Royal Farms Holdup

The veterinarian is walking toward Royal Farms, the house is out of toilet paper. He always means to buy more, but forgets until his roommate does first so now

He's walking into the store, thinking about whether he'll go for extra ply (probably just the value pack, the best deal, he'll work it out) when he feels a jab into his upper back, smells panic like a breeze that just rushed in, hears from behind him the muffled yet loud “Hands Up! And sir, if you will please, continue walking right towards that register in front of you.”

Hands up, the veterinarian approaches the cashier. Starting to sweat, not losing his cool. He did two surgeries today, he's thought about life and death, good and evil, a great deal. But was not expecting this. And for a second, he thinks about all the options with his eyes calculating down the row of items as he walks step by step the few feet towards the register (it's only a few seconds). He sees a line of umbrellas, but the metal they're made from is probably too weak, and hairspray, but uncapping or shaking could hold that up too, but then

And the vet was a pacifist, every day saving dogs, cats, parakeets, horses, fish, you name it – but always a price tag at the end, always a bottom line, and sometimes in that operating room with the lights and the animal, not like a person, the animal always afraid and you could never reassure it, a cat, that everything would be OK, that you're the good guy. Even when it's over and the tumor is gone, the cat hisses. The cat knows that something in the balance of things, of life and death and good and bad, just got thrown off.

But then he sees the broken rack just under the register, Hershey's bars sliding downwards and before he debates (it's only been seconds) he reaches down, yanks it off and continues the motion thrusting backwards as he dodges left, impaling his assailant in the abdomen. He can only see the cashier staring behind him and hear the attacker's quiet grunt – soft like an old man, he thinks, a note of helplessness. The the thud, body hitting floor and now the footsteps, noise as the few other customers run out of the room and the cashier is already on the phone and he must be imagining it, the sirens he thinks he hears in the distance, though this is Baltimore.

The man behind him is making gasping sounds and now the vet turns. His ski mask is pulled away and he's not so old, probably about the same age as the vet, he thinks. And he looks a moment into the man's eyes, recognizes a pain universal. Automatically, the vet makes motions (he can't feel his own hands). Grabs bandannas off the rack, pulls out the bent metal swiftly, stabilizes – the wound is narrow and deadly as from a small shank. The sirens outside, he now knows, are real.

On the floor the man struggles at the sound,twists violently to the side and the vet holds one hand pressing the makeshift compression bandage into the man's abdomen, grabs the broken piece of metal with the other and insists loud, firm, but not quite yelling, “I'll put this right back in you!” For a moment they catch eyes, are both still except for hard breathing, one shallow and labored, one angry and charged. They can hear where the cruisers must be now, less than five blocks away, and the vet is looking nowhere else and then the man's eyes close a second too long. A whimper and he seems to say something. What, the vet leans forward. He has to get inches from the man's face to hear him. Just kill me between breaths. The vet is still, the man's eyes open and lock on his. I can't go back to prison. Sirens, a block away. I'm sorry, please. Here, take my gun. He's trying to reach for the object, it's less than a foot away from his body; the vet is paralyzed, somehow the man reaches it. They'll never arrest you. Self-defense. About the same age as me, thinks the vet, he'll never make it, he thinks. Then as if all his effort would go into one word, one action (but he cannot lift the gun, only nudge it on the floor. It brushes the vet's knuckles) Please. The man's eyes close. The vet has seen this before. He picks up the gun, the sirens are outside now, he hears voices even, running on the sidewalk. He stands, the man is unconscious, he can feel it, his breath is hardly visible and the vet stands up, with both hands, one steadying the other he aims, square

Now! The man behind the register watches a cop push through the door take in the man standing, gun ready at arms length towards a bloody body. Now! The cop fires. The gun falls from the vet's hand.

Wires, short notes

The bird in the back porch planter-cum-hot tub, city stretching behind but what are they doing here still (the birds), haunting the nooks of my house, when someone toppled the nest days, weeks ago and no more eggs, no pile of twigs remain, nothing, what are these birds looking for, up down and inside everything?

