Joshua Gray the one and only on Blog Plus Ultra

The One and Only

I had cigarettes but needed coffee. The money just wasn't there and I'm not sellin' shit just for a cup o' mud. So I grab my keys, lock the door and head out for St. Augustine's.

Saint Augustine's is a nice enough house of God as churches go. It welcomes not only the devout, but tolerates the dilapidated as well. The broken souls who are at best ambivalent about a higher power, but very fervent about free sandwiches and tepid coffee.

. Y'see, along with the plush lawn that the bums lay on, smoking tobacco and squashing the flowers, St. Augustine's offers a section of itself known as "The Open Table". It's a small room no bigger than the average attic, with about twelve worn down chairs hugging a long shaky table. There might be some religious tracts piled high in the center of the table, but I never got close enough to confirm that. I think it used to be an anteroom of sorts because it's got these huge windows from ceiling to floor that look out onto the actual pews and pulpit. I've been there once before to grab a ham on rye and let me tell you, when the priest is hard into a sermon about the seven deadly sins and he gets to that part about slovenliness and he looks right through those all showing windows behind the pews and sees all of us guys just chowing down on the free eats and sippin' hot water and we're really just relaxed and unreligious, well it can get a little humbling even for us with next to no shame so I split that scene and haven't returned since.

But it's like I said, I had the smokes but no coffee. So I'm goin' back against my vows and headin' back to the "Open Table". Fuck it. I'll be in and out like a speed freak and no shame'll fall on me.

I'm about thirty yards away from the steps that lead up to the front door and notice a serious lack of customers outside who usually hang out by the stairway railing. These ones, like myself, only come to church for the caffeine and are looked down upon by the "Open Table" authorities for not really getting into the holy spirit of brotherhood among bums. The "Open Table" CEO's would much rather we hang around inside, not smoking, around the long table, listening as the priest's sermon comes in through the intercom and into our joyless hearts.

But the ones, like myself, who just want the warm water to sip on while the cigarette burns immaculate aren't down with that. Now I'm not linking myself to these fuckers as a whole, while we both make it clear that our visits are strictly non-religious and all free-shit consuming, the difference is that I don't stick around and linger like a foul fume in the noses of the "Open Table" top brass. I grab my cup and flee the scene, carefully getting the coffee back to my place. Out o' sight and out o' mind is what I'm thinking. No need to give the cunts a reason to scorn you. No need to risk a possible banning and cut off a good source of supply.

But those others... man.... they smoke and go back for seconds, smoke and go back for thirds. And while the "Table" has no real policy about helpings, all the weathered clientele know not to bleed this non-profit joint dry. But these others have been around long enough to know the score. And the score shows that they're always ahead as long as they're getting.

They carry two sandwiches in each hand outside with a cup clenched between their forearms, prop themselves up along the railing and laugh at ugliness.

They're all fat bastards with bad beards and slimy hair. Their dress is the same every day and usually consists of old bankrupt hockey jerseys like the Quebec Nordiques or the Hartford Whalers. Some of 'em wear winter hunting hats year round with baby blue suspenders holding up painfully tight corduroy pants. Others got those black horn-rimmed glasses. The kind Buddy Holly had but twice as thick with lenses so magnified it distorts their eyes and even their entire faces into something that no longer makes sense if you look at them too much.

This is one half of the flock that makes up the "Table"'s togetherness, so when I can't spot a single one of 'em, I begin to sweat it that maybe I missed my chance for a handout.

As I creep inside the doorway, bad signs are brewin' from the get-go. A service is underway and that's a rotten egg for sure, but that ain't what trips me up. It's the sight of this old skinny boy who once told me that he won't bug Jesus so long as Jesus don't bug him. Well this old bum is in the pews along with all the others and he's scratchin' his collar and twitchin' his bony skull like he's got a wasp in his eyelid. If there's one soul who wouldn't be pushed into the pews it's this guy so I'm thinking, what the shit?

My eyes push a little further past him and notice that practically all the congregation is filled with nothing but the depraved, the homeless and other assorted dregs and mendicants.

Jesus Christ, I'm thinking, how on earth did you manage to hypnotize so many low lifes all at once? On a very good, guilt-ridden day the staff at this place might manage to hoodwink one of the boys into believin' that the word of God will get him off the sauce and into eternal bliss, but a coercion of this magnitude trumps all the odds of Vegas. Unless Father Mackilvoy is handing out the sacramental wine, this scene reeks of pressure tactics and broken resistance.

