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Cincinnati
native Mark Flanigan has been writing and performing
for over 14 years....Works from his collections Wrong-Way
Poems For One-Way Streets, Not Necessarily God Stories
and Next to Nothing have appeared in a variety of independent
publications and, along with his performances, have garnered
critical acclaim. He has also co-written a screenplay
(“Midway,” with Brian Keizer), edited a literary
publication (omnibscure) and worked to develop, produce
and curate various gallery shows and performance readings
-- notably, VOLK/c.s.p.i. and Intermedia Series readings
at the Contemporary Arts Center and the Weston art gallery.
Flanigan’s monthly column, “Exiled on Main
Street,” appeared for over three years, first in
x-ray, and upon his resignation there, at semantikon.com.
Performances of his can be found on “the Volk/c.s.p.i.
spoken word series CD (2001),” which he co-produced,
and on the CD “One Night Only" (2002). To
learn more about his work, read his blog, review some
of the works mentioned above, and listen to additional
audio tracks:
Visit markflanigan.com
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October
2007: The Dance
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| June
2007: Cake |
| May
2007: Special
Edition "Light Travel" Mark Flanigan and
Steve Proctor |
| April
2007: Zero Hour |
| March
2007: Prelude to a Kiss-Off |
| Jan
2007: State Of The Disunion Address |
| Nov
2006: Youngblood |
| Oct
2006: How I Spent My Summer Vacation |
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Exiled
from Main Street: God, Sighted |
Author’s
Note: The following
is a taken from a little book called Not Necessarily God
Stories, available now at oneleggedcowpress.org. I had
hoped to finish a sequel to it, and have that be featured
here, but after trying to sew it up over the better part
of the month, well let’s just say all of a sudden
I believe Godfather III to be an absolute classic and
George Lucas is back on my Christmas card list. So, here’s
to next month! Until then, I guess there’s still
this....
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Shit,
man, if it wasnt for my girlfriend gettin an abortion,
I would have never met God. I mean thats why I was workin
at the Rib Inn over the Christmas holidays: the manager
there, buster, said Id clear 250 if I worked the Christmas
eve weekend. I needed the money no doubt for you know
what, and I could use what was left over for whatever
so I said whatever and I showed up: and Im not gonna give
ya some sloppy shit about my bad night. rather, just the
facts.
man this aint no bullshit
if it aint the first thing that manager says to me: I
wouldnt have hired ya if I knew you had the hair. got
a hat or something? man its one thing to hafta go out
and buy a red shirt and some khaki pants and wear them
like its fuckin Halloween. if that aint enough, I gotta
hide my hair like I got some fuckin disease. fuck em,
I think, but dont. man, I need the money so I ask around
and find a fuckin cincinnati reds hat from some okay fella
and I tie my hair up like a little girl and, except for
a little ball bulging out of my head like a big cyst,
I guess Im okay to work. cause before I know it I got
one of those W2 taxforms in my hand and now I need a pen.
guess I shoulda knew to bring a goddamn pen but I didnt
so I asked my friend the manager if he had one I could
borrow. he shakes his head, like I had wrecked
one of his precious cars, says no, tuck in your shirt.
I tell him I aint never tucked in my fuckin shirt before
so why should I now? he asks me if I want to work? and
I answer, who the hell wants to work? then he throws his
arms around my shoulders and says, lets you and I go for
a stroll. he asks me why Im giving him such a hard time
and I aint got an answer. first of all, he says, you shoulda
known to bring a pen to a valet job. (Ill givem that one.)
second of all, you look like a slob. please tuck in your
shirt. man the guy coulda just cut my dick off and made
me feel more of a man. its not just for the company, he
went on, believe me kiddo—he pats me on the shoulder—youll
make better money. kiss my ass kiddo I feel like telling
him, if I had a fuckin phd I guess Id make more money
but I aint got no phd and I dont want one neither you
know? but I dont cause like I said I need the money. fuck!
and I tuck my little red shirt into my pretty khaki pants
(what the hell is khaki I asked the lady at the check-out
counter. brown she answered. I guess khaki is a better
word for brown at a hip place like the Rib Inn.)
and before you know it Im
being told by another guy who just started yesterday how
to do the goddamn job. I ask him for a pen and he gives
me a pencil. good enough, I tell him. so what do we make
an hour I ask. he answers however much you want. what?
