The Crack in the Bomb

Alexander M. Schaffer

(a novel, composed 2017; copyright pending)

Dedicated to the beloved memories of AAW (1991-2010) and CCD (1990-2017)

* * * * *

“No wher so besy a man as he ther n’as And yet he semed besier than he was.” --Chaucer

“The wanton Boy who kills the Fly Shall feel the Spider’s enmity.” --Blake

“The money made me nuts.” --Joey Coyle

The theme of this text is DISUNITY

––The Crack in the Bomb––

––What’s that dumptyhump noise! Daddy? vwoomp vwoomp vwoomp ––. . . is the car about to die? like Mommy always says it. . . ––Just a flat tire sweet heart, holding her hand and turning the fan up all the way looking nervously between three mirrors fitful quick not lingering on any one, opening the windows their lowest ––God made shoulders for this, muttering blinking slowing up to the curb, stopping, affronting the odyssean flow of traffic, stuck in June-humid sweated epiphany made aware how portentous the noise of these cars the softness of their bellies the fragility dappling this pretty dayweather ––My only daughter, you think I would let this car die with you in it? just wish we had more shoulder here. . . ––First it’s what’s that smell now what’s that noise what’s next? peering behind at an indifferent line of drivers all appearing to barely register their distress, her windtossed hair beginning to resettle into innocent repose grasslike in the windless warm early summer air; nobody has to help them, she assumes, everybody knows her Daddy can handle it. Meanwhile he uncovers no jack nor tire iron in the piles of beach chairs and trash bags lurking in his trunk, the fire extinguisher or those bags of soil and fertilizer just as useless here now. ––Shit she had the Triple-A card in her name didn’t she, shutting the trunk muttering ––she definitely took me off it. . . taking out his phone, looking for entry Tony, hitting the go-green Call button, holding the shining device up to an ear with one hand as the other beckons in quick firm curl for his little girl to step out and stand beside him. ––Pick up man pick up the fffffuhh see the hawk sweet heart? Dipping in untwitching astasia, the city-air particulate-tawny old bird of prey in question steers itself away admiration, careening embarrassed across borderline burdened with columns of cars on tires enviably intact, and towards the fenced reservoir where it might not suffer further leers from these armored larger predators fed far better than itself (but so fatted at the price of striated space, in this instance enounced in white and yellow silicate-glittered even-broken segments running, some curving, up to pregnant square-deal four-way intersection lit with simple civic order). ––Did you scare it away Daddy or did he? ––Did who. ––Look! ––Oh shit. ––Daddy! chidingly. ––Sorry sweet heart get back in the car and no! not the front, I’ll get in trouble. ––How we doing today buddy? gumchewingly supercilious, coming near perfect sinister coincidence with hostile civilian car horn borne in swerve passing, triggering

1 another directly behind, below by a semitone, the initial honking making the leg-striped chest-plated policeman flinch, the second one compelling him to stop midstep and slide oblong sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, in testy empty gesture, predatory bristle behind those two contentious cars, until more horns come up behind, head beyond in Doppler-zooming too and he gives it up, looks again on his first person of interest ––step back inside the vehicle sir! ––What? but I got a flat! offendedly deflecting the ridiculous directive, his fingers groping slowly toward car door handle, backpedal defiant in compliant dawdle. ––Sorry to hear it buddy, now standing at the spoilered tail taking the license plate number ––Hey! do you think I was talking to myself? stay inside your vehicle. ––Why are you taking my tags man! you ain’t even pulled me over, opening his eyes wider trying to flex the creases out like that will make him look less high like he can shed the dark dun shine streaking his cheeks from brow to teeth, from the blunt. ––Sir. . . the notepad now put away, a brisk malice introduced to renewed bootstep, moodswung as if inspired by an errant spare cloud irritating amid suggestive sky calling bluer than his uniform ––I have some questions for you. ––What? at last opening the driver door, cautious as he might have to raise his hands, before the ubiquitous hand gun he hopes remains unpreluded today ––I mean you asked me how I was doing, I said I need help and you didn’t hear me! you just looked like you was, you were staring them, those cars down honking at us. . . ––Step inside the vehicle sir, sit down and we’ll talk. . . Sucking teeth in irked reverse kiss back he complies and again inside sat down sees behind him his daughter crying, slow tears wending out from eyes wide and robbed of brightness down to quivering lip and crushed chin ––Look Officer my daughter is crying, like all I did is get a flat and you. . . ––Sir this car smells quite a bit like marijuana; that might explain your unfortunate decision to block traffic. . . watching the kid’s face fossilize in an instant while Daddy’s reddens as anger-hard yet split and meal-pale as a dead turtle’s diseased shell. ––Please let me see your license, registration and proof of insurance. . . ––Sure whatever Officer you could probably see my registration sticker when you took my plates right? complaining fumbling in glove compartment attempting to hide herb grinder and rolling papers. ‘Lucky buck pick up an eyeful of a denim-tail fawn, what a cup on that jawn,’ ringing tinny vulgar in autotune, continuing on to rhyme ‘doe’ and ‘hoe’, his phone showing Tony calling back. ––Turn that shit off, the lawman unsteadying his drawl. ––Hold up Officer! it’s just my man’s ring back tone, Tony with the tow truck, finally closing the glove compartment not noticing the officer noticing it not being left open ––like he’ll help me out like a fucking man unlike you, excuse me sweet heart don’t repeat that F-word round your mama. . . ––Sir you still. . . ––Yo Rome? a bark pealing off speakerphone. ––Tony! I got a flat man, I’m at City Avenue almost but on the damn suburban side, rummaging in histrionic sloth, unconvincing confusion seeking his wallet ––like I know you’re probably busy right now but I got Shirley with me and some coast guard reject cop telling me. . . ––Turn the phone off sir! before I take it as evidence, and I still need to see your driver’s license, your. . . ––Turn his phone off! why don’t you turn your hard on off? ass hole. . . ––Sweet heart don’t repeat those words around Mommy neither, Tony get me out of here! dawg. . . ––I’m close I got you, you’re lucky I’m just up Belmont, I. . . Above and beyond the call of duty and rudely through the window comes a watchbanded thrust of imperious fist with forward stiff agents madly gnarled and juvenile pulling and groping using excessive force removing phone from ear; but a quick slap back up out of a world of scar-grained stomach and spleen, unreasonable disobedient fearlessness, interrupts the attempted motion of seizure, in stoned noncalculation batting the contested consumer-commercial communications unit into traffic two lanes over going opposite, the first fatal crunch coming hard off suspense, and subsequent ones farcical, quieter. ––See what you just did? the same invading hand now raised to shoulderclept radio ––That’s destroying evidence, assaulting an officer, and I’m already getting you for pot and putting your daughter in danger. . . the badweather blackwrap glasses coming down again ––. . . if this is in fact your lawful daughter. . . ––What! damn right she’s my daughter, by the laws of biology she is, but uh by some other laws she’s my daughter only three days a week, stalling still sweating telling himself nothing here is evidence of anything except for maybe some video being recorded showing one flat tire two nervous black people and an excitable suburban policeman; suddenly he remembers, looks at, in pieces, his phone, with all its unwritten unmemorized numbers, and those postphotographic relic-files of digital perception eternally straining for warmth, all irrecoverable ––You owe me bro! my phone is like one fifth of my whole world. ––Sir tell a lawyer not me, writing something down in a little black book. ––Daddy is Uncle Tony coming to save us? ––Sweet heart he’ll uh help us out at least he’s on his way. ––One more time, step out of the vehicle sir! but show me your license first. Following the falling gushing of a nasal and exasperated sigh, the demanded plastic document, of delimited identity, debased or enhanced (the debate rages) to governed commodity, leaves the window by the same resigned hand so chagrinned from just having hit unto rubber and asphalt oblivion an object so warm and familiar to it as his phone, by now thoroughly shattered, fit only for desperate idiot interest from seagulls

3 dully reconnoitering a nearby shopping center parking lot, over the next half-dozen hours of light, in the empty-road interludes between asthmatic traffic surges through this busy corridor sheathed in American granite greens. ––Okay, I’m now stepping out of the vehicle Officer, wryly with bitter preacquaintance ––I don’t have no, any kind of weapon on me, showing both hands light sides up in mock offering, treating policeman as one with taxman ––not even a wedding ring to weight my finger with! not no more. . . ––Please shut your door and put your hands on the roof of the car sir. ––Daddy! ––Jesus fucking Christ man, a flat tire. . . ––Now that I can get a better look at your knuckles Mister Bonner, don’t mind if I call you Romare do you? it appears you have a lion tattooed on one hand, or potential fist as we in law enforcement prefer to see it, and a viper on the other so you are de facto making two threatening gestures at me. . . ––Man! by representing other nature? on a natural part of my body. . . ––As for your alleged flat tire sir, slowly patting Romare down ––don’t worry somebody will check it out, maybe even put four new ones on and change those ugly flashy black rims out as well, when we have determined as I expect we will that you are in fact Mister Bonner a drug dealer, and we confiscate. . . ––Oh okay! so you do want to take this shit to that egregious level, now I see, I see, I hope you know I’m going to remember every damn word you’re saying right? ––Nothing egregious about it, reasonable suspicion you yourself would not deny that your car smells rather strongly of marijuana this afternoon, would you sir? fresh marijuana, could be a shit load of it. . . ––Damn Officer, I’m not interested in denying or confirming any thing right now, Romare trying not to laugh musing that the square-cut defender of the law here can not discern a plastic-bagged whole-nugget wafting from the fructose tar lingering of a full burnt blunt (the roach of which he swallowed fifteen minutes ago pulling up to his ex’s, the smoke off which he blew judiciously out his moon roof all the way there; he remembers fondly his first glimpse of Shirley being let out front, and glumly the moment he saw behind her his remarried wife, on the wraparound porch of the long-lawned home, still new to her not yet settled into the suburban saltbox house, at least not as well as the older divorce lawyer for whom she betrayed Romare, over four years ago now, forsook the City of the Love Statue). ––Wait right there Mister Bonner in that exact position, backing away, one hand on his gun, the other on his belt ––I’m returning to my vehicle, I’m going to run your information through our system. . . ––Great man go ahead and while you’re at it why don’t you call for backup? see how many wh, uh how many cops it takes to change a flat tire. ––Recommend silence Mister Bonner, need your patience right now as well. . . shouting preceding cop-car door thudding unshut on one boot camped still upon the road. ––Daddy! can you talk? ––Yes sweet heart roll that window down. ––Daddy! hugging him out it at abdomen ––Why did he take your driver license? will he give it back. ––In a few minutes he will, might take his sweet time about it, looking straight at sidewalk-side hedges, giving a passing woman wearing sunglasses bigger than the cop’s a glare tailored vacant as, and according to, the look her clipped cleaned purebred puppydog beams with barks dull and needling up and out at him. ––Baby open up the glove compartment, there’s one of those nice smelling little trees in there; do me a favor and unwrap it, hang it from the mirror, and spray some stuff out of that pink can too. She does as he says and sits back again, gently crying intermittently while her father, aggravated by the drag of gaper delay about him, says nothing but shh the next few minutes, amusing himself maintaining a regimen of mock-asocial sapped-soul stares at pedestrian strangers enjoying their freedom, their dogs enjoying their captivity. The cop’s car door comes open again just as Romare starts really to feel the heat of his own car’s roof beneath his hands; he sees a second hawk drift away the stultifying company of the parking lot seagulls, gliding over conjunct municipal borders to the reservoir cityside. ––Mister Bonner! like his gun just grew six inches ––it appears you have not had any trouble whatsoever with the law since you were twenty one years old, but I must say the pertinence of that most recent charge, conspiracy to aid and abet marijuana cultivation, makes me all the more suspicious of that smell inside your vehicle, and on a personal note I have to add that the fact you served no time for said charge probably encouraged you to keep at it, keep it even more on what you might call the Down Low? ––Officer you don’t know jack shit about me, you might be a cop and so licensed to kill but see over there where I’m from I’m what you call a block captain, which means in a Christian cosmology I way out rank you man so watch what you say to. . . ––Daddy, Uncle Tony! and here he comes rumbling to a pregnant braking ten yards ahead in the closer opposite lane where his tow truck blocks traffic doubling the fracas, drawing on the air a stereocomplementary image of pure animal agitated fanfare. ––He can’t be serious, the cop fondling his radio showing a new hesitation, his grasp of protocol failing to yield him in this moment either insight into how to act or what to say, his customary dyspathic self-satisfaction also coming up short, worst of all – –Of all the fucking crazy, I mean you’re clearly being detained! better make your buddy go away Mister Bonner before I call for backup. ––Thought you might have already called backup, Romare almost sneering daring a crouch that lets him look inside the car and smile at his daughter. ––Mister Bonner you're already looking at multiple counts of no! stop! that’s at least another three moving violations for him, he’s insane and you can’t dispute it sir, not to mention, heightening his tenor to penetrate the cab of the defiant tow truck, now backing up to Romare’s car deftly with emergency-felt instant measure, suffering other

5 car horns like the elephant does the mosquito ––. . . not to mention he’s, you’re obstructing justice! ––Man get away from my truck! nobody wants you near their vehicle, all you want is every body to stop in their tracks and explain ‘emselves to you when they don’t really have to, rolling his window up as the policeman reaches the cab with a scowl under sunglasses and another string of accusations ready to hock up like so much dip-tobacco rot he has chewed and ejected since joining the force. ––Man, almost to himself ––I got five fucking kids bringing all these fucking germs home from school every day, think I need that stanking ass breath of yours fading the leather up in here? raising his voice looking out down at the young policeman ––. . . getting in my lungs and shit, making me take a day off I can’t afford? ––You tow guys are all full of shit, dulled through the window, coming up almost dulcet ––you’re lazy and greedy and you all make a killing, don’t act like oh shit Mister Bonner! leaving Tony to his own again ––step back outside the vehicle! lowering his voice, barely moving lips just grinding his jaw ––yeah come on motherfucker dare me to tase you through your daughter! holding her in your lap like that. . . stopping still finally depressing the button that lets him radio for aid; he stands now between the car wanting one good tire and its rescuer on ten huge wheels hustling to lower a hook into hitching position. ––Yeah go ahead and bark your meaningless codenames and serial numbers or whatever to headquarters, Tony climbing out and stepping down without a doubt in his motion to fix the tow into place, fearless of the pink-pated police officer’s hand gestures trying to say Desist while he finishes explaining his crisis to Dispatch: ––No they’re not trying to tow the squad car away! they’re impounding a vehicle which we should be impounding, probably a pound of weed in. . . flatly and without compromise, nor conceit of a maybe merely demented innocence here, Romare’s car horn forces off balance both: Tony, whose untensing emergence from a crouch now upsets him wobbling while he laughs nearly falling backward onto sweat-purpled work- khaki jean-bottoms, and the furious policeman, who drops his radio dropping to a crouch on hot asphalt, with one hand scrambling to consult the black handle of a black gun until his vision resettles and sandy winds of deep ear-ringing subside, his other the left overruling the rash right one, reaching for his radio, the thrumming gun hand fresh off duty going limp officially privately chagrinned. ––I need backup goddamn it! Hootings flying up exultant out of both delinquent vehicles meet like the hips of a bell in the air over either side of the policeman’s head now deliberating action including some rasher options which he sensibly discards thinking through a filter of American micro-celebrity culture that he might not want all that potential bad attention put upon the almost melancholically unbusy police department furnishing him this cushy desultory job, and that as a soldier albeit one discharged not entirely with honor from service he has a bond forbidding him embarrassing any of his armed codesucking brethren; so rather than shooting Tony’s tires out or forcing Romare out of his car the officer trots calmly to his cruiser still strobing, wondering at how clear he thinks, feeling suddenly a sweet propitious restraint like something inside him clicked with this clear blue day so near overheating. ––Daddy he’s following us! is Uncle Tony in trouble too? ––No body is going to get in trouble sweet heart, backhanding spatular like with a flyswatter sweat from his forehead ––Philadelphia’s right there, letting seat back happily and helpless, laughing with his daughter, in compreciation of this their victorious angular taxiing ––And he can’t get us there! because it ain’t, that’s not where he’s from. . . ––He can’t get us even if he’s from America too? ––No sweet heart not how it works, just because. . . ––But where is Uncle Tony going to take us! bored already. ––To the Garage sweet heart, looking in peripheral mirror doorside, seeing and saying ––He’s really doing it! he’s following us into the city, holding her hand ––Damn. Under heavy grey eye lid the yellow traffic light welcomes Tony with his cargo in their car; that light’s red imperious superior overhead a moment later salutes its incensed human brethren rolling through the intersection too with red white and blue asynchronous twin strobings expostulating with the moderate calm orange ones in front of him on the offending tow truck going five miles per hour below the speed limit here. ––Daddy! afraid with wronged wonder ––that policeman drove under the red light. ––Might be on camera sweet heart don’t worry, he’ll get reprimanded. ––What does that mean. ––It means his mean ass uncle yells at him in front of all his cousins or I guess they call each other Brothers but anyway what was I say. . . Suddenly and in ensemble sirens gash like K9 fangs the atmosphere hotter apart; as Tony adds giddily his own gratuitous longhaul-style honk, Romare groaning reaches behind to help Shirley hold her little hands to grass-fragile ears. ––Daddy more police! and two white blue-blazoned cruisers, cheaper than the obnoxiously blacked-out one hounding Romare and Tony, roll with steering askitter and a dull doubled worn-rubber roar away from the reservoir towards them, one cop settling behind the practically foreign lawman, the other beside Romare’s immobile car, looking in without sunglasses, before, with a half-credulous head-shake, pulling ahead to address instead Tony; the whole motorized column pulls over blocking the bike lane beside a city park meadow, spooking some deer out of trash-complicated grazing, into deeper shade. ––Okay what the hell is going on here, the city cop at the back of the line on foot now approaching the black mobile bulk of easier yet angrier law enforcement in front of him; he takes its tags down on a note-pad out of both habit and a dull midday hope of mischief, that it might incense this unfamiliar prodigal fellow Brother of the Order. ––Officer Brock McCrank, Upper Middle Merion Police Department, the hand that recently reached inside Romare’s car through the sanctity of its window taking now a

7 hand less jumpy but just as dark as that which sacrificed the phone to the road ––. . . guy’s fleeing law enforcement! I was just about to search his vehicle, it smells like. . . ––What’s with the tow truck. ––Uh claims he’s got a flat tire, didn’t see it myself but that other driver there his friend is aiding and abetting. . . ––Just aiding ass hole! from the afflicted car. ––Motherfucker broke my phone! ––Step back in the vehicle sir! McCrank barking in sweatier tenor to Romare climbing again outside car sat inclined silent, not rumbling nor territorial unlike the three police cars on scene all enviably intact and bigger than his, although Tony’s own rig at a peaceful churn reminds every body here who rules, who pulls the greatest weight. ––I didn’t say that you were at liberty to move! obstructing justice with a tow truck. . . ––Liberty? the city cop doing a cursory sweep of Romare’s car, its neatly parceled clutter and the driver’s adorable daughter ––think that kid needs to learn the hard way what liberty means already? see it stolen from her Father over a flat tire on such a nice day. ––No! respectfully, shut up and let me make this clear to you Officer uh Aklaff, removing the sunglasses feeling a little ridiculous, but not because his similar-uniformed interlocutor chewing gum too does not wear them nor the guy’s partner chatting breezily one eye wary with Tony by the strobing cab, nor due to any fresh flashed sense or theorem concerning the shade here glittering oak-nacred over an ammunition clip-dark conversation uncooling, but feeling out of place because he remembers, all of a sudden, the bite of gunpowder-cut cement-chip sand-storms, needs to shed a shell of memory dark and heavy as irradiated industrial dust, see his work, his duty clearer here now, outnumbered out of his own salaried green zone ––this man is demonstratably a fugitive from law enforcement. ––. . . demonstrably, Romare muttering to Shirley stood now outside the car watching dully overwhelmed others enviably intact rushing past, one moist cheek of hers against his pocketed wallet. ––. . . and his credentials as a father should be called into question, along with what charges to consider; if you two guys could help me search his vehicle that would. . . ––Whoa slow down McCrank, what charges. ––Well Officer Aklaff, again, to reiterate. . . ––. . . redundant, Romare quietly to Shirley again. ––. . . Mister Bonner here was found flagrantly blocking a lane of traffic back there and his car smelled clearly of marijuana. . . ––I don’t smell any weed, sniffing inside with slight parted beer-brown smile. ––Well the windows are open as you can see Officer Aklaff, thumb and finger fumbling at belt for flash light or taser until a twitch of chagrinned trigger finger indicates he has recovered, remembers again where he stands ––could have aired it out. ––But then where did the weed go, wouldn’t it still smell. McCrank wrinkles his nose into a twinge of disdain hiding disappointment his gum’s flavor’s gone; a distant day in a distant desert whispers him shriveling reminders of past other checks on his rashness, like more than once when an artillery sergeant demanded to know why if any terrorists were in one certain apartment as PFC McCrank insisted where was the movement! the sound? but nobody stood out here now in these Fairmount breezes, that suggest untenably prosperity inducing a comfortable pretentiousness, is going to recommend a stretch of rest, nor tell him to talk to his unit psychiatrist, so the former soldier, salaried now far better for work laxer but wherein he finds himself less errantly impassioned, sticks to his story ––There’s marijuana hidden in this vehicle Officer Aklaff! ––But if it aired out. . . ––Maybe in that other vehicle then! spit minting his chin green. ––What! the tow truck? ––Could have passed the weed between hands when he first showed up. . . ––Which would mean that you missed it, the other city cop, this one paler than any body else here, and with smiling epicanthic eye folds, walking up folding his arms –– not trying to make Detective any time soon are you McCrank. ––McCrank! comes the radio ––Backup on location! where are you! has location changed? over, chhkh. ––Shit! hand hovering about shoulder and transmitter. ––What’s a matter man, Tony outside now smoking a local Conestogie winking at Romare, smiling at Shirley now pulling clover curbside ––You don’t want your boss hearing you’re off the reservation huh? don’t want to get writ up, you clearly don’t take questions too well neither. ––Suspect fleeing, McCrank sighing depressing in diffidence the button on the transmitter ––. . . north on Belmont. ––Man ain’t we facing south on Belmont? dumb ass. ––No I get it, Nipponese lawman nodding ––it’s just a simple believable mistake, on purpose, to buy him some time, right McCrank? Shuddering McCrank realizes exactly how he just had that idea, recognizing its origin remembering an incident and subsequent reprimand when he once mixed up his cardinals in gutbusting afternoon alleyway combat, almost got a kid killed telling him over the radio to keep following some flip-flopped bearded starved targets presumably scouts who he misthought were approaching his unit’s position when really the kid was following the four men into the skirts of a four-house terrorist hold-out; McCrank attempts a little jocular obfuscation, unbelieving almost he really just lied to Dispatch like that ––Yeah well what they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em, wincing wishing this filtered sun would bite harder. ––Don’t know about that, Aklaff laughing ––. . . dash video?

––They won’t care! McCrank’s voice breaking like plaster in gunfire ––they’ll accept my story, and I’ll admit my fault, understandable but not forgivable twice, I’ll say sorry and buy every body they’re sending to help me out right now a drink later. ––And then you’ll all drive home drunk, Romare querulous, mostly at McCrank, but looking too between Officers Aklaff and ––Toyota? ––Yes like your car but no relation, smilingly and easy while Aklaff keeps the eyes on McCrank. ––Kind of ironic, pointing out Romare’s convalescent whip ––Here I am on scene and. . . ––Well what’s more ironic is that this dude right here who swore on a Bible somewhere in the suburbs to protect and serve people refused to help me out with a damn flat tire, decided instead to endanger and humiliate my daughter and me, and that’s why we’re all standing here feeling stupid right now. ––Your daughter’s not standing here with us sir! putting sunglasses on again ––I believe she’s wandering into the woods now; also a form of negligence, looks like too. ––Also and too together, that’s redundant too baby! Romare calling to Shirley who fondly not far off does not quite listen, intending herself instead towards the skirmishes of quick squirrels playing out at a distance close enough to feel almost dangerous like a deathgrey rodentine flashmob may turn on her and strike inexplicably, a fear distracting her cloudy spriteblithe pleasure from the bizarre plight of her Father ––I might got the cutest kid ever man, the way she told my uh her mother and me when she was younger she didn’t like pizza put in the microwave because it made it taste weird was uh, ‘beep beep make my za za go so so!’ ––That’s special. . . Aklaff politely, remembering his girlfriend is pregnant. ––Well we’re all men here, and honest right? Officer Toyota tenebrous ––I think we can all agree you’re clearly out of your jurisdiction here McCrank, this guy Tony here should just continue to tow Mister. . . ? ––Bonner. ––Yes Mister Bonner, and his daughter, to the garage where wait so you don’t have a donut? to Tony ––And you don’t either? to Romare ––Come on we don’t want to have to protect and serve you guys by telling you basic simple self-preservation stuff! ––Oh I mean I got full size spares and all that, we could get it done right here, send my man and his little girl home, and uh McCrank here the opposite direction, but Romare’s got like friends at this particular shop and so do I, we’ll probably just go in and say hi. ––Sounds like conspiracy, McCrank looking Tony’s tow truck over closer like it might actually be made of merely painted and mechanized contraband. ––I have to add, as a God-fearing duty-bound guardian of the American social fabric, that Mister Bonner’s daughter might be bored to the point of trauma there, hanging out with a bunch of. . . ––Please don’t say grease monkeys man, Tony laughing. ––There’s magazines, Romare shrugging ––and she likes cars. ––Let’s not stand here too much longer huh guys? Officer Aklaff scratching his balls ––This is ridiculous right? like we all have work to do. ––Again, if you two could just assist me searching Mister Bonner’s vehicle. . . ––No probable cause there McCrank, Officer Toyota shaking his head ––And needless to say Officer you’re out of your jurisdiction, we’ll take it from here. . . ––Meaning, I’ll take them from here, Tony’s rasp graining impatient ––and do it right now, I mean I’m missing calls let’s all shake hands and let this. . . ––Only way to settle it, if you won’t search his car. . . ––No see that means it’s already settled McCrank. ––Request respectfully that you let me finish my thought, Officer Aklaff. ––Officer McCrank! his radio interrupting ––Whereabouts! over. . . ––My point exactly, Aklaff continuing, nodding to Romare and Tony with casual waving saying to get back in their innocent vehicles, be on their way ––I mean we know your bosses won’t want such a head ache over something so immaterial, only thing provable here is that flat tire. ––Let me finish Aklaff, McCrank harsh as radio crackle ––I believe the proper course of action would be to run a D-U-I test on-site, check Mister Bonner’s blood for weed, twitching seeing Tony and Romare trading incredulous taxpayer smirks ––I’m serious, call someone at your uh what do you call it? precinct, have them get the. . . ––Get the what? Toyota unstopping convulsive grinning ––Some neat little field kits you get squandering some D-E-A or D-H-S grant? yeah, not our District. . . ––Yeah what makes you think McCrank, Aklaff pacing impatiently ––that we have enough breathing room or budget space to waste money on that kind of bull shit? I mean I know your job is just speed traps, bar fights and minors with weed, maybe the occasional half-inadvertent housewife suicide attempt but like where we all come from it’s more. . . A sudden rumbly stopping situates itself at queue-tail, disturbing every body save Tony sitting in the cab of his truck smoking reading a newspaper not bothering to look in his mirrors on the fresh complication he senses like beating sun rays behind his big truck. ––A state trooper! every body else but Shirley. ––What the hell is going on here! no greeting, no misstep ––other than an apparent travesty of American civics, now planted roused sentinel his arms crossed scanning the three badges, resting his eyes upon, looking up from, McCrank’s ––You better tell me real quick Officer what you’re doing here outside your jurisdiction, you clearly don’t belong in the city. ––Yes sir, the man in that car on that tow truck is a fugitive from justice, agh! he jumps like he just heard a grenade, at a jocular blast from Romare’s horn ––Shit! his eyes unstill, sweat seeping into body armor growing ranker ––I mean are you just going to let them get away? how come no body’s listening to me.

––These two brother officers here are shaking their heads like you’re full of shit young man. ––Don’t call me young man! I’m a veteran. ––Well my thanks and my condolences, with a salute supplanted quick by slight hat-brim nodding over at Romare’s car departing on Tony’s truck, remerging now with traffic. ––So if that man there is really fleeing law enforcement, why is nobody pursuing him? looks like he had a flat and that’s it, going where he needs, the garage not jail. ––Officer McCrank! come in, over. . . chkkh, going ignored. ––Well since both McCrank’s Most Wanted have disappeared. . . Officer Toyota flexing in slow initiatory step toward his blue-striped cruiser. ––. . . and I believe if this devoted warrior here won’t listen to us he will you sir, Aklaff adding with a slight rudimentary salute to the bullet-hatted Trooper. ––Tend to agree boys; have a nice day, and good luck, whistling through teeth grinding on gum ––You’re standing down McCrank, no doubt about it; not worth risking your status on the force over a little ridiculous dispute like this is it McCrank? you and I both know you went after that poor guy and his daughter only cause you haven’t got your nut busting any body good lately, just got this job as part of your discharge package and now you’re having a hard time readjusting to the free world you grew up in, suicide bombers don’t just lurk around our schools and supermarkets. ––Respectfully sir you don’t know any thing about me or my service record, McCrank straightening up rolling responsible shoulders. ––Respectfully? or defensively perhaps you mean, or insecurely? ––Damn it sir whose side are you on. ––Well in our lawful cosmology son I way out-rank you, you have no place asking me what corner of the ring I hang this pointed hat in when it’s really more about what weight class you’ll never reach if you keep acting like. . . ––Don’t talk me in these weird circles Officer uh Pennsylvania Trooper Rotte, when I’ve got ass hole superiors breathing down my neck too like you, I’m just doing my job; and I like to know exactly what punishments the black belts have. . . ––Relax McCrank I got something special in mind for you, hardly a punishment, pretty sweet actually, golden goddamn opportunity; just fill out some forms I have there in my glove compartment, just your basic information, you’ll hand it to your big chief personally this evening before you clock out. ––You mean when he’s chewing me out for confusing every body else on the force right now? ––Ha ha, don’t want to leave that radio turned off too long McCrank, then they’ll call my valuable ass to come looking for you too; but anyway with those forms I mentioned I’ll give you my card, I’ll explain the whole thing and you won’t even get written up. . . taking out a cell phone, texting some body quickly ––So McCrank I better not find out you didn’t fill out those forms; you don’t want to make me feel unappreciated motherfucker, wait here and I’ll be right back. Bees bugger flowers far short of their full colors. ––These forms are blank, McCrank complaining ––like I mean except the lines the shit like Name and Badge Number, all that stuff telling me what to write but there’s literally nothing else, like what the fuck am I filling this out for! how are my superiors going to know what to do with it. ––Told you I’d explain it all to the guy didn’t I McCrank! trust me. Migraine graduating germination stage, fisting into his pocket the forms he will fill out at the station, perhaps only, as he hopes, after his bosses have demystified this business, Brock backs down, steps inside his vehicle and lets Trooper Rotte escort him up to the city border by the reservoir, see him off over it back towards richer hillier environs of a slower beat; Rotte then rolls east ready to creep into familiar highway patrol rounds. Unneutral the sway of nature persists in its blessing, breezing over cement-shut soil pores and through open car windows, carrying in refreshment, despite humming densities of sentient pollutant mobility, its embarrassment of elements, molecularities man-made or original, with a gentle unsubtle suggestion they all must return unto themselves, to primordial near-zero homogeneity, work backwards from potential yellow mountain ranges of discarded condoms, whole black orchards of shredded road rubber, dirty mattress fields on ranches of litter embedded into glittering asphalt itself to maybe too be torn up, to be piled into barriers alongside rising acid waters, while all the clear the black and the mood control-colored commercial plastic baggage might be depolymerized, by reverse refinement returned below those old fresh burial sites, of outgunned sun worshipers contained like gas-light, of ancient beasts incapable of water mirror vanity. The wind continues musing what if these tense monoliths of glass and steel concrete or brick all obstructing its wending might be disintegrated into sands of purpose-veiled anonymity again, if every thing might start over from a certain low threshold of mineral richness, wherein the roots of self-consuming hunger might be reexamined, by the first hand and wind to plant, but now every body, by simple gyration, in cars or helicopters or the pelvic swing of upright mobility, to a tune chiming dark as coming storms enviable for their sheer wholeness, keeps up bright the self-deception that every thing under a friendly sun can only grow and flourish loud and talkative, that this rolling ring of activity and bounty will never be broken, never thud dead as if its ten billion-pulleyed bell cracked; meanwhile, flying wireless transmissions of subminutely parceled arrayed electromagnetic data, spelling out prescriptive pulse in ones and zeroes, the only and the nothing, both to totally vanish, might unpack and return to utter virtuality. talibananas420: nice post about Libya. cool how u kno ur history so well, ur right just another oil revenge job. talibananas420: a lot of users on this forum are ignorant of their own hatred’s material nature

13 talibananas420: I like ur username too lol it looks like the wifi code the cable company gave u. complicated talibananas420: I like mystery tho. lifting the veil so whats it say

607hXpr0ph37355: that’s cute u oddball dirtbag. it just reads gothXprophetess 607hXpr0ph37355: and wtf urs is ridiculous u serious bro? 607hXpr0ph37355: makin me rethink how cool this dark web thing is. talibananas420: whats wrong with it. my name I mean talibananas420: says every thing abt who I am. lol

607hXpr0ph37355: um that u smoke and ur mujahedeen? I guess if ur a dude u might believe that’s all u r. . . 607hXpr0ph37355: ur avatar pic says more about u. even if u like rlly tried to make it just say exact shit as ur username talibananas420: what do u mean abt my pic talibananas420: and also dont ignore the bananas lol talibananas420: most important part

607hXpr0ph37355: ew u mean like ur dick? too transparent for dark web bro. talibananas420: lol u have an unclean mind. no talibananas420: it just means my madness in general. manic paranoid and prone to fits of ecstasy depression and all that crazy shit I still talk to myself.

607hXpr0ph37355: oh well now u r speaking my language more talibananas420: u mean like using numbers as letters? lol talibananas420: also u get it? like Tali Mi Banana talibananas420: like the song. day light komm u kno

607hXpr0ph37355: that’s dumb and so r u talibananas420: im not dumb im wise beyond myrs.

607hXpr0ph37355: if ur so wise why didn’t u ask me what it is I think ur pic says abt u. like I wanted u to and wanted u to wisely kno to do so. talibananas420: yeahh w/e sayyida! talibananas420: u have no power to torment me f.y.i talibananas420: but ok whats my pic say that my name dont do tell

607hXpr0ph37355: that u think ur legit hot shit hi cleric and that u lived with ur mom until u went to prison and grew that beard 607hXpr0ph37355: also that black bar u put over ur eyes looks retardedly pretentious. talibananas420: not going to show the ugly mug allah cooked up for me on darkweb r u kidding talibananas420: I mean u see all the money guns and Arabic calligraphy right. I mean that says something too?

607hXpr0ph37355: I do and it doesn’t. or at least not that u own guns make money or understand Quran talibananas420: if u studied sharia u would kno that u r far out of pocket addressing a man like that. talibananas420: admire ur spirit but still demand and expect and deserve ur respect. u rlly dont know what I have been thru

607hXpr0ph37355: tru. besides that you had an awkward hi school experience :P 607hXpr0ph37355: if ur beard is red now like that I wonder what color the top of ur head was when u were my age talibananas420: oh so ur saying u r in high school. talibananas420: u make fun of me for showing my head minus eyes I might add in my avatar pic but that shit u just said was dumb of u. and compromising my freedom

607hXpr0ph37355: stfu stoner paranoia. im 17 and a half that might be weird but not awful and i can ttly be mujahedeen 607hXpr0ph37355: I mean it is awful just not for u.

15 talibananas420: just humor me abt something talibananas420: I need to kno now ur not law enforcement talibananas420: write out a thuluth praising allah’s sense of proportionate justice. take a pic of it in ur hand and PM to me. too bad we cant just send pics over this IM plug in. guess its bcz of security they discourage

607hXpr0ph37355: ugh ur already annoying. hang on im in my school library gotta wait for a clear moment talibananas420: how r u on dark web in school! u like danger

607hXpr0ph37355: have had a dangerous life so far so kinda but its cool part of my mental health IEP is a private computer. do w/e tf I want with it 607hXpr0ph37355: ok I sent it check ur inbox. 607hXpr0ph37355: u still there? talibananas420: yea just hit a joint. did like half a prayer that turned into pushups lol

607hXpr0ph37355: wtf u are weirdest jihadi. starting to think u never went and fought overseas? like real man 607hXpr0ph37355: go to mali put ur balls where ur mouth is. talibananas420: did 5 yrs in prison selling a gun to a cop. talibananas420: so it feels like I went overseas talibananas420: only been off probation and smoking again six months. call that a fight. talibananas420: ok opening inbox talibananas420: alhmadulillah! u r very pretty and so is ur script. and nice hijab talibananas420: did not expect to see that much more than ur hand.

607hXpr0ph37355: so u don’t think I should be fully covered? 607hXpr0ph37355: unseen much less heard and all that shit talibananas420: yo I learned islam in prison not the desert talibananas420: so not too strict about it talibananas420: besides the whole holy war part

607hXpr0ph37355: lol same here. while my family is all abt like ‘islam is peace’ and jazz and selling bean pies. 607hXpr0ph37355: at our mosque the imam preaches against jihad all nervous and we roll our eyes. or I do anyway 607hXpr0ph37355: bcz I think he thinks there are homeland security spies and shit like that, constant PR act 607hXpr0ph37355: but fuck him and fuck them too bcz I realized recently holy war is the second coolest part of the whole thing 607hXpr0ph37355: besides the illumination. ftw talibananas420: have you shed blood for allah yet baby

607hXpr0ph37355: wow. 607hXpr0ph37355: way to not ask me specifically how I realized greatness of jihad. like I have stories u kno 607hXpr0ph37355: and no I am a virgin. 607hXpr0ph37355: when I do go live tho I want it to be big enough to fuck shit up, not some bullshit cop stabbing that I fail at anyway and get caught on like gas station camera talibananas420: w/e u do u should get it on camera anyway talibananas420: u would look good on a rampage

607hXpr0ph37355: thank u!!! lol im wearing a lot less makeup than usual in that pic by the way 607hXpr0ph37355: I have school play coming up and the director told me not to put on so much but all the other girls have to so they look more like I do normally lol. they are all jealous I got a leading role 607hXpr0ph37355: but its not just that I’m hotter than them on stage 607hXpr0ph37355: I can memorize lines like crazy from learning so many surahs. 607hXpr0ph37355: shit im actually late to this rehearsal talibananas420: would rather see u in full burqa than any more makeup than that tbh sister. natty is halal talibananas420: but whats the play and whats ur part.

607hXpr0ph37355: um he wrote it called ‘massacre at le cap’ 607hXpr0ph37355: supposed to act out Haitian revolution. I

play mulatto whore matron who gets her girls to slaughter French and creole masters. 607hXpr0ph37355: so like they all wear a lot of makeup lol but we wash it off for last scene where everyone is hiding in forest and starving to death talibananas420: that is pretty serious for high school play talibananas420: u mean like its abt touissant l’ouverture? jah bless

607hXpr0ph37355: yea! but like not just him u kno 607hXpr0ph37355: lol its crazy. or bananas as u would say 607hXpr0ph37355: theres actually a bunch of banana picker characters in this play lol 607hXpr0ph37355: and wtf u mean saying jah bless! gtfo 607hXpr0ph37355: pretty sure how it works is u only get to pick 1 god talibananas420: I mean do u pick only 1 banana? talibananas420: I fuck w/ voodoo too speaking of Haiti. but yea overall u could call me like a rasta Wahhabi lol talibananas420: basically syncretic hater of rich white Christian institutional hypocrisy. belief it can only be undone by jihad and weed.

607hXpr0ph37355: oh coool. I don’t smoke but def into jihad 607hXpr0ph37355: bcz it comes from the desert. which is like just huge hot sheets of nobody, fucking love that whole idea. purest hatred and inspiration evolved for utter motherfucking survival 607hXpr0ph37355: but also like im kind of a pagan bcz the least we can do for nature now is quit pretending it’s our bitch. want to make it up to the world not people 607hXpr0ph37355: and like we should just let old school natural spirit replace cracking fucking mask we wear to show off prosperity and genius to world around us 607hXpr0ph37355: if everythings gotta go we might as well waste all teh last flowers wearing them. u know what I mean. talibananas420: yea treat what’s left of jah-allah’s creation like we love it. pull or burn out all the rot and bad weed we can talibananas420: praised be the shadowy ways of ur fiery mind. fitting mine so well

607hXpr0ph37355: ew weirdo 607hXpr0ph37355: do u have something serious to say to me bcz if not I gotta go to the auditorium now. sing some weird song abt the 128 grades of mulatto the French came up with. 607hXpr0ph37355: director is white guy like u lol. it is fun tho talibananas420: sounds like a masterpiece. can I see it and meet u? talibananas420: u are first encrypted friend I have made.

607hXpr0ph37355: I mean im not on this thing to bull shit 607hXpr0ph37355: rlly fuckin pissed at everyone and wish I could sodomize them all but that would be tedious af. 607hXpr0ph37355: so if u have a way of getting me to work for mujahedeen plz do come tell me all abt it 607hXpr0ph37355: r u on east coast. talibananas420: yes! rest my head in NJ talibananas420: prettyugly little town cant wait to see it purged of gluttonous American urges talibananas420: when all teh darul kaffur loses weight it will have to be a lot at once

607hXpr0ph37355: I cant wait either and btw ur kind of close to me! im warning u tho u better not be bullshit artist ass hole 607hXpr0ph37355: and if ur a cop let me point out I have not mentioned any kind of material conspiracy im just shit talking. its what my school therapist calls violent ideation 607hXpr0ph37355: so fuck off 607hXpr0ph37355: unless ur not a cop. in which case yea see our play. supposed to be june 8 thru 10 but u should check out opening night bcz we will probably be booed off stage and the dumb parents will be screaming abt decency/lawyers etc. 3 scenes in 607hXpr0ph37355: going to be a cluster fuck 607hXpr0ph37355: and probably make action news

talibananas420: hard core. break a leg

607hXpr0ph37355: yea apparently the director who is like not even a teacher at the school he is an outside contractor demanded nobody not even teh principal be allowed to sit and observe rehearsals. like 5 parents have pulled their kids so far bc of material 607hXpr0ph37355: I go to Quaker charter school they are a little squeamish and pc talibananas420: lol I see u want chaotic disturbance to finish off secret process u r enjoying.

607hXpr0ph37355: well yea ‘straight path of the messenger’ duh 607hXpr0ph37355: and I graduate soon. its fitting talibananas420: truly jah/allah sent u to me to fight talibananas420: u and I can do great things together in war on greasy dumb American decadence

607hXpr0ph37355: u are bombastic af. I like it tho tells me u had hard times and now strong crazy serious desire. 607hXpr0ph37355: anyway my school is at berks and bodine streets in north philadelphia talibananas420: alhmadulillah! near my old stomping grounds talibananas420: r.i.p. my man i-shazz talibananas420: hope u dont live too far north of there or east of frankford talibananas420: stressful place for any body but esp young sayyida. Kensington got problems all over thru and thru like demonic infection to broken bottle bone.

607hXpr0ph37355: I dont even ever cross front st. 607hXpr0ph37355: my aunt’s house is way west of there anyway 607hXpr0ph37355: I get bussed. semi-orphan btw talibananas420: alshshafaqa! figured it was lonely rage that brought u to jihad so young. of some kind talibananas420: even if u have family problems tho and resent poverty on ur block I hope u do not aspire to kill in area w low white population. jihad is best demonstrated downtown

607hXpr0ph37355: aren’t u white lol. I guess ur tats aren’t talibananas420: my biologic parents r white yea. but we were only family on our block in powelton not black. talibananas420: they raised me to hate establishment distrust authority etc. turned around on their burned out hippie heads when I left home at 16. went across town to gang bang in kenzo. be the be$t degenerate

607hXpr0ph37355: hmm I have lived all over PA but been in philly only since 9th grade. and am disappointed all the muslims here do not aspire to holy war. like they take to heart the name white people gave this place after they stole it, city of brotherly love like it’s just a name! talibananas420: I kno all abt that. when I lived in kenzo I had friends who talked all abt loyalty and the sake of the crew and all that but when it came time for tribulations every one of them turned or split

607hXpr0ph37355: its heartbreaking right. like teh dumb crack in the shitty shitpot so-called liberty bell talibananas420: mhm yea. I turned to religion in prison bcz I was sick of every body I meet accepting the cop out idea that community is an illusion and false aspiration. bcz under jah/allah’s watch brotherhood feels real talibananas420: agree w/ u that city of brotherly love is short on apt hatred. I kno for a fact tho and u kno what I mean it is overflowing w/ resentment talibananas420: the worse the world gets the more it might be converted. u get me?

607hXpr0ph37355: ugh I rlly have to go now sheik daddy 607hXpr0ph37355: but yes I think poor people here as any where like in Haiti they have stifled blood lust. 607hXpr0ph37355: pm me sometime or else ill just see u at

my school play 607hXpr0ph37355: and plz don’t be afraid to approach me in front of people.

––You’re kicking me out! shaking his head ––Just for telling some girls what I like about them, and it’s incredible! that you don’t even know I sold this fucking building to your land lord in the first place. . . with gratuitous noisy dry empty drink sips, his tequila beef broth gone ––You know what? he wanted to turn this property into apartments, but I said fuck that let some bar take a shot at a two-level floor plan, brew beer in the basement and run their discreet little hostel upstairs, and that’s exactly what you hey! come on don’t make me sue you for battery; I mean what the hell you call these limp nerds bar goons anyway? guy looks like most exercise he gets is pressing fruit juice. ––Big shot real estate investor huh? letting him go but with two young bar hands crowding the guy so his only way out would now be backward into Front Street ––You’re full of shit migo why would you take a step down to come drink up here huh. ––Yeah! more censure, shoving on the hot night air ––like shouldn’t you be down in Society Hill or Point Breeze sniffing molly with other greedy developers bro? ––I should yes, checking flippantly his phone lit up like it’s important ––But I had to meet a prospective client here and. . . ––Who! I want him the fuck out of here too, to the two unbullylike barbacks on either side of him, while musing to himself that this pale young incorrigible prick would have had his glasses broken and a tooth or two loose now if this was the first place he ran way back in the day ––Go find somebody who looks like they would associate with asshole here other than girls so drunk they can barely stand, who by the way you need to call cabs, put it on their or their boyfriends’ or girlfriends’ tabs, get them out of here! ––Well my guy hasn’t shown up yet, lighting a small cigar flashing watchband, lighter case ––he’s offensively late, so maybe I felt like sitting on my ass and getting drunk waiting! while he’s probably imposing penetration on some high school fan girl who knows him by the same name you do, exhaling tentacled pluming clean white smoke seeming to claim superiority, more purity more complex compared to surrounding teeming urbosphere shot through with train scrapings, reactive dreams garnished against life’s liens. ––You mean Cody K! that’s who you came here to see? the renter bar owner spitting shaking his head ––Cody fucking K goddamn it, running around already with hipster swindlers like this? shit at least when he’s with his sycophants he can pretend like they do to have a sense of humor. Elevated rail thrust coming past effaces the despised young entrepreneur’s derisive unresponsive laugh; overhead screaming fading in dipping steel-ring pitch, he says ––Yeah you know what I mean. ––Speak of the devil, the veteran barman grumbling, stopping along with iron wheels rolling scraping above and behind, up to and halting at their next station ––What is he! President of the Degenerate Confederacy? referring to the rolling bus-long bodyguard of fixed-speed bicycles enshrining a long-haired rider at its center –– Motherfucker! seeing the mass kick into park ––Ten thousand spoiled white life-tards download his goofy little song about jerking off to a high school yearbook from somewhere he’s never been and he starts to think he can just start bringing scum like this around my bar and… ––Hey! chorusing forth from cyclists decamping. ––No kids I mean this guy, nodding with an elbow toward young lot-flip lord stood astatically impetuous and texting ––not the other drunk scum I’m used to seeing here. . . ––Cody K! man of the hour, the realtor in one motion pocketing his phone and offering his other hand to shake the one before him skeletal tanned tattooed and braceleted ––boy wonder of the least rocking rock-and-roll scene since P-Three, Peoria Presbyterian Punk for those of you who don’t remem. . . ––Yo man I like some P-Three bands, grumbling from among the bicycles. ––…there goes the neighborhood! here comes that understated guitar and that cute shy shitty gibberish singing, cackling stroking the stoned bewildered perpetual college- sophomore songwriter’s arbitrarily dreaded locks ––. . . fashionably late in every thing except premature semi-stardom, that came nice and early didn’t it, cackling cold gin breath onto platinum-stemmed eyeglasses he cleans with shirttail ––Jesus fucking Christ Cody K like do you know how helpless you look? no experience, not a whit, doing useful industry shit, not working in a studio, not arranging someone else’s song, nothing, so when you lose your good looks people on the Internet will have no use for you, because you just can’t advance out of this ridiculous hipster playground environment, and who the fuck would hire you for a guitar player! or a singer. . . looking over at stoic Puerto Rican bar owner, hoping vaguely he can share a moment of derision with the guy but he just stands there shaking properly cropped head checking his phone like the kids do; ecstatically the realtor continues ––What’s your band called again? The Butt Plug Nugs? Want to check out a real rock star look up Scott Willig, my idol, the as-is-where-is derelict house hustler of Houston. Listen kid, you’re not a lingam or a juggernaut, you’re not shit on Shiva’s ass! you’re too dumb to know when Satan’s tickling your balls; now come on Cody let’s do business. . . ––Um. . . Cody K withdrawing strumming hand stroking off-brow oil-slick wisps of his hair ––so like, you’re Dominic? ––Yeah no shit kid come on I’m calling a cab, want to take you to a real bar. . . ––Cody. . . the owner of this one here approaching unflinching the squinting dim dream-boat station-wagon stable-suburban expatriate artist ––I swear to fucking ass hole ball buster God above if you go with this guy it’s game over and I won’t give a shit no more, no more free drinks or weekly open mics that you headline, no holiday shows or

23 lame so-called secret shows, no more here ever Cody fucking K! putting the messy back in Messiah, keeping the stink in hipster. . . ––I should go back in and make drinks I think Wiz. . . one younger bar hand shuffling uncomfortably. ––And I think you’re fucking fired if you let our little friend leave with hot shot shit nuts here, flailing at the young land banker now drunkenly worrying through his wallet ––Yeah pal I think you have your cab fare there don’t worry. . . Cody I’m serious why don’t you just stay and have a good time, maybe one of your two useless friends here, the worst bouncers ever by the way and pretty terrible bartenders very untalkative but, by this time of night they probably already let a twelfth grade girl or two in already for you so you can be adored tonight and not have to do your piss pot sort of singing or even say shit to earn it, oh I’m sorry should I not have said any of that in front of all your friends? or does it not matter since you know how to recruit so many more, make them all so cool at a touch. . . clearing his throat, leaning over aging knees ––Cody you’re an idiot but scum like him just ain’t your kind, come on inside and ruin your pancreas a little, maybe treat us to a surprise set of new songs about capital gains and I-R-A’s, I mean what the fuck is this fuck here to talk to you about? you buying up some lofts for all your utopian musician buddies? change them old Underwear Factory apartments into some hit-factory paradise of laziness? ––Damn dude that’s a good idea, Cody K unironic nodding like a lighter flame. ––Wish I could get my hands on one of those factory lofts, Dominic nodding too now almost reverent ––Definitely wouldn’t be renovating to sell them to Cody fucking K here though, would make them as unloftlike as possible, sell it off to someone who could turn em into real, hiccupping and flushing ––excuse me, real condominia. . . you guys have no fucking idea who I am, like I make everywhere I make my mark much fucking prettier. ––And more expensive! the barman arguing ––more boring, less family. . . ––Yo yeah uhh Dominic, Cody apparently sleepy already ––like I think I’m just going to chill and kick it here man, I guess you got kicked out for whatever but you could hit me up tomorrow? ––You kept me waiting as long as a double fucking feature porno Cody K fuck you, hang on! Dominic yelling to his waiting taxi just pulled up, driver already honking, maybe at the loathsome flock of bicyclists with funny hair cuts made funnier by helmets confusing him just standing there, Dominic guesses. ––Forget it dip shit your nice private new-construction studio for your fake record-label headquarters or whatever won’t be disturbing the good neighbors at Coral and East Berks, that building is going to either some crazy Christians or some crazy Muslims, I’ve got bidders on both sides both want to turn it into a wholesome community center where your pot-smoking douche-bag friends would be smote on sight; frankly I don’t think you have the kind of cash on hand that they do, kind of doubt you’ve even got the balance sheets for your so-called L-L-C inside that little all-pinned-up messenger bag there which by the way seems to have some leather embellishments, aren’t you supposed to be a model vegan? how old are you now, twenty two? yeah that’s what I thought I give you until thirty three, anyway I’m drunk and therefore thinking clearer now than earlier today when I agreed to meet and hear your bid here tonight; I was coked up and you probably were too so let’s just let bygones be bygones and shut up! hang on a minute damn it I’ll be gone now, Dominic sidling creeping and gropingly through the little crowd of Cody K’s closest nose-ringed associates ––So long to the helmet head herpes herd! I’m going to go get my dick fondued and think about which God to sell that property to when it’s ready. . . Every body feels awkward, almost anhedonic, while the bar owner fumes faking taking a call; meanwhile not Cody nor his biker nor bouncer pals find words for the drunk young perfect-toothed shark just departed other than dick head and ass hole.

TOP SECRET –– NOFORN –– NODIS

DATE: 6/6/12 16:44 SENDER: [email protected] RECIPIENTS: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] bcc: [email protected] [26 attachments]

Gentlemen, and Ms. Butcher: My apologies for the delay, many of you expected this message as long as a month ago; but some of you I only very recently reached out to, and I must note that I wanted all my contacts outside Homeland Security well-established, and certain fundamental intel, relevant to each and all of us, better clarified, before I could feel comfortable stepping this conversation into the light of interagency collaboration. But, facts being now concrete enough, mostly due to anecdote, but also somewhat a burgeoning rote investigation, my office and I can confidently show now the shadow of a disturbing policing trend which I have described to each of you already in turn; I welcome and encourage any ideas any of you might have on appropriate procedure henceforward. Before I begin this report, let me first lower some eyebrows: one of us, as you can all see above, is not a Federal employee but a Mister Forker of the Philadelphia Police Department, who still holds a security clearance from

25 his days in the Navy, and now works as a liaison between that great city and certain homeland-security elements of USG; his record, reputation and patriotism all being unimpeachable, please welcome him as an essential asset to this team and its puzzling undertaking. Presented below with some light hypothesizing of mine, this rough intel comes to you distilled from six months of cursory but furious inquiry, following the courteous interagency sharing of a curious piece of information, one pungent of rumor but plausible enough to arouse my office’s attention, thrown over to us by the DEA after their interrogation of a Camden NJ drug dealer named Hernan Cuzco (recently and mysteriously deceased –– see attachment 1) who, looking at twenty-five to life, coughed up every thing he thought he knew, any thing that at all sounded sensational or useful (those two qualities strikingly confused in Mr. Cuzco’s young mind –– see his epic deposition in attachment 2): According to Cuzco, elements of a certain NJ police department, Mt. Boucher, have in the past year taken up the nasty practice of staking out mostly outdoor job sites staffed by foreign (Latino) workers, whom they apparently suspected of being undocumented (and, I bite my tongue, to their professional credit, perhaps, in most observed instance of this peculiar sport’s performance, the targeted businesses were indeed mostly staffed with undocumented noncitizens; however, some personnel were lawfully here in USA on H-visas, green cards, etc.) and, later, at quitting time, tailing, in unmarked cars, the oblivious young men, going home from work, into Camden, and finding out their houses and families, all to simply drive straight back to Mt. Boucher with the addresses written down; Cuzco further insinuated that these adventurous predetective delinquents would somehow profit off the information taken from these unsanctioned urban intrusion excursions; according to him, from the above-mentioned inner-city addresses, the adult male family men seen at work not so long ago would consistently mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night, and valuables were always stolen, lesser property broken, the women tied up, etc (see summary of rumored incidents which occurred prior to the start of our investigation, attachments 3-9). Upon being asked how he had come by this disturbing information (allow me to qualify that subjective adjective, the use of which I do not find unprofessional here: regardless of all our respective politics or positions on immigration, this present investigation is predicated on a justifiable alarm at lower law enforcement going so grossly above and beyond sanctioned responsibilities, whether out of some venal calumny or perverted sense of civic duty; their inflated perception of delegated authority ought to worry us and all our respective offices), Cuzco claimed that a certain rookie officer on the Mt. Boucher force, one James Cochley, had been a mole of his own all through the Academy, and, once on the squad, a courier and escort for operatives of Cuzco’s distribution network in and around Mt. Boucher, supplied him information on the overzealous police practice. According to Cuzco, Cochley, once within the Department, was approached and offered a piece of the action, in this cowardly sport of illegal immigrant- tracking; Cuzco’s young corrupt officer, white but raised in a heavily Hispanic neighborhood of Trenton, was reportedly horrified by his first (merely curious) ride-along on such an extracurricular poaching operation, and, later that night (after enduring, under apparent peer pressure, a long drinking session with several of his young colleagues, all of them privy to the terrible side-job pursuit), Cochley drove drunk back to Camden by himself and, in a fit of disturbing-the-peace, woke up everybody in that crowded house (for the address of which he was offered a portion of a cash reward; he refused) in an apparent attempt to warn them their freedom was in danger. Unfortunately for Cochley, that family was too afraid and surprised by the white stranger’s late-night visit to answer their door, while the captain of their block, a known worrywart catnapper, woke up at the commotion and called the police, a measure surely nobody in a house full of undocumented Hondurans desired taken, holed up in a small city far too chaotic to commit itself to any policy of Sanctuary. Fortunately for Officer Cochley, he was not booked on any charges, and fortunately for the Honduran family the responding Camden policemen did not bother to knock up and talk to those frightened residents, who perhaps they assumed were sound asleep or not at all at home, nor to follow up and contact that household later that morning, so awkward

27 conversation was averted; however, Camden Police did refer the incident to Mt. Boucher Police, who swiftly moved to suspend the unfortunate Cochley indefinitely. My office was dismayed, though Cuzco was apparently not surprised (see later interview with him, attachment 10) to hear that Cochley was one week later found bloody, mangled and blue behind the wheel of his truck, after an apparent drunken bender, a depressed kind of joy ride; a red plastic cup was found in one of the holders, and a handle of whiskey empty on the late young corrupt cop’s floor mat. The reason the DEA passed all this alarming information first to my office at DHS, rather than to Justice, ICE, or any of your other estimable Departments, is that we at Homeland Security enjoy, thanks to our antiterrorism cash grants, and shipments of high-end and/or bad-ass materiel, the most goodwill of any Federal agency among municipal police departments across the country; so, we arranged with NJ state police, without much particular pretext (thanks to aforementioned good will) that I wear one of their uniforms, assume a State Trooper title and be attached to the Mt. Boucher force for a purported short-term investigation into (what else?) the presence of criminal illegal immigrants in the area. Whenever I was introduced to a fellow Mt. Boucher lawman over the following month, I made a point of insisting that he share with me whatever suspicions he might hold about local foreigners hiding in or out of plain sight; most of these cops did hold (racist/paranoid/fantastic) suspicions but had no concrete leads. And none of them liked to talk about Cochley (who they have since found out was a criminal mole, a fact they have vigorously suppressed from public exposure). My fifth day ‘on the job’ I followed one of the rookie officers on his lunch break not to a bar or deli but a large gated estate being landscaped by Hispanics, just like Cuzco had alleged; overexcited, I made the mistake of surprising prematurely the young man in his patrol car, to ask him what he was staring at, and he replied, rather clumsily, that a burglary ring had been at work in the area, that its operatives were “some kind of Mexicans, maybe from Honduras”, and that he was there to make sure from afar that all the gardeners had their eyes on the work and not the house. I pointed out to the young man that this contradicted his direct claim to me two days prior that he had no idea where any aliens were; he offered me the unfortunate retort that this was a special confidential assignment from the chief of the Mt. Boucher force himself. I asked him if this assignment was for him alone, pointing out that such sensitive and specialized police work was generally delegated to teams of experienced hands, and not freshman officers barely old enough to drink; he stammered something about how he knew what he was doing, and I informed him I was about to go talk to his chief myself. Flustered and possibly hopped-up on steroids, the young policeman started to expostulate, with expletives, that State Troopers are always interfering in local police work; I shrugged and stated I did not appreciate his choice of words but did take the allegation seriously, and that I would ask his friends and supervisors also about other instances of NJ state police interfering with strictly-Mt. Boucher police operations, pointing out as well to the young man, who looked by then like he wanted to tear his hair out (except that it was martially cropped to a thin sweaty fuzz) that it might in fact be him interfering with a State operation, not the other way around, and that I would get to the bottom of the matter. By the end of that afternoon, the nosy hot-head rookie cop was reprimanded for overextending his lunch, and I was made to feel utterly unwelcome in every corner of their oversized station; the chief assured me that the young man’s story about a special assignment concerning immigration was a fabrication, meant to, he surmised, impress me, and maybe get his name put ahead on a list of young lawmen trying to make Trooper. I suggested to the chief that his theory did not quite hold water, as the young man had been utterly surprised and appalled to see me observing his work; without mentioning Cuzco or Cochley or being otherwise too obvious, I suggested maybe my recent arrival and stated mission had actually inspired the rambunctious young members of his force to let a spirit of imaginative vigilantism flare up and interfere with their rather easy routine assignments (however, I slightly misspoke in saying so: the chief pointed out I had no reason to suspect any others besides the officer in question of pursuing such extracurricular spying; he said, or fumed, rightly, that was a very serious allegation, and that he took umbrage to my attitude, but he

29 seemed in no hurry to call my ‘supervisors’ at State Police to complain). Thereafter, I had no luck in catching any Mt. Boucher lawmen lurking on more lawn or construction jobs, as, I assume, the illegal practice was put on hold until I might leave them all alone again. I spent my days instead visiting every possible place I could in the area where I might find undocumented workers, and asking the supervisors of those job sites whether any of their employees had suddenly disappeared recently; some refused to cooperate at all, telling me I had no business there with them, but most did admit, without using the incriminating word “deported”, that, yes, a hand or two of theirs had mysteriously vanished in recent months. Out of this series of interviews, I managed to compile a handful of addresses, of houses wherefrom these workers had vanished, and where I visited; the stories their families shared with me, when not too scared to talk, sounded remarkably similar (middle of the night, sudden noises, hooded men with flashlights, husbands, fathers and brothers robbed from their families) but yielded hardly any thing material in the way of a lead, although two strange details took and held my attention while I went through the little list of violated row homes:

1- Some of the disappeared workers lived as far north as Yonkers NY, and south as Bear DE, far outside the jurisdiction of the Mt. Boucher force; this suggested to me that the xenophobic poaching practice, while it might have inspired the young policemen I met to follow their preys as near afield as Camden or Trenton, may have also inspired them to out-source the work to other police departments, perhaps through a Klan-like network.

2- In requested documents kindly provided me by ICE concerning these shadily raided urban addresses, I found little mention of suspected alien residency behind their particular doors, and nothing about any kind of planned operations against them, nor anything about audits against landlords of those houses who may have knowingly rented to illegal immigrants; so, whomever for the Mt. Boucher boys did their bounty hunting (besides those most insistent proprietors, their own violent desires) they were certainly not interested in legitimate Customs enforcement (how specifically aware the young policemen are that they are being deceived and exploited is a secondary focus of our investigation).

About a week after I finished my rounds of interviews with the lawn-job bosses and construction foremen who had employed the disappeared foreigners, one of them, who seemed to trust me especially, called me and complained that another two of his men had just disappeared from the face of the Earth, two days into a job on a large quiet wooded property twenty minutes northwest of Mt. Boucher; as I had lately been away from that station, less visible to my hostile municipal hosts, the practice of staking out alien- staffed job sites had resumed, but at a cautious distance from wherever the brash young men thought I might make my own rounds. Thereafter I spent my shifts trailing Mt. Boucher cops again, all of whom I discovered to at least be lazy and shirking duties, but only one of whom led me out to another gardening gig starring Spanish-speaking grunts; I discovered quickly that day I had myself been followed, and, all that afternoon, rather than documenting the juvenile fanatical conduct done on the public-funded clock, I spent taking heat from two creepy priapic young cops, and angry calls from their superiors, as well as my fake ones at State Police and my real ones at Homeland Security (see attachments 11 and 12 for ridiculous incident reports). My tenure as an honorary NJ State Trooper and Mt. Boucher patrolman then ended rapidly; nobody wanted that odd awkward controversy on his cluttered desk or his guilty conscience. As you all probably (are allowed to) know, an important aspect of Homeland Security’s ambitious Contiguous American Rural and Suburban Police Oversight and Monitoring Program (CARSPOMP), pursuant to NSPD-51, is its liaison component, meant to facilitate us at DHS sharing intelligence and funds, and jointly running programs, with other Federal agencies, as well as the National Guard and major urban police departments; this collaboration occurs under the

FEMA-chaired umbrella initiatives called Continuity of Government (COG), Continued Operations Planning (COOP) and Climate Change Contingency Planning (CCCP), our country’s most crucial (and best-funded) counter-Armageddon preparatory campaigns / super-emergency communications networks. The local overseer of CARSPOMP (whose identity I do not know) fortunately approved continued funding for my inquiry into the on-and-off-duty police hobby of tracking (to locations outside their jurisdictions) and kidnapping (for, purportedly, pay) undocumented foreign young adult male workers, after the Mt. Boucher debacle which resulted in a harrowing audit of my work (see attachment 13); my immediate boss, a direct confidante of the aforementioned mysterious CARSPOMP showrunner, assured me recently that if I could expand my investigation to include other smaller police departments, and survey other immigrant-staffed job sites likely to be targeted for illicit spying (Mr. Quigley, please see attachment 14 for full set of photocopied business cards from all these concerned job sites; I know your team isn’t chickenshit enough to be interested itself, but you could pass or force it on some underperforming field offices), and if I could pinpoint at least three other localities, besides Mt. Boucher, where Cuzco’s allegations proved true, I would receive fuller benefits under COG-COOP- CCCP umbrellahood, starting with a big list of liaison contacts. And thus I did, and thus this e-mail. After my past few better-funded months, attached to, and under cover of, first, the Delaware and, now, the Pennsylvania, State Police forces, I can accuse, with confidence, members of at least the following local-level law-enforcement stations of this unordered, unsanctioned and unlawful (though not necessarily uncondoned [a major concern]) sport of foreigner-stalking:

-Achtu-Allanque, PA -Shackahocken, PA -Biddleboro, PA -Bird Furnace, PA -Conrad Quarry, PA -Smyth Corner, DE -Sagamore, DE -Claymore Bay, DE -Peerless, DE -Mt. Boucher, NJ.

So far, every body, starting with my immediate colleagues, has balked at the idea of subpoenaing these police departments, much less making formal complaints against them, or bringing this affair to the light of taxpayer hysteria, nor has anybody authorized me to intervene against these illegal raids (by, for example, simply sitting on those crowded homes with a team of State Troopers); one hand on this leash is the perplexing fact that none of the policemen observed participating in these antialien stakeouts actually did the subsequent burgling and kidnapping themselves: in all documented cases (see attachments 15-24), I followed the buzzcut young zealots all evening long following those days I spied them spying, to their homes, and to, invariably, the bars, where they all got pink-eyed piss-drunk (the stake-outs being, curiously, a primarily Friday activity) and I would sit on them until the next day dawned, and, also invariably, when I was empirically sure that these rowdy cops had not actually gone out and personally stripped those harried families of their cash boxes and bread-winningest bodies, I raced to those same addresses and found, every time, that the previous night the house had indeed been victimized in the ways already described. Finally, thanks to the insistent and erudite petitioning of Captain Forker, Homeland Security and the Philadelphia Police Department will soon conduct a secret joint operation in which city police will intervene against an impending abduction of this nature (on the condition, of course, at your insistence, Mr. Quigley, that renter/landlord information on these properties be turned over to ICE), while I will persist in following some creepy young suburban cops to, most likely, a fake-Irish sports-bar crawl; of course, the day I next observe a quasi-official alien stakeout which leads me into Philadelphia city limits (wherein I am currently stationed as a fake State Trooper) all of you will be contacted, notified and kept updated, and, if the red tape is not too tangled to cut, the first overt audits, to be drawn up under CARSPOMP, of the police departments employing the rogue foreigner-shadowing officers, will be filed, and the first charges of misconduct brought forth. Frustrated as I have found myself, in reflection on the peculiar motives (cynical, racist or quasi-rebellious) behind this cruel and unusual spy game, played by an already-alarming number of irresponsible young American lawmen, and as distressing as I find what I see as its three

33 salient mysteries (first, why and to what extent do commanding officers at municipal police departments not notice, or, far worse, do they tolerate, the unofficial anti-immigration actions taken on and off duty by such low- ranked fresh-faced policemen?; second, are the participant cops being, as alleged by Cuzco, paid for these operations? and, if so, by whom?; and, third, most worrisome, as it is the least explored facet, what is the extent of this anti- Hispanic sport of predation, outside the tri-state Philadelphia metropolitan area? [CARSPOMP ought to fund a national-level investigation]), I, repeatedly, over the last six months, begged my superiors to authorize me to any kind of material intervention, to ease my bureaucratized conscience; but we only very recently found a solution, one simple and low-risk, yet surprisingly satisfying, at least as a temporary, or peripheral, measure, against all this rank and rotten insubordination: As you all probably (are allowed to) know, a main objective of the FEMA & Friends COG/COOP/CCCP training protocol is preparing law enforcement officers for urban security in the event of an ecological catastrophe, or of a nuclear decapitation strike against USG; specifically, from the CARSPOMP budget, my office at DHS oversees a secret “ride-along” training program which pays rural and suburban policemen/women time-and-a-half to assist big-city police departments in routine patrols, investigations or even major drug raids, a program devised to comply with both FEMA’s mandates for COG/COOP/CCCP catastrophe preparedness, and its controversial policy of National Emergency Contingent Enforced Systematic Supervised Integration of Vulnerable Alien Populations (NECESSIVAP, a rather sour oath around your office, I hear, Quigley), and with the CARSPOMP mandate concerning “compassionate policing” (a main objective as well of NECESSIVAP). So, now, I enjoy the authority, under PA State Police and DHS-liaison aegis, to directly recruit any police officer ranked sergeant or below, on any force in PA, NJ or DE, for proud and high-paid invitational training as guests of the Philadelphia Police Department, an offer neither they nor their superiors may refuse (under threat of grant- austerity, naturally). Now we can, hopefully, instill more urban values of human worth into these wrongheaded young men, most of whom have military experience, and many may PTSD; failing that, at least with conscripted service alongside city police (every body sworn to secrecy about the whole thing, of course) we may eat away at time (particularly the infamous Friday shift) these gentlemen might otherwise devote to hounding vulnerable foreigners out of the house and home they hope to make propitious and positively formative for their potentially better-educated and, ideally, less-terrorized, children. While FEMA tends to couch its language about NECESSIVAP in terms of “the convenience of compassion”, DHS prefers that its young conscripts into the COG/COOP/CCCP training shuffle be convinced, to the contrary, that their primary function in emergency or catastrophe scenarios is hard-nosed sniffing-out of looters, bandits and terrorists; however, training scenarios demanding compassionate action (e.g.: rescuing Mexican baby from bomb wreckage, helping separated family members find each other amid hysterical crowds, etc.) do follow hard upon initial spot-the-drug-lord-type exercises designed to ease the red-blooded young men into a serious ‘endgame’ civic service mentality. So, to conclude, for now, let me add that an expanded inquiry, into this unacceptable bored-cop hobby, ought to include footwork from all our involved agencies, towards recruiting, into sensitivity training, our country’s more suspect neoconservative young law-enforcement officers, especially exmilitary with PTSD; see attachment 25 for the case of my most recent ‘ride-along’ conscript, one officer Brock McCrank of the spoiled sleepy Upper Middle Merion Police Department, which jurisdiction borders Philadelphia to the West (McCrank himself has not been observed staking out landscaping crews for potential illegal aliens, but a particular incident of overreach and outright hostility [see attachment 26] recently convinced me that CARSPOMP and NECESSIVAP recruitment of underworked policemen into urban- sensitivity training ought to be in some instances preemptive [arguments that I myself am guilty of overreach, such as in this case of McCrank, are welcome; my office wishes all aspects of COOP/CCCP and CARSPOMP/NECESSIVAP be brought up to the light of interagency bickering {or, preferably, debate}]). Again, this disturbing trend, first exposed in a routine DEA interrogation, now warrants intensified, broadened and higher top-down investigation; every person

35 reading this message, and all your closest colleagues, understand the stakes for this country going forward, and how we need every arm of the law rigidly ready to deal with coming mayhem peacefully and efficaciously, which is to say inclusively and with compassion, without risking inflaming, in disenfranchised populations, the will to burn our country out of history.

