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Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.

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Riff Raff Act 3

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Saturday Morning

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My mother removes a modern beige Chanel drop waist dress she'd purchased from Miss Willard

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Milony's dress shop and hollers at me as she stands in her knickers digging through a drawer for a

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proper day chemise. She calls on me to help her lace her digestive organs into a suffocating

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S-curve corset before deciding on an outdated afternoon dress taking the guilt off the gingerbread

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so to speak. As the simple pastel affair suits the woman's club meeting that gathers every Saturday

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morning for liberal discussion. The woman's club an association of like-minded neighbors

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white protestant women of comfortable means with husbands in positions of local prominence intending

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to push referendum scholarship for girls light up the streets on the high part of town protect the

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land and birds and such and teaching the mothers on the low part of town how to breastfeed their

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babies. What seems to me nothing more than a simple book club where they sit around and gossip over

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scalding teeth. I left you a nickel on the table dear she says Charlie Dickens held snug against

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her breastplate opting out of the act of breathing as the rest of us mere mortals are less inclined.

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I peddle for the square on my gents cycle and lo and behold I spot the girl again this time exiting the

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flower shop on the corner. The girl two long braids draped over a lime green robozo itself draped over

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her shoulders with her basket on her arm. Her arm. Her arms. Her arms. Her arms. Her arms. Her arms.

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Wicker basket on her arm. Her arm. A poem. In the warm embrace of twilight her skin glows like

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sun-kissed earth a tapestry woven from stories untold soft as the whispers of ancient winds

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her laughter dances like marigolds in bloom eyes deep as the ocean reflecting the sky with every

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moment, a rhythm, a pulse, a celebration of heritage, vibrant and alive. The spirit of

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her culture flows through her, rich as the spices in a family feast. Each curve a testament

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to strength and grace, a melody of resilience, love, and light. In her presence the world

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feels fuller, a living poem, a canvas of dreams, embodying the beauty of a thousand suns, a

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tribute to life and all its colors and forms. As I catch her beautiful brown eyes.

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Her beautiful brown eyes, a poem.

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Her eyes, deep pools of mystery, hold the secrets of moonlight nights. Sparking like

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stars in a velvet sky, reflecting the warmth of sunsets aflame, they dance with the laughter

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of children, glimmering with tales of ancestors' pride. In their depths the universe unfolds,

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a kaleidoscope of dream and desires, shades of amber and rich mahogany capturing the spirit

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of the earth. Each glance, a brushstroke of passion, a window to a soul, fierce and free.

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And looking back over my shoulder, in her gaze, there's both strength and softness,

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a whisper of wisdom, a spark of joy. They invite me to wander, to explore, the boundless

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beauty of our hearts embrace.

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I smack head on into a Ford parked in front of gambles, sending me flying over the hood

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and crashing to the ground I roll. I come out of my daze to see the car's owner's eyes,

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staring down at me with wide baffled eyes. Immediately I check my front teeth with my

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tongue and find I have more fortune than Clarence Jr. Riff raff. My father's voice echoes through

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my skull.

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The hell you doing, son? says the driver of the Ford, hands on his hips, leaning slightly

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toward me as though inspecting a toad squished in the road. And the dingedest thought pops

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into my mind, that flattened squirrel I once saw in the middle of the road walking home

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from school, flat as a sheet of Bible paper, I tell you, puffy tail fluttering in the breeze.

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The dingedest thing I ever saw.

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As I scurry back into my right mind, a pair of dark toes wrapped in a weathered pair of

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dark leather Harachi scurry near.

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Oh my, are you okay? I hear an all-around lyrical soprano ask. I look up dazed to see

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not one, not two, but three heads of the girl.

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The girl, possessor of the loveliest voice to ever lay ears upon.

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The loveliest voice to ever lay ears upon. A poem.

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In the dusk's gentle clow she stands near. A lyric soprano, her voice crystal clear,

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with notes that shimmer like stars in the night. She weaves a melody, tender and bright.

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Are you okay? her soft whisper flows, like a breeze through the flowers where warmth

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always grows. Her eyes hold the echoes of stories and dreams, a symphony woven in delicate

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scenes. Her laughter dances like sunlight on the streams, confusing the air with sweet

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hopeful beams.

