Shower

    The shed behind the museum vanishes overnight. I don't know where it has gone, and I find that I'm not even curious. So many stories are like this. No resolution, no denouement. The sidewalk remains clear for a couple of weeks until an enormous orange tent springs up. A note pinned to it reads "I work at the Safeway across the street, do not fuck with my stuff or I will fuck with you."

    One night, I'm grabbing a few things at that very Safeway when a short, sun-scorched woman with an untamed shock of orange hair approaches and says she's just moved into the area and asks if I could let her use my shower. She doesn't ask for money or food, just a shower. I feel bad; what kind of person am I to not let someone just take a shower? But of course I don't. I keep picturing all the things that could go wrong, and my fear overcomes my compassion. She smiles and says God Bless and pads over to a young couple examining the nutritional information printed on the back of a large bag of chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs. 

    A few days later I get a notice in the mail that my rent is going up.

More News About More News

“It is a strange story. It has a stab in it. It would hurt me if I couldn’t look up at the big white clouds shouldering their shoulders, rolling on the rollers of the big blue sky.” -Carl Sandburg

    First of all, many thanks to everyone who bought a copy of this ridiculous new book of mine. It has come to my attention that there were a few minor hiccups in the form of careless typos, which I have since cured. I hope your entirely understandable fury at receiving a less-than-perfect product will be tempered by the knowledge that this gently flawed edition has become an instant collector's item, someday to be worth many times more than what you paid for it, much like that Beatles album with the dead babies on the cover. Don't you wish you had bought one of those? I sure do! 

    For those who are interested -and I don't expect there are many of you!- here are two great essays on one of the main inspirations for the book, namely Carl Sandburg and his Rootabaga Stories, which was published exactly 100 years ago:

    https://thepointmag.com/criticism/rootabaga-country/

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69463/carl-sandburg-stops-making-sense

    My goal wasn't to attempt to replicate Sandburg's lilting acts of verbal anarchy (though I toy with them here and there) but to explore and exploit the different forms of folk fantasy of the early part of the 20th Century, most of it aimed at children and most of it from the American Midwest for some reason. Perhaps life in the wide-open emptiness of the Corn Belt was so harsh that there was a powerful need to escape into a world of unbridled imagination, much like Dorothy Gale fleeing a bleak future in Kansas.  (It's interesting to note that in the books, Dorothy eventually moves her entire family to Oz. All that "no place like home" business is pure Hollywood schmaltz.)

    I too used this project as an escape from all the bad news we've all been bombarded with lately. It was comforting for me to dive into a fantasy world populated with ridiculous people (and animals, and foodstuffs) doing and saying ridiculous things. But lest you worry that I've become too frivolous, rest assured that underneath its veneer of whimsy flows a dark current of melancholy. Sandburg's work has that as well, as the above quote displays. What was meant to be a frothy confection turned out to be one of the most revealing things I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it, hiccups and all.

MYSTERIOUS YET ODDLY DULL BOOK APPEARS ON DOORSTEP OF AWARD-WINNING LOCAL PUBLISHER

    Peter Paul Pepperjack stifled a yawn as he took out the trash for the offices of the Horseradish Falls Herald. Peter Paul was very tired, having spent the day chasing down a lead, interviewing all the parties involved, taking photos, developing the photos, writing the story, editing that same story, and then setting the type and running the presses. (It had, overall, been a much slower day than usual.) As he lugged the two bulging sacks of garbage down to the curb, he tripped over something on the front steps and fell flat on his face. Both bags split and garbage flew in every direction. 

    Peter Paul stood up and brushed himself off and wearily dragged himself back up the steps to see what he had tripped on. It was a book. On the jacket were printed the words "MORE NEWS FROM HORSERADISH FALLS." He flipped through the pages but  despite being the main and also secondary and tertiary writer on the paper, Peter Paul didn't actually know how to read, so he took it inside to show his boss. 

    Herbert Fupp was a squat dragon with gray scales and a permanent scowl etched across his face. He spent most nights sitting at his desk, blowing smoke rings angrily into the air, and tonight was no exception. Peter Paul threw the book on the desk, nearly knocking over a half-empty bottle of St. George's gin. 

    "Somebody left this on our doorstep and I tripped on it when I was taking out the garbage," Peter Paul whined. He didn't actually mean to whine, it was just his natural tone of voice.

