Savage Days Haunted Nights

By Bennett Kremen

Dorian, a bright, forceful young dreamer, drops out of high school on Chicago's notorious Old West Side, a victim of dyslexia. They were called then simply dummies. And an angry Dorian's quickly falling in with other defiant dropouts, many violent, roaming the dark back streets of the West Side, taking crap from nobody. Gradually, they end up ha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Vision Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781960946508

Book preview

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

To Jeanette, who helped so much, and Reva, who gave me the strength.

Special thanks to Donald Davidson, Olivera Sajkovic, Nick Snapir Dave Church, and Diane Martin

Chapter One

Dorian’s father was no doubt a dreamer and gave him that unusual name, hoping evidently for something unusual from him. He seems to have succeeded. Yes, Dorian’s always had wild ideas. Many crash in ultimate defeat. Yet they keep coming, a few taking hold with such force they can’t be denied, keeping Dorian laboring often through the night on stories, essays, poems, or impassioned mixtures of them all. But regardless of many knowledgeable people showing respect for his efforts and despite some recognition for this in the past, most publications, large and small, keep turning him down. His steadfast consolation’s an ironic shrug. Guess I’m just one of a hundred million other unknown geniuses. Idiots describe it better.

Whether amused or bitter, or sometimes in a rapture of both, Dorian, in his mid forties and just beginning to gray, keeps on struggling with his restless imagination as he’s done for twenty-five years, not knowing what nor wanting to do anything else.

Ahh, not quite. Wouldn’t mind being the King of Siam.

Short of that wry notion, his thoughts simply keep racing on, their urgency a life raft keeping him from sinking in a howling sea of meaninglessness. Indeed, just this evening, he’d captured another flashing idea and is rereading it intensely.

CONVINCED OF ETERNITY

Suddenly in summer haze

When eyelids laze

And the heartbeat’s

Convinced of its Eternity,

An artery

Shatters!

Ha! They’ll never publish that! But Dorian’s breathing deep with satisfaction as he’s putting these words into an envelope then hurrying down to Third Avenue, where he drops them into a mailbox, thoroughly pleased.

II

A clear, cloudless night’s descending on Manhattan, and its bright sky’s blanching the endless towers up and down Third Avenue as Dorian’s strolling through the soft April breeze filled with pleasure at those unsettling words he’d just sent off and wondering at the nervous surprise they might cause at yet another august journal. And why not? Plunge the truth to the heart like a dagger! Could make someone hurry up and live a little. This has him ready to hurry back to his desk, eager again to wrestle with other churning thoughts, some fermenting in his mind for years. But no, the air’s just too clear, the evening too fine, and he continues walking down the busy avenue, still savoring his night’s work, which is making everything look a bit better, especially the women strolling close by, who’ve proudly shed their winter clothing and are out bra less tonight in light sweaters, heading for the crowded bars on every corner. But then, near Sully’s Pub, his favorite, Dorian’s suddenly staring ahead in alarm. Damn it! Why’d I go this way! Yeah, there’s Frankie D in his gold chains, standing outside the bar, sneering as Dorian continues approaching too late to turn away.

Hey, look who’s here, Frankie says, bristling with sarcasm. Tryin’ t’ dodge me, eh?

Don’t flatter yourself, Dorian snaps back, fighting an urge to grab the man by his throat.

Flatter—oh, that’s good.

Uh-huh, flatter. Never heard that word?

Frankie’s eyes are glowering, and his voice turns low and ominous. Ohhh, I got a nice word for you too. Crippled! How’s that, writer boy?

Dorian’s teeth are grinding with disgust.

Cut this Capone shit, Frankie. You’ll get your stinkin’ money.

Yeah, Frankie snarls. Like when?

Like when I got it.

Stop jerkin’ me around, ya asshole!

Watch your mouth! Dorian hisses, his face moving dangerously close to Frankie’s, who’s leaning back with surprise. Dorian’s speaking slowly now, very slowly, emphasizing every word. I’m from Chicago. Didn’t I tell ya that, Frankie? The old West Side. That was Capone territory for real. Don’t you mess with me, man!

Dorian swivels around and at once starts walking away, leaving Frankie standing bewildered and motionless. Writer boy, eh! But not halfway down the block, Dorian’s trembling and goes rushing on shaky legs back to his apartment. Yes, Frankie could have him killed in a minute.

