The Smoker...

Deacon is outside, its the afternoon, 2 pm. It's an odd time for Deacon, most days at this time he's lying in bed, gin near by, wrestling with the idea of getting up, or remaining comatose, most days the later gets the hand held high; but here he is, out in the sun,wondering why he made this decision, wandering the streets, he remembers, "I need a win" he utters this to himself. Deacon is dressed as best he can possibly assemble, hat, button down shirt, clean jeans, shoes. He spies a girl, beautiful, small body, tight clothes, no make up. Deacon is overwhelmed with her beauty; but dare he approach? Deacon, passes back and forth past the girl, she's Asian, about his age, 5'3 and has all the look of a girl that has been to the gym. Tight tank top, short athletic shorts, headphones draped around her neck. Deacon doesn't stand a chance, it's been years since a girl like this has even acknowledged his existence. Deacon, takes a moment, examines his own body, broken ribs from a Puerto Rican in the Bronx, stab wound from some thick mick in South Boston, Sliced eyebrow from some Black guy in California. He's disgusted with himself, and feels he has not a prayer with this stunning beauty. He watches the girl from a distance, he's allured by her beauty; but knows he has not a chance, he turns to walk away. The beautiful Asian girl turns, sparks up a cigarette, and Deacon makes his move...

Cards...

Deacon steps into the neighborhood coffee shop, his first time to the establishment; but not his first time to the location. It used to be a bar he knew so well, the "Red Horse Tavern"; but those days are long gone, The bar has since closed, and the old guard has moved out and the yuppies have come in and set up shop. He reflects for a moment on the days, and nights he used to spend there ... The friends he made, and lost. There was Jerry the Vietnam Veteran, whiskey drinker, he used to spend hours talking of the war and the things he saw, often preaching to a young Deacon about the horrors of war, as well as the women he conquered, it was an even balanced conversation. Jerry was Deacons friend and ally, they shot whiskey together, laughed, learned, Jerry has since passed on...throat cancer... Marcus, the African American postal worker, he would stop in for a pint while on his route. Marcus was big and loud, hated his wife; but had no courage to leave her, 3 kids he needed to put through college, Marcus was good for a pint and a bet, never won the gamble, then he'd be on his way, Deacon liked Marcus, very much, last he heard he lost his job and was working in a warehouse. There was Luis, a hearty Puerto Rican, very robust, he always brought cheer and food for the boys, Chorizo, Empanadas, and Beans, he never paid for a drink and nobody ever asked him too. Played Spanish music on the juke box and would even dance a bit, shook everyone's hand and called them brother, always came with plenty of warmth, food, and love,  Deacon liked him a lot. He, sadly lost his wife and kids in a fire, a genuine tragedy, last Deacon heard of him he was rumored to be living somewhere near Cincinnati, in a shelter... The coffee shop is bustling with hipsters, laptops, and the privileged,  Deacon takes a breath and staggers back. The clerk is polite as Deacon orders his apple juice for $4.00. Deacon pays and takes a seat in the very corner he had some thoughtful conversations, with Jerry, Marcus, and Luis, life lessons. Deacon takes a sip from his apple juice and leans back, he's confused a bit. As he sits in his unbalanced wooden chair and takes a moment to take in his new surroundings, he utters to himself... "Cards" he's jealous for a moment; but only a moment. He looks at the young, the bright, the privileged. Deacon recollects, Marcus taught me cards, Marcus used to say, not everyone gets a fair hand, some have a great hand, some have an decent hand, some have nothing... The difference is how good of a player you are, a bad hand can beat a good hand if your capable... Deacon takes a moment, breathes hard, and takes in the arrogance and pretentiousness that surrounds him, Sighs deeply, looks into his own hand and utters "I can win"...



