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Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.

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Riff Raff Act 2

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Trink Trink Trink Trink rings the telephone as my mother jumps onto a kickplate of an old shovel

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and an old pair of ankle boots. Digging the spade into the ground, she turns to black midwestern

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soil, earthworms getting their wiggle on in full swing of late July. She fashions a small hole with

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her forearm gloves, sprinkling a handful of marigold seeds and covering them with dirt.

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Trink Trink Trink Trink she jumps up on the kickplate again, jabbing every ounce of her

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110 pounds into the soil. Trink Trink Trink Trink as steam pours out of her ears.

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She drops the shovel and throwing her gloves to the ground, stomps up the back stairs.

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Now for heaven's sake, is everyone deaf as a doornail around here?

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Receiver to Ear. Why, good morning Mayor. Yes, I'm doing just fine thank you. Oh yes yes.

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Well yes. Thank you. Oh thank you. Yes, I'm sure he is around here somewhere. Let me holler for him.

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Oh that's mighty kind of you Mayor. Yes yes. Thank you. Thank you Mayor. Mayor, just one

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moment please. Oh yes, I'll be sure to do that. Oh thank you Mayor. You as well. Uh Mayor, just one

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moment please. Oh yes of course. And tell Mabel hello for me. Yes, we would love to. Sounds lovely.

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One moment please. She covers the receiver, shuts her eyes, and shakes her head back and forth.

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That man can talk the leg off a donkey. I listen to the floorboards as she shouts to the roof.

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Honey, the house is on fire. I'm right here dear. No need to shout, says my father from behind his

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paper. Let's take a ride boy. I drop my book, bounce off my bed, and in two shakes of a lamp's

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tail, I'm in the Fleetwood flying my palm through the breeze like old Orville Wright.

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Walking into the city building, my eyes light up before two dozen Craig Carbone rifles spread out

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on a long wooden table. The Mayor holds one of the guns in his hands and greets my father with

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delight spread across his jolly face. Mr. President, during your tossing my father the weapon.

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Well hey there Sam. Oscar, my father corrects him. Well hey there Oscar.

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Inspecting the weapon unnaturally, I can see that look in my father's eye when he is doing

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math in his head, and I know he is ready and waiting to ask the Mayor for the receipt.

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He greets Sergeant White, and Sergeant White gives a squirrely nod before the display of firepower.

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A neat shitting grin hidden under his bushy mustache.

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Five foot two, Sergeant White is rough and ready. He wears his custodian helmet indoors over his

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small round head to make him look a good foot taller than he is. A bachelor living with a

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cigar chewing Mee-Maw. Mee-Maw slowly dying of pulmonary emphysema. Sergeant White has fire in

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his belly. He takes a tablet twice a day. Mee-Maw cuts the crust from his bologna sandwich. He has

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a phobia of needles and a passion for theatrical arts. A particular taste for Shakespeare. Believes

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Chaplin a buffoon. A hack. Sinks tenor in the church choir. Sees a whore down in Bernadotte once

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a month. Tears up when he reads Mr. Rochester is gone from the house for a week, and it's rumored

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he may not be back for over a year. Words read to him by his Mee-Maw that tug on his heartstrings

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every night before drifting off to slumber. Sergeant White owns three cats named Ethel, Mini,

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and Horace, and has a somewhat exaggerated disliking for Canis lupus familiaris lanius.

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In layman's terms, the domesticated dog in strays alike.

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Sergeant White is due to train the new civilian police force to load, fire, and clean the Craig

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Carbine rifles, purchased on my father's dime. A dime spinning about my father's head. Receipt,

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dog gone. Must have left it on my desk, says the mayor with a pat of his empty pockets and a good

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shrug. Hell, last time I saw you, Sam. Oscar, my father, corrects him again. You were knee-high

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to a grasshopper. You got one hell of a pop there, and that mother of yours, I tell you what.

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Oscar, you ever held a gun before? No, sir, I say. Better not have, says my father. My eyes

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widen, and I look up at my father for permission. They're not loaded, are they? He asks.

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Sergeant White opens the bolt on one of the long guns, checks the barrel, and places it in my hands,

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in a mighty surprise by its weight. As he says, 8.5 pounds, 49 inches in length, 22 inch barrel,

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bold action, five round magazine, shoots a.3040 cartridge, 3040 yards a minute at 2,000 feet per

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second, with a range of 900 meters, approximately 3,000 feet. Heavy, ain't it? Town Dump

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Marmalade jars, glass medicine bottles, liquor bottles, broken ceramic pots, chipped in broken

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china, peach cans, Coca cans, soap wrappers, bullet casings, animal bones, and food scrapped

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heap amongst blackened, smoking rot that stinks the high heaven. An echoing bang sends the calling

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crows and stray mutts fleeing with their tails between their legs for the safety of the distant

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tree line, as my father, quite shaken by the kick, hands the rifle back to Sergeant White.