There ain't no signs of life comin' from down the hall at the "Open Table" either except for some ominous shuffling of papers so I'm bookin' it for the exit as of this second.

Like a curtain-fly, this pseudo-nun drops out of nowhere and pinches my elbow to break my stride. She's got a good grip, so I forget about pushing on to the door and figure I'm in for somethin'.

These pseudo-nuns are the worst. They're a pack of zealot volunteers with monumental chips on their shoulders who bring a very ungodly hostility from their personal lives into the work place and it's always the poor who suffer their wrath, as I most surely feel I'm about to.

She starts clearing her throat and straightening up her ankle-long polyester skirt as though she had just run a mile to stop me from leaving. "I'm glad I caught you," she sputters, "Mr. Burnby's service has just started so you must hurry."

She pushes a ledger of some sort at my chin and still has my elbow in her palm. "Write your name for attendance purposes then follow me. It's a very nice crowd today but Mr. Burnby deserved it all. As you can see, all of our regulars have decided to come and say good-bye to one of their peers. Mr. Burnby had earned their respect, as he was one of the chosen few who, before his time came, embraced the word of God. He came here, just as you are now; hungry, thirsty, without direction, but he opened his heart to Christ and I can assure you he left here a full man."

This nut was almost salivating at her own spiel. She spoke with a skitterish monotone that suggested a robotic approach to every thing she did. She seemed to love this Mr. Burnby and almost acted as if he needed defending or constant adulation.

I back away from the sign-in sheet, and in doing so, snap her lock on my elbow. By daring to question her dominance of the situation, I agitate this cunt to no end. I try to explain, "I came for a cup of coffee ma'am. I don't even know who Mr. Burnby is."

This comment has no real effect on her, as she keeps claiming over and over that the service has just started and while most choice seats are taken, she will find me a place. "No, no, "I'm sayin', "I just come by now and then and... uhh... I never met that guy."

She won't believe this. She starts breathing faster. "Mr. Burnby had no enemies. Mr. Burnby knew everyone and was liked by all. You may not have known his name but I'm sure his face would have meant something to you. A fine man and an excellent Christian." She pauses for a moment with her head down, the instance of praise surpassing her need to be dutiful.

I'm starting to piece the whole shtick together and now know that this woman is ruled by a need to believe in people who have succumbed to her tight fisted persuasions. Burnby was clearly one of those people. Up until now I hadn't been able to decide exactly who this Burnby boy might be. But as she gathered herself, I could just see over her shoulder the casket that lay in the corner of the church stage. The one and only Mr. Burnby was in that box.

"Ma'am please," I find myself almost begging, "I'll just get a cup of juice and wait outsi-"

"Nothing will be served until the funeral terminates," she hisses in disbelief at my plea, shaking her finger, "not a thing... until it's over."

She has to state this fact with the tired unfurling of someone who has had to convince many men before me of the same decree, like the old skinny boy buggin' out in his seat, the fat grubbing fuckers who finally had to compromise their resolve, and all the truly silent dopes who never say a thing around the table and sure as fuck weren't gonna start now. She, this pseudo-nun, pseudo-everything, had gotten to them all. They were all willing to sit through an hour or two of searing boredom for a man, I'm convinced, they neither knew well nor respected as she claimed? Hard to swallow.

Burnby was a saved soul and a pillar in her eyes and her eyes only. None of those saps in there would put up with this unless their treats were being withheld. This nun had performed a miracle in getting Mr. Burnby into that field of one percent turn-arounds who start showing up at the "Table" for the goods, but unlike the other ninety-nine percent, stay for the God.

She held the food and the drink hostage just to fill the pews with asses, and in doing so, convinced herself that her work with project Burnby wasn't in vain. The comical shit about her whole plan is that those guys in there, in that funeral, don't even need what she's starving them of. Those chumps aren't waiting for sloppy salami and Kool-aid. They're waitin' to eat for free so they can put aside half their welfare cheques for booze and all the other things.

She simply threw a stick in the spokes of their cycle for a few hours. Tomorrow nothing will change. If she won today, then so be it for today. The "Open Table", the staff, this lady... they're all just makin' it easier for me and the men to stay high. In the end, the bums will always win. "I'm gonna leave now," I say and inch towards the exit.