Dedicated to -TK-

The Black Eye

A black eye is not just a condition, or an expression; but a sign... Somewhere in a poor bastards life something went awry. True, they could be accidents, much like children; but for the majority of Black eye owners, they were seeking something they ought not to, and ended up with something they don't want. A black eye sends a message, one of two meanings. "This person has it rough, or this person gets rough" it evokes both sympathy and disdain, "Poor thing, or don't trust them"... the owner of the eye often seeks to conceal it; but after time it becomes a part of you, you accept it, much like an unwanted child, you hope it works to your benefit. If it intimidates you use it, if it garnishes sympathy you use it, a bartering chip for a story and a free drink at the bar, by God you use it and take pride in the fact the stories get larger and livelier  every time you tell it!  By the time the eye has yellowed and all but faded away, you're not even sure how you got it...

Where did everybody go?

Deacons inside a bar, he's young, vigorous, his body is taunt from his time put in at the gym, he's smiling, he's surrounded by friends, White, Black, Asian, Hispanic, Gay, Straight, Women and Men, everyone is having a good time. Welcome to O'Neil's pub, NY, 2006... The Beatles "Today is your birthday" plays on an old juke box and everyone sings along. Banners adorn the bar, "Happy Birthday Deacon!" they read. Gifts and cards are stacked up on a small table in the corner. Everyone has a drink in hand and they clamor for Deacon to make a toast. Deacon pulls a chair out and stands atop it. Forks and knives chime against glasses as Deacon does his best to hush the crowd in all their fervor. He's blushing, slightly nervous; but the drink has given him courage he does not ordinarily possesses. "Quiet, he's speaking!" "Shut the fuck up everyone!" "Give us a speech Deacon!!" the crowd roars... Deacon stutters "I just wanna... I just wanna" a voice in the crowd spouts off "Spit it out you old fucker!!" the masses in the bar laugh, a healthy laugh, everyone is friends here. Deacon reiterates... "I just want to thank everyone for coming out!!, you are the best friends a guy could ever ask for, and I love each an every one of you sorry souls!! You are my family, and I love you!!, cheers!!" The crowd responds in turn, "Here here!!, Cheers" "You sure you ain't gay Deacon?" Deacon responds, "I'm pretty sure" a voice calls back, "too bad!" laughter erupts in the room, Deacon steps down from the chair, clinks glasses with a few people, and accepts a kiss from a beautiful woman, "I love you baby" she speaks into his ear, he smiles... A moment later, Deacon is awoken by a loud slam on the bar, a heavy mug has awoken him from his past dream, and rests in front of his face. The bartender informs him, "closing time" Deacon nods his head, looks up at a calendar with dying eyes, utters silently, "It's my birthday... today" he takes a look at his surroundings, he's in a desolate bar, not a soul, not a song, not a gift... The bartender snatches a pack of sunflower seeds from behind the bar and tosses them at Deacons hands, "Happy Birthday... now get the fuck out". Deacon finishes off the swill that's left in his mug, takes hold of the sunflower seeds, takes a final look around, and mutters to himself, "where did everybody go...?" 

Fight... or Fall?

Deacon rolls to his back, peels his crusty eyes open, blinks several times, his tongue licks the inside of his mouth trying to muster up some moisture... pure cotton. His eyes give way their first image, a ceiling... a good sign, he's indoors. He rolls to his side to examine if the walls have bars, perhaps officer Rourke got him again, he's a good man, just doing his job. "No bars...where am I?" He's urinated his pants of course, and the stench then hits his nostrils, gags a bit, dry heaves, and hefts himself to his feet. He's somehow found himself in an ATM vestibule, checks his wallet, no cash... His hands catch his eye. "What did I do?" Knuckles are scabbing over, bruises are forming, scratches... He gives himself a physical, back is jacked, bruises on the ribs, knees are weak, He takes position on the floor, determined to figure this out. "Did I fight? or fall?" he ponders "Never should of gone to that bar, nothing good ever comes of that place" his mind is circling, "I talked to a girl. she was nice to me" Deacon recollects paying for a whore "I made some friends, they were kind" His mind remembers buying drinks for two college aged men. "They walked me home" flashes of two men hauling him outside the bar, working him over. "Jeremy and Stan, two nice boys" His mind recalls the boys kicking, kneeing, and punching the old drunk, as he does his best to regain his feet. "I must have fell" he smiles. "You old fool, on the way home you tripped and fell, that has to be it!" Deacon hefts himself one last time to his feet, smiles. Checks his surroundings one last time, and a great realization hits him like a ton of bricks. "I don't own an ATM card" Deacon hangs his head, puts all his weight on the door, pushes with great effort, and heads off to find the answers, he doesn't wish to know...

