Foliate Oak March 2019

Fiction
​
Stars Above Detroit
​By Jonathan Ferrini

It was a cold and snowy December when I was handed the address of a “crack house” in one of the deserted and boarded up Detroit neighborhoods once inhabited by happy families whose sustenance was provided by good paying manufacturing jobs.  The closing of the automobile plants made the neighborhoods ghost towns. A significant percentage of housing parcels in the city are vacant, with abandoned lots making up more than half of total residential lots in large portions of the city.

They call me “Mr. X” around the office because it’s my job to “tag” deserted homes for demolition by spray painting a large red “X” across the front of the homes. It’s my first job since graduating with a degree in drafting. The City of Detroit hired me because I grew up remodeling homes with my father and I knew building materials. My official title was “Building Safety Inspector” but my work had nothing to do with building safety. The City was broke and sent me alone, armed only with pepper spray,  into the blighted neighborhoods to identify homes with valuable building materials like copper, used brick, marble, or fine woods, the City could sell before bulldozing the home. My work was dangerous because poking around deserted homes; you’d never know what you’d find. I’ve been chased away by crazed drug addicts, packs of wild dogs, or the stench of decaying human corpses who were drug addicts or sadly, the elderly owners of the home who died silently and forgotten.

The address led me to a boarded up Victorian mansion which was the largest home on the block. My instincts told me it would be a treasure trove of valuable building materials which might earn me a raise or promotion. I didn’t realize the old mansion was occupied, but decided to assume the role of a homeless man, hoping the occupants would permit me to stay long enough to assess the value of the building materials. Besides, I was single, and alone in Detroit without family to spend Christmas.

Winters are a blessing and a curse in these blighted neighborhoods. The winter cold brought paying “lodgers” like me in off the streets. Ice is plentiful permitting the preservation of food and water for drinking and bathing.  There are no utilities to the house. The toilets were removed exposing the sewer pipes permitting direct deposit of feces and urine. Fire for cooking and heat was from wood siding poached from nearby homes. Ride share and taxis won’t come into the neighborhood. The nearest shopping is four, long residential blocks away on 7 Mile, consisting of a discount retail store, independent market, and a few fast food joints. Downtown Detroit is about fifteen miles away.

Nobody asked me any questions other than telling me the rent was $5 per day, which provided a roof over my head, along with a blanket and a place to sleep in the hallway amongst junkies. I did my best to hide my red paint colored index finger. Despite the bleak environment, it would be a Christmas I would never forget.

It costs a heroin addict $150-$200 per day to support a habit like Roxie’s. It was a long night for Roxie when I encountered her returning home from working as a prostitute. I offered her a cigarette and told her I had just “checked in” as a “lodger” which put her at ease. She told me she made her “bank” and I could tell she was eager for her fix which would anesthetize her throughout the long, dreary, winter day until she would regain consciousness, and prepare for another evening “on the stroll”. Roxie was no older than thirty. She was a beautiful woman born to a Puerto Rican mother who was a prostitute. Her father was a mixed race “John”. Roxie inherited a beautiful exotic face, and an attention-getting curvaceous body, permitting her to earn top dollar from the businessmen traveling through Detroit. She was taken from her mother as a teenager and placed into foster care where she was molested by the husband, and thrown out into the streets when the wife found out. She never reunited with her mother.  Roxie’s quite the entrepreneur cultivating a loyal network of hotel concierges, bartenders, and limousine drivers who handed out her business card to Johns in return for her gratuities.

