Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.
Riff Raff Act 1
The second to afternoon school bell rings. I am shirtless and shoeless until supper.
Spring-loaded grasshoppers lurch out of the way. Jackrabbits scurry. Sparrowhawks dart.
Blue jays flutter. The rare cardinal perches on a sole American elm,
and a red-tailed hawk glides effortlessly about the prevailing winds.
Big blue doesn't grow much in my field. Rather, milkweed, purple coneflower,
and a gentler, kindler pony grass topped with fluffy plumes of silver-green flowers
that part like soft clouds in my wake as I shed my knickers and toss them on a branch at the
treeline, plunging into the hickory forest carpeted with ivory, spooking a family of
white-tailed deer fleeing in leaps and bounds, a buck thrashing about with fury.
As upon arching limbs, honry squirrels snicker, getting a kick out of dropping nuts on my noggin.
I'm thirsty for blood, trampling down the ravine with a wild holler
about a great expedition amongst an invisible war party.
Big creek meanders slowly in the valley bottom, weaving through white and red oak,
and I slide down an eroded embankment into its waters muddied with rich soil.
Sloshing upstream in hopes of facing the enemy head-on, I vow never to return without victory.
To seize the prize or die, knowing if I am courageous,
I'll be allowed to wear feathers and paint like the Braves in grandpa's books.
So I carry forth, giving it my all, trudging through sticks and muck, climbing over a beaver
dam, and splashing neck-high into a deep murky pool. Dragonfly's buzz, waterbugs scurry,
and a water snake slithers off in surprise and disappointment.
Encountering the enemy, I take my life into my own hands, rushing upon the Osage as blood and guts
spill out into the waters. Invisible arrows pierce bellies, and my tomahawk, a short rotten stick
snapping in two with my swing, cracks two skulls in one fell swoop. An epic battle, let out a yelp,
and take a scalp with an ethereal
blade. Eager to return and triumph to my father, having put an end to this war. Piece of cake,
I think, as I embark upon my return to my village, drums carrying on through the leaves, bumbling
about as young boys do, lost in a very real figment of my imagination, mindlessly swatting the nettle,
stinging my calves, oblivion, and the
thorns in my heels, my mind's eye envisioning dancing about a blazing fire, prized scalps,
spirits held high, as the villagers foresee word of my victory. On top of the world,
I know an honorable feast awaits me, PB and J with a tall glass of lemonade.
But suddenly, a rustling catches my attention at the treeline, in a faint voice, in a soft song.
I drop my scalps and scan the flora, tiptoeing forth through the ivy. I spot a girl, but damn,
a twig snaps below my heel. Startled, she quiets, glancing back at the treeline under her thick,
heavy brows, slanted deeply inward like a raven's wings that intensify the severity of her gaze,
penetrating eyes of sable brown, a circling tinge of old world blue, glossy saucers that shimmer and
shine, reflecting the darkness of the thicket back at itself. Her eyes widen, and I step behind a
tree. I see you, she hollers, and I step back out foolishly. As she looks me up and down with dough
eyes below her crinkled brow, a loose strand of hair curling about her cheekbone, and her long,
dark braids shimmering, she smiles, giggles, and a lump forms in my throat. Hot damn, I've forgotten
my knickers on a branch. I quickly cover my boyhood with my hands. Idiot, laughing stock,
I shout into myself. Are you acting your age? Hell no, I scorn. And she sniggers again, batting
her long, dark lashes. With her body ahead of her gaze, she turns with that everlasting grin,
and she walks away. I wave her goodbye with one hand, and pray I'll see her again with the other,
and like water off a duck's dill, a red fox darts over the horizon. Having called the game,
the neighbor boys inspect two patrol cars parked outside my house. I walk past them like a ghost,
and inside find my father hunched over at the kitchen table. My mother stands behind him, rubbing
his shoulders. In one hand, the glass of bourbon he's trying to get to the bottom of, in the other,
the head he's trying to get a grip of, a far cry from the height he'd been at breakfast,
a sight for sore eyes, to say the least, deeply etching to my mind. Dear, says my mother,
and after pouring coffee for the officers I now notice, as I stand with my head cocked in
confusion, she pulls me by the arm to the sitting room, where I listen from around the corner,
a fly on a wall, ears abuzz. And Chief Roy asks my father to Officer Taylor, seated across the table,
