Journey to the End of the Week: Chance "Cash" Register Working Stiff series, #3

By Kirk Alex

Blue-Collar Hell Hole

 

It's the late 1990s. Tucson, AZ. Before POD, before kindle. For Chance "Cash" Register the struggle to scrape together enough cash to get his beloved short story anthology self-pubbed continues. It's a year later, he's still in the insane asylum––aka smut warehouse––as shipping clerk, dealing with some of the looniest effing co-workers he's ever encountered (and he's known his share over the years as a cabbie in rat race LA).

 

So far he's only got half the bucks required to make his dream happen. Stress is a bi*ch and getting him down. Will he say F*ck it, and let the sh*t hit the fan, or––will he––persevere and stay with the nightmarish gig long enough to put the rest of the funds together?

 

He couldn't tell you. It's day-to-day, hour-to-hour. All he knows is that his nerves are frazzled and holding on to his sanity is as daunting a task he's ever faced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tucumcari Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9780939122875

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

They All Can’t Be Lying . . .

Hard Noir Holiday

Edgar Doc Holiday Thriller #4

This is a terribly violent, disgusting, vile read. I am not into long books. I lose interest easily. But this one is well written and kept my attention all throughout. My husband is glad it is over. I couldn't keep from telling him what happened next. So disgusting, so entertaining.

—BookBub

5.0 out of 5 stars/The Best of the Series!

The language was consistent. The characters were deep and realistic. Every page has exciting action. All the books are good, but this is outstanding. The story seemed much longer, but it was engrossing and exciting in every page. I wish I had more stars to add.

—Kayak Jay

Murder, mayhem, organ theft, illegal dog fights and more . . .

Hard Noir Holiday by Kirk Alex is the 4th installment of the Edgar Doc Holiday Private Investigator Mystery series. This time Doc and his friends are in Arizona when they are faced with the murder of a family member. It takes everything in their arsenal to find out who is behind it. Not for the faint of heart.

—Denim*n*Diamonds

Throwback & Backlash

(Love, Lust & Murder Series)

Kirk Alex gets right down to it. There’s not a wasted word. If you don’t know his work, you should.

—Mark SaFranko, author of Lounge Lizard

. . . if you want a raw, dark in-your-face good read . . . go for it.

—Hidden Gems Book Review

Lustmord:

Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Great book. Dark—yes. Grotesque–certainly. Sexually explicit—without a doubt. And the writing is excellent. Character & dialogue, is as real as it gets. A terrifying, non-putdownable horror.

—Jeff Bennington, Kindle Book Review

Zook

"Zook was a zoo ride! All of the characters were well written and you find yourself unable to put the book down! You might even find it a little sad. ***** out of 5 stars."

—NetGalley

Ziggy Popper at Large:

14 Tales of General Degeneracy, of Mayhem & Debauchery – for the Morally Conflicted & Borderline Criminal

Gruesome, violent, awesome! I absolutely LOOOVEEE Kirk Alex. I am always ready for his next book!! Extremely entertaining. A whole lot of violent, and just what I was looking for. Private detective Felix Choo-Choo Buschitsky and Ziggy Popper are now my two favorite characters. ***** out of 5 stars.

—NetGalley

nonentity

–A Rant For Those Who Can’t–

Presented as a Novel

This is a quick read and engrossing. I found myself wanting to know what happened. Many of the situations were funny in the way they were presented. Fast, easy read.

—NetGalley

Kirk Alex’s prose is swiftly moving and terse and dark and angry and ugly. There is no wiggle room in what he writes and what he sees; bad is bad and good is rare. This will grab you by the heart and choke the breath out of you — and by book's end, you'll thank him for doing it.

—Steven Rosen, Curled Up With A Good Book

BLOOD, SWEAT and CHUMP CHANGE

L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

It’s all here: Hate, poetry, sadness, hope and the ache of an aloneness that never goes away. Belly up!

