“Straight Outta Muthafuckin’ Detox”

Modus Operandi magazine has finally completed issue #15, “Straight Outta Muthafuckin’ Detox,” and is offering you a free copy.  Simply send us yr mailing address at moduszine@hotmail.com or leave as comment on this website, and we will happily ship you one right away!  Thanks to all our contibutors and readers for making another issue possible and remember: don’t take any shit from those swine!

–Purkey

Shitty Reviews (Issue 15) by Shawn McMeats

SHITTY REVIEWS  by shawn

Welcome to everybody’s favourite section of Modus Operandi. Back again with some local faves that Steve dug up, and a few actual real albums that you can get at your local record shoppe. Good luck trying to find one, though, as they are a dying breed. Anyway for those who don’t remember, here’s the Shitty Scale and how it works:

Diarrhea: Yr in pain before it starts, nothing about it is pleasant. It takes too long, it ruins yr day, and when it’s over, you still feel like shit.

The Shart: You take a gamble on it, it could come out alright, but it winds up ruining a perfectly good pair of underwear.

The Sinker: It’s hard to get out, somewhat unpleasant, but yr happy when it’s over. Then it hits the bottom of the bowl with a big thud. In retrospect, the result is fairly disappointing.

 The Breaker: Yr ready for it, yr stoked, yr excited about it, but just when it starts to get good it breaks off, and yr left with a half a turd hanging out yr ass.

 The Golden Turd: It’s the perfect shade of brown. Just the right density, it almost seems to smile up at you as it floats around the bowl. Yr day is better because of it.

NOFX “Coaster” (Fat Wreck Chords) Yep, it’s a NOFX album. Pretty standard fare, short punk rock songs about Amerikkka, hanging out with Tegan and Sara trying to get a 3-way going, and whatever happened to Eddie, Bruce And Paul. The latter of which features a line that reminds me of the feltch-worthy good ole’ days: “Paul got fucked, fucked by Steve,” This is true. I got pictures. For a very, very limited time, this album was available at Target for free, but it still seems to be a big hit with boosters across the nation.

Point Blank Rangers “Listen To Slayer”  What is this, Three Times Dope? Actually, it’s a 5 track live EP given out by the band at their shows. Steve told me that the band wrote various titles on the cd when they gave them out; his copy says “Listen To Slayer. ” It’s basically a post pre-prototype live IKEA rap band. They got some decent flows, and a DJ that that scratches about as much as someone with a case of scabies. While nicely cold-filtered, it still feels way spanky.

The Sugar Beets “Secret To Happiness” (Sugar Beets) I think this is music for lesbians. Even the dude-singer in the band seems like he likes to bone lesbians. Yep, I’m pretty sure this is Natalie Merchant, the Indigo Girls, Melissa Etheridge and the Coors (sorry, Corrs) all playing together. It probably isn’t any of these masturbation-defying artists, but you never know. Just ‘cause I’m getting old doesn’t mean I have to listen to this Tiny Tim Hum Drum shite.

Matmos “Supreme Balloon” (Matador) Intsruminimalism at it’s finest. These guys take non-musical sounds and mix them into an experimental sonic explosion. They layer textures of well-moisturized razzle-dazzle on top of each other to form a wall of melody, similarly to what the Bageldogs helped pioneer back in the day. Put this on and you’ll turn yr curbside appliance into a true Hawking-approved amp sandwich.

Meg & Dia “Something Real” (Doghouse) Only Steve would give me a bunch of scratched cds and expect me to review them. Seriously, every time I sit down to write a review, I have to spend like 5 minutes skip doctoring them. Anyway, here’s more lesbo-rock from Steve. I’m not just saying this because Modus is stupid and sexist (MO#3) but rather in spite of that fact. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of bands like Sleater-Kinney and Team Dresch out there that I appreciate, but this sounds like it should be in some pointless movie about glittery vampires and the women who love them. Seriously, maybe if I was still a 15-year-old girl (still?), I’d enjoy this reverse cow skrunk. But since graduating from the pube ring, I can’t find much use for the diarrhetoric.