We heard a helicopter and Roxie ran to the boarded up window peering through a knot hole to see a fire department helicopter, its spot light trained upon the fully engulfed home down the street. 911 won’t send the fire department, cops, or paramedics into these abandoned neighborhoods because it’s too costly. In the case of fire, it’s less expensive to send the helicopter to assess the need for further action. Most of the time, the helicopter determines the home is vacant and lets it burn to the ground. Even if the fire department wanted to extinguish the fire, the water from the fire hose would freeze up in the winter cold. A man shouted, “Get away from that window girl! If that search light catches your cat eyes we’ll be thrown out of here!” Roxie quickly took her beautiful eyes away from the peep hole. Samuel placed his frail arm around her in an attempt to comfort her, whispering, “Don’t fear the spotlight, child. It’s a reminder the bright, lonely. little star will soon reveal itself, and shine down upon us all”.

Samuel was a tall, lanky, balding, black man with a scruffy grey beard who was pushing eighty. He was once a headliner in the best jazz clubs in the States. He became a junky, which ruined his musical career as a tenor saxophonist. Although he kicked the habit decades ago, he’s was an alcoholic, finishing off a fifth of cheap whiskey each day. He sometimes rode the bus into Detroit with Roxie at night where he ‘busked”, playing on street corners for change. His old tenor sax lost its luster, but like a fine wine aging graciously over time, the music coming out was sweet as ever despite the arthritic fingers squeezing out the notes.

I slept against the wall in a dark hallway with a few other guys wrapped in blankets. They snored, moaned, and jerked.  In a far off corner of the old mansion, a tenor saxophone whaled.  The notes invited memories of saying goodbye to somebody you love for the last time. I felt privileged to hear such beauty amongst the desolation. When the tenor sax stopped, I heard the musician, who sounded like Samuel, recite the following,

                                                                           "Come out bright, lonely, little star.
                                             Don’t fear the dark clouds, the cold of winter, or the pain below you.
                  Bless us with your divine rays of hope, warm our spirits, and guide us to a peaceful world where
                                           every man, woman, child, and animal lives in dignity and happiness.
                     Come out bright, lonely little star. Don’t be shy. We’ll accept you as you are and take you into
                                                                                             our hearts.”

I drifted into a deep sleep as if being read a lullaby. I awoke to an obese, seventy something, black woman extending a cup of coffee to me, saying, “Hello lodger, I’m Queenie. Follow me down to the kitchen and let’s talk.”

I followed the old woman and noticed she had difficulty walking given her age and weight. Her feet were swollen and I suspect she suffered from diabetes. We entered an expansive kitchen found only in mansions staffed with butlers and maids. It was spotless and hadn’t changed since its construction sometime in the early twentieth century. Its walls were lined with sparkling lime green tiles, matching counter tops, butcher block tables, and vintage kitchen appliances with manufacturer’s labels marked, “Dutiful Brand”.  There was a breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen where Samuel was sitting, smoking a cigarette, and sipping his coffee. I was invited to sit by Queenie who struggled to sit. Samuel rose like a gentleman and aided her. Queenie reached for my arms and examined each for needle punctures remarking, “You’re not a user are you?” I nodded in agreement saying, “No ma’am. I’m not.”  Samuel took a drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke into the air, and agreed, “Yeah, his eyes are clear and he doesn’t have the shakes. He looks clean to me. What’s your game young man?” I nervously replied, “I’m down on my luck and just looking for a roof over my head for Christmas, Sir.” I heard somebody walking swiftly down the hallway and a young man entered the kitchen pulling up a chair. Queenie sternly remarked, “What do you say first thing in the morning, Rascal?” The young man respectfully replied, “Good morning”. Queenie smiled like a proud grandmother remarking, “That’s a proper mornin’ greeting. Let me get ya’ all some oatmeal.”
 
Rascal was a white man in his early twenties, about six feet tall, razor thin, tatted up, pierced, and missing some front teeth. His face was showing the ravages of meth use scars. He was wearing low hanging faded jeans, old sneakers, and a “Red Wings” hockey hoody. Rascal extended his hand to me and we shook. Samuel looked Rascal up and down like a grandfather, scolding him, “Pull your britches up boy! Why don’t you clean up and make something of yourself.” Like a doting grandmother, Queenie defended Rascal, “Leave him alone, old man!  Why don’t you clean up and make something of yourself playing that old sax for big dollars at weddings and Bar Mitzvah’s instead of busking on dirty, cold sidewalks. You still got it, old man. Use it!” Samuel stared at the ceiling as if looking into the past, and angrily replied, “Stay out of my business, woman.”