I didnt understand. well you work completely on tips he
informs me. oh, Im kinda stunned, well then why do I hafta
fill out this W2? I dont know man, he answers, I just
work here. me too.
so I stand in line to park
this car after learning all the tricks of the trade. but
there is no line. all these guys keep jumping into cars
and hell I wasnt about to get in their way I mean fuck
Im the new guy Im just supposed to be there you know?
anyway its cold and I know I need to park some cars cause
the more cars you park the longer you get to stay. so
I jump into my first car, a dodge something or other,
and go on my way feeling good. find an open spot and pull
it in and get back in line, the ice broken. I did this
a couple a times and man these guys are all standin around
with a million tickets in their hands while I only got
a couple. so Im thinking, man, if your ever gonna make
any money your gonna hafta do it now so I go stand in
the other line, the pick-up line, thats where you make
your tips the one guy told me. I get my first pick-up
around eight o’clock and its dark and cold already
and Im hopin I dont get stiffed by this business type
guy. I run on out to the car, find it easily, but like
I said its so cold that the windows are so fogged up and
I cant see so I turn on the defrost but its not good enough
and I run over an orange cone but dont know it and I drag
it all the way upfront where all these people are laughing
but I cant see em just hear em. fuck I felt embarrassed
when I found out but the guy gave me a buck tip anyway
and I got in line again....the Rib Inn was doing good
business tonight.
Cars got to be lined up
onto the street for what seemed to be miles. so when I
got my second pick-up my buddy the manager yells take
one with ya, so I do just that and I drive to where my
pick-up is, stop the car, jump out, nonchalantly shut
the door of the caddy Im parking, run to the pick-up car
(a beemer), pull that out, go to put the caddy back into
that now open spot (all the while thinking Im a fuckin
genius, I remember), but only to find out that Im not
and I locked the keys in the car with the engine still
running no less. fuck! so I stay calm like one always
oughtta do and I pulled up the pick-up car, got stiffed.
told buster what I had done. he didnt laugh. but he did
tell me to work on (phew I wasn’t fired) and I watched
him scowl as he got a lockjaw or whatever those things
are called. it wasnt too long before he was back, the
car parked. be more careful, he urged, that time we were
lucky. I thanked him and apologized and assured him there
would be no more fuck-ups on my part. he told me to watch
my language. ya never can please some people, you know.
so I get my next pick-up
and start to running. man I ran out to spot 204 where
the ticket said the car would be. I stuck the key into
the keyhole, no go. I try all the twenty keys on the ring,
except the house keys of course, but none of the motherfuckers
work. I think Im at the wrong car and I dont know what
to do. so I run back and ask buster. he says ask the people
whose ticket it is what kinda car they got. I do just
that. a ford probe, I tell him. okay, now ask them what
color. black the couple say. black I tell buster. and
what kind of license plates? ohio they answer. ohio i
tell him. alright, now go ahead and find a black probe
with ohio plates the manager says. shit....so I take off
running. first I check 304, then 205 and 203. then 104
and 404. then 402. finally found the car out of breath
in 3fuckinhundredand64. the people were mad that I took
so long and I wasnt about to get a tip, another stiff.
I had been workin for about three hours. all I had to
show was a buck, some change from an old lady, and a stack
of worthless tickets. I thought man I need a break and
I went into the restaurant and bought me a coca-cola classic
and you wouldnt believe what they charged me for a can
of pop? a buck twenty-five. fuck! I took the coke which
was cold very cold and grabbed a chair. I was about even
money-wise but minus three hours. I figured Id watch the
others work and find out what the hell I was doing wrong.
for the most part they hustled but no harder than myself.
so when I saw them with their wads of money and their
stacks of tickets I knew something was up. finally I figured
it out: as some people were sent home for not having enough
tickets, they would sell the tickets that they
had. thus someone could stand in the pick-up line and
make all kindsa money, pay a couple a bucks to someone
who was leaving and stay even later. thus, making a killing.
I dont mind that much losing the money myself, but on
my own accord, thank you. being sorta cheated outta money,
fuck that. I became determined to park as many cars as
possible, thus staying later than the others, thus cutting
them people for a loss because they spent money on someone
elses tickets. so I ran and ran and before I knew it I
wasnt cold anymore and I was catching up with them. soon
I felt like I was ahead but even so I had only a couple
a bucks (now after five hours of work and Im thinking
well how am I gonna pay for this abortion?). so Im gonna
stand in the pick-up line for awhile and man make some
money and feel better about, you know, my position. what
position, I thought. man Im lower than a fuckin dog. oh
well....a dog with a few bones is a quiet fuckin dog I
tell myself and I try to get a couple myself.
Im up and I take the ladys
ticket and recall what my teacher had told me: women are
bad tippers, blacks are bad tippers, but black women are
death. well mine was only a woman, so I guess
there was hope. I ran into the shack, saw and got the
ladys keys, checked to see where the car was parked: 496.
