Coleman Letters (third letter)

8/12 (5:49AM)

Orbic,

Thank you for your letter. I didn't check my mail until a few minutes ago; and as I state above, it is nearly 6AM. I just got home. I prowled about the streets for a bit, but I couldn't really focus, per say, because it's Second Saturday and everyone was out. Man-O-Man, every one was out. And you know what? I didn't get irritated. I cruised the art galleries a bit, drank orange juice and eavesdropped on random conversations. It is amazing, Orbic -- and I'm sure you know this well -- people have nothing to talk about. Everything they say and respond to is gossip. Everything is "fuckin' bullshit" to all these non-thinkers who thrive on stupidity. I say I didn't get upset about it; and that really is true. I didn't. I just listened, laughed, and dreamt of indulging in the free wine – plagued with the reality of my thirteen months of sobriety. They give wine out like donations at these art galleries, I must say. It is very tempting.

Now, to answer your questions:

What will happen if your surgery takes a turn for the worst?

That's a good question.

Truly, I don't know and I don't think about it. I'm told about disability and being able to live and have a tutor teach me how to read brail and walk and talk and function like a blind person.

But I don't like to think of that.

The one thing my Mother told me to do, that I listened to and am proud that I did, was that I learned to type. I have an editor to correct my spellings and chop my run on sentences. So chances are, I'll keep writing no matter what. Especially since my goal is to be finished with my book before the surgery. I'm having momentary episodes of "shit, I think I can't see." But nothing too serious. Mostly, I react off lights. I wear shades in-doors -- which is pretty acceptable, fashion wise for the men (the women too). Problem is I'm out of style because I'm not wearing "stunner shades"; so mostly I look like the creepy guy in sunglasses and strange clothes. Not that I dress all that bad. But to be out and amongst the Second Saturday walkers, in my attire, is a dead give away for my lack of pop culture upkeep. I'm really trying with that. I read online as much as possible; and listen out for tid bits in regards to phrases ("I'm so crispy", whatever that means) and the latest music.

I'm sure I'll take the disability. I'd be a fool not to. But it is not going to stop me from writing.

Are you still in contact with Jill?

No.

Are you seeing anyone?

I am happy to say I am not.

As I've told you before, I'm just not made for that. I'm too esoteric for the taste of most women outside the crunchy granola-flower girls (and I have to force myself to see attraction with those types of girls).

Someone once told me -- in a very superficial manner -- that I "see beauty in people that is not there."

True? Maybe.

I've been with some pretty "so-so" girls throughout my life. Never the "top notch" tens that George, so proudly, measures his manhood against. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I had one.

Plus, there is my performance problem in bed.

It's too embarrassing. I come so damn quick I might as well masturbate and keep the sex partner in my imagination. I think it's just that I get so excited about sex -- since I don't have enough of it -- that when it comes down to it, I'm too overloaded for my own good. It might be best for me to rub one out before I meet up with someone. But that has no point these days because I'm just too damn terrified to try it. "Try it" as in, "try to meet up with someone." I'm so bitter with women, for the most part, that I can only see them as associates, on some level; but never for much else. They become subjects of study; but to get too involved is to place myself in a weird position of not knowing what to do next.

Have you gone to any publishers about your book?

It's a sad case, but no I have not.

Right now I'm too scared to pitch it. I don't know how to pitch it. I don't know how to break down what it's about, and speak about it in an articulate manner, because I don’t know what the book is “about.” I've mentioned to you before that it's so scattered that it's hard to tell.

I do want to thank you for your kind words on the chapter I sent. Same old Orbic: a whole lot of nice things to say, peppered with criticism so subtle I am fooled into thinking it’s a compliment…until I re-read it.

When you mentioned that the cab driver reminded you of "a lost soul with a clear-cut idea of his purpose" at first I took this as a compliment in my writing style (and I don't deny that on some levels it was a compliment). But when I thought about it more, and read it again, I realized it was a way of you saying "interesting" which meant the work was unclear and muddy.

I laughed my ass off when I connect this. I thought, "That Orbic, man. He is really somethin'." And you are. You live the kind of life that all creative people wish they could: with complete freedom. Boy would I like to live in Paris like you did for a year, then travel off to Tokyo for 2 years, then back to New York, only to live in a shit-hole apartment, and loving my creative life. I just don't have the damn balls to do it. I get too caught up in worry and fear of failure. We all know how deathly afraid of failure I am. It's a curse to me. I can never get over a simple hump and land on a path of motivation. You are truly a figure to envy, even if I don’t envy you.

Shit man. It's early, and believe it or not, my eyes are heavy.

