Stories For The New Depression, Inspired By The Last One

 

COAL BREAKER
From: The Devil’s In The Cows

THE GREAT MAN’S house. The daughters of the men who cracked his anthracite cracked oysters for him in there. The girls would come home and say they had a place in the great man’s house and would rub shoulders with quality, pa. The fathers knew him, though. A werewolf. A vampire. They would sit silent with their black faces and their watery eyes at the kitchen table and know what it meant to turn your children over to such men. They’d say nothing because there was nothing to say.


    They turned their sons over to the collieries. There was honor there — and shame. A man hopes for better for his children than he got. Nothing ever gets better in a mine. You come out every day like the womb. Born again. Or not. The great man would read of the little men like insects that worked in his seams, dead of the gas or the great hand of gravity. It was a story from far away, as their very daughters cracked his oysters.


    The men would see their sons fight back the plain fear that showed in their eyes as the sky passed away and the rank earth swallowed them for their labors, and feel pride, too. No man is ashamed of his son at his elbow in a mine. He is ashamed of himself, maybe.


    What is a man to do? A Welshman might as well be a black ant. He’s got the instinct to go down and up in that little hole and he can’t help himself. He knows no other thing until he knows nothing forevermore. He does what he does. And the great man did what he did. He saw the man’s weakness, and his strength, and used one to get the other.


    The great man had the other great men in his pocket. He could call out the guard on a whim. He could kill a man legal. He could kill him any which way. He could do as he pleased. He could live in the shadow of a boneyard in a palace and there were none dared to squeak. The men said we’ll vote and stick together, and the great man just put one more man in charge of them, the new black prince of the county with the thing with the letters behind him. It was organized, but not like you’d think. Things would go on behind a velvet curtain. If they drew it back you’d see the smirk of the hyena in there.


    Then there was no work. The union and the boss alike said no coal. The big machines and the kept men kept even the culm from us. The great man couldn’t mine the coal by himself, so he mined the banks and the government and the union and got his gelt just the same.


    The great man thought he knew men. But he did not know your father and his father. They knew the coal like he knew his oysters. They went into the woods where the seams lay close to the sky, and they began again. The very earth gave them what they always sought. The men sent to find them and stop them joined them instead. The trucks ran at night to the great glittering city where the coins slept in great vaults.


    The housemaids knew from where it came, for they had come from there themselves. They pressed the coins into the dingy hands at the alley gate and burned it in their own great man’s house. Their little hods filled with bootleg coal made a pyre for our great man.


    The great man’s house. Look on it.

 


The Druids (from 2009)

He’d put his finger in the spoke of the wheel and turn it like the rude machinery it was. Drove it like a plow or a trolley or something. The rattletrap Dodge almost brushed the curb as he let the wheel spin back through his fingers. He knew where everything was.

I look down from my naugahyde aerie through the dirty glass at the spot where the granite curbstone meets the spidered pavement, filled with all the dirt and corruption an old city can offer. The winking neon reflects in the little disconnected puddles left from a rainstorm weeks ago. Tonight’s mist hasn’t even made it down here yet; it just drifts into the spalled bricks up on the floors where gilt letters in the windows announce last generation’s professional men and merchants to no one, then trickles fitfully down to join the re-pulped flyers in the gutters. The sun never shines in the canyons of an old city. The streets are too narrow. And no rain could ever wash it clean. It will be snow soon.

The radio hisses and spits like a viper. There’s towers right down the street, Father says, but the signal can’t fight its way into the slit trench of the road in a little town gone big. He rolls the big chrome knob back and forth until something is intelligible. Catch-as-catch-can is life, he says. The random music and the sonorous voices in the interstices make a jolly soundtrack to the scrolling scene in the passenger-side window.

There are furtive creatures in a city, like animals at the edge of a clearing when the moonlight draws them out from the woods. God knows what makes a man hang in the doorway here. Collars up; hats down. The women totter on spikes and you can make out the fishnets on their legs from across the street. There’s the blaze of a match revealing eyes like raccoons at the trash cans, then the moment passes and the little glowing orange indicator light of the smoker in the dark takes its place. The sidewalk is a galaxy of butts and you wonder if everywhere that is not here is Virginia. The neon signs in the purplish windows have some teeth knocked out, but they remind a man there’s some Tennessee out there, too.