496? yes, 496: the absolute last spot on the lot. I book
as fast as I can to the end of the lot counting the painted
yellow numbers as I galloped on: 400,420,430,437, 442,
446, 450 (Fuck!), 453, 456, 459, 463....my lungs burn
from heaving in all the cold air and from 470 it looks
like a Porsche in 496 but I cant very well tell a van
is in the way....482,83,84,85,86, 87,88,89,90,91,92,93,94:
and as I get to the van in 495 I peek around the corner
not to see a Porsche, not to see a Jag, not to see anything
even vaguely promising, but just a cutless supreme. an
old cutlass, like the one my sister totaled a long time
ago. fuck....man let me tell you I stuck the key in and
it turned slowly like old joints, and the door moaned
and the windshield took forever to defrost and Im thinking
man another stiff, another fuckin stiff. oh well....I
throw the fucker into drive, it stalls. try again, this
time it goes but slow. get out open both doors, rush back
to the drivers side (I mean the tippers side) to close
her door of course, and the lady looks calm enough says
thank you very much hands me a tip even. I return to the
pick-up line, ceremoniously count my money, and find out
that the bill the chick slipped me wasnt a buck at all
but a fiver! man, five fuckin bucks, shit....I wanted
to kiss that ugly chick but she was long gone, perhaps
smiling as big as I was who knows? hope....
so I stood in line for
some time, got a few more tips. it wasnt turning out to
be such a bad night after all. compared to the others
I had just as many tickets as the first guy, but minus
maybe thirty dollars. but 37 dollars and some change is
37 dollars and some change. it was more money than I had
in a long while ya know, and things seemed to be settling
down a bit.
Later now and very few
people come to the Rib Inn late, just a few stragglers
who come to drink at the bar for some reason. one car
pulled in, buster my manager asked me to park it. fine
I didnt mind. this job wasnt so bad after all. I drove
the car, a silver saab, to the first spot I came to, tried
to back it in but couldnt figure out how to get the fucker
in reverse. I remember then thinking man this is one strange
car. so I drove around until I found a spot in which I
could pull it straight on in. easily done and I turned
the car the lights off while opening the door as I tried
to pull out the keys but they wouldnt come. I looked for
one of those little buttons you sometimes hafta push,
didnt find one. then I thought maybe it was just jammed
and I tried to force it a bit until snap! suddenly it
was colder and I was talking to myself and I was answering
for Chrissakes. I sat without moving. man, I sat there,
holy shit you did it now I told myself, the keys broke
in the ignition, now what are you gonna do? I tell you,
right then I felt just like fuckin leaving, walking head-up
out of this hell called a parking lot. but that was impossible.
just impossible, for the abortion and so many other reasons.
I ran and told buster and he said what ‘ya mean
the key broke in the ignition? how the hell did you manage
that? I shrugged my shoulders as if to say I wasnt sure.
what kinda car was it? he asked. a silver saab with indiana
plates, I answered. you jackass he yelled, dont
you know a saab has to be in reverse to get the keys out?
goddamn....dont anyone reading this ever buy a saab, if
only for my sake. I hate them, even now.
so after buster settled
down he said well I guess well have to call a locksmith.
Im feeling bad about the whole ordeal so I ask if I can
page the people whose car it is and ask if they have another
set. a man comes storming out, partly dried sauce spots
on his otherwise white shirt. I ask him if he has another
set? he says hes from out of town, no extras. hes pissed
off. he doesnt have a ride back to his hotel, or home
for that matter. buster tells him not to worry, he can
drive em to their hotel and deliver their car when the
locksmith is done making them another key and getting
the old one out of the ignition. meanwhile he goes grunting
and red-faced to finish his dinner, having a few drinks
on the house in return for his patience. buster then puts
his arm around my shoulder again. man, this is your last
warning, he says. no more, he quiets to a whisper, fuck-ups.
kinda dizzy, I feel like Im going crazy. then he says
you do understand that your gonna have to pay for both
the locksmith and the drinks. now I am crazy. Im not old
enough to buy drinks I tell him and he gives me that parental
stare that any experienced buster has perfected by now.
why do I have to pay for it? I ask. well, you havent been
here long enough to qualify for insurance, youll have
to pay for this one out of your own pocket. so how much
do you think it will be? I ask. well, we get frequent
rates, about thirty-five dollars, he says. that left me
with two dollars, maybe. I needed another coke,
so I bought one of those too. Im down to some change again
I thought numbly. buster had to drive them people to their
hotel, too. when the couple left the man looked full and
loaded and 100 percent angry to boot. so I guess that
was one good thing I did that night, getting rid of the
boss. he was gonna be gone for a halfhour or so and the
others thanked me for it. I stood in line again. it was
even colder now outside. I didnt know what to do. I mean
I was only gonna be able to work another hour or so and
how much could I possibly make in that time? I was lost
and I just stood in line and drank my drink....