I will keep you posted on things. Thank you for showing the concern. Makes me feel like you're right here by my side, like you use to be.

Night.

D

Pulse

When they found Winston Elswit he'd been drinking bottles of Kessler for six days straight. It was a marvel he'd been able to load the pistol let alone place it to his temple. Only when he pulled the trigger he didn't die the first time. He went blind. And for almost an hour Winston suffered in painful darkness -- sightless eyes burned with blood and the potent smell and sour taste caused him to spit and morph himself into a desperate animal -- as he felt about the floor to locate the pistol and finish the job. He was finally able to recover it and finished himself orally...

Though Spencer feared life and the thought of having to live in it he feared death even more. So by the time Steve dropped him back to his place -- after stating "Fuck it! I might go fuck Haley again!" -- Spencer was in a moment of catching a thought from his racing mind:

Melora.
Cha-Chi.
Haley.
His Father.
The Old Men on the porch.
The Irish Girl.
Laughter.
Isolation.
Smiles.
Music.
Skates.
Skunks on train tracks.
Dreams not pursued.



All of this coupled with the facts of his rich sex life which he'd often diminish to nothing:

- "I've fucked more fat girls than most," he thought. "Fat girls and ugly girls in their forties dig me...not that there's anything wrong with girls in their forties...but it's all I can get..."

When Spencer made it up the stairs to the door of his apartment he found his neighbor's door across the way wide open with blaring Steely Dan filling the air. He hardly knew this neighbor. He'd been over there for a drink once. But he didn't know her. She was white trash. Skinny. A chain smoker. Dora was only nineteen and her mother, Doris, lived in that one bedroom apartment with her. They were a strange mother/daughter "team." Far too strange for, even, Spencer's taste. For their was a time, a few months ago when Winston showed up at Spencer's apartment unannounced. Months before he shot himself. And the only time Spencer had a conversation with his father...

....he had one over me, dear friends; for I'd never met my father; he was a memory before I could think of him; I knew of his brilliance of charm; tendencies of flight; beyond his first name -- which I've long forgotten -- I had not known anything else...

Winston's four day stint included several six packs of malt liquor, all of which Winston drank on his own. Most of which was paid for by the large jar of change in Spencer's apartment. A jar that started out full and wound up a bottom layer of pennies. A four day stint that revealed Winston's violent side. None that Spencer witnessed first hand, but heard through the many tales spun in drunken lingo by Winston. The night Winston made them both a dinner of top ramon and hot dogs (Winston included a tall malt liquor with dinner, but Spencer declined). Winston confessed to hitting Spencer's mother. He confessed his regret. They sang songs of the 80's -- for Winston fancied himself a singer; a broken musician; even though it had never been recalled that Winston actually participated in the discipline. A four day stint that included not only the draining of his change jar, but Winston fucking both Dora and Doris...

...at the same time....

Spencer called Melora expecting her to hang up. When she answered he simply said:

- "Hi."

It took a moment.

- "Hi," she responded.

- "Sorry I called."

- "You OK?"

- "No."

- "You drunk?"

- "...little bit."

- "How much have you had?"

- "You want it in gallons?"

- (sigh)

- "I don't know how much I had. Steve came over."

- (no response)


- "Hello?"

- "I'm here," Melora said.

- "I know how much you hate Steve. But he had an issue, so he showed up with a 30 pack of beer."

- "A 30 pack?"

- "Yeah."

- "And you drank the whole thing?" there was a hint of judgment in her voice.

- "He had an issue. Trust me. It was necessary."

- "What happened?"

- "He had sex with an under age girl."

- (sigh)

- "Yeah. I know. He was all fucked up over it."

- "Who was it?"

- "Some girl. I don't know. She use to come in to the Garage...I don't know."

- "How old?"

- "Seventeen."

- "That's better than what I was thinking."

- "What were you thinking?"

- "Fifteen."

- "Oh no. Hell no. She was seventeen."

- "That's still bad."

- "Anyway he...we...drank a lot and...now all I hear is my neighbor's music."

- "Hm."

- "Were you sleep?"

- "Yeah."

- "Should I let you go?"

- "Yeah."

- "Can we talk for a few more minutes?"

- (no response)

- "Hello?!"

- "I'm here. That's fine."