Queenie gave each of us a piping hot bowl of oatmeal she prepared atop a butane fueled hotplate. Rascal immediately rose to help her sit. Rascal sat, devouring his oatmeal, washing each mouthful down with a glass of milk. Queenie finished a silent prayer and began to eat her oatmeal with etiquette seeming out of place, given her station in life which made me curious about her background. Queenie spoke with reverence about Samuel, “Back in the day, Samuel was kickin’ it with the likes of Duke, Ella, Basie, Miles, and workin’ the best clubs in the Country.  Show ‘em that Downbeat Magazine cover with you on it, Samuel!” Samuel shook his head as he slowly ate his oatmeal, his hands trembling from the effects of alcoholism, and old age. Rascal finished his oatmeal, wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve out of sight of Queenie, rose from the table, and placed his arms around Samuel boasting, “It’s true, man.  I saw the magazine cover. Samuel was a cool young dude on the cover of a sixties Downbeat Magazine. In big letters above his photo, it say’s, New Tenor Sax Virtuoso Makes the Scene. All right folks, got to start my day dumpster divin’. Nice to meet you, Sir.” I was impressed with Rascal’s manners and replied, “My pleasure to meet you Rascal. Good luck out there!” Rascal kissed Queenie on the cheek before exiting the kitchen from the boarded up service entrance. I caught a glimpse of him retrieve a shopping cart hidden within some bushes. In a hushed voice, Queenie remarked, “Rascal was thrown out on the streets by his folks. He came from a good family with parental expectations he couldn’t live up to but he seldom mentions his family. I treat him like my own grandson.  He has a sweet temperament but slips into a dark hole of depression, so he self medicates by shooting up. If only he could kick the junk, he still has time to make somethin’ of himself.”

Queenie slowly rose from her chair, gathered the bowls and cups, and rinsed them in a bucket. She placed them in a dish rack to dry, took a deep sigh, and said, “Well, it’s time to start my day. I got to hit the food pantries first thing this mornin’. Between Rascal and me, we’ll gather all the fixins for a proper Christmas Dinner. Pay $5 dollars a day room and board, lodger. Leave the money with Samuel. Anything you need to know, just ask him.” Queenie reached for her winter coat hanging on a hook, draped it on, grabbed her hand bag, and headed for the door.  Queenie dressed nicely for a homeless woman. My heart was heavy as I watched her slowly walk up the sidewalk, her feet swollen, and her joints aching.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty dollar bill, handed it to Samuel, and said, “It’s the 24th today. I’ll be out on the 26th. Keep the ten dollars change. I’m certain the house can use it.” Samuel rose from his seat and placed the twenty dollar bill into a drawer saying, “Thank you, young lodger. This ‘ol man got to get to sleep before headin’ out tonight but maybe you can help me with a chore, first?”

Samuel reached for his tattered pea coat and struggled to get into it. I helped him get into the coat saying, “I’ll be glad to help you with the chore.” We exited the kitchen through the boarded up service entrance out into the cold, sunny day. I followed Samuel into the expansive former back yard of the mansion, now overgrown with weeds, shrubbery, and tree branches. He led me to a baby Christmas tree about three feet tall, alone, in the corner of the backyard. He kneeled next to it as if it were a child saying, “This little tree sprung up out of the ground last spring. I saw it grow inch by inch throughout the springtime. It wanted to survive even amongst all this squalor so I started to water it and it grew faster. It withstood the scorching heat and humidity of summer, the chill of autumn, and here it is in the dead of an icy winter, still alive. It ain’t a big tree but it will make a fine Christmas tree. I’d like you to help me dig it up, pot it, take it inside, and we’ll give it a home for Christmas. It won’t end up on the trash heap like the others. No, Sir! After Christmas, I’ll plant it a couple of blocks away in the City Park so if this old house gets bulldozed, this tree will survive. Will you help me?” “Of course I will, Samuel”, I answered. Samuel retrieved an old spade, pick axe, and a pot filled with fresh potting soil. We carefully dug around the roots of the tree beneath the stare of the boarded up mansion. I asked, “What’s Queenie’s story?”

