A Five Part Story: “The Biochemist”

The Uninviting
Envenomed
The Unknown Creature
The Third Canister
Jeff Daniels Micro Prey


The Uninviting

Part One

A story out of Peru and the Amazon Jungle of the Microscopic World at its most terrifying point, one no one can ignore…



Erich Maria Gunderson, had long been a biochemist in Augsburg, Germany, he had taken some time off as a graduate student, to study Plant hormones and pheromones, the signaling scents used by plants, and in particular response and reaction to insects, and during these early days, went to visit a professor, by the name of Manuel Tapia, from the University of Lima, whereupon they both had went to Iquitos, took a boat 125-miles up the Amazon River to a small lodge, the region being infested with nearly every kind of insect known to mankind for research and study.
Thereafter He became a professor at Heidelberg University for a number of years, getting a regular salary and a comfortable job. That was his early life, all the way up to his sixty-forth Birthday.
What had happened to Professor Manuel Tapia, no one knows, he just up and vanished, so Erich Maria said, told the authorities, and his body was never found—suspicious as it was, nothing could be proven beyond speculation.
And of course the reason for this story is that he discovered something, now housed in a small shack, owned by a guy who owns a pottery-shop, whom also sells necklaces made out of beads and the colorful untidy heap of plant life that surrounds him—not an educated man by far, but a needful man.
Other than a few tourists and Doctoral students studying and writing on their thesis’ on the indigenous people, archeology, spiders, mites, ants, beetles and so forth, botanists for the most part, the area is silent. No highways to turn off of or on to, no illumination like the Eiffel Tower or New York City at midnight, no industrial park, not much of anything.
To the outside world it looks quite dull, unromantic, not the place you’d take your sweetheart. The hut has just a simple metal roof, nothing more than a broken down wooden shed, crude at best, and Omar and his son Fillmore Dayton run the place, when not drunk, they put on rubber gloves to check on the Uninviting, as instructed by Erich Maria.

He had learned from Erich Maria, the substance was from the chemicals of plants. At the time Omar didn’t take Erich seriously, but he was being paid $100-per month to simple sit in that shack, and guard the substance, three canisters about the size of an eight ounce tomato soup can, and was told not to open them, just guard them, keep it under the floor in a secure metal box, lock it, that someday he’d return for them.
He explained: that should some form of a technological company ask questions on what he was doing there, about his research, that it was no more than general lab observation, testing this and that.
Truth be told, his investigation wasn’t the usual line of work, a biochemist does, it went beyond those layers.
As I was about to say, Omar had his suspicions, supposedly as often we get, in guarding something out of the ordinary, and shrugged Erich’s warning aside, and took a peek, his son opening up the box, he was just a kid then, now in his thirties, Omar himself, the same age as Erich.
He did remember what Doctor Gunderson told him though: “Plants talk,” he told them, “they communicate with one another by way of releasing chemicals to trigger responses.”
“Why?” Omar had asked.
Gunderson saying, “Plants interchange information in particular when under attack by insects. You see there are sixty to seventy percent more insects in this world than plant life, as a result, they have a need to protect their species (survival of the fittest as Darwin would say), thus, they have created a defensive system similar to what mankind would call chemical warfare, in that they can rapidly produce toxins within their system to scare off their enemy to stop their attack, consequently making their leafage taste bad, or infect the creatures that insist on eating them while eating them, even if they taste bad. In so doing, they attack back, and during this process warn others by chemical responses that an attack is forthcoming, or in progress.

“But why a guard for a substance,” pondered Omar, “that is worthless and he puts no claim to its chemical responses, or shares them with other such biochemists, for future research, isn’t what it’s all about? Why not just dump it in the river, or drain it in the dirt if it is so ugly?”
So what he didn’t tell Omar, led him to believe it was a treasure; I mean to say, it all didn’t make any sense to store it for thirty-years, well at the time, it was only ten years, and Fillmore was but thirteen years old. But he shut his mouth, he didn’t want to ask too many questions, talk himself out of a job that required very little—you know what I mean.
So it was that day in September, he told his son, “I just want to know what this is all about! I want to know what’s really in those canisters. I don’t like being kept under the rug (sort of speaking, he inferred) for a decade… so we’ll see for ourselves.”
“I don’t like it pa,” Fillmore replied, in a near whisper.
“Probably it is nothing,” his father responded, in a humors manner.
Fillmore gave him a grim look.
Omar gave him back a look that said: what do you care!
I mean, Gunderson was not going to walk thorough the door of the shack an any given minute; and true it was.

Omar pushed back the board of the floor which hid the metal box, with the three canisters under it, then folded his arms, said: “Well son, take it out.”
Omar had an ample belly, hard to move at times, he had gained a sufficient amount of weight in a past decade. The son just looked at the box.
“Well, are you going to, or what?” the old man questioned.


Now pulling the box out, Fillmore felt nervous. But he felt: what the hell, if my father wants me to—he had no choice.
There were no windows in the shack. The boy put the key into the lock, opened the metal box, pulled out one canister, took the top off the canister, it wasn’t easy, it had been sealed for ten-years. He thought as he glanced back at his father, what was waiting for him…
Then he saw thousands of microorganisms hundreds of bacteria species (unknowing what they were), they had grown to various sizes and shapes, he had no glasses on, his pulse was pounding, the old man pushed himself backwards, a feeling of a cool breeze hit the face of the boy, a large black substance was emitted from the canister, hanging in thin air, it moved quickly with a hum to his face, blinding him, deep grooves appeared in his face.
Omar noticed the floor was crawling with creatures as small as a grain of sand. He crouched down to look more closely, and as he peered he saw spots of a black substance covering the floor stretching itself out, he stared curiously before he thought to grab his son and run out of the shack. Fillmore was bleeding from his eyes, ears, mouth, all opened areas of the head.
“What the hell!” Omar said, afraid to touch his son, then ran and poured water over his head, buckets of water, as Fillmore stood in near shock, dripping blood onto the ground. He found some old rags, wiped his face dry, the bleeding had begun to stop.


That was twenty years ago. He had time to put things aside, clean the shack back up, say nothing to the Professor, lest he lose his salary, and he needed it. His son now half blind, red gashes on his forehead and around his eyes; he had ripped some clothing off the clothesline, wrapped it around his hands to secure the canister that day, his wrist and knuckles still had the red wounds to validate that day had come and gone.
It was now, September, 2011, he was waiting for the professor, not thinking anymore of the contents of what was in those canisters, he knew. But the professor didn’t know for sure, thirty years had not killed whatever he found or created, it had fermented into a stronger substance, what on God’s earth was he planning? No damned idea, he told himself. He was not sure what was coming, he just had to wait for Doctor Erich Maria.