In Gout we trust...

Deacon pushes on the heavy oak doors of the church, on the back swing of the first try the door nearly knocks him off his feet, he sinks his healthy ankle in as best he can, secures a firm shoulder on the door and muscles past it's weight. His foot is throbbing now beyond bare, he reaches into his pocket and produces a small bottle of Ibuprofen, his best friend as of late. He shakes the bottle, an old habit, the few remaining pills clamoring around in the container sound eerily similar to that of a child's rattle, perhaps that's why we do it, he ponders, the sound... it's the same and it's just as comforting, an adult and his rattle... he tries to laugh but a an electric shock of pain from his toe to his brain stifles that notion. He pours about five or six pills into his palm and gimps over to the baptismal font. He thinks "If the pills don't kill me, the holy water should". He places the pills in his mouth and cups his hand and scoops out some the Holy water to wash them down. He chokes a bit, the water is what you can imagine, warm, stagnant, the stench of an old lady's palm lingers on his lips. Can't complain now, he must find a place to sit down. First row, right side pew, it's as good as anything else. With the help of Angels, he makes it to the pew, throws his body on the bench, swings himself in such a manner that he is on his back with his foot elevated on a bunch of bibles. "Give me two hours God, and I'll be gone before you know it." Deacon's eyes begin to close, the throbbing is slowly becoming manageable, his heart is slowing, and he begins to drift off to sleep. The last questions of the night fill his brain, "why must it be like this?" "Where did I go wrong?" "This can't be it... is it?" A moment of peace washes over him and he nods off... only to be awoken moments later by a priest sitting next to him. The priest asks, "why are you here my son?" Deacon sighs, looks at his foot... responds
"Gout".

A walk...

It's 11:38 PM, Deacon is out walking, not for any dietary reason; but to keep himself away from his temptations. The cool Californian night air clears his clouded mind, and Deacon breathes in as much as he can. His walk is painful, his right toe is filled with gout, "the rich mans disease" well, this is richest Deacon will ever feel, every step feels like a mile, every throb of pain buckles his knees; but he knows he can't go home, can't go to the ragged places he so covets, this is where he belongs, staggering around the streets of Los Angeles like a wounded animal. His mind is a drift, trying to think of anything other than the overwhelming pain in his foot, with every step he gasps, if he was capable of tears they would be adoring his face; but his tears have dried up long ago, and pain only reminds him that he's alive. Terrible job, wife left me, what is the meaning of family, these are the questions that circle Deacon's mind. A rustle in a nearby trash receptacle breaks his concentration, "not again" he mutters, fearing a would be attacker will harm him and take him of his nothing...again. Relieved, Deacon sighs as a raccoon reveals itself from the dark side of the dumpster. They lock eyes for a moment, they relate to one another, one is looking for treasure in the trash, the other is trash looking for treasure. Deacon bows his head and sets forth, the raccoon acknowledges and proceeds his business. Deacon's foot is throbbing now beyond bare, he knows he needs to rest. His hovel is unreachable, he's swam out pass the rope and can't make it back, an old brick church is a block away, he can rest there, does he dare? Deacon and the lord have not been on speaking terms in some time; but he needs the rest, the lord can privy him that! Deacon sets out, and his foot steps down as if it were on broken glass, he mutters... "God help me".