Fireworks

We always seem to end up in these situations. You know, the type where somebody's going to wind up unhappy, not because the other person was trying to be mean, or hurtful, but because of crossed signals. That's what I tell myself, at least. It was nobody's fault, and I shouldn't get mad about it. You'll see what I mean. The other night, we went to a party. There weren't a lot of people there, and it was hard to see them all, because it was on top of someone's roof, and dark.

It was the Fourth of July, and the reason for getting on the roof was to see the fireworks. Well, whoever lived there must have forgotten about the taller buildings that surrounded this four story place on two sides, which turned out to be the two directions where the fireworks were being shot off. So the show itself was actually pretty anti-climatic. But there were enough sparks flying in other directions to make up for it.



I knew there was going to be trouble once we got up there. I could feel things weren't going well already that night. We all had to climb up a long ladder from the fourth floor, and as we were standing around in the hallway, Amy told me not to try carrying the pizza box up the ladder. We'd stopped on the way to get pizza, and I had brought the box with us three blocks and up four flights of stairs. The pizza man was really nice, he was working in his store with one other guy, and it was twenty minutes before the fireworks were about to start. I told him if he didn't have customers, he should take a break and go outside to watch.

He said he would go up on the roof of his store, but maybe not, he had a lot of work to do. Then he told us about how much he liked the Fourth of July, said he'd gotten up early that morning with his kids to go watch a parade. All the while he was taking our pizza out of the oven, slicing it up, and making sure we had enough napkins and plastic forks. The friends we came with had gone across the street to buy beer, so it was just me and Amy getting the pizza. She wasn't saying much, and didn't seem mad, but I guessed she might be a little annoyed. She doesn't like it when I talk to strangers. I'm only trying to be friendly, but she gets embarrassed, or thinks it's obnoxious, or something.



Like a couple of days before that, we were on the subway, and having a silent argument about something silly, when I noticed the woman sitting right next to me was reading a book I've been wanting to read. In fact, it's a book really similar to another book I was reading the day before. I'm not even going to mention which books they were exactly, it doesn't matter. Just as long as you know both of them were similar. So when she started putting her book away to get up for her stop, I said, real fast, "Hey, if you like that book, you should read this other book, it's really good, too." That's all I said. And she looked at me, smiled, and got off the train.

Now, I admit I said that partially because I knew it would piss Amy off. But part of me was only trying to be helpful. I like that saying about how there are no strangers, just friends we haven't met. Amy thinks I'm obnoxious and no better than a crazy person when I pull this type of stunt. She says if someone said something like that to her in public, she'd be appalled. I think she's making a big deal out of nothing.

She didn't even admit right then that it had pissed her off, but got this vaguely upset attitude that lasted for a while. Finally she came clean, but it wasn't until later on that night, when we were fighting about the whole day's worth of arguments. That's when she threw the talking to strangers thing back in my face. I got really upset. I think I yelled at her, and said I was getting tired of her shit. Then later I apologized and told her I didn't mean to yell, and she apologized for being so annoyed, and we both agreed we weren't going to fight any more. That lasted the whole night, and part of the next day.

Amy gets annoyed a lot. Before we left the apartment where were staying to go to the party, she got annoyed with me about my pants. They were red, white and blue, for chrissakes! How could I not wear those pants on the Fourth of July? As best as I could tell, her problem with them was that they were too tight. And I was like, yeah they're tight, but have you noticed yet that they're very patriotic? Besides, why can't I wear whatever pants I want? You don't see me telling you to change your clothes just because we're going out in public. It's little things like that.

Or when we were walking around the city earlier that same day, trying to go some place and have a good time, she got annoyed with me being thirsty. I mean, the sun was blazing down on us, the sidewalks we were walking on, the buildings around us, and the cars and the pavement surrounding us on all sides. It felt like a hundred and five degrees. Every little kid in sight was lined up at the ice cream truck, chimes playing loud as hell. Old people we passed leaning out of their windows didn't even have the energy to fan themselves, it was all they could do to grab on tight to the windowsills and try to keep from falling out right there. Of course I was hot! What's so wrong about carrying around a water bottle? Same thing with getting hungry. And maybe I am hungry a lot. I've got a high metabolism. Sometimes I think it might be a tapeworm. I'm not saying the problem's all with her, none with me. I admit to being high maintenance. But people get hungry, people gotta eat. How can you get annoyed by basic human needs?



