taxi service (12)

Bobby’s rollin’ up Edison.

Pulls off in a dark spot along the railroad tracks.

The Dominos are cookin’ the airwaves:

Look a here girls I’m telling you now

They call me Lovin’ Dan

I rock ‘em, roll ‘em all night long

I’m a sixty minute man.......

Ruthie says what are you stoppin’ here for?

Bobby grunts, licks his teeth, shuts off the car.

I don’t need sixty minutes, five’s plenty

if you know what you’re doing.

Ah shit, not again, Bobby, it ain’t right.

Ain’t right? ain’t right you livin’

in that house and gettin’ all these free rides.

It’s time to pay your way, baby.

......be fifteen minutes of squeezing

then fifteen minutes of blowing my.....

C’mon now. Only take a few minutes. Don’ even

hafta take your clothes off, just scootch on over here.

I know you was engaged to that boy up in Teviston.

Don’t tell me you never done nothin’ with him.

We were engaged, Bobby. This ain’t the same at all.

You’re engaged to Loretta, don’t you have no shame?

Loretta do what I tell her. She don’t need to know

‘bout this. Just five minutes and we’re even til next week.

I already paid her the rent money.

Well you ain’t paid me.

It’s her house. And she’s the one who asked me to come down here.

Why’d she do that? To fool around with you? I don’t think so.

I told you before. I didn’t say nothing to Loretta,

but I will if you keep houndin’ me.

Don’t you even think about tellin’ her.

I won’t. ‘less you keep this up.

Now I’m gonna be late if you don’t start this car.

You saving it for that white boy? Loretta told me about him.

Drives that hopped up heap? What you think he’s after?

Pussy hound for sure. Tell you what.

I bet he’s got some real folding money.

Why should you give it up for free?

Tell him you’ll do him for ten dollars and give five to me.

Consider that my fee for all this taxi service I’ve been providing.

You’re disgusting, Bobby. I ain’t no whore. I’d rather walk.

I know Loretta turns tricks for you, she can’t hardly hide the fact.

But she warned me about you. She’s tryin’ to look out for me.

I got dreams of something better and she wants to help me.

Dreams? You think that white boy gonna satisfy your dreams?

Shit. You are livin’ in a dream world, for sure.

Take my advice and get that boy to pay.

You could make good money, more’n cleanin’ up

the barf and shit off the sheets at the hospital.

I don’t care Bobby. I’m saving my money for nursing school.

I’ll clean all the shit off the sheets I have to to get there.

School? Ain’t you had enough school?

No. I did really well in school. I like school.

Oh yeah? You sure don’t sound like you did.

You sound sound like any other poor ass cotton picker I know.

That’s right Bobby. That’s the way I talk to you.

Only thing you understand.

Uh huh, You save your school talk for white folks?

They don’t give a good godamn how you talk,

you still just a coon ass cotton picker.

Trust me girl, I know ‘em and I’m telling you.

That boy is only after one thing.

Gettin’ your panties round your ankles

and stickin’ his dick up your snatch.

You’re so nasty, Bobby. You truly are.

That’s right honey, that’s what the ladies like about me

-no bullshit with Bobby Flash.

Not for me. How bout you flash me on down

to the hospital before I get fired?

Yeah, ok. This time. But you think about how you gonna pay me.

Longer you hold out, the more you gonna owe.

Your choice baby, gimme the cash or your tight little ass.

You gonna pay me ‘fore you do white boys for free.

And don’t go shootin’ your smart mouth off to Loretta,

she’s gonna have to go along on this with me.

Take my word for it, baby. she always do.

Only thing you gonna use that mouth on is me.

last call before the quake (1)

last call before the quake

Bakersfield, July 21, 1952

1:32 a.m.

Henry Nalbandian

had been honkytonkin’ 

at Trout’s in Oildale

when the brawl broke out.

He’d just plunked down

a quarter for last call. 

It was Sunday night,

and he was squeezing out

the last few minutes

of the weekend with

the oil field crews.

Didn’t see what started it

or who. Might have been

somebody steppin’ on

somebody’s boots,

could have been

somebody lookin’ at

the wrong gal’s boobs.

Didn’t matter anyway 

once the fists and bottles

started flying. Didn’t see

the one that caught him

right above his eye.

When it nearly knocked

his glasses off,

he started swinging too.

Too few greenbacks

in their pockets

and too many brews.

