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Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.

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Riff Raff Act 1

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The second to afternoon school bell rings. I am shirtless and shoeless until supper.

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Spring-loaded grasshoppers lurch out of the way. Jackrabbits scurry. Sparrowhawks dart.

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Blue jays flutter. The rare cardinal perches on a sole American elm,

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and a red-tailed hawk glides effortlessly about the prevailing winds.

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Big blue doesn't grow much in my field. Rather, milkweed, purple coneflower,

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and a gentler, kindler pony grass topped with fluffy plumes of silver-green flowers

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that part like soft clouds in my wake as I shed my knickers and toss them on a branch at the

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treeline, plunging into the hickory forest carpeted with ivory, spooking a family of

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white-tailed deer fleeing in leaps and bounds, a buck thrashing about with fury.

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As upon arching limbs, honry squirrels snicker, getting a kick out of dropping nuts on my noggin.

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I'm thirsty for blood, trampling down the ravine with a wild holler

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about a great expedition amongst an invisible war party.

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Big creek meanders slowly in the valley bottom, weaving through white and red oak,

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and I slide down an eroded embankment into its waters muddied with rich soil.

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Sloshing upstream in hopes of facing the enemy head-on, I vow never to return without victory.

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To seize the prize or die, knowing if I am courageous,

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I'll be allowed to wear feathers and paint like the Braves in grandpa's books.

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So I carry forth, giving it my all, trudging through sticks and muck, climbing over a beaver

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dam, and splashing neck-high into a deep murky pool. Dragonfly's buzz, waterbugs scurry,

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and a water snake slithers off in surprise and disappointment.

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Encountering the enemy, I take my life into my own hands, rushing upon the Osage as blood and guts

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spill out into the waters. Invisible arrows pierce bellies, and my tomahawk, a short rotten stick

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snapping in two with my swing, cracks two skulls in one fell swoop. An epic battle, let out a yelp,

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and take a scalp with an ethereal

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blade. Eager to return and triumph to my father, having put an end to this war. Piece of cake,

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I think, as I embark upon my return to my village, drums carrying on through the leaves, bumbling

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about as young boys do, lost in a very real figment of my imagination, mindlessly swatting the nettle,

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stinging my calves, oblivion, and the

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thorns in my heels, my mind's eye envisioning dancing about a blazing fire, prized scalps,

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spirits held high, as the villagers foresee word of my victory. On top of the world,

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I know an honorable feast awaits me, PB and J with a tall glass of lemonade.

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But suddenly, a rustling catches my attention at the treeline, in a faint voice, in a soft song.

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I drop my scalps and scan the flora, tiptoeing forth through the ivy. I spot a girl, but damn,

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a twig snaps below my heel. Startled, she quiets, glancing back at the treeline under her thick,

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heavy brows, slanted deeply inward like a raven's wings that intensify the severity of her gaze,

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penetrating eyes of sable brown, a circling tinge of old world blue, glossy saucers that shimmer and

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shine, reflecting the darkness of the thicket back at itself. Her eyes widen, and I step behind a

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tree. I see you, she hollers, and I step back out foolishly. As she looks me up and down with dough

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eyes below her crinkled brow, a loose strand of hair curling about her cheekbone, and her long,

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dark braids shimmering, she smiles, giggles, and a lump forms in my throat. Hot damn, I've forgotten

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my knickers on a branch. I quickly cover my boyhood with my hands. Idiot, laughing stock,

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I shout into myself. Are you acting your age? Hell no, I scorn. And she sniggers again, batting

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her long, dark lashes. With her body ahead of her gaze, she turns with that everlasting grin,

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and she walks away. I wave her goodbye with one hand, and pray I'll see her again with the other,

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and like water off a duck's dill, a red fox darts over the horizon. Having called the game,

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the neighbor boys inspect two patrol cars parked outside my house. I walk past them like a ghost,

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and inside find my father hunched over at the kitchen table. My mother stands behind him, rubbing

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his shoulders. In one hand, the glass of bourbon he's trying to get to the bottom of, in the other,

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the head he's trying to get a grip of, a far cry from the height he'd been at breakfast,

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a sight for sore eyes, to say the least, deeply etching to my mind. Dear, says my mother,

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and after pouring coffee for the officers I now notice, as I stand with my head cocked in

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confusion, she pulls me by the arm to the sitting room, where I listen from around the corner,

