Chaos to the Fly 3
3.
“Why is it, every game, every practice, feels like I just walked out of the Twilight Zone?” Brian asked.
“I didn’t think it was too bad,” Wesley said.
“Learn something, didja?”
Milsap and Brian exchanged uneasy glances. They’d agreed beforehand not to include Wesley in any discussions concerning the twelve-hundred-dollar marijuana conundrum. The kid didn’t need that kind of stress in his life.
Wesley considered the Coach’s drunken rambling, what he could remember of it, anyway. He’d drifted in and out, it seemed. “Well, I never noticed there was anything wrong with Symanski’s nose before now. But I guess there is. Also, it’s best to stay away from Jujubees.”
Brian said “I think the lesson there is, if you gotta drink a beer first thing, right when you wake up, something ain’t going right.”
“You know Coach Vic works nights,” Milsap said. “I don’t think he slept enough to be considered awake.”
Brian shrugged.
There was a stormfront moving in and the temperature dipped back into the mid-eighties allowing enough of a reprieve for the boys to bicycle all the way out to Friar Tuck’s arcade in Calumet City without danger of heatstroke, but never, Brian reminded them, without the risk of a spontaneous combustion.
Brian pumped tokens into Bump N’ Jump with Milsap jumping in for the occasional game. Brian was flushed with paper route money. Milsap had torn open the tithe envelope his parents had sent him to St. Casimir Church with last Sunday. Though his mother and father rarely darkened the doorway of the church, they expected their son to wake up early every Sunday morning and attend the eleven o’clock mass in their stead. Most Sundays, Milsap would slip into the vestibule, grab a bulletin to return to his mother as proof of worship, and then waste the next hour scouring garbage cans in the neighborhood alleyways, searching for discarded porno mags.
Last weekend had been a bit of a disappointment. A lone five-dollar bill nestled in the tithe envelope. He hated to think that was ten percent of the Milsap family income. It was nice to see his folks were every bit as tight-fisted with the Lord as they were with their only son.
Brian said “Wesley, I thought for sure you’d want to check out that Dragon’s Lair game. That’s all you talked about all week.”
“Eh, I took a look at it. All it is is a crummy cartoon,” Wesley said. “They only call it a video game cause every once in a while you gotta hit a button at just the right time. And it’s like four tokens per play.”
“I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with them putting the Dragon’s Lair cabinet right where that Burkowski kid died six years ago.” Milsap grinned.
The thought had crossed Wesley’s mind. Enough time had passed, the boy’s death had drifted into the realm of urban legend, but Wesley still got the heebie jeebies whenever he entered the area Milsap claimed Burkowski had dropped dead of an apparent heart attack after achieving the high score on BZRKR. He admitted as much.
“Nobody says ‘heebie jeebies’ anymore,” Milsap said. “Except maybe Don Knotts and Economou. Not saying it’s a Lutheran word. Just saying, be a man and say ‘scared shitless’ like the rest of us. Also, it’s definitely true. I remember when it happened.”
“Dude, you were like five.”
“I was six, Brian. I remember seeing it on the news. Don’t look at me like that. I still remember shit from back when I was still in the crib. And I’m talking crib crib not, you know, house crib.”
“Bullshit.”
“Bull true. I remember all kinds of shit. You might not believe this, but I remember being in my highchair with a slice of cheese pizza and a sippy cup., and your mom, Brian, your mom came into the room and she flashed me her titties when she thought nobody else was looking, and I remember thinking, even then, at two and a half years old, I remember thinking ‘what a slut’.”
“Dick.”
“That’s my mom, too, Ronnie,” Wesley said.
“Hey, watch the first names.”
“If I wasn’t about to get the high score, I’d front kick you right into the wall, leave you broken right where that kid died.”
“I’d block your front kick. You remember what game he was playing? I do. BZRKR. A game so cursed, they couldn’t even waste any vowels on it.”
“Dang.”
“And they say Burkowski wasn’t the only kid who lost his life to that gamer. They say before it was moved to Friar Tuck’s, it was out on the west coast, and it killed that kid who played Ralphie in the Christmas Story. For the arcade game, it wasn’t enough to take all your tokens, it had to take your soul.”
“Milsap, you’re constantly saying you don’t believe in God, every chance you get; how is it you’re gonna believe in souls?”
A valid point, but Milsap wasn’t about to let Brian claim it.
“I wouldn’t say constantly. It’s complicated,” Milsap allowed. “But you know what ain’t complicated? Q-Bert. So, Wesley, why don’t you give that game a shot so I can talk to your brother in private?”
“C’mon, guys. I ain’t no little kid no more.”