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In her presence the world feels alive. A song of compassion where kindness will thrive.

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Tell me your heart, let your worries take flight. In this moment, let's share the soft

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light. With each gentle note she cradles my soul, a reminder that healing can make us

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feel whole.

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In the warmth of her voice I let my spirit soar high. So wrapped in her music, I find

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my reply.

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Want to get a pop? My mother gave me a nickel. She responds with a grin and a plunge of her

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tongue into the gap of her teeth. And I jump to my feet and dust myself off as the owner

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of the Ford crinkles his brow.

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The owner of the Ford. Paper crunched up under his arm in utter disbelief, the man retreats

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a step back for a curious inspection hand to his brow, blocking the midday sun. With

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quite the peculiar edit to his typical day, he takes a step forward to wax out some invisible

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scratch as I search around my pocket for my nickel, then the ground around me and far

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under the Ford as the man asks,

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Now what the hell you doin' boy?

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Finding my nickel in one piece, I show off my two front teeth like a jackass mule in

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her lovely direction.

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Her lovely direction. A poem.

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She stands with grace, a vision so fair, facing the dawn with sunlight to share. The horizon

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blushes, kissed by the day, as she turns to the light in a soft gentle sway. Her silhouette

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framed by the golden embrace, a dance with the winds in this sacred space. The world

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behind her fades into the past, while hope in her gaze shines steadfast and vast in the

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lovely direction where dreams take their flight. She beckons the future with warmth and with

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light. Each step that she takes is a melody sweet, a journey unfolding where heartbeats

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can meet. So here she stands, a beckon of grace, in the lovely direction where time

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finds its

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Aruga!

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Hell out the damned road! shouts the owner of the Ford.

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Green's Drugstore. The soda jerk, Mr. Goosting, slides two cherry smashers with long-handled

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spoons down the counter as we drool upon two stools over endless jars of candy in every

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shape, color, and flavor imaginable.

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Huh? I ask, my ears still tringy, tringy, tringy.

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What is your name? She shouts, assuming I'm either deaf or dumb, or have a head injury,

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or all of the above.

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Oh! I grin as she giggles.

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Oscar, I mumble as my eyes drop on their own accord, and I chew on one cheek.

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What's the matter? You don't like your name?

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I guess not. I say shyly, surprised by my confession. No one had ever asked me that

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before.

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Why? she asks, sounding sincerely concerned.

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Un buen nombre per un gringo. I grin in confusion but with a nod, pretending to understand,

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which is indeed unconscionably foolish.

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Did you understand what I said? she asks.

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A bit, I say, as she leans back on her stool with a look of either disgust or impression.

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Obviously not for the sake of my understanding, but my audacity to outright lie.

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I blush and say, what's your name? Josephina. She answers proudly as I get sucked into her

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eyes once again.

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Remembering what happened last time, I look away, running my tongue across my teeth as

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she slurps on her pop.

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Ever at a Bosco bar? I ask. Nope. She says with a shrug of her robozo in a slouch.

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Liquor twists? Yep. Mothballs? Wackala. She crunches her face in disgust.

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Sea foam? Wackala. Boston baked beans? She snarls her nose.

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Cherry bombs? Nope.

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Turkish taffy? Yep.

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Hot bullets? Nope.

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Contraband? Kiss.

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Flicks? Yep.

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Wax lips? Nope.

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Candy cigarettes? Why do you know so much about candy? she asks.

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I don't know, I say. I suppose because... trailing off.

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What? Tell me, she says.

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She pops out her lower lip red with cherry, I say.

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My father used to bring me here before the... trailing off again.

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Tilting her head to the side like a sad pup, one braid nearly touching my knee.

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Before what? Nothing. I want to say, thinking of the robbery.

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But I don't, as I'm saved by her belch.

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Dang, I say. What, you ain't never heard a girl burp before?

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Burp. I burp and return.

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Eh, my brother can burp louder than that, she says.

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Dilly dolly and across Jones Park. My fingers crossed we don't run into Jimmy and his friends.

