Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.
Riff Raff Act 2
Trink Trink Trink Trink rings the telephone as my mother jumps onto a kickplate of an old shovel
and an old pair of ankle boots. Digging the spade into the ground, she turns to black midwestern
soil, earthworms getting their wiggle on in full swing of late July. She fashions a small hole with
her forearm gloves, sprinkling a handful of marigold seeds and covering them with dirt.
Trink Trink Trink Trink she jumps up on the kickplate again, jabbing every ounce of her
110 pounds into the soil. Trink Trink Trink Trink as steam pours out of her ears.
She drops the shovel and throwing her gloves to the ground, stomps up the back stairs.
Now for heaven's sake, is everyone deaf as a doornail around here?
Receiver to Ear. Why, good morning Mayor. Yes, I'm doing just fine thank you. Oh yes yes.
Well yes. Thank you. Oh thank you. Yes, I'm sure he is around here somewhere. Let me holler for him.
Oh that's mighty kind of you Mayor. Yes yes. Thank you. Thank you Mayor. Mayor, just one
moment please. Oh yes, I'll be sure to do that. Oh thank you Mayor. You as well. Uh Mayor, just one
moment please. Oh yes of course. And tell Mabel hello for me. Yes, we would love to. Sounds lovely.
One moment please. She covers the receiver, shuts her eyes, and shakes her head back and forth.
That man can talk the leg off a donkey. I listen to the floorboards as she shouts to the roof.
Honey, the house is on fire. I'm right here dear. No need to shout, says my father from behind his
paper. Let's take a ride boy. I drop my book, bounce off my bed, and in two shakes of a lamp's
tail, I'm in the Fleetwood flying my palm through the breeze like old Orville Wright.
Walking into the city building, my eyes light up before two dozen Craig Carbone rifles spread out
on a long wooden table. The Mayor holds one of the guns in his hands and greets my father with
delight spread across his jolly face. Mr. President, during your tossing my father the weapon.
Well hey there Sam. Oscar, my father corrects him. Well hey there Oscar.
Inspecting the weapon unnaturally, I can see that look in my father's eye when he is doing
math in his head, and I know he is ready and waiting to ask the Mayor for the receipt.
He greets Sergeant White, and Sergeant White gives a squirrely nod before the display of firepower.
A neat shitting grin hidden under his bushy mustache.
Five foot two, Sergeant White is rough and ready. He wears his custodian helmet indoors over his
small round head to make him look a good foot taller than he is. A bachelor living with a
cigar chewing Mee-Maw. Mee-Maw slowly dying of pulmonary emphysema. Sergeant White has fire in
his belly. He takes a tablet twice a day. Mee-Maw cuts the crust from his bologna sandwich. He has
a phobia of needles and a passion for theatrical arts. A particular taste for Shakespeare. Believes
Chaplin a buffoon. A hack. Sinks tenor in the church choir. Sees a whore down in Bernadotte once
a month. Tears up when he reads Mr. Rochester is gone from the house for a week, and it's rumored
he may not be back for over a year. Words read to him by his Mee-Maw that tug on his heartstrings
every night before drifting off to slumber. Sergeant White owns three cats named Ethel, Mini,
and Horace, and has a somewhat exaggerated disliking for Canis lupus familiaris lanius.
In layman's terms, the domesticated dog in strays alike.
Sergeant White is due to train the new civilian police force to load, fire, and clean the Craig
Carbine rifles, purchased on my father's dime. A dime spinning about my father's head. Receipt,
dog gone. Must have left it on my desk, says the mayor with a pat of his empty pockets and a good
shrug. Hell, last time I saw you, Sam. Oscar, my father, corrects him again. You were knee-high
to a grasshopper. You got one hell of a pop there, and that mother of yours, I tell you what.
Oscar, you ever held a gun before? No, sir, I say. Better not have, says my father. My eyes
widen, and I look up at my father for permission. They're not loaded, are they? He asks.
Sergeant White opens the bolt on one of the long guns, checks the barrel, and places it in my hands,
in a mighty surprise by its weight. As he says, 8.5 pounds, 49 inches in length, 22 inch barrel,
bold action, five round magazine, shoots a.3040 cartridge, 3040 yards a minute at 2,000 feet per
second, with a range of 900 meters, approximately 3,000 feet. Heavy, ain't it? Town Dump
Marmalade jars, glass medicine bottles, liquor bottles, broken ceramic pots, chipped in broken
china, peach cans, Coca cans, soap wrappers, bullet casings, animal bones, and food scrapped
heap amongst blackened, smoking rot that stinks the high heaven. An echoing bang sends the calling
crows and stray mutts fleeing with their tails between their legs for the safety of the distant
tree line, as my father, quite shaken by the kick, hands the rifle back to Sergeant White.