“Wesley, seriously, give us ten minutes.” Brian handed his kid brother a buck’s worth of tokens. “You ain’t gotta play Q-Bert; there’s plenty other good games to pick. Milsap don’t feel comfortable talking about his gay boyfriend in front of you.”
“Fine.” Wesley sulked. “I don’t want to hear about what Milsap and Economou get up to when they’re visiting Wobbly O, anyway.”
Wesley rattled his tokens in his hand and wandered off toward the tournament taking place on the Karate Championship cabinet two rooms over.
“He’s getting a smart mouth on him,” Milsap said. “You’re gonna hafta start smacking his yap now and again or he’s gonna start thinking it’s all right to give us shit all the time.”
“Eh, as long as it’s just directed at you, I think it’ll be okay.”
From Bump N’Jump, they drifted over to Popeye, then Burger Time, was tempted by that token suck Punch-Out, before finally opting for Gunsmoke.
“So, where the hell we gonna get twelve hundred dollars to pay off Mickey, Nickey, and Slickey?” Milsap asked. “You’d have to deliver The Times to all of Indiana, Illinois, and parts of Ohio and Southern Michigan to see that kinda money.”
“Well, we’re obviously not paying them dick,” Brian said. “What are they gonna do about it?”
“I hear Mickey carries a knife and he stabs people.”
“Just like you heard kids are getting murdered by an arcade game at Friar Tuck’s.”
“I sweat to you, it’s true. You can look it up at the library. Burkowski. Got the high score on BZRKR, then he keeled over dead. His heart exploded or some shit.”
“So, all we gotta do is find that BZRKR game and convince Mickey to play it.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad…”
“C’mon, Milsap.”
“If I could just get fifty bucks together, I’d have enough to buy a pretty good katana from that Asian guy at the Chop Sockey booth at the flea market. Then I could just run through the Hayes boys, you know, cut them all in half. It’d work. Hammond cops out there looking for the Polish Yakuza, never suspect us for a moment.”
“Sometimes, it’s hard to tell if you’re serious or not, Milsap. I’m not saying extreme violence ain’t the answer. I’m just thinking time frame, here. I don’t think we’re going to be able to wait the half years’ worth of Sundays for you to collect enough tithe envelopes to afford a sword.”
“You’re probably right,” Milsap sighed. “I’m gonna end up having to find a job if I ever wanna be able to cut some jackass in twain.”
4.
“We need to stop at the Esoteric Bookshop,” Milsap said. “The one over on Hohman Avenue next to the South Shore tracks.”
“Is there another esoteric bookshop around?” Brian asked.
“How the hell should I know? I look like a transcendentalist to you?”
“A what?”
“Nothing. Nevermind.”
“Man, it’s starting to rain; I don’t want to go all the way out there in the rain for some weird ass bookstore.”
“All the way out… It’s like three blocks away! And it’s a light drizzle. It’s hardly enough to get your precious Mongoose wet.”
“Why you gotta go to the bookstore so bad? I thought you hated reading.”
“I hate reading Catechism shit. I hate reading what the jackasses at St. Casimir tell me I gotta read. But I don’t hate reading. Besides, last night I rented Evil Dead 2 from Midtown Video.”
“Saw that at my cousin’s house. Groovy.”
“Yeah,” Milsap said. “So, now I wanna check out the Esoteric Bookstore and see if they got a copy of the Necronomicon on the shelves.”
“Christ, man. Did you watch the movie or just rent it?”
“Of course, I watched it. I watched it twice.”
“Then why the hell would you want to go fucking around with the Necronomicon?”
The answer, of course, was that Milsap was lying. Two weeks ago, he’d visited the Esoteric Bookstore, alone, not only looking for a copy of the Necronomicon, but also searching for the paperback of Anton Szandor LeVay’s Satanic Bible. Milsap had hardly crossed the threshold of the store before the lady behind the counter addressed him. He could only assume she possessed the gift of the second sight.
“We don’t carry Necronomicons or Satanic Bibles here, kid, so if that’s what you’re after, you might want to go home where you came from and reconsider your life’s path.”
Anyone else, Milsap might have felt inclined to invite them to go fuck themselves. The way she seemed to look through his eyes into his mind with her marvelous eyes like jade flecks suspended within twin crystal balls inspired him to actually behave himself.
“No, ma’am, but I am interested in the mystical arts.”
Mystic arts seemed like a non-threatening topic. He was always seeing those fucking Time Life commercials offering those Mysteries of the Unknown books promising to unlock every enigma from UFOs to pyramid shit to the secrets of the Illuminati.