A group of people, most
of whom hailed claim checks, came out in a rush. the line,
which I was the end of, moved. a few of the customers
stood around and conversed with the red-shirts. a fellow
with a balding head and brown pants was talking to the
guy in front of me, al kurnan. do you mind my asking what
you make on an average night? the guy asked. al kurnans
gonna make at least a note, al answered. that aint bad,
the man replies. al kurnan dont think so, said the big
weightlifter type ahead of me. youre probably wondering
why he says his own name all the time. so was I. I mean
people would call on the phone and instead of saying hello,
al, Rib Inn valet parking, like we were supposed to, he
would say al kurnan benches 270, or al kurnans
house of whoopass. man, hes the type that no one
ever admits to liking but everyone gravitates towards
as he plays with his ego instead of his dick. anyway,
a lady came up with a claim check and al asked, can I
get your al kurnan for you mam? she looked at him a bit
sideways but pretended she heard wrong anyhow and said,
why yes, thank you. so naturally the guy with a balding
head started talking to me. thats one interesting guy
there, that al kurnan, he said. yeah, I answered, interesting
in the same way as a piece of shit stuck halfway in and
out of your ass. the man laughed while I thought that
may have touched on the philosophical. how much do you
guys really make a night? he asked as his laughter subsided.
well, its my first night I answered, and it hasnt been
a particularly kind one, about twenty dollars I lied.
well I dont think youre gonna make your note, the man
said. but I couldnt take it as lightly as he did, after
all I had an abortion to pay for. well (I was thinking)
at least half of one. man, I said annoyed, are you waiting
for a cab or something? he handed me a claim check as
he continued to smile in his stupid way, saying no I’ve
been waiting for you to get my car. coming right up I
told him and ran on into the key shack to see where it
was parked: 201, the closest spot. I grabbed his keys
and took off running, feeling more than hopeful this time,
optimistic even. but I remember thinking there shouldnt
be a customers car parked in 201 because there was a sign
that read reserved for the employee of the month. but
I said oh well what do I know and I tried the keys it
unlocked and everything was alright. I defrosted the sportcars
windshield and drove it up front, no problem. I get out
of the car only to notice that no one is coming to claim
it. I check what kinda car it is and yell orange 280z
with ohio plates! no one answered and I couldnt see
into the crowd of people waiting on their cars so I thought
maybe he forgot something and went back inside. but I
was wrong, I found him there where I left him and I asked
sir do you by any chance drive a 280z? no he answers,
a red escort, but Ill be glad to take it. at this point
Im quite fuckin confused. what was there to do but ask
the other manager? he said well did you ask what kinda
car he has? yeah, a red escort. and what did you bring
up? an orange 280z. his face went flush: buster’s?
I dont know, I stammered. I only know its not the car
its supposed to be. well you probably grabbed the wrong
number from off the board, did you keep both ends of the
ticket? no, I answered, now buster made it very clear
that he wanted all tickets thrown in the trash. and here
I swear you could see little volcanoes erupting in his
eyes. AFTER YOU GET THE CUSTOMER IN THE RIGHT
CAR! he yelled. and all I could say this
late in the game was, oh well....
so once again I was zigzagging
through the lot, only a bit slower now and this time looking
for a red escort while the man, assuming he was still
alive, searched the shack for his keys. the other manager
parked the 280z and finally, out of breath again and forever,
I found it. It wasnt too bad either, except I thought
well hell Im gonna get stiffed again but this time it
was undoubtedly my fault, my stupidity. I had to run back
to the shack to see if he found his keys alright, and
he had. I told him I only had to run out to 232 and Id
be right back. he yelled thats what you said twenty minutes
ago and laughed as I took off running. once there, I unlocked
the car, defrosted the windshield, etc., and drove it
on up, opened his door (he was alone), and closed it for
him but only after he handed me a two dollar tip. I got
back in line just in time to be told it was time for me
to go. numb, walking out of the lot, there was nothing
left for me to do but count my money, all two bills of
it. which is when I noticed that the two dollar tip from
my friend was not a two dollar tip at all. on the contrary,
and this aint no shit either man, it was a hundred dollar
bill wrapped in a single with a cryptic message inscribed
on the otherwise crisp green: “here’s your
note,” it said. and I guess the whole point of all
this breathing is, next time you hear some preacher or
politician talking about God being above you, say bullshit,
and remind him that hes in left field cause He Hath Been
Sighted at the Rib Inn in cincy, and he wasnt wearing
no silly crown, or a fuckin red robe, or even khaki for
that matter; he was wearing brown, man, brown fuckin pants.
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©2003-2007
semantikon.com/three fools press/cited authors and sources |
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