Parlor games.

To defame and deride those who strive and achieve a measure of success is but an act of small minds consumed by envy. It serves no purpose but to create false divisions within society, and which the crafty politician, uses to further his/her employ. Rather than focus upon the problem at hand that being the need for fiscal responsibility, they play parlor games of rhetoric, leaving the common man at the mercy of the cruel reality of economic facts. You know of which I speak, “one cannot spend beyond one’s means for long before a pauper he becomes.”


I beg any of you to try and refute this.

So the train wreck of the Budget discussions has been filled with dramatic poses, virulent words and the dance of one upmanship.

“We must tax the Rich or granny will go hungry”, or so some contend, pointing crooked fingers at their foes laying out a blameless red carpet for themselves and their compatriots. Speaking to cameras, disconnected from the woes of their working class constituents, they scream about how it’s the fault of the wealthy that you cannot buy bread. Invoking the spirit of Vladimir Ilyich fist raised, they proudly proclaim their allegiance to your plight.

Amidst all this false posturing, and noise, one truth remains: Our children and grandchildren will pay the price for our current indolence and cowardice. We shall leave them with a legacy of broken dreams born of our failure to be honest.

Sláinte
Allen R Butler

The Saga of the Seven Peas.

The tale I am about to tell, happened in a time long forgotten, an age in which life and its lessons were simple rather than complex.

It was a warm summer’s evening in 1973 when I, as a wee lad, was playing stickball on Longfellow drive with my friends, it was getting on in the day and we all knew that soon we would be “called” home to dinner. The pace was picking up in anticipation of our game being cut short. There was no such thing as cell phones back then and the act of calling was simply that. Mothers throughout the neighborhood would step out on the porch and yell their children’s names when it was time to come home. Every house in our blue collar neighborhood had at least three children if not more so there was a lot of shouting going on between 5:00 and 6:30pm. Poor Mrs. Dugan had seven kids and she just about made herself hoarse each night with the litany of names she shouted. If you as a kid were out of earshot inevitably a sibling, friend, or neighbor would let you know that “your Ma is calling.” And off you’d run so as not to be late for dinner. Being late was a bad thing and when you were it was accompanied by a harsh lecture of how you had disrespected your Ma and that you were a selfish little brat in that you made everyone wait to start the meal.

Better to avoid that all together and be on time, it just wasn’t worth the hassle.

I had just hit a slashing single to left and hustled to first base,(the telephone pole in front of the Martin’s house) when the first call came. My friend Curtis had let the ball get by and this allowed me to advance a runner home. Cat calls were made and laughter at Curt’s error. The whole street echoed with “You Suck.” And “Where’s your skirt?”

“It was a bad Hop!”

“With all the Hopscotch you play with the other girls that should have been easy.”

“Carrie, Jimmy, Allen!” my Ma’s voiced boomed across the neighborhood and I heard my brother and sister in the distance reply “coming”. From the sound of their voices I could tell they were a few streets over. I asked my best friend Glen to take my spot on base and said I’d be back after dinner. Curt, angry and embarrassed over the teasing said:” what? You have to go now? Why doesn’t your family eat at normal times like everyone else?” In kid language this meant my family wasn’t normal thus we were “less than”. Those were fighting words for sure and I couldn’t let him get away with it, if I did then all the other kids would have thought I was weak and start picking on me too.

My temper rose and was tempted to go on the attack right there and then, but I knew that wouldn’t work out to my benefit. Like I said, being late for dinner was a bad thing and I had all summer to “Get him Back” as we were wont to say. I did have to save some face though so I looked over at my mouthy friend and said:

“I have to go Curt, but don’t worry I’ll be back and be sure to come find you and your dress soon.”

So with the sound of “oohs” and laughter from the other kids at the burn ringing in my ears I started to race home. Cutting through yards and jumping fences I made it to our small house in no time at all. Whisking through the back door into the kitchen I saw our small table was already being set by my brother Jim and my Sister was helping get plates ready.

“what are we havin?” I asked. I was pretty famished having missed lunch earlier, and sat down in my regular seat.