There was a wrought iron staircase spiraling up to a truncated second floor where Milsap could see a desk and typewriter with books and loose manuscript pages piled high everywhere. Shelves recessed into the mahogany paneled walls crammed with what Milsap guessed were esoteric books minus the Necronomicon and the Satanic Bible. But, mostly, it was difficult to tear his eyes away from the woman standing behind the oval counter dominating the center of the store.
As his attention wandered across the conglomeration of potions, candles, scents, healing crystals, and tarot, the lady introduced herself as Betty, an astrologer and co-owner of the store. Within five minutes of conversation, Betty convinced him to purchase a pamphlet on transcendental meditation with money he could ill afford to part with. She claimed the knowledge gleaned from those forty-eight pages would be an important introductory step in pursuing a life rooted in the mystical. He would have bought the illustrated adventures of Strawberry Shortcake had she advised it. She flashed the loveliest smile, a smile that made Milsap want to make her laugh but since he ascribed to the Eddie Murphy school of comedy where he absolutely had to say “fuck” every other word in order to be humorous, he kept the jokes to a minimum.
Brian didn’t need to know all that, though.
And, in the end, Brian agreed to ride out to the bookstore because that’s what friends do. Stupid shit.
Once there, Milsap propped his rehomed BMX against the nondescript brick building beneath the yellow ESOTERIC BOOKSHOP sign. Brian opted to padlock his Mongoose to the streetlight. With Brian occupied securing his bike in an attempt to thwart the roaming gangs of bicycle thieves infesting the region, Milsap slyly readjusted the bulge in his groin created by the ball-up sweat socks shoved down the front of his Wranglers. One look at his distended groin, Milsap knew she would be powerless to resist his charms. Unless, of course, Betty had already consulted her tarot cards portending he was just another sad sack twelve-year-old with delusions of irresistible machismo.
Milsap entered the bookstore possessing the confidence of Rasputin, the mental acuity of John Dee, and the sexual depravity of Aleister Crowley. The old guy currently behind the counter appeared irrepressibly unimpressed by Milsap’s swagger.
“We don’t have any Necronomicons or Satanic Bibles before you ask,” he said.
Brian didn’t care much for the man’s tone of voice. Milsap remained surprisingly mellow.
“I’m more interested in whatcha got in the area of transcendental meditation,” Milsap said.
The man’s eyes were more like muddy ponds than crystal balls. He arched a wicked gray eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Huh. In that case, those books should be on the far wall near the back. Holler if you need any help.”
Milsap tipped him a friendly salute. As he wandered the aisles, Brian trailed behind marveling there could be so many books written about so much stupid shit. Brian wouldn’t have felt any more out of place had he an extra ear growing out of his forehead, but Milsap moved as though he were entirely in his element. He scanned the walls, ducked into aisles, his hands flitting across the edges of the books. Scarcely five minutes passed, before Milsap was ready to leave.
“Not find what you’re looking for?” The counter guy asked.
“Nothing transcendental enough, really,” Milsap shrugged. “Maybe next time.”
During the brief time they browsed the bookstore, the light drizzle had strengthened into a steady downpour.
“Son of a bitch,” Brian muttered.
They raced to the relatively dry space beneath the awning of the South Shore station. They stood watching the rain fall.
“Hope it was worth it.” More bellyaching from Brian.
“Oh, it was,” Milsap assured him.
Milsap lifted the front of his Motley Crue T0shirt and withdrew the book he’d shoved down the front of his jeans.
“Milsap…”
“I know the sign read, ‘shoplifting is bad for your karma,’ but I don’t know how my luck could get any worse.”
Brian read the cover. “Spells, Curses, and Incantations by Cyrus Belltower. You gotta be kidding me. Is this what we’re doing, now? Resorting to spell craft?”
“Hey, it’s worth a shot. I’m not like you. I ain’t going to wait around to get stabbed.”
“Stabbed, my ass. You know, I figured this shit was coming down the pipe when you started listening to those King Diamond albums.”
“I suppose I’m halfway to dumping dead hookers in Lake Powderhorn,” Milsap sighed. “But in the meantime, since I’ve already mastered transcendental meditation, I think I’m ready to throw a curse or two on Mickey Hayes. Make that stupid little rat tail fall off the back of his head. Then make him leave us alone permanently.”
“Shit. So, when did you even grab that book? I was standing right next to you the whole time.”
Milsap contorted his hands in a vaguely witchy manner. “Magic,” he said.
“Jesus. So, you’re a warlock, now? I thought you wanted to be a ninja.”
“I don’t see why I can’t be both.”
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