It was September 21, 2011; Omar and his son both were lying in a hammock, half asleep outside their shack, when someone splashed them all over with the substance of one of those canisters: Omar opened his eyes, his last thoughts were, “The bastard never gave me a chance!” And then darkness closed around both of them, Omar and Fillmore. The micro organisms and its deadly potency had grown so strong, it took only a minute, and one thought to kill both father and son.
Professor Tomas Gunderson, the elder son of Professor Erich Maria, said to his father, wearing wire-framed spectacles, rubber gloves, and a kind of a white jumpsuit, “I do understand, we must be patient for the results of some experiments, and make sacrifices, such as this one for science.”
His father replying, “Fill me in on the details later,” and went back into the shack to consult his notes.

#835 (12-11-2011)



Envenomed
(The Microscopic World—Incarnate)

Part Two


The Microscopic Word


The boat drove away from the landing sight, the dock area, down a mile or so on a tributary of the Amazon River, brood trees shaded the river, and the dark waters of the dock and tributary, where the piranhas dwelled, the whole dark tributary infested with them.
An hour or so down river towards Iquitos, the Captain spotted his village. An open area, plateau, along the banks of the river, above a slight embankment, the area was surrounded with small huts and a large wooden structure in the middle, the sides open to the wind, it was the school, “That’s my village, my home!” shouted the Captain, a little man, perhaps closer to eighty than seventy, an ugly little man with deep grooves in his face—thinned out hair, no taller than five foot four, Captain Chipana.
Professor Tomas and his father Dr. Erich Maria Gunderson made no comment.
The river turned pale dark—it was heavy with shifting clouds, and a full moon was appearing, as if out of the dust of the sky, shedding a ray of sandy light on the river as if it was a spot light.
“Folks like you usually go to the lodges along the river, normally not this far up river,” the Captain told the two professors. Erich Maria looked at the Captain—thought, ‘the busybody captain, why doesn’t he keep to his own business…’ he reminded him of an ugly toad.
The river narrowed now, with a slight zigzag to it, then they came to a fork, and the rushing waters were a bit difficult to navigate through, especially with the moon the size it was, and seemingly coming closer to the earth, with its magnetic pull. The boat tossed about some as waters shifted out of and into the colliding waterway to its right.
“Be careful,” said Erich Maria, “we’ve got extremely rare specimens here.” (Some of the species of insect, and insect-venoms were uncharted, unknown to mankind, never named.)
Looking down into his open black canvas carryon bag Erich Maria brought onboard, consisting of three canisters, one half empty, and several tubs with an assortment of poisons—, venous in them from insects such as: caterpillars, centipedes, spiders, wasps—even some from snakes, he tighten his ankles on each side of the bag to secure it more.
“You scientists are spies for some big corporation—aren’t you…just robbing us Peruvians like the Spanish done hundreds of years ago with our gold.” It was a statement-question for the most part, a rhetorical question at best.
The old Captain stood up, kicked the bag, “Well!” he said with a hoarse intimidating voice, “Aren’t you?”
“You be careful Captain, what’s in this bag will kill you and me instantly,” said Tomas.
The black bag was two foot square, about eighteen inches in height, the floor of the boot was uneven beneath Erich’s feet, and the bag was balanced on the open keel of the boat.
“Shoo the insects away from me,” said Erich to Tomas, they were drawn to the boat’s light, and Erich was now holding the bag in place with his two ankles and knees, filling a tube, and placing a syringe at its end, filling it with wasp and snake venom—thus not free to swat and shoo away the insects himself, from his face, neck, legs and forearms, and so forth.
“I want more compensation for this long ride back to Iquitos,” said the Captain, in a most rough and serious tone. “And perhaps a little payment for keeping my mouth shut—who knows what you two are taking out of my lovely country, in that there bag.”
“I believe you’re right Captain,” said Professor Erich Gunderson, irritated with the old man’s threats, “I think we can accommodate that immediately.” A devilish grin became apparent across Chipana’s face.
“Turn the boat into the tributary over there,” said Erich, pointing to his right. “We’ll settle up there.”
“Why?” questioned the Captain, “we can settle up right here?”
“I want the boat steady, and my bag steady when I pull out the currency in my pants pockets, if you want to get paid.” He didn’t say his jacket, in fear the old man would himself, insist on pulling out his wallet.
“Oh…that…okay!” agreed the old man (hesitantly).

Envenomed


Erich grabbed the arm of the Captain, fast as a wasp, he pushed the syringe deep into his upper arm, before the old Captain could figure out what he was up to, injected, envenomed him with toxin he had extracted from insects, which produced a rapid fireball throughout his Central Nervous System: the old man started to go into convulsions, a seizure, his eyes rolled up into his head.
Erich knew within a few more minutes he’d have internal hemorrhaging, it would make his heart stop (he felt the poisons, he had grabbed in the dark and mix together, not quite knowing at the time, exactly what venoms he grabbed and blended, were wasp and crab spider venoms, both very poisonous when injected in such amounts; although the snake venoms were next to them, he could have grabbed that too).
His body started to swell, as if he had elephantiasis.
It all happened so quick it was like a swap sting to the Captain—; his vital signs now were very weak.
“Wh..t it?” he tried to say.
“Wh…t did yo…u do to m..e?” he slurred out, in a questionable manner, his face distorted.
“Push him into the dark waters,” commanded Erich to his son. “The piranhas will eat him; they are like little sharks, and wolves, when it comes to smelling blood.”
(SPLASH!”)

((Microscopic World written 12/11/2011)( Envenomed written: 12/17/2011)


The Unknown Creature
(The Great Iron head Mite)

Part Three

Inside the second canister was small insects no bigger than a comma in this writing, they made a snapping noise, swimming in their own spaghetti like reddish matter. Professor Tomas Gunderson, was in his father’s lab (Doctor Erich Maria Gunderson), testing the black marble eyed mite—its hemolymph (insect blood, for its chemical defenses, those that scare off its predators).
The young professor was slanted examining one; he picked it up with a tweezers and held it under a microscope, it struggled some, it had six legs, and that untiring clanking sound—apparently coming from its iron like jaws, round as a ladybug.
“What are these things?” he murmured to his father as he was in motion to leave the lab and go next door to his private enclosed lab (encircled with glass, where one could see the other).
“They’re not known in the normal world,” he confessed. “That’s why I canned them, decades ago, I thought they’d be dead, and I was too fearful to take them out of Peru at the time.”
Now alone, sweat dripping off his forehead, a drop fell onto the bug, the mite, he became very sticky, and he clamped on tight against the tweezers, to where Tomas, couldn’t shake it loose. Thus, bringing the insect out from under the microscope, and closer to his eyes, he had no glasses on, trying to break its resistance from the surface tension, it heaped itself up and onto the eyelash of the professor, then like a blob onto the surface of his right eye, making his eye twitch rapidly, liquefying the creature.
Forward cautiously, but rapidly the mite dug into the eye sprawling its legs as if creating extending roots, as it worked its way deeper into the eyeball.