“Meatloaf” Ma said “And you need to go wash your hands before dinner”

“Ahhh c’mon, I wasn’t doing anything dirty”

“Go wash up you look like you’ve been rolling in the gutter all day and change your shirt while you’re at it.”

Of course she was right, my jeans were covered in dust and my white tee shirt had a smear of unidentifiable grime across the chest that I had picked up somewhere playing outside. For a kid of eight demands like washing up seemed to be “stupid grown up rules” which were created only to make life miserable, and served no other logical purpose.

Grousing under my breath I headed for the bathroom.

After changing and washing just my hands, though my face needed a good scrubbing as well, I made my way back to the kitchen where I was quickly recruited to set out glasses and help get drinks. Somehow amidst this swirling activity my mother found a face cloth and managed to wipe my face clean, even as I tried to dodge and get away.  There was a definite method to the madness of getting dinner on in the cramped quarters of our tiny kitchen and everyone played their part no matter how small. Everyone that is except my father, who only came in once everything was all set up and ready to go.

With my stomach growling we finally all sat down.

Now my father always sat at the head of the table and my Ma at the other end. The kids had no assigned seats but we pretty much made up our own arrangements. Carrie sat mid table across from Jim and I who were situated to my father’s right or Ma’s left however you prefer to look at it. She got the extra room because she was “the oldest”, because she was a girl, and because we couldn’t fight her for the seat.  “You didn’t hit girls period”.

The meatloaf was already on the table along with the large bowl of obligatory potatoes which was a part of almost every meal I ate from age two to thirteen. And then, while I mentally tasted the steaming plate of greasy meat like substance before me, Ma with a quick flourish of her hand thumped a large bowl of peas on the table and sat down.

I was crushed, and a sense of doom flooded over me as I anticipated having to endure the cruel torture of consuming this most hated of vegetables. You see Peas no matter how they were prepared or hidden in some concoction simply made me wretch. The very smell of them made me shiver and combined with their taste and texture I knew I was in for a tough battle. There was no getting around eating them either, for the rule in my house was you ate what was on the table.

My head began to swim as I watched a large dab of butter melt into the green mass before me.

Ma started filling plates and passing them around the table while talking about her day with my Da. I cannot recall what they were discussing because my eyes were completely focused upon the enemy in that bowl, the one who had time and time again defeated me, leaving my sorry self, planted at the table till the wee hours of the morn while I stubbornly refused to submit. Oh yes! I viewed the consumption of peas in no less a light than the struggle of liberty against tyranny, freedom versus slavery, or good against evil. (I was a bit dramatic back then).

So it came to my plate, with a quick look and a small wink in my direction Ma scooped up half a spoon of the green bastards and sent it on down to me. God bless her! She had given me the least of anyone knowing my aversion and was trying to be sweet. I gave her a smile at the gesture and began quickly eating the meatloaf in huge chunks.

I gobbled everything in my hunger and even managed to stomach the majority of the peas through a variety of tactics. You could swallow them whole one by one, shovel a bunch in, close your eyes, chomp down and experience the gooey paste and try and get them down before you puked. Or you could try to hide them in the potatoes but no matter what tactic or strategy one used every bite, was followed by a dry heave and large gulps of tap water so as to wash the taste out of your mouth.

It was a monumental struggle, one which would make Homer’s Iliad pale in comparison and after what seemed a lifetime I had the enemy down to but seven. They lay there on the corner of my plate, staring up at me defiantly tiny green eyeballs filled with poison and puss. With that nasty thought, my inner strength failed and I knew I couldn’t go on. The seven peas had won.

“Clean your plate boy” my father’s voice commanded.

“I’m full and can’t eat another bite, can I be excused Ma?”

“No eat those peas then you can go.”

“But Ma I ate everything else, the guys are waitin’ on me.”