Ego Machine Plus Andy Solo “S/T”   Ahh, the familiar sounds of former Coos Bay socialite (I’d name drop a band he was in, but alas, they’ve all been forgotten) Jerry Leach and his band doing some re-jizzed mid 90’s grunge. Read that as mid 90’s, so this sounds like the scraps after all the big name grange bands peaked and shot their hot cream all over the face of America. Sure, structurally, it sounds ok, but I’ve heard this crotch-splitting sheetrock before. Then after you get passed all the resmegmanated sound of re-virginization, we get his little brother Andy doing a little bit of cock-tapping of his own. A little acoustic treat at the end of sonic post-wallet chain rock, that really fills the Jesus nail hole. Though, it’s a tad sausage-casing like at times, it turns out to be a real Snatch-22, earning Andy 2 turds all to himself.

Shout Out Louds “Howl Howl Gaff Gaff” (Capitol)   Is this emo? It sounds like Jimmy Eat World mixed with Sunny Day Real Estate with a dose of Dashboard Confessional thrown in. So yeah, it pretty much hits all the major points of emo, except for the early Dischord era, when it de-evolved and dissolved from punks with something to say to a fashion statement with nothing to say. It’s all rectal-itch cat box fodder that stares at you like a dead balloon.

Sober Camp! by Big Curtis B. Washington Jr.

For the following article, the sacred tradition of anonymity in recovery is being observed by using fake names to protect the filthy (except for Steven Purkey, who’s guilt and sewage are legendary.)

Sober Camp!  by Big Curtis B. Washington Jr.

“911 Emergency.”

“My name is Big Curtis B. Washington Jr.  I’m going to kill all the living American presidents, in order.  Jimmy Carter.  George H.W. Bush.  Bill Clinton.  George W. Bush.  Even Barack Obama, the Idi Amin of America.”

“Sir, are you armed?”

“No.”

“How are you going to kill all those presidents?”

“With my fists.”

Despite my grim condition, I was aware enough to know that we live in the golden age of 911 tapes, and this might get released to the media, so it had to sound cool.  She kept me on  the phone, and I don’t remember the rest of our conversation, but I think I was crying by the time a police car pulled up to the 7-11 pay phone at which I was standing.  Bad Ass!

I hung up and gave the police a friendly wave, but did not smile.  Two cops stepped out into the nuclear morning sun.

“Are you…”

“Yes, that’s me,” I replied in my dirty cut-off jeans and tattered, sleeveless red “Hawaiian” style shirt, no sunglasses.

They looked at each other skeptically.

“Are you really planning to assassinate all the living presidents?”

“Please lock me up somewhere before something bad happens.”

We chatted for a while.  It was true that I wanted to die, but was too much of a pussy to slit my wrists, too stupid and lazy to figure out how to hang myself, and too nice to throw myself off the bridge, perhaps landing on someone’s boat, thereby fucking up their day, too.  I had considered laying my head on the railroad tracks, but that would hurt too much (even for just a second).  So there I was, a week into a “Leaving Las Vegas” style binge, out of money and not murdered yet.

I had, however, just committed five felonies in one phone call, and was relieved when they finally cuffed me, and, with a “watch your head”, allowed me to pour myself into the hard womb of the air-conditioned cruiser.

Law enforcement officers have always liked me (because I’m not a fucking asshole to them), so instead of spiriting me away to a secret federal prisonship, they took me to the hospital.

I felt like David Lee Roth as they guided me through the busy waiting room and down the hall to the good ol’ suicide room, where I was uncuffed and placed in the care of doctors.  The room was windowless and bare, with a tall bed in the middle.  I changed into a suicide smock, was hooked up to an I.V., and drifted away.  The party was over.

When I came to, my mom was there, weeping.  That sucked.

“I want to stay here forever,” I apparently told her.