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Oh hell, let the boy fire one, says the mayor, repositioning his sagging trousers.

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Removing my finger from my ears, I watch my father massage his bony shoulder, as Sergeant White

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pulls the bolt handle up and back toward him, places one round in the magazine, closes the bolt,

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moves it forward and down, feeds and locks the cartridge into the chamber, and before I know it,

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I find the heavy rifle again in my hands. Ready to fire, he says, pointer down range and holder

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steady, right between that spick's ass. Peering down the V-site, the barrel uncontrollably circles

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around the head of a mustached man in a sombrero, two bandoliers crisscrossing his chest, pointing

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a finger straight back at me, saying in bold letters, I want you, gringo, fighting the Mexican

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Revolution and be proud to ride with Pancho Villa. Now take a deep breath and when on the exhale,

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gently squeeze the trigger, but I can't center the heavy barrel between the Mexican's eyes for the

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life of me. Hold on tight, son, says my father, it's got a kick. Bang! The deafening explosion

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knocks my socks off and blows out my left eardrum, a ray of sunshine bolting through the Mexican's

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left eye as I shoot my own eyes over to see the mayor, a dog with two tails, smoke rolling out

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his barrel, a box of birds in his eye. Hell, he'd kick his heels if he wasn't so fat, the fat bastard

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stealing my shot. His lips bubble, but I hear not a word, only a tring-tring, tring-tring.

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My father curses as the Fleetwood kicks up mud as he lets it loose, throwing up gravel and scat.

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Once the Fleetwood is good out of sight, Sergeant White leads the mayor to the tree line.

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You sure you got rid of that body? asks the mayor.

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Affirmative, says Sergeant White, not a thing to worry about. The mayor stops to kick scat off his

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shoe on a tree. God damn it. Meanwhile, Sergeant White lifts a shed of oak bark leaning on a

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fallen log and grabs a large carpet bag hidden underneath. He lugs it over to the point the

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mayor has downright refused to walk beyond. With labored panting, he dabs sweat off his brow with

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the handkerchief. Is it all there? he asks, pulling up his trousers with a cough. Affirmative,

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says Officer White, plopping the bag at his feet. The mayor bends forward and digs his hands into

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the bag elatedly. But quickly, his shitting grin turns to a smirk of confusion.

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Jets his head slightly to the side in a scowl of disgust as he raises two fistfuls of wet,

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rotten bill notes and shouts, No, no, you son of a bitch!

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And Sergeant White looks about with due paranoia in the echoing ravine.

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The mayor belittles him at the top of his lungs,

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Bafoon! Couldn't you find a better place to hide it? Flinging the valueless pulp from his fingers.

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Hell, under your goddamn bed! Mee-maw's awfully nosy, says Sergeant White, chin

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drawed back into his throat. Mee-maw, Mee-maw, why you little twerp!

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Lunging forth towards Sergeant White, who jumps back, sending the mayor face first into the poison

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ivy. Mayor, let me help you, says Sergeant White, but the mayor swats him away. You good for nothing,

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mutt! Get your filthy paws off me!

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Hot dog, what do you say, boy? asks my father, cruising down Chestnut in the Fleetwood.

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Sure, I say as he takes a sharp left on Maine. Circling about Eastside Square, we skid to a stop

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in front of the Opera House, a new poster in the window of a hooded man on a reared up stallion that

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reads, W.D. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation, the supreme picture of all time. Two dogs with mustard,

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says my father to the vendor. That'll be one shiny dime, Mr. President!

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Father and son lean against the back of the Fleetwood and munch on dogs, looking out across

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Jones Park, where a half a dozen boys play ball. Jimmy swings but misses, and I'm relieved to be

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with my father. Try and slug me now, bastard! I think to myself as a giant white-footed Clydesdale

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trots by, and I freeze as I spot Clarence dressed like a dog's dinner. Clarence, holes in the knees,

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hair a shaggy mess. Clarence waves, and my father says, you don't know that boy, do ya, son?

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Riff raff. I look down at my dog and say nothing.