III

Ahh, money, money, money, the bitch! Ya can never get enough of her! Though this has always been his worry, it’s become worse for Dorian now more than ever, especially since Ana, who he’s lived with for years, just left him two weeks ago. Surely, the crushing despair at her walking out and the loss of a financial arrangement they’ve long had helped drive him to that insane loan from Frankie, fifteen thousand dollars with a wicked 25 percent vig every month and staggering payments every week. The very moment he felt that money in his hand, Dorian knew how stupid this was. For sure, he had more than ample reason to know better yet felt strangely compelled to do this. But the refrigerator was, in fact, almost bare, the rent long overdue; and though aching for Ana to call and tell him all’s well and she’s hurrying back, it’s just not happening.

For years, they’ve been doing flea markets together based solely on her genius for finding things to sell. He rents the truck and does the lifting, and she pulls in the money and does it quite well while he sits beside her, jotting in his notebooks. And somehow, they manage. Without her, forget it. Nor can he do without her strength either or her invaluable counsel. Recently, he’s gotten day work, some here, some there. But that’s only spotty. Every day since she’s left, he’s guarded every penny he has, not knowing where the next one’s coming from. For more than a week, he’s given nothing to Frankie, forcing Dorian into this unmitigated hell with every day becoming more dangerous than the last.

This afternoon, when not brooding over Ana’s absence or his misery with Frankie D, Dorian’s at his desk, trying to lose himself in the deeper thoughts he’s been struggling with for years, like the basis of moral behavior having nothing to do with God, which he’s long obsessed over. And he has reason to, having struggled with these questions drastically at times with even life and death itself at stake. Fortunately though, his writing right now is proving mostly a relief. And he’s keeping at it full-bore until twilight and the phone starts ringing.

Hey Dorry! So you’re still with us! I didn’t know whether to call you or the funeral home.

Danny Riordan’s familiar voice is on the line, and despite his colorful, New York sarcasm, there’s no mistaking his alarm.

You’re not getting rid of me that easily, old buddy, Dorian says with forced bravado to this highly regarded man he’s bantered with happily in the neighborhood for years.

Don’t bet on it, Dorry.

Hearing this from one of the shrewdest men and horse bettors on the East Side leaves Dorian speechless. Riordan’s never one to mince words and is always worth listening to.

For the love of Christ, I can’t believe you did that to Frankie. Everybody saw it! Are you completely nuts?

Danny, I’m taking the fifth on that one, Dorian says uneasily.

Good. At least you know you’re fucken crazy. Listen, Frankie can’t lay off you anymore, even if you pay him everything. It doesn’t matter now. He’s gotta save face in front of everyone. You can’t just get out of this one. Never.

Oh, man, there’s gotta be a way.

Sure, maybe Einstein could figure it out

Danny, please! Think of something.

Hey, you should’ve done some thinking yourself. Why the hell did you do that to Frankie?

Who knows? Dorian says. I’m still trying to figure it out myself. And he’s laughing grimly. Guess I didn’t have anything better to do that night.

Danny’s amused despite himself and laughing too. "You’re a pisser, Dorry. A one in a million screwball.

No doubt about it."

IV

For three days, Dorian doesn’t dare leave his apartment, and only today starts washing his clothes in the bathtub and, with the cupboard bare, ordering up food from the corner bodega. When Gilberto, the Mexican deliveryman, shows up, he warns Dorian nervously that strange men are sitting in a car across the street, watching his building. Dorian, though worried too, pats this burly illegal from Chihuahua gratefully on his sturdy shoulder and hands him an extra five dollars.

"Don’t worry, Gilberto. No te preoccups, okay?"

Gilberto, though smiling broadly as he’s leaving with the extra money, pauses still quite concerned, his smile disappearing. Uh-uh. Not too many gringos in the neighborhood know his name, let alone speak to him in Spanish—or at all.

"Mr. Dorian, un amigo mio, he got one of these! And Gilberto’s fiercely waving his hand in the air, designating a brandished pistol. Want I should get it for you?"

Although truly moved, Dorian’s turning the offer down with a vigorous shake of the head.

Didn’t your mama tell ya not to play with those things?

"Sure. Seguro, Gilberto says, grinning once more as he steps toward the door but is soon waving his hand menacingly in the air one last time. Don’t forget, if you need it, mano, you got it."

