All Leroy Pickler ever wanted was to be famous. He didn't care about anything else. He never cared much for school, and he dropped out when he was fifteen. His youth was spent playing his guitar to the country songs he wrote during the time he was supposed to be in school. He just knew that one day he'd make it big, even though nobody else except his second cousin Cullen even remotely thought he had a chance. After Cullen moved to Baltimore to get out of Paintlick, Kentucky, it suddenly dawned on Leroy that in order to make it big he'd have to get himself known by folks other than his 3-5 supporters in Paintlick. One morning he decided he was ready to get out of Paintlick for his first time, and knew the only place for him to go was to go live with Cullen in Baltimore. He was sure he wouldn't mind. He had mentioned having an empty couch in his last letter. He heard him talk about some bar, and Leroy knew it'd be a great place to start his gig. Leroy wanted to make a life for himself other than taking over the family farm and he knew if he stayed longer, he'd be sucked in. He hopped on a greyhound in his overalls with his guitar and the little money he had, and headed for Baltimore without a bone of regret in his body. He walked on the bus and put the coins he had in the slot.
"Mornin' sir!" Leroy said as he tipped his cowboy hat to the bus driver. "The name's Leroy. Leroy Pickler. I'm headed to Baltimore to see my cousin and to start up my singin career. You know, you sure are nice to be driving us folks around like this. I sure don't know how in heck I'd be gettin' all the way up there without---"
"Have a seat!" Said the aggrivated bus driver. "We won't be gettin nowhere with you wasting mine and everybody else's time like this."
"Well sorry, sir. You sure are right but there's no need to get yer boxers in a bunch. After all, you are talkin to Leroy Pickler. I'm 'bout to be famous ya know. Oh, and here's where i'ma headin." He handed the driver an old envelope from one of Cullen's letters with the return address of apt. #808 of Washington Heights in Baltimore. He took a seat somewhat confused as to why the driver not to mention everyone was looking at him so funny. He was in for an awakening. He was venturing out of the walls of the pretty and friendly little town of Paintlick. He couldn't have been more ready to get out, though. He was just ready to start on his road to stardom. When the bus stopped hours later in front of Washington Heights, Leroy simply continued to stare out the window patiently waiting for his stop.
"Here ya are Leroy!" The driver chucked. "It's your stop!"
Leroy just laughed. There was no way it was his.
"Get out."
Leroy stepped out onto the dumpy street and stared up at the worn out building. It's not exactly what he pictured. But then again, he'd never seen much of anything but Paintlick so he didn't know what to picture. He wasn't quite a fan of elevators, so he took eight flights up the cruddy stairs to #808, he was ready to say hello to his cousin he hadn't seen in years, but even more ready to hurry and find out where this bar was. He just knew he would be an instant hit. After all, who wouldn't like Leroy Pickler?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Leroy Pickler Apt. 808
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i sit for more hours than i can count and listen to the creeping and swimming and living and unliving THINGS outside of my window. i look on my bookshelf trying to distract myself from the din and see the last books in the world. the king james bible and the time-life encyclopedia (barnacle through corinthian) and a book of my own philosophical musings and annotated clippings from the message-bearing papers and this diary into which i am writing and other things. but THEY are still slithering along the window and i can still hear THEM as THEY scream. i don't feel like working but i suppose that it is the best way to drown out the sounds. after as many years of labor for god as i have, i can retreat into my own world, seperate from the death songs that THEY make.
i go to the cabinet and open it and look inside and inside i see that there are still nine hundred and six meals-ready-to-eat on the bottom shelf. i stocked up on them before the world was over. other people come in with food sometimes but it it is not real food it was made after the world ended. i look on the top shelf and take down the box. i put it down on the table with the still and hear it clink as i set it down. looking inside i see that one of the bottles of cough syrup still has a label on it so i peel it off and save it to burn it later. i told that idiot a thousand times to remove everything but the bottle and the essence of what is inside. i take the things out one at a time and then i turn around. there is an old record player from the world that i turn on. as the arm sets down i set to work. i am in my own world and can barely even hear THEM as god bless america begins to play. i forget what happened next because when you work as long as i have been doing then things become automatic. when i am awake, i smell something like paint stripper and hold a large bag filled with white rocks that look grey because i cant take off my sunglasses ever. i smile because the things that are outside are all dead and evil and gone but i have brought them into existance in the forms of these rocks that some people call meth but that i call soul in purest form. THEY are silent for now. i go outside to give them to the people who hoard souls for the lord.
