Goat's Taxi

A telephone sat off the hook inside a taxi dispatch office. Shelby leaned up in her collapsible lawn chair and turned up the volume knob of the little black and white t.v. which sat on top of an unused filing cabinet. She lit a cigarette and settled in for her daytime stories.
The phone lines had been blowing up all afternoon thanks to the President’s speech scheduled for later that night, and she had almost completely missed her first two hours of soaps. She felt entitled to a solid fifteen minutes of uninterrupted viewing, and that meant leaving the phone off the hook. A small price to pay she thought.
The bell attached to the top of the front door dinged as an old man with a fishing hat meandered into the office. Shelby jumped out of the flimsy lawn chair awkwardly causing it to fling into the empty filing cabinets. She then tripped over it again scrambling to turn down the television, put out her cigarette, and hang up the phone.
“Mr. Morgan. What brings you in today?” she tried using her cutesy voice.
“Well let’s see Shelby. I was just doing a little jogging through the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to see your pretty face. Huh?”
“I didn’t know you was a jogger Mr...”
“Shelby,” he interrupted, “Shelby. I only came down today to make sure we were gonna have everybody tonight. I was kiddin’ around about jogging.” He rolled his eyes and sighed as he examined the driver roster for the night. “Where’s Goat?”
“He said he was coming a little late. He sounded drunk again.” She looked away sheepishly.
Morgan sighed again and continued to scribble some things on the roster. The bell on the door rang again.
“Hey Goat,” the old man said without turning to greet the man.
“Good evenin’ folks. Herman, Shelby. I sure am glad to see yall,” the skinny man nodded to them enthusiastically. “We gonna make some money tonight ain’t we. Got the prez in town and all. Shit, I better make at least a hundred bucks.”
“You really think you can drive like that? You looked totally sauced.” Shelby asked bug-eyed with her lip kind of snarled.
“You still don’t get it do you Shelby? DO YOU SHELBY?!” Goat looked hurt as he asked. “What’s the Goat stand for Shelby?” he waited a couple of seconds and whispered the same question again. “Herman why don’t you help her out, she’s having trouble today.”
“Greatest of all time,” answered the man quietly.
“That’s right. Ya hear that Shelby? Greatest of all fucking time. No, wait. That’d be Goaft,” he roared at his own joke.
“She might be right this time Goat. It’s one-thirty and your already toasted. I know times is tough for you right now, but I got a business to run. Why don’t you get some sleep, and come on back tomorrow?”
“Herman, don’t worry about it. I got this,” he pulled the old man close to his face, “I got this.” he looked into Herman’s eye’s with a fierce intensity.
Goat released Herman’s sweater and scooped the keys to number 33 cab off the rack and slid into the garage. Shelby and Herman looked at each other and shook their heads in disappointment. Goat made sure he peeled out of the garage to emphasize to the other two he had control over his automobile.

Goat’s name was actually Thomas Berry, but no one had called him that since grade school. His childhood classmates originally gave him the nickname because of his huge front teeth. Initially the name bothered him, but then he read about a legendary streetballer from Chicago who had used the name as an acronym. It stood for “greatest of all time”. From that point on, Thomas Berry would not allow anyone to call him anything but Goat.
Being a white man in America is the most enviable living situation a modern day human could hope to be born into, but for Goat it presented some unusual challenges. He grew up in a black neighborhood in Cincinnati. He went to black schools and had black friends and dated black girls. Although he was occasionally bullied around the neighborhood for being white, and old men would sometimes get drunk and yell at him about slavery, the hood really didn’t mind having Goat around.
He grew up in the West End, which was once considered the ritzy part of town. Prior to WWI, a bunch of rich German families decided to cram mansions as close together as they could manage throughout the West End. They called it Over-the-Rhine, pretending the Ohio River was their native Rhine River, which was in fact still in Germany. After a few global wars, and the invention of highways, those German families became very American families and moved to the suburbs. Highways.
The thing about the highways was that only people with money had use for them. So the people with money figured it made sense that they should use this concrete thing the United States Army Core of Engineers had built specifically for them. They drove their cars onto the highways and on the other end they found the country. And they found that they liked the country. They found other people too. People who already lived in the country and had liked it first. The new people used the highway to build their own houses in the country. They left stone homes with marble staircases for aluminum siding with lawn-jockeys and pink flamingos in their yards. The people who already lived there liked the country less because it was no longer the country to them.
Then came the super markets and the video rental stores, and naturally, fast food. The country side became ravaged by commercial locusts. Forests feared terms like imminent domain, and corporate interest. The families celebrated their new found territory by driving around a lot on the highways. The called their new conquest the suburbs.
While the richer white people were enjoying bothering the poorer white people, the black people acquired the vacated West End and enjoyed the new space. Property values plummeted from the great white exodus, and once top-notch homes were affordable to the working black families. Crime rates went up, drugs and guns became more available on the streets, and the public schools fell apart. There were some highlights though. The main artery to the West End, Linn St., became known as the longest crosswalk in the world by the Guinness Book of World Records, due to the total disregard to any jaywalking statutes the city obviously didn’t care much of in the first place. The speed limit was set for eight miles-per-hour to ensure avoiding any lawsuits from potentially struck pedestrians.
Goat strolled across the middle of Linn St. almost in slow motion. Everything in the hood moved slowly, especially in the summer. No one had any air conditioning so everyone packed the sidewalks and would jockey for positions in the shade. Goat slipped passed the thick mobs along the sidewalks and into the corner store to buy a pack of Kool Menthols and a fifth of Wild Irish Rose. Inside two kids ran around the narrow aisles play-fighting. One knocked into Goat as he entered.
“Whoa! Watch it little man.”
“Shut up cracka!” replied the kid. As he said a huge woman in a moo-moo emerged from the adjacent aisle. After the boy smarted off and felt proud of himself, his mom whacked the back of his head.
“Boy, you better watch yo goddamn mouth fo I really smack the shit out you. You hear me.”
“Yes ma’am,” the boy said sheepishly rubbing the welt on his head.
“You don’t even know that man. What if he was the police, then what? I ain’t pickin yo ass up from jail, Tycho. You hear me?”
“Yes ma’am.”

