Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.
Riff Raff Act 3
Saturday Morning
My mother removes a modern beige Chanel drop waist dress she'd purchased from Miss Willard
Milony's dress shop and hollers at me as she stands in her knickers digging through a drawer for a
proper day chemise. She calls on me to help her lace her digestive organs into a suffocating
S-curve corset before deciding on an outdated afternoon dress taking the guilt off the gingerbread
so to speak. As the simple pastel affair suits the woman's club meeting that gathers every Saturday
morning for liberal discussion. The woman's club an association of like-minded neighbors
white protestant women of comfortable means with husbands in positions of local prominence intending
to push referendum scholarship for girls light up the streets on the high part of town protect the
land and birds and such and teaching the mothers on the low part of town how to breastfeed their
babies. What seems to me nothing more than a simple book club where they sit around and gossip over
scalding teeth. I left you a nickel on the table dear she says Charlie Dickens held snug against
her breastplate opting out of the act of breathing as the rest of us mere mortals are less inclined.
I peddle for the square on my gents cycle and lo and behold I spot the girl again this time exiting the
flower shop on the corner. The girl two long braids draped over a lime green robozo itself draped over
her shoulders with her basket on her arm. Her arm. Her arms. Her arms. Her arms. Her arms. Her arms.
Wicker basket on her arm. Her arm. A poem. In the warm embrace of twilight her skin glows like
sun-kissed earth a tapestry woven from stories untold soft as the whispers of ancient winds
her laughter dances like marigolds in bloom eyes deep as the ocean reflecting the sky with every
moment, a rhythm, a pulse, a celebration of heritage, vibrant and alive. The spirit of
her culture flows through her, rich as the spices in a family feast. Each curve a testament
to strength and grace, a melody of resilience, love, and light. In her presence the world
feels fuller, a living poem, a canvas of dreams, embodying the beauty of a thousand suns, a
tribute to life and all its colors and forms. As I catch her beautiful brown eyes.
Her beautiful brown eyes, a poem.
Her eyes, deep pools of mystery, hold the secrets of moonlight nights. Sparking like
stars in a velvet sky, reflecting the warmth of sunsets aflame, they dance with the laughter
of children, glimmering with tales of ancestors' pride. In their depths the universe unfolds,
a kaleidoscope of dream and desires, shades of amber and rich mahogany capturing the spirit
of the earth. Each glance, a brushstroke of passion, a window to a soul, fierce and free.
And looking back over my shoulder, in her gaze, there's both strength and softness,
a whisper of wisdom, a spark of joy. They invite me to wander, to explore, the boundless
beauty of our hearts embrace.
I smack head on into a Ford parked in front of gambles, sending me flying over the hood
and crashing to the ground I roll. I come out of my daze to see the car's owner's eyes,
staring down at me with wide baffled eyes. Immediately I check my front teeth with my
tongue and find I have more fortune than Clarence Jr. Riff raff. My father's voice echoes through
my skull.
The hell you doing, son? says the driver of the Ford, hands on his hips, leaning slightly
toward me as though inspecting a toad squished in the road. And the dingedest thought pops
into my mind, that flattened squirrel I once saw in the middle of the road walking home
from school, flat as a sheet of Bible paper, I tell you, puffy tail fluttering in the breeze.
The dingedest thing I ever saw.
As I scurry back into my right mind, a pair of dark toes wrapped in a weathered pair of
dark leather Harachi scurry near.
Oh my, are you okay? I hear an all-around lyrical soprano ask. I look up dazed to see
not one, not two, but three heads of the girl.
The girl, possessor of the loveliest voice to ever lay ears upon.
The loveliest voice to ever lay ears upon. A poem.
In the dusk's gentle clow she stands near. A lyric soprano, her voice crystal clear,
with notes that shimmer like stars in the night. She weaves a melody, tender and bright.
Are you okay? her soft whisper flows, like a breeze through the flowers where warmth
always grows. Her eyes hold the echoes of stories and dreams, a symphony woven in delicate
scenes. Her laughter dances like sunlight on the streams, confusing the air with sweet
hopeful beams.