young and handsome. Well, he took two slugs, but that son of a bitch is tough as nails. Death is
scared of him, as my mother clears her throat, grabbing for a saucer from the cabinet, and a
rather handsome officer squirms in his chair at the sight of her calves, saying, pardon my language,
ma'am. Two other officers talk shop a few feet off, custodian helmets under their arms like
pumpkins they'd snagged off a porch, while Sergeant White, a short squirrely man with no chin to speak
of and a wiry mustache, stands silent in the corner, stiff as a broom, his own helmet strapped upon his
tiny round head. As the others patiently sip on their coffee, he is brewing, a bead of sweat
running down his temple, awaiting his moment to shine. Sugar, cream, asks my mother. Why thank
you, ma'am, says Officer Taylor, as she scoops sugar into his steaming cup, and then pours in
the cream, and it swirls about in spirals. Sure smells good, he says with a crooked grin,
and sparkling eyes that shine, lightening her own, turning up the corners, erasing the wrinkles
that have suddenly formed in the past year. To say the least, the thought of aging is not easy on my
mother, and she is certainly the last to realize time has been gracious. Seeing how women age quick
in these parts, she remains as pretty as a picture. While most country ladies toughen up like smoked
leather, my mother cuts quite a dash at 32. Anyhow, the charming Officer Taylor, dressed to the nines
in his pressed uniform, made sure to eat a raw egg for breakfast, and lets his tooth shine across
the table for my mother. Oh, please call me Roxy, her own shame laden smile spreading across her
face as she diverts her eyes from his gorgeous grin, his chiseled jaw, which is quite pleasant
to look at before returning faithfully behind her husband, now thread-like in the spine.
My father, head in his petite hand, bourbon dwindling in the other. And O'Brien,
was death scared of him as well? asks my father. Officer Taylor loses his grin and peers down at
his coffee, finally matching the moment in proper terms. Inspiring from around the corner, I watch
my father cover his moistening eyes. That makes all the difference now doesn't it? 40 years old,
says my father, shaking his head in disbelief, a goddamn travesty. And Edward, he asks. Oh,
I'm sure he's fine dear, says my mother. Just a bump on the old noggin. Nothing a serving of Bess's
meatloaf won't fix right up. But I notice a deepening silence, a reverent suddenly burdening the
room. My stomach turns and my knees quiver and I wonder, what about the sherbert? Cerebral edema,
says Sergeant White. While symptoms usually amount to nothing more than visual disturbance,
headaches or nausea at the most. You've got to be joking me, says my father, as Officer Taylor
closes his eyes with a slight nod of unfortunate confirmation. Swelling of the brain, ma'am, says
Sergeant White. And I'm sorry to say ma'am, old Edward, while he didn't make it under the knife in
time. And my mother bursts into tears and flees the kitchen with her face in her hands. And I'm
left with a startling realization as she runs upstairs with a whimper, followed by a slam of
a door and a sob into her pillow. Realization, so much for the sherbert. And with wide eyes buzzed
in disbelief, after muttering all the possibilities, all the impossibilities, my father asks with a
fist to the table. And the bastard who killed him? Sergeant White clears his throat and before our
eyes, his small round face brightens as the spotlight has finally settled on him. His
eyebrows perk with the clearing of his throat. He demands the attention he believes he deserves.
And in a high tenure, one gnawing at the ears, he says through the wiry threads of his mustache.
Hank Little, getaway driver, cousin of the perp, deceased. No, not him, you fool, the crook who
locked me in the vault. My father, thirsty for blood, as he forsakes his bourbon with fiery
bloodshot eyes. And slowly and methodically pacing back and forth, tapping the tips of his fingers
together, his eyes moving stage left, stage right. Sergeant White says, RC Sonners, this honorable
discharge from the army. As Officer Taylor adds, got word on the wire released from the pen just
two weeks ago. Real high flyer, train Robbie charges throughout the state. Here's he left his
own kin to carry the can. Why the hell they let that animal out of his cage, hell if I know.
And Sergeant White, should have put him down like the dog he is when they had the chance.
And my father with a look of dread. And, and another moment of painstaking silence.