Wisdom Tooth

Wisdom Tooth


by B. Clifton Burke













Scene I:
-Twyla McGibbons sits at a desk in a small office upstairs from McGibbon’s, her family’s blue-collar bar. She’s trying to get a handle on the accounting.
TWYLA (distressed, but calm):
Damn, Frank. This tab is out of control.
(She looks at a post it note on the office’s bulletin board with a phone number scrawled onto it.)
TWYLA:
I don’t wanna do this. But I don’t want to cut him off without warning him first. I shouldn’t let him get away with so much, but I kinda feel sorry for the guy. Even though he’s always ramblin’ on about being the tooth fairy, he’s just another lonely, drunk.
(She looks back at the ledger book and focuses her eye on the number in red ink.)
TWYLA:
That’s a lotta debt though.
(She picks up the phone and dials. The call goes straight to voice mail. This relieves Twyla.)
FRANK’S VOICEMAIL:
Frank Little, Tooth Fairy.
Beep.
TWYLA:
Frank, this is Twyla from the bar. I want to make it perfectly clear that I am only calling you to remind you of the large tab you’ve managed to run up. Don’t think for a second that I’m calling you because I want to. Now, unless you can come up with four hundred dollars, you aren’t getting served here anymore. And I mean US currency too, Frank. You can go ahead and keep your Italian Lira, and your Rubles and even your damn Canadian coins. I’m not interested in trading for any of your teeth either. You’re the only person in this world who thinks they’re worth anything. Everybody knows you have plenty of money, Frank. How else are the kids around the world getting cash for their teeth? (Laughs). Now seriously, I don’t wanna get in the way of doing your job, whatever that might actually be, but if you don’t pay up soon, I’ll be forced to contact some kind of authority. That most likely would end up being a couple of bigger gentleman who might see it fit to take one of your fairy wings as collateral. Neither of us wants that, Frank.
And while I sort of have you on the phone, I wanna warn you about your drunkenness. When you first started coming in here, I tolerated your cheesy come-ons and foul language. But recently, you’ve become downright nasty and crude. I wanna make it clear, Frank, that I am your bartender only. I’m not interested in being your girlfriend, or your mom. If I sense you aren’t getting that, you won’t be allowed back. And if you throw any glass objects around the bar again, there will be no more second chances.
Oh yeah, one more thing. You need to leave Nigel alone. Just because you have issue with the British doesn’t give you license to bully him all the time. You know he’s sensitive and paranoid, and I can’t bear watching you prey on him every time you two drink together.
Remember, Frank, four hundred dollars, or you don’t get served. I’m not going to buy another bottle of Bushmill’s until I see the money. Nobody else in this place ever touches that stuff anyway. I don’t wanna lose you as a customer, Frank, but I’m not putting up with it anymore. This is a business.
(Twyla hangs up the phone and reaches for her cigarettes. There aren’t any left. She tosses her lighter onto the desk, frustrated.)
Scene II:
It’s a rainy night at McGibbon’s as Frank Little, Nigel Rabbit and Lawrence Frye sit on their bar stools drinking and complaining about their jobs.
FRANK:
This round on you, Frye?
LAWRENCE:
Screw you, Frank. Your drink costs more than mine and Nigel’s combined. You can afford your own fancy scotch.
NIGEL:
True indeed (raises his glass). Besides, I bought the last round and the one before that.
LAWRENCE:
I don’t get it, Frank. You can buy the world’s teeth but can’t buy your own booze? I’ve noticed how much of a tight ass you are with your money.
FRANK:
Stop noticing my tight ass, fruitcake.
LAWRENCE:
It’s like, whenever you fail to swindle other people into buying your drinks, you tell Twyla to ‘put it on your tab’. Whatever that means.
NIGEL:
A tab, Lawrence, is an agreed upon verbal contract between the patron and bartender which promises that-
LAWRENCE:
– Thank you, Nigel. I know what a tab is, I just don’t think Frank makes good on his promise to pay it. And if he did, I betcha he doesn’t tip her. (snickers)
FRANK:
I wouldn’t tip you.
LAWRENCE:
I wouldn’t deliver to you, Frank.
FRANK:
Of course not, Frye. I don’t have enough money.
LAWRENCE:
What’s that supposed to mean?
FRANK:
It means, you hate poor people, and that you’re a classist bigot.
(Nigel shifts in his seat, anticipating an argument.)
LAWRENCE:
I don’t hate poor people, you holier-than-thou-sad sack of a tooth fairy. I stay out of the bad parts of town because it isn’t safe. We’ve been over this before.
FRANK:
That’s bullshit and you know it, Frye.
LAWRENCE:
What about you, Frank? We don’t even know what you do for a living. The tooth fairy? (Laughs). I don’t see the toothless kids in the ghetto showing off their new shiny quarters to all of their friends.
FRANK:
A quarter my ass. A good tooth is worth no less than seventy-five cents these days, and I usually leave a buck, thank you very much. If I left a quarter for a crappy tooth, the kid would just go buy more candy with it and ruin the next tooth he loses.
NIGEL:
He or she loses.
FRANK:
Please, Rabbit, stay outta this. Fact is, Larry, you don’t wanna be associated with the poor, even though your tax bracket is right down here with the rest of us. You play Santa at the ritziest malls in town and you refuse to deliver pizza to the hood. I bet you ignore orders based on area codes.
LAWRENCE:
(Chokes on drink) That’s ludicrous and impossible to prove. Ever since I was accosted by that insane elderly woman, my administration and I have decided the risk isn’t worth it. I’ve told you that before.
FRANK:
Your administration? You mean your pops and the two Latino guys in the pizza kitchen? That’s friggin’ hilarious. What, your dad is the secretary and Juan and Carlos handle the IT department? You’re such a pretentious shithead.
LAWRENCE:
What good is a dead Santa to the world, Frank? What if I’m shot delivering pizza to the projects by some deranged crack addict? Would it still be worth it to keep driving down there with a wallet full of cash and a car full of pizza?
FRANK:
I suppose the rough neighborhoods don’t deserve their mail or medical deliveries either then?
LAWRENCE:
If there was only one mailman...
NIGEL:
Letter carrier.
LAWRENCE:
Huh?
NIGEL:
Call them letter carriers. That way, they could be male or female.
LAWRENCE:
...Letter carrier (clears his throat), or only one doctor in town, than no, it wouldn’t be worth the risk of it all.
FRANK:
You might be the only pizza man dressed as Santa, but-
NIGEL:
Delivery person.
FRANK:
Shut up, Rabbit This isn’t a damn press conference. We don’t have to be so fucking PC all the time, got it?
NIGEL:
(sheepishly) It’s worth pointing out, nonetheless.
LAWRENCE:
You act like such a champion of the little guy, Frank, yet you spend less time in financially distressed areas than I do. I try to include neighborhoods that are poor yet still fairly safe. Look at all those quaint little industrial townships just across the river I deliver to. They don’t have money. But they do have the best vintage clothing stores, believe it or not.
FRANK:
A good tooth is a good tooth, no matter where it comes from. That’s something I pride myself on. If I heard about a quality incisor in the middle of Bagdad, I’d go buy it. I don’t care. But thanks to lazy parenting and the rising cost of decent toothpaste and floss, most poor kids have a mouthful of crap teeth. Point is, I don’t discriminate like you do.
LAWRENCE:
It isn’t discrimination, Frank, it’s just unsafe.
FRANK:
Then a carry a gun.
LAWRENCE:
Great idea, Frank. I can see the headline now, SANTA SHOOTS POOR PERSON, CLAIMS SELF DEFENSE. That doesn’t sound worth it either. Where’s your gun, tough guy?
FRANK:
(pulls out a small pistol) Right here... tough guy.
NIGEL:
Jesus, Frank You carry a gun? ...Can I see it?
LAWRENCE:
Stop it Nigel, Don’t encourage him. Frank, that is repulsive that you climb into children’s bedrooms with a gun in your pants.
FRANK:
It eliminates the excuses, Frye. I know the ghetto can be rough. I’ve spent a lot of time in the inner city. It’s bad enough you don’t even like kids, but it’s worse that you hate the poor kids more.
NIGEL:
What about me, Frank? I hate all kids.
FRANK:
That’s because you’re scared of them, Rabbit. So is this clown, but your fear is more of some fucked up phobia or something. Frye’s just an asshole. Why are you even in this line of work, Santa?
LAWRENCE:
So I can pay for my own drink once in a while, you penny-pinching drunk. Someday we’ll find out how you can buy thousands, even millions of teeth, but can’t come up with the cash for your Bushmill’s. I only occasionally buy your round to keep you from bullying Nigel about it all the time.
FRANK:
Well, why don’t you make this one of those occasions.
LAWRENCE:
What if I refuse, Frank? Gonna shoot me?
(Frank realizes he’s still holding the gun, and returns it to his pants)
FRANK:
Twyla, a round for my friends and me, if you’d please.
NIGEL:
(astonished) Why, cheers, Frank.
LAWRENCE:
Wow. (Drinks appear) Here’s to Frank’s stubborn nature. Buying us beers to prove his generosity. I never thought I’d see the day.
FRANK:
Never is a long time, Frye. Just don’t get used to it.
(Twyla wipes down the bar and catches Frank’s attention. Lawrence and Nigel begin to talk lightly about their drinks.)
TWYLA:
Are we still on for tomorrow night?
FRANK:
(a bit flummoxed) Uh..yeah. Eight o’clock right?
TWYLA:
I’m looking forward to it, Frank. Don’t let me down.
FRANK:
(chuckles nervously) Never. Me? C’mon (gives a wave of his hand).
(Nigel and Lawrence are still making small talk about their drinks but are clearly observing the exchange of Frank and Twyla)
TWYLA:
See ya at eight tomorrow then.
(Frank smiles at her and turns to other two men. Twyla walks to the other end of the bar and begins to read a magazine)
NIGEL:
(nudges Frank’s elbow and smiles strangely) Well, well old boy. Looks as if Twyla has finally warmed up to you.
LAWRENCE:
I’m shocked by that, honestly. But it seems your feeble passes at her must have struck a chord somehow. It’s sad really.
FRANK:
(red-faced and embarrassed) Jealous, Frye?
LAWRENCE:
Wrong team, Frank.
NIGEL:
Where are you taking her?
FRANK:
(shifts in his seat and looks around the room) Um..dunno yet. Where would you go, Rabbit?
NIGEL:
Hmm. Well, I normally would never risk the health hazards associated with public dining, but if I must, I’d say that the cafeteria of the Walnut Acres Retirement Home seems like a sensible option. They advertise on the radio about the constant sterilization of everything on the premises.
FRANK:
(distracted) Yeah. Maybe.
LAWRENCE:
Jesus, Frank, have you ever known any women? Nigel, no one goes to a retirement home on a date. What planet are you from?
NIGEL:
(feebly) The U.K.
LAWRENCE:
I assume you’d rather not spend a lot of money on this date, am I right?
(Twyla looks over from across the bar but is still outside of earshot. Frank notices her, noticing them.)
FRANK:
Uh, listen guys, let me worry about the details. I mean, (laughs) it’s not like I’ve never taken a woman out, right?
LAWRENCE:
(rolls his eyes) Sure, Frank. You da man.
(Frank slams his drink and pulls his old brown leather jacket on. He coughs a bit as he stands. The other men are visibly confused by his abrupt departure.)
FRANK:
Gotta run, fellas.
NIGEL:
(Calls out) Thanks for the drink, Frank.
LAWRENCE:
Yeah, sorry I called you a tight ass.
(Frank waves without turning as he walks out. Twyla watches him leave. The other two drink silently a moment, taking it all in.)
LAWRENCE:
Wow. Tough ol’ Frank’s got a soft spot after all. Did you see how embarrassed he got?
NIGEL:
It made me feel embarrassed.
LAWRENCE:
I would’ve guessed he’d gloat more. He’s rather shameless with his drunken come-ons to Twyla. Why hide it when it seems to have worked? In his moment of victory?
NIGEL:
Maybe we don’t give him enough credit. Maybe there’s more than meets the eye.
LAWRENCE:
Jesus, Nigel, you really need to stop watching conspiracy documentaries from the library.

Scene III:


Frank shows up at McGibbon’s the next night at 8pm. There are a few people at the tavern, sitting at tables and talking quietly. Twyla stands behind an empty bar and is drying pint glasses with a bar towel.

FRANK:
(Removing his brown leather jacket and hanging it on the back of the bar stool) Kinda dead in here for a Saturday night.

TWYLA:
It’s early still. I think the cold keeps some of the customers away.

FRANK:
Never too cold for a drink. (Frank sits down, pulls out a cigarette and coughs painfully. Water fills his eyes. He collects himself and lights his smoke)

TWYLA: Not for you, Frank. You got the money?

FRANK:
I have most of it.

TWYLA:
How much?

FRANK:
Three hundred and eighteen bucks. (He hands a large wad of cash to her).

TWYLA:
Dammit, Frank. What did I say? Four hundred or you don’t get served.

FRANK:
I can only get so much from the ATM at one time. I’ll get the rest tomorrow.

(Twyla surveys him shrewdly. Frank launches into another coughing fit)

TWYLA:
(pouring Frank a glass of scotch) Alright, Frank, but you’d better level with me. I don’t usually care how my customers pay me, just as long as I get the money, but this doesn’t look right. How many ATMs you know givin’ out crinkled up singles?

FRANK:
(takes a swig and doesn’t look up when he speaks) Well, it’s kind of a long story, actually. Doubt you’d be interested in much of it. But that money’s clean, honest.

TWYLA: I got nothin’ else going on here. Enlighten me.

FRANK:
(coughs, lighter this time) Ok, ok. But this stays with us, got it? (Twyla nods and lights her own cigarette) Let’s just say you won’t have to worry about me racking up a debt like this again.

TWYLA:
Well, that’s good.

FRANK:
Because I’ll likely be dead before I can.

TWYLA:
That’s not so good.

FRANK:
No, it sure aint. Ya see, I’ve been a real bastard on my liver and it’s decided that it isn’t gonna take it anymore. Psoriasis is what the doc called it I think.

TWYLA:
Cirrhosis

FRANK:
What’s that ya say?