I heard my Da sigh heavily in annoyance as he said; “What did I just tell you? Clean your plate! We don’t waste food in this house ever! I don’t work hard every day so you can throw my money away in the garbage. A Vietnamese kid can eat for a week on those seven peas boy so you should be thankful for what you got”

This was a bit of a lie on his part because as far as I could tell my father hadn’t been working all that much the past few months, and as to working hard I had yet to see an example of it to date. And his line about someone living off those nasty green balls for a week, well even as a child, I knew that was a stretch. Perhaps it was this lie which emboldened me to dig my heels in and take this contest of wills a step further. Or maybe it was my fear of what those seven little green Martian parts were going to do to my insides if I ate them and so I pressed on to the utter surprise and shock of my siblings.

Figuring that the poor Viet Minh bastard needed them more than me, I pushed the plate towards my Da and said:

“Pack em up.”

There was a blinding flash of white light as I felt the back of my Father’s hand strike my left eye, sending me ass over teakettle onto the floor. My brother and sister both gasped and then began giggling at my foolishness. I lay there for a moment looking up at the ceiling, legs dangling over the upturned chair listening to their muffled mirth. My eye began to sting and water, and I knew that I was going to have a mark on my face. “Well that was stupid Al what did you expect would happen?” I thought. It seemed a lifetime laying there letting the thoughts race through my wee head, though in reality my time on the floor was but a second or two.

I did not cry, or wail, for I knew deep down I had crossed the line and it wouldn’t do any good. Best thing for it was to get up and say nothing, no point in pushing the old man further with any more wise ass remarks. So that is what I did, I stood up pulled the chair back into place, sat down and ate those seven damned peas like I was starving Ethiopian on a CARE package. When I was finished I looked my father directly in his blue eyes with my good one and waited for his assent to leave the table. No emotion, no fear, I was ready for whatever may come at any moment. It was up to him to determine the punishment for my impertinence, so I waited.

Finally he nodded to me and I returned the gesture and rose quickly, it could have been worse, much worse and I thanked God silently for blessing me with his mercy as I left the house to find my friends to resume our earlier game.  And as I walked along the pain in my eye beginning to subside I replayed the event in my mind and smiled. “I had guts” or so I thought at the time and that was something. Then with an evil smirk on my face I decided not to go back and play stickball after all, but rather go find Curtis and show him exactly how “gutsy” I was.

Cheers
Allen R Butler

A toast to the destitute.

A quiet rage fills me lungs, one I am unable to voice to effect. Viewing the wreckage of an indolent life, with all of its supposed pleasures I shiver and the hairs raise upon me neck. No lasting glory built upon drunken dreams for to eulogize, simply a ramshackle shanty, crumbling in on itself neath a cloud filled sky. What folly or twist of mind could bring a man to love such a place? Was it that whiskey took his sight, or perhaps the dreams so embraced to thwart off the pain of destitution, have yet to dissipate?

A glory to poverty and all its whiles, I drink for they who endure,

Be they victims or fools, to health I tip me glass.

For though your shoes fit me not and your minds be dark,

You make me feel, which I’ve not done in many a day.

So as the trees rustle in the wind, and the grass sways

As the world turns and life marches on everywhere

A pint to ye who remain steady amongst the refuse listless.

A toast and a cheer for ye who have heard none before,

Standing alone amongst the wreckage of your fear,

The torn fabric of your soul screaming out its mournful din

It’s for you I drink and sing, drowning out your folly.

Sláinte

Al

A Lesson learned.

The following story is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent for the primary participants were anything but.

Standing on the corner of 231^st street and Godwin Terrace in the Bronx, my best friend Jim and I where passing the time with a few beers, watching the pretty girls go by. It was a fine summer afternoon in 1985, and we were not disappointed by the scenery. Everywhere you looked there were fine women walking along in summer shorts or dresses, enjoying a bit of sun as they went about their errands. Bantering back and forth and smiling we made rude comments to each other, trying to up one another with every opportunity, as young men are apt to do.

All started with the compulsory “ooh” which was really a sigh of pain upon each sighting. Actual physical pain in that we both knew that the goddess espied would never be ours. The “ooh” was also a form of sonar. A sounding of direction so that one could take a bearing off the bow and the other look outs could get a visual.