When the ruckus was over,

there were a few ol’ boys

who needed fixin up,

some stitches here or there

and one poor bastard

with a busted arm.

They piled into Henry’s

hopped up tracknose coupe,

headed down to Kern County

General Hospital in Bakersfield.

It was a busy night,

casualties were pouring in

from all the joints in town,

looked like the fights might

start up again right there in the ER.

The wait for getting patched up

stretched on and on,

the booze was wearing off

and the pain was setting in,

so everybody’s patience

was getting kind of thin.

Ruthie Brown worked the graveyard shift

cleaning up the rooms of folks who hadn’t

made it through the night, sweeping halls

and mopping floors, changing the sheets

of the newly deceased, whatever needed

doing. If it wasn’t all she wanted,

at least it was a start.

The waiting room was downright nasty,

a lot of booze-infused blood

and cheap bar room snack-infested puke,

and one old snoring geezer

had pissed his pants and dribbled on the floor.

She rolled her mop and bucket,

started cleaning up the mess.

As she bent to her tasks,

Augustus Smith, a Tulsa shitkicker

if ever there was one, 

stuck his oil-stained paw up her dress,

yanking on her underwear

trying to reach her ass.

Ruthie stumbled, trying to slip his grasp

but the bucket blocked her way.

Gus had the hem of her dress firmly in hand.

She don’t say nothin, knowing what

these white boys are like,

specially when they’re drunk,

mean as skunks, and twice as nasty.

Gus sneered, where you going, girl?

your black cooze too good for me?

Ruthie said, please sir, let me go.

I’m just trying to do my job.

She risked a look at his face,

a dead-eyed mask of lust and hate,

then quickly looked away,

but it wadn’t soon enough for Gus.

What’er you lookin’ at, nigger bitch

 You don’ look at a white man like that.

I’m go’n teach you some respect.

He pulled her closer, pythoned one arm

around her waist, scrabbled a filthy

crack-nailed claw up her drawers.

Henry Nalbandian

saw the fuss across the room.

He don’t cotton to anybody

treating a woman that way,

even if she’s a colored girl. 

sides that asshole Gus

was always on his back,

givin’ him stupid racist shit.

Henry ain’t a roughneck,

he’s just the oil company payroll clerk,

counting out the greenbacks

at the end of the week.

And Gus was always saying

that Henry shorted his pay.

Not an ounce of truth to it, and Gus knew it.

It was all just bullshit anyway.

The real reason, besides the rattlesnake

living in Gus’s brain, was Henry’s name.

Nalbandian. Goddamned foreigners.

Hardly even qualify as white.

Cottonwood Night (11)

Cottonwood don’t have streetlights

but at least it don’t stink like crude.

Light spills out the doorless entry

of the Ex Service-men’s Club

a barnwood and tarpaper shack.

A sandwich board sign out front

reads, Open All NIght

The happy drunks are laughing,

and the thwarted ones are griping,

and the juke box keeps on rocking

with the latest hot rhythm and blues.

Oh, now lawdy lawdy lawdy, Miss Clawdy

girl, you sure look good to me

Well, please don’t excite me, baby,

tho’ it can’t be me.

Henry slows to listen,

You like to ball in the morning,

don’t come back until the night

Waits at Loretta’s with the motor running.

Quarter til eleven. Loretta looks out

the screen door and walks over to

the passenger side window.

All she’s got on is a green satin robe,

two inches short of indecent,

it gapes at the top and the bottom.

and all of her stuff is in motion.

Henry kills the motor. 

She ain’t here. She’s already gone.

Where? I told her I’d pick her up.

Yeah, well Bobby took her in.

Who’s Bobby?

My fiance.

Why’d she go with him?

Look Mister Henry, is that your name?

Yeah.

We take care of ourselfs. We don’t need

no help from outside, you understand?

Henry shakes his head.

No one was helping her last night til I did.

She tell you what happened?

Yeah, she did. And I appreciate it, I’m sure she

appreciate it. But like I say, we help ourselfs.

Better that way, you know what I’m sayin?

Don’t stir up no trouble that way.

It’s no trouble for me.

It ain’t you I’m concerned with.

I see. Well tell her I’d be happy

to give her a ride anytime she needs it.

Loretta leans into the window,

her robe gaping wider,

exposing more of her breasts,

gin breath, and jasmine perfume.

