Текст книги "The Marijuana Chronicles"

Автор книги: Jonathan Santlofer

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

B

OB

H

OLMAN

is a poet, professor, and proprietor of Bowery Poetry Club. His new book, his sixteenth (if you count CDs and videos, which he does),

Sing This One Back to Me

, is from Coffee House Press. His series on poetry and endangered languages,

On the Road

, is shown on LinkTV. org, and his new special,

Language Matters

, will premiere on PBS. He is also working on a multimedia performance called

The Trip

. Holman lives on the Bowery in New York City.

pasta mon

by bob holman

Pasta Mon cookin in a limousine

Windows rolled up—poem written in the steam

Poem starts to change—to a recipe?

I’m cookin up a story! You still hungry?

Deep in the blue sea deep in the memory

Connected, perfected—totally poetry

Yuppie got a puppy & the baby got a Pamper

Doin the 500 in a Winnebago camper

Why?

Why?

Why Pasta Mon cry?

Back in the history I shot the deputy

For not makin sauce sufficiently garlicky

Everyone entangled in a single ecstasy

A single strand of Pasta Mon’s linguini

This is the wild life! Carbohydrates? Out of sight!

“Pasta Mon Fashions” give eyesight insight

See the world through spaghetti headlights

Ravioli figleaf? Pasta Paradise!

Why?

Why?

Fresh onions is why

So much pasta Mon cannot give it away

What’s the matter with a platter of pasta pâté?

Keep the homefries burnin—a sorbet gourmet

You too can have your own authentic Pasta Mon beret

Pasta Mon starrin on his own tv show

Yesterday’s menu’s already obsolete-o

Today, I’ll show you how to roll a pasta-filled burrito!

W/ no

habichuela

on the tuxedo

It might boil over—the pot is bubblin

It might boil over your mind that’s troublin

It might boil over—dynamite!

Might boil away to nothin, spoil your appetite?

It happened to me while readin

Weekly Reader

The future was comin—it would be beater

Beater. Deffer. Bigger forever.

Sun on the horizon—it was always risin

The Future is here—the Past is a goner

All stuffed in a pasta shell of once upon a

Time when the rhyme would be flora and fauna

A cheese syntheses: Utopian lasagna

A nickel for a can & a nickel for a bottle

A trickle-down sound from the nickel that bought you

America the Beautiful in quarantine

A cardboard mattress and a cardboard dream

Barbecue trash cans linin the Hudson

Dogs are howlin as you throw the spuds on

Pasta Mon’s recipes gettin kinda smelly

Rat ratatouille & vermin vermicelli

It might boil over the pot is bubblin

It might boil over it’s your mind that’s troublin

It might boil over—dynamite!

Might boil away to nothin, spoil your appetite?

On the good ship

Pasta Mon

Where the last macaroni is stuck to the pan

& the ship is sinkin

& the food is stinkin

& you just keep drinkin

O, oaweoh …

And remember!

“Bud” spelled backward,

… is “Dub”!

PaRT III

ReCReaTIOn & eDuCATIOn

C

HERYL

L

U

-L

IEN

T

AN

is the New York–based author of

A Tiger in the Kitchen

. She was a staff writer at the

Wall Street Journal, InStyle

, and the

Baltimore Sun;

her work has also appeared in the

New York Times

, among other publications. The Singapore native has been an artist in residence at Yaddo and the Djerassi Resident Artists Program. She is working on her second book, a novel, and is the editor of

Singapore Noir

, a fiction anthology that Akashic Books will publish in 2014.

ganja ghosts

by cheryl lu-lien tan

The lousy bugger was taking so long to get ready that Jackson’s balls really started to itch.

The tropical heat was so stifling, the scratchy polyester covering of the settee was so painfully glued to the bottom of his sweaty thighs, that Jackson wondered why he had bothered to come back to Singapore during the summer. He desperately wanted to scratch himself but he could hear Seng’s mother shuffling about somewhere nearby. In the industrial-strength fluorescent light of Auntie’s small living room, there was no hiding anything. After years of not seeing Seng or his mum—better to behave tonight.

“Aiyoh, my god …” Jackson mumbled, glancing at Richard, who was next to him on the sofa, tapping away on his phone, looking as fresh and talcum-powdered as he had an hour ago when they arrived at Seng’s. Fucking irritating, Jackson thought. After just a few years away in the States, his body had forgotten how sweltering Singapore was when it wasn’t monsoon season.