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The pee's your mother, will ya? Go on and play around with the boys. He'll be home before dinner,

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and he gets in the Fleetwood and speeds off, leaving me standing on the curb at 50 yards from

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Jimmy. I wonder if my number is up, as the Fleetwood circles around the square and takes a

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right on Elm, disappearing behind Baldwin Piano. Jimmy, the loose cannon, hollers something in my

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direction, but I can't make out the words. I wave at Clarence from where I've ducked behind a horse's

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ass, out of sight of Jimmy, who again strikes out and curses and wails at the poor tree with profanity

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and a kick of dirt. And with the ring of the bell, the trolley passes, the Bennett Ice Wagon, water

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drizzling out of the back as Clarence darts into the street, a Ford honking and swerving around him,

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nearly flattening him like a toad. Now everyone thinks Clarence ain't quite white, a bumpkin,

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dirty, rural, ignorant, a spawn of incestuousness, and such and so on. In word has it, his mother is

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his father's sister. Anyhow, I wouldn't doubt it, judging by his ears. But hell, on the other hand,

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Jimmy's eyes almost touch each other. And though he's as big as a hog, his arms barely hang to his

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hips. Yeah, Jimmy can sure knock a fellow's lights out, but he's gotta lean in real close to do it.

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Jimmy curses again and whacks a tree with the bat after missing another ball. Hey Oscar,

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wanna kick bottles? Says Clarence, hole in his toe. Sure, I say, stepping out from behind the horse

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just in time to not get a heap of shit on my shoe. Lost a tooth, he says. Look, sticking his tongue

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through the hole as we walk into the alley, bottle clinking across the gravel.

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That dang magpie stole my tin foil ball again, so I rolled up my sleeves and climbed that old dead

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hickory in the backyard for her nest. Clarence Jr., hollered ma, get down here before you fall

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on your head and end up like your paw. What? Hollered paw. Now, with all the hollering,

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there wasn't anything unluckier for Clarence than being named after his paw. Not you, you dang

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idiot, hollered ma, your godforsaken son. I'm not gonna lie, I'm not gonna lie, I'm not gonna lie,

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hollered ma, your godforsaken son. Clarence Sr., unemployed by trade, side hustle collecting pots

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of piss. They sell the piss to Mr. Tuckett, who owns a tannery on the edge of town. Every Sunday,

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he drags Clarence Jr. along. And while the townsfolk are at church, they make their way

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around town gathering pots of piss from folk's front porches. Mr. Tuckett, a kind old man,

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gives Clarence Jr. an extra Indian head for candy, messing his red hair like a shaggy mutt.

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Mr. Tuckett uses the piss to remove the hair and fat from hides before turning them to leather.

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And for every bucket of piss, Mr. Tuckett pays two pennies. According to my calculations,

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the math goes as such. Just enough for pork and beans.

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Anyhow, sure as heck, I lost my footing. And with all that dang hollering, I snagged my dang tooth

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on that branch on my way down, knocked the dang wind clear out of me, and Yeller, Yeller, an old

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sun-bleached lab that spends his days chained to the old dead hickory, Yeller slobbed up my dang

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face, and Ma, Ma, raggedy dress and greasy apron, handkerchief on her head, permanent scowl, one

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dirty-faced twin on each nipple. Ma hollered, what the hell you doing down there in the dirt?

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Tongue plunged into the newfound gap in his teeth. Did you lose your dang tooth? Yep, I tells her.

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Clarence, your idiot son lost his dang tooth. What? Paul hollered.

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Paul, silver beard down to his chest in a sandwich short of a picnic.

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Paul, high on a branch in his overalls, shirtless, long hairs coming out of his ears,

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nose, and armpits, searching for Clarence's lost tooth.

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Paul hollered, yep, sucker sure is lodged in there, root and all. And Granny, Granny, short and squat,

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with her balled-up fists on her white hips, speaks straight as an arrow. I could see your dick,

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idiot. Seeing Paul has that hole in his crotch, he refuses to let Ma patch up. And with all the

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dang hollering, the neighbors poke their necks out of their windows like turkeys. Taken in the top

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drawer spectacle, the whole lot born to purple, the great unwashed, even on the wrong side of the tracks.

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Later.

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Clarence, senior. Granny stirs ham and beans on the stove with her knotted up old hands,

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her tiny round wire-rimmed glasses fogged up, underbite, shriveled lips. Clarence, senior,

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sits on the saggy front porch in his best and tucker, and with a whistle, rattles the

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dag's of two ladies strolling by in their best, weeds grown about the lawn. Clarence, senior,

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a window peeper. Miss Phillips once chased him down the road with an axe, but he told the judge

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he was doing a good deed fixing up her crook shutter. Clarence, senior, his words are like a

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fart in the wind, and he spent two nights in the town jail for public indecency. Meanwhile,

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up in the loft, Clarence pulls a mummified possum out of a trunk. Just when Ma, chewing on a pickle,

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a filthy-faced twin on each nipple, hollers, Clarence, junior, get down here,

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before you fall on your head again and end up like your Paul. What? Hollered Paul. Not you,

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you dang idiot. Clarence, junior, is my only friend. Want a tootsie roll? He says. Stuck

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my hand in the jar right when Mr. Goosting wasn't looking. Thanks, I say. I got to shoot a gun today,

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out of the dump at the mayor, my finger in my ear trying to wiggle out the last of the cotton.