A sharp pain came to his eye, and a putrid smell, odor came out, seeped into his nostrils. He tried to pull the bug out but it kept moving inward, it was making a tunnel. The walls of the eye were protecting the creature now, and therefore, he couldn’t any longer see the creature with his good eye, it had vanished. He looked into the glassed enclosed private lab, motioned to his father for assistance, as the creature seemed to grow larger, wider, and stronger.
Professor Erich Maria, swiftly hurried on out of his lab and into his son’s, saw the little tunnel it had built, or dug, its body being reddish green in color, and prickly with hairs, and a head of armor, hard as hard plastic, eyes black as midnight marbles—he knew its dimensions and colors and some of its capabilities well.
Again its odors drifted out of its newly dug tunnel, tart and sharp, the smell of formic acid. He looked at the eye with great interest and intensity.
“I need to do this quickly, lest it reproduce itself and create a colony within you, and I don’t know what then.” The old professor took in a deep breath, then continued, “Remain still and solid as I do what I got to do,” he told his son, “this species, they’re all females.” Then with a sharp and heavy blow to his son’s forehead, he popped out his eyeball, out of it socket, it hung like a Christmas bulb.
“Don’t move,” he murmured, “it’s coming out of the left side, and I’ll meet it.”
“Um…” came from his son’s mouth, trying to hold his body solid and straight.
“To be honest son, I’m a bit ignorant on this species; we’ll name it the Great Tomas Iron head Mite.”
“Leave my name out of it,” cried his son, and then he became wordless, just wanting it all to be over with, feeling he had lost his eye, and he had. And as Erich would continue, he’d find out in due time, it was one of the most destructive invasive insects on the planet.

Notes from Professor Erich Maria Gunderson-s notebook:

“January, 15, 2012. These high energy mites, large as they are, become larger and more deadly when any kind of liquid is poured onto them. Yet despite the threat that they may pose, I find them fascinating, and do not feel, I am in any real threat by them, only as a group of thousands, yet one must be careful in handling them. They vomit a substance, and chew any kind of liquid—and can absorb it, and produce glue like substances out of their six legs; especially when fear is triggered. Their chopping and clanging sounds I do believe are hunger sounds; they eat one another, a form of cannibalistic survival…” Professor EMG

#837 December, 13, 2011




The Third Canister
((The Deadly Fungus) (March, 2012))


Part Four


The young professor Tomas Gunderson’s eyes were empty, vacant, body oddly twisted, as if he had had a heart attack. Greenish fungus was all about him, he looked, his body looked mushy soaked, there was a scent, an odor that exhumed from his body—that of strychnine and oleander sap, and another mysterious, but deadly odor, that he couldn’t identify, before he had died.
There was a look of the forsaken on his face, and those threads of green fungus like growth.
He had been in the process of being consumed (for within the fungus, mixed with the fungus, were cylindrical animals, micro-millipedes, normally not aggressive, similar to a centipedes—and from the pores of the insects came a stanch, one Tomas could not identify, cyanide! mixed with the other lethal chemicals within the fungus…and the insects themselves had iron like jaws, and were eating, chopping there way into his flesh) when Doctor Erich Maria Gunderson entered the lab.

It was forenoon; his son had worked throughout the night evidently, so it looked. He held back his tears to investigate, knelt by his son’s side, his body ravished.
Several biochemical students stood at the doorway, drooped in mystery. Tomas, He had been working on the contents within the third canister his father had brought back from the Amazon Jungle, trying to identify the smells.
“I tried so hard,” the old professor professed out loud, said, cried— “He just wouldn’t listen, he wanted to work on his own, make his own discoveries.”
He went to enfold his son’s body into his arms, at which time a young graduate student by the name of Jeff Denials, a visiting student from Bio-Tech, Chicago stopped him, holding him back saying, “You’re a brave soul Doctor but this is crazy!”
The fungus had been in the canister, it was moving, as if it was alive, with wormy type organisms.

Silent and weary, the other students stood wordless at the doorway watching, as that one mysterious odor seeped about, then all of a sudden one of the female students yelled: “Be careful Jeff, I smell deadly fumes, I think it is an incredible toxic, I can’t seem to name it though.”

Jeff spoke: “We’ve got to move out of here professor, lock this lab up tight!” then grabbing a yardstick, coughing and coking from the fumes, his eyes watering, he slashed at the fungus as if it was a monster, as if he was holding a machete. Then he cringed from the fumes, his throat tightened, the micro-organisms were multiplying, the fungus widening—as he stood up, the old professor had died, a heart attack from the fumes, and lethal chemicals in the fungus. Thus, Jeff held his breath; beat off the fungus that made it to his shoes, in particular, onto his right shoe, striking at the substance, the micro-movements in the fungus, and then kicked off his right shoe.
The fungus squirmed all about the shoe; it had Jeff’s scent in it.
As he looked down and onto the body of the old professor, he had been covered over by the fungus, like a green shroud.
Then the primitive part of his brain was activated and he could no longer hold his breath (for had he not up to this point, the fumes would have stopped his heart). Thus, so-called reality had sunk in; he rushed to the door, released the carbon dioxide within his lungs, locked the door in front of him and with his comrades, ran to the parking lot— (class dismissed…).

# 838 (12/14/2011)

Jeff Denials Micro Prey
((Chicago, Micro-Biochemistry Tech) (July 2, 2012))


Part Five


For Jeff Denials, life went on as normal for the month of April, 2012—now back in Illinois, at Chicago Micro-Biochemistry Tech (CMBT—or Bio-Tech). But inside his body, his biological system had been invaded; deep inside his guts were bacteria from the fungus and its micro organisms, perhaps an insidious micro-prey.
Strange as it was, he couldn’t figure out why he had lost the capabilities of smell and taste. In those following days after his visit to the Minnesota biochemistry lab, it was as if the atoms inside of him were mismatched—with life outside of him. Something was wrong, perchance an alteration inside his body was in process, and his system was having a hard time interacting, adjusting, again I say with the atoms around him, in the outside world: so he was thinking.
He had no concrete idea; neither did Doctor Stan Weber, professor at Chicago Micro-Biochemical lab 4; young Daniels professor.
By and large, Jeff was a happy go lucky fellow, student, now he brought with him wherever he absorbed in Minnesota, thus, producing, an eerie pale composure, countenance. Had you asked him, he would have said it was due to those dooming echoes that flowed cumbersome throughout his head, his body: like trimmers prior to an earthquake.