—Dan Fante, author of Spitting Off Tall Buildings

Love is the Coldest Whore of All

Selected Free Verse for Peeps Like Me

(Who Hate Poetry)

1976 — 1996

Reading Kirk Alex is like listening to your best friend, your oldest friend, confide in you after you haven’t seen him in a long, long time. It’s that honest; it’s that intimate. And from the Nam to Sunset Boulevard, he knows a lot about the world and life. All you have to do is sit back and take it all in.

—Mark SaFranko, author: Nowhere Near Hollywood

by Kirk Alex

Crime Fiction:

Throwback: Love, Lust & Murder – Book One

Backlash: Love, Lust & Murder – Book Two

Ziggy Popper at Large – 14 Tales of General Degeneracy, of Mayhem & Debauchery – for the Morally Conflicted & Borderline Criminal

Horror:

Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Zook

Chance Cash Register Working Stiff Series:

Paycheck to Paycheck

Loopy Soupy’s Motley Crew

Journey to the End of the Week

A Confederacy of Mooks

nonentity — A Rant For Those Who Can’t

You’re Gonna Have Trouble

Whacky Tales:

Troubled Diva with a Tote Bag — 8 Stories

Last Tango in the Old Pueblo — 2 Long-Shorts

Taxicab Exploits:

Working the Hard Side of the Street – Selected Stories/Poems/Screams

Blood, Sweat & Chump Change – L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

Eddie Doc Holiday Contemporary Mystery Series:

Hush-Hush Holiday #1

Hubba-Hubba Holiday #2

Hollow-Point Holiday #3

Hard Noir Holiday #4

Hammer-Slammer Holiday #5

Free Verse:

Ballad of the Red Bag Man

Love is the Biggest Whore of All

Overlapping Contradictions

Journey to the

End of the Week

Cash Register Working Stiff Series

Book three

Kirk Alex

Tucumcari Press

Image1

Tucson – 2022

Copyright © 2002 as Paycheck by Kirk Alex

First Digital Edition as Journey to the End of the Week: November 2022

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this novel, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. For information, address Tucumcari Press, PO Box 40998, Tucson, Arizona 85717-0998

Journey to the end of the Week is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-939122-86-8 (6x9 paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-939122-87-5 (ePUB)

With tremendous respect & in honor of Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s Journey to the End of the Night, the funniest novel I have ever read. Bar none.

The function of the artist is not to create optimism, but to create art—which sometimes may be optimistic and sometimes can’t be.

—Charles Bukowski

Chapter 1

I stuff the two gym bags full of dirty laundry and pedal the bike over. I withdraw $20 from the ATM on Grant, reach the laundromat at 14 of 9. Notice the cardboard sign on the door:

NEW STORE HOURS

Sunday 9 a.m.

That’s all I notice, that’s all that immediately pertains to me. Got no choice but to wait now. Other people with their bundles of laundry start appearing. At 9:00 a.m. the owner shows and starts pacing and mumbling to himself. Why doesn’t he unlock the door? I don’t get it. He’s pacing and talking to himself. I don’t bother to look up from where I am sitting on the curb. I hear him say to some woman:

Even if I changed it to 10:00 a.m. she’d be late.

A few minutes later she appears to let us in. The owner leaves. The woman who works here wears a lot of pancake makeup and is a talker. She talks too much for my business for this a.m. I hear she also tends bar at night.

I get my six bucks in quarters, buy a cup of bleach for the whites. It takes four loads for me. I get the machines going, using up what Tide there is, and sit down on the bench, leaf through the latest issue of Newsweek (or is it Time?). Article on some Hollywood type. Stands to get nominated for a couple of flicks I haven’t seen.