Father knows the way. That’s the problem. He knows every which way. It’s in his bones and marrow. The city of his birth — and mine. Everything is familiar, and so he often wanders on his way because he can always find his way everywhere from anyplace. He points out buildings gone dark, sometimes motioning at nothing but air standing in a fetid slot in the brick rows where a building once stood. He murmurs about the where and when and who of them. The buildings no longer represent their stated purpose — a friend lived there; some ne’er-do-well here; a man who could perform some service no one wants anymore, there. Shave your neck. Hobnail a boot. Take a bet. I realize he is not speaking to me anymore. He is chanting in a church sacked by Druids.

Or we’re the Druids; I don’t know.

A Man Called To Say He Had A Good Day. Nothing Bad Happened

I’m forced to read the local papers now. They’re uniformly dreadful. But every once in a great while, there are some bright spots. I like finding people working on the edge of the map and the sharp edge of honest commerce, too. Local papers in the middle of nowhere are like that sometimes. Local papers can’t afford to have all editorials disguised as news stories, all the time, and still make a buck. People in small towns can’t tell half their fellow citizens to pound sand with impunity in most any walk of life.

I’ve discovered the piquantly masted Fiddlehead Focus recently, which serves the far-northernmost communities in Maine, around Fort Kent. Ya gots ta get in the hammah lane fah a lawng time to get there from heah,  I’m tellin’ you what, is what I mean, jeezum crow; but if you read their paper you feel like neighbors. If you read the Bangor Daily News and felt like they were your neighbors, you’d stop reading immediately and move farther away, after bathing in bleach. The Fiddlehead Focus is charming.

“Doing the needful,” as the Indianism goes, gets done in the local papers. The quotidian details of life get reported accurately. But who says accurate means dull? The Fiddlehead Focus Fort Kent police blotter is a wonder.

14:20 – A caller reports that a man is walking his dogs without a leash.
14:27 – A man reports he lost his dog.
15:09 – A man found his dog.

That’s three straight entries in the log. What a story! For pathos; excitement; suspense; character development — for those of us looking for a touching denouement, with a hint of the scolding of hubris — what story can compete with that? Hemingway couldn’t touch it. It’s a daisy.

There’s hundreds of entries, not because Fort Kent is a hotbed of crime, but just the opposite; when nothing much happens in a Police station, you tend to write everything down. In Chicago they only report the murders if the corpses are stacked high enough to topple over and discomfit a passerby. They’re missing the wonder of life:

There are unusual things on the road in Fort Kent:

16:05 – A man requests that the police escort him through town, because he is coming in with a combine machine.
17:16 – A man calls regarding an orange vehicle.
07:59 – A caller needs a permit to haul a shed.
12:47 – An officer spoke to the road crew and they put the light back on at Main and Pleasant.

There is love, and loss, and redemption:

17:35 – A woman would like to have an officer call her.
05:50 – The Quebec police are looking for a woman that stayed the
weekend at the university, but she failed to return home when she
should.
21:47 – A woman asks for an officer to come by a convenience store.
10:09 – A female came to the station to see the chief.
10:14 – A female left the station with the chief.

People trust the local police, and rely on them overmuch, perhaps:

12:12 – A caller asked for the phone number to the unemployment office.
09:30 – A man calls to ask if his dog is at the station.  It is.
20:50 – A woman wants to know when Catholic Mass begins on Sunday.
09:41 – Caller has questions about a glasses case.
10:53 – A woman reports she found her wallet.
19:23 – A man is at the station looking for saddlebags.  They are not here.
12:01 – Caller asks, “Is it raining?”  Dispatcher writes, “Drizzle.”

They still farm up north in a serious way, and so there’s more than just dogs in the report — and by the by, the last two items look related to my eye, somehow:

16:49 – A woman reports that there is a loose herd of goats near Winterville.
10:39 – A man is at the station for a squirrel cage.
10:56 – A man reports there are dead mice all over his yard.
19:57 – A woman reports a stray cat is near the credit union.