She goes real cold but tries for the Hail-Mary anyway, "Mr. Burnby would have liked you to stay. I know he would have. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I say. And I was.

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One Bad Turn

by Josh Gray

Jap stood there, in the darkened doorway of the old Woodbine hotel, long since closed down, and waited. He was sweating. He felt around in his jacket for the knife he had brought with him. It was there. ‘For who though?’ he wondered, but quickly discarded that thought for another, ‘When?’

It was the start of winter and a fresh layer of snow had fallen and frozen, leaving the streets and sidewalks white and icy. Minor traffic and even fewer pedestrians were finding their way around the downtown area.

Jap shuffled in his shoes. A deluge of perspiration scaled its way along his limbs. He had over dressed, not knowing exactly how long he would be in the cold. How long this … thing, would take.

* * *

Clarice paid for the two packs of photographs by way of credit card. CLIX, the photo-developing store, had a 2-for-1 special this week before Christmas and Clarice had caught the sale on its final day.

She left the store, and began the walk down Gulliver Avenue. Her pace was one of immediacy but reticence as well. She balanced along the sidewalk, avoiding the icy patches as much as possible, nearly slipping once. ‘Damn this world’, she spoke to herself.

The street was littered in both debris and darkness as only a few of the street lamps were functioning properly. As she crossed an intersection, it began to snow again. There was no wind, and as the flakes of snow ran into the shards of light given by the working street lamps, Clarice wondered why beauty came when it did. But she was getting close now. The Fillion hotel was only 3 blocks past the Woodbine.

* * *

Jap stuck his tongue out, hoping a snowflake would find it. Several did, but the magic that that once brought was forever missing now. Much of the snow resting on his shoes was beginning to permeate both sock and foot, making this self-imposed waiting game a little more grating than he needed on this night.

‘Come on…’ he snapped to the air, darting his glances around the vicinity. Nothing. Men, yes, those there were, but not a single pair of panties anywhere. He was a coward and complacently satisfied in this truth. ‘Cowardice bleeds a path to a better set of odds. Odds more magnetic to my needs.’ Jap often proclaimed.

From experience Jap knew the boys feared the knife but he was in no way an imposing sort beside the fact, so he stuck with the panties in case a slip up ever occurred.

Besides, tonight he pined for the meal before the masterstroke with a heightened urgency, so a woman was the only way out. The field, this eve though, remained without any.

A lick of wind slipped inside the Woodbine’s doorway, circulating the alcove and slapping Jap upside the face. He felt trapped in the maelstrom and therefore became unable to take solace in the night’s endeavor. The outside factors were laying into him and leaving him unfocused and apathetic. Jap shucked superstition and just tallied it all up to unfortunate luck and an overexcited itch.

‘Enough.’ he subsided to himself, taking his thumb off the blade and tightening his face for the walk that lay ahead.

Jap moved out of the Woodbine’s shelter and began a trail to nowhere. ‘Maybe a drink at the Fillion?’ he all but confirmed.

* * *

Clarice’s fingers trickled around the surfaces of both packs of photos in her purse. She had told herself she wouldn’t look at any of them until all parties concerned were together, until they were all in the same room. The temptation to see how conclusive the photos were had been molesting her psyche since she had left CLIX.

All that the P.I. had told her was that her suspicions were palpable. ‘To what degree…?’ Clarice deliberated and took the piece of paper out from her purse. When they had met for the final time the P.I. had handed her the roll of film and a piece of paper, which on it was written, THE SPECIFICS-When: Monday nights, 8 to 10. Where: Fillion hotel.

That was it. ‘How much you want to know after this is up to you.’ The P.I. had warned her with tepid empathy. She wanted to know now.

‘Enough’ she decided and ducked into a slim alley between two stores, taking one of the packs of photos from her purse and, trembling, held it before her eyes.

* * *

‘A blank page……. Hasn’t happened in awhile.’ Jap resigned quietly under his breath, shaking his head. He knew this science to be so fallible but it always irked him a bit when the motions didn’t unfurl within his foresighted harmony. ‘Blame it on the weather.’ he smiled. It was hard to laugh, though, through the searing boredom of an empty effort. He seethed inside now at the indifference he had to feel, not having gotten a result.