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a fly on a wall, ears abuzz. And Chief Roy asks my father to Officer Taylor, seated across the table,

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young and handsome. Well, he took two slugs, but that son of a bitch is tough as nails. Death is

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scared of him, as my mother clears her throat, grabbing for a saucer from the cabinet, and a

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rather handsome officer squirms in his chair at the sight of her calves, saying, pardon my language,

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ma'am. Two other officers talk shop a few feet off, custodian helmets under their arms like

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pumpkins they'd snagged off a porch, while Sergeant White, a short squirrely man with no chin to speak

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of and a wiry mustache, stands silent in the corner, stiff as a broom, his own helmet strapped upon his

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tiny round head. As the others patiently sip on their coffee, he is brewing, a bead of sweat

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running down his temple, awaiting his moment to shine. Sugar, cream, asks my mother. Why thank

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you, ma'am, says Officer Taylor, as she scoops sugar into his steaming cup, and then pours in

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the cream, and it swirls about in spirals. Sure smells good, he says with a crooked grin,

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and sparkling eyes that shine, lightening her own, turning up the corners, erasing the wrinkles

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that have suddenly formed in the past year. To say the least, the thought of aging is not easy on my

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mother, and she is certainly the last to realize time has been gracious. Seeing how women age quick

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in these parts, she remains as pretty as a picture. While most country ladies toughen up like smoked

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leather, my mother cuts quite a dash at 32. Anyhow, the charming Officer Taylor, dressed to the nines

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in his pressed uniform, made sure to eat a raw egg for breakfast, and lets his tooth shine across

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the table for my mother. Oh, please call me Roxy, her own shame laden smile spreading across her

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face as she diverts her eyes from his gorgeous grin, his chiseled jaw, which is quite pleasant

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to look at before returning faithfully behind her husband, now thread-like in the spine.

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My father, head in his petite hand, bourbon dwindling in the other. And O'Brien,

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was death scared of him as well? asks my father. Officer Taylor loses his grin and peers down at

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his coffee, finally matching the moment in proper terms. Inspiring from around the corner, I watch

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my father cover his moistening eyes. That makes all the difference now doesn't it? 40 years old,

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says my father, shaking his head in disbelief, a goddamn travesty. And Edward, he asks. Oh,

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I'm sure he's fine dear, says my mother. Just a bump on the old noggin. Nothing a serving of Bess's

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meatloaf won't fix right up. But I notice a deepening silence, a reverent suddenly burdening the

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room. My stomach turns and my knees quiver and I wonder, what about the sherbert? Cerebral edema,

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says Sergeant White. While symptoms usually amount to nothing more than visual disturbance,

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headaches or nausea at the most. You've got to be joking me, says my father, as Officer Taylor

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closes his eyes with a slight nod of unfortunate confirmation. Swelling of the brain, ma'am, says

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Sergeant White. And I'm sorry to say ma'am, old Edward, while he didn't make it under the knife in

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time. And my mother bursts into tears and flees the kitchen with her face in her hands. And I'm

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left with a startling realization as she runs upstairs with a whimper, followed by a slam of

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a door and a sob into her pillow. Realization, so much for the sherbert. And with wide eyes buzzed

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in disbelief, after muttering all the possibilities, all the impossibilities, my father asks with a

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fist to the table. And the bastard who killed him? Sergeant White clears his throat and before our

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eyes, his small round face brightens as the spotlight has finally settled on him. His

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eyebrows perk with the clearing of his throat. He demands the attention he believes he deserves.

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And in a high tenure, one gnawing at the ears, he says through the wiry threads of his mustache.

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Hank Little, getaway driver, cousin of the perp, deceased. No, not him, you fool, the crook who

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locked me in the vault. My father, thirsty for blood, as he forsakes his bourbon with fiery

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bloodshot eyes. And slowly and methodically pacing back and forth, tapping the tips of his fingers

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together, his eyes moving stage left, stage right. Sergeant White says, RC Sonners, this honorable

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discharge from the army. As Officer Taylor adds, got word on the wire released from the pen just

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two weeks ago. Real high flyer, train Robbie charges throughout the state. Here's he left his

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own kin to carry the can. Why the hell they let that animal out of his cage, hell if I know.

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And Sergeant White, should have put him down like the dog he is when they had the chance.

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And my father with a look of dread. And, and another moment of painstaking silence.