And here's the real Wire, the wires, a man-made track and tracing, an electric web to look through and see the skyline hazy downere by de oshun. From here they look flat, almost, except for the phone lines in delicate long curves getting farther away, and I remember when a Comcast guy was up on that pole, wondering if he'd cut the right one, and who'd know with so many, how can anyone be un-connected in this city with so many wires? Where are all the beginnings and ends -- if we could put pot-of-gold screensavers on every tv and computer, what a strange rainbow hunt. What a strange sliced up view and how nice to have the Internet inside.

From the ground below, from a rat's view, perhaps, another dissection takes place. spring chaos.

spring chaos and plants burst out like hulks from nowhere, out of hiding, breaking barriers, pots. Making a general mess of things, putting terra cotta in its place. 

Safari

On safari you observe from the jeep -- at any moment you can jump down and become the lion maybe, or the giraffe. You pass another jeep, going the other way. Both vehicles stop. In between them is a gazelle, with nowhere to run (but you suspect that is a joke, because the gazelle is fast, faster than any of you even in your jeeps -- jeeps contend with people and rocks and potholes -- and the gazelle knows where she is, knows how to run and get away and she is just tricking you, acting dumb) you hope, you know, you want to think that, and you do. Then someone from the other jeep pulls out a rifle and you realize that the other jeep was on a very different kind of safari from yours and suddenly the Nikon falls on your neck cold and heavy, a dead weight, the reels of egrets and hippos inside are useless. And you see that gazelle, though you are yards off you think you can see the hairs raising on the back of that gazelle's neck -- but she's looking at you. Her hairs are raising at the camera, the wrong jeep, the friends and she just doesn't see! No little gazelle, this isn't Facebook, this isn't a moment for privacy concerns and I'm sorry, so sorry, I took all those pictures of you, invaded your home, but please, please just RUN.

The shot cuts the savannah like a thunderbolt; you are thrown backwards to the far wall of the jeep. As you groggily lift your head and look around through the chaos, the panic, the people-panic, the animals are gone. The gazelle must have made it and you look down onto the floor of the jeep where your Nikon lays in pieces, scattered. One of them seems to be embedded in your chest. But you're alive, it's ok, "we can get you back to the hospital in time, just hang on," the passengers who aren't crying, screaming, are comforting you.

The driver has left the jeep, in some kind of yelling fight with the people from the other jeep. You can't move in the vehicle, think you could maybe see the glint of more metal, guns, but you cannot really focus, don't really know for sure, and it probably doesn't matter just get back in the goddamn jeep and go, please. I'm sorry! (the broken Nikon, you know it's only plastic and lenses but you imagine it's the scattered remains, a giraffe tail to the left, zebra hoof right, and you broken in the center. The shouting, shoves, and you wonder was that really a safari after all (but what's the difference?) and the African sky is darkening (was it a real thunderbolt, was there really no shot at all)) and you know at once, that somewhere around the little squabbling group between the car, the lions are watching. They might be in a ring, they might be in disdain and leaving -- but they might be in a ring waiting. And your throat catches realizing just where you have sent the little gazelle off too.

And now members of the other jeep are pushing, ordering, boarding your van. They spot you, against the wall in your safari wreckage, lift you like a tied hog from arms and legs. Carry you out into the deep blue, wind-starting-to-whisp world. A first raindrop hits your face and you are very afraid, but scared paralyzed. Your eyes roll back, showing whites. They tie you to the top of their jeep and now the rain is picking up and all you can feel is the wetness and the metal body beneath you and then they are speeding off, over rough terrain and you bounce and bounce, to a destination unknown.

Religion

 Mary (is that Mary?)  Some Saint is keeping watch over the porch, on the alter of iced tea and Star Wars Monopoly. Less mocking than a pink flamingo might be, and less serious than religion mocking real life. And possibly more fun than either... except where were the people, leaving that big pitcher out there to condense on the Monopoly? Out of the frame lay a broom half-standing, tossed onto a chair, like maybe they'd been in a hurry to clean something up, clean up the porch for the Holy Game ritual. Across the street a cat watched through the window screen in another porch empty of people, two shrines dissected by street traffic.

