Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.
Misery Guts Act 1.
R.C. Saunders, inmate number 9320, parole, steps out upon a stone that reads,
It's never too late to mend.
Above, a barking tree squirrel flutters its tail, a startled starling abandons its perch to see
which way the wind is blowing, and a guard in the tower, not one to cut things fine,
sticks to his guns. Below, great American jackrabbit scurry dandelions three little
white puffs of cloud to the breeze, and pink and yellow tulips line a meandering path in full swing
of late July. Behind, claustrophobic sounds of imprisonment go in one ear only to be locked
behind the other as a towering wall of limestone block casts its dark shadow upon the ground,
swallowing up the innocence of the prairie. Ahead, opportunity in unknown quantity awaits.
Saunders, lips pursed, weary lines furrowed across a forehead lathered in sienna skin.
It hand me down from a Cherokee grandmother. Threadbare chore coat swung over the shoulder
with a hooked finger. Kroger cap slapped on the back of his skull like a cockeyed crown.
Beady eyes, tiny as a mustard seed, focused firmly on the horizon.
Holding the key to the grievous institution, Boss, a short squat man, locked kneeed, rocking
on his heels like a boy about to piss himself. Adjusting his officer's cap on his balding head
with one hand, baton in the other, Boss has become the law unto itself. With relentless shifty eyes,
unable to find a thing worth settling upon, ticks a nostril to voice the lingering deep inside,
a voice scratching at the inside of the skull, a rat trapped inside of the skull.
Rat trapped inside a maze. Inside, a father's resentment simmers. Ain't never gonna account for nothing.
Glaring daggers at his lesser. Sad you're leaving so soon, Saunders?
Took a mighty fine shine to you, boy. In a gravelly tone, eyes unmoved, Saunders.
Can't say the same, Boss. Well, we'll be seeing you. With a hack, a spit, and a swivel on the ball
of the foot, the loggerhead having grown rather stale, Boss makes his way for the donnaker.
Don't wait sup on me, says Saunders, stepping for us. Taking the bait, a smack of the baton to one
hand, and a clench of the bladder. Keep a plate warm in the oven for you. Wouldn't hold your breath, Boss.
Iron on iron, the gate screeches shut, and the startled starling circles around once more.
It's early days yet. Whistling Rufus, Saunders feels on top of the world. The country road,
rough and dusty, rutted from the spring rains, 19.2 inches so far this year, rolls on endlessly.
About sunflowers and daisies, a hovering bumblebee keeping the old crook on his toes,
digging in his heels, determined under the blistering sun. Uncertain of his chosen direction,
Saunders carries forth nonetheless, fate mapped out on the palm of his hand. Cloudless sky,
a breeze a-blowing, with a putt-putter and swoosh, and in a hoo-ga, a toffee-nosed driver
glaring back at the rough diamond he's just left in the dust.
Paying no mind, Saunders jumps the fence of a humble farm and slips into a cow barn. He considers
making himself right at home under an udder, until a wayward chicken clucking about makes his mouth
water. He decides to make a go of it as a chicken thief. But that poultry dish has got one hell of
a chip on its shoulder, scratching at his arms, sounding the air raid siren letting the cat out of
the bag, so to speak. And what follows is the creaking slap of a screen door, and with a curse,
Saunders throws the bird to the ground, the flustered fowl scurrying off, leaving old Saunders in a lurch.
And in a sudden gruff bark, one familiar to the land, a cold fish of an old man, hard-wearing for the barn, hollers.
Alright, come out now! Know you're in there! Making himself loud and clear with the cock of a shotgun,
Saunders makes like a banana and splits, the blast of the 12-gauge taking the paint off the rail,
and nearly the hide off his ass. The old crook getting away by the skin of his teeth.
End of days. Fizzling and popping, the tangerine sun caught red-handed,
hot in the act of cooling off in an ocean of prairie grass. Cool, calm, and collected,
Saunders veers off the country road for a goat trail, a slight disturbance in the rows of corn.
Beyond the knee-high tassels, a dark mound looms in a distant tree line, a mask covered in brush,
a Ford Model T, the car of the century, long lost and forgotten. Old rusty cans,
lids hacked off by wayward tramps, heap about, and Saunders kicks a tire with a dull thud,
trying to remove the stubborn midwestern mud from his boot.
Though the top is dry rot, Saunders figures the tin lizzie will make as good a place as any to
hunker down for the night. So he plops down on the squeaky seat, kicks up his legs,
fashions a pillow out of his chore coat, shades his eyes with his cap, and lets his mind wander about.
Ain't nothing but a good-for-nothing crook, eight years since she last spoke those words.
Ain't you ever think of the kids? Sure she'd like to give her old man hell for everything,
from drinking too much to not taking out the trash, and it was right by her offering up a
piece of her mind, just as her ma had given her pa. Though ma had put an eight-inch rail spike
in pa's eye socket one night after a gallon of moonbeam, pa stuffed it with a wad of cotton
and went to work the next day, never saying a word about it, and she admired him for taking his fair
shake. But with the knock on the door, Saunders panics and grabs a bundle of cash his old lady
found under the mattress, money she had hollered over, greenback she'd already spent on that silver
bracelet sitting behind glass down at Beringer's department store, figuring there'd be plenty
left over for a new pair of silk shoes, a dress, hell, maybe even a new ribbon. When the coppers
kick in the door, the kids cry, and Johnny Law takes the money, and he's left with the kids.