Then he stopped in his tracks. The tip of a five-dollar bill was poking out of a small pile of snow he had come to and it flitted in the wind like some rodent extracting itself from a snare. ‘Fine.’ Jap thought, conceding that this would be the evening’s sullied compensation. He peeled it free from the snow and carefully placed it into his wallet while scoping out the street around him.

He saw the legs first. Then it all fell into place accordingly as he drank in the image before him. Across the street, barely lit by the moon’s glow, she stood. Somewhat hidden in between a pawnshop and a pet store, unveiled and on sale, she stood there for him. She wasn’t drinking or smoking, sucking on anything or anyone. ‘Odd.’ Jap admitted, ‘How had I missed her? Blame it on the weather.’ he avowed with some tenacity this time. It didn’t matter. Fruition was at hand. She was there now and forever. Jap returned his hand to the warmth of the coat pocket, secured the grip of the blade and crossed the street.

* * *

‘What a lovely time it was.’ Clarice reminisced as she looked adoringly at the picture of her and Monty on the deck of their beachside cottage in Fiji. She had grabbed the other pack of photos without thinking. The ones from their vacation only five months ago that, on this night, had no place in her heart. Or so she thought. Flipping through a few more, she put her one hand to her mouth and began to well up, choking a little on the tears that came. ‘Five months!’ she gasped incredulously. The paradise they had shared was now a thousand years away from the hell that she was about to evoke.

Clarice slammed the set of pictures back inside her purse. Fiddling for the other pack, she let the purse slip from her shoulder and drop to the ground. She crouched down to pick up that which had fallen out but lost her orientation as her head was ripped back violently by the hair.

* * *

‘She looks like a constellation.’ Jap thought, a little admiringly, staring warmly at Clarice as she lay there, flecked by bits of snow and a rivulet of blood that wended its way along her bare torso.

The struggle that had transpired was unexpected, very welcome, but had sapped so much out of him that Jap had to rest a little. He sat cross-legged by Clarice’s side, running the tip of the blade around her naval. ‘Man, she was heated up. A fighter.’

He looked himself over and tried to adjust his clothes as good as possible, noticing rips in several places and a fairly deep gash along his forearm. ‘Good for you, lady.’ Jap murmured. He rose and began cleaning the knife off with some paper found nearby. Strewn everywhere were the contents of Clarice’s purse, which Jap hadn’t acknowledged until now. Many things of no value to him, but upon seeing the photographs, with his voyeuristic bent, he gathered them up and placed them in the inside pocket of his jacket. He then saw the gun lying half in the shadow of a garbage can a few feet away. ‘What’s this then?’ Jap mused, holding the gun up to the moon. He knew exactly nothing about the singular distinctions of one handgun to another, always having used the blade. He leered at it a second longer, wiped it clean of any markings with a bit of his sleeve then dropped it in a snow bank knowing he’d never need it.

Jap let his gaze walk once more over the supine shape on the ground before him, almost wanting to see the tiniest sign of life. There was only the form and the dead fury that sat in her eyes. ‘This is over.’ Jap finalized stoically. ‘A drink.’ He remembered and left the confines he had created, aiming now for the Fillion hotel.

* * *

‘Beer and a gin-seven…please.’ Said Monty to the man tending bar. ‘And some
matches.’ Karen threw in, putting a smoke to her cracked lips. ‘No matches.’ Countered the bartender, ‘Lighter’s are 3 bucks.’

‘Fuck that’ Karen susurrated, tugging on Monty’s sleeve. Monty waved the bartender off and reassured Karen. ‘Hold on.’ He said and peered around the room. A man at a table in the corner was just lighting up so Monty made his way over there.

‘Can I get some fire from ya pal?’ Monty asked the man, waving his unlit cigarette in the air with a pleading etiquette.

‘Keep ‘em.’ Said the man, sliding the matchbox across the table to Monty.

* * *

‘Keep ‘em.’ Said Jap, sliding the matchbox to the man before him.

‘Thank you sir.’ The man smiled, and went back to his seat at the bar alongside the woman he was sitting with. Jap always wondered about the art of coupling. The buildup, the being, and the body therein were a fringed theory to him.

He reached into his inside pocket and took out the pack of pictures. His eyes waltzed through the bar in an act of assuaging surveillance, as the Fillion regulars skulked around, posing no threat in their oblivion.