Instead, as she drove me to parts unknown, “Carry On My Wayward Son” played on the car radio as the sun went down.  We processed me into a place called “Detox.”  Mom gave me a pack of cigarettes and she left.  Detox took my vitals, gave me pills, and I slept.

I’d only been wearing one contact lens, and during the night, it disappeared.  I think it slipped behind my eyeball and attached itself to a brain lobe (I AM thinking more clearly nowadays.  Ha!)

Everything was a blur in the dayroom the next morning, but I don’t need eyesight to tell when I’m in the presence of a transcendentally lovely super-fox.

“Can I sit here?” she asked, despite all the other empty chairs around the table.

“Uhh…yeah…” was my brilliant reply.

“You are sooo sexy,” she noticed.

I squinted and leaned in towards her face.  Slowly and seriously, I asked her “Are you fucking with me?”

That insulted and confused her, but the last thing I’d expected to be accused of was being attractive or appealing in any way.  Other than a quick rinse of the crust, I hadn’t bathed in five days.  My long stubble grew grey.  My teeth were sticky and my breath rhymed with death.  My general stench no longer resembled anything like a citrus mint sunburst alpine ocean blast.  But who knows?  Maybe “disgusting and emaciated” is the new “adorably tousled.”

She talked while I stared. I’ve tried all sorts of drugs, but alcohol is cheap, close, legal and always. There are even bars for it. She was a heroin injector, preferably to the neck.

After a while, she began to feel “dope sick” and went home.  She called me that evening (weird) with words that I will close my eyes to forever.  (A few weeks later, deep in rehab, I heard that she had died.  Is it wrong to stroke it to a dead girl?)

The following evening, after an assessment by a counselor (who later said it reminded him of an interview with the little girl from Poltergeist), I was moved into the inpatient treatment sector of the facility, and you know…I dunno…(inside joke.)  Sober camp was tight!

I had a lot of fun there, especially after Mom brought me some of her contact lenses (we share the same prescription).  There were many rules (it was like “Happy Prison”), like no talking to, or passing notes with the women, whom they kept tantalizingly segregated, kind of.  Mental telepathy was allowed, and it was usually dirty!  Us “clients” (dope fiends) weren’t allowed to physically assault or attack each other, but emotional abuse was okay.

Once I learned how to translate the clients’ modern slang into English, things got less confusing.  It was all rednecky hippie-hop, like hicks in the hood, or homies on the range.  I understand double-negatives, but this was random, inside-out talking; “I didn’t not never get thirty-seven fuckin’ felonies for nothin’ whenever I was gunnin’ and runnin’, doggy.”  Huh?  And with the high number of Cheez Whiz suckin’ hubcap collectors in there, you’d think they would know that “dip” means a dose of chewing tobacco, or sex.  But no, “dip” means to bounce or split.  Heroin is “H-stuff”, and apparently “hard headed” is slang for being a temper-tantrum throwing little punk bitch who could really use an old fashioned shower party.  By the way, you skinny little white pussy, no wonder you spend so much time in your favorite place, jail–how the hell are you supposed to outrun the cops with your pants around your knees?  When Eazy-E popularized that style over twenty years ago (back when your mother could charge money for sex), and said it was for “eazy access, baby”, he was referring to the front!

I was lucky enough to arrive at the beginning of “National Recovery Month” (September, following a hot, fucked up summer).  Five days in, they loaded all sixty of us on a bus and headed toward “Oxfest”, an all-day recovery festival held in the city park.  We were kind of free to wander around the grounds as long as we “buddy up” with another client.  That’s when I became pals with Steven “Self-doubt Covers Me Like Dogshit In The Rain” Purkey.  I’d seen people cutting in front of him in the cookie line around treatment, but didn’t feel sorry for him, because I was a nerd with no friends, too.  Initially, I was a little distracted by the thing on his eyebrow.  It’s like a weird little spherical hemorrhoid of flesh that he tries, in vain, to keep hidden by his stupid haircut.  I didn’t hold it against him, though.  People with birth defects aren’t necessarily bad.  He has no control over his deformities–I just think God hates him.