In her presence the world feels alive. A song of compassion where kindness will thrive.
Tell me your heart, let your worries take flight. In this moment, let's share the soft
light. With each gentle note she cradles my soul, a reminder that healing can make us
feel whole.
In the warmth of her voice I let my spirit soar high. So wrapped in her music, I find
my reply.
Want to get a pop? My mother gave me a nickel. She responds with a grin and a plunge of her
tongue into the gap of her teeth. And I jump to my feet and dust myself off as the owner
of the Ford crinkles his brow.
The owner of the Ford. Paper crunched up under his arm in utter disbelief, the man retreats
a step back for a curious inspection hand to his brow, blocking the midday sun. With
quite the peculiar edit to his typical day, he takes a step forward to wax out some invisible
scratch as I search around my pocket for my nickel, then the ground around me and far
under the Ford as the man asks,
Now what the hell you doin' boy?
Finding my nickel in one piece, I show off my two front teeth like a jackass mule in
her lovely direction.
Her lovely direction. A poem.
She stands with grace, a vision so fair, facing the dawn with sunlight to share. The horizon
blushes, kissed by the day, as she turns to the light in a soft gentle sway. Her silhouette
framed by the golden embrace, a dance with the winds in this sacred space. The world
behind her fades into the past, while hope in her gaze shines steadfast and vast in the
lovely direction where dreams take their flight. She beckons the future with warmth and with
light. Each step that she takes is a melody sweet, a journey unfolding where heartbeats
can meet. So here she stands, a beckon of grace, in the lovely direction where time
finds its
Aruga!
Hell out the damned road! shouts the owner of the Ford.
Green's Drugstore. The soda jerk, Mr. Goosting, slides two cherry smashers with long-handled
spoons down the counter as we drool upon two stools over endless jars of candy in every
shape, color, and flavor imaginable.
Huh? I ask, my ears still tringy, tringy, tringy.
What is your name? She shouts, assuming I'm either deaf or dumb, or have a head injury,
or all of the above.
Oh! I grin as she giggles.
Oscar, I mumble as my eyes drop on their own accord, and I chew on one cheek.
What's the matter? You don't like your name?
I guess not. I say shyly, surprised by my confession. No one had ever asked me that
before.
Why? she asks, sounding sincerely concerned.
Un buen nombre per un gringo. I grin in confusion but with a nod, pretending to understand,
which is indeed unconscionably foolish.
Did you understand what I said? she asks.
A bit, I say, as she leans back on her stool with a look of either disgust or impression.
Obviously not for the sake of my understanding, but my audacity to outright lie.
I blush and say, what's your name? Josephina. She answers proudly as I get sucked into her
eyes once again.
Remembering what happened last time, I look away, running my tongue across my teeth as
she slurps on her pop.
Ever at a Bosco bar? I ask. Nope. She says with a shrug of her robozo in a slouch.
Liquor twists? Yep. Mothballs? Wackala. She crunches her face in disgust.
Sea foam? Wackala. Boston baked beans? She snarls her nose.
Cherry bombs? Nope.
Turkish taffy? Yep.
Hot bullets? Nope.
Contraband? Kiss.
Flicks? Yep.
Wax lips? Nope.
Candy cigarettes? Why do you know so much about candy? she asks.
I don't know, I say. I suppose because... trailing off.
What? Tell me, she says.
She pops out her lower lip red with cherry, I say.
My father used to bring me here before the... trailing off again.
Tilting her head to the side like a sad pup, one braid nearly touching my knee.
Before what? Nothing. I want to say, thinking of the robbery.
But I don't, as I'm saved by her belch.
Dang, I say. What, you ain't never heard a girl burp before?
Burp. I burp and return.
Eh, my brother can burp louder than that, she says.
Dilly dolly and across Jones Park. My fingers crossed we don't run into Jimmy and his friends.
