Tuesday, October 25, 2011

The Death Car



The Ford Fordor that Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were shot to death in on a windy, rural Louisiana back road became known as The Death Car. It toured the country afterward, dented like a tin can and riddled with holes from 167 bullets that had given their bodies the same treatment. We came to refer to my father’s blue, beat- up station wagon with its wood paneling and sloping hood like an ant eater’s snout by the same name: The Death Car. It sat in our driveway for a full year after his death, the newspaper he had bought on that day still waiting for him on the back seat. I had planned on grabbing the paper and saving it, adding it to the growing collection under my bed that commemorated important worldly events, but never did. When the car was finally towed away for use by some desperate charity, I wasn’t around to collect the memento mori.

When my mother kicked me out of the house for using heroin my senior year of high school*, I assumed she’d let me come back home. I assumed I’d have plenty of places to go and not being able to handle her guilt and worry, she’d not only let me come back, she’d beg me to come back. I was intensely wrong. My bad reputation and her itchy phone finger were formidable enemies, prefacing me like a disclaimer wherever I went. My arrival at any friend’s house always seemed to come after her phone call to their parents. Soon enough I had no place to stay that didn’t involve sneaking in through a window or an unlocked door in the middle of the night. So when I wore out my welcome or found the window locked, I’d go to my father’s car in the driveway, utilizing its broken door locks, and sleep inside, reading the newspaper on the back seat over and over again till I fell asleep.

One morning I awoke to my grandmother staring me down through the back passenger side window. The look of disgust on her face reached through the glass and shook me awake violently. She never liked our neighbors, but suddenly they were the most important people in the world. While her weighted glare had melted the window's glass, her greatest wish was to build it back up again tinted black.

My grandmother had always disliked my father, with his six children by two different women, his lack of papered education and uninspired employment history, but death had given him the ability to live up to a very basic parental responsibility, one worthy of recognition if only she could have seen past her grudges and embarrassment to acknowledge it.

When I had nowhere else to go, my father had taken me in.

© Fiona Helmsley

* her hope was to force me into going to rehab.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Artists I Love- David Rat




Since my fingertips seem to dance feverishly across the keyboard when it comes to championing the artists that move me, I’ve decided to start blogging here semi-regularly, stumping for the artists I love.

You move me, I’ll keystroke you.

The way I see it, the posts should basically write themselves.

****

Most people have a dream epoch, a bygone era that they venerate and romanticize, thinking if only I’d been around for that. My pedestalled period on the space/time continuum is New York City in the mid 1970’s and early 80’s, my favorite city’s last gasp for vibrant, inspired living on the cheap. One could still move to New York just to be an artist, not to just look like an artist while spending all of ones time working a shitty job just to make the rent.

Engendered by the cheap rents and lowered cost of living,* New York City experienced a gritty, creative renaissance led by an underclass of young throwaways cut from the same angelic/ demonic mold as Jean Genet and Arthur Rimbaud. Archetype artists like Richard Hell and Lydia Lunch sought reprieve from their damages onstage at clubs like CBGB’s, Max’s Kansas City and the Pyramid. Both were runaways to the city from screwed up homes.

Oscar Wilde famously said, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” In 1970’s/80’s New York, a generation of impassioned street kids used artistic expression to lift their heads from the gutter and towards heaven.

Enter David Rat, a small town boy with the face of an Adonis and big city rock n’ roll dreams. Happy Ending David’s new book of poetry to be released soon on Paroxysm Press, recounts David’s early adulthood in late 1970’s/ 80’s New York. The drummer for seminal art noise band Rat At Rat R, David works the door at the infamous downtown Pyramid Club, juggles clingy girlfriends and looks forward to finally garnering his father’s approval as mainstream success with his band beckons. The story-telling quality of David’s poetry recounts the lyrical elegies of Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side” and Iggy Pop’s “Look Away.” Doomed, tragic luminaries of the period like Greer Lankton and Ethyl Eichelberger provide the inspiration for some of David’s best work. Once David becomes addicted to heroin, the names and wide-eyed descriptions of the era drop off, with testimonies to painful longing and the ritual redundancies of addiction taking their place.