Anyway/anyway, I’m in limbo; that’s always the feeling while sitting around waiting for the laundry to get done. The woman who works there is in her office talking to one of the customers, a tall/skinny type with glasses in a brown thrift store suit. The man has a hard time getting the words out; he stutters a bit. A slow talker. But no matter, that doesn’t slow her down. This woman is a real chatterbox. People like this wear me out, especially a.m. talkers. She’s like Abner at work. It’s way too much energy to be exposed to in the morning.

And then some 80-year old dude, hunched over (cane in one hand, little bundle of dirty laundry in the other), walks in. They start talking. Apparently all know each other, or else this is how talkers work it. The old man’s face is pasty white, no teeth and no chin. Although his way of walking may be slow, his way of working his gums isn’t.

How you doin’? the skinny guy says to the old man.

Who knows? says the old man.

You’re here, so you must be doin’ pretty good.

The trio are yakking about something. I’ve got them tuned out. Gossip and/or gossipy chatter (and the old man and the woman are the type) bores the shit out of me.

Patty was real happy about breaking up Earl and Trixie, says the old guy.

Oh yeah? says the woman who works here. They’re no more than four-feet from me, but somehow I manage to tune the rest out. Good. I got no use for the BS. But then the old dude sits right down next to me on the bench and starts coughing and clearing his throat. Shit; he sounds like he’s about to puke or worse, but doesn’t. Although the coughing/clearing of throat persists.

I can’t take it, the mother sounds disgusting. I get up, taking the Newsweek with me and stand by my washing machines. Grab a basket. They end their spin cycles and I load up the basket and move on toward the rear to where the dryers are. I use two of the large type dryers, 50 cents each. Sit down by a table there in back with the color set overhead blasting some inane crap. They’ve got some dark-haired/unappealing cunt of a broad with masculine features yakking about the NBA. Fuck the NBA, and the rest of those assholes. Do I give a shit about any of it? DO I?

The cunt looks like she’d bust your balls in a second, if given the chance. This is why I don’t have tv reception in my place. Thank god for it. Never purchased the rabbit ears when I bought the set. Mainly got the set for the porn, sometimes regular flicks, mainly horror and other B-grade type trash. Still enjoy a good B-type flick from time to time. But the rest? Bubba and Monica Lewinsky? Fuck ‘em. It’s torture to have to hear about it on the radio when am at work, but what can you do? At least I don’t get the bullshit on a regular basis on the tube.

I do my best to tune out this ballbuster on the color screen above me, but the set is on too loud and it’s a kind of torture: talking-heads with nothing to say, and yet there they are, every day/all day long—and the cocksuckers pull in at least a mil a year.

Hell? Let me tell you about hell, pal. It’s right here on earth. Take a look around, take a look at the people around you any time you go anywhere.

I notice a stack of dated mags on the chair to my left. I shuffle through the pile: Sports Illustrated (more bullshit), couple of issues of People (more horse manure.) Never cared for the rag. One of their favorite scams is: Sexiest Man Alive and/or Sexiest Woman Alive. Huh? What the fuck are they talking about? In whose opinion? You mean the people you selected don’t shit? That their shit don’t stink? They they’re that fucking good? There is no such thing as sexiest anything. How about Sexiest Turd Alive? Now there’s a title. Sexiest pile of trivia alive. And, without fail, there has got to be some crap on Lady Di.

They keep making money off this corpse. They keep picking her bones . . . the vultures, the scum-suckers. And then, if that weren’t enough, the biggest dog turd of them all appears on the cover of one of those rags: Don Imus. WTF? I hadn’t brought a book with me and so am stuck. But how much of this shit can I take?

Howard Stern was right about Imus (and Howard Stern is just another asshole, only he’s not as big an asshole as Imus; at least Stern’s got some class about him, some decency, something. . .) They’ve got a picture of this pile of vomit wearing some kind of lavender jacket, designer jeans and cowboy boots, with his feet propped up on his desk, pictures with him standing next to his ugly brother . . . and on. . . .