    "So what?" snarled Herb. He didn't mean to snarl, it was just his natural tone of voice. (Also, he was drunk.) "We don't do book reviews, you know that. Especially not unsolicited ones left by some anonymous hack on our doorstep. Speaking of which, remind me to have that doorstep removed, it causes nothing but trouble. This is a paper of the people, not some highfalutin' arts and culture rag! What do you think we are, the Skewered Pork Review of Books?"

    "Maybe it's time we branched out," said Peter Paul Peppercorn, licking his lips as he thought about how nice some skewered pork would taste right about then. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. "You know, I've heard that people like to read other people's opinions of things so they don't have to form opinions of their own. Maybe we could..."

    "Maybe you could finish taking out the garbage," snapped Herb, "and you might as well take this out while you're at it." He hurled the book at Peter Paul Peppercorn. It knocked his spectacles off, which was odd because Peter Paul Peppercorn never wore spectacles.

    Peter Paul sighed and went back out to clean up the spilled trash (which consisted mainly of empty bottles of St. George's). and carry it down to the curb. Peppercorn took one last look at the book, then shrugged and dropped it into one of the sacks and trudged home to sleep for a few hours before he had to return to deliver the morning edition. 

    Extra, extra! Read all about it! More News from Horseradish Falls is now Available for Purchase! Order your beautifully illustrated hardcover edition fresh off the presses! More News from Horseradish Falls

COVID

    Though I still wear a mask on the bus and in the supermarket, I finally stop wearing it at work. Within a day, I catch COVID. 

     I wish I had some poignant things to say about the experience, but being sick is either terrifying or fucking dull, and I am not terrified, just anxious and somewhat embarrassed at not having been more careful. My coughing is accompanied by rolling headaches and chills. My mind slips in and out of the fog. I make a video doctor appointment to see if I should be concerned, or if there is anything I should be doing differently. He tells me to get some rest.

   Coincidentally enough, before I got sick I started reading Arrowsmith, about a doctor who specializes in studying infectious diseases. I was assigned to read it in 11th grade, but never did. I vaguely remember trying to cobble together a book report based on some skimming; this was pre-internet, so I had no online sources to crib from. I felt deeply ashamed about the whole thing. I was in pretty rough shape emotionally in 11th grade -I was seeing a shrink, who had put me on Prozac- and had dropped all my gifted classes but somehow got into Advanced Placement US History, which I nearly failed, despite really liking the teacher.

    It feels good to finally read this damn book after thirty-odd years. I'm surprised to find that I absolutely love it. It's well written, insightful, and very, very funny. I relate to the protagonist's struggle to meet his potential. He's not a particularly likable character, but his one redeeming quality is his relentless curiosity, and desire to commit himself to pure experimentation in a world which no longer values any activity which isn't lucrative. I relate to his bumbling as well as his arrogance, and feel that his devotion to science is comparable to my devotion to art.

    Between reading, I get some editing done and actually finish the project I've been struggling to complete (more to follow soon). I celebrate by allowing myself to zone out in front of a show about guys who use metal detectors to hunt for buried treasure, though they more often come away with nothing more exotic than beer pull tabs. It's a sweet, comforting program, both gently funny and melancholy. Other than that, I sleep a lot, mostly during the afternoon, with Spencer curled up beside me, darting off every time I cough but always returning.

    On the third day I venture out just before dusk. I take a walk around the block but it's overwhelming. I feel claustrophobic, like the world is pressing in on all sides. I stare at the ground, unable to focus on anything. I couldn't tell you what the sky looked like.

    The next day I venture out to work (it's been well over five days since my symptoms began, even though I initially tested negative). I can barely drag myself along, can hardly concentrate on anything, and I feel like I could burst into tears for no real reason. I really just want to go back to bed but we're so short-handed, I feel guilty taking any time off. My coughing has abated, but I'm constantly sniffing to keep my mask from getting saturated with snot. I'm miserable, but it could be so much worse. I think of the fear and uncertainty that crushed us before the vaccines were available. I think of the people I knew who died from this, especially my dear Aunt Kathy, who was one of the sweetest members of the family. I could be dying, and instead I'm complaining about a runny nose. I know I should be grateful, and I am, a little. But mostly I just want to crawl into bed and pull up the covers. 

