Chalk Two

The Burnout flies home.

"The kids tagged along.  They knew… that I knew… where I was going… for once."

"Chalk Two."

"Who said that?  That you, Burnout?  Look Burnout-- there’s a fare if you want it.  Quit screwing around.  You at the airport?  Burnout?  You there?  Chalk what?  You at the--"

"Roger see your marker…"

"Marker?  Hey butthead—you want the friggin fare or what?  Friggin freak.  Look if you don wanna…."

Got it.  On it.  Off my case toilet face.  See em there.  Got the fare.  I closed the mike.  Cripes chill out Ike.  Company fucks.  Can pick up the fare.  Can’t get nobody to care.  Story of  my life.  I can tell it.  Can’t sell it.  Shake it off.  There they are.

Three middle-aged academic ladies, and being a good cabbie-servant, I helped them load their bags in the trunk.  Touched the brim of my cap and said “yes, ma’m- the Hilton, m’am.”  They settled in the back seat for the ride that would take well over an hour, into the city.  It got dark and began to rain. The Plexiglas sheet between us was for my protection as well as theirs.

The lady on the right was one of those scrappy in-yo-face black chicks I have come to know and annoy.  On the left, behind me, was a matronly white lady about my age.  In the middle was a well-dressed well-preserved quiet lady who looked like she might be Latino or something.  Yep.  Academics.  Writers of some sort.  Going to one of those conference-seminar-hoodoos at the Hilton.  Chattering furiously and intensely.

“Racism is another barrier to solidarity between women (hooks 49),”  said the black chick.  “Because of the dynamics of power, I am in a totally different position now in the classroom as a professor than I was as a student (Derricotte 119),”  offered the coffee-lady. “The class, which included all these ethnic groups, wanted to talk about only one issue:  should lesbian mothers be allowed visitation rights to see their children?  I choked on my old familiar rage as the discussion shifted from point to miserable, predictable point (Pratt 107),”  said the white lady.

Oh Jesus I hear you lady.  You can’t imagine how I hear you.  Point to miserable, predictable point.  You got that right.  I’m stuck listening to these three pissed-off chicks, academics yet, writers even.  The batteries to my freakin CD player are too weak, but I keep my headset on anyway.  I don’t want them to know I’m listening.  I wish I weren’t.

I’ve heard this shit a skillion million billion times.  Good Christ is this ever going to be predictable.  Black chick pissed off about being black.  Lesbian chick pissed off about being lesbian.  Oreo lady freaked out about being an Oreo.  Now they’re going to talk about “power dynamics” or some kind of crap.

“Many women who advocate feminism see militarism as exemplifying patriarchal concepts of masculinity and the right of males to dominate others.  To these women, to struggle against militarism is to struggle against patriarchy and male violence against women, “ (hooks 125) asserted the black chick.

“How had those people in the South during the civil rights struggle stood up?  I would go mad or commit suicide—as if what they think of me were more powerful than what I think of myself.  As if I could be eaten up by another’s idea ( Derricotte 49),”  mused the Oreo. “… the U.S. Army’s second largest home base, with combat veterans who had trained to the chant, ‘Here is my prick, here is my gun, one is for killing, the other for fun’ ( Pratt 38),”  offered the white lady.

It was the only time all night I almost spoke out loud.  That’s WRONG, lady.  That’s fucking WRONG.  You see, the way it works is:  guys have to stop calling their rifle a “gun.”  A “gun” is an artillery piece.  A “rifle” is what you carry.  If anybody calls their “rifle” a “gun,” the DI makes them hold their crotch and say, “This is my rifle- this is my gun- the rifle’s for shooting- the gun is for fun.”

That’s how it works.  It’s a “kinetic mnemonic device,” I suppose.  But who the hell am I, upstart unpublished white cabbie student nigger, to presume to correct the learned professors?  So I bit my lip and kept quiet.  I’m glad I did.  Because all that shit about militarism and violence and patriarchy and linear hierarchy is actually TRUE.  Yep.  Racism, sexism, all those other “isms” are real.  So what?  So fucking WHAT?