Please advise, Henry M. Rotte Special Investigator Department of Homeland Security

Lights dim unnervingly enhancing scattered whimpers of infants coasting air- conditioner roar as auditorium walls assume preternatural condensation, people sweating unstill in their seats; other lights ahead undim above a huddled shuffling choreographed mass of backs arched apparently farmingly; programmed sound-effects of distant cannon- shot summon most of the bunch to their bare feet. ––Surprise attack! followers of Ogé! our cousins in voodoo! chorusing forth in slight asynchrony, a compound juvenile trailing-off ––. . . here to liberate us wretched Negroes! to groaning already coming from small pockets of parents in the audience, and frantic reactive direction from a bearded young maniac running back and forth in front of the stage, too tall to do so inconspicuously. ––We hear that in France they take the heads of the oppressors, one shirtless worker boy rasping in limited baritone ––Here on San Domingo we take their whole flesh, another stumbling student-actor half-singing ––and salt it! singing nearly merrily ––so we may savor our victory. ––Get back to work! an overseer and team arriving ––Don’t you dare put your pissant faith in false fire; the blasts you all hear with your ungrateful fantastical ears mark not freedom from work and shelter but announce the demise of those criminal Negro guerillas shitting in our pretty island’s verdant woods. . . Muddied by shoddy multichannel audio mixing, in a room already a sonic ordeal, the accompanying music intensifies, electronic sequencers and prerecorded prepared piano pounding away against the overbright bite of a live acoustic guitar pushing through piezo pickup into PA system; fake blood flies up from a deadly phony rugby scrum, the rebels letting their territorial melodies devolve into savage screaming, the babies in the audience too. The whole scene hurries its anonymous self off stage to coughing and other audible discomfort, and another tableau now showing a starving piecemeal rifle corps supplants it; in and out of knife-staccato song, to sparse synthesized pigeon chirps and atonal plunks of traumatized guitar, sagging with their prop rifles (realistically heavy, also at the director’s insistence) the fewer newcomers to the drama start barking black- egalitarian rhetoric with anti-Spanish anti-French anti-Anglican spasms of vitriol, complaints of the violently confined soul simulated shrilly by these children of a mixed- face nation that was not particularly interested in the two-hundred twenty-some years- gone conflict here portrayed, except insofar as hearsay might have inspired its own unnaturally bound, brutally uprooted, brothers and sisters, to kill their masters too, take over their own democratically defended mansions and treasures. Just after the kids act out Ogé’s death by torture (for his bold foolish raid on lé Cap), and before the pretty proprietress of a disgruntled horde of young whores has uttered her first line, the riot starts; parents threaten to sue left and right, while their titillated children, younger siblings of the kids on stage (and all the less embarrassed by each contentious second passing) urge the drama quicker on, its bitterly shrill but catchy paeans to frustrated justice’s inner blood lust outwardly rewarded, and half the babies stop crying, utterly in thrall to the novel chaos of this world they barely recognize yet, recognizing less the distinction, tension between the strident student-and-stranger- fabricated world and the mature malcontented material world here facing each other before them. ––This ain’t teaching our kids shit! the shot heard round the auditorium, fading underneath smothering herd phonics ––just learning to get loud and scared, they could learn that out on the corner. . . ––Oh I don’t know, quiet pungent white guy still sat down with eyes dead center, projecting unperturbed reproach, despite the surrounding eruption and muffling effect of his overfull beard orange as the couple select lights left on onstage, whereon the full cast comes out off-cue and off-script, all the kids defiantly saying their lines and singing the songs, mashing scenes together bringing out at once all the props and scenery, enjoying this disaster far more than they did any of their seventeen rehearsals. ––Don’t shut it down! let the kids finish, the director protesting to a fat wheezing female assistant principal wagging a finger at him ––I mean come on they all worked hard, we haven’t even set fire to the plantations yet that’s the most important part it was Boukman’s signal for all the slaves to. . . ––Why you tryna tell us about plantations ass hole? an incensed male family member ––I knew this was some whack job bull shit from the beginning! this school really gone downhill like he don’t even work here. . . ––Please let’s keep this civil! the actual principal rubbing the fat shoulders of his fuming underling ––I hope you understand Mister MacCool, I am as of now very inclined to cancel both tomorrow night’s performance and the Sunday matinée. . . ––Oh come on it’s just crowded in here! arguing stumbling backward into the shrieking prancing mass of his cast, by a school cop shielding him ––I mean it’s so hot outside and so cold in here how can you not expect people to act shocked? ––Act shocked! assistant principal finding her voice ––the nerve you have Mister MacCool! this is a Quaker school for exceptional children from underprivileged families, you think they have time for this filth? ––But don’t they come here to be challenged? another white guy playing white devil’s advocate, packing up his filming gear protectively, with professional celerity,

37 withdrawing discreetly instead a handheld video camera ––like where would these kids have even learned about colonial San Domingo if not. . . ––Learning? I’m not so sure I’d call this disgusting production properly didactic Mister Kunders, the principal losing his cool, blocking with the school cop a set of stairs to the stage, the musical accompanist and the school’s sound man (not getting overtime for this shit) guarding the opposite flank ––I’m an educator sir! you’re a cameraman. . . ––Video artist actually, went to school too you know. ––Oh I’m sure you hey now people let’s not throw things on the stage! these are still your children after all, watching nervously while all the rules of auditorium decorum suffer upside-down contortion, all the bored little brothers and sisters of the performers whirling around and slamming doors fostering fresh carnival, furthering a head ache for him and attacking asthma in his fat adjutant ––It’s just sensationalism! and shameless, your friend Mister MacCool there might be a vigorous hey young man you know I see you Monday morning right? sit your ass down! anyway Mister Kunders, your friend is a far better showman than teacher but for a while I thought he was okay because he’s so much cheaper but now this oh sweet Jesus who brought a football! ––Yeah well that kid’s a better principal than you! MacCool indignant indicating his Chinese teenage Touissant, last character to emerge from the wings, upright in precocious posture, not for some peroration but to calmly recite military drill chants while all the kids around him continue to scramble roles, lines and songs: ––Let not the parasite with his grandiloquent white alibis lead us into a new prison! ––We can not bury all our sorrows like the so-called revolutionary French assemblies overseas bury our hard fate, what they blithely call the Colonial Question, under their heaps of laws on paper made from trees cut down by distant slaves like us! ––How can we find our restitution in this Colonial Question? ––When will the Revolution consider our dues! ––My blackness is not a rock! the rock is white, the rock shines with falsehood, as a basketball sneaker flies past the actor’s ear and its owner yells he wants it back ––My blackness is not a rock! unless it be that which smashes my pale master’s face in uh my, stuttering seeing several men rushing to attend the fainted fat assistant principal ––My blackness is not a rock! unless it be a flint to blow my master’s powder-magazine. . . ––White parasite! suffer our voodoo tonight. ––Boukman! Ogé! our great martyrs, grown great in the depleted but undefeated soil of our bare beggarly armies. ––. . . and see the point in the end is Touissant has a wife and he’s kind of just doing all this shit to impress her, young MacCool unperturbed ––. . . and it’s positive for the kids to see because like unlike the rest of San Domingo where any race or class, even among the slaves, every body practiced concubinage, but not Touissant so this play shows you how to like be a man and. . . ––Be a man! the principal in cold sweat alerted to the presence of a news crew unpacking ––MacCool what do you know about being a man when your punk ass demanded in the contract that no school staff or parents could sit in on the rehearsals! and when you changed so much of the original script you pitched us, you said it would just be about some slaves escaping one night, a brisk musical tragedy you promised you dishonest oh good Lord one of them must have run into the gym that’s all our damn footballs! is she okay, can she breathe? because I want her to talk to these news crews not me, I need to call the District asap. . . ––This MacCool bro’s phony up in here talking about positive influence! how to be a man? parents nearby pissed off chorusing scoffing ––My kid could have spent all that time in rehearsal doing this kind of violent porno bull shit on the Internet, comes the consensus. ––Why you let this weirdo white nerd bull put these kids on your stage? redirecting energetic bristle in ensemble towards the sweating principal ducking news crews ––like he obviously can’t relate to them or the shit they go through. ––Drama club sucks! drama club sucks! classmates of the slowly fleeing, or otherwise disappearing, performers, reciting ––Drama club sucks dick! drama club sucks dookie! to be or not to be a corny ass punk. . . ––This is all gold right? young musical accompanist hurrying up aside Kunders bagging up his last-resort camcorder ––Reese I know you can do all kinds of crazy shit with that footage! ––Crazy shit? yeah significant stuff maybe, with a sigh ––have to be careful though, not sure if the contract only lets me use their stupid underage faces strictly for a faithful shooting of the play or if I can take liberties, make a more abstract piece. . . ––I mean migo the kids were just taking liberties of their own you didn’t see? pushing a back exit door open ducking the basketball-sneakered double-kick of a kid swinging from window ledge to the tune of a harshly encouraging crew of other middle- schoolers urging him up to the roof ––Up on the roooof. . . the musician singing ––riiight smack dab in the middle of town I, wait Reese you think we should wait for Fran maybe? ––Nah man he’s in there having too much fun putting the name MacCool back on the map. . . ––MacCool? whispering, peeking around a stacked-stone corner ––Insha’Allah! so that really was my brother in there. . . ––Yo you smell that migo? stopping unburdening himself of instrument cases, plus a fat loaded back pack ––Think they’ll let us puff puff one time? ––Shit, sighing seeing these two other young men stop in place ––where is she? drawing more ganja smoke, holding it in longer. ––I mean, in the spirit of this thing let’s not bother any body right now Edwin, Reese putting all three camera bags marked KUNDERS down on the pavement beside them by the gym doors ––I have some of my own in one of these here. . .

––Well while you look migo consider this, maybe skip all that surreal psychedelic cosmic loco shit for once, and just turn tonight into a documentary! I mean it’s a legitimate riot right? nobody’s happy but the kids are closest, that’s what counts. . . ––A documentary! Reese rising in resigned sigh just realizing his stash was in a shirt pocket this whole time ––that’s a little dry for my taste Edwin. . . ––Man I mean but inside those dry confines there’s no reason you can’t spin your own style into it; but like at the same time Reese thank you bro, puff puff cough cough cough ––. . . at the same, shit! cough ––at the same time remember sometimes the number-one principle of order is not your like intellectualized style, and like not even what you call substance really, it’s just about showing the people the crazy shit that happens in their corrupt yeahhh, puff no cough ––shit in the world. . . puff no cough –– know what I mean? ––Yeah I get you, Fran tries to make that point to me all the time but a lot less reasonably than you do. . . ––Where is she? rolling one more smaller, almost ancillary joint, singing in self-conciliation ––Cutting up me mango, rolling up el bango. . . ––. . . fucking telling me I’m just some bourgeois dupe sucking down these imposed values of decadent fanciful art-school pretensions or whatever. . . like the tradition of thoughtful beautiful representation means nothing to the narrative of the proletariat! he can only see his whole people-power thing. . . ––Uh huh, still just like Dad and Mom, chuckling shuddering almost coughing himself into giving away his presence. ––. . . and not so much the power of humanity; so it’s weird he’s writing plays, you know? ––Yeah well that’s him, you know I see it both ways; but you need to know too that right now I see this mess in front of us here, Edwin gesturing to scrambling kids and camera crews, exasperated faculty, with their dwindling spliff ––believe me bro the way to go is dry and quietly when it comes to this kind of thing, if you’re an outsider. . . ––Well I feel like I am an outsider I guess but probably shouldn’t; Fran didn’t tell us about this shit or how much he was counting on our help until like two weeks ago. . . ––Fran! you fucking ass hole, chuckling again sitting down on dark checkered thawb smothering the grass, his back against the stone. ––. . . wait I’m getting a phone call. . . hey Dad . . . my phone’s been off what is it? . . . Grandpa had a stroke! where is he now? . . . is he all right? . . . said he had a vision huh well all right as long as he’s coherent . . . I’m with Edwin, Fran’s high school musical gig was a disaster . . . I’ll tell you all about it at the hospital, I’m on my way. . . oh, you’re not there. ––Yo Reese there’s police all over the place now man, redoing his ponytail in the red and blue lights rolling past strobing, just a parking lot and some sidewalk away ––so, unless you want your little documentary to end with us getting our stash snatched and fighting the power, brother. . . ––I fucking don’t, let’s go. . . ––Poliiice and thieeeves, Edwin singing, both of them sagging and sighing swearing under the weight of all their gear, which Fran’s waiting beige van will carry so easily. ––Where is she? stepping out from the shadows, lighting a legal cigarette, thinking it will cover the smell of the weed, failing to realize smoking anything on school grounds is illegal, just as he fails to envision a single plausible destructive consequence, other than the violence he intends, of meeting his Internet jihad friend, a female and a minor, in original reality. He jumps hearing a herd coming clamoring and feels the flash-lit scrutiny of news crews following a group of costumed young performers arguing with their parents, everybody screaming at the principal whose assistant is not available for comment at this time as that would require too much oxygen for her. ––It was garbage, you should have seen it, it was shocking! ––It was really fun, I learned so much, our director was so cool! ––I mean it was just unintelligible, like they didn’t know if they wanted to sing offensive songs or make inflammatory speeches. . . ––I thank Allah for giving me the opportunity to do this thing, because honestly it’s just so inspiring how the black Haitian slaves like won their independence. . . ––That’s her! holy shit, hiding again, hugging leeringly the corner tighter, his heart beating faster, tarred tatted lungs quitting in spots. ––. . . and like it was enjoyable since we didn’t have to go out and kill our own actual oppressors or any of that shit I mean, oh shit I can’t say that on TV right? but yeah like I mean what we did was act, it was acting and it was beautiful, nobody got hurt except our feelings when these moron parents here got upset at us because their dumb babies wouldn’t shut up. . . ––Where your parents at young lady! they know you play a hooker in a high school play written by a rude white guy? ––First of all my mom is in a mental hospital, my dad’s in jail and my aunt is probably too busy taking care of five other kids that aren’t hers to pick me up right now, and I bet her boyfriend is too drunk to drive! even though he’s supposed to be a Muslim. ––She’s snitching on him! on the damn action news. . . ––. . . second of all, to be specific, my character was a former hooker! former, turned entrepreneur, like it’s empowering or something. . . ––See what this goofy Quaker curriculum does to our kids? Argument and incoherency humidify the whole scene further, the auditorium and its immediate outside approaching temperate equilibrium, as tempers run high and kids run wild; meanwhile, unnoticed, a twisted ginger beard bounces out peepingly from around a corner, underneath lumpy chin and wary face aged rapidly in patches.

––Nobody fucking cares about me right now, under his breath while he ducks his head, thrusting hands harder into ashy pockets ––not those cops, there’s harder-looking motherfuckers here than me, chuckling until he sees her again through a neck-wide gap in the shuffling undulating huddle of heads, hoods and hats. ––She loves the attention, it’s so obvious; hope she didn’t forget about me, Jah-Allah don’t let her be a bullshitter. . . ––I mean I’m not good at explaining all this shit, shit! I cursed again. . . ––This isn’t live young lady, we’ll edit it all for the eleven o’ clock news so go ahead and speak your mind. ––Well honestly right now I’d rather speak Mister MacCool’s mind, where is he? Suddenly she sees the school cop, and two newcome ones, escorting that semi- employed young-dreamer West Philly people’s-theatre writer outside through the auditorium’s kid-crowded double-doors, while he yells to the reporters something about eliciting eleos and phobos, not in handcuffs although the police look like they plan on using some, and not so much like they intend to protect nor serve this man very long; while in the thrall of renewed pandemonium, in her periphery white spears of Kufic script stab forth interruptingly, from off a black T-shirt obscured perfunctorily by a plaid outer layer, by a gnarled hand, as she turns her head, looks past the cameras and lights and sees her interesting Internet interlocutor in person. ––Young lady if you could tell us your name. . . ––No! it’s in the program if you’re curious, aren’t you a journalist? fuck off. . . shoving her way through the crowd, not directly toward him of course but on an angle making beckoning eye contact, bringing back over her the feeling of the stage lights, his lips slightly parted surrounded by red beard moving slightly saying something but not for her and it chills her throughout, almost freezing her in place, making her reconsider; but the many-handed motion of the crowd, its appreciative as well as antagonistic elements, all want her to keep going, reach the edge of it where he understands as she just physically indicated that is where or at least not far from where they will first speak to each other. ––Get the fuck out of here, young and pretty like that playing a whore’s an easy thing and a damn shame, insults like those assailing her failingly while other voices mostly younger say things she wants to hear ––You were amazing Aniyah! that play was the best, why do ass hole grown ups have to turn every thing cool into shit? We’re all going to go party in Morris Square, don’t know if we’re pissed off or just feel like celebrating. ––I’ll be there! smiling against a grinding ––just gotta go make a call. . . grimacing dismissing the whole gloriously bipolar scene, Aniyah heads toward the parking lot unescorted, her stomping and straight path letting every body behind her know that her star-born confidence, and newfound fondness for revolutionary rhetoric, will carry her to the park unmolested, unassailable; shouts just to make sure come ––Be safe! be careful! from the costumed parts of the crowd, which refold and fade again in focus on the camera-beholden carnival surrounding young Fran MacCool. ––So your name’s Aniyah? quietly from between parked cars. ––Maybe! flippantly already boiling in a frightened estrogen surge ––but let me see you, looking around to make sure the distraction is complete, thrilled at first then scared to determine that she is invisible here, hidden among these vehicles, the security cameras no real comfort, certainly not comforting like the news crews or young Reese Kunders, a friend of Fran MacCool’s, with his movie-studio equipment ––Before I say yes or no for sure. . . Cackling comes in hermetic humor, catches her astatic approaching the car, and a guttural cough in cryptic half-chant draws her to him; he pulls at his picaresque beard, the balance of his head on his neck apparently, in this half-darkness, threatened by every twitch of voice. ––Sayyida, habibi, just admit your name’s Aniyah; enough people call you that like I just heard, it’s your motherfucking name. . . ––Okay whatever, standing on the opposite side of a stranger’s car from him, her hands clawing on the roof while his fold in tattooed patience, his yellow smile unfolding in sodium-lit glitter across the painted steel plane, bent like horizon, over at her. ––What did you say before that? your Arabic is harsher than mine, to my virgin ears at least. . . ––Yeah well I learned it in prison ya sayyida; all I said was shut up. ––Oh you shut up ass hole! and tell me your name too now. ––My name, laughing strictly lightly ––is Ian Muhammad. ––Legally? ––Finally, papers came thru last month. ––No middle name? ––Not any more. ––What was it. ––I had three and they were all very Irish. ––What were they! ––Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you. ––Oh you suck! backing away from the car, back against another ––they better not be Rape, Torture and Murder, gripping door handle behind her like a rattle ––until we’ve got a third party anyway. . . ––Saeduni allah, eilaj laha. . . ––What did you say? sounding somewhat comforted, letting door handle loose now standing between the two cars with her arms crossed ––I’m trying to get to know you, not just get confused; I’m already confused! otherwise I wouldn’t know you at all. ––You really didn’t understand? what the fuck do they teach you kids in madari! ––I mean I can read it and I have a lot of religious stuff memorized, unfolding her arms to spread them out on the car roof again––but I’m not really conversational, as he pulls his hands away to pull out a pack of cigarettes ––I mean I don’t really know any body who talks in Arabic, and besides your accent is weird! like you want the words to burn to a crisp in the air as you say them, pulling one sleeve halfway up showing him under sodium light cigarette burns almost as old as her.

––Then I’m just going to have to teach you my self, blowing smoke insidiously teal winding inconsistent upward, as he stretches his neck tattoos out. ––Not sure what you mean when you say there’s nobody in the city to speak with in Arabic, there’s gotta be at least a hundred fucking fifty countries with its children taking their chances here. ––That’s not what I meant! with a whine and no smile ––That’s just a hundred fifty places where people shovel shit and feed it to each other for their weird insecure reasons. ––Ya shaaba. . . shaking his head. ––Aniyah? peers passing ––We thought you left already! you all good? who’s that. ––Yes I’m fine he’s a family friend from my mosque, my stepdad sent him to give me a ride home; is the news still here and shit? ––They’re packing up now, and the parents are leaving; Mister MacCool is in the principal’s office getting fired. ––It sucks we didn’t get to do it right. ––Well we’re going to try to put it on the whole way in Morris Square, are you coming? only you know your lines, and no one else has your singing voice. . . ––I. . . she turns to Ian who smiles forbiddingly ––I can’t, my aunt needs me. ––Aw, come on! ––What the hell you kids want in Morris Square this time of night anyway? ––There’s enough of us man, nobody’s going to mess with this many heads. ––You’d be surprised. ––Okay whatever weirdo, the bunch of them hugging Aniyah goodbye. ––Hit us up, this jawn been tough! right? ––Sure I’ll talk to you, y’all before graduation, good night now. With each of their weird friend’s weird friend’s parting scattershot looks biting at their hysterical teenage heels, the kids laugh louder passing blaring phones back and forth like a shared meal never finished. ––How old are you? her head now cast down, kicking with a theatrically-tattered vegan-leather boot at a cigarette butt so thinned and tarred by the weather and the torturous death of its body it resembles the reed of some special and accursed wind instrument that only sounds out when smog is put through it. ––I’ll be thirty-one next month; and my little brother over there your awesome director, he’ll turn twenty-four or five or six a few months after that. ––Oh shit! are you serious? I mean you both have Irish names but. . . ––We have a little more in common than that Aniyah, including not having seen each other in like eight years. ––Why don’t you go say hi! if he’s your brother; and I mean damn you must really be a soldier to want to change your name from MacCool to Muhammad. ––I was about your age when I first thought of it Aniyah, clapping his hands together and throwing them up to tell her to follow him ––That age where you start to figure out you do every thing wrong. ––Don’t fucking talk to me like that, looking around intently ignoring ribald birds of comment flying retarded from a passing mass of boys bonded by square-brush phallisms in chalk-line haircuts ––Our whole thing is probably based on you making a stupid mistake. Grunting through willfully bad breath, pulling at beard with his free hand, which just discharged itself of cigarette, Ian makes clear to Aniyah he has no good answer for her, withdrawing a steel slim-jim from a concealed pocket almost leg-length ––no body’s looking, right? ––No I don’t see any are you fucking serious! you’re going to hot-wire a car? I mean you haven’t even told me where you’re taking me. . . ––To my car. ––What! ––It’s in a garage downtown; I took a bus from there to here. ––So why don’t we just take a bus! ––You stupid sayyida? remember what we look like. ––Ya laawhy! be careful. ––Just keep your eyes peeled. Humming morbidly to life like out of a dream of immortality only to find itself being raped, the mid-Nineties Japanese compact sounds now to Aniyah weirdly like the word of God, while Ian climbs inside and unlocks her door, lighting one more cigarette leaving the headlights off. ––But where are we going from your car! climbing inside this one. ––You hungry? pulling out of the school parking lot, hurtling them south on American Street, awaiting an answer she does not offer ––I said are you hungry. ––I don’t know. ––You wouldn’t be with me right now if you didn’t have a certain hunger. ––Oh clever! you ass hole. . . sprawling gauchely over center console, making with a beak-like hand a swimming motion at seat belt, piles of cloth, wincing man wriggling. ––No! deflecting her. ––What! the fucking fuck? are you fucking serious, you’re no fun. ––I’m here to start talking jihad tonight; we can be friends and fellow soldiers but I have to tell you I have a nasty sayyida-transmitted disease I’m not going to let you. . . ––Ew! so considerate, hand-cranking down, looking out a window not originally hers nor his ––Wake me up when we can discuss how you want me to eventually murder you dude. Helicopters prowl a flowering haze, commodious with wet cement warmth, over winsome wide city twinkling like chiseled ice inside an aging crystal glass. ––Permits? that part of the city, you think any body gives a fuck much less me. . . drunkenly leaning on the phone out his cab window, appraising unimposing masses of East Market Street cement and glass rubbing slickly defined financial fantasies along, a fenced ferment of wishes to bet lots and shoot high ––God I love this job, stoically

45 unloving eyeing meticulous immensities of cut piped polished concrete, castling scaffolding ––No what nothing I’ve been drinking, go ahead and call the demolition crew, the city won’t be peeking in at that shitty little kitchen getting refinished. . . well if they do who the fuck cares that’s why we pay the guy to play property manager, lecherously letting a young woman waiting for a bus, at the corner across opposite lanes from him, see and know without any ambiguity he intends to acquire her entire lot of time and body, take her up to a penthouse to penetrate her market, realize with his liquid assets some capital gains in it, take the naked option and arbitrate an exchange good till cancelled ––One of these days dude, the car moving again ––I’m going to get a couple of rooms inside City Hall itself. . . unused office space, turn it into apartments, maybe get a pool hall going like I always told my old man I huh? . . . yeah well as I said I’ve been drinking so sure you’ll see me tomorrow but maybe not that early. . . why not! what the fuck would you have to do between lunch and happy hour. . . she can take herself to the doctor, her hands eyes legs and car aren’t what has cancer right? I don’t need this right now from you too just get that shit typed up or I’ll fire your girlfriend. . . yeah tomorrow take it easy don’t have another heart attack Charlie. . . and try to reach out to Cody K about getting that girl to manage him, that would be hilarious. . . Charlie? hung up huh whatever. . . The phone does not leave his hand the very instant the call terminates nor does his face withdraw from the permissive wind while he scrolls the screen staring half- scanning half-scheming, swaying like the doomed stilt-stood third-floor back deck of a recent West Kensington acquisition which he never bothered to fix before turning it over to an apprentice for an apparent pittance but also the initialed and formally filed promise of a consistent monthly cut. ––Was that your ah what you say, junior partner? from up front, inside, the driver in the driver’s seat ––you make him work his ass off yes? Sat upright inside again shutting slightly gaping jaw as if concealing clandestine construction of thoughtful response Dominic picks his hair-speckled chin up opposite his lowering phone as if making widening jaws joined at his booze-hampered heart; through designer eyeglasses, conversational plexiglass partition, dirty windshield filtering dollar- sign brightness from city lights revealed to be mere promiscuous flickers, he stares deliberately under his driver’s rear-view mirror and toward City Hall, its night-emptied West narthex championed with city-sooty caryatids darkly accepting approving of all ambitious aloofness. ––What’s that buddy? ––Guy on phone with you like what you say, second in command? ––Oh Jesus Christ no! looking in mirror to see his kufi-wearing driver wincing, with an effeminate libertine giggle elaborating ––Charlie’s like my lawyer, he’s a lawyer by training at least, but more like an errand boy mostly I tell him what not to do and I keep him damn busy at it. ––What kind of a lawyer? like he put the people in jail. . . turning the miles-fried stereo decidedly broken in certain bands up to a cranial threshold of pounding already lowered below Dominic’s norm and counter drastic earlier rising now dipping in cosine, maybe he needs more cocaine, what did this fucking taxi driver just ask him? with that accent. . . ––or did he defend the people. ––Uh. . . Dominic wishing almost believing he could convince the City to let him airlift that clothespin sculpture away from here, to the courtyard of some potential condo site out in the suburbs attracting the hottest youngest highest earners here, prosecutors and plastic surgeons, basketball stars ascendant and pharmatrafficking psychiatrists––No he defended uh represented some famous fracking company, helped them conduct acquisitions of sites for wells excuse me, burping up an alcoholic preejaculate foretaste of gastrobasted turkey hoagie mush vomit, wishing now he could buy that gin bar he was just at but that family every body knows refuses to budge until the old man hits sixty-six, despite their clientele going so embarrassingly scrawnier, less worldly and more cynical, mercenary in taste and mutated in conversation, always tap tap tapping stroking phones like anodyne external genitals, these kids they hire anymore too driving him crazy sometimes he just wants to call it quits and flip houses himself a few years like these young snipes all moving out here. ––What was I saying? oh yeah Charlie he helped this startup gas company, real sharp outfit at first, had a little cost-plus L-N-G contract with some foreign militia Chechen maybe until they all got smoked in a coup, rented Chinese drones and all that, anyway back home this company Charlie gets the land for all these extraction wells and he did a hell of a job too put heat on all those little towns to stop forgiving little regular lapses month to month, quarter to quarter little lapses people made in payments on woods and open lots, like they rewarded their hasty little wave of tax seizures with contacts and hookups for certain construction companies willing to work unusually cheap because of Mexican labor to build motels and mini malls in the vicinities of those fracking wells, burping again and opening a window just in case, laughing like at a miracle seeing a fat black girl in rayon dress break a heel stuck in a sidewalk went shuddering with subway screaming coming up too preponderant out from sculpted striated steel beamed pipelined earth for anybody to notice its tone of mockery ––But fracking wells turn into duds quickly so those gas companies got out of Dodge faster than Charlie had led those towns to believe they would, and most of them went broke got pissed and sued; Charlie was going to represent his gas company in court in those cases but they fired him for gross incompetence when he failed to find buyers for those fucking disgusting polluted lands with all the open wells and shit can’t blame him, that’s what happens when you let dick head executive honchos treat you more like a realtor than a lawyer like you’re supposed to be, but those guys grew so much in those short years they were raping the Earth up there in all those pretty red-neck weirdo bed-and-breakfast hunting trucker counties they could afford a better corporate lawyer anyway, a team of them in fact found ways to force those little towns to buy the lands back and clean up all the wells and shit themselves, no yeah keep going buddy I live by the River, those big porthole-window marine Metabolist-deco condos down there that look like a cruise ship or a big set of steps to nothing? so yeah anyway until he gets a call that lets him offer his abilities up to the cause of oil or coal or some other bigger evil, I’m Charlie’s rebound gig.

––Rebound? nodding uncomprehending smiling in the rear-view mirror but Dominic does not look ––like the basketball! ––What the basketball no fuck! you fucking dumb ass rebound, and you just missed the exit for Columbus holy shit it’s going to take so long for us to turn around now are you fucking serious! like I might be wasted but I know these fucking tricks dude you’re not getting that full fare out of me mother fucker I see what it’s at now don’t drive so fast! no I meant don’t drive so slow I was being sarcastic you poor fucking idiot put your foot on the gas any way it’s at fucking twenty-seventy that’s all you’re getting no gratuity now I was honestly going to just hand you a hundred dollar bill Murat! but you’re wasting my time which is worse than me wasting my money, I have stuff to do at home like first of all take a shit and I’m too fucked up to wait any more and this car is really uncomfortable and Jesus fucking Christ can you turn down that fucking annoying foreign goat-fucking home-country music! which the driver, whose tag-displayed name Dominic has finally bothered to notice only now that he needs it for spite, has gladly amplified gradually throughout this harangue, at once apologetic, passive-aggressive, resentfully proud, and merely sensibly responding to the rushing noise of surrounding traffic as well as that shriller incensed quality in his ungregarious passenger’s voice ––you’re giving me an early hangover Murat. ––Is Chechen music! defensive, most unhappy now with how the young man pronounces his name ––is of my people, why not listen? we are so close. ––Don’t say we’re fucking close when you’re still going south you fucking ass hole! I live the other way, remember? ––Yes I heard you! I know where it is you live, the waterfront, with convulsive slam of palm of tattooed hand on dashboard ––Rude young American! ignorant little. . . ––Yeah sure whatever Murat you and your insignificant fucking marginalized ethnical anger don’t impress me, and this music doesn’t scare me it just pisses me off! it sounds like some fucking crazy Greeks and some fucking crazy Russians teamed up to indiscriminately bukkake an army of farm animals all over those mountains between. . . ––Think I turn it down for you? Murat fuming ––I turn it up all the way! ––Yeah go ahead Murat just watch how many lanes you’re in at once, don’t set a record, sure yeah turn up all the bass and treble while you’re at it, this exit! yes then turn left at the light no! Jesus Murat I’ve had some bad and annoying cabbies before but. . . ––Is not a cabbie! Murat at this point quickly ready to argue with any thing offered ––my position is called taxi driver, young American respect nothing. . . ––I mean my job title is technically independent real estate investor but I don’t get all indignant or whatever when people prefer to call me for short-hand a cold-blooded parasite, nihilistic hipster capitalist, just plain greedy douche bag, whatever, I mean I don’t get slum lord often at least but that’s because I technically buy and sell slum lords. ––Okay so you have more complicated job than me, congratulations understanding American system, hours! dollars! minutes! fill out all forms and you can live fancy in the city. . . but this is of Brotherly Love they say, yes? so why do you insult me, start a fire over one missed turn? we can discuss lower fare. . . ––It’s not just about the one missed turn Murat! did you notice we’re fucking screaming at each other right now? because you won’t turn this fucking savage music down, in fact you turned it up to piss me off more on purpose! I’m getting you fired first thing in the morning Murat. ––You! how can you fire me? just because this music Anzach, you tell me is ugly! ––Your words! I think it’s pretty as a plough horse, probably your wife too, anyway yes I can get you fired because I’m filming all this with my phone, and see so according to this thing the efficient market hypothesis...... as a foreshortened gasp and compensatory green-fingered grip up on the steering wheel forestall the driver’s answer. . .; talion, straight acrimony, he feels he can handle, and instantly, but when spying sneaks its way into contentious moments like these it overwhelms him, first of all with terrible memories, the early Nineties. . . ––Why you do this to me? turning the music down almost all the way, the digging stinging strumming and crushing group ululation fading ––I break my back eleven years on the docks here, have hardly any work in Chechnya before that, after military, my friend finds me this job instead, all I do is drive a car, is easier for me and you want me to lose it over such little misunderstanding? so many Americans when they drink they threaten to sue! ––Video material Murat, no misunderstandings, Dominic fixing his eyes on his driver’s in the mirror for the first time thus far this ride ––And if you think they really value you. . . shutting off his phone’s recording function ––Let me tell you off the record buddy I know where your company keeps its cars, I know the guys who own the lot and I know what kind of shady shit your fat-ass boss lets go on there; it won’t be hard for me or for my junior partner Charlie to convince them let you go. Murmuring incredulous and wondering again why he came to America Murat pulls over abruptly, tacitly refuses to drive Dominic the remaining five-hundred yards to those grandiose terraced condos, let alone into their tight uneasy valet lot to leave him before the lobby doors; Dominic slides two twenty-dollar bills through the money slot in the plexiglass partition, and letting himself out on the side of the traffic he laughs drunk as an idle military governor, once all the shooting stops, at a passing little sports car scratching its fender crashing acquiescent over a pot hole neglected since it opened in blistering winter, speeding up swerving blithely around a tractor trailer obeying obscuring the red light. Lonely on lunch break gently extended into siesta, Romare stirs looking up again at spinning ceiling fan, trying to read it like a clock; snapping out of that like shaking off a fall from a tree, the air in his lungs all of a sudden taking on weight, he appreciates reality again, squinting over at a digital timepiece telling him it is not quite yet time for him to go get Shirley from school, oh and yeah no need to see his ex today thank God she has work, and he will take his daughter to his sister’s until around six-thirty when he finishes up, fights his way once more through tree-stunting traffic at its palpably asthmatic worst

––The fuck is that knocking? kicking and stretching in diurnally divided sub-stoned vivacity ––hold up! shouting running out the recently seldom-shared bedroom’s door down stairs lined with pictures of family, primarily Shirley; he unlocks, in vertical sequence, at three different loci, the damask-sashed fanlight-crowned front door ––Yes how can I help you sir? ––Well that depends sir! are you the home owner? ––Yes I am, but I mean. . . shifting nerves softening body weight away from the knobbed side of the door toward instead its chill hinges, more centered ––They say I am but the bank really owns it right since I owe them money all the time for it? so if I own the house but they own me they own the house too; meanwhile my government tries to keep it quiet the banks own it too! that all these corporations getting these laws made and crazy loop holes cut out in them always work with, work through or under cover of these banks. ––Well I see, that’s a rather grave way to look at our relatively wildly successful system Mister. . . ? old but untattered white cotton duck canvas hatted visitor spotted with sun and sun screen dropping without hesitation his prepared solicitation, preferring now and in general to let the irritated fellow citizens he visits to catch social-ball tip-off first before he makes his irresistible pitch ––ahh, it says on your mail box here Bonner? block captain! well just the man I wanted to see. . . ––We don’t do no mass conversions on this block Mister; we don’t even let our kids drink no regular kool-aid any more. . . His gregarious ear-to-ear grinning unbreaking the old white visitor uncommenting watches a gaggle of patently lamentably fastfoodfat females passing sagging under desultory twenties, waddling past wheezing oaths against man and scrubkind ––Well I’m here today Mister Bonner to talk to you about a public health crisis you may not often consider in your ordinary local organizational thinking, being a leader figure in a rather challenging neighborhood. . . ––What crisis you mean my man. ––Well sir first excuse me while I drink some water, lifting monogrammed titanium thermos to wrinkled lips ––Hot enough for you Mister Bonner? or as I have overheard in some vigorous proclamations from the youth of yours here, the block is hot! ––Yeah man well they would know; you’re letting my air out just say your piece. ––Ahh you are a man who appreciates energy efficiency and a favorable climate, that gives me great hope you will appreciate my. . . ––Spit it out old head! what disease my people got now? ––Not just your people Mister Bonner, but the whole darn city! and the entire world; we might identify the affliction as ah greenhouse-gastrological heart burn, with a certain risk of population indigestion, or, worse, reflux. . . ––Man what the fuck are you talking about? this is Gratz and Master, you think people in this neighborhood want to hear that kind of senile suburban gibberish? after all that forcing standardized testing on us on other people and all that shit that ain’t never going to stop. . . besides sir you haven’t even enlightened me yet as to your name, I hope I can pronounce it. . . ––Pardon my manners Mister Bonner! my name’s Lloyd Kunders and I’m here today to talk to you about a public health crisis we call global warming, and its consequences which we call climate change. ––Oh word? Romare pitching stony drawl upward, scratching under finger nails with another shift in weight to let the visitor see him in a more natural state of animation, shedding obfuscatory sternness for more earnest furrowing, ruminative huffing under his breath ––You’re preaching to the choir already brother I’m a gardener. ––Oh yes? at what nursery, or whose home is it rather. ––It’s all over, I have to drive a lot, spots the horticultural society manages for the city, thousands of em; and I got my own thing going on down the block for the kids and old ladies you feel me? and like I got a nice piece in the back here, tomatoes and sunflowers. ––Well good luck and fortune to you Mister Bonner, winter was harsh wasn’t it? so many tree trunks in the city went a sickly algae green, I’m sure you’ve seen; any way I won’t take too much of your time since you’re such a busy man: I’m here sir to convince you to let me pay you to paint your roof white. ––Man! you serious? winded with hilarity to knees perpetually lit as spliffs with soreness from sitting in the soil ––offer like that going to make every body in this neighborhood suspicious, and they’re going to blow me up about it, see if I trust your old white intentions. ––Four-hundred thirty-two dollars. ––What. ––That’s how much each household receives for agreeing to let my crew do this. ––In like what form though! silver bonds and time shares? season tickets to some bocce squad. . . ––A bank check. ––A, as in one? like only one time. ––Yes sir in a lump sum. ––Damn you’re too much man! forgive my hesitation but now wait don’t think I forgot you said something about global warming, you ain’t fixing to like speed that shit up in black neighborhoods or some shit are you? ––No sir! grinning strikingly intact, still perfect in its wrinkled linkages ––Quite the opposite in fact: it’s a simple principle, these black tar roofs all over the city, on row homes like yours, they absorb sunlight and altogether create a city-size greenhouse gas trap; but if we paint, or, more accurately, coat, all the row-home roofs in Philadelphia white, to reflect the sun away, we can prevent that phenomenon! and knock about one whole degree off our average temperature. . . so should I make this check out to. . .

––Oh word? yeah make that check out to the Gratz and Master Neighborhood Fund, put Donation on the memo line. . . and let’s see there’s like fifty-some roofs on this block so that makes. . . ––Well hold on now Mister Bonner! you’re only the third home owner I’ve talked to today, you’ll have to allow me to individually. . . ––Nah man it’s cool, I’m block captain so I can make the call: white roofs it is! every body else will go along with it, if I say the check is good. ––But Mister Bonner surely there are some renters on this block? I would have to contact all their land lords individually, and of course there are these several derelict houses, does the Housing Authority. . . ––Nah man them traps all got snatched up at a clap by one developer, white excuse me young dude named Dominic, seems real educated so I don’t think he’ll have any objection to this mission you got going. . . ––Even so Mister Bonner legally we would be trespassing if my crew simply showed up unannounced and unacknowledged to climb up to a roof and paint a new coat on it. ––Look man don’t worry about it! like I should be the last home owner you have to speak to about this on this block, that’s what’s efficient for you, so I’ll get all my people’s signatures, yawning and stretching coming out on to the stoop at last, Lloyd’s actual weight of presence not so slight like it looked behind the screen ––and I’ll holler at them those land lords the city whatever and that one developer dude, every body will be cool. ––That’s what I’m aiming for Mister Bonner, keeping cool is indeed the goal of this century; I’m afraid I will not live to see the great reversal but I’ll do what I might while I’m still here. ––But like who’re you really with man? how you got all this money to pay people let you paint their roofs white and other people do it for you. . . ––Well sir let me tell you hope you don’t mind my saying so but God’s honest truth is I’m just a rich son of a bitch; my grandfather wildcatted for oil up in those woodsy upper Pennsylvania counties, you know those without permanent cities, where everybody goes to church agape at their own stupid private wonders of great Nature, and my father, who was practically born in the wilderness, ended up brokering zoning deals and real estate trades for American drillers looking for work on foreign soil, and I grew up to be a plain old portfolio banker. . . taking another drink of water from his canteen not visibly bothered by the subwoofed thud of trap-rap hip-hop coming querulous, base and breathless out of a big dark massive-hatched car parked up the one-way street on oversized tires with twinkling rims ––So what I mean sir is I was born into money, grew up learning what to do with it, and spent my career steadily making more money, never losing; but as a commodities speculator I eventually could not help but speculate that our system of commodity supply and exchange could collapse if we let this damn fool global warming go on so undisciplined, us damn fools being so unprepared. . . ––I hear you man, so you’re rich and giving what’s yours away for the sake of something you see as being every body’s. . .; do me a favor though keep that backstory to yourself this moment forward in North Philly. . . scratching balls afloat in sweat behind basketball shorts gently swishing Romare shuts the door behind him, puts his hand on Lloyd’s shoulder ––What’s your favorite song man? for my ringback tone for you, and give me your number, or your card. ––Singing in the rain, flashing his digits. ––Nice man I got you let me download that jawn real quick, Romare rebuilding his Contacts list ––So uh Lloyd were you just going to like go next door next and tell them people, that family there about your little project? ––I suppose I was Mister Bonner. . . ––Better let me come with you for that lot Lloyd. Talking shifts and steps in colors, conditions of the plants and weather, the two men walk down the little cluttered porch, its paved tongue pointing them out a low vined iron gate; the younger man collects each little blighting piece of toxic sidewalk litter while the elder scans the roofs, the undulations of soft metal plating black tar lapping along sighing pink brick work, over buttresses in pigeon shat flight, the headers and spanners yawning fanning window brows, the sunfaded rosettas eyeing each other wearily across an asphalt field of deferred maintenance hopelessly naturally zitted with pot-holes looking like ruptures in the guts of snakes of cracks running free and eating too much sugar taking on and feeding off relentless dangerous force out of habit. ––Who is it! what do you need from me? from behind screen door as the interior one with lines of kufic script nailed up on it in silent epigraph, something somehow stronger than Beware of Dog although intended to welcome, swings open inward ––Oh hello Romare who’s this gentleman! he a friend of yours, another new neighbor? I’ll go get a bean pie. . . ––No need ma’am, Lloyd starting unfaltering; she seems to him through the darkness of awning and unlit parlor so much taller than him, at least a weight class up and one generation younger. ––A bean pie’s just what this man needs I think Medina but he’s here to holler at you bout another thing. ––So you heard the jawn? his pitch I mean. ––Yes ma’am. ––And you approve? ––Yes Miss Medina. ––Well I don’t have time to not take you at your word today Romare, a kettle whistling and two teenage voices yelling at one another go take it off the burner ––. . . aaeta Allah li alsabbr, someone go turn the motherfucking kettle off right now! the seraphic light of her salutary envelope combusting now into dark pluming over new volcanic lower seismic tone, then cooling softer higher again ––I apologize for my

53 improper speech, I promise if Romare says you’re a decent man my ears are yours right now Mister. . . ? ––Kunders, Romare and Kunders together. ––Is it for me? shrilly from an interior set of stairs bannistered by clashing packaged trails of competing commercial countertraditional music, narcotically brutal venal gangster rap versus metallically artificial screamo-rock, power-chord guitars stacked like treacly toaster pastries ––My friend from school should be oh hi Mister Bonner. . . ––Afternoon Aniyah. ––Who’s your friend. ––Aniyah! run on back in there upstairs and turn that tuneless mess off right now. ––In a minute Aunt Medina! don’t insult me, you know how fragile I am. ––It’s fine Miss Medina, Lloyd unafraid ––I’ll only be a minute in my little speech. ––You’ll only be a minute! Medina reigniting ––Motherfucker you’ll only be the ten seconds it takes me bid my eldest throw your ass off my porch. ––Yo Medina! chill. . . ––Aunt Medina! don’t yell at white people until you know what they really want. ––Girl don’t think you can speak so damn impudently to me right now just because there’s men here! I don’t need to hear you and Saleem screaming at each other over both y’all’s noise again, they make noise about noise it’s ridiculous, and it’s just no good for the little sister she shares her room with. . . waste of precious energy, for talking and listening, could be praying or out looking for a job. ––Okay Aunt Medina, ya maarary, ya maarary, Jesus. . . shuffling back further inside toward steamy spice-misted kitchen always upon some task, awaiting a messenger dove or other divinely unlikely sign of arrival from Ian, or else failing that at least the cell phone call she expects; she sings ––Come ring my bell until it cracks, wear patches on skin-tight blacks; and strike my fancy, and let it toll, over a stroll into hell with your whip at my ass. . . ––It’s blasphemy, it’s garbage, Aunt Medina stepping outside promptly sitting square in a chair chained by one leg away from the two men, looking up at them ––the girl is so intelligent and sings so well, used to play the flute too and was good although I admit I didn’t know her then but now it’s all shopping mall devil music and violent video games; I mean we went to all this trouble to get her into that Quaker school across town, I mean are they not supposed to shield her from dull stupid nonsense like that? from destructive tendencies and tasteless interests. . . ––Some serious questions you raise Miss Medina, Kunders wiping sweat away forehead and off eyeglasses while Romare next to him stretches cotton shirt collar fanningly ––what does pedagogy owe our mass contemporary commercial culture? or more to. . . ––More to the point, Romare interrupting pointing to Lloyd’s clipboard ––we have a strictly superficial neighborhood problem here to talk out, got nothing to do with these kids these days and their peculiar demons, but this here is damn interesting and I really feel it’s important for us to. . . ––Yeah? then tell me first! what’s the man peddling, tennis meditation protein shakes or what. ––It’s about the fate of the world Miss Medina, Romare dramatic block captain at the helm as he sees it helping the women with gritty civic sea sickness ––about changing our ways, about. . . ––Thank you Romare, Mister Kunders I hope you can see that I am already quite a religious woman and don’t need. . . ––Yes ma’am I understand, beaming like baking bread ––Also plain to see you’re not inclined to dress for the weather. ––Now what do you mean sir! ––Easy Medina, Romare’s weedstinking breath close enough to malseduce her pert disdain elsewhere ––he’s just trying to help us out, get you paid matter of fact. ––Yes well I’ll just save that part for a minute from now, Lloyd letting a first and sudden, surprisingly lax and sincere layer of annoyance flood about his face ––My main point is that I’m here to offer at no cost to you other than that of the noise of men working, no longer than one morning or afternoon, to re-coat your roof white, to fight unnecessary greenhouse gas buildup around our city; see all these black roofs on the row homes absorb light and heat and. . . ––How do I get paid, Medina’s diaphragm sigh descending deep fried. ––Yes well Mister Bonner’s neighborhood organization will actually be receiv. . . ––Miss Medina! from inside young and scared ––Aniyah’s in the kitchen playing knife games again! ––Aaeta allah li alsabbr, rubbing her eyes under big hexicurval glasses ––That girl, she isn’t serious right now, it’s just stress and that A-D-H-D but she has her genuine dangerous days, hey yo! tell her either cut it out or cut one off! shaking her head lowering her voice again ––What do I care if she loses a finger doing that shit? she’s stolen so much in her life that in the Arab world she’d get her whole hands cut off digit for digit even if she was one of those crazy Indian goddesses with all them arms; but I can’t hardly blame the girl in most ways, except that every lucky break she gets she takes it for granted, lets it go to ruin but on the other hand you won’t believe just what hell she’s. . . ––Medina listen, Mister Kunders don’t got, doesn’t have the time, we just need you to sign your name to some. . . ––No it’s all right Mister Bonner, don’t mind if I call you Romare at this point do you? Miss Medina here clearly needs to share her worries with other souls around hers. ––Well I mean my man I was just looking out, you were the one sweating so much old head! stoned block captain somewhat humiliated suddenly remembering how late he is for each of a lot of things at once. Turning to leave with courtesies to both, Romare starts to overhear Medina tell the concerned senior citizen stranger about her favorite pay-check child Aniyah’s story,

55 how she was born in North Jersey to a young retired Dominican hooker who fled Haiti and her professed “savior”, the coke-head owner of a tourist-trap voodoo-ritual theme- park that suddenly failed the summer she was pregnant with her only daughter, frustrating everything, making her flee him for Grand Mainland America, where some cousins lived and found her work, and gradually (and only with partial success) converted her to Islam; at first she had to raise her daughter alongside several consecutive generations of rats, until she met a man with money, a Libyan nightclub owner with whom she had two sons, who left her shortly after, and whose name Miss Medina does not remember at the moment, but who she understands was only a Muslim in name and habit, not faith or deed, his home law less about Allah and more thankless female familial upkeep, needless humiliation. Medina keeps her darkest lingual search lights on certain tender spots, blazing over her longest-kept foster-kid’s past, what drives her so crazy underneath everything else: prosyletizings from every direction and denomination, creepy uncles too often seen at family dinners, a cousin caught and killed in a crossfire jumping rope, sleep patterns fractured early from neighbors’ arguments unfazed by meager walls, and endless hip-hop rattlings at all corners of their several consecutive apartments; Aniyah’s mother took new boyfriends on every new block they moved to, her makeup thicker and perfume stinkier by the year, and finally one night Aniyah’s birth father showed up in Yonkers all the way from Haiti intending to kill them both, her other two sons too into the bargain, electing in the attempt to first rape and impregnate his ex-wife, sealing thus his deserved asswhooping, wounding by meat cleaver and subsequent arrest, when her boyfriend suddenly came home, kicked in the locked bedroom door outside which Aniyah lay suffering from a concussion, having tried to open it with a head butt, her brothers having run off to alert elusive neighbors. After the abortion, her only, the woman went completely crazy, in no small part from enforced narcotic withdrawal, and Aniyah and her brothers were sent away, the girl’s best friend from the fifth grade forward the Internet. Pushing his front door in again, Romare makes his customary sweep over shoulder, to reconnoiter his block, his charge, his eyes resting at last again on a big black car parked in banal mystique at the far corner, bouncing gently to its blast waves of 808 bass, uneasily coexistent with an undercurrent of rapid outdoor voices all along Gratz Street; suddenly motor and music shut off, the passenger door opens and a bearded figure in a hooded T-shirt steps out slamming it, new white sneakers unabsorbing gently bullying sun. Not until the man starts doing jumping jacks and running in place does Romare identify him ––Oh shit! whispering ––That’s Bang Bang Bambrey. . . inside he slams his own door, takes a few deep breaths before undoing locks, wanting to look out again but deciding against it, consequently feeling contrite ––How the fuck did he get out? stalking off to the kitchen for an enlightening glass of water; his phone rings all of a sudden and his heart rate jumps, until distinctly ––. . .siiinging in the raiiin calms him down; he picks it up ––Lloyd what’s up brother! you still next door? ––Yes hello Mister Bonner, getting in my car now actually, a quaver irrelevant to his age in his voice now ––I’ve just finished speaking with Miss Medina, whose full name is, apparently, as she signed it here, Medina Medina. . . ––. . . Rapunzel Rapunzel, Romare laughing, missing his Shirley. ––. . . you know, I always wanted to change my own last name to something else when I was a kid, Kunders could be a bit of a burden, geniality receding to let triggered reminiscence creep out in sweet impolite relief ––Sorry Mister Bonner I won’t keep you any longer, just call me when your block is in agreement, and if you need me to talk to any land lords or the city personally please let me know. ––Yeah Lloyd I got you, through a breath of leftover blunt he forgot about sat on top of the television ––I’ll get them, your signatures, looking outside through the kitchen curtains, watching a chrome-rimmed late-eighties two-door Beemer prowl down the bushy alley silently; through its darkened windows Romare fails to discern the face of its driver, but he does catch a glimpse of dyed red beard on a face he swears is a white man’s when the passenger door opens from inside, and he gets distracted away the stranger, aghast seeing Aniyah still so young skipping through tangled trampled untamed back yard and broken gate to climb in the car. ––What in the fuck is that girl up to now? ––What! you don’t want to pick me up right out front? pecking his pocked cheek like she would flick the back of his head, neither getting nor expecting any physical response ––Are you scared of black people Ian? ––You know in the can they had this folksy little saying ‘fear no nigga, love no bitch’, quiet Ian equivocal ––But I learned some slightly nicer ways in there in Arabic to say that, and I say them to myself all the time, negotiating odd patches of black asphalt errantly spaced, thick and black and glittering like lava fissures in spots, not noticing Romare watching from a window feeling now less concerned with Aniyah’s life choices than embarrassed by the state of his alley, which it occurs to him he should adorn, all along the dirt edge of its fences, a strip likely technically city property, with short bright flowers of some sort, to brush and bless kissingly passing tires. ––Anyway I think you’re joking but you’re so fucked up I can’t be sure, turning right out of the alley stopping at compact noisy intersection ––But no ya sayyida! I’m not scared of black people nor poor people in general neither, I’m only scared of people who are too much like me, capable people who dedicate action to the hatred in their hearts. ––But don’t you dedicate all your action to Allah Ian? Aniyah equally equivocal. ––Allah lives in the heart, and my heart is hateful; so I know Allah as the Hater, the great hater. . . ––The Mad Hatter? ––What. ––Nevermind, sighing ––Why are we stopped. ––Because I have to holler at a kind of rich black person I’m kind of scared of, real quick, Ian honking curtly once ––Here he comes. . . a six-six new-shoed figure with big beard undyed, leaping around the corner in high-kneed exuberance, tenebrous nods

57 of tenuous respect towards old heads coming out of the corner store confused to see him ––Hurry up get out put the seat forward and get in the back. ––Yeah this second date’s going just great, complaining worrying at her forehead, trying to coax a migraine into napping ––I should have taken my medication today. ––Don’t talk about that kiddie shit right now! this is serious, this guy Bang Bang’s our main line to holy war work. ––Really? why can’t we just do it ourselves. ––You’re still a kid and naïve Aniyah now get out! ––What’s good sister? Bang Bang lecherous letting her know by snarly drooly vocal envelope he is watching her, in skirted tights astretch over her butt while declining she dives into the book-strewn back-seat sighing indignantly ––barely legal baby, I like your style already white boy, shutting the door, putting the seat back to compact the distance from his smile to Aniyah behind him, pushing herself disgusted further in the corner on the seat behind Ian ––and I know you did some time brother but still seem to have kept a nice whip; you’re like me in that way. . . ––Well I know how to save, Ian peeling out west on Master, well aware Aniyah wants him to gouge Bang Bang’s eyes out, wants to jump out of the car knowing he will not do it. ––You learn scruples and shit in the joint don’t you? certain mistakes that get you there in the first place. . . looking again at Aniyah who presses her face as if to shroud it in morbidity and humidity against her little triangular section of window ––you don’t make them again if you got a brain; so both of y’all turn your phones off and put them in the glove compartment pretty please, still eyeing Aniyah who does not move just whispers nothing but pains made sibilant, cramping and brain aching palpable, saying suddenly, beating Ian: ––I don’t have mine. . . sighing eyes along the rolling red row home revue reminding her now how deep in humanity a body steeps living in a city like this ––No pockets, no purse. ––I better take the battery out too right? Ian complying in slight histrionics which Aniyah notices, putting his device away with one hand while shifting and steering with the other, his eyes unblinking on the broken unpredictable road. ––You’re probably pretty busy Bang Bang, and want to get back to your whip, so let’s talk business, what’s the deal. ––Easy man sounds like you want to get rid of me already, but I feel that, cackling looking back at Aniyah one last time, the back of her head and curve of scarred arm, breast cresting belly bloated by ghetto bodega ––You don’t make her wear the veil but shit! it seems like she wished you would. ––We’re not married, Ian businesslike, dismissive, looking in rearview mirror his eyes briefly meeting bitterly hers before she turns them again towards the bustle of people, some wheelchaired or waddling obese, bus stops bumping with babies and mamas, aimless kids with empty back packs, crooked-necked hustlers with cracked egg shell eyes entirely object-oriented, almost every body tapping on their smart phones or else fantasizing about it. ––She’s a soldier. ––Yeah see I saw that, Bang Bang nodding, pulling shirt hood over stiff baseball cap ––All the more reason she’s waiting in the car while we talk like she should; pull over somewhere up here before the zoo, park in the park and you just honk if anyone looks like they’re creeping up sweet heart all right? ––Don’t call her sweet heart, Ian steady as an imam’s droning, hands cool and firm on steering wheel as on scimitar handle ––This girl’s as incensed and inspired a soul as you or me Bang Bang, and hates the country that made her this way. ––Hey man I have to say I’ve been feeling pretty patriotic lately myself, just got a presidential pardon. . . ––That’s how huh? I was surprised to hear you got out. . . ––Yeah it took every body long enough didn’t it! to figure it out, that just because I happened to be getting my dick sucked in a limo parked where they said was reasonably proximate to a house full of drugs money and guns did not prove beyond a shadow of a doubt the shit was mine; made the prosecutor crazy the name on the place turned out to be just some developer from Abu Dhabi, like what the fuck would I have to do with any body in Abu Dhabi? Ian chuckling knowingly, Aniyah moans nonplussed, bored to familiar tired tears, as bored as if living or listening to a story of strictly kept promises. ––Damn! ya sadiq, black president hooking you up. ––Yeah sure whatever, I sat in a cell almost his whole first term and I’m the only motherfucker he’s pardoned this year so far, is he still running on that Change shit? like how come all the money I ever made never made any difference to any body other than the people I could call dependents on my taxes! I mean that’s just demoralizing, the brother hooked me up but honestly it’s only because of certain business connections I got, finally some young buck who got lucky got way up that corporate chain young, got inside Justice but had the City behind him whispering all the way and he got word to the White House, that I’m valuable, and that I’m innocent, and that in fact my innocence might be my greatest value, but you know what I bet the Chief wouldn’t know my name if he heard it today, and wouldn’t have got me out if he knew my street name. ––You should have turned Muslim like him. ––Yeah that’s right, Bang Bang’s laugh barely perceptible sizzling like a hush of gun smoke impenitent ––you got my little gift motherfucker? ––Oh did you send me a gift? Ian ironically. ––That’s funny white man as a matter of fact I do have a gift for you; but I’ll ask again, and slow so you understand, do you have my fucking finder’s fee? ––Yes. ––How come I can’t smell it. ––It’s all vacuum sealed and stuffed inside an iron box two inches thick, in my trunk, with a padlock so it would take a warrant to open it. . .

––You said too much man! the city has ears. ––We’re in the car! what should I have said. ––Just you took care of it or some other discreet shit like that. ––You know Bang Bang they told me you were crazy but. . . ––And they told me I’m guilty! called me a menace to society; but society’s meant to be menaced when it ain’t worked out, am I right? like rich white bull shit reality needs to get slapped around and waterboarded until it changes its ways. . . ––Yeah I know Bang Bang, or else we wouldn’t be talking right now. ––Well shit now how’s that for brotherly love! huh princess? ––Talk to him not me, Aniyah watching streetwise deer disappear into serene roadside treegrowth as Ian shuts the engine, unlocks the doors. ––Yo Bang Bang! Ian changing the subject in hopes his bloodshot lusting unscrupled passenger will just hurry up and step out with him, starting to fear Aniyah will run away while they talk shop in the woods ––I’ll give you another two pounds out of my head stash if you shoot that frisbee out of the air down there. ––That’s discharging a weapon within city limits, with a few witnesses, but I appreciate the thought uh. . . gesturing uninvested ––what was it? ––You don’t need to know my name Bang Bang. ––Just call him Kiss Kiss, Aniyah caustic and quiet with tearful cough almost covert ––And like do it out there! you’re both grossing me out. ––Yo Anonymo, tell your jail bait egg roll not. . . Decisively Ian farts, with resonance wet and resolute, deeply felt ––Let’s just step out now ya sadiq. . . Ian done his rummaging, a grape-flavored blunt suddenly lit up between them in utter mutual innocent gratitude to not be standing in a prison yard, the two men talk, a fire pit’s breadth from each other as they walk across the park, Ian showing off his Arabic and Bang Bang his Spanish, sharing fresh cuts of differing dialects, past frisbee-throwing hippies, frisbee-throwing dog owners and, past them, unseen, a woefully overdressed old man taking a shit beside a shopping cart, behind a broken lonesome face of stone ruin, once a mill maybe; silently they take the walled steps just beyond, Ian giving the schizophrenic stranger a dollar, Bang Bang giving him pocket change but neither even considering letting him hit the blunt like his bulging eyes beg them. Each with darting wizened eyes the bearded felons appreciate this concentration of nature, scanning the trees for diminutive enemies without feeling ridiculous; they find their safe spot on a slight plateau, at a clearing near some graffiti-freighting train tracks, with verdant branchy views of I-76, the two River Drives and Girard Ave bridge. ––You got that jawn out from your trunk? Bang Bang clapping loose fists in front of him lazy-calisthenically ––If it’s as nice as what you had rolled up. . . ––Yeah same shit, Ian reaching deep into camouflaged pants underneath his izar. They pull their guns together on the downbeat, point them at each other’s bodies; Bang Bang laughs first, feckless, Ian gruntingly upset at the film of sweat broken all of a sudden out on his brow, unforeseen. ––Fuck you Bang Bang. . . Ian wheezing wishing he could quit smoking those mere commercial cigarettes. ––You didn’t have to make it weird already! ass hole. ––Hey brother I’m here to help you! differences in our faith notwithstanding, so you’re a little out of line calling me. . . ––No I’m not! of course you’re an ass hole and you know what it’s not your fault, but even if it’s not your fault that’s no reason not to hold it against you so I’m saying fuck you just like I’d say it to a raccoon going through my trash can, a herd of buffalo overturning my car or an alligator eating my. . . ––Your larva of a whore? listen it’s cool, see! ain’t even a magazine in the jawn; I like you man so please just give me a motherfucking name to call you, let’s not be too much Business without enough Entity now. . . ––Fine call me Ivan! you psycho, withdrawing a curved-cornered cube the density and color of gun powder ––down payment, call it Pine Barren Purple. . . he undoes the padlock and opens the box, lets Bang Bang pull from it eight black little vacuum-sealed packages, each bulging with green-orange pollen-gooey gold, recently petrified flora dispatched of garrulous flowering beauty, of upright citizenship in a controlled herbal animation system, their clones left behind ––five eighths indica. ––Steady supply? ––Sure until they quit, get out or get caught. ––What’s their output. ––About ten to twelve pounds every other week, the way they have it set up. . . ––That’s it? tell them I’ll pay them! to find new help and more space. ––Yo one thing at a time Bang Bang, I showed you mine now. . . ––Don’t know about you man but after the joint I sleep with my fists balled up! and they both draw their guns again but uncombative this time, as if acting on a subtle juvenile cue picked up and codified in an arcade long ago; Bang Bang puts his away first, competitively cordial, pulling instead a small joint from a deep aerated-mesh pocket, soft as a hot pretzel, gyrating it in light sticky-stuck motion like that which made it, between thumb and finger in front of his lips ––This is real fire hash out of Morocco, got it from my boy’s got a boat; you light it Ivan, go ahead and let me talk, Bang Bang setting his gun down on an exposed sewer-pipe man-hole cover abutting a stump, jumping up and pulling up on a white birch branch above him, crouching perched and looking down at shrouded Ian, to dictate him terms ––I’d like to get all the facts straight, and to know you’re fucking listening: so you discovered Islam in prison right? whether or not it was just to fit in and protect your self I don’t know, but I do know you believe in it enough to believe it’s the reason you feel like smoking a bunch of other white people; that’s your business, but to get it done right you’re getting involved in my business, and I need you to understand I won’t tolerate your terrorist mess within a mile and a half radius of Gratz

61 and Master, you understand? I got people around there, might still be trying to get some of them out of there in life but damn sure not by getting them killed. ––Center City! Ian coughing up the tree ––Rich people, they’re thugs, and their kids, all heathens; haram-sucking scum only, don’t worry. ––Don’t give me that bull shit about sin Ivan, it’s easy to see you’re a prolific fornicator, me too! but real talk what do you want to really do, like blow up the damn Stock Exchange or some shit? shoot up the shops at. . . ––Big fat bomb, for Police Headquarters. . . treading crepuscular trance’s edges, feeling his footfalls on the wood mud earth now echo that heaviness he felt on the floor of his prison cell walking in circles all day until nightfall when with numbness like slippers he started to surf the nimbus of hours-repeated surahs ––won’t be some cheap high- school production. ––Hell no it won’t! Bang Bang cackling ––Not if you got me pushing buttons; that said though, I’m not going to handle any part of this thing of yours beyond introducing you to someone; he told me to give you his profile beforehand so you know to respect him. ––Oh shit great let me guess he’s a. . . ––Yeah he ain’t from here, no. . . Bang Bang laughing breaking into jumping jacks on the tree arm ––I know him, stumbling and hiding it, falling into a back flip off one foot, landing by the tree stump one hand on the gun there ––He’s from some Arab country, one of them Gulf States. ––The desert. ––Straight up! but the air-conditioned part, he’s a rich boy; you know how crazy it would be to be rich in a desert? it would be like what we know as hood rich except like ten times more intense, can you imagine the fucking paranoia? you’d just be thinking all the time even if all your enemies get got your shit is still just unsustainable. . . ––Hey isn’t that how this country thinks? or doesn’t think. . . ––Yeah the military maybe but every body else with power here just lets they self think all giddy that they’re going to grow their portfolio beyond the grave, like the broker’s going to come bring them flowers regular, hires a few goons just in case, buys a few guns and grenades and imagine. . . ––What about you? do you think you. . . ––Shit I know I don’t have any power! the fact that brother in Office got me out tells me that; and I know you don’t have power neither motherfucker but I like how you think you do, that shit goes a long way. ––Don’t patronize me. ––White boy I am your patron! ––Then just keep talking business Bang Bang. ––Straight shooter! I admire that shit too, so I’ll tell you now about your connect: dude’s name is Yusuf, Yusuf Maaroufi, don’t ask how I met him but whatever one of them oil kingdoms he’s from is about to start sending exports to specifically Philly through this hot-shit new shipping alliance, it’s thirteen different countries and pretty much my whole reputation rides on it now; see a new pier just got built on the Delaware, Number Eighty-Five, and it’s designated what’s called a Foreign Trade Zone, where tariffs aren’t enforced and customs ain’t so strict, spinning idly his gun centripetal to trigger finger, watching the farting silverfish of traffic in jerks crawl the bridge, together disintegrating at intersection almost invisible here. ––Rolls off the tongue: Pier Eighty- Five, Foreign Trade sub-zone Thirty-five ‘Q’; sure you understand my meaning but you’re going to have to talk to Yusuf about specifics, details and arrangements, and like I said. . . ––Bang Bang listen man I plan on killing like hundreds of people! you understand you’re already highly accessory to a mass murder? Promptly patent male anger shows itself, stops the spinning gun brusquely in pert gesture up at Ian, but dollar sign filters deploy fast as air bags resisting in palimpsest the fire flooding his eyes narrowing now to mere canals, and he smiles ––And you’re accessory to a massive drugs guns and flamingo meat conspiracy so assume you’re being watched Ivan, and that you better tow the fucking line; advise you not to waste my time or any body’s with that smart ass bull shit brother. ––So yeah you’re cool with blood shed, that’s good Bang Bang. ––Yeah whatever Ivan, standing up ––Honestly I don’t think you got the stones but let’s just set this up, these mosquitos here are all up in my grill; wish I could still smoke those stanking ass cigarettes like you. ––You’ll introduce me to Yusuf right? like I’m not just supposed to show up in some dark alley at some dark hour. . . ––Ain’t that supposed to be your element motherfucker? funny as shit bet you never even killed any body. . . ––Well not exactly. . . ––Or whatever I don’t care but like just out of nowhere you’re going to. . . ––You saying white people are from nowhere? ––Depends, where are you from. ––Like right over there, over that bridge, and then the zoo bridge. ––Mantua? ––Powelton. ––Where’d you go to school. ––Don’t recall the name. ––Course you don’t! degenerate terrorist ass hole. . . ––When can I meet Yusuf. ––Tomorrow night; don’t bring the girl! in fact I’ll pick you up. ––No thanks. ––No, I insist, be at 30th and Jefferson at eleven PM. ––Is the spot secure?

––Twenty-third and York, so in theory any thing could happen but it’s nice and isolated, no neighbors yet; you’ll get to kick your feet up, it’s new construction apartments. ––There?! ––Believe it! or not; it’s funny, the guy who got them built also owns warehouse space we use near that new pier, so like he’s gentrifying that shit but also helping me put lots of drugs on the streets, mostly heroin in case you were curious. ––I wasn’t! and don’t you try to slip that sayyida in my back seat any. . . ––Don’t worry brother I’m not even riding back with you; might take a nice hike, walk back to the whip. ––That’s like a mile and a half. ––Man it ain’t no thing, I want someone to try and mix with me so bad right now that I know for sure it ain’t going to happen; I know my karate and my crazy! ––But weren’t you just bitching about the mosquitoes. ––Ivan my demons gives me them toxic sweats, by the time I reach the edge of the woods I’ll taste like a skunked Olde E. to them. ––Thought mosquitos were the alcoholics of the animal kingdom; but what’s the deal with Yusuf? these exports from his country, is he like oil rich. ––His daddy’s a banker, told me as a teenager he figured out it ain’t hard to build meth labs out in the dunes, and he started doing business with an Iranian businessman who distributed the shit to China and India, and that was his In with this shipping alliance, so now he owns an import company, and has a bunch of college nerds from England run the numbers for him, that mostly trades in food and fancy wood, and he sells the shit all over the Peninsula, way up that coast even, to Turkey and Russia; so I’m like Yusuf’s partner in the new American division of that company, and that developer who owns the warehouse space here, Bang Bang starting to give his gun a spit shine ––I got that set up while I was in the joint, you make a lot of interesting connects in a federal pen; now if you’ll excuse me I’ll see you tomorrow, I’m going to find my way the fuck out of here, pass by that Bing Dong’s Donuts over on Oxford and see which one of his daughters is working. . . Watching Bang Bang, whose limbs all twitch and twirl in arrogant aerobic exuberance, walk away without a handshake, Ian sits in the dirt utterly stoned, like the sun itself triggered this tremendous flush of T-H-C over his synapses; the last Bang Bang sees of Ian today, looking back from the crest of a bramble-barbed litter-strewn hill, is the red- bearded white man flinging himself east on his knees in prayer, each man momentarily unaware of how his black clothes absorb the wet summer light, or of the unfortunate souls in neighboring hoods being busted with drugs in their cars, or knocked up with unaffordable fledgling lives, or harassed by debt collectors and mercenary lawyers, all in the interminable dirty-bottle twirl, the always-faltering marathon buck dance break dance of an urban search for purpose, a delicate mural in permanent melt, certain layers always reappearing under the peeling. Ian finds Aniyah leaning archly against the trunk of his car talking to two strangers, their car behind his on the shoulder, wearing half-open backpacks, boys a little bit older than her, who eye him with the distinct instant intolerant derision and mirthless puppy chuckle he might see or hear outside any ordinary corner store in the ghettos of Brotherly Love. ––Nice dress whitey. ––Yo he like really think he Muslim though! look at his beard. ––Aniyah get in the car. ––Old head we only stopped because she was standing there flipping us off. ––Both fingers! you heard? ––So we thought she was trying to mix or needed a ride or something. ––Yeah so don’t blame us! control your woman yo, or is this jawn your daughter? ––Ian they said the most horrible things, Aniyah salaciously assuming a Puritan accent a girl in her class used to sickening effect, reasons and origin obscure, in ‘Massacre at le Cap’ ––like that they were going to take me to their friend’s recording studio and. . . ––Shut up sayyida! drawing his gun, pointing it straight at her wryly stoic goading pout, but just meant mostly for the strangers to see ––Get in the car. ––Yo! chill! both boys backpedaling up to their dented car again. ––Throw my name around like it’s a fucking frisbee! coughing ––Are you serious? ––Don’t worry we ain’t see shit! from inside the other car as it starts, one of the boys huddled reclined by the passenger window ––didn’t hear any thing, won’t say nothing. ––You try to bring the bitch back to Jersey with you white boy be careful, out of the driver’s side ––that’s a Minor over State Lines. . . engine laughing down the winding hill to meet East River Drive. ––You can put that thing down, Aniyah trying not to cry ––the other men are gone. ––Damn Aniyah! starting the car ––Are you or are you not a soldier of Allah? ––Yes of course I just got bored Jesus Christ! climbing in beside him again. ––So you show your middle fingers to potential rapists! is that any way to respect the special sensate vessel Allah built your soul? ––It’s the middle of the day! people kept driving past and. . . With a sudden harsh stereo swell of dense-mixed low-budget rap he silences her. ––Listen! that conversation I just had with Bang Bang made every thing a lot more serious for us. ––Oh like you mean he told you grow some balls and you’ll actually start to treat this partnership like a. . . ––Shut up! listen let me do the leg work for now; what I meant was we just got a huge infusion of cash and insanity, two things you need to fight any war holy or not. ––So you mean you don’t think normal sane people with nothing can start, fight and win a war?