Two wayward low-side boys walk our way. Bills curled up, ball tossed back and forth,
one with big ears, dirt around his mouth, overall straps held up with stubby thumbs,
as noisy as a cook stove falling down a flight of stairs, showing off a collection of cusswords.
Flapdoodle, gitface, arf arf and arf, zoundercat, hedge creeper, mutt and shunter, wag tail,
and so on, tongue drug behind him in dirt and loose tobacco.
Pasifuna grabs me by the hand. Wet bag, the other one mutters as we cross paths.
Strolling down Chestnut, we pass a funeral home housed in a large Victorian mansion.
Built by a friend of Abraham Lincoln's, so says my father. I say as I look up at the
second story window, cloaked in a white lace curtain. I point up saying, one time I saw
an old lady looking out of that window at me and I think she was a ghost.
It's not true, says Josephina. I swear it is, I say.
Ghosts scare me, she says with doe eyes, and I think of the worst possible plan.
Wanna see something? I ask. Sure, she says with a shrug, lime green robozo falling off
one shoulder. Lime green robozo falling off one shoulder.
A poem. Lime green robozo, vibrant and bright, falls
from her shoulder, a cascade of light, woven with whispers of laughter and song. It dances
with grace as she glides along, threads of tradition in each delicate stitch, a tapestry
woven with love, rich and rich. It sways with her movement, a fluttering dream, a splash
of the earth, like a sunlit stream. In the limelight of its color, the world comes alive,
a symbol of heritage, where cultures thrive. It wraps her in stories, both old and new,
a cloak of connection, a bond tried and true. As she walks into the road, the fabric takes
flight, catching the breeze, a soft whisper of light. The lime green robozo, a crown of
her heart, get out the damn road, spick, growl, as a man in a Ford.
Amidst the gently bowing branches of Greenwood s cemetery, rows of freshly chiseled monuments
stand among century-old tombstones, crumbling and decaying with time, smoothed over by wind
and rain. Marble angels left behind by souls who have passed return to earth s embrace,
praying solemnly. Engraved in stone final thoughts, words and epitaphs that read, A
good life hath but few days, but a good name endureth forever. A fine and faithful life.
And, a kind friend to all, bury him deep on the meadow, drop on his grave a tear, and
sigh as you read the inscription, A soldier and a friend is buried here.
I dropped to my knees just past the Civil War plot and cleared the overgrown grass from
a small flat marble slab. Look at this, I say, as Josephine and Neil s beside me, and
I run my fingers over the inscription, Limb of unknown child, as she stands and strolls
on without a word. I wipe the dirt from my palms on my trousers
and run over to where she stands before a tomb, copper as green as moss. An angel visited
the green earth and took a flower away. Mother, she reads as her eyes become sad. I don t
like it here, she says. I don t either, I say, grabbing her by the hand.
We walk down a ravine and into the woods, and I tell Josephine I have another thing
for her to see. She is kind and plays along as I play tour guide in her own town, which
makes me wonder why I have never seen her around before. In about the shade of the valley
bottom, hoarded with ghosts, I prefer to imagine her an angel, not of granite, but of flushed
flesh, which simmers with sweat. My heart begins to race, and I sense feelings in places
I had never paid much attention to before. She has let go of my hand, but I brush the
back of my palm across hers every chance I get. She steps through the nettle graciously,
and I do all I might to snub out any fanciful words that tap dance on the tip of my tongue
with a swallow. This way, I say, running down the hill to the trail. My trail, worn by my
heels alone, or so I like to believe. Come on, it s right over here.
Above, enormous branches jut out, stretching oversized arms of a goliath. Below, side by
side, our eyes widen at the breadth of the colossal oak. I hold on my arms and circle
its broad trunk, feeling the rough bark beneath my palms, exclaiming it to be the oldest
tree in the woods. How do you know? she asks. Because it s the biggest tree in the woods,
I say, as a breeze softly caresses its leaves. I peek at Josefina from around the backside
of the tree as she turns her gaze away, saying, Eh, I ve seen bigger.