“Feminist efforts to end male violence against women must be expanded into a movement to end all forms of violence.  Broadly based, such a movement could potentially radicalize consciousness and intensify awareness of the need to end male domination of women in a context in which we are working to eradicate the idea that hierarchical structures should be the basis of human interaction  (hooks 131),” preaches the black lady.  She’s on a roll.  “As a group, black women are in an unusual position in this society, for not only are we collectively at the bottom of the occupational ladder, but our overall social status is lower than that of any other group  (hooks 14),” she adds.  Yep.  Damn that ‘ol hierarchy.  I better keep my mouth shut if I want any kind of tip at all.

“However, if one assumes, as I do, that battery is caused by the belief permeating this culture that hierarchical rule and coercive authority are natural, then all our relationships tend to be based on power and domination, and thus all forms of battery are linked.  (hooks 119),” she continues.  You got that right lady.  Seen them dominoes fall a million times.  Oreo twitbrained token senior vice-president yells at bosslady because Massah-boss Toppemhat don’t like the quarterly numbers.  Bosslady yells at Dad because he’s a dick.  Dickhead dad goes home and slaps mom around because bosslady cut off his peenie.  Mom tells acne-boy he’s ugly because he’s growing up just like dickhead dad.  Acne-boy tells my daughter she’s fat.

And me?  I wanna beat the shit out of dickhead dad because his acne-boy made my baby girl cry.  Seen it all a million times.  That’s why I’m drivin’ a fuckin cab.  Because I haven’t learned to keep my mouth shut and turn my brain off and just do my fukkin job.  But I’m doin it now.  Aint I doin it?

“So the first oppression I understood was not the abstract words--- racism, class inequities, sexism.  What I saw with my own eyes were people…(Pratt 112),” the white lady is saying.  But you get paid for babbling all those “isms,” don’t you, lady?  “When you look like what you are, the external world mirrors back to you an identity consistent with your idea of yourself.  ( Derricotte 25),” says the overly introspective Oreo... cookies... glove compartment...

Oh thank Christ.  New batteries.  Bonnie Raitt.  Take me away from all this, you salty ol readheaded country gal.

Turn down the lights, turn down the bed
Turn down these voices inside my head
Lay down with me, tell me no lies
Just hold me close, don't patronize - don't patronize me

And they would indeed patronize me if they knew I was listening.  Or try to lord that professorial published writer shit over my poor old ass.  But they’re talking about their homes now… talking about the old days.  I saw ‘em ladies.  I was there.  Got scars on my body you can see.  Got scars on my heart you can’t see.  But they still hurt.  Oh Sweet Jesus, after all these years… they still hurt.

And I can’t make the hurt go away.  So I just cover it up.  I touch my cap and parrot the “isms” and hope I get a nice tip.  But I keep the damn hurt to myself.  It’s all I got.  Took the kids to that long black wall to tell them… to touch the names… tell them I was going to have to let them go.  I couldn’t carry them any more.  But I couldn’t say anything.  All I could do was hurt.

“He kept telling me he didn’t like thinking about the old days.  He said he’d stopped doing that long ago.  “The past is over and done with,” and he kept shaking his head  (Derricotte 55),” remembered the one in the middle.  Amen Sweet Jesus.  Amen to that. “I begin to understand that a white woman of the South can live and write, but not of the dead heroes.  She can live and write a new kind of honor, the daily, conscious actions of women in true rebellion ( Pratt 25),” blathered  the white lady’s voice over Bonnie’s tune.

I'll close my eyes, then I won't see
The love you don't feel when you're holding me
Morning will come and I'll do what's right
Just give me till then to give up this fight
And I will give up this fight

General Robert E. fucking Lee.  I stood with my boy close to where Lee was when Longstreet’s assault failed, trying to tell my little boy about strength and honor.  How Lee rode out to meet the survivors, saying, “It’s all my fault.”  How his noble heart must have been breaking.  And Lee opposed slavery.  How do I tell my little boy about heartbreak?

Honor?  Just give me till then to give up this fight.  And I will give up this fight. “Something took over, so that I forgot my own song and stood amazed with my ears open,” the coffee-colored professor was saying,  “I was hollow and full.  And when I sank down in my chair, they all stood up, still singing ( Derricotte 202),” she said, hitting a home run over my tired old head.  Hollow and full.  Hollow and full.