Kids cry, and Johnny Law takes their pa away, and that silver bracelet, well hell, it remains
behind glass, as old Saunders spends an eight-year stint behind bars, up at Joliet Penn, a grievous
institution where it's never too late to mend. If I hadn't been hounded by bad luck, I'd have
made sergeant by God, Saunders believes. After all, it wasn't my fault that bastard Corporal
stepped on my toes, and the lieutenant, well, he didn't have to cut my buttons off after all,
hell, he deserved that knuckle sandwich, if you ask me, but I suppose I didn't have to bash his
head into the door frame like that, but hell, what was I to do? Couldn't see any other way about it,
and holding up them trains, now why can't she see I was just looking out for the kids is all,
hell, I'll show her, lay some pavers, save up some brass, and open my own store,
running his fingers proudly across his name painted high on a sign above the bustling street,
Saunders Merchantile.
A blanket of mist envelops the thicket, and a lingering blue hue on the horizon fades to black.
Ahead, limbs moan like old arthritic bones, all is up in the air, and Saunders knows it.
Squirming about on the cracked leather, flipping and flopping, seeking the sweet spot upon sprung
coils, the steering wheel stabs him in the back, but his eyelids grow heavy nonetheless,
and he arrives at the gates of Dreamland, just as a devilish cry catches his napping,
and takes his breath away with a godawful yelp, a real eye-opener, jolting Saunders awake and
spraying him to his knees. The city slicker takes a good look-see into the night,
it's just looking for something to eat, he thinks, hopefully not me, he hopes. Go on and get, he prays.
As cans clank, Saunders is all ears, the growls sinister, more yelping in the distance,
demonic children, chitter-chatter, Lizzie shakes with a sudden, violent nudge, and an ear-piercing
cry sends an ice-cold shiver up Saunders' spine. He covers his ears to block out the horrific shrill,
and lets out a blood-curdling scream of his own that erupts from his throat.
Echo, silence, echo, echo.
Curled up in a ball on the floor, he hugs his knees, eyes clenched tight, heart pounding
against the inside of his sternum, and a quick spat of spasms leaves him in a whining whimper.
But suddenly, there is calm, and a long-held breath is released, blood rushes back into his
knuckles, and in no time, the leaves come around, gentle rustling within a sleepy breeze,
the mist snuggles up about the cottonwood. Lizzie settles upon her airless tires,
and a disarming crescendo of cicadas lures the old crook back to slumber.
Early rising, Saunders lumbers to his feet in the damp grass. Birds sing,
eyeballs afloat, he's whistling Dixie, wetting the lettuce, and his vicky kid welts.
Son of a bitch, he curses, checking the tires. Hungry as a horse, he circles about the empty cans,
empty belly grumbling, he throws up his hands in disbelief. Hail, some hobo is eating better than
me. Looking about for a stone to throw, seeing he's got a hankering for a quail, he blows a raspberry,
huffs and hollers, but hearing a sharp snap, he ducks behind Lizzie, unable to shake the knife's
edge, knowing liberty is ever fleeting for a man like him. A man like him, having a reasonable
belief that good criminals make even better soldiers, Uncle Sam ordered Saunders to rank
and file, behest time served. But old Saunders, while he's got one hell of a temper, a devil
inherited from his paw. A devil paw had switched into him, one in which Saunders was never able to
switch out. His rage takes on a persona of its own, calling itself Godspell. In uniform, Saunders
carries along on the train to Fort Sheridan. Godspell, tucked up tight in a carpet bag, slung
over his shoulder. And of course, it's not long before Saunders is caught stealing 20 pounds of
beef shank from the slop. And when Godspell cracks the lieutenant's skull on a doorframe,
he finds himself in court once more, only this time before a federal magistrate.
After a good stint in the brig, Leavenworth spits him right out on the sidewalk like a soggy
sunflower seed. And a man like him, well, he resorts to holding up not one, but two Southern
tree-lined partsed, finding only a ditch as dry as a bong. Son of a gun, Leavenworth Sauce
Illinois trains, with the help of his cousin Hank, getting himself all tangled up with the law once
again. And after eight long years in Joliet, the old crook tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as
With the help of his cousin Hank, getting himself all tangled up with the law once again.
And after eight long years in Joliet, the old crook Tung stuck to the roof of his mouth
as he wanders about the treeline parched, finding only a ditch as dry as a bomb.
Son of a gun, biscuit eater!
Resorts to searching the old ford for a loose cigarette, finding only a red scrap of paper
under the seat that reads,
$1,000 will be paid for the capture or taking of any robber, dead or alive.
He plops down, gives the steering wheel a good shake, surrendering in a miserable slouch.
But out of the corner of the eye, something peculiar on that poster asks for another look-see.
He snags it, and a grin spreads from ear to ear, seeing green.
Well, I'll be doggone, the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
Seeing as against all odds.
A sketch of a small town on the back of that poster, its business district, two gets, and
the ins and outs of a bank, so to speak.
The number of guards on duty?
One.
The possible sum to be stolen?
$85,000 cash.
One heck of a money spender, if he does say so himself.
Now, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
But old Saunders has got himself a case of itchy palm, so the seasoned crook does what
any bird his feather might.
He gets his act together, straightens his spine, tucks in his round collared shirt,
lifts his suspenders, throws his chore coat over his shoulder, situates his cap like a
cock-eyed crown, and puts himself back on the map, with a skip in his step, Saunders
is back in action, strolling down the country lane in high form, eyes on the horizon, making
his way for greener pastures, well healed and oiled, foregone conclusion on his mind,
divine intervention, a bet worth chancing the arm.
But truth be told, old Saunders need not touch that old scout map with a 20 foot barge pole,
senior needs that one way ticket about as much as a hole in the head.
The bottom line, when you're on this path, you've hit rock bottom, and yachts soon enough
see the shape of things to come.