I’m sure you would. If you lookin’ for a ride

why don’t you come on inside,

I’ll give you a ride you’ll never forget.

or anything else you favor.

More’n that child know how to do.

Or right here in this car.

Anything you want. Introductory rate.

That ain’t what I mean.

Ain’t it? Why you messin with her then?

I don’t know. She was in a jam.

Seemed like the right thing to do.

Uh huh. Well that’s over an’ done, son.

She don’t need no ride from no white boy.

Sure you don’t wanna come inside?

Monday night special, honey.

Thanks, but no. Anyway what about your fiance?

Bobby! Ha, he be real happy to have a new client.

Yeah. Well. Just tell Ruthie I was here, alright?

Sure honey, I’ll be real sure to tell her.

Go on, get out of here, Cottonwood ain’t

a place you want to be less you got business

and Bobby be back soon, so unless we do

some business, you best be on your way.

Henry nods, yeah. Starts up the car

and drives back out to the highway.

The jukebox’s still blowing hard

at the Ex Service-Mens Club

I’m gonna write a letter,

and I better send her a telegram

She left me soon this morning,

and she’s got me in an awful jam

off the job (10)

Nights in Oildale stink like crude.

Maybe things just smell more in the dark.

Back in the office hut,

the wheezing swamp cooler

drips into a pie plate on the floor.

Charlie sits with his fifty dollar boots

crossed at the ankles on his desk.

He’s on the phone with the head office.

…….a full report by ten. no.

I understand. yes sir.

Henry says, til ten?

I gotta leave by ten.

You gotta? you stay til

I say you gotta, comprende?

Yeah, comprendo. and Charlie?

I’m Armenian, not Mexican.

Of course you are. You know what?

You can go, right now. Head office

heard about your situation.

Suggested you take a few days off

to sort out your priorities.

I wasn’t so sure about that,

but you know what?

Clear out now.

I’ll call you when and if

I need you to come in.

He’s not due at Cottonwood  til 10:45,

so he drives up China Grade Loop

to the top of the hill,

and looks down out the hundreds

of relentless horsehead pumpjacks

rocking slowly in the yellow pink light

of the mercury vapor lamps

replacing the last of the sunset.

Radio KUZZ is spinning some songs

in between the news bulletins.

Rose Maddox suggests

what she’ll do

in the right kind of car:

Take me in your Cadillac

and we’ll go honkytonkin’

We’ll park it by the roadside

somewhere beneath the moon.

Take me in your Cadillac

and we’ll go honkytonkin’

We’ll park it by the roadside

and I’ll make sweet love to you.

Back on the job (9)

A million noons have blazed before this one,

as he drives up Chester Avenue,

sees some rubble sweepers

and rubberneckers, but no looters

looking round for an unwatched 

hi-fi dealer or liquor store.

anyway, most of the bottles

got smashed on the floors.

the oil company office, is a cinder

block box with a corrugated steel roof.

it’d be hot as hell without the help of the

overworked swamp coolers on each end.

with no shady spot to park in at noon,

his car will be like an oven real soon.

in the middle of the bulletin board,

thumbtacked between work notices,

sundry couches, bird dogs, shotguns,

and a ’39 studebaker truck for sale,

flyers for laundry and bail bonds,

sits a black grease pencil sketch

of a naked woman kneeling

in front of a man with curly

hair and glasses. with an

anatomically preposterous

penis in her mouth. No names.

But the identities are clear enough.

He rips it down. The tacks pop off the board

like the rivets of a steam boiler explosion.

Grinds the shreds of the crude illustration

into the parking lot gravel with a grimace.

Assholes. Goes inside gritting his teeth.

Charlie the boss looks up warily 

from a loose stack of papers.

Good to see you Henry,

I hear you had a little trouble last night.

We need everybody on deck today.

No distractions, right?

No problem. What do you need?

Good. We have an understanding?

The men are all out checking the rigs.

We want to be sure the fields are all

in working order. It’s gonna be a long day,

probably run into the night.

The crews are all signed in.

I want you to keep track of that.

It’s overtime, but nobody gets paid

for hours they don’t actually pull.

Charlie hands him a clipboard.

Here’s the shift. Go out and check ‘em,

then come back here. And Henry? We don’t

need any personal trouble interfering

with operations, you get my drift?

Like what? I’m not looking for any trouble.

Just don’t forget which side of the tracks you live on.

Everybody seems to be real concerned

with my understanding. I got the picture.