as i go down the stairs to the third floor i see someone i have never seen before. he is looking confused and looks like the people that they used to call hillbillies when there were hills. he turns to me and asks which floor is eight oh eight on because he can't find it. i tell him that he is looking for a dead apartment an apartment where the window has been open and the people inside have been devoured in a flood of the outside. he looks at me and gets close to the wall and moves away. he seems confused and tell him again but louder this time. he is frightened because he knows that this is the truth and i know that he knows. his family or apartment or anything in eight oh eight is dead and has been dead for many years. i take pity on him and tell him that he can stay in a room on the eighth floor that is still protected if it will remind him of his home. he says thank you and runs up the stairs. i can only feel sad at his loss.
i go to room three oh seven and knock twice. the door is not made out of wood like the others but it is made of steel and has a peephole. i can only assume that the poor person inside has a diseas of some kind or is shy. it is a shame when people dont try to be neighborly. there is no answer so i knock again this time louder and feel my hand ache. a door at the bottom slides open and i put the bag inside the room. i wait a minute and pick up an enevelope that slides out from under the door and open it and take out the green paper that used to be called money. i don't use it for much, so i give it to the landlord sometimes when he askes me for it because i am kind and feel sorry for him with his fatness and plodding manner and stench. i can give it to him because he is good despite his problems but sometimes people who are not people but are actually THEY who have shaped THEMSELVES into the figures of men will plead for my money or will offer to do vile things and i push at them and yell at them to leave and tell them that this is a holy place and they have no power over me here. once one of THEM tried to seduce me in the stairwell and i pushed at THEM and THEY fell down the stairs and were still and i knew that i had done a good thing.
Mamie Wainwright- Through a shrouded lens
Some new boy got off the bus today. I haven't seen him around here before. All I know is he looked lost. He just stepped right off the bus and stood there for a minute or two like he didn't quite know what to make of this building. I must admit it shocked me at first; it's one of those places where you know its bad going in, but you're never quite prepared enough.
Anyway, he reminded me of a kangaroo. You see, there's this book about a kangaroo named Katy, who has no pocket, and she doesn't know what to do with her baby. She tries putting him on her back, but he falls off when she hops, and he's too slow to keep up. He's always left behind.
I sometimes feel like that. And this boy reminded me of that feeling-staring dazedly up at this massive mausoleum. After all, fourteen floors of filth and decay is quite a sight. Me, I prefer the view from above. On days like today, I get bored and just need someone to watch. I take the elevator up to the roof and look down on the dilapidated buildings that stretch as far as my rheumatic eyes can see.
It was pitch black outside by the time Henry was ready to leave. He had finished assembling himself. Tonight, he was wearing a knee-length wool skirt, light orange with off-white polka-dots all over it. He wore a modest off-white blouse, under which he'd donned his bra, a Wonderbra that had enough air and liquid inside it to create a substantial chest from nothing. Since the nights had become cooler, he decided to wear off-white tights over his freshly-shaved legs. Instead of a jacket, he'd gathered an orange shawl around his shoulders to keep himself warm. He wore pearl posts in his ears and a pearl necklace around his neck, which matched the off-white of the shirt and polka-dots. To top it all off, he put on his new brown leather boots with the one-inch block heel. As always, he had pinned his light brunette wig securely into place. Wouldn't want to lose that, after all.
Picking up his brown purse, he looked out the peephole of his door to make sure no one was around. He opened the door and stepped out.
He was no longer Henry. In fact, her name was Dorothy.
Dorothy began the descent down the grungy stairs and after eleven flights, walked out onto the street. She was greeted by a harsh rush of cold air that make her hair blow and her shawl whip in the wind. Dorothy turned and walked down the street. It was barely a block to The Bar, but by the time she got there, she was frozen stiff. She was immediately greeted by the loud shrieking of a microphone. She whipped her head over towards the front of the bar – there wasn't much of a stage, just a space – and saw a young boy in a cowboy hat sitting down in a chair with a guitar. She walked over to an empty seat at the bar and sat down. The bartender recognized her. "Good evening, Miss Dorothy," he said. "I supposed you'll be having the usual cosmopolitan tonight?" Dorothy replied, and the bartender started mixing her drink. The bartender had no idea who Dorothy was – for all he knew, she was the nice lady he saw a few nights a week. And he never saw her during the day.