TWYLA:
Cirrhosis of the liver. Not psoriasis. Psoriasis is a skin disorder.

FRANK:
Well, look at the smarty-pants servin’ drinks. Shoulda been a doctor, McGibbon.

TWYLA:
I went to nursing school for four years, Frank. I only work at this dump because my uncle’s too sick to manage the place or else I’d actually be a nurse somewhere.

FRANK:
How’s Carl holding up anyway?

TWYLA:
He’s not good. He won’t take his heart medication and he’s given up.

FRANK:
I know the feeling.

TWYLA:
(Eyes him momentarily) So, you’re dying, huh? How long did they say you got?

FRANK:
The doc didn’t want to give me a time frame, but said it doesn’t look good.
TWYLA:
(quietly) Jesus, Frank. I’m sorry to hear it.

FRANK: Only a matter of time. Always is, I guess, I just sped things up a little.

TWYLA:
So about this money (she waves the wad of cash).

FRANK:
That money’s good, I told ya. Woulda gone to the kids for their teeth. Shoulda gone to the kids.

TWYLA:
Well, I don’t wanna take money from kids. (She tries handing it back to him. He won’t take it).

FRANK:
There’s plenty more where that came from and you will have the rest tomorrow.

TWYLA:
(stops wiping down the bar and looks at him) What do you really do, Frank? Is this from a government check or something?

FRANK:
If the government knew about my line of work, they’d lock me up for tax evasion.
TWYLA:
(sarcastic) So you’re really the tooth fairy?

FRANK:
That’s right.

TWYLA:
Where does the money come from then?

FRANK:
That’s kind of a secret.

TWYLA:
I bet it is. One that conveniently no one else knows about I’m sure.

FRANK:
No. But someone should know.

TWYLA:
Who should?

FRANK: My apprentice should.

TWYLA:
(sounding more interested) You have an apprentice?

FRANK:
(sighs) Nope. S’posed to though.

TWYLA:
What happened?

FRANK:
(raises his glass) this happened.

TWYLA:
(turning away, unconvinced) That’s what I thought. The only excuse for a drunk.

FRANK:
(talks into his drink) What’s the point? Nobody cares if I’m out there working or not. Kids these days think they just got lucky when they find a buck under their pillow.

TWYLA:
You’re actually breaking into kids’ bedrooms to do this? That’s fucked up, Frank. If I saw you in my house, I would definitely shoot you.

FRANK:
Wouldn’t be the first, Annie Oakley. (Takes a swig)

TWYLA:
Stop playing, Frank. You’re really acting as some kind of tooth fairy.

FRANK:
It aint acting.

TWYLA:
What about the cops?

FRANK:
Always been a problem. I understand where they’re coming from. They’re just trying to do their job. And I’m just trying to do mine.

TWYLA:
(looking at him skeptically) You’re weird, Frank. I’ve heard of some shit, but this is too much. You go around at night, sneaking dollar bills under the heads of sleeping children, do I have that right?

FRANK:
Pretty much.

TWYLA:
And now you’re going to teach someone else to do this because you’re dying?

FRANK:
(Deep sigh) That’s the idea.

TWYLA:
But you’ve given up?
(Frank says nothing and looks at the bar)

TWYLA:
You gotta boss or something? Are you gonna get in trouble if you don’t find somebody?
FRANK:
(Laughs) Trouble. Nah, nobody’s gonna come looking for me.

TWYLA:
Then what are you gonna do?

FRANK:
Nothin. I just told ya.

TWYLA:
C’mon, Frank. You’re not dead yet. There’s gotta be someone out there. Can’t you just find somebody?

FRANK:
Sure, I could just find somebody, but the goal is find somebody with the right instincts. The right set of skills. They gotta know what to look for, ya know?

TWYLA:
No, Frank. I don’t know. What do you have to look for?

FRANK:
Unless, you’re that person, I can ‘t tell you that.

TWYLA:
Am I that person, Frank?

(Frank looks her over for a moment.)

FRANK:
Nah. (Finishes his scotch)


Scene IV

Frank Little occupies McGibbon’s with only the bar tender, Twyla. They’re sitting in silence, Twyla reading her magazine and Frank staring at his drink.
Nigel Rabbit, short and round, limps into the bar red-faced and winded. He runs a chubby hand through the light wisp of remaining hair and leans on the bar as he tries to catch his breath.
NIGEL:
A kid ran me over with his bike just now. I think someone hired him to break my leg. It really hurts
FRANK:
Bet you got a conspiracy all cooked up, huh Rabbit?
NIGEL:
C’mon, Frank, you know I have enemies.
FRANK:
Don’t start, Nigel, please. (Takes a big swig of scotch)
NIGEL:
Enemies, Frank. Scary ones who track my every move via satellite.
FRANK:
Fear and paranoia are your only enemies, candy man.
NIGEL:
(breath finally under control) Good one. I don’t why I bother with you.
FRANK:
Hell, Nigel, who else ya gonna talk to?
NIGEL:
I’m serious, Frank. This kid rode right up onto the sidewalk and crashed into me. Look at my ankle. Look how swollen it already is. I think it’s broken.
FRANK:
(without looking) Just look at that. You’ll be dead in a week.
NIGEL:
Kids don’t just go around running people over on their bikes, Frank. He was paid to do it, I know it.
FRANK:
Let it go, Rabbit. You’re not important enough for all of that conspiracy shit. What does a guy who makes jellybeans have to worry about? Most people could hurt or intimidate you on their own. No one’s gonna pay a kid to break your damn ankle.
NIGEL:
Most people don’t have reason to, Frank. But a select group of international bankers have plenty of reason to shut me up. I know too many things.
FRANK:
Nigel, today’s been a tough day already, ok? I don’t need all this illuminati bullshit you keep...Wait a minute. Did the kid look like that kid talking to the cops outside? No Don’t turnaround.

NIGEL:
Oh my god They’re coming for me. Help, Frank.
FRANK:
(returning to his drink, smiling.) Please. I am not getting involved in this.
NIGEL:
Quick, man. There coming.
FRANK:
Run, Nigel. (Frank giggles) Run quick like a bunny.
NIGEL:
Shit. Where should I run, Frank?
FRANK:
Try Belize. I hear the coral reef is really something down there.
NIGEL:
(Nigel is panicked) Unbelievable. You’re joking around while I’m on the verge of being taken by the police.
FRANK:
Valparaiso, Indiana was once a famous hide out spot for criminals in the early 1900's. You could go there. Met my predecessor in Valparaiso matter of fact.
NIGEL:
What good does this do me now, Frank?
FRANK:
X-rated movie theaters and pawn shops are about all you’ll find there now. I was in that area last week. Some good teeth in Indiana. (Frank finishes his scotch and notices Nigel still freaking out). Relax, Rabbit. There’s no cops outside.
NIGEL:
(relieved and finally removing his coat) You’re a real bastard, Frank. Do you ever think about anyone else in this world other than yourself?
FRANK:
Zip it, Rabbit. I do this world a great service by paying for its teeth. (Frank gets annoyed) What do you do? Work at the candy factory, making your chocolate fucking eggs and all your jellybeans and chewy shit.
NIGEL:
(exsasperated) Here we go again. (Twyla pours Nigel a pint of Guinness) Cheers, Twyla.
FRANK:
You know how much you lower the quality and value of the teeth I collect. I’m talking about you personally.
NIGEL:
(pleading) Frank it’s my job, remember? You have your, um... job, and I have mine.
FRANK:
All of the kids out there, shoveling sugar in their mouths so their baby teeth can rot away before they have a chance to naturally dislodge. It’s disgusting, and it’s making the children in this country fat. You do that to them, Nigel.
NIGEL:
Um..right. Speaking of jobs, why are you here at noon on a Tuesday, Frank?
FRANK:
Same as you, Rabbit. Avoiding work.
NIGEL:
Well, yes. But I’m on my lunch break. I drink a Guinness on my break everyday. I’ve read somewhere that it’s actually good for me. Or maybe I just tell myself that.
(Nigel laughs, Frank doesn’t)
NIGEL:
This ankle is really smarting. Damn that little brat. I hope he’s smashed by a rubbish truck while he’s riding that hellish bicycle of his. Anyway, I can see by the row of empties that you’ve been here a while. Everything ok, Frank? You look a little worse than usual. The teeth business a bit slow these days?
FRANK:
You could say that. Grinding to a halt, in fact.
NIGEL:
Were you fired or something?
FRANK:
(Laughs) Fired. Rabbit, think of me as an independent contractor. I make my own hours, and I blow off work when I want to. I come here, slouch on this old, worn out bar stool and watch ice cubes melt into my drink.
NIGEL:
(leans closer and speaks softly) Are you a hit man, Frank? I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’ve settled on a hit man. Is that it? Is that what you do?
FRANK:
(a bit hurt) I’m the goddamn tooth fairy. I shouldn’t have told anybody in the first place, but I did. So now at least pretend that’s what I do if you don’t wanna buy it.
NIGEL:
Ok, ok. I’m sorry. You’re...the tooth fairy then. Why is work slow? (Chuckles) Surely children aren’t losing less teeth, are they?
FRANK:
Dammit, Rabbit. I tried, ok? I went out and did my job. I spent my years sneaking around, running from people, getting shot. And for what? No one cares. The world’s gonna carry on without the tooth fairy all the same, you watch. It doesn’t make sense anymore to keep at it. I’m tired, Nigel...real tired.
NIGEL:
Ok, then. Where will you retire to?
FRANK:
(holds up his bottle) Here’s as good a place as any, I reckon. (Takes a swig straight from the bottle).
NIGEL:
Well then, (raising his glass) here’s to your replacement.
FRANK:
(stands and grabs Nigel’s shirt collar) What do you know about that?
NIGEL:
Frank
Twyla runs over to the action.
TWYLA:
Frank, stop it
FRANK:
How do you know about the replacement ?
NIGEL:
I don’t know anything, Frank. It was a bad joke. I thought you were a hit man, remember? It was just an off-handed remark.
FRANK:
(Releases Nigel and turns to Twyla) What else did you tell him? Who else have you told?
TWYLA:
I didn’t tell anybody anything, Frank. Now just cool out or you’re gonna have to leave.
FRANK:
(Finishes his bottle) I’m leavin’.
(Frank leaves.)
NIGEL:
What was that?
TWYLA:
He’s just going through some things, I guess.
NIGEL:
That one’s a real piece of work alright. It wasn’t 15 minutes ago that he had me convinced the police were after me. Scared the hell out of me, you saw it. Then I make an innocent comment about Frank’s work and he flips out. What set him off like that? Replacement? Why replacement?
TWYLA:
I dunno. Frank takes the whole tooth fairy thing too far, I think.
NIGEL: I agree. Do you think he’s crazy?
TWYLA: Nah.
NIGEL: I don’t either, strangely enough. Think he’s a hit man?