So the son of a bitch got away scot-free. That's what you're telling me. That's
an affirmative. My God, says my father dropping his head onto his fists. Now don't you worry,
says Officer Taylor. His name is out across the wire and he's bound to be picked up in no time at
all. So the son of a bitch you killed Edward, he's out there, says my father looking around
with due paranoia. And with a full body quiver, tail between my legs, a sudden zap evicts me from
my body. Throwing me hovering in some ambient state about the ceiling, glancing back toward life.
A wayward fish on some invisible stream. I observe my own frightened puppy dog eyes,
my face as white as a ghost. Until he slams his fist down on the table again. And I'm suddenly
sucked back into my own skull like a fish whiplashed into a boat. And I clench my
bladder with crossed legs as coffee bleeds into the white tablecloth. That bastard stole my father's
pocket watch. He manages to mutter before Sergeant White clears his throat again. Well,
we didn't manage to find the bag of loot other than a few bales that got loose. But as he holds
out his hand and with the spring of his fingers, a golden shimmer dropping by its chain. And with
a tick tick ticking that stops my father's heart. I found this in the weeds off Cherry Lane.
I plopped down on the exposed root of a large bur oak. I feel afraid and confused. I toss my
ball into the air and let it hit the ground beside me. And my belly turns as I hadn't eaten this
sandwich my mother made me. I'd fed it to a stray wandering through the yard. Looked like he could
use it more than me. My father is angry. And I seize up the ball again hitting the ground as he
stomps down the back steps, letting the screen door slap shut behind him. He walks over to me
and messes my hair. Going for a cigar, he says and goes to the garage. He starts the Fleetwood,
grinds the gears, backs out of the driveway and speeds up Elm recklessly. The air is relieved,
the birds return and I can breathe again. But I let the ball lay and I peek in the back door.
My mother peers silently out of the kitchen window with a hollow gaze. And with the creak
of the hinges, she snaps out of it and gathers herself, straightens a towel on the sink's edge,
and walks away from the ingredients for an unmade supper. With a sudden hum,
she dries her tears on her apron, sniffs and gathers herself before me, hand in hand.
Would you like that sandwich dear? Can I go get a pop? I ask. Sure dear. There's a nickel in my
purse, removing her apron. I think I will plant some lilies. The Fleetwood zooms past Edison
phonograph, Baldwin pianos, in the bank, and just past Frank Wright and Brother News Dealer. Its
straw-colored wheels skid to a stop right in front of the beer house. Beside the Bennett ice wagon,
water drizzling out of the back, its draft horse dropping a load on the brickwork.
A drunkard squat on his box peers at the shiny car through squinted eyes in the
late-day sun. His mind is quiet. He thinks of only drink. The drunkard, holding out his palm,
hoping for a nickel from the dandy, who scoffs, peers with a sneer through his tiny round frames,
and drops down the stairs which drop into the sidewalk in the subterranean darkness that
awaits those in need of a smoky rumble, a murmur, a grumble and a growl, and bursts of startling
laughter. The reinforced door slamming shut on his heels, closing out all semblance of the fine
summer day. Amongst the cool, musty shade, hot tempers tempered, if only temporal, over a cold
one. Folding into the bar between two over-old men, a short one to the right, a tall one to the
left, Mr. Olsen, president of the First National Bank, my father leans in as coolly as he might,
on one elbow as the others do with the cross of the leg, one knee straight, the other jerked out.
And with a hard slap of the finest thread count in the joint, the tall man asks,
aren't you the president of the bank? Mr. Olsen, now massaging his shoulder, holds out his free
hand and the squeeze rearranges his twenty-seven bones. What in the hell you doing in here?
Shouldn't you be at the brister eating oysters Rockefeller? Lady Baltimore, says the short man.