So we're on the stairwell, and now I'm the one being told not to carry up the pizza box, embarrassed in front of our friends, plus people we've never met before. And I don't really care, not like she does. I swear, you'd think she was running for class president the way she cares what people think about her. And what they think about me, which leads to more headaches. I wasn't planning to haul the pizza box up there to begin with, because that would be dumb, I might slip and drop it and have to watch helplessly as the slices flew down the stairwell, my stomach rumbling extra hard with every flight they fell. I just shrugged, and passed the pizza box up to the guy who was at the top of the ladder by now, the guy who lived on the fourth floor and was throwing this party, and he passed the box up onto the roof.

Look, I haven't even gotten to what happened at the party yet. And I could go on and tell the whole thing. It was dramatic enough, I mean, obnoxious and silly and crazy enough so that me and Amy broke up the next day, July 5th. But I think you'd agree, after all the other stuff so far, you probably don't really want to know. Who cares. It was like any other holiday party. Everybody was happy and having fun, except for the two of us, who were squabbling like cats and dogs over petty, trivial issues. But even before the fighting stopped, me and Amy were celebrating, too, in our own way. We were declaring our independence from each other.

Good Neighbors

Published April, 2007 in The Blotter Magazine

I've lived in Alamance County all my life. It's funny, but people have long memories around here. They'll remember stuff from a hundred years ago and talk like it was the latest outrage popped up just the other day. Not that you need a particularly long memory to get along in Alamance, lots of folks have moved in from someplace else, 'cuz they like the whole idea of living at least five miles down the road from the nearest Burger King, Winn Dixie, or Valv-O-Line oil change place. Throw in the cows, and little ponds under every second bridge, and you've got a suburbia waiting to happen for Greensboro yuppies and Chapel Hill city slickers.

Most everybody knows Alamance County 'cuz it was where the whole second half of Roots took place. No lie, that dude Chicken Legs? Kunte Kinte's friend, whatever his name was. Rednecks like to boast about how they've gone to spit or piss on his grave. It all happened right around Green Level, just 15 miles north of the Haw River. Alex Haley, even though he was from Indianapolis, he traced his family back right here, next thing you knew they had ended up in Alamance to try to start a farm or something. Some serious shit has gone down here, for real. And still does, on a lot of levels.



One thing that hasn't changed much is how you're not supposed to mess around with the local courts, or they'll fuck with you right back. That's how I ended up serving a two hour sentence the other week. I had gone to court for only one reason, because Mouse was about to go to jail, and he spent the whole weekend beforehand hanging out with me. He'd decided the previous Friday not to show up for a pre-sentencing hearing. He was tired of all the bullshit and figured he'd just do his time, get it over with. Probably end up with as little as eight months, but if the judge decided he didn't like him, he could face a year and a half. They had discretion like that. Which is why it didn't make too much sense for him to be skipping out on this hearing. His lawyer had to plead for a continuance.

It was part of the leftover mysterious ways of the local good ol' boys, whose kin were born and raised in Alamance since before the War Between the States. Maybe they couldn't completely control things any more, with a whole world of choices existing beyond Green Level and Graham, black folks being state troopers, and gay dudes owning antique shops in Burlington. But they could still make things tough for anybody unlucky enough to be poor and get in trouble with the law, whether you were black, white, Mexican, whatever.

So from Friday 'til Tuesday, I babysat Mouse while he slipped deep into a bender. He tried to make it extra special, knowing he'd be gone for awhile. Nobody was allowed to call him or know where he was, which was usually passed out on the floor at my place, high or drunk on some potent combination of stuff. Before getting caught for possession of mushrooms, Mouse had been on probation for a cocaine bust that happened to him almost three years ago. Three years probation over a traffic stop that yielded less than one measly eight ball of coke. But that's how the law around here keeps its pockets full. They'll put you on probation and keep you on for as long as they can, knowing you'll eventually fuck up. It costs a lot of money to get busted for drugs, besides! First they confiscate whatever stash you had, plus whatever money you were carrying, then calculate how much the drugs were worth, and charge you drug taxes on that amount, like you were a big time dealer who should have reported the illicit sales as income or something! What a crock of shit.

On Sunday afternoon, after we'd watched people say and do stupid things on this show Taxicab Confessions, beamed direct to my TV on one of the five new HBO's we get with our suburban cable package, Mouse let me know how he felt. He sat up from where he was slouched down against the living room couch, and looked straight at me.