The kids are alright in Fort Kent, but being human, they do get up to things:

16:25 – A caller reports that kids are fighting on the levee.
17:48 – A caller reports thee is a group of young kids smoking behind a local restaurant.
19:45 – Caller says kids are making a lot of noise behind a local
convenience store, goofing off.  The caller said two of the vehicles
have loud exhaust systems and are the two worst ones.
17:50 – Caller reports there is a kite in a telephone line.  They cut the string and let it fall down.
17:11 – A caller reports that dirt bikes and ATVs are doing wheelies behind a convenience store.
17:44 – 911. The caller hung up.  The dispatcher called back and spoke
to a person who said a son dialed 911, and “he’s in trouble.”

We can’t go on together, with suspicious minds:

16:36 – A man calls to report that somebody with long hair is going down the riverbank.
16:50 – A caller from the Madawaska Police Department says there is an ambulance coming in with a patient who “…may act up.”
20:24 – A person reports someone is yelling or screaming in the trees near a residential street.

The grammar and orthography in the Focus isn’t bad by newspaper standards, although there are about a dozen different entries that refer to a “loose dog” wandering around. I think they mean there’s a dog loose, but I might be wrong. I’ve never been to Fort Kent, and their attitude towards the mores of stray dogs might differ from my own. The editor is a wag, though:

22:00 – Four women return a fire axe that fell off a truck that was
heading to the St. John fire.  The women want this in the police
blotter. (Editor’s note: You got it.)

Even the crooks are honest in Fort Kent, apparently:

14:33 – A man calls to see if the police have a warrant for him.

Fort Kent is an out-of-the-way place, and apparently there are no US Senators or pop singers in town:

18:23 – A woman with the recreation department reports nothing is happening at the bathroom.

There’s a lot of what would pass for low-hanging fruit, arrest-wise, elsewhere, but I have a feeling the local police must bore a lot of dry holes before they strike a gusher:

04:40 – Caller reports there is a fight in the trailer park.
05:13 – Officer reports no one is fighting.

15:47 – A caller reports that a pick-up on Caribou Road is making a bunch of noise.
16:03 – An officer reports the noisy vehicle is parked right now.

A bona fide, gold-edged, hand-tooled, leather-bound, honest-to-goodness joke appears in the listings:

02:36 – An officer, state trooper and a prisoner arrive at the station.

And the capstone of the proceedings, the single most lovely sentiment I’ve ever read in any police blotter:

22:20 – A man called to say he “…had a good day.  Nothing bad happened.”

God bless us, every one!

And don’t forget to read The Rumford Meteor, or you won’t know what it says.

Because At Night The Sun In Retreat Made The Skyline Look Like Crooked Teeth

I know, it’s not very good; maybe only 43 percent better than the original:

The Heir and The Spare play in a room with no heat; it doesn’t even have electricity. If they play too loud, plaster falls on their heads. When they want to practice, they have to run an extension cord in there first. But somehow, they manage to play together every day — often twice a day. The Heir has to sing through a practice bass amp, and it doesn’t even have reverb. The Spare is only nine, and his legs still have trouble straddling the snare to play the high-hat and the bass drum, but he never falters, really; he’s as reliable a timekeeper as most adult drummers already. These videos are just practices recorded on a Flip camera with an ambient microphone.

They’ve tried to play with a hearty handful of neighbor kids, but they always drift off; they can’t seem to concentrate on any one thing for any length of time. Their parents and the schools have them doing forty things at the same time, as if they were polymaths on diet pills, but they end up being as reliable as electricity in India at everything.

My boys press on. They have no natural advantages, and lots of impediments. How can they fail?


If SimCity Was Real


The Lion City from Keith Loutit on Vimeo.

The tilt-shift photography gives everything the Matchbox car vibe, of course, but that’s not it. Singapore is SimCity for real people.