Oh hell, let the boy fire one, says the mayor, repositioning his sagging trousers.
Removing my finger from my ears, I watch my father massage his bony shoulder, as Sergeant White
pulls the bolt handle up and back toward him, places one round in the magazine, closes the bolt,
moves it forward and down, feeds and locks the cartridge into the chamber, and before I know it,
I find the heavy rifle again in my hands. Ready to fire, he says, pointer down range and holder
steady, right between that spick's ass. Peering down the V-site, the barrel uncontrollably circles
around the head of a mustached man in a sombrero, two bandoliers crisscrossing his chest, pointing
a finger straight back at me, saying in bold letters, I want you, gringo, fighting the Mexican
Revolution and be proud to ride with Pancho Villa. Now take a deep breath and when on the exhale,
gently squeeze the trigger, but I can't center the heavy barrel between the Mexican's eyes for the
life of me. Hold on tight, son, says my father, it's got a kick. Bang! The deafening explosion
knocks my socks off and blows out my left eardrum, a ray of sunshine bolting through the Mexican's
left eye as I shoot my own eyes over to see the mayor, a dog with two tails, smoke rolling out
his barrel, a box of birds in his eye. Hell, he'd kick his heels if he wasn't so fat, the fat bastard
stealing my shot. His lips bubble, but I hear not a word, only a tring-tring, tring-tring.
My father curses as the Fleetwood kicks up mud as he lets it loose, throwing up gravel and scat.
Once the Fleetwood is good out of sight, Sergeant White leads the mayor to the tree line.
You sure you got rid of that body? asks the mayor.
Affirmative, says Sergeant White, not a thing to worry about. The mayor stops to kick scat off his
shoe on a tree. God damn it. Meanwhile, Sergeant White lifts a shed of oak bark leaning on a
fallen log and grabs a large carpet bag hidden underneath. He lugs it over to the point the
mayor has downright refused to walk beyond. With labored panting, he dabs sweat off his brow with
the handkerchief. Is it all there? he asks, pulling up his trousers with a cough. Affirmative,
says Officer White, plopping the bag at his feet. The mayor bends forward and digs his hands into
the bag elatedly. But quickly, his shitting grin turns to a smirk of confusion.
Jets his head slightly to the side in a scowl of disgust as he raises two fistfuls of wet,
rotten bill notes and shouts, No, no, you son of a bitch!
And Sergeant White looks about with due paranoia in the echoing ravine.
The mayor belittles him at the top of his lungs,
Bafoon! Couldn't you find a better place to hide it? Flinging the valueless pulp from his fingers.
Hell, under your goddamn bed! Mee-maw's awfully nosy, says Sergeant White, chin
drawed back into his throat. Mee-maw, Mee-maw, why you little twerp!
Lunging forth towards Sergeant White, who jumps back, sending the mayor face first into the poison
ivy. Mayor, let me help you, says Sergeant White, but the mayor swats him away. You good for nothing,
mutt! Get your filthy paws off me!
Hot dog, what do you say, boy? asks my father, cruising down Chestnut in the Fleetwood.
Sure, I say as he takes a sharp left on Maine. Circling about Eastside Square, we skid to a stop
in front of the Opera House, a new poster in the window of a hooded man on a reared up stallion that
reads, W.D. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation, the supreme picture of all time. Two dogs with mustard,
says my father to the vendor. That'll be one shiny dime, Mr. President!
Father and son lean against the back of the Fleetwood and munch on dogs, looking out across
Jones Park, where a half a dozen boys play ball. Jimmy swings but misses, and I'm relieved to be
with my father. Try and slug me now, bastard! I think to myself as a giant white-footed Clydesdale
trots by, and I freeze as I spot Clarence dressed like a dog's dinner. Clarence, holes in the knees,
hair a shaggy mess. Clarence waves, and my father says, you don't know that boy, do ya, son?
Riff raff. I look down at my dog and say nothing.