I’ve always liked Angela Bowie, but I found her note to David that opens Happy Ending to be completely off the mark. In it, Angela flatters David but then asks when his “fixation” with writing about drugs will end. Writing about addiction when one has spent time counting lifelines from the inside of its clenched fist is not “fixation,” its transcription. Reducing the all-encompassing impact of addiction to some kind of fetish subject matter is not only smug, it completely nullifies the power of Happy Ending. It’s the optimism despite the ugliness that makes Happy Ending so potent. Heroin robs David of his family and his rock n’roll dreams, but he still eagerly reaches out for love, sees the beauty in the graying faces all around him and fights passionately for a better world for his beloved son. Happy Ending is about the resistance of the spirit to cynicism. It’s also about the hopeful exorcism of ones demons with the pen.

David Rat came to New York City in the late 1970’s to be an artist and as Happy Ending attests, David still believes that art can set him free.

David Rat's Happy Ending will be available soon at:
www.paroxysmpress.com

He can be contacted through his facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/davidrat


© Fiona Helmsley


* which was in turn engendered by the popularly held belief that new york city was a dangerous criminal cesspool, a city “under the gun,” not the primo piece of mickey mouse safe big bucks real estate that it is today.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

The List: Part 1 (draft)


She will pay, Illiana thought, she will pay. It didn’t matter that it was only the third day of the new school year; it didn’t matter that the consequences of the P.O.D she would be collecting on might potentially be severe. She was finally going to put that bitch in her rightful, awful place. For a moment she’d been distressed, but now she was actually thankful that she’d found The List. The Universe had done her a favor, maybe even called her to its service. Now she had a real motive, one that she could be sure of, one that no one could deny later or blame on the supposedly skewed recollections of a chaotic childhood.

Illiana had watched as Constance sashayed down five different hallways over as many school years, suffering in silence but wanting to scream as Constance navigated the neat lines of desks in various classrooms, a hello to this royal subject, a hello to that one- never once stopping at Illiana’s as if she wasn’t even good enough to tithe. Not that Illiana had wanted her to stop, but like they said in America, it was the thought that counts. Well, maybe Constance had stopped once and that was for tithing. Constance had asked Illiana if she had wanted to make a donation to the cheerleading squad’s Go Go Go Green Drive that she, of course, had been organizing. So that was all Illiana was good for. A few quarters in a cup. Oh and her boyfriend. Illiana’s boyfriend. Illiana’s boyfriend was good enough for Constance to try to steal.

Illiana had come across The List by accident. A happy accident, she now decided. Like a pregnancy by Tony would be a happy accident. Her Tony, not Constance’s. Constance had no Tony.

Illiana and her Tony had been doing their homework together. It was only three days into the 9th grade school year and the teacher’s were already coming on strong, her backpack so heavy on the walk home from school with books and various assignments that her muscles still ached even after her Tony’s thoughtful, tender massage.

Her Tony had many winning attributes, he could craft a bong from a soda bottle with just an unsharpened pencil nub, he knew in the parts per million the number of dead sperm that conspired to keep his sperm count so low (undermining, so far, her plans for the happy accident) but he was not good with academics in any form. So mostly Illiana, who was very good at academics in all forms, did his school work for him. That way, when they graduated high school in three years time, they could continue on together to the same college. This was not a fool-proof plan as Illiana was not in all of Tony’s classes, so he had to test on his own, based on his brain’s own retainments. But soon enough Illiana believed, under her own watchful eye and guiding tutelage, Tony’s powers of retainment would catch up with her own. She had even got him to agree to take the herbal supplements her mother mail- ordered from a doctor in Moscow that guaranteed (or your rubles back) to increase brain stamina. She had sold the idea to Tony by claiming that the herbs were a natural, potable Viagra of sorts. Not that he needed Viagra, but all young men found its stimulant possibilities rife with intrigue.

Sitting at her Uncle Henry’s dining room table that fate- divined afternoon, Tony had been distracted.

“Come on babe,” he said, his strong furry fingers groping at her small chest, “Touchesit?” Touchesit was Tony’s pet word for touch my dick- mouth, hands, elbows- do something with it. Acknowledge it and make it spout seminal fluid.

“Tony, this is important,” Illiana responded patiently. A lack of patience was most women’s fatal flaw when dealing with their men. “We have to stay on track. We can not risk falling behind. It’s only the beginning of the school year, let’s make a good start.”

“Let’s make a good whammy!” he replied, his fingers prodding lower, at the inside of her thigh. Whammy was his pet name for penetration. Back, front, hole. Her hole. Not Constance’s.