Ten thousand clean and sober people lined up and executed a “hands across the I-5 bridge”.  I was disappointed to learn that it was North-South, along the walkway.  I thought we would be blocking traffic while reciting the serenity prayer.

Back at the Oxfest, speakers spoke, bands played, doomed doves were released to hungry crows in honor of dead people, and everybody did their best to enjoy themselves while talking about the good old daze with friends they used to party with.

You guessed it–I got an acorn lodged in the heel of my shoe.  Don’t worry, I couldn’t feel it, but I knew it was there.  I tried prying it out with a pen, but the tip broke, spraying ink everywhere.  I’ve got no reason to lie or exaggerate–this is just an example of the crazy shit that happens in rehab every day.

Steven Purkey actually turned out to be a pretty nice guy!  He helped me in a secret plot, loaned me his fingernail clippers, and…that’s about it.  He let me listen to a CD on his discman, it turned out to be The Smiths, and that made me cry.  Jerk.

Along with Dustin (heroin), we formed a “Rehab Rock” band called The Detoxitards.  I didn’t want to offend anybody that might have a Retarded American in their family, so I insisted on calling us The Detoxiturds.  Pieces of shit got butt-hurt anyway (another phrase I learned), so we changed it back.

During the Saturday night talent show, everybody in rehab was there!  (It was mandatory).  Everybody loved us, but this is a place where fart contests passed for high art and entertainment.  When we played nobody got up to get a beer.

I had been saving my best dance move for my last.  The Detoxitards were playing our final talent show, and all the clients were clapping to the rocking rhythm.  The beat got faster.  I grabbed my right foot with my left hand, creating a flesh hoop, or limb loop.  You know the move, like Kwame used to do “back on the day”.  I jumped through, and crashed.  I knew I couldn’t pull it off, but I tried, because I’m thirty-six with nothing to lose.  Even sober, I’m the fun-lovin’ bad boy of rock and roll who takes it to the limit every day.

Our song was over, the applause was loud, but it ”sucked” that we weren’t allowed to get any blow jobs, because most of the chicks were toothless.

But as we sat, wiping our sweat, goofy Greg (who’s got a Nazi “SS” tattoo shaped like swiss cheese on the back of his neck) said “Big Curtis!  You busted your nut all over the dance floor!”

“Yeah, I know, that’s what I do, thanks Greg…” etc.

“No dude!  Your acorn!  It popped out of your shoe during your last dance move!  Here it is!”

The after party consisted of a Big Book study, but after lights out, The Detoxitards split the nut and ate it.  We’re still trippin’ to this day.

Mystery Date by Michael Callahan

Mystery Date

A tape w/ 5 songs was given to me by a narcoleptic homosexual bipolar psychotic (you readers of Modus who know Steven Purkey know what I’m sayin’), a McMeat who’s “Shitty Reviews” have made me sadly and painfully aware of the fact that he has absolutely NO TASTE in music whatsoever. (But he’s real nice.)  And his wonderful and very sweet wife Kelli who I couldn’t agree with more Re: Sonic Youth, to review and comment on.

–Michael Callahan

P.S.  Steve’s not really gay???

Track One: The Flaming Lips “Jesus Shooting Heroin”

I’ve heard this before?  A thousand stars!!!  I fucking love it!  I’d buy it if I knew who the fuck it was.  I’d love to have the vocalist’s babies.  Opens all dreamy like, then BAM!!!  Jesus takes a big goddamn bite right outta yer head.  Then the rush, right back to dreamy land…If you have any taste at all in music get some o’ this!

Track Two: Regina Spektor “That Time”

This is fuckin’ cool.  I need more more more!  The lyrics are well placed all through the song and her smoky bourbon voice is sweet on the nerves.  Especially the OD on heroin lines.