Singapore is a country; a sort-of city state, like Venice in the Middle Ages. It was a British protectorate for a good long while, and after that it used to be part of Malaysia, but that only lasted a couple of years. By any measure of anything,  it’s gone on a tear for its entire history.

My children like playing building games. They can be as ham-fisted as Minecraft, or as sophisticated as Age of Empires. They design mud huts and rollercoasters and everything in between, rendered in pixels. I liked that the programs have a heavy budgeting aspect to them. Even Doom is sort of a budgeting game. You can’t run out of shotgun shells before you run out of imps.

SimCity was always the king of all the planning games. It was a pretty good representation of life, too; you couldn’t force people move to the city you were laying out, you had to coax them there by setting up a situation that made the place attractive in the first place. They’d bug out without hesitation over taxes or droughts or whatever, too, just like real people. The buildings in the game had a nice visual vibe to them as well — coherent but variegated. Real cities can only achieve that vibe by having all the buildings burn to the ground at the same time, and then being rebuilt by Victorians. And SimCity had a pleasant sense of humor about itself, which is more than one can say about Detroit.

There is an element of real life that most building and budgeting games can’t, or won’t simulate: people are very unpredictable. People act crazy. Sometimes people are entirely put-upon by their surroundings, and stick with it and flourish anyway; others live in a cossetted wonderland and pee in the corners. People are strange. They’re sometimes strange and wonderful, it’s true; but the wonderful part doesn’t keep regular hours, and the strange part works overtime.

So you look at Singapore, and it certainly looks strange and wonderful. If you read about who lives there, and how they behave, and how they’re housed, and how they are governed, and what they do for a living, and how they manage it with nothing but an equatorial mudhole for ground zero, you realize that every nostrum for the behavior of humans you’ve been told is essential for a successful civilization is contradicted there — probably because there are competing visions of how the world works, and neither one works on its own while the other vision hangs off the back of the applecart and drags its heels. Singapore looks like you can just move the sliders back and forth and the humans and the buildings shift like numbers in a ledger. It’s wonderful and a little unnerving. It doesn’t seem real.

By the way, I have a nine-year-old son, and if I ever find the person that invented Minecraft, he better have major medical.

 

BBROYGBVGW

Fascinating look into a factory making motherboards.

A motherboard is the component that holds the CPU –Central Processing Unit — in your computer. It generally holds your memory and has lots of connectors on it for your peripherals — your disk drives and such.

This is an old-fashioned sort of factory. It mentions that Giga Byte is now the last motherboard manufacturer in Taiwan. China is Taiwan’s Taiwan now.

I’ve worked in a clean room factory on electronic stuff before. Defense plant stuff. It’s a bizarre atmosphere. No natural light all day makes you weird. It’s doubly weird if you work the night shift. If you sleep all day, in the winter you never see the sun.

It was a very long time ago, but I still remember the mnemonic device for remembering what the colored stripes on the resistors we used meant: Bad Boys Rape Our Young Girls But Violet Gives Willingly is how it was taught to us. They’ve since tried to make it more politically correct, and hence, less memorable.

These motherboards are generally sold to housebound agoraphobes covered in cheeto dust who play video games and put together their own rigs. The world is getting strange. An ax is more useful than a computer now.

I Want To Have The Only Blog With Two Deipnosophistae Entries

Aw yeah.

The knowledge of God is the bread of angels. So, all in all, we’re better off than angels, because God won’t let you put butter all over him.

Isn’t it nice to see someone that loves his job? Why not be happy? He’s never cold, he’s never hungry, and he’ll never get fat. 

Deipnosophistae

Snack Shack Billy

Meanwhile, in Maine…



The original, obviously inferior version, if you’re interested:

Ode To Work

Is it just me, or are there a lot of bespoke ax makers on the Intertunnel just now?

Well, never mind. We applaud people making things out in the landscape, and people buying them, and hopefully, treating them with more respect than something off the rack.

The leaves are turning color here outside my workshop just now, and it’s below 60 inside as I type this. As I watched this fellow feed his forge, I realized I might have chosen the wrong profession in the wrong place for a guy that’s always cold.

Month: September 2012

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