If vengeful thought alone could extinguish a life…

“Lets just get through the math baby; there may be a reward for a good student on the other side…”

“Ugh!” Tony said, “You get me too fucking hard! I can’t fucking focus!” He got up and tugged at the spot where his jeans had bunched up around his thighs. “Maybe I just gotta piss.” He lurched towards the bathroom, the width of his gait made it look like he was straddling a phantom pony. Through the door Illiana heard him lifting up the toilet seat. The sound of porcelain hitting porcelain made her smile. See, he is making progress, she thought. Usually she had to gently remind him to do so through the door.

It was then that she decided to figure out herself what his assignments were and unzipped his backpack. An aromatic state of disarray greeted her, a bruised apple, a half eaten bag of Cool Ranch potato chips; some lose cigarettes butts and one spiral notebook, its cover sticky with residual goo. This was not a promising sight as she had organized the contents of Tony's backpack at his locker that morning. It wasn’t his fault he was so disorganized, she reminded herself, Tony had been diagnosised with ADHD in elementary school but refused to take the medication as prescribed.

It was in that notebook, the one on which she had neatly written in black Sharpie marker TONY JANOWSKI SOCIAL STUDIES PERIOD 8 MRS FRANCO that she found it. Penned in Tony’s distinctive, baby caveman scrawl. Big block letters, childlike-troglodyte. The heading read: GRADES 9-12 MOST FUCKABLE BITCH’S. Before realizing just what it meant (this happened sometimes, it wasn’t delayed reaction so much as it was delayed translation, from English to her native Russian) she grabbed for the White- Out to correct Tony's bitch’s to bitches. But then comprehension crept in and just as her stomach dropped to her feet in an elevator ride to nauseous understanding, she heard the doorknob turn on the bathroom door. Quickly, she ripped out the piece of paper and stuck it in a notebook of her own.

“Baby,” she said sweetly as Tony approached the table, still pulling the zipper up on his fly. She had no idea what she would say next, but when in doubt a prefaced baby always provide a smooth surface upon which to build.

He cut her off.

“You know what,” he said, “I think I’m gonna head out. I’m fucking beat. We can try this again tomorrow. I just can’t fucking focus. I think I have blue nads or some shit.”

Illiana was not sure of many things. There were not many things in this life one could be sure of, her fifteen years had taught her well. But there was one thing that she did know and know above all else: Tony, her Tony was not going anywhere. Not now or not ever; he was hers and belonged here with her, here with her at the table and beyond, into eternity. Theirs was an eternity that would be built slowly, day by day.

And if they would not be studying at the table then…

Illiana jumped up from her chair, knocking over Tony’s glass of herbally fortified soda. She watched the leafy greens ride the brown, bubbly tidal wave to the table’s edge. She plopped down on the wet table cloth, spread her legs and pulled her panties to the side.

“Stick it in me, baby,” she said. The material of her skirt had no give and prevented her from spreading her legs as wide as she would have liked, so she stood up on the table and pulled her skirt up to waist, then sat back down. “I hope your cocks still wet from pissing, baby. Fill me up with it Tony, I want you to fuck me so hard I taste your cock in my mouth. Do you see how badly I want you to fuck me, Tony? You do want to fuck me Tony, don't you?”

Yes, her Tony had wanted to fuck her very much.

But because Illiana was his girlfriend, the soon to be (hopefully) mother of his child, she knew he had far too much respect for her to ever put her name on The List she had found in his backpack. His list of MOST FUCKABLE BITCH’S, the number one spot on that list filled by none other than her worst enemy, her arch nemesis, Constance Quinley.

© Fiona Helmsley

Friday, September 9, 2011

The Third Floor


Blinders and daggers was a 19th century expression used to describe the effects of criminal behavior on the community and the family. Those who broke the law were viewed by society at large through the prism of their bad acts; hence they were viewed through the “blinders,” of those acts, they defined them; sometimes in perpetuity. Daggers were the effects of those bad acts on the family, the prejudice they inspired in the community, the shame they inflicted. They were “daggers” to the heart.


Part I- The Clock

She had come to the midtown apartment building to visit a friend. From his apartment four floors up, he released the door below, letting her inside. On her way down the hallway, past the elevator marked Out of Service and to the stairwell that would take her to the fourth floor, she noticed a man. He seemed to manifest from nowhere. Not there, blink, there.