I toss the magazine aside. Look up. There’s nowhere else to look. I could stare at the vinyl floor and do for a while, but you do that long enough and they’ll send the white-coats after you, so am looking up, waiting for the dryer to finish up drying my clothes, and the ballbuster is yakking away, saying something about the Miami Heat and Utah Jazz.

Ask me if I give a fart. She’s seated at the far end of the crescent-shaped desk, with one black dude and one white dude adding to the bullshit, agreeing with her, or nodding in agreement (same effing thing) that amounts to nothing. Not that it ever did.

I can’t take the jabber. There is a woman in her 30s sitting at the table writing in a notepad. She doesn’t seem to think much of the blaring set either. I stare back at the dryers: 4 minutes left. I get up, can’t take it, but to get up and see if my clothes are dry enough. I’ve got to get away from the tv set that is driving me batty. This is the real insanity. I hear Bukowski was like this. I have felt this way long before I ever became aware of his writing, his work. I can remember kicking a small black & white set way back in the mid-70s while living in this small dump of a room on the edge of Beverly Hills. Hard to believe, across the street from Fatburger, but did not have the money to buy one of their famous burgers. But I had kicked the set over, broken the antennae as a result and ended up giving away this practically new set to another struggling writer for $30, just to get rid of it. Paid under a hundred for it a month before and was relieved to be free of it at any cost.

Most of my stuff is dry enough. Ten percent still damp. I plug in another 50 cents for the damp stuff, fold the dry clothes and jam them inside the gym bags. I can’t stand being around people today, can’t stand anything about people; hate the fact I am even one of them. Sometimes the sight of humans makes me want to puke. Why? Who knows? They disgust me; almost everything they do disgusts me. Their behavior, chatter; the way they eat/fart/fuck/shit, disgusts me. All of it almost disgusts me. Just let me get out of here and let me be alone on my own. This is how I feel at the moment, and it can’t be changed (not that I would want to change it).

I get the rest of my clothes and walk out. I climb on the bike (that needs a new tire) and head back to my place.

Chapter 2

They predicted rain for today, but as I look up and keep looking up, taking in one of the bluest skies ever, it hardly seems like it—but I do know better: if they predicted wind and rain it is more-than-likely it will happen.

I hang the shirts up in the closet, stuff the yellow slicker in the orange backpack and head east on Speedway. I figure I’ll stop by Circuit City, kill some time there prior to going on up to the all-you-can-eat buffet at Broadway and Wilmot. I talk to a clerk regarding the computers they’ve got on sale there. It seems I can get by with about eight hundred bucks. I take their latest advertisement and leave.

It is noon now as I continue on east on Broadway. The wind is kicking ass. Forget rain, forget hail—it’s windy days that are toughest on cyclists like myself. Try as you might to make progress, doing your best to pedal—and it’s one tough/losing battle, as the wind won’t let you make much headway. And here in the desert you’ve got lots of sand that the winds kick up and pitch at you.

But I’ve got no choice; I did say to Fyodor and his father I’d meet them at the buffet, although I doubt they’ll keep their word and show. It matters little if they show or don’t show, as I’d wanted to get up there for a second visit anyway, for the food.

Open sand lots are the worst to ride past. You can see the dust devils swirling this brown stuff in the air and you know there is no escaping it. You know some of it is going to get in your hair as well as inside your collar. But what can you do? Thank god for the shades I’ve got on. Still, some dust gets in my left eye. Watch out for cars, the maniacs, the lead-footers; they’ve got their share here too. What can you do but move on.

I reach the restaurant, lock the bike up, go inside to join the long line of people waiting, about a hundred or so. But the line moves relatively quick with the cashiers handling the trade. I don’t mind waiting. No problem. No hurry. As long as the food is good and the price is right. Only am left in a bit of shock when they charge me $7.63. What? What happened to five-dollars-something? Not on Sunday.

How many? the chubby girl asks.

One.

One senior?