My father, who now massages his hand, now the recipient of a rasp carrying through the smoke
choked air, asking, who let you out of the vault? maintains his focus on the barkeep. What can I
get you? The barkeep, in a vest and tie, bar cloth over his arm, brings a sense of civility back to
my father, who orders a beer and takes a deep sigh of relief in the small oasis of civilization
extracted from such austere posture. Even in an incorrigible place such as this, he knows this
man's checks don't bounce, ever. Thus, he respects him and mightily so amongst the chaos steadily
simmering around him. Music jangles from a player piano in the back corner as the tall man says,
hell, I'll settle for some pigs on a blanket. Some poor man's cake, says the short man, a chuckle
and cough and a slap to his own swollen gut. The good old boy's laugh, call him Mr. V for short,
Mr. Vault for long, hovering curiously about, asking about the robbery. The good old boys,
rough about the neck, hands like rope, rough about the edges, with sharp tongues that whip,
slicing open flesh like a straight razor, slurred syllables, fumbling over pronunciations,
and other lack of enunciation. They ponder him aloud and in silence from dark corners. Mr. V
orders another round for the boys and they cheer. The lower class, sitting well below the salt,
farmers, blacksmiths, plowmakers, and plowers alike, drinking their drink straight up, no chaser.
Men the like whom my father has never familiarly socialized. Wesky orders the tall man, make it
two, the short. Men who stand mightier than himself. My father knows these men are only as
robust as their checks that don't bounce at the end of the day, and for that he holds court. Yet
Mr. V is naive that many of these fellas whisper on revenge. In hell, a mighty few are ready to
rough him up a little if it comes to such, if not with words, with fists. Fists clenched in the
corner below rumbling, sore lips that quiver. Soggy, swollen, wet with whiskey, trembling with rage,
while others fly under false flags, seeing the opportunity to sail with a captain. As as far as
they see, befriending the power player, seeing the gentleman shaking on his pedestal, what the hell,
why not, they wonder. Knowing downright things happen around this man, they can see in each
other's eyes, mutiny, when my father looks away. And they can see it in his eyes when he glares
back at them with due paranoia, fear. But with each swill, concerns dwindle, fists unclench,
jaws soften, as do shadowed gazes, turning away as fellows are soon distracted by rambling means
and tangents, meaningless dribbles that collect on the lip of life, disputes amongst friends and
enemies kept closer. Those few believing Mr. Olsen's company may accompany certain things,
or rather a lack thereof, such as evictions, bankruptcy, and bounce checks, cozy up to the
president, buying Mr. V two fingers at a time, making a full knuckled fist of it, nickels they
cannot afford to part with, let alone piss away. A wise investment as far as they see, as even they
can't see but an arm's length, leaves of grass. So amongst the drunken chatter, my father, two
sheets to the wind, leans back another and orders one more round for the boys, and the boys cheer.
And gotta twist my arm, says the short man, shouting over the player piano. Do you know what
the last dinner they served on the Titanic was, says my father in a biblous tone and rhythm,
well whitened up with the boys, roast duckling with applesauce, and he's complimented with a
hiccup and a side of gran. So you gonna put your money where your mouth is,
buy those goddamn carbine rifles or what, says the short man. Keep them damn crooks out of town,
says a jaundiced old man with a missing tooth, wobbling in on the conversation. The short man
flings spit from his lips, damn niggers and spicks too, cheers to that, says the old man
with a gummy salute, goddamn darkies, losing his train of thought, vision dim with drink,
down a gulping drain. The door opens, the light pours in, waking my father to his dread,
and his eyes widen. He lifts his dropped head in anger, and the room spins in rage, and his ears
ring in hate, and he sighs and slams down his mug, saying, you're goddamn right, we're gonna kill
every crook that steps in this town. Hell, my wife can roast a duck, says the tall man.
The sun sets on our hamlet, dying down for the night. The old drunkard hobbling his way down
the alley in the darkness, past a veiled fence and a shadowed nook, blades shimmering just out
of sight in a sliver of pale moonlight. Well bent at the elbow, the drunkard, failing to notice his
own dice with death, carries on. A hack, a spit, he labors for his honest, yet homely nest of straw
and wool snagged from a clothesline. Plopping down, he rubs his swollen knees and yawns,
scratches his beard, passes gas, and lays his weight back into the damp brick wall with a deep
sigh. But a quick yelp widens his tired eyes and sends his weary heart into a short sprint,
rising to his throat for the occasion, a throat raw with drink. The yelp of pain labors him back
to his swollen feet, and weirdly he stumbles back up the alleyway in concern, the night quickly
silent as the grave once more. And just as stones throw ahead, he spots in a sliver of moonlight a
brown mutt lying on its side, slow to pant, labors to catch one more moment on this earth.