Twyla is back in her office upstairs from the bar. She’s on the phone.
FRANK’S VOICEMAIL:
Frank Little, tooth fairy.
Beep
TWYLA:
Frank, it’s Twyla from the bar. You haven’t been here in over a week and after what you told me about your liver, I’m a little worried about you. I know you’re probably still mad at me, but I promise I didn’t tell anybody what you told me. I hope you’re out there working and finding what you were looking for.
But if you haven’t, I know someone. He’s my nephew, Marvin, and he needs a job...bad. I have to warn you that he’s had issues keeping down a job in the past, but he does know a thing or two about sneaking into people’s houses. I figured he might have some of those special skills you talked about. If you give Marvin a chance, I’ll let you slide on your debt. Let me know what you think. Hope you’re alright. Bye.


Scene V


Twyla arrives at the bar one morning to find Frank waiting for her. He looks worse than last time she saw him. He’s huddled near the locked entrance holding himself for warmth and smoking a cigarette.

TWYLA:

Wow, Frank. Starting early today aint ya? 9 a.m. Musta been a hard week.

FRANK:

Coulda been better, that’s for sure. Got your message. Wanted to talk it over if you got time.

(The two walk in the bar and Twyla turns on the lights. Frank sits on his favorite bar stool and watches Twyla walk around the bar, straightening. Neither talk immediately.)

TWYLA:

Go on vacation or something?

FRANK:

Nah, work stuff.

TWYLA:

Guess you didn’t find anybody or else you wouldn’t be here, huh?

FRANK:

That’s not true. I’m an alcoholic. I woulda come back eventually. Kinda have to at this point. But, no, I didn’t find anybody. Actually talked with a few folks though. Most I’ve done in months.

TWYLA:

And you want to talk to Marvin, I take it.

FRANK:

Yeah, what the hell. Thought I’d see what the kid’s made of.

TWYLA:

He aint exactly a kid. He’s forty-two.

FRANK:

(winces) Kinda on the old side for being a trainee. But, if you got it, ya got it. And B&E is definitely part of the job, so I’d like to see him in action.

TWYLA:

Here’s his number.

FRANK:
Uh, why don’t you call him and tell him someone wants to meet him?

TWYLA:

Me? Why me? I don’t wanna get involved. Besides, how am I supposed to tell him about a job I know nothing about?

FRANK:
Think about it. I can’t just call and say, ‘Congratulations, Marvin, you’ve been hand selected to become the next tooth fairy.’ He’s not gonna buy it.

TWYLA:

So what should I tell him?

FRANK:

Well that depends.

TWYLA:

On what, Frank? I’m not in the mood to play games with you this morning.

FRANK:

Just tell him he’s got a shot at a well paying job that is technically legal, but still requires a bit of finesse to get in and out of buildings undetected.

TWYLA:

Cool. Sounds like Spider Man.

FRANK:

Hey, that’s not bad. Tell him it’s like a Spider Man job if you think it’ll help. But be absolutely sure to not mention the words ‘tooth fairy’. Got it?

TWYLA:

But if that’s what you call it, why can’t I?

FRANK:

Because maybe Marvin isn’t the right guy for the job. Maybe he doesn’t wanna do the job. Maybe he lacks self-confidence and doesn’t wanna refer to himself as a fairy. It doesn’t matter why. We’re doing this my way, and you both will have to trust that I know what I’m doing.

TWYLA:

Wanna drink?

FRANK:

I’d better, since I’m here.

TWYLA:

When should I call him?

FRANK:

Call him now, I don’t care. The sooner the better. Don’t have all year, ya know.

(Frank tries to laugh but coughs harshly instead.)

FRANK:

And we’ll be square after that, right?

TWYLA:

(moment of silence) Sure, Frank.

FRANK:

I know what you’re thinking. What’s it matter to him, right? The guy’s gonna die soon anyway. There’s no way he’s ever gonna pay me my money. Surely he’s not doing this to settle a debt, right?

(Twyla shrugs)

FRANK:

Well, you’re partially right. It isn’t the only reason I’m giving your Marvin a shot though. I don’t think it’s right to die with debt on your hands – unless of course you owe the IRS or somebody like that, fuck those guys. So I do wanna square that off before I go. But I got a debt to this job too.

TWYLA:

Are saying you owe your employers money?
FRANK:

Dammit. There’s only me. I wish people could understand that. There’s no supervisor, no committee, no shareholders or board of elections. If I fuck up, it goes unnoticed. If I do a good job it goes unnoticed. So if I let this thing die off with me, no one will know and that’ll be that.

TWYLA:

So why do it?

FRANK:

Because I owe it to all the ones before me. Even if I find a successor and that person blows it, I’ll have done what was expected of me.

TWYLA:

Wow. You make it sound so important.

FRANK:

Well, I’m just remembering that it is important. I dunno when I forgot that but I’m ashamed that I did. A man, even a tooth fairy, can only take so much neglect, ya know?



Scene VI



Marvin and Frank are in Frank’s car on their way to “a job”

MARVIN:

So now can you tell me where we’re going? Twyla told me the job was pretty secretive, but I think at some point you’re going to have to tell me about something.

Frank pulls out a bottle from under his seat and takes a swig of the scotch inside.

FRANK:

Let’s get a couple of things straight. First off, I don’t have to tell you shit. You’ll be provided information on a need-to-know basis only. Secondly, whatever you are told is not to go beyond the two of us, got it? Not even Twyla.

MARVIN:

Well, I dunno if I want a job that I don’t know shit about. I just got outta jail. I ain’t trying to go back. You either tell me where we’re going, or I’m not taking this job.

(Car comes to a screeching halt. Both men look at each other without speaking.)

FRANK:

Well? Whad’ya waiting for, get the hell outta the car.

MARVIN:

(laughs nervously) C’mon, man. I was just talking. We’re cool, right? I just don’t wanna go to jail is all.

FRANK:

What we’re doing, the reason we’re doing what we’re doing, ain’t illegal. But the way we go about it, technically…is.

MARVIN:

Alright, man. You got one last chance to tell me what I’m getting myself in for, or else I really am getting out of this car. I don’t care if I am in the middle of nowhere, I am not going back to jail.

Frank takes another drink, and lights a cigarette. He coughs and collects himself.

FRANK:

Screw it. Marvin, what I’m going to tell will not seem real. It will seem like I’m lying to you, but I’m not. You’re probably going to laugh, but I am not joking around, ok?

(Marvin nods, wide-eyed.)

FRANK:

We’re going to a house in Adams County where a little girl and her parents live. She lost a very quality canine tooth today and I plan on buying it. Now, the tooth is under her pillow which means it’s fair game to purchase.

Frank pauses but Marvin says nothing, staring blankly at Frank.

FRANK:

Now the trick is, we gotta get under that pillow to get that tooth and put a buck there in its place, without waking her up, or tipping off her parents that we were there. If anything goes wrong, if you blow it, the police could be involved.

MARVIN:

The muthafuckin’ tooth fairy? You crazy?

FRANK:

Now I told ya you’d –

MARVIN:

Ooohhhh, I get it. You talking in code. What they call that? Plausible deniability or some shit? Yeah, I;ve seen this shit on law and order. The less I know, the less trouble I can get in, right? I get it. I don’t know if I like it or not, but I get it.
FRANK:

I’m serious here, dammit. It ain’t no plausible reliability, or whatever the fuck.

MARVIN:

Um…I think it’s time to talk about some wages, Frank. You’re starting to get all weird on me, talking about creeping into some little girl’s room and shit. This sounds real fucked up to me. How much we talking 'bout?

FRANK:

If you’re lucky enough to become the fulltime guy, you would have access to an expense account. The money is there, believe me. I’ve been living off of it for years, and even I don’t know how much is there. But that’s only if you’re the guy.

MARVIN:

What if I ain’t the guy?

FRANK:

Than it’s like any other job, Marvin, you don’t get shit.

(Frank stops the car near the house. He caps his bottle and returns it to under his seat.)

FRANK:

Now, you don’t have to do anything this time, just watch. But watch closely. Pay attention to the details. Everything I do, I’m doing for a reason, so take note of all of it, got it? All of it.

MARVIN:

What’s the code word if something goes wrong?

FRANK:
Code word?

MARVIN:

Yeah, ya know. When something goes wrong we should have a code word that means to abort the mission and meet back at the car.

(Frank looks at him for a moment.)

FRANK:

You think this is some kinda kid’s game, Marvin. This isn’t a television show. I bet that’s the kinda dumb shit that got you popped the first time ‘round. Nothing’s going wrong, kid. If you’re gonna do this job, the number one thing you gotta remember is to keep the lowest profile possible. When we’re up there, we’re not gonna be talking, remember? We gotta be very, very quiet, remember? Now, if you can’t even get that much, than the interview’s over and you can wait right here in the car. A fuckin’ code word, are you serious? I swear to god, kid, you say one fuckin’ word up there and I’ll shoot you myself.
Frank pulls his gun out of his trunk and tucks it into his belt, then pulls out two pair of house slippers.

FRANK:

Put these on.

MARVIN:

These ain’t my size.

FRANK:

Make ‘em work.



Scene VII



Twyla is closing up the bar for the night, as Frank walks in.

TWYLA:

(without looking up) We’re closed for the night.

FRANK:

Yeah, me too.

TWYLA:

Oh, hey Frank. How’d it go with Marvin?

FRANK:

Your cousin is no tooth fairy, I’m afraid.
TWYLA:

Shit. Why? What happened?