––We’re not starting or winning any thing Aniyah; leave the glorifying of it for the living, the future martyrs who survive us, I mean for all you know. . . ––Ian! looking away from the River, over at him ––sometimes. . . ––What! spit it out sayyida. ––Sometimes I just wonder would it be better if we just get jobs and give this up. ––Aniyah you’ve never had a job, and I’ve had too many; trust me, this is the best we can do. Sheeted fresh acrylic and elastomeric, pebbled twinkling in silicate sand galaxies, whiteness anew on half a roof offsets with pure alumina-trihydrated limestone-salad prettiness its own awful artificial-tasting miasma; cotton-swelling sweat now itches less on skin tickled with the unknit touch and spectacle of spackle-thick sparkle. ––Should have brought a beach chair up here, tying again his bandana ––I’m so beat! fucking sun is on fire today, my brain feels like it’s been pressed into orange juice. . . ––Your abeulo is crazy man, screening squinting his eyes with a tanning palm across red bronzed crown, watching presiding skyline glaring ––like how the hell are we supposed to get this whole block coated in two days! ––Yeah recruitment is too low Reese! Fran agreeing with Edwin ––We need more personnel, his pale freckled body coming out from under unbearable shirt, imitating the reflective effect of this paint-like polymer material, the holy water medium of their work here today ––Need more than three to a team! at this wage we’re being exploited. ––If he felt like he had to hire more hands he’d probably lower our wage. ––But you said he’s filthy rich! like shouldn’t he want to share. . . ––He is! he’s just not completely reckless. ––Didn’t that stroke make him loco though? from the tin-plated ledge ––like what’s payroll really! compared to what he’s paying all these people to let him, I mean let us paint. . . ––Because that’s just part of it! whatever crazy epiphany he had in his hospital bed, it made him. . . ––We make less in a day doing this shit than he’s paying strangers to let him do it. ––Yeah migo how much money does he really have? like he’s trying to paint, I mean make us paint a quarter million roofs! or something impossible like that. ––. . . and he drives to all our job sites in that Mercedes, which is even shinier and more noxious than this putty paint shit we work with. ––Yeah well Fran you drive to every job in a station wagon so weighed down with those pithy lefty commie bumper stickers it gets like two miles to the gallon. ––Yeah Fran don’t complain! the man gave you a good job, and you don’t have to listen to kids bitching, Edwin trying to kneel on the hot black extant settled half of roof, scorching his knee, giving it up, bolting upright far too burnt out to care who sees him half naked from down on Oxford Street ––we do the best we can on each new block, that’s all. ––But I mean the whole city in one summer? is he serious! ––All it would take, Reese finishing his water, at least pretty sure it was his ––is an army of teenagers willing to work for free, so they can put the shit on their résumé saying they were part of something more special than high school; plus I think he’s trying to like inspire all his rich friends to follow suit and put up money to pay the homeowners. . . he hasn’t really crunched the numbers much, just assumes things will work out for his cause. ––I bet your grandpa has another crew already, Fran faking tai chi crane pose, to a derisive high Yo Birdman from below, the far corner, the crowded bodega ––uhh so another crew, constituted of illegal immigrants. . . which would be rad except that he’s keeping it a secret from us. . . ––Fran sometimes I think you had a stroke too man. . . introducing feeling again into crouch-cramped hams Edwin’s phone convulses vvvtt vvvtt vvvtt ––It’s my ti-ti. . . ¡Digame! . . . ¿qué? . . . ¡¿tu hijo desapereciadó?! . . . cómo podría ser deportado si es Puertorriqueño, no tiene sentido. . . ¡en medio de la noche! ¿en serio? y nadie se. . . no, por supuesto nunca estuvo involucrado en narcóticos; usted y yo sabemos que él es un mecánico simple. . . te amo tambien. . . he hangs up amidst adolescent abuse and obscenity spraying up from the fuel-blue street like shaken carbonated sugar water, washing acidic in contradistinction the remorse from Edwin’s brick-pink eyes; lighting blithely a joint and gesturing with it in the hot air, giddily jeopardizing or perhaps enhancing public perception of their project’s integrity, he clutches his head like a stick in soil supports a twined flower stalk ––Yo listen, my ti-ti called and said my cousin Carlos disappeared; his moms thinks he got kidnapped or deported, even though he’s Puerto Rican so I’m not sure how they could deport him, or why they would, or who the fuck, fuck. . . Incensed his friends respond, incredulous wondering how any criminal adventure could have landed Edwin’s estimable cousin in trouble; summer haze misrepresents the sun light here, dusking their feelings down to strangulation blue, like running motor exhaust built up inside a closed garage. ––Man in this kind of climate, with every kind of society seemingly so close together, it’s like so easy to trick our selves into feeling every thing is stable, Fran scratching at his arm pits vexedly ––like it can all just only get newer and shinier, safety and friendly. . . ––I know migo! it’s worse than it seems; one time Carlos, first guitar teacher I ever had by the way, and I, we were walking to this school up at Hope and Indiana, near his place, to do an assembly singing Puerto Rican songs, and you know what? all every body between the bus stop and their auditorium stage asked us was if the guitars were for sale! I mean not even to play them a song or nothing, any thing like that, but on the island man people just love music, they’re not so obsessed with the bling bling, and grown men don’t just go missing in the middle of the night. ––Unlike in most Latin American countries, Fran just-the-facts tangentially to the comfort his amigo might want right now ––But I mean yeah you’re right, sick rich- country bull shit. . .

––Can I shoot it? Reese putting more sun screen on his neck and ears ––I mean can I interview your ti-ti, your whole family. . . ––You serious Reese? Edwin vertiginously close to keystone minarets, pigeon- shat buttresses flightless, overlooking broken pavement strewn with trash and glass, ribald internet-retarded teenagers ignoring silent chidings of elders on stoops and working adults between important stops all too busy to care their youth are too bored for any body’s good ––This is some real shit, you’re my homie and you just want to make my family a fucking documentary? about my cousin disappearing, leaving us a hole in casa del Huerta, oh! such good subject matter. . . ––Don’t blame me for feeling like it could help, Reese removing camcorder from backpack, neglecting work ––you said yourself that it’s a more vital medium than. . . ––Vi vi vitalistic! not fa fa fatalistic! Fran’s protest chant, mostly to himself. ––Alright fuck it, Edwin sighing unpeeling a blackening banana ––I see that little red light is already on, it needs to be fed; guess this shot makes sense right? skyline background and I’m standing here sweating my balls off bereaved on the roof. . . ––Yeah I missed your phone call so this will have to do for an opening shot; now stand up straight! and talk about your cousin, then walk us through that call again. ––My cousin Carlos has been a good man his entire life; he was very close with his father, my Tio Francisco who was a good man also, who started the garage Carlos and his two brothers own now. . . Rolling another joint Fran listens while Reese films and Edwin reminisces, until the underlying overflying interjection of helicopter rotors interrupts, ends definitively their lunch break, provokes ululant violent ideation from kids in the street: ––Yo bull wish we had your cousin’s A K! ––Black hawk the fuck down, pow pow pow! ––They can’t stay up there forever but we’re down here all day! you heard? ––Yeah Reese zoom in on that thing, see if you can see the insignia, Fran lighting up standing up and opening another can of coating. ––It’s not up there to film some news, the cameraman’s conclusion quickly –– it’s all blacked out. . . ––Some straight-up Homeland Security surveillance bro. ––You using this in your new documentary too migo? think my cousin might be up there? ––Um I’d rather just use this for a more interpretive kind of video piece, like I’m used to doing; best thing any body can do with creepy authority hardware like that is abstract it. . . but wait, it looks like, let me see, shit it’s getting away! there was a decal in one of the windows, I swear it was in Arabic but with silhouettes of naked women on either side; also I thought I saw a disco ball flashing in the cabin. ––Illuminati military oil party? Fran freckling in the sun and settling back into work ––I’m telling you they’re trying to buy up every ancient decrepit property between Poplar and Cecil B. Moore, they’re up there drooling over all the poverty and opportunity. . . ––Fran you’re fried from all that L-S-D migo. . . looking down to the street again, rubbing picking-hand thumb and forefinger together ––or that Foxy, that molly-whop or moo-cow or whatever the fuck, Edwin texting frantically family simultaneously ––Reese why don’t you make a documentary about Fran? his hippie West Philly upbringing, the way his one bad high-school break-up opened up the psychedelic floodgates he kept so resentfully locked or whatever, the most of his life; then his descent into Philly-commie madness, and end it with the riot at that play he wrote that we did. . . ––That film is supposed to be a short though, Reese grinningly shrugging putting camcorder away, getting back to work more compensated ––it’s just a piece about that riot and how it. . . ––It’s supposed to be about the play! Fran querulous, too hot; before he can protest too much, his own phone goes vvvtt vvvtt vvvtt against his thigh ––. . . hope this isn’t another hysterical churchy mommy, tell me I corrupted her baby, fucking dense oh it’s her hello? hi darling I’m at work. . . yeah I know you know that I’m just. . . okay Jesus! what is it? . . . what! where did you hear that? . . . and where did he see it! . . . oh great what a piece of shit, these fucking hipsters, uncooperative reactionary. . . what? I think I know how to reach him yeah, don’t have his number though no. . . I don’t know you know I might have let him but there’s proper channels for this kind of shit! . . . I’m not a hypocrite! of course anarchists believe in the proper channels, we’re just more suspicious than most people about how. . . okay fine because I don’t feel like explaining again right now how I. . . can you pick up some of that hemp toilet paper while you’re there? . . . and just be careful, there’s not bike lanes everywhere that way . . . I love you outside any social construct too! ––Yo Fran you used that word again, Edwin working furiously ––I told you migo it’s useless! redundancy on top of irony on top of redundancy, on top of. . . ––What word. ––Hipster! Edwin and Reese together. ––Okay whatever! I mean you’ve both pointed out to me before most people at first blush would classify me, or you Reese, as. . . ––Not what I mean this time, Edwin priming hot black surface for remedial inversion ––the point is that every body is a hipster anymore, like no matter what field you’re in, what lane of the track you run on, you’re not what people used to be. . . ––What do you mean! Fran and Reese heatedly together. ––Like I mean the original thing, the spirit behind the invention is lost, we tried to computer-code our world and lost a lot of heart in the process; this isn’t just our first black president, it’s our first hipster president, like a synthesis of all the motherfuckers before him, the neoconservative rich kid, the neoliberal lawyer before him, that bland jack of all fuck sticks before him, the iconic trickle-down deceiver before him, the wait who the hell was. . .

––That habitat for humanity guy! who started the Taliban. ––Right then I don’t know, the white guy before him. . . ––You’ve only been on the mainland for one of them right? Reese filming. ––Yeah but this one now, guy reduces peace and progress to internet hashtags. . . ––He got you that health insurance Edwin, Reese expostulating, his two friends ignoring him. ––But what I mean is he talks about change and unity like they’re brands of retro sunglasses you know what I mean? and no style of music really lives anymore neither, there’s this fucked-up radioactive interface between the players, the artists and the legacies we imagine we’re continuing when really it’s this new pointless jerk off, I don’t know! exasperated ––I know it sounds stupid but for example terrorists too, like who are these Daesh people turning teenagers on to jihad? Osama bin Laden never took selfies. . . ––He took tons of selfies! what the fuck are you talking about, Fran expostulating ––and played fucking video games, they found all that shit at his house so what do. . . ––I know what you mean though Edwin, Reese just as existentially vexed as his friend ––Pseudostyle, pseudopassion, pseudotradition, pseudocommunity. . . ––Oh I get you, it’s like people don’t know how to want to be the People, Fran firm-handed and narrow-minded upon his fuming task ––Like the price we pay for knowing every thing is understanding nothing. ––Yeah, we, I mean, they, distill and soften the core of every historically revealed value to this momentary kind of memetic laughter, about as meaningless as the plastic paper label on a water bottle. . . ––I think black people and white people should come together to address the hipster problem, because lazy vain traditionless rappers have proliferated just as much as all those annoying basement-party wussy-rock bands; but wait Fran back up who is it you were calling hipster on the phone just now? ––Who do you think Reese! ––Uh well since we’ve determined it could technically be any . . . ––Cody K! that pissant poser phony, couldn’t even ollie on a skate board I heard. ––That’s a pretty hipster standard migo, Edwin lurking, looking at phone, girls. ––Yeah hipsters love standards, they’re addicted to them; what did Cody do now. ––He stole my song man! our song, some fucking parent leaked footage from the San Domingo show they filmed on their phone and apparently it went kind of viral at least in Philly and Cody K sniffed it out seized on the sensationalism, saw me saw us on the news or whatever and already released a cover of our song! without my, our permission. . . ––Ass hole! Reese and Edwin together. ––Bet he didn’t get my chord voicings right migo. ––Damn it I hate that that competing inferior footage of that night is out there! I mean I was even pissed when the news crews arrived, although I think all they captured was the chaos, not the songs. . . ––Which song was it Fran! ––It was the solo the girl Aniyah sang! when she’s convincing all the whores to kill their slaveowner johns in bed. ––Chatte de Guillotine! Reese and Edwin together; all three sing a snatch of it: ––Mulatto, blanc or Negro, their foul boules have to go; stew them in rude bloody bouillon, boiled red snapper in red voodoo food bowl. Done singing they sigh and laugh some, let lingering violent song subside into sweathog work snortles a grunting speechless few minutes, until: ––Do you think that developer Dominic tells us no, every house of his my grandpa wants to coat, because he’s like really concerned with the implication that he’s a racist? that he’s gentrifying, meaning if he’s white-washing the roofs from black and. . . ––It’s not weird white guilt like that he’s just a douche bag migo, thought I heard him say some bull shit like black is city chic. ––Fran’s right Reese that dude doesn’t care about any thing but money, maybe appreciates the beauty of the city by helicopter on occasion but wait! I’m getting another call, oh shit it’s a Restricted number, is this going to be Carlos? God knows I don’t have money for some bull shit ransom, hello? yes this is Edwin tell me what you need just give it to me straight. . . oh what? no, yes no! don’t tell me to chill Cody fucking K, my cousin just got kidnapped! or went missing or something I’m on edge, my whole family. . . oh you’re sure he’s okay? well Cody if you say so that’s reassuring but what are you doing blocking your number are you seriously. . . in case I decide to harass you? clenching incredulous his grimace, looking between bewildered Fran and Reese ––It’s an odd coincidence you know! I just heard about how you stole. . . you didn’t steal you borrowed? well at least you admit it, now if you could admit it was without permission or merit or. . . you want me what! your new lead guitarist? what happened to that goddamn math-rock shred-monkey. . . too expensive! should I be insulted? your label dropped you over our song! simpering high fiving Fran, grinning Reese filming ––. . . well Cody K guess what buddy I might have a job for you if you need help with that lease on your new studio space, heard you loaded it up with some pretty nice stuff, biting back derisive laugh ––you too migo but how will I call you if I don’t. . . Cody that doesn’t make sense! if we’re going to be on this job I just mentioned together anyway I might need your number you know, no you can’t just send it to the owner with your resumé, he’s not really an owner anyway, this is a suicidal venture, we’re a tax free anti-profit. . . well what the fuck would your resumé say anyway Cody K, that you changed your own guitar strings once? you’ll have to do better than. . . well yes I know you have your own string sponsor I’m well aware that’s not what I. . . look you trust me enough to play guitar for you why can’t you trust me enough to tell you no need for a resumé, we’ll just put in a good word for you and it. . . yeah it’s chill it’s all outdoors, you get a dark tan and meet a lot of people, should be right up your alley. . . wait don’t hang up, if I’m going to play guitar for your

71 brand new bargain band Cody K which by the way I have not yet said yes to won’t I need your phone number? like what if we. . . oh I see you like to do things your way, well if you take this roofcoating job with us migo you better do it our way, it has to be a little more correct than that scrappy rhythm playing and liberal singing you’re known for, just like setting up the scaffolding in the morning is. . . yes I’ll see him by tonight, we. . . okay I was going to suggest you come see us at work, see what it’s all about and you can apologize to my man Fran and me in the flesh for taking our song without permission, but maybe we can just make some promotional video for you if that’s easier; put it anywhere on the Internet, I’m sure you’ll find it. . . Cody? okay he hung up. . . what do you guys think, should I be that privileged little ass hole’s new lead guitarist? my instinct says I might as well, sell my own damn. . . ––Wait my Grandpa’s calling, Reese laughing still shutting off camcorder, while Fran and Edwin begin debating the potential merits, embarrassments of stultified-juvenile indie-scene infiltration ––Hello? yes I can hear you Grandpa, no you don’t sound uh retarded, if any thing just a little younger. . . yeah we’re almost finished one side of the block three roofs left but it’s pretty brutal up here, we’re basically laying tanning screen. . . oh you’re here? why don’t you climb up, walk across the roofs to where we are and we’ll talk about. . . what! I mean I don’t think they’ll beat you up between your car and the scaffolding, there’s at least a dozen witnesses down there. . . fine I’ll come down, I’m warning you though these guys won’t like I’m leaving them one leg less of a stool. . . it’s an expression Grandpa! you told me it in fact. . . well yes before you had. . . but you asked! of course I’m not trying to upset you. . . okay Grandpa! damn it I’m coming down. ––Free money! the shout of a grateful neighbor, who Lloyd paid without mentioning anything about how to declare the unexpected bursary on tax forms, at Reese monkeying down straight ladder to sandbagged base and sidewalk ––Make the hood shine boy! at least from above. . . ––Fuck y’all! why they have to be white roofs? a staunchly intolerant teenage boy on a bike nearby ––Hope one of your pussy asses pass out up there and fall. ––Yo he’d go splat splat bro! another underschooled voice Reese ignores ––could paint my tag up with the mess he leave. . . Head half down brought up only for amiable nods to older neighbors, ignoring the kids flown with insolence and weed, prescription pills and music video hubris, Reese hurries, finds Lloyd in his nondescript Crown Vic parked awkwardly around the corner, engine running; standing by the window a moment it does not lower so he taps a hello. ––Get in goddamn it! comes muffled the command from inside ––feels like the damn Everglades out here today, my old ass is staying right. . . ––Hey Grandpa! climbing in, turning the music down ––trying like hell to. . . ––Yeah, I can tell, you smell like barbeque ball sweat boy. . . take a shower tonight, I clinched another twenty-two blocks for you, all in North Philly too. ––What! you did all that today? ––Not myself, got kids canvassing for me for fried-rice money, making my pitch to their neighbors; can’t a goddamn one of them explain the science but nobody seems to care, except that girl you knew who lives on that one block off Gratz and Master, who sang in your weird friend Fran’s violent verbose colonial burlesque, her Aunt called me up and I gave her the job for the summer, she’s got this male companion drives her around, strange bird a bit older than her and thinks he’s black or something but anyway they go around visiting different block captains and she’s ten times more productive than the rest of them and actually knows why the planet’s warming, takes a dramatic and rather pathological interest in its apocalyptic implications if you ask me but she’s young and poor and naturally an actress it’s all understandable, the City probably felt like a trap to her long before she knew about the black-roof green-house thing, lead in the soil and lead in dead bodies, foster kid you know! coughing into a thin scratchy napkin from a grease- freezer fast-food drive-thru joint, at least eight franchises of which he could afford to buy outright without batting an eye ––Anyway what I need from you is a Hollywood production, put together some video about the project I can use to pitch it; I’ll get your father to find lists of all the block captains in Philadelphia, we’ll mail it out, he’s intimate with the City like that you know. . . ––Yeah he’s a real player, Reese woundedly not without vitriol for Lloyd too who raised the motherfucker to be the way he is. ––So I need the file asap Reese, I’m trying to make twenty-five thousand D-V-D’s to send with letters, legitimate return envelopes where they invoice us per house to coat, won’t have to come out here myself anymore and sweat to death waiting to get shot by. . . ––That’s good, I’m glad to do it, and not do this; but won’t you need a body to replace me? because we’ve got this kid in mind who. . . ––Going to need a lot of new bodies Reese; good thing Philly’s a Sanctuary city, because payroll is going to. . . ––Grandpa! if you get in trouble. . . ––Well what’s the worst that happens, we get shut down and they paint the damn roofs tar black again? you need to relax, in addition to needing a shower; young guys anymore worrying themselves sick with this stupid bull shit because they don’t know how to see things with some sense, and all that dope you. . . ––You use illegal workers they’ll be out in the open! up on those roofs all exposed to. . . ––Sanctuary City Reese, no body’s going to ask. . . ––But all this helicopter traffic, you have to think. . . ––No I damn well don’t have to, I’ll have another stroke, and frankly I don’t want to die now and leave you all these millions for you to leave this project unfinished, you’d probably spend it all trying to make some damn fool digital third-rate millennial-DeMille debacle. . . ––Thanks for the support Grandpa! no I mean that now anyway let’s get this thing started; why don’t I do an interview right here outside? you stand against that wall.

––All right but it better not take a thousand takes when it’s this hot and all these kids are out to thwart, denigrate or otherwise discourage our. . . ––Careful Grandpa! getting scared could give you a stroke. ––Damn it boy are you trying to kill me? build yourself a dysfunctional movie studio in a hippie barn somewhere, maybe some freezing sweltering lofts around here; you know just thinking about the idea of getting scared enough to have a stroke could actually scare me enough to. . . ––Well talking about a stroke at all will. . . ––You brought it up you ingrate! let’s just do this goddamn shoot. ––Okay but would you want to rather join us on the rooftops? might make sense. ––Are you kidding! I’m not climbing that scaffolding, I get dizzy anymore just changing a light bulb. ––Well with the bulbs this President’s pushing you won’t have to. . . ––Let’s not talk about longevity just now Reese, or conserving energy, certainly not politics; just interview me here like you said, the brick wall behind me where the graffiti there says four-hundred and twenty, fortuitous coincidence that gang name! which I assume it is, because I believe four-hundred and twenty parts per million carbon dioxide is the international target for. . . ––Um no Grandpa, Four-Twenty’s not. . . uh let’s just have you over there facing me on the sidewalk instead, with the long shot of Master Street; if um you stand against the wall it actually generates kind of an air of hopelessness, whereas the longview of the street with rows of houses while you’re talking about all their roofs could be a sort of hopeful. . . ––I get it! so you can shut up now; that’s far from the craziest thing I’ve ever been consulted into doing, we’ll do it your way, shutting the engine stepping out; his grandson’s little red light coming on, the old man dabs his forehead with another rough brown napkin ––Hello I’m Lloyd Kunders, a semi-retired investor and concerned Pennsylvanian; a little over a week before filming this message to you, I suffered a stroke following a heavy meal of Southern-fried chicken and all the accoutrements, with an extra serving of. . . ––Cut! maybe don’t use the word ‘accoutrements’ Grandpa? is it necessary to. . . ––Damn it Reese! they can look it up, I take the time to contemplate the word ‘jawn’, learn how to use it politely goddamn it! . . . come on one more time but this better be the goddamn charm, I’m sweating all my meds out. . . Lloyd repeats himself, including the bit about the chicken, adding ––. . . sometime during my stroke, somewhat between my house and the hospital, in an ambulance, I found myself losing feeling of body and soul, my position in time and space, age and identity, all of it gone, and the lights of my surroundings blazed and faded, swirled into some humming nameless hell, threw me through a crowded kind of cosmic trading-floor, measureless to. . . ––Grandpa! you don’t need that much. . . ––Damn it Reese you don’t need to interrupt me! I know what I want them to. . . ––Grandpa! any body here who’d watch your video would want it over and understood in less time than a T-V commercial break. ––Can’t say I don’t relate because I want this done myself right now in one more take, just don’t let me not explain that part right! it was an important experience to me. . . ––Sure okay but not every body who has a stroke ends up having a myst. . . ––Just let me say my piece kid! before those kids there decide to steal your gear, don’t think they won’t. . . ––No Grandpa don’t worry, that killer gleam in your eye you got in Korea. . . ––Shut up Reese! kids don’t respect shit any more; it’s like, as the universe expands, the stupider. . . ––Wasting time Grandpa. ––. . . I don’t know if it’s all the heavy metals in the soil and water here or what, you know Philadelphia had the most lead smelters in the country? twenty more than Baltimore; okay, last one, don’t stop me, and if you don’t like how I say it, you don’t even have a microphone or boom on you! don’t like how much time I take, use a little trickery for your precious brevity, put you through all that art school, you better have some skills by now. . . where was I? no that’s not a momentary lapse don’t worry it’s just an expression, I remember; I had a stroke, and in that afflicted state of mind I had a vision, of myself watching a television screen, similar to the one you’re looking at now. . . and, of all the things to be going through my mind on the brink of death, it was the weather, I had a vision of a weather report, with a beautiful turbaned woman in sunglasses telling me the high of the day was to be one-eighty, with an overnight low of zero. . . and I realized, hearing this news from the future, some divinity was telling me to take this whole climate change thing seriously, and spend the rest of my life and my money helping the people around me prepare for it. . . thus begins the detailed spiel, old Lloyd Kunders assuring strangers he will disburse hundreds to any house that says yes and why wouldn’t you? ––. . . equal hope and hazard in this nonprofit enterprise; because once the warming starts it ow! damn kid threw a rock at me, let’s get out of here, climbing again inside sedan ––Get these houses all done today! while you’re at it shoot some filler footage for our pitch, his dark window open an eye-level crack ––. . . and get me a line on that kid you mentioned if he wants the work; hope he didn’t get so stupid at college like you three guys, goddamn hippies. . . away in a fart-shroud of petroleum fumes. ––Yo let me see that camera! my boy’s got verses the world needs hearing. ––What you interview that old man about! he buying them lots up? ––Tell him he might have to dig up some bodies yo. ––Real rap! trying not to laugh ––. . . lot of panties, bottles and baggies too. ––Leave the man alone! a stranger’s cracked smoked bark yapping ––unless y’all two don’t want to live to drop out of school. . . ––Do what he says or I’ll fuck you up too, big body guard with BIG and HOUSE tattooed on either forearm in bone font, GRATZ and MASTER on his neck in street- sign block-type, reinforcing glowering.

––Fuck y’all corny Nineties nig. . . ––What young man! slapping the stiff-brimmed still-stickered cap off the kid’s head ––Show some respect! shoving him off center on bike seat ––And if you don’t have any? tough shit young’n! there’s consequences anyway; one fucking thing you can’t be poor in. ––Yeah that’s right get on out of here, body guard buddy boisterously ––Tails between y’all legs; let the pits win again, they always going to. ––Thanks for that, Reese taking care packing up his camcorder, shielding cautiously the corporate brand name on it and its bag ––. . . kid there threw rocks at us! couldn’t believe it; what is this, the Gaza Strip? ––Yeah well you spooked them dawg, freaked them out seeing some old white guy getting talked to on T-V in the middle of the hood by some young white guy; they probably assumed y’all were related! like some Illuminati family. . . ––Uh well that old white guy is my grandfather. ––Then why couldn’t y’all two just do an interview at the crib? henchman headscratchingly ––like why would y’all be at Oxford and Van Pelt? ––And why you so fucking sweaty and beat right now? y’all couldn’t have been doing that shit that long. . . ––And it can’t be that big a burden being a cameraman! know what we’re saying. ––Maybe it’s just the fear then? ––Yeah you know he. . . ––No! I was up on the roofs. . . ––What are y’all doing up there. ––We’re painting, or coating actually, all the black roofs white so. . . ––You good at this shit? ––The roofs? ––No not that shit, this shit. ––Oh filming? yeah I mean this isn’t my best camera, I just keep. . . ––Always with the motherfucking excuses! you go to school for it? ––Yeah but only after doing it my entire life uh, theretofore. ––Their two four? . . . bodyguard befuddled. ––I feel you young man, why don’t you interview me? I have a real story to tell; people tell me all the time I could make a movie of my life. ––Um no offense sir but I think every body could, but any way I’d need to. . . ––Five K up front and five more when it’s finished. ––. . . when what’s finished. ––A documentary young man! about what I’m doing, maybe make it short and sweet, like for straight to D-V-D, or get a full season going for T-V; see, I’m the only person so far this year the President’s pardoned from prison. . . and I’m feeling mighty grateful, want to give back to my community, thought it might be important to get the word out on the problems here; so I’d like to host a little show about our beautiful city’s heroin epidemic. . . ––Admit it! you’re a city cop now McCrank. ––Okay yeah that’s where I’ve been disappearing those Thursday and Friday shifts, but you have to promise not to tell any body about it! it’s a secret program, so at least no civilians; most younger cops and any captain or above knows about it already I guess. . . ––So how’s it been bud! like you’re in Kabul again? ––Oh hell no, the poverty here is nothing close to the poverty over there; kid in Philly sits in his air-conditioned insulated room smoking a blunt playing first-person shooters and sports video games, kid over there grows poppy kicks rocks for fun and wears a turban when it’s a fucking hundred-ten out. . . although uh every where our Army goes overseas we do get the kids there just as addicted to chocolate cereal and orange soda that the kids here are. . . finishing his drink ––And in Philly at least I don’t have to worry about roadside bombs because the Muslims here are all about red beards or bean pies; but kids have thrown rocks at us on the job, guess that’s a global standard. . . ––Well the Earth is a rock. . . an unanticipated answer, from a stranger with swagger ––We pick them up every where, it reminds us where we. . . ––Holy shit! Rotte? ––That’s right McCrank, you come here often? why don’t you introduce me to your boys here. Bristling bubbles up among the buzz-cuts, a murmured general tenor of reluctant introduction, and a slow pained prejudiced opening in fragile fraternal circle on sticky floor. ––Well uh they’re all cops, with me at Upper Middle Merion; this is Aldridge, Tyler, Pankration, Dougall-Bondy. . . ––You been a little indiscreet McCrank? telling them how the Feds told you go train for the end of the world with City Police. ––Um well the Feds didn’t right? you’re a State Trooper! you’re the one who. . . ––Oh excuse me McCrank I’m a little drunk myself, tend to get my bureaucratic nomenclature mixed up; so let me ask you uh slow so I get it right, any of those city cops you work with now mention a guy named Carlos Huerta lately? ––No who’s that? he a cop. ––No and I really doubt he ever wanted to be: when he was a teenager he was arrested without charge six times, and once charged for some trifling bull shit with a disturbing-the-peace; got similar stories in the rest of his immediate family, one case of police brutality too, his father got beat up right in front of him when he mouthed off. . . ––Why you telling us this? the restless group response ––Who is this guy anyway! ––He’s a young Puerto Rican-born mechanic from North Philly, honest on his taxes apparently, and a father of three; spent his Friday, yesterday, away from his garage, buying specific parts from scrap yards out in the suburbs, for customers with old cars,

77 normal day except that early this morning, middle of the night, his house was burgled and he got kidnapped out of it, now he’s God knows where. . . ––Okay so what why are you telling us this? tell the Philly police. . . ––They know as much as anyone so far about it McCrank; but I’m just telling you guys cop-to-cop because it’s interesting, good shop talk. . . ––We’re at a bar though! ––You mean you don’t bring cop talk, shop talk to the bar McCrank? thought I heard one of you just now bragging about whooping some hysterical hippie’s ass, at a gas station he was protesting at, by himself at midnight? epically high and therefore especially defenseless, good story. . . it’s alright I guess, every body does it, makes it look and sound like to the females that you’re competent, have some purpose, a paycheck and something on your mind other than pussy, which of course you don’t so tell me McCrank how do you like being a city cop? seen any body been shot up yet. ––I’ve been to a couple of murder scenes yes, in Powelton and Kensington; nothing I haven’t seen before though. . . ––No? guess there’s a lot of stray bullets flying around over in Afghanistan too. ––And Taliban killed snitches just like Philly gangsters do. ––Well said McCrank and I guess it’s safe to say kids join gangs over there because they’re just as bored and pissed off as kids over here; think it’d make a difference if we sent them all smart phones? gave them some game consoles to distract. . . ––That’d just give them more devices to detonate those roadside bombs; that’s the one big difference between Philly and Kabul. . . ––Fair enough McCrank! but scary inexplicable things do befall our citizens here as well, like this Huerta guy I mentioned; see the guy was totally legal and legit, Yankee Doodle Papi to the bone but his wife and sister are both hollering at the Mayor’s office right now saying they think their precious Carlos has been deported, you think that fear is unfounded? in a Sanctuary City and especially since they’re actually citizens don’t you think they deserve to sleep easy. ––Kidnapped doesn’t mean deported, someone guardedly from the other side of the circle ––it’s hysterical Hispanic women just making shit up when they know he really probably just flew back to Puerto Rico to hide from them in those mountains. ––I thought you said their stuff got taken too? somebody else judiciously ––like it might have just been a break-in went wrong, people knew he had a successful business. . . ––Ransom coming. . . someone tonelessly, drunkenly. ––Knew he had a successful business! Rotte bitterly, splashing the backwashed last of his drink into his own tired eyes ––won’t be successful too much longer without him at the helm, you think they’re going to sell it just because he isn’t there? it’s just a mess, they won’t know how, they’re not in that position, they know no other life, they’re still going to owe all those taxes and have to fix all those cars with or without their master mechanic. ––Why are you talking about this guy so much? another young officer slurring basic speech ––like, shit happens in the city! crazy shit McCrank here can tell you all about. . . ––Yeah? well then regale me McCrank, long emphasis on syllable ‘gay’ ––Been outnumbered on a foot-beat by a bunch of empty-backpack black kids yet? ––Yes. . . drunk McCrank rueful. ––Yo Brock who is this guy! one of his perma-belligerent buddies barking. ––I’m a State Trooper young man, the one what found your boy here something thrilling to do, since I know how much it sucks being a suburban cop, especially if you’re used to combat. ––You trying to say we got cushy jobs dude? ––Well cushy enough that you don’t have to worry, don’t have to go around looking for other sources of income huh? Rotte testily shaking empty glass, getting a message across ––Not like those city cops right McCrank? they’ve all got hobbies, other jobs. . . ––Yeah I guess most of them do, some play the. . . ––Country cops too! graft, corruption, Rotte’s interruption ––cheap motel vice, narcotics collusion and the like, seem to be a pretty prevalent pastime of underpaid police all over the. . . ––Whoa! not fair, a red-eyed and amassed reproof ––Exaggeration. ––Well not every body of course, always exceptions; nice honest side jobs out there too: landscaper, gym teacher, bartender, game hunter, bounty hunter. . . ––I build kitchens! pink-shirted cop querulous, casually, attempting a smile. ––Well good for you young man! Rotte straightening up, bracing for a good goading ––You ever work with any illegals? Coughing spreading and flexed shuffling vexation surround him in virile titillation, bubbling around the tall circle of lawmen jointly like head-foam over a cracked pint glass mouth, all gruffly and horny off duty here protecting and serving the bar backs, bouncers and other customers. ––Can’t say I do. . . rookie cop’s eyes cast down his nose, averted along his own open shirt front ––just my brothers and me; and we sometimes work for free, for family. ––I’d never work with a salsa nigger! legal or not, McCrank’s drunkest burliest companion ––No sir, when I work I want the fucking job finished, not stalled indefinitely. ––Yeah you and Cortes! Rotte visibly bored, suspicious as a desultory house cat cornered on cushions ––But enough of them want to come work here and never go back, just send their families dollars; they’ll do a good job too! they have to just like any body. ––Fuck them and their dirty families! drunkest goon again, just being a hero. ––Yeah we give them too much opportunity don’t we! Rotte poker-faced ––I don’t believe the deportation figures this President gives us, think he’s getting lazy as a

Mexican; everywhere I go there’s aliens painting houses, trimming hedges, getting harassed by cops just like any ordinary patriotic black kid would. ––Huh. ––One of you earlier I heard alluded to some collusion between Latin American narcotrafficking and Middle-Eastern anti-Western terrorism; I know they use the same big banks at least but I uh have friends in Federal law enforcement, it would help me if you could specifically. . . ––Aw give me a break Rotte! Saturday night we’re fucking hammered. ––Guess you heard that shit on some radio show then; celebrating anything special McCrank? you boys met your shoplifter quota early. ––Quota! that’s just a suburban legend, gruff group murmuring. ––Don’t insult us Rotte! spiteful and loudly as if making the man run infantry drills ––We’re just here to have a good time, you’re the one bringing all the shop talk. . . ––Hey how come he’s here anyway! you’re not with any body. ––Had a request for McCrank here is all, and the rest of you boys as well, a little info; your superiors told me I could find you here, they know you better than you might like to think. ––Sure whatever what do you need Mister Trooper. ––About this guy Huerta, the disappeared Puerto Rican, last thing: it seems to me like he was the victim of some gang operating in the city and the suburbs, that preys on illegal immigrants because they’re easy targets, keep their cash savings on the premises usually, won’t go to the police about it even in a sanctuary city because they don’t want the attention; happens all over the place, real moral epidemic if you ask me, but this particular criminal enterprise, whatever it is, goes the extra step of kidnapping the family breadwinner, the young man of the house, as well as robbing his people blind, and I need honest cops like you guys to just keep an eye out: any Hispanic person you see on the street, in a store or leaving school, see if you see any body lurking around looking too hard at them, State has a big investigation open into this extrajudicial kidnapping thing, and whoever’s been doing it went too far this time, capturing a legal citizen, so mark my words they’ll be caught. Defensively silence deafens, amid the anodyne smash and clatter of some transient diva’s cokehead-prescribed unharmonized porn-ring nursery-rhyme, flying out surrounding mounted speakers, as the look on McCrank’s face, at first almost humble upon hearing Rotte’s undertone of accusation, turns puritanically inimical, in an instant, drawing unto his influence the attentions of his fellow cops, all as eager as he is to see this twitchy killjoy out-ranker outside, off into the well-patrolled night; but, being cops, helpless in their tendency to cluster, it does not occur to any of them that the most effective way to get rid of Rotte would be to simply split up, disperse in the directions of the bar or bathroom, the bigoted cigarette lounge of the pavement out front, or perhaps the ostensible dance floor next room over where a coterie of former field hockey players have gathered, whose only goals now get scored at corporate jobs of which their parents barely ever can remember the particulars, just happy to hear their little girl has direct deposit without mediation, on sticky heels astatic discussing permanent debts from college days, unnamable moments of depression and momentary hobbies assumed to have transformative powers at least as important as weight loss. ––What’s this guy doing telling us our job! ––Yo Brock you sure this guy’s alright? asking the bosses where we are, that’s a little creepy. ––Just asking for your help gentlemen, and wanted to pay McCrank here my respects; you know I get a little commission for every successful special-training recruit. . . ––Man we get it! your job has more perks than ours; but you do just as little work. ––Oh you think so? you ever get sent to investigate a murder in some backwoods bed-and-breakfast racist hunter town, where every body knows who did it and no body wants to talk to you. ––You’re shooting in the dark as much as we are! McCrank with such an air of authority perhaps because he has fired far more shots into the dark than any body else here ––For all you know you’re interfering with the Feds, with Customs and. . . ––Puerto Rican guy, legal U-S citizen, gets taken out of his bed in the middle of the night for no good reason, think the Feds would fuck that one up for so little reward? risk the media frenzy; no I think it’s something much more amateur going on here. . . and the more I learn about it the bigger a problem it seems, because it’s not just Huerta who got snatched, it’s been happening to hundreds of undocumented. . . ––Then what’s the problem! cop group chorusing. ––Good riddance. ––Fucking foreigners coming here imposing their ridiculous work ethic on us. . . ––Right! when most of us are combat veterans damn it. ––Yeah so whoever is supposedly doing this kidnapping, they’re saving us a lot of trouble right? one of McCrank’s buddies planting a hand on Rotte’s shoulder ––gets a lot of those dead-weight black-bean drug-mules out of the country. . . ––But not by the proper channels! Rotte bored now knowing they have heard his warning, letting his orderly eyes of deposition relent, leering instead about at loud sets of thighs sat crossed together at bar and tables ––Just remember McCrank, you ever happen to get a call when you’re on one of those FEMA, I mean uh PEMA, ride-alongs in the city, any guy with a Spanish name goes missing call me, you have my card. ––Sir yes sir! McCrank at full bladder and the limit of his patience for humiliation from superiors ––And you call me Rotte! next time you want a drink. ––Don’t count on it McCrank, I do most of my drinking at work; besides what’s the point? if all you guys are going to put on this juke box, and I know it was you Pink Shirt I saw you, is this corny processed phony country bull shit. . . Rotte puts a Fifty in the blinking touch-screen song-machine, opting for preferential treatment, each chosen track of his fifty cents more expensive, but worth it, for interrupting the insidious coached twang and traditionless thump of that recent white hit recording McCrank and his friends like, and for some reason think girls like; now mariachi trumpets and guitars

81 poke all over like fingers of a spurned poor planter lost of every thing save face and name getting your attention to just feel a flicker of possession ––I don’t know, you boys like to say these Mexican men are lazy; but look, those girls in the other room want to dance right the fuck now! so who’s really being lazy? this isn’t rocket science, rookies. 4, 3, 2, 4, 4, 5! the tumblers click, the lock uncatches, a key in the knob and another for the deadbolt undoing the rest. ––Didn’t pick up? ––No it went straight to voicemail. ––Fucking rich guys, forward and inside where the lights turn on ––think because time is money and they have so much of both neither need be taken serious. . . ––The motherfucker strikes me as the type to not care much about any body’s rules, not even that Sharia shit he was raised on. ––Yeah hell I’m a better Wahhabi than him! he just cares about ruling over every body around him right? by no higher kind of right than. . . coughing sharply and muffling ––whatever, that’s why he’s not here yet! like the rest of us, he’s trying to tell us. . . ––Still not everyone Ivan, we’ve got Bing Dong coming. ––The donut shop guy? what’s he got to do with. . . ––Yusuf’s got some joint interests! with Bing Dong’s food importing company shouted from the sliding deck doors across the bare new room ––and they’re important to all of this; I have warehouse space but he has the trucks, not to mention tons of sacks of rice and oil canisters and what have you coming in all the time that we can line with contraband, whatever it is you’re. . . ––Wow real fucking melting pot we’ve got. ––That’s right Ivan, don’t you love this country? ––Well no not really that’s why I’m. . . ––Drinks gentlemen? about the only thing in this house yet. . . ––I don’t drink. ––Of course you don’t Ivan but this is our safe house! Allah can’t see you in here; I’ll have a dry martini Dominic, don’t give me that look Ivan, get over it! fucking moral. . . ––Gentlemen! let’s keep the talk along the lines of dollars and cents; first of all Ivan do you have your initial investment at hand? ––You mean my second initial investment? opening his backpack flashing stacks of fifties ––. . . made this money while I was inside, had a dozen taliban watching my. . . ––Taliban? pushing black glasses up red nose ––Buddy, didn’t think you were. . . ––It just means students, with reproving sigh ––Half the kids in the middle part of Jersey growing chronic learned it from me, or at least secondhand, thirdhand possibly at this point. ––Well I hope you have a healthy situation going, royalties-wise; you interested in setting up here Ivan? could get you plenty of space to. . . ––No thanks not really trying to expand. . . a remark shocking imperial go-getting Dominic ––considering retirement actually. ––Then what are you getting into with our shipping alliance. ––That’s between Yusuf and me. ––What Ivan means, Bang Bang rotating tumbler glasses, glancing fitfully irked between the two white men ––is that he’s interested in importing hash with me, raw kief which you know Yusuf’s got the Turkish. . . ––It doesn’t matter to me really, Dominic pulling padded folding chairs from a closet ––You could be buying nuclear fucking bombs from the Russian mob for all I care, just want the money right and every body’s mouth shut. . . a remark provoking smirking from the two men here on record convicted in criminal court but not ever sued like him. ––You know I’m good with all the rules bro, Bang Bang sitting down ––Never got caught real red handed, it was just fruit of the poison tree, they improperly put me away for what they called proximity to a center of criminal activity, but even the fucking President saw how unjust that shit was, had me let go not necessarily knowing I was every thing they said I was before, during and after doing time. ––Damn Bang Bang!, Dominic’s rare smile shining like industrial runoff ––I know you’re making a documentary about your life but you better hope some Republicans don’t get a hold of your story or you’ll be in one of their documentaries! they make a lot of them these days you know, about how black people made up global warming and so forth; they’re prolific since they don’t necessarily take the time to do good journalism, endless manipulative hate speech planned to pad it all out, I love it! political genius. ––No way man I’m a model citizen these days, don’t go by Bang Bang on the corner any more; to the City and my Mama I’m Theophilus again. . . ––Theophilus? Ian snickering ––Wish I got a fucking Pardon! didn’t get heavy enough a sentence for the attention I guess; but I did get caught red handed, just one gun and some weed, and my first adult offense. . . they tried to get me to dime on my supplier but obviously I was my own so I gave them a short list of stupid doctors all over Jersey who refused to write me medical marijuana prescriptions and I said it was them. ––Damn Ivan! pure fiction that’s worse than snitching. ––No it’s better! get revenge whenever it’s right in your crosshairs. ––Well anyway I’m not worried about either of you turning, Dominic with odd brusque motherly wave moving into inner jacket pocket for plastic cocaine sachet ––You guys are both legitimate creepy crawly criminals; no body has the time to pry into something so nice and quiet in this country, sniffing off one of his dozens of keys ––City cops think small and Feds need lots of hype to move on any tip and they’re not getting one about this; foreign Customs officers are lazy and easy to bribe, and not a single dock worker or operating engineer in any of the thirteen countries these ships are going through before they come here will risk their livelihood on the indistinct suspicion some guns or some bullets or whatever are hidden among Bing Dong’s ingredients. . . those donuts he makes are like crack anyway, if any thing I would worry about the F-D-A telling us we’re all party to a conspiracy making black Philadelphia fatter.

––Man I ain’t worried about a thing! prohibition, enforcement of that shit, it takes a big fucking personal impetus, public outcry or the promise of promotion; see, corruption and contraband, it’s all part of our national clockwork, comes through and goes on regular as the business year holiday schedule, all them days off that are ultimately about war, and these kids taking these bull shit tests and finishing up at all these bull shit schools and every body ignoring this global warming shit building up year after year while we drive around wondering when the fuck we can get our fat nut and our Florida condo. ––Oh I can sell you a Florida condo if you. . . ––Too racist down there, I’m more in favor of these four-story roof-deck joints you’re putting in the hood here. ––You want this one? before the bank or a land lord snaps it up; I’ll give it to you straight, four-twenty grand. ––I admit I like the spot, cozy quiet isolated, nice view of the park out back and that abandoned brewery, shady train tracks and shit I hope you get to snatch all that up too, Bang Bang pacing up and down with pronounced prowl ––You bring a little privacy to this big crowded world of the hood too, tear down a house and a half for every one you put up right? and shit this has the biggest yard in Strawberry Mansion besides Strawberry Mansion itself; but I can’t get all that dough for all this tonight, you already shook me down for a quarter mil just to get me in the front door. ––It will all come back to you in no time Bang Bang. ––Ain’t no such thing as no time man, Bang Bang sitting down again with polished street-cut scowl ––Why don’t we fill Ivan here in on the details? wasting time till that buffoon Yusuf gets here. ––Sure here’s the deal, pier opens in two days, Dominic nodding not looking anywhere but his fingernails frowning over little white marks of vitamin deficiency ––two ships coming in, one flagged Vietnam the other Nigeria, mostly legitimate loads of. . . he answers his ringing phone ––Hey babe I’m at a meeting what do you want? . . . what do you mean what no not this again! . . . yes but I told you, one little innocent abortion’s worth it just for us knowing what side of the window you. . . baby all the chemicals I inhale around these old buildings and new construction sites, they are probably going to make me sterile soon anyway . . . look I’m at work I can’t. . . damn right I’m always at work! I don’t spend a minute with you I don’t know somewhere someone is busy making me money. . . damn I thought that would sound comforting. . . ––Dominic please, Bang Bang’s trigger finger twitching on palliative tooth pick; looking next at Ian he arches eye brows with columnar tension, his eyes blood-sticky stone cornices ––And man don’t you even think of answering the phone for that jail bait high school psycho thot you. . . ––Not a thot! that girl’s got gifts, and knows it; besides mine’s off! like I thought we were all supposed to. . . ––Shit! I forgot, Dominic histrionic hung up ––Let’s put them in the fridge too; I mean the fridge isn’t plugged in yet but still. . . knocking stops Dominic’s walk halfway towards imposingly glimmering kitchen across cavernous open-plan main room ––No! not either of you, turning tip-toe on expensive track-and-field trainers that have felt little grass ––I’ll get it, putting the collected phones down forgetfully on marble island counter; he opens the door ––hello hello and who are you two! huh? ––Yusuf kharij ealaa alhatf, one young female voice cooing like wearying peahen. ––Kan yadkhun siajarat waqulat lah, Yusuf! . . . her companion also dressed like, likely trained as, a stripper, less morose but more exhausted ––hdha sayi balnsbt lk, waqal anah nafy lana huna. ––Qal iinak satuqadam lak haram hasan aldiyafa. ––Ela alaql biqadr ma tajid yunasib aimra’ata; waqal ‘ana hdha albalad sakhiyatan walakuna sharir. ––Okay wait just stop, please, Bang Bang what the fuck! and you, Ivan! come on don’t be so quiet, you got a fucking tongue behind that dirty beard or what? standing here making me look stupid! Strolling to the doorway, plastic still unpeeled on the hinges, the more controlled two of the conspirators now scan the two newcome unexpected women with more poker-faced discretion than intoxicated Dominic, who sees Yusuf out front and stalks out past them grossly body-brushingly, down the front steps to berate the richest of them, assess his gross net and liquid worth, but most of all his recklessness and inflexibility. ––Yo Dom if you’re still curious! . . . Ian barking behind the touchy young developer ––What they said was Yusuf said it’s okay to treat them nice and. . . what? . . . ––And they said be warned! Bang Bang translating too ––He don’t really like white people. ––Too many cooks if you ask me, Ian in admonition averting chill and blazed gaze from sequin-crested lace-crossed breasts ––are these the guy’s consultants or what. ––Don’t speak English, do they Ivan? can’t hear any thing that compromises us. ––But I mean I may want, I mean definitely have to speak with Yusuf in private, probably in Arabic. ––Well I can keep these two here entertained and innocent, Bang Bang drawing a pack of playing cards from his long shorts pocket, flashing brow-boosted grinning and a mint white wad of money ––while y’all lay them earth-shaking master-plans; seems like there’s a nice noisy back yard y’all can. . . ––I know I know, just talking needless nervous shit, I mean that hashish we. . . ––Well psyche yourself out of it Ivan! goddamn you’re making them nervous too; they don’t even speak English and can smell all the anxiety over you anyway! pretty sure Dominic said the water here is already connected, if you want to go ahead and. . . ––Thanks but I only bathe in natural bodies of water. ––Shit you’re not kidding! only way your hair could get so filthy, skin look that way, Schuylkill skinny-dip chic; maybe you really are savage enough to. . . ––Okay let’s do some business eh! bellowing up the front porch steps ––God willing and crazy American weather permitting, all the good times rolling. . .

––What’s up Yusuf, Bang Bang shaking hands ––Salaam ya sadiq, your corn rows look good! gold and silver dye streaks through it, subtle. . . ––My what! psychotic smile unpeeling showing threatened feeling for another American phrase unfamiliar to him ––Oh is that what you call this my hair? con rolls eh, okay I see it so I steal it! from basketball player, you know he has name like white politician? play just as dangerous; you know I meet him? in club in California once, she fuck him! pointing with both gold-ringed index fingers at one of his narcotized erotoreified female companions ––she fuck him! she fuck him! in big hotel, I film it, sell to you at a million. . . ––I’ll think about it, Dominic shutting front door shaking his head with drywall smile ––What team was he on. ––Ah ah ah not telling! half the fun finding out; he is not the biggest star of all, she can tell you ha ha ha! ––No fuck it I don’t care, I like hockey anyway; that was just the cocaine asking. ––Disappoint me, how about you Mister Bambrey! indiscreetly. ––Why would I . . . Bang Bang incredulous, at a loss in English, not sure Yusuf’s dealings with cartels have yielded him competent Spanish yet, so sputtering uselessly ––I don’t waste my time. . . ––Hardly a waste of time! Yusuf showing in tone the touch of the British on his life ––I speak of money and how is this wasting any body’s time! we are all high rollers here yes? ––Took a lot of rough road and lost sleep to get me where I am, Ian impatiently, like still squeezing on the bars of his old cell ––I only roll as high as I feel like I have to. Like an intrusion of some Internet nether-mentality into the fabric of reality, the impish grin on Yusuf’s face freezes in place; a psychotic studious confusion crusts over leaky narrowing eyes black as puddled sour crude. ––Ah yes! you are al-albahith al’abyad? the white scholar. . . ––Ivan Muhammad, extending manual salutation, rigid yet unsteadied with rust. ––Yusuf Maaroufi! reserving ostentatiously like hoarding off market his own ringed hand. ––‘Ana ‘afahum nujahik alaiqtisadiu muakad wakabir, Ian hoarsely -–Walakun hal ‘ant ‘aydaan zamil aljundii walttalb? Bovine fat ripples regular with coarse rhythmic roiling cackling as Yusuf grabs both his women by the waist ––Why so secret Mister Muhammad! I am happy to speak English in this country, throwing seething eyes back and forth between his wincing giggling companions, letting stoned Ian feeling stupid now know to not use Arabic with him in front of the females, at least not to express their darker purpose ––You know I visit a club recently in Mexico so every body there spoke Spanish, and I was flashing the cash you know what I mean like it was dancing in my hand and I shout maal! maal! maal! and no body there speak Arabic so they all think I said in Spanish bad! bad! bad! and they all look at me funny like I should be disappeared; but I remembered then we did our business there in English so I switched it up money! money! money! and every body understood. . . ; strange moment until it change back to a normal gangster football gambling party, letting go the girls almost grateful pacing away ––That story does not leave this empty house! could not be that young entrepreneur Yusuf Maaroufi go to Mexico, for any reason. . . ––Yeah they’re a little too warlike for you down there Yusuf, Bang Bang offering the girls drinks by doing alternating curl-ups with four tall bottles of Dominic’s he grips chickennecklike ––No? y’all two party with an English-speaking international dope shipper but y’all still don’t drink? like what kind of God. . . ––Oh they both drink a lot, only they are still sick from last night, this morning; you understand, fast life of hookers hired on retainers. . . ––And they don’t know a lick of English? Bang Bang unsoftening leering at them, putting both bottles back unopened ––Like not hello or yessir, may I rub your feet. . . ––I try to forbid them, tell them when in clubs a song in English or German play that they go away to the bathroom; I don’t mind Spanish as it is just the white Arabic no offense, nodding to Ian who unsmiling steams in unblinking silence ––so they know a little English each, as they are liberal Libyan women, don’t know how to listen to a man and they hear these same English songs loud enough and often enough I give up . . . so I let them learn some now only so they will say it more and sing it less, turning to them suddenly enraged ––You two silly whores can not fucking sing! sitting down sighing folding his hands catching his breath ––Normally they would listen to all of you and try to open their mouths when they should not; but again last night we. . . ––You partied hard Yusuf how exciting, can we just do business please? Dominic irritable ––Don’t let them throw up anywhere, and tell them take off their shoes! they’re too sharp, they’ll scuff the floors; I have to show this house to a potential couple of property managers tomorrow, serious Hasidim coming down from Brooklyn, got eyes like Mossad assassins. With damp snaps and curt points of his thick fingers Yusuf bids the girls barefoot, banishing them towards the empty kitchen, to lean bored on elbows on immaculate new countertop, discuss in whispers the dishes they could prepare were this aseptic place ready for them. ––How do you two know each other? Yusuf to both Dominic, Bang Bang; then pointing between the latter black man and Ian ––and seems like you two never met eh? so! ––I’ll take that as two questions for me, Bang Bang staring across the room at the girls gladly cloistered apart and together under cover of loose hair threads twirling touching each the other’s fondly; he puckers his lips before looking back up at cloudy diamond-eyed Yusuf ––When Ivan here was a teenager his main man and mentor I-Shazz was the shit with the dankest brick weed, that sea of green technique in river-ward warehouse basements, abandoned properties and whatnot; so we never met until recently but the connect stayed alive, even if I-Shazz passed. . . ––So commercial reputation brings you to Bang Bang Mister Muhammad?

––I remembered hearing he could get any thing in the world, and shit! that was before the dot-com boom. ––And he got you me! because any thing he can’t get, I can; what about Dominic? rudely with a pushy thumb. ––I own some warehouse space, Dominic nervous, litigious, not mentioning the safe houses he brokers Bang Bang for his heroin and its minions. ––Mister Bambrey introduced himself to me as the Alliance’s like uh vice junior chief of. . . ––Bull shit! Bang Bang cackling ––Dominic paid me a visit in prison, I never knew the motherfucker but he heard I might have been the one that did a good firebombing on a block in Hunting Park years back, got acquitted not enough evidence but good enough a story he asked me to. . . ––Bang Bang! Dominic weaponless clapping hands like a harried high school teacher ––Phones in the fridge is not a license to snitch. ––Snitch? Bang Bang indignant ––You think Yusuf gives a fuck about some small-time arson in America? like this motherfucker legit helped Nine-Eleven happen, but he don’t. . . ––You did what! Dominic almost aghast, Ian almost impressed. ––Oh this story! I tell it so often, Yusuf rolling his eyes like when as he remembers as a kid he did when the hours of surahs at his patrician madras upbraided his horny mischievous limited patience ––My uncle is intelligence officer in Saudi Arabia, hardcore America-hater; I was ten-eleven years old he had me stand on streets in Riyadh pretend to sell incense, I was really passing paper messages to famous hi jack martyrs! I remember when I heard and saw what they did at first I thought it so big a thing it had to make those men millionaires, I was twelve and could not understand until my uncle told me of course they had burned to death in an instant and their reward was in Heaven. Confusedly Dominic’s jaw drops to one side, continuing its grinding, like rat on wire, on another ––Holy shit! but. . . ––Who the fuck you going to tell that story to man? Bang Bang laughing still harder, staring harder over at the hermetically hot women ––Impress some fat bitch you meet online, play six-degrees-of-separation from a rock star massacre. ––But . . . Dominic freezes cold as packed brick dope, Ian mostly indifferent holding unblinkingly his visage still in ruminative curious envy, and Bang Bang his nihilistic blithe titillation, Yusuf almost wistful while the three other men fetishize the gravity of a shared moment with tantric efforts towards its focused preservation, until more knocking collapses their shared ecstasy, releasing the tease of death’s amnesiac grip and total divine disappointment ––It’s Bing Dong! I’ll get it, shaking his head shaking off toxin-sharp surprise, trying to assimilate it into cheerfully criminal credibility, his contracosmopolitan underworldliness; meanwhile Bang Bang and Yusuf both watch Ian with the bland excitement of having staged a convincing sale. ––Yes we here are all quite legitimate! Yusuf yawning ––What sort of contraband interests this Mister Dong? ––Ivory! restricted timber, diamonds and virgin brides; bet he could get you a nice fat panda too if you. . . ––Gentlemen! gleefully and sober from the door, almost avuncular or fatherly to all of them ––An alliance within Alliance; what an honor to be double member. ––Bing Dong this is Ivan, and you know Bang Bang already, Dominic perfunctory with glad-hand big-city custom ––And this is Yusuf Maaroufi, the Saudi representative of Thirteen Bells Shipping Alliance. ––That’s! what it’s called? Ian scoffing stoned, feeling too deceptively subtle to oblige himself to emotional containment. ––I better get at least the hundredth lay of. . . ––. . . and one of its biggest backers, Dominic glaring like looking over a new zoning ordinance, or a nuisance notice of some idiot citizen’s hopeless lawsuit against him. ––The richest. ––And its youngest I suppose! Bing Dong beaming ––Ah and this Ivan, he is new driver you find for me? ––This is the guy! Bang Bang suddenly upright clapping Ian on a shoulder, a touch telling him to shut up before he starts too much trouble over a little omitted detail ––got his commercial truck license and all that shit, hard worker and real team player. ––Bang Bang. . . ? Ian seething. ––Good, good, Bing Dong more the lecher in his tenor now espying Yusuf’s two companions just back from the bathroom, continuing to refuse their looks from all five men ––. . . two more days until first ships dock, I hear Mayor will be at opening ceremony; Pier Eighty-Five! Foreign Trade Zone Thirty-Five ‘Q’ . . . so the girls can hear ––I can hear the man announcing it already! Chamber of Commerce clapping for us, Port Authority and all the Unions happy with so many new hires. . . ––Yeah well Ivan here ain’t exactly Union! Bang Bang laughing ––He works for a different kind of set of benefits. ––As long as you do not crash, spill or sell product off my truck, Bing Dong’s grinning thick and blank tenacious as his donut glaze ––Here is cash advance, throwing Ian a yellow egg roll of Jacksons. ––Easy drive from pier to American Street. ––Any body mind. . . Ian incredulous using one edge of the money wad to scratch a mosquito bite on a knuckle ––I’d like to speak to Yusuf alone, can we go outside? ––What Ivan means. . . Yusuf cautiously, chidingly, in forced cryptic repudiation mode grating to Ian ––is a private investment matter, a debt he must settle. ––Can you make it quick, Dominic annoyed. ––I don’t waste words, Yusuf also annoyed. ––Remember! ghetto Chinese-restauranteur to Ian who glides with violence towards the sliding glass back doors ––every thing in this about security. ––Any way. . . fashionable fulsome young white real estate developer watching frat boy-dressed spoiled entitled Arab shipping banking clubbing conniving heir not quite yet his age follow the wizened tortured malign white Wahhabi outside ––We have these nitty gritty details to discuss, the three of us, that we don’t need them two for.

––So this Vietnamese liner coming. . . behind Yusuf and Ian ––must be one pallet of Siamese rosewood for every twenty of peanuts, and with a false bottom in each barrel of peanut oil we can. . . and the doors shut. ––Nice night, Ian looking over asthmatic city, trees and weedy train tracks, gravelly back lawn seeded with baby grass ––Ever get this cool this time, this time of year where you’re from? in the desert . . . lighting a spliff. ––You know everywhere I go, Yusuf ignoring the question, wrinkling his flared nose ––No matter what the law whatever country I see people smoke this bango, men and women indoors or outside at any time of day, it disgusts me; I have to warn you, I do not trust any body who use the green dirt, it is poison. ––No, it’s medicine; alcohol’s poison. ––Su’fahum! ––No it’s not a misconception! it’s not backwards, not at all; we’ve been using both since we were hairy apes rubbing our hairy asses on hairy tree bark drunk and high, either hungry as fuck or glutted as fuck. ––But you smoke that stuff and it does make you soft! your enemy comes kills you easier; how can you fight jihad making yourself so lazy, weak and lack your focus? ––I disagree, make more mistakes driving on the rare occasion I’m not stoned because I’m too angry and can’t concentrate; my main man I-Shazz had a motto he learned from his cousin Romare, his mentor, it went ‘weed and meditation are wedded forever’, seeing Yusuf cringe uncomprehending, trying to translate into Arabic ––El bango waltaamul hi mtshabkt 'iilaa al'abad. . . but it just repulses further his interlocutor who with gym-toned infant-pinguid arms attempts to shake off barbs of white man’s unwelcome argument ––. . . so don’t tell me how to discipline my self Yusuf! all of my five senses are mine, I’m ready to kill. Sharp berating dog barks meet Yusuf’s gutluster howl of laughter, in the air from a block away while Ian seethes highly triggered hot in the face behind matted beard. ––Qutil mn? ––Baladay ghyr mabal biwafra. ––Do you even have a plan? Yusuf wagging a finger like putting out its tip on fire ––And please put that joint out! loathsome bango. . . ––Dominic didn’t say No Smoking, and this is his property. ––Then just hurry up and tell me what you intend to do! Ivan Muhammad. . . you have to be brains and brawn all same time, call it in this country vertical integration eh? all I can do for you is logistical support, some financing maybe but mostly just to put in special order for some ship owned by Alliance. ––Special order! like any thing I need? ––Any thing and I mean any thing; don’t be shy! show me you’re serious. ––Well what I was thinking was. . . ––First! say if it’s equipment or personnel you need, because if you want African slaves I need to start working on it tonight; ah you are expressive enough! whether you know it or not, I like you, like Mister Bambrey does; Bing Dong does wake up early however and I hear is very strict about it so make sure you show up on time to that trucking job we got you. ––First of all fuck you I don’t want slaves, I don’t even have pets, and the other side of that coin is I don’t need a fucking job, I want you and Dominic to tell that sodium-slinging opium-den son of a bitch. . . ––No! you will drive, you will get nice legitimate paycheck, stock options in Bing Dong’s import company and my own. . . ––What the fuck would I do with stocks when I want Wall Street and every body who works there to burn in Hell? ––Ah! you remind me of a Somali pirate I once. . . ––Don’t ignore my questions! you posh coke-head prick. ––Please! don’t speak insolent to me, you are a lowly car thief criminal and I could have you drowned or hit by a truck if I wanted, even shot by a sniper! tonight. Clicks of nails on fingers twitching nervously say Ian is thinking; the dogs have stopped barking, distant spray paint can hiss harmonizing with cicadas, out of a silence which Yusuf refuses pregnancy, sniffling and muttering checking wrist watch heavy as a wet rat. ––Alright I’ll play ball; but I hope you can understand why I will be more than a little annoyed holding down a normal job, with an hour and a half commute by the. . . ––No! forget where you live now, New Jersey said Mister Bambrey? . . . I will convince Dominic to put you up somewhere in this city, whether or not I have to pay. ––As long as it’s not somewhere I have too many enemies? ––What about Center City? nice penthouse condominium with big windows. . . ––Are you fucking kidding me. ––Ivan. . . with trace preejaculate of venom in his voice. ––Fine! sighing ––just don’t ask me to cut my beard, I don’t feel like blending in, definitely not at this point. . . ; I mean, it seems dumb to work a civilian job when I’m planning a suicide bombing. ––But. . . at police headquarters? yes Bang Bang told me that detail don’t be so surprised, we are business partners; but you listen my point is, hissing now looming while Ian flexes neck tattoos like fanning spitting lizard neck frill ––You would not get in the door wearing explosives, and at the door could only hope to claim a dozen lives; this is amateur shit! I’m going back. . . ––La! ‘ant la tafham, I don’t mean strapping dynamite to my chest and screaming Geronimo, I mean Allah-hu-Akbar no don’t give me that look don’t be a dick, I mean insha’allah I’ll have a big bomb, in the trunk of my car, more likely one of Bing Dong’s trucks. . . I’m kidding Yusuf relax, all I mean is the bomb will be very big and I will be committing suicide as it detonates. ––So what do you need me for? Yusuf scoffing with a blunt chill staging hostile takeover of tone of conversation ––Just get some fertilizer, and. . .

––Nuclear bomb, or at least radioactive; don’t worry I want it really nasty. ––Yes of course you do, Yusuf running thumb under lower lip ––your parents show you the wrong cartoon when you are a kid no? but I’m interested, why not; but this girl Mister Bambrey told me about, your so called accomplice, I understand she has the urge to kill as well but is she not useless actually in all this? ––No she’s really smart. ––Right I believe you but only do business with men; I can get you all the parts and materials you need, no bull shit as you Americans say. . . all you had to put up was the idea, your word. . . Yusuf hefts a silver Kufic laser-monogrammed pinky ring, his name intermingled egotistically with a family corporate logo, up to the air space of an eye ball ––Radioactive waste and stolen warheads all over the market, most of is worthless novelty sludge or useless duds but I can get fuel rods and functioning implosion devices, see I can start with this new limo driver from Chechnya I just got last week, nice guy but very well connected, he had bad experience with random American capitalist, had him fired from cab company. . . gesturing to the self-shrouding white man to follow him down the rough back yard, walk towards garden-machine serene tracks and noise less human ––Do you know much about Chechnya Ivan? ––No. . . most of what I know is what’s along I-Ninety-Five. ––What’s on what. ––Oh right you usually just take a helicopter everywhere. ––Yes but not tonight, must be discreet; besides there is no helipad in what you call the Hood! and the fuel for it, my expense accounts. . . ––Have to tighten the belt sometimes Yusuf; thought that was what living in a desert is all about. ––I am not sure what you mean Mister Muhammad, perhaps it is my English or else your marijuana, but please let me finish, learn something American schools fail you: Chechnya is little country jutting off Russia, wish they were not, want no part of Russian protection; when oil industry came to Russia, Balkans and Caucasus more than hundred years ago, it made many people mad with sense of purpose and want independence, like blood-line became oil-line and ethnic pride was company loyalty. So then my country was born around First Great White War, when ‘Abd al-’Aziz, ibn-Saud, and his and our Wahhabism, you know, nomad warrior code, of heavy fist and sword authority, won over al-Rashid, the Ikhwan and the British; Arab oil interests and oil interests in East Europe, Eurasia, places like Chechnya, they run like Tigris and Euphrates into one another. . . so Wahhabi code end up catching on in Chechyna, makes rebel tradition there more dangerous for Russians; Chechen separatists do any thing they feel will hurt big mother country they reject, so this guy this driver my man Murat, angry at heart already because where he grew up, he had to flee country when his brother by accident beat a C-I-A officer to death in a bar fight. ––What! then how was he allowed to come here. ––See it was not simply the death of an American that endangered him, though his brother was of course found and shot; it was that C-I-A man was helping local faction of mujahedeen sabotage Russian Army in area, just like Americans help jihadis in any country they wish to harass into dollar submission, Libya today for example. . . any way it was a random incident, the American’s accent was enough to upset Murat’s brother, and these mujahedeen were angry at Murat’s brother that their relationship was ruined with suspicious C-I-A, then they had no money and have no mercy, would have killed Murat, my driver, if American colleagues of murdered man had not recognized his innocence, and maybe thought they need to keep an eye on him anyway, and helped him and his family escape here; but part of what America paid jihadis to do in Russia was steal nuclear, fissile material from their military and energy, but not all was delivered as planned to Americans, big surprise some went missing, ended up on black market! and that ended that, American assistance for Chechen jihad, it was called Operation Gladio. ––So. . . is this Murat not jihadi? ––No! not Salafi, not Wahhabi, neither was his brother, even less religious, but like most Chechens he belonged to quiet singing peaceful Sufi tariqa; he gets along with Russians just fine in fact, has friends in Northeast part of the City, some of them in Russian Mafia, and he told them as revenge for his brother’s death every thing he knew about C-I-A mujahedeen back home, gave me the impression he does not often try to talk to those people after hours you know what I mean? but is fed up with disrespectful Americans, wants to make mischief on them whether it’s Russian-style or Chechen-style, he will not flinch at what you want of him. Stars in buried-bottle piecemeal city-blotted luster lose their quality of monotone; Ian, surprising himself, offers his hand, to shake, anew, to Yusuf, who meanwhile was just wondering which and how many of the stars they see might be penniless, entirely without gold buried in the surfaces of their dependent planets. ––Alhmadulillah. ––Yes you are welcome Mister Muhammad; please do your research on secure server, have shopping list prepared for me and call this number, the sooner the better. Together enough, though Yusuf walks a widening meter ahead of Ian, they talk back up to their safe house, which by the louder vocal traces humming through new glass outside suggest to both men but to only one’s dismay the grave ostensibly productive gathering now has turned to a drinking; the brash young Arab swipes the sliding deck doors open and aside like parting harem curtains, Ian electing to stand still and smoke here more a moment, contemplate sweet horrors, the sickening soot and master stroke of carnage he plans, when he and Aniyah secede from the Union, the screaming they will send in cell death immolation upward into Olde City skies, just a few miles down Ridge, Spring Garden and the Parkway from here, wondering if the hot spiteful pox will reach City Hall, hoping this Dominic ass hole will have some business around there that day.

––Dominic! you ass hole, Yusuf through the glass ––You let Bang Bang tempt my women? it is not only disrespectful and against my religion but highly unprofessional; the man risks losing friends. . . Acting on instinct and sliding the doors open Ian barks the room into awkwardness and therefore a safer cooler state of whatever acrimony a moment ––Yo! ya ibn i kalb, what the fuck is going on in here. ––I no know any more Ivan but if every body insist on going crazy I’m leaving, both Bing Dong’s hands hurling each word in basketball-like theatrical capsule ––If you are all going to fight so easy how can I trust you to keep your mouth shut and support every body else when the auditors come! the Federal Agents and Customs Inspectors. . . ––Better start looking on the bright side Bing Dong, Bang Bang staring back at fuming Yusuf ––Only thing worse than a snitch is a pessimist. ––Al-kuhul al-watani! giggle his girls drinking archly, quickly, in giddy solidarity. ––Here’s what happened, the flushed and foottapping owner of this house, youngest here but most familiar with procedural damage control ––So we started talking invoicing protocol, but the girls uh indicated to Bang Bang they wanted to see him drink even if they didn’t feel like it themselves, and like an idiot he obliged them and now we’re quite the fuck derailed; that’s why Bing Dong was over there just doing his own calculations, he’s bored to tears we’re not strictly talking figures, cost-insurance-freight, what’s bonded or not, or uncontainerized, there’s bills of lading and berth terms to address. . . I was telling those two, guys, you two guys, just now, with evident recent upsurge of drunkenness, wet involuntary flutter of tongue, officious rolling of narrow shoulders ––how when I was in college and renting apartments to other students, mostly sophomores, I managed to screw every single one of them out of their security deposits that year, every one! almost made up for falling short of a Four-Point-Oh G-P-A, my dad could never forgive me for that; anyway what I did was buy these places and build new bathrooms, and I had the plumber fuck it up on purpose, the guys who did the walls and floors fuck it up on purpose, so that stress cracks and water damage would inevitably appear some time into the second year of the lease. . . if they asked me to get it fixed of course I’d send someone totally incompetent for a pittance, the damage would just get worse and I’d call my lawyer at the time better than the one I’ve got now and ask him to think of ways to blame it on my tenants, like they’d consistently showered too long at the wrong temperature; or if those moron tenants did not ask me to get the shit fixed, it was simpler, I’d just say they’d failed to adequately notify me about. . . ––Yo Dominic . . . Ian twisting at carnation-colored yarn-wound tassels of his drape-shaped but weightless beard ––Remember you said something about every body else here boring Bing Dong? ––What. ––Yeah! I mean look at him now, Bang Bang laughing ––Think your life story made the motherfucker cry. ––Yes I feel excluded! Bing Dong snapping head up off his folded hands (having out of politeness deigned it not fit to press unshowered cheek to immaculate marble top) ––Ever since Dominic start talking to those silly girls he likes them, while meanwhile they are treating Bang Bang like he was Li Po! and Dominic frustrated while Bang Bang he just talk to them in Spanish so I am so bored, can we just please work out these last-minute details? ––Actually at this point I prefer to wait for my lawyer Charlie, he’s almost here. ––Dominic! all the men censuring him with some scalded flick or swing of arm and hand. ––Yo Bang Bang, Dominic ever the unnerver unbothered ––You know Charlie is actually the father of that kid you got? the one just finished pissing at the college trough, fresh off the industrial B-A griddle, shooting your little vanity community anti- drug documentary. ––What! Charlie is that crazy Kunders motherfucker’s son? . . . displeased at skinny creepy Dominic’s living-tabloid voice Bang Bang adds ––Maybe I’ll get the boy to make a documentary about your shifty ass next. ––Please! that nitwit hippie shit couldn’t. . . ––Both of you please shut up! Yusuf in slight but multiply attributable drug withdrawal, with visible kicking migraine ––Dominic! you know Bang Bang was not really translating what you were saying right? he was just. . . ––Yusuf! . . . Bang Bang baleful, twisting hi-topped ankles in violent equivocal entitled contemplation. ––. . . no fuck you Bang Bang you bring this on yourself! listen Dominic he was just bullshitting, making fun of you in Spanish to flirt with my girls. ––That’s why they both looked at my shoes! Dominic whiny––And my ears. . . ––Yes that and they are impulsive skanks with no decorum! Yusuf’s bellowing summoning proper top-down Bing Dong’s return to the fold, the de facto head of their small selfish venal circle of lunacy, since Yusuf, the richest, reportedly of every body involved with this Thirteen Bells business, refuses, rather stridently, the role of leadership. ––I’m leaving, my wife waiting up for me! Bing Dong throwing clean hands up, like judiciously intimidating wings on a squawking aging cock eschewing the ring ––I will call every one of you individually tomorrow, maybe we can even have nice sober afternoon conference call? to four sheepish churlish nods of agreement ––Please settle down! no body do any thing stupid; and you, Ivan! you show up at seven A-M, my warehouse off American Street. . . A hearty satisfying ––Fuck no! almost falls from Ian’s lips; but instead he heeds Bang Bang’s urgent, murderous and businesslike eye-flexing, and tells Bing Dong ––I would but I’m still in Jersey, Dominic hasn’t given me keys to my uh condo here yet. ––If you’re passhive aggreshive like ashking me to let you shleep here tonight, forget it Ivan, caushe. . .