Dangling our bare feet above the meandering muddy waters of Big Creek, we toss little
pebbles of mud and watch shadowed minnow dart off in all directions. I try to grasp Josefina
s muddy toes with my own, as she giggles and her toes curl, the bright red comical wax
lips I bought her now in her mouth. What do you want to be when you grow up? I ask. She
spits the lips into her hand, saying, I don t know. No one s ever asked me that before.
Why do I never see you at school? I ask as she takes a bite of the wax lips. While chewing
and chomping, she says, When we first moved here from Mexico, Papa took me to school.
But the teacher said the best thing I can do to be a good American was be a good homemaker.
I think of my mother and how she used to work in a law firm back in Chicago, and I wonder
if how she burns the eggs every morning makes her a bad American, just as a brown thrasher
flies up and lands in the shrubbery across the creek, singing the most exuberant song.
Josefina whistles back, doing her darndest to mimic its tune. Miraculously, it responds
before fluttering away. Wow, I say, leaning my palms on my knees. Where do you learn to
whistle like that? I ask. Josefina smirks and shrugs her shoulders. In that way, I ve
come to both adore and worry I am as boring as a brick, as she kicks her toes into the
back of her heel in nervous excitement. But now her face twists into a milk malt of emotions,
one I cannot quite make. I reach into my pocket and pull out a pack of Wrigley s Double Mint
gum. Want a piece? I ask. She takes a stick from my hand, unwraps it, and folds it in
on her glistening tongue. Away we chew, smacking our chops as a sudden thrash through the ivy
behind us turns to a blur leaping over our heads off the ravine before plunging into
the muddy abyss with a giant splash. One I entirely recognize. Cannonball. The fish jump
and flutter from the creek below before a head ever rises. And we wait and wait. Mud-sloshed
water oozing down our faces and with a monstrous shout, a body juts out flinging handfuls of
rock. Josephina screams out as she jumps to her feet. Wack-a-Law! Ah, don't be a crybaby,
the soggy boy says from within the creek, chest high. Josephina cleans her face with
her lime green robozo and crosses her arms, scrawling in the most severe kind of way,
eyebrows in that deep slanted way, as I jid my eyes between her and the boy in utter confusion
when SMACK! I'm hit with a stink wad of black mud right in the face. Josephina tries
not to giggle, but throwing her hands onto her hips, she raises her voice. Pandeo! As
the boy laughs in the creek and splashes her again. Ya estuvio! Serio, Arturo! It's not
funny! I begin to laugh nearly hysterically as Josephina throws a stick at him and misses,
just as the sun pierces the branches above and brilliant shafts, sparkling off the ripples
in her eye, a monarch butterfly fluttering about. Until... What are you doing with my
sister? He asks as the laughter stops.
I slowly swivel my head back toward him, my eyes widen, my heart jumps a beat and I can't
believe my eyes. Speechless, I point as Josephina steps forward and glares over the edge, followed
by a shout. I scurry away from the ravine on my hands falling back into the ivy.
Que pasa? says the boy, who I now know is her brother, or would if not for the mind-shattering
fright. Que pasa? Quit messing around, he says. And Josephina stutters, mui mui muerte, with
ghostly white lips as Arturo spins around to see what has touched his backside, his
own eyes widening before a bloated blue body floating by in the slow murky current. And
he gasps, scurrying from the water to scramble up the muddy embankment. Ayuda! Ayuda! Arturo
slips and slides on the clay before sinking back down into the waters, now pungent with
death, the bloated mass bobbing about in its wake. He freezes in terror and lets out a
petrified shriek that startles the starlings from the trees.
I climb onto the beaver dam with a long stick to where the body is jarred into a log. I
take a few careful steps toward it, Josephina just behind me, as Arturo sits on the ground,
head on his knees in the middle of the trail with a whimper. I reach out with the branch,
feeling brave, or rather fainting to be, as I feel my escaped soul hovering in the trees
above, watching this whole interaction with the corpse occur. The truth is, what I see
happening below is entirely unlike me, and I am not entirely aware that I have been endowed
with superpowers since meeting Josephina, an illusion which should soon enough come
to pass nonetheless.