FRANK:

Well, first off, the guy’s allergic to cats and scared of dogs. I shoulda asked these kinds of questions before we went out, really. He actually sneezed as we we’re climbing out of the house. Sneezed Damn near woke the kid up. We ended up with a gorgeous tooth though. Damn fine canine.

TWYLA:

I really thought he could do something like this. He's gotta do something, anything. Those kids of his need some help.

FRANK:

Kids?

TWYLA:

Yeah, Marvin has a knack at impregnating chicken heads around town. He has four babies with three different baby-mamas. I only recommended the bastard for the kids’ sake. Wanna drink?

FRANK:

I’d better. Well, the guy is naturally sneaky. He moves well for the job, but he lacks focus. We had to go over what kind of teeth to look for three or four times and he still didn’t have it down pat when I dropped him off. I didn’t get the sense that he was very motivated.

TWYLA:

Did you two talk about money?

FRANK:
What do you mean?

TWYLA:

Pay, Frank. I’m sure he isn’t going to take the job seriously if he doesn’t think he’ll get paid.

FRANK:

I mentioned it a bit, but I didn’t want to say too much since he ain’t the right guy for the job.

TWYLA:

What did you tell him?

FRANK:

Just that there was an expense account that comes with the job.

TWYLA:
What kind of expense account? How much is it?

FRANK:

I don’t even know how much is there. I told him that too. I’ve never run out though.

TWYLA:

So why do you let your tab get so out of control? Do you have any idea how that kind of thing hurts a little bar like us? That’s really shitty of you, Frank.

FRANK:

You're not supposed to use the card on booze. The card is for living expenses and that don't include scotch. I pay for my drinks with the cash I earn on the side.
TWYLA:

Let me guess, you're a hitman.

FRANK:

No, jesus. What's the matter with everybody thinking I kill people. I'm not a goddamn hitman. I bet on the ponies. Been at it for years, kind of grew up around a race track.

TWYLA:

Ah ha, that explains everything.

FRANK:

What does that explain?

TWYLA:

Your whole life, Frank, your whole damn life.

FRANK:

What do you know?

TWYLA:

I know that times must be tough at the track, cause you're back in the red. Even after I let you slide the first time for helping Marvin, you still racked up a tab again. You’re unbelievable, Frank.

FRANK:

Well, no worries there. Big race coming up in a few days and I got a sure thing lined up. A real guarantee. Big ass horse named Roman Holiday. I know the trainer and I know the competition, and everyody's in on this one. A sure thing if there ever was one. I'll even add a fat tip for ya after this one.
TWYLA:

I'm not gonna hold my breath waiting on horse racing money. What if I talk to Marvin about the job?

FRANK:

I am not bringing Marvin to the track. Inside jobs are supposed to stay inside.

TWYLA:

I'm not talking about the track, Frank, I'm talking about the tooth...job. I think I can speak to Marvin.

FRANK:

I spoke to him. I didn't tell him more than he needed to know, but I damn sure spoke to the guy. I'm not a complete asshole. I'm not gonna ride in a car for an hour with somebody and not talk to them.

TWYLA:

I mean, I think I can get across the message a little more...effectively than mybe you can. I can relate to him better and maybe I can motivate his broke-ass better.

FRANK:

I dunno, that'd mean I'd have to train you too, and I'm only doing that for serious applicants.

TWYLA::

Are you saying that a woman is incapable of doing this job, Frank? Huh?

FRANK:

No. I didn't say that at all, Twyla. Women have done this job plenty throughout the ages, I'm sure. A lady trained me, matter fact. Sweet old lady, Helen Rensford. What I said was that I'm only taking serious applicants out to train. If Marvin had really showed me something tonight, I might give something like that a little bit more consideration, but I'd call him... average at best.

TWYLA:

Think about the kids, Frank. What'll it hurt? One night out with you just to show me the ropes.

FRANK:

As we've already talked about, I don't have a lot of time to make this happen. No offense, Twyla, but I can't waste time training someboy who ain't gonna do the job themselves.

TWYLA:

That's exactly my point, Frank. You don't have a lot of time left. What happens if you died right there on that barstool tonight? Even Marvin is at least somebody you trained. You said yourself that's all you really have to do before you...move on. Better him than nobody.

FRANK:

Movin' on sure is a nice way of puttin' it. Alright then. Let's go. Grab your coat, it's damn cold out there.

TWYLA:

Now? You wanna go now? I don't know, Frank. I'm tired and I just closed up.

FRANK:

It's now or never, Twyla. Think of the kids.



Scene VIII



Frank pulls the car up to the bar, and the two sit in the car silently for a moment.

FRANK:

Just think it over, Twyla. That’s all I’m sayin’, just give it a day or two, then decide.

TWYLA:

I don’t need a day or two, Frank. I’m not doin’ it. My uncle needs me to run the bar, I’ve told you all this already.

FRANK:

But you’re perfect for it, Twyla. You’re damn near better than me, and tonight was your first night

TWYLA:
It isn’t that hard, Frank.

FRANK:

You see? It comes naturally to you. I’ve never seen anyone move as effortlessly as you. I’m jealous if you really want to know the truth about it. Really I am. You should think it over for a day or two at least.

TWYLA:

Is this just another come-on, Frank?

FRANK:

No. I mean it. You’re a tooth fairy. You’ve got everything it takes. I know talent when I see it and you got plenty of it.

TWYLA:

Well, I’m not going to do my uncle like that. He doesn’t have anybody else to run that place for him.

FRANK:

I could look over it while you’re gone. At least ‘til I ...move on.

TWYLA:

C’mon, Frank. You would either drink yourself to death -- well, faster than you have already – or drink the place out of business. Either way, it doesn’t sound like a good idea.

FRANK:

Yeah, well, you don’t know what you’re missin’. You and your uncle could get by on the expense account. I’m sure of it.

TWYLA:

You’re sure of it? How would I go about accessing this account, if I were the person.

FRANK:

Well, you’d have to agree to the job to find that out.

TWYLA:

No, Frank. That isn’t how it’s gonna work. I don’t want the job, remember? It makes no difference if you tell me or not. But if it seems believable, it may help me consider the whole thing more seriously.

FRANK:

I shouldn’t tell you this, dammit. It’s an ATM card that works anywhere and the pin is whatever year it is.

TWYLA:

Let me see it.

FRANK:

No way. I may be desperate but I ain’t stupid. But...it’s yours if you want the job. You’re perfect for it, Twyla, the best I ever seen.

TWYLA:

I’ll talk to Marvin, and tell him to call you. Give him another shot, Frank. He’ll be more ready this time, I promise.

FRANK:

I don’t want Marvin, I want you.

TWYLA:

Too bad, Frank. Oh, and that racehorse of yours had better come through, mister.


Scene IX



Nigel and Lawrence are sitting at the bar drinking. Twyla is doing dishes.
LAWRENCE:

But how do we know he’s dead?

NIGEL:

It’s been over two weeks, and we all know he was getting sicker everyday. Now can you just toast the man, before my Guinness goes flat?

LAWRENCE:

I don’t know if a sad-sack like that gets a cheers from me. Especially if he isn’t dead.

TWYLA:

He’s dead, Lawrence, now drink.

LAWRENCE:

You’re positive of that?

TWYLA:

Yes.

LAWRENCE:

How?

TWYLA:

Because he paid his tab.

NIGEL:

To Frank. (Raises his glass)


Scene X



Twyla and Marvin are crouched under a window. They appear as burglars.

MARVIN:

How do we know this is the right house?

TWYLA:

The racing program said this is the house, tonight, 3 a.m., one quality incisor.

MARVIN:

I still don’t understand how the race track knows anything about what we’re doing.

TWYLA:

I don’t either, but it’s the way Frank did it, so it’s how we’re going to do it. The woman from the track said it will start to make more sense the more we do it so that’s how it’s going to go down.

MARVIN:

You tried the card out? It works? I’m not freezing my ass off for nothing, right?

TWYLA:
Yes, it works. Now focus on the matter at hand. You don’t have to do anything this time, just watch. But watch closely, because everything I do is important, so take note of –

MARVIN:
– Everything, I know. I heard this speech already. I learned this shit before you did. How come you training me?

TWYLA:

Because I’m a natural, and you’re ... average at best.








The End

Sheep's Clothing

“Sheeps Clothing”

There’s a man named Daniel who lives in a small patch of woods about forty yards from my house. Daniel is completely crazy and often screams at trees, and squirrels, and the ground, and anything else he can to demonstrate his craziness. Many times I hear him screaming, “Wake up Wake the fuck up, god dammit ”. I imagine he’s changing from one personality to another during these occasions. He seems to have many personalities, but he’s good about leaving the violent and nasty ones at home when he goes about his daily begging.
Daniel does his begging in a very workman like way. He emerges on the block early with the college students and bus commuters and perches himself on various stoops and benches around the neighborhood. He never discriminates to whom he begs from. All of societies categories are equally solicited. His only variance from his plea for cigarettes and spare change is this; every man is referred to as brother, and every woman as beautiful. Everyone gets a god-bless-you whether they have contributed or not.