Track Three: Thunderslut “Get My Thrill”

Suck Ass Fuck No Shut Up Eat Dead Things!  Sounds like every other shit bag garage band I’ve ever heard.  The lyrics can’t even be called “weak.”  It’s causing me much physical pain.  Stop it.

Track Four: The Polyphonic Spree “Lithium”

These guys are fucking great.  One of the best covers I’ve ever heard.  I’d love to find more!  Tell me they do other covers.  Way unique…wow.

Track Five: Julee Cruise “I Float Alone”

This is definitely my kind of music.  The vocalist’s ethereal quality and range are very sedating while parts of the music are mildly discordant at the right moments.  Very nice!

How To Find Yr Porn Star Name

Ever wondered what yr name would be if you were an adult film star?  Well we have, too.  So we here at Modus Operandi have set you up with three easy steps to create yr very own porn star name!

1. Choose either yr middle name or yr first pet’s name (whichever sounds cooler.)  This will be yr new first name.

2. Next you take the street you grew up on as yr last name.  If you moved around a lot just pick the one that sounds coolest.

3. Put ‘em together and voila!  Yr a porn star!  And if you ever need a leg up Modus is always here to help!

Examples of Modus Operandi’s porn stars:

Steven Purkey=Hughes Idaho

Shawn McMeats=Morris Fruitdale (gay porn star)

Theresa Laygui=Puff Puff Cooley

Michael Callahan=Coffee Vine

Ashly Salmon=Daisy NE 10th

Kelli McMeats=Lady San Antonio

Bio: Felino A. Soriano

Biography Note:

Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California), is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults.  He has authored 18 collections of poetry, including “Altered Aesthetics” (ungovernable press, 2009), and “Construed Implications” (erbacce-press, 2009). His poems have appeared at Calliope Nerve, Full of Crow, BlazeVOX, Metazen, Heavy Bear, and elsewhere.  He edits & publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, www.differentiapress.com, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry.  He is also a contributing editor for Sugar Mule, www.sugarmule.com, and consulting editor for Post: A Journal of Thought and Feeling, www.postjournalofthoughtandfeeling.com. Philosophical studies collocated with his love of classic and avant-garde jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences.  His website explains further: www.felinoasoriano.info/.

Painters’ Exhalations 747 by Felino A. Soriano

Painters’ Exhalations 747

—after Budi Siswanto’s Self Portrait with a Glass of Red Wine

We ship ourselves

from room to disparate room,

four-wall salute of benevolent transaction,

bricked stucco manifest physical effort,

erected destination. 

Halting in reliable communication,

walking voice into mirrored hope

of future’s self-environment.

Seeing our cultured self, self

of many hands bending bones and

forming face to enter various

extractions.

End of day’s many U-turns

lands us with yen of liquid

dissipation, wine of the reddened

sweetness, more so joyful

swimming within splashing angles

on tongue of thankful, resuscitated

likeness.