"Jimmy, I don't wanna go in by myself," Mouse said, then right away again he passed back out asleep.

But I was convinced. So on Tuesday morning, we both walked into the courthouse, and I thought Mouse looked more at peace than I'd ever seen him. Ready to face down the judge, get his time, and be done with it. I wasn't so calm. Actually, I was already pissed off, about some other shit that happened to us down the road from my place, at the ExpressWay, where we stopped on our way into town.

Now, this was some typical Alamance County bullshit. I go in there, all set to pay for the gas, and there's this guy in line right ahead of me, trying to buy something. Not even a beer, or whatever, it was only eight o'clock in the morning. I think it was a box of crackers and a cheese sandwich. They're running his card when I step up behind him with my coffee, and almost immediately, his card won't go through. I hate when that happens. The clerk always looks at you like you don't belong in the store, and it's expected you'll come out with some lame story while you're fishing out another card, or scraping up the cash you need to pay. Only this guy didn't have a choice, beyond that card, it was pretty clear he was plain flat broke. And what do you think happened next?

Even though it's eight in the morning, okay, eight-thirty, there's still three of four other people in that store, just hanging out. No particular place to go. What the fuck, are they stopping by on their way to work or something? Do they wake up from dreaming, take a shower, and then hang out there all damn day long? So when this guy's card conks out, somebody starts snickering. Then another of them makes a comment. I could almost see the guy start sweating. He's going through his jacket, putting all the little shit he's carrying in his pockets out on the counter, looking for the money he obviously doesn't have. He tells the girl on duty he left his wallet at home, and walked there. Now they're all trading smiles, and everybody's up in his business, real casual, sneering, and mean.

I could feel myself getting red. I pulled out a five and laid it down, that was enough to pay for my stuff and his. You should have seen his face light up like a Christmas tree, embarrassed, but grateful. Everybody else shot me the evilest looks, like I'd blown their little game all to hell. I didn't give a fuck. I turned and left, and it got me thinking about how some people around here really don't know any better to begin with.

So you'd think I would have been prepared for what happened at the courthouse, but guess again. Just when you reckon you've seen the worst of human nature, somebody steps up to the plate and does something else to prove you wrong. That may be harsh, but it's a hard world filled with backwards folks sometimes, people. Deal with it.



We got seated, and the place was near full of bodies. Everybody with a reason to be there, bored, restless faces, and most people looking like they knew what to expect, having been through the motions before. Mouse's last name is Nash. His real name is Charlie, except he's short, and has red, beady eyes, you get the picture. They go alphabetical, so we figured it'd be awhile before his case got called. I could hardly believe he was looking at eight to eighteen months, variable, and still showed up, hung over, dazed and confused, but ready to face the music. Then again, what else could he do? The judge came in, we all stood up, and then sat down again. I didn't know this judge by name, but he was old and white, and one of the county's regular judges. Business as usual.

Soon enough, I was almost asleep faced with the steady drone of names and faces and stories being told before the court, most involving petty drug offenses, with the occasional assault and battery or domestic violence case thrown in. When Mouse poked me, we'd been there for nearly two hours already.

"Hey, man, check this guy out." Mouse pointed to the front of the courtroom, where a couple of the balliffs were helping somebody get up onto the witness stand. "He's not looking so good."

This guy was maybe in his mid-forties, and he needed help just finding his way across the room. We later learned his name was Gary, and he was half deaf and legally blind. When I first opened my eyes, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. One of the balliffs, this big dude with rolls of fat just spilling over his belly, he was actually snickering while he helped this guy Gary get onto the stand! Next Gary started feeling around for the bible, like he couldn't find it, and for a second it almost looked like the other balliff was waving it around a little bit in front of him! Then the fat one grabbed Gary's hand, real fast, and smacked it down on top of the bible, still grinning like a sick little kid.

Before I'd even had time to process all that shit, they sat him down and we began to hear the details of his case. First off, Gary was sort of mentally disabled, and had at least one life threatening disease, I think diabetes, so he was on disability. For a couple years, he'd been assigned to this one social worker, Miss Barnes, in another town the next county over. Then, she claimed she started feeling threatened by him, and took out a restraining order. A little while later, he supposedly violated it, and that's why he was in court that morning. Oh yeah, he lives in Alamance now, so they were trying him here.