I was waiting on a bus one day, when he sauntered over and plopped down on the bench next to me and took his shoes off. They were old worn leather hiking boots with the classic bum holes in the toes. His feet were rugged. They looked like how Fred Flintstone’s feet would have actually looked if he drove his car in that famous Fred Flintstone kind of way. They were black and mangled with blisters and sores and gross amber colored toe nails. He rubbed them a while without looking up, then focused his attention on a tall can of St. Ides malt liquor wrapped in a crusty paper bag. He cracked the top open and took a long drink with his eyes closed. He burped and waved his hand in front of his face like a karate expert, only drunker. He peeked out of one eye lid and turned to look at me.
“Hey brother,” he said with his coarse, raspy voice. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette on ya, would ya?”
“I don’t smoke, Daniel.”
He never registers the fact I call him by name.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare change, would ya brother?”
“Just bus money, Daniel.”
“God bless ya brother.”
He lifted his can to his mouth but stopped short and turned to me again.
“Say brother, what’s your name?”
“Bryan”
“Bryan, you ever been around sheeps before?”
“Sheeps?”
“Yeah. White fluffy things. They’re bigger than dogs. You know godammit, sheeps ”
“Okay, sheeps. Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em.”
“But have you been around them? Could you touch ‘em?”
“No, I guess not.”
“I hate those fuckers They made me all fucked up like this,” he knocked on his head to demonstrate. A random college guy walked past.
“Hey brother, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra cigarette on you, would ya brother? You wouldn’t have a spare change?”
The college guy never turned to look, but patted his pockets as a sign that he was broke too.
“Damn sheeps kicked me right in the head once,” he continued. “I was in a hospital for nine months, knocked out the whole time.” He took care of the remaining beer with another big swig. He hit up a man and a woman, professors maybe, who kept talking and ignored him altogether. He rubbed his feet again and tilted his head back. It looked like he might fall asleep, but I was intrigued.
“How’d it happen?” I asked.
“Huh? Hey brother, you wouldn’t...”
“The sheeps,” I said impatiently. “How’d a sheeps kick you in the head?”
“Aw shit,” he grumbled. “I was at a buddy of mine’s house, way the fuck out there in the country. There was a bunch of us there and we were sittin’ around a fire drinking and smoking and shit,” he did the motions of drinking and smoking as he listed them off. A guy on a bike rolled by and Daniel asked him for a cigarette or a spare change. The guy told him not today and called him ‘buddy’ as he rolled away. Daniel focused on his aching feet again. He seemed to forget about the story.
“And?” I tried jogging his feeble memory.
“Hey brother,” he said to me, prepared to ask me the same question again.
“The sheeps. You were smoking and drinking around the fire and...?”
“Hey man. You’re funny. You remember that story?”
“No I don’t remember. How’s it go again?”
“We were out in the country, man.”
“I know, and you were sitting around the fire.”
“Yeah man. And this big muthafucker comes outta no where with these big fuckin’ dogs. Don’t nobody know this muthafucker and he just sits down and grabs a beer. His dogs go runnin’ off somewhere and were all like ‘Who the fuck are you man?’ This big muthafucker stands up and says he’s the devil. We all start laughin’ at this crazy fucker and he starts laughin’ too, when all of a sudden we hear his dogs barkin’. He stopped laughin’ and he looked around. I sat there wonderin’ what the hell was goin’ on when I looked over and all these sheeps came runnin’ right at us. I was just startin’ to think about gettin’ up when a sheeps tried to jump over where I was sittin’. Fucker didn’t make it and kicked me square in the head,” he pulled back some of his long, matted hair to show me the nasty scar the sheeps made.
It appeared he had more to tell, when a very old man pushed a rusty shopping cart past us, filled with aluminum cans.
“Hey brother, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette or a spare change, would ya brother?”
The old man murmured something under his breath and trudged along. Daniel went for another drink, but shook it to show me it was empty. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and some loose change. He held it in his hand and closed his eyes as if he were weighing the money. He suddenly popped his eyes open and snatched his empty beer can. The old man with the cart had made it to the crosswalk and Daniel went running after him, hollering at him as he approached.
“Here ya go brother I gotta can for ya.”
The old man turned to identify the commotion running his way and began to panic as he saw Daniel running at him. He tried to make a break across the street but he moved slower than even he expected and was smashed by a speeding, beat-up Buick Century. His frail body blasted into the windshield, then went flying off as the driver slammed on the brakes. The cans spewed all over the intersection and the shopping cart became mangled under the Buick. The horrified driver jumped out of the car and raced over to the crumpled body in the street. He and Daniel leaned over the dead man silently, and then looked at each other. Daniel tossed his empty can among the others in the street and asked the driver if he had a cigarette or a spare change. The stunned driver made no acknowledgment to him so Daniel stumbled back to the bench I was still sitting in. He picked up his old hiking boots and began to slowly walk off.
“God bless ya, brother,” he said to me as he walked away barefoot.

Tycho's Ghetto

Tycho dribbled his basketball on the linoleum kitchen floor. Between his legs, around the back. He had serious handles for a nine-year-old. His Mama was yelling at him.
"Tycho, I swear to God if you don't stop bouncing that ball...Tycho!" She swatted the ball against the dish-drainer causing a plate to fall onto the floor. "Oh my God. Lord, please give me the patients to not strangle my son at this hour. I beg you. He's driving me crazy, Lord."
"Sorry, Mama."
"No you ain't son. No you ain't. Cause if you was sorry, you woulda put that muthafuckin' ball up a long time ago, and taken your ass to school, like I told you to."
"Mama, I don't need school. My game is nice."
"His game is nice," added Polly, his older brother.
"Boy, mind your business. And turn that T.V. down. Don't nobody give a damn about the evenin' news anyhow."
"Grandpa Jessup said he can't hear it low. Beside, they talkin' about the vote."
"You vote?" Grandpa Jessup asked Polly.
"I'm only seventeen, pops. One more year. I prolly wouldn'ta voted anyway."
"You right," Grandpa shrugged. "Don't matter even if you do. Black man got no chance as it is. Don't need a vote to find that out. Turn it up a little, boy."
"...the outcome of yesterdays vote has been called unspeakably inhumane by many foreign leaders, and has received heavy criticism by many Republicans and Democrats, alike. Yet the fact remains that Black neighborhoods simply could not turn out enough voters to prevent the proposed constitutional amendment. The proposal will bar African-Americans from voting on anything governmentally instituted again, effective immediately. How about some weather, Tina?..."
"Don't matter to me. My customers still be lining up on the block," gloated Polly, flashing a wad of cash.
"Polly! I told you I don't wanta hear that shit in front of Tycho. I lost you, I ain't losing him too."
"You ain't lost me Mama, I'm right here." Polly demonstrated by tugging on his throwback Nuggets jersey, causing his oversized gold chains and medallions to thrash about.
"Yeah, Mama. You don't gotta worry about me. I won't need to sell drugs, when I'm in the NBA," said Tycho pirouetting as he dribbled again through his legs.
"You just better be at school in the morning. You here?"
"Yes Mama."

Tycho decided it was best to avoid his mother's wrath, so he dressed for school. White shirt, black pants, black shoes. He pulled his I.D. card out of his clear plastic school bag and hung it around his neck. He dribbled from his apartment 5-13, down the five floors of stairs to a small bulletproof glass booth. He showed the policeman inside the booth his I.D.,and wrote his name on the form attached to a clipboard hanging in air by a thin chain, spinning in circles.. He found his friend Lloyd outside, past the high razor-wire fence.
"Your Mama makin' you go, ain't she?"
Tycho nodded, dribbling mechanically.
"We got a Social Studies test today. Civil War. Abe Lincoln and all that."
"Let me copy. Write real big, alright."
Lloyd shrugged. "I guess, man. But I don't like doin' that. If I get caught, I get an 'F' too. Us little guys ain't goin' pro like you."
"You could rap."
"C'mon man. You gotta be cool to be rapper."
"Oh! I know. A DJ. Most people don't even see them dudes."
"That might be alright," Lloyd said, smiling.
The two boys strolled to school walking in the middle of the street. They passed a twenty-foot long Buick, rusted and dented, with shinny chrome hub-cap rims. Then a police car. Then an old hatchback Honda with a plastic bag taped over the passenger window. Then a police car.
The sidewalks were crowded but not active. People stood or sat, or both, in groups talking or watching the other stagnant pockets of people across the street from them. Most people moving around were the many police officers monitoring the days activities, strolling in pairs.
"How about 'DJ Omega Fats'. Yeah, that sound tight," Lloyd daydreamed aloud. "Hey, ain't that your bother?" He pointed a stubby finger toward a white policewoman crashing Polly against the hood of the police car.
"Polly!" Tycho screamed, and ran toward the scene, dribbling subconsciously the whole way. "That's my brother let him go. Please?"
"Go away kid. Don't make me tell you again," the lady cop said, struggling with Polly.
"What he do?" inquired Lloyd.
"Let's just say he wasn't spending his time the right way. Now get outta here, both of you."
She wrangled Polly into the back of the squad car, deliberately smashing his head on the top of the car. She wiggled a small plastic bag with her thumb and index finger, and slid it into her back pocket.
As she drove away, she stuck her head out of the window. "Go do something useful for a change."
Tycho stopped dribbling and looked at Lloyd.
"I gotta go, Lloyd. You heard her, I gotta work on my jumper. Mama can't have both of us locked up. I gotta go pro, if I'm a make it."
"I'm goin' to school. You should to."
"Man, that don't make no sense. Why go to school, if I already know what I'm good at? I'm a baller, always will be. You can go to school. I'm a play."
Lloyd shrugged and trudged off to school. He listened to the ball bounce away, farther and farther. It became a faint thud, like the heartbeat of the ghetto, pulsating under the sirens and yells.

Tycho's Ghetto

Flypaper

Flypaper:
I watched her lace up her roller skates from across the rink. I had always silently admired her style and demeanor, but that night, I saw her as something special. Her dark hair and eyes, and her easy smile, discouraged me to look elsewhere.
She’s come into my store before. I’ve served her coffee. I’ve also seen her at some random social functions and bars. I vaguely remember seeing her with someone. Presumably a boyfriend. She was with a group of women that night. They had gathered around a table off to the side of the rink.
“C’mon let’s get our skates,” a friend of mine said.
“Apparently, their all out of size elevens.” That was a lie. The truth is I never learned to master pretty much anything with wheels. Bikes, skates, skateboards. I like to think growing up with scoliosis prevented me form having those types of fun, but at some point I know I was just being a pussy. I’m obviously still ashamed of it.
The group I was with all found their sizes. I had hoped at least one of them hadn’t planned on skating, but no. I sat quietly and watched people I know acknowledge me by dancing a little as they skated by. They cycled around over and over doing the same thing. I felt like a mom, whose kids wave to her every time they pass. But then she rolled past.
She wore knee high red and white striped socks, little red seventies athletic shorts, a brown sweater, and a fluffy white scarf. A random assortment of garments, orchestrated perfectly. I began to create personal attributes for her. First, I decided, she isn’t conventional or boring. She’s obviously a unique, charismatic woman, and probably has a keen intuition of people. Quirky, with a certain zest to life. I bet she’s pretty smart. She had already been smiling, when she noticed me ever so briefly. A look of distant recognition, I hoped.
After a few songs, she disappeared from the floor. I felt I couldn’t wave to my friends anymore, so I occupied myself with the claw-game. You know, you maneuver the claw around a glass case and hope the claw grabs some cheap stuffed-animal, which never actually happens. Yeah, that one. I had wasted a couple of dollars on it, when I saw her skate over my way. She waved to me, smiling.
“Hey, you work at that coffee shop, right?” She was a little out of breath.
“Yeah, I remember seeing you there. How have you been?” I never really know what to say.
“Good thanks. Listen, you know Mitchell Baines, right?”
“Sure, I’ve known Mitchell for along time. He hangs out at the store a lot. Good guy.”
“Do you know his number by chance?”
Dammit.
“No, sorry. I believe he said his service was turned off right now.” The truth. “I could tell him to call you if I see him.” A lie.
“Nah, that’s okay. I was just curious if he was going to the after party tonight. Oh, well. See ya.” she rolled away.