I nearly make an attempt to correct her: How’s that? Senior? At 47? How do you figure? She’s in her late teens, so to her I would be a senior. I’ll take it, if the price is less—but at $7.63 how can it be? It’s too much money for my pocketbook, what with my two phone lines and all the other press-related expenses. I can’t afford to be spending this much money on a single meal. Hell, I don’t even buy new clothes anymore. I have got to watch my pennies. No way around it. So what now? Turn around and get the hell out? No. I let her put it on my credit card and stand by the WAIT TO BE SEATED sign.

The place is packed. This makes me want to do an about-face and scram—but I don’t. Wait it out. All this humanity, too many people packed-in together. You can almost smell their sweat. The old and the young: babies crying, older kids carrying on. Man, I hate crowds. Hate being stuck in this type of crowded situation. Finally one of the hostesses shows me to a booth at the far end.

I like the roast beef and get up for a second helping, a small dish of cheesecake, two glasses of cherry Hi-C. It’s 12:42 when I am finished. No sign of Fyodor or Yuri. I can’t wait to get out, get away from the noise, all the people. My own mortality is on my mind, all I’d lived through, I mean all of it: childhood/Chicago/Vietnam/Ft. Riley, Kansas, the blond I’d dated for six months near there that left me heart-broken; all of it.

I recall as a toddler when my mother had taken me down to the wood shop where the old man had a job and suddenly, the other cabinetmaker there, with wild-eyes and a crazy grin, had leapt at me, scooped me up in his arms and promptly dumped me in a barrel full of broken glass.

I still have the scar on my left leg where I’d been cut by the glass and been taken to a doctor to have some shards removed. And the old man hadn’t done a thing to protect me from the nut; hadn’t done anything to the man, although he was very good at smacking his kids around.

I thought about my mortality while eating that slop in that crowded/noisy dump of a all-you-can-eat joint, wishing I were dead. Too often now, I think about suicide. Why? Not sure. Just disillusioned. Too many wrong turns, pal. Too many waylaid efforts, too many sabotaged attempts. That horror flick back there 13-years ago should have gotten my foot in the door, but a botched/far-from-perfect, far-from-flawless effort is but a far-from-flawless effort. Thanks, in great part, to a detractor or two and LA cops. . . .

I think of this existence as a nothing existence; dreams never realized. And am going to be 48 next month. That’s the bitch of it. A nothing/nowhere existence—when it should have/could have been a much fuller life, a happier life. I’d felt the potential had always been there. I’d taken the hard road, better yet, the hard road had been foisted on me.

You’ve got filmmakers in countries with supposedly a lot less freedom than in this great US being given grants/funding to pursue their artistic goals. It’s been one dead-end job after another, one shit-hole after another.

And speaking of shit, no sooner do I get in when the trots strike. Got ‘em bad. Thanks to the slop at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Chapter 3

I go in Soupy’s office this morning to place his mail on his desk. Abner is there having a chat with him.

I excuse myself. Do my thing. Soupy takes a glance at the BREs, says:

Not bad for a Monday.

Not bad at all, Soupy, I say. Step over to greet his Mexican Amazon parrot Milt. Only Milt backs away. He’s not in a friendly mood this a.m. Okay. That’s the way Milt is. Got to be patient with these moody birds. Then Soupy says:

For an older guy Cash is the youngest guy I know.

It’s meant as a compliment, a rather nice one—and taken as such. Soupy means class to me, something akin to Joe DiMaggio, RIP (the slugger died today at age 84). The comment makes me grin helplessly, as I counter with:

You ought to see me by the time 4:00 p.m. rolls around. I look kind of ragged.

Nah, says Soupy. You’re always clean looking.

Could be because I take a shower in the morning.

Abner’s in a good mood as well and chuckles at this.

No, really, adds Soupy. You’re vibrant.

I say thank you to the man, then attempt to pet Milt. Milt is not in a petting mood. Okay. Give up. I do.

Soupy says: You’ve got to put your hand on the edge of the cage.

I do, palm up.

Close it. Turn it. There you go.

I do this.

Otherwise he doesn’t know what you’ll do to him. Hold your hand there and let him come to you.

I make a try, but really can’t afford to hang around too long. There’s work to be done.

I’ll see you later, Milt, I say on my way out.

Thank you, Cash.

You’re welcome, Soupy.

What a boss. Where in hell was this guy when I had some real energy?—and dreams?—and gusto?—and. . . . This is the way it goes. At least I am here now, have a job here now, with this guy for an employer. So I thank every little bit, I thank the gods up there—as usual.

I realize this does not jibe with my downer thoughts while eating that slop at the all-you-can-eat diner, it does not co-inside with my attitude of yesterday. . . . I do what I can to be fair in all of my assessments. Some people you love, can relate to, can get along with . . . some, so many . . . you simply cannot relate to at all and wish you could stay the hell away from—always.

Kindness, in all its shapes and sizes has always gotten to my heart, my being (like that great line of Vivian Leigh’s character out of Streetcar . . .). No, not quite like that . . . acts of kindness, any kind, witnessed can and does get to me.

Sounds like a contradiction? Not really . . . not quite.

Chapter 4

Abner, good ol’ Abner, acting this day like a saint, a good guy. Yes, the kid has it in him (now and then). So what do you do? Treat him fairly. When he acts like a 23-year old he is just fine; it’s only when he behaves like an obnoxious two- year-old that he gets on everyone’s nerves.

So today he walks in with the cutest little black pup, a mix: half pug/half something else: a Japanese breed. Well, the kid was gentle with this dog he had paid two-hundred for. And how can you find fault with this expression of love, pure love on his part: he takes the dog with him in his car when he goes to buy his lunch; when he returns he feeds the dog a French fry or two, fills its water dish with clean water, pours dog chow in the other bowl.

The dog is a winner. Everyone cannot help but make a fuss, myself included. Makes me want to get a pup, but how? Two dogs in my yard would make a mighty big and endless racket. And am not so sure that Nellie would be kind to it (out of jealousy). Who knows?

It was a relatively slow day today. When the time came to make the 3:00 p.m. run to the post office Fyodor Kolinsky jumps in the pickup truck with me. He wants to drive the stick some more. He’s learning, but really not getting enough time behind the wheel. His shifting is rough, his clutch work unreliable and unpredictable. But I let him tag along. Why not?

Geronimo is there, the 28-year man (that’s how long he’s been with the PO). He’s 52 I find out today, but looks early 40s. He stamps my insured list, and we take off, with Fyodor in the driver’s seat. The first thing he has to do is move the seat up about half a foot. Christ, feels like my legs are being scrunched (is there such a word?). And we’re off.

Right from the beginning he is too quick to release the clutch and the engine dies. No problem. I keep it cool. Don’t wish to make him any more nervous than he already is. I remind him to go it slow as we pull out of the fenced yard, inch it out and into the street. We make it to the corner and I suggest that he shift into 2nd for the speed we’re going—and then (previous experience reminds me how tricky and on the dangerous side this intersection can be) we don’t have a stop sign to worry about, but the crossing street does—and that means that the other car(s) won’t necessarily pay heed to their stop sign. And sure enough, an old, old dude in a big, big Caddy doing about 20 miles per hour drives right on through.

I grunt, Fyodor swerves, and we make it across the intersection without a scratch. Good thing, too, because the old cat would have broadsided us on my side and would have done enough damage to finish off the small, 4-cylinder Toyota truck.

That was fuckin’ close, I sigh.

Yes, I know, says Fyodor. That is why I go around like that.

I don’t think that old man ever stopped.

I saw him, says Fyodor.

That intersection makes me nervous. People don’t always stop at that stop sign. What’re you gonna do?

Nothing to do but laugh it off.