The pee's your mother, will ya? Go on and play around with the boys. He'll be home before dinner,
and he gets in the Fleetwood and speeds off, leaving me standing on the curb at 50 yards from
Jimmy. I wonder if my number is up, as the Fleetwood circles around the square and takes a
right on Elm, disappearing behind Baldwin Piano. Jimmy, the loose cannon, hollers something in my
direction, but I can't make out the words. I wave at Clarence from where I've ducked behind a horse's
ass, out of sight of Jimmy, who again strikes out and curses and wails at the poor tree with profanity
and a kick of dirt. And with the ring of the bell, the trolley passes, the Bennett Ice Wagon, water
drizzling out of the back as Clarence darts into the street, a Ford honking and swerving around him,
nearly flattening him like a toad. Now everyone thinks Clarence ain't quite white, a bumpkin,
dirty, rural, ignorant, a spawn of incestuousness, and such and so on. In word has it, his mother is
his father's sister. Anyhow, I wouldn't doubt it, judging by his ears. But hell, on the other hand,
Jimmy's eyes almost touch each other. And though he's as big as a hog, his arms barely hang to his
hips. Yeah, Jimmy can sure knock a fellow's lights out, but he's gotta lean in real close to do it.
Jimmy curses again and whacks a tree with the bat after missing another ball. Hey Oscar,
wanna kick bottles? Says Clarence, hole in his toe. Sure, I say, stepping out from behind the horse
just in time to not get a heap of shit on my shoe. Lost a tooth, he says. Look, sticking his tongue
through the hole as we walk into the alley, bottle clinking across the gravel.
That dang magpie stole my tin foil ball again, so I rolled up my sleeves and climbed that old dead
hickory in the backyard for her nest. Clarence Jr., hollered ma, get down here before you fall
on your head and end up like your paw. What? Hollered paw. Now, with all the hollering,
there wasn't anything unluckier for Clarence than being named after his paw. Not you, you dang
idiot, hollered ma, your godforsaken son. I'm not gonna lie, I'm not gonna lie, I'm not gonna lie,
hollered ma, your godforsaken son. Clarence Sr., unemployed by trade, side hustle collecting pots
of piss. They sell the piss to Mr. Tuckett, who owns a tannery on the edge of town. Every Sunday,
he drags Clarence Jr. along. And while the townsfolk are at church, they make their way
around town gathering pots of piss from folk's front porches. Mr. Tuckett, a kind old man,
gives Clarence Jr. an extra Indian head for candy, messing his red hair like a shaggy mutt.
Mr. Tuckett uses the piss to remove the hair and fat from hides before turning them to leather.
And for every bucket of piss, Mr. Tuckett pays two pennies. According to my calculations,
the math goes as such. Just enough for pork and beans.
Anyhow, sure as heck, I lost my footing. And with all that dang hollering, I snagged my dang tooth
on that branch on my way down, knocked the dang wind clear out of me, and Yeller, Yeller, an old
sun-bleached lab that spends his days chained to the old dead hickory, Yeller slobbed up my dang
face, and Ma, Ma, raggedy dress and greasy apron, handkerchief on her head, permanent scowl, one
dirty-faced twin on each nipple. Ma hollered, what the hell you doing down there in the dirt?
Tongue plunged into the newfound gap in his teeth. Did you lose your dang tooth? Yep, I tells her.
Clarence, your idiot son lost his dang tooth. What? Paul hollered.
Paul, silver beard down to his chest in a sandwich short of a picnic.
Paul, high on a branch in his overalls, shirtless, long hairs coming out of his ears,
nose, and armpits, searching for Clarence's lost tooth.
Paul hollered, yep, sucker sure is lodged in there, root and all. And Granny, Granny, short and squat,
with her balled-up fists on her white hips, speaks straight as an arrow. I could see your dick,
idiot. Seeing Paul has that hole in his crotch, he refuses to let Ma patch up. And with all the
dang hollering, the neighbors poke their necks out of their windows like turkeys. Taken in the top
drawer spectacle, the whole lot born to purple, the great unwashed, even on the wrong side of the tracks.
Later.
Clarence, senior. Granny stirs ham and beans on the stove with her knotted up old hands,
her tiny round wire-rimmed glasses fogged up, underbite, shriveled lips. Clarence, senior,
sits on the saggy front porch in his best and tucker, and with a whistle, rattles the
dag's of two ladies strolling by in their best, weeds grown about the lawn. Clarence, senior,
a window peeper. Miss Phillips once chased him down the road with an axe, but he told the judge
he was doing a good deed fixing up her crook shutter. Clarence, senior, his words are like a
fart in the wind, and he spent two nights in the town jail for public indecency. Meanwhile,
up in the loft, Clarence pulls a mummified possum out of a trunk. Just when Ma, chewing on a pickle,
a filthy-faced twin on each nipple, hollers, Clarence, junior, get down here,
before you fall on your head again and end up like your Paul. What? Hollered Paul. Not you,
you dang idiot. Clarence, junior, is my only friend. Want a tootsie roll? He says. Stuck
my hand in the jar right when Mr. Goosting wasn't looking. Thanks, I say. I got to shoot a gun today,
out of the dump at the mayor, my finger in my ear trying to wiggle out the last of the cotton.