“By gosh, what is it?” he murmured to the professor, in lab four.


In May everything from the outside world coming in, he heard in low frequencies, contrary to what was happening inside of him. He was feeling some form of lethal presence inside of him.
“I’m beginning to understand,” he told the professor, “how it is to slowly go insane.”

In June, one afternoon he lost his balance and began staggering as if he was drunk on a sinking ship. The professor scrambled to his rescue; catching him just in time before he fell right onto the hard concrete floor in lab four.
Upon awakening for a brief moment, he told the Professor—in so may words—the only thing I can remember is: the earth under my feet started to rumble and groan and my heart started hammering… in plain words he whispered: “My chest is crashing.”
Whatever it was whatever he saw, appeared, and materialized a moment before his death: as if he could see right into his body, his heart section, and then he passed on.

(It was as if a flying predator, with whooshing roars, was climbing out of his stomach, then crisscrossing his head, and somehow ended up in or on, his heart. That all of a sudden pulled the cord of life out from under him).


Notes from Professor Stan Weber’s Journal (July 2, 2012): “The best conclusions I can theorize about Jeff Denials mysterious death, a graduate student here at Chicago Micro-Biochemistry Tech, in the biochemistry lab four, goes as follows: he breathed in some form of micro-physical-organism, while in the Minnesota lab, during his visit there in March, of 2012. His body started up some kind of defenseless—well, for lack of a better word, some kind of a weak defense system against the invading prey; that being, sound waves, noises, drumming or banging sounds. The prey went from his abdomen to his brain, via, bloodstream, perhaps tumbling along its way. The prey hearing the echoes that his body produced (and that he was hearing himself, which was driving him crazy) that was telling the prey to leave, telling all the systems at in his body at the same time to be on guard of this invader, was at this time searching for the kill zone, while at the same time forming a larger shape, growing. To Jeff’s brain the prey was invisible, and when it sensed its presence in one area, it had already left, it was already in another. As the prey closed in on its kill zone—the heart, the sounds became louder for Jeff. The prey tried in a way to jam the sounds and couldn’t, thus it started to eat at the heart itself, and abruptly killing its own world around it. I have to assume the worse, that it found a new home, I just hope it is not me!”

#839 (12/15/2011)

About-turn (Vietnam)

(A Vietnam War Story, 1971)



At seven o’clock the South China Sea, and the 611th Ordnance Company area at Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam, was in front of him. Lightly lit, the moon drifted down dimming the dirt road in front of the Company area’s office —as if it was under a shadow—(the office shelter, often referred to as a Quentin hut); Corporal Evens enduring the peninsula’s evening heat, slightly intoxicated—sipping on a can of beer, gently walking towards the front road, and past the Captain’s office, on a metal platform, in the center of the Company, used for morning and evening formations. His face was warm, somewhat tired, yet engaged, interested in the commotion taking place there.
Staff Sergeant Fuller, a black sergeant from the south, Dixie, along with Private Presley from Mississippi (who said he was a third cousin or distant relative to Elvis Presley, so he claimed) both looked on, both looked curious, both looked a bit tired and a little under the weather, and in need of a shave, just standing nearby, watching things develop.
“What’s going on in the Captain’s office?” Evens asked. Priestly pointed towards the window, one could see a soldier leaning over the edge of he Capitan’s desk looking down and towards the left corner of his back wall of the office wing.
“I don’t know for sure,” said one of the two voices, Evens now looking towards the window, trying to see the activity inside the office, and just seeing the shoulder and back of a soldier, and a figure on the floor.
“Maybe Private Thompson’s going to kill the Captain, fill him with holes, he’s aiming his M16 right in his face—I think his face, he was anyhow, awhile ago!” said the Staff Sergeant.

Thompson was screaming at the Captain now, who was huddled in the corner like a fetus, screaming like a lunatic. Evens stepped slightly outside of the road’s shadow, under an arch light, closer to the office shelter, a few steps, no more than that, he could see a little clearer now through the upper part of the bugged infested window—the head of Thompson, the rifle in his hands, plus the window was halfway opened, so he could see clearer on bottom the Captain hunched in the corner.
“I swear I saw him earlier talking to himself in his hutch, looking at some pictures. He must had been drinking or smoking weed, or whatever all afternoon. The Captain refused his leave,” said the Crusher (a nickname), really a Buck Sergeant who was taken into the company for rest and recuperation—that is: a lighter duty; he head been out in the bush looking for Charlie, the enemy for several months without much relief, and was going wacky himself. (It was his third stint in Vietnam, three times in a row—or 36-months: he loved the action.)) He had joined the idle standing group. He had returned with a Military Policeman (MP) to assist in this mounting situation. But the MP simply inferred, if he’d try anything, it might provoke the shooter to shoot the Captain, wanting to stand back, wait and see, plus he was waiting for his superior to arrive, a Sergeant.