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So the son of a bitch got away scot-free. That's what you're telling me. That's

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an affirmative. My God, says my father dropping his head onto his fists. Now don't you worry,

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says Officer Taylor. His name is out across the wire and he's bound to be picked up in no time at

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all. So the son of a bitch you killed Edward, he's out there, says my father looking around

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with due paranoia. And with a full body quiver, tail between my legs, a sudden zap evicts me from

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my body. Throwing me hovering in some ambient state about the ceiling, glancing back toward life.

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A wayward fish on some invisible stream. I observe my own frightened puppy dog eyes,

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my face as white as a ghost. Until he slams his fist down on the table again. And I'm suddenly

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sucked back into my own skull like a fish whiplashed into a boat. And I clench my

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bladder with crossed legs as coffee bleeds into the white tablecloth. That bastard stole my father's

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pocket watch. He manages to mutter before Sergeant White clears his throat again. Well,

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we didn't manage to find the bag of loot other than a few bales that got loose. But as he holds

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out his hand and with the spring of his fingers, a golden shimmer dropping by its chain. And with

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a tick tick ticking that stops my father's heart. I found this in the weeds off Cherry Lane.

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I plopped down on the exposed root of a large bur oak. I feel afraid and confused. I toss my

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ball into the air and let it hit the ground beside me. And my belly turns as I hadn't eaten this

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sandwich my mother made me. I'd fed it to a stray wandering through the yard. Looked like he could

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use it more than me. My father is angry. And I seize up the ball again hitting the ground as he

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stomps down the back steps, letting the screen door slap shut behind him. He walks over to me

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and messes my hair. Going for a cigar, he says and goes to the garage. He starts the Fleetwood,

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grinds the gears, backs out of the driveway and speeds up Elm recklessly. The air is relieved,

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the birds return and I can breathe again. But I let the ball lay and I peek in the back door.

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My mother peers silently out of the kitchen window with a hollow gaze. And with the creak

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of the hinges, she snaps out of it and gathers herself, straightens a towel on the sink's edge,

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and walks away from the ingredients for an unmade supper. With a sudden hum,

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she dries her tears on her apron, sniffs and gathers herself before me, hand in hand.

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Would you like that sandwich dear? Can I go get a pop? I ask. Sure dear. There's a nickel in my

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purse, removing her apron. I think I will plant some lilies. The Fleetwood zooms past Edison

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phonograph, Baldwin pianos, in the bank, and just past Frank Wright and Brother News Dealer. Its

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straw-colored wheels skid to a stop right in front of the beer house. Beside the Bennett ice wagon,

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water drizzling out of the back, its draft horse dropping a load on the brickwork.

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A drunkard squat on his box peers at the shiny car through squinted eyes in the

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late-day sun. His mind is quiet. He thinks of only drink. The drunkard, holding out his palm,

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hoping for a nickel from the dandy, who scoffs, peers with a sneer through his tiny round frames,

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and drops down the stairs which drop into the sidewalk in the subterranean darkness that

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awaits those in need of a smoky rumble, a murmur, a grumble and a growl, and bursts of startling

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laughter. The reinforced door slamming shut on his heels, closing out all semblance of the fine

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summer day. Amongst the cool, musty shade, hot tempers tempered, if only temporal, over a cold

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one. Folding into the bar between two over-old men, a short one to the right, a tall one to the

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left, Mr. Olsen, president of the First National Bank, my father leans in as coolly as he might,

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on one elbow as the others do with the cross of the leg, one knee straight, the other jerked out.

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And with a hard slap of the finest thread count in the joint, the tall man asks,

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aren't you the president of the bank? Mr. Olsen, now massaging his shoulder, holds out his free

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hand and the squeeze rearranges his twenty-seven bones. What in the hell you doing in here?

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Shouldn't you be at the brister eating oysters Rockefeller? Lady Baltimore, says the short man.

