Memoir excerpts: Haakim and Festus


Haakim and I were sitting at a table at Printers Inc., admiring the rice paper prints on the walls, the intricacies and skilled workmanship of the Chinese and Tibetan symbols. Years ago Haakim had been spirited away from Oakland by a group of Stanford professors recruiting minority whiz kids who might want to transcend their humble origins and play with the big boys. His primary specialty was mathematics. Being Black, and Muslim, and raised without the assumption that pipe-smoking scholars in bow-ties and tweeds knew best, he had been skeptical from the beginning, but had been through and was done with what he called the “corporate trip.”

“What are you working on now?” I asked.

“I’m building a machine that records and enhances psychic energy. I’ve already invested five-thousand dollars, and plan to put in another five. The primary component is a crystal. Hand held, it can act as a conduit for the flow of psychic energy.”

“But the equipment you would need to build something like that must be really expensive and sophisticated. How can you afford all that?”

“Corporations are dinosaurs, and dinosaurs leave huge turds. You’d be surprised at what you can find by scrounging around.”


Small Town

The man who had pronounced Pogo dead wore a high-crowned, straw sun-hat indoors, with a holster of tools slung low on his hips, his hands indelibly gray from years of work in oil and grease.

“Where you from, Festus?” I asked.

“Arkansas – you know damn well I weren’t from here – huh.”

“Nice country out there?”

“Yep – and lottsa horses, quarter-horses and such, biggest race track in the world there – Hot Springs, Arkansas – lived there ten years. That was enough, too.”

“ Born there?”

“Nope. Born in Indiana.”

“What town?”


“Yeah? I been through Indiana, through Gary. That’s a dirty town. Lotta wild boys in the streets . . .”

“Yep, I know – been through there – ‘cept we didn’t put up with none of it – we go in there with clubs, see? Matter of fact, I got into it with one boy. I told him I’d shoot him, and he knew I would, too. Hell, if I’d shoot my own brother, he knew I’d shoot him.”

Not a flinch from his blue eyes.

“You shot your brother?”


“Why’d you shoot him?”

“Cause he was messin’ with my wife. Never went to jail for it neither – you know?”

“Why not?”

“Cause my wife, she was a cop. And my brother-in-law was a state policeman, and his father’s a judge. All in the same town!”

“Small town.”

“No, it wasn’t neither.”

“For you it was.”

note to a former friend

If your children see fit to invite me to your funeral, I shall be happy to join all the other souls who’ve made that ritual passage to gather around your freshly dug repository; and while they hang their heads and murmur their lugubrious prayers, and secretly celebrate your passing, I shall, in full and unapologetic view of all and sundry, of those in black collars as well as those in black veils, slowly and somberly, unzip my unwitting fly and with unfettered solemnity, piss upon your gaping and expectant grave.

Fear of Sleeping

He awakened before dawn, in the shuttered dark of his bedroom, the only room in the crumbling mansion not devoid of life, but only slightly less somber for that. As he opened his eyes, he breathed in deeply, deliberately, grateful that he hadn’t died that night in his sleep; thankful that he’d been granted one more day by whatever unknown fate watched over him.

You see, once upon a time he’d noticed that if he didn’t consciously fill his lungs up and empty them completely after, left to its own his respiration became so shallow as to be imperceptible, which frightened him. He imagined that if not attended to, for instance when he slept, his tiny breaths might eventually wink out, like an unprotected candle flame in the wind, taking him along to wherever that last bit of smoke must go. He imagined also that with every deep inhalation and exhalation he took, he was somehow prolonging his life, by gathering into himself more fully whatever it was his lungs craved so much; and by instilling in them the habit, so much so that they would continue to consume it and keep him alive, even as he slept.

Such were the fancies of a man who had spent too much time outside the sobering influences of society. Such were the excesses of an imagination now all too acclimated to the dark, both the inky blackness behind the hundreds of drawn curtains that surrounded him, and the comforting smoky gray he saw whenever he opened his eyes.

Out of habit he reached out and found his cane, although he could have done just as well without it, and found his way to the wash basin, where he commenced his morning ablutions.

The Artist In Me

THE ARTIST IN ME is the conjoined twin of the worker bee in me. We must live together, by Nature’s decree. The worker bee must rise and shine and shower and brush and drive to work and punch the clock and file these papers and dig those holes and put out that fire and punch the clock again and get in the car and drive again and shop for food and fill the gas tank and wash the dishes and feed the pets, and vacuum the floors or pull the weeds, depending on the season. The artist in me must wait and watch while the worker bee balances the checkbook and budgets the month and lists all the things to do tomorrow and check off all the things that were done today.