Then Thompson leveled off: the nose of his rifle sharply lifted upward, and turned along-side, to his left side looking out the window slightly from the corner of his eye towards the crowd mounting, resting the butt of his M16 on the wooden floor; his face rapt, in a childish composure.
“I hope Thompson shoots him,” a voice came out of the gathering by the dirt road. Yet for forty-minutes longer, the ordeal continued with long periods of silence, contemplation, staring of the culprit onto the victim, and then the Captain ducked down further, his head between his legs, as if he was told to say his last prayers. It appeared the Captain was begging, and then crawled about—Thompson peering out of the window now and then, to inspect the gathering, and then they emerged, both standing face to face, the Captain about four-feet away, stiff as a board.
Right about this time, two MPs—the one that had been waiting for his superior and the superior, who was a sergeant—walked down to the side widow to talk to Thompson, a tinge hesitant—Thompson looked tired, worn, less intoxicated than he had been two hours earlier, more in tuned to what he was actually doing, and what was going on: it appeared one of the two Military Policemen knew him. The Captain’s face a little less grim, a little eager for the MPs to talk sense into the Private First Class; the MP’s voice carried a high pitched, an unsure one, but non threatening.
“Oh, I say: Private First Class Thompson! Keep that rifle down and maybe we can talk this thing out.” Each of the MPs had a pistol in their holsters strapped onto a belt, on their hips. They had kept their distance, but now were inching their way up to the windowsill; everyone waiting for a shootout or a quick strike by the MPs. Thompson looked at the police, identified with one.
“What! Don’t do what?” Thompson annoyingly said.
“The rifle, it’s not on safety, don’t shoot us, we just want to talk. I mean, you know what I mean! I mean this is all stupid, the Captain isn’t worth jail time, matter of fact, I think you just won your ticket home.”
In a fainting voice, Thompson started to cry, wail about his girlfriend—then shifted his position, glared at the Captain. Then the two policemen said in unison: “That’s right, they’ll be sending you home soon,” then the superior, the sergeant, added: “Just a little time in the hospital for a psychological evaluation I bet, they’ll call it PTS, and send you home.” (There perhaps was some truth to that, but jail time was downplayed, and a medical and dishonorable discharge were in line.)
Then one of the two MPs moved his hand slowly over the windowsill through the window (the window was halfway open), as the Captain sank down again, this time onto his knees, Thompson contemplating, allowing the MP to grab his rifle as if he wanted this all to end: thus, the confrontation was over, it was kind of an about-turn. Whereupon, Thompson was handcuffed, as the small crowed in front of the office dispersed: seemingly, some disappointed the Captain was not shot. For others indifference, it was no more than an evening’s entertainment, the Captain had very few friends. For the Captain himself, he was more than frightened, more than shaken up, he was nearly out of his wits, and was never seen of after that night, and would be replaced by Captain Rosenboum within thirty-six hours; the First Sergeant, a little black man from the south, pert near always drunk, held down the fort, figuratively speaking, in the interim. For me, I had only been at the 611 for less than two month, I was just haggard out and tired, wanting another beer, and hoping for a good night’s sleep.

#842 (12/22/2011)

The Offer (Based on Fact)

((1968—San Francisco) (based on fact))


“Chick Evens,” said the short man.
“Yaw,” said Evens.
“What does that mean, ‘Yaw?”
“Nothing in particular, yes I suppose.”
“Do you ever watch gangster movies?” asked the short well dressed young man.
“Yes.”
“Do you like them?”
“Kind of I guess: I like action movies….”
“Why, ‘kind of I guess?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Go on, say it!”
“Sometimes they get too bloody,” Evens tells the short man and turns about, reaching for his beer on an end table.
“I guess that’s all right,” said the short man. Adding, “This is a fine night in San Francisco. Would you like something else?” he asked Evens.
“No.”
“I’ve got some good pot, Acapulco Gold, and some near pure heroin, and any kind of booze you’d like.”
“Just another beer, if you don’t mind,” said the red-headed karate expert. Adding, “Listen, you’re a new friend and I feel what you do is your own business, but I don’t use drugs, matter-of-fact, I avoid booze too, I prefer just beer.”
“You won’t take a little pot?” asked the little man, his bodyguard behind him, two other fellows in a back room sitting at a card table, playing poker, drinking and smoking weed.
“So you’ve never tried pot, heroin, or LSD?”
“Correct, I never have.”
“If you work for me, you’ve got to use a little now and then, to show the buyers you’re okay; it frightens them if you don’t.”
“I see,” said Evens.
“Yes!” said the little man. “Could you guess I got the finest little business in San Francisco, I need someone I can trust, and good at protecting me, and our mutual friend, the hippie Jorge, told me you’re the man. You know he uses the stuff like drinking water?”
“Yes I know he does, he’s cool, but I don’t think so, it’s not for me,” said Evens with a solid smile.
“You don’t think so—why not?”
“Well, I just don’t want to use drugs, I like my beer, and the stuff scares me: that’s it in a nutshell, that’s all!”
“Give him another beer,” said the little man to his bodyguard. “I suppose drugs can get in the way of your training?”
“I suppose it could…I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Okay,” he says. “It was kind of a whim on my behalf, to invite you over for a drink and conversation, but listen up buddy,” said the little man, with a hard look, “I’m faithful to my employees, and I pay them well. That’s the god’s truth. I’d stake my reputation, yes, even my life on that statement.”
“So I’ve heard. Jorge, he’s mentioned that in passing to me, said you’re a man of your word.”
“I’ll double whatever you’re making on your job now.”
“No,” said Chick Evens. “It won’t do any good in jail.”
“I hate to hear that.”
“We better get off the subject then,” said Evens.
“No,” said the other, “Pardon me but, this is the reason why I wanted to talk to you. What’s the matter with getting a little high and getting paid for it, and if you go to jail, I’ll do all I can for you.”
“I just stopped by to listen to the offer,” said Evens.
“Those bastards want to kill me; I need a good man covering my back.”
There was a long hesitation, silence…
“I suppose you’re right though,” said the little man. “Don’t you ever get in trouble?”
“Not really, just parking tickets and a few drunken fights now and then.”
“Well, if we annoy you by being here, you can go, you know.”
“No,” said Evens. “I rather like you.”
“Oh,” said the little man, flattered. Then he grabbed his arm. Evens jerked it loose, and the little man added, with squinting eyes, and a serious voice:
“I’ll put a hit on you if you ever speak to anyone about our dealings here, our conversation this evening!”
Sitting unsteadily, Evens saw in his face he meant it.
“I don’t want anybody to harm you. I don’t blame you for not wanting to get involved, damn, it’s hard to find a good man in this city, and this business.” He sat back slightly.
“Like I said before, it’s none of my business what you do, and that’s the way it will stay.”
“I’ve got to talk business with some people now…” said the little man.
“Sure,” said Evens, standing up, shaking his hand, looking for the door, and finding his way out by himself.


#843 (12-26-2011)

Bear under the Snow

(Causes of the Vietnam War, a Personal View)