––Nah Dom he’s probably just scared I look so pissed, Bang Bang laughing, freezing Dominic out of sight, voice by contrivance and strict dedicated contempt depersonalized ––Don’t worry Ivan, you know I dig your crazy little militant game. ––Okay good night Alliance! Bing Dong from the door, and gone. The next few mumbling minutes Ian Muhammad spends ignoring the girls; meanwhile, with incessant yet cheerless pretension of an attempt at true fruitful collaboration, rather than the typical mere calculated benefit, a tallied victory over the usual futility, Yusuf, Dominic and Bang Bang review paperwork, asseverating, effervescing with greed and nerdiness over groupage, bills of adventure, potential implications of the Security Freight Initiative (Foreign Trade Zone be damned), revenue tons, malpractice insurance fraud, and shortening lightening times, distributing speed from Hong Kong to the younger backs on the docks. ––. . . and remember, the codeword for contraband, no matter what kind, is always Paperweights, Dominic finishing ––Who needs Bing Dong here anyway? for every ship except the ones flagged China he’s only receiving goods as subsold through us. . . ––Which means you, Ivan, are going to demand a hundred-dollar delivery charge for every truck load you bring him from. . . ––Great so here I am supposed to be working for Allah and Jah and you tell me I’m working for Bing Dong now I’m really working for you ass holes?; thought I had higher earning potential and purpose than that but I guess it’s just always fucking dumb ass dollars again, fine print dick heads. . . ––Yes Mister Muhammad that’s nice, and please make sure you have license, registration and especially insurance in that truck you drive, Yusuf laughing puzzling Ian. ––Stop bitching Ivan you’re a grown American man, the realtor itching for his phone ––Don’t drink huh? you got the beer gut anyway; you don’t like our high standard of living you can go. . . ––Back to prison? Bang Bang bitingly finishing Dominic’s thought. ––I was thinking like Jamaica, Morocco, Colombia, somewhere like. . . ––Nevermind. . . well-hoteled Dominic unimpressed. ––You grow weed right? that’s your livelihood; countries like those, even high government officials are more easily bribed than your average meat-head beat-cop here. ––But eventually I’m retiring to Mecca, poorer lesser white guy looming in clothing as baggy as Dominic’s is tight and calculated ––Just trying to get one more nut with this uh shipping alliance of. . . ––Oh you’ll like it there! Yusuf apparently cramping from laughter. ––Well fine that’s great, maybe you can hitch a ride on one of those Saudi ships; if you’re lucky Yusuf will let you stay below decks with the girls, you’ll finally. . . ––Dominic! Yusuf’s fist against his own beef-fat pectoral ––You are pissing me off; the fact that you even notice aloud they are here is rude and deserves you the gruffly to the girls to dismiss them. ––Now please let’s talk about !إذهب فضلك . . .scimitar something else: the check for that community center space, I. . . ––That what! Bang Bang on his feet, his fists instructed taut, flaring nostrils flaming secondary eyes at his fellow American partner ––Dom he better not be talking about that same building I. . . ––Yusuf! your big fucking mouth, Dominic’s head in his class-ringed hand. ––Dominic what the fuck! after that guitar goober white boy dropped the ball you told me that spot good as belonged to the Saint John Coltrane Christian Alliance. ––Well the fucking thing belongs to me! Dominic incensed rising to chalky scratched oxfords creakily, his next daily polish an eternity away, a little deliberately overwhelmed by the embarrassment of riches in killer instinct wafting about this big room he had built ––I’m sorry Bang Bang but Yusuf massively outbid you, I mean if it was even somewhat close I would have told him No but it just. . . ––You disgust me buddy, Bang Bang’s giddy brief laugh a surprise and utter bother to all ––But I knew what I was signing up for doing business with a. . . ––You tell me he’s getting a little too interested in the real business side of it! should just shut up and house the inventory and shit, what and where we need him to. . . ––. . . because I’m an investor damn it! Dominic’s dignity itching baby butt rash-like ––And I know more about this shit than either of you: Bang Bang you’re just good at hiding things, cash and Qatari porn in particular, and Yusuf you have fucking cousins who are princes and Canary Wharf corporate lawyers telling you every thing you can get away with; I’m telling you now when your big stupid beach runs out of oil, we’ll stop protec. . . ––Tell yourself whatever! just remember we are nomads; maybe one day the whole house of al-Saud will have to live together on a single aircraft carrier but nobody will sink the thing, we will be where other vessels come refuel. ––Dominic you atheist white piece of shit, Bang Bang leaking apostolic and convulsed hostility ––I mean not to sound rude but you good as promised that space to my parish and our Philly Funky Faith Ministries Network. ––Promised? just I told your mom I’d think about it, next thing I know you show up to a zoning meeting with two bottles of Arc de Sade Brut or something in each hand telling me that’s what you’re willing to pay me every month, I mean how can you possibly be more. . . ––Man and you’re asking three times what it’s worth! ––Then why bother! especially since Yusuf here will pay thirteen times what it’s worth! stick to the parts of the City that will never be gentrified Bang Bang, keep some change in your pocket and try your hand at. . . ––You know why bother! I gots! to let! the light! of the Lord! keep that area from going too lifeless and middle class; that and that it’s near enough our Pier, convenient for. . . ––. . . for selling heroin in Kensington? Ian’s voice coming fully billowed, unexpected, from the only person here not entirely scared of new unfamiliar moods like that he just cast like a veil over the open-plan high-polish anomalous house.

––What’s it to you Ivan, you left and live in Jersey; besides you’re about to start a new life in a high rise right? from up there you won’t be able to tell a panhandling junky from some lost couple of soccer moms looking for paninis and. . . ––Not going to challenge you about it Bang Bang, grateful enough you got me into this mess. ––Yeah well don’t make me start thinking how to help you out of it. ––I just want you to acknowledge, one religious professional to another, that I have to hate you for that predatory shit of yours. ––But I thought we were in agreement! we’re all scum bags here? Bang Bang smiling tensile, twisted ––Gentlemen’s agreement Ivan, I know Yusuf here already broke one starting a fight and it drove prim proper Bing Dong out of here home; broke another running his mouth but I’ll grudge him that one cause now I know Dominic is willing to be a typical business lizard in this here Alliance, but you’re fucking with the program with this moralizing Ivan! you went to prison, didn’t it help you get your shit together? tauntingly to solemn schizoid listening tenebrous ––Call me a killer? add it all up when you’re done motherfucker you’re worse than me, I make sick people’s medicine available, while you just want to shoot up a. . . ––I would never do any dirt there again! Ian fighting the plaintive strain in his voice, acting to make it look like he merely badly needs a cigarette, reaching for one against Dominic’s house rules, hand trembling while Yusuf stock still snortles and scratches at himself whispering in open furtive psychosis ––Too much respect for such a living beautiful and misunderstood neighborhood. ––Kensington? you must be kidding! Ivan come on now. . . ––You can say it looks bad, I get it, cops and trash and broken glass all over, misery, too many bodies, sure, but you make it even more. . . ––Me and God’s almighty white dollar dawg! if it wasn’t me some body else would run that game but who else would also simultaneously serve his community so good? I’m just a church-oriented businessman making as much money as possible for my people and their struggle, my earnings work for them. ––So you victimize Kensington because it’s whiter than where you’re at? Dominic with a hiccup, burp. ––That’s right I mostly worship west of Broad, and as far as I’m concerned my product never even crosses American Street; hoped to get a foot in the door where the dope’s at, I’m not Satan hisself after all; but Dominic went and fucked that up, going to lease to some terrorists my fucking. . . ––Hey! that is a stereotype, Yusuf yelling at Bang Bang but looking at Dominic, his eyes beseeching coked-up kickboxing ––You have Y-M-C-A with Christian in its name, why shouldn’t little Muslim children have swimming, basketball and babysitting? ––It’s not because you’re Saudi, it’s because you’re a rich Saudi. ––Also ah to be honest it’s because the area’s just not completely up to date, a lot of defunct industrial shit, but um I have to be honest the location seems kind of weird for either. . . ––Man shut up Dominic! I’m a damn evangelical, I aim to compete with the Catholics and them hipsters; meanwhile Yusuf here thinks the word should be spread with a bomb tied to your chest and. . . ––Oh I appreciate you are only racist because you’re poor black American Mister Bambrey, your people were brought here as slaves, but you don’t want to speak insolently to me; I may be good time to go club kind of guy but my proud people are. . . ––Proud people! talking about pride, motherfucker how much pride you going to have when the oil dries up and nobody wants to come to Mecca anymore? like when the fuck do you. . . ––Bang Bang! Ian sharply, almost soberly, not sober like during his incarceration but more like when he was fourteen and refused his annoying proselytizing atheist father’s offer of a first joint (smoking for the first time instead a day later, from a blunt with some black kids on a porch around the corner, on Aspen Street) ––Didn’t you say your dad was a firefighter?; imagine you me and this whole Shipping Alliance, we’re all riding on a firetruck, most of us hanging off the side, shouldn’t we not reach for the axes yet? just. . . ––Telling me about unity motherfucker? I’m majority worshipper in my Congregation, I’m the one keeps it growing, sustain our vision for. . . ––‘Ana wahid!, ‘ana wahid! Ian mocking, hissing and prissy, to Yusuf’s laughter, adding for ignorant Dominic’s benefit ––I’m the one, I’m the one. . . And you! boldly to Dominic, surprising every body, even arousing slight interest from the girls now gone from the kitchen, observing derisively instead from behind broad balustrades along the open second-floor corridor’s railing ––you’re just as bad as him! pushing people out of their family homes, banishing them to cram into this crazy place where every day someone discovers they can get a good night’s sleep if they shoot up first. ––I don’t just chase out established families Ivan, Dominic rebutting ––illegal immigrants too, rising with shaking knees ––And I’m chasing you all out now too; we can’t even have a single civilized sitting without every body blowing their hate load on. . . Yusuf brought, Ian with vague and فتنة Going to go ahead and blame the–– graceless wave. ––Yes well at a shareholder teleconference the only women are typists we can’t see anyway, now please could you all. . . ––But at a conference on the phone it is no good that we can not tell who is all actually listening at every other end, even if only one person speak at a time, Yusuf’s voice more reasonable but its physical manner detachedly twitchier, more bellicose, especially towards his perpetual dates up there at the varnished rails with all that distilled- stenciled post-modern fake gothic engraving work, showing holes between slats and through them clashing, fond and curious cosmically complementary vined peacock

99 symmetries, of ornament oriented mandalically, all over their wine-stained skirts, making fun of their only client’s chunky curdled caprine gland smells, even from this height distinct through all this dustless just-built HVAC’d air, his pits and sweat and their tell- tale set-piece expressions gratingly gut-turningly familiar. ––Hey every body! Dominic’s voice cracking like a glass bell fallen off the understory of a Christmas tree when a cat robbed of claws swatted at it apparently unprovoked ––Didn’t you hear me I said get out! . . . ––Please don’t say. . . Ian starting to say. . . ––. . . or I’ll call the cops! realtor striding without eye contact in the direction of the refrigerator to retrieve his phone, to every body else’s groaning, even the girls who can plainly see from up at the rail the guy who paid for it is a cry-baby. Looking at each other like a couple of bouncers planning tacitly ejection of a creeping lecher, Bang Bang and Yusuf both stalk off towards the fridge too, Yusuf tailing asocially and Ian taking the long way around, ignoring the heavy ashy drifting whispers of Yusuf’s two brooding escorts: كيف الدير في قذيفة هو–– –– يتمتع عرقه الخاص جدا، يبدو ––They’re pretty rude you know, Ian to Yusuf, with mischief ––Talking about how I smell, you too. ––Ahh, grumbling with hunger for drugs ––I’ll leave them in Cairo when we stop to refuel, Yusuf waving adding that flimsy new entry to a tenuous mental-held agenda ––Done every thing else I could with them; would not mind at this point watching them, their perfect bodies get smaller, disappear from airplane window. ––Are you going to beat your dick until they’re out of sight? Bang Bang straight-faced ––Or wait until you can’t see ‘em, take the image with you to the toilet. . . ––Wait until they’re out of view, Yusuf shrugging ––then put a porno on; sometimes you get those in first class you know. ––I know the feeling, Dominic with a chuckle almost natural ––What are you doing, texting your driver Yusuf? ––Right around the corner in park, he will be here soon. ––Good, resuming hostilities ––Just get the hell out; Ivan you rode with Bang Bang right? ––Yeah, Bang Bang nodding, texting. ––You going to abstain a while? Ian to Yusuf’s visible confusion ––Oh you don’t know that word; I mean are you finished with romance and pussy or whatever? ––Such an insolent question! the Saudi simultaneously taking a selfie ––Is there not rights to privacy in this country? Before a snide and timely observation can come squirting forth like hot sauce from the realtor’s tongue, a fresh door knocking harsher than Bing Dong’s undoes the kitchen conference’s relaxing air of shared misogyny. ––Man y’all should see Bing Dong’s wife! Bang Bang straining geniality slinking towards a darkened hallway away the kitchen, watching coked-up Dominic shaking at his knees and breast-stroking to the front door ––Not the same way you should see his daughters I mean, though the way she does her nails up you can tell she still. . . ––No worries Dominic! Yusuf yelling, paying less attention to Bang Bang than does Ian, who also seeks a route of escape ––That is just my. . . ––Murat! Dominic surprised as if by an old girl friend ––What the. . . ––What the fuck! Yusuf and Murat simultaneously, the Chechen sealing his fists, the Saudi coming running with a head suddenly full of conspiratorial paranoia ––I didn’t know you knew. . . ––So this is your driver huh? Dominic backing away ––Man he’s a lot less of a retard at your beck and call, must be a Muslim thing, when I hey! get him damn it, he. . . ––Murat! calm down, Yusuf holding his fuming chauffeur by panzer-like shoulders ––This man is a business partner of mine; don’t tell me he’s the one who. . . ––It’s him! the Chechen frothing ––Vicious man, almost got my wife leave. . . ––You got a new goddamn job the next day practically! Dominic rebutting (Ian and Bang Bang meanwhile excusing themselves out back to smoke) ––You don’t drive some custy Crown Vic anymore, it’s a. . . what’s he driving? ––Town car, stretch, Yusuf almost motherly restraining Murat. ––You know Dominic he talks about you all the time, how you got him fired from. . . ––From a goddamn simple taxi job! the only reason you haven’t fired him yet is you don’t know where the fuck you’re going either. ––Well and I have intelligence-agency G-P-S for him with sexy voice. ––So see Murat! all Dominic’s pink extremities restless ––Did you a favor dude, got you a real player to pay for your wife’s fancy head scarves or whatever the fuck now; I’m just a two-bit house-flipper with some warehouse space and. . . ––It does not matter! Murat screaming hard enough to silence the girls upstairs, unclenching one fist accepting a grenade of stiff placating cash from Yusuf patting his back ––It is principle! when I was longshoreman learning the ropes, I make mistakes every day but nobody tell me quit, nobody tell me my supervisor Murat no good, fuck too much shit up to be a man, even though I was not Union, they understand I. . . ––Murat! Murat! Dominic like talking down a barking pit bull discovered underfed on an unkempt lot, now treating the folding chairs like protective fencing ––I was drunk and you were uncooperative, what do you expect. . . ––Expect respect! Murat with Yusuf wrestling now, for forward position to face the detached young developer ––Demand it, deserve it! you treat me like the worthless man you know you are, you. . . ––Hey! net worth’s perfectly healthy buddy, let’s not exaggerate; and Yusuf what the fuck! what’s he doing at the door anyway, should wait outside in the Linc like. . . ––I come in for glass of water okay! Yusuf here is from country where glass of water means more, always lets me stop to get. . . ––Water’s not connected here yet buddy, only even got electricity going to these overhead lights; there’s a gas station right over. . .

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––Fuck you too! Murat relaxing almost laughing walking backward toward front door ––Liquor everywhere and you can’t pay for the water? phony American millionaire, lose your money soon enough, not know what people need. . . ––Murat! Yusuf with an arm around his driver’s waist, placating him like a let’s go, I ; يرجى تهدئة!–– soccer coach would a player offended by a foreign fan have to talk to you about the needs of another partner unfortunately just disappeared, to fill a need he does not need, and wait I need. . . he whistles failingly, drily until he wets his lips and tries again and it comes shrilly like a final tappable gasp of crude under a derrick well near decommission ––Hutiz? ya hutiz! Obedient and spiteful steps click overhead and round a corner with denuded resentful hesitation descending the staircase. ––Jesus Christ, if they scratched that wood up. . . ––Relax, I will replace your precious floors if you need, Yusuf disdainful, putting sunglasses on and straddling the border of door and night ––Get something a little finer eh? some of that rosewood from Viet Nam. . . The girls, who seem happy to see Murat, put hands perfumed softer than their flesh feels it deserves all over his thick neck and forearms, hushing him pushing him to follow Yusuf out into hot sylvan city dark, the rapping cicadas and kids’ aloof cries like burst fire hydrant fountaining omnipresent; after a minute of quiet, Bang Bang and Ian stroll back inside. ––Did Yusuf leave yet? Ian coming in confused ––I wanted to talk to his driver, guy named Murat. . . ––Also, gotta tell you Dominic. . . Bang Bang swaying ––I almost just stepped on a syringe out there, you want my church group round the way come clean your yard? ––Is it kids? cause I don’t want to be liable if they start playing football out there!; now please can you two go? my cab’s coming, or at least I’d fucking think. . .

TOP SECRET –– NOFORN –– NODIS [Official transcript- 6/23/12 LOC: PHILA63VGG Re: Inq.48T9955H]

TOPCOG ZUMA: The record will show the presence of two female typists, one silent ubiquitous Secret Service Agent, and our guest Special Investigator from Homeland Security, in the hot seat!- Mr. Henry M. Rotte; as well as myself, code name TOPCOG ZUMA, the Philadelphia Tri-State Regional Director of the United States Government’s Continuity of Operations and Climate Contingency Emergency Planning, including two initiatives thereof which particularly interest Mr. Rotte: CARSPOMP and NECESSIVAP, fundamental police-sensitivity programs for socially cushioning an inevitable harsher American future, all pursuant to NSPD-51. The nature of this deposition is to evaluate the progress, fitness and ramifications of Mister Rotte’s DHS, COOP-concerned sub-office’s investigation into alleged unsanctioned detainment or kidnapping of Hispanic undocumented workers by rural and suburban police forces all along the mid-Atlantic region of the country, especially by their younger elements; Rotte’s office more specifically alleges that the law enforcement officers in question do not directly physically participate in these abductions, but rather accept money simply to provide some undetermined parties with information on where to find young male illegal aliens living in cities with policies of Sanctuary, and these unnamed parties who pay these police usually very quickly act to perpetrate the taking of these discovered men from their homes in the middle of the night, always also committing run-of-the-mill armed robbery in the process, consistent with another trend into which Rotte’s colleagues keep an open inquiry: the organized victimization of families living in this country illegally, by criminals who know that such households tend to stash lots of cash and valuables on-site (as they can not risk opening bank accounts with the fake Social Security numbers that often get them employment) and know too that these families will not usually seek police assistance, even in Sanctuary Cities, for fear of discovery and deportation. Now, Mister Rotte, I have not had the pleasure yet of your acquaintance, though I have read and heard much ado about your service record, particularly your ingenious intelligence work undercover or embedded in other law enforcement agencies, currently Troop K of the Pennsylvania State Police; do you, sir, know any thing about me? Mr. ROTTE: Just your code name, sir. TOPCOG ZUMA: Come on now, Mister Rotte, twenty years in law enforcement and you can. . . Mr. ROTTE: Right, of course, I nearly forgot, the term ‘to know’ is never absolute with us, and therefore always elastic, to a degree; so I’ll say I know by your face you’re nearing retirement age but feeling far too much responsibility, and too much of a seasoned, but, still, ah, youthful, facility, to actually leave civil service, and, uh. . .

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TOPCOG ZUMA: The record will show me interrupting Mister Rotte to say I appreciate his flattering attempt but must point out if I tried to simply bow out of this business I would, the record will show me boldly asserting, probably be killed, and of course tortured for information; if it’s a sense of responsibility indeed keeping me at it, it’s also a sense of loyalty to the point of death, and a cosmically compulsive devotion of energy to that loyalty’s particularly beautiful bureaucratic manifestation. Now, please, continue, Mister Rotte, what else can you say you know about me? at first blush. Mr. ROTTE: You have a hard job that keeps you awake at night; you see the world around you with a lot more seriousness and sense of risk and hazard than most of your countrymen can comprehend. TOPCOG ZUMA: Yes, those who feel the most sense of danger being usually too poor and socially cloistered to develop an instinct for the real and larger grandeur of the world, the total family picture of our accomplishments and lethally complicating failures as primates; any thing else, Henry? Mr. ROTTE: Well, I. . . can you tell me, honestly, sir, how serious you think the threat from all these al- Qaeda crazies is? and their affiliates; I mean in the homeland, young Americans themselves turning to. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Look at it like I look at climate change, Mister Rotte: it poses extraordinarily strong and extremely worrisome potentialities, but is most often felt at worst as a distant threat to every body; but all the evidence, right in the view of that Eye on Our Dollar, as well as that of the free-speaking citizenry, says that it will turn to utter calamity before most babies born this year ever get big enough to make their own damn babies. Methane burping, fouling up the Arctic and the Amazon, letting the ocean fry all that phytoplankton that gives us half our oxygen, it’s all just a nuisance for now; nothing changes here, we still score just as many touchdowns, let new analogs of the same banned chemicals get in our commercial food supply. Think you know any thing else about me yet, Rotte? Mr. ROTTE: You have a very significant income outside of government work. TOPCOG ZUMA: Because of my gold tooth, eh?; that’s profiling, I see where your eyes are, don’t make me sign you up for NECESSIVAP sensitivity reeducation, Henry. Mr. ROTTE: No, that’s not it, sir, pretty sure the record will show I have no sensitivity problems; I just mean, I don’t know, could be the watch and suit, the detail of them. TOPCOG ZUMA: I live for one thing besides the U.S.A. Mister Rotte, and that’s a love of detail; sure, you know, we as a species have an amazing abnormality in our singular talent, for self-reflective storytelling, and symbolic language and all of that, but what we share most deeply with the other animals, every creature with a brain, is an attention to detail, an instinct for observation, and of registering such observation aloud, each species defined by a distinct set of capacities for noticing things: the nose of the wolf, the tongue of the snake, the tail of the platypus, you understand? Mr. ROTTE: Yes, sir; would you like to hear any thing else about you? TOPCOG ZUMA: No, that’s okay, Henry; however, the record will show, even without conveying your barely but annoyingly audible sigh, that, you just said something rather profound about yourself: that you feel I’m wasting your time right now. . . I can pay you to be here out of my own pocket if you. . . Mr. ROTTE: No, I’m just. . . I mean, Jesus Christ, sir! this is kind of a bombshell investigation and I. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Bomb shell, Henry? choose your metaphors wisely. . . for one thing, it would be more apt if we describe this case as a mine field; it won’t be long before some psychotic possessed suburban police captain figures out you’re onto this game he lets his boys. . . Mr. ROTTE: Not just that I’m onto them! there’s a lot more to it now; I know that you, sir, were briefed on it not very long ago, but. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: From your particular pay-graded perspective, Henry, sure, you stumbled upon a new slew of what you consider to be significant, specific details, but, from my perspective, there may not be an inch of progress; remember, I’m the expert on detail here, right? oldest eyes in the room.

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Mr. ROTTE: That might be, sir, but I’m the expert on this particular issue; pretty sure you have too many more exciting responsibilities to have studied my dossier and reports too closely, personally. TOPCOG ZUMA: On the contrary, Rotte, your little investigation often keeps me up at night; although the past week what kept me up was rather a series of emergency apocalypse drills, hey! ate squirrel the first time in my life, different safe house every night, nobody to talk to but redneck neighbors and guys trained to speak in the empirical, the affirmative and negative. . . good guys, but fate of the world in your hands can make a man damn boring. Mr. ROTTE: Squirrel? so the rations weren’t. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Rations? boy, we’ve been selling our FEMA/DHS ration stocks to antigovernment mujahedeen in [REDACTED], [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]. Mr. ROTTE: Probably dipping illicitly into the strategic oil reserves for them a bit as well, aren’t we? TOPCOG ZUMA: Not here to titillate you with government secrets Mister Rotte, what kind of work ethic would I be encouraging if I just told you every damn thing for which it took me decades to earn the privilege and onus of knowing? I know the traditional order of secrecy and need-to-know seems rather scrambled and old-fashioned in our cloud-computing hyper-cyber environment, thanks to the military-porno industrial complex, and I can’t tell you how dismayed and astonished I was a few months ago when that guy, that goddamn undermonitored young punk subcontractor, took all that surveillance-system information, some of the most sensitive in our communal intelligence consciousness, and let the media splash it all over our porn-addicted population’s dumb-struck faces, make every body think he’s got his own personal handler somewhere in the desert in Utah sitting at a desk tracking his every stupid move, listening to his every stupid word. . . see, Rotte, every new level of security clearance is like another birthday, and we protect and serve the world’s third-largest colony of infants under one; if I told you something, like, and this is hypothetical, the record will show, if I told you something like yes we’re selling oil to documented jihadist anti- European terrorists, just to undermine a government friendly to Russia, do you think you could take it like a man? or would you quit your job, go crying to the Times and try to disappear to Tahiti? Mr. ROTTE: On the contrary, sir, I like to think if you shared such sensitive information with me it would only make me feel trusted, valued and closer to. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Bullshit, boy, you’re not even forty yet, are you? still think you’re young enough a man you can’t help but hold out hope you can change your life, defy the system that underpays and so poorly appreciates you, run away and find a little brown bride to. . . Mr. ROTTE: Sir! I’m a patriot, damn it. TOPCOG ZUMA: Being a little dense, aren’t you, Rotte? thought I made it clear I know already all about your sterling service record, background right down to merit badges in childhood too; tell you what, I'll share something you might not know: there’s at least three different secret psychological profiles in the system on you, on me, on all of us, point is, Rotte, it’s my job to believe you love America enough to do your job, but I am also obliged to assume you love your self and your family more than you love the apparently inconsequential duties you’ve. . . Mr. ROTTE: Inconsequential? don’t insult me, sir, I’ve put heroin traffickers and al-Qaeda whack-jobs away, and always. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: But you’re at that jaded age, Rotte, where you’re addicted to jobs well done, in part because you know the job is by necessity never finished, the world looks too fucked up for you to lose your post-grad sense of hopelessness, you’re still looking to recreate the Big Bang, pull off your own personal anti-Nine-Eleven. Mr. ROTTE: And the world, it isn’t too fucked up for you, sir? TOPCOG ZUMA: Sort of an infantile, facile thing to ask me, isn’t it, Rotte? count that part of why you’re so much lower on the rungs than you. . . Mr. ROTTE: Kind of beating a dead horse, aren’t you, sir? TOPCOG ZUMA: You ever actually seen a dead horse, Rotte? Mr. ROTTE: Well, a dying horse; we raided this meth lab in Tijuana, neighborhood heffe had his own mounted mountain brigade of. . .

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TOPCOG ZUMA: Heard about that, kids with stashes in the saddle bags, creepy narco-Catholic killer Aztecs escorting them. . . you know the word ‘Mexico’ actually means something to the tune of ‘land of war’, Henry? Mr. ROTTE: I did, sir! but Brazil is just named for the wood the first white men there wanted to plunder; you wouldn’t say the people who live there are trees, would you? TOPCOG ZUMA: Well, maybe you have a point, Henry, look at the way their weak government handles the rainforest, lets it die off, deprive the world of all that oxygen and all those animals, while they help those loggers working for the slaughterhouse owners drive all the Natives out; they’re exposed, Rotte, and they’re as fearful as every government in the world that isn’t ours or Canada’s. . . Carnival is one thing, a sense of fellowship another, so we’ll see. . . Mr. ROTTE: Can I begin my presentation, sir? TOPCOG ZUMA: Please do, Rotte, got things to do to do with the fate of reality today. Mr. ROTTE: Well, first and foremost, is this frightening updated figure on the front page of the provided portfolio: now my office has documented twenty-two different police departments whose young personnel participated in. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: It was twenty-one just this morning! when I spoke with the man between you and me. . . knew you got new blood, Rotte, taking over your old job, going undercover, but didn’t know they were that prompt; gives me hope for the future, that these kids addicted to these apps and gadgets really do waste time and energy because they have new exciting skills and consequent styles of boredom and ennui foreign to me. It’s not really sustainable, though, is it? the older they get the more the lot of them will do it, get carpal tunnel, cataracts and emo-cognitive catalepsy, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear more about this case now. . . happened last night, did it? for you to be hearing about it between breakfast and lunch like that; get me the name of whatever kid put the dirty work in on that, I’d like to give him. . . Mr. ROTTE: No, sir, that’s not the way it is. TOPCOG ZUMA: What’s not what way, Rotte? Mr. ROTTE: The reason [REDACTED] told you it’s twenty-one this morning, and not twenty-two, is not any very new development, but because he does not accept my findings about one particular outfit. TOPCOG ZUMA: He didn’t mention it. Mr. ROTTE: That’s because he knows I’m right. . . and now I know he didn’t know I was coming to talk to you today. TOPCOG ZUMA: No, that’s good, he didn’t, and won’t; how did you like the girl who brushed up against you? dropped that message in your pocket. Mr. ROTTE: She seemed very nice, sir. TOPCOG ZUMA: Don’t be shy, Rotte!; married man, huh? I know you want to say how good she smelled, how her runner’s legs seemed to swell like rivers and grapefruit all the way up to the hips where they festooned resplendently as Ionic columns, how she’s a harassment case waiting to. . . Mr. ROTTE: Sir, if I could please continue to. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Apologies, Rotte, don’t mean to nettle you but it’s an old habit; used to be a Phoenix man in Vietnam, led interrogations whole rainy seasons straight, filibustered as much as we busted heads, did a lot of drugs, I must admit. Now, tell me, Rotte, what’s this contentious twenty-second suspected law enforcement outfit? Is it that bumblefuck town in Kentucky where [REDACTED] grew up? Mr. ROTTE: No, sir, I thought you knew, we haven’t worked south of Delaware yet, though some of the surveillance men and women we plan to contract out for help have history with. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: We’ll talk about that, Rotte, not sure I like your vetting process; but don’t give me that evil eye yet, just keep talking, and straight, what’s the jolly Spicnapping locality in dispute? Mr. ROTTE: It’s actually Pennsylvania State Police, itself, sir. TOPCOG ZUMA: No shit? not in any of your reports. Mr. ROTTE: Brought it up to [REDACTED] and he told me drop it, about a week ago; looked into it all week since and don’t like what I’m finding. TOPCOG ZUMA: Now you cut that shit out right now, Rotte! not just unsanctioned spying on goddamn State Troopers, but I think you’re going to have too many young guns too far afield working this thing, indiscriminate twenty-somethings, like that kid. . .

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Mr. ROTTE: Yeah, fuck, the one incident we reported, at that strip club in Annapaolis, that was. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: I know, I know, kid took the black eye and broken ribs but the cops were none the wiser so whatever, that’s not the goddamn point, Rotte; now I’ll give you a fair hearing with this State Police allegation of yours, so, first of all, it is Pennsylvania you mean? that Troop K you’re with? Mr. ROTTE: No, sir, when I, as part of our investigation into the Upper Middle Merion Police Department’s lower ranks, followed the well-documented Officer Brock McCrank out of Philadelphia last Tuesday night, following his CARSPOMP ride-along with a squad in Port Richmond, after two hours west, he had certainly by then noticed someone on his ass, even though it was an unmarked car and when he finally pulled over, it was at some off-brand pancake joint with a copyright-infringing color scheme; I didn’t dare go inside, of course, he would recognize me, but sat by the airvac at the gas pumps next lot over to see who would show up to meet him, or else with whom he would leave. . . to my irritation, it was the latter, and I’ll let the record and my secret psych profilers know I sat there so long I started having paranoid thoughts about McCrank, like that he had jumped out a restroom window and ditched his car or else that I was being set up. TOPCOG ZUMA: Interesting, Henry, I think you should get some sleep. . . did you specifically suspect Mr. McCrank of participation in the alleged extracurricular immigration- law enforcement sports? Mr. ROTTE: Well, yes, the Huerta disappearance prompted us to investigate the Upper Middle Merion Police Department in the first place; it’s a jackpot, we’ve already seen thirteen different off-duty officers there go through the motions of. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Did you ever conclude who was behind that blunder with the Huerta guy? Puerto Rican community is haranguing the FBI, demanding they investigate it; obviously we’re not going to let them discover, much less disclose to the press, any thing about this spying-stalking, selling- addresses-of-alien-families-to-cat-burglar-kidnappers mess, so they’re just taking the heat and have to make shit up, pass the buck to State Police or the City, until you figure out where the poor guy. . . Mr. ROTTE: Me, sir? Who knows where he is? if I don’t even know who snatched him! it would take months just to. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Damn it, Rotte! can’t have any conventional law enforcement look for his pincho-roasting grease monkey ass, can we? if they are all potential suspects in your obsessive, let’s call it, anti-corruption, inquiry. Mr. ROTTE: But my time is already. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Damn it, Rotte! find the fucking guy, yours is the only purview in which this case would lie; it’s urgent, sure, but it can wait another week or so, I guess, go back to McCrank. . . Mr. ROTTE: Yeah, anyway, he left that pancake place with. . . well, actually, first, let me finish, let me mention about McCrank, that it was he, I think, who dimed on poor Carlos Huerta, mistook him for an illegal and sold his address to our yet-unknown paymaster party. TOPCOG ZUMA: The record will not show the moment of stunned silence just passed on my part, or at least can’t possibly impart the weight of it. . . damn it, Rotte! how do you know that, and why didn’t you report it already? Mr. ROTTE: Because, sir, I was afraid if I kicked that information upstairs right away it would have adverse implications for McCrank’s status in those contingency- safety sensitivity-training programs, which I think are important for him, considering. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: You have a soft spot for this Fallujah- Helmland commercial-cowboy nut job, don’t you, Rotte? Listen, first of all, if this McCrank’s sick enough to participate in this Hispanic hunting conspiracy, it’s not so useful trying to rehabilitate the guy, is it, Rotte? trusting that the stressful time he puts in doing these ghetto ride-alongs will ensure his grace and magnanimity in protecting vulnerable Latino communities, fully legal elements or not, in the event of an apocalyptic food shortage? I’d like to point out we have not ordered nor recommended a single punitive action yet for these unsanctioned abductions of illegals, so I’m not saying boys will be boys and we should just cut the guy loose before his time in the program is up and fuck it, because, believe me,

111 that will draw some attention we don’t want, if he’s really in this awful thing; but you haven’t mentioned yet, though, Rotte, how came you to know McCrank’s one of the bad eggs? please enlighten me. Mr. ROTTE: Not much to that, really, sir. . . I was reading one of the weekly reports on McCrank’s NECESSIVAP training activities, and saw he went on a counternarcotics reconnaissance patrol with a precinct in a Puerto Rican neighborhood of Philadelphia, and on Huerta’s block in particular McCrank and a city cop were parked in a patrol car a while, watching. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Did they happen to apprehend Carlos Huerta there? not sure how that would fit with sensitivity standards of NECESSIVAP reeducation regulations, if the guy was as much a model citizen as you say. . . Mr. ROTTE: No, sir, nothing like that, though they did identify many people mysteriously sitting, flitting between different stoops, shaking hands of passersby, and one of those stoops was the Huertas’! I don’t know what happened in particular to make McCrank target Carlos, just going to chalk it up to delusional excitable PTSD paranoia. TOPCOG ZUMA: Sloppy of him, wasn’t it? to let it go in the record he was there so soon before an abduction. Mr. ROTTE: He didn’t know that we were on to him. TOPCOG ZUMA: Well, an odd coincidence, it all is, Rotte, and oddly suggestive, but that doesn’t really hold water as far as the old shadow-of-a-doubt clause goes; unless you’re talking about drone strikes overseas. . . and the record will unfortunately not show my security guy chuckling at that remark. . . so, tell me, is this pancake trucker joint story of yours leading to something in the way of corroborating evidence? Mr. ROTTE: I’ve been itching, sir, to tell somebody, besides [REDACTED], I saw McCrank leave that pancake place with a fully uniformed state trooper who. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: White? male? Mr. ROTTE: Well, yeah. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Listen, Rotte, one thing you’ve got to know at your age, it’s easy to see things all wrong, completely wrong, because you take the excitement, ambition and imperviousness, or else the cauterizing fear and torpor, of your twenties, and you blow it up to some spiritually professionalized underlying, organizing principle status, and you’re fucked after that; I remember, I was about your age when I was in Nam, and on my vacations to Thailand or Italy I would usually let myself go, in desultory thirtysomething epicurean manner, and would sometimes end up shitting blood after prolonged or pronounced bouts of drinking, and eating, and, you know, I couldn’t blame it on jungle stomach bugs when I was in Europe, so I would end up convincing myself the overwhelming calorie-surplus pangs of gluttony induced in my body a kind of gastro-mystical revelation, and that rather than hemorrhoids what I was going through was simply a purge of the bad blood, and I remember convincing myself of that, Rotte! I who spent a year at Dartmouth Medical School. . . Mr. Rotte: Damn, sir! don’t you think that’s a pretty telling, salient piece of. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Good luck finding my mug in any yearbook or on any Department wing-wall at Dartmouth, Rotte; been undercover since the Boy Scouts, graduated from Philips Exeter under the name Philip S. Exeter, see my old man was more of a swashbuckler capitalist than a civil servant but he knew about the world of security and always knew, because of how I observed him avoiding Mom so coyly and slyly, he knew I’d end up doing this for the USA someday, unlike most parents he encouraged in me secrecy and lies. Mr. ROTTE: Well you could just be lying about having gone to medical school at all, for all I know. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Don’t shrug at me like that, Rotte! it’s unbecoming; you know unlike most of my generation I don’t revel in the universal exploitability of ambiguity, I still think straight facts and plain thoughts ring truest. We’ve broken our bell as a people, Rotte. Mr. ROTTE: Could be all the football, sir. TOPCOG ZUMA: And atmospheric consequences of illegal dumping, our other national pastime. . . the ‘fun’ in Superfund, they say: you know, like, the way kids who have to live near that shit grow up all easily amused, to say the least. But tell me more about McCrank’s liaison with this Pennsylvania Trooper, did they leave the pancake place’s premises together or go their separate ways? Mr. ROTTE: The former, sir, I followed them down 202 and 82, until I saw them disembark from their cars, both unmarked, by the way, around the corner from this apparently abandoned foundry on Blue Ball Creek, and get out. . . I

113 couldn’t find a way in or pick anything up on my best mic, so I had to content myself to watching them exit and split up when they left there after an hour or so, uneventful. TOPCOG ZUMA: And you pulled all titles, licenses and every thing you could on this creepy cow-country factory ruin, right, Rotte? Mr. ROTTE: Yes, sir, the lot appears actually to be owned by a bank in the Antilles, on Curacao; but the spot has apparently also been divided into office space, and leased to various, ah, Asian and Arabic entities. TOPCOG ZUMA: Why are you starting to stammer, young man? just when approaching the face of the matter’s most formidable facts; can you, without startling yourself too hard, relate to me the nature of these foreign lessees? Mr. ROTTE: Are you thinking Internal Revenue, Treasury audits? because I’ve already found irregularities in County accounts of the. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Thinking too far ahead of me, Rotte; first you have to tell me who they are, what the fuck they all have to do with each other besides being neighbors. Mr. ROTTE: Well, sir, they have in common that not a damn one of them hangs a sign on the fence or any thing, they’re all there anonymously. TOPCOG ZUMA: Odd enough, but superficial; what line of work are they in? Mr. ROTTE: Well, it’s weird, apparently they’re all import companies, in their imprints here; but they all have parent companies back home wherever that own them and all ship to a new Pier on the Delaware in Philly, Number Eighty- Five, Foreign Trade sub-zone Thirty-Five ‘Q’; looks like they’re in a Shipping Alliance together too, guy on the involved Saudi company’s charter is also on the boards of their member companies based in Indonesia and the United Arab Emirates. And here. TOPCOG ZUMA: Nothing weird about all that, Rotte! solid resumé though it’s odd all the member companies of this Shipping Alliance would all share warehouse space so far up the River from their port of entry, like that; anyway, back to McCrank: why do you think this Trooper he saw had any thing to do with your little kidnapping ring? Mr. ROTTE: Well, sir, I found it odd that these two would have a discreet discussion in two separate locations on the same evening, so I chose to follow the one I didn’t know, the Trooper, out of there, an hour and a half north to Lebanon, where, on a hunch, the other day, I started to stake out landscaping businesses and. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Not interested in pie-in-the-ass pending operations right now, Rotte; get to the point. Mr. ROTTE: Well, sir, where McCrank patrolled that day, in the City, later that week a Guatemalan guy who cut grass with a Phoenixville crew got grabbed; and the stakeout guy I put on that lot I mentioned said that of the few cars he saw going in and out, the most frequent was a young buzzcut guy in a white van; I studied his photos, and I know it’s that same state trooper. TOPCOG ZUMA: Now, listen, Rotte, you pull that stakeout kid right off that place right now!; he should be sitting on potential victims, in the city, or at work, instead. Mr. ROTTE: But, sir! TOPCOG ZUMA: Excessive impetuosity in investigative desire! that’s what you’ve got, Rotte, all over; now I’ve got to break some bad news to you, Henry: it’s Twenty- twelve, times of change, planetary magnetic polarity supposed to flip this year, all the upheaval getting our air dangerously heavy, hard to breathe, and we all have to tighten the belt a bit, see the eye doctor and. . . Mr. ROTTE: Sir! I get it; did you really call me here just to. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Reassignment is a harsh word, Henry, let’s just. . . Mr. ROTTE: Sir, you can’t! [REDACTED] just approved all that funding for more manpower and. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Which means I approved all that money, you dolt! expostulating like a preteen girl when I have not even explained. . . Mr. ROTTE: These are American police officers! and they’re amateur deportation profiteers, we have to get to the bottom of. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: There is no bottom, Henry, probably no center, either, and you can damn sure forget about every finding the ceiling. . . no! stop, shut your mouth and listen, don’t you dare raise your voice to me again, I know I’m hoarse and pathetic but your words have no right to ascendance when you’re in a room with me, understand? no! shut up, don’t start, Rotte, here’s a little juice box-like

115 refresher of reality: your project is simply not a priority right now, compared to lawfully staving off illegal immigration or tracking the rise of domestic jihadi culture; your thing is just some crackerjack run-of-the-mill bunch of racist cops expediting an arduous process, unsanctioned, I know, so I can hardly endorse the sport, but. . . Mr. ROTTE: Sir, I wouldn’t dream. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Illusions, my old man told me, are directly as numberless as the diplomatic failures between us, people, everyday, in public or private, so I advise you to not dream so much, anyway, Rotte; you don’t have a career at the moment, Henry, starting Monday, you’re going to be learning a whole lot about. . . Mr. ROTTE: You can’t! TOPCOG ZUMA: The record will fail to show the moment just now when my Service guy just forced a fuming Henry Rotte back into his chair with a mere karate stance of pure bluster, as well as a look of properly employable apathy to fear and the feelings of others; now, listen good, Rotte, learn the deal with peaceful disposition, before I make it a lot worse for you: you’re being transferred, Henry, and transferred pretty good. . . tell me, do you know where Eagle Haven is, Rotte? Mr. ROTTE: Yeah, it’s near the Schuylkill headwaters, I know because for training once they sent me up there to simulate a manhunt scenario both by myself and with a troop and dogs; it was grueling, twenty-four hours long, a lot of guys got ticks and poison sumac, and when we found the fucking paid actor we were chasing, apparently a former Olympic track failure, they said, he was stone drunk, slouched out on a rock like he’d been humping it. . . we woke him up with flashbang grenades and the first thing he said, all delirious, was ‘it’s not mine’, which wasn’t in any script they. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Yes, well, I’m glad you had so much fun there Rotte, because you’re going back; just like with training, you’ll get an enjoyable break with your wife and kids and. . . Mr. ROTTE: How long! where exactly? what am I doing. TOPCOG ZUMA: Sound like a little girl again, Rotte; watch your sass, pretty sure [REDACTED] here likes it, gives him a tingle in his earpiece. Mr. ROTTE: Hey, [REDACTED], you just going to take that from this ass hole? TOPCOG ZUMA: Guy makes twice as much as you, Rotte, he’s in, like, what you might call the Double Secret Service, Secret Secret Service Service, know what I mean?; if you’re jealous, though, Henry, itching for a silent partner yourself, don’t worry, you’ll have more than a couple up in Eagle Haven. Mr. ROTTE: Your temple, sir, I see it going pretty hard right now, you should probably eat better; how much more time do I have on the, ah, Spicnapping. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: As long as it takes you to find Huerta, which I estimate to be a week. . . Mr. ROTTE: But, sir! so many weird, fucked-up loose ends, like what’s the connection between that Shipping Alliance and their creepy riverside industrial site, where, of all people! McCrank, who, that day, patrolled a block in the City where within twenty-four hours an abduction consistent with. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: Damn it, Rotte! just call up one of your meat-head buddies at the D-E-A, procure some crystal meth and stay up all week closing the thing out; I’m not saying you’re not onto something, but you have to look at it how we, how I want you to look at it: Huerta’s the priority because it’s the biggest embarrassment on our plate. . . for all you know, the guy’s in there chained to a boiler, living on force-fed salsa. Mr. ROTTE: But how, sir? it’s just another. . . you know, so many abductions go unsolved, and. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: I’ll be straight with you, Rotte: a guy, or girl, we’re not sure, in your office, has been talking, to a journalist, they’re ready to break the. . . Mr. ROTTE: Fuck! fuck no, fucking. . . you’re not fucking with me, are you, sir? no, yeah, you’re not. . .; shit! I mean they can’t! not until we figure out who’s paying these idiot ass hole rookie cops to. . . TOPCOG ZUMA: I know, damn it! we’ve got that particular journalist under lock and key, fortunately, bribed him with arena football tickets into signing a paper saying he wouldn’t go to the press until, at the earliest, next Thursday night; if you don’t have a satisfying story for him by then, and this is obviously too explosive for DHS to pass off with ‘no comment’, Justice would have to open a

117 very public investigation, and just in time for the elections, it would get out the minority vote, fresh coordinated takedown of some supervillain racists. . . except it’s not actually going down like that, Rotte! in a week you’re gone, you get a satellite phone and a backpack full of snacks, and that’s it, you’re getting your mid- career dose of COOP torpor and terror; going to be a FEMA special agent the next two years, Rotte, making a home without women, men trained to kill watching making sure you don’t go into town during the work week, or stray onto state game lands when you get bored and go for a walk in the woods, if you get lucky they’ll all agree to let you grow some marijuana. . . Mr. ROTTE: Down in a bunker or in the sunlight, sir? TOPCOG ZUMA: You’ll hear more about it within the week, Rotte; but, unfortunately, there’s that old rule against sending the same messenger to the same agent twice, so don’t get too excited. You look exhausted, Henry, take the night off, get some sleep; you have seven days now to do what you see fit, and get your last good employee-of-the- month nut.

Screaming as if liberated from some imperceptible hyper-adhesive killing field one photon thin, a blaze of reciprocity does generous homage to a doubled daylight clarity, penetrating as the ragtag major constellation hiding overhead, of urban evening- highlighting white dwarfs and red giants, distant supernovae in calamity rewriting laws of matter and antimatter, with glee one might surmise without fear of anthropomorphizing, because how could such a total mass retention, reduction of the whole subatomic and ethereal catalog, fail to generate an auto-awed and implacable sidereal-animal awareness in its position players? of a Promethean reaction of stellar proportion, showing us in supermassive caricature an original consciousness, orbital gaseousness projecting perpetual fecundity in bright dim benevolent attention, until the first pangs of terminus, overexplosiveness forcing on itself a name, from sheer gravity, and a fresh want of being less unknown. ––You boys don’t even know how important this is, do you? coughing, clearing his throat and controlling his breath, concernedly massaging brow and crown seeking potential sites of clots ––You all talk big, blame some of the right corporations and right wrong motives, cost plus defense contracts and all that, but, when it comes right down to it, none of you can handle or even imagine yet the real negative value of such an epic social failure; don’t expect to live as old as me, or develop the same capacity to. . . ––Grandpa! below on the sidewalk beside him by the scaffolding ––holy shit, don’t set yourself off, your coronary. . . ––Right, yeah, Reese, it’s always my fault! me who sets me off, not. . . ––But damn it, Grandpa! just because I’m trying to get some other work, make some other money, make my name. . . ––You’re taking your name, my name too mind you, packing it up in a crack pipe, let it immolate like some kitchen sink in fracking country, don’t even see. . . ––You told me you just wanted a short video! just to pitch. . . ––Well damn it Reese! when you start spending all this time running around with a violent drug dealer, filming his egotis. . . ––Grandpa! nobody ever proved he was. . . ––Yeah, yeah, the President pardoned the guy, but he can’t pardon global warming now, can he? listen Reese, you don’t understand, I’m taking a lot of heat from other men of means in the area, telling me it’s dangerous disbursing my personal fortune so indiscriminately in poor neighborhoods; I’m getting death threats, it’s ridiculous. ––So you need me to make you look. . . ––You’re a documentarian, you don’t ‘make’ me look any thing! you show me throwing pennies to the poor I want to hear those pennies hopping and ching chinging, not you humming along to some goddamn moody unintelligible electronic string quartet, and please stop making it so much about your precious shot composition when it’s just about a guy trying to make a difference, because you’re not actually in the movies, are you, Reese? most boring storyteller our family ever had at Thanksgiving, probably because all that dope you’re on, to this day, so get your head clear, bet you don’t even clean your lenses often enough, I need my message unmistakable. ––Well, so does Theophil. . . ––Better known as ‘Bang Bang’! Bambrey, I believe?; how do you think he got that goddamn name, playing baseball! ––Look, the President pardoned the guy, they put him away on flimsy circumstantial evidence, it’s a good story to. . . ––Yeah yeah, read all about it, some technicality about proximity, goddamn fruit of the poisonous tree, because the cops went ahead without a warrant and so invasively filmed him getting his pecker. . . ––Grandpa I know, I’m making the documentary about the guy, I know. . . ––Don’t know jack shit kid, how you’re squandering precious day light on. . . ––Look Grandpa, you want a longer movie about what you’re doing, you have to give me a little more. . . ––Give you more! after I gave you, gave your father and you, every thing. . . and I do mean every damn thing. . . that’s right, now you know to shut up, guilty white rich kid but piss poor in mental equipment for confronting reality, my son let it slip away from you even more than I did with him; don’t feel too bad though, Reese, you’re certainly not alone. . . anyway nothing anyone can do about it, he’s in society again, this Bang Bang, only hope that money he got God knows where, real estate investment my ass, hope he’s putting some of it into anger management classes, for your sake, in case. . .

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––Aw Bang Bang’s not really an angry guy! he basically has two moods: visibly agitated or smugly content, and the past couple days you’ve been pulling me off these shoots with him he isn’t exactly feeling content; I’m getting calls from these unknown numbers, racist death threats, I’m a white devil piece of shit don’t love Jesus enough. . . ––My fault you got into this mess in the first place, is that it Reese? ––Well, in a sense, you. . . ––Damn it Reese! an accused, all but once proven guilty goddamn Gary Barbera of heroin, feeding on a vulnerable urban population, which he claims with such pride to have fostered him and brought him to whatever miscommunicated standard of maturity he. . . ––Grandpa, I have to finish it! don’t you get it? we have sixteen hours of raw footage of him talking so far, showing me, like, corners where his old friends got shot, and new safe-injection sanctioned shooting-up sites he set up to. . . ––Sanctioned only, and patrolled, by armed hooded goons who prey on the late-night arrivals, no doubt, he robs those junkies blind when they. . . ––Grandpa, how are you just going to just judge the guy so harshly! he’s just a misunderstood God-fearing poor kid who played most of his cards right, skirted the edge of lawlessness in his youth but has his own ministry network now in. . . ––And whose divinity school did he go to, Iceberg Slim? his whole mission is a tax haven, money laundering vessel immaculate as baby Christ’s pimple-free ass; your dad used to work with those guys, had that shit figured out, got along famously with the Nineties’ finest iniquitous. . . ––You still don’t get it Grandpa, what I mean is why are you criticizing the guy doing rehab outreach and whatnot even if he used to be on the street himself, he told me only it was when he was a teenager by the way, no! stop! don’t interrupt me this time Grandpa, get too excited you’ll get another stroke I keep telling you. . . ; I mean that it’s the same thing as you coating all these roofs white after you cashed in all those years on a portfolio full of fossil fuel. . . ––Ayy familia stop fighting! coming down from scaffolding, landing beside them with a wiping-off of brow-sweat ––sun’s got me well done every side, feel like a pincho on a spit. ––Aren’t you people supposed to be more direct Edwin? speak from the corazon, don’t give me this whiny passive-aggressive. . . ––Yo Mister Kunders I’m just saying just relax, you know Reese is capable enough to do Mister Bambrey’s thing and ours too, long as he don’t stay up too late at night playing with tint and frame rate and superimpos. . . ––I’d like to think that Edwin, but your friend my grandson here doesn’t quite share your and my conception of this roof-whiting project as ours, he claims he likes the logic but when you get right down to it he feels I’m imposing. . . ––If you weren’t such a control freak about it Grandpa, maybe I’d feel like I have more room to move on my own within. . . ––What! so instead of doing one whole roof at a time you want to jump between them? leap around like goddamn Bambi, aerosol primer can in one hand and a roller brush in the other, like goddamn Jupiter’s eagle and thunder no! stop! don’t interrupt me, I’m telling you, boy, way you talk tells me you prize this cheap millennial sense of mystique like it’s the real shit, prioritize it over old-fashioned insight, hope that’s not the attitude you’re taking shooting our. . . ––Don’t worry Mister Kunders, it’s bone dry production, all nice and bare of artifice; Reese has me making sure he keeps it authentic and. . . ––Yeah sure Fran, the rude lingual beauty of the proletariat again; hope you know I might chew my grandson out and make fun of Edwin here a little, but I get tired of you by far the quickest, don’t like you much frankly. . . ––Damn dude. . . coming up from down the scaffolding surprising the others. ––Take that back Fran, this electric-ukulele internet-sensation twerp you idiots found for me gets me the most. . . ––Hey man Cody’s cool! Edwin seeking vainly reinforcement, looking snappingly affably, between Reese’s sighing smoke-warped pout and Fran’s pretentious studious sternness ––Like at least he put himself out there, know what I mean? maybe he don’t realize how obvious it is he panders to them teenage white-girl audiences, with how he writes his music, but. . . ––But nothing! you’ve said enough Edwin; the Internet made all you kids too open-minded, tolerant of bull shit. ––Hey Fran is that democracy? ––Hey man! Cody’s voice clipping like on so many erased vocal takes ––I make music I want to listen to Mister Kunders, not. . . ––Then you’re dumber than I thought, boy; also, since when does every body get to take a snack break when I just rolled up to pull my grandson aside a moment, yell at him a little for. . . ––Solidarity, Mister Kunders! Fran unironic ––We might not be Union, but. . . ––No don’t lie you’re all in a Union, the Desultory Ignorant Unambitious Dolts’ Local Four-Twenty, and yes I looked that up Reese, you. . . you. . . ––Grandpa! where’s your inhaler. ––Glughchkk. . . glove compartment, get it. . . ––Yo Mister Kunders, if you smoked weed your lungs would open up and. . . ––Cody shut up! Reese Fran and Edwin basically together, especially firm knowing Cody hardly ever actually partakes, just looks the part. ––What, just trying to help the boss man, he. . . ––The boss man. . . Reese climbing out of the car with subtle flair like before his own camera, shedding normal shoulder-borne stoner sashay ––He was under the impression you’re on the straight and narrow Cody, we told him you put your boyish wholesome image before pleasure.

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––And we lied about why you needed this job! Edwin as if coughing Lloyd is not listening still ––. . . didn’t say your label dropped you, much less it was over you covering some crazy commie song Fran wrote; he’d think you’re a loser and wouldn’t have hired you. ––What we told him. . . Fran clarifying, scratching his underwashed hair, like trying to distract observers from his trying to not laugh, as if that lapse in stoic static low affectation should show too un-commissar-like ––we told him you objected to their lack of a drug-testing policy for artists, and that you quit in protest. ––And. . . Reese putting inhaler away on behalf of his grudgingly grateful grandfather ––that you’re such a red-blooded free-market believer you decided to stake it out on your own. ––I mean I still want my own studio and. . . ––Hipster crowd-funding popularity contest won’t get you a real studio! ––Aw come on Reese. . . Fran defending the young man whose music he despises ––At least he’s not acting like those phony plaid-clad fascists who take all their worthless videos and tracks offline so people have to. . . ––Hey man, I’m in a few of those worthless videos now! Edwin in mock barrio-macho vanity ––he better leave them jawns up. ––English, Edwin! Lloyd flustered ––leave them jawns that constitute your patois back on the block, remaining coughing concealed adroitly, making it sound like simple punctuated emphasis, believable being the boss and all ––Especially on camera; Reese, you’re not doing interviews with any of these clowns without me watching and. . . ––But we already. . . ––Well you didn’t ask me first, did you? consider me your producer Reese, and accordingly I need reports regular and accurate! and real proposals for every new. . . ––Theophilus Bambrey never treats me like this. ––Don’t make documentaries to sustain long arguments Reese, Lloyd murmuring watching a car-window bagged-drugged hand-shake happen at the far corner of the intersection from them ––. . . don’t underestimate the breadth of waves and ripples made by every thing you make and put up for public scrutiny, consumption and regurgitation. . . all you’re doing with that Bang Bang bull shit is trying to polish a turd. ––But, like, Mister Kunders, Cody K smiling with meekness mutedly askew, scratching at a mosquito bite with a vigor like a speed freak at a table railing lines, or an infant at a ripe nipple, whichever way a way he does not conduct conversation, rather keeps locally twitchy ––Isn’t that what we’re doing? coating these roofs white? fighting global warming or whatever? when it’s unstoppable or something? we’re polishing a turd. Stunned like slipping off a surf board, the force of salty tubular manifold constriction too strong, a silence in their conversation tastes at first instance of puzzlement, almost wonder, at Cody; but straight after subsequent flashpoint lacuna comes bathos and annoyance, as the brick-rough buzz, clattering barking and clanking, of close-rowed block life about them, living in six or nine languages on the exhaust-clogged cable-crossed air, a great grandmother throwing her daughter also a grandmother’s boyfriend out, to the street where guys jump in and out of truck beds and girls push strollers, little kids draw with chalk, bigger kids smoke pot, or, elsewhere, both sexes, all ages, feeling basically blessed, to differing degrees of cool acceptance or, in opposition, bland and grandiloquent falsity, sit on or stand around stoop stairs, shooting the breeze dusted with glass. ––Voice of a generation! congratulations Cody K, Kunders checking, breaking through rebellious mental pretense of the three other younger men, averting furtively and guiltily risible eyes from this lackadaisical precious junior apprentice, visibly dully slighted, the vibe decidedly ‘not chill’: ––Hey man you don’t have to make fun of me, Cody K feeling obliged by burrito-ponderous pride to defend himself, his brand ––Just because you don’t get where my music’s coming from, because you were born too. . . ––Got an intact corpus callosum and you got one made of plastic kid, all I need to know; you were born with a Walkman for a pacifier, your parents taught you early it’s easy and pleasurable to substitute for normal mental expression these endless repetitions of inept guitar. . . ––Man I don’t have to be doing this dangerous environmental shit, I can just get a job at a coffee shop my friend Manatee’s opening in Fishtown, it’s called The Heat Island and it’s going to be the shit, customers would like me and she’d have me host the biggest best most awesome open mic night in the city, we’d. . . ––It’d be a bukkake party Cody K, don’t kid yourself. . . echoing father and father’s father, words of advice they had for him about art school. ––Wait what. ––What Reese means migo is you might think it’d be some buen gusto American Band Stand of undiscovered stylish geniuses all hot for each other. . . ––. . . when really they wouldn’t give a hanging chad on a donkey’s ass about you, Fran inflecting blandly brassy as a solemn dutiful comrade math-and-history teacher. ––And she’d better understand if she really plans to curate your merry anarchic open-microphone nincompoop revue, coughing into monogrammed lime rind lake skim aqueous pashmina handkerchief ––. . . she’ll need a new license, the city’s L-and-I guys will hit her with double the hoops and endless requirements, if even for just two screeching strumming tuneless hours one evening a week she wants to use the premises as a music venue, in addition to it being a clean and sanitary caffeinator of the masses. . . ––I’m just saying, guys, she told me she’d pay me four-fifty more an hour. . . ––Pay you better any day, Cody K, I kind of like you, just ask; work methodically with not a truly distracting thought in your mind. . . ––So I can have a raise? ––Can I have a raise? Reese, Fran and Edwin, half together half in turn and rolling their eyes.

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––Every body gets a raise today! why not? good kindly old Lloyd Kunders keeping his people fed, seeking shade under bodega awning, beckoning his crew follow him thereunder ––. . . put it in our little movie Reese; I’m bumping you up to twenty-two an hour, except Cody K here he gets twenty-five. ––What! the three older young men altogether. ––He brings image to this thing! that none of you greasy smug hippies has, Lloyd preempting rejoinder ––Now listen up! no hard feelings, this is a celebration, after all: we got another community group on the hook, this one in Mount Airy, or Nicetown, I forget, getting high school kids volunteering for the grunt work; they’ve already spread the word to residents in an eight-block area, but warned me some neighbors already with white or else with grey or slate colored roofs deliberately got them blacked over, jealous of the payouts, now they’re demanding we do theirs too and then there’s those blocks we were scheduled to set up at later today that cancelled, at Mummerfucker Fourth and Fernon, house there whose owners had already hired a contractor to weatherize the place; apparently, they have a house down the shore too, think Lee and Irene, the storms I mean, spooked them good last year, got them a little obsessed with the idea. . . anyway, these people demanded some of their money back from the contractor, they paid half up front for the job, said they didn’t need a white roof any more, in fact they had been paid by a nice old man to get a nice shiny new white roof, and the guy flipped, took it to his Union, they put pressure on the block to not let us work there, but their lawyers are telling every body keep my money any way, they’ve already gone to the City to get the first punch in, big fucking head ache, they’re busting my balls about how we’re not licensed to paint roofs, coat them, whatever the hell it is we do that they don’t, and apparently the Better Business Bureau has my number now, someone threatened to get a cease and desist order against us but you know what they do that we’ll just hide out way up in North Philly, keep doing this thing up there, the only way they could stop us then is if somebody freezes some of my assets, they won’t hesitate to waste money arguing because they can, so not sure I can pay any more innocent citizens to let us, wait your camera’s rolling right, Reese? because this is a damn narrative crossroads. . . ––No, ah, I have my handheld one in Fran’s car, but it’s out of battery and I. . . ––Goddamn it Reese! disappoint your grandfather, thought you were the man with a movie camera eh? you’re just acting like a flighty dilettante little boy. Anyway, don’t cry, it gets worse, these drunken Union Mummers are going to keep us from working anywhere in their area for a little while, but I also have this police captain in Kensington objecting we’re handing out money to drug users, so we have to work through community organizations there and man are they shaking me down to cover their petty cash, but goddamn it it’s goddamn Kensington, seems whenever I find someone there to talk to they end up. . . coughing again, his grandson propping him up with a fumbling moment of wonder about medically proper posture ––So anyway I’m going to a zoning meeting down there in a few days, bringing your father along too. . . you ever seen your dad work a town hall like that? damnedest thing I ever saw, it’s where he met your mother in fact, not to mention that long string of your potential stepmothers, still in the additive stage somehow; he always shows up late, barges in making every body in the room look up at him and smile or giggle all befuddled, his eyes all sagging like the heavy sacks of coffee beans it takes to keep him kicking anymore, and he turns the whole damn thing into a party straightaway, got a steady three-to-one ratio of joke to rhetoric down pat, gently ribs whatever council members and congressmen present or not, meanwhile sings the praises of the talented youth and vibrant culture of wherever the fuck, you can’t stop the man, usually too because whoever happens to employ him at the time usually hires some bad broads and dignified-looking old African- American men to show up too, applaud Charlie’s loud arguments along, and the number of people ready to bitch and object to his company’s ostensibly progressive projects promoting prosperity, they can’t get a word in until it’s too late and Charlie’s thoroughly farted up the atmosphere of the meeting, got every body there drunk by nuclear goddamn osmosis. . . you want to know what your father’s been doing lately? that Dominic he works for, makes him spend every Monday morning fastening signs to light poles all over North Philly saying BUY YOUR SHITTY HOUSE CASH NOW! ROACHES AND RATS MIGHT COMPETE IN YOUR KITCHEN BUT NOBODY COMPETES WITH OUR LOW OFFERS, or whatever; that motherfucker pays land lords who, thanks to my son your father, he figured out how to make have to kick him a quarterly commission, maintain a mere title of property manager but still have to endure the annoying responsibilities of ownership, they. . . ––Wait so how are they the owners? or technically renting the place themselves. ––They have the option, guaranteed by contract, of selling whenever they want. ––. . . as long as they kick Dominic an even bigger commission? ––Yup, and the way guys like Dominic aggressively drive urban property values up, you can bet these land lords want to sell in a year or two, to someone who will sell in three to four years, to someone who will sell in five to ten years, and so on, meanwhile Dominic gets in on the ground floor while the wood still smells fresh and a plume of upturned lead dust from the soil lurks all over the block at full potency, gets out before they start to taste the poison; anyway, zoning meeting scheme your father’s been running for Dominic lately: these land lords offer rebates to certain tenants, especially, bless them, the vulnerable illegal aliens who usually can’t say no to the crazy white people in their lives, and the land lords offer these people rent incentives if they go to Charlie’s ritual pitch party, and they also argue on behalf of Dominic building whatever the fuck, while he compensates the land lords triple the value of those rebates. . . anyway, problem is, this guy Dominic, he’s real plugged in to South Philly because of some roofer uncle, and he owns waterfront warehouse space there; so, Reese, you and I have to convince my Charlie, your father, to turn out for the right team on the present occasion; Dominic might be unaware we’re down there, as far as I know, but he’s been so hostile to what we do so far, it’s best to prepare for the most annoying obstacles! could have prophesied this.

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––Just like the year! this year, Mister Kunders, man, Cody K chomping at the bit, seeming to really have something to say, surprising the other older men here ––I mean, you guys know about Twenty-Twelve, right? we have to get ready. ––What about it, Lloyd eager to know, narrowing his eyes, dragging oxford toe against pavement crack grass. ––Oh God no. . . Fran, Reese and Edwin basically altogether. ––Well. . . like. . . Cody K looking around as if to make sure no black people will hear him and think he is crazy; satisfied and quieting, he commences his lecture, unconcerned so much with the judgement of these three other white guys and his Puerto Rican lead guitarist ––So first of all, I mean Edwin I was pretty sure I told you about this, there’s, um, twelve? right, the number twelve. . . and I’ve been, like, thinking about this a lot, lately. . . because, like, see. . . on the guitar, Edwin you know! there’s twelve frets between the open string, or, like, the Zero note, and the note one, um, like a single, octave up. . . and the note one octave up shakes twice as fast as the open zero note. . . so like, one octave’s a two-to-one uhh ratio, but you flip the two and the one and you get Twelve! or Half, whatever, there’s a Twenty before that Twelve anyway, so, like, it shows the double thing, the two, and the nothing, in the zero. You know what I mean? or another way, like, see, it’s heady, I know, but it’s like this, it’s simple: it’s the Twelfth fret right? where there’s two dots. . . and it’s one octave, so two times the zero. . . but an octave is also, like, two strings and two frets up! right? or down if you want to look at it that way, but either way it’s double twice. . . but plus one twice too. . . like, one, two, but, um, half! you know what I mean? and this year, two-zero-one-two, it’s, like, the year the North and the South Pole are supposed to flip, just like, um, what was that shit in algebra? that’s what fractions do, they flip, like the poles, to turn half into double, that’s why the Aztecs, like, decided that this year is the end of. . . ––It was the Mayans! Edwin groaning, while Fran and Reese laugh so hard they have to support each other like a couple of exhausted pyramid builders. ––Well, whatever, my bad, they’re not here, whoever they are, are they? anyway, all these square and opposite. . . ––Aztecs living among us Cody K! Lloyd finishing a bottle of water, studying it ruefully, with regretful hue grey like it ––Got some working for us right now in fact, coating roofs in Kensington and Hunting Park; but anyway, about all that numerological voodoo, Cody K keep your prophecies to yourself on the job from now on. . . Christ, kid, if you’re the voice of a generation, I’m damn glad you don’t have any eager rivals out there harmonizing. ––Hey man! you insult me, you insult Edwin too. ––You insulted, Edwin? ––No sir; you pay me more than Cody does, no offense Cody. ––Yo Edwin I told you we have some shows. . . ––Opening up for a rich spoiled band of pliable idiot boredom-rockers none of us likes! Fran curtly. ––Yeah Cody, Edwin’s eyes dilated to didactics ––shorter sets means fewer solos and we have to play worse songs. ––Damn Edwin don’t complain, you’re getting attention. . . ––Like the attention I get here better Cody K, Edwin nodding to a couple of mamis not yet mommies at the far corner coyly ignoring him behind their shared blunt. ––What was of use to know, Lloyd muttering, quoting ––What best to say could say, to do had done. . . ––What’s that Mister Kunders? ––Guy named Milton Cody K, put your pretty guitars over that shit and smoke it, eh? tell you what you leave this job start selling coffee brewed from beans picked by World Bank wage-slaves, you’re leaving a better worthier enterprise, less likely to leave you with a cancer of the conscience than a career in corporate café culture; you’re dismissing the life of a true cause, one very much confined by time and space and money, Lloyd starting to quote again ––it is composed of widely separated countries and all ages, every body in other words who smells the world’s foundation rotting. . . a blacked-out bright-rimmed sport-utility vehicle creeps past blasting blunt smoke like an incense- thurible parade-craft in a Roman Triumph ––Speaking of which. ––Smells pretty dank to me, Cody K approvingly, to Fran’s, Reese’s and Edwin’s grudgingly fraternal smiles. ––Man I can’t believe it’s a crime to drive high here, Edwin adding, wonderingly ––On P-R it’s practically to drivers there what speed is to truckers here. ––How the hell would you know Edwin! ––Yeah you haven’t been there since you were six years old. ––Meant the music not that jimsonweed odor, Lloyd coughing ––it’s that whip- whop rap shit what they’re playing smells worse of all; problem it’s got this brittle infantile backbeat, it’s a mockery of this crisp insistent hi-hat in jazz which every body used to hear and understand as embodying the bonded masses of bouncing black America clapping along. Birds chirp on the high end, gated kick drum lurking in car stereos all over, around the corners, on the block, the rumble going hard like that you would hear above you on a subway platform during a parade, neighbors talking, laughing and squabbling the while, dominating the midrange. ––Fran, migo, why don’t you and I start a coffee shop of our own. . . ––Yeah sure Barbara Kopple Kunders here can be our celebrity open mic host; but I might get my people’s-theater gig back soon though, another school. . . ––Stop calling it that! Reese perspiring, huffing with viscous and allergenic rattle ––Kids aren’t people, definitely not The People at least. . . ––. . . ridiculous rhetoric Reese, very un-commissar-like! anyway, this charter school in West Philadelphia that has a big, you know, work-out, phys-ed, healthy-eating bent to its curriculum, they want me to direct a non-musical sequel to ‘Massacre at le Cap’ but set it in the future, that is to say today, and show the descendants of those same

127 sugar-plantation slaves who rose up with Touissant getting diabetes and heart failure from too much sugar. ––That’s great Fran, really essential, Lloyd answering his phone, opening the driver door of his car and sitting inside perpendicular the seat, resting feet on fire hydrant ––Hello? as falling pigeon shit compels the younger men jump back beneath bodega awning, kids on bikes who saw laughing, one girl cracking that bird poop would blend in with Fran’s or Reese’s arms ––First of all relax, way you’re talking I can tell you look like hell . . . she ‘got like that’ again, did she? . . . and you fucked it up pretty good right? . . . because you never know what to say, much less how to say it so she’ll shut up and coo, bask in the warmth of your manly attention, like at least that’s her fantasy, see she doesn’t want to admit the baseness of her desire much less how it manifests itself in the vagueness of her unfulfillable emotional demands, the ideal and therefore impossible degree of attention she . . . no you should not have said that! but why are you asking me? you’re the damn lawyer . . . next time she . . . come on Charlie! where’s your instrumentality prong? . . . no, just listen, next time she ‘gets like that’ just sing a song, damn it . . . no I’m serious, just sing, you know, like singing? yeah, that shit, sing a very simple song, you can make it up if you try, but pick a song she knows don’t fuck it up; any way, even if your voice sounds like pig farts, at worst you look a little ridiculous but still at least have lightened or otherwise arrogated the bad mood she made, so don’t bust your lungs with squandered argumentative rhetoric, it’s half-thought at best in those moments anyway . . . you’re welcome but still it sounds like you’d have to work just as hard to get rid of her as you are trying to keep her around . . . either way, you’re fucked now Charlie, but chin up, I’m with young Reese your son here, he says he’d like to have dinner with you downtown . . . tonight, yeah . . . got some filial concerns to talk about . . . me? no, I’ve got a steakhouse date with a couple of City Council . . . what? you do too! better not be who I . . . yeah you do, same place as me I bet . . . that guy? well damn hope they sit you in a booth where I can’t see you; I’ll have my table, you’ll have your table, sit Romeo Reese at the bar and let him brood, but go talk to him about something other than money at some point, bathroom break or before dessert, maybe introduce him to your politician friend, get him drinking, get him talking, maybe you can work it so you end up representing the guy in court on corruption charges . . . yes Reese here usually carries a camera with him, especially when it’s inconvenient for other people . . . I agree, he’s bright enough, when he’s not too high. . . yup; bye.