“Eh,” Jackson said to Richard, who nodded, not taking his eyes off his phone, “what are we doing tonight?”

“Fucker,” Richard responded, looking up and poking his third finger in Jackson’s direction. “You don’t remember, ah? Singapore, Wednesday night—nothing to do, lah!”

Seng’s door opened suddenly, sending a blast of ice-cold air into the living room. Bugger couldn’t even share his bloody air-con, Jackson thought. Seng, oblivious as usual, slowly made his way around the room, picking up his platinum TAG Heuer from the dining table and slipping it on his wrist, taking his keys off the hook next to the altar, then stopping to light a joss stick, bowing three times to his dad’s grim face in a framed black-and-white photo before jabbing the incense in an ash-brimmed rice bowl.

“Eh—girls, stop complaining. Tonight is different, lah,” Seng said to his friends, tapping his hand on his chest pocket, stopping when his fingers found the shape of his lighter. “Ma,” he shouted toward the kitchen as he reached into his back pocket for his Marlboro Menthol Lights, “we’re making a move!” Sliding a cigarette between his lips so he could fire up the moment they left, he raised two fingers, gestured toward the narrow, chipped door, and started walking.

After all these years, the bugger still had the same kwai lan air he had even when he was fifteen. Whenever they walked into any room, whether it was a lecture hall or the front VIP section at Pump Room, Seng always swaggered ahead of the two of them, chest puffed out, chin slightly up, as he surveyed the place, watching people as they watched him, wondering who the fuck he was. Not that the three of them were a gang—but with Seng looking so kwai lan, Jackson was always on guard. If other guys thought they were some sort of gang or just trying to be fuckers, who knows where a staring contest could lead even in the most stylo of clubs.

“Richard, why must you be so negative?” Seng said, turning just slightly as he opened the door to make sure the other two were indeed scrambling off the settee. “Guys, tonight—don’t worry. You just wait and see.”

Jackson tried to keep up with Seng and Richard as they quickly shuffled down the three flights of stairs, puffing and flicking. Jackson had stopped trying to smoke in Chicago after a brief attempt, just to fit in with his colleagues at the insurance office. After some months of politely holding a cigarette and resisting the urge to gag while inhaling, he had decided to accept the fact that he was going to be the sad fuck left alone in the bar or at dinner whenever his colleagues went out to have a smoke. But Seng had given him such a look when he tried to explain that he didn’t actually like smoking that Jackson just gave up and took one when Seng held out the box.

“Eh, seriously—where are we going?” Jackson asked again, wondering if he should have stayed home. His throat was starting to feel scratchy from the smoke and the heat. It was insane. Just because the three of them were best friends in secondary school didn’t mean they still had anything in common. And Seng had always been crazy—god knows what he had in mind. Great—Jackson could feel himself sweating even more.

“Almost there, lah,” Seng said, breathing heavily as he darted between a few pillars and ducked into a narrow parking lot. “Kau beh so much!”

Jackson could start to hear the chipper hum of evening kopitiam chatter as they crossed the parking lot. Seng held his right palm out, asking them to wait outside the open-air shop when they arrived. Stamping out his cigarette with his shiny brown Prada sneakers, he smoothed back his gelled hair and sauntered into the heart of the coffee shop. How the guy managed to afford all this atas European-label crap on his shipping-company peon salary, Jackson had no idea. Even Richard had a much better job than Seng—some midlevel manager at Citibank or something—and he never wore any name-brand shit.

Jackson watched as Seng exchanged whispers, then a little cash and something else, with the kopitiam uncle. Uncle reached underneath his counter and pulled out six cans of Tiger beer and a few packets of chicken-flavored Twisties, putting them in a red plastic bag and handing that over. Seng shook the uncle’s hand and slowly walked out. The whole exchange took less than two minutes. No one had even looked twice at them.

Seng was silent as he stepped outside, pausing briefly to light another cigarette before starting to move again, this time more quickly. Richard was quiet, texting as they walked, careful to keep his footsteps right behind Seng’s. Jackson glanced around—the squat towers of cheap flats passed by slowly. There was a slender road before them, one of those old bus stops on the other side that looked like a faded, oversized orange mushroom, and next to that was a set of narrow stairs.