The Vietnam War was a ten-year rainstorm, one I experienced for one tenth of it (and got a decoration for). It carried us, as if to the moon, as if the moon had dropped on us. It infected the community, everyday life; it also gave some of us, excitement (as it had for me), but many funerals, 56,000-American funerals, over 5,000 a month. It gave us new and daily sounds over the radio, and television, and the full actual sounds of war, I would get to hear, in 1971.
The political power of the day embodied us all; it killed JFK, and brought the war even closer to our living rooms. As the world turned at the United Nations, behind closed doors, in our Congress, right up to the Oval Office, politicians and industry discussed its merits (its intrinsic worth) for ten-years. We had many dragons in our flag. Thus, the storm continued unabated.
We all looked at each other—back then (us soldiers), as if we were young blind owls in the night, once confident Americans, now feeling abandonment and estrangement because of the nature of the war. And the people of the nation, my nation the ones that commanded us to fight it, behind our backs, cussed us, called us baby killers, told us to go to Canada, spit at us: damned if we ran, damned if we stayed and fought.
My story is not quite like most of the other soldiers’ stories in Vietnam. I didn’t question if the war was right or wrong, I just went, matter of fact, I had taken some jungle training in Washington State, when the doctors discovered my toes on my right foot had been smashed from a bomb falling on it in Augsburg, West Germany a few months prior—as a result, I became unfit for war. I did not have to go to Vietnam, —because I would not be able to run well enough. However, I wanted to go so I kept my old orders as they were cutting new ones, and jumped on the plane to Vietnam: I wanted the experience of being in a war, I had filled my veins with patriotic fever, and the travel seemed exciting. I was a silly boy back then.
There was a hostile spirit in the core of America, so I discovered during this time—being from the Midwest, I never noticed it until I started traveling, for the Army; this spirit, I do believe created a defeated attitude among us in Vietnam. Again, I suppose I was different, single, no one back home—for the most part, but many a soldier cried in the night, wanting to go home, be with his wife, children, even some cried for their mothers, this created a storm of drug related soldiers. I saw them come in healthy, and three months later, they were on every drug available. Soldiers not wanting to be soldiers do not make for good soldiers.
President Johnson had taken the 34,000-troops that President Kennedy had sent to Vietnam, American soldiers of war—sent them home, and replaced them with 500,000-soldiers, new ones (much like Obama has done, shifting soldiers like toys in the Middle East; and all remains quiet in the White House.) What can you say to a man like that, like Johnson? Only the devil knows.
Pickled and indecisive Americans, we were all of that and more back in the early late sixties and early seventies. Actually, Nixon was the only one who wanted to stop the fighting, and started bombing Hanoi, and had we continued, we would have won the war (without shame, or dishonor), but again, America screamed and howled at our barbarism, which it was, but we were fighting barbarians. Nixon sent home 300,000-Americans by end of 1971. Those 300,000 were part of Johnson’s scheme for the American Iron Horse, American Industry, and the real barbarians who kept the war going. It was a commercial war, costing the American Government—not one dime, we made up the paper money as if it was wallpaper; oiled the money machines night and day: it cost over nine-billion dollars—devaluing the dollar worldwide, as we have done today, are doing right now, with the two wars going on in the Middle East. Equal perhaps, at today’s inflated rate, Vietnam would have cost 105-billion. In comparison, Iraq has cost us 700-billion, a war like Vietnam, of no crisis for America.
I went to fight communism. I believed in America, only to find out the cold hearts and thin shadows of the emperors of America’s industrialization had designed the war to last, or last longer. By proxy, that is to say, to fight a war in another country—a playground war sort of—instead of fighting one another (the Russians and Chinese), in our own backyards, and profit by it. In addition, in the process we destroyed the ecosystem of Vietnam, which was nearly equal to that of the Amazon, along with killing three-million Vietnamese inhabitants.
Let me add, Agent Orange killed a good friend of mine, among others of course, and genetically altered and lowered the life span of a million other American soldiers (out of the ten million sent to Vietnam), perhaps even my system was infected, who’s to say. In any case, during its usage and years later, a grasshopper was not safe to live in the environment, and for ten years after the war, defected children were born because of the massive usage of chemicals by America. Therefore, Vietnam was also a testing ground for new biological warfare (not much different from Saddam Hussein, who used it on the Kurds, and we scorned him for it).
The industrial machines of America was at full capacity in the mid to late ‘60s and early ‘70s: cranes, jeeps, wings for planes, bullets for rifles, and helicopters: trains filled up with rations: beef and butter, vegetables and fruits, all to feed those ten-million soldiers rotating yearly. It was an industrial heyday for America’s Kings of Industry (they ruled the political system).

The executives of industry knew nothing of leaping over bodies, digging holes in the dirt to hide one’s face from incoming rockets, the scrap metal, metal fragments displaced, and flying everywhichway (they quickly sent their children to college so they’d not have face the torrents of war). During one attack, a piece of metal the size of my fist, and bulky like a round smooth rock, red hot, passed flying by my cheek during a rocket attack, I moved an inch, seeing it come, and it missed me.
We were not baby killers—although babies—truth be told, in every war are killed, that is a fact, a reality of war—I do not know of any wars where they were not killed—consequently, we were just soldiers fighting a barbaric war, and trying to win it. We wanted to triumph, but no one back home did. Back home in the good old U. S. A., (figuratively speaking) they were all like happy fish, smiling at us as worms’ dangling on a hook, ready to be eaten one way or another. The very ones that called us baby killers were the ones who worked for the war machines. The factories, the food chain, the trains, the airports and transportation system in general, why didn’t they all go on strike, quite their jobs, hence, the war would have stopped abruptly—they made their living off the war and once it stopped unemployment rose to over six percent, from nearly zero. I remember because I was part of that unemployed era. Therefore, I suppose it was a Catch-22 for them, as it was for us in winning the war.
Vietnam was a cup of darkness poured over our heads. We were all invaders, if not terrorists, in some country, someone else’s country, that we were supposed to bring freedom to—where we didn’t belong, in which self-determination never came for the South. Constitutionally, the White House considered the Vietnam War a ‘Conflict’ thus giving the war justification to continue. Put another way, the only wars that were a crisis to America in the 20th and 21st Centuries, were WWII and Afganistan. No other wars of this period were politically or constitutionality correct and that came into play for Vietnam. It had to be justified. Of course, today, everything comes under the heading of National Security—hence, truth be told, we are fighting wars for world domination, not for America’s safety—which is fine if only we’d admit it, instead of pretending otherwise; we want to be placed strategically—which is obvious to the world that surrounds America, but not Americans per se.
For the soldiers the war was a jagged and heavy stone, one, no one could move, we were like a bear under the snow, we could not move any which way. We were like blind-owls in the night, blind to the ministers and department heads of American industry. We could not bomb this area or that area, or fight over here or over there, we had to shoot over the rubber trees or around it, do not shoot the enemy if they are in it. Do not shoot the enemy when they are stuck in the barbwire fences, which allows them to escape and live another day to kill more Americans. There were too many rules for us, and none for the enemy. We could not figure this out, that this was not a war to be won (because we could have easily won it; we had the manpower, the firepower, and the airpower, and even sea power—sailing about in the South China Sea; but the Americans and the political system and industry, did not have the willpower. In a way, we never lost the war per se; we simply got tired of it and walked away). No one could win a war anyhow, with such rules and such deviation among Americans—; they made such policies run ramped in our heads. These were either people who never fought a war, or people who were a lot smarter than us, who profited by it, and could care less if we won or lost, and who got killed in the process. This was America’s industrial and political way of thinking (God forbid, but the truth resides in the graveyards of America, in a so-called lost war, and in the devastation of Vietnam).
Anyhow, this is the way I see it, forty years later.