Most esteemed Philadelphia County Community College,

Below please see my official diagnostic profile of Ms. Aniyah Fleury-Medina, who, to the pride of our school faculty, we whom she so delighted in her four years here at West Kensington Friends, is now enrolled for the fall 2012/13 semester at your higher institution; as you are aware, and records show, the girl is very bright, with many interests, but as many problems, born of a fraught childhood, fragile imaginative temperament, and acute, quick-witted, but mercurial, social and situational perceptiveness often overwhelming to her. I trust that your quality academics and compassionate professors will challenge and open up to her new points of view, that help her integrate the painful and tortuously contradictory lessons of her life so far with a new sense of the real world’s brilliance and vastness, and of how death and fear are not quite as pervasive overall as she sees them in such woeful disproportion. Please give Aniyah the attention she needs, including all appropriate counseling and academic accommodations.

Hopefully, Demi Davis-Lieberschwartz, M.D.

WEST KENSINGTON FRIENDS’ SECONDARY SCHOOL OFFICIAL PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT –– CONFIDENTIAL

PATIENT NAME: Aniyah Althea Fleury-Medina PATIENT ADDRESS: 1376 N Gratz St., Philadelphia PA 19121 CHIEF COMPLAINT: At the behest of both Pennsylvania’s Department of Human Services, and of our student-patient subject’s current, longest-caring foster mother, Ms. Medina Medina, a distantly removed aunt on the poor girl’s institutionalized mother’s side, Aniyah has received regular analytic behavioral counseling, and medical prescription, from the author of this report, for four years; the symptoms which originally prompted her referral to me are mostly contained or under control, in some respects, at this juncture, but others have overdeveloped, hardened or arisen anew unexpectedly, especially very recently. As Aniyah’s particular symptoms are very numerous, often mutually paradoxical and difficult to explicate (any firm diagnosis of personality disorder in her eludes us, as Aniyah’s infinite variety, maybe with contrived intention, forbids it), herein I will accordingly divide our chief complaint into four different dominant categories of comparable prominence, all shot through with her constant wounded motivic morbidities, cold violence ideated and sometimes real:

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1- Acute, multifarious post-traumatic stress disorder

2- Schizotypal paranoia and grandiose thought content

3- Maladjusted and alienating Aspergian tendencies

4- A variety of bipolarity wherein we see Aniyah ventilating, turning on and off, without open, even, engagement, with herself or others, her emotional activity, shifting between states of deep freeze and irruptive episodes of tearful rage, wild accusation and incoherency.

HISTORY of PRESENT ILLNESS: We could assert, reasonably, that Aniyah’s sickness began at conception, her birth parents both alcoholics and heavy drug users (early medical records of Aniyah’s indicate her mother snorted cocaine, abused painkillers and took methamphetamine rectally while pregnant with her first child, her only daughter); the female baby which came from her screaming, coughing and jonesing into the world, and came to be named Aniyah (essentially a fake urbanized Arabic name, a cultural Ellis Island-style invention) required immediate and various treatment, for acute asthma, drug withdrawal and jaundice, but did not quite get it. Her mother left her father while pregnant with her, after he drunkenly struck her and cursed her with a voodoo doll as well; Aniyah’s mother fled first to New York, then south to Trenton, then back up to Yonkers near where Aniyah was born, and from where her life proceeded in calamity. However, for our purposes here, an account of Aniyah’s compound aggression/depression, and habitual conspiratorial apathy, may begin from the fifth grade, shortly following the major traumatic episode of her life, the brief and unexpected return of her birth father, which I will not describe here; suffice it to say, it was a cataclysm, which led to her mother’s mental breakdown, and institutionalization, and Aniyah’s, and her brothers’, adoption by a female cousin of her mother’s, who moved them, following a reprobate corrupting boyfriend, to Pennsylvania, into a rural-mountain Muslim-only community, a trailer park forty miles outside Pittsburgh, a porn-ring drug-trafficking cult of pseudo-Sufi pan-African con artists, cozy with alcohol and gambling despite halal pretenses (Aniyah once told me she asked her foster mother, upon realizing these particular hypocrisies, why nobody felt guilty about breaking Allah’s laws; the woman asseverated [with, according to Aniyah, more vehemence than was appropriate for addressing her young foster daughter] that every body was expected to break the rules to keep themselves happy, and therefore functional, as worshipers, but, also, to, upon periodic cosmic inspection, keep snoopy Allah happy by simply hiding and denouncing transgression). Aniyah, arriving there at nine years old, had much difficulty with her first foster family over the next year, a crippling depression more often seen in older patients, coming to school manic and leaving catatonic; many days she found herself by lunchtime prostrate on the guidance counselor’s sofa, either wordless, eyes glazed over, or else crying interminably and talking to herself, “hiding secrets” between the cushions, and schizoautistically replaying, repeating, with fresh embellishment every time, revealing conversations, with various adults departed already from her life. The most frequently recurring of these murmured memories of screaming and yelling (for which Aniyah, whose speaking voice, normally almost serene except a certain hard-wired whine, changed the pitch of her speech for each involved personage, hovering around a monotone on a steady tenor in slight quaver, tending to tone down open vowel sounds) goes something like this, a scene taken from when she was seven years old, and her mother demanded a transient boyfriend of some sort (perhaps the birth father of Aniyah’s youngest brother, but she’s not sure) name unknown (her mother addresses the man mostly as “motherfucker” here), drive her to Delaware to visit the outlets:

ANIYAH’s MOTHER’s BOYFRIEND: Bitch you told me you weren’t spending no more money this month. ANIYAH’s MOTHER: Don’t talk to me like that motherfucker! I’m a woman of Allah, a genuine Hessa, I bust my ass in one morning more than you do one whole paycheck cycle at that bullshit security job! ANIYAH: Mommy why is he still here if when you said you can’t stand him and. . .

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MOTHER: Aniyah shut up! gotta know Mommy’s pretty sayyida can keep things discreet; men are unclean dangerous pigs, and. . . BOYFRIEND: You’re telling her you can’t stand me sweetie? don’t want to confuse the girl; listen Aniyah, your mommy love me like she never did your dumb daddy. ANIYAH: You don’t know anything! I know my mommy doesn’t love you. BOYFRIEND: That’s cute Aniyah, wait till you grow up to be just like her, except maybe hopefully you’ll learn younger it’s easier to just leave a motherfucker alone, or every body just ends up feeling. . . MOTHER: Just what you’re afraid of is feeling! and don’t use accursed language like that in front of my daughter, you. . . BOYFRIEND: See! see? she’s insane Aniyah, you’re old enough you can see, she calls me motherfucker, tells me not to curse; don’t think that crack she smoked, what gave you that ringing in your head you hear, made you blind too. MOTHER: Putting ideas in her head! what you want her to think about me, when every thing I got I give to her and. . . ANIYAH: You don’t mean I’m not blind. BOYFRIEND: What. MOTHER: Stay out of this sweetheart. ANIYAH: But you said I saw, like with my eyes, my mom saying the word she just told you not to say, the M F double one, but really I heard it, it was with my ears so you should have said I’m not deaf instead. MOTHER: Always worried about what’s unimportant, insha’allah she better learn! a neighborhood like this. BOYFRIEND: Don’t put it in her head this ain’t the right place for her, else you’ll torture her even more, roast her like goddamn brisket over the pain she feels to have a mother like. . . MOTHER: Get out motherfucker! fuck yourself while you’re at it; go be a sinner at the bar.

From the above-quoted, remembered-aloud conversation, three important, motivic and identifiable aspects, intact a decade later, of Aniyah’s mental tendencies, and personal experience, strike us:

1- A quasi-autistic, but slightly simply defiant, tendency to “speak by the card” and adhere to a literal, precise standard of language (i.e.: when she pointed out she could not “see” her mother’s hypocrisy, but rather only hear it), an attitude often serving as her emotional safety valve, using the startling inappropriateness, of such seemingly trivial stringency, to momentarily divert the wayward moods of others; part of the impressive academic performance Aniyah exhibited from the seventh grade forward we might attribute to an intense need to distract herself, against a daily onslaught of traumatic memories, her lingering sorrows and vestigial insecurities (i.e.: recognizing, lamenting, from a young age, the distinction between street-smarts and her own book- smarts).

2- Her extensive observational experiences, of people who ineptly hide personal flaws and faults, especially behind religious pretensions (four of her five foster home experiences have been with professed Muslims, the other some conservative Seventh Day Adventists), have made her extremely sensitive to contradictions in the principles and actions of adults; at the start of each of her four years at our school, she hesitated to open herself up to extra help from teachers, although she acknowledged, to me, in therapy, our staff are her “favorite people in the world”, talented and magnanimous in ways she hardly saw, or let herself see, in anybody else, anywhere before. We see easily the connection between Aniyah’s natural distrust, of dictated values purportedly effected by powerful infallible forces, and the flagrant self-discrediting she witnessed, of, first, her mother, their family and neighbors in Yonkers, then her first foster parents, etc.; despite the stable image, of pious word and deed, her current caretaker, a community leader, deputy block captain and eager service volunteer, presents for Aniyah, who has lived with her four years, the girl still

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expresses a gloomily skeptical bent in thought and ordinary discourse, especially when she hears anybody assert some sort of moral judgement, even Miss Medina Medina, whom, she says, she loves.

3- She has an incredibly, often overwhelmingly, vivid and specifically detailed, memory for conversation; this (a) exacerbates her traumatic and fanatical distaste for the hypocrisies of supposedly responsible adult social culture, (b) enhances her powers of manipulation in a subtle quest to make conversation uncomfortable for everybody she meets.

By the end of the fifth grade, Aniyah had accumulated an average 1.2 trips to the principal’s office per school day, with a rap sheet that included theft of art supplies, teachers’ wallets and purses, and thousands of hours of Japanese cartoons off the internet on school computers, as well as earning three broken knuckles fighting. The most aggressive, intolerant and emphatically despondent inclinations and impulses of hers, while always persistent and worrisome, took still more macabre and buddingly concupiscent redirections; the summer between the fifth and sixth grades, Aniyah witnessed a female neighbor beaten up and abused by both her father and her son in the same afternoon, saw a young man knocked off a bicycle by a malign bystander waiting with a wooden board for a passing victim, his shoes and backpack stolen. She saw one of her teenage foster sisters disappearing daily into a male neighbor’s house for over two weeks, until his arrest. She saw a pit bull maul a toddler in a stroller almost to death until the dog was euthanized by an armed gang of young male neighbors, infuriating its owner and starting a brief shootout which ended in police shooting one of the young men to death. For these reasons, as well as certain social tensions (more below) with her foster family and local peers, PA DHS moved Aniyah, after she finished the fifth grade unspectacularly, often asleep in class from overmedication, to a quieter, more rural setting: the devoutly Christian home of a white married couple of park rangers, near their stomping grounds in the Allegheny National Forest, the isolation soothing to her at first, but the air poisoned by volatile shale well runoff vapors. Her derangement, hallucinations and epileptic-like tendencies towards frenzy, especially intermixing all of a sudden with burgeoning sexual confusion, all increased in frequency and intensity, as if the atmosphere of her life were so stormily polluted its runaway warming and bad weather patterns double-clutched in acceleration; according to Aniyah’s therapist at the time:

“Her foster parents called me in the middle of the night, Mischief Night, before Halloween, to tell me Aniyah had been caught spray painting DIRTY DEVIL DICK and TRICK OR GET BEAT on cars parked along a residential street; when the police showed up, summoned by observant neighbors, I suppose, her companions fled, in different directions, more adeptly than her, more used to evading police, apparently, but, Aniyah, who later explained she “didn’t feel like” running because her boots were heavy and her knees were bad (from enforced dance class experiments of her mother’s from when she still cared; but, perhaps, also, come to think of it, as much a consequence of poor nutrition and inadequate parental emphasis on exercise, as well as all the kneeling for prayer forced on her in her life), when the cop shone the light in her face, was blinded, to the world of physical consequence, stuck instead on the agitated plane of petulant-adolescent expression, searching angsty syntax, felt like reality became a kind of sterilized white-walled room (her description; she had twice been hospitalized for mental health episodes thereto, once for a shrieking lamp-throwing tantrum, once for a drooling shaking catatonic sloth- like shadow-boxing bout) smashed the driver window of the car beside her out, with the base of the same metal spray can she had just used, to sketch on its roof a Satanic goat with testicle eyes hung by scrotum from a nail through its forehead, banging the canister against the butt of her bowie knife, aimed calmly against a central pressure point for instant shattering. The police immediately jumped out of their cruiser to confront her, of course, but, she, just as reflexively, responded by making an impromptu flame thrower with a lighter and her paint can; while it burned, Aniyah, according to her own account, swirled the toxic blaze

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to and fro forgetting the “corporeal reality” (again, her words, who knows where she learned them!) of the cops, one who rushed back inside the car to escape her, putting it promptly in reverse, and the other who ran around the car she had very recently tagged and tackled her; she suffered a concussion.”

After a night in a shoebox-size jail, where, she claims, she was sexually harassed by cops who refused to stop telling her lurid stories about Iraq and Afghanistan, Aniyah’s foster parents were audited by PA DHS, found to be unfit (as much for their meth lab on state game lands as for their monotonous punishments [e.g.: forced transcription of Bible passages {Aniyah always, she claims, inserting cheeky ‘mistakes’ like “Man can not live on pussy alone” and “Whom do you want me to release to you? Barabbas or Bush”}], and as for their gratingly hypocritical rules, like that the kids could not play in the woods!) and she was packed off for the seventh grade to Easton, to live with new strangers, distantly related, Islamic again, and no less pretentiously religious, if stricter in terms of personal behavior, than her previous two sets of foster parents; the above-mentioned concussion left Aniyah, for a year or so, more placatable, unlikely to burst out in such destructive ways, but she withdrew to the licentious, mysterious and cartoon- spectacular confines of the Internet more, where she started frequenting more chat rooms, and researching serial killers with the vigor of a Smithsonian historian. Aniyah’s experience as a seventh grader, however, saw her getting a fresh spate of harassment from boys, as she had started suddenly to ‘fill out’ that summer before (which she ironically lamented throughout therapy that school year, her prepubescent body image being the year before a major insecurity of hers, according to her sixth grade therapist, as other girls were “getting tits faster”); her school therapist, and the Easton police department, were satisfied for months that Aniyah was not so susceptible to fits of madness as they were warned, until that spring, following her first experiences with juvenile-frivolous dating and after-school marijuana smoking, when Aniyah found her stride again as a troublemaker (her only instances of detention the first semester being a regular minor reprimand from the principal, a consequence of sarcastic answers and indiscriminate doodles all over tests and homework, although her grades began to improve over what they were the previous year, except that her comprehension skills began to lag, probably due to aforementioned head trauma. However, Aniyah, self-aware enough, despite everything, began to milk her “weirdness” those conspicuous aberrations in interpersonal situations, to which she was growing accustomed, dissolving them into her developing iconoclastic sense of humor; for example, in one incident in a phys-ed. class at her school that spring, Aniyah, after receiving explicit instruction in dodgeball, fled the premises after scooping the ball up when it rolled to her feet, screaming “Fuck school I got a baby!” (quoting, she says, a neighbor in Yonkers); when she took state standardized tests around the same time, on the bubble sheets she handed in, her multiple choice answers were indicated not by #2 pencil but by dots of chewed bubble gum smeared onto A B C D or E, for each question. But her major “incident” that occurred towards the end of the school year (that particular one being the strongest academically of Aniyah’s life thereto, probably because she was bored out of her mind living in Easton, and, even crediting her natural curiosity, she probably had to entertain her deprived ego through focused self-assurance of her own intelligence): reportedly heavily excited by a stellar final report card, as well as feeling a little mischievous towards a “ghetto posh” female classmate (a chief recurring villain in her online journal entries and school prose-and-poetry projects throughout the seventh grade, landing her in counseling with the other girl several times), Aniyah decided to “seduce” her classmate’s “boyfriend” of two weeks, basically a vapid after-school trophy pizza date; with some handcuffs she had used as part of her Halloween costume that past year (one of her male friends, a chronic videogame consumer, like her, unduly influential on fragile Aniyah’s need for heavy stimulation and edgy self-expression, dressing up as a “zombie-homie” “gunned down by” her vampire-police character; her friend’s, the victim’s, lines, which Aniyah scripted, included “I’m just reaching for my candy!” and “Please, don’t! I’m just an athlete”), Aniyah chained herself to a leg of her enemy’s boyfriend’s cafeteria table, at the class’s last lunch of the year together, first brazenly approaching him and

137 ignoring his friends, the while eyeing coldly his hostile “fake” middle-class “girlfriend” at an adjacent table, yelling to him, “Do whatever you want to me!” and “Where on me do you think I hid the key to my heart?” with her free hand tearing at her shirt collar and scratching herself to bleeding. The other, popular, girl, started screaming, “Aniyah! you weirdo thot goth slut” and ran and punched her once in the head hard, her bewildered thirteen year-old boyfriend and his friends rushing to shield shrieking Aniyah from the kicks and nails of the sportier, more “normal” girl, but Aniyah had, by then, suffered a concussion, and, in a blind rattled rage, tore the other girl’s earrings from her piercings, wrestled her to the floor and got one forceful stomp in, to her face, breaking or displacing several teeth of the girl’s despite her braces. When Aniyah woke up, in the hospital, she found herself surrounded by several school faculty, police, her foster parents, and a DHS case manager (her umpteenth thereto) who coolly informed her of what her crying foster parents there failed to convey (her father, by the way, having failed to pick up an urgent prescription for Aniyah when he was busy coaching in a youth basketball league [that, on which, it turned out, he was betting]) that they no longer wanted her in their care, and that while they waited, for what turned out to be that entire summer before eighth grade, for some new guardians to accept her, she would endure the while in a scary hippie detox fitness rehab camp, in the middle of the desert in Utah, where with grueling rock-climbing cleansings, enforced athletic meditation, and entire days in the desert alone without a map -just some granola, a flint and one bottle of water- whereto they were driven blindfolded to get the whole ordeal started, broken children languished; the facility, sponsored by a libertarian “black sheep” wing of the Mormon family- machine, as well as being an LLC contracted to the Federal Department of Health and Human Services, to provide drug- intervention and get-heart-healthy programs to troubled youth, has, of course, by now, faced its reckoning, several investigations, lawsuits and its humiliating defunding, but, new, similarly horrid rehabilitation programs, which, of course, continue to induce anything but “positive- transformative” emotional-behavioral changes in their sensitive charges -all at a traumatically impressionable stage of life- who are made more fragile by failed support systems, embittering them, turning them cynical and thereby compromising their ability to develop happy meaningful relationships with foster families, or new siblings in group-home settings. But Aniyah refused to participate in the desert-isolation “subsistence Earth-appreciation education”, and, when they tried to blindfold her, Aniyah kicked and flailed like, as she said, she had just “stolen Allah’s personal rocket fuel”; one blow hit a counselor square in the groin, and they tackled Aniyah to the ground, giving her yet another minor concussion. The surreal and counterproductive experience in the desert did yield at least one positive development in Aniyah’s life, however: all alone and very bored, she assumed an accelerated and ardent relationship with the “thuluth” practice of Islamic calligraphy which she had regularly, albeit, probably, numbly, learned in Islamic Sunday School many times thereto; the stark stock of recreational supplies the deranged treatment camp had for its teens included, as the extent of its art gear, black markers and printer paper, and those who wished to use other, colored, media, were encouraged (although that word has not a malign enough implication to apply to the sociopathic staff and administration of the primitive program) to find their own raw chalk or clay in the desert and make their own dyes, paints and pastels, during their daily two hours of mandated, supervised (with a one-to-one ratio of apathetic junior counselors to traumatized rehabilitees barely a few years younger) “exploration time” (Aniyah reported that the camp ran out of sunscreen a week before the end of the prescribed season; the practice was enforced to the end anyway) which the teens typically spent foraging, for supplemental food, or, like some of the counselors, in hopes of discovering psychedelic plants and fungi. Aniyah contented herself, however, to working in black and white, and her sense of artistic freedom, as well as ecstatic if inarticulate religious devotion, flourished becomingly; out of her Q’uran, the one book (camp maximum) she brought with her (which she bought mostly only to spite her Bible-thumping group-home overlords of the sixth grade); however, her newfound fascination with vaguely familiar Islamic scripture, we might surmise, patched a serious hole in young Aniyah’s identity, and she began to memorize

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Quranic passages and supplemental ‘hadith qudsi’, to recite them dramatically, constantly, say them, resplendently, through calligraphy. Fortunately, her next foster family, for eighth grade, in Bethlehem, while just as unimaginative, and apathetic to Aniyah’s welfare, as the previous three, felt relieved she showed up to their door with a hobby, one which happily coincided with their own conservative, quasi- militant Islam, and they tended to trust her better than they did the six other children in their charge, who had committed acts as thoughtless and heinous as manslaughter- by-ATV, arson-by-blunt, and rooftop-roaming row-home rope- ladder burglary. With a clinically frustrating lassitude that school year, mentally battered and resigned, Aniyah ceased to seek making friends, instead retreated into stereo headphones everywhere, in an open war over them with distressed teachers and the scores of boys who ‘noticed’ her that year, and she ceased to seek drugs and trouble after school each day, instead going to the library and practicing calligraphy; her only supporters, in a struggle to keep her bumping womb-like headphones on in school, and to ‘doodle’ in kufic script throughout lectures and lessons, were her guidance counselor, school therapist, an assistant principal, and, most lackadaisically, her foster parents. Aniyah was begrudged good grades, and managed not to start any fights with peers the first half of that school year, but, one night, leaving the house of a girl she described later as “demonically evil and destined to be a terrible mother, but my only friend I made that year besides the stupid boys I, we fucked around with”, she was robbed at gunpoint outside a convenience store, having little on her person but a school ID, some sour hard candy and antipsychotic medication, and her anger issues resurfaced. Towards the end of the school year, driven around with her “only friend” by some boys, getting multiply, recklessly and dysfunctionally, high, Aniyah and the other girl tagging, with aerosol paints, wearing Halloween masks out of season, walls all over Bethlehem, on churches and schools, at public transportation terminals, and, finally, daringly, and, to all their downfalls (the boy driving away cowardly, getting caught later anyway, his mother’s tags captured by camera), a police station. The incident, which, of course, led to more restriction for Aniyah, was further complicated by the fact that her own spray-paint designs (intricate and not necessarily germane to criminal celerity) conveyed fervent, almost fanatical Islamist messages; Aniyah, of course, chose the tantalizing content based not necessarily on piety but an aesthetic of mystique, which is also the basis on which the local population felt terrified (the incident also alienated Aniyah once and for all from that particular friend, who tended to just spray paint swastikas, penises, etc.) by her territorial mark. The Bethlehem School District did not want such a troublesome child in its care any longer, and another distant aunt was contacted; soon after, the wheels were set in motion for Aniyah to move in with another state-paid caretaker, the difference, this time, being the lack of a foster father in the house, and this time being a house in North Philadelphia, run single-handedly by the fastidious Miss Medina Medina. The same voices at her junior high school in Bethlehem who advocated for Aniyah’s solitary calligraphy hobby also advised PA DHS to not let Aniyah go to another house where she would have to endure a confusing, irksome and handicapping father figure, uncontaminated, without compounding distressing pilings-on of, unfamiliar male presence. Philadelphia disarmed, immediately, Aniyah; her Aunt Medina’s husbandless and spotless foster operation, in a row home on a relatively well-kept block, taught the troubled girl regularity and responsibility, with a didactic equanimity she could not seriously intend to topple. Whenever Aniyah came home from seeing friends, two hours of out of doors permitted to her at a time, Medina would sniff Aniyah’s fingers for the smell of marijuana, and, if it was detected, or Aniyah was more than one minute late, Medina would ground the girl, heap new chores on her, and, if she attempted to violate the decrees of the house by sneaking out its front door, if for some reason Aunt Medina did not notice or was not home to do so, some neighborhood kids aged eight to ten, the most innocent but surprisingly capable range of ages, who she paid to snitch, would tell Medina, themselves or through another messenger, if they saw the girl with the nose ring emerge from the house (just as she had them tell her, or a Mister Bonner next door to her, the block captain, whenever they witnessed some “big bulls” on

141 the block doing certain quick handshakes through car windows). From the beginning of her enrollment at West Kensington Quaker, a magnate school, for, and, successfully, into, which, the insistent, always haggling, Miss Medina managed to have her tested (well past the deadline any eighth grade students of the City’s schools faced, her case of course extraordinary in how far she had come despite internal innumerable disturbances [their ur-voice her mother’s heavy cracked-out Creole French, which hampered haunted Aniyah’s early development of English skills]), the girl knew she had lucked into a new life, though one still crowded and impoverished, one far better, some of her most vigilant and tenacious demons withdrawing from active duty. However, she could not help but show herself at first to her brighter new class to be rough around the edges, her bull- in-a-china-shop mischievous streak somewhat alarming a student body more docile than life had led her thereto to expect; she slid fake love notes and gruesome sketches of old Southern slave scenes through the slots of other students’ lockers, both vexingly prolific series being detected and discontinued by that October. After a carefully planned conference (the obvious deliberation behind which very much disquieted Aniyah, for a while, dissuading her from old tricks, coaxing her, for once, a significant step in her treatment, into admitting aloud that she had behaved unreasonably, that a significantly different life situation meant she needed to effect a significant change in her misanthropic disposition) Medina sealed the soul of her newest child’s new cooperative nature by buying Aniyah, for her birthday, just after Halloween, a generous set of supplies for her thuluth/Kufic calligraphy, including big and heavy sheets of high-quality hemp-down parchment paper, and wells of precious inks from black-india to glittering silver and blinding tourmaline. Ever since, Aniyah’s problems have mostly shied away external expression, except for occasions of wounded fuming touchiness, albeit now quieter, more contained than in early adolescence, and scattered episodes of mostly theatricized anger, brandishing knives at her foster siblings, for example, and continuing her unabated urge to tease the randy boys around her (a habit in which she found renewed daring each year of high school, our young men here at West Kensington Friends being rather on the more nerdy, docile side, compared to anywhere Aniyah ever before knew. Doubtless, her spirits have risen, since receiving a peaceful magnate education, and the strict fond attentions of Miss Medina Medina, but Aniyah’s sorrows, when she hits her occasional emotional lows (e.g.: on the first few days of her period, or with the cold insuperable onset of seasonal-affective disorder every autumn, or whenever a murder occurs in her neighborhood) to this day still tend to emerge in ways highly irregular and unpredictable except a constant strain of Internet-sterilized sadism; on one aberrant occasion, in tenth grade, Aniyah worked with another student, a (we can admit) obnoxious and “preppy”, achievement-dieting white boy from Mt. Airy (a type common enough here, although our emphasis is on lower-income students, half the enrolled population), on a joint book report (The Autobiography of Malcolm X) to present to the class, the premise being that while he informatively narrated, to establish context, Aniyah, pantomiming Malcolm, would provide quotations, color commentary and speculative insights, on politics and philosophy, but instead she sabotaged the performance (to punish the boy, she claimed, for not actually reading the book, also for trying not without some success to “make out with” her [mortifying her in front of Miss Medina on the one occasion the boy traveled from Society Hill to Aniyah’s house, to try and work, an occasion urged into occurrence by the principal and myself; the boy, upon being thrown out of the house to wait for a ride from his parents, bought, with his allowance, first, candy, then, drugs, off a few boys on bicycles passing by, boasting and complaining about it in school the next day, prompting a few impressionable freshmen to leave the school grounds at lunchtime and attempt to do the same, seek out light-bagged cyclists, and get ripped off, get high, and one of the clueless students ended up coming back to school with a black eye; we doubled our lunch monitoring budget thereafter], and, worst of all, mortally offending her by disparaging her taste in music [while Aniyah tends to take personal insults and juvenile epithets on the chin, with less dejection than vanity, she fiercely guards her high opinions of any given cultural-artefactual attachment; she walked out of a session with me once when I merely suggested she read not a certain popular goth-fantasy series of novels

143 but rather the long-deceased poets whose morose and bleak rhythmic glories have inspired, albeit peripherally, such commercial debacles of contemporary literary entertainment] when he said to her that a certain song she put on [by a band called Gut the White Cat, her favorite besides “P.T.S.D.” {Put That Scimitar Down}] made him want to “puke stupid pointless tears” hard enough over the rail of a shopping-mall’s third-floor balustrade rail that he would keel over it and plummet to his “awesome photo-op death” and his friends would post footage of it to the Internet, with the very song in question Aniyah liked playing along as soundtrack]), by, instead of sticking to their script (befuddling the boy, to her delight, instantly) breaking out in the the reefer-madness tune “Kansas City Red” in a pitch- perfect imitation of her mean facile partner’s voice, ran around the room fulminating in the manner of Elijah Muhammad, and, towards the end, the whole class tittering, sticking her hand in the boy’s pocket, actually stealing his wallet and running out of the classroom. Aniyah, however, by junior year, had significantly wearied of terrorizing others, the confusion provoked underwhelming, to her, coming from our mostly mild-mannered student body; instead, however, her longtime persistent fascination with historical infamy and violent criminals began to coincide with her piecemeal yet impenetrable piety, an Islamic practice as much an antidepressant for her as a cultural lifestyle of peaceful “illumination”, and some pomp, for the fellow congregants at her local mosque. She kept a photograph of local, would-be domestic terrorist “Jihad Joan”, arrested just last year, inside her locker door. According to Miss Medina, Aniyah, throughout the eleventh grade, started pestering other Muslims about how deep devotion goes, how appropriate jihad might be to “wake people up to a state of emergency”, telling an embarrassed Medina’s best friends their “jazz and bean pies won’t fix anything”; pressed to elaborate on what “state of emergency” people needed to start seeing through acts of violence, perpetrated in the name of Allah, Aniyah demonstrated to all of us her intellectual curiosity, surprising breadth of private reading habit and her incredible ability to manipulate historical facts, making her misanthropic deductions therefrom almost seem reasonable. Aniyah also several times her senior year violated the school dress code by wearing full abaya-burqa religious garb instead of the prescribed navy polo shirt and khakis. We started to keep a closer eye on her, after the first few instances of this, but not close enough to notice, until she returned it to the school, that she had installed an onion- router for accessing the “dark web” onto a private laptop we issued her, pursuant to a specialized mental health IEP; we may never know what Aniyah said or did with it, as she cleaned the hard disk with as much compulsive scrupulousness as she draws her bismillahs, but the school’s lawyers are exploring options as to if, and our AV team as to how, we might trace her deleted digital history. All four years at our school, Aniyah submitted to its end-of-year art show several large pieces of intricate Islamic calligraphy (influenced in part by the Tunisian Nja Mahdaoui, but also incorporating aspects of modern tonal painting, inspired in particular by an intense recent diptych piece called ‘Shadow of the City’ by the Iraqi Suad al-Attar, and the Sudanese Mohammed Omar Khalil’s ‘Petra’ series,) attracting attention, admiration and return visitors; this past year, however, her last, the tone of her work changed: rather than peacock tails or her favored fluted hyacinth and acanthus vines, Aniyah’s pieces were emblazoned with images of swords and scimitars, and we took them off our walls after a freshman student with Libyan parents noticed that her script said (contrary to the sardonic conceptual descriptions Aniyah submitted with her work) things like “City of Righteous Hate”, “Bombs Over Philadelphia” and “Sodomize Your Boss”. This incident marred what, as you have seen, was her strongest academic year yet, with surprisingly high SAT and AP test scores, a year which also saw her develop an interest in performing, singing and acting, earning a significant role in a historical musical (now infamous locally, but highly educational nonetheless) run by a young outside contractor the school hired to provide creative afterschool activity. In conclusion (considering, of course, that the extreme scenarios elucidated in this report show only the most severe manifestations of Aniyah’s condition, persistent and always a struggle for her, and much magnified by poverty, we must remember), as it stands, Aniyah (still relatively heavily medicated, despite insisting such drugs

145 are not halal) poses no immediate threat or serious consternation to her peers, like she used to, and her destructive outbursts, and suicidal tendencies (she briefly, in middle school, in turn, dabbled with bulimia, self- mutilation and autoerotic asphyxiation), have faded into a pool of humbling, humiliating memory; however, Aniyah’s lifelong traumas (not quite eased as much as we might desire, considering she still lives in a somewhat gritty urban setting) do still in large part dictate her emotional states and awkward social demeanor (at our senior prom, at one point, she simply sat down in the middle of the dance floor, knees to chin, feigning sleep), and the issue of her fascination with radical Islamic terrorism (for her senior research project she attempted a political justification of Boko Haram’s horrific operations against fellow Africans) is, in particular, far from resolved.

-Dr. Demi Davis-Lieberschwartz

P.S.: A supplemental evaluation, detailing, further, Aniyah’s current symptoms, plus her past psychiatric history (so, from birth to nine years old), her social- developmental-educational history, her history of substance abuse (thanks to her Aunt Medina’s efforts, Aniyah now only experiments with odd dosages and combinations of her own various, legally prescribed medications, mixing them with longtime-habitual [and sometimes partially recreational] sleep deprivation), full legal history, and an, as we may admit, woefully unsatisfying, assessment-diagnosis plan, are all forthcoming, being jointly prepared by her other, DHS- paid, therapist’s office, and myself; please contact me with any questions or concerns, and good luck with her.

Not what I want, I’m waiting for Aniyah. Late. As always. And again. She even called me to check up way later than she said. She would. She has before. And more lately. She’ll be here any minute, I feel it. Her viciously bright presence. It spreads like oil slick over every potential increment of time. When, earlier, she missed my calls, each marked a new post in that mental electric barbed wire fence of hers, that guards potentially only an empty darkness, or an unlit trailer maybe; maybe there’s nothing more to her than there is to the phenomenon of nightfall. Things to consider. Immediately, my criminal reality. Earthly technics of utter worry. But mostly I just wonder, perhaps to depths imprudent, considering my anxiety, how I could have been so stupid. If it weren’t for that nosy Aunt the girl would have a real fake boyfriend, who would be her bitch. Who fucks her. More importantly, who kisses her. I thought I had something for her far better than that. But I never knew what I expected of her exactly. Turned out I didn’t need her help building this bomb. She thinks she made a major contribution, telling me how to get into that abandoned house down her block, show me that crawl space to keep our hot stash. Probably breathing enough radon going in and out of there to make myself sicker than the bomb could. Can’t believe Yusuf couldn’t just get me a real warhead. Said they’re all over the black market. Vodka, graft and incompetence. Radioactive sludge from a dozen sources, old reactors and army research centers. Accumulating steadily conventional shells from Iraq and Libya to pile up for boomage. Not what I had in mind. Too many installments, too much movement on our part. Might as well just get Aniyah to check that dark web for me, come to think of it. Yusuf, you fraud, fuck you, too. More fat than fatwa. All that money, can’t get a single real warhead. Fine word, too, war head. Suits my purpose. More than, as Aniyah claims, that house down her street does. Claims too she alone knows just how to climb that shriveled dope fiend dogwood, jump to that gutter-narrow ledge and shimmy along it, open the one window with the broken lock, how to slink with least peril along the collapsing staircase inside, to the old bedroom, where, she assures me, under the floor boards and behind a wall our precious volatile poisons are safe. She refused to admit we saw new graffiti in there recently, claimed it had always read “BONER 4EVER” on that far wall. I pointed out the ink was so bright and silvery, like her best calligraphy, we couldn’t have missed it, and she said it was just because we were both, every time, so scared in the act of stashing the shit, she said, we could never “get used to” being in there; although what she said the first time we tip toed over the brown broken floorboard threshold caving in on either side of those clumpy loose green sheaves left of shattered door, just before she tried to kiss me again, was “I could get used to this.” I didn’t let her kiss me. Just opened the cooler and shook the can, our first, of plutonium and whatever the fuck, and rubbed it against her cheek. She didn’t like that. Said I’m just using her for martyrdom. And started crying. Hate when she does that. Especially since in that moment we were in a room with only broken windows. Not a shred of curtain left. Broadcasting our argument, shouting it down to the corner. While I pulled up the peeling-apart floor- boards, whispering angrily to her to shut up, trying to ignore the feeling in my bones from handling the core fuel. Just like I whispered to her the other day, doing the same thing, that not only could we see but we could smell that new sprayed tag, and she went right for the hyperbole, the melodrama, the nut-sack, saying it was just my “paranoid jerkoff imagination”, because there was too much grime and rat shit in there to smell anything but the decay of a scattered family. She really did say something like that. Keeps her mouth shut so much in the car then decides to be interesting when it’s inconvenient for me. Then I told her, like I had before, shut up, the windows are broken, open, that we were perpetrating, even if it didn’t seem like it, one of the most illegal acts ever undertaken by American citizens on American soil. She told me that was just like me, aggrandizing, and I told her it was just like her, too. She started ranting again, saying

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I am “literally the biggest ass hole of all time.” Thought I was helping my cause, making her feel included, having her find a stash house for the glowing bomb goop. Should have just hidden it in one of those big warehouses. Wanted Dominic to let me, openly, but he has a stick up his ass about liability. And especially around me. Having a dyed and dreadlocked beard will do that. My heart lies too much with looking the part. But I am close enough. I don’t feel like I need a makeover now. He told me if I had to hide anything illicit on the docks where we received it, and refuse to reveal its nature to him, I had to put it somewhere else a good lawyer could show it was not his fault the house was used for whatever the hell I’m up to, he said. Play up the crack house angle. Public drug epidemic leads to public terrorism epidemic and so on. But Dominic lets me keep all the relatively seemingly innocuous materials in any space of his, however. The ammonia. Even the gunpowder and war-surplus shells. I could have just hid it all with that shit. And all that fertilizer Aniyah stole out of her next door neighbor’s garden shed. Without me asking. Assured me the guy used so much of the stuff for his job it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t notice. I told her that was exactly why he would notice, that it’s important to him. He has, of course, noticed by now, she said she saw a new lock on the shed door. She admitted that that man, talking to her Aunt, the guy’s joint block captain, said he noticed a break-in somehow, but she refused to believe that it was for the reason I said; instead, she said although some big bags had gone absent it was probably rather that the guy had found one of her hairs on the floor in there that made him suspicious. I think she wants to snitch. Sees her own martyrdom on a smaller scale, in a more controlled life-world of little consequence. I already know she won’t come outside and sit beside me in Bing Dong’s truck that morning, when I pull up down her block the last time. She’ll snitch on me any day now. To who, though? Her aunt? Her neighbor? Her imam? One of her doctors? Just call the cops? She doesn’t know yet I got Dominic to give me a key to the lock on the front door of our stash house. Wonder if she’s noticed yet I sawed off that branch we need to reach the third floor ledge. I didn’t come this far to climb fucking trees. She won’t bring it up but if she did I’d blame that storm yesterday. Heavy lightning. Came on strong. First thunderclap dry, the rain minutes later. Sounded like my bomb will. I hope. People on the news didn’t predict it. Too funny. I almost want to keep living, to witness more of that stark naked egg-on-face perplexity. I feel sick. Like the word of Jah and light of Allah which usually course through my blood and marrow caught a kind of dementia. Such potent strontium salad. And the tedium. Getting stronger. While I’m feeling weaker. Look at them. Who’s that guy? Oh, he’s here to deliver something. And her I recognize. And the looks he shoots at her legs she definitely recognizes. It’s obvious but they’re just so lost in diverting pleasantries, perverted flaccid small talk. Waist and hips running together making the typical bell. Wish I could still fuck but nowadays I’d probably doom her to cancer later as well as give her the clap. But I sometimes wonder, living here, if it wouldn’t be better if I just capitalized on some bored rich woman’s morbid curiosity, seduced her crudely, made her clutch at her pearls, only in order to watch my contagion and contamination work their wrath on her corrupt, bank-backed, weak-spined figure, cuckold a congressman or something. But no, to live for that? That’s tedious too. I might be dead of radiation sickness before it makes the news anyway. Let’s not lose sight of the salient task at hand. Truck bomb. Dirty bomb. Police headquarters. Whose hero I become after that is not my business. Aniyah tries to dissuade me (naïve enough to believe “just bringing it up” for consideration is innocently speculative enough, that her subconscious is as clean, firm and immaculate, as we both need to believe it to be) from the suicide aspect of my mission, telling me the momentary radioactive blaze burning to cinders my hairy softening body, no matter how cosmically glorious, could not possibly compare to the satisfaction of staying around and seeing the fear and pity wash with the fallout all over this microwaved landscape, the slack and unswaggered faces on every surprised class of lazy depraved American. I feel sicker than ever, even than the time I got bronchitis when I , َلهُ رحمةُ عل يُ ! was a kid and my mom tried to cure it with pulverized dandelion, milkweed tea or some hippie shit like that, until one night the school principal, wondering where I’d been the past two weeks, called the house and asked whether I was expected to die soon or something; I remember watching her on the phone with him, obfuscating a while, dodging questions about doctors and medication, my dad pacing nervously the whole time, probably more worried about running out of weed than the state of my lungs, my throat and vitality, while baby Fran, who Mom was already calling, affectionately, Franarchy, babbled thumbing through a book of Hopi pottery and Kuchina dolls. Holy shit, it’s all coming back to me. Before I met Aniyah, most of my momentary-compulsive memories like this concerned prison, court, jail, cops, drugs and city grit. But now I think further back, on childhood, Fran and my parents. I can’t help it. That wayward hippie house! In the middle of a clamoring black block. She’s right in front of me, right now, again. That phone call. My cough. The look of embarrassment gave her away. That really fucked me up. It wasn’t just a weed-padded peyote hangover making her eyes that red then. She was really crying. Unusual. She mouthed to me “I love you” while I heard my principal screaming in the earpiece. My parents didn’t say those three simple words in that sequence often. They’d tell Fran and me things more like “All is love” or “Bless your energy”, the kind of stuff when they were younger they’d written carelessly on tents in permanent marker or carved into trees they thought were talking to them. Too much astrology, not enough gravity. And no religion! Wonder would they think my plan is radical enough? I guess they’re still alive, in West Philly. What will they think when they see it on television? I guess they might have never bought one yet. Neighbors will be shouting it out. Wonder if that one family is still there, the only Muslim one on the block. The rest of them were foot-stomping hand-clapping Jesus-loving black sheep. That other family fascinated me. Always wondered how that woman could wear that whole totally covering clothing in such humid summer weather. Remember asking Mom why, if she and Dad were so friendly and unafraid of black people, did they not talk to that particular family. She couldn’t answer, said something about how they kept to

149 themselves, even though, every day, brothers in kufis crowded the sidewalk out front of that house. Not smoking. Not drinking. Barely swearing. Just speaking to each other brightly like they shared some beautiful secret, an open secret. My mother and father had no information on these peculiar neighbors for me, other than that they worshipped at a little hole in the wall around the corner on Lancaster Ave, with bars on the windows and that dazzling script in intertwining characters perched like a flock of winged snakes over the humming silent super-symmetrically ornamented doors. Once when I was eleven years old I wandered over there at just the right time, between prayers, and the puzzled imam gladly let me in, showed me around. I had never come so close to God before, despite all the Krishnas and Ganeshes, the Kabbalic iconography and Sioux sun-god insignia, hung like baseball pennants all over our messy house. Yes, my final unhappy “Allah-hu-akbar” will discredit my violent action in the eyes of my parents, when they find out it was me and it was for God; but if I shouted something more like, “Turn on, tune in, blow it up” or “This is for John Africa!” they might be down with the death toll and sickness I spread. Every body has their rhetorical price when it comes to violence. Fantasy, frenzy and identity always trump the strictures of morals. Always? Is that so in my case? No. I’m doing the right thing. A filthy rich neighborhood. A fitting living killable sample of a corrupt and arrogant system’s chaotic history of domination. My last act will be one of patriotic religious expression, no more spectacular than spar-spangled cheap Delaware fireworks, and I’m sure at least a few of these founding fathers and framers would be proud of me, an Anglo-Saxon Musselman, a simian contradiction exercising his rights. Rasta Wahhabi American hero. Because what’s a few hundred lives compared to the kinds of questions I will pose and raise anew among millions? It won’t be a nice pretty Nine-Eleven, cut of whole cloth and world-wonder spectacular, but it will taste better. Strontium salad. Lots of dead cops. Cops were heroes on Nine-Eleven. But in this instance they will look like burnt chumps. The massacred hardly appear like heroes when caught by surprise. I’ll be the hero. Like a Mumia or a Joey Coyle. Yes, there will be copycats. Excitable kids need to imitate. That woman from Berks County doesn’t count. Jihad Joan? Please. What kind of name for a martyr is that! Just another impressionable little girl who thought some religious intrigue would keep her tits from shriveling too quick. No wonder Aniyah thinks she’s so cool, she’s more scared of death and decay than any body I know. Like my mother, abandoned by her parents too, probably thought the Manson girls were cool. Before she met my father, who had a tool belt and a wallet and a ladder, and made her feel safe enough, stoned enough, to act right, gave her two beautiful children to believe in. Remember how our neighbors used to laugh their asses off whenever Mom and Dad let us run around naked on the broken sidewalk. That never embarrassed her. But my father could embarrass her. Remember overhearing her suggesting our family join a Unitarian congregation. He went off on her. At first, she timidly cited in her defense their community service, but Dad tore into her with the harshest commie slogans and personal insults I’d yet witnessed from him. Incomprehensible and probably distressing to me, at the time, but hilarious now. Told her it was a fake and spineless non-religion, even worse than regular organized worship, because it was so obviously an invention of an apathetic, vigorless bourgeoisie. He really lashed out at her on that one, even in his laconic burnout manner. Didn’t usually chide her like that. Let her feed me stupid witch tea thinking I could just vomit what we didn’t yet know was bronchitis out of my system. Ya ‘iilahi! It’s just so clear now, that look on her face then. The principal screaming at her. Part of her knew she had a lot wrong. If they were black the Department of Human Services would have come and taken Fran and me, for sure, for that one, put us up God knows where, some goofy farm or crowded group home like Aniyah’s known non-stop since nine years old. That’s about how old I was when I got that sick. Pretty sure it permanently fucked my immune system up. No wonder I want to die so bad. Die so well. I didn’t even know at that time that different kinds of getting sick had different names, like it bewildered me to realize that all those gloomy guitar-massaging pitchy poet people my parents played for their pleasure on tapes and records had distinct identities and names. Sounded to me like the same man and the same woman, all the time, working on one endless pointless song about shyly biologically liking each other and lying to themselves about it through catchy marketable simile. I had bronchitis, they said. I liked the word. My mother still had that same look of shame, there in the doctor’s office. She had to quietly admit I’d been sick two weeks and treated idiotically. Meanwhile I silently settled on the idea she was no longer my mother. She couldn’t protect me, or comfort me, nor could her husband inspire me anymore. Fran was just fine. He loved that we lived so near the zoo. Like that was a big deal. Fran could always find a big deal in little facile fashionable unravellable idiocies. Why he kept loving them and living there. I liked being bad, from the bronchitis on. I knew being bad was just being bad. No crafty aphorisms or Marxist gibberish. It was pure. I tell my teacher “fuck off” and she freezes. Purity. Cause and effect, as easy to understand as a truck full of dynamite and radioactive waste. Or as my first and only arrest. Long time coming. A sickening feeling of odd satisfaction when it happened. Inevitability versus invincibility. Simple as this: you’re on the police force, busting noncompliant heads; while I, for my part, am in a gang, and growing weed. No grudge there. Just hatred. Hate the judge, hate the bailiff, hate my lawyer, hate them all. No problem. Didn’t break a sweat at my sentencing. It did surprise me a little, I admit, I found religion in there. Jah. Allah. United. Not like a Unitarian, though. More about parallel nature and the dispersed international groping for Africa, for the plurality of hominids before what we all are now became the one champion, earned the prize and curse of beginning a history. I’m fed up. Look at them. She walks that poodle five, ten times a day. No job. Feelings only in trace amounts on her toxin-lifted face. Hope the radiation drifts this far west, what is it? fifteen, twenty blocks? kills her dog on contact. I hope she dies bald. And that guy there, delivering the package, chatting up the high-skirted idol-pedestal legs before him, did he really just look away? From her, and instead out at the lazy old widow with the dog! Thinks the girl he’s talking to doesn’t notice. But I can see from here she’s shifting on those willfully vulnerable little high-heeled scantly-thonged feet like a

151 mosquito bit her. She’s wondering does he really want to think about that old woman naked while talking to a genuine furless young fox in front of him all too willing to be naked, to fuck? Is he thinking about fucking the poodle? Are men’s blood and brains really so basically made of dirt as this? He looked again! As the old woman left. Look outside at the wretched dog taking a piss on some potted hostas, the stone planter I’ve sometimes seen homeless people use as a spinal pillow. He’s turned to her again. Wants her number. She’s shifting like she needs him to notice so now. Don’t even know each other’s middle names yet and she’s telling him shit or get off the pot. Looks to her like a viper in cargo shorts now. Should shave, shouldn’t he? Is one of his legs shorter than the other? Telling him something coyly, dismissively now. He’s confused. Moron. His phone hand falls dejectedly, I see. Funny. She’s telling him she lives here so if he delivers here again maybe she’ll see him. But it was going so well! Go check your running truck, she suggests. She smiles and waves at me strutting away the chagrinned alcoholic young delivery man-boy. Not entirely to make him jealous. She remembers I told her I’m a musician, which is of course the last thing I ever was. She liked that too much. So I specified I’m an Irish-Islamic rapper. Interesting enough to keep me on her neighborly good side in her stupid sorry labradoodle mind, but, of course, she was a little disappointed, and her instantaneous fantasies, of me pulling up my izar and nailing her against the vending machines, faded away like ninety-eight percent of the lines from any of her professed favorite movies. Funny when women ask certain men what instrument they play and they have to admit all they do is rap. You can practically smell the geyser going silent. Funnier when I tell strangers the truth, which is that I hate music, even, despite half my faith, reggae. I just love silence. That’s a little scarier. Not total silence. Silence with mingled yelling in the distance. They ask why if I prefer silence would I roll out my prayer rug down here in the lobby instead of up in my room. If it’s a young woman I can practically hear her fantasizing in her something like well why don’t you come up and we’ll roll it out together. I tell them I like to spread silence. Not adding that I don’t like to spread S.T.D.’s. Maybe I should sometime; at this point might as well? Mass-murder stage of my career and yet I find my curiosity, for what will vex people in mere simple verbal situations, has not quite left me. Lingers like my genital warts. They hurt right now. More pus than usual. Where the hell is Aniyah? Concierge and security guy staring at me, as usual. Can’t understand where I came from. Can’t argue, however, with the fact I have a key. Tell them I’m Dominic’s cousin. They have no idea who that is, but, hey, it checks out, in terms of records and titles. Incredible. Seems. . . this. . . Dominic. . . owns or has sold more than a few condos in this building, privately, the rest owned by some Chinese holding company. Most of them don’t know, don’t care who built this place, how it works, who pays them, where the master of the house might live. Other people wave to me. Whether they think I’m a fake musician or else a brash total hater of joyful noise. Either way I’m a weirdo. Look the part but not a threat. I admit, I’ve shampooed my beard a bit more regularly since moving in here. Izar, thawb or kufi, it doesn’t matter, I’m just another inexplicable white guy with a Center City condominium. No threat whatsoever. Wonder what will happen when Yusuf shows up. Silly corn rows, fancy watch and clothes, all that might not matter, he’s an Arab whom they’ll feel they need to keep an eye on when he comes or goes. If he brings the girls he might seem legitimate. No veils on their faces, and over their tits only barely, usually. He thinks he has time, before I do it, before I go live, to sell all his American assets and interests in Thirteen Bells, I bet. Wants to leave Dominic in the lurch, and I’m tempted to let him. And Bang Bang said he had plans to abandon his Tioga Street mansion, go somewhere in the South Pacific to lounge, leave his and his partner’s lawyer, Charlie, here, working on it. Yusuf told me he was just waiting for the port to open, for his holdings to grow a little before he just sells. He won’t go to jail, not just for knowing me, even if they can trace much of that box of ‘Osama Bazaar’ tapes under my bed to him. His abominable government will shield him. But Dominic has a line of successors, according to the physics of business. He definitely goes down. They really like civil asset forfeiture in this city. Wish I could live to see it. But then I hate to see cops driving such nice cars. Especially on duty! plain clothed and unscrupled. ––Ian? a familiar sneaky whine surprising him, but he does not flinch; Aniyah ratchets up the complaint straightaway, the relentlessly plaintive inquisition ––I was right there, on the street outside the window, making funny faces at you and you didn’t even. . . ––All faces are funny Aniyah, just look at them upside down; but please keep your fucking voice down in here, this is a respectable. . . ––Don’t fuck with me right now Ian! this might be where you live for now but you told me it’s in the heart of the beast, so don’t pretend you give a shit; anyway, give a shit about this, about me! these guys on the train were. . . ––Whatever they did, can you blame them? look at what the hell you’re wearing; hey listen do you want my box of bazaar tapes once it’s all over? I have pretty much every ‘Abdallah ‘Azaam, there’s too much Anwar al-Awlaki for my liking but. . . ––You’re such an ass hole Ian! still excluding me from what was supposed to be our plan, ours! ours! you don’t tell me anything! I thought you were supposed to be against this white decadent Center City living and here you are with your fucking feet on a complimentary ottoman with all these complimentary copies of the Economist and the New fucking Yorker, there’s complimentary coffee over there, what the fuck are you thinking telling me not to feel. . . ––Keep your voice down! look, sit, sit here, standing up obliging her, bracing himself, the sarcasm deepening almost against his will ––I was just, you know, sitting here thinking about my rap career, the real estate game and my portfolio of charitable. . . ––Ian. . . eyes cast down, she does not sit down ––Please! could you not, like. . . please could you. . . just. . . give me a hug? ––Aniyah. . . with manifest surprise ascendant in his pity-pinched reflex, nestling her hijab-scarved head in an arm heavily sleeved, inappropriately so for this climate ––Please don’t cry. . . adding, almost against his will ––Don’t cry in here.

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––Ian! shuddering, pushing him away, with a juvenile lunge assuming his seat as if he did not offer it in the first place, as if he were no closer to her than a new obtuse classmate ––You’re such an ass hole! I’ll cry wherever I want. ––Aniyah! keep your voice down. ––How can you seriously be worried about getting embarrassed! when you’re looking like that and planning to. . . ––Exactly! his impulsive swipe to cover her open angled mouth holds itself in abeyance, grabbing only empty air, but she complies anyway, falling silent, slouching in a pout now drier of tears ––Operative words, I’m the one; this is my thing, mine! mine! so you’re out Aniyah. ––What! rigid again, with less expression, struggling with reluctant relief and affronted perplexity in competition, rendering apparent stalemate like facial coral bleaching ––Ian. What are you saying. ––I’m saying I think you knew this was coming, and that the thought of me cutting you loose gives you more hope than meeting me ever did. ––Cut me loose motherfucker? try cutting myself, you know what. . . ––No Aniyah! you won’t, you know you already won; kids in your position almost never get as far as you, I mean you’re going to fucking college! I actually had two relatively stable parents and couldn’t get through the tenth grade. Both of them share an embarrassed moment of final camaraderie, about silence. ––I don’t know how I’ll get by without you, embracing his izar-skirted thighs. ––See! there you go again. ––There goes what! verbally badly trembling. ––You just implied, and, therefore, admitted, that you’re going to just let me he looks around, espies the concierge looking . . .مقهور ,retire, that day, by myself, alone away, lamely unforthcoming, effete; Ian turns back to Aniyah, to spit ––You’d better not be in the City when I do it; I’ll call you the night before, you won’t have to pick up, you’ll just know. ––Ian! without affront but instead a controlled exasperation, like, remembering, preluding, a remonstration of one of her little brothers, long ago. The younger one called her today, from juvie. He said he has found Allah. She smiles thinking about it, which distresses her interlocutor here, who suddenly looks more crazed to her than he has yet before, which in turn sets her off instinctively over the edge ––Where the fuck would I go Ian? and like, are you serious! all of a sudden giving yourself all this credit in advance, like you’re Pharaoh’s fucking hairdresser, like you’re actually going to spread some World War Two Point Two firestorm that torches every thing and kills every body in Center City. . . don’t make me yawn Ian, my medication already does enough; so, that’s the ‘bomb’ part, and alright! I am keeping my voice down. . . that’s the one part, and as for the other part, the ‘dirty’ part? as far as I’m concerned my neighborhood is already radioactive, so. . . ––It’s making me sick Aniyah. Handling it so much. Getting it out of its shielding in the shipping containers. Keeping it in the truck with me. Taking it out and burying it in that fucking crack house. ––Oh yeah, about that. . . Aniyah feeling better, against her wishes, leomorphizing, batting almost fondly at her prey, an old and handy rush ––I think you’re going to have a little trouble getting at the stash again Ian. ––Why. ––That tree in the backyard got hit by lightning last night; the branch came down we use to get to that ledge. ––That’s okay, Ian shrugging showily ––Dominic gave me keys. ––What! bolting upright ––And you can get all the way up to the third floor without the stairs collapsing? ––I don’t know. . . lying, scorning the bait ––Haven’t gone in yet. ––Bet you any thing the stairs are going to collapse. And I’ll laugh. ––I bet you’d bet that, you fucking sadistic infantile pessimist. ––Please be nice to me. ––Oh come on, I try to be; just harsh sometimes to help you. . . ––Bullshit! you’re only ever nice now because you don’t want me to snitch. ––Aniyah! keep your mother. . . ––My fucking voice down yeah I know! thanks Ian, now listen: I’ve always thought you were crazy enough to kill me. Or at least tie me up, drive me up into the woods, beat me up and just leave me there, taking care of course to cut my wrists free first because you like to taunt me. But that’s what got me interested in you in the first place, isn’t it Ian? grinding her jaw with intensity like that one would need to cut a rope knot with a latch-key ––I’m not going to do what you’re afraid I’ll do; I mean, honestly, if I was, like, still fourteen, or something, I totally might, but I’m not that cruel anymore. ––You better be sure sayyida. ––Ian, being sure is not my strong suit; but I’m really not going to flip, I swear. ––Starting college soon, you’ll lose your mind Aniyah, watch out how much. . . ––. . . but someone else is going to tell. ––What. ––Yeah my Aunt Medina’s just about ready to call the cops on you, for corrupting a minor; that’s why I couldn’t answer your calls earlier, this morning before I went to work, while I was in the shower she took my phone, saw a missed call from you and when you kept calling again it triggered her, started yelling at me while I was in the shower about how she knows you’re not just some nice mature volunteer sadiq who drives me to that canvassing job for that crazy old environmentalist white guy. She’s seen us together around the corner, and neighbors have seen us going in that house at night. Aunt Medina says they’ve called the cops a couple times and since nobody on our block likes him anyway they’re going to get the cops to call your ugly friend Dominic and talk to him. And by the way some of my neighbors near that house are getting sick like you,

155 probably because the broken-open windows blow the strontium salad outside, over that vacant lot and into other rowhomes; it’s only a matter of days probably before they figure out what it is, and I bet the City’s going to flip a shit. They already think we’re like making drugs in there or something, or someone is; you were right Ian, I’ll admit now other people have been in there too, so I feel so gross now. ––Fine, I’ll start moving it tonight, Ian unblinking ––Monday morning it will go down; you’ve been warned Aniyah. ––Wow and you think I’m indiscreet Ian? and by the way, you’re welcome. ––Do you still want to watch a movie tonight. ––Sure, with a sigh like happens right before an avalanche ––. . . whatever; you better still take me out for your last meal too. the fasting is over, the feast is on; after this موظف المطعم :بكل سرور! Oh–– meeting I’m hosting tonight I’m going into full-out ritual mode, got all the necessary. . . ––Meeting? crestfallen, angrily, like he just attempted to gift her a necklace she mysteriously lost. ––Yeah, I. . . look, it won’t be that long; I’ll give you some money, you go shopping while I. . . ––Money! shopping? who am I talking to! and who the fuck does he think he’s talking to? ––Aniyah shut up, you. . . ––No Ian! almost screaming, catching on a vocal crack, ringing her own tin bell too hard ––You invite me here to tell me I’m out and you wash your filthy tatted jerkoff hands of me, just to adjust my perspective or something fucked up and presumptuous like that you think is good for me, like you’re my goddamn imam, which you’re not! you like hardly ever quote the Prophet, you just rub it in you have this other more important part of your life, telling me now there’s this big business meeting and you try to bribe me into just forgetting the insult! you ass hole, how am I. . . ––Thought you’d be here earlier, hoped you’d pick up. . . ––Great so I could go shopping by myself even longer? that’s not the point Ian. ––Well whatever Aniyah, just get out of here, I’ll call you tomorrow. ––No I have a lot more to say right now Ian! you blasphemous fucking. . . ––You don’t understand! that guy out front, with the two women smoking. . . ––Is that. . . ya lahhwy! ––A rich Saudi dude with corn rows, yes; don’t be deceived, he’s no clown, he’ll probably have you killed by fucking falcon if he sees you in here with. . . ––I bet that’s bull shit! and besides are you really that bad at organizing your calendar? crowding me in with all those ass holes couldn’t be that hard, I mean how long can you stand them at a time? ––Listen! picking her up by an elbow, rushing her out of the lobby, past some vending machines and into a vacant, unlocked business center loaded with leather swivel chairs ––he’s here early! I didn’t expect it; believe me, you’re the last person I want to die. ––Well that’s cheery Ian, the thought of leaving me alone in an unpeopled waste land!; is that your idea of wanting better for me? ––You’ll have animal friends, who don’t take you literally. ––Roaches and penguins? fuck you Ian! ––They’ll be in charge someday. ––Ian is that radioactive shit making you go silly? or something; like, you never smile this much, especially not after I’ve been crying! ––Release. Finality. All that. Probably explains it. I die Monday morning. And you’ll have to live to die in an even bigger way. Silence a while, save the lumbering clock, humming ceiling lights and vending machines, more chatter out in the lobby. ––So is there a back way out of here or something? ––Yeah, gesturing ––Left out this hall, right through there. ––Then leave me here. . . in this. . . unpeopled waste land! spinning on her chair ––Go hang out with the sheikh of silver-spoon fascism, his hooker friends and those gross guys Dominic and Bang Bang. I have summer reading to do for school, and work for Mister Kunders early. ––Mister Kunders! Ian scoffing cracking his knuckles, arrogance newly ruthless. ––Don’t talk shit! he does more work for the world than you, makes me feel better about myself than you ever did. . . she starts crying, trying to merge her fists with the fake oak grain of the table ––Yah dahwety. . . ya dahwety. . . looking up, composing herself like a miner buried alive finding the first pinhole of light ––You know, for a guy who believes he’s entitled to four wives, you’re a real pussy; just go, Ian Muhammad! leave my little life to myself, that’s the only way I’ll do any thing good with it. ––When I’m dead Aniyah, ignoring her argument ––. . . so, in, like, forty-eight hours, I want you to use some of that do-gooder Kunders money you got, get a cab to where I live in Jersey, and burn my house down; can you do that? for me. ––No! just go. . . no further answer from her, not a finger lifting, tear falling. Sighing, mouth closed, resignedly, and suddenly wishing he could see Fran, Ian bids Aniyah goodbye, in promiscuous mixed Arabic dialects, but does not ask her for any of his brother’s contact info, which, only, maybe, she could obtain for him; instead he keeps saying variations on goodbye, good luck and other such hypocrisies useless to her here, but without a trace of the usual hiss, and the closest, Aniyah notes, she has ever heard Ian come to singing. Loping downcast down the hall into the lobby again, he sees across it Yusuf ostentatiously stuck inside a section of revolving door with both his token erotic nannies, roaring with laughter while they roll their eyes and clutch at themselves discomfited; the young master appears profoundly drunk, and, Ian will not rule out, so too do the young women. Chatter at the service desk disperses in slight and indecent, furtive lurks about Ian, who hears Aniyah leaving behind him out the back door, and, catching the clamoring eye of one of Yusuf’s escorts, decides to turn his cheek against the light, flashing her a

157 throatcutting motion with one fanning flexed family of dirty finger nails, to tell her stay quiet, follow him at a meandering distance, intending to stick his wrapped head in the ice machine by the elevators waiting for them to pass, pretend for the cameras to meet by happenstance the three interesting personages going up to the seventeenth floor as well! but she shrieks the instant she sees him, discovering him instantly to Yusuf and her friend, and their mutual acquaintance to the building staff gossiping conspicuously. As Yusuf squints, frowns and swoons, one of his hired women tells ‘Ivan’ in Arabic he looks very ill, while the other, the one who first noticed him, agrees but adds he is still very handsome, baffling him with an onrushing imposing and equivocally relieving familiarity, legitimizing this conspicuous weirdo to the world around him, kissing piously barbed cheek high up by steeled still red eye; surprising Ian, Yusuf, usually so possessive, simply shrugs and squeezes the other girl’s buttcheeks indiscreetly, grumbling something resembling a greeting. Ian attempts to add something affectionate, in laconic Arabic, feigned lighthearted gregariousness, but a truncated gurgle catches his throat, causing a convulsive laugh out of Yusuf, who nearly falls to his knees, holding a belly burning with Cuban rum, bursting with milk-fed veal from breakfast, lunchtime flamingo cold cuts and the steakhouse dinner he just had around the corner on thronged Broad Street; the cornrowed Western-dressed Saudi playboy rolls, to Ian’s wincing, onto the plush high-backed armchair most recently occupied by Aniyah, beckoning, not looking at any body in particular, with a single ringed pointer finger, his head falling over the nape of the chair, like upon a pile of gold chunks coarsely wrought from unenlightened infidels. ––This is your place eh! Yusuf yawning, with boisterous flatulent ease ––Our partner Dominic has fine tastes, but that one could refine further; have never seen any of his women, but I think he’s cut a deal or two with some foxy unpredictable lessees, yes? takes them ah he says sightseeing, like Franklin Benjamin’s house and the Crack Bell, then gets them nice and drunk, ready to fornicate! no? ––Never asked buddy, Ian feeling knotty throes of absence thinking about Aniyah who by now could have thrown herself in front of a train for all he knows, the depersonalization which the pain inspires making him in reality relish this present female company, as if himself actually a discotheque-fluent friend of Yusuf’s, fantasizing about driving the exasperated erstwhile someday satisfied bride beside him out somewhere remote and converting her to his own private sect of decadent and ecstatic well-fed contempt. ––. . . think he likes those pale white girls who ride around North Philly in cutoff shorts on fixed-speed bicycles all wishing they had a big red hybrid car instead. ––Ah, yes! no supermodels for him yet, no? Yusuf twitching and worrying at an elusive head ache, distracted and presumably actively hoping Bang Bang will bring some token business-casual cocaine, clearly not quite understanding the imagery Ian just tried to convey ––. . . my girls might be models themselves, of swim suits perhaps, if my countrymen did not find such liberty haram and unforgivable. فبناتي قد تكون نماذج أنفسهن إذا لم يجد أبناء –– Ian translating Yusuf’s narrow pedestrian , بلدي هذه الحرام وال يغتف thought for the girls ––Hey! are we talking too loud? barking coarse as a stitched aged blunt leaf at the circumspect desk staff, still titillated casting diffident judgement on the exotic foursome, only one of whom they know actually has a key to a palatial parcel of this property; they ignore him, look away appearing attentive to assorted rote work of servitude smirking. ––Well they don’t even notice us do they? notice us noticing, patting his perfumed companion’s tea leaf-soft hand, the tortured rummy warmth in her quick look up at him hurting him at heart and sore loins more. ––Where is Bang Bang? Yusuf of a sudden looking less comfortable ––And Dominic. And Bing Dong. Any body else? ––Our three friends will be here, sure, soon; but the others, not in person, just on the phone, letting the girl go, her moment of enchantment a distant memory already; Ian offers Yusuf a gnarled semi-fist, lifting him to glittered boutique sneakers ––The Chinese guy. The Vietnamese guy. The Filipino guy. . . Ian leading his guest by a shoulder taut with resentment ––The Moroccan guy. The Egyptian guy. . . reciting, remembering, the roster, in order also to restore tobacco-besotted respiration ––The Sri Lankan guy. The Malaysian guy. The guy from Singapore. . . pushing the elevator’s external Up arrow, with enough force that the implied intent, of waking up half- somnolent high-wired Yusuf, whose drool resembles the last liquid exhalations of a deep extraction well, is not lost on the distraught, but acute, couple of prostitutes-on-retainer, who laugh, to their master’s mirthless distress; leading them all inside the gilt mirrored chamber of the elevator, Ian continues ––The Australian guy, the guy from Senegal, and that woman from uh. . . what’s it called? frowning, he who prides himself on a memory for the many names of his astral incorporeal master, forgetting a mere terrestrial place- name ––sounds like ‘macaroni’. . . Monte Carlo? no, that’s a town. . . Monaco! none of the other three listening, all instead sharing an inebriated moment of inchoate mutual wall-contemplation, perusing the planes of constricted polished reflection about them. ––You live high up, yes? Yusuf after a few slow smelly moments of passing floors ––could be Dominic wants you to see the City, your country, a new way. . . unable to contain a laugh ––. . . before it’s too late, eh? ––Looks even more like a bunch of selfish virus cultures from up here, Ian in Aniyah-like iconoclasm, smiling internally, ruefully, to her, somewhere ––Even sicker and, believe it or not, less significant. ––Eh? and you call my people arrogant! ––I didn’t mean by nature, I meant how they. . . .girl hanging off Yusuf telling the garrulous white warrior shut up اصمت–– Prolix as a saint-enumerating prayer but utterly unecstatic, Ian and Yusuf spend the rest of the elevator journey, and subsequent stroll around hallways bedecked with ersatz abstract-expressive hobby paintings, exchanging bilingual but only semi-defined bird’s-eye cynicisms, criticizing City society outside, always above but mostly below them now; the girls meanwhile behind them deride the décor, and their tiresome dumb politically lecherous leaders.

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––Wait in here. . . Ian Muhammad turning the knob on the black faux-brazil door to his condo, his final earthly residence, Yusuf’s mixed liquor breath beside and all over him, the professional harlots filling the rear, sealing the crowding feeling forcing a premonition in him, of the flaming irradiated cab in Bing Dong’s biggest truck, a searing deliquescent sensation he has felt often in dreams of late, burning him choking awake, the usual stigmata on inglorious morning wood; the threshold free, Ian backs off quickly to the far wall of the hall ––You got a minibar in there I haven’t touched, loaded, have at it. ––No drink for Ivan Muhammad eh? Yusuf crooning overmannered, as if to a more general and adoring audience ––Come on, almajanin! Allah wants you to enjoy the body he gave you, the things it can do. . . ––Drinking isn’t doing, Ian arguing, solemn from the hallway, an encroaching head ache letting him know both that he needs to smoke a joint and he misses Aniyah’s arch presence, reminded too he missed a mere few minutes ago his last chance at contact with his little brother; sealing up again, in forced serenity’s lemon-lime shroud-light, such guilty doubt and gloom, seeking familiar internal intransigence, he tells himself again he only has one thing left to do in the world, only one important moment of instructive apostolic justice to enact, Monday morning. ––Eh? Yusuf supporting himself on the crooked shoulders of one hooker friend ––You talk too much and much too serious for a host Ivan Muhammad! you clearly have not read the Prophet’s words on hospitality; just say something normal please like take your shoes off, enjoy the view from balcony and television. . . ––Okay fine, enjoy the view from balcony and television. . . Ian striding back across hallway to close the door on his guests, sashaying away in pain muttering ––Fuck you Yusuf, and the sorry-ass qahbat you got with you all the time too. Once more in the tawdry luxury lobby, his head ache taking a turn hurting harder, concentrated more behind an eye, Ian espies Bang Bang and Bing Dong sitting and talking, both dressed profoundly out of place, almost more so than him so freakishly decorous, whom the building staff at least see every day; the Chinese figure wears a polo shirt and slacks, both splashed afresh with soy grease and salt, while the far taller, bearded, African-American, man sprawled laxly across from him, both in button-tufted wing chairs, rocks in place, in shimmering baby-blue track-suit, fresh-pressed, not yet washed. Asymmetric stacked sets of parallel fifths from humming vacuum cleaner in here, and wailing active backhoe outside, where traffic rerouted to one lane causes a constant horn-choral confusion, stroke Ian into a suitably disjunct, fleeting, feeling, of peace, like the reception lobby had calcified into dripping unlit cavern; but before Ian can examine the writing on these new walls, fading out of warp and into view, the competing asynchronous greetings of both his associates before him completely erode in an instant the smooth hoary moist sides of his undulant personal temple, belly of just what beast being unclear. ––Ivan Muhammad! Bing Dong and Bang Bang both standing up, appearing almost eager to see incredulous Ian, who again surprises himself wondering whether these two guys genuinely see him in a new light right now, just by the trick of how this posh lobby’s laid out, fearing they regard it as a light more befitting him than any they’ve seen him in yet, or whether they just hate each other and need to talk to somebody else. catching himself having forgotten his ,سعيد برؤيتك ,Evening gentlemen–– wariness of the desk staff, and other residents drifting about, now dropping his head again, beard to heart, casting his eyes around again, nonplussed to find a small choir of gossipy civilians has gathered already gandering at odd couple Bing Dong and Bang Bang, whose apparent acquaintance with the building’s most notable new tenant has ruffled, prodded and cued the strangers into renewed withheld cajoling. ––Come on, let’s just go up. . . shaking their hands in turn, feeling a falling spark of childish indignation from Bang Bang’s eyes as he chooses at random to greet Bing Dong first; pulling the proud presidential pardonee towards him opposite shoulder-to-shoulder, Ian feels Bang Bang hold him harder than appropriate for either friend or enemy. ––Breathe easy man, Bang Bang still with a hand on Ian ––thought we looked a little suspect to them innocent bystanders over there?; don’t worry sadiq, the sound of road work made us look normal. . . the louder your environment, the stronger you can get away with looking like whatever. ––Not in the can! Ian rejoining, to reluctant cocked-neck agreement. ––You could have just give us room number! ornery Bing Dong pointing out, as if Ian, who now pushes the elevator Up button, did not already think of that particular option ––Maybe you relax more, Mister Bambrey and I come separately, is better? ––I already thought of that, Ian grating, reminded of Aniyah, who did the same thing often, made inspired suggestions over which he had already passed in silence; he could not, he found, however, simply skip her overexcited idea to hide those radioactive bomb materials on her own block, and Ian feels now that very breach of his habitual critical harshness has proven disastrous, responsible by degrees for ending their alliance here today. ––Believe me if either of you waltzed in here looking like you do, not holding a brown box or THANKYOU THANKYOU food bag, not wearing cargo shorts and a baseball cap, you’d get followed, nosy security here; put these guys in the F-B-I in Nineteen Ninety-eight you can bet Nine-Eleven would not have come off like it did. ––Nine-Eleven nothing, Bing Dong scoffing ––compared to Nangking. ––Man shut up Bing Dong, Bang Bang pinching his hat as if to throw it in challenge on the elevator floor, both men looking to Ian ready to expostulate like they had previously settled into squabbling already when he showed up in the lobby and itch to get back into it ––I’ve got family in New York you ass hole, bet you do too, and I lost a valuable dope connect that day; Bing Dong I gotta tell you man, warn you rather, seems to me sometimes like you might have a finger in the Alliance pie but you don’t really got the spirit of free world trade in you.