Ah, that’s where Seng was going. The old place—a fortress of trees that was, at first, a good place to play hide-and-seek, and then later, a safe place to take girls in the early pak tor days. With all those trees around, who needs to spend fifty dollars at Hotel 88 for two hours of privacy? If the girls were enthusiastic enough in the park then, okay lah, worth it to spend the fifty at a hotel.

When Seng got to their old usual table, a chunky stone fixture with five short stools around it, he sat down, gesturing to Richard to open the beers, grunting loudly when the guy took a few seconds too long to set aside his phone. As Richard opened three cans, nudging one over to Seng and then Jackson, Seng yanked out a little plastic bag and a small flat pouch from his pocket.

“I make the first one, ah—but you better watch carefully.” Seng pulled out a small piece of paper from the pouch, laid a few pinches of what looked like dried tea leaves on it, and started rolling. “This uncle here not going to roll all the ganja for you two lazy fuckers.”

“Ganja?” Jackson said, almost shouting. “Are you crazy? We can get arrested, you know.”

Richard jumped up, looking angry. “Oi—keep quiet! You want us to get caught, is it? You don’t want to do, just fuck off, lah! Don’t stay here and kill our mood.” Seng just stared at Jackson, still holding the smoke in his hand. Richard sat back down, taking a long sip from his can.

It’s not that Jackson had never done ganja—it happened once at a frat party at Loyola, on some drunken night when a cute girl had offered it to him and he felt he couldn’t say no. He hadn’t felt much of anything then, though—not from the pot or the girl. In the end he decided that, okay lah, at least he could say he’d tried pot once. Maybe better to just be a good citizen and call it a day. He never saw the girl again either.

“Fucker, how?” Seng said. “Want or don’t want?”

The feeling was old and familiar to Jackson—trapped, mostly. A little exhilarated but trapped. Amazing how the years had passed, they were all thirty now, working men with real jobs, and Seng still managed to bugger him into all these things.

“Okay, okay,” Jackson said. “But you start first.”

Seng lit up the joint, took a deep puff, and inhaled, holding it in for a long moment as he passed the smoke to Richard, who did the same, then passed it over to Jackson. The joint felt warm between his fingers and he could smell its sickeningly sweet smoke. Jackson wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“Oi,” Seng said. “Kani nah—you not going to smoke then just pass it back, lah, okay? Don’t waste.”

Jackson put the joint between his lips and sucked deeply, holding his breath and trying hard not to cough. He passed the joint to Seng and the cycle started again. None of them said anything until the joint had made a few rounds, with Seng taking a last long puff before flinging it to the ground and grinding it out.

A cloud of deep, sweet air swaddled them now. Jackson was slowly exhaling, bit by small bit, trying to sense whether he felt any different. He heard a sharp squelch—Seng had opened a bag of Twisties and started loudly crunching away.

“Jackson, I tell you, ah, you been away so long, this country, ah—crazy already,” Seng said. “You missed all these fucking stupid things! I tell you also, you won’t believe.”

“Eh, tell him about that guy!” Richard suddenly shouted, starting to laugh. “Walau—weird fucker, man!”

“So there’s this guy, ah,” Seng began, “apparently he can only steam about his wife when she’s asleep. Aiyoh, so the fucker started drugging her at night, man—feed her sleeping pills all, so she’s really still when he pok her! Walau!” He started laughing. “Like that, still okay. Weird—but okay. But then one night, the fucker wanted to really make sure she didn’t wake up—their anniversary or some shit like that. So he tripled the dosage to make sure she really sleep deeply. But then, hello, the wife never woke up!”

Richard and Seng were laughing so hard neither could speak. Richard was doubled over, holding his stomach. Perhaps it was watching the two of them—or maybe the story? But Jackson heard himself starting to laugh too.

“I tell you,” Seng said. “I told Richard, those people at wakes—better guard their coffins, man. Now that the guy’s wife is dead and gone, he might start going to funerals to look for another dead girlfriend to pok!” Jackson was surprised to once again find himself whooping along with their laughter.

“Wait, wait—this one even more stupid, lah,” Richard said. “Apparently, ah, there’s this guy who got young, pretty mistress, lah. But then one day I think he want to break up with her or some shit. So apparently he met her by the side of some road to cut her off. Wah—the woman angry, man! She not only scratch his Mercedes and take off her high heel and bang it on the car and all. But then she started whacking him in the balls with her hands! Fucker just stood there with his head down, just accepting it!”