“Oooh, yeah… look at that Al!” Jim said quietly as a girl of about twenty sauntered into the Baskin Robbins across the street, wearing but the skimpiest of tank tops and shorts that hugged every curve. Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail swaying in rhythm with each sultry step.

Overall not a bad way to spend a bit of time when you think about it and it didn’t cost us anything but the few bottles of beer we had in a bag at our feet. We could’ve gone to the pubs but who wanted to be inside on a day like this? The corner was all ours, no one in their right mind would have thought to try and take it, and as we stood beside that dingy mailbox we knew we had the best seats in the house.

Simply stated; life was good!

Suddenly our peaceful pursuit was assaulted by an overpowering stench that rolled up like a wave from Broadway to our right and a block away. Every person in the neighborhood instinctively covered their nose and mouth and looked about for the cause of this distress. Faces bunched up in disgust and many a “God damn” was uttered. Then as quickly as it began the hideous stink was gone.

“Jaysus, Jim what the Christ was that?”

“Probably a garbage truck rolling down Broadway”

“What are they haulin’ bodies? Besides it’s Saturday since when do those guys work weekends.”

“I don’t know, but they’ll be outta here soon, and the girls will come back around, Oooh look at that one, damn.”

Sure enough my friend had spied another fine specimen of the fairer sex swaying up 231^st St. headed for one of the two delis on the block. Jim’s wolfish leer and funny smile said it all and I laughed hard enough to get a few looks from passersby.  All quickly returned to normal and our pastime began again in full. We would try and fake one another out occasionally with a sonar ping on a “Torn Sneaker” (an ugly girl) or a “Moped” (fun to ride when nobody sees you), which only made the time more enjoyable as we laughed louder with each incident.

A few minutes later as I reached down and opened another bottle, the wall of stench came crashing up the Terrace like a tidal wave from behind, and I almost retched. The odor hung so solidly in the air about us that I began to think a sewer line must have burst. We quickly jumped around the corner so as not to be in direct line of sight of the disgusting phenomena. Not that it did much good but we had to do something other than just stand there. The sound of windows slamming shut accompanied by curses in Italian, English, and Gaelic, echoed up and down the entire block.  A NYPD patrol car from the 50 precinct drove by and the cops inside were frantically rolling up their windows and swearing loudly.

“This is fucked up”, I growled as the street began to empty at a rather quick pace.

“It’s that damned truck it must be circling the block”

“If comes down this way I’m gonna kill the fuckin’ driver there’s no need of this shit. They’re running all the sights off!”

And then again like a bad dream, the smell was wafting away, dissipating in the heat. Looking down at my opened beer I wondered if its contents were now somehow contaminated and I blew into the top as a childish attempt to push any of the evil air out of the bottle. Jim was feverishly sniffing his shirt trying to determine if the awful smell had penetrated the fabric. Sure enough I felt like I needed to wash as well. The whole situation was deteriorating fast, and my temper rose, for what but moments before was a pleasant way to spend the time, quickly became a physically painful endeavor filled with little promise.

People began stepping out of doorways as the air cleared and the bustle of the neighborhood began anew, everyone seemed to be chattering and complaining about the stink. Only now the girls walked a bit more briskly, and their body language bespoke of determined effort rather than playfulness. I scowled openly in my anger at the annoying situation, and began to think of moving on over towards the park or St. John’s church on Kingsbridge Avenue. Not as prime spots as our corner, but good all the same, Yet as I thought about it, if that stench was coming from a circling city trash truck, the son of a bitch would pass those areas too and we’d be back where we started. The best we could hope for was for the damned truck or whatever it was to keep heading down west 230^th St. and away from the neighborhood.

Looking over at Jim rubbing his nose in irritation I could see he was thinking the same.