Conclusion (afterthoughts):


In closing, let me say, the first Americans created a civilization. The second developed it. The third, my generation perhaps yours also, we inherited it. Moreover, we tried to protect it, often like barbarians. However, as one can see it is a dying gift, to the future Americans. Unbelievably, barbarism is always around a civilization, especially if you intend to fight wars. Its center theme is to engulf its people by arms. Barbarism never admits its defeat, it will wait, and wait, outwait peace for war, like American Industry. Vietnam, it was a bloody war, from bloodthirsty barbarians in our country, ruled by a bloody city called Washington D.C., by a vicious, cold calculating ruler called Johnson who gave a free hand to our industrial barons to use the political system as they wished. Johnson, —the mightiest of the rulers of his day, now long dead of course, and mostly forgotten, under drifting sands, and all the better for us Americans.

Creating of the story: “The Cotton Belt”

(Overview)

The Story “The Cotton Belt,” started out in episodes, it started with its first episode called: “Old Josh from Ozark, Alabama” (1862), and written on 8-14-2005, thus, the character of Old Josh, was created and molded forevermore, and soon after that, his image was drawn; whereupon, his two sons, Silas and Jordon came into the picture. Old Josh was never meant to be a book, or novel on its own. Between August 8, 2005 and the last episode, the 85th “Jes’ a Damn Nigger” June 20, 2009, the character had gone through a paramount amount of changes.
The book “The Cotton Belt,” which is a book within a book, and perhaps the main book, slowly developed its characters and images. In November of 2008, Granny Mae came into picture in “Grits and Eggs”. The Toad Races down at Leastways Downs came in, while writing episode No: 18, on January 24, 2006. The two headed rat came in, in episode, 84, 6-19-2009, where after, the following day, the last episode would be written. Amos, was somewhere in the background, but became more pronounced in “Who’s Blacker” episode 77, written 1-20-2009, and of course in Episode No: 39, we see Amos Jackson hung, written, 2-20-2008, both used for the novel. On 2-7-2007, the “Elegy for Josh” was written. Even though the date of his death had changed in the novel, as to the episodes, and where Ashley was just a passing figure, that Silas had, once upon a time, during the writing of “The Cotton Belt,” in 2010-11, she became more significant for the story.
In episode three, “Chatting in the Barn,” Silas became a speaking figure and his personality was created, which would be profound throughout the following episodes, on 8-14-2005. Jordon took a backseat to Silas, and only in the novel itself he became a more pronounced figure.
In “Josh Goes Fishing” episode nine, written 9-2005, we see Josh’s thinking more clearly, his old age orneriness. In episode ten, “Laying Sick in Bed,” we see Josh can have affairs, or a liking for the opposite sex at his older age, written also in September of 2005. So you see the character of Old Josh was laid out for the book, “The Cotton Belt,” long before the story was put together as a whole, in 2010 and 2011. Consequently, this one book out of six that make up the saga took the bulk of the time in creating the saga, seven years to be exact—whereupon the author molded the stories into a novelette, or short novel, and connected them with the other five books.

As these episodes went on year after year, the characters became more and more, such as, Abram Boston, Josh’s brother-in-law, although brief in the novel, he had a few episodes to endure, born 1789, who is the brother to Rebecca Boston Jefferson, otherwise known as ‘Sweet Pea’ Josh’s ex wife, by common-law marriage. Sheriff Parker (1840…), comes into the picture, but is never pronounced as a leading character, although in the book, his character is more obvious than in the episodes. Elmer Barchans, who owns a plantation ten-miles from the Hightower’s, never is shown but once, and then comes out at the end, in the book “The Old Folks,” that is to say, he never is developed in the episodes nor in the book all that much. Otis Fargo, the bartender is similar to the Barchans, he is, but he isn’t, I mean he is always far-off in the distance.
The Abernathy family does not come out much in the episodes, but much more in the Novel, developed in “The Vanquished Plantations”, as are the Smiley’s. The Stanley’s seen more in “The Cotton Belt”.

In the first story of the saga, “The Tobacco Kings,” which was really the third book in the six book saga, became the first book, more of an introduction to the some of the new and old characters of the Old Josh episodes, such as the Ritt’s who had been in the previous episodes, but briefly, and now, in the saga, the Ritt family comes out in all six books, and as “The Tobacco Kings” is the prelude book to the saga, “The Old Folks,” is the later, or postscript, or afterthought. In-between, we have “The Cotton Belt,” and “The Vanquished Plantation,” and “Voices out of Saigon” written through out 2008, where Langdon Abernathy becomes one of the main characters in that story, if not the main character, and when all the books are combined, be becomes even a bigger figure, after Old Josh. But this is where a new flock of characters are developed, and some old ones used to keep the saga alive, as the Hightower’s in New Orleans, and second and third generations of the Jefferson’s, and Jackson’s. Also this the connecting of WWI with the War in Vietnam becomes clearer for the Abernathy family. Also where the destruction of the plantation life is severely noticed, and the novel moves from the South to Asia, to include Cambodia.

At this point, and through the story “The Vanquished Plantains,” this was also written in 2008 (for the most part) the story is updated from 1960, to 1965, whereas, “Voices out of Saigon,” comes afterwards, 1969 to 2012. But we see Langdon in his formative years, and the infamous Wallace Brothers, and the infusion of Abby Wallace as well, and North Caroline becomes as pronounced as Ozark, Alabama was in ‘The Cotton Belt.’ The Civil War is still in the background, and so is WWI (written about the Ammo Humpers in 6-2008), and the Vietnam War is developing. A lot of well developed chapter stories come out of this one book, as for “The Monster Hog,” and the “Demonic Wolf” in particular. This book within the saga, is second to the largest, I think “¨Voices out of Saigon,” might be the largest, and the shortest book being “The Tobacco Kings,” then the next shortest would be “The Old Folks,” which is really a follow-up, book, put in at the last minute, to show the reader what did happen to all those characters you’ve already read about, and the author never told you their end plight on planet earth.
In “Voices out of Saigon,” we have new characters again, as well as some old ones; such as: Cassandra Hightower of New Orleans, Henry Small, Linda Macaulay, Sergeant Carter, Langdon Abernathy, Amos, Vang, Zuxin, Ming and so on, and of course, Caroline Abernathy, Langdon’s mother, who seeks out Langdon in Saigon, being informed by Sergeant Carter, he is in ill health.

All in all, the saga consumes about 360-years, and is a most enduring ongoing story, which keeps the reader turning the pages. The book has 660 pages, and 140,000 words.