Nominally in charge, sometimes the worker bee will set aside some time for the artist, but always remembering the importance of the structure that keeps the machine running smoothly. This, the artist would hasten to admit, is only fair.

Sometimes however the artist will, seized by inspiration (a fancy word for creative starvation), stage a coup, and commandeer the ship’s bridge for a while. The worker bee will always step aside and graciously allow this, because he knows the artist is acting neither capriciously, nor gratuitously, and that he is compelled by grave necessity.

Sadly, regardless of whether the artist has seized his time or received it, he carries with him many of the habits of the worker bee. After all, they live side by side. Without realizing it, he often finds himself using the worker bee’s tools to form his art. But the artist and his art are at the same time naturally resistant to his brother’s ways; to the precise, linear implements so necessary to the worker bee, to help him navigate the day, to allow him to steer clear of the many hazards that lurk beneath the surface.

The artist stands before his canvas and maps out his color scheme. He divides it into complementary yet dynamic segments. He considers the cost of his paints, and the paucity of sunlight his garret allows. He wonders how far he will get, or if he will ever finish. Similarly, he sits before his typewriter and wrestles with family trees and chronologies, with story arcs and denouements. He finds himself tiring before he even begins. But how else can he proceed? It all needs to make sense, doesn’t it? Otherwise, he’s left with chaos, and what then?

He has forgotten what he once knew, and what he’s forgotten and remembered many times since: that the best of his ideas are born from chaos. They are begotten within the turmoil of dreams, from the swirl of memories that in turn blend with his childhood fantasies and teenage heroes, from inspirational myths and exciting movies and insightful books and sublime music, all of which at one time or another in his lifetime ignited a spark and then a flame within him, all of which stirred him before he even had a chance to put his finger on why.

Faced with the absence of structure though, he feels adrift: alone and afraid. He clings to the comfort of the idea of a solid foundation, unaware that he is, in a way, a prisoner of it.

But what if his first impulse, the attempt to impose a pattern onto the chaos, is doomed before the fact? Sometimes he succeeds. Sometimes the conventional approach bears fruit. He remembers also that too often the attempt begins well but peters out, stillborn. So what to do?

He has read Breton’s first manifesto, and agrees with him, more or less, but finds him pompous and long-winded. Besides, of what help to the artist can the hundred-year-old musings of a French intellectual possibly be? Then the artist concedes his admiration for the man, and admits that he is perhaps a little jealous.

The artist allows his thoughts to float upon the surface of the question, but then allows himself to sink, to slowly fall until he is resting upon and then deeply embedded in the spongy earth of the seabed. Oddly, he is not holding his breath, but breathing deeply. What if there is a pattern, he asks himself, to be found buried within the chaos? Don’t patterns emerge, regardless of whether they are conjured or unbidden?

We are by nature inclined to see patterns where none (seemingly) exist. We see problems and search for solutions. Addicted to rational thought we look for linear and concrete answers to creative dilemmas in much the same way we set about organizing our day, or in the way we approach a clogged drain, or a malfunctioning appliance. We make lists, sometimes on paper, sometimes not. We enumerate the benefits and line them up beside the disadvantages. We believe a measured series of observations will yield a path forward.

This works fine for the worker bee. But perhaps, the artist wonders, he should be searching for less confining solutions. Perhaps the idea of a solution is itself a misdirection.

No one taught us how to seek out chaos. We’re taught that it’s a dangerous place. But what if invoking the word chaos is just another way of talking about the unexpected? Every day we stumble upon it inadvertently, and are continually startled by its therapeutic effects. The best of jokes catch us by surprise. We laugh, or cry, when we least expect to.

And then we forget. We close the book, and bookmark the page; we change the channel. We resume our normal lives. We fluff the pillow and pull back the bedding. We rise and shine. This is no surprise. It’s where we spend most of our time, within the here and now, between yesterday and tomorrow.

So, we return. But consider, the artist asks himself, that as we do so we might also be re-surfacing, and by the logic of the dream, by the laws of chaos, by virtue of the unexpected point of view, we are by necessity also holding our breaths, wondering, as the weeks become months, and the months become years, where the devil the magic went.