161

––Nothing free! Bing Dong, so much smaller than Bang Bang, turning his fire against Ian as the elevator doors part ––Ivan how come I have a scratch and dent on truck door? it happened yesterday. ––Got side swiped Bing Dong! no big deal. . . Ian sharply, showing a set of keys in velar ambiguous taunting, as if dangling bait or warning his boss he won’t be welcome in the crib ––Not my fault. ––First thing you say is not my fault! not my fault! Bing Dong raising his voice too, turning to Bang Bang behind him so he does not forget the heat of his wrath ––he does not tell me what happen like I ask! turning back to Ian subtly stepping his pace up ahead of them ––but that tells me enough about what happen! you should have give me your side of story Ivan Muhammad, now you owe me fifty to a hundred dollar. ––Man this is exactly what I was telling you down in the lobby Bing Dong! just let some shit go; in this business you gotta round to hundreds, if not grands, wealth meant to be spread, not take it too. . . ––You hypocrite! shoot people over less amount, Bing Dong hurrying right back behind Ian ––every grain of rice add up in belly. ––Yeah well it all come out as a mass of shit you can’t count! ––Yo keep it down! Ian coughing at both of them behind him, jogging along through worsening head ache ––I hear fucking music from my condo, can’t leave that spoiled Saudi ass hole alone. . . he turns behind him to direct more exact complaint at his two associates, who have slowed into argument ––Hey! hurry up, I don’t want to leave the door open blasting music into the hall more than an ass-hair split-second, putting the key in the lock in the knob, quieting with clenching fists both Bing Dong and Bang Bang who react badly crowding him clenching up too fuming like pit bulls behind him in the doorway ––I mean please just shut the fuck up until we do business guys? and try not to kill Yusuf while I’m gone. Opening the door from the inside as the great white jihadi starts to push it in from the hall, Dominic laughs blithely greeting them, red eyes and recent nosebleed apparent ––Hey Ivan I told them turn it down but those whores don’t know English and Yusuf took the stereo remote, started running around the room rolling over the furniture ducking behind walls like I was going to fucking chase him like a goddamn toddler; oh and by the way, the three of them between them already downed half your. . . ––Shut up! you and every body, Ian exploding, barging past Dominic ––I’m sick of all of you regarding me like I’m not part of this equation, like I’m just some freak who drives Bing Dong’s truck; but I’m a responsible experienced adult who knows how to shut the fuck up! ––Ivan please relax! an angry host is never. . . ––Well all you ever do is shut the fuck up! Dominic expostulating, shutting the door to the suite, following his associates inside ––you don’t know shit about shipping or trade, supposed to be a transport coordinator, you couldn’t even give those Chechen drivers the address of our warehouse up the River when they asked, told them ask the guys on the docks, as if they don’t strictly inhabit about a twenty-block circumference apiece of the river-ward world, maybe a shore house, the ones better off. . . ; man of the world? you memorize all that religious gibberish, all those Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey speeches, don’t even remember where the fuck Norristown is. . . ––I’m just Bing Dong’s transportation coordinator, Ian arguing autonomically, concentrating on ways to make sure Aniyah knows how she can complete his act after he has committed it ––Never signed up for. . . ––Then what the fuck do we need you for! don’t have a place to live? stay in an apartment over one of Bing Dong’s restaurants, put a big fucking Bob Marley tapestry in the window. . . ––I don’t like music! Ian yelling again, against the MDMA-martini electro-music to which Yusuf slinks dancingly lateral arms along sofa cushion tops, and bare narrow shoulders of his escorts on either side, sipping drinks with umbrella tooth picks they carry readily in their smuggled stolen Italian designer purses. ––And damn sure not this music! Yusuf tuning the playlist to a track ,أتركني واهدي أرجوك! ,Fine I get the idea–– with mellower pretensions, lowering the sound also, to loosen Ian’s abrasive perspiring scowling all-too-close. ––Acting like my father. . . ––. . . don’t even know why you’re fucking here Ivan, Dominic’s grumbling overtop the acoustic mix in here now ––Why did I let you have this gorgeous condo in the first place? must have been fucked up; know you have some kind of business arrangement with my buddy Bang Bang here, don’t know what it is you two get up to together, where or when or how you do it, but it doesn’t. . . ––Yes! they are quite the odd couple eh? Yusuf roaring with laughter ––You take Mister Bambrey see your sexy black-light el bango garage yes? ––El bango? Dominic sitting crossing legs officiously ––is that Arabic for. . . ––Damn Dominic! Yusuf you too, what you think you really know! Bang Bang interrupting flashing incorrigible platinum-accented grin ––Ivan’s got skills, that’s why he doesn’t like talking to you, because you don’t. ––Nice Bang Bang, think you came out of the joint and first thing overdosed on sports talk radio. . . ––How did you creep up here without us noticing, Ian impatiently to Dominic. ––Was upstairs getting laid; I half live here you know, neighbor. ––Is there really a helipad on the roof! Yusuf slouching, patting his belly. ––Can I go upstairs and get laid? Bang Bang piqued. ––Can we just do business please! Bing Dong pacing. ––I agree! Ian worrying at his temples, trying to will his heart rate regular, laxer. ––Oh you do! huh Ivan? look at that, wants to do business, Dominic sarcastically ––The guy thinks he’s a businessman just because I let him. . . ––Ivan is a businessman! Bang Bang indifferently ––Believe me, got product and services of consistent quality, prices consistently scaled, in his favor and mine, not to mention our. . .

163

––More to it than that, Dominic’s impatience mirroring glaringly Ian’s ––not going to hazard a guess out loud but sounds like just your insipid-simple garden-variety supply-demand weed scheme, no fun, like banging your head against a coconut tree over and over. . . ––Dominic you’re coked up right now, Ian with mock plastic field-medic concern ––better watch your heart, don’t have a stroke, won’t be able to take all that excitement after forty; you might want to get neutered now just in case. . . ––Yeah? thanks Ivan I appreciate the concern, bet you’ll be getting plenty of excitement when you’re forty; heard prison gets more thrilling every visit, like Cleveland. ––Easy Dominic, Ivan Muhammad here might look like an old man already, but it’s more just his patience that’s aged, guy’s quick on the draw and. . . I don’t يا إالهي! Bang Bang please! Ian complaining ––I mean thank you but–– need all this chaos and bad faith flying around the room, have a migraine already. . . ––Smoke some weed man! ––Not in here you don’t! Dominic incontinent, definitely paranoid ––and definitely not out on the balcony. ––Man you think this hermit motherfucker’s really going to take the time, take it downstairs, and out around the block? when he feels like his inspiration’s fading. . . ––Guy’s nothing but a liability to me, Dominic not making eye contact with Ian, whose own gaze, dark and recondite as a bolt-lock key-hole, follows his last land lord, most false business friend since his teenage gang years ––Transportation coordinator! what the fuck was I thinking? ––I agree! Bing Dong angrily ––Mister Muhammad only bring me three, four shipping containers per one work day! I have twenty sitting still on docks, I have to hire other truck driver, pay very big fee to leave cargo on pier. . . ––We can get the fee rebated, Bang Bang shrugging, waving away ––thought I told you. ––Even so! he is so slow, disappear two hours at a time and blame it on the traffic, does not answer all my calls. . . you and you just love little secrets . . .ابتعد عني يا ر جل . . .Damn it I’m sick of–– don’t you? Ian pointing left and right accusingly between Bang Bang and Yusuf, both now with designer sneakers posted up on sand-blasted glass coffee table ––couple of teenage girls; don’t make me be the one to tell him! it’s unbecoming. ––What’s he talking about? Dominic and Bing Dong basically together. ––Tell us what. Swallowing a flippant sudden twinge within his voice box Ian keeps his eyes upon Yusuf and Bang Bang, unflinchingly choosing to divulge to Dominic and Bing Dong that ––I drive for both these guys during the week too, when either of you two think I’m just on your clock. ––Oh you. . . Bing Dong’s protest devolving into obscure Szechuan cursing. ––Thought you didn’t like Bang Bang’s, ah, business ethics model. . . Dominic playing fretfully at a set of keys. ––I know exactly what’s coming off those ships when we. . . ––Driving that jail bait nerd girl around, that’s what he. . . ––You bastard! Bing Dong beside himself, punctuating with oathy muttering, before adding ––you lie to me, you jeopardize my business using truck for who knows what, and blame longshoremen for slow, but you are so full of shit! your own agenda. ––I get enough of the stuff! you let all that soy sauce sit in the loading dock days at a time anyway and whatever the fuck else you. . . ––You ungrateful! very ungrateful, I print up counterfeit C-D-L for you and. . . ––Whoa! all four other, more instinctively paranoid, party-bodies here hushing him; the girls meanwhile no longer look behind, through cracked sliding doors at any curious commotion, just choose to languish out on the balcony, talking about age, watching people down in the traffic-solid street. ––Give me a break! no body recording us, Bing Dong unbowed ––You think any of us is very big player? we’re just middleman! don’t kid your. . . ––Speak for yourself, Ian laughing, sitting down relaxing ––I’m a man who starts from seed. ––No you just as arrogant as the rest of them! greedy man, want money. ––Yeah well I need money man; but not for me, I have this sick niece who. . . ––No personal talking at meeting! no body care, Bing Dong beet-red ––feel like I’m talking to my self! and how do you expect me pay attention during conference call when I need worry about low-level driver betray me. . . Monday morning you bring my truck back; you want deliver goods from dock for Dominic or Mister Bambrey or any other lazy motherfucker you use your own ugly German jalopy! you understand? see how you like illegal window tint when you get pulled over with trunk full of. . . ––Bing Dong! Bang Bang and Yusuf barking, while Dominic throws his hands up, stands up to excuse himself to piss. ––This call starts in two minutes, gentlemen. . . the developer muttering, lamenting ––Audi alteram party my ass. . . ––Ayo! one more thing to talk about first, Bang Bang yelling behind the skinny gymnasium-inflated young man ––What about that community center spot? ––Yes! was Christ or the Prophet your highest bidder? Yusuf with the lazy cocky hint of a yawn particular to those who know and prefer to pretend not ––What do they say! location, location, lo. . . ––Shut up Yusuf! sorry Bang Bang, just letting the ah Musselmen have it, they pay pretty handsomely; can I please piss now. ––You just let. . . yo fuck you Dominic! excuse your self to the ladies’ room? don’t miss! Bang Bang resentfully ––get dribbly drops of piss up in your pretty little beard. . .

165

––No hard feelings eh? young Arab heir to jaded gangster entrepreneur as their partner walks away shaking his head, scratching at fussy hair cut ––simply my religion has more money; that’s all this Dominic understands. ––Yeah well in a few years that scrawny lily-dick hipster ass hole will wind up next to you in Guantanamo Bay; and he’s going to have a hell of a time subletting his cell! ––Always politics! very bad, Bing Dong back in dragon mode ––This is money, corporate cooperation, stupid arguments have no. . . ––Man you worship tea leaves and roundhouse kicks Bing Dong, what the fuck you know about my religion? or Yusuf’s. ––I know it have no place in this meeting at least; how do you carry Bible with you but no pencil? notebook, nothing! ––Keep it all in my head man, got that discipline; bring the Book with me in case I have to give it away to a stranger who needs it. ––Old school Mister Bambrey! Yusuf supercilious, groping at immodest uncottoned swath of upper chest hair ––I just have an app on my phone with all the haditha I learned in my youth. ––Make room in your brain for something better Yusuf? even that weird little girl hangs around Ivan memorizes prayers. ––Made room for movies Mister Bambrey! Hong Kong, Hollywood, India, Nigeria. . . most of them banned, or strongly censored or rewritten, in my own country; but I travel the world to see them in theaters, and did I mention I am top smuggler of digital video discs into Arabian peninsula? high quality boot leg, I hope one day to. . . ––To blow up one of those movie theaters? Bang Bang snarling ––open fire on every body who. . . ––Enough insults! your bullshit about your God stinks just as much as mine; surround ourselves with so many women children true believers real things do not all get through to us, is why I need these movies to. . . ––Boot leg! you and me do business, yes? Bing Dong eagerly, spontaneously smiling afresh, like he just stirred the pot of rice in his heart, rotating burning sides of the mass back into moister mix ––Mainland Chinese film hard to bootleg, hard to smuggle. . . ––Hey! Bang Bang and Ian together. ––Choice of words! as you say, Yusuf sloppy, bored and hungry, staring jealously at his hired girlfriends out on the balcony slouching almost content. ––You are one who said word smuggle first! Bing Dong back to yelling. ––Every body stop saying things like ‘smuggle’, Dominic hissing, back from pissing ––It’s time for us to. . . Yusuf! what the fuck are you doing? in some goddamn mystical trance, you’re supposed to unpack the satellite phone kit, set it up. . . ––Are we going to be recorded? Ian not feigning his ignorance ––I mean not by bugs but by ourselves, do we. . . ––Legally we have to record the minutes of this meeting, yes; don’t necessarily keep the audio though. . . Dominic sighing, rubbing his eyes and twitching at flag-red nose ––So we can rewrite the past if we really have to Ivan, don’t worry; same with all the other parties. . . remember, we have to be patient, every body’s got language barriers and various hired translators, it might be chaotic until we get the hang of. . . damn it Yusuf! give me that shit, I’ll set it up, we’re late. . . ––No you tune it wrong! look you need multiple simultaneous bandwidths. . . and the rest of the conference proceeds no less contentiously, the agitated parties physically present here bickering amongst themselves and into their audio feed, causing extraneous translation to occur at other tele-termini, slowing things down, sowing confusion in an already confused situation, code words for contraband, conversions of currencies and metrics driving every body crazier than the thrill of mischief, greed and power have already made them; fighting and spiteful superfluities extend the conversation a half hour longer than planned, Yusuf’s girls out on the balcony asleep through the sunset. Then, as the meeting has hit equilibrium, pared in form at last down to a single voice at a time, the background humming of the translators, multiple required on every side of the satellite relay (Bing Dong and Yusuf actually pretty helpful in this respect) deliquescing into a cricket-cicada crackle easing volatile alcoholic discourse, a knocking on the condo door surprises every body, makes them jump, even prison-stoicized Ian and Bang Bang; the resident rises to address and hopefully dismiss on the instant the unwanted attention, perhaps a late response to some noise complaint, as Bing Dong backs away towards Ian’s bedroom, Bang Bang reaching for a gun while Dominic stops Ian, shoos him back to the sofa where frenetic trading-floor board-room voices fly like honey-drunk wasps from the speaker. ––Pizza! Ivan you ordered pizza? under the name Ian ‘Taliban’ MacCool. . . ––What! Ian rushing towards the door again while Bang Bang, all alone at the table now with the remote negotiators, amuses himself pretending to have assumed senior executive status, to know of a sudden every tongue in the world ––I did not fucking order pizza, the cheese they use in those places usually ain’t halal; shit, yeah, that’s this room number, on the receipt. . . and my phone number! what the fuck. ––They said it was some girl on the phone, stoned headphoned overdriven delivery boy explaining ––that she had an annoying voice and said she was your girlfriend; one of the girls we got on the register is great at impersonations, every call we get she. . . ––Okay, great, go away, Dominic and Ian basically together. ––Come on! give me a tip, my girlfriend might be pregnant. ––Tip’s drive a faster car, get a better mechanic who doesn’t rip you off, clean it regular inside and out, change the oil. . . Ian with perhaps more charity behind his expression than beneath his words ––And you’re not using enough air fresheners. ––Trust him, Dominic biting his lip looking more loco than jocose ––He’s a connoisseur, gets all different kinds like it’s goddamn hockey jerseys or chia pets he’s collecting; took a crateful of those little cardboard pine trees all to himself, perks of a transport job when you’ve got a C-D-L kid, lots of take-home perks, might want to quit this bullshit pizza delivery, you’re a little old for it aren’t you? Dominic texting again

167 pretending not to notice the delivery boy’s stiff middle finger upheld in backpedaled plodding retreat, stoner sashay down the dirt-obscuring oriental-carpeted hallway, somehow genuinely not noticing Ian leaving his side, bringing mysterious pizza back inside with him. ––All the toppings, Yusuf droolingly drifting back into the fold upon seeing pie steaming despite thick layering that makes it so ––you cannot see the cheese; go on them I’ll have some, where’s your china Ivan? ––Offer some to the girls, Bang Bang cheaply regal, hungry himself but lurkingly, looking over Ian’s shoulder as he places the grease-bottomed box on the coffee table ––I think they need something in the belly. ––No pork I notice, Bing Dong disapprovingly. ––You’re right B D, Ian involuntarily pulling at beard and hair ––it’s a prank and I know who. ––Please do not play with your hair over the pizza Ivan, Yusuf approaching, reaching and parting Bing Dong and Bang Bang. ––White flour, processed cow cultures and faded tomatoes, no thanks! Dominic as if somebody actually asked him if he wanted a slice. ––Now let’s get back to. . . more knocking ––God damn it! Ivan this prankster of yours, don’t know how they got this room number but it better not be. . . it is, damn it! more pizza, as he presents it like courtroom evidence cocking cardboard jaw revealing it, ignoring the earpieced and agitated delivery girl ––who’s hungry? thought we’d probably all be glutted up already but I guess. . . ––Yo Dominic you should probably be over here listening to this shit, Bang Bang laughing ––They’re taking about re-filing some foreign-trade carnets to legitimize the expedited customs thing, think they said you’re slacking on those carrier’s certificates and pro forma invoices too. . . ––God damn it! shoving the pizza box back into its bearer’s delicate steering wheel-rough hands ––Charlie was supposed to handle all. . . ––Yo sir I don’t want this fucking pizza! the girl’s voice gruffer behind shutting door than her rings and slight petite stature suggest it should, without an ounce of that dainty servility required back at the lecher-run shop ––I know you ass holes have the cash, look where we are! ––Here. . . Dominic peeling a twenty-dollar bill seemingly right off the inner lining of his designer threequarter-sleeved coral-colored light summer jacket, unceremoniously stuffing it in the crack of the pizza box’s jaws ––Use this, get yourself a share of Maaroufi Nature Foods, going to be big, it’s. . . ––Man like this is all the fucking toppings! and you got cheese fries, this isn’t enough to. . . ––Ivan you deal with this, Dominic jogging in to rejoin conference. ––In my country she could not even deliver pizza! Yusuf boisterous, pugnacious ––Tell her be grateful. ––There’s been a mistake, it’s a prank, Ian beginning to usher the girl away untouchingly but she does not flinch, much less comply ––I’m not going to lay a finger on you sayyida but. . . look! see, another, indicating stumbling burnout pizza-bearing man-boy coming up the hall towards them ––Think I’d order that much pizza? from multiples places, at the same time. ––Look man we got the call, the I-D said UNAVAILABLE so whoever ordered hit star-six-six-seven, they said it was some whiny girl. . . ––Right so it’s not actually my. . . ––That’s not my fucking problem! someone has to pay for. . ––Pizza! for Mister MacCool? newcomer as yet unsuspecting but more curious than unnerved by the presence of the girl ––Um an extra large super deluxe Buffalo. . . ––Don’t even finish saying it, fuck off, Ian cold as pizza left out stacked in surfeits overnight at a party, neglected in the dizzy-eyed revelry, sleepwalking. ––Nobody ordered pizza here, it’s a prank; don’t know how they got my room number but. . . ––Well somebody has to pay, delivery boy puzzled and blandly ––I mean do you live here? these condos cost like. . . ––That’s what I’m saying! the girl nudging the boy, looking up with an eye a little salacious but icy and faceted as a Jewelry Row appraiser’s ––Like somebody made this pizza, somebody who will fucking fire me if you don’t. . . ––Okay look, Ian revealing unseemly leather belt-bound cash wad, making both their eyes pop out like onion rings envious ––This covers pizza, tip, oil change and weed; zawa. . . throwing the pie out the window though, hopeوI now pronounce you rawjul some homeless guy catches it. ––Whatever bro! all carbohydrate messengers leaving, two of them side by side. Shutting the door behind him, Ian sees Bang Bang and Yusuf arguing in sibilant resentment about fidelity, community and unbelief, by the running television, which they both look at for the most part rather than at each other, while Dominic furiously takes notes, misses calls and apparently loses far sooner than expected the turbobeneficence of his cocaine high, drooling like a dripping sink grinding his jaw, muttering and yelling alternating; about to walk across the room, bring the pizza to Yusuf’s snoozing prostitutes, mildly excited to throw it down into the streets if they refuse, more knocking comes pecking like sea gulls at all the hot distempered heads assembled here, stopping Ian in his tracks. ––Yo Ivan who blew up the spot? Bang Bang gravely, tapping a heel as if ready to rugby-tackle whatever size dog awaits on the other side of the door Dominic goes to again open ––Being outed. ––That’s a pizza knock not a cop knock, Ian explaining; the phone rings and he moves to answer it while Dominic at the door chastising the newcomer jerks his head with blow-dart disapproval over at Ian, who gives him the middle finger, the one on his ass-wiping left hand, signaling pleas to just deal with the pizza kid looking dumb, immutable in passive under-the-table hostility, like the clock is not so much at his heels as

169 it was for the previous failed delivery persons, three of whom he probably met as he came off the elevator just now ––Hello? yes, speaking. . . ––Yusuf why do you not make your women wear burqa? Bing Dong boyishly. ––They like men looking at them, love it even or at least addicted to it, why they chose this life. . . one of them went to university, you know; I do think women are intelligent despite my culture: see, I have noticed, they know how to criticize others with laugh and light touch, without yelling and making fun like men. ––Laughing light touch! what are you talking about? Bing Dong scoffing, sniffling in indignity ––When my wife criticizing she slap upside head, breathe fire and call you stupid. ––You’re only saying that because your whole life is at home eh? insensitively, rolling his eyes looking instead at Ian hunched over room phone pinching bridge of nose between clenched eyes. ––Hey geniuses! Dominic from the doorway ––someone take fucking notes and pay attention! can’t you hear they’re asking for us? if we’re there, in plain English, there’s fucking five of us and we can’t even take a call, I got two more pimply delivery fucks rolling up here. . . ––Hey! I am taking a call, Ian rejoining ––it’s about. . . ––Let me guess! pizza? how many more goddamn. . . ––No, it’s the lobby, they say. . . wait. . . ––But you make them wear burqa back in your country yes? Bing Dong leisurely, to Yusuf, both sitting back to attend to the meeting again, absorb arcane multilingual browbeating. ––No, Yusuf muting the microphone like old-school Bing Dong would not have conceived to do ––But when I am in my country I do not dress like this, I wear all that distinguished men wear, the keffiyeh and aagal; but those two, they never go home, I just get their visas renewed, and their taxes paid, they’re officially my assistants, and they get the occasional vacation from me, up to six months at a time which I spend with two wives, who when they bring up they want children I just leave the country! cackling, licentious in his strident prideful smiling ––meet up with these two wherever there’s hotel, with one hand gesturing to slumbering vulpine escorts, with his other unmuting satellite radio microphone ––hello! hello! this is America, we have technical difficulties. . . ––Yo Dominic, Ian joining the developer at the door where the gathering of pizza persons wait with slick soggy hot boxes ––think you’re going to just have to throw money at it. ––Tell me to throw money at it motherfucker? hey! I said go away, all of you, tell dude coming up the hall to, okay fine I will, hey! go away! nobody ordered pizza! ––Hey! shut up out there, a furtive neighbor female head stuck out from, and just as quickly pulled back in, another apartment door around here somewhere. ––So what did you tell them Ivan! Dominic hissing. ––I said that you’d take care of it. ––Ass hole. . . ass hole. . . storming toward the room phone, watching, disapproving, Bing Dong and Yusuf both apparently struggling to keep up with the fast French and Vietnamese, and various clunky English translations, coming through differently worded and doubly in phase, mutually interfering just barely by the nails not cancelling out ––Hello? Ian don’t just stand there jealous Yusuf has four wives and all you have is the internet, you pay for the food! I know you do all your shopping on Germantown Ave before the Boulevard but you’re not actually poor, you pretender, yes hi! I’m up here in Room. . . ––Sure, hot potato, fuck you; here, just look where I live. . . just kidding, this is actually that guy’s place. ––Um okay thanks, the chorus of agitated drivers basically together, leaving counting Ian’s eyeballed compensation. ––Pizza party! Yusuf, bored of business, to Ivan rearriving, while Bing Dong searches for the abacus app on his smart phone. ––Okay the guys in the lobby said they’d hold all further food at bay, Dominic eyeing the conference call but abruptly rerouting to take another piss, his body itchy and incontinent as an overdeveloped tourist-swarmed cliff-vista, from admixture chemical elaters, enhancers ––while they wait for the cops to come; Jesus Christ, Ivan! sit down and make yourself useful, pretend to be interested, for once, in the little phenomenon we call measurable progress. ––The cops are coming? the cops are coming! they’ll want to talk to me and. . . ––Hey! the microphone is on, Yusuf huddled over speaker, chopping lines of some orange granule exotically searing and toxic as a sun burn. ––I don’t want to have to talk to them, Ian ruefully, running in place despite prayer-sore knees ––What should I do. ––Don’t leave yet, although I do want you to do that some time next week. . . laughing like homelessness is just a pie in the face ––I can handle it, I’ll meet them in the lobby and just explain it’s a crazy ex of yours, or mine, whatever. . . ––They’d want you to identify her. ––Damn you’re right. . . well, I’ll say it’s an unexplained prank, that you have a mentally ill friend, who lives far away; anyone specific you want to shake off your back? ––Sure, say it’s my brother Fran, Fran MacCool; think he still lives in West Philly, here. . . I’ll write my parents’ address down. . . there. . . you’re going down now? ––Cops respond quick around here Ivan, I’d better; but please tell him, gesturing to the Bacchic Arab ––. . . to chill with that shit! pointing out flagrant drug use ––but I want some when I get back up here. Dominic departed, Ian shuts the door and gestures to Yusuf to join him in the bathroom for a private conversation; lithe and noiseless his escorts have also appeared, blinking heavy half-clear carb-napped eyes, hovering over their young employer presumably summoned up and back in by the Pavlovian chop-chop sound of razor through powder on table.

171

––You want me to come with you Ivan? ––All of you. ––Oh ho! you think these two will feel bad and rescue you with pepper spray in case I try. . . ––It’s not that, you flabby ass hole; it’s that. . . mute the microphone! Dominic wants the narcotics out of sight, cops might be coming to talk about this ridiculous pizza gag. . . so I agree with him, hide that shit; let’s go! into the bathroom. ––Okay just go! Bing Dong testy, scribbling, flashing Bang Bang figures on paper ––Too much talking, talking. . . ––The microphone! Bang Bang barking, reminding every body. Waking up further the two women whistle in sensationalistic vim, stretch and yawn following Yusuf rubbing his shoulders, following Ian dragging his heels; meanwhile Bing Dong and Bang Bang continue to do business, move decimal places, consolidate payload. All four, the girls, Yusuf and Ian, pause before an infinity-unfolding triple- paned mirror presiding like a blind imam over slick formica sink (Ian’s incense there copiously bundled, by the blow dryer he reserves for his beard; he draws a stick and lights it, as if a police dog might happen to pass in the hallway and smell, through three doors, the cocaine or whatever the fuck Yusuf appears to be cutting up still, sniffing with shocking regularity), finding themselves humming along to the stacked jeweled droning monophony of themselves looking at themselves looking at themselves looking at themselves looking at each other looking at themselves. ––Hal turid bed mukhdar? Ian’s recent elevator date offering him a blow, accepting his withdrawn elbow. Shaking, decliningly, unspeaking, his underbrush-toughened head, Ian turns the sink on full blast, apparently fascinating the two desert women––Let’s talk! to his fellow Wahhabi, his patron, who grunts like a gas field-destined dinosaur, rolling up a hundred- riyal note from home, destined again for his nose. ––Talk about what! Yusuf with defensive pretense of wisdom and worldliness, more the sneer of a wharf rat than the consanguinity of a well-traveled crane ––You need any thing else of me? thought we settled up Wednesday with that last installment, those two kilos of. . . ––Yusuf! snapping like overloaded rigging, smacking like sails, toothpaste- stained countertop, red eyes in the triple-endless rabbit-hole mirror blazing synchronous like lit arrows between terraced parapets all up a tower besieged and surprised in its pride. ––No worry sadiq! you have water running, besides we both left our phones out there. ––I didn’t. . . Ian checks, izar and jeans, pockets high and low, and in disbelief at his oversight accepts the tactile obviousness that needs repeating ––I did leave my phone in there, damn! but what about them? ––Aayn hi al-hawatif? Yusuf, overjoyed to be so bored; the girls answer him that they left their phones on the balcony, leaving them running to record the sunset now down to its green heart-flatlining last enveloping ember. ––I can’t believe you couldn’t get me a real war head. ––Sadiq! ya sadiq, my man, you must understand: for all the unguarded and missing war heads in the world, and available fuselage, bomb designs. . . Yusuf sounding particularly British right now ––it is hard to find legitimate nuclear weapons on the black market; many of them are hoarded by crazy generals and war lords all over the world, people who have many children to help them tend an air strip on his property eh? you could get in theory all the technology for it, highly enriched uranium is out there, just call any body ever worked for Tenex in Russia, go ahead you can make some home-made gravity bomb and throw it out of a private plane, but only if you devote years and millions and don’t get caught! or shot down in the attempt; but this is idle talk because you don’t have a plane and can’t generate sufficient firing compression on your own, not implosion not gun-type, just in the back of some shipping container on a semi truck, you don’t have the right stuff to reach critical mass, not nearly enough heavy water. . . ––Critical mass? heavy water? those would be good street names for you. ––Eh? ––You let me down! you chubby clubbing fuck. ––Hey listen who do I look like! A Q Khan? ––No, you look like some Nineties boy-band free-trade mutant. ––Eh? listen you need at least your own private army to even get anywhere near those kinds of transactions without being robbed and murdered; having my sayyidat, ya ablat, follow me everywhere is exhausting enough, if I had soldiers too what would I. . . ––You do, damn it! you’re a rich connected Saudi, you have bored hateful poor people on speed dial in every country your kingdom keeps a fucking diplomatic mission in, all those charities and cultural shell. . . ––True enough but do you think your little proposal, your puny half-mile mushroom cloud, would actually interest people at those levels? it’s too small and sickening a story, and you’re too white, you’re a lost nobody to any of them, until you at least prove yourself, overseas, fighting, and all the way! al-inghimās fī ‘ṣ-ṣaff, suffer bullet wounds for Allah, or in your case also perhaps this Jah you. . . ––But the fact alone that I’ll kill at least. . . ––Hey listen! Yusuf nervously, cracking neck and jaw ––You’d better not do this too near the Pier! if any of my ships are docked the insurance payout for my men getting radiation poisoning would be crazy; plus you shut down business in that area of the City, shut down Pier how long? fuck us over, all Thirteen Bells Shipping. . . ––Alliance! yeah right, like you give a shit about allegiance, you’re getting out in a couple of months; this is just a temporary connection so you. . . ––Big beard and still loose lips eh? suggest you shut up and mind your business Ivan; the only reason I am not calling the whole thing off and killing you, pardon my

173 speak so frankly, it’s because I know you will fuck it up somehow, maybe claim a single life driving like a maniac right before you botch your bomb outside police H Q. . . catching his breath ––and you complain I can’t get you this real war head! like you can just shoot one like a Stinger missile. . . but you know I can get you Stinger missile, if you want to change your plan, not too late, do something more fun and easier than. . . ––If I had a real war head I would just cram it in on the truck with all the other shit I’m packing it with, and hope the blast is strong enough to do more than just crack it and make it leak, like at least. . . ––No! you need altitude, bigger air than Michael Jordan, but for that you need missiles too big for you to realistically fire yourself; even if you were smart enough, figure out a way, rig some home-made thermal detonation system to the war head, it would be too heavy and the truck wouldn’t move. . . sniff sniff ––so are you using full-size semi? not like just some little moving van. ––Yeah Bing Dong’s truck duh, it’ll have a full container on it; guess you thought I had something smaller planned but see I’m going to pack the crate with all this scrap metal I stole off the one freight station last week, lots of other goodies too, I prefer to think of it as a nuclear piñata, loading all the radioactive shit into my regular car, the night before, then just driving it into the empty, parking it there, and packing all those explosives and incendiaries later, all that scrap metal and fertilizer, also just for the hell of it, symbolically, I’m packing in two pounds of crack rock Bang Bang said he confiscated from a drug dealer, on some town watch vigilante mission. . . anyway I’m getting all the shit out of Dominic’s warehouses this weekend; only perk of this aggravating driving job, I get all the keys and security codes, and can work by night. Before allowing sated Ian, less relaxed than sick at last of his last futile protest, an easily quashable complaint uttered out of delusional familiarity duly rebuffed by autobureaucratic coldness, Yusuf, the veteran sedentary cyber-decadent, suddenly almost awesomely terrible now, in the eyes of the man of action whose infected testes hurt too much for further conversation, pulls the tattooed arm of the red-bearded army-of-one away the spigot, bidding him not yet silence the lead and fluoride-beset stream; he has one more peroration busting like baked skin’s blisters inside him, and he lets it out, still hissing in his highest whisper, while his two hired women dutifully laugh and prattle in shrill sheer palimpsest, a garrulous firewall for eavesdroppers. ––Remember! you are so strongheaded, you are willing to forsake all kinds of business opportunities, in order to kill a handful of police and make some fellow American citizens in vicinity sick to the point of breaking out in incurable burns; for this, for you, be grateful! I scoured the world, black market and dark web, to get you sludge, rods and casks, from Askhabad, Transdnestr and Three Mile Island, from Rostov Oblast, be ,التواضع ,Jalisco and North Korea. . . so please, the only compensation you owe me humble! as befits a martyr, and act like a friend, ya sadiq. ––What! shake your hand? because I’m damn sure not kneeling, especially. . . ––No! I mean just sniff some of this, let go. ––Get the fuck out of here, Ian laughing ––What am I! fifteen years old? that’s more like Dominic’s. . . ––Eh? from outside the door. ––Idiot, Yusuf pinching an ass here, a tit there, grinning ––Even I have kept my voice down enough, and I’m quite drunk; are you not supposed to be Mister Silence? Outside and chagrinned in the room again no more remote voices blast in stratifying densities of misunderstanding from the table, the furniture around now vacant save Dominic there crossing his legs with a pedantic and challenging squint of knowing grimace, Yusuf’s girls absorbed in their, each other’s, phones; the reddened realtor- investor refuses at first to start another quarrel, divulge what he just heard from the bathroom, instead simply lazily gesturing around at chintz-gilt surfaces of rich lifeless facile décor, smug and leisurely as a goat-fat anaconda, taunting Ian who he stares down, to drive home the point their little arrangement is over. ––Bing Dong and Bang Bang left; the conference ended, I made notes for you, rising, addressing just Yusuf, handing him something, ignoring Ian entirely but implying as usual his distaste for the thug roughly exactly his age ––We have plenty to talk about. ––Great, you two go ahead, Ian flippant ––I don’t feel like talking anyway. ––Oh I know! you never do. ––Not now Dominic, Yusuf growling ––let me just call the chopper and take them out of here; we’ll talk Monday morning. ––And speaking of Monday morning, Dominic texting somebody, talking to but not looking at bearded outcast Ian ––. . . that’s when you better start packing; wise man, few possessions, won’t take long will it? I’ll come by Bing Dong’s lot at five o’clock Monday, we can talk over more particulars, and I’ll convince him to rent you something. ––Who’s that? Ian ignoring the verbal vexation at hand, nodding out towards the balcony where the wrinkled back of a grey tweed suit rumples with every thrust and twitch of cell phone-stimulated gesticulation, badgering and backsassing. ––That’s Charlie, my lawyer, sure you heard about him; supposed to be getting me licenses right now, to expand into Baltimore, Cleveland and Indianapolis, turning bad neighborhoods around, but I suspect he’s on the phone with his son right now, boneheaded rock-star want to be twenty-something who can’t even play an instrument, just has a couple of cameras, helps Bang Bang with that anti-drug vanity documentary project; kid’s got a grandfather, Charlie’s father I mean, pain in my ass, paying people all over the city to let his crew paint their roofs white, fight global warming or whatever. . . ––Yeah, I. . . heard of that. . . ––Well, feel free to stick around! for now, and Yusuf, I’ll see you later; turning the television on ––You don’t mind Charlie and me hanging out a while, do you Ivan? three swinging dicks, Dominic awkwardly ––I’m sure we’ll find something we all like to talk about; Texas Hold Em against your religion Ivan? Again, the third time today, the grinding of a sallow hollowing jaw bone ingratiates itself with wheelgrating fury flying simultaneously nearby, in stoppage’s fever

175 shrieked steely, and another abrupt change of weight load, more people getting off at Girard than on, in either direction; Reese’s cringing at the combined sensation upsets him astatic, twitching off kilter his camera too while he regrets again choosing to shoot handheld today (the neighborhood kid Bang Bang paid, plucked off a stoop today, to hold the mic boom, too, having issues pertaining to centering, swinging equipment to and fro following with stiff leers, his ears also probably off the job, girls passing on Front Street in the piecemeal skin-shine garment sets commanded by humid evening still stuck in the Nineties), as the sun to the West over steeples and Temple burns like a blunt cherry bouncing in glittering superflux off the top of the el now moving again, giving the decaying teeth in the grinding lower jaw of their young interviewee here a noble white luster which Reese can not help but let remind him of the roofs Fran spent four more hours today recoating than did he. ––Man I hardly ever go any where south of here, the P-stitched hatted subject half-saying, half-masticating ––My whole life is between here and Frankford, you know! it’s the fist up top that elbow on a SEPTA map. ––And you can score all along the el, that whole way? Bang Bang solemn, smug and sly. ––Damn right I can! and do I do, like any body can; it peaks right in the middle, around the K and A station, take your cameras up there man catch some junkies doing that nodding-off tai chi, like this! orbital crane pose ––Dope everywhere, pills and cops everywhere, man it’s crazy up there. ––Oh I know brother, Bang Bang officiously crowding into the shot with the shorter older white man ––we were up there just the other day, caught a major deal going down; had my boy on the mic boom, not this day dreaming mother fucker here, someone more on his toes, he went and tackled the guy in the nicer clothes soon as he shut his trunk, and I tripped up the guy getting away with the dope, so the both of them got taken in, best part of this movie so far, in my opinion; it’s direct action, community policing gives us leverage over cops not trusting us. ––Uh right on man, the guy itching for something more fulfilling than being under a light, lens and microphone ––Hey listen I. . . ––Oh yeah here you go brother, Bang Bang stiffly showily peeling money off a wedge of it the weight of a small potato ––Thank you for your time, and good luck; call them numbers I gave you, get help! Jesus loves you more than the pusher-man. ––I. . . shit! thanks, the guy running off exultant, newly spirited in the knees, like never since that first and faraway best time he tried the crack rock. ––Alright man that’s a wrap, clapping Reese’s tense gear-bag strap-sore shoulder, checking inventory and collecting bearings, breathing a trolley-slow sigh of respite ––Hey you know, hand camped squarely there, nails getting familiar ––I met your father the other day, my partner’s lawyer; yeah you already know, he’s a smart man, eyes always darting back and forth like he’s reading some big ass law book no one else can see, good with money too. ––He’s terrible with money, shrugging off imperious gangster employer. ––Then I meant other people’s money I guess, knows all the little loop holes and how they line up over state lines; and your grand pop, crazy dude giving all his bread away, did he teach him all that? ––I couldn’t tell you, I never knew my father until he was like thirty-five?; all I know is my grandpa never stressed out about finding loop holes, he was just a smart investor who never got burned that bad. ––Whereas your dad gets burned every day, Bang Bang blithely, bowsprit-proud and grinning ––grab a boiling pot with both hands to strain the spaghetti, splash himself in the face; but that’s probably just his way of enjoying life, hard money he fought for, not just following your grand. . . ––Well he borrows money from my Grandpa all the time; at least until recently, he cut my dad off to save money for his, I mean our white-roof initiative. ––White roof initiative? Bang Bang smacking his lips ––. . . white guilt initiative. ––Guilt. . . Reese with some rue but wistful by compulsion in the city-thick and grooved summer air ––seems like you try to make a lot of the people we interview just feel guilty; do you think that’s actually a productive way of. . . ––Let a turd know when it needs a polish, young’n. . . revealing another mound of money, mouthing the mounting count of it to himself ––that’s the least you owe the crazy stanking world around you. ––And I’ve done the least I owe you, by now, I think, Reese taking his pay without counting, voice cracking under managerial gaze hard as handcuff keys ––We’ve done sixty interviews, I have all the fodder for those musical sequences, and there’s almost fifty hours alone of just us watching drug deals going down! ––Okay! a’ight! sure! you can just go edit down what we got young man, I have to work on my narration anyway; we’ll reconvene in a week, if I likey then you got some legitimate genuine Bollywood set equipment coming your way, got a crate of it nobody’s going to miss all waiting for. . . ––How did you get. . . ––Remember! make sure you save the big bust scene for the end, Bang Bang absolutely not unnerved by any note of censure underneath his upper-upper middle-class errand-artist’s voice ––you know, like I was just telling that fucking junkie, when we caught that guy with the two pounds of. . . ––Yeah, about that. . . Reese backpedaling out of the leaden-aired lot, acting as if the sidewalk and its foot traffic behind him promise the cure for a deficient phone signal ––it’s uncanny! shouting now holding phone to ear dismissively ––How did you know that behind that fence, in the back of that particular lot, at that exact time, we’d. . . ––Got a nose for the shit boy! Bang Bang somehow backing into a back way out of the vacant lot, his body and exit path both invisible to Reese who continues to fade into double-streamed sidewalk ––I’m an assistant pastor, gotta know how the community. . . into dark garbled obscurity.

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––And he’s gone! huffing relieved into the phone to Fran ––just gave the fuck my two weeks’ notice, chop it down and done. ––Good! crackling through earspeaker ––because Lloyd came past today, gave Cody K and me both a raise and said we’ve got ten blocks to do next week, just our crew; he’ll give us overtime, time and half, if it comes to that. ––Why didn’t he give Edwin a raise! ––Oh I guess he might have, but Edwin left about an hour after you; your grandpa, when he heard that wasn’t in much of a payraising mood anymore. ––What did he leave to do! was there news about Carlos. ––No just work at his cousin’s restaurant. ––Whose, Wiz’s? could you call that a lateral move or. . . ––Less pay but he said he likes it’s air conditioned, and he meets more women of his own. . . ––His own what! we work in Puerto Rican neighborhoods all the time. ––Yeah but he says he needs, they need him to be at eye level, says girls don’t like if you’re trying to talk to them looking down from three stories up; they prefer it the other way. . . so, for instance, if you’re like digging a basement foundation. . . ––Oh yeah so that they appear all halos and hearts of gold when they show up at the edge of a ditch? but if we’re on top of a building it suggests to them at a primal level that we’re still all just up in the trees lurking. . . ––Exactly! anyway I see you; let me just make this dangerous U turn and. . . Fran rolling up. ––Damn am I glad that’s over! Reese taking the boom and mic from the kid, who stands still hustling in place, implying trouble or if not at least a lasting resentment, reciprocal blame and guilt if no other tip on top of what Bang Bang gave him earlier is forthcoming. ––Thank you bro; yo can you buy me a beer? ––No! damn it Reese don’t even think about it, from the driver’s seat ––but give him my card, if he wants to sing, dance and act, against authority, after school. . . ––I graduated early smart ass, taking the card via Reese who loads stuff into Fran’s van ––shit I heard of this! y’all did the jawn about Haiti, made all them parents mad, they said it was mad out of pocket. . . ––The expenses were, yes. ––Thanks a lot, Reese nodding to the kid, climbing in the van, unable to help but clasp at his forehead embarrassed as the kid gives an extravagant middle finger to a stiff line of drivers. ––Listen to this! the driver impishly grinning playing his friend a lilting tinny electric back-beat lullaby tufted in utter vapidity, apparently captive to the absurdity of its lyrics, which concern suffering a firing from a popular bar and losing your open-mic hosting gig there too, over your infantile severance tantrum, crawling back chagrinned to laying bricks ––. . . you see? that’s one step above that onomatopoeia nonsense he was spewing before! . . . what was that one song? Smish Smush I Kiss My Crush! ––I don’t know, that one had a certain dumb charm, so did that song about wearing down tires while tearing down wires; but on this one it sounds like he’s just fucking talking! in singing form, probably because he’s had to hang out with you so much, yammering all the time about vacant lot redistribution and Commie poetry and. . . ––It’s good I’ve got a little buddy! a deputy just ripe for indoctrination. ––He doesn’t need indoctrination! he needs to not be such a lazy guitar player and song writer; why don’t you shut up about the plight of the FARC, the Zapatistas and Pontiac’s War, and when you’re working with Cody, just do every body a favor and bring a boom box! show him something good on tape from before his time that his dumb friends all glued to the computer couldn’t ever show him. ––I mean he and Edwin are always rehearsing when we’re working, especially when you’re not there because they’re afraid you’re filming it; Cody kind of hums shyly while Edwin stomps and claps and sings his guitar parts, it’s fucking irritating. ––Why don’t I hear Edwin playing on this one. ––Because he. . . here it comes! yeah that’s Edwin all right, a moment almost reverent except they know the guy too well ––so apparently this ah producer Cody hired said he didn’t want to hear Edwin’s guitar during the singing, to save it for a dramatic lead in the middle; at least the guy kept it in I guess but the problem is it won’t occur to people listening it’s him, you know? I mean that it’s a person other than the benign and magical, emblematically dreamy bard they already acknowledge playing and singing. ––Well Edwin’s kind of a silent gallant, you know how he. . . ––But you know he can sing too! unlike Cody Quarter-Octave K. . . ––And they won’t layer him on? in overdubs. . . ––Man they hardly even let Cody overdub himself; and when he does it isn’t harmony, just some unsettling mirror image. ––Can you turn it off now? please, thank you. . . Traffic patterns unpredictable, except their basic and essentially inviolable binary axiom of red over green, stopping and going with some feeling for the gravity of orderly intraballistic multipopulation, occupy Fran’s attention the next few minutes, while Reese in impartial fatigue scrolls idly through the digital compact music choices his driver has encased in plastic between them; skirting, skipping or simply absorbing the crunch of myriad pot holes, those recessive terramobile moments of hard jolting, born of, laid by, road-run softnessess, the van flies, whips and skitters, roaring higher with each gear change, stopsign etiquette here of much quicker more brazen decision than its planners intended, a middle way of wild drive and reluctant polite concern. Women drag children by tenuous finger squeezes, while all around on either narrow shoulder flashers blink and engines purr hungrily, people stepping in and out of store fronts and car doors carrying food, equipment or complaint, while those constant and sometimes intersecting double distances of elevated train whine permeate like all the

179 blunt smoke the multilingual mass of discourse forced to yelling levels by sheer heights of walls, densities of citizenry, and the general invigorating agents particular to this grainy late-day city air, so inhospitable to glum defeatist attitudes, a warmth of violently regular molecularities, of unquestionable semi-stability; more showdowns at stop signs, enlivened torsion of the old and new, conversation defiantly overtop the train and traffic noise, all flash heavily inhabited past and entertain or at least engage the two friends both silently turning over personal dilemmas, money plans and inchoate limited fantasies, all the way up until Front and Willard, where Fran makes the legal left on red one way and suddenly slows down, looks to Reese as if to let him out. ––Okay I’m going to find parking, Fran with an aberrant display of agitation. ––Why don’t you just park here. ––It’s the loading zone! ––So! it says ten minute limit, we won’t be here ten. . . ––Well what if their delivery guy comes back and. . . ––Right okay working class hero, he’ll be sure to thank. . . ––You’re just nervous about going in yourself! being the only white guy. . . ––And you’re even more nervous! because you’re just going to drive around the block burning gas like a dumb ass until I come out all well-fed with Edwin. ––Too much meat for me anyway man, I’m a vegan. ––A vegan who’s about to waste gasoline driving around the. . . ––I’ll find a space the right size! ––Rush hour! people coming home from work with their nerves all shot, think they want to see you backing your big ass van into their. . . ––Damn! talk about nerves being shot, you sound like you just got bit by. . . ––Yeah well I just had to watch fucking Bang Bang Bambrey strut around all day jumping in his Cadillac now and then to change into a different track suit. . . complains he gets sweaty quickly, stinks his clothes up, so I tell him he’s getting sweaty because it’s ninety fucking degrees out and he shouldn’t be wearing that shit in the first place; he tells me, get this! he says but it’s loose and it’s the only thing I’m wearing, ain’t nothing underneath. . . I’m like that’s great Bang Bang but you’re still stifling all your pores; and this is during an interview mind you! so this junkie we’re talking to, young guy oddly clean cut except the sand traps where his eyes should have been, the poor kid starts talking really eagerly like it’s interesting that he gets sweaty too and. . . honking borne in sudden swerve, not short but sustained, from around the low-visibility corner behind them, stops him short ––Well shit you win Fran, I’ll be inside! almost getting hit by his own friend as he jogs off towards the back of the van, sees he has no room to move between that back bumper and the front one of an angrily arrived two-door delivery car; for some reason, perhaps, or not (can we really equate cause with reason here?), instead of running further out into the intersection and approaching the corner restaurant from the road there he runs back to the front of Fran’s van as it starts to pull out. ––Reese! you fucking idiot, from the friendly driver. ––Yo! are you crazy? in a Ponce accent, from the compact car in modded roar to the rear. Looking up at deep blank grand marine sky near full gold mango blush Reese shrugs, Fran driving away swearing and the restaurant’s delivery boy pulling up into his usual spot, subwoofer pumping clave; opening the door marked BIENVENIDOS a salsa percolation riding cow skins and cow bells, horn lines and tri tones, plain sentiment and crazy piano, greets the young man like a passing dancer flashing a smile, while guys in construction boots and sweat-splotched shirts crowd around phones, let forth flatulent peroration on off-season sports, and a big family firmly established in a corner threatening, in its innocently restless younger elements, to overrun itself, expand, encroach on a high-school double-date two tables away. Dispersed and barreling amok like a stuck beast and its foreshortened breath, dense clouds of wet pork smoke and plantain steam widespread coax jostling anxious customers lined up awaiting take-out into adding items to their projected mental order. ––Yo Reese! Edwin at the register, handing an order slip to a girl relaying it to the kitchen ––Sit! at a table, she’ll get you a glass of water; I’m going to be a little while, my relief got held up in traffic and. . . ––I got held up in traffic once! a woman from the kitchen ––the boy pointed a gun right through the window, told me pull my purse out; I don’t know what’s the point of power windows if they can’t go up instant like that, lickety-split, cut off the motherfucker’s hands. ––Yo Edwin! ¿Estás dormido? deja de soñador. . . managerial croak stuck out a set of swinging doors ––You got a woman want to order! ––Hi welcome to Wiz’s, Edwin leaning over the register breathing briefly heavily like he just made a delivery by bicycle from here to the airport ––Are you picking up or. . . ––Yeah I’m picking up an order! for thirty-six forty-six Marshall. ––That was. . . for delivery! wasn’t it? ––Yeah it was but your boy ain’t get there yet, wanted to have it all out and ready by the time my husband get home from work but now I got him out there blocking traffic all pissed off so I can. . . ––Uh I think I saw your delivery guy outside, Reese interjecting, diffident. ––What! managerial voice showing in a rampant flash its polo-shirted body, charging outside cursing. ––Shit did I just get somebody in trouble. ––Got himself in trouble baby, lady slouched against cash register waiting for her order considering asking for a refund if it has gone merely warm not hot ––can’t slack out on these streets, too many stops signs, too many people blocking traffic, flashers on, then you got all this construction, sewers, roads, gas, electric. . .

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––Ay ay ay lo siento! driver being brought in by a pinched ear, to apologize personally to the woman, whose merely warm order he swings in one hand; let free to speak he says he does not appreciate the indignity, and quits on the spot, walks out. ––That idiot kid, the woman taking her food ––I know his mother! can’t admit he’s confused and a loser. ––Yeah give him an earful for me, manager going back to crowded yet somehow short-staffed kitchen ––Ay! no delivery right now, start throwing me numbers to call. . . this your friend, Edwin? coming out of the kitchen to get a pen, looking Reese over, like a fat foreman enjoying a short moment of amusement observing his youngest back attempting a questionable old ladder, getting midway up and slowing noticeably down, considering daring looking back down but for the vertigo of grounded tough derision ––Need a shower, shave and a change of clothes before y’all go out meeting the mamis; don’t tell me Edwin your boy here’s one of those gringos creeping up Front Street now calling up here asking for a burrito, I don’t roll fucking burritos! I roast pinchos, I stew pig feet and stuff pasteles, it’s all Puerto Rican and Dominican food here. ––Smells amazing man, let me get a pulled pork sandwich, rich-raised Reese attempting to appropriate the gregarious no-nonsense thud of tongue, the rowhome-tight vernacular, of hardscrabble hands-on Brotherly Love ––And the uh banana balls. . . noticing Fran coming in ––and just some rice and beans for this guy. ––Man I was ahead of you in line, the guy next to Reese well-cloaked in low hat and short stature, one young daughter’s hand in each of his ––Gringos! van al frente siempre, ay ay ay. . . Taking the other guy’s order Edwin laughs ––Notice I wasn’t writing any thing down you were saying Reese? and you still kept talking! ––Force of habit! Fran punching Reese in the arm ––only listens to his Granddad or whoever else is paying him. ––Pay you drive delivery man! manager from the kitchen again ––you’ll meet plenty of girls but they got an average like five kids. ––Twenty minutes sir, Edwin flexing, rolling his neck, beckoning his friends closer to the register to order properly ––and someone’ll be right out with some water for you and something sweet for the girls; sit down, relax, watch. . . scowling up at photochaotic television monitor ––. . . what the hell is this show? American Stealth Killympics? to his friends ––it’s like paintball but with. . . ––Don’t look away Reese! punching him in the arm again ––don’t laugh either, that’s softcore warrior capitalism you’re seeing up there. ––Beats baseball, Reese throwing a punch, like slider to bunter. ––It’s just hide and go seek with tackling, waiting customer breezily though clearly slow-chewingly engrossed ––and a couple weapons to keep it interesting. ––I auditioned for this show, another newcome gringo nobody noticed startling them with buzz-cut brawn, formal full-throated creased-khaki credibility ––. . . made it past the first couple rounds but when they asked if I was comfortable wearing a thong on camera I had to say no; people I work with would never let me live it down. ––Aw come on man this new look’s better, it’s more tribal than them jump suits they had! one of the table-stationed spectators feeding expostulating ––my people, I mean I’m part Taíno man, way back, so that jawn they’re wearing just looks to me like spandex loin cloth, pretty respectable. . . ––Just seems a little undignified for me, too light; I’m used to full uniform and lots of layers, including a heavy vest. ––You saying you’re a cop? you look more like you fix mother boards. ––Well I’m not a beat cop, just one of those lazy overbudget desk investigators, with a snigger turning and addressing Edwin ––Hey I’ll get the blood sausage but in the meantime I’ve got to talk to your manager. . . ––What’s that! alarmed from the kitchen, with apron-wringing rendered verbal ––Who’s this guy. . . ––It’s about a relative of his! the officer customer quieter. ––Carlos?! ––Oh! so, uh, you, also, know. . . ––Yes? the manager’s hands broadspread like proud royal flushes, entitled but not smugly just thoroughly worked ––can I help you. ––Mister Barretto? ––Wiz is good. ––Wiz then, a pleasure, shaking hands ––I have some news about your, ah, nephew? cousin? yes, cousin then, Carlos, can we talk somewhere in here in private? ––Talk to me right here migo. ––But we, uh. . . ––Look Henry in here it’s all familia, half these people here including the entire staff except maybe my retarded driver are worried about Carlos too. ––Well he. . . edging closer to the counter, not too awkwardly because someone is actually in line behind him anyway for takeout ––Carlos turned up very far away from here, just over the northern border of Georgia. ––Georgia! they forcing him to pick peaches. ––No sorry, I meant the country! Georgia. ––What! where’s that. ––It’s in the Caucasus Mountains! way out hanging out down there between Turkey and Russia. ––You’re fucking with me! how could Carlos. . . ––He wasn’t doing too well when they found him, he’d been crawling through the woods about twenty-five days; needed to see a doctor right away, his joints were all shot and his brain was fried, not to mention the hunger and dehydration, lucky they. . . ––Just tell me how he got there! and when I get to slap the shit out of whoev. . .

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––Well Wiz unfortunately we don’t know exactly who did what or what’s going on; but he was kidnapped for sure, and sent there as, investigators now suspect, part of a kind of Mafia conspiracy, victimizing illegal immigrants. ––What! but Carlos is a citizen, he was born in Puerto Rico. ––Yes, we know that, but the thing is since he miraculously escaped his captivity and he’s a real citizen he has no qualms about raising a racket about getting back over here; whereas if any Guatemalans or Mexicans made it out like he did we’ll never know, unless he tells us, I mean, the authorities, caring for him now, I’m sure it will all get sorted out. ––Please no bull shit! is he okay? the manager the heavy capstone on a general curious murmur suddenly as omnipresent as the pigskin pungency and high-gear Spanish popping, pricking like boiling fat, as familiar concern closes in aloud on every side ––he came out of the hospital you said? do they got good doctors in Georgia or. . . ––He’s in stable condition, don’t worry, Rotte to some applause ––went through hell though, we’re evaluating him for post-traumatic stress and. . . ––When’s he come home. ––Well, he, ah. . . faltering like he forgot how to recite Miranda rights ––Carlos might have to see a few more doctors and, uh such. . . obvious euphemism stale on the robust peppered air. ––You mean he saw some shit he ain’t supposed to know about! assent about them arisen in resentment ––something nobody thought he’d ever get the chance to tell the rest of us, and he has to talk to more government official types right? maybe get his memory wiped, test out some mind control shit on him while. . . ––Sir I came here bearing good news and don’t appreciate the unprovoked hostility, toward my self and the very sort of bodies of law and order who Carlos owes. . . ––Unprovoked? man tell me about police profiling and violence, and how Puerto Rico still gets choked off for the sake of some shipping alliance monopoly, with these old World War Two tariffs, then start telling me about unprovoked. . . ––Look I’m just a State Trooper, involved in an ongoing investigation, to which what happened to Carlos is pertinent; but nobody’s going to pay me to go all the way over there to Eastern Europe and talk to your cousin, I’m just a messenger. ––If you can’t tell me when he’s coming can we at least get in touch with him? ––Well not right now but you and I can certainly stay in touch, here’s my card. ––Thanks man, think his moms can keep me up to date though; tell me you got enough sense to have contacted her before me? or maybe you didn’t because you can bet word would have got here by now. ––Ah well I’ll see her next, it’s just because of the way I came, I wanted to stop here first; it made sense because from the Boulevard. . . ––Okay whatever Officer Henry, just tell me is Carlos going to come back home to Philly or are they going to find some medical reason he needs to be deported excuse me removed to Puerto Rico? even though he’s a citizen. ––If you’re going to stay on the attack sir I’ll just leave now to talk to other members of the Huerta family. . . turning around. ––Hey! ain’t you waiting for your food? ––Oh, um. . . ––It’s okay migo looks like you just got a lot on your mind; probably a lot of paperwork waiting after all that driving? yeah I figured. . . while you’re here why don’t you tell me more what the hell my little cousin was doing over there in them Caucasus, he hardly ever goes east of Aramingo! ––And how did that motherfucker escape! a voice from the kitchen. ––Yeah and like what shit did he actually escape? another. ––Yeah. . . Edwin wondering ––why would any body in Georgia want. . . ––The details of the conditions Carlos faced, over there, are not yet completely clear to us, but, as for the escape itself, he was very eager to share with his handlers what actually transpired: first of all, wherever Carlos was, there were guards, armed guards, everywhere; he claims a few of them seemed to like him, and, one evening, he managed to convince them, without speaking the language. . . ––What language they got in Georgia! ––Well he wasn’t in Georgia yet, but, rather, we think, the southern Russian state of Chechnya. ––Carlos did know a little Russian! Edwin laughing ––one of the dudes that came through the garage now and then, a longshoreman, was from there. ––Well I doubt he knew any Chechen, they’re very particular about their language down there and can’t stand to feel like they’re too much like big scary Russia; anyway, these guys, whoever they are, one time let him share a cigarette with them, while one of them, nearby, was struggling to start his truck. . . so Carlos motioned to the guys that he thought the starter was dead, and that if the truck had a manual transmission, which it did, as it was, we suspect, an old Soviet-surplus vehicle, probably stolen, he could help them give it a rolling start. ––Right, pop it into second, or reverse, Wiz nodding ––get the right rotations and the engine. . . ––Yes so they did that, pushed the truck until they got to a little hill and it started to really roll more; but, the driver, apparently he had the door open, so he could help push with his foot, and Carlos, from behind the truck, suddenly ran up front, caught up and pulled the guy out of the seat as it started to pick up speed and he started to close the door, then he threw the guy out of his seat, hopped in himself and got away. . . a sudden ululant blaze of appreciation, every body in ear shot glad to be impressed to the utmost with one of their own, his lowly heroics of instant physical prowess, keeping it real in an alien land, interrupts Rotte, who smiles awkwardly, coughs to continue ––. . . so Carlos drove away, said they rained bullets down on him but he crashed some fence, as he was in some kind of organized captivity, and he ran the thing all night until it ran out

185 of gas, going up a mountain; that’s when he got out, and, by the moonlight, miraculously found a Pass nearby, and started his journey on foot. ––Carlos! my man! what a boss! the general tenor of the restaurant edging towards full-blown jubilee but for the uncomprehending children still running around, their oblivion, to the reality of usury, slavery and the pinhead straits of opportunity, grating to the adults usually otherwise doting on them. ––Y’all ought to make his ass a special agent! someone from the kitchen again. ––Well I’m not exactly in a position to. . . ––Nah man! Carlos couldn’t stand cops; always talked about it, they beat up on his people too often. ––Yo but that one time! a fond reminder, a ready rejoinder ––. . . with the fireworks and snowballs, thought they were all kind of asking for. . . ––We ain’t having that debate again! Wiz demonstrative, broad of aura ––We just have to pray for Carlos now. . . glaring at Rotte ––hope he gets home alright, gets to pig out here first thing. ––I have a couple of questions before my food comes out. ––Shoot. ––The day of the night Carlos disappeared, did he eat here? ––Yeah, he did! came straight here from some scrap yard; and he mentioned, I remember, I told City Hall this and I’ll tell you too, that his wife called him a couple times that day to tell him police were hovering everywhere, more than usual for their block. . . see, he’s a law-abiding citizen, wasn’t scared for himself, so much, but he’s sensitive to them harassing teenagers. . . not that they don’t deserve that a little bit, some of them sell bad drugs but most of them just fuck around, drive around looking for some kind of sex, action or controversy, all that fantasy and such. . . ––Did he say anything about somebody following him? in traffic. ––No; don’t think so. ––And do you know if, when he got home, cops were still sitting on the block? ––I’d have to ask his wife, didn’t think to; last I heard from Carlos was when he said ciao and went out that door. Nodding, the plain-clothed Trooper waits no longer, his food coming out, and that of the other customers, while the young man at the register is exchanged for another, just come in; all at once an exodus marks Wiz’s restaurant’s last watch, the owner shouting behind ––Hey! if you’re some kind of detective, I got a name for you; investigate this guy, this real estate investor, developer prick, name’s Dominic something, think he’s corrupt, and in a big way, buying up North Philly. ––Dominic? Rotte piqued, opening the door, holding it for the big family filing out, the girl cleaning up after them waving, fawning and thanking every body ––I’ll check it out, tall prim serious Officer Rotte leaving last, already into his blood sausage, intensely careful to not let a single little dribble over the edge of the lidded polyfoam platter, much less down over his thick-haired wrist-flesh or to immaculate pressed khaki; out on the corner, observing spilling rush hour extended into the tertiary veins of one-way city ghetto, Rotte stops three young men in their tracks, not with sirens nor strobing lights, but a simple semi-amiable rotation of chin and shoulder, telling them to listen up, not be so abominably shy ––How’re you gentlemen doing? guess you work here, and you two are his friends? but how did you. . . ––Meet? Fran and Reese together, each wondering how much like weed they smell, while sweating Edwin smelling like all corners of the restaurant, only half-attentive, catches up on text-messaging forbidden him on the clock. ––Surprised you weren’t the only white guy in there? Fran brashly but slightly backpedaling, handling his keys like a charming bunch of cloches warding polite obligation away, really just worried, and more still now realizing, as he touches them, his hands are covered in sticky bong-burnt resin, and surely reek. ––White people come in here all the time, Edwin looking up from phone to reprove, a pugilistic crack of demand in his throat at first but the aftershock lazy like he has made a point that does not matter because his tendons feel no less sore, his damp work clothes no less claustrophobic; looking down again at blinking screen he adds ––all kinds of people want to chase the best ways to get fat. ––Anyway we all met at school, Reese diplomatically but slightly nervous realizing his own bag of herb is readily snatchable out of his buttoned-up shirt’s unbuttoned heart-breast pocket ––I’m a film guy, Fran writes plays and annoys people, and Edwin there’s a musician, which is why he has to work here. ––And what do you two do to make ends meet? Rotte smelling the pot, which tempts him towards action but indefinitely. ––I might be working with an afterschool program soon, getting kids to help me write a musical about. . . ––Well really he works for my grandpa, and so do I; you might have heard about him, Lloyd Kunders? he’s giving all his money away to property owners all over the city, just to let him paint, or coat, their roofs white, because global warming’s urban heat island effect will. . . ––What about renters? do they see a cent out of it. ––Ah you know I don’t think so, he might go right to the land lords and. . . ––Then that’s flawed! the actual living residents of those homes should get the money; think when they move out the land lords who hardly ever see the damn places in person anyway would care? probably wouldn’t even notice, and if they did they’d just be glad they got some kind of free work, an easy solution, nice and new. . . ––But we don’t really do any other kind of roofing, just. . . ––Then that’s also flawed! you boys should be able to do some siding at least; let me guess, you find a weak or uneven spot on a roof, you don’t actually fix it? you just coat it over and. . . ––Well I guess but don’t make it sound so. . .

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––Look that’s risky business! any day the city’s going to tell your grandfather he’s not even remotely licensed to. . . ––That’s the thing though! he doesn’t care, because he’s so aware now he could have a fatal stroke any day; and it’s not actually business, it’s an inherently and willfully losing enterprise, but he’s just a rich retired private individual trying to do his best to. . . ––. . . bet he hires illegal immigrants. ––I don’t know, probably not because he’s just giving his money away! doesn’t care about saving, he’s got rich guilt; all his life he said, like his father told him, no risk no reward, and it earned him this fat portfolio he’s slowly selling off day by day right now. . . ––He leaving you any? ––I’ve never asked! but anyway he turned that saying on its head, since he had his stroke, now it’s more like ‘no recklessness no result’. ––Well damn, sure does sound like he had a stroke. . . ––Hey! not cool, Edwin and Fran sharply, reasoning. ––Cops aren’t supposed to be cool, gentlemen; so, if you’ll excuse me, I have more work to do, not on the clock, no overtime. ––I know the feeling bro, Edwin blithely, benumbed, caressing phone beeping frequently ––between Reese’s grandfather and my cousin Wiz. . . Though they cluster together as if to depart ensembled, the three friends find themselves lingering, watching the older salaried married man leave, jogging across Front Street and ten cars up Willard, with cool and controlled martial form, climbing in his car showing rigidly a reverence for the sanctity of its cockpit; headlights come on and Rotte has gone, merging into the ardent verve of civilian roadflow. ––Wow. . . Fran first ––guy looked like he would snap a weed plant like some commie spy’s neck, with his. . . ––One with each hand! Edwin cackling, karate chopping with phone still in one hand, and, in the other, irreverent of the friendly recent memory of that Officer Rotte, a mary-jane joint he rolled up along with a handful of others during his fifteen minute lunch break late but still too long ago to really remember, the monotony of work in the interim a potent amnesiac ––It’s just fucking crazy, how gung ho white people are, about destroying bud. ––You know they literally declared war on weed? Reese remembering something Bang Bang told him, that he heard from an unnamed friend ––between the nasty high-flying dial-up Nineties and this President we have now, who we’ll probably have four more years, because the other guy is so fucking boring, anyway, for a while the government paid these private militias, these terrorist contractors they got, collectively called Campaign Against Marijuana Planting, or CAMP, to harass planters in California, mostly extrajudicially; these guys, a lot of them bored veterans, rode A-T-V’s through the woods and used illegal infrared technology to find seedlings from the sky. They shook down citizens without provocation for information, and launched military-style raids on growers, beat them up and killed a few, and pulled all these plants out of the ground, just burning them all in a pile, without inhaling of course. ––Oh yeah like, what was it called? Operation Full Court Press, last year, a billion dollars’ worth of bud, gone, overrun; on the other hand though not all of those growers are very environmentally aware. . . Fran watching a cat yawn by a black little shopping bag wadded up behind a tire on the car behind his ––Hey! hand off that door handle Edwin; we’re not going anywhere with that thing burning. ––Hey come on cops around here have real shit to worry about, Reese like he lives here. ––Um I’m from here migo and let me tell you cops will definitely fuck your day up, fuck your whole year up, for driving lit, if it smells in the whip and they find any thing you deny having, it’s insulting to them, just thought a twist would be okay because it’s disposable, you know in this state the maximum penalty for having a dirty bong is like five years? big fine too. ––If it smells in your car they do this crazy thing where they test your blood, your piss and your semen on the spot, to see if you. . . ––Not your semen! Fran you always. . . ––Commies can’t help but make shit like that up migo; Fran I’m pretty sure at least in this precinct no cop would bother, they don’t have all the suburban red-state fascist gear like that. ––Okay well if you two are going to stand here smoking openly. . . ––Yeah they’ll fuck us up for that, just for the hell of it, if they were to whip down this street right now, you never know; suggest we get inside the van. ––Just don’t get pulled over, Reese opening sliding side door, to climb in the back, among his camera stuff, check a video on his hand-held, edit on the go, catch as always every little opportunity in the day to assess and make note, create, obligingly letting Edwin have the shotgun seat so he can tip it back and relax ––and the only ones the wiser’re us. ––Never assume that, Fran sighing climbing in driver’s side; off an awkward curbed back-tire angle the van and they in it pull out of a tight spot rubbing, nearly bumping and grinding on the surrounding cars, and once dislodged sufficiently almost immediately getting into an accident, the glitter of washed rims passing alerting Fran just at the right instant. ––I thought you saw him! migo. . . excoriating coughing swirling pot smoke. ––You didn’t hear him? he came whipping around the corner. ––Guy’s trying to avoid traffic? dumb ass, there is no escape! Fran like he lives on this side of town, with a squeak peeling out, up to an abrupt halt at imperious red octagonal STOP sign ––Whoa it says STOP. . . so that’s just what I do, driver genuinely musing ––also yo! you ever notice? when it says ‘Strictly Enforced’ under a speed limit sign it actually means that there it’s like never enforced, nobody feels like. . .

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––Careful migo, rolling stops, easiest excuse for cops. . . and your jawn’s not a manual anyway, doesn’t have to always. . . damn! this thing is still rolling? accepting roach from leaning Reese. Crepuscules and hiccups of taut churning urban angst flash in coarse flushing, recombinant burden, past, bars on every other corner, every block a ground tooth in the gnashing duct-taped jaws of a city sticky with scheming, dripping with petrohalitosis, a labyrinth navigated by tight quick turns amid rhapsodic shattering, clutter, much ado about becoming, stuttering, chatter and chasing money, keeping at least someone here and there young, undefeated, healthy, grateful. Everywhere the hammers of the day, the thunder to urban desultory rolling seas of curses, now have fallen still and obsequious, to the night-banded scamper and searching plainsong of rambunctious children, grown or not, either awaiting, having finished or sharply longing for, their dinner, not stopping playing, making faces at, desperately curious overtures to, passing cars, and looking south to Center City towers transitioning into evening dress, red and subsumptive of young gazes, they wonder upward how they stay up like that, what a skyscraper eats. ––Wait. . . where are we going? Fran passing B Street, coming up to C Street, placeholder bodega-generic names waiting to be overwritten with those of the hood’s own most potent progeny, someday ––I’m lost, we ate already, and the night is young. ––The joint is dead, Edwin flicking it into the street. ––We could go to one of the piers? Reese wrapped up in considerations of spacing, lighting and pacing ––film a little. . . ––Not another graffiti closet drama! damn it, Fran the communist concerned, obsessed and impressed with a latent imperative for universal productive activity, whether recorded to video or simply spread like pollen stuffed inside synaptic nooks, or else not at all retained, just ghosted ––There’s shows all over the city tonight, like I think Rosa Cuxemburg is playing at Karate Kingdom, and Eugenics Debbs is opening for Blood Dwyer at Jackie Brandon’s, we could. . . ––Shit! all that reminds me Cody wanted to practice tonight. ––Forget it Edwin! Reese feeling he sees especially expansively, behind band names and beyond brewer-bought banners quivering with powered soundmix ––you rock and roll too hard all the time you lose your ear for other things. ––Yeah! right, Fran scoffing ––Cody K, rocking and rolling. ––Hey man! I’m part of that scene now, like have some faith your homeboy can make it a little cooler, make Cody K play a little louder, kick ass for once instead of kissing boo-boos. ––Do some of that Puerto Rican Pentecostal voodoo exorcism shit on him then, because it’d take a miracle! Fran prepared as always to ramble ––begs the question, would a proletarian God believe in Cody K? ––Damn Fran you high? Reese lit enough himself he squints like a hoagie roll layered thinly only with cheese, lettuce ––God would probably be happy for Cody K if he stopped catering to awkward ponytailed virgins. . . to their remaining so I mean. . . ––You mean the thirty year-old men he hangs around? Edwin in gulp-dulcet lower fried vocal tone ––or the sixteen year-old girls. ––Better just start addressing the twenty-five year-olds who don’t identify as either, passerby eyeing Reese wryly, is it his hair? not his fault, the humidity, untaken shower ––That’s the real dominant tribe right now. . . ; you know how many ‘transitioning’ video memoirs have been. . . ––Hey man! that’s not cool; before you say they’re overrepresented, which is a shallow cliché, consider how bringing life out from the depths is the highest priority of those at the surface, or even airborne, Fran so serious he swerves ––. . . they’re still a minority, and an oppressed one, though I guess that’s redundant. . . ; recently they’re just less frightened of openly seeking to improve their dubious place in the world. . . and as for your use of the word ‘tribe’. . . Sudden red and blue pulsations like stark war paint animated rebound throughout Fran’s dad’s former workhorse family van, wherein more than ten years ago he and his older brother Ian sat berating their parents for their perpetual opining, bickering and boring urbane folk-rock insight, making faces, trading punches, drawing impromptu portraits at red lights and stop signs of people on corners, in windows or leaning against walls, or else if treated to propitious crawling traffic jamming, fuller, more exaggerated likenesses of drivers just as stuck and frustrated as Mom, as Dad, as contemptible for failing to find joy in simple sun and rolling stillness. ––Shit! Fran missing Ian, who he knows to have successfully evaded city cops on at least a couple of occasions in this very vehicle, but long ago; he wonders for the first time in a while what Ian’s legal status might be now, if he ever got deeper into those odd-twinned fascinations with Islam and Rastafarianism, like he did with those of gang warfare and growing weed, regretting not accepting, at eleven, his incorrigible brother’s week-long repeated offer to him (including the very last time he ever saw him in person, not in a mug shot or court documents pored over, scanned with confounded one-eyed tears, and inarticulate remorse) to teach him how to cultivate that herb of ancient charm, eternal lucre, better, as he claimed, than their father or any other disengaged rageless dated flower child could: Ian said ‘smell this’, held to Fran’s nose a vial packed with goldgreen flakefluff, then said ‘now go down in the basement; pick the lock, it isn’t hard’, on that strange closet Dad built, probably the only home-improvement project ever undertaken in their family, and compare the smells in there to that in his fist in the present. . . in the past, all in the past, not perceptibly useful here, as he pulls over, thinking, Ian! he’s an idiot, did he not get arrested for dealing in firearms just a year and a half after that boast about his better bud, his younger hand and open eye ––. . . alright, nobody panic, still pulling over, stuck out awkward at a narrow spot where he can’t fit, suffering rebuffing siren and megaphone signaling don’t be stupid, go slowly, stay steady ahead, like a good citizen, until we can pull you over where there’s room, there! the corner ––well, shit! now they think we’re stupid, and therefore definitely want to nail us.