Aw, I love the dump, says Clarence, green with envy, as I suddenly see that girl walking by on me.
I gotta go, I say, running off, making the excuse. My father will have my hide if I ain't home for
supper. Hey, where you going? I wanna shoot a gun. And kick in a bottle. Aw, come on. But I ignore
Clarence and chase her down.
Jimmy shouts a profanity, but she ignores his heckling and heads south down main. My heart
drags me by the toe, and it doesn't take long for her to take me to the
park and head south down main. My heart drags me by the toe, and it doesn't take long for her to take privy
and look back over her shoulder. I stop cold in my tracks and kick a pebble, and with the ring of a
bell, the trolley stops at the curb, but she continues on foot. Well off the square, she stops
at the corner of Maple and turns squarely around to face me. I panic and step behind a large oak
on Miss Clancy's front lawn, back to the bark. Now everyone knows not to step foot in Miss Clancy's
yard. The Hound, they call her, as she has a Hawkeye for wayward kids.
I can see you, says the girl. I take a hard swallow. I know you're following me. And in no time,
old Miss Clancy lives up to her name, rushing out the screen door and off the porch, hammering
trogs, the best her old arthritic knees can wobble. Broom in hand. Get off my lawn, you little scoundrel!
Poodle cowering behind. Wanting nothing more than to run up the tree like a squirrel,
I swallow a toad, drop my head and walk out from behind the tree, tail between my legs.
Don't mind her, she's just a lonely old lady, says the girl. And I turn back to see Miss Clancy
grumbling as she struggles her way back up her steps with great difficulty, asking the poodle just
what kind of a dog he thinks he is. I ain't following you, I say. I was going this way anyhow.
Well, I suppose if you're going this way anyhow, how about walking me home?
What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? I say nothing, as the cat has indeed got my tongue.
But looking into her eyes, they suck me right in like a whirlpool. In fearing I might drown
into oblivion, I manage to say, sure. I see you found your trousers, she says with a blush.
At Railroad Street, I pause. I've never crossed Railroad Street in my life.
The boundary that separates us and them, as my father says. And my father, he'll have my hide.
But she looks up at me, wondering why I've paused mid-stride. And I make a sheep's eye back at her,
and suddenly, possessing more courage than I knew I had, I put one boot before the other, taking
that first step across the threshold. Railroad Street. The tracks. In the block on, we cross Oak.
Hustling after her, hurried in her hurraches. Hell, we skip across Hickory. But I sing tense,
as I can't help but notice the houses growing smaller and duller, each block further south.
From two stories to one, from five, six, seven rooms to three, four, two crooked,
dilapidated one-room shacks. About heaps of trash, straight cats licking tuna cans.
Come on, she says, taking a left on Cherry Lane. On Cherry, we cross First Avenue, Second Avenue,
and Third, until we approach the last house on the left, just before the train yard,
on the corner of Cherry and Fourth. I can see the P&O factory down the way, and a pair of 20-foot
long skid marks making their way through the T intersection, and I think of the robbery.
We stand before her humble home. The humble home. A front door with but one jarred window on either
side situates itself in the center of the two-room shanty, making a sad face. And I back toward it.
Walking up the dirt path past a dead leafless tree, she turns back to thank me. Thanks? For what,
I wonder, having sowed my wild oats. Blushed, I scurry off, but suddenly feel overwhelmed with
the sense of, where the hell am I? As the mangy felines now appear larger, eyes greener and meaner.
The scent of trash suddenly so pungent. Hell, I'll never eat tuna again.
Anxiously, I count the number of rooms as they grow in number, but don't take my first fresh
breath until I cross the tracks, before my father indeed has my hide.
A dinner plate waits, heaping with turkey breast, mashed potatoes and corn, smothered in gravy,
my favorite, but unquestionably cold. I am late.
My stomach rumbles as I spy far enough into the kitchen to see that my mother has forgotten the
green beans again. But with the crinkle of a newspaper, I lose my appetite, as I can tell by
the glare over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses as he uncrosses his legs and stands and walks past
me with an empty tumbler in hand, his mood has shifted. His silence turns my bowels.
Ice clinks into the crystal, shattering the stiff silence.
Where is my mother? I wonder as I run upstairs while I can.
In my room, I walk to the window and look out above the maples and oaks for the low part of town.
And as I realize I never got her name, I hear the back door slap
and my mother's soothing voice says something about flowers.
And my father hollers, Oscar get down here!
''
schema.