And by we, the worker bee says, I mean me.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I rose before the sun. I hugged momma and poppa and cried. I wondered where I was going. I passed into mountains. I sat to tea among empty chairs and watched the trucks roll by. I wished I was a truck driver. I stopped at the edge of the valley, looked over, and forgot to take pictures. I wished I was a photographer. I found the small roads. I drove past gas stations with one pump. At red lights, I looked through the trees at houses with white-washed gables. I wished that I lived in them. I wrinkled my nose and watched as grass fires ran past. I wondered when I would see my friends again. I remembered an old friend who had moved before me and swerved off the main road to meet her. She lived in Detroit with a man whose company she disliked, so we met in her car. Once she had seemed so grown up. Now her car seemed to be her crib and I wanted to get out and I wanted to stay but my aunt was waiting in Chicago. Besides it just ain’t like it was cause we just ain’t like we were like when my aunt used to tickle me till the laughing hurt and I cried. Now her fingers are busy with Lucky Strikes and crosswords and the garden by the back fence where she grows bonsai in her trench-coat and sunglasses while above the trains go by every ten minutes like thunder rumbling through the old gray house where grandma died and grandpa died before I could remember to remember. I followed my aunt to a lake in Wisconsin where we found a boat with three white sails, a ready captain and ready mates. Since it was summer she put on her sunglasses and trench-coat. At night I slept in the hold and used a hand-held flashlight to see the pictures I drew and read the letters I wrote on lined yellow pages. I pressed my nose against the plastic window to watch the storms that leaked onto my bed and kept me awake. I wished my home was a houseboat. I followed my uncle to his house in Minneapolis. I lived in his attic and dreamed about the lover I left behind. Together in the den my uncle and I watched educational television. Together in the kitchen we crushed gimlets. Together we lost each other in a bar. Together we coveted women with yellow hair and empty eyes. I secretly made love to a Navajo, while secretly he bedded a Viking. I painted pictures and gave his Viking lover one and another to him. My Navajo lover gave me a charm. I took long walks in the wood. I wished I lived in a wood. Winter came. My winter lover found me. I wrote a poem for her, and she played her piano for me. But summer was gone and I knew it was time to leave.

I Don’t Care if it’s Shaken or Stirred

Allow me to climb the soapbox, in the spirit of Bughouse Square, and declaim for a few moments. My subject is a particular cocktail, what is by many colloquially and euphemistically referred to as an adult beverage. I wish to speak to you about the Martini, and one of the unwritten difficulties it presents. There are some that are well known, primary among them whether to use vodka or gin, and to what degree to allow the vermouth entrée into the recipe. Shaken or stirred? Made with both vodka and gin? What garnish to use? If the ingredients are completely different, but the distinctive glass remains, is it still a Martini?

Well, as it happens, it is about the glass I wish to speak, and the secret challenge it presents. Within its shape and design lies a test that determines the fitness of any man or woman to be worthy of the drink. Permit me an example. If you find yourself at the home of a dear friend, who’s either hired a bartender, or taken it upon themselves to vigorously shake the tumbler and bruise the ice, to determine the exact proportion of vermouth per drink for either the guest before them, or for the party as a whole, then, as a Martini aficionado, there is an obligation to respect the power of the drink, and strive not to spill it onto the feet of whatever party-goers one happens to encounter while navigating a particularly tricky passage from the bar to that easy chair you’ve so assiduously scouted, and so tenderly courted. Then again, if you’ve obtained your Martini while sitting at a public establishment, you need only let the glass sit in front of you, and every once in a while lift it an inch and lean forward, and sip it like a child might pull its milk from a sippy-cup.

It’s all very well and good for the wine drinker, with the softly curving bowl of their glass, which they love to agitate while they swish and sniff the contents. Usually the wine glass is filled only halfway, leaving plenty of margin for error. You’ll notice the wine drinker’s habit of grasping their drink by the stem, an extremely unstable center of gravity, but counteracted by the empty top half of the glass. The Martini glass on the other hand is very often filled to the top, leaving the liquid to lap gently against the edges, which only the slightest nudge can cause to spill. To make matters worse, the Martini is nearly always garnished, usually with olives or a twist of lemon, thereby making the contents even more, if ever so slightly, unstable.

It is a childishly simple task for the drinker of wine to take their just-filled glass and walk from the bar to their seat or waiting friends. The liquid sloshes around (apparently, the wine drinker encourages this, something about aeration) to and fro. The higher the drink count, of course, the more sloshing. But the bowl of their glass, only half-filled, curves inward at the top, minimizing socially awkward liquid-based interactions, that is to say spills. It’s as if the wine glass were designed specifically with insobriety in mind. I imagine the inventor of the wine glass saying something like, we’ll curve the lines like so, and taper them gently, and curve them inward, so as to contain in the glass the many inevitable accidents so endemic to parties since time, or at least since adult beverages, began.