She holds her hands over her mouth and nose at the stench as I use the stick to push down
on the left shoulder of the swollen bloat, which hardly appears to have once been a man.
I jab with more force until the purple corpse spins around like a barrel, exposing dark,
empty eye sockets that stare up at the sky in a look of surprise, jaw frozen in a perpetual
state of bewilderment. A chill runs down my spine as a sudden wind scatters the branches
overhead, and my own eyes bulge out and I feel rather vacant. I feel impossibly empty,
but my lip fully quivers. And as the blood erases all the pigment from my face, I feel
I might faint, and my arm drops haplessly to my side, dropping the stick. I stand frozen
like marble on the dam, studying the dark streaks of red that shoot out from the blackened
edges of a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead. As a distant thunder shatters
the silence, and droplets of rain begin to fall through the canopy.
Sneaking inside the house, the floorboards creak and I freeze, but my cover is blown
as a gust of wind throws the door behind me open and into the wall.
Dammit, I think.
Where have you been? he asks, as he appears out of nowhere, tumbler in hand.
For a walk, I say, and my mother from the kitchen.
Oh my, you're soaking wet. Go get yourself dried off. Typhoid is going around. Typhoid
is always going around.
And put on your best, she says. The mayor is coming over for dinner.
I run upstairs as that boy of yours is up to no good, rumbles up through the floorboards.
Crack, rumble, crack, rumble.
The thunder's hard as I peer out the window without a flinch, clenching onto the seal
with my cold stiff hands. Leaves from the maple fleeing to the east as I look straight toward
the south, blots of rain trickling and bleeding down the glass. And I see both the blown canopy
and two eyes staring right back at me. But rather unmoved, I see shock, shook, yet as
still as the dead. I am frozen, frozen like marble and boots to be alive.
A sudden rap and a gust of wind whistles under my door.
Mayor!
Mr. President?
Come in, come in, out of that weather.
Footsteps in creeks.
There's my favorite gal.
Oh Mabel, let me take your coat.
This weather is atrocious.
Oh, you look gorgeous.
Oh, it smells wonderful.
Roxy made her famous pork chops.
They're delicious if you don't mind a bit of char.
Clomping heels on hardwood floors.
Can I get you a mint jubilee, Mabel?
Sounds wonderful.
Mr. President, brought you a little something.
Single malt, Mayor.
You shouldn't have.
Don't mind if I do.
Roxy, you look as dazzling as ever.
Get over here and let me give ya a smooch.
Oh Mayor.
Oscar, get down here.
Oscar.
Oh, deviled eggs, my favorite.
Roxy, you little devil you.
You shouldn't have.
Oscar, now.
My cold stiff hands hold on tight.
On the rocks?
Straight up.
A little early, isn't it, Frank?
It's five o'clock somewhere.
So how do you like it?
Smooth.
Goes right on down.
Oh my.
A hot pot automatic.
How do you like it, Roxy?
She's still trying to get the hang of it.
Isn't that right, honey?
Well, I...
Oscar.
Oh, you're so clean.
Clinks the eyes.
Here's to the next crook who thinks twice.
Mr. President.
Or should I call you Mr. V?
I think I'll go for a double.
Cheers to that.
I keep asking Frank for a new stove, but he's as tight as a drum.
Is that right, Mayor?
Well, the lady spends money like it's going out of style.
Hell, I just got you a new fur coat.
Red fox.
Oh, how I wanted to wear it.
But the weather had other plans.
Toad or no one wants a dead mutt stinking up the place.
I draw a circle in fog right between my eyes.
Roxy, tell that godforsaken boy to get down here.
Josephina, can you hear me?
I focus on the horizon, which has vanished in the night.
Josephina, are you there?