Showing posts with label drinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drinking. Show all posts

Saturday, July 24, 2010

"Graffiti BS"

by Yossi Halpernin



"The G Train From Smith-9th Streets to Long Island City" as appeared in New York Times 1/10/08

The Smith-9th St. station is deserted at night the tracks clear of workers and the platform free of cops. This makes it a great place to go tagging. The trains come every twenty five minutes you time it right you got four minutes to find a spot twenty minutes to tag one to get away.

We are in the first four minutes looking for an empty space to tag. I don’t want to buff someone else’s tag so I find an empty space. I do an outline of my tag SCOPE and fill it in. I look at my friend David he’s almost done with his tag SPIKE.

“You're done Dom?”

“Almost Randy.”

“Hey.”

“Hey you.”

I turn around and a man who looks like he’s homeless approaches us he then pulls out a badge.

“What were you doing on the tracks?”

Before I can say a word or even think of what to say David opens his mouth.

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“How do you know I’m stopping you for graffiti?”

“Are you psychic?”

“That’s why you are stopping us.”

“Right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I stopped you because you were on the tracks. Why were you on the tracks?”

We are both speechless. Time seems to slow down and drift away.

“So you were doing graffiti.”

“No” we say.

“So why were you on the tracks?”

“We were crossing to get to the Manhattan side.”

“This is the Brooklyn side.”

“I mean Brooklyn side.”

“Brooklyn or Manhattan side.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Ok.”

“If you were just crossing why were you walking on the tracks?”

“We needed to get to the front car.”

“Well this is actually the back.”

“Ow.”

“Well we thought it was the Manhattan side and that would have (would of) made it the front.”

“I thought you wanted the Brooklyn side.”

“Ya.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn Manhattan uptown downtown front back you're confusing me.”

“What’s confusing?”

“You should know were you are going.”

“Ya.”

“We needed to go further into Brooklyn and went to the Manhattan platform by mistake and we need to get the front car but accidentally went to the back car.”

“Ok. Just one thing. I saw you climb down onto the tracks and then twenty-four minutes later climb back out again before a train came. Are you telling me you weren’t doing graffiti?”

“We weren’t.”

“Then what were you doing?

“We were trying to get to the next station since we missed the train.”

“So why did you turn around and come back?”

“We realized that the station was too far and closed.”

“Closed or too far?”

“Which.”

“Too far.”

“Closed.”

“Which one?”

“Closed.”

“We reached the station and it was closed. So we turned around and came back.”

“Which station?”

“Not sure.”

“The one over there,” David says, pointing.

“Ok. I have news for you kids. Stations don’t close. They're open twenty-four seven.”

“Well it was empty so we assumed it was closed.”

“Actually we never made it to the station. Half way there we turned around and went back.”

“Because it was too far.”

“Too far? Or closed.”

“Too far.”

“Ya too far.”

“Ok let me see IDs.”

“For what officer?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. Why were you on the tracks?”

“Because we didn’t want to break the law.”

“You didn’t want to break the law.”

“Ya.”

“We went on the tracks to smoke.”

“Smoke what.”

“Cigarettes.”

“Because it’s illegal to smoke on the platform.”

“What brand?”

“Marlboro.”

“Newport I mean Marlboro.”

“Marlboro or Newport.”

“Marlboro.”

“I was thinking Marlboro but I said Newport.”

“You sure? Or were you smoking Newport and he was smoking Marlboro?”

“Ya.”

“I had Newport he had Marlboro.”

“Ok. Let me get this straight. He was smoking Newport you were smoking Marlboro and when I asked you, you said Newport but meant Marlboro. And this whole time down there you were doing graffiti."

“Ya.”

“I mean no.”

“You're confusing me. Let me see the packs.”

We look at each other and pretend to look through our pockets.

“Where are the cigarettes?”

“Oh we must have (must of) left them on the train tracks.”

“Better go get them.”

“No, you're not going any where. No more games. IDs both of you.”

“But why?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. IDs.”

We both reach into our pockets and find our IDs and are about to hand them to the officer.

“Why are your hands like that?”