Cause I can't make you love me if you don't
You can't make your heart feel something it won't
Here in the dark, in these lonely hours
I will lay down my heart and I'll feel the power
But you won't, no you won't
'Cause I can't make you love me, if you don't

Here in the dark, the wipers snick-snacked in the rain, and through the dazzling beads on the windshield I saw the hotel sign.  Ride’s just about over now.  I was glad it was dark.  I would be embarrassed as shit if you silly old professor ladies saw that I was blubbering.  But you won’t.  No, you won’t.  They told me to keep the change.

I picked up the mike for another fare, popped in Harry Chapin and checked my mirror for an illegal U-turn.  Cracked the window and hunted for the noint in me pocket.  Radio too loud.

Foxfire Foxfire.  Yellow marker—yellow.  Foxfire ground see your marker JESUS Chalk One receiving fire goddammit pull up pull up rockets away aw jesus shit

We came up over the treeline and the world turned to shit.  Fifty Ones—tracers RPGs-- .  Yellow smoke.  Down there somewhere.  Flechettes.  Beehives.  Minis all the way back.  Cap jinked her on her side.  Cyclic shook like a jackhammer. Beehives:  1000 steel nails with tinfoil feathers fan out and nail everything to the ground.  A chicken couldn’t live on that field.

Cliffie?  Cliffie?  Whathefuck man they friendly fuckit they all gooks goddammit pull up pull up they hit us aw jesus shit INCOMING.  Cliffie?  Cliffie?  You fuck don’t die on me you fuck aw jesus shit holy Christ Cliffie.  Aw goddammit you motherfucker.  Cliffie?

Get off the fuckin radio.  Get off.  Get off.

"Hey a-hole Burnout you want another fare or not?  Where the hell are you?"

"Nothin.  Nothin.  We down.  Comin in.  Call it a night.  We down."

Through the too many miles
and the too little smiles
I still remember you.

They brought him in.  What was left.  I remembered the Name.  All the names:  21 November 1968 Binh Duong, South Vietnam Hostile, Helicopter - Noncrew Air Loss, Crash On Land.   Body was recovered.  I sat on the pad and cried.  And then Cap came up.

“Nothin we coulda done man.  Nothin we coulda done.”
“Bullshit Cap we were too close.  We were too fuckin close Cap.  Aw Christ Cap.”

It was somewhere in a fairy tale,
I used to take her home in my car.
We learned about love in the back of the Dodge,
The lesson hadn't gone too far.

You see, she was gonna be an actress,
And I was gonna learn to fly.
She took off to find the footlights,
And I took off to find the sky.

“Looka here boy.  Shake it off.  Just fuckin shake it off.  Where you think I would be if I didn’t learn to shake it off?
“Why man.  Cos you black?”  Is that it Cap?”
“Put yer helmet on man.”
“Fuck off.”
“Just put yer fuckin helmet on.  Right now.  Do it.”

I did.  Then Cap dapped me up side the head so hard I saw stars and my ears rang.  When my eyeballs stopped rattling, Cap’s black face was an inch away from mine, grinning like a grand piano.  His breath smelled like a shit pump.

“Cos I’m still here Peckerwood.  An better you than me.”

She was waiting when I got back.  Got the job.  Got the house.  Got the kids.  Got all the bad dreams.  Got the raise.  Got the reports.  Got the fudged numbers and all the lies and all the bullshit.  Got the office.  Got the title.  Got drunk and got Cap’s old address.  Needed Cap to hit me on the head again.  Needed Cap to tell me better you than me.

Got the bad news.  Cap shot himself because he couldn’t live with the bad dreams.  Got drunk.  Got stoned.  Got sick of it.  All these years man—all these years.  Why didn’t you shake it off Cap?  Why didn’t you just fuckin shake it off you dumb fuckin nigger?  Aw Cap.  Aw Jesus Cap.  Two little girls and his wife get the flag and I get to salute like I’m the only Peckerwood there.  I needed you on the stick man.  Better you than me.  Sweet dreams buddy.  Sweet dreams.