The next night I sat at work, reading. It was dusk and it was raining, and the combination made everything outside look a different shade of blue. A flare of a bright-red felt overcoat, cut through the evening mist, and into the shop. It was her. She held a wet newspaper over her head as she entered. She lifted her soft brown eyes, and grinned slyly. She was beautiful.
I wanted to ask her to live with me far from there, where we would grow old together, nestled next to the thousand fires I would build for her. But, unprepared, I only muttered “Hi there.”
“Hello.”
“How was the after party?” I asked.
“I didn’t actually go in. The bar was really crowded, so my friends and I found Mitchell and took off.”
“I see. So you found him after all.” I tried hard to mask my disappointment.
“Yeah. He’ll be here any minute. We’re going to have dinner at the new restaurant down the street.”
I nodded, resisting all temptations to manipulate her opinion of Mitchell. He was a good guy. And I wouldn’t want that done to me. I offered to make her something while she waited. She declined, and I returned to my book. A few minutes later Mitchell burst in from the rain.
“Hey,” he panted to her. “You ready, I got the car running, let’s go. See ya B.” He waved to me as they shuffled out the door.

Later that night, I closed the store and went to the backroom to count the money. Shortly into it, a knock sounded at the front door. Normally, it’s usually a friend or a desperate coffee drinker, but again it was her.
I let her in and asked how I could help her. She looked like she’d been crying.
“Can I use the phone? That asshole left me stranded at the restaurant, can you believe that?”
Thank you, lord.
“Terrible,” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Here, sit down.” I handed her the phone and prepared some calming tea for her as she dialed.
“Mitchell, you prick! That’s it! Never call me again! You bastard!” She slammed the phone upon the tabletop.
I brought over the tea and sat across from her. She looked at me.
“You’re awfully nice. What’s your name, anyway?”
We talked there for a long time. Over an hour, easy. The tea had calmed her, and my line of questioning successfully steered her clear of any memory of the suddenly wicked Mitchell.
“Would you mind walking me home? It’s not far.”
Are you kidding me?
“Of course,” I said lovingly. I had gained confidence.
We strolled slowly, neither of us in a rush to end our unintended evening together. Finally, we arrived at her apartment. She looked away and grinned.
“I have some old sci-fi movies I was going to watch. You interested?”
Eureka!!!
“Absolutely. I love sci-fi movies.” The truth.
We watched movies for about a half-an-hour, and then began to speak softly to each other about the ironic destiny our evening had taken. The rest of the night was magic.

In the morning we lazed about in bed, thinking aloud of how perfect it felt to be there. She said she felt freer than ever, and wanted to do something new, with me. I asked if she’d been to the new playhouse in town.
“No, silly. I mean something big. Life changing, you know?”
“What did you have in mind.”
She smiled broadly, “Let’s go away together, to Sicily. I have family there. I’d been thinking of going for awhile, but now I’m convinced I should go, with you. How about it?”
I nearly choked. “Are you serious? But, you just met...this is a big thing, I mean...okay lets do it.”
She hugged me around the neck. Her body radiated beauty in the yellow morning sunshine. My mind was made up. Try and stop me, I thought.
My friends and family were understandably confused. Who? What? Where? It sounded more and more Disney like each time I explained it. We were leaving in a week. I was busy throughout, quitting my job, selling any possession worth anything at all, and cashing in on favors from everybody who owed them. I racked up just enough to make it happen, and said my arrivederci’. The plan was to meet her at the airport, where she had our tickets. It seemed unreal how easy it had all unfolded. My wife took the news the worst.
I waited with bursting excitement at the gate where we were to meet. My newfound love and I, braving a new world together, leaving behind a wasteland, starting life over again. I wanted to shout just thinking about it.
I became nervous when our ETD came closer. I stared at the run way, figuring a watched pot never boils. Someone said my name, and it damn sure wasn’t her. I turned, and felt my heart sink.
“Mitchell?”
“Hey, buddy. Are you excited about our trip?”
“Our trip?” I could feel the blood drain out of my head and I became a little woozy.
“Yeah, Josephine said she couldn’t make it, so she gave me her ticket. Here’s yours. Me and you buddy. Italy here we come! We might never come back.”
“No. Wait. What? She couldn’t make it? What happened? I thought she hated you? Wait.” My mind was spinning out of control.
“Doesn’t matter, dude. We’re freaking going. Yeah boy!” He pumped his fist.
“I don’t want to go with you.” Mitchell leaned in as I said this.
“What’s that?”
“I said, I don’t want to go with you. I want to go with her. I don’t want this ticket if she’s not going. Besides, this one has your name on it.” I was breaking down. I handed the ticket back to him, and began to trudge away, horrified.. I heard her laugh behind me. I spun around, and swear I saw her for just a second, holding Mitchell’s arm as they walked into the corridor leading to the plane. I swear I saw her.
The airline had no record of me owning a ticket, and wasn’t giving me any money back.
“How about Mitchell Baines?” I whimpered to the old lady behind the glass.
“Mr. Baines purchased two one-way tickets to Palermo three months ago. There’s nothing we can do sir, I’m sorry.”
I walked, as in a trance, all the way home that day, to a house that had been sold to strangers. The whole way, I repeated aloud to myself over and over again, “she’ll be back.”

Roman Holiday

Roman Holiday:

A beam of sunlight split through the blinds and illuminated Alister’s sleeping face. The air in the shadowed room smelled stale and unpleasant. Layers of nicotine coated the once white walls, staining them a sickly yellowish color. Dirty, wrinkled clothes matted into each other on the floor, unintentionally serving as a carpet.
Aside from the futon Alister slept on, the only furniture in the room was an old wardrobe , and a large office desk awkwardly tucked into a corner. The wardrobe was shabby, with drawers opened and collapsing at the seams from the growing piles of clothing he loaded on top of them. A thick layer of white dust, like powdered sugar, coated every unused surface in the room. The desk’s surface looked the most used. A large glass ashtray sat on top and looked like a chia-pet of cigarette butts, sprouting out in all directions. Whiskey bottles lined the edges of the desk forming a little glass fence. Worn notebooks were sprawled here and there, with bizarre scribbles of strange sayings in strange languages. Stacks of thick books with broken binds were plopped around on the desk’s surface. One was opened, and in it showed an old creepy ink drawing of demons on horseback dragging screaming souls into a fiery cave. A rather stock picture from an old book dealing with the occult.
He stirred a little. The terrible taste in his mouth jarred him back to consciousness. His head throbbed, and his stomach felt like it’d been tied into a boy scout knot. He struggled raising from bed, and steadied himself against the wall nearby when he stood. He stumbled into his small, unkept bathroom, and seated himself appropriately in front of the toilet. This was his daily routine, vomiting for the first ten minutes or so of his day.
In the shower, he could feel his liver groan and turn green from it’s constant poisoning. His lungs shivered and forced out loose pieces of themselves. He rubbed his aching neck and coughed. His head pounded as it released a gradual eruption of snot from his nose. He thought of going to work and nearly fell through the shower curtain. Not today, I’d rather die in an alley then go to work today, he thought. But it was the thirty-first, and he knew he needed the hours. He screamed, angry at his responsibilities.