Later, when they put Miss Barnes up on the stand, we found out he'd been sending her money along with little presents and cards for two whole years, a few dollars here and there, five or ten bucks sometimes. And that whole time she'd never said a word about it, or explained to him it wasn't necessary to do that for her. Like maybe just sat him down and said, hey, I don't need any presents or money, you don't have to thank me for helping you, it's my job. This is a man who has a family, he mentioned a wife and a little girl, for chrissakes, and that damn check is supposed to be feeding them.

For whatever reason, she was happy to get the money, and the candy, and whatever other presents he gave her. I mean, maybe he got a bit sweet on her. Who knows. I'm not even sure he knew the difference between gratitude and affection, from what he said on the stand. Bottom line was, after Miss Barnes filed the restraining order, he got switched to a different social worker. But right before it happened Gary's check was due to arrive. He'd been calling her about it, and she'd been stalling him for a couple of weeks. By the time he found out he got switched to the new social worker, it was the middle of the month, and he really needed to pick up his check. So he called over to the place, probably still not understanding exactly what was going on, and some dumbass told him sure, come on by to get it.

His brother drove him over there, and for some reason just dropped him off, then left. So he didn't even have a ride back. In fact, he was actually standing across the street from the Social Services building, not even on the property, when Miss Barnes just happened to be looking out the frigging window and saw him. That's when she called the police. Told them she was afraid he was stalking her, when anybody with an ounce of common sense could see the man was just trying to come pick up his check!

It went on in the courtroom like that for awhile. Gary had a court appointed lawyer, but he wasn't worth shit, and wasn't doing a thing for him. After what happened to me at the ExpressWay that morning, I was really starting to get hot. It wasn't only the good ol' boys in charge of the court who were coughing and grinning. I could hear people in the courtroom start chuckling too whenever he'd say anything on the stand that sounded a little strange. And the judge didn't give a fuck. He wasn't making fun of Gary like the others, but you could clearly see he had no sympathy for the guy.

It just wasn't right. Here's a man who deserves to have his case thrown clear out of court, and instead, when it came time to sentence him, the judge ignored everything Gary said in his own defense, all the holes in Miss Barnes' story, and gave him six months. Then they stood him up and started taking him away.

That's when I stood up, too. Mouse did a doubletake and looked at me in horror, suddenly more nervous for me than he was for himself. But I had to say something. I started off with "WHAT ABOUT HIS DIGNITY? LET THE MAN HAVE HIS DIGNITY, FOR CHRISSAKES! DIDN'T YOU HEAR WHAT HE SAID? THIS JUST AIN'T RIGHT! IT'S A TRAVESTY! IT'S AN OUTRAGE!" That's about as far as I got before the balliffs reached my side and pulled me out to the end of the aisle. The judge was banging his gavel, but I kept on shouting. So the judge cited me for contempt on the spot, and they straight yanked me out of the room, my heels dragging on the carpet.

I was locked up downstairs for two hours, and had to pay a $50 fine plus court costs. When they let me out, I had to leave the building for the day. Later I found out the judge gave Mouse eighteen months. No surprise there. Hopefully it wasn't any worse because of what I did. I wondered if he might see Gary while he was in. Crazy when you reach a point feeling more in common with the people locked up than you do with the ones who put them there.

You know, I don't want to say there's no good people in Alamance County. I'm from here, and I know there's lots of 'em. But I didn't run into too many that morning, except for the ones getting the short end of the stick. I guess when you stop and think about it, at the end of the day the answer's not very profound. It's really just a question of how you treat your neighbors.

Jane Jones is Fabulous

Published March, 2007 on MySpace

When I first saw Jane Jones, I said to myself, this is the coolest person I’ve ever met. Everything about her defined cool. And she showed up at exactly the right moment, because I needed help. I mean, I used to be a nerd. Even more of one than I am now. This wasn’t even when I was going through my raver phase and wearing big baggy pants and this huge orange terrycloth shirt that I wore for like, eight months straight. At this point, pre-Jane Jones, I was a major, full-on, clueless and shoeless walking fashion nightmare type cultural wasteland dweller from Cleveland, Ohio named Zack.

Well, five years later, I’m still Zack, and me and Jane are both still Virgos with Leo risings, but a lot of other stuff's happened. We’ve gone through thirteen boyfriends and girlfriends between us, gotten jobs together in more restaurants than I can count, left Athens, Georgia behind us forever, and moved to New York City to follow our dreams and reach for the stars. And being around Jane, some days when I wake up, I almost feel like some of her being fabulous has rubbed off on me too.

(Cont'd...)