“Huh?”

“Like what officer?”

I look at my hands then at Dom’s hands and realize that our hands are almost completely covered in paint. I guess we forgot to wipe the paint off.

“Show me your hands. What’s that on your hands?”

“Not sure.”

“Looks like paint.”

“How did it get there?”

“Huh.”

“Finger painting.”

“Finger painting. Aren’t you boys a bit old for finger painting?”

“The teacher made us do it at school.”

“School. It’s Sunday.”

“You have school on Sunday.”

“Ya.”

“Sunday school.”

“Really? So what did you paint?”

“Christmas trees.”

“It’s July.”

“So.”

“You're painting Christmas trees in July.”

“Ya.”

“And you.”

“Painting trees too.”

“No.”

“Santa.”

“So you were in Sunday school this morning painting black Christmas trees and blue Santas in the middle of July.”

“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter sir.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“Ok.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“But.”

“We were not doing graffiti.”

“Ya.”

“We went to go look at graffiti.”

“You went to look at graffiti? Then how did it get on your hands?”

“We accidentally touched it and it happened to be wet.”

“Ya we touched it to have a better connection with it.”

“You know how tactile contact can connect a person to an object?”

“Ok so let me get this straight. First you told me that you were crossing the tracks to get to the Manhattan side then you change it to the Brooklyn side. Then you tell me you needed the front car then the back car. Then you tell me you need to get to the other station but the station was closed and then it was too far. Then you went on the tracks to smoke a cigarette but neither of you know what brand. Now you're telling me you went to look at graffiti and accidentally touched it and also touched it to feel a tactile connection to it."

“I think it’s obvious that we were doing graffiti.”

“I think that’s obvious too.”

“How old are you two?”

“14.”

“16.”

“Do your parents know you're out this late?”

“Well sort of.”

“He’s sleeping at my house and I’m sleeping at his house.”

“Yes or No?”

“No.”

“No.”

“I'm taking you in and having a long talk with your parents about graffiti and sneaking out.”




Yossi Halpernin can be reached at Xskateboy12X [at] aol [dot] com.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

"4:00pm Date"



by Marilyn Carlin



I call her my 4:00pm date.

It's the perfect relationship -- I'm walking my dog, she's kicking up dust on her way home from school, all shiny black pigtails of irony and scuffed Docs.

Always pigtails. Always Docs. Always that Barney-purple backpack stamped with the initials "JMR." That was as much of her name as I knew.

At first, we would just walk past each other, heads turned, eyes down, protecting our egos. But we couldn't help noticing each other -- I coughed; she sidestepped. Acknowledgments of each other's presence. Teenager speak.

After a few weeks, she started asking to pet Beauregard. Her voice was rasped, lower than the voice you'd think she would have. It fit. We got to talking about school. I started calling her Punky Brewster, you know, because of the pigtails. I mean, also because she had these giant gazoombas, for her size at least -- a lot of people don't know this, but that chick who played Punky's were so big she had to get them removed partially.

My sister Amy really liked Punky -- the real one I'm talking about, not JMR who I started calling Punky. I didn't mind watching it when I was growing up because I wanted to hang out with her; that's how it is when you're younger. Meanwhile, Punky/JMR started calling me "Mike," even though my name's not Mike. She said I looked like a "Mike."

If she were a dude I would punch her for aligning me with the name of the kid who stole my markers and my lunch money every day in elementary school, but it was okay because she was a chick, plus with her the name had a different feel. It got to the point where I would wait by the front door, leash in hand, head turned, until I saw her coming up the grass-lined suburban beige cement path. I timed it perfectly so that I wouldn't miss her. Miss our date.

The other day I saw her talking with a friend, waiting for the bus. She saw me and smiled and waved and her friend tapped her shoulder (too hard!) and squawked something about me and called her Jen. Jen. Jennifer. I needed to know if it was her real name.

* * *


So now it's 4:00pm, Bo's scratching at the door and the leash is in my hand. I don't see her so I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Now Bo is lying down, whining, and my homework is remaining undone and I'm about to leave anyway when I catch a glimpse of shining dark pigtails and a flash of purple. She's here and everything makes sense. I clip Bo's leash on and push out the door.