So with a nod we decided to stick it out and try to recover a bit of our previous devilish composure and began scanning the streets, cracking jokes, and poking fun. In no time we were back at it and were blessed with the sight of not a few beautiful women. Now one would think that two hoodlums drinking on a street corner would repel the pretty girls, as it is not a glamorous scene by anyone’s standards, but in 85 we got more sweet smiles than scowls. I remember thinking how good it was to be alive. What more could one ask for what with sun, beer, pretty girls and a bit of money in your pocket?

I was just mentally thanking god for making the awful stench source go away when from up on Kingsbridge avenue came the most horrendous block of stink yet, and it nearly knocked me over.

Rage bubbled up to the boiling point as my eyes began to water and I frantically looked for the truck, the driver was surely gonna pay for ruining my afternoon with his fucking garbage. All I needed was a truck number and I’d find the bastard. Yet I didn’t see anything but an empty street, cars parked along the sides but not even traffic. The smell was getting stronger, the sickly sweet smell of summer in the city, mixed odors of exposed sewage, and human sweat, compounded a hundredfold.

“Jim where’s the Truck I don’t see it? Did you see it drive by?”

“Uhhh Dude it’s not a garbage truck but a guy”

“What? Get the fuck outta here no one smells that bad. Did you see the truck or not?”

“No truck dude its him” and my friend pointed up the block to a man who can only described as a Gregory Rasputin clone. Dressed in clothes so dirty they shimmered in the sunlight, hair down to his waste greasy and unkempt, he stood before a pizza parlor street window begging for a slice. I felt bile surging up the back of my throat as the realization hit home that a single human being, was so filthy that he could clear out an entire city block with his stench.

The day was a bust, there would be no more sightseeing as all with any sense of smell had beat a hasty exit from the scene. The poor restaurant owner was screaming at the shamble of humanity at his window to go away. I still remember to this day thinking “that shop must be really horrible to be in what with the Pizza ovens throwing out their heat, stifling the smell within its small confines.”

“We should take that thing out” I said quietly as  Jim and I popped back around the corner to Godwin Terrace and started to gather up what was left of our beer. We were shocked, disgusted and angry beyond reason.

“Yeah, we should” Jim growled his ire was up as much as mine, “but these are new shoes, and I don’t want to get any of THAT on em. Let’s get outta here I can’t fucking breathe”.

Just then I noticed a small red haired woman of about fifty marching towards Jim and me from down on Broadway. Her face was beet red and I could see quickly she meant business. Up she came all five feet of nothing blue eyes blazing enough fury that we stopped dead in our tracks in awe. This little dervish came to a halt directly in front of us and gave a scornful look towards the bag Jim held. Then her piercing eyes rose to meet ours in turn. Raising her boney right hand she pointed at my chest forcefully enough that we both backed up against the apartment building chagrined.

“That’s what Drinkin and Drugs will do to ye Bhoys!” She said in a very southern Irish lilt.

Some strange power forced our eyes downward to our shoes and out of our throats came a sheepish “yes ma’am”. She stood there a second more looking into our faces each by turn then nodded in satisfaction and marched away stomping each step like a drumbeat. Jim’s eyebrows rose a bit upon the lady’s departure and I was dumbfounded. What could we do? This little fire eyed woman was correct in every way, there was no arguing with her assessment of the greasy homeless bastard up the block. The stink was getting worse and a quick peek around the corner confirmed my suspicions that the disease bomb was on the move and shuffling our way.

My friend smiled at me as we began to beat a hasty retreat from the corner, and said “Well we may be drinkin’ but we aint doing drugs so we’re safe.”

“I bet her husband is the happiest man alive”

A quick laugh and a joke or two later and we were off the block and headed to the pub for a round, at least it wouldn’t smell in there. But that wee woman’s warning rang in my head the night through and the vision of another human being so wretched haunted me as well. Although I did not heed those words when it came to the liquor, for to this day I like a fine glass, any thought of doing drugs was swept away and I believe that woman’s lilting wisdom, random and angry, made my life better. I know not her name or family, nor did we ever see her again, but from time to time, when I am standing in the sun sipping some fine Whiskey, I remember that day and thank her quietly for a lesson learned.

Allen R. Butler