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Shifting in their seats they shake the van that shakes profoundly already, Reese rushing to hide his camera gear lest it be pored through, and questions about it arise as to why one Theophilus ‘Bang Bang’ Bambrey features so heavily in his work; meanwhile Edwin centers himself, detunes the strings of warrior instinct aquiver within him, like palms held up reluctantly welcoming hurricane, and Fran tries vainly to open his eyes wide enough a whiteness might overtake the strained red. People on stoops talk sardonically about the odd racial couple pulled over before them, offering Fran and Edwin cajoling support, until someone glimpses and points out Reese in the back seat as well, apparently rearranging or concealing something, engine purring like a bird heart, assuming a nervousness every body around wanted to not have to impute, hoping for the young men they would know how to calmly talk it out, wishing the guy in the front passenger seat, looking very much like who he is, was now the one in the driver’s seat, instead of that almost archaically defiant, without being properly discomfited, long-haired guy there fumbling with something also, like his friend in the back seat (still not settled into belted repose but stuck on a zipper shutting some sort of black bag, cursing not furtive enough) but not on purpose like him, probably with a wallet or little sleeve of documents, except that the smart and restrained (but like a river reservoir is restrained) Puerto Rican-looking guy in the passenger seat is what he is; the driver door of the unmarked cop car, its undercover nature audibly unnerving the block, opens and unstops a storm surge resentment, ridicule and riddlesome subtle sympathetic dancing underholler, underhubbub, suggested by leonine postures on iron railings, car hoods and stretching stunted trees, every body trying to figure the odds that another fast car or big truck will come through any minute now and hit either the detaining or detained vehicle. ––License, registration, proof of insurance. . . plain-clothed but bright-badged, gym-toned and bullet-eyed, brutal booted human instrument of control, strutting somehow though still in place, at Fran’s open window, into which he sniffs conspicuously ––telling you boys right now, this vehicle smells like marijuana. ––Ayo he said they smell like weed! ––That ain’t no kind of crime! ––Undercover motherfucker! should be stopping a rape somewhere instead. ––Think that’s just the air freshener I use Officer, Fran’s lame irony bunting back the umpire-vested policeman’s vicious curveball ––Here, let me see what brand it is, maybe you’d like. . . ––Okay step outside the vehicle smart ass. ––Well hang on! let me find what you wanted to. . . ––Guessing the glove compartment, genius. . . ; I can help you look if you’re too mentally handicapped to. . . ––Don’t think simple honest discombobulation constitutes probable cause Officer, I. . . ––Don’t think? didn’t do much thinking at all today! did you. ––Ayy not necessary! uncontrollably laconic from the passenger seat ––we all worked all day man, only kind of thinking we had time to do was on the clock and topical to the job. ––Where do you boys do what you call work? sell video games and magazine subscriptions or something. ––We coat roofs, Reese caressing his pants without direction or intent, a piece of evidence of highness obvious to the stern Marine-mustached lawman ––My grandfather has this environmental initiative going, see, we. . . ––Then why is your boy here wearing kitchen clothes. ––He took off early! to go do that, help his cousin out. ––And what’s in all those bags you have there. ––You don’t have to tell him Reese! Fran grinningly, like they have won already, with a celebrity commie lawyer on their side, before some supreme court relocated to the jungle for a special session, like the denouement has come ––he doesn’t have any good reason to. . . ––. . . car smells! like pot; that’s probable cause, young man, open and shut. ––Not to ask him what’s in his bags! ––Oh no? why do you think so. ––Well what kind of marijuana do you think you smell Officer? fresh or burnt. ––No difference to me if it’s in an evil little seed or a massive bonfire, weed is weed and any sign of it entices and entitles me to search every inch of this vehicle, and each of your persons; I’ll start with you stinky, step out of the vehicle, and tell me what kind of marijuana you like, golden delicious? Fuji? grannysmith? or. . . ––I don’t really feel like it Officer; you didn’t pull me over for a good reason in the first place. ––You made a left on red. ––On a one-way street! that’s legal in this state. ––Well you didn’t make a complete stop before you did, you rolled right through it like you own the neighborhood. ––Yo man I’m from this neighborhood! raspy from the passenger seat ––and I can tell you’re not; no narco in North Philly would bother with us, we’re obviously not no kind of kingpins. ––Yeah! what are you anyway? Reese completing the chorus ––like some kind of State Police? got bored, got lost or. . . ––All of you step out of the vehicle right now! in the same overbearing voice he previously used to tell insurgents, documented or not, proven or potential, to surrender, try and compel those bitter schizobellicose warriors of Allah into empty healthy earthly self-arrest ––. . .slowly! so I see all your hands the whole time, showing his own holding a gun all of a sudden ––. . .think you can just get away with any thing you want because you disagree with the law? you picked the wrong motherfucker for civil disobedience boys.

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Squarely and concretely civil, chins up and obedient, Reese and Fran and Edwin all step outside the minivan, which continues to mutter plainly focused on its pure work, hummingly Om-ingly indifferent, in alloyed oily glee, to such impassioned brute-systemic fiduciary-artifisocial exploitation, of those free and myriad, forking-tongued images, of serpentine wilderness, engendered by seemingly lazy unorthodoxy among the populace, and concomitant opposition in this white-eyed officiousness; looking first at each other, each of the suspects plants his hands on a separate surface of the van, bouncing their moon-grey waxing eyes between families and flocks of summer flirters on both sides of the block, and the loaded porches on either opposite corner. Phone cameras everywhere, as everywhere, anymore; cop notices, considers. Meanwhile through poignant roof-dark hazes of ubiquitous hip-hop trap-kick blocks-large collage, Edwin and Reese and Fran, all rolling their eyes at the guy as he scribbles in a little notebook, start singing one of the songs from their Touissant L’Ouverture high-school musical, one of the handful therein co-authored by the students, rendered in performance to an electric organ’s internal drum machine’s prescriptive “SALSA” groove, some of the kids on stage playing simple parts on standalone drums, Edwin sawing away at an upright bass run through a space-echo tape-loop, triggering piano chords with sixteen stomp-box pedals chained and run to a preloaded MIDI pad, the calypso timbres dressed and crowned reedily by digital and analog sound modules: ––Sugar, coffee! allow me a little a day, while you sell so much of each away; Wife and mistress! toss them their pittance pay, while for nothing we labor, with hunger sway. That poorly harmonized gesture, carried by erstwhile Edwin, loses them some curiosity and camaraderie among the spectators here, a few of whom now either go back bored into the air conditioning, or slink, some, away, up the sidewalk, and a bunch of kids of very mixed ages getting in a black sport utility vehicle and rolling past also blatantly smelling like weed, salty china plate-blue tufts of it visible coming up through moon roof as they roll away already violating the full-stop rule in full view of the buzz-cut low- browed lawman, who angrily pockets his notebook, brusquely pulls Fran off the van by the back of his collar, without a proper thought yet formed on his tongue starting just shouting in the long-haired glazed-eyed younger man’s unweathered judicious grimace: ––Do you understand me! do you fucking understand. ––Um, do I understand what! you didn’t tell me any. . . ––Then you just failed your first test motherfucker; have you ever taken a field sobriety examination before? expect the full battery. ––Yo! don’t rough my homie up like that, Edwin from a wrist, a resting position, slapping the roof of the van like the skin of a conga. Thump on rumble. ––Beg your pardon kid! kicking a tire, hissing with cryptic overpronunciation, recondite of significance ––You’re next. ––Next to do what sir? get horse-collar tackled against the hood of a car just like you just. . . ––That’s not what. . . ––Officer! come on, what’s your name? from the other side of the van, towards the back, from a young man wondering whether later he will find readily available from all the wide-eyed bystanders here the raw digital footage, at divers angles, probably adding up to an ideal demi-globe, and edit it all together ––And your badge number, precinct. . . ––Motherfucker I don’t have to tell you. . . ––Think you do migo! you got a lot of rules to follow, you choose to fuck us up over just maybe overlooking one banal little ord. . . ––Give me your I-D! barking as if about to confiscate weaponry revealed timorously, stomping around up the blocked streetcorner, about which neighbors talking, strolling, hustling, strutting or waddling past complain, deriding the inherent hypocrisy of a system that violates the innocents it protects, ineluctably, a process of extracting justice juice from fruit fallen in just the wrong spots, on plots of beach fenced off by rigid code and chicken wire ––Both of you! reaching in a pocket on the Puerto Rican one, who rolls his eyes as rolling papers come pulled up exposed to the street-post sodium-light ––you’d better not be an illegal motherfucker. ––Man I’m a citizen but how do you know he’s not an alien from Ireland! pointing to the ginger driver ––or my man next to me ain’t some Nazi fugitive’s great nephew or. . . ––Guess that remains to be found out Mister. . . Huerta. ––Yo! Reese shuffling aside as the policeman puts Edwin’s wallet in a plastic ‘EVIDENCE’ bag ––you want to find out my name you have to tell me yours first, loud enough his voice picks up on the handheld camera he left running, pointing up looking out the windshield through a fish-eye lens he fit on it in a fit of inspiration as the lawman’s manic side became apparent, sighing with an apprehensive novel sensation, like a heifer or a ram accustomed to a peaceful elasticity of living here seeing it supplanted by a certain dejection, like that of a struggling television camera tech suffering a drunken premonition that the reality show to which his minute and careful college-conditioned services have opened themselves will crash and burn in pre-production, never get off the ground nor enjoy even a survey-sample of viewers, because at its conceptual core it really does prove too perilous, and someone, a competitor in the experiment or even the semi- celebrated host, will die, get maimed or go crazy a year before the intended first air date. ––Excuse me young man? the officer eagerly accepting, probably awaiting, a yelp of lowly contention, from such a patently guilty civilian ––before you say another word to me get your left hand off that hatch back there, I have to be able to see both of your. . . ––What! man come on, you think he got a gun taped up there? you would have seen it when you pulled us. . .

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––Quiet! cracking fist hard onto aluminum roof ––about to write you all up for resisting arrest, disturbing the peace and. . . ––We’re the ones disturbing the peace!? Fran incredulous, loud enough to elicit a round of sympathetic bystander laughter ––that’s topsy turvy. ––Officer can you tell us your name now. ––¡Coño te llamo! ––Here! look, my hands are free, I’m reaching for my identification, slooowly. ––Alright! enough. . . officer swinging creakingly his sweating droplet-short cropped head on chainlink-tight neck, looking between the three of them warily, sensing conspiracy, insurgency embedded amid the humidity, despite this night sky’s dome of circumfloral spotless cloud cover, silent potent argument for peace ––My proper name’s Private First Class Brock McCrank, Twenty-First Mountain Dragoons, F Company. ––Um so aren’t you a little lost? Reese with diplomatic slowness, tenebrous, offering over his little laminated avatar of civic existence ––this is Philly not Kabul. ––Not Baghdad neither migo! ––Or Mogadishu, or Benghazi. . . Fran pedantic with a free-fraternal anger, at a certain interminable regime of martial capital, continual posturing always reinforcing the perceptible need for such posturing, the cost alone of keeping all the mess hall overhead lights on, and vending machines running, constituting a porous battle-helmet colander under the maggoty mass of taxpayer pasta ––Or Bogota? Panama. . . ––Or Quang Ngai, or Wounded Knee. . . the struggle in Reese’s voice to keep the juggling going giving way to steaming churning tank-tread fury in McCrank’s own face and latent voice ––or, um. . . faltering, defaulting to quasi-comedy ––the Alamo? ––That’s it! smart ass, McCrank past breaking point, overrunning the three paces between Reese and him, putting a jeaned knee low and squarely in the younger spine, holding him up by the arm pits as if committing a desperation penalty in football, but no flag flies here except the domineering starred and striped spectral one always beating, like fresh hospital sheets being unfurled and laid, at a rate ahead of Brock’s heart, while for the neighbors around the banner usually seems to slither, tends to clump up underfoot like a dirty knotty carpet cut too big, unfit for its dusty room. ––Let me see. . . Kunders, huh? sounds more like the name of some bad candy for dumb kids, not a man’s proper. . . ––Yo! that hurts dude, Reese pronouncedly so his camera picks it up; the neighbors just shake their heads, not quite infuriated, because the young man is an outsider, but still they hum reflectively over what a damn shame it is, this puerile show of pointless force ––You’re already looking at an A-C-L-U case against. . . ––And you’re looking at either a night or a month in jail, or else a night or a month in the hospital! McCrank spinning Reese around, shoving his wrist-bound back- side against the van, frisking him hard like digging for an imaginary transmitter to an imaginary enemy headquarters ––Your choice. ––Hey McCrank what about my field sobriety test! Fran pyrrhically, goading and valiant ––Don’t you want to take my statement too.. ––Yo what are you! some kind of Jorge Zimmermann vigilante bullshitter? Edwin stealing thunder, exacerbating at a safe distance, backed safely away from any simple retaliatory swipe, at the hood of the running van, hoping the gun does not get drawn again ––like you couldn’t even tell us what precinct you’re from. ––Think I owe you shit hombre? baleful McCrank with a shove, hiding how stymied and procedurally stalled he feels here ––Ask me what precinct when you’re in the back of the fucking car. ––Um. . . can you fit us all in there? with a potent desire to reach inside the van, grab his camera, readjust it, show McCrank’s blank semi-sedan sitting lurid strobing like a floor model at some chintzy carcinogenic Halloween store, wherein its frustrated hunter manager missing the best of the season sleeps ––. . . or can I, like, call shot gun. ––Shut up! ––Shouldn’t you be calling backup migo? like so you can separate us, because we’re so dangerous. ––You shut up too! all of you shut up. ––Take it easy! stop waving that thing around, or you’ll. . . Popped in the chin by coal-hunk dense-black gun-butt, the Puerto Rican falls back biting his young tongue. ––Get back up! get the fuck back up and put your hands back on the fucking car; and you, rolly-polly non-stopping ass hole, get your stoned stupid self ready, as soon as I finish searching this vehicle you’re going to take some tests. ––Going to sue you amigo, plainly bruised, cracking cartilage ––that’s excessive force. . . yeah okay, look through my mans’s pops’s van, you’re not finding any thing in there. . . sure, go ahead, you can ignore me, I don’t mind, better than listening to you spit and holler. . . yeah, open those C-D cases, check to make sure they’re actually reflective on the bottom and not opaque like cocaine would, or. . . and there you go again! only thing in there remotely close to a weapon is this pair of chop sticks Fran always reuses, they’re still nice but it gets kinda gross, he. . . ––Shut the fuck up! McCrank suddenly emerging from the ransacked van like a hungry giant rodent prodded, out of desperation, downward into petty scavenging, as well as onto bigger prey despite having no option of imposing fatality upon it. ––Yo I need a referee! referee? any body. . . Edwin pleading to the surrounding porches, where people still continue to shoot the scene on cell phones, talking less and less loudly, more ruefully so, no longer titillated, rather assimilated to the flinty human- phallic arrow head, intransigent as granite and volatile, embodying flailingly this mayhem, smearing his presence like gold-tobacco-leaf bad-egg-tempera war paint all over the winsome vapor cake of a city evening seeming thicker with business, in a certain re- enthused and off-the-clock, softly clustered manner, than its frenetic diurnal side ––guy popped me in the jaw!

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––Stop snitching, sardonic McCrank subtle as a bullet-riddled tea kettle screaming, thinking himself hilarious ––and stop struggling! I need to. . . ––Damn man! are you seriously. . . look! mira, mira ¡mira! he’s cuffing my fucking ankles, man, you. . . ––That’ll shut you up; now, as for you, Mister MacCool. . . ––Yeah uh, what about those sobriety tests? ––Know what a sobriety test in my army unit was Mister MacCool? an officer punches you square in the face, gauges by how straight you fall, or how well you take it, how inebriated you are, or. . . ––Please don’t tackle and hogtie me too; I generally don’t believe in suing people, by which I don’t mean corporations, they’re not people, but. . . ––What I believe, generally, Mister MacCool, is that you’re stoned, and. . . ––You mean you believe I’m generally stoned? well, that wouldn’t make me not walk straight sir, but anyway I didn’t drink any. . . ––You sound awfully familiar with the matter Mister MacCool. ––I’m just saying! I’m clearly not drunk, so. . . ––Well I can send you to the hospital, get them to check your blood for. . . ––Yeah! that’s the spirit, American hero. . . Reese in steady alternation on the sore balls of his feet which feel like molten musket bullets from the days of active shot towers ––Great allocation of resources, real useful public service! next thing you know we’ll be using firetrucks to deport foreign workers who overstay their visas. ––You want some too wise guy! darting downward into asphalt the ball-point pen he intended to swing in front of Fran’s pupils ––come here so I can fuck you up too! don’t want to make a nice white kid feel discrimin hey! that’s resisting arrest, you. . . ––I have the right to hide! from behind the unmarked cop car ––when some fucking rogue psycho skinhead. . . ––Get your hands off my vehicle Mister Kunders! that’s at least another four viol, you know what? here. Remembering the pepper spray; feeling elated, not thinking twice. Pointing it straight in the younger man’s eyes; letting forth with crude orbital tremor, a manic look of “you like that!?” as his tallest detainee falls, with a guttural plaintive “fuck!” initially immobilized and limited painedly to hoary demure complaint, instead of a justified “fuck you!” up at the officer jaw-slacked and staggered ecstatically at his padded knees, like he just. . . ––Come on! excoriating from the porches ––that’s not necessary. ––Sir, you’re insane! and acting like a Nazi, from Edwin, hidden, almost prostrate, but ready to spring, huddled underneath Fran’s front bumper. ––In two minutes all of you are getting in my fucking car; you’ll fit! and nicely, especially since you’re all probably so gay for each other. ––Officer! chill! Fran and Edwin embarrassed, Reese writhing at eye and throat. ––Yo migo! this is the world of real material consequence; you pulled us over and push us around like it isn’t unnatural and here we are feeling scared, betrayed and mad as shit and you think you get as much room to fuck up and fuck with people as if it’s wall ball all over again, out on a crowded playground at recess in the fifth. . . Emboldened like the lithe and rapacious little spider, once it starts to spin its bitter prey into its doom cocoon, an invasive groping inertia synchrolubricious in all its legs, for the sport and food of self-sufficient murder, McCrank drops the curtain on Fran’s peroration, with weaponized Mach-speed tobacco-drab knuckles, off priapic ignition and singular need for accomplishment, yet as casual as if merely opening a vacuum-sealed jar of bloody salsa. Punch. But no body can help. Cop on the street. Bull in a china shop. Every body gapes. All kinds of licenses. All kinds of protected. Sterling, stratified, levels, of ownership. Obliged to protect. But far short of liability. Hardly a fly at his tail, that idea. Vvvrrrmmmnnnhhhrrreeeeeeeee and a squeak of braking, breeze of strong confident opening, car door coming ajar, and a roar from the porches like pulling at a fat fighting salmon, a hope of something welcome, someone who can stand up to this prion- crisped moronic pawn of the power system, every body profoundly dismayed to see that, though they are unlit, the newcome car has cop lights in its windshield too. ––McCrank! with a shoulder-led tackle, into a soft spot about the rampant lawman’s vest ––motherfucker what were you thinking. Titan-beholden, cheering crisscrosses Cambria Street like power cabling strung with worn-out pairs of shoes; adulatory shout-outs to different legendary local defensive backs and ends abound, pointed and forked with jovial comparisons, to Number Twenty, Number Twenty-One, Number Twenty-Three, Fifty-Four, Ninety-Three. . . ––Yeah go ahead! he’ll let you get up only when he wants. ––Get off me Rotte! what the fuck do you think you’re doing, I’ll report. . . ––Report me to who! your superiors? mine at State? the city cops who think you give too much of a shit, don’t have enough of a handle on your self; what did these guys do anyway! ––Left on red. ––On a one way street! from under the van. ––That true McCrank? ––Fuck you Rotte, it was a rolling stop and the vehicle smells like pot, I think you can clearly. . . ––What I can clearly McCrank is hear you over a radio sewn up in your body armor, and I didn’t like what I heard so I felt I had to intervene; your last assignment for emergency-sensitivity training and you think they really just sent you out on your own unguided? of course we’ve been listening McCrank, and you blew it big time, pretty sure the directive was make a solo arrest of multiple individuals at once, well you did that anyway and technically only one of your detainees has to be black, Hispanic or Arab so

199 that’s okay you fulfilled that requirement but here’s the problem, you were instructed to quote conduct the arrest in a sensitive, respectful and extraordinarily civil manner end quote, and you certainly failed to fulfill that particular. ––Ain’t I’m empathy? chidingly from the sidewalk. ––Rotte you ass hole! this was a lay up. ––A lay up? maybe for social media, lay up for the lawyers these boys are going to retain, winking at McCrank, police departments’ internal investigation units and district attorneys of course being instructed to not look at nor expose, let alone prosecute, an instance of excessive force which might if sifted reveal the existence of a classified national security program, but McCrank of course does not quite feel like winking back, retching and twitching resentful of the stinging in his asphalt-peppered cheek, embedded little painful pebbles there like sticky shrapnel. ––Rotte you won’t get away with this. ––Who do you think you’re talking to! some little kids in rags and flip flops throwing rocks at your jeep? well that’s what you get anyway for having all that gall and taking the top off McCrank; these guys did nothing, bet if I asked them what they did all day or yesterday, the truthful facts divulged therefrom would alarm us a lot less than what you might have to report for your self. ––What do you mean Rotte? Jesus your breath stinks. . . –-Where were you last night McCrank! it was radio silence, what did you do? go to the station, clock in, get in a civilian car without even your vest, go fuck around until clocking out? because you know and they know you’re not really part of the force here? ––You arrogant state-trooper shit-eater! like you don’t just sit in traffic posted up relaxed waiting to write any dumb speeding ticket and hope it escalates to something even dumber. ––You’re in no position to question, criticize or contravene me McCrank, dangling the hand cuffs, leaning closer, unaware that, but fortunate, no camera here can hear ––if you knew what I did at work all day you’d be a rich man. ––Fuck you. ––Um can we go. ––Wait Fran this is interesting! Reese apparently recovering, breathing sharply but with palliative hiss, out of his tautly contoured mouth, as if he just bit right into a basketball cluster of ghost pepper. ––No you boys get along now please. ––But wait what did you say about this guy being in um sensitivity training? ––None of your business young man but trust me, trust the process, you’re being protected and served at the highest levels of law enforcement. ––Yeah he feels it, rattled Edwin climbing back in the passenger seat, freed by the elder cop, the guy who got the blood sausage ––Of course he would; you know when Reese was a kid he had a butler named Networth? ––Edwin shut up! look Officer I mean I have some questions. ––I’m saving your ass sir so shut up and be grateful. ––But if my ass is not guilty I. . . ––Reese let’s go! who cares what they’re fighting about? as long as they’re not fighting us. ––Fighting? you! both cops scoffing. ––Okay I understand but still what we’re seeing might pertain to. . . ––Get your dumb ass back in the van and out of here man! an observer through incredulous coughing ––Are you serious. The last flustered Reese hears from the staunch street agon behind him comes gruffly ––You had one week to make a clean and socially acceptable multiple arrest; you get paid for the whole week anyway so most guys just decide to get it out of the way the first day but you. . . And they go free, the three, into teeming sea-green cinder block-obstinate evening, while the two nonuniformed lawmen continue to grapple, cell phone panorama camera crew with facile but interested vigilance barking commentary continually. ––So what are you accusing me of doing Rotte. ––What I think McCrank, whispering, rapidly, itching to avoid the imminent intervention of city Police ––is that yesterday you went around in your own car under no supervision whatsoever, that you sat and watched some salsa bar being built out in the suburbs; you waited and waited, watching the men working inside, recognizing them to be Mexican or maybe Guatemalan, and you followed a carful of those men out of the suburbs and back into South Philly, where they’re supposed to feel safe and valued, but you followed them home, wrote down their address and made a phone call. . . well we couldn’t see what number you were dialing but were pretty sure what it was about so we sat on that house all night after you left, a couple of city patrol cars and me unmarked, and you know what? a big white van and a black sport utility vehicle rolled past, slow at first but apparently saw us all and vanished, high-tailed it up the street; we tracked them and one parked up at a church, the other a mosque, both just a few minutes away from each other in North Philly. . . so what you’re going to tell me McCrank or else your little suburban bully-fool’s paradise goes up in fossilized shit dust, in infamy, better tell me who the fuck you called to rat out that address, if it was someone at the same holding company that direct-deposited to you two-thousand dollars last week, yeah that’s right! an entity we traced to an Egyptian national who hasn’t been in the States for at least ten years, and tell me too who was driving those vehicles! which had fake tags by the way, isn’t that sacrilege?

––Aunt Medina, am I fat? with a tug, ruffles. ––What the. . . ya laahwy! child what time is it? ––Don’t worry I woke up too, that’s the only reason I’m waking you up. ––Aniyah what kind of selfish. . . ––No answer my question first! please, am I fat?

201

––Sayyida, sayyida. . . not quite comforting, too palpably without the purportedly normal animal will to be so, rather a beastly desire to teach, to elicit submission, and replication, through edification, flexing and tossing out of snoring like a great maned prey-sensate cat ––one second, anesa. . . anesa, anesa. . . ––Why are you reaching for your glasses! with, audibly, the pain of heavy inference, shrieking cues towards a thousand paranoid conclusions, currying unfavor through static electricity weighted negative ––like you have to check again just to make sure I’m really. . . ––Bataal kalaam! stop it Aniyah, now completely upright, already appearing like she has gone through the whole day ahead in her head and ordered every thing properly, for every body’s good, her hands taut contorted for the shape in her hand of a phone, the other for a pencil ––Now sit down here child next to me and tell me what’s the matter, why are you so concerned you might not look exactly an ideal way? only Allah can achieve perfect ideal form, in His great manifold formlessness. ––Oh stop it Aunt Medina I don’t want perfection! I just want this gut to go away, it’s disgusting, imagine how much flabbier it will get in ten years when. . . Flabbergasted at first that her foster daughter should speak of a future so far off and hard to envisage, Aunt Medina breathes just some distracted bismillahs and rocks Aniyah at a shoulder, gently pinching, pulling at her arms and tummy folds to gauge them with reflexive hospitable reassurance, like an empress chimp picking through sweat- entwined clumps of tight roots tenacious as detritus, letting her sputtering infant know the nipping lice are actually fewer and farther between than they feel and what she feels there all over are actually merely diminutive innocuous instances of dirt and other jungle rot, basic sanitary easily removable grime ––Child you’re talking of ten years from now? stroking her unironed hair, changing the subject? revealing it? ––when you’re usually saying you might not live another school night or another summer weekend without some dumb boy who can’t even understand the calligraphy you do. ––But Aunt Medina. . . ready to expostulate but softening her tone in folds of closeness and palpable trust unyielding, but still betraying enough of her innate argumentative nature to prompt acute Aunt Medina to squeeze one of her forearms warningly ––If I get too fat too fast I might not ever make it to Mecca. ––Let me tell you something sayyida, Medina leaning like telling a baby its name, inculcating in cuddles ––Mecca’s overrated, but don’t tell any body at the mosque I told you that because they make a racket on getting them field trips there together; that whole country’s a racket, you know they put a big ass fake Big Ben up? five times as big as the original, alongside all these other ugly skyscrapers right there over the Kaa’bah ––Okay but if I’m fat no decent man will ever. . . ––Now I know you’re just messing Aniyah, you know damn well all men are indecent, yes you have that smirk, don’t hide it, I know that stare means the same thing! expressionless, my behind. . . ––But think about it this way Aunt Medina! would Allah want me to spoil my sexy maidenly vessel so pointlessly? only because I can’t help but glut out on salt, fat, sugar, carbs, and indoor vegetation. ––The way you thrash around in your room to that music all the time I’d expect you’d shed some excess flesh anesa, and as for what you just said well it sounds like a decent self-diagnosis; what do you need my voice in this for if you see the solution yourself? you’re going to college Aniyah, you need to find your own energy, that one divine spark to get yourself taking hold of what you know is yours. ––Usually I’m also eating when I’m listening to my music Aunt Medina. ––Well I can help put a stop to that, I always have more eye to keep on you Aniyah, you sure know that; but I’m also always here to remind you what’s good in the world and in your own soul, or in this case in your physical form, and what I mean is, all that walking you do helping that Mister Kunders convince people to take his money gave you stronger legs already, and, I think, not just I think, I see, the corrected posture has gone all the way up your spine child, to your mind, you’re prouder now, excited for school, although you still can’t help but hang your head and look down at your belly, think of a simple roll of fat like a scroll pronouncing death, or a bottled swarm of locusts threatening to burst, like it isn’t your fault because you can’t help your American instincts despite how much I taught you better, those meals you used to love to cook, not like it was a chore. ––Aunt Medina that’s because when I got here I was only fourteen and all that homework and clubs and stuff weren’t so crazy and hard core yet, I was too lazy. ––Well watch out or you’ll get a soft core, Medina teasing tugging at Aniyah’s tummy again. ––Aunt Medina! please don’t trigger me, like I was just legit sobbing. ––Was it really a needless personal body image crisis that woke you up Aniyah? or did you have a nightmare. ––Couldn’t it be both? ––I suppose. Was it? ––No. ––Was it one. ––It was. ––You had a nightmare? ––I did. ––More serious than an extra cut of body fat? ––Yes. ––Now we’re getting somewhere; why don’t you tell me about it? or did you want to go back to bed, since you have work soon. ––It’s okay Aunt Medina, I’ll stay here and tell you about it, I think I’d better, it was one of those important-feeling bad dreams; it has to do with that guy I said was Mister Kunders’ grandson but is just actually just some creep I met on the Internet. . . I

203 knew you’d give me that look! but before I tell you what you don’t already know let me add I’m really excited to start riding a bicycle to work, and at work, like it will be so much easier; I bought one off Mister Kunders’ actual grandson who’s on the original roof goon crew and also he was the guy that made the movie about our play about Haiti we made at my school which I wish you could have been there for it was amazing and he’s making a new one about what Mister Kunders is trying to do, but anyway it’ll be good for me and I’ll beat back my tummy doing it too, don’t you think I’d look good on a bicycle Aunt Medina? ––Sayyida. . . ––Okay! okay. . . so, this is what’s going on. . . ––Coffee, decaf; and put something sweet in it. ––Something sweet huh hon? with a flick of captailed biro forgiving him the perfume emanating from thoroughly frizzed blown brushed fan-swept beard but sprinkled with piss, apparently so to any eye or nose even those maimed by cigarettes, as he felt compelled to do his weird ablutions in their only men’s room, hogging it in arrogance, before bothering, emerging, to look the menu over, but she likes him still anyway ––Like honey? cocoa? what do you want, whispering ––whiskey!? ––I guess just this, fingering blithely the lid of the sugar dispenser ––it’s right here already. ––Alright hon what about food for you. ––Give me a few minutes. ––You got it hon; I like your tats by the way, not specifying which, trying to look at any others besides the tear drops he has, rather the flaming lexical adders or mouthy surplus of artery-blue weaponry, as an egg shell-unpalatable gaze keeps engravitating hers, leaving it on the burner despite the hot steady internal kettle-shriek of alarm he triggers like no other customer she has ever seen here this side of dawn ––you look like you need some sleep honey. ––I can get you some sleep honey. ––What’s that? ––Sleep honey! contraband. ––What’s that. ––It’s a delicacy for exhausted warriors. ––So who you saying needs it! me or you. ––You’re the warrior here ma’am; I’m more of an oracle. ––What’s that! ––I can see and explain the future. ––Great! so you know what you’re going to order yet? ––Are the meat and cheese halal? ––Sure, I mean, yeah, I think so. ––Do you have plantains? and rice and beans, something like that, salt fish? ketchup kebab? no well okay pancakes please, all the fruit you have too, and please could you sprinkle hamburger on it. . . you do that look well sayyida. ––Calling me fat? ––No that’s Arabic, it’s like calling you honey. ––Where’d you learn A-rabic! ––Trade school. ––Well hey all right half hour into my shift and I think I already got my most interesting customer of the day; let me take your picture so’s I remember you, it’s a long shift hon. . . ––How about customer of the month? put my picture on the wall; make sure you date it. ––I’ll see! it’s quite an honor. Loping in gentle orbitals away she puts her little notebook in a black back pocket watched with utter impolitic lechery on his diseased, cologned, combed and costumed part, his unshowered body odor and bad breath uncontainable, the rebel spirit of revolting personal aroma perhaps a tad fanatical in this man’s thrumming hurting glands. He looks outside, laughs privately at the empty semi truck he parked on the street, and feels a prick of paranoia, thinking that Bing Dong might own this very restaurant and pop his head in right now; checking the wall for its health inspection certificate and business license, even though he is not yet late but should not have the truck, Ian finds to his distraught relief, his expected flood of swordsman serenity suddenly in abeyance, that the management here apparently operates under names not Asiatic but straight-up white-bread short wry Anglican, so he assumes the owner is black and therefore nobody in surrounding booths or with him at the counter or behind it there in the open kitchen spangled with cherished photographs will be uncool enough to raise a fuss over him running outside and brazenly lighting and quaffing a blunt in the cab of his naked trailerless truck, hauling a carpet out of the cab and unrolling it once inside the second door, past the gumball dispenser-and-cash-machine foyer, kneeling there before the hostess podium and mounted cash-register praying almost plumb straight East towards Mecca, adjusting his qibla bearing and praying again towards Ethiopia, then turning south-southeast of this grease-joint diner to nod over at oft-nodding Kensington. But it does not go down quite like that. ––Get up please! exasperated from some smoking griddle over there ––What you think just because we got a Black Lives Matter decal in the window we’re some kind of YMCA for freaks lost in their own heads? this is a family diner man. Defiantly Ian Muhammad rises, reangles his rug and kneels again to face and bless a distant paradise where early dawning morning-wood man was cradled, his desire to rock therein and thereon insatiable. ––Sir come on get up off that floor, his waitress cheerily ––separation of church and steak! filling abrim his barely-sipped water.

205

––I don’t go to church! growling, thrusting and slouching, in customary disc- degenerating posture lower ahead ––and I have to do this at certain times of the day. . . not sure himself which times exactly today, or any day, he only kept track back in prison. ––Then finish up outside! hurled from the open kitchen ––before I call the cops; look! you made the baby cry. ––Look is this American or what? Ian grimacing through a surprise muscle pull somewhere ––freedom to express my religion! ––Freedom of movement’s more important in a restaurant ass hole! look we got an old lady with a walker coming in the door, you better help her. ––She’d better wait! spitting through rapid tobacco-cured, mumbled but overplayed, prayer ––few more minutes. ––Man don’t just say ‘few more minutes’ all casual like you’re being reasonable right now. . . yo what did he order? where’s the ticket, no not that one man! can’t you see this is a meal for four, five people? that table right there only one with four five people at it, three to be exact, quit smoking that herb at work man, can’t even handle when it isn’t that busy, yes! that ticket, I’m tearing it up. ––Ex. . . cuse. . . me. . . young. . . man. . . feebly from the gum-ball get-cash front-doors foyer. ––yamḥuw' 'll:ahu ma' yaʃa'ʔʔu wayuθbitu sl' waʕindahuwʔ 'ʔum:u 'lkitabi, Ian in the zone ––If he comes walking I come running, if he comes walking I come running, if he comes walking I. . . ––Oh now I know you’re just rude! his waitress finally firmly disenchanted past mere hopeful half-aroused forgiving teasing ––She’s an old lady sir. ––Oh. . . I’m. . . not. . . so. . . old. . . yet. . . ––Get up jerk off! the manager-chef with Ian by dense tangled hair far more hopeless than his beard. َو َماُ أَ ْر َس ْلنَا َق ْب َل َكُ ِم َنُ ٱ ْل م ْر َس ِلي َنُ إِ َّلُ إِ َن ه ْمُ َليَأْ كل و َنُ ٱل َطعَا َمُ َويَ ْم شو َنُ فِى ٱ ْْلَ ْس َوا ِقُ !Don’t touch me–– hoary cyanide icicle voice pointed at the . . . َو َجعَ ْلنَا َب ْع َض ك ْمُ ِل َب ْع ضُ فِتْنَةُ أَتَ ْص ِب رو َنُ َو َكا َنُ َربُّ َكُ بَ ِصي ًۭ را eyes of the world but hardly aimed at either of them ––I’m not hurting any body. ––Maybe not but you’re definitely hindering one of my customers from coming in, so that’s weighted to the hurting side in socioeconomic terms sir! with limp stiff Ian still stolidly Quranic, upright off the floor muttering surahs and haditha, his hands flexing from fanning in and out of fisthood, as if gripping the consolation rod at an old-school surgery table, his elbows and all other major joints locked in obstinance ––so you’re hurting my business man and therefore my feelings. ––Thank you for the excellent service sir. . . pinned to one glass-paned side of the doorway while unperturbed the hunched old woman shuffles inside enjoying herself just fine ––don’t worry I’m never coming back. ––Roll up the motherfucker’s rug, with a curt nod to a younger kitchen hand standing by to assist with violence, additional restraint but not on himself, if necessary, now frowning wondering why the boss would offer further even that modicum of hospitality, to this profane impetuous inappropriately pious new customer, now the record holder, other than certain crack addicts of mostly short-lived notoriety, for shortest stay here before being escorted out the door ––this morning you get what you want my man, get to feel special, just what you try to get out of this head-case religious mess; since you ain’t respectable like an old church lady like this, you have to settle on something else so congratulations you can have the distinction of being banned from breakfast, it’s six forty-five in the morning, and you have to have it this way. ––Could. . . you. . . stop. . . yelling. . . please? Outside again upon cement sidewalk bejeweled and landmined with proto- Zagar disarrangements of glass-bottle bone chips, Ian finds himself wondering how he can simply weather, ignore and thereby encourage the final puncturing addendum of insults behind him, lapsing from a moderated envelope of rightfully upset business disposition to one of simple virile dominion, more now a flexed tongue-lashing than a hidden snake rattle, as, he notices, they both notice, the manager and him, two women walking past, going either direction, preening and sashaying away archly, one wearing a purse, one pushing a stroller, neither of them with a man on an arm at this time of day; he wonders too with fantastic angelic spite if he can make time to come back here, later, in his car (packed at the moment inside the fated shipping container) and unpack from the incendiary array a spare uranium rod, or canister of Pu-237, tape it to one of those hand grenades Yusuf generously handed him (by lobbing them, a surprise each time, during various business meetings), throw the thing through the kitchen vent here and high-tail his way back, and before the cops catch him park it again inside the truck trailer (hidden at the moment one last time down at the pier, rather than at Bing Dong’s lot where it might be discovered). No, too much of a cop-out! the best he could do then, pursued, would probably be to detonate his own loaded car with another grenade. Funny, he thinks, how Bing Dong likes to laugh about how you can’t get away with any of this kind of shit they do here in China. What a waste it would be to kamikaze his way out in traffic, that would be the made-for-TV version. Of course it will be all over TV anyway. But does it really have to so strongly seem intended or designed to be so? No, I must go through with it as-is at this point, any deviation or variation from the intended course would now prove catastrophe for me, for the cause, at a fundamental molecular level; like I could not differentiate those choices that taste like bronchitis medicine from those like Halloween candy, but either way any thing off color would strike me, as it kills me, a travesty of the simple original flower from which it, and all its fellow pitiful analogs, thereof, derive. Saints don’t fail the flock, and being one just means you’re smart enough to save something of your self every day to share with others, while the rest of you is at work, leaving something in your gut to keep going. So what does that make me? Admitting I’m tired, out of ideas and my dick hurts as always. Not my decision, what I am. It’s all up to Aniyah now, if she snitches, in time. Not up to the FBI, the coroner or the media. I can’t tell if my soul is a tick-sized speck of lead at this point or a nuclear

207 reactor at full power. Up to Aniyah. Should I really have made that stop last night? Dropped all those tapes there on her aunt’s little protruding porch hardly more than the depth of an ordinary stoop. That old ball buster gets up early I bet. Like me in that way. Except she keeps her qibla straight. But Aniyah has to go to that absurd ridiculous job this morning, so she might have intercepted the box first. Go pitching people to let this old rich guy, who made his money making, keeping and ignoring, families, like yours, miserable, coat your roof white so the sun won’t feel so strong when all those gases natural and otherwise overmultiply mirroring our own enormous worldwide herds which tend to excavate, refine and fart them, discharge through the whole cycle pure dirty unbreathability for the sake of unsustainable levels of comfort and screaming petty libido insufficiently mediated, reminds me of the pain the clap is acting out down there a lot more ooze in my underwear today than usual probably because I have been up all night haven’t done that in a while. Last time was probably with Fran a while ago watching karate movies. Was it? No wait. First week in the joint. How could I forget? Didn’t sleep a wink. Neither did my cell mate. Until that one night when he started saying surahs to himself up in his bunk. Seventh night together and he finally put his mouth where his kufi was, with basically the first words he spoke in my presence at all until then except the first night when he asked me why I make those noises when I piss. Told me my condition could make me go blind. Told me he’d kill any woman who did that to him. I didn’t want to admit to the guy that I felt sorry for her, that she’d been sleeping around and not getting tested before she even met me, that it had been sleeping inside her not yet giving her the burning and blisters, but its first rumblings emerged on her part about two months into us knowing each other, and then in me not long after. Comes and goes. Better and worse. What I told him to sound manly was I have so many bitches I didn’t know which one it could have possibly been. I told my cell mate thanks for the concern, but he kept talking, told me then and there I shouldn’t use that word for women. Even though he just told me he'd murder one. Turned out he was in there for attempting exactly that. He was from Nicetown. That night he taught me my first hadith, and helped me settle in, learn how to not piss the wrong people off. But he stopped talking to me after a year, for going too much against the grain of his version of sharia. By that point I had made a solid weed connect with one of the Jamaican guys on our block, but my buddy, my first imam, told me marijuana’s haram. Led to that little altercation when I got him in the eye with a spork. They transferred me to a whiter cell block where every body had a shaved head and wore nothing on it. Grim looks and more warlike words in the yard, in the showers, in the shop, in the classroom, in the weight room, every fucking place was worse, even the guards, black white Asian Hispanic, told me I would do well to join the Aryan brotherhood of skin heads, meth heads and Jesus freaks. I sought allegiance instead with the few African brothers on my new block, all Muslim. They had heard I half-blinded one of their brothers, my old cell mate, said they knew him to be respectable and me to not be trusted. I told them he was a snitch, having a hunch he was. Turned out I was right, and I was in, while my first cell mate, my first real teacher, was beaten into banishment in the medical wing, where to pray towards Mecca he had to ask the nurses to wheel his bed, his new home, into position for him. Still hungry. Still don’t think it’s absurd to nurture that need. Unsure about whether I’m supposed to fast for this. But I have mixed my rituals up so thoroughly the past few days to the point where it’s plain to me nobody shares my religion anywhere. Even though I have not lost faith they share my hatred of the police. Also I’m too tired to carry it out adroitly, at this point, if I don’t eat also, compensate hours with calories. Why I made an entire shift, gave that young hair-gelled guy, one of Bing Dong’s dozens of subordinate cousins, a night off, from driving the empties off the lot and back to the pier, of a ritual wherein I stay up all night packing the container, the way I want it but for which I hardly planned, exposing myself to a ridiculous concentration of radiation at once, escapes me. Bone feels like it’s traded roles with marrow. My rotten gut feels like any food I put through it would pass, merely collecting irradiated bile, congealing into a sloppy heavy fecal matter never to move, except perhaps leaking out all of my pores, undigested, but I’m so fucking tired and fried from handling that strontium salad that if I don’t throw any new kindling in the old catalytic calorie converter I won’t have any source of energy to light me up, make the flabby homeland proud. Odd, shouldn’t Jah, shouldn’t Allah, be here on either shoulder, as usual, giving me words of encouragement, abidingly always reminding me I made their team in the first place? Because I try to hear them right now, their word on good deed. Nothing, just a grating dead-engine whine, like hundreds of dirty crystal nut-shells rubbing against each other. Don’t panic, don’t despair, of course they’re here. This radio silence pleases, enjoins. The plan is perfect. Don’t forget all night their whispers did tell you how to arrange the explosives, how to wire the fractal-flammable mandala, where to pour the fertilizer, how to space and where to affix the rods, the canisters and vials of Yusuf’s shitty short-term potpourri of ghetto dirty bomb solutions. Friends in Spetsnaz my ass. Probably runs with some lunatic exmilitary cowboy who got injured and had to leave service, couldn’t make it as a cop because of too many rules, ended up getting fired from a private military contractor for dipping into the automatic weapons like they’re barrels of grapes or jars of peanut butter and trying to live a regimen of selling high, buying back low through an old Army contact, keeping the company’s cache continually replenished, but he got caught when some snag on either side of that equation earned him the distinction of being too corrupt to make it as a war profiteer, so now when a coked-up joker like Yusuf comes up and says something like hey I need a nuclear bomb, but if you need to divide the nuclear from the bomb parts to make it easier hey I don’t give a shit it’s not my baby, of course the guy goes to work, having not learned from a series of disgraces to do less drugs but just the opposite, needs more all the time to keep his superpowers from lapsing into cancers. Guy will probably kill himself when he sees my little mushroom cloud on the news. Wonder if Aniyah will see it with her naked eye, over all those buildings between. Fuck! Too much speculation. Totally out of order now. Just sit satisfied I put it together correct, my haywire contraption. All that’s left is to run those long cables I stole off the

209 dock from out of the container to the battery in the truck. But I need to be a little more patient, let the business day get rolling. Think a coffee, a donut and the rest of this weed should keep me alive, all five senses live-wire, that long; need to avoid one of Bing Dong’s joints of course, find somewhere with a better bagel sandwich anyway, not interested in ‘the very least’ anymore. A body at every hot dispenser, and lines behind. A shame for him who prefers to mix his roasts, blends and flavors; because none of them are very good alone, taste like rubber cement mixed up with bitter cocoa chaff distilled in nuclear reactor waste-water. Too many other people here going to work. So just a simple disappointing dark roast for him this morning. Wondering, worrying, more, about, now, the lingering atmospheric compounds of infraction all over this store. Students out of school for summer grinning stupidly, utterly in-the-way; cargo-pocketed guys in wrinkled boots bound for pickup trucks. One in five of any of them feeling guilty, he feels it. Sniff around, stare them down. They all know what they are to an upright young white man with a close crop, scattered tattoos and twenty-inch biceps, where he’s bound with such a stuffed duffel bag, what heavy garments await him today at the other side of sweaty gym shorts, what power and privilege, solemn and fearsome, immovable, like a Mesopotamian obelisk, he will wear with well-compensated honor all day. ––Quit sulking McCrank! irreverently, puncturing the younger lawman’s panoramic social fantasy, now feeling like he waits in line for coffee merely like any civilian; but surrounding shop talk and shouted sequences of sandwich accoutrements establish a sense of civic secrecy, security for both of them, to talk, the positive comfort of collective efficacious dawn and the air palliatively more arid than yesterday ––And quit profiling those black kids there, look he’s got a goddamn cinnamon bun, think he’d buy a cinnamon bun and bother to stand around like a jackoff hiding something else in his pants? when it’s his hide if someone’s minding the cameras at the moment. ––My eyes were just drawn to his copious head of hair Rotte, which suggests also a level of possible confidence on his part consistent with that needed to deliberately carry concealed stolen goods and linger at the scene of the crime. ––Could mean he’s interested in his people’s history and the unique way their hair grows McCrank, keep your hair short because you think it grows out boring? probably would look all right with a beard but you never even tried it did you! your old man would have kicked your ass if you went a weekend without a buzz out in the garage, then you went and saw action and everyone you shot at was all bushy and unshaven so you definitely couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror after that if you let it get even a little bit . . . ––What the hell do you want Rotte! following me everywhere now, already made my life hell for the third time in your career Friday night, after how cooperative I. . . damn it Rotte! I told you what I did and how we did it, you went ahead anyway and told them I failed this sensitivity shit now I might not even get the rest of that so-called guaranteed week of compensation but you know what? besides that little bit of money I don’t really give a shit, it’s not like I need a certificate in something like that if in the future I wanted to go work for like a private militia, something like that, do security work think they need me being sensitive in an emergency? ––Thinking about a new job already McCrank? got you scared I’m getting you fired from the force! ––Not scared of you sir, just glad I don’t ever have to report directly to you; also fuck you. ––That’s nice now listen McCrank I’m here to help you out, get you the rest of that pay for the week you were allotted to make a group arrest, but you’re spending the rest of said week with me. . . know I had my knee in your back for a while the other night but I really was appreciative of how ferociously you. . . ––You’re pretty reckless aren’t you Rotte. ––You threatening me McCrank? like a fucking alcoholic pawn looking in the mirror dreaming of becoming a queen, can’t even tell he doesn’t have eyes; think I won’t just fuck you up at a crowded hoagie counter! ––Not what I meant ass hole! I’m just saying there’s cameras all over here just like there were the other day, I’m the laughing stock of fucking black social media now, editing it to look like a porno, they gave us fake pro wrestler names like. . . ––That’s redundant McCrank. ––Sure but in the one I saw they called us Dudley Butthole and Frank Jizzo! another version I heard you were Sparky Mark McNark, and I. . . ––Did what I had to do McCrank, soon as I saw one of those slowpoke stoners was Puerto Rican I knew I wasn’t wrong to fear you’d start swinging a gun around; and anyway we were both in plain clothes, think any of those people gives a fuck about a conspiracy theory if they don’t have a visible uniform to start from? though you left your strobes on, but we might as well have worn pro wrestling leotards McCrank, know you’ve got a big chest tattoo of an eagle eating a camel spider or something you want to. . . ––Come on Rotte this is a pretty indiscreet place to meet you have to admit. ––Don’t have to do any thing you tell me McCrank, here get me one of those cup trays and your coffee’s on me; Jesus! look at the glazes on those muffins, like a goddamn elephant came in a pail of sugar water and they. . . ––Look Rotte your voice really triggers me dude, too many officers I used to hear over the radio trying to give impossible orders when I’m in the middle of a fire fight, they all sounded the same way you do. ––I’m a born leader McCrank! it’s my job to trigger you, into doing something useful, oh you ordered a sandwich too? here give me the slip I’ve got it; anyway McCrank I have a way to get you that CARSPOMP-NECESSIVAP certificate and. . . ––My what now. ––The damn sensitivity training! those are just uh State Police code words for the program, which let’s not forget you failed, proved to every body you belong in the suburbs and have no business helping out in a beleaguered city full of poor and

211 minorities, especially not in the event of a calamity; thing is though we need to show results and hey how you doing. . . here you go. . . yeah keep the change. . . thanks you too. . . anyway McCrank you’re coming with me this morning, turn your phone off so your superiors don’t distract you with their bitching and their time sheet and all that. . . ––What! come on Rotte what are you trying to do to me, here I am just getting breakfast about to hit the gym before my shift not bother any body, you’re already making me paranoid! that other cops will find out I’m a snitch. ––You’re a born snitch McCrank so you’re a true cop and any true cop likes you and wants to give you a fair shake, let’s not forget the only snitching you did was on some fucking stupid rookies engaging in an unsanctioned practice completely against every rule you have to follow, goddamn federal two eighty-seven “G” program be damned, no body deputized your dumb ass but that holding company wiring you idiots the cash, can’t wait to find out what server where hosts that email address where you sent those row home addresses, by the way my office should be done with your laptop by the end of this afternoon; anyway if you help me out this morning, and the rest of this week, it will look good on your record, I’ll fudge the report on you passing urban policing training, say you made a big drug bust at the docks with me or something and nobody will give a shit, you’ll continue your career in law enforcement while I carry on with mine, and never shall the twain meet again except perhaps in the case of an extreme national emergency that requires I keep an eye on. . . ––I get the idea Rotte! so you want me to suit up? or can I do whatever shit you want in sweat pants. ––Well I’m wearing jeans, I guess it’s up to. . . your sandwich is ready! let’s go. Off white. Far off white. Now egg shell. Chicken egg. Sparrow. Now speckled lizard egg, white. Now Caribbean surface water glitter color, then another saturate of stellar grey, with faintest strain of moon dust teal throughout. A soap bar blankness. A spot light empty blaze. Here a pink like brick caulk, there a tawny pigeonfeather color. A transparent dun tone strongly redolent of dough fried in palm oil. Zoom in, on a slick microgrooved surface purity like that white field where playing card numbers and royalty live; strange, a universe of only kings, queens, knaves, four types of currency and the mysterious Four Aces, those enduring avatars of self-reconciled unitary poignancy, overseeing the quadruple menages-a-trois of those face cards ostensibly humble before them, whether respecting the four big A’s as the densest or the lightest of their elements, but either way absolutely so. A minute in, the credits rest on Reese’s name, fade as Lloyd, voiced-over for six seconds before being shown on-screen, starts talking, a lot of hiss in that audio mix, his grandfather’s yellowed sibilance digitally harsh. The wrong compressor. Address that in a few minutes. For now bask in the fact his opening montage flows perfectly visually, all those nacreous glimmering stills of the different roofs at different times of day, all in earnestly rushed-looking quadrilaterals of coating, layering and imbrication, different lenses at complementary foci. Beautiful, but what about the music? Finishing touches, a whole medicine chest of head aches, the littler and more localized the more essential. Could ask Edwin to score something, but he’s been so busy with that Cody K lately. Seems to think that band he’s in has hit its ideal blend of sonorities. And finally convinced it’s cool you can’t understand the kid’s lyrics, because they’re supposedly so serviceable as a simple sonic layer. Fatal mistake, all you rock-and-strollers, you’re failing at storytelling as much as Hollywood now; Reese here never touched an instrument in his life and still knows well the power of a song comes from properly corralled guitars carrying clear and purposeful words, can be screamed, when occasioned, of course, but, the difference between that approach and that of the ordinary food-fight melodrama, of competing overdrive settings and barfed cereal bowls of vowels, in terms of power unleashed, being like that between splitting an atom and uncorking a wine bottle. But are such thoughts useful here? Back to business. Maybe this montage requires a dignified kind of out-of-the-way electroacoustique loop. But should flat shiny soundscape really accompany flat shiny roofscape? Does he want to match or contrast here? Contrast, but not so wildly he decides to put a hip-hop break-beat under it or any thing like that. But wait, maybe for a split second? Here we go, a fragmented linear collage, so it both matches the roof-surface sequence in form, and contrasts in content, the music perhaps changing more frequently than each sequent allotropic frame of plain straight white light, the colors of the neighborhoods coming through in jazzy snatches hooked in daisy-chain like a radio or two at a time being tuned. But old Lloyd, his one living grandfather, would not like that, would he? would probably, at worst, have his next stroke, and, at best, complain to Reese he spent far too much time, and, sigh, therefore, money, on something so. . . not unimportant? but demanding, deserving, a far simpler solution. Like, he will probably say, just a song. Reese sighs. What songs does Grandpa like? Listens to talk radio mostly, barked stock tickers and political diarrhea contests. Would usually change the station if any kind of music came on, other than that tame white swing. Doesn’t even like any classical, makes fun of his only son Charlie for professing admiration of certain composers, even going so far as to listen to them on his own, because an interminable series of snooty broads, of a definite kind, have indoctrinated him into doing, pretending, so. So it has to be a tame white swing song. Already used “Singing in the Rain” during that one bit where we show Lloyd and some of those volunteer kids out canvassing blocks and their captains in a huge thunderstorm. Remember that rain falling briefer than the way the movie’s cut might suggest. Resolved again to deal in illusion for a living. Illusion can enlighten or deceive, it depends, on who takes in what and with what kind of disposition, and where, in what state of health, how well they deal with populous presences. Reese decides to call his dad, ask what kind of songs Grandpa might like to use. Never heard Lloyd sing or whistle, or ever dial the sound volume higher out of any entuned enthusiasm in any of his really nice cars. Probably reason to suspect Grandma

213 liked music because she didn’t have a job. So Charlie would have heard some around the house when he was a kid, and in college visiting, that whole period before law school. He bullshits about his memory being bad, probably he’s just uncomfortable with it being so impeccable, part of why he drinks so much, that and that he feels much more charming when he’s plastered, holds court without fear of being held in contempt. And when he’s drunk I think women look less like Mom to him. ––Reese? damn early for you, what’s. . . ––Dad! what kind of music does Grandpa like? ––What? ––For our movie, this beginning part. . . ––Ah well, he’s got his name on a couple of concert halls, cultural boards and. . . ––I’d prefer not to use classical music Dad, it’d be incongruous with. . . ––It’s not all just Schubert and Schumann on the scene anymore Reese! there’s all kinds of ‘jazz’ and ‘world’ styles they. . . ––Yeah but Grandpa wouldn’t. . . ––Point I meant Reese was that you don’t even know what’s going on in mainstream contemporary culture, don’t even put pictures of your self on the Internet like normal young people. . . ––Dad come on stop! it’s seven-thirty in the. . . ––That’s what I’m saying! you’ve never been an early bird; more evidence you’ve been hanging out with Grandpa too much. ––Not enough to know what music he likes. ––Likes musicals Reese, wouldn’t let you catch him listening to one though. ––Is that because it’s what Grandma liked? too sad for him being reminded? ––That’s right, he only listens through headphones on the treadmill anymore, I suspect. . . ––Well anyway which era of Broadway should I. . . ––Any damn song with a fat borderline ostentatious brass section and anyway what’s it about? this movie, too much sun shine? find some fucking song about sun shine. ––What about ‘Heat Wave’. ––Heat wh oh you mean that Detroit song from the Sixties? boy that’s way too hip, flashy and modern for him, try. . . ––Great so, internet search, bright. . . hot. . . big. . . band. . . roof. . . ––Or uh get your buddy Edwin to do it right? he’s a musician. ––He’s had to help his cousin Wiz’s restaurant out a lot lately, so that eats into his evenings, ideal times for me; and at night and in terms of music he’s kind of occupied working with this air-head skate-board pop-punk fucking. . . ––Heard all about it already Reese, you had that one more drink than I advised over lunch last week, you started raving and complaining just like I warned you. . . ––Thanks Dad I think that was you though and speaking of, you want to grab something today? ––Sure you bet let’s make it early like ten-thirty or eleven, I’ve been up since five preparing files for my day, had nobody to help me photocopy, collate and all that; you know sometimes I miss your lazy ass being around the house, also I have to be at the federal court house in Manhattan by two o clock so if we could order ahead of time. . . ––Dad forget it let’s do it another day, there’s no way Grandpa would let me move my lunch break to well wait you live there too just walk over to his wing and if he, wait what’s. . . ––Sorry at the office Reese! I can call him if you like. . . ––Dad what’s that giggling! ––Pointless to ask what it is Reese, more interesting ask me where they. . . ––Dad there’s two of them? are you fooling around with strippers again! remember when the one turned out to be an escapee from. . . ––Well they’re not strippers Reese they happen to be escorts, classy gals and they’re not even mine anyway so I’ve committed no foul, at least nothing they could get me for in this state, told you I didn’t have help photocopying today didn’t I? so put whatever lurid awe of your old man just flashed through your head aside, it’s just a friendly social call, their paymaster puppy they nanny had work early, down to the docks or somewhere, he takes them everywhere except places like that; he’s a partner of a client, they all just like starting drinking early, like I do, so. . . ––Wait Dad why’s there a man’s voice too, I recognize holy shit! sounds like. . . ––Yes Reese your favorite producer Theophilus is here too, early riser, goes to the gym, really respectable guy, sorry you couldn’t just let his peccadillos. . . ––Dad! didn’t he fire bomb a. . . ––Not interested in rumor when I’m at work Reese, my tradecraft revolves around straight facts, don’t distract me from. . . ––What the hell are you doing hanging out with Bang Bang! and apparently a bunch of women? ––Two women Reese, one for each of us, or both or neither for one of us, or. . .

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––Probably you’ll like one of them Dad, and she’ll like Bang Bang and the other one won’t like either of you. ––Oh faithless! don’t get pithy with me, not this early, try that dainty underemployed sensibility, I’m your goddamn father and know how you are, even if anymore we hardly ever. . . ––I invite you to my apartment every weekend! ––Yeah well I go places on the weekend, Egypt most recently, let me tell you those camels really are fucking slow, I. . . ––. . . and all the times I try to ask you to lunch. . . ––Look Reese here’s a few names, Tommy Dorsey, Woody Herman, Bennie Goodman, but not Stan Kenton, you’ll give him a coronary. . . go through all that material you’ll come up with some montage music, now if you want me to send you a cab to get you when your lunch break starts, he’ll take you somewhere I’ve got a rolling tab at, put in the order ahead of time, I’ll send you the menu and you. . . ––Send me the what! Dad you know I don’t have that kind of phone. ––Not yet you don’t, Christmas in July next month, in the meantime I’ll put a nice order together for you. ––Okay thank you but I’m not going by myself, so could you make it for four people please? at twelve-thirty. ––Damn boy! funny when that rich entitlement you so insistently try to suppress ends up coming out; your loud-mouth vegan buddy Fran still tease you that you smell like bidet water? ––No he’s nicer to me now that Grandpa’s his boss. ––He still busy writing those Red operas? even though he can’t hold a tune, lump-headed punk, maybe you should get him in a production meeting, tell him shit you a little ditty for our movie. ––Oh that’s nice Dad, I already have production meetings with him and Grandpa anyway except it’s about roofs not movies, that and we’re not supposed to have ideas and he makes fun of Fran’s hair all the time. ––All the time eh? like, repetitiously, maniacally, sounds like the old man, but it’s not quite his fault anymore is it? chalk it up to the stroke now. ––Yeah he’s relentless but it’s okay, nothing any body says to Fran gets to him, except his girl. ––Well hell that’s promising, bit of character in him, but their big break will come and he’ll have to start thinking law school, sit in a tree or occupy a bank lobby gets girls to like you but doesn’t do the kind of shit gets done in a court of damn it Mister Bambrey! guy’s in here juggling with paperweights, one of them crowns me they’ll throw the book at you motherfucker; anyway Reese, think it’s familial nostalgia makes the old man make fun of your friend, he busted my balls all through college when I had a curtain of hair and a beard, told me chop it off every time I came home until I showed up to Grandma’s funeral with a shaved head, probably told you that before. . . anyway enjoy your lunch, the four of you, even your commie vegan buddy will, I’ll hook it up, no problem. . . and your driver’s name will be Murat, be nice to him, he’s an immigrant, okay? ––Where’s he from? ––Why don’t you just ask him that? bye Reese. ––Hi! yes I. . . um. . . wait I’m out of breath. . . smiling like a chipped set of cement steps. ––Take your time baby. . . not quite meaning it, expecting another fresh flush of customers any moment. ––You take my breath away too beautiful, behind her, pulling a toothpick out, gesticulating with it like tracing a cracked vase ––even with that placemat on your head. ––I’m seventeen years old bro! curtly and loud enough the older young woman behind the counter feels like dishing the dirty man leaning there by the adjacent segment of plexiglass a snarl of reproach, a warning she will grease the bacon on the sandwich he ordered with rat poison ––and it’s called a hijab. ––A’ight well the law says you’re fair game at sixteen sweet heart, throwing the toothpick down indignant ––I’m thirty-three, I got experience. ––Experience with butt plugs, cupcake? Aniyah spitting like a mongoose. ––Sir do you really want to go up on the Creep Wall? the girl behind the counter reinforcing, distracting him from provocative Aniyah, with a gesture up at another section of plexiglass, a gallery of surveillance frames, other bearded slouching prurient patrons awaiting coffee here; the girl at work finds herself wondering suddenly how caffeine might embolden such perverts, fuel-inject unscrupulous concupiscence, and she shudders, finishes her first thought ––because you might think you’re a regular customer and we like you here but you never spend enough money for us to care if we don’t get no more of your business. ––Y’all can’t get rid of me, I’ve been on this corner a lot longer than that goddamn Bing Dong. ––Anyway can I get an iced coffee? Aniyah decreeingly, ––a big one, and um. . . doesn’t feel like asking if the eggs and cheese are halal this week, depends on who’s working, what they say, anyway, and she doesn’t feel like she should compromise the surprise atmosphere of comfort and emboldenment enacted by the pudgy older girl behind the counter here, and her appercipient immigrant mother and grandmother not far behind, not to mention the guys in the kitchen, Bing Dong’s boys, always ready to throw somebody out of here like a kicked plastic drum of monosodium-glutamate ––and two blueberry donuts please.

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––Aw you got one for me sugar? wretch not getting the message, while ding- ding the door opens, another customer stepping inside, every body feeling the newcomer eyeing up the present situation, so they all turn their heads. ––Mister Bonner! and a hug on his weak side, Aniyah burying her head in his armpit, in part to suppress in her nose the cayenne manure wafting of the other man’s lechery there. ––Aniyah! how you doing today sweet heart, smiling finely lit as he sizes up the man leaning there overdressed for this weather, his black hoodie and pore-constricting hostility; he lets the lone girl go, taking her bicycle which she has not yet let go (its physical presence beside her and the consequences which she imagines fervidly to come from putting it aside equally menacing to her anxiety as that bad man there staring at her, now glaring at Romare), and he leaves it for her against the far wall which looks brightly and chicken-wiringly out on a Master Street summer morning ––Riding your bike to work today? what happened to your usual ride, that friend from the mosque of yours, emphasizing each syllable of that regurgitated lie to let Aniyah know he spoke with her Aunt Medina recently ––Did it get too hot for him finally? I mean that heavy hoodie and Muslim clothing he was always wearing, eyeing more stonily than before the stranger there chewing no more tooth pick, just imaginary cud, sucking at unattainable buttocks. Aniyah urges herself ahead to the counter to be nearer the amiable cash- registress whose hawk-eyes only now leave the hungry pervert after discovering then signaling to him his breakfast is ready, and please get the hell out. ––Corny ass bitch, slinking away, to both Romare and Aniyah, his head folding into his hoodie like the top of the brown paper bag he clutches does into gaunt knuckles ––Salaam you fucking chinks. . . disappearing into an incoherency of piecemeal vitamin intake. ––That guy needs a new hobby, approaching the plexiglassed counter now, replacing Aniyah there while she goes to be again with the bicycle she bought off Reese, and thumb through some stacks of classified ads and free pamphlets promoting her spiritual well-being, simply because they’re there. ––He come in here a lot? ––He comes and goes but yeah, and not always to buy nothing, we’ve had to kick him out for just hanging out here trying to buy weed so many times. ––Seen him in here more than a couple times but don’t know the man, funny how I can be block captain somewhere but right outside my zone I’m a block ignoramus. ––Well anywhere you go you’re a sweet heart sir; what do you usually get? bacon egg and cheese and coffee. ––Sounds right. . . how much. . . no you keep that little bit, get your man a gallon of gas. She thanks him and checks on Aniyah’s order as a crew of cargo-panted construction guys come in remaking the refrigerator hum of the tiny take-out restaurant in their bantering image, crowding the counter and printer-paper menus taped up in transience there, a few prices obscured by scribble, rewritten besides. ––Are you on your way to work too Mister Bonner? perusing cultist pseudoreligious uplift literature, not looking up at him who she sees as her only unobnoxious male neighbor not confined by a wheelchair ––planting trees and stuff. ––Not planting new trees today, just pruning weeding testing and changing soil, got a list of fifty locations to hit by Wednesday. ––Will it be fun. ––I’ll enjoy it. ––So it’s fun. ––Not all joy is fun Aniyah, stumping her but storing that thought there in her sticky brain forever ––is that your phone ringing? and he can’t help but cringe hearing shrieking angsty clumsy mall-rat rock music whining. ––Ya lahhwy! it’s my Aunt Medina, duh who else. ––Oh yeah you know I think she might have been looking for you. . . circumspect, pretending to not know what the woman told him this morning, preferring as a responsible and altruistic block captain that this talented young community member had better put in a city-hot work day, put money in her pleather purse, than stew in whatever trouble she left at home, he was too busy and stoned to register its nature exactly but remembers now Miss Medina said the police were coming, and would be deeply involved; a sinking feeling of shirking something serious colors his hunger stronger and he looks around for the affianced fat girl just out of college still paying for it working here for her Uncle Bing who should be in soon to drop off pay checks, her figure hidden behind the plexiglass and crowded altogether husky contingent of customers with very particular taste, her dicing voice clearly rearticulating their orders –– like you might have left something at home. . . with a scolding look and smirk ––Your bike helmet, for example. ––Okay thanks Mister Bonner, hello Aunt Medina? ––Aniyah, sayyida, my precious flower, get your secret midnight snacking ass back here, you know I told you. . . ––Aunt Medina I have to go to work! ––Don’t you try that mess on me you know you’re in some real trouble way deeper than if you miss a damn day knocking on people’s doors offering them money, I’m sure that nice old man will under. . . ––Oh so now he’s a nice old man and not a crazy rich guy? ––Don’t you try to catch me in a contradiction girl! no reason why that Mister Kunders can’t be both. ––But he says I’m the best canvasser! said I make his pitch better than his movie wiz grandson who he paid all that money for school and. . . ––Aniyah! full throttle now, startling Romare more standing there texting ––I don’t have time to hear your usual mess about other people’s affairs, you know I got city police combing through the house now? taking your art work as evidence.