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Two wayward low-side boys walk our way. Bills curled up, ball tossed back and forth,

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one with big ears, dirt around his mouth, overall straps held up with stubby thumbs,

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as noisy as a cook stove falling down a flight of stairs, showing off a collection of cusswords.

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Flapdoodle, gitface, arf arf and arf, zoundercat, hedge creeper, mutt and shunter, wag tail,

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and so on, tongue drug behind him in dirt and loose tobacco.

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Pasifuna grabs me by the hand. Wet bag, the other one mutters as we cross paths.

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Strolling down Chestnut, we pass a funeral home housed in a large Victorian mansion.

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Built by a friend of Abraham Lincoln's, so says my father. I say as I look up at the

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second story window, cloaked in a white lace curtain. I point up saying, one time I saw

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an old lady looking out of that window at me and I think she was a ghost.

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It's not true, says Josephina. I swear it is, I say.

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Ghosts scare me, she says with doe eyes, and I think of the worst possible plan.

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Wanna see something? I ask. Sure, she says with a shrug, lime green robozo falling off

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one shoulder. Lime green robozo falling off one shoulder.

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A poem. Lime green robozo, vibrant and bright, falls

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from her shoulder, a cascade of light, woven with whispers of laughter and song. It dances

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with grace as she glides along, threads of tradition in each delicate stitch, a tapestry

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woven with love, rich and rich. It sways with her movement, a fluttering dream, a splash

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of the earth, like a sunlit stream. In the limelight of its color, the world comes alive,

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a symbol of heritage, where cultures thrive. It wraps her in stories, both old and new,

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a cloak of connection, a bond tried and true. As she walks into the road, the fabric takes

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flight, catching the breeze, a soft whisper of light. The lime green robozo, a crown of

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her heart, get out the damn road, spick, growl, as a man in a Ford.

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Amidst the gently bowing branches of Greenwood s cemetery, rows of freshly chiseled monuments

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stand among century-old tombstones, crumbling and decaying with time, smoothed over by wind

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and rain. Marble angels left behind by souls who have passed return to earth s embrace,

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praying solemnly. Engraved in stone final thoughts, words and epitaphs that read, A

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good life hath but few days, but a good name endureth forever. A fine and faithful life.

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And, a kind friend to all, bury him deep on the meadow, drop on his grave a tear, and

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sigh as you read the inscription, A soldier and a friend is buried here.

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I dropped to my knees just past the Civil War plot and cleared the overgrown grass from

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a small flat marble slab. Look at this, I say, as Josephine and Neil s beside me, and

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I run my fingers over the inscription, Limb of unknown child, as she stands and strolls

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on without a word. I wipe the dirt from my palms on my trousers

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and run over to where she stands before a tomb, copper as green as moss. An angel visited

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the green earth and took a flower away. Mother, she reads as her eyes become sad. I don t

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like it here, she says. I don t either, I say, grabbing her by the hand.

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We walk down a ravine and into the woods, and I tell Josephine I have another thing

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for her to see. She is kind and plays along as I play tour guide in her own town, which

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makes me wonder why I have never seen her around before. In about the shade of the valley

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bottom, hoarded with ghosts, I prefer to imagine her an angel, not of granite, but of flushed

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flesh, which simmers with sweat. My heart begins to race, and I sense feelings in places

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I had never paid much attention to before. She has let go of my hand, but I brush the

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back of my palm across hers every chance I get. She steps through the nettle graciously,

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and I do all I might to snub out any fanciful words that tap dance on the tip of my tongue

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with a swallow. This way, I say, running down the hill to the trail. My trail, worn by my

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heels alone, or so I like to believe. Come on, it s right over here.

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Above, enormous branches jut out, stretching oversized arms of a goliath. Below, side by

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side, our eyes widen at the breadth of the colossal oak. I hold on my arms and circle

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its broad trunk, feeling the rough bark beneath my palms, exclaiming it to be the oldest

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tree in the woods. How do you know? she asks. Because it s the biggest tree in the woods,

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I say, as a breeze softly caresses its leaves. I peek at Josefina from around the backside

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of the tree as she turns her gaze away, saying, Eh, I ve seen bigger.

