had an office.
He wasn’t jacking this time, though. This time he was pounding at the keyboard, writing; writing this. He refused to let her negative demeanor penetrate where his mind had chosen to hide this time.
- - -
Carpenter 47 yrs. old, waiting to sit still long-enough to write a novel.
By James Marx
“You just want there to be a reason to pawn that necklace. You just couldn’t wait to hear me rattle-off those bills, and then you could talk yourself into it”. She shouted this from the bathroom, with windows open through out the house, as she stripped for a shower.
She was right, but she was on a roll. I’d gone upstairs to get stoned, ‘before dinner’. So her favorite thing was to try and make it such a drag and be such a buzz-kill, that I’d then be sorry and regret having chosen to get high.
She’s in the shower, now. She’s still yelling.
She went on for a minute or two, over-talking the sound of the porcelain shower. I guess she’s taking a rest. Feeling the water cleanse her pores and wash away her feelings, her resentments. Showers help her think things out.
“He’s probably watching porn. He’s done it before when I shower. He knows I’ll look. I only look to see that he’s taking care to cover his tracks. It’s a dead give-away.”
She hadn’t heard him walk out of the office yet. She couldn’t help but listen for it. The ‘office’ was the name Jim had given Amanda’s room, since she’d moved out, and he’d moved in. He wanted it to be the office to fill the emptiness created when he’d lost his house; the house that had an office.
He wasn’t jacking this time, though. This time he was pounding at the keyboard, writing; writing this. He refused to let her negative demeanor penetrate where his mind had chosen to hide this time.
- - -
Carpenter 47 yrs. old, waiting to sit still long-enough to write a novel.