The Martini glass allows no such easement. Its design is a direct rebuke to that of the wine glass. Where the latter is protective, the former is downright hazardous. Its angular profile, and its unforgiving geometric precipitousness, demands constant attention, especially if one insists on aping the wine drinker, and holding the glass by the stem. This will not do. The wise Martini drinker will grasp the recently filled glass around the rim while carrying it, or, barring that, cradle it from beneath with their palm, although this has the distinct disadvantage of warming a drink meant to be consumed cold. They will lift it high and keep it at eye level, especially during the later rounds, when the floor is beginning to feel much like a ship’s deck on a rough patch of sea. When simply sitting and sipping, it is still advisable to continue to avoid the wine drinker’s habit, either by touching only the rim, or by cradling the Martini glass where the stem meets the bowl, much like the drinker of cognac does.

No other beverage glass presents so daunting a challenge. The whiskey drinker’s tumbler is short and squat, as stable as the rock of Gibraltar, and can be held firmly between thumb and palm. The beer drinker’s stein is just as foundationally sound, if not more so, made as it is with a handle for grasping, topped off with light suds that pose little to no threat to the occasional clumsy encounter. And for the drinker of brandy or cognac, although their glass superficially resembles the wine glass, it’s a safer container, with a bowl angling more inward toward the top than its cousin’s, and with a much shorter stem, encouraging the holder to cradle the bottom, which is, we reiterate, always less problematic than grasping the stem.

Here then, is my contribution to the literature of that most iconic of cocktails, the heretofore (and perhaps for good reason) unremarked challenge of the Martini glass, and for the Martini drinker. It is one the wine or beer drinker will never have to face, and may never understand, but one the seasoned and discerning drinker of Martinis will, if they are observant, have taken to heart.

How Much

In my writing I’ve noticed

I hardly ever use

the words ‘very’ or ‘not.’

I daresay I did at one time

but these days scarcely a lot.


Some writers find them beneficial

but I’ve gradually come to see them

as distinctly unhelpful as such.

How useful would I say they are for me?

Well, if I had to confess, I’d say not very much.

What Rough Destiny . . .


What rough and icy destiny

now leaves me limp and unable to fight,

but staring instead up at a cloud-filled sea?

Its name is as foreign to me as my pitiable plight,

this is the end, someone familiar is telling me,

insisting that I say farewell, instead of my usual goodnight.


But there is no one here, I press,

no one to whom I might confess,

someone who, over my sins might deign to sympathize,

or, although it is unlikely, at the very least,

someone to whom I might apologize,

but there is no wife, no friend, not even the insult of a priest.



What duplicitous and twisting fate

introduces me now to this alien feeling,

too many years too many crimes too late,

finally after all this time revealing

the obvious but elusive mistake

that time was the only thing I was really stealing?


I am wheezing and wounded game

run down in the Master’s wood,

finally admitting that I have no name,

nor am I even master of the ground upon which I stood,

prey to lord and poacher alike,

as doomed as some feckless rabbit,

skewered and mounted upon the spike.



What easily amused and fickle fortune

gazes down on me, implacable as the falling rain,

as I lay perforated and bleeding and left for dead,

my pockets as poached and empty as my gasping veins,

my skin as white as a plaster moon,

while I fight to stay awake

murmuring “too soon, too soon . . .”?


My history turns slippery: was there one final score,

one last chance to prove I didn’t need any more?

This I know: I despised my family and I disliked my friends,

I worked only when I had to, and always took what I’d need.

No means was so wicked it didn’t justify my ends,

no plea so plaintive it deterred me

from the inevitable and irrevocable deed.



What careless justice now accosts me

reminding me of someone I once knew,

a bill collector still owed his fee,

a friend sometimes, but an executioner too,

a single-minded fellow, a like-minded soul,

a ferryman at the river, come to collect the toll?


All my prior hungers are but a fading glimmer

compared to my need to know your name.

Bestow upon me this meager sliver,

so that I might contend it wasn’t all in vain.

Or will the final joke be the face in the mirror?

Would one of my victims say they saw the same?



Weren’t we together for it all,

arm-in-arm and stride-for-stride?

Won’t you then join me for the fall,

so that when they come and see I’ve died,

they’ll see upon my face no fearful pall,

but the calm that declares that in the end


this man embraced his destiny

as if it were a friend,

that he caressed it as he would have done some mewling prey,

without pity or regret, without the coward’s considerate delay,

that he welcomed his fate, despite the fact it had always lied,

with arms that were in the end, in the face of it all,

still open wide?