Before the bartender finished making the drink, the young boy on the stage started talking. "Excuse me, everyone – I'm Leroy Pickler, new in town, just got off the Greyhound bus yesterday, straight up from Paintlick, Kentucky. I'm tryin' to make my way best I can as a country singer, so if you'll be obliged to drop any tips right here in this bucket, I'd be real thankful." Leroy held up a dirty old paintbucket and placed it at his feet. When he looked up, he met eyes with Dorothy. He gave her a strange look before breaking eye contact and looking down at his guitar. "This song here's for my mama," he said. "I just know someday I'm gonna make her so proud."
Leroy began his song. It was a twangy country song, the kind like Dorothy's own mother used to listen to. Dorothy hated anything that reminded her of her mother. After the first song was over and he began the second one, Dorothy couldn't take it. She got up, threw a five dollar bill on the table and left her bright pink cosmopolitan sitting there, unfinished.
Grumble.
I cannot imagine a time where I've been hungrier in my entire life. I think this is the third... no, fourth meal in a row that I have gone without.
Grumble.
"Yes, yes, I heard you the last five-hundred times," I replied.
Grumble.
"Please, go bother someone else! I've had enough of you!"
Grumble?
"Beat it!"
And just like that, it stopped. It was as if my stomach had given up on the thought of food, as if it knew that its pleas were useless. Now I walked in complete lonely silence down the street. It wasn't long before I started to miss the heated conversation I had with my belly. It even got to the point where I begged it to grumble just so I could have someone to talk to--to share my misery with.
A totally unexpected response occurred: Meow.
I gasped, afraid I had finally descended into the realm of insanity, but was relieved to see that behind me stood a small kitten. It was now that my stomach decided to re-enter the conversation, but this time, I only heard its low voice shout "Get him!" At that moment, I pounced at the cat, completely controlled by my starvation, yet the cat had sensed that something was strange and quickly evaded my grasp.
"Get back here!" I shouted, sprinting down the street after it. As I ran, I bent down and grabbed a handful of rocks, throwing one after the other at the bite-sized kitten. One actually managed to hit its target on the bounce, but the kitten survived the attack unscathed and scampered off into the graveyard. I stopped and gasped for air, disappointed that along with breakfast, an opportunity for lunch had been missed as well.
However, not long after I had caught my breath, I noticed a crowd of men outside the bakery across the street. They weren't very spectacular men, to be honest. Many had tattoos littered across their bodies and none of them looked very intelligent (trust me, when you walk the streets as much as I do, its an easy trait to spot in people).
Out of curiosity, I made my way over to the crowd to see what was going on. It was rather funny, because no one really seemed to notice me since I blended in so well. Before I could ask someone why there was a gathering, a man with a tense expression on his face (most likely the baker) opened the door to the bakery and beckoned the group in. Given this opportunity, I would have swiped some bread, had the baker not given me a loaf free of charge.
The group followed the baker into a different room, so I quickly took my leave, unnoticed and bread in hand. I was so excited that I almost dropped the loaf in the middle of the street! (Not that it would have mattered, I would have eaten it anyway!) I sunk my teeth into the hard crust and almost cried out for joy as the warm bread descended my throat to my deprived stomach, who no longer moaned continuously.
With high spirits, I walked back towards the park. The bus was just arriving at the bus stop, and only one man got off. He wore a cowboy hat with blue overalls and held a guitar in his right hand, displaying an extremely quirky smile across his face.
Its that kind of personality that gets you screwed in this city, I thought to myself. I wouldn't be surprised if I saw him out here on the streets sometime soon.
Without taking time for a second thought, I chomped into my bread and aimlessly continued walking down the streets of Washington Heights.
Cat Returns
I cannot take this much longer. What is it about that voice that does it? Perhaps the frequency or certain vibrational tone adversely effect my spiral ganglion. I should be observing without audio reception but I wished to test the microphone I painstakenly placed. Of course, he let me in the apartment, I being under the guise of a Mr. Axel Big Star. Never the less, it was still difficult to find a location with the most auditorial feedback. I really should have Brone take a second go through on the apartments I have checked, there should be footage of every room, otherwise it is as good as pointless...Ugh...Why on earth did I put it in his apartment, i'm fairly sure he is one of the few residents who does not indulge in criminal activity. Why on earth would a person who wants to become famous come to the ghetto...Is that my only motivation of suspicion?