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My father, who now massages his hand, now the recipient of a rasp carrying through the smoke

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choked air, asking, who let you out of the vault? maintains his focus on the barkeep. What can I

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get you? The barkeep, in a vest and tie, bar cloth over his arm, brings a sense of civility back to

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my father, who orders a beer and takes a deep sigh of relief in the small oasis of civilization

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extracted from such austere posture. Even in an incorrigible place such as this, he knows this

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man's checks don't bounce, ever. Thus, he respects him and mightily so amongst the chaos steadily

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simmering around him. Music jangles from a player piano in the back corner as the tall man says,

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hell, I'll settle for some pigs on a blanket. Some poor man's cake, says the short man, a chuckle

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and cough and a slap to his own swollen gut. The good old boy's laugh, call him Mr. V for short,

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Mr. Vault for long, hovering curiously about, asking about the robbery. The good old boys,

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rough about the neck, hands like rope, rough about the edges, with sharp tongues that whip,

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slicing open flesh like a straight razor, slurred syllables, fumbling over pronunciations,

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and other lack of enunciation. They ponder him aloud and in silence from dark corners. Mr. V

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orders another round for the boys and they cheer. The lower class, sitting well below the salt,

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farmers, blacksmiths, plowmakers, and plowers alike, drinking their drink straight up, no chaser.

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Men the like whom my father has never familiarly socialized. Wesky orders the tall man, make it

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two, the short. Men who stand mightier than himself. My father knows these men are only as

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robust as their checks that don't bounce at the end of the day, and for that he holds court. Yet

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Mr. V is naive that many of these fellas whisper on revenge. In hell, a mighty few are ready to

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rough him up a little if it comes to such, if not with words, with fists. Fists clenched in the

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corner below rumbling, sore lips that quiver. Soggy, swollen, wet with whiskey, trembling with rage,

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while others fly under false flags, seeing the opportunity to sail with a captain. As as far as

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they see, befriending the power player, seeing the gentleman shaking on his pedestal, what the hell,

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why not, they wonder. Knowing downright things happen around this man, they can see in each

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other's eyes, mutiny, when my father looks away. And they can see it in his eyes when he glares

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back at them with due paranoia, fear. But with each swill, concerns dwindle, fists unclench,

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jaws soften, as do shadowed gazes, turning away as fellows are soon distracted by rambling means

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and tangents, meaningless dribbles that collect on the lip of life, disputes amongst friends and

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enemies kept closer. Those few believing Mr. Olsen's company may accompany certain things,

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or rather a lack thereof, such as evictions, bankruptcy, and bounce checks, cozy up to the

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president, buying Mr. V two fingers at a time, making a full knuckled fist of it, nickels they

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cannot afford to part with, let alone piss away. A wise investment as far as they see, as even they

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can't see but an arm's length, leaves of grass. So amongst the drunken chatter, my father, two

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sheets to the wind, leans back another and orders one more round for the boys, and the boys cheer.

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And gotta twist my arm, says the short man, shouting over the player piano. Do you know what

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the last dinner they served on the Titanic was, says my father in a biblous tone and rhythm,

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well whitened up with the boys, roast duckling with applesauce, and he's complimented with a

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hiccup and a side of gran. So you gonna put your money where your mouth is,

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buy those goddamn carbine rifles or what, says the short man. Keep them damn crooks out of town,

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says a jaundiced old man with a missing tooth, wobbling in on the conversation. The short man

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flings spit from his lips, damn niggers and spicks too, cheers to that, says the old man

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with a gummy salute, goddamn darkies, losing his train of thought, vision dim with drink,

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down a gulping drain. The door opens, the light pours in, waking my father to his dread,

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and his eyes widen. He lifts his dropped head in anger, and the room spins in rage, and his ears

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ring in hate, and he sighs and slams down his mug, saying, you're goddamn right, we're gonna kill

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every crook that steps in this town. Hell, my wife can roast a duck, says the tall man.

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The sun sets on our hamlet, dying down for the night. The old drunkard hobbling his way down

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the alley in the darkness, past a veiled fence and a shadowed nook, blades shimmering just out

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of sight in a sliver of pale moonlight. Well bent at the elbow, the drunkard, failing to notice his

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own dice with death, carries on. A hack, a spit, he labors for his honest, yet homely nest of straw

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and wool snagged from a clothesline. Plopping down, he rubs his swollen knees and yawns,

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scratches his beard, passes gas, and lays his weight back into the damp brick wall with a deep

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sigh. But a quick yelp widens his tired eyes and sends his weary heart into a short sprint,

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rising to his throat for the occasion, a throat raw with drink. The yelp of pain labors him back

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to his swollen feet, and weirdly he stumbles back up the alleyway in concern, the night quickly

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silent as the grave once more. And just as stones throw ahead, he spots in a sliver of moonlight a

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brown mutt lying on its side, slow to pant, labors to catch one more moment on this earth.