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Dangling our bare feet above the meandering muddy waters of Big Creek, we toss little

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pebbles of mud and watch shadowed minnow dart off in all directions. I try to grasp Josefina

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s muddy toes with my own, as she giggles and her toes curl, the bright red comical wax

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lips I bought her now in her mouth. What do you want to be when you grow up? I ask. She

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spits the lips into her hand, saying, I don t know. No one s ever asked me that before.

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Why do I never see you at school? I ask as she takes a bite of the wax lips. While chewing

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and chomping, she says, When we first moved here from Mexico, Papa took me to school.

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But the teacher said the best thing I can do to be a good American was be a good homemaker.

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I think of my mother and how she used to work in a law firm back in Chicago, and I wonder

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if how she burns the eggs every morning makes her a bad American, just as a brown thrasher

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flies up and lands in the shrubbery across the creek, singing the most exuberant song.

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Josefina whistles back, doing her darndest to mimic its tune. Miraculously, it responds

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before fluttering away. Wow, I say, leaning my palms on my knees. Where do you learn to

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whistle like that? I ask. Josefina smirks and shrugs her shoulders. In that way, I ve

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come to both adore and worry I am as boring as a brick, as she kicks her toes into the

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back of her heel in nervous excitement. But now her face twists into a milk malt of emotions,

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one I cannot quite make. I reach into my pocket and pull out a pack of Wrigley s Double Mint

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gum. Want a piece? I ask. She takes a stick from my hand, unwraps it, and folds it in

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on her glistening tongue. Away we chew, smacking our chops as a sudden thrash through the ivy

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behind us turns to a blur leaping over our heads off the ravine before plunging into

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the muddy abyss with a giant splash. One I entirely recognize. Cannonball. The fish jump

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and flutter from the creek below before a head ever rises. And we wait and wait. Mud-sloshed

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water oozing down our faces and with a monstrous shout, a body juts out flinging handfuls of

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rock. Josephina screams out as she jumps to her feet. Wack-a-Law! Ah, don't be a crybaby,

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the soggy boy says from within the creek, chest high. Josephina cleans her face with

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her lime green robozo and crosses her arms, scrawling in the most severe kind of way,

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eyebrows in that deep slanted way, as I jid my eyes between her and the boy in utter confusion

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when SMACK! I'm hit with a stink wad of black mud right in the face. Josephina tries

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not to giggle, but throwing her hands onto her hips, she raises her voice. Pandeo! As

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the boy laughs in the creek and splashes her again. Ya estuvio! Serio, Arturo! It's not

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funny! I begin to laugh nearly hysterically as Josephina throws a stick at him and misses,

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just as the sun pierces the branches above and brilliant shafts, sparkling off the ripples

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in her eye, a monarch butterfly fluttering about. Until... What are you doing with my

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sister? He asks as the laughter stops.

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I slowly swivel my head back toward him, my eyes widen, my heart jumps a beat and I can't

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believe my eyes. Speechless, I point as Josephina steps forward and glares over the edge, followed

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by a shout. I scurry away from the ravine on my hands falling back into the ivy.

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Que pasa? says the boy, who I now know is her brother, or would if not for the mind-shattering

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fright. Que pasa? Quit messing around, he says. And Josephina stutters, mui mui muerte, with

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ghostly white lips as Arturo spins around to see what has touched his backside, his

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own eyes widening before a bloated blue body floating by in the slow murky current. And

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he gasps, scurrying from the water to scramble up the muddy embankment. Ayuda! Ayuda! Arturo

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slips and slides on the clay before sinking back down into the waters, now pungent with

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death, the bloated mass bobbing about in its wake. He freezes in terror and lets out a

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petrified shriek that startles the starlings from the trees.

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I climb onto the beaver dam with a long stick to where the body is jarred into a log. I

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take a few careful steps toward it, Josephina just behind me, as Arturo sits on the ground,

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head on his knees in the middle of the trail with a whimper. I reach out with the branch,

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feeling brave, or rather fainting to be, as I feel my escaped soul hovering in the trees

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above, watching this whole interaction with the corpse occur. The truth is, what I see

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happening below is entirely unlike me, and I am not entirely aware that I have been endowed

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with superpowers since meeting Josephina, an illusion which should soon enough come

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to pass nonetheless.