- "I keep thinking about my Dad. It's been over a month, ya know, and I can't get 'im out my mind. Just like how he must have been feeling. Keep feeling like I'm just like 'im. Like I'll do the same thing he did. He was a guy of broken dreams and envy and homophobia. He was a drug head, a drinker, he was violent...when he was here, sure, he drank a lot. It was only four days but he drank a lot....would start at nine in the morning, go all day, and be up and out the house by five A.M. Kind'uh trippy, really...don't know how he did it...but he did it...he really loved me...he really did...wasn't there for me or anything, but he loved me...hated himself for not being there; all he did was express regret -- especially when I asked him if he hit my Mom. He said 'yes' and cried. Right there he cried...I didn't know what to do..."

- (silence)

- "Hello?"

- "I'm here."

- "Anyway...'m sorry I woke you up."

- "'S OK."

- "I really wish you were here...fuck...sorry....shouldn't have said that...."

- (no response)

- "I'm really sorry I said that."

- "You gonna be OK?"

- "Yeah," and then he said it again... "Yeah."

- "K."

- "I will uhhh...talk to you later."

- "OK."

-"Sleep well."

-"You too."

- "I will. When I pass out eventually, I will."

- "K."

- "Night."

- "G'night."

*****

Spencer awoke on the floor with overwhelming optimism. He unloaded a bit of change from the drained down 20 oz jug for coffee. He was down to four cigarettes and so he knew he needed to rashin his savings. The taste for beer was bound to hit later. Food was not much of a problem since he had hot dogs and eggs in the fridge. During this type of excitement food could only serve as a stomach lining. The priorities were coffee, smokes, and beer. He'd been in this position before. So he understood he could complete his purchase for $10. Problem was he was $2 short. This meant he'd have to get the coffee and smokes now, then "find" the remaining monies later. No matter. The optimism was too strong that day. He would achieve his short term goals and attempt to revel in the good feeling that he felt. He would not allow the downs to over take him. Hell if he wanted to (in his own mind) he could rid his life of financial burdon by the end of the day. He could stop his worries and laugh of the old days. He could speak of Winston's death as a tragedy. A moment in time that contributed to his success; and all those he'd tell the story to could look to Spencer as one who rose above the opposition while gracefully accepting his charity. He imagined putting surprise checks in the mail to all those he'd ever borrowed money from. If Spencer had acquired anything from Winston it was the inate spirit of belief from friends and family. That "one day" it would all turn around for him. They hardly paid attention to his flaws and his inability to finish anything. All they saw was the man he could be instead of the man he actually was. Spencer and Winston were able to superimpose success even with the obvious beggar's life they'd both led. It was a gift in some ways. A gift that would eventually need follow-thru if the belief were to continue. Other wise the options were likely to run out and Spencer would be forced to face the rejection he feared.

I held my index on the speed dial। Twice I pushed it and twice I ended the call. I anticipated the chaos arising with my number being lit on her phone. I could already hear the firm panic in Natasha's voice. That voice that would front with boldness while her sharp tone would disclose fear. Her balls were shields for weakness. A weakness I never deconstructed early on. Before I was the one held by the balls. The one in silence, hoping she might let up on the wind storm of hurled insults. She'd never demonstrated fear until the night I hit her. I confess, for a moment I was proud of my power. Even though it was temporary. She took that power back by having me hauled off to jail. The eleven hours in the holding tank amongst the local petty criminals caused me to fantasize of Natasha's regrets. I imagined her on her way to the bail bondsman, hurridly, with a fist full of bail money. Sure she would not be able to stop the D.A. from pressing charges, but it would have shown me the depths of her forgiveness. A forgiveness that did not work both ways. Our destructive relationship was not strong enough to sustain abuse. At least not in the physical form. She'd abused me plenty. Twice by hurly a lamp and once with a direct punch to the face. My nose bled but I told her it was "OK." It seems now I was telling her that so that she might return the forgiveness the day I hit her. I knew it might come. I knew the violence was within me. I'd fought it off far too many times to be ignorant of it. Though my violence meant nothing in jail. I was in the position of the helpless. I'd had my chance to correct behavior. I'd had my chance to walk away. I could never figure out why I didn't. Only that I needed the abuse. It gave me a hope. Too much kindness would only push me over the edge. I needed the unpredictable. I did not want to know what every night would bring. The next morning's anger. Frustration. Worries. I needed the lack of anticipation and predictability in order to have the feeling of a life. Too much calm erupted chaos. Too much of a regular life would push me over the edge. I could not handle being understanding. There was never any reasonable reason for any action between Natasha and me. Only the reality of it's existence. I pegged this as normal. When I was let out of jail I returned home to a stale feeling. I knew my court date was around the corner and I knew I might truly suffer for what I'd done. I wasn't ready for such a punishment. I never paralleled my life with punishment. Only the skin of my teeth. I had been released from many circumstances that might have proven fatal. But this would not be one of them. And as I sat in my car, watching her house, I understood I no longer could comprehend consequence, since I did not believe it to apply to me. The more trouble I confronted the more indestructible I felt. The lights went out in the bedroom. I waited but I never saw Ethan leave. Everything in her house was still. The rest of the night was quiet as the moon. It wasn't until I saw the Chinese couple delivering the newspapers that I finally started my engine and drove off. My phone rang. It was Shannon. She woke up and realized I wasn't home. This was when I realized I would have trouble when I got home.