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––What? hushed from the pitted gut of her, a fresh desperate fear pervading her now like new drawn blood jetting into a broken bowl ––they. . . they can’t. . . ––Oh they’re going through your room in particular sayyida, like they were looking for a single flake of gold in a whole desert, they mean it, and it’s not just city cops anymore we just got a couple of State Troopers up in here now, blocking off the street and all. . . ––Damn they’re blocking off the street? overhearing that part at least ––I’m going to catch hell for. . . ––Sir your breakfast! from the counter through the bulk of convivial builders. ––A’ight thanks, loping ahead still trying to listen as he accepts it, seeing trouble in Aniyah’s gaze, donut stale and still gapingly trying at jaw grinding ––going to hang out another minute see if my little neighbor here’s okay, I’m her block captain, she’s got some bad family stuff. ––You’re good sir you know we like having you around here. . . ––. . . good thing I’m so organized Aniyah, they’d be breaking and misplacing every thing of mine if it didn’t have its own clear clean place in here, but guess what they’re doing to your messy room and your poor nine year old foster sister is going to have to find her side of the room a nightmare as well I figure I’ll let you explain that one to her while I’m explaining to federal damn agents that I’ve never espoused, sought out or otherwise had contact with any of that ridiculous jihadi mess Muslims killing Muslims all over the place makes no sense, imagine if they put all that aside and our whole world from Harlem to the south of Spain to Bangladesh, them islands down there too, if that belt of us over the equator banded together, treated each other better and put the tribalism aside we’d form what they call a trade block Aniyah you better believe we would get the new what they call international monetary standard, and to use our currency any country or company would have to prove it treats its children well and takes care of them, teaches them Allah’s grace is too great and strong to necessitate violence, but anyway the first question these city police have for you dear is how did that box of radical imam cassettes get on our front step this morning? told you I was serious about calling them Aniyah, that’s a bad-news gift and I know who brought it to you, and these ladies and gentlemen handling my every possession so very carefully right now will see soon that we do not have a cassette deck of any kind anywhere in this house anyway but do you know who might? the owner of an eighty-eight two-door Beemer might, it has fake tags by the way, I took them down a long time ago when I was watching you a little closer than you knew, they ran it just now and said it’s bogus but I took pictures, they’re looking for it now, and I have pictures of the man himself of course, they know exactly who he is, convicted for selling a gun illegally how nice and he’s a suspected drug dealer so they say even if the man never laid a finger on you as you claim, they said he’s dangerous, that you met him on the internet, they’re waiting for the Homeland Security people to finish going through your school laptop, so they can probably still put him away for corrupting. . . ––Aunt Medina! there’s something I didn’t tell you. . . when we found that box, I knew it wasn’t just from him but it was a sign. . . that he’s about to do something bad. ––Do some thing like what child. ––See he was building this bomb, but like a really big bomb I think he has these dumb ass big shot rich guy outlaw friends that own a bunch of ships or something. . . ––A bomb! more voices on the other end than just Aunt Medina. ––Yeah and why I’ve been kind of sick lately is all this radioactive stuff he. . . Irruptive and sputtering like a cascaded multi-floor crashing-through caused from one false step through a rotted spot of soft cracked rat-house uppermost floor, a cacophony of crossed wires and shrieking feedback mingling conveys a sheer orgiastic panic to Aniyah satisfying enough. ––Aniyah did you say radioactive. ––Yeah it took him like a couple weeks to get it all together so it’s not very much but like the Russians and stuff always have it to sell and he says it will at least make a real mushroom cloud over. . . ––Aniyah get your ass home right now! ––But Mister Kunders expects me to. . . ––Damn it Aniyah! an anonymous eavesdropping bureaucrat, voice disintegrated to androgyny by neutering terror ––your aunt told us all about it, how proud you are of that job, climate change is a grave national security threat so we thank you for your service, but some days the threat of nuclear terrorism is a little more insidious than global warming, see that takes years to kill every body but this bomb your creepy buddy Ian built, it. . . ––He said it wouldn’t kill that many people, and that the fact we’re not I mean he isn’t dead yet from handling it proves it won’t be that huge. An empty oil drum of silence at the other end a moment. ––Where is this bomb Aniyah? where is it right now. ––Well he got some job driving a truck. . . now crouched on the floor, clutching her head in one hand as the other waves off Romare offering to help her up ––so I think he wanted to use that, like he set it all up in one of those big ship containers. . . a rush of tremulous panic interrupts her squatted squinting there in her hot sweats, a migraine empalliating her stress-swollen face which she begins to caress with one slick donut ––No it’s not at the docks I don’t think you don’t have to shut them down tell them stop saying that, they’re hysterical! because see he didn’t want to blow up the docks, he wanted to blow up police headquarters. ––Aniyah I think you’d better take this call outside. . . Romare insisting, guiding her up off the tile by a shoulder ––I’m getting one too now. . . as a custom ring-back song says from his phone why’d-we-ever-get-together, we-always-think-there’s-no-one-better; shielding at once Aniyah, her bicycle and his naked eyes, their redness not softened by sunglasses in days; he takes the call like a punch to the gut ––Hello? but relaxes the

221 instant he hears at the other end an inbreath of hesitating greeting rather than the bone- crunch and alacrity of his ex-wife’s always-carefully prepared opening argument ––Hi Shirley! before she has formed a word. ––Hi Daddy! guess what I’m starting at a new summer camp this morning. ––Oh is that so? your mommy hadn’t mentioned it, what are you going to do at this camp. ––We’re going to learn about turtles! ––Oh it’s. . . turtle camp? trying to comprehend, and comfort crying Aniyah standing there weathering a wave of confusion on her other end, something which fierce Aunt Medina seems to have no room to mediate; so now he’s worried ––you’re going to what, clean their shells? ––I don’t know Daddy I think a lot of it’s outside but I still hope we will all get to sit in a giant turtle shell together. ––Wouldn’t that be sad though sweetie. ––Why would it be sad Daddy? I think it would be fun, we could chase each other and play hide and seek inside it. ––But it would be empty sweet heart! so you would have to wonder, where’d the giant turtle go? ––Daddy! it would just be a shell with no turtle in it, no turtle’s that big. ––You’re right sweet heart, shell like that has to be too big to fail. ––Mister Bonner my Aunt Medina and all these cops and federal agents say I have to go home now, will you take me? before they start looking. ––Ah one second sweet heart, Shirley. . . I have work Aniyah, you sure you can’t get back on your bike? bureaucratic morning conditioning getting the better of him. ––I have work too Mister Bonner! but it’s an emergency and they say riding my bike wouldn’t be safe for me right now so I’m going to give them a fake address I’m at, one of my enemies, this really uptight Catholic athlete girl I met when we were doing canvassing rounds in Temple Town and said she didn’t want to paint her roof white because it might attract sea gulls when I think she’s just insecure she looks like a sea gull so that’s why she. . . ––Aniyah! why’s all these cops on my block, taking her purse, wrapping the straps around her ram-horn bicycle handles and leading the vehicle towards his own, his work truck ––What kind of trouble you get in! please tell me that creepy guy used to drive you around is on the run now wait what! hi yeah where did Shirley, uh I heard she’s going to turtle camp? ––Yes it was he who you call what’s-his-name’s idea, last minute thing, lots of kids kicking around in a creek and making tie-dye T-shirts sounds like; you know he was speculating all morning! before he left, he couldn’t stop himself, going on about what their insurance costs must be in case one of the kids drowns or gets gored by a deer. ––Sounds like a barrel of laughs. . . but actually more like you need the dude to want you to feel like having another kid, wincing, thinking what Demi might be wearing, contacts or glasses, watching a random woman passingby, assuming new cupidity like he would a baseball cap, to compensate ––Guess y’all have talked about it a lot, probably don’t need me to. . . ––Romare! how can you just, I mean no no it’s not like that he hasn’t, well why are we talking about a man you only deign to call what’s-his-name anyway? it’s none of your business honestly. ––He doesn’t want kids? ––I don’t know Romare, I have a million things to do this week before we leave for Punta Cana, I don’t need you adding any kind of existential. . . ––Demi relax please, to what do I owe the honor of hearing my own flesh and wait a second if y’all are going to Punta Cana then shouldn’t I get Shirley that whole time? ––Well actually Romare we hired a housesitter-slash-babysitter, really nice girl, one of my husband’s paralegals’ little sisters, has a scholarship to play lacrosse at. . . ––What! Demi damn it my own, my only daughter you can’t. . . ––Well Shirley doesn’t have many positive female role models Romare, it will be good for her to. . . ––Role model! damn it I don’t want Shirley playing lacrosse, she’d sit down in the net picking buttercups and get beaned in the face with that ball, mask or not that’s fucked up you ever feel how heavy a. . . ––Mister Bonner my Aunt Medina said all these FBI people and US Marshals are already all over Strawberry Mansion looking for me right now, can we. . . ––Yes! I’m sorry Aniyah, you get a little heated little distracted sometimes, why don’t you go put your bike in the flat-bed, it should. . . ––Aniyah? Romare you’re talking to Aniyah? my Aniyah? your Aniyah too I guess because she’s sort of in your charge but what a coincidence! the thought of her actually kept me up all night, in fact she’s the other reason I called, other than to tell you about Punta Cana. ––Oh thanks here I was thinking it was Shirley called me just because she wanted to and. . . ––Romare! please! this is important, listen to me, there was a court order to go through Aniyah’s laptop our school gave her, it was examined forensically for her history on the dark-web and frankly Romare that girl it turns out has terrorist aspirations or at least thinks she does, if you’re going to do your job as a so-called block captain you’d better. . .

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––Say what! but what do you mean? how did she. . . ––She didn’t kill any body I know of but definitely has a healthy interest in that kind of . . . ––Aniyah get in the goddamn truck! and duck your head, handing her the key. ––Thank you Mister Bonner, I hope you can come vouch for me when I’m talking to all those cops. ––I’ll do what I can Aniyah but I still have work and I must say you seem pretty calm cool and. . . ––Because I didn’t do anything! and I’m not eighteen yet so I’m invincible. ––What did she just say? Romare put Aniyah on the fucking phone with me. ––Ah Aniyah you know I think maybe in this case. . . ––Romare please can I talk to her? before you trigger her. ––Maybe in this case what. ––Nothing Aniyah I’m talking shit, starting his truck ––here my wife uh I mean my ex, your Doctor Davis wants to talk to you, remember though we’ve only got like a five minute drive. ––Hi Doctor Davis! are you having a good summer. ––Well Aniyah mine’s only just getting started, winding down a school year takes a lot more for us adults than you students. ––Oh you mean like a lot of paperwork? there’s a lot to write down about crazy kids like. . . ––Aniyah I’ve told you before, don’t disparage yourself with words like. . . ––Doctor Davis come on I mean I’m obviously not like normal. . . ––Aniyah listen you’ve certainly had a mal-eventful life, but we’ve talked often about how living with your Aunt Medina has taken so much pressure off you, and allowed you to focus on school, so believe it or not several of your classmates who I treated too were much worse off than you these last couple of years, some of their foster situations or other family issues, even the rich kids I mean, were far worse than yours in terms of essential parental support, and not every body by the end of their time at West Kensington Friends found something creative to channel all that frustration into, like you did. ––But Doct. . . ––But! Aniyah sweetie I have to say not one of the rest of them is a suspected terrorist, that’s a new one for me. ––Susp. . . what! but Doctor Davis that’s profiling, can’t a girl wear a hijab to school without. . . ––Don’t bull shit me Aniyah, I like only straight talk when I’m on vacation, now you know at least thirty of your classmates at West Kenzo Friends were also practicing Muslims, a few of them patients of mine as well, but none of them even considered the kinds of dangerous attitudes that you. . . ––But Doctor Davis! don’t you tell me all the time, I mean didn’t you used to tell me a lot that I shouldn’t act or think based on popular. . . ––Asserting your rightful unique identity doesn’t mean supporting terrorism Aniyah, and besides didn’t you get all those flawed and sick ideas off the Internet? that’s the lowest form of popularity, and also the most popular; whether or not those creeps on those forums or that one who some are saying now you actually met in person and conspired with, even if they misrepresented to you how popular or how socially justified such a savage unreligious mindset is in this country, the fact is you bought into their lies just the same as your foster brother so often buys all those new rap albums based on how flashy and violent they. . . ––Doctor Davis okay be nice please don’t trigger me! you’re not even my therapist anymore now, you’re just another boring adult to me. ––Well fine Aniyah but just to warn you it’s possible a court of law, possibly a Federal court will want to treat you like just another very interesting but ultimately as you say boring adult too. ––Doctor Davis you’re upsetting me! this isn’t like you. ––Well believe it or not Aniyah I’m mad at you. ––They couldn’t possibly put me in jail could they? I’m seventeen, I’m a minor and a victim, I. . . ––You’re also on the record as highly unpredictable Aniyah, for your age you’d be surprised how flexible they can be about that kind of thing, when they feel like. . . ––Doctor Davis you’re scaring me! see this is what I’m always paranoid about with therapists, that even though they seem cool and nice they’re really mean and thinking all the time I’m. . . ––Well you know what this whole country is paranoid about Aniyah? young people turning to terrorism, smart kids like you who have suffered and see through the usual slew of American distractions, and feel this intense frustration at unattainable. . . ––Don’t talk about unattainable Doctor Davis! what do I do? ––Only you know how much you’ve actually done Aniyah, how far you let the dark murky parts of your imagination pull you astray, remember what you learned in English class? and we talked about one session, Macbeth’s air-drawn dagger. . . ––But I swear I thought it was really Allah all along Doctor Davis! pulling irate at her seat belt, declined forward toward the dashboard as if wishing the air bag would suck her up into silence, fold her into solitude. ––I swear, it made sense, I’d been reading all this stuff about Libya, their government’s oil and how the dollar. . . ––Just because our government carries out mafia-style vendettas

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against nations looking to get off our currency, and live on another standard, doesn’t mean its children can step up to intervene with violence because they think they’ve found an answer or a worthy cause, it’s like bringing a tommy gun to Thanksgiving and shooting all the food, riddling it! ruining it! with lead pellets just because you object to how big farming. . . ––Holy shit, Doctor Davis? are you off your medication. ––Permanently Aniyah, thought I told you the good news in our last session, now listen I’m being a bit harsh with you this morning because it’s not every day one of your patients not even old enough to vote decides to take up jihad so I hope your school doesn’t withdraw your admission, for that, by the way, we’re all very proud of you and Aniyah let me let you in on a little secret, when I’m on my period, which, let me also let you in on, I am right now, I get a bit testy because I tend to feel a little more like a failure, like every thing I do is futile. ––But why! Doctor Davis you know you’re a bad ass chick. ––Well thank you Aniyah coming from you that’s reassuring; I don’t know why it is, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it the past hundred or so cycles of my life, like isn’t it terrible? if blood comes out and not a baby I feel like I fucked it up. ––Wow Doctor Davis I um never got that, I just think it’s fucking painful, hate the cramps, but if any thing else I think it’s cool my um excuse me your ex husband is right next to me but I mean the fact that parts of us that have to do with life also like simulate death on a regular basis like it’s putting on some gory pageant to make a point. ––Um. . . ––So do you get sad when your tits aren’t full of milk? because I like that mine are always dry, it reminds me of the desert. ––Aniyah let’s stick to the subject: for your own sanity and safety I am strongly recommending you fully cooperate with law enforcement, don’t lie, obfuscate or try to hide any thing from. . . ––But don’t I need a lawyer first Doctor Davis. ––Well Aniyah I think they’ll be more interested in you as a witness than as a subject, if in fact you haven’t pulled the dagger and. . . ––Can you be my lawyer? you’re smart. ––Um. . . ––Oh wait you married one didn’t you! Mister Bonner was talking about him, can you tell your new white husband to come to my Aunt Medina’s place please, it’s at Gratz and Master you can’t miss. . . ––Well, he practices more like slip and fall stuff, you. . . ––Fine! I get it Doctor Davis, this is your final big prescription, making me go it alone against the forces of. . . ––Um Aniyah listen I think you need to slow down and. . . ––We did slow down Doctor Davis! we stopped in fact, we’re parked around the corner from in fact oh my god ya laawhy all these cop cars a bunch of them are big and black like those drug dealer rides except without the rims, wait Doctor Davis I’m getting really nervous because of this coffee, are you sure you can’t send a lawyer? ––Aniyah just calm down, cooperate fully with them and they will see at heart you are innocent, if more than a little cagey, and angry and frustrated; now put Romare back on the phone, I’ll tell him to take care of you. ––Hello? . . . yeah it’s crazy here, I don’t know what she did but. . . no of course I know she didn’t do. . . right well I’m nice to her, I’m her block captain damn it, showed her how to prune a. . . what? but baby I mean Demi I have to go to work, her Aunt Medina can. . . a lawyer? what well no I think that guy died years ago, public defender too might as well be anonymous, he. . . what? yes I’ll get her there safe. . . now about not getting me to babysit my own. . . what? yeah the check’s in the mail, no I do not bank online I told you, know what else you can expect Demi? I’m calling back every half hour til you leave so I can talk to hello? goddamn. . . ––Mister Bonner? while he fumes at his ex, hangs up, ever the snob isn’t she? no less cold than the average neighborhood drug lord, or is that analogy out of line? am I too stoned too early in the day? no not that again, the girl needs help, looking at her as he shuts the engine, she looking back, simpering on edge ––I think I know who can get me a lawyer, so I don’t fuck myself over in my own I mean my foster home. ––That’s a lot of cops Aniyah, of all stripes too looks like State Troopers and what! Homeland Security? and every thing, but nobody wants to fuck you over, they want that white fake prison Muslim and I don’t blame them, hanging out with girls your age. . . ––Well but he never hello? hi Mister Kunders, no I’m not on the bus, I’m not even on my block yet but. . . what? the city said you have to what! . . . ya laahwy what a bunch of ass holes, I guess nobody’s coming to work today then? . . . oh a protest coating! that’s a good idea. . . what! some guy from the City huh, get this Mister Bonner! it’s probably that same guy you and my Aunt Medina were discussing, that uptight white dirt wad rich guy who’s tight with that creep Bang Bang Bambrey, who I heard the only reason his case got reviewed and he got that pardon out of prison was because this guy with City Hall knew Bang Bang was planning all along to get involved spending money on this new port or pier or whatever, river rejuvenation project their press release called it, isn’t that right Mister Kunders? so he got to play with his money from prison and yeah he’s friends with that prick real estate developer Dominic that won’t fix that creepy house down our block that every body thinks is even radioactive now right Mister Bonner? like people are getting sick going near it like people do in Roxborough who live near those radio towers, and what was I saying? oh yeah that guy Dominic! he won’t let you coat the roof on any of his property right Mister Kunders? for no other reason than that he’s a prick and he’s paranoid, so coked up and cracked out all the time I heard that probably he’d think if we painted his roofs white we’d use the brightness to flash messages to satellites about him somehow, also the City guy who helps him is an ordained minister

227 right? like before he went into politics he ran some church, and Mister Bambrey got involved along with some actual nice people but he plays them like a drum set pays them a lot, he’s in charge of their Christian community ministry outreach thing which involves a lot of money which I think he takes advantage of it because he’s like definitely still a drug dealer. . . yeah you know at first I thought your grandson was dumb for helping him make that documentary about how he’s helping the community getting people off drugs because the footage makes it hilariously obvious what a phony he is, but since it comes off on camera so well, it won’t be hard to edit it to make him look as mean and fake as he really is, and you know what Mister Kunders? you know how you said because of that trade imbalance thing almost half the ships in the world at any given moment are traveling empty? well I know Bang Bang has an office upriver somewhere and he’s making sure he sends something back out of the city from that foreign-trade zone jawn, it’s not drugs I don’t think because that’s what he brings in but ya laawhy! I’m talking a lot you should call your son the lawyer, please! Mister Kunders see if he’ll take your side or Dominic’s and the City’s on this because I’m talking a lot but I have to save my breath for all these cops who are why I couldn’t come to work anyway what? no don’t worry I didn’t do any thing, it’s about that creepy guy that used to drive me to work and took me around canvassing for you. . . yes he’s a convict like you thought but also now a wanted terrorist. . . yeah he called it a dirty bomb. . . no I think he’ll get caught. . . yes I’m on a bike instead now that’s the good thing. . . yes and as a matter of fact what you should do right now to get ready to deal with your day and talk to the City is go for a jog but please don’t push it, that’s the whole point. ––Who was that on the phone? with malnourishment palpable amid intoned protein-shaken suspicion, the recent fear that his partner, just disappeared into then emerged from some other room of this building not yet shown him, will leave unnoticed ––was it your man Charlie? he’s a half hour late, it’s past eight thirty. ––No it was Bing Dong, he’s looking for Ivan; I told him so am I, had to leave the prick six voicemails this weekend reminding him he’s evicted, he has till Friday to leave that condo I got him, but he hasn’t responded. ––Why is Bing Dong looking for him, did he not show up to work this morning? our transportation coordinator! ya laawhy what a joke. ––Well he did show up for work but ah last night, apparently, he took someone else’s shift, the late one where they return the empties to the docks. . . Bing Dong didn’t hear about it until this morning and the truck never came back to the lot at dawn like usual, it’s AWOL so great! who knows where that lunatic went, with a truck and a shipping container, probably going to make a grow room out of it, hide it somewhere in the desert. ––Yes. . . could be that. . . nervously, on edge, having stood here the past five minutes listening to the whispering city official here pleading with him to let Bang Bang and his church group rent this space instead, saying they could work something out, that Bang Bang has more assets awaiting beneficent combustion than he lets his partners acknowledge, shuddering when the vested-suited stranger said that; he remembers his surprise when Bang Bang revealed a little over a month ago he owned that warehouse space an hour up the river from here, Dominic’s of course, which he could rent to members of Thirteen Bells for friendly rates, reminded he himself might have far more money than Mister Bambrey, but in terms of wealth in this land the besotted gangster holds reign and sway, knows his way around, where to hide, where the domestic Bermudas and Antilles hide in plain paper-trailed sight, and now, Yusuf, aroused, fiending for endorphin bombs, finds himself wondering how to tell Dominic this man here has begun pestering him about exactly what they feared he would, how he will probably try to keep them here all morning lobbying for Bang Bang and Jesus, the portfolio of fresh levies and threats to unfold a foreseeable head ache ––Damn it Dominic! where’s Charlie. ––What are you so antsy about all of a sudden Yusuf? extra pumps of syrup in your latte, probably disrupted your frontal. . . ––Mister Maaroufi and I were just talking Dominic. . . well-dressed steward of city code glad-handing and grave, his teeth artificially white without shine nor resonance, absorbing with a visible thud this morning light pouring in like gold, silver and bronze tokens melted, funneled into soft waking-up shape, still warm from the furnace ––told him think I heard somewhere your Foreign Trade Zone, down at that Pier Eighty-Five, might feel a little less free from now on, permanent Homeland Security guys now assigned to install and monitor. . . ––I am just here to sign papers, get this goddamn permit for public occupancy, for my client here. . . ––. . . your partner you mean? ––Well whatever the fuck he already paid me for this space, I can’t really renege and besides Jesus has real estate all over the city already; what’s wrong with Islam? don’t you like diversity. ––Yes it is quite all about Brotherly Love here, Yusuf utterly unhelpful, unmoved by his own words as he plays with his wristwatch like it is covered in feathers and bells ––my people like this location, they do not so much favor the suburbs. ––Yeah didn’t you hear sir? that mosque ran into some police harassment out there, someone had young veterans claiming they converted overseas coming in to spy and pry right? damn shame, probably confused the hell out of those kids, make them learn how to be soldiers then suddenly demand for an extra few bites of health insurance they tell them take up play acting which is the complete opposite of what they know, it’s the wrong kind of freedom for them, whiplash fresh off the shell-shock wagon, congregation like that, in the suburbs they catch a lot of heat from mega-church subscription holders as much as they do the Israel lobby, lot of pressure on. . . ––But Dominic! if they live out there and they keep the faith they might as well stand their ground and. . .

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––They are good rich Muslims though! interrupting ––and they decide to educate the poor, so they send me here to Philly; suburbs are nice to raise children but useless to preach. ––Yeah I heard from my massage therapist it’s harder to have a religious experience out on the Main Line than downtown or up in the mountains; only religious experience I ever had, myself, was Senior Week in Wildwood, way back when I took. . . ––Dominic you are not being very helpful for me right now. ––Sorry buddy I’m just fucking friendly alright? I’m from here. ––Please! could you just call your fat dirty lawyer, ya sadiq. ––You mean Charlie? chuckling, brandishing a little leather-bound black book, seal of the City sitting on the front, scrawling God-knows-what inside, eyeing alike the aggressively private citizen and the privileged foreign-worker manager here, together chewing over haggling strategy ––I like Charlie. ––His old man’s a pain in my ass, always trying to paint all my roofs white! says it fights global warming, says he’ll pay me too for it, what a patronizing prick! ––Mister Kunders is a very influential man; I don’t think he ever realized it until recently either, at seventy-something bless him, see it was that embarrassment over his one bank doing business with the Taliban at the same time as laying all their own people off and messing with their pensions, risky ventures with their money, he got enough threatening letters I think it got to the point where the pressure built up in his head and all the sin and selfish living popped, he almost bled out but I like to think he saw the Light of the Lord and that’s what stopped him from. . . ––Listen Reverend we’re not here to hear the good Word or catch the faith clap or otherwise be moved by Jesus of Nazareth, who I think we all know was a seditious traitor and a criminal; see, my God gets a head ache when he doesn’t get his coffee which to brew on a cosmic scale would probably involve crushing perfectly good planets like beans and steeping them in a black hole, and anyway Yusuf here’s got a God keeps a knife sharp for any woman who wants to drive a car or show her face outdoors, or for any kid who might be tempted to admire democratic ideals and. . . ––Listen Dominic I get it! you relish the sinful selfish and just plain mean dispositions our earthly market tends to yield us as cheap daily dividends, most plentiful resource known to this country, our giddy pompous indifference; well you have to learn some folks do have committed positions Dominic, and that their intransigence trumps your unscrupulousness in the end, and praise the Lord I live in a land where I can tell a couple of snakes like you No and know I won’t get bit. ––But your office already assured us. . . ––What I believe we told you is that Mister Maaroufi here may lease this place on a limited basis, as long as. . . ––I thought that meant rent to own. ––No Dominic! if you’re going to outright sell this space it has to be to a reputable institution with a nice clean linear paper trail, such as, for example the Saint John Coltrane Christ. . . ––The deal was done! Yusuf impertinent ––this is unbelievable, Americans have no respect for united world anymore, letter of the law, getting along with each. . . ––We understand each other of course Dominic? because you file any kind of suit against us I’ll go digging, you’ve got so many derelict properties all over the place we could put you away for endangering kids, think I’m discriminating against your partner here well how many junior detectives do you think it would take to show something is missing in how he values and accounts his so-called charity work. . . ––It’s the Crusades again eh! with a flagellating flailing motion of protest ––why don’t you mobilize your idiot children? city of brotherly. . . ––That’s enough Yusuf! you know something? the way you learned English makes it sound like you’re drunk all the time. ––I understand you two have a joint venture in Haiti now? that’s nice, my parish packed six thousand sandwiches last month to send down there, we haven’t stopped helping since that earthquake two years ago in fact, but I know with all the money you young men handle you’re capable of doing perhaps far greater. . . ––Okay stop being so passive aggressive please, you have to understand that Yusuf and I, we’re a couple of rams and we like to just have it out, butt heads, none of that lamb of God meek shit; so as for Haiti, I’m sure you’re well aware what we’re doing down there is building condominiums but I mean hey that’s legal right? it might not be saintly but Jesus Christ don’t you know how Bang Bang I mean I’m sorry excuse me Theophilus Bambrey got his money? I imagine since you got him that presidential pardon you’re probably pretty familiar with. . . ––Well I may be fairly well connected yes, but it’s because the Lord has blessed me that way, and I have to credit Jesus Christ for getting Theophilus that pardon, it was a genuine political miracle and anyway as far as I know he’s always just owned pieces of barber shops and bars as a jumping off point for this import export stuff, beginning with his father’s place at. . . ––Okay please spare me the local lore, put a fucking mural up of the whole gang there then if they’re so great, you know it’s all a. . . ––What I know Dominic is the miracles Mister Bambrey has worked for us, with his contributions, all the medical and cultural accomplishments as well as his missionary work; when is the last time you or your partner here skimmed something off the top to get a kid with cholera a doctor? or to help refugees find housing, or each other. ––I’m not under oath dude, and I’m not answering any kind of question I wouldn’t find on the kind of commercial application forms I’m used to. . . ––Well then Dominic remain damned if you will, I’m open-minded and find nothing wrong with your partner’s God but have a strong suspicion against His profits; if

231 you want to sell this building to his cousin’s mosque, by which I mean lease it to own over let’s say ten years. . . ––But he can buy it outright! we have all the. . . ––Don’t waste your breath Dominic, I’m friendly with several Islamic congregations in my district but they were all built from the ground up, like my ministry with Mister Bambrey; but all this foreign wealth and scofflaw laziness, I can’t abide it and you won’t ever get that public occupancy permit if you don’t act right, I’ll see to that. ––Damn it! I should have just rented this shit to that idiot hipster guitar kid for his jerkoff studio, prorate it according to how retarded he is; this religious turf war shit is never worth the trouble, just ruins the turf! and the more money involved the worse. Silence like a swelling sponge of sharp quills pulls together all their muted talion, into a black-hole butterball of corrosive gravity, between the three of them here kept in check by law but each unhewn inside in terms of respect for its spirit, two of them for whom the world is almost strictly a table whereon to throw money, crack dragon eggs and piss indiscriminately, roll explosive dice and spatter poisoned dressing in each other’s gilded salad; each, of the three, unknown to the other, frets to himself, about what his father would say, best, first, here, now, how to allay the worst they could possibly do. Lofty thought manifold finds itself devolved into low-down auto-didactic hysterics about castration, as well as decapitation, overcoming struggle or overbearing dominion, all their internal soldierly assets perhaps tempered and camouflaged only by a mutual and indefatigable smugness; all of a sudden the cloud recedes with a creak of opening front door, the city official and two perspirant civilian negotiators not perceiving their own pure shared instant of welcome suspicion and hostility, all ready to murder a stranger and feel better. ––Yo what’s up! we getting any thing done in here? the premature and clearly drunken bluster like a bomb of bad funk, fucked-up juju on the atmosphere in here already at once volatile and stale ––you know every time I come in here I can’t help but feel like every body’s got a damn good future ahead. ––You sound pretty self-assured Bang Bang, Dominic on the attack, signaling so by putting his phone down on a random surface ––thought I told you already Yusuf outbid you so, what Charlie! wait what the hell, did you two come together? and you’ve both been drinking! ––All four of us been drinking Dom. ––Four? ––Yeah uh that is to say me Bang Bang Murat and my son Reese, we got up and got waffles, passed a handle of Smerconish or some shit between us and I guess the waitress makes five. ––Murat! he was drinking? thought that guy’s religion. . . ––What do you expect? Yusuf cracking his knuckles, quite thirsty himself ––he is a decadent Sufi, and apparently no respect for my safety. ––Yeah Murat’s a good time, Bang Bang emphatically, almost forgetting he’s lying, with a Roman-candle laugh every body already here seems to want to stamp out. ––You’ve been busy this morning have you Theophilus? chagrinned city officer amiable in reproach ––helping out again at the food bank like you said you would. ––I put a kid on it! trudging through each word like over sludgy fermenting tundra burping methane, his nose uncovered accepting the stench because both arms on the main-man gray-matter wanderer of his mind are occupied keeping balance navigating basic discourse ––good kids, gots friend, he’s a football player. ––Murat had better not be too drunk, he is supposed to take my women around shopping while I’m busy today. ––Huh? Yusuf you know Murat don’t drink, lighting a cigar. ––It’s doesn’t Charlie! Bang Bang on mock-supercilious hysterical spiel ––not don’t, don’t get your declensions all. . . ––But you guys just said Murat. . . ––Fresh off the wagon on a Monday morning! they don’t even know what they’re saying, our great city’s movers and shakers, what will we. . . ––Listen Reverend it’s all good, sometimes I get good ideas for projects when I’m crackhoused bright and early; tell you what I can already see this whole space right here being a weight room, nothing like benching by a window when you’re sweaty and the sun light. . . ––I was actually thinking something a little more versatile for this particular area Mister Bambrey? a dining space, day care or chapel; square footage in this great city is. . . ––What about a juice bar? teach the kids a sense of balance through biblical drink mixes, I got a killer Bloody Mary recipe, can make it virgin easy enough. . . Dominic the wry and auto-adulatory hypocrite, hung over himself, his weekend a blur now bereft of any nameable detail save a general sense of lucrative bustle, a feeling that he wrote all the numbers and names down he needs later, but worried anew about the stability of such an ecstatically staggered commercial assemblage, like synchronized swimmers always barfing in the Superfund pool water ––Besides you two guys are talking like I’m really going to go back on my agreement with Yusuf and Samizdat-Bandar Islamic Outreach Associates, you don’t seem to under. . . ––Aw come on Dominic! don’t be such a sellout, throwing an arm around his government buddy’s weakly imperious padded shoulders ––you know our religion is healthier for this community than. . . ––Theophilus let me do the talking please? decamping tenuously friendly forearm from dry-cleaned shoulder ––believe me I appreciate it but you’re not the negotiator here, you’ve had people around you doing your diplomacy your whole life, because they know God gave you useful skills but for um other things; you know Jesus likes to let people like you have a say, but please try to limit your contribution here to your mere zeal of presence, it’s helpful enough. ––Aw come on! Dominic here’s my partner, you know he sees reason. . .

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––. . . yeah sure he does! as a commodity of course, listen Dom as the best consul you’ve ever had I got to tell you Islam’s not going to fly in the river wards, even the tolerant hipster station wagon babies moving here, they’re going to shit themselves the second they hear the morning call to prayer! try putting a ukulele behind that mess. ––Charlie you were supposed to show up alone, sober and ready to sign some shit; now I’m not even confident you got those defamation motions typed up against those as-you-say tolerant hipster emigrants who are apparently not very tolerant of all the lead in the air I apparently turn up through all our construction, can’t catch a fucking break in. . . ––Don’t worry Dom, got plenty of shit done before Theophilus here showed up at my office; and as for typing I got to tell you my gwam goes way up with my blood alcohol level, bet my kid could graph it he was a math wiz in middle school but damn! I’ll tell you what my nwam doesn’t go up so much, good thing that auto-edit. . . ––Hang on Bing Dong is calling again, Dominic retreating ––Yusuf why don’t you uh try putting up a fight? you’d be surprised how much money I’m willing to leave on the table for the sake of people shutting up and leaving me alone, hello? leaving the rest of them, who, coughing, shuffling, chuckling, contemplatively all fondle their balls through their pockets, thinking of nothing to say until: ––Bang Bang you ass hole! Yusuf starting the sword dance ––after all the markets I introduced you to, you push back on this when your fucking Christians have real estate all over the city already. ––Man what the fuck is your mosque going to do for the opioid crisis destroying this community! motherfucker I look around this place and I see. . . a. . . fortress of hope! fortify our kids for the future but you just want it for your goofy mumbo jumbo and. . . ––Great fuck God damn it. . . coming back into the columnar vestibule, changing the subject or perhaps rather returning them to it ––Ivan Muhammad’s still AWOL; Bing Dong called the cops on him. ––Motherfucker should have consulted us! force of gesticulation upsetting Bang Bang backward ––I mean if Ivan had to talk. . . ––Who is this Ivan Muhammad, gentlemen? one of your renowned Chechen friends no doubt Mister Maaroufi. ––Fuck me if he starts talking to cops and so does Bing Dong. . . ––Gentlemen what’s going on! something to do with contraband no doubt; you all have to know I have my limits, and as far as you go Theophilus you disappoint. . . ––Respectfully Reverend sir I’m-a sock you if you keep. . . ––Hey Bang Bang think about this! wouldn’t that be so sad if Michael Jordan and LeBron James went to war with each other? in the future I mean, with drones and shit and their militias when like my old man says global warming’s going. . . ––What! brothers man, it would never go down like. . . ––Dominic your Mister Charlie seems very drunk and fuck you Bang Bang! really what are you even doing here. ––Because motherfucker what are you going to do about the opioid crisis I said! Jesus saves, Allah damns, you know fucking Iran’s fucking heroin problem is even worse than. . . ––Iran is Shia nation Mister Bambrey! Shia, Shia, Shia, fucking Shia! do not insult me, I’m already agitated from donut and coffee I get at one of Bing Dong’s. . . ––Dom listen seriously, Bang Bang’s got a stronger long-term pro. . . ––Charlie shut up! Bang Bang you sell heroin out of a goddamn soup kitchen, shouldn’t you go repent or something. ––Theophilus! is this true. ––Yo look I thought we were all the dream team! can’t let bull shit eclipse. . . ––You will see someday Mister Bambrey, basketball in the Arab world will be great and beat. . . ––Damn it Bing Dong again! ignoring the call ––I mean how many more ways can he. . . ––Who the fuck is that knocking! almost every body drawing a hand gun. ––Put them away in case it’s the police please. . . city minister fidgeting, whose connections and collected resources perhaps these days may be fewer on paper than the rest of theirs but remain the most potent, as the stomach ache of drinking hemlock is to that from merely too much water too fast. ––You think too little of us dude. ––Yeah Dominic’s right motherfucker! did you get me that pardon just to make me feel like shit later? or what. ––You are going to, as you say, feel like shit later because it’s quarter to nine in the morning and you’re wasted as an off-season horse jockey Theophilus. ––Man that’s all you do! bring other brothers up so you can fuck with em, string em along. . . ––Bang Bang listen dude as your partner it’s my duty to tell you, the only thing more unpleasant than a psycho like you is a psycho like you with five Irish protein shakes on his breath which I might add already usually smells like greasy pork and. . . ––Dominic stay out of. . . ––Stop fucking knocking! cocking the hammer. ––Bang Bang! collectively ––stop! ––Irish protein shakes you gotta fight through this first wave of fatigue right? see it hits you around noon. . . Charlie hiccupping realizing his gun, his dad’s, is not even loaded ––Shit what was I right yeah then a wave of nausea, that’s the bitch you have to coast on a little boost of caffeine, probably a pot of tea and a decadent lunch to soak up what’s in your stomach, no booze okay maybe a sniff but not another whole shake, maybe a nice wet. . .

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––Who’s going to open the fucking door! Yusuf bellowing restraining triggerfinger-itching Bang Bang barking there in his arms at no body in particular, about his diabolical business models and their utter unprecedented superiority, being of course extensions of his leonine genius gangster core ––Dominic you lazy sack of shit! go get the door, you still own this fucking place. ––Well maybe technically but a lot of the liability already falls to. . . ––Go!! More stung with invective by Charlie’s pat on the back than expected, trembling Dominic hobbles gym-weary already towards the opaque-windowed front door, while Bang Bang starts to quiet from choking on his own oaths, catching breath shortened by a very recent drinking binge, their overburdened but hyperprivileged lawyer starting to recite a screenplay he has been working on, to the good Christian City official standing there grinning with the putrid personal sense of security a house cat feels when it figures out how to open its owners’ no less beloved bird cage; three sweating long-haired collegiate-age bachelors with a ladder, buckets and a tool box gape back at them all, while pistols go back into hiding. ––Hi we’re here to do the roof? the Puerto Rican-looking one looking like he needs to restrain a massive spasm of laughter because he knows it might spoil his simmering instinct to duck for cover, sensing all the animosity on the fluorescent coolant- conditioned air just beyond the cement-granite portal, trigger the same kind of nervous response of violence for which he would need an instant aptitude in evasion; also, seeing Reese’s dad always makes him laugh ––Y’all know what the urban heat island effect is. . . ––Ain’t that the Jamaican joint on Germantown! with the salt fish hoagie? ––No see. . . shorter dimmer long-haired buddy beside the Hispanic one ––like because the black roofs in Philadelphia all trap sun light and like therefore heat which. . . ––Cody motherfucking K! how the hell are you, didn’t recognize you at first, not in a plaid or floral print, what are you doing here? didn’t know you got up this early, or are you still up and spun out from the weekend. ––Yo Dominic you suck! brushing hair away his eyes, meaning business ––just let us just paint this one roof white. ––Cody you told me when you were bidding on it you wanted to paint it tie-dye patterned! meet my friend from the City here, he would never have let you cut a single track in here had you gone ahead and caused such a swirly psychedelic urban ozone acid island effect. ––Hey! that’s exactly what he’s trying to do with his music migo. ––Me? my music? see Edwin this is what I’m talking about, it’s not us and ours like it should be, like your attitude and your loyalty and all. . . ––Dude this was really going to be your studio? Fran disdainful but unafraid strolling stoned through the threshold among all the successful adults ––How did you bungle that one! thought you had that semimajor label cheese, now this place is going to be what? a Hebrew school or something. . . almost innocently, at once needling Yusuf, Bang Bang and the city official equally, consciously ––. . . just what they need in this neighborhood! fighting the opioid crisis with an opiate even more. . . ––Big cliché bro! the realtor supercilious, glad at the momentary ceasefire between Yusuf and Bang Bang, both of whom text idly on their phones while Charlie and the city official reminisce, about dumb young criminals and the dumber ones who finally get stung in corruption inquiries well into their fifties, when every thing is most precarious and promising in terms of how one’s procreant situation pans out, stabilizes or hits a disastrous tipping point ––Kind of foreign idea too, to most of us who know the truth, which is that God exists only as long as we print money; I think more phys.-ed. and better athletics in schools is the real answer, myself. ––Yo amen man! unblinking from his phone, slouched at a functional akimbo angle which would irk him were he not so flexibly hurtlessly drunk ––From preschool, yo! full contact hide and seek, you heard? ––Hold up y’all I’m getting a call! nondescriptly, dropping his head and walking away as if towards a presumed and nearby lavatory ––unknown number. . . ––Ayo Rico where you think you’re going! ––My name is Edwin! and take a call, I just said. . . ––Is it your girl? hand it over. ––Take it outside ass hole! you don’t belong in here. ––Okay Mister Slum Tycoon! tell you what I’ll take my call outside and take a piss on the front step how’s that. ––Dominic who are these guys? ––Nobody don’t worry Yusuf, they think they’re going to save the world; hey! you couple of hippie vegan green-peacenik Chavista Maoist weed-brownie fruit-cups, meet my friend from Saudi Arabia, he’s oil rich loves guns thinks women are nothing but car-crashing cum rags and. . . ––Wait uh what’s the rules about women shaving under sharia? ––What? Charlie shut up, you have a briefcase full of work to do, or did you get it all soaked in. . . ––Where is their sharia anyway? Cody K unironic ––is it like between. . . ––Look! I’m serious Dom, I’m curious, Yusuf tell me! like do they demand a daily shave of the legs with the ablutions? pardon me burping, big breakfast, or do they shave their arms? or are they supposed to maintain a burning bush under an arm pit or over her. . . ––Damn Dominic this guy’s your lawyer? he’s drunk, like totally done! it’s like not even nine o’ clock in the. . . ––Yeah well I’ve learned by now questioning his methods gives me a bigger head ache than any kind of litigious or alcoholic. . . ––Like see if they don’t shave all over it has to make it so much worse wearing that full-body modesty. . . ––Charlie! chidingly from three of his partners, his beneficiaries.

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––Listen whatever’s going on in here has nothing to do with us so we’re just going to go ahead and. . . ––Like hell you are! you’re trespassing right now kid. ––Kid! you were a senior when I was a freshman at. . . ––Holy shit you went to school? did you finish. ––Mister Kunders? don’t you know I went to college with your son, don’t you remember talking to me at our graduation! and why are you hugging me, never seen you even hug. . . ––He gets excited about shit like that, where people went to school and. . . ––What did you study! cut your hair since. ––Um history, I think we’ve talked about. . . ––Tell me boy! where’s my father? and my son. ––Well Lloyd’s camped out at City Hall trying not to have a stroke and Reese is on his way, but he’s probably going to punk out of the actual work again and just film. . . ––Can we please get back to signing things! Dominic whose side are you. . . ––Damn it Yusuf! my hands are tied, try to under. . . ––Yeah sadiq this is Jesus’ house motherfucker! seeking a high five from his crony from City Hall, soundly rebuffed with a look at a wrist watch, a laconic exhalation prompting a sinking ––A’ight whatever. . . ––Huh? why’s Murat calling me. . . shuffling away, studying the blinking screen like a phone number poses a complex engineering problem perhaps his grandfather could have solved. ––Yo Edwin who was that on the phone? ––Was it your boss? the great Lloyd Kunders, I’d like to talk to. . . ––No sir it was my cousin Carlos, he got kidnapped by the government or terrorists or someone like that but he’s home now, finished his debriefing and shit; they’re firing up the pinchos at his house now having a big ass party, so I have to admit I think if we’re shut down on the books I might have to leave early to. . . ––Gentlemen I know for a fact City Hall issued an injunction against your little crusade, because I wrote it; you have no kind of permits, licenses or experience necessary for us to allow. . . ––Yeah but dude it’s easy, we have all the gear and it’s not even a business, it’s just, like. . . ––Yes well the city is not particularly interested in kamikaze nonprofit models, your boss might think he’s fighting global warming but he certainly isn’t stimulating our economy which at the moment. . . ––He is though dude! he gives away like five hundred bills to every body on every block of. . . ––Well that’s terrific, very generous but also reckless and. . . ––God damn it Bing Dong never calls me this much! stoically still again ignoring the flashing and chiming of his phone ––I already told him I don’t know where the fuck Ivan is. ––What did Murat want! cornrowed Arab heir clapping a fist in a palm, utterly disgusted, greeting loping Charlie coming back in ––tell him drive me to Mexico tonight, I’m sick of this country; Washington is the only town I seem to have any fun. . . ––D C sucks, Dominic bitterly ––Can’t get a foot in the. . . ––My fans there are cool! ––Cody you’re an idiot comrade, you conditioned your fans everywhere to. . . ––Charlie! in his face now, could feel no closer through a periscope ––what did my fucking driver want. ––Whoa easy Crown Prince Gingivitis, he’s just making sure he knows where to pick these guys up for lunch, but they’re here now so I told him. . . ––Charlie! these young gentlemen will be leaving in. . . ––Murat, did he sound drunk? but I guess how could you tell. ––Why would he sound drunk? guy’s a Sufi, now there’s an honest bunch of Musselmen why can’t you Wahhabi thugs be more like. . . ––Charlie please call your father and reiterate that his project is officially. . . ––Hey uh Bang Bang could you please pull Yusuf away from me? my nausea. . . ––Bing Dong fuck off! where you kids going, you’re not painting a goddamn. . . ––Wait guys, looking between Edwin and Fran ––is it legit illegal for us to. . . ––Reactionary rock and roller huh! you thinking about quitting on us for real today Cody K? just because these butt-rash money-grubbing. . . ––Well see this place was almost my studio, being here just makes me feel. . . ––Stop bitching migo if we want to hear your feelings it’s only through a wall of loud guitars, but count mine out of it from now on. ––Aw come on Edwin! you’ve got the licks man, we were just getting our groove going. ––Ya lahhwy get me the fuck out of here! ––Look Cody I just feel like I need to dig into my roots, do more Puerto Rican songs, probably on my own at first and try to reinvent. . . ––Boys please take your ladder and leave, don’t make me call the police. ––Yo Tirico it looks like they’re already here. ––Yeah dude, you wearing a bug of something? ––What. ––There’s cops? ––There’s cops. ––Get your asses back in here! ––Lock the door. ––What’s going on! ––Shit and I have coke on me.

239

––I will help you make it disappear, perhaps you could say sorry to me for. . . ––Cops! I’m fucking wasted y’all; don’t let one get too close to me, I’m liable. . . ––Maybe they just pulled somebody over out there? don’t scare us. ––Um no they’re like taking pictures of this building. ––Are they City police? I know some people at Headquarters, I’m sure there’s a mistake of some. . . ––Why don’t you guys just look your selves? leave us alone so we can start. . . ––You are not fucking working here. ––Yo but Mister Kunders, the old one I mean not present company, he told us big roofs like these are important. ––He did? did he, ever tell you about the time I was a kid he wanted to play Santa Claus, climbed up there on the roof in a fat suit and everything, but the carriage slid down the side, fucked a bunch of shingles up, got stuck on a gutter and my mother had to call her father it was a whole. . . ––A carriage? how’d he get it up in the first place. ––Climbed out the window with one part at a time, bunch of wooden boards and stashed them against the chimney until he was ready to work his fingers raw no gloves freezing weather putting it together; he told me I should try the same stunt for my Reese, your friend, he was a kid, but I said fuck no, I bought a Santa-signal projector instead, beautiful thing slightly clearer skies than here in the city out where we. . . ––They’re not all City cops. ––What! ––Looks like some State Police and holy shit that one guy’s vest says HOMELAND SECURITY. ––That ain’t good! ––No yes that’s not good. ––So can we start working? ––Man if Edwin’s quitting my band I don’t know what I’m even. . . ––Yes please go ahead, maybe you’ll all get shot. ––Gentlemen if this issue your company is having is really this far out of my wheel house. . . ––Don’t you know the President! ––Oh no I shook his hand once, but it was through a friend of a friend of a. . . ––Well you need some direct friends on the line right now motherfucker. ––We could have done this fast! Yusuf pulling broken clock off the wall, with an arc of imbroglio throwing and smashing it against the far back wall of the room where big barred windows look out on the granite grassy back lot and the barbed wire fence and undulant rainstained rowhomes just beyond ––. . . as you say, in and out, but you all had to, as you say, fuck with the program, I already pay my fair. . . ––. . . okay knock knock so what I want to know first is who just pissed on this goddamn step, also who the hell are you. ––Oh yeah hey come on in. ––You’re probably not here to see us. ––We’re just like working on the roof. ––They look legit sir. ––Okay then go get on the roof and stay on the roof; send somebody up the ladder with them to make sure there’s no rifle planted. ––Paranoiiiiiiaaa, Edwin singing one of Cody’s recent B-sides ––Broken toys go halleluuuuuujjjaahhhh. . . ––You’re not that enthusiastic in practice! ––Because Cody, you live with a bunch of neoliberal money-minded fashionable barista type. . . out the door with an armed escort and it shuts again, the vestibule now newly crowded and the building surrounded, agents even stood posted back in the alley. ––Might as well tell you now Yusuf, Charlie and me were drinking with those escorts of yours this morning; they probably went back to bed by now. ––You what! with blindsided indignity, only remaining motionless because he knows all the bulletproof-vested bodies fanning out around them now have one dedicated eye each on him, and for once he feels vulnerable, like the earth under the basement under the floor under his feet thawed away, a well fell dry ––our Alliance should be recalled Thirteen Bells and a Billion Ass Hole Snakes. ––You know who the clearest bell of the bunch is? I like that guy from Viet Nam, nice wife and he can tell a damn good story just about growing rice, I appreciate that level of resourcefulness. . . ––Charlie! Yusuf! Bang Bang! shut the fuck up! stop talking about any. . . ––Your friend Bing Dong should be along shortly Dominic; we had him try to call you, but apparently you’re in no mood to. . . ––Excuse me gentlemen, ladies, I’m a City official, in charge of. . . ––Okay great but don’t say anything yet, and that goes double for the rest of. . . ––You know what! maybe I do got something to say already; you pardon a motherfucker he should stay pardoned! model citizen and shit, you think I don’t. . . ––He’s drunk, restrain him; and the guy in the wrinkled suit, he smells like booze too, cuff him! I don’t have time for. . . ––I’m a lawyer you piece of shit, get those things away from. . . ––Oh good, there’s an attorney present? then we can really. . . ––Charlie after this week you’re fucking fired. ––Hey! stop talking pal; so Mister Lawyer, your name’s Charlie! Kunders right? meet Special Agent Bonner, she has a big fat dossier to show. . . ––Well tell her blow it out her ass! his usual geniality suddenly evaporated like lime and tequila off a hot knife ––and pull a warrant out of her aluminum snatch. ––Sir permission to kick him in the. . .

241

––No need Bonner, he’s going to feel real sore after we depose every body; Bing Dong’s already confessed to rosewood, teak and ivory. ––Oh fuck me! most of them. ––Yeah right well that’s the least of my concerns, leave that to the Democrats! what I want, see there’s a radiological bomb attack imminent in downtown Philadelphia and you’re all party to it; when the danger’s clear the first thing we’re doing is sending a special customs audit down to that goddamn pier you guys built thinking hot damn foreign trade no rules. ––Excuse me did you say radio. . . ––You heard me correctly, Thirteen Bells Shipping Alliance employed a transportation coordinator named Ian MacCool alias Ivan Muhammad right? yeah well the guy’s a nut job in case you guys didn’t notice, thinks he’s a Wahhabi Muslim and a Rastafarian all at once, plans on blowing police headquarters up any day hour or minute now and we don’t know where the hell he. . . ––Sir call for you, it’s Rotte. ––Thank you. . . ––Rotte to Big Black Hawk, Big Black Hawk do you copy? ––Big. . . some colleagues twitchily sniggering. ––We copy Rotte. ––Ten four! what a fucked up morning...... what’s going on? on your end. ––Got them locked down Rotte, collecting phones right now; turned out someone who works for the City is here too, apparently got some graft ministry going with these guys, we’ll let him get in touch with whoever he has to, to help us, today’s going to be messy and he’s going to have to help us contain. . . ––It’s almost over! repeat it’s almost over, we’ve got eyes on Ian Muhammad. ––With the bomb!? forgetting code word protocol. ––Yes he’s pulling that box Bing Dong said he had all to himself last night. ––Ten four, oh great! fucking nuclear juice is loose. ––We haven’t given any indication that we’re on to him, all unmarked cars; but we don’t know how he plans to detonate. . . ––The girl didn’t know? ––No she had mostly piecemeal information, helpful and crucial of course but it was also just a lot of name-calling, useful details are sort of out of her purview; she insisted on saying over and over she thought it would be a quote tiny pathetic fart of an explosion end quote, over. ––Ten four, her guilt complex there complicating the thing; are you sure you have eyes on him? ––Yes! I’m here with McCrank who’s really itching to make the play, or else it’s just the summer swamp ass, he’s got that Peshmerga stench. . . what? yes we’re the first car behind the guy, watching him in his mirror smoke pot and talk to himself; I sped off to the pier earlier like you said to send out guys with Geiger meters but when we got there we happened to see him leaving, in one of Bing Dong’s trucks with the box, pretty fucking fortuitous God Blessed America. . . also, surveillance footage from a bodega on the girl’s corner confirm the target was in and out all night, loading his civilian car with stuff, presumably the radioactive materials, by the way tell the guy from the City there to inform Dominic we’re taking that house and selling it a penny on the dollar to that block captain’s community organization, Dominic kept fucking them over when they were trying to buy vacant lots mostly to convert to vegetable gardens but he massively outbid them every time, drove this guy Bonner up the wall but he’s getting his. . . also tell Dominic in fact he’s being relieved of all his derelict houses, especially since one of them as recently as six AM this morning contained conspiratorial amounts of plutonium, osmium, radium, palladium, beryllium, strontium, all stolen fuel pellet scrap, and, probably for ceremony only, natural uranium ore, all of it buried haphazardly among a whole lot of high explosives in a shipping container being driven right fucking now in front of us through Center City traffic by a convicted felon and proven psycho, for whom by the way this morning before I ever even got to the witness’s residence a warrant was issued, because last night in Jersey some kid got caught trying to burn the guy’s house down because he called 9-1-1 to report a fire before it even got started, dumb ass thought a Persian rug would be the best kindling and it turned out the place was full of weed and seeds and all kinds of gardening shit, the kid was totally loaded and scared, badly needed a hit of dope the whole time the responding officers were talking to him and he denied he knew about the marijuana stuff saying he wouldn’t have burned down the house if he knew it was all there, so yeah he confessed to the arson just like that but didn’t give them much coherent or relevant to work with here, didn’t even recognize MacCool’s photo, some evidence on site though, pay stubs and paperwork from Thirteen Bells Shipping Alliance, which by the way as early as tomorrow will be broken up in an international antitrust suit nobody will ever hear about, by the way tell Bang Bang we saw him cutting, filling, rolling, lighting and smoking a blunt on the front step of one of Bing Dong’s donut shops when he was there to hit on one of the guy’s daughters last night so that’s at least enough to put him away on a probation violation, bet we can even get that Presidential pardon expunged from his goddamn it! you can go fucking left on red on a one way street, sorry this guy in front of me between us and holy shit and MacCool just stepped on the gas! and started passing people, maybe it’s time to get a chopper over Cherry Street, shit that’s really close to where he’s going isn’t it? motherfucker get out of the way! great I’ve got State Troopers driving on the fucking sidewalk and leisure-class dog-walking obstacles all over the fuck fuck fuck well there’s at least one lawsuit anyway Mister Bambrey is done, he can go to jail today and inform them all the little pier they built is being transferred to a Turkish outfit, don’t ask me why that’s just what the hell I heard, all other parties to the Alliance will be compensated with stock holdings in Turkish shipping, they want to get any thing to Philadelphia it goes through Ankara now, um so

243 to speak at least? I think, anyway I said don’t ask me that’s what my boss told me this morning okay okay Ian’s at a red light now but he won’t run this one, this intersection is too fucked up even for him, oh by the way inform Dominic his real estate license is already. . . ––He can have a new one in Turkey if he likes, a new voice at the other end, older and less panicked than any he has heard all day ––but I think he already knows his holdings here are forfeit Rotte, if this joker Charlie wants to fight it out in court for him he’ll have to sober up, spit out a FISA court order and turn down a sweet job I found him this weekend, out of the goodness of my heart, representing a major oil company conducting a joint venture with Russia, and as for Mister Maaroufi, his plane out from Washington is already on the. . . ––Zuma! where the hell did you. . . ––Just got here Rotte, my Chechen cabbie didn’t quite know his way around, had two chatty Arab women with him distracting him; anyway don’t lose Ian Muhammad! and listen to me: there will be no charges of human trafficking against the Thirteen Bells Shipping Alliance, nor against the rogue young cops who dimed those addresses out to people on a payroll of that same Saudi investment group with the new cranes in Philly ports, and that idiot vet cop of yours who couldn’t tell a Puerto Rican from a Mexican, he’ll be suspended until his inevitable job offer from a private security firm, and you’ll be glad to hear, the word is that this practice of spiriting illegal immigrant men away to Chechnya, Kashmir, Syria, Libya, wherever they’re ending up, will probably cease in the next week, think we found out it was not a ah rolling project but a limited venture, so you’re off the case Rotte, no need even to depose you. ––What the hell are you saying sir! how could you know. . . ––I’m saying this morning you’re going to do your job, and get our man Ian MacCool, he’s the main culprit in all of this of course, the mastermind! sick disturbed God-goggled visionary, and you’re going to cuff him and take him with you to a designated relay point on your way to. . . ––Relay point sir? ––Remember Rotte? you’re going bye-bye today, two years of government-continuity training and standby duty in a cabin in Carbon County, by the way we ran out of money for NECESSIVAP and CARSPOMP so that’s done, thanks for all your hard work and believing in it Rotte; now tell me how close is Mister MacCool-Muhammad to his target. ––Um I’m right behind him, we’re basically at police headquarters but he’s leading us around the block, I guess he wants to hit the main entrance and didn’t want to have to go the wrong way through traffic to get there. ––That’s a good sign, means he’s probably going to have to pull over and do some work to run the detonator, guess your average jaded insurgent cell phone device is even too sophisticated for him, otherwise he would have just crashed through and fucked everything up! and you’d be vaporized right now Rotte, I don’t care how ghetto a haywire contraption he’s got in that trailer, but make no mistake you and McCrank are extinguished if any thing goes wrong right now apprehending him, my guess is he’s going to put his flashers on and pull over once you’re right out front, at which point you guys swarm the cab, break the fucking windows out if you have to, any city cops on the scene give you trouble tell them. . . ––Shouldn’t that guy with you now from the City alert Headquarters to. . . ––No Rotte! don’t you remember how someone made those city cops leave the room when you were debriefing the Fleury-Medina girl earlier? ––So you don’t want anybody to know? I mean this is a pretty big. . . ––What fucking difference does it make! isn’t it too late now. ––You’re right sir, we’re at the last green light, there’s congestion so the traffic is slow going, but it’s time. . . by the way we noticed the container is somehow on backwards, the doors are closer to the cab so I guess he can run cables from a charge on something in there to the truck battery. ––Sounds right, I’ll let you get to it, let me clean up over here and do some trust busting, I’d better not see a mushroom cloud or your children can kiss their college funds goodbye. Frustrated by a segment of bollards, bike stands and parking meters to its left, the semi-truck with the backward shipping container tries to cut one lane over through traffic, a compact car squeezing past almost causing a small disaster ill-fitting to precede the big one for which the box is locked and loaded, its driver probably not prepared to deal with people screaming at him amid gridlock, maybe he could shoot somebody but had better not, no he merely suffers the toothless infidel honking, the mass of it making an ugly close-cluster death chord, inching along an agonizing diagonal allowing one, two, three vehicles to pass more oops four just barely; now the truck trailing the container, corporate logos all over, crawls over curb onto sidewalk as, acknowledged or not, expected, flashers on, drooping awkwardly into the bike lane because of unwieldy width; Ian Muhammad hops out of the cab, his black keffiyeh and dirty dreadlocks moist in the summer city morning wind, while, unnoticed by him at first, certain cars just behind suddenly let out passengers all scrambling frantically, heading his way, and, by the time he opens the unlocked can, he has figured it out, they had him the whole way, they’re here, cursing running through the blackness of his payload, the cables already curled up like coupled constrictors at the threshold awaiting his palms, hooked up to a humming

245 generator he took from one of his growhouses, but here surrounded not by bud but by bomb, run run run Ian Muhammad get the hood of the truck up, clamp the red clip now the CRUNCH he crumples blindside tackled, chop-blocked simultaneously, a flushed vulture circle of buzzcuts and sudden floodgate frenzy in kicking boots upon him. ––Motherfucker you’re done! they’re going to waterboard the shit out of you. ––We should clip these to your diseased fucking ballsack! huh you want that? ––Courtesy of your Uncle Sam! just say I’m sorry and thank you, sorry and. . . ––Why’d you choose to try this evil shit out here guy? it’s off limits; should’ve gone somewhere something’s really happening, like Mali or Libya. ––Natty dread! Allah’s favorite child, consolingly to himself ––halal dread. . . ––Secure the truck! get it out of here before people shoot too much video. ––Roger! bomb squad ready at Pier Eighty-Five to intercept and decommission. ––Get off me! get off me, get off me, you fucking heathen jocks. . . fuck you, fuck you, fuck. . . ––He’s a fighter isn’t he? warrior though I’m not so sure. ––Hey what’s going on! accompanying honking, badges flashing and middle fingers going stiff as the skyscrapers a small matter of blocks away. ––Nothing to see folks! police operation, Homeland Security. ––We got to thank you for this golden opportunity Mister Muhammad, or Mister MacCool rather. ––No! not MacCool you fucking pig I had it legally fucking changed to. . . ––Shut up! freak, with a sucker punch, as the truck remerges with traffic, the doors to the container shut again ––so I can properly thank you; on behalf of the United States of America we express our gratitude for your value as a case study, it’s not every day a white guy decides he’s a Wahhabi warrior who wants to get off on a dirty bomb in his hometown on a Monday morning. ––A lot we could learn from him yes but first shouldn’t we read him his. . . ––No time Rotte we don’t want any more attention, by the way that reminds me Zuma told us make sure you get the guy to the relay point, and get your ass to Carbon County; so if you could come with me please, Officer McCrank will take your car and. . . ––I don’t trust him with it yet! get off me, I knew there was something funny about you! new recruit to Troop K my ass, couldn’t even properly lie about where you went to high school. ––I thought Gaye Quaker Academy was a real place I swear! anyway easy come easy go right? say good bye McCrank. ––Good luck Rotte. ––You too McCrank, don’t change my radio presets; and try not to hurt any body out there. ––Law enforcement is a full contact sport Rotte; people know what they’re signing up for being citizens. ––But aren’t you done being a cop? going to a private military corp. . . ––That’s classified dude! ––Okay fine fuck you McCrank! get lost, hope you end up on border patrol. ––Your luggage is in the van Rotte let’s go. ––My luggage! what the. . . ––No don’t worry we didn’t burgle you, no need to disturb your wife and kids we want them nice and patriotic while you’re away, which means you’ll get more visits with them than Zuma might have. . . ––So like two a year? ––Don’t know if it’s quite that many, I’m not your secretary Rotte! now anyway we figured out your necessities, and ensured you redundancies of socks and underwear; I got paid to go on a shopping spree for you yesterday, pretty sweet right? and I thought the whole time I was out there please no body do the wrong thing and set off a homemade nuclear weapon here, with another kick in groaning Ian’s ribs ––though believe me Rotte if we’d thought you had a strong preference I could have fetched your own clothes from home, I’m great at breaking and entering and as you can tell from the way I’m handling the suspect here, this isn’t my first abduction. ––Well uh good for you son, sew your self a merit badge; look like you’re not even old enough to remember OJ in the Bronc. . . ––Oh I’ve studied the tape sir. ––Right great of course you have, hope it taught you a valuable lesson about speeding; let’s get the fuck out of here kid, let me get these two years over with and by the way since apparently you’re closer to the top than me, even though I’ve been busting my ass eighteen years beginning as a cow town vice cop, tell me! Preppy the Predator where’s Osama bin Marley here going to end up? ––Thought I heard something about Chechnya sir; a friendly little militia over there needs a replacement chef for that Puerto Rican guy McCrank pimped out who escaped and you found, also Ian Muhammad’s almost as good a mechanic as Carlos was for them but with the bonus of knowing how to grow weed, they’ll need him to. . . ––I’m sorry I asked; let’s just go, they’re honking at us, by the way I don’t have to ride in the same vehicle as that flea bag right? I might strangle him just because I know I won’t get in trouble. ––No sir you’re just riding with me. ––Fine but I’m sitting in the back thanks. ––Haiti eh? why doesn’t he just set up shop down there if the city won’t let him here anymore. ––You mean paint the roofs in Port-au-Prince white? I suggested it to him but he said some thing kind of not nice like that it would be too damn dangerous and not worth it having people working on those rundown ramshackle shantytown houses, it made me sad but at least he agreed to start a Haiti relief charity part of our canvassing thing, I think because the day I first told him it would be a good idea like if we say to each block captain hey can you let us take like a hundred dollars out of this fat ass check

247 we’re giving you to let other people white your roof for you so these people who are way more worse off than you can have it? we might have guns drugs and stupidity here but not earthquakes, so it’s just like checking the organ donor box on getting your driver’s license, not that I have mine obviously I’m a bicyclist but anyway when Mister Kunders first heard me out about it he was kind of grumpy like okay whatever I’ll think about it so I went a lot slower that day and I was kind of surly and ruder than usual to the block captains I had to talk to, like I pointed out holes in the road and trash on the sidewalks and made fun of them if they didn’t know any thing about global warming and the next day he was like okay fine you can try this Haiti charity. ––Did he register said relief service? no you’re not sure of it so okay this guy’s not a sanctioned charity, now did he regularly pay this guy Ian-Ivan MacCool-Muhammad to drive you. . . ––No! Ian got that other job driving a truck for that donut guy Bing Dong, so he would only drive me around when he took a really long lunch break and he was so bitchy about how much driving he had to do it was like so why did you get a fucking job driving a fucking. . . ––So Lloyd never paid Ian? and this roof-coating thing isn’t being used to launder money for terrorism or. . . ––No! Mister Kunders doesn’t even like Muslims, we’ve debated about it before, he calls Arabs lazy decadent lunatics and I said that first of all most Muslims aren’t Arab and second of all that describes like every fucking group of people that’s ever secured a food supply, so he has some negative stereotypes of us already so I hope he doesn’t find out what I got involved with because that will make him feel entitled to. . . ––He won’t find out Aniyah! we promise; we really don’t want too many people knowing about a credible threat of improvised nuclear attack. ––Well anyway leave him out of this or he’ll have a stroke. ––Sir we just had to turn another cameraman away, this guy was the most belligerent of the bunch, he’s being deposed just because. ––Damn it how many more news shows does this town. . . ––Independent, said he wasn’t from any network but that he’s the son of Charlie Kunders, he knows Aniyah here and he’s sure Bang Bang Bambrey has something to do with this mess because he witnessed Ian Muhammad, whose car he had seen carrying Aniyah around to do canvassing for Lloyd, picking up Bang Bang one evening, near one of Bing Dong’s donut shops. ––Tell him if he breathes a word of this to any body, about the guys in hazmat suits outside, the Thirteen Bells Shipping Alliance or Dominic or Bang Bang or Ian or any body, talks about it ever in his life, we’ll find a way to find child soldier porn on a camera traceable to him. ––What? ya laahwy that’s terrible! how could any body possibly. . . ––Yes sir gladly, he’s being rather uncooperative, seems really frustrated with the injunction the city suddenly just. . . ––Didn’t ask the kid’s life story, although come to think of it you’d better depose him about the old man before any thing else. ––He has footage of Rotte starting a street fight with McCrank sir. ––Oh yeah? heard the videos the neighbors took went viral, on one of those hip-hop hell-hole clip-show sites, know what we did? dropped chaff over that block by chopper, and tried a new virus out on the server hosting that hoop-dreams hootenanny, projected to be used later to disable nuclear um I’m talking too much it’s immaterial here, does any body have word on Rotte, McCrank and Ian Muhammad? ––No mushroom cloud yet sir just the usual traffic and wait I’m getting a call, one of the fake plainclothes guys they put on it, to tag along and clean up and hello? yes! yes? . . . ten four fuck yeah let freedom ring! all good here too thank you. . . guess what every body! Ian Muhamad’s in custody! his truck bomb is on its way to be dismantled and Rotte’s getting his log cabin cherry popped, just in time to miss the Fourth of July. ––Hey listen I’ve been pretty nice to you people! imploring though an emotional clearing rolling over the decongesting encampment, these huddled masses of homeland security personnel, a wave of a victory lull to which the peaceful peacock, acanthus and Afro-adorned walls of Aunt Medina’s prim living room do not quite seem acclimated ––and answered all your questions and stuff, and it’s not just the medication making me accommodating like I really appreciate what you do for the country except you shouldn’t spy on Muslims so much, you guys just come to our mosque and eat all our snacks, and especially since it hardly makes up for you not catching those Nine-Eleven guys, at least not the ones that counted in the end, even though it was right under your noses; you might think I’m a terrorist and think that shit was cool but I used to live in Yonkers, I was there when it happened and saw it and it scared the shit out of me, also not only do you guys not usually catch the real lunatics in time like the white people who have too many guns and in this case you only got Ian because he was a dumb ass or still is I guess, you didn’t shoot him right? you shouldn’t, he could be a decent translator and useful to your I mean our country somehow, like I don’t know are prisoners allowed to give driving school lessons? because he’s good at that too and also he knows how to grow tomatoes and stuff and gut a fish, like aren’t those skills worth him living to pass on? ––Tell us what you want from us, at this very moment only Aniyah. ––I just want to go do my salat, alone. ––It’s not really the right time for that is it? collegiate expert checking his watch ––well past fajr, not even close to zuqor. ––Yes but I really need to go do some sunnah or nawafil, I’m overwhelmed! ––She might as well, clear her head, need her to stay articulate. ––Okay fine the threat’s been nullified anyway; why don’t you go use that welcome mat by the kitchen door? ––No please! I have a nice prayer rug in my room my Aunt Medina bought me. ––Whatever close enough, bars on the windows in her room anyway right? continental arrogance appearing in afterburn from the sunglassed supervisor surveying his

249 professional corps, stationed around the immaculate, invisibly impoverished sitting room where a padlock proscribes television time for which each kid in Miss Medina Medina’s care competes ––Go ahead but someone has to go with her! she’s obviously a suicide risk if not flight. ––Thank you; also fuck you. ––Sir Aniyah’s lawyer’s here. ––My what. ––Her, what the fuck? ––He appears to be pretty drunk as well. ––All the better, this house could use some loosening up. ––Oh God! it’s that guy who works for Dominic, Yusuf and Bang Bang; Aunt Medina tell them we can’t afford him! he better work for free because of like Ian told me once about this court case called Gideon. . . ––Hey! Aniyah I presume? my father sent me, thinks highly of you; sorry so tardy, had a rough morning myself, sore from some hand cuffs, anyway don’t answer any fucking questions they. . . ––I already answered like a hundred questions Mister Kunders! and it led to a nuclear bomb being dismantled, so you’re way late and um do you have a first name? it feels weird calling you. . . ––I’m Charlie, pleasure’s mine, heard you’re college bound young lady! studying communications history sociology and criminology right? that’s all good, adds up to a job, with a title, down the line; anyway listen you’re a minor, they definitely can’t send you to a black site in another country at least, although the way they’re out there taking my son’s camera and shit you’d think we were in goddamn Algiers already, circa Nineteen Fif. . . ––Charlie I’m glad you’re here to help but I really have to pray like right the fuck now, I’m getting hot flashes and paranoid thoughts so why don’t you take the next ten minutes to drink some water and figure out what the fuck you’re actually doing here. ––Yes we actually have some questions ready for you as well Mister Kunders. ––And I have some gas in my gut for rebuttal, let’s go! bring it on. Escorted by a smiling ponytailed open-carrying young graduate-age female agent, of some acronymic Federal security office, its exact name and function of no more interest to fevered Aniyah than would the lifetime flight path of the eagle be to the deer below bracing for winter, the younger woman, the accursed one, drops her head and runs her black fingernails fondly over the furniture still being dusted for prints, photographed and inventoried to a standard eschewed by quality control at the Shipping Alliance and only applied in society in instances of exceptional toxic gravity, whether engendered of necessity or wastefully, but always a big show, secret or not, for its executors, a taunting reckoning for the gasping fish in the glittering dragnet, most of them usually wary of one another’s water but reunited, ultimately, amid filth, rope and open air. ––Here we are; this is my room. ––Yes I know. ––Oh, right, of course you do. . . feeling totally alone again, looking to her aunt’s family photos, finding comfort only alongside apprehension in searching the faces and stances of her distant foster mother’s own closest family, a swirling personal cluster tangential and foreign, to Aniyah’s own experience, her short and brutal formative time in Yonkers with her mother, who only appears in one photograph on this hallway wall here, in the staged Christmas-card manner particular to group-photo greetings from family one never sees, from far before her torrid marriage, her eyes then still creaseless, trained on something bright and tangible, her two sons, Aniyah’s brothers, missing completely from the regular array of Aunt Medina’s refreshing and extended representation of loyalty’s reality, love’s particular but peripheral blood types, the eternity of an infant’s first feeding, on the warmth of a closed grown hand around its own ––who are you texting? ––My fiancée. ––Oh? is he an FBI agent too. ––Ha! I’m not an FBI agent Aniyah, what we all look the same to you? ––What does he do then. ––He’s a minor league hockey player, gets paid more than me and has a fast track to the majors, not a care in the world except taking care of his body while I kind of take care of myself, so we complement each other. ––The way you look while you’re talking to him it seems like you don’t have a care in the world either. ––Well that’s sweet Miss Fleury! hope you don’t mean to imply when he talks to me on the other end he’s looking stressed out. ––Please don’t put words in my mouth Miss Agent! I just want to go worship. ––Well come on then, let’s. . . ––No like please can I have some privacy? ––Some? yes I guess some is okay, I’ll stand out here with the door open a crack and only look until you roll the rug out, but then I’ll be listening and the second I hear silence I’m. . . ––Fine! you’ll spring into action because you’re a well-trained hero, but I’m not going to be doing anything in there but mumbling; you don’t happen to know any Arabic do you? conspiring to herself to recite recent poetry this time rather than conventional austere scripture, knowing Aunt Medina’s downstairs occupied, won’t overhear and accuse her of blasphemy. ––Not well dear but I know it better than that Elijah Muhammad ever did. ––What the hell is that supposed to mean. ––I mean as a matter of fact yes I’m working on it, my Arabic, in a class; I just have some conversational stuff so far though, like I haven’t read the Q’uran or anything. ––Oh uh. . . under the weight of a medically aleatory shift in the atmosphere, a brain-squeezing phenomenon to which she still believes it might be possible to accustom her spirits were it not for its infinite variety, Aniyah bites her tongue not pointing out to the fit clean strong and bright young woman in charge of her here that she did not follow

251 up her claim to conversational Arabic with a single breath of conversational Arabic, nor informing her, as she believes, that if she has not read any Q’uran she does not understand the first thing about the language, does not know where to place it in her throat; unfurling the rug, remembering convulsively the late summer day five years ago Aunt Medina took her to buy it, when she was fourteen, freshly arrived and even more heavily medicated, to even less benefit, at a West Philly bazaar between a burger joint and a wheel shop, Aniyah surveys her surroundings, half their objects under stark discriminating plastic now, the other half her little foster sister’s now more sharply seraphic, unmolested, while numbered placards now assign each of Aniyah’s worldly possessions (from ‘1’ stuck on the wall beside a poster which her first of very few friends she made in the eighth grade made her, spelling in dripping cartoon gore ANIYAHL8R) a place in some impenetrable catalog, to be ordered by their value toward the war on terror, an affair nothing to do with her anymore, more boring than she found softball in the fourth grade, or semi-formal dances in the seventh, and adjusting her qibla she wonders about her mother, still alive and literate and maybe barely verbal somewhere, and she prays facing Haiti.