Richard had to stop for a moment until the mirth waned. “Wait—even worse. The whole thing—all caught on tape! Some guy passing by taped the whole thing on his iPhone then, kani nah, post on the Internet! Wuahahahaha—the rich fucker so embarrassed he can’t even drive his ten-year-old son to school anymore, you know! The moment he show up, the parents, teachers, even his son’s friends all laughing, pointing pointing at him for being such a no-balls fucker. This type of loser, better just do the world a favor and drown himself, lah.”

Jackson had to wipe his eyes on his rolled-up sleeves. He hadn’t laughed so much or for so long in many years. Could it be the ganja? Looking at Seng and Richard, clinking their beer cans now, he felt such love for them. How could he have wondered whether or not to come out with them? They would be brothers forever! He raised up his can and clinked it to theirs.

Seng started chuckling softly as he pulled out another piece of paper and began intently rolling. Richard opened a new packet of Twisties and passed it over to Jackson, who popped a few in his mouth and slowly chewed. He hadn’t eaten Twisties in more than ten years—they were nowhere to be found in Chicago, for starters. But feeling the crunchy salty bits in his mouth and licking the yellow chicken-flavored dust off his fingers, he vowed to make sure he didn’t go another ten years without eating Twisties.

“Guys,” he said solemnly, “Twisties, I tell you, are really the best, man.”

Seng looked at Richard, who looked back at him. Both of them directed a middle finger at Jackson and started giggling wildly again.

Jackson wondered if perhaps he’d had enough, but when Seng handed him the joint, he just took it and puffed. They grew silent, staring up at the glowing night sky and the skinny streetlamps nearby, sighing occasionally as they passed the joint around until it was dead.

In the sweet haze, Jackson felt himself getting carried along—chuckling at the rhythms of a life he had forgotten. He hadn’t felt this free in ages—so open, so happy.

“This one—even more best,” Richard said after a moment. “Recently, ah, in Singapore, people all kau beh about this new homeless problem, lah. I guess, in recession, some people lost their homes or these foreign workers can’t afford their cheap housing anymore, so they just sleep on those long stone benches at night. You look outside kopitiams, all also got one. So, government got no choice, lah—minister of home affairs make a speech, all, tell everyone don’t worry, he has a plan. So, we all wondering, what is this plan? Put all these guys in a home? Or give them training, help them find jobs? Or what?

“Then one day,” Seng continued, “Singaporeans woke up and went to their kopitiams for breakfast—and realized that, eh, very funny, but the benches all suddenly looked different. The government overnight had installed these metal arm dividers so now people cannot lie down! This is their brilliant plan, man—make the benches so uncomfortable that homeless people cannot sleep there anymore! Must find somewhere else to sleep. Wah, this one—really smart, man! In the government’s eyes, problem solved.”

This couldn’t possibly be true! They had to be making it up. Jackson looked at Seng and Richard and just wanted to hug them. He couldn’t ask for better friends. Why hadn’t he moved back to Singapore? No one in Chicago made him feel as carefree and full as they did. He had never missed home before—after leaving for college in the States, his main mission had been to stay away from a world that had never quite made sense to him. He rarely thought about home, never felt guilty about not looking back.

“Eh, okay, one more,” Seng said. “Then I take you to see something funny. Richard, tell him about the army guy—I need to take a piss.”

As Seng wandered off toward some trees in the distance, Richard opened another three cans and passed one to Jackson. “Okay, there was this soldier, doing that compulsory military service shit, lah. Skinny guy, young kid. Apparently, one day on his way to reporting to duty, the guy was walking from his flat texting on his phone or some shit—and his scrawny maid is walking behind him, carrying his gigantic heavy army rucksack for him! The girl was so tiny that the rucksack was half her size and she was all bent over! Some other guy took a photo of this and posted it online—wah, crazy times, man! The photo went viral, everyone angry. The army had to launch investigation into who the no-balls soldier was, apologize all. Everyone laugh until crazy.”

Unbelievable! Jackson was in hysterics now—he could hardly breathe. Seng, who had returned halfway through the story, was bent over and laughing too, even slapping Jackson on the back. Jackson didn’t even care that the bugger had probably not wiped his hands.