Got the pink slip.  Got the letter from the lawyer.  Got the rehab and the circle jerk and more lies and more bullshit.  Got the little coldwater flat.  Got dry.  Got the cab.  Got an idea.  I had to tell the kids.  Came a long way just to explain.  Slip Slidin away.  Got somebody else on the phone.  Rick or Chick or Dick or Prick or whatever.  Nice new husband, one without all the bugs.  Sure I can have the kids for the afternoon.  But my Baby Girl has a dance.  Doesn’t want to go.  But she’ll go.  Thanks Slick.  So there they were: my grumpy Little Princess and my curious Little Boy.

Oh, I've got something inside me,
To drive a princess blind.
There's a wild man, wizard,
He's hiding in me, illuminating my mind.

Oh, I've got something inside me,
Not what my life's about,
Cause I've been letting my outside tide me,
Over 'till my time, runs out.

Nick was trying to be nice.  That’s nice, Wick.  She had tears in her eyes, and she looked so much like our Little Baby Girl.  But the house looked nice.  The kids looked nice.  Guess I looked kinda seedy.

Baby's so high that she's skying,
Yes she's flying, afraid to fall.
I'll tell you why baby's crying,
Cause she's dying, aren't we all.

“Here,” she said, trying to look mad and put out.  “Try to buy them lunch or something.  And try to get them home on time.”

Well another man might have been angry,
And another man might have been hurt,
But another man never would have let her go...
I stashed the bill in my shirt.

And we got in the cab and took that long trip over the bridge.  I parked the cab by the mall… and started the long overdue walk to the wall.  The kids tagged along.  They knew… that I knew… where I was going… for once.  And I found the name.  And there it was.

I killed you Clifford.  It was me.  Blew your guts out your ass and mangled your face so bad your mother couldn’t look at you.  Me and Cap and our AH-1G Huey Cobra and our 1100 horsepower Lycoming T53 engine and our multiple rocket pods and.50 caliber machine guns and our whole fuckin 187THAHC.  Just tryin to help man.  Just tryin to help.

“Dad?  Dad?  Are you okay Dad?”
“Daddy.  It’s getting dark.  Lets go.  Daddy.  Let’s go.”

And she walked away in silence,
It's strange, how you never know,
But we'd both gotten what we'd asked for,
Such a long, long time ago.

It was such a long, long time ago. By 1969 I had been in and out of the draft, the country, several bands and universities, one marriage and Cell Block D.  Bonnie was on the Cambridge scene as a student and making it as a performer. "One night I was in this club,” she said, “and I saw this girl doing 500 miles and I said this is 1969.  There's better music around than this to be doing.  If she can get twenty bucks, so can I.” (von Schmidt 309)

You could live on twenty bucks then.  I can live on it now.  But you gotta let some things go.  You gotta shake it off.  Cos I’m still here Peckerwood.  Better you than me.  Tide me over ‘til my time runs out.  G’night Cap.  Wherever you are.  I miss you buddy.

Sometimes things just aint what they seem.  And sometimes they are.  Sometimes the talkers aint listnin.  Sometimes a cab aint a car.  Like this ol cab I keep parked down below the old building under the light.  Like those professor Ladies on the ride downtown tonight.

Like this noint if I can only get the fucker lit.  That’s better.  Engine.  Check.  Lights.  Check.  Meter.  Check.

You see, she was gonna be an actress
And I was gonna learn to fly.
She took off to find the footlights,
And I took off for the sky.

And here, she's acting happy,
Inside her handsome home.
And me, I'm flying in my taxi,
Taking tips, and getting stoned,
I go flying so high, when I'm stoned.

Music.  Off.

Cliffie?  Cliffie?  Whathefuck man they friendly fuckit they all gooks goddammit pull up pull up they hit us aw jesus shit INCOMING.  Cliffie?  Cliffie?  You fuck don’t die on me you fuck aw jesus shit holy Christ Cliffie.  Aw goddammit you motherfucker.  Cliffie?

Radio.  Off.  That’s it.

Call it a night.

We down.

Works cited:

Dericotte, Toi.  black notebooks, an interior journey.  W.W. Norton and Company, New York, 1997.

Hooks, bell. Feminist Theory from Margin to Center.  South End Press, Boston, MA, 1984.

Pratt, Minnie Bruce.  Rebellion, Essays 1980-1991.  Firebrand Books, Ithaca, NY, 1991.

von Schmidt , Eric and Rooney, Jim.  Baby Let Me Follow You Down.  Anchor Books, NYC, 1979.