 In front of my house, Steph's bike sits right at the bottom of St Thomas Aquinas. Showing respect, praying for safety that no more assholes tip and run on the street. Covering itself in reverence. Even that purple tree is bowing. The tip of my car noses slowly in line, waiting for its turn to move into the sacred parking spot.

And here the height of tall things in the sky reverses, where the street lamp towers above like it might shine a spotlight, an interrogation, a reverse inquisition on the church steeple, and there at the bottom, most lowly and useless, the t.v. tower cowers most spindly ugly and alien.

SADIE MAKES BREAKFAST, INJURES ONE

The morning of Sunday, February 3^rd, dawns slightly later than expected, at least in the Graham household, 246 W 30^th St. Sadie Graham, mother of two and adorned in a pink bathrobe and mismatched socks, arrives in the kitchen no earlier than half past ten, with a plan to make pancakes.

Midway through the first batch enter Scott, 10, and Kevin, 15, who sit at the table without speaking, presumably still somewhat asleep, until Sadie hands Kevin a plate, his arm promptly turns to ceramics, and he yells: “MOOOOOOOMMMMMM!”

For the past six months Kevin has been experiencing unexpected manifestations of a skin-changing mutation which his mother refers to as his “chameleon charm.” When the Baltimore Polytechnic High School freshman makes contact with certain materials – which, exactly, he is still determining – a portion of his skin from as little as a finger to his entire body takes on the properties of that object.


Kevin was ejected from a lacrosse game last summer when his arms and torso temporarily became aluminum and a collision with another player resulted in that player's breaking four ribs; however, the call was later retracted on the grounds that lacrosse is a dangerous sport to begin with and the injury was not out of the ordinary enough to to merit such an exception.

But this morning in the kitchen, the Graham family is coping with the more emotional frustrations of adjusting to a newly mutant-human mixed household.

“That's it. I'm not touching anything else, ever,” says Kevin, whose arm is rapidly re-humanizing in a fade from shoulder to fingertips. “I refuse to turn into a pancake.”

“Kevin, honey, don't be stupid. You can use a fork,” responds his mother. A heartfelt supporter of mayoral candidate Grace, Sadie Graham admits that though she believes in the mutants-are-people-too mantra, she is often at a loss for how to deal with her own mutant son.

“True, a fork won't solve the problem, but he needs to eat,” Graham explains. “Teenagers.”

Scott, meanwhile, has remained unperturbed, watching the exchange from behind his plate of syrup with pancakes and only pausing in his food-absorption for a moment during Kevin's arm metamorphosis.

“Pick up your fork and take a bite,” Sadie addresses Kevin in a tone turned suddenly hard. For a few seconds, the two elder Grahams glare at one another and Scott takes the chance to serve himself two more pancakes.

“You follow Grace like a sheep,” Kevin finally growls, “But I'm sick of you humans deciding what's best for everyone.”

“Kevin, you watch--”

“--You included. You don't have a clue.”

“Put the pancake in your mouth.”

“You can't force me.”

Sadie reaches for a fork, stabs a stack and leans toward Kevin, who suddenly panics and yells to her not to touch him. Sadie stops and puts the fork down. Kevin is tilted back in his chair, balancing it on two legs.

He falls back and hits his head after Sadie replies, “fine,” loads her spatula with pancakes, and flings them at his face. “Oh Kevin! Honey-- are you alright?”

This time, maybe, turning into a pancake may have been preferable for the mutant teen.

GRACE'S RACE: NEWEST CANDIDATE SPEAKS TO CITY

“Soon as he said he'd bring HAMMR to Baltimore, I liked the guy,” says Sadie Graham, 32, of Remington, “And after this speech, I might be in love.”

Graham's comment outside the Convention Center following Tuesday afternoon's press conference captured the spirit of a crowd smitten with lately-announced mayoral candidate Cameron Grace.

