Jukebox Detroit

http://www.rhapsody.com/tomwaits/orphansbrawlersbawlersbastards?tstart=20

(Track One: “Lie to Me”)

Through a salt encrusted windshield, two glazed and unremitting eyes studied the evening traffic. A desperately worn hat held back a bundling mass of unwashed hair. Levin grappled with the steering wheel as he searched the littered floor for a pack of loose cigarettes. His stomach churned with anxiety as familiar buildings indiciated his arrival. To his left, he noticed the familar chain-link fence enclosing the Chandler Park Golf Course.  The fence framed an elaborate stage. Beyond the trasparent steel currents light danced at the end of knotted strings. Looking forward, he noticed the sleepy face of the Hamtramck jail as it emerged from gray and black blankets. Frantically, he jammed a cigarette between chapped and hungry lips, and rolled down the window.  When he exhaled the smoke burned his nose. As he passed a freight truck, he imagined the overworked and underpaid man for which it provided an existence. “I wonder if he recognizes me?” Levin mused, assuming his frequent presence on the road entitled him some kind of obligatory acknowledgment. No horns bellowed. No brakes squealed. No gesture or indication of familiarity. Just the consistent sound of tires caressing the water plagued pavement of I-94.

In the rear view mirror, a painted suitcase initiated a thousand remnant misgivings. A damaged surface exterior relinquished all the hopes he’d abandoned. Somewhere a neural pathway ignited as an excess of neurons exploded through an over-caffeinated shell of cerebral congestion. Memories sprung like soot covered daises through shattered pavement. His amibitions, a pair of paper wings, were incinerated by the overbearing globe of light which prounounced his depression. As he drove the dismembered and disheartened vessel under dark bridges, homeless men recognized the crevices on his stress marked face. Even the hookers between Parsons and Alexandrine understood his misfortune. From the fire station they often attempted to convince him of his worth. He wasn’t fooled by their feigned interest. Years of frightended misgivings had left their traces on his appearance. He had nothing to offer and they knew it. Indecisive geographers charted his axis, polar coordinates, and bipolar nature as sporadically as the water winding pathways across the glass. The past came flooding back.

(Track Two: “Lord I’ve been changed”)

In his fourth story apartment, the strong stench of opiates surrounded him. Levin worked diligently as a smoldering joint burned a hole in the carpet beside him. Looking out the window, he imagined a giant steel sickle severing the heads of enumberable buildings. The three sentries guarding the Park Shelton would soon meet their demise. Standing in unison, they glared at him with obvious indignence. He hated their metered existence. Each stood at a calculated distance from the others. They would not be able to prevent his efforts.  Eventually they would be decapitated. “Here a plateau, there a plateau, everywhere a plateau,” he sang, with the type of frenzied excitement one forwards in attempt to imitate childhood.

(Jack Kerouac – On the Road)

“Well, some platueau I’ve ascended” he laughed bitterly.  Lighting another cigarette, he parked his car just off Grand River and Woodward. “Bomb=bad, as Cummings would say. Besides, a bomb sounds pretty good right now,” he stammered. He reached for the bottle he’d hidden under the seat and took a long drag. Levin relinquished any hope of clutching to Delinger’s wings, and stepped from the car. His boots sunk in the snow, like the failed elevator dreams he devised during his youth.

(EE Cummings – Six Non-Lectures)

(Track Three: “Walk Away”)

December wind invaded the room and pulled him from his awkward slumber. The frigid air provided a shocking juxtaposition to the warm blood which flowed from his course hands. The sun forced him to close his wearied eyes. On the street below, pedestrians avoided traffic as buses entertained labryinthian routes. A thousand indistinguishable voices assimilated, resounding like the steady whir of a machine run at constant intervals; The well oiled movement which is encouraged by careful maintanence.

He shivered as he collected his senses and excavated his belongings from the dark sticky pool which he had been lying in. Light-headed, he brushed the glass from his sleeve and fashioned a makeshift bandage from the end of his shirt. Levin studied the cotton as it consumed remnant bodily fluid expelled during the night. Looking out the window, he surveyed the meeting of two disorders. The soft blue sky was a blanket perforated at random intervals by inconsistent architecture. In the distance, the ridged roof of the Fox reminded him of bed springs holding an unsteady mattress. The sharp slender peak of the Central United Methodist Church stabbed a violent hole in the expanse. Not trusting its varying clocks, he decided the time by marking the position of the sun. Estimating it to be about ten o’clock, he undertook his departure.

Levin descended the aging staircase in the back alley. As he neared the final steps, a rusted pully escorted him to the ground.  He hesitated next to the ugly white wall of the Puppet Art Theatre while he collected himself. Turning the corner onto Woodward, he carefully picked a position amongst the crowds. As he walked the shattered pavement, he encountered frequent reminders of her presence. Forever graffitied walls rose from the chalky dust of the urban thoroughfare, whispering subversive misgivings. Steam billowed from sewer grates and caressed hastily bricked walls during its ascent. Through meat factory doors, employees scrambled to counter production deficits from the week before. As he followed the sewer exhaust, he noticed managers sitting comfortably in leather backed chairs, seemingly unconcious of those toiling below.

