Cemetery Street - John Zunski (good novels to read in english .txt) 📗

kid asked – he was the leader.
“Did you?” I stared down at him. The other two watched.
“You were with those two weird chicks.”
“Yeah,” a Hispanic kid said. “The black one, she’s a bitch. She juggles knives. I used to watch her practice on the sidewalk. She yelled me. Told me if I ever bothered her she’d cut my nuts off.”
“She ain’t cuttin’ nobody’s nuts off,” the leader said. A second black kid didn’t say anything; he knelt and played with Ellie.
“I’ve seen her do it. She’s nasty,” I said. I looked around as if I was about to tell a secret: “Between you and me, she hates guys. It’s a good idea to stay away from her. She eats deep fried nuts for lunch.”
“I knew it! They’re lesbos?” The leader cried.
“The blonde isn’t. The knife lady is,” I said.
“Bullshit man, them bitches always together. They clam slammers.”
“They ain’t,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“I’m the blonde's boyfriend.”
Two of the kids laughed. “You’re her boy-fool,” The leader said.
The quiet kid petting Ellie spoke up. “What’s her name?”
“Shannie,” I answered.
“Hi Shannie,” the quiet kid said scratching Ellie behind her ears.
“No, the blonde is Shannie. That’s Eleanor Rigby. You can call her Ellie.”
“Hi Ellie,” he said. Ellie kissed his face.
“Watch out man, those lesbos will convert your dog,” the Hispanic said.
There’s a Steve Lucas in every crowd, I thought. “You’re funny, too bad you ain’t original,” I said.
“What kind of dog is she?” the kid petting Ellie asked.
Staring at the leader I answered: “Ellie’s a coonhound. She doesn’t like wise asses. The last kid that gave me shit, Ellie ripped the rat-bastard’s arm off and chewed on the bones for weeks. Human bones make her happy,” I warned.
“You full of shit,” the leader said as he took a step backwards.
“Hey Drew,” the Hispanic kid cried to the leader. “You going to take that shit? Man, the cracker just called you a coon!”
“Try us,” I said, glaring at the leader. “Excuse me,” I said to the kid petting Ellie. “Ellie’s got a job to do.”
“Oh,” Ellie’s new friend whispered as he stood.
“Ellie sic,” I said doubling her leash around my wrist. Ellie barked, jumped, drooled, and tugged the leash. The leader and Hispanic kid turned and ran down the street. The quite kid chuckled. “Good girl,” I gave a quick tug on her leash. Ellie sat down without another bark.
“You got a cool dog, but she ain’t no coonhound,” the quite kid said.
“She’s a pitbull.”
“That’s what I thought.” The quiet kid smiled.
“I’m James,” I extended my hand.
“Jerome.” He shook my hand.

After sunset, Shannie, Genise, Ellie and I walked the boardwalk. “This works,” Genise said. We were at the corner of St. James Place and boardwalk. “Hang here,” Genise said placing a duffel bag and boom box at my feet. “We got dibs on this corner. Anyone moves in, start shit. Don’t sweat it, no one gonna fight. They’re gonna move on.” Genise was talking about other acts. Spots on the boardwalk were always up for grabs. I leaned against the wall with my arms crossed, sporting a baseball cap on sideways and shades. Having a pitbull helped. I didn’t have to wait too long before they reappeared. Seeing them I was glad I wore shades.
Clad in short shorts, a low cut top and inline skates, Shannie looked wonderfully trashy. She coasted on her skates drawing gawks. She winked at me as she approached. She bent over and turned on the boom box and cranked its volume. A crowd formed. Shannie circled backwards on her skates. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“James, whatever you do…” Genise’s voice appeared from nowhere. A cheer rose from the growing crowd. I missed Shannie nailing a back flip, landing on her blades, “…don’t move an inch! Got it?”
“Got it,” I watched Genise retrieve the duffel bag next to me. “I mean it. Not a fucking inch.” She skated away from me on an old pair of quad skates. “Give it up for MS. Montana Fontana.” With the skills of a ring master, Genise shooed people to the sides, forming a horseshoe around Shannie and me. Shannie did a couple more tricks before Genise and Shannie grabbed my arms and backed me against the wall.
Genise pulled three impressive looking knives from her duffel bag. Genise began juggling them. Reflections of halogen lights glimmered off the polished steel.
“Not bad!” Shannie cried as Genise gathered in the last knife. “Would’ve been better if they were real.”
“What makes you think they’re not?,” Genise answered skating towards Shannie.
“Real knives? Ha! You’re afraid to butter toast. You’re afraid of chipping your fingernail polish. God forbid, you might even break a fingernail.”
Like everyone else, I glanced at Genise’s fingernails – they were painted blood red.
“Is that right? Genise glared into Shannie’s eyes.
“That’s right,” Shannie goaded the crowd. “You’re too big a princess to play with real knives!”
Genise glanced at me before turning to the crowd. “A princess?” Genise bellowed. Genise spun on her skates and launched the knife towards me. Strands of light shimmered off the sheath as it darted towards me. I screamed. The knife imbedded itself in wall inches from my left ear. A second knife landed inches from my right ear. The crowd broke into laughter and applause; money poured into the buckets. “Give it up for Ginsu Gina.” I heard Shannie cry before my world went black.