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Aw, I love the dump, says Clarence, green with envy, as I suddenly see that girl walking by on me.

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I gotta go, I say, running off, making the excuse. My father will have my hide if I ain't home for

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supper. Hey, where you going? I wanna shoot a gun. And kick in a bottle. Aw, come on. But I ignore

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Clarence and chase her down.

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Jimmy shouts a profanity, but she ignores his heckling and heads south down main. My heart

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drags me by the toe, and it doesn't take long for her to take me to the

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park and head south down main. My heart drags me by the toe, and it doesn't take long for her to take privy

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and look back over her shoulder. I stop cold in my tracks and kick a pebble, and with the ring of a

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bell, the trolley stops at the curb, but she continues on foot. Well off the square, she stops

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at the corner of Maple and turns squarely around to face me. I panic and step behind a large oak

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on Miss Clancy's front lawn, back to the bark. Now everyone knows not to step foot in Miss Clancy's

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yard. The Hound, they call her, as she has a Hawkeye for wayward kids.

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I can see you, says the girl. I take a hard swallow. I know you're following me. And in no time,

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old Miss Clancy lives up to her name, rushing out the screen door and off the porch, hammering

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trogs, the best her old arthritic knees can wobble. Broom in hand. Get off my lawn, you little scoundrel!

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Poodle cowering behind. Wanting nothing more than to run up the tree like a squirrel,

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I swallow a toad, drop my head and walk out from behind the tree, tail between my legs.

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Don't mind her, she's just a lonely old lady, says the girl. And I turn back to see Miss Clancy

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grumbling as she struggles her way back up her steps with great difficulty, asking the poodle just

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what kind of a dog he thinks he is. I ain't following you, I say. I was going this way anyhow.

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Well, I suppose if you're going this way anyhow, how about walking me home?

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What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? I say nothing, as the cat has indeed got my tongue.

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But looking into her eyes, they suck me right in like a whirlpool. In fearing I might drown

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into oblivion, I manage to say, sure. I see you found your trousers, she says with a blush.

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At Railroad Street, I pause. I've never crossed Railroad Street in my life.

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The boundary that separates us and them, as my father says. And my father, he'll have my hide.

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But she looks up at me, wondering why I've paused mid-stride. And I make a sheep's eye back at her,

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and suddenly, possessing more courage than I knew I had, I put one boot before the other, taking

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that first step across the threshold. Railroad Street. The tracks. In the block on, we cross Oak.

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Hustling after her, hurried in her hurraches. Hell, we skip across Hickory. But I sing tense,

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as I can't help but notice the houses growing smaller and duller, each block further south.

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From two stories to one, from five, six, seven rooms to three, four, two crooked,

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dilapidated one-room shacks. About heaps of trash, straight cats licking tuna cans.

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Come on, she says, taking a left on Cherry Lane. On Cherry, we cross First Avenue, Second Avenue,

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and Third, until we approach the last house on the left, just before the train yard,

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on the corner of Cherry and Fourth. I can see the P&O factory down the way, and a pair of 20-foot

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long skid marks making their way through the T intersection, and I think of the robbery.

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We stand before her humble home. The humble home. A front door with but one jarred window on either

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side situates itself in the center of the two-room shanty, making a sad face. And I back toward it.

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Walking up the dirt path past a dead leafless tree, she turns back to thank me. Thanks? For what,

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I wonder, having sowed my wild oats. Blushed, I scurry off, but suddenly feel overwhelmed with

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the sense of, where the hell am I? As the mangy felines now appear larger, eyes greener and meaner.

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The scent of trash suddenly so pungent. Hell, I'll never eat tuna again.

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Anxiously, I count the number of rooms as they grow in number, but don't take my first fresh

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breath until I cross the tracks, before my father indeed has my hide.

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A dinner plate waits, heaping with turkey breast, mashed potatoes and corn, smothered in gravy,

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my favorite, but unquestionably cold. I am late.

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My stomach rumbles as I spy far enough into the kitchen to see that my mother has forgotten the

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green beans again. But with the crinkle of a newspaper, I lose my appetite, as I can tell by

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the glare over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses as he uncrosses his legs and stands and walks past

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me with an empty tumbler in hand, his mood has shifted. His silence turns my bowels.

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Ice clinks into the crystal, shattering the stiff silence.

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Where is my mother? I wonder as I run upstairs while I can.

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In my room, I walk to the window and look out above the maples and oaks for the low part of town.

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And as I realize I never got her name, I hear the back door slap

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and my mother's soothing voice says something about flowers.

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And my father hollers, Oscar get down here!

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''

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schema.