A Letter in Vietnam (a short story)

A Letter in Vietnam


She said she laid back on her bed with a book opened to about its middle, reading some short story by Faulkner, and was influenced by how the character of the woman was described, of ill repute, and it made her think of her husband’s behavior, made her look at it, and thereafter, felt responsible to make a future decision. This was in the winter of 1971, and the war in Vietnam was steadily being reduced, soldiers being brought home, from over 500,000 troops to now 205,000. She wrote a letter to Sergeant Chick Evens, a letter of inquiry you might say, on what to do, in making the right decision in telling her husband of her situation, or more like: their situation. Her husband was Corporal Mac Washington, a tall, and large boned, broad shouldered Blackman from North Carolina, who loved to make love to every woman he ever saw, and ended up in Japan with a bent spine from some venereal disease, and overdoing it. He evidently spoke highly of Sergeant Evens in his letters to his Alabama bride, and therefore she was confining in him on what to do next.

Mrs. Brandy Washington
January 4, 1971 (Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam)


“Dear Sergeant Chick Evens, I write to you for some guidance in that I have a decision I must make. I do not know whom else to trust, and I don’t dare ask my husband for consultation in this matter—and so I have only you to turn to—perhaps because I do not have to face you, eye to eye, or shoulder to shoulder. Now here it is—I married my husband in 1968, while visiting a family member in North Carolina, I came up from Alabama. He was a man about to be drafted into the United States Army—come October, it was August at the time. He was at first, sent to Germany, Darmstadt, at the 15th Ordnance Battalion. He asked for me to join him, I was in Alabama at the time, and I couldn’t, and therefore, refused on the grounds, it was too much an ordeal.
“When he came home to the states for a month (a reroute to Vietnam), he went directly to North Carolina, and asked me to join him there, and I again refused, and remained with my family in Alabama, taking care of other responsibilities. And later on I knew he was in Vietnam, and he had told me of all those venereal diseases month by month he acquired, and the penicillin shots he was getting, along with other pharmaceuticals, he was frank and honest with me; perhaps too much so. Because of this now impending disease, he was somewhat crippled, bent when he walked, it was of course due to his insistence of having woman after woman, and now he is in Japan for some kind of treatment, all this you already know of course.
“He wants me to join him there, and assures me he has no longer any hidden diseases of that nature, that for the most part he is fine, and by the sound of his voice, all indications are that he is fine, but will he be safe for me?
“My mother once said, “Love is blind,” also she said, “You’re too close my dear to the forest to see the height and thickness of the woods.”
“And with that, I do not care to place myself in an awkward situation. On the other hand I have two children now, twin boys, they are not the sons of my husband’s, I wonder how he will take that, and they will be two-years old, come June.
“I wait patiently for your advice.”


3-12-2009• Based on Actual Events

The Attacked, the Assailant, and the Observer (about a killing in Minneopolis, 1983)

The Attacked, the Assailant, and the Observer

The Gem Bar on First Avenue/summer of 1983
(A Chick Evens Story)



He had went inside the bar about noon, everyone around the bar on barstools heard him bellyaching, and fighting with some fellow all afternoon long, until the hottest part of the day, 3:00 p.m., about a drug sale, the buyer, was Mexican, the seller a Blackman, and the buyers girlfriend, white, who wasn’t present.
“Where’s the stuff, did you sell it or use it up?” said the confronting Blackman, Leopold, standing next to the slim, shorter Mexican who sat drinking a beer staring into his glass waiting for Leopold to be quiet.
“In my car, I think?”
“What about the stuff your girlfriend took, did she sell it or use it?” said the confronter.
“Oh, she’s skipped town I’m afraid.”
“Where is she?” he asked again.
“Twice I got to tell you, she’s skip town. I think she’s headed for St. Cloud, she got the stuff and just went.”
They were both drug sellers, downtown Minneapolis, and the seller Leopold, had sold them a heap of drugs, some cocaine, some hash, some pot, some LSD, the works. And he was just sitting in the Gem bar drinking beer after beer, an all-afternoon event for him: suddenly, the Mexican pulls out a knife, and the black man pulls out a gun. The Blackman started shooting at the Mexican, and he crawled under some tables to the back door of he bar, finally finding the door slightly open, he pushed to open it wider, jumped up onto his feet, and ran like crazy down First Avenue.
The Mexican yelling for help, calling for the police, I had stepped out of the bar myself, watched him run like crazy, a man came up to me, “What’s going on?” he asked.
More shots are fired from the Blackman’s revolver; he ran right past me, the Mexican ran through a parking lot, about twenty-five yards from me.
The man next to me hit me in the elbow, “What’s going on,” he asks again.
“What does it look like, one man’s shooting at another, and the other is running, do I need to interpret that?”
“Na,” said the stranger. “But just tell me you don’t care to explain it, that’ll be good enough.”
I walked away, the Mexican was now laying on the sidewalk, he had been shot, it must had been ninety degrees out, and a minute later I heard an ambulance coming, and a police car.
“You know who shot him,” asks the police man.
“A tall Blackman, perhaps the same age as the Mexican, twenty-two or so.”
“Did you see it,” asked the officer.
“Some of it, why?”
“He got shot in the back, did you know that?”
“I figured as much, he was running away from the Blackman, I guess that is how it would end up.”
“Listen,” said the police officer, shaking his finger at me, “you saw and you didn’t see what you actually saw?”
“Nothing, nothing at all, that’s what I saw once it comes down to it.” I said, adding, “I really don’t care who shot him, they both were arguing in the Gem bar over drugs, everyone heard them.”
“Don’t you want the man who shot him to be caught?”
“Not necessarily,” I told the officer, as the ambulance to the Mexican away, and the police officer was explaining the situation to his boss over the walkie-talkie.
“My boss says to tell you to write it down.”
“Write what down? I told you I never saw anything that was anything, and especially nothing I could write down and swear to.”
“Poor Mexican,” said the police officer, as he got another phone call over his phone perhaps from one of the police officers inside the ambulance,
“He just died in the ambulance, twelve minutes ago, that is how long he lived, from the time they picked him up to now,” the police officer told me as he shot down his phone, looking at his watch.
Then the officer got another ring on his phone, “Yes sir,” he said, adding, “the observer says some fellow that he doesn’t know, shot the other person he doesn’t know, and he didn’t see the actual shooting in the first place, so who can prove who shot him, even if we catch him.”
The police officer looked at me, said, “It’s all right, my boss said, to tell you to go, we’ll no longer need your statement after all.”


Note: An actual event, that took place in the summer of 1983, a tinge modified for the written story, was in the newspapers, and the author wrote a poem about this story, called “First Avenue,” published in a Minneapolis, Newspaper during that same period. Written 2-27-2009•