V

A one in a million screwball. Danny got that right! Why’d I bug Frankie like that? It was so stupid! So dumb…DUMB DORRY! My God! Remember that? And Dorian’s seized now by searing memories of his first devastating day in kindergarten, when Mrs. Mahoney, his sharp-faced teacher with thin, pale lips, snaps up a flash card asking unexpectedly,

Who knows what this says?

And Dorian’s watching this in breathtaking confusion as hands go shooting up all around the room.

I know! I know! half the children are blurting out. And one boy jumps triumphantly to his feet.

COW! It says COW!

Very good, Edward, Mrs. Mahoney responds, and her satisfied smile only fills Dorian with mounting dread. Cow? Cow? How’d he know that? How!

Mrs. Mahoney’s handing the cards to Edward now and pointing to the class.

Give everyone a word, dear.

When Edward, bold and strutting, finally reaches him, Dorian’s looking away in a rush of shame, for the stark, black letters filling his card are telling him nothing, though eager hands are shooting up again everywhere.

What does your card say, Steven?

CAT! Steven calls out proudly, scrambling up from his seat, almost hurting himself. I got a real cat, teacher!

Very nice, Steven. You can sit down.

Now suddenly, Mrs. Mahoney’s pointing to the blue-eyed girl with the long, silky curls sitting near Dorian, whose heart, despite his anguish, is fluttering giddily as he watches her rising gracefully from her chair.

Yes, Marilyn. What’s your card say?

HAT, she swiftly replies, her quiet assurance filling Dorian with shame and a strange, shadowy longing.

Very good, young lady.

Now the words are coming faster. And despite Dorian’s slouching down and closing his eyes so hard he’s seeing stars, it happens.

What’s your card say, Dorian?

And Dorian’s clamping his blinking eyes shut in crushing disgrace as the rest of the class is waiting in excruciating silence.

Oh, I’m disappointed, Mrs. Mahoney says at last.

And a devastating snickering goes rippling through the room, leaving Dorian smitten with secret sobs, his face buried in his arms until the dismissal bell begins ringing mercifully.

VI

Something’s terribly wrong with him, terribly, yes! And Dorian, still stunned, knows it as he’s leaving the school, tears stinging down his face—but is trying in sudden panic to hide it when he spots Herschel, his older brother, staring at him with a curious smile across the noisy schoolyard as Edward from Mrs. Mahoney’s class whispers something in his ear. And soon Herschel’s laughing outright, then waving over his friends and cronies, who quickly gather around him laughing too. Then with Herschel in the lead, they start racing gleefully straight toward a bewildered Dorian, twisting left and right, searching desperately for a way around them. But too late. They’re already closing in, their voices shrill, their faces flushed.

Hey, there he is. Little dumb-dumb!

Uh-uh! Wait. Herschel insists, snapping up his hand, silencing everyone. He’s not dumb. He’s stupid!

No! No! Dorian’s screaming, too shattered even for tears. I ain’t stupid! I ain’t!

Sure. You’re right, Herschel says with slow, mocking sympathy. Dumb’s better.

And his cronies, convulsing with laughter, begin pressing in closer and closer.

DUMB DORRY! Yeah, that’s it!

And they’re chanting it, louder and louder, DUMB DORRY! DUMB DORRY! DUMB DORRY! until the blood’s pounding dizzily through Dorian’s head. And he’s all at once in a savage swoon, lunging straight at them, his arms exploding, his fingers yanking hair and teeth and flesh until their eyes are leaping suddenly wide with surprise as he’s crashing half crazed through their grasping hands, running for his life.

VII

Dorian doesn’t say a word to his mother that day, or the next, though school’s become torture and Herschel never stops taunting him. Why didn’t I give him a fucken whack there and then? Here I am standing up to Frankie but took that miserable shit from Herschel. Dorian’s sitting ruefully now in his apartment in New York, his lips tight and furious, shaking his head futilely. Ahh, I was only five. Come on! Even later, though, at seven years old, cries of DUMB DORRY, sure enough, kept haunting him until one fiercely frigid day while they’re shoveling away mountains of snow in front of their house after a battering Chicago storm, Herschel lets him have it.

You’re goin’ too damn slow, ya dumb-dumb!

Exploding in mind-numbing fury, Dorian flings his shovel right at Herschel’s head, the flat end landing with a sickening thud. And though Herschel’s eyes are rolling dizzily, he remains standing and, when the shock fades, comes crouching low and ominous straight toward Dorian, whom, though trembling through and through, snatches up the shovel, swinging it up wildly at Herschel, rearing back, eyes ablaze in fear. And never, never is DUMB DORRY heard again.