The drunkard kneels. The mutt looks up at him with all he's got left, sad, teary eyes gleam in both
directions, blood oozing from a deep wound in its neck, and after one last pant, the mutt drops his
head to the cool brick and dies. The drunkard strokes the mutt behind the ear when suddenly,
another faint cry grabs his ear from behind a nearby trash bin. He discovers a wee puppy and
shivers, gently picks it up as it paws helplessly at thin air, trembling in his palm, the little
creature nuzzles up in the nook of the drunkard's arm. Wont you sigh for sore eyes? he says, as a
shadowed figure streaks past the periphery and into the night.
Motionless in bed, I listen as my father double checks the locks, yet again, click click click
click, a tense as he climbs the stairs. I hold my breath as he's on the piss and makes his way to
bed, thankfully snoring in no time. A weight off my mind, I release my breath and let the spring
squeak as I bounce to my feet in my one piece. Out of the window, I spot a dark silhouette crossing
the lawn below, surely that old raccoon making its way for the trash bin again. And from their
bedroom, I hear paper crinkle, my mother yearning for the social circle she had left behind,
reading letters by candlelight. Dear Roxy, seeing how you have become provincial, I simply cannot
fathom how you are faring without the proper necessities of life, such as theater. My mother
lets out a breath of her own, just as a commotion outside startles my father from his slumber. And
with a curse, he stands from bed and rummages through the closet. God damn son of a- What are
you looking for? asks my mother. Something to bash that crook's head in. That's what I'm looking
for, Roxy. It's only that silly raccoon again, honey. You're drunk, come back to bed. Good for
nothing, crook. As he makes his way to my room, where I've jumped under the covers, lying stiff
as a board, afraid to swallow, Quilt pulled up to my eyes as he digs through my closet.
Shh, you're gonna wake Oscar, says my mother from the hall. Oh, kill that son of a bitch,
he says, grabbing my bat. Trampling down the stairs, he unlocks the front door. Click click,
I run back to my window and watch as my father stumbles belligerently about the front lawn,
shouting angry slurs, venting his spleen, lashing out at ghosts, having it out with his own shadow.
Bat scare from the attic, neighbors from their beds, windows light up, curtains open, and dogs
yelp and howl. And I tiptoe out of my room to spy on my mother, who has retreated to her own bed.
Fine, go on and be a madman, she mumbles. I'll have nothing to do with it, as she picks up another
letter and reads, Dear Roxas, I pity you. In the candlelight, those words dance about in madness,
a madness that has become the night. And she drops the letter and sits up on the edge of the bed,
face dropped in her hands, at her wits end, living on raw nerves, until the floor creaks,
and she looks up at me. Oh honey, did he frighten you? No, I lie. By the time the police arrive,
my father has sobered up some, and I spy from the top step as he explains he had heard someone
outside. I watch as the officers bob their heads. After all, my father is, in fact, an essential
pillar of the community. And yes, they assure him, his stick checkbook is in good graces,
but not precisely in those words. Due to your generous patronage to the department,
it goes without saying, we'll be sure to increase our tours of inspection.
As my mother quietly invites the second officer, Officer Taylor, with chiseled jaw and sky-blue
eyes that sparkle even at night, into the sitting room, he anxiously sips on the coffee
she had brewed just for him. She doesn't know what's wrong with her husband, she whispers.
Now I doubt that crook's gonna return, ma'am, but there's a lot of bad guys out there.
In a tiny little town such as this? She asks. Ma'am, you'd be surprised. And she suddenly looks
afraid, or faints to be. Now you don't worry, ma'am. Oh, please call me Roxy, she says. I'll
keep an eye on things for you, Roxy. That'd be mighty kind, Officer Taylor, grabbing him by the arm.
As Sergeant White arrives, he motions my father to the parlor with a slight nod of his own.
Next time, placing a blue.38 special into my father's hand, put a hole the size of a
turnip in his head. My father takes hold of the gun and says, is that blood on your sleeve?
Hmm, it appears so. Scraping at his sleeve with his thumb nail, came across one of them filthy strays.
I had to put that bastard down.
You
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