"Yare yare." How boring, are there no cases which should baffle an intellect of a normal person, let alone myself? Perhaps I should have thought out this "tour" a bit more. That man really is going to get me killed. Speaking of which...
Clunk Clunk Clunk.
Someone is passing by? Let me see...interesting, it has changed again.
Knock Knock.
Perhaps I should give him his own key, he doesn't deal well with closed do---
BAM!
Am I dead? I feel no outer pain, of course that doesn't mean anything. The door was blown clean off its henges, perhaps an explosive? No, not loud enough, an extreme show of force only. I definitely dislike this complex. Was I wrong? Perhaps I have been discovered...Why is it so black? Of course, the door is on top of me, as well as something else from the shifting weight i'm feeling on my stomache.
"Yo, Michael you still alive?"
Nothing but a ne'er-do-well. Bum. Idler. Lazybones. Loafer. Sloucher. Wastrel. Ass. Brute...My legs should have sufficient strength to return the door. So-re, Once is once.
BAM.
Blocked it, of course he did. He has training in multiple fields of martial arts and combat, just a small revenge on my part.
“Brone, I was quite certain it was you.”
“Oh? How could you tell?”
“Your shoes make a unique sound against the tile in the hall. Along with the frequency of your step and knowledge of your usually languid stride I would say you are exactly 6 feet and 3/8ths of an inch tall. Strange, did you grow an eighth of an inch this week?”
“Hah, maybe. Here take this, a gift from me to you.”
A small furry beast launched from his hand to attack my face...Assasination? Oh, it's heavy, a very nice piece for a women who "stuffs while you wait."
“Expertly crafted, done quickly but no mistakes, this is the work of Miss Victoria Lampshade.”
“So that’s her name, listen I need to know where there’s gambling nearby.”
“There are precisely eight places within a 100 mile radius, six of them illegal.”
“Just gimmie the closest.”
“Oscars Butchery, password 'new york strip,' the entry fee is 50 dollars. Why? Must you indulge in the cheap thrill of losing money for nothing too?”
“You know me; my eyes are too sharp to lose. Besides, the thief, eyes like the bluest ocean, will appear with the rolling dice.”
Is that someone I should know about? Don't look at me with a face that says I should know everything that some mystic predicts. I can only think of 17 people with blue eyes at the moment in this town. I'm not so greedy that I won't give you your little amusement, I should make a face of puzzlement.
“Chow.”
What do you mean, "chow?" fix this right away, I can't leave with all of this equipment in such a dangerous and unguarded complex. He left. Chasing his own bounties again? I'm fairly sure I have marked all the appropriate targets out for him, the others should only leave an negative effect on his wallet. Oh well. I suppose I shall have to call in someone to get me a better door, or does the Super take care of such matters. Anyhow I do not plan to leave this room without proper security...Perhaps...In a ritualistic fashion for those known to worship idols, this squirrel statue's spirit or soul may guard over this room. Unfortunately I have no reason to start thinking about religion or souls at the moment, that movie was quite interesting though...
Hm? An animal has found it's way to the second floor. A squirrel looking for it's lost sibling perhaps? How sad. Oh, a cat. A Tickled Tabby, perhaps? The sandish tan coloring and triangular pointed ear structure are similar. Emerald eyes. How strange, he looks to be the living equivalent of the character. What is this, he is staring at me. Ah of course, staring is considered a threat to animals, perhaps he is waiting for me to blink. I should, naturally cats inner eyelids should allow them to not blink much longer than a human. It's been about five minutes now, is there something he wants in my doorway? Ah, the squirrel would arouse the animals primal instincts, even if it is stuffed. Oh. He blinked first. He seems to be approaching me, does this cat agree with the unspoken rules of a staring game, submitting to the winner? Cat's are much more agreeable than dogs, they are quiet and watch things carefully. They know when to act and when to wait and watch. They have little habits that help them think, how adorable. To think that something would need a distraction to-
BSHAAA.
...My puzzle. The cat seems to have invited itself into my house as a guest...It is a better prospect than to imagine it sold as a paperweight at the stand outside. Perhaps I shall let it stay, of course a cat has the freedom to wander off on its own. Now let me see, which phone did I use to dial for...Ah. Let me just order a new door...
"This is Rue Kamina, A new door and titanium boltings are required."
"Yes, today."
"My associate."
"Thank you."
