By the Urban Surrealist
>>> Unedited
transcript, deleted *** digital postmark 2.4 – (organic: rad) 707 BEGIN >>>
00:00:00:00 A
singularity, hotly stimulated by the hands of God, explodes creating a deluge
in the ongoing project of universes.
15 billion years later, at 7:55 a.m., I wake up late
for rent court, in the city of Balaise, on the outskirts of the universe, in a
cloud of cigarette smoke. I hit the shower, shave, and wash my hands. Throw on an olive-drab sweater and check
the mirror. My hair is too long, I look
like a drug addict.
At 8:01 a.m, I intercept the bus sneaking up Hillard
street like a hypodermic snake. Balaise
looks naked, old and soft boned. The
aftermath of an air raid, every row house scooped out and spindly. A hot mid-morning sun baked off the ozone. It
smelled crisp and electric through the bus window.
An old woman, sitting in the next seat, rotates her
flatulent brown eyes. She is fat with
flanks, light skinned peppered with moles.
Speaking out of the side of her mouth, she yells…gimme you’re fuckin transfer boy, or I’ll bust you in the head. I realize, incidentally, that she is talking
to me.
Rising like an animate sofa, she stands up as if to
take it from me, looses her balance and falls down on the seat, and then
quickly stands up again. After a minute
of heavy breathing, she stuffs a cigarette in her mouth, lights it, then yells…I need your fucking transfer boy, I need a
transfer, are you listening to me… are you fucking hearing me boy, gimme you’re
fucking transfer…I don’t answer, and after a while, my silence wins a
stalemate.
Off
the bus, I hit the 8 by 12 for coffee.
Inside the door, I slip on a bullet casing and fall on my ass, the
cashier, a squat Arabic man with thalamic sideburns laughs. Looking up from the
floor, I notice bullet holes that crisscross the storefront window. Miniature pin points atop white halos that
form a mysterious pattern like helixes woven together with potholes.
I
get up slowly, scanning the store for security cameras. At the coffee station,
with a flick of the wrist, the sugar jar is upended, three hundred pounds of
white powder flow into my cup. The
cashier says to me as I pay…what can I
do, they shoot up my window every night…
At the South Avenue Courthouse: A cop
wearing body armor leans against a wall.
Bomb sniffing dogs synchronize like a marching band. Dropped my spare change in the plastic cup as
ordered. A muscle wrapped Sheriff with a
mock crew cut looks me over, fingering the butt end of a Glock attached to his
waist. I ask him WHERE’S rent court? He points to the sign:
RENT COURT – BASEMENT
ROOM 317
Rent Court conviened in a cavernous white room at the
end of long windowless hall. The wide
wood doors opened out into a basement chapel, packed like a bus station:
screaming babies and toothless mommas sat in rows of plywood pews.
I peeled the recycled index card stapled to the back
wall with my name and address written in red ink S. SAVAL, I East Flintier
Street. Stuffing the card in my shirt
pocket, I look for a seat. I spot my
landlord sitting in a small coven of white people congregated toward the front
of the courtroom. It is all the Landlords GROUPED TOGETHER, I know because they’re
tan, bloated, and CALM.
As I situate myself in an empty row near the back of
the courtroom, the bailiff calls out All
rise. Up and down, our asses barely levitate an inch.
The clerk of the court calls the case numbers out in
rapid succession. If a defendant fails to materialize immediately the judge
raises the gavel and declares judgement
for plaintiff and repossession of property.
The first dozen or so cases end this way, docket
numbers evaporate like clockwork. The
man sitting to my left is sucking on an oxygen tank that sounds like the
slingshot wave of an approaching bullet.
Case number #7287, 1 East Flintier Street vs. S. Saval
Hearing my name, I jump up and walk towards the
Defendants table. Set back a few feet
from the judge’s rostrum, a silver microphone is placed squarely in the middle.
My landlord waddles ahead, trying to cut me off. She is plump-, old, and
straight backed. The judge says
Defendants on the right, plaintiffs on the left…
A group of tenants sitting in the front speak; a half
a dozen old black men sporting gray sideburns and vanishing hairlines.
Check out the hippie cracker…what’s up with him
Must be dope
Has to be
Gotta be dope
It better be dope…
Give him
credit; he looks like he’s doing both…
Before the
Judge speaks, my Landlord starts talking. The old heads continue to speculate.
Must be coke, can’t spend that kind of money on dope
Naw, Crack
If he’ll admit
it, I’ll call him a crack head to his face…
…I want my money and I want him out…
The judge, an overweight man with dark skin
yawns.
Your Response Mr. Saval…
(I cough)
I lost my stipend, from the University
(A quick influx of laughter, the judge rolls his eyes)
Well that’s to bad son, join the real world and find
yourself a job …
Yes sir
He raised the gavel.
Clack.
Judgment for the plaintiff, $750 and re-possession of
property
As I stepped back from the table, the handicappers
sing in unison:
Dope, dope, it was dope…
Outside the courthouse,
everything was similar and indigestible.
The hollow clicks of high speed parking meter, the men with guns on
every corner, and the dense thickening of traffic.