He waited at the bus stop in the freezing morning. His hands were pink and stung from the fierce winter breeze as he smoked. His long black overcoat brushed the littered cement while he sat on the bench. A teenaged fat girl sat next to him, yelling into her cell phone, and sucking down a huge plastic cup of soda pop. She tried swapping the two items in her hands, but fumbled and dropped her soda in front of them. Small, brown streams of cola, raced down the sidewalk and soaked the ends of Alister’s coat. The fat girl watched unconcerned. “My bad,” she said with little feeling. He continued his cigarette, looking at her annoyed, but not saying anything.
“What you gotta problem about it? I said I was sorry.” Her eyes bugged out when she said it, and she moved her head left to right, like some exotic yard bird.
“No you didn’t. You said ‘my bad’. That’s not an apology at all.”
“Whatever, freak. Your jacket’s all stained and shit anyway, freak”
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the curse he had memorized the night before. He mumbled something under his breath and did little hand movements toward the girl. He opened his eyes and waited for the curse to take hold of her. She rolled her eyes at him, and returned to yelling into her cell phone.
The crowded bus arrived, and Alister was forced to ride standing. On the way to his job, he wondered why his curses and spells never worked. He had read over his books carefully, again and again, worried he was missing some vital information. He practiced the sayings aloud at his apartment, and silently at work in his dish tank. Once at work, he cursed his boss Jacqueline, and seconds later she fell into some stock shelves. He knew it was mostly due to the fact she drank heavily at lunch and not because of the curse, but he still found it encouraging.
He tiptoed his way off the bus and trudged through the doors of “Pete’s Pizza”. Jacqueline was the first to greet him.
“You know, a lot of people have jobs in this world. A lot of people.” She sneered at him condescendingly. “But nobody gets paid for being late, and neither do you. Chump.” She hurled his greasy rolled up apron at him, which smacked his glasses off.
“Hah! You guys see that? Right between the eyes.” The few line cooks who saw it, bellowed their laughter throughout the kitchen. Jacqueline howled above them all with her raspy smoker’s laugh. Alister walked away and cursed under his breath, in English not Aramaic.
Alister kept his dish tank immaculate. At the end of every night, he would polish the stainless steel tubs and counters until they looked like new. He would go on and on to the owner of Pete’s Pizza about how much pride he takes in his job during the six-month evaluations. The truth is, Alister had somehow been there ten years and had received a thirty-five cents raise every six months. He was up to fourteen dollars an hour and often needed to use the sympathy card to keep his job, “Sir, letting me go for thirty-five cents would be an injustice to that dish tank and you know it.” Money wasn’t the issue. He didn’t spend his money on much. Whiskey, smokes, an occasional lap dance, books, toilet paper, peanut butter, rent. Alister loved the invisibility a dishwasher accomplishes the moment the hairnet goes on. Give me the plate and look away, he would think to himself when a server wanted to get chatty.
Pink soap bubbles splashed over the rim of the gigantic sink, as Alister situated his bus tubs, and silverware containers for the upcoming battle with the dishes. He could hear the radio again, sounding in the next door at the cell phone store on the other side of the wall. Everyday for the last few weeks they left a radio blaring horse races. All through the shift, horse racing.
“...Chocolate Thunder has the lead by a length, but here comes Sugar Cane. Sugar Cane coming up hard on Chocolate Thunder. On the Rocks is third followed by Santa Maria, and Jericho...”
Two days ago, he had enough and stormed next door. The sales rep must have turned it down the moment Alister arrived, then acted like he knew nothing about a radio in the back room. And as soon as he returned to the dish tank, the racing was back on.
He felt determined to block out the noise and tackle the task at hand. The tubs started filling up with dirty dishes and Alister furiously cleaned each one. He was always a good dishwasher, but the motivation to block the radio from his mind inspired him to dishwashing levels previously unknown to human kind. The dinner rush came on like a tidal wave of half eaten pizza crusts and brown, ranched-out lettuce fragments. Normally, Alister would have fallen behind at some point, but not then. It was if he was operating with a couple more arms, with more fingers on each hand. As spectacular of a performance it was, he was too distracted by the annoyance of the radio next door to appreciate it himself.
“...by two lengths now. Lung Butter running out of gas, falls to third, as Wolverine moves ahead...”
He stared off wildly as he gobbled up sections of the ever growing dish pile. Servers and line cooks began to marvel at what was taking place. Even Jacqueline felt vaguely impressed. Good thing the owner wasn’t here to see that, she thought. He’d never let her fire him then.
“Damn boy! You really got it working’ tonight, Al,” one of the servers yelled.
A bowl placed haphazardly on the edge of the bus tub gave way and crashed upon the floor. Alister stopped sharply and stared not quite at it, but around it. The noise was getting louder, and it was driving him crazy.
“Is anybody else gonna do something about that fucking radio?” he pleaded loudly.
The busy kitchen paused to listen to the strange dishwasher speak. It was a rare occurrence.
“Was’up Al? You don’t like Snoop or something?” a husky cook asked, referring to the cd player the line cooks listened to.
“Not that. Next door. The horse racing. You hear it don’t you? It’s so loud.” He was answered by blank faces.
“Well I can’t handle it anymore,” he tore off his apron and stormed towards the back exit.
“If you leave during your shift, don’t come back. You hear that punk?” Jacqueline called after him, as he slipped out the door.

When Alister was a kid, he was regularly visited by a spirit named Toki. Toki would appear while Alister was in the bath, and tell him stories about the mountain animals of the Himalayas surviving in the higher altitudes. He remembered how the hair on the back of his neck stood up whenever Toki emerged out of thin air. He would shiver from the goose bumps, and Toki would laugh and say he looked like a duck. Once Alister’s mother was institutionalized for drugs, he was moved into a foster home and never saw Toki, or any other spirit again. He had dedicated much of his adult life to summoning another spirit, but with no success. On this day, however, his hair once again stood up, and he shivered all over.
Alister intended on storming into the cell phone store, head straight for the back room, and smash the hell out of the radio blasting the incessant horse racing. But once he stepped out of the back door of “Pete’s Pizza”, he wasn’t standing in the employee parking lot like he expected. Instead he was standing on grass. Finely trimmed grass. And directly in front of him was a white wooden railing running horizontally in both directions. Beyond the railing was a wide loose-dirt path, followed by a long row of hedges. A low rumble sounded off in the distance, and Alister immediately detected the odor of animal manure.
(It seems where Alister had failed at his summoning attempts and curses aimed at individuals, he had unknowingly succeeded in projecting his own spirit back in time. Because he couldn’t really pronounce the ancient Aramaic dialect, he produced the opposite effect intended. It really isn’t that unusual of an occurrence when dabbling in the spirit world. I mean, how many people speak fluid ancient Aramaic these days?)
A familiar voice crackled through a loud speaker behind him.
“....Roman Holiday out to a big early lead, followed by Pound Cake, Better Make it Two, and Phlopper in fourth...”
He turned around to see behind him, but was distracted by a group of large horses, with small colorful riders barreling around the track toward his direction. His eyes followed them approaching, and the first horse, Roman Holiday, went by him just a few feet away. He could have reached out and touched it. In the moment of passing Alister, the horse caught a quick glimpse of him, and thought about what it had just seen. It ran thirty more yards before it deduced it indeed had just seen something that didn’t belong there, and decided it had to go back and look again just to make sure. As it slammed on it’s brakes, the other horses chasing it slammed into one another trying to brake as well. Riders went flying off the backs, and the horses writhed around in a mangled horse heap. Ole’ Roman escaped unscathed though, and darted the opposite way down the track.
Alister turned all the way around and saw a large wooden grandstand packed with horrified spectators. Everyone was standing and looking on in an astonished hush at the pile of broken horses and riders. Above the grandstand, was a press box with a large window covering the front, and two big loudspeakers mounted on top. Two men stood inside and one broadcasted what he was seeing.
“....utter chaos. Horse and rider alike are lying in pain all over the track. It’s a bad scene folks. Never before...What? I know they can see that for themselves, but I’m the announcer. That’s what I’m paid to do, Jim. Don’t talk to me about being insensitive...wait, what’s this? Roman Holiday is up and running the opposite direction....”
Alister turned back around to face the track and could feel Roman Holiday’s hooves pound the earth as it ran back toward him. It stopped about ten feet from Alister and stared at him through it’s large black eye on the side of it’s head. It kicked it’s back legs and snorted loudly. Alister attempted to make sense of the situation, but failed to find anything rational to calm down about. To make matters worse, a woman in the crowd suddenly noticed Alister standing next to the track, and like Roman Holiday, she felt he didn’t belong there.
“A ghost!” she shrieked, and pointed to Alister before fainting all over the gentleman next to her.
“Ghost?” he asked himself aloud. He looked at himself and noticed there did appear to be some thing strange going on with his clothes and skin. He was a bit translucent, and had a strange mist which surrounded him. “Wait. How did I...?”
The crowd erupted in panic, bumping into each other as they all scrambled for the exits. Roman Holiday stood motionless staring intently at Alister. He suddenly felt he was in danger, and he was right. The horse instantly leaped the railing and exploded after him. Alister scrambled away faster than he ever thought he could move, climbed the grandstand and worked his way up the rows of bleachers. Roman Holiday jumped into the grandstand and galloped up the bleachers after him.
Alister ran along the concourse above the bleachers past the refreshment set-ups and the bathrooms. He could hear the thunderous clatter of Roman Holiday closing in behind him. The exit was in sight, but it seemed too far to escape, thought Alister. Closer than the exit was the ticket booth where folks would place their bets. He spotted the door to the booth and ducked inside just before the hooves of the giant animal ran him down

He closed the door quickly behind him, and sighed with relief. His heart raced and his face was pale and sweaty. He listened for the horse on the other side but heard nothing. He looked up and saw his greasy dishwashing apron being hurled at him. It again smacked off his glasses.
“Two in one day! How you like that. You see that one boys. Damn I’m good,” Jacqueline tried to laugh at her success but could only manage a smoker’s cough instead. “Get back to your doghouse, dish-dog. That’s strike two for leaving during your shift. One more fuck-up today,...” she finished her sentence with the throat-slashing motion.
The rest of the kitchen carried on with business as usual. No one indicated they knew of what just happened to Alister. Befuddled, he resumed his position at his dish-tank. He moved slowly, as if in a trance. What just happened, he wondered? Was that a nervous breakdown, an acid flashback, a product of alcoholism, what? He decided to try and relax a moment. He appeared physically intact again, and everything seemed normal. A few deep breaths later, he felt okay about washing some dishes. He emptied his dirty water, and started to fill up the sink again with pink soap and hot water. He tried blocking out of his consciousness whatever had just occurred. “That wasn’t real,” he giggled to himself.
“Dammit Alister. How many times have I told you, close the goddamn door all the way behind you,” Jacqueline opened it a crack to throw out her finished cigarette. As she did, a long brown snout poked through the door.
“What the fu..?” is all she got out before the door barreled open and two giant hooves slammed her to the ground. One of the back ones crushed her head, as Roman Holiday thrashed about the kitchen. Stock shelves toppled, bus trays spewed dishes everywhere, and a few servers were trampled by the giant, furious beast sprinting wildly around.
The horse stopped abruptly when it arrived at Alister’s dish tank. The remaining personnel fled in horror out of the front the restaurant. Alister was trapped. There was one way out of the surrounding chrome counters of the dish tank, and Roman Holiday was staring down at him in that direction. He closed his eyes and prepared for a hoof to crush him.
While he waited for such a gruesome death, something clicked in his mind and it became clear to him what was happening. The picture in the old book he’d been practicing with had tricked him. The screaming faces being dragged away on horseback were not the ones who the curse had been intended to harm. No, sir. Those faces belonged to the administers themselves. It was now Alister’s turn to join that picture.
He opened his eyes and their was Roman Holiday kneeling in front of the dish tank. Alister dropped his apron in the pink soapy water, and climbed up into the saddle. Since this was it, thought Alister, he slapped the horse’s hide and yelled, “Hyah!” Roman Holiday added a fitting neigh, and for effect, actually rose up a bit on it’s hind legs before it barreled out of the back door.