Coleman Letters (the second excerpt)

Orbic

It’s been years since our last talk. I can safely say that it hasn’t been since we ran into each other at Ray’s bar, about two years ago, that we had our last talk. Not sure what you’ve been up to (which is the main reason for me writing you at this moment); however, it has been recently that I have began to remember things.

I was playing a gig tonight at Joppy’s (I’ve been doing blues singing and song playin’), and someone from the audience shouted out to me: “SING SOME OF THAT OLD RAILROAD-COTTON-PICKIN’-BLUES YOU ALL LOVE TALKIN’ ABOUT SO MUCH!”

And I got to thinking about the last conversation we had। The conversation about blues we had over cheap whiskey and Otis Redding. Me and you got to talking about our Daddy’s; how they were both blues players, much like ourselves (thought last time we talked you talked of givin’ it up; is that still the case?). We got to talkin’ about how we didn’t have a choice, as black men in poverty; we had to sing the blues to keep a sanity to our existence. We talked of our arrival here, through the Middle Passage, and when our forefathers were put in the fields, it was calls to God and verses of blues that kept them up; the same things that kept us up (thought our freedom was limited by our own state of mind by our chosen mentalities of victim-hood). We talked about going from slavery to segregation; how our fathers sang the blues to keep from goin’ crazy. How they held their heads down in the presence of the white man. Not blamin’ the white man (damn near praisin’ him for evil, as much as they was tryin’ to earn his respect). How our fathers looked up to Lead Belly for writin’ his blues song about the Governor while he was doin’ his time in prison for manslaughter…turns out the Governor liked what Belly had to say, because he let Belly out on “good behavior” (or as we remembered it “A—kissin’ without shame!”). Belly didn’t mean what he wrote about the Governor; all that he said about how the Governor is a good Governor; and how he honors the Governor for how good he’s been to colored folks. Oh no, Belly didn’t mean none of it. But our Daddy’s admired him because of it; and since our Daddy’s admired it, so did we. We talked about how neither one of our Daddy’s showed any real support of the Civil Rights Movement through action; but chose to support the Movement through playin’ the blues. We said how they both were uneducated men (much like ourselves) and felt they could not participate because of “All dem fancy words.” Ooooh, how we understood it; how we laughed and toasted that cheap wine till we found ourselves stumblin’ home and confronted by the police. “Public Drunkenness” they called it. But you called it “Walkin’ While Black”, which I have never forgotten; and I’ll tell you Orbic, that night put us in the shoes of our Daddy’s. For a moment we lived in the fear they lived in by walking the streets during the wrong part of the night. How our Daddy’s told us that when they’d woke up to burning crosses outside their windows so many times they began to think it meant Jesus was testin’ a new kind of contradiction. They said: “We saw it so many times, when they’d show up, we’d roll over and go back to sleep.”



Our Daddys’ stood as heroes how they sang about Martin Luther King; how they sang about Malcolm X; and how my Daddy got arrested for singing a song in support of Assata Shakur during church service outside the Jewish temple (how can a person forget that one?).

There was nothin’ our Daddy’s couldn’t do in our eyes; and I needed to write you to remind you that we have the same obligation. No more can we just sing the blues if there ain’t no blues goin’ through us. No more can we pretend we feelin’ a sorrow that we ain’t really feelin’. So I am writin’ you to tell you that I have recently been sent to prison for manslaughter…now I truly have somethin’ to sing the blues about. I tried writin’ a song for the Governor, but that didn’t work yet; so my next step is to try the Warden. I have yet to experience the bliss our Daddy’s might have; but I am patiently waitin’ for that day.

But I needed you to know that I have finally found a source. A source close to home, like our forefathers. A source of modern segregation to remind me of what it must have been like. All that damn integration on the outside took away from the pain…so now I’m here. Here for a long time. And I am grateful for every moment.

Write back soon. I would love to know how you’re doing. Take care. And say hello to the wife for me, if you’re still married. Until next time:

“Step on a pin
that pin will bend
this was the letter
now it’s the end.”

Best,

Chic