It is good to know that I still have credablity, or is it that I know things about people? It does not matter...A name should be appropriate if I ever wish to locate the cat again. Hm..........
"Baron Humbert von Gikkigen."
Oh, he has ruined a stack of papers. I forgot about the care a pet needs. Brone will definitely reimburse me for both of these problems.
"Hi, can I get you something?" Mandi asked the man in a button-up, plaid shirt with a cowboy hat on.
"Well hey there...uh...uh... Mandi," Leroy Pickler said as he squinted to read Mandi's diner tag pinned on the upper corner of her red uniform. "It's nice to meet you, my names Leroy, Leroy Pickler."
"You can call me Mac, is there anything I can get you sir?"
"Well there Mac, I'll have a sweet tea with an extra bowl of lemons."
"Sorry sir, we don't serve sweet tea up here."
"Don't serve no sweet tea? Dag nabit! Well then I guess just a coffee for now."
Mandi walked to the back of the diner and grabbed the burgers for table 8. She dropped them off at the table and headed back over to the coffee machine looking at the ticking clock on the wall. 6:57. She'd been working about 12 hours now and only had 4 more to go.
At 11:05 Mandi clocked out and grabbed her ham and swiss melt to-go. "Night Sammy," she said to the little old man sweeping the floors. She walked outside, dark again. Working as much as she did she barely ever saw the daylight except from through the plastic blinds of the five diner windows.
Mandi breathed heavily as she rounded the corner of the sixth floor. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Seven. She flung open the door and walked down the hallway, figiting in her purse to find her key.
"Yeah!! Get 'em!" She heard her dad scream through the door as she jangled her keys in the lock. The door creaked open, only for mandi to find a knocked over beer can pyramid, and her dad in the recliner, beer in hand, screaming at a fuzzy wrestling match on the 13 inch TV. All Mandi wanted to do was walk past him, sit in her bedroom to eat her already-cold sandwhich, and attempt to get some rest; but the "What the hell are you doin'?" grunted from her dad stopped her in her tracks.
"What do you mean where have I been? The diner," she said as she rolled her eyes.
"Well where da hell is my dinner? And where have you been all night, damnit?" he slurred. "Yeah!! Come on!" He returned his attention to the fake wrestling.
Mandi turned and continued walking towards her room, she figured he was too drunk and into the wrestling to even care.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to you! Walk off on me, after not being here all day and night, make me worry bout you."
"Ya right like you worry about me, I'm going to sleep." Mandi took another step away and her dad pushed himself up off the recliner and stumbled towards her, stepping on several beer cans. Crunch. Clank.
"I said I was talkin to you!" He grabbed her wrist with a strong grip and pulled her back so she whipped around dropping her to-go bag from the diner. Mandi said nothing in response, she just stared up into his fading eyes with a fear of this reoccuring scene. "Now when I'm talkin to you, you answer me damnit! Who tha hell do you think you are anyways, you're just like that damn mother of yours."
"Don't you dare talk about my momma like that. She was too good..." Mandi's yelling was quickly stopped when the sticky hand swiped accross her face. Nothing else needed to be said. She picked up her to-go back and walked to her room. He wiped his mouth and returned to the recliner. The fuzzy TV lit the apartment, and yelling of fans echoed through the night. She knew that's exactly what a coment like that was asking for, but she couldn't let him talk about her like that.
The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.
505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.
Taste of Peace
It was a early frigid morning in Baltimore, but despite the weather and my location I was in a good mood. I had my coffee in one hand and my blueberry muffin in the other.
Shop owners were already out beginning their day of business, and even the new guy Leroy Pickler was out and about. I walked to work every morning and home every night. In this town nothing’s ever too far a walk. I was walking past the Smarta station when…
“Good morning Ms. Evans, how are ya ?” an officer yelled from across the street.
“Mornin, Officer Seebach!” I replied.
The police department and the clinic work almost side by side, the station was just right next door. Just about every victim of violence comes to the clinic for help. Every time a victim comes in, I call Officer Seebach so he can make the report.
Officer Seebach walked into the precinct and I went into the clinic. It was amazing how the clinic was so peaceful every morning considering what all goes on everyday. Not only do the less fortunate people come in to get tested and treated for disease, but the homeless come in as well… And believe me, poor and homeless entails just about everybody here! As I sat at my desk thinking about all the things I had scheduled today, I took bites of my muffin and sipped my coffee. . .Ah perfect
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