Samuel turned towards the mansion pointing with the spade, saying, “Queenie was the maid for the family who owned the mansion. She lost her son in Vietnam and her job when the owners of the house moved away in the seventies.  She drowned her pain with alcohol, struggled as a hotel maid, couldn’t keep it together as she got older, and ended up on the streets. Even though she’s a big woman and sick with the diabetes, she has the grit and determination to be the first in line at the food pantries walkin’ on those frozen, swollen feet”

We managed to carefully remove the small tree from the frozen ground. Samuel placed it in the pot and assured the roots were securely planted. As we walked back towards the mansion with the tree, Samuel continued, “Queenie reveres the old mansion like it’s hers.  It was owned by a fine family, manufacturing durable stainless steel kitchen appliances used in the finest homes, restaurants, and hotels. The company was called Dutiful Manufacturing and their blenders, mixers, and toasters were called Duty Brand with a reputation for reliability and dependability.
 
Check out the library upstairs and you’ll find a stack of old catalogues showing the history of the brand.  Start from the bottom of the stack and it will read like a history book.”

We entered the kitchen, removed our coats, and Samuel retrieved a spray bottle of water to tenderly irrigate the potted tree. I asked, “What happened to cause the home to fall into disarray?” Samuel continued, “The business was handed down to a no count son who succumbed to thieving Wall Street bankers convincing him he could make more money by manufacturing with less steel and more plastic. The appliances became shoddy and less reliable. Sales plummeted and the once proud company name became tarnished. The only people who made more money were the Wall Street snakes. When the company went bankrupt, only the brand name had any value, and was sold to a company in China who never used it. The patriarch of the family, and founder of the business, died from a heart attack in the library, pouring over the original blueprints for the “Dutiful Deluxe Blender” when he learned his son bankrupted the company. The family history mirrored the history of Detroit. With each decade, the Dutiful family and Detroit’s manufacturing jobs grew smaller, eventually to the point of extinction. Our little family is like the Dutiful Company and these blighted neighborhoods.  We’re threatened with eventual extinction. Those large red X’s spray painted on the houses signify they’re scheduled for demolition. Every day, I see more red in the neighborhood and know it’s a matter of time before we’re extinct!”

I roamed the mansion alone. I found the basement, revealing what appeared to be miles of copper plumbing and copper wire. The library, dining room, and most of the house was paneled with fine woods. Marble was abundant in the bathrooms. I was fascinated with the library which was the repository for the manufacturing catalogues of the business, appliance blueprints, and photographs of the family. Samuel was correct. The catalogues read like a history book about a fine, Detroit manufacturing family of a bygone era.

I joined Samuel for a cup of coffee in the late afternoon before he and Roxie would catch the bus to Detroit expecting downtown Christmas Eve business to be brisk with travelers and last minute shoppers. Queenie arrived home with a cooked, sliced ham. She had bags of potatoes, a pumpkin pie, vegetables, and fruits. We rose from the table to help the tired old woman carry the groceries inside the kitchen. She was breathing heavy, wiped her brow, and said, “Whew, what a day but I sure did score a fine Christmas dinner for tomorrow night!” Queenie began to wobble on her feet as if passing out. I quickly grabbed her and helped her sit. Samuel brought her a glass of water.  I heard high heels hurriedly coming down the hall and Roxie entered the kitchen, dressed to kill, and ready to catch the bus to work. Queenie remarked, “Girl, you ain’t out hustling yet. You’d better get to the stroll while you can sell that pretty face and hot little body before age and the horse catches up with you.” Roxie looked into the glass pane of the kitchen cabinet, primping herself, answering, “I got to buy my fix, first.”