I would run, but I don't want to seem to eager. Nobody likes an eager beaver. I catch up to her two houses down.

She waves, smiles, and throws a dazzlingly mundane: "Hey Mike, what's kickin'?"

The atmosphere is charged with hormonal goop.

"Hey Jen," I smile as she bends down to pet Bo, who is already nuzzling his nose into the denim at her knee.

"Jen?"

"I thought we could try real names for once. Like, 'Hi, I'm Jake Harper, and you're Jen Something-or-Other--'"

"Jen isn't my name."

I stare down at the hand I've extended, in mock jest, ready to shake just like I'd been taught in the "Professionalism in the Workplace" seminar my mom had made me go to when I got my first job at Subway.

"But the initials on your backpack, you know, 'JMR?' It fits."

She stares at me, squinting at the sun. She suddenly looks very tiny, like she's going to break.

"JMR: 'Joseph Mitchell Ryan.'"

I mull it over -- I mean, I've heard of gender-androgyny but this is kind of ridiculous.

"Your name is Joseph?"

"He was my brother. He was killed. Car accident. It was three years ago. Some asshole driver plowed into the side of my mom's minivan going ninety-five in a thirty-five."

She stars crying. I don't know what to do. Punky Brewster never cried.

"We walked away with cuts and bruises. He died on impact."

She's inches away from me. I can smell her strawberry lip-gloss and shampoo and all I can think about is the awkwardness radiating off of me in big, Barney-colored waves. I put my hand on her shoulder.

We stand like that for a few seconds. I whisper an apology, knowing it changes nothing but hoping that it'll make everything better anyway. Like my "sorry," my words, will un-kill her brother and un-drunk the driver like a magic trick.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I try.

She hedges: "Yeah, yeah, oh, definitely, yeah."

"Same time same place?"

She half-nods and walks away. My 4:00pm date, over.

"Hey, wait!" I call out. "If it's not Jen, what is your name?"

"Punky Brewster," she smirks, tossing a pigtail over her shoulder.

"Alright, Punky. Cool!" I yell, my attempt to save face failing.

Punky freaking Brewster. What have I gotten myself into?



Sunday, October 28, 2007

The Monster

"The Monster"
by Yossi Halperin



I was awoken by the front door being slammed open downstairs.

The footsteps made chariot sounds as they marched up the stairs. Told me what fate lay ahead.

I quickly threw the covers over my head, hoping to shield myself from the unwanted intruder about to enter my room.

I lay down and pretended to be asleep so that the intruder might pass over my bedside.

I knew deep inside that like countless times before no bed sheet no shield not even a peaceful sleep would protect me from what was about to happen, what’s gotta happen what will happen and has happened every Saturday at 8:00 for as long as I can remember.

The chariots stop at the entrance to my door and my door swings open.

“Max!!!”
“Max!!!”
“Get the fuck up”
“Get the fuck outta bed”

I lie perfectly still maybe he’ll go away. Maybe I’ll fall asleep. Maybe he’ll fall asleep. But I know that, that’s wishful thinking and this situation has only one outcome.

The chariots approach my bedside and a bear-like claw reaches down, grasping my shield, my protector, and I come face to face with a six-foot-two hideous monster, a daemon. A giant a monster.

The monster stares me down. His eyes pierce my body and my soul.

He’s a giant, a giant without a shirt, old pants and a long beard. In one hand he holds a Budweiser and in the other he holds a Marlboro.

“Max!!!”
“Max!!!”

Smoke blows out of his mouth like a dragon as he talks and he finishes the cigarette and lights another from the embers of the last.
“Stop staring and answer me”
“What, you want one”

He takes a new Marlboro out of the bright red package and lights it. Then he hands it to me.

“Take it”
“Smoke it”

I just stare. I don’t want to smoke. I don’t want to be like him. But I don’t want to upset him either. I don’t know what to do. I just stare.

“Take it”
“I don’t want it”

“You don’t want it?”
“Yes you do”
“Yes you do”
“Yes you do”
“You want to smoke”
“All good little boys smoke”
“All good pre-teen boys smoke”
“Open up for the choo choo”
He laughs as he brings the Marlboro to my mouth.

I push his hand away and the Marlboro falls to the floor.

“No good”
“No good”
“Bad boy gets treated as bad boy” he chuckles as he chews on his Marlboro.

He picks the Marlboro up and grabs me by my neck and holds me up. He then pushes the Marlboro towards my mouth. I try to resist I try to keep my mouth closed but can’t. My mouth opens and the Marlboro enters. He forces it between my teeth and smoke fills my mouth and my body and I find my self coughing and wheezing and I find him laughing. I manage to push him away and he burns himself with the Marlboro.

“Look what you did”
“You little shit”

He throws the virtually extinguished cigarette butt at me and it forms embers as it collides with my covers

I want to scream.
I want to cry.
I want to run.
I want to hide.

But all I can do is stare and that’s what I do I stare and stare and stare. I don’t know why but I do.

“Stop staring you little fuck”
“Answer me”
“What you want one?”
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
“I needed a ride from the bar I called you for a ride but you didn’t answer the phone.”
“Why not”
“Why, you little shit”
“Why answer me”

I’m used to this; it’s sort of the norm for me. Normal Saturday morning routine and I know that if I ignore him he’ll hit me and if I answer he’ll hit me. So I answer him.

“I was sleeping plus I’m twelve and I don’t know how to drive.”
“No, no, no good”
“Little fuck!!!” he screams.

He takes a slug of his beer and lights another cigarette and takes a long hard pull and exhales letting smoke and the smell of beer fill the room.

“You’re just a lazy fuck. Too lazy to pick and old man up. Too lazy to get out of bed,” he chuckles.

He then finishes his beer and releases a large belch and throws the can at me.
“Aw that’s better”
“Wise guy”
“You think you’re a wise guy”

He removes his belt from his pants and whips it against his hand that holds the Marlboro causing it to fall to the floor. He looks at the cigarette and looks at me.

“Look what you done now”
“You little shit”
He picks up the Marlboro which is still lit and takes and puts it to his face taking a final drag. Then he looks at me and smirks. He takes the Marlboro and presses it against my chest.

The Marlboro flames burn as they get extinguished by my body. The butt drops to the bed and eventually rolls of to the floor.

He looks at me and laughs.

“You little shit”
“Be a man”
“Be a man”

I stare at him and then start crying. I don’t know why I but I do. I know what gonna happen but can’t help myself I burst out in tears.

“I said be a man”
“Be a man”

He swings the belt around. He swings the belt at me hitting me in the face.
“You lazy fuck”

He screams as the belt collides with my back/

“Lazy”
“Lazy”
“Lazy”
“Fuck”

His shouts are followed by another belt whip. I scream out in pain and he bursts out in laughter.

I hold my tears in when it comes to being beaten. I’m no amateur at this I’m a professional. I know how to play the game so I can get the least hurt. After all we have been competing for many years.

“All lazy fucks”
“All boys are lazy fucks”

He hits me in the face.

I don’t try to crawl away. I try to stop screaming but I can’t. I know how to play the game but can’t. I cry hard and scream louder and try to get away.

He grabs me picking me up in the air and hits me over and over again. Blood trickles down my face and onto my chest. I cry harder and louder and louder and I beg and I plead and I try to stop crying but I can’t.

I jump onto him. I don’t know if I’m trying to tackle him or hug or hurt him or what. He throws me over his shoulder and onto the floor. I stare up at him and he stares back down at me.

“I’m sorry daddy”
“I’m sorry for being a lazy boy”
“I’m sorry for not answering the phone”
“I’m sorry for not picking you up at the bar”
“I will next time, I promise”
“I’ll pick you up even if I have to find a car”
“I love you daddy”
“You bet you will, boy.”

He screams picking me up even further in the air. He then throws me on the floor and sit there In very wet boxer shorts shivering on the floor in a small pool of blood. Looking at the man, looking at the monster, looking at my dad.