Husks by Justice

Husks

 The death of a soul. So random that it stinks. found in a trash can or a mangled amalgum of metal with arms twisted in unnatural ways sticking out jagged windows where they actually thought they saw something. Souls die while still in the body. The body breathing without it. The body shitting without it. The body sucking a dick down its throat without it. The vein, if you can find one, owning the lifeforce without the soul that brought it the life. Where does it come from why is it here what if its dead and still paying its taxes with the body it once inhabited. Maybe it just trades bodies that host it in some different way. So anethitized by the goings on of the other deaths that the bodies unattended to it can make a journey finding a freeness of not. Ah the happy baby with the fresh looking eye glass. See it in there. A killer waiting its tortourous turn. Hope it is within the comment that now puts you to sleep. The knowing the soul in you has died before.. been given a new lease and shattered ruthlessly, purposely, by your own actions, painful words meant to marm and withdraw love. The death of the body only melts in sand. People look on and cry. The soul was dead by bad debt, bad leaders, swindled deals, sadness that wont end because you will it to live. Happiness shrouded by others unending baggage. We kill each other’s. We kill our own. We only live to kill the soul. Thats why there are so many of us. Born to this place of least resistance to kill each other slowly and leave husks of human waste. Still breathing still eating still laughing still wondering around in a pretense that their soul is within. Unleashing terror unspoken unheard as the host approaches then to have its soul wrenched from them too and leave their writhing wrestless body in its wake. Now ready to kill. Husks The death of a soul. So random that it stinks. found in a trash can or a mangled amalgum of metal with arms twisted in unnatural ways sticking out jagged windows where they actually thought they saw something. Souls die while still in the body. The body breathing without it. The body shitting without it. The body sucking a dick down its throat without it. The vein, if you can find one, owning the lifeforce without the soul that brought it the life. Where does it come from why is it here what if its dead and still paying its taxes with the body it once inhabited. Maybe it just trades bodies that host it in some different way. So anethitized by the goings on of the other deaths that the bodies unattended to it can make a journey finding a freeness of not. Ah the happy baby with the fresh looking eye glass. See it in there. A killer waiting its tortourous turn. Hope it is within the comment that now puts you to sleep. The knowing the soul in you has died before.. been given a new lease and shattered ruthlessly, purposely, by your own actions, painful words meant to marm and withdraw love. The death of the body only melts in sand. People look on and cry. The soul was dead by bad debt, bad leaders, swindled deals, sadness that wont end because you will it to live. Happiness shrouded by others unending baggage. We kill each other’s. We kill our own. We only live to kill the soul. Thats why there are so many of us. Born to this place of least resistance to kill each other slowly and leave husks of human waste. Still breathing still eating still laughing still wondering around in a pretense that their soul is within. Unleashing terror unspoken unheard as the host approaches then to have its soul wrenched from them too and leave their writhing wrestless body in its wake. Now ready to kill.

A Cut-up On Class Consciousness by Cemendur Rhana

Vulgar libertarianism socializes the losses.
Fighting corporations taking shortcuts through state planning.
Those in the social movements bow down before excessive use of force.

What have you done for the telecom industry today?
Bailing out big auto is among the insurrectionist actions of neo-America.
Invading a sovereign individual.

On foreign affairs, our embassy is embroiled in scandal.
Is it supposed to be a clandestine organization?
Wall Street power stations are everywhere but remain frustratingly elusive.

They created and managed a sophisticated, multi-tiered online media operation.
What is good for General Motors is good for the state.

Bored college students march.
It is time for offshore tax havens for the poor.