Omar

   The museum replaced the vinyl Black Lives Matter sign with one made of composite aluminum, and for a while people stopped targeting it. One day a young man who called himself Omar arrived, and demanded to get into the museum. He was fairly incoherent but we managed to figure out that he seemed to think we were a Black Lives Matter museum, and, being Black, he felt entitled to free admission. The more it was explained to him that this was not the case, the angrier he got. He grew agitated and began to yell at the women behind the counter but finally left, only to try to force his way into the other entrance. A group of employees stood in front of the door and he tried to push his way through. Before he left, he took out a set of brass knuckles and brandished them menacingly. Since then, Omar has returned a number of times, usually when we're closed. He hasn't harassed anyone, he just paces back and forth beneath the metal sign, muttering to himself.

    Recently, a man approached the sign with a tire iron and stabbed two holes in it before banging furiously on one of the outside sculptures. This particular sculpture is a profoundly ugly piece by the profoundly untalented Anthony Caro. It consists of a couple of large slabs of drab brown bronze leaning against one another in a way which makes an ideal structure for huddling behind to shoot up, or for sleeping behind, or spray painting on. I don't understand why we don't just put it in storage -it is not exactly beautifying our grounds, and will have to be moved anyway once we start the renovation. I assume that once that happens, it will never see the light of day again, unless the far-off future brings a renewed interest in his work. It seems unlikely. Our conservator refuses to work on it anymore because she considers it a bio-hazard. She's not wrong; already the color of feces, the Caro is often bathed in piss and shit.

     In the middle of the night last week, someone tried to burn down the homeless man's shed. On camera you can see a figure in an orange slicker and medical mask light what looks like a flare, after which the side of the structure starts to burn. The two men I had talked to the other day were inside,; their lives were saved by the Grenada's Shear Performance sign, which kept the shed from going up in flames until they could douse the conflagration using a small fire extinguisher. 

    Just last night, someone slashed all four tires of the museum van, which we keep parked right outside the employee entrance. The night guard who was on duty listens to a lot of right wing talk radio, and as result has a lot to say about how society is going to hell, and that the only thing that will solve this problem is the church. I don't argue with him, even though I've been reading about addiction, and especially meth, and I feel like I'm gaining some insight into what I'm seeing with these people on the street; the erratic behavior, the obsessive collecting and arranging, the tent cities.

    I have no idea what to do about any of this. It all seems so overwhelmingly complicated. Our addiction to drugs is connected to our addictions to other substances, such as sugar, the internet, and, most of all, capitalism. I think about my own addictions, most notably to alcohol. I'm not equating my issues with those of someone hooked on meth, I'm just saying we all have things we're addicted to, and to demonize people whose minds are being scrambled by designer drugs is dangerously hypocritical. Seeing how difficult it is for me to resist one beer, I can only imagine how hard it must be to survive when your brain is rewired to need something as potent as methamphetamine.  

    One main feature of meth is that, unlike fentanyl, it doesn't kill you quickly. You can go for years shuffling along, moving your tent from place to place, just barely sustaining yourself unless someone stabs you or burns you alive. It feels like the entire country is doing the same. We are all just shuffling along, waiting to see what happens next,  biding our time until the inevitable collapse.

    I'm also thinking about how our addictions are connected to our feelings of isolation. I drink because I'm lonely, and the drinking makes me feel more lonely, and so I drink more. It's an endless loop of misery. Luckily, my fear of what my addictive personality might lead me to has kept me from turning to hard drugs thus far. It's not hard to imagine ending up living in a tent, or a shed on the sidewalk, and it's that imagination which helps me stay empathetic to these people, even if their addiction makes them act in ways which seem incomprehensible and often violent. 

 

     I'm not sure what, if anything, will be done with the Black Lives Matter banner. For now it's just hanging there with punctures that look like bullet holes in an NWA logo. The shed and its surrounding tents are not going anywhere. The Caro squats there, waiting for someone else to disrespect it. We've been lucky; no one at work has gotten physically injured so far. No one has broken in or damaged anything beyond repair. The van will have new tires by the end of the week. I wonder how Omar is doing, how he spends his nights, wonder if there's any hope for him. We are all feeling slashed and stabbed, banged up and burned, and more than a little on edge. I walk past the shed after work. It's quiet inside, everything soaked and windblown from the recent storm. I cross the street to the Safeway to pick up a six pack, then continue on to my warm, safe home where I can lock the door and turn on some music and drink, and drink, and drink.