In a follow up to his announcement of candidacy last week, Grace spoke to a mixed crowd of humans and mutants about his positions on all issues from city education reform to the proposed Chesapeake restocking with Old Bay-Maryland Blue crab hybrids. However, his efforts were overwhelmingly focused on his standout initiative to establish the Nation's next HAMMR location in Baltimore City.

The Human and Mutant Mediated Relations group, which typically goes by the acronym HAMMR (pronounced “hammer”), is the foremost organization dedicated to cultivating peace between the human and mutant races. Founded in Westchester County, NY, by advocacy leader Charles Xavier six years ago, HAMMR has established offices in a dozen cities worldwide and has passed peacekeeping legislation in over thirty countries.

“I believe in Baltimore, and I believe that HAMMR will help break barriers in this city so that it will continue to be the Greatest City in America,” said Grace, “It's time time to work together and fight the chaos plaguing our nation's capital right next door.”

Grace claims he will entice HAMMR to open a development center in the heart of Baltimore, possibly downtown or in Harborplace. He has mentioned an unconfirmed personal connection from within the Xavier Institute, HAMMR's umbrella organization, as well as potential zoning and tax incentives. By keeping the location prominent for both city citizens and tourists, Grace says he plans to make Baltimore an example for other cities struggling with violence and intolerance between races.

Thus far HAMMR been his single most touted pursuit. Though candidate Grace has never overtly worked for a peace group himself, he has spent over a decade working for social justice and campaigning with various peaceable causes in the Baltimore and DC metropolitan areas. He is a board member of nonprofit advocacy groups Marylanders for Mutantkind and Bmore Coexists and holds a law degree from the University of Maryland, Baltimore.

And in a time of uncertainty in both the nation and one's own backyard, people seem ready to at least listen for a while to the Grace doctrine.“They ain't nothing but a bunch of cold-blooded machines down there,” said one unnamed bystander, of Washington politicians. “They just got no idea.”

“But Grace,” said a woman to his left, “He knows what we need– and he'll deliver.”

Box of Mornings

Here's your cigar box back that you gave to me with 12 nights inside, lined up 3x4, and I did my best with it. Sorry I wasn't ready until just before you were leaving town and I really couldn't find enough energy to change them all the way, but here it is: 12 mornings. I'm sure you'll still find some use with them. I can imagine you sitting on the bench at the train station with this box on your lap, checking the departure times and people walking by you pulling luggage, waiting with their paperbacks and magazines -- but you, all you wanted was that box and if you lift up the lid just a crack for one second, some morning will surely shine out. Scents probably too, mixing, as they were all 12 different mornings. You'll get bacon and hot coffee and steamy shampoo from the shower, toothpaste and, if it's a walking morning, maybe car exhaust and pollen, and you might just catch snippets and a mixture of these things if you open that box on your lap.

I know you'll want to give a few of those mornings away when you get home, a couple to the girls and maybe one to your grandfather. The one with the birds and the breeze, I think he'd like that one.

Hopefully you'll be able to save a few for yourself. If you are peeking at the train station or on the train, you might find the special one, well, I wouldn't call it the best or anything I mean of course I'd say all 12 are pretty damn good mornings especially with such pressed time.

But if you look in there and see it, remember that one's for you. Don't give it away. I recreated the one at the beach, that morning with white curtains breathing and muffled voices downstairs and just 2 inches of blue sky visible from bed, and I tried to add in the heartbeats even, but that's just standard, and the stillness, but you'll just have to hold that morning real still in your hands -- and if you do manage to hold that morning very still and you are very careful with it, that might be the only morning in the box you maybe could stretch out into the afternoon like taffy. I won't guarantee it but it's worth a try.

Enough of the preamble, you have the box. My love and regards to everyone and I again wish we could have had more time. On your next visit, I'll have that box of chocolates full of Mondays ready. If I start now, I should be able to get you at least a few 4th of Julys in there and maybe even a New Years, one from the 90's, I'll try.