Tale Of The Aggressive Panhandler by Hobo Jim

TALE OF THE AGGRESSIVE PANHANDLER:by Hobo Jim Some bums push too hard for handouts. They know it. They’re curious partly, about what might happen if they cross the line. Usually what happens is they get beat up by the police, but not always. There was this one guy, Barry, who looked like he’d walked out of the Dark Ages, pale stained rags, crazy greasy black hair, that lost face, hilarity. Somehow he survived, but he was the opposite of me. He would chase grown men down the street with a plastic cup. He catcalled after women, pushed around street kids who loved to fight back. He had a strange vitality, was always on the move, and though I don’t think he ever ranged outside of Ontario, which is a fucked up suburb of LA, it seemed like he was never in the same place twice. I once saw him collecting broken glass—a shattered car window—on the shoulder of I-210. This was two-hundred feet off the ground, on one of those high-rise swerving on ramps. Still the cops never got him. I worked some of the same streets. I had a guitar with four strings and I played, and I made five, ten dollars a day. But what people really appreciated was me warning them that Barry was around. If I knew he was, I’d tell people. A lot of them didn’t listen or care, but the ones who knew did. Barry was freaky. Though I don’t think he ever hurt anyone, it always seemed like he was on the verge. Watching Barry pace the sidewalk was like watching mean thought in action. When would it occur to him, anyone might wonder, that if he picked up that two-by-four, he could beat the wallet out of the man who was cursing him? I’d thought of it. Barry would too, eventually. One woman who worked telemarketing, I think, passed by 8th and Valencia every day, same time. I guess she didn’t drive. Or maybe she parked and rode. She had big legs—I mean fat—but otherwise she was small on top and LA sexy. Sunglasses, styled hair. She tipped me a dollar everyday, and I’d give her the Barry update. She’d also ask about the crack heads and gang bangers. I’d weave it into the verse of a song. She even knew my name. So one day she came by, gave me the dollar—four quarters that day, plus a few cents extra—and I said Barry wasn’t around. Tra la la. She laughed, said great, what a relief. I said have a great day, and God bless. She was wearing a gray skirt and pumps. I did like to watch her walk. I think I’d already made my lunch money, I was getting up to go to the roach coach for tacos, when whoosh, there goes Barry, about a half block behind her and closing, cup thrust out. He looked like he’d locked in. If it was just some shmoe he was after, I don’t think I’d care. Everyone gets a piece of Barry. But I’d given her the all-clear, and she was sort of my reason for living at that time. At least I remember looking forward to 7:40 am every day, and she was always there. She didn’t cut around to avoid me. Not once. So I felt obligated. But I didn’t know what to do. Mexican housewives with laundry were parting out of his wake on the sidewalk. I remember he walked right through the overhang of a willow, getting raked by all those tiny leaves. I doubt he even closed his eyes. On the other side of the tree, I could see her, twenty feet away. She looked worried. She knew Barry was there. I got his attention. Hey Barry, how about a buck? Are you a bum or what? I shared a glance with her, as Barry paused and swiveled on his tattered shoes. I think she knew. I nodded to her, and she hurried away. I was prepared to deck him with the guitar. In Ontario, that would’ve been just any old day. Two bums hammering it out on the sidewalk. It was hot already, must’ve been June. You got a dollar for me, Jim? His was the true shit eating grin. I think what he meant by you got a dollar for me is that to him, there was not a dollar on earth you could give him that would be worth anything if he didn’t want to take it. Barry got his rocks off on scaring people out of change. He didn’t like to be approached like that. I never do violent things, but I knew it was the moment. Barry was going to strangle me, probably. Maybe he knew that I’d exploited him. He must’ve been annoyed that I was such a brownnoser. So I went ahead and smashed the guitar over his head. What a cheap piece of junk that was; it flew apart like a movie prop. Barry was twisting my arm behind my back, he could’ve broken it, in fact he probably meant to, but a Mexican lady ran him off with her garden hose. Agua ciudad. I think the Spanish scared him. She had a look of disdain for me as well, though she didn’t spray me. I was simply the loser of the fight, no less a bum. I felt bad about leaving a mess, but I did, pausing only to pick up the coins which had fallen out of my pockets. After that, the woman left me. She cut the block three days in a row, and I knew she wasn’t coming back. I guess she must’ve thought that I had worked something out with Barry; it was a double cross, or whatever. What I realized is that I entirely misinterpreted what passed between us, on the sidewalk by the willow, when we shared that glance. She must have seen grand betrayal, might have even been scared to death. I don’t know. But it’s like whatever scrap of goodness went out of me then just scattered into the void. It was like a law of physics failed. But that wasn’t all I saw of Barry. He’d gotten a hold of a shopping cart, and was pushing that around, though he kept nothing in it. He was able to move fast, and I saw him more than once drive people off the sidewalk with it. He got me when I was at the taco truck. How I missed the sound of those wheels rattling on the concrete I don’t know. But I was just getting the hot Styrofoam box in my hands, and kaboom. I was splattered. You want to know what your problem is Barry? I was in that lucid state of having been unjustly clobbered. Then I remembered I deserved it. I didn’t have a response, and neither did he. Barry either had no problem, or had them all. I don’t know. Barry was banging that plastic cup on the chrome counter. The grill guy resorted to the squeeze bottle of hot sauce. Barry was blinded, but before he stalked off he slammed his fist against the side of the truck, bending a sideview mirror backwards. I scooped up my lunch off the concrete and left town.