“I know you are,” he said quickly as she passed him, in garbled, broken speech, the result of which she assumed was inebriation coupled with English as a second language. He was Asian and somewhere between a hard road forty and a holding up well enough sixty-five.

“You disgusting. Dirty. Dirty. Third floor whore!” he berated in her direction, filling the space between them with what to her could only be described as extemporaneous disdain.

His words were heavy with real emotion, angry; yet entirely free of causation as she was sure she’d never seen him before in her life, at least with awareness. It was hard to figure out what to do next as she still had four flights of stairs to traverse. This was New York City, the Grande Dame Capital of bizarre yet benign outburst, of empty, sport provocation. She pulled out her cell phone to call her friend as she made her way up the first flight but couldn’t get any reception inside the building.

“Hooker!” the man called after her and she was disheartened to see him stagger into the stairwell. She had not responded to his jeers but whatever he was feeling, it was heating up, gaining steam. She was a brawny girl, into punk rock music and all its outward trappings, this mentioned only because her appearance was usually enough to discourage encounters of this sort. She decided to move faster, taking the stairs two at a time, but he had unnerved her and in her haste she lost her balance and in a scene straight out of a tragically cliché film, on the third floor landing she tripped over one of her John Fluevog platform heels and the man was on top of her.

“No more you in this building! Dirty! Third floor whore!” the man said as he tried to pick her up by fuzzy, Tripp- brand sweater with a swinging motion, his arms pendulums. He was trying to toss her down the stairs. “Whore! Third floor whore!” His voice was so loud his words seemed to ricochet between the walls. She figured someone in the building would hear.

When he wasn’t able to pull off the tossing maneuver, she saw something happen in his eyes, an idea take shape. Then she saw him decide. She had never been raped before, but she knew that this was his decision. She had heard people say a hundred times over that rape was about power. Later, she would try to find out whom- doctor, survivor, expert- was behind this constant refrain. Yes, of course rape was about power, that was its bare bones foundation, but to equate one with just the other was reductive, like saying eating was about mouth. Rape was about opportunity. The things people do when no one is looking. The things people do once they can.

“Third floor whore!” he said and quickly, so quickly, as her feet kicked and her arms percussed, she recalled her friend saying that there had been a bust at this building the week before. The cops had come in with shields and a battering ram and cleared out a massage parlor on the third floor. That was why the elevator was out of service, the police had discovered its inspection license expired.

Her friend had spoken of seeing a line of crying, half naked women standing in the hallway, all bound at their wrists with plastic handcuffs that looked like ties for garbage bags. He’d said the scent of their mixed perfumes had wafted down the hall and into the stairwell, lingering there for days. It had pleased her that her friend had not referred to the women as whores. She had quietly wondered if she knew any of them, if she had worked with any of them before.

It dawned on her then, in a lurid, lightening flash epiphany, that whatever happened to her there on the landing, whatever the man did to her and to her body, it wouldn’t matter that she was wasn’t working now, that she off the clock now, a civilian visiting a friend, if this man didn’t kill her and especially if he did, her line of work would be noted. From there, everything would be question.

Because if you’ve ever been on that clock, you always are.

She started screaming her friend’s name and the man started ripping at her stockings, which were ripped to begin with, ripped and runneth-ed all over, on purpose, on punk, probably first worn in such a way by Siouxsie Sioux twenty year previous or some working class woman who got a snag and couldn’t afford a new pair.

She thought about this too, in the moments between pounding clock tower heartbeats and clumsy ballet moves of self defense, the storyline of events, of intents, rewritten that her everyday clothing preferences would neatly dovetail. How easy it was for the man to backtrack her skirt to the tops of her thighs with one vicious tug; it was just a swath of fabric with minimal terrain to negotiate.

One of her John Fluevog platforms was at her side. It was a rock, a cast-iron paper weight and she bashed the man in the head with it.

He rolled backwards. She had no memory of getting up. There was the sound and feel of feet on linoleum followed by the feel of feet on rug and then she was outside her friend’s apartment, banging on his door, throwing her body up against it sideways, trying to knock it down like the police had the massage parlor door days before with their battering ram.