With time to spare, he drifted along a couple of poorly planned side streets. He enjoyed the chemistry created by the different buildings. Small mom-and-pop restaurants situated in the shadows of large corporate epicenters. The old and reassuring feel of family in contrast to the bustle and movement of commuting employees. Patrons at Lafayette indulged in reheated coffee, while business-men clutched suitcases on their way home from work. Chipped brick and old wooden tables existed beside elevators and computer screens. As he crossed the bridge, Eastern market announced itself with the stench of decaying animal hyde and stale fruit. Looking carelessly over the stands, he became aware of the attention he was receiving. He was sure that he heard his name as they gestured amongst themselves. “How fast this has traveled,” he thought. The local populous became a formidable army staring across overloaded stands. Cultured college weekenders united with blood-stained butchers to discuss his presence. Even the homeless, leaving long abandoned buildings, avoided his staggered steps. They looked at him with disdain. “Must they all know?” he thought. His nervous attention diverted him from a badly injured hand.

(Track Four: “Goodnight Irene”)

Within the microwave metropolis, a magnified sun warmed fetal skin. He felt the reverberating effects of a low wattage bulb in a crowded aquarium. The fluids shifted gently, as the sleep-inducing whir of the engine crept through the window. The vehicle swam effortlessly on the wet expanse, where forms provided final gestures. Woodward extended her broad shoulders and beared the last fruits of a heavily seamed flesh. Buildings, as if on a pottery wheel, spun into warm acrylic oblivion. Dark heavy angles blended into bright and unidentifiable figures. Right angles deformed and were drawn into enumerable arching lines on the grey expanse. The bright neon lights from the Fox marquis trailed the smooth razor across an overloaded canvass.

A smile crept slowly to his face as the excitement of flesh pronounced itself with raised ridges. She turned her back as he made a right onto Palmer, and relinquished one last whisper. The umbilical cord stretched to its conclusion and snapped suddenly on the stop sign.  As it recoiled,  his car jettisoned into the gas-station curb. Levin let the harsh tears of sudden adulthood free. They burst forth and fell on flushed cheeks. He realized the weight oppressing his chest; The pressure of disconnected breaths drawn rapidly from a tired cigarette. As he careened recklessly onto the highway, his guilt pronounced itself. On the seat, the flowers withered rapidly and time consummated its reckless marriage to his life. A flood of memories seized his consciousness, and pronounced the overwhelming anxiety of disorganized thought.

(Track Five: “Down There by the Train”)

“Finally alone,” he gasped, stepping cautiously into the cavernous hollow. Heavy cold breaths masked his sweat-drenched face, as he walked across an abandoned room above the Eastern Wig and Hair Company. His lung’s swelled from the unusual stress with which they were provided. Choking out a cough, Levin collected his senses and entered the room. Everywhere at once he noticed the remnants of decaying affairs. Trash was heaped in towering piles, and a long emptied vault stood wide open. The visuals imprinted themselves on his brain like coffee stains on an already dirtied filter. “It’s all dead,” he thought, “Finally, some peace.”

The tired sound of a distant bus summoned his attention. Adjusting his flashlight, his defeat became apparent. Her garments unfurled as she stood before him. As he traced the undulating fabric, he became aware of the swollen skin framing her eyes. The markings of abuse were overwhelming. Her gray skin had been ravished by the careless assault of another. The flashlight fell from his unsteady hand. “Elisa loves John,” he murmured with obvious reluctance. The words clung to the air, and remained static before him.

He fell to the floor, scrambling to grasp a disolving world. Frantic movements guided his hand to a sharp metal object on the floor. Grasping the metallic shard, he rose to unstable feet and unleashed the agony he’d suppressed for so long. The tears streamed from his puckering eyes. “Fuck you…you filthy whore.” The words reverberated through the room. “Why would you do this to me? Who did this to you?” Silence ensued. The steel broke his flesh and released a steady stream of blood. It flowed like thick grease from heavy machinery. “You’d better answer me…before I give you a reason to be silent,” he snapped. He snapped. Although she knew he meant it she remained silent. Nothing indicated any attempt on her behalf to calm his rage. She continued staring at him. “She’s placating me,” he thought desperately.

(Fyodor Dostoevsky – Notes from the Underground)

With one swift movement, he raised his hand and hurled the shard across the room. She remained still, as the object was guided toward her by an invisible network of finely tuned conveyor belts and well oiled tubes. As the shard hit the window, a piercing scream filled the room.

Suddenly, Levin realized himself. He clambered across the floor and shifted through the puzzled fragments that remained. The shards lacerated his capillaries as he clung to them. “My blood for yours,” he mumbled. Just then, a police siren sounded from the street below. Crippled by her realization, he recoiled and tripped over a chair. Levin began to lose conciousness while realizing the blow she had dealt.