The Past - Part 1 & 1/2

Ol' Joe Garner did it for the last time. His hands quick-tied behind his back, his chin slumped onto the squad car's roof-- red trickled and dripped down through his white beard. Eased back, the officers popped the door and slid the old man across the hard plastic backseat-- his rights read to him through the sliver-cracked window, Ol' Joe leaned back his head and stared off.



His wife, Juniper, was silent and did as she was told. When she ran inside screaming, the trailer door ajar, Ol' Joe had reason enough to stand up from his chair. It stayed peculiarly warm that August-- looking 'round the swinging door it hardly surprised Ol' Joe to see a black bear, full grown, tearing through the moose meat he'd left smoking over the fire pit. Hand on his belt-gun, Joe wheeled over to the weapon-chest. Tugging out his twelve gauge, Ol' Joe slid one sharp point slug in and chambered-- he pocketed some spares out of habit.

Brisk walking through the still open door, Ol' Joe shouldered his gun and strode across the dirt-yard. Without so much as a breath, Ol' Joe walked right over close and then blew 3/4 of solid steel through the animal's side-head. Spitting into the blood hole at his feet, Ol' Joe started to curse then stopped-- he'd come upon an idea.

Carl Black Elk over at the Native Furrier's owed him a favor-- now he'd pay out in full. Walking outta town two weeks later, Ol' Joe wore a tall black fur hat, a fine black fur wide-collar, black fur cuffed gloves and a pair of black fur-lined boots. There weren't finer clothes Ol' Joe had ever worn nor seen.

That winter it became clear to Ol' Joe-- he himself sure had some sense, and Juniper, certain, had enough sense to stay quiet-- then his shit-senseless daughter must have fallen from some other line of seed. Ol' Joe's daughter had run-off outta state years ago, settling in with one of the wife's shit-ass brothers in some East state. They'd sent his girl to some college. Now she'd sent a letter saying she's getting married to some senseless city-shit-- and Ol' Joe and Juniper were both invited, airplane tickets and all. That about did it. She, this daughter could run around all she wanted, but with all this talk she musta forgot what type a man her daddy was-- and Ol' Joe wasn't about to let any daughter forget that.

Ol' Joe went alone. And Ol' Joe wore his best. The plane finally landed in Concord, New Hampshire late the night before the ceremony. Eager to enjoy their rehearsal dinner in Manchester, the wedding party left a cousin to pick up the bride's estranged father. Ol' Joe held his wedding invitation-- UNH Chapel at 10AM-- in his black fur cuffed gloves. The cousin waited by his car, amid a line of cabs, outside the arrival gate. Ol' Joe took one look at this androgynous boy-man, cocking a pose leaned against the open car door. Joe pushed the boy with wood-iron fists into the car, slamming the door--Joe walked up and slid into a taxi.

Pulling onto UNH campus Ol' Joe saw quite a commotion going around. Half-dressed-till-naked kids pranced and rolled about painting each others' bare skin. Loud noise pounded outta speakers around them. Ol' Joe pulled off the TSA's restraints from his weapon-bag and slid into place his belt-gun.
The Cabbie was paid with perfect change.

Stepping onto the concrete rotunda with his black fur-lined boots, young eyes turned on Ol' Joe. Straightening his hat, pulling tight his gloves, flattening wide his collar-- Ol' Joe would look his best when he reminded that daughter what type of man her daddy was. But curious young feet slapped the concrete-- walking closer. They stared at him. Ol' Joe sneered at their painted nakedness and youth.
The kids started shaking their heads and getting indignant.

A girl stepped outta the bunch shouting

Hey Asshole, Fur is Murder

the girl arched underhand and a full tin of red paint slapped against Ol' Joe's tall black fur hat, his white bearded face and black fur collar. The painted crowd around the girl gasped.

Ol' Joe stared at that girl as though she were a bear.

The Past - Part 1

A buick rounded the corner onto Harbor Way, roaring between miss-fired engine strokes passing Chanslor Ave-- bottoming out in the alley across from St. Mark's Hall.

Jared lurched the car into park, launching the boys across the dashboard and cracked leather interior. He grinned at Cole beside him: "What?" Chris laughed from the backseat as John rapidly picked out his flattened hairdo. Rust cratered doors slammed behind Jared as he strode out into Richmond California's purpling night, adjusting his polyester ensemble. Rubbing a hand around his beard, Jared watched as a group of girls hustled across the street and joined the line packing into the hall: "Let's get laid boys."

Drums rummed off the linoleum-white walls, warm like the yellow light-bulbs inside, it bounced into the street. Jared smirked as he caught Cole dipping his walk to the beat. Pushing past some white folks shuffling around the door, the boys slipped into the dance hall.

Jared and Chris gave the fat doorman two dollars they earned working the concrete plant. Cole gave $2 he got resurfacing highways, John paid with money he filched from his lady the night before. "Put on your dancin shoes baby 'cause this' pretty fast." The accordion hit on, and Jared swaggered across the floor-- starting to bop up his shoulders in 2/4 time. When catching his eye-- and reaching his arm round a slim girl dancing to herself, Jared spun off with her across the wood floor.

--His tonight

Humming to himself, Cole eyed a young girl from behind-- John got a woman six times his size out the back door-- Chris sat in the men's room swearing it was something he ate. Jared to the beat slid round his girl, taking her hand and dipped through frantic spins-- pulling her closer. With big white eyes she smiled up, hooking her hips in fast circles to the music-- her skirt tossing around Jared's polyester pant legs.

The band stopped and started, then started again faster, as dancers packed it in tighter.



Set between streetlamps, three men sat alone-- perched on the curb. John's face beamed behind a cigarette as he told Cole about what sorts of things you can fit in a back-alley. Chris clutched over his stomach muttering. They waited. Maybe an hour, or a few.
Then they started the walk home.

Candy Four Breakfast

We awoke that morning the same as we always did: one at this hour in the afternoon, the others rising slowly there after in one order or another. Yawning, scratching, itching this nook and that cranny, we all slowly poured into the living room to debate about what kind of cereal or instant oatmeal we'd be having that day. The TV was on in the background, serving more as white noise to our static minds then anything else. Good day time television was hard to come by in those days.

Outside it was bitter cold. There was frost on top of the previous days frost that lay hardened on top of a few feet of snow. When the wind blew even the trees seemed to shiver more then usual. We had all slept in too long to enjoy much sun light. Not that there was much to be had that day.

Grunts and gestures served as primary forms of communication, like an early scene from A Space Odyssey. One member of the household was perhaps more ape-like then the rest. He rarely wore clothing, save for a loin cloth and a rag around his shoulders. There was also that wool hat that never left the crown of his head; and of course, his wire-framed glasses.

We other primates weren't much more evolved, although they liked to think so. One's arms were so long that his knuckles dragged across the floor, and he poised himself accordingly. Another could hardly feed himself, and when he did, he fed mostly on a Freudian substitute for mother's milk. And the last one carried himself with the air of the village idiot who thinks he's actually mayor.

Every household has its members, and those members all have their morning routines. This was ours--and that morning was no different then any other. It was simply four devolved humanoids bantering in grunts and whistles, sipping breast milk, and watching the snow on the TV and the static through the window.