Part II- Blinders and daggers

She sat, where her body had come to rest, in the middle of her friend’s living room carpet with her hands awkwardly shielding the torn gusset of her shredded stockings. Her friend reached for the phone but she told him she wanted a moment to think. She had to plead for it. He ran out to the stairwell to look for the man but said that he was gone. No Asians lived in the building that he knew of, he said. It was a small building, four floors with three apartments on each floor.

She thought of an article she had read in a magazine about a gay man who had been forced out of the closet to his friends and family after a beating he had suffered was prosecuted as a hate crime. “If I was foolish enough to think getting attacked would be a spoon full of sugar to help the gay go down, I would have paid someone to beat me up long ago,” he had said.

She could see the police officers in her mind, questioning her, a cup of coffee provided to help calm her nerves, her stockings and clothing offered into evidence, a careful catalog of which rips were purposeful, which rips not fashionable, done by the medical examiner:

Q. DID YOU KNOW YOUR ATTACKER? DID YOUR ATTACKER SAY ANYTHING TO YOU?

A. I DID NOT KNOW MY ATTACKER. HE CALLED ME A WHORE AND KEPT MENTIONING THE THIRD FLOOR.

The side of her skirt was ripped almost to her hip and she had become aware of just how exposed she was in front of her friend. She asked if she could put on a pair of his pants. He was a tall skinny postcard punk boy, the type who bought his clothes at Trash and Vaudeville on St. Marks Place, who spent hundreds of dollars to look haphazard. He was her male equivalent. He brought her a tight purple spandex pair. He left her alone to put them on then quickly returned.

"Now?" he asked.

There had been a time, on her birthday, a year before, when her family had almost found out she was a sex worker. Her birthday had fallen on a Saturday, and early that same morning, 3 am according to the loitering summons she had buried deep in a dresser drawer, she had been threatened with arrest at a hotel in Queens. She had pleaded with the police officer My family is coming up from Massachusetts this afternoon. It’s Saturday, if you arrest me, I won’t get out till Monday. They’ll call every hospital and police station in the Tri-State area if I’m not there…

He had laughed at her.

“Don’t meet too many working girls afraid to get arrested because of their families,” he had said, as if to imply she was either lying or some kind of amateur. “Usually it’s pimps or missed fixes.”

It was the lack of evidence that had forced him to let her go with just the summons, she hadn't even deserved that. Both she and the client had stuck to their stories; she was only there to give him a legal, hourly massage. She was sure some of the girls on the third floor had been emphatic about the same thing.

“I don’t get it,” her friend asked. “What are we waiting for? Are you in shock?”

“So, tell me, in your own words, how would your family feel if they found out what their little girl was doing?” the police officer had asked her, sitting behind a sort of makeshift desk in a bright room off the hotel’s third floor hallway, her driver’s license in front of him as he prepared the summons on a triplicate pad.

It was then that she realized she’d shown him her Achilles heel.

“They’d be mortified,” she’d answered, carefully admitting to nothing yet everything at the same time.

“Mortified,” he’d repeated, “Why?”

Unable to come up with the right elusive answer fast enough, he answered for her.

“You’d be bringing them shame.”

From the way he was looking at her, she could tell he expected her to say something in return, so she repeated his words back to him.

"I'd be bringing them shame."

"By being a whore," he said, flinging her ID and the summons in the direction of where she stood.

Somewhere her friend was speaking. “You’re bleeding!”

She looked down but couldn’t find it.

She recalled a precise, encapsulating phrase. She'd written it down after the encounter at the hotel. It was from a book about the history of immigration to the Lower East Side of New York that a friend had given her as a birthday present.

 Blinders and daggars.

“Your ear, your neck!” Her friend was yelling now. “Come on! This is fucking ridiculous! What’s the matter with you? We have to call the police!”

Q: MAM YOU SAID YOUR ATTACKER KEPT REPEATING THE PHRASE THIRD FLOOR WHORE. UNTIL THIS PAST WEEK THERE WAS A MASSAGE PARLOR RUN OUT OF AN APARTMENT THERE. WAS THAT BUSINESS OR ITS SERVICES IN ANY WAY RELEVANT TO YOUR LIFE?

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, to say there would be no call, that the devil was in the details, not the blood and bruise, there was a loud bang on the apartment door, and the skin on the back of her neck reached out to touch her hair, and she thought he’s found me, he’s found me, how did he know what I was right away? and on the other side of the door a man's voice boomed:

NEW YORK CITY POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!


© Fiona Helmsley