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She holds her hands over her mouth and nose at the stench as I use the stick to push down

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on the left shoulder of the swollen bloat, which hardly appears to have once been a man.

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I jab with more force until the purple corpse spins around like a barrel, exposing dark,

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empty eye sockets that stare up at the sky in a look of surprise, jaw frozen in a perpetual

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state of bewilderment. A chill runs down my spine as a sudden wind scatters the branches

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overhead, and my own eyes bulge out and I feel rather vacant. I feel impossibly empty,

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but my lip fully quivers. And as the blood erases all the pigment from my face, I feel

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I might faint, and my arm drops haplessly to my side, dropping the stick. I stand frozen

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like marble on the dam, studying the dark streaks of red that shoot out from the blackened

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edges of a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead. As a distant thunder shatters

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the silence, and droplets of rain begin to fall through the canopy.

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Sneaking inside the house, the floorboards creak and I freeze, but my cover is blown

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as a gust of wind throws the door behind me open and into the wall.

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Dammit, I think.

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Where have you been? he asks, as he appears out of nowhere, tumbler in hand.

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For a walk, I say, and my mother from the kitchen.

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Oh my, you're soaking wet. Go get yourself dried off. Typhoid is going around. Typhoid

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is always going around.

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And put on your best, she says. The mayor is coming over for dinner.

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I run upstairs as that boy of yours is up to no good, rumbles up through the floorboards.

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Crack, rumble, crack, rumble.

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The thunder's hard as I peer out the window without a flinch, clenching onto the seal

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with my cold stiff hands. Leaves from the maple fleeing to the east as I look straight toward

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the south, blots of rain trickling and bleeding down the glass. And I see both the blown canopy

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and two eyes staring right back at me. But rather unmoved, I see shock, shook, yet as

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still as the dead. I am frozen, frozen like marble and boots to be alive.

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A sudden rap and a gust of wind whistles under my door.

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Mayor!

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Mr. President?

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Come in, come in, out of that weather.

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Footsteps in creeks.

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There's my favorite gal.

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Oh Mabel, let me take your coat.

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This weather is atrocious.

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Oh, you look gorgeous.

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Oh, it smells wonderful.

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Roxy made her famous pork chops.

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They're delicious if you don't mind a bit of char.

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Clomping heels on hardwood floors.

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Can I get you a mint jubilee, Mabel?

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Sounds wonderful.

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Mr. President, brought you a little something.

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Single malt, Mayor.

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You shouldn't have.

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Don't mind if I do.

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Roxy, you look as dazzling as ever.

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Get over here and let me give ya a smooch.

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Oh Mayor.

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Oscar, get down here.

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Oscar.

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Oh, deviled eggs, my favorite.

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Roxy, you little devil you.

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You shouldn't have.

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Oscar, now.

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My cold stiff hands hold on tight.

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On the rocks?

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Straight up.

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A little early, isn't it, Frank?

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It's five o'clock somewhere.

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So how do you like it?

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Smooth.

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Goes right on down.

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Oh my.

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A hot pot automatic.

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How do you like it, Roxy?

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She's still trying to get the hang of it.

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Isn't that right, honey?

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Well, I...

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Oscar.

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Oh, you're so clean.

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Clinks the eyes.

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Here's to the next crook who thinks twice.

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Mr. President.

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Or should I call you Mr. V?

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I think I'll go for a double.

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Cheers to that.

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I keep asking Frank for a new stove, but he's as tight as a drum.

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Is that right, Mayor?

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Well, the lady spends money like it's going out of style.

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Hell, I just got you a new fur coat.

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Red fox.

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Oh, how I wanted to wear it.

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But the weather had other plans.

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Toad or no one wants a dead mutt stinking up the place.

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I draw a circle in fog right between my eyes.

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Roxy, tell that godforsaken boy to get down here.

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Josephina, can you hear me?

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I focus on the horizon, which has vanished in the night.

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Josephina, are you there?