Seng took his beer, downed the entire thing, crumpled the can in his fist, and said, “Come, we have to show you something.” Richard and Jackson drained their beers as Seng rolled another joint, slipped it into his shirt pocket, then swept all remnants of their evening into the red plastic bag.

Seng didn’t live far from Zouk, a nightclub that many teenagers and twenty-somethings packed on weekends when the three of them were kids. So when he started wending the familiar path that had taken them toward Zouk many a night after they’d spent a good hour at Seng’s flat gelling up their hair and making sure their patterned silk shirts were untucked just so, Jackson knew where they were going.

“Eh, bugger, I’m not sure if I feel up for clubbing tonight,” Jackson said.

“Aiyoh—just trust us, lah,” Richard said. His mood had shifted so much that he hadn’t even pulled out his phone since they’d sat down. He and Seng were periodically erupting into giggles for absolutely no reason. “This one, you really must see.”

When they got to the club, Seng walked to the front of the line packed with about fifty teens in miniskirts or drainpipe-tight jeans. He had a quick chat with the bouncer. When the man unhooked the velvet rope, Seng told the guys to follow him in, through a labyrinth of dark narrow hallways and up a flight of steps, toward a second-floor terrace overlooking the vast dance floor.

Leaning over the metal railing, the three of them mashed together, peeping down, just like they’d done in the past when they would play the which-girl-would-you-pok? game. (Only Seng had actually gotten lucky that way.)

“Look,” Seng said, pointing toward the floor and the four raised cube podiums anchoring each corner of the large room, as the first beats of Belinda Carlisle’s “Summer Rain” started up. The five hundred or so people packing the dance floor all started making the same hand gestures, entirely in unison—jazz hands fluttering downward for “rain,” pointing toward their heads at the word “dream.”

This might be what a North Korean military dance would look like, Jackson thought.

The precision dancing continued through “Square Rooms,” and Bananarama’s “Love in the First Degree,” when, to their credit, the teens got slightly more emotive as they mimed the words, “Guilty! Of Love in the first degree …”

“Don’t even try to actually dance to these songs,” Seng said. “Those kids will push you off the fucking podium and spit on you for not knowing the right move.” The three of them burst out laughing so hard they had to hold onto one another so they wouldn’t fall onto the zombies below.

Seng pulled out a joint and lit it up. When Jackson looked worried, Seng pointed toward the crowd around them—everyone was smoking and ashing on the floor. “Smoking section,” Seng mumbled, inhaling and then passing the joint to Jackson.

Soon they noticed a tall guy standing next to them. He had nicely gelled hair and a small scar on his forehead. And he was staring at the joint that was now in Richard’s hand.

“What you guys doing?” he said.

Richard ignored him, looking away.

“I not police, lah,” the guy said, nodding toward Richard’s hand. “Ganja, is it?”

Seng stared at him and the guy stared back calmly.

“Can I have a puff?”

Seng half shrugged and nodded, watching carefully as the guy took the joint from Richard’s hand, put it to his lips, and sucked deeply. He had a quizzical expression on his face as he exhaled slowly. Then he took another puff.

“Oi! What you think you doing?” Richard shouted. “This one not cheap, you know!”

The guy ignored Richard, looking intently at the joint as he swirled the smoke in his mouth. Jackson could see Seng pushing up his shirtsleeves and standing up straighter.

Then, laughter. Not from Richard or Jackson and certainly not Seng. The wails of laughter were coming from the guy, who was actually stamping his feet.

“Kani nah! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Seng said, inching toward the guy.

“Me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” the guy countered. “This one not ganja, lah, you losers! This one just clove ciggies! What fucking idiots!” He threw the joint on the floor and walked off. Jackson could still hear the guy’s laughter as he receded, even above the Rick Astley medley that had just started up.

Seng removed the pouch of leaves from his pocket and opened it, taking a few deep whiffs. He handed it to Richard, who spent a long minute smelling it.

Jackson suddenly felt tired. He turned around and leaned over the railing, peering out at the dance floor, at the army of robots, feet planted firmly, bodies unmoving as each of them made the same hand gesture to, “Never. Gonna. Give. You. Up. Never. Gonna. Let. You. Down.”

He couldn’t remember what was funny about this. Or the army fucker who made his maid carry his rucksack. Or the government’s solution to the homeless problem. Or the rich guy getting mocked by ten-year-olds over his mistress whacking his balls. Or the guy who killed his wife by fucking her in her sleep.

It was all just sad.