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The drunkard kneels. The mutt looks up at him with all he's got left, sad, teary eyes gleam in both

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directions, blood oozing from a deep wound in its neck, and after one last pant, the mutt drops his

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head to the cool brick and dies. The drunkard strokes the mutt behind the ear when suddenly,

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another faint cry grabs his ear from behind a nearby trash bin. He discovers a wee puppy and

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shivers, gently picks it up as it paws helplessly at thin air, trembling in his palm, the little

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creature nuzzles up in the nook of the drunkard's arm. Wont you sigh for sore eyes? he says, as a

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shadowed figure streaks past the periphery and into the night.

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Motionless in bed, I listen as my father double checks the locks, yet again, click click click

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click, a tense as he climbs the stairs. I hold my breath as he's on the piss and makes his way to

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bed, thankfully snoring in no time. A weight off my mind, I release my breath and let the spring

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squeak as I bounce to my feet in my one piece. Out of the window, I spot a dark silhouette crossing

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the lawn below, surely that old raccoon making its way for the trash bin again. And from their

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bedroom, I hear paper crinkle, my mother yearning for the social circle she had left behind,

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reading letters by candlelight. Dear Roxy, seeing how you have become provincial, I simply cannot

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fathom how you are faring without the proper necessities of life, such as theater. My mother

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lets out a breath of her own, just as a commotion outside startles my father from his slumber. And

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with a curse, he stands from bed and rummages through the closet. God damn son of a- What are

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you looking for? asks my mother. Something to bash that crook's head in. That's what I'm looking

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for, Roxy. It's only that silly raccoon again, honey. You're drunk, come back to bed. Good for

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nothing, crook. As he makes his way to my room, where I've jumped under the covers, lying stiff

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as a board, afraid to swallow, Quilt pulled up to my eyes as he digs through my closet.

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Shh, you're gonna wake Oscar, says my mother from the hall. Oh, kill that son of a bitch,

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he says, grabbing my bat. Trampling down the stairs, he unlocks the front door. Click click,

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I run back to my window and watch as my father stumbles belligerently about the front lawn,

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shouting angry slurs, venting his spleen, lashing out at ghosts, having it out with his own shadow.

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Bat scare from the attic, neighbors from their beds, windows light up, curtains open, and dogs

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yelp and howl. And I tiptoe out of my room to spy on my mother, who has retreated to her own bed.

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Fine, go on and be a madman, she mumbles. I'll have nothing to do with it, as she picks up another

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letter and reads, Dear Roxas, I pity you. In the candlelight, those words dance about in madness,

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a madness that has become the night. And she drops the letter and sits up on the edge of the bed,

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face dropped in her hands, at her wits end, living on raw nerves, until the floor creaks,

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and she looks up at me. Oh honey, did he frighten you? No, I lie. By the time the police arrive,

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my father has sobered up some, and I spy from the top step as he explains he had heard someone

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outside. I watch as the officers bob their heads. After all, my father is, in fact, an essential

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pillar of the community. And yes, they assure him, his stick checkbook is in good graces,

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but not precisely in those words. Due to your generous patronage to the department,

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it goes without saying, we'll be sure to increase our tours of inspection.

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As my mother quietly invites the second officer, Officer Taylor, with chiseled jaw and sky-blue

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eyes that sparkle even at night, into the sitting room, he anxiously sips on the coffee

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she had brewed just for him. She doesn't know what's wrong with her husband, she whispers.

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Now I doubt that crook's gonna return, ma'am, but there's a lot of bad guys out there.

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In a tiny little town such as this? She asks. Ma'am, you'd be surprised. And she suddenly looks

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afraid, or faints to be. Now you don't worry, ma'am. Oh, please call me Roxy, she says. I'll

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keep an eye on things for you, Roxy. That'd be mighty kind, Officer Taylor, grabbing him by the arm.

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As Sergeant White arrives, he motions my father to the parlor with a slight nod of his own.

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Next time, placing a blue.38 special into my father's hand, put a hole the size of a

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turnip in his head. My father takes hold of the gun and says, is that blood on your sleeve?

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Hmm, it appears so. Scraping at his sleeve with his thumb nail, came across one of them filthy strays.

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I had to put that bastard down.

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You

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stretch

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a

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bar

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you