Queenie knew the drug dealer would be stopping by shortly to deliver Roxie and Rascal’s heroin. Queenie lamented, “I guess that nasty, no good pusher, Wrangler will be showing his ugly, hillbilly face soon!” We heard Rascal’s old shopping cart with bad wheels approaching the kitchen. Rascal came into the kitchen beaming with pride because he had a great day dumpster diving exclaiming, “Check it out, Christmas ornaments!” Rascal found discount store price tags cut into the shape of stars in red, green, gold, and silver inside a dumpster. Despite the word, “Discount Price” printed on each card, they were beautiful. Rascal also scrounged some plastic Christmas bulbs with the name of the discount store printed on them. He dangled one, asking,”Did you dig up the Christmas tree, Samuel?” Samuel replied, “Me and the lodger dug it up and it’s sittin’ in the livin’ room ready for the ornaments”. Rascal made a dash with the ornaments towards the tree but was stopped by Queenie, pronouncing, “Not so quick, Rascal. We’re decorating the tree tomorrow night, together, like a family.” She tried to get up but fell backwards, sighing, “I sure did wear myself out today.”

There was a hard knock at the back door and a man with a stern voice, announced, “It’s Wrangler.” Roxie opened the boarded up service door and Wrangler came in. He was a forty something, medium build, Caucasian man with a menacing look, shaved head, diamond ear ring, and handle bar moustache. He wore a leather jacket and jeans.  I noticed his shiny cowboy boots were rattlesnake and his briefcase was genuine alligator. I caught a glimpse of a pistol he had hidden inside his coat. He looked me up and down and I knew he was suspicious of me when he said, “Who’s the other dude?” Queenie was annoyed replying, “He’s our lodger and you pay him no mind. I don’t want you pushin’ your junk in my kitchen. Go do your business in the library.”

After Roxie, Rascal, and Wrangler left the kitchen to conduct their “business”, I lamented, “I hope I didn’t scare their pusher away.” Queenie answered, “I never liked that ‘ol redneck. We call ‘em Wrangler because he rides the horse which is slang for the product he’s pushin’, heroin! I’ll bet his grand daddy was lynching Black folk down South.” Samuel piped in, “Now woman, don’t get carried away. Wrangler moved to Detroit with his parents from the South when his daddy got a job at the auto plant. Don’t blame him for not losin’ his Southern drawl. He’s just tryin’ to survive in Detroit like everybody since the auto plants closed down.”

Wrangler finished his business and entered the kitchen to leave by the service door saying, “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” He turned to leave and Queenie shouted, “Join us for Christmas Dinner, Wrangler. 6pm sharp.” Wrangler’s business of dealing death was a lonely business, and an invitation to join even a rag tag family for Christmas dinner, was a special invitation. He paused as if thinking about the many Christmas dinners he had missed over the years, and gratefully accepted, “Thank you. I’ll be here at 6pm, sharp”. He hurriedly left to deliver more “holiday cheer” to his eager clientele.

I helped Queenie in the kitchen prep the Christmas meal. I peeled potatoes, cut string beans and did whatever was asked of me. Samuel prepared a layer of charcoal atop tin foil in the vintage oven which would warm the ham wrapped in aluminum foil. I spent the remainder of Christmas Eve alone in the library, pouring through product catalogues and imagined the cheerful Christmas holiday’s inside the mansion during the heyday of the family business.

On Christmas day, Queenie had the meal fully prepared and cooking. Roxie prepared the makeshift dining room table with the paper plates, plastic utensils, and paper cups. I produced crystal champagne glasses I found in the basement which would do justice to the champagne Samuel had purchased.

We all retired to the living room to adorn the tree. It was eerily silