I Cracked Up at City Hall Today
i needed five signatures
so i could sell the house
the house we just finished building
five quick little scrawls
from the bureaucratic maze
and i could sell the house

i got one signature from zoning
and another from the lady around the corner from zoning
the third from the lady with nine diamond rings at site development
and the next from the guy who drooled on the form
i guess he was tired
but i got four signatures
by 11:30 in the sunny spring morning

and then i walk up the stairs to engineering
clutching my paper with 4 john hancocks
and was told that stephanie was outa town
down at the gulf
with her boyfriend stefan
i know stephanie,
she would’ve signed it with a grin
but no, you see, she’s “gone all week”
goddam stephanie
we need the plans signed by tomorrow
and now its lunchtime
and they’re all gone

I waited alone, eating my pride on white knuckles
i’m sure they had a nice, long, wide and sweet
tuna sandwich with dill pickles lunch
while i sucked on antacids for dessert
i paste on a smile as stephanie’s boss ms duckworth comes back at 1:15
and settles her wide sour ass on the swivel chair
she looks at the piece of paper i hold out
that just needs one fucking signature
her signature
and says yes I see
but she doesn’t look at me
your plans go in the queue, she says
along with everyone else with
problems as bad as yours
shouldn’t be more than six weeks
ten tops and you’re good as gold
and that’s all there is to it

i go dizzy, her face fills
the scope of my rifling perception
i strangle her in my mind
and then smile, thank her
for her time and consideration
and while i begin to crack up
i smile some more

so i cracked up today
at city hall
you know, loop de loop
nutty as a fruit cake
lost a year of my life
in the time it takes
to say thank you ms. duckworth
thank you and your very extensive, yet useless, ass

i staggered down another hall
still dizzy, the hall warped like junk carpet
when I saw an office nearby
I walked in on mr. dennis morris
he’s not even in the department
he doesn’t even like me
but i know his name
and he knows mine
and he has a pen
and he works here
for the love of god, man, have pity
I didn’t say that to him, not in words anyway but
sometimes you just have to play the card
the card of common humanity
i know you exist, and you know i exist
we both know the playing field is lumpy and twisted
varying in thickness and warped like junk carpet
and i am crawling on it
on my knees

for the love of god, man, have pity

dennis, i said softly, like we were the drinking buddies we’re not
if you don’t sign this i’m outta business
my life a mere reflection shattered
the unspoken plea
a pause
and he shakes his head
jon, if i could i would but
i’m not even in the department any more
said dennis
i can’t sign it
and he pushes the paper with 4 signatures
back to me

i didn’t say a thing
i just looked at him
all my desperate need broke the surface
spilled through my eyes
when he tried to look away i pulled him back
back into the pure pathos
the tragedy of an unsold house
an empty house for the ages
i just looked at him
held him in the pure gaze of desperate innocence
across the oak desk, stained and carved with the passage
of bureaucratic snafus and tapping fingers
i handed him my favorite pen
he held it for a moment
savoring its shape and fine weight
placed its tip on the form
where the line says sign here
and he signed here

I cracked up at city hall today
But I got 5 signatures

The Sheriff’s Wife

The sheriff’s kids race around at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to a darkened hallway. They’re playing cops and robbers and shout bang bang you’re dead as they pile into the kitchen where their mother places battered bits of chicken into a pot of boiling grease. A tow headed boy squeals to a stop against the back of her legs and sets off a chain reaction: first, the chicken breast slips from her fingers and falls, then the drops of hot grease spurt up to splash against her wrist, then a hiss like steam escaping from her clenched lips as her body stiffens against the pain. She turns slowly to the kids who are staring up at her in surprise and shakes a finger white with cornmeal in their faces. She’s in no mood for games and plays her ace right away: Put away your toys and wash up for dinner RIGHT NOW… she pauses… or you’ll be spending the night UPSTAIRS with the rest of the misbegottens. Now SCAT. Which they do, exiting the kitchen with much the same energy as they had entered.

She busies herself, dabbing margarine on her scalded wrist, wiping down the counters, taking now-fried chicken out of the oil to dry on paper towels. She begins to hum softly to herself as she moves from fridge to table to stove. She seems content, and would say so if asked. She has no real complaints that she can call to mind. She’s still young, but has settled into her life, such as it is. Married to the sheriff, a large home on a corner of the main street, a certain status and respect in the town. Whatever restless dreams she might have had are now still and mostly unrecalled. Rebellion, when it comes at all, comes in quick departures, with no thought given to the act itself. She waves out the window to Luther Johnson, passing by on his way home to his own dinner waiting up the street. Things like a bottle of perfume slipped into her purse at the drugstore. A day trip north to the city when she was supposed to go east to visit cousins. A casual lie when the truth couldn’t hurt. There was never any guilt over these sudden events. How could there be? It was just a little valve somewhere within her that sometimes opened and then closed of its own accord.

The tune she’s been humming is an old gospel and she puts the warm plates on a tray and covers them with a checkered cloth. Dinner in five, she calls to the kids. I’ll fly away, she hums to herself. She stops at the foot of the stairs to adjust the cloth over the tray and begins to walk up. The carpet stops about three-quarters of the way up the flight as she ascends into the darkness. She can hear her slippers slide over the bare wood. At the top she stops and turns to see light spilling into the hallway from the older part of the house, the part that stood by itself, before the jail and the sheriff’s residence became the same thing. A shadow grows over the floor and crawls up the wall as a figure approaches and stands in the doorway. Her humming stops and she shuffles forward carrying the tray, her feet feeling the way. The shadow moves and there’s a click and the hall light goes on. She blinks and then smiles. Evenin’ Jimmy. Evenin’ ma’am, he says, lifting his deputy’s cap and smoothing back his hair. His eyes drop to the tray and he picks up a corner of the checkered cloth. What do we got tonite? Fried chicken, she says, balancing the tray in one hand and pulling the cloth up onto her arm. He makes an appreciative noise and reaches for a plate. Not that one, she says and laughs. This one’s yours. No never mind to me, he says, and unbuckles his gun belt to hang it on a hook. And how’s our guest doing?, she asks. Praying, if he knows what’s good for him, he mutters. He’s only got two days to get right with the Lord. He looks up at her as he lifts the plate off the tray. Hanging’s too good for him if you ask me. She sniffs and shrugs, Well I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that. Enjoy your chicken Jimmy. Thank you ma’am, I will, he says, and walks slowly down to the table at the end of the hall.

She takes a deep breath before stepping into the brightly lit chamber with the maze of metal cages built within it. She can’t help but glance up as she passes beneath the small trap door in the ceiling above her. She knows that directly above that trapdoor there is an iron ring bolted to a rafter and a length of rope coiled nearby. She turns a corner and heads for the rear cell, where a man, a boy really, rises from a metal bunk as she approaches. His fingers wrap around the bars as she stops in front of him and pulls open a slot in the cage door. Brung you some dinner she says without looking up. Looks good he says without glancing at the food. Looks real good. His face breaks out in a wild grin and he says too loudly, Hey I’m a condemned man, y’know. I’m supposed to be able to choose my last meal, that’s what they say. And I wanted to tell you, to ask you, for my last… He doesn’t seem to be able to finish his sentence, like it was a rehearsed line that hadn’t come out right, that ran away as soon as he opened his mouth. She looks up at him for the first time and pushes the plate thru the slot. Maybe you should consider this your last meal, she says. One of his hands slips off the bar and his eyes fill with confusion and fear. She doesn’t look away and doesn’t say anything more but reaches thru the bars and places a hand on his chest and pats it softly. He starts to shake. There’s so much going thru him and suddenly he pushes forward, face first, bending his head to kiss her thru the cage. Her hand stiffens against his chest and he stops short, breathing hard, their eyes locked. For just a moment. Then, with a final pat of her hand she steps back and pulls the cloth back over the tray and walks away without another thought or glance back.

His breathing slowly returns to normal as he stands alone in the metal chamber and he finds himself staring down into a plate of freshly prepared food. His other hand slides from the bar and picks up a piece of fried chicken but it stops just short of his lips. He lets it drop to the floor and stifles a shout by clapping his hand over his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and is filled with such an unexpected fountain of joy that he thinks he might just shatter on the spot. Because there it was, the key to his heart, or at least his freedom, just waiting there, under a battered breast, right next to the butter beans.

News Item:
Neighborhood sheetrock finisher spills fancy drink all over formica countertop. Miles “Smiley” Flemister, native of the downstate hamlet of Blodona, Alabama, watched the iced shaker slip from his lime-tinged fingers and quickly considered all his options while the expensive ingredients of a “Bahama Schooner” burst forth and sadly spilled in slow motion, like the Wild Bunch in their death throes, spreading out over the counter like only a chilly, over-priced yet quite fruity beverage can.