“I can’t believe you passed out,” Shannie teased.
“Fuck you!” I moaned.
“Awesome,” Genise said. “We couldn’t have scripted it any better. You’re an improvisational genius.”
“You’re an asshole,” I said.
The three of us sat around Genise’s kitchen table counting the take. The Sister’s of Fate put on three more acts. When we finished, I told them they needed to find another target. “I’m out.” They didn’t have to wait too long for a replacement. The next day I found their man.
“Hey Ellie,” Jerome’s called. Tail waging, Ellie pulled me in Jerome’s direction.
“I caught the act last night.” Jerome reached into his pants pocket.
“What did you think?”
“It was fly when you passed out,” Jerome gave Ellie a treat.
“They’re looking for someone.”
“You think they’d let me?” Jerome asked. “That would be tits. I’d do it in a heart-beat.” Jerome got his wish.
I didn’t see Shannie much that summer, she spent it in Atlantic City. With the exception of July 4th and Labor Day I spent the summer doing the Fernwood thing. When I visited, I enjoyed their freak show, Jerome kicked ass.
Over Labor Day Jerome told me, “My mom says I can get a dog when I’m sixteen.” I liked Jerome, he was a dreamer. He talked of being a rapper or an Air Force pilot. He didn’t live long enough to realize either, let alone have his own dog. Over Thanksgiving of 1994, Jerome’s luck escaping death ran out, he was killed in a drive-by three days prior to his sixteenth birthday. I didn’t attend his memorial service; I had my own problems to deal with. It would be months before I could comprehend what happened. A brain injury is funny like that.


Chapter 17 Coming Home

As I pen these words, I deal with the effects of what happened in the early fall of 1994. I forget things – I’ve learned that a short pencil is better than a long memory - and only come to cherished memories with the help of pictures or scents. Although playing with aromas is playing with fire. Certain smells trigger avalanches of uncontrollable memories: the smell of steak releases an onslaught of memories of my family; brewing coffee frees Shannie; burning leaves remind me of Count; cigar smoke evokes Russell and Main Street; burnt rubber takes me back to Atlantic City. The force of such memories paralyzes me. It’s as if my memories have me. It makes for a distracted lifestyle. Pictures are much safer, they aren’t the frayed edge of an unpredictable memory strand.
Since my accident, I have a tendency to befuddle. I fly into tangents. I rarely finish a thought let alone a project. My shrink suggested penning this, she says it’s great exercise in staying focused; I pray it will exercise my demons. My shrink is a sadist, but she’s patient. Krista is everything I like in a woman, too bad she’s married and has kids. If she wasn’t, I’d do her, the age difference wouldn’t bother me.
There isn’t a smell that triggers a clear memory of what happened that September night. My father insists I was driving around looking for Ellie, she ran away the previous night. He said I was worried sick - I don’t remember. I do remember it was raining. I don’t remember hitting the pole. He says no one witnessed the accident. The police said that my car was wrapped around the pole like an accordion. I was found sprawled across the front seat, unconscious. They said I was lucky not to be wearing my seatbelt, if I was I would have been sliced in two by the door. I’d rather not think about the details. Diane and my father took pictures of my hooptie – for posterity sake, they said; I refuse to look at them, the idea seems morbid.
I could have sworn there was someone in the car with me, both my father and the police insist I was alone. Why would they lie? I guess it’s another example of how people once present in my life haunt me.
For a week I battled for my life, slipping in and out of a coma. Ironically, my most powerful memory occurred the instant I hit the pole. It’s more like a feeling than anything else, a feeling of floating in water, but not separate from it, as if I was becoming part of it. The water’s current separating whatever remained of my identity from my being. I felt myself letting go – dividing in countless parts, all rushing to join distant parts. The feeling was rapturous! Then everything turned black.
I awoke in the prison of a broken body reeling from the invasive feeling of tubes and needles. They conspired to pull me back from euphoric disembodiment. In a strange way, I can relate to the helplessness of a hooked fish. Despite a valiant fight, it learns it isn’t the master of it’s own destiny – that it’s useless resisting. I came to understand that it wasn’t my time. That doesn’t mean I didn’t fight to find that feeling again. I slipped into obscurity, but the blissful stream was no where to be found, only darkness and the absence of pain greeted me.
When darkness faded and pain returned, I noticed a picture of a serious faced woman taped to a television like box that had green squiggly lines running across its screen. In the picture, the woman sat on the ground with her knees pulled to her chin, sunshine bathed her pale skin and untamed blonde hair. Her back rested against what I would eventually identify as the memorial arch in Valley Forge National Park. Above her etched into the stone was the quote: “We can not admire enough the bravery and fidelity of the American soldiery,” George Washington.
Who’s George Washington? I thought turning away from the picture. My head flinched against the pillow when I noticed the same serious faced woman sleeping on the chair next to my bed. I watched her chest expand and contract beneath a blanket, its rhythm steady and strong. Her mouth twitched and she mumbled something in her sleep. I don’t know how long I watched her, occasionally I turned to study the picture before turning back to her. Who is