Good. Now get out of here. Start looking

out for Company business and forget about any

off-the-reservation adventures.

Henry gives Charlie a questioning look,

was that yet another Fresno Indian crack?

But Charlie already has his nose buried in a stack

of reports. Save it for another day.

Picks up his hardhat and the clipboard.

Five minutes in the sun has turned

the gear shift knob into a branding iron.

Looking like flies stuck on the oil-soaked web of roads,

the oil-stained crews muck and sweat at the pumps.

He marks off names, blue for present and working,

red for signed in, but nowhere to be found.

At the top of the field, Augustus is fussing

with the crank on a horse head pump.

Hey lover boy, whyn’t you take your

sorry ass back to the hut. this’s work

for men. white men. He wraps his hands

around the gleaming sucker rod rising

and falling into the well head.

Lets the oily shaft slide between his fingers.

Remind you of anything, Henry?

Yeah, looks like your night games

in the joint. That’s right Bandyman,

I got a lot of practice. Tell your little

nigger bitch to keep the grease handy.

I’ll introduce her to my specialty.

Gus mimes a pistol with his hand.

bang bang, Fresno Indian. you’re dead.

Bobby Flash (8)

Bobby Flash thinks he’s

the coolest cat in Cottonwood

by far, keeps his car as shiny

as his shoes. didn’t pay

for either, which he considers

a pride-worthy deed.

A tribute to his powers

as a man. Bobby Flash,

the coolest cat in Cottonwood.

He’s got a dedicated chair

in all the hottest joints

and keeps a crib just

for entertaining the ladies

lucky enough to share his bed.

His pleasures all paid for

by his so-called fiance,

Loretta, and anyone fool

enough to shake dice with him

in the back room of a bar.

Got a little sideline biz

as well in the backseat

of the car, available

for two bucks an hour.

Loretta looks the other way,

believes that she’s the one

who’s got him on a leash.

The one he comes home to

when the greenbacks dry up

or he needs a new suit.

The one who works in

the backseat of the Buick

on her back or her knees.

So what if it’s fifteen years old?

it’s still the classiest sled

in Cottonwood and she rides

with Bobby Flash, he’s the

coolest cat in Cottonwood

in the flashiest car.

thoughts in the tub (7)

Taking a bath down

the boarding house hall,

soaking and drifting off

into the twilight between

watching the ceiling and dreaming,

he sees a petite, brown ballerina

turning atop an old fashioned

wind-up music box,

her dress fanning out

like a parasol

from a wasp slender waist

revealing dance sculpted legs.

He remembers the moment

she took off the kerchief

that covered her pixie cut hair

with bangs fringing her brow,

the look of her delicate ears.

and the way her eyes melted

to chocolate from stone

when she looked into his own.

aftershock magnitude 3.7

sends a ripple through the tub

Pouring a kettle of hot water

to warm up the four gallons of cool

she’s already poured in,

Ruthie remembers the feel

of his arm cross her shoulders,

the warmth of his hand on her arm.

and his mess of dark curls

spilled like a bowl of spaghetti

on top of his head.

his wire framed glasses

that failed to hide those

warm puppy dog eyes, 

–that’s probably what did her in–

but damn it, she’d tried

to put him out of mind. besides,

the way he brandished that mop,

poked it right in the chest

of that asshole. had to be some

kind of decent man to do that,

didn’t he? and she’s glad

he isn’t too tall, ‘cuz she

barely comes up to his chin,

she could tuck in real nice

with her hands on his back,

and his on her waist...

she blushes as a flood rushes

to southerly regions

that haven’t been visited since

....the last time that well

had been plumbed.

her bath has gone cool

as she’s fooled with the fancy

that she can mess with a guy

like this Henry. Besides.

he moves like he’s put together

with tinker toy joints

and rubber bands.

be best if he’s out of mind.

she’s sure she can do it,

but it won’t hurt to see him

when he comes round

to get her tonight, will it?

she steps out of the galvanized

tub, grabs a towel,

asks her cousin Loretta

if she’ll hot comb her hair.

Loretta gives her a lifted

eye brow and examining stare.

I hope you ain’t fixin’ to do

what I think you are, girl.

there’s nothin’ but heartache

for sale in that store.

I made up your cot,

now you best get some sleep

and don’t even try tellin’ me no lies,

-cuz I see what you got,

in those dreamy eyes.