We make it back. North on Oracle. Fyodor parks it near the warehouse entrance nice and easy. His father’s explanation for not showing up at the buffet yesterday is just this:

I busy.

You what, Yuri?

I busy.

You shit, too, I tell him.

"You bigger shit," says he. Again, I’m laughing.

You didn’t miss much. I then explain: I paid $7.63 and the food wasn’t all that great, either—with the exception of the roast beef.

My wife sick, he says. I go to school. Come home 12:30. . . .

Yeah, yeah. Excuses. I don’t really care. Some people you can’t depend on. Then Fyodor offers his reason for not showing up: I forget, Cash. I’m sorry. I forget.

Okay, guys. No big deal. And I’m not going back there. It was too crowded and too noisy, too expensive and not that great at all.

I didn’t tell them that I’d had the goddamn runs when I got back home, either. I didn’t feel like going into it. I never cared for eating out, to tell the truth.

Chapter 5

Not much to do but appear to be doing something. Invoice list for today had been short, same for Yuri. So we tease one another more than usual, we pet the pup, straighten tapes on the shelves or talk about books/writers/movies. The father does not know much about that stuff. It’s the son; Fyodor asks if I am aware of The Master and Margarita by a guy named Bulgakov. I know who he is talking about.

I hadn’t read it, I tell him. I ask if he has seen Giovinazzo’s Combat Shock (as I have the one sheet taped to the wall above my table). He hasn’t seen it. Nor is he aware of No Way Home, starring Tim Roth, one of the truly better indie films. I also, just today, pulled out the full page ad for a reissue of De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves. Ask Fyodor if he knows about it? Never saw it.

You’ve got to see it, man, I insist. They’re classics. All three.

I can’t recommend too many films, but these three for sure. Then thought of the great John Cassavetes: Woman Under the Influence/Minnie and Moskowitz/Husbands/Gloria/Faces. For a time in the late 70s, while also driving a cab at night, I’d managed to rent office space at a motion picture studio but a stone’s throw from Paramount. Not high end and/or anywhere in Paramount’s class or league, but it was a working motion picture facility where many a flick had been filmed, including the original Assault on Precinct 13.

Office space did not cost much to rent at the time, I was thrilled to be on the lot. For a while there, even thought (naively) I’d be able to get a project off the ground, but raising money was a tough hurdle to overcome for someone like me with a non-monied/non-connected background. I’d been approached by a mob front man at one time, looking to launder money, that I wasn’t interested in; another time the agent/manager for the main brain trust of a popular rock band came knocking: they’d finance if only I’d let his client (who weighed in excess of 250-pounds at the time) play the lead. The weight gain was not the only issue his client was battling, guy had flipped his noodle and even had a sandbox installed in the living room of his Bel Air mansion to help him create hit pop tunes. I said I didn’t think so.

I recalled seeing John Cassavetes walk past my office window and door on his way to his own bungalow across the narrow studio street one day. I had even sent him an invite to get together and talk shop, compare notes, etc. The man had responded with a brief note of his own: had graciously begged out of it due to being busy with his various projects.

I understood. He was 50 at the time, been there, done that, and I was a green kid in my 20s attempting (more like spinning my wheels) to get my maiden effort off the ground. I’d been able to keep the office going for a couple of years, and finally, the overhead pulled me under; I’d had to abandon the dream. It was not long after that I also had my heart shredded by a woman I loved more than anything in the world.

There is always that one. This was that one. (The wrong one that I had somehow convinced myself had been the right one—at the time.) Having come back from ‘Nam basically a zombie, dead inside & stayed that way for years and her love, no doubt, had had plenty to do in pulling me out of it. But it hadn’t been enough. Scars you can’t see, at times, are/can be tougher to deal and spar with than those that are visible. When we parted, my heart/soul/mind took a hard dive. The hardest depression that took ten effing years to snap out of. Go into it here? Now? Among strangers? Something as personal as this and how much the arts