VIII

But it’s echoing on, nonetheless, year after year in one damning report card after another and in many dreaded letters to his mother, most of them abashed at his not learning to read and his growing restlessness. Just after his fourteenth birthday, another devastating letter arrives, this time from his eighth-grade teacher and the shock and anguish seizing his mother’s face as she reads this one is overwhelming, sending Dorian fleeing into the bathroom, where he locks the door and, pressing his eyes tight in despair, just waits. But not for long.

"You’re nicsht gudt. Like a bum, she’s yelling through the door between wrenching sobs. You didn’t even go to the school. Mein Gott! Twenty-six days you don’t go. And then her voice turns hoarse with fear. Vere in the velt do you go. Gottenu! Vere?"

Though shattered by her tears, Dorian sits paralyzed on the toilet, saying nothing.

"Gott is mad at me, she’s wailing now. Tell me, mama meina, vat did I do? Vhy is Gott mad at me?"

Please, Mama, please, Dorian’s imploring, God’s not mad at ya!

But this is only intensifies her grief and Dorian, unable to face her even for a second, is staying stubbornly where he is, though she’s pleading, exhausted now,

Come out. Come outta there.

No, Ma. Go away. Then I’ll come out.

But she keeps knocking, beseeching him again and again to come out as he’s pacing back and forth, squirming in the narrow bathroom until he hears someone coming into the apartment then his mother lumbering away, still crying.

What’s the matter, Mom? Herschel’s calling out in distress. And his urgency sends Dorian bolting from the steamy bathroom straight to the front door, where Herschel, flushed and irate, blocks his way.

You made Mom cry. You did it again.

Get outta my way.

Where the hell ya goin’?

None of your business.

It’s my business all right, Herschel says, jutting out his chest even more.

Let me by! Dorian hisses and pushes forward so hard Herschel rears back wide-eyed. Then in a blink, Dorian’s rushing coatless out into the lonely street with his mother’s frantic voice painfully chasing after him.

"Vere’s he going? No! Oiy gevalt. Stop him!"

IX

Oh poor Mama, he’s recalling now. She had plenty to worry about. So did I. Because just as he’s breaking away from his house on that cold Chicago day, he’s vowing, over and over, I’m not going back. No! I’m not. No! then begins racing through the back alleys of the West Side toward half deserted playgrounds and dingy pinball arcades, searching in desperation for Little Tommy Sorrentino, another eighth-grade scholar who was unable to read. All the others in the class like Edward and Steven are scared stiff of him. And for good reason. One wrong word to Tommy, who’s not little at all, and you’d get your nose bashed in but good. Yet he always treats Dorian just fine, especially on report card days. Still, Tommy’s scary all right, like when without warning he’s snatching a case of Pepsi right off a truck unloading at a tough guy bar near the rail yards, leaving Dorian looking over his shoulder, trembling. Are we really doin’ this? But those Pepsis are tasting so, so good, especially after they’re gleefully cutting another stupid class, then running like hell all morning long away from a huffing puffing truant officer. Tommy, what a crazy kid! But he didn’t care if I could read or not. Ha! Dyslexia! Who ever heard of that back then? Nobody. We were just dummies!

With his lungs heaving, his legs aching to the bone, Dorian keeps running pitilessly on from one noisy hangout to another, some many blocks away, but with no luck. Tommy’s nowhere to be found, though it’s already getting dark, filling Dorian with deep unease. Banishing even the thought of going back home and with no choice, he starts dashing nervously toward a place he’s never dared to go—the old Greek’s Sweet Shop under the El at Fifth Avenue and Crawford, where the roughest crowd in the neighborhood, some his own age, mill restlessly about all day and often late into the night. Just looking at one of them slightly askance is an unmistakable danger. And just across the street from the Greek’s, Dorian spots at least ten of them, some leaning against cars, others against a brick wall and all are watching with cold contempt every confused step he’s taking toward them. But it’s too late. And he’s blundering on right into their midst, frantic for someone to turn to but is instead facing the meanest eyes he’s ever seen as one of them, only a few years older, leans sharply toward him.

What the fuck do ya want?

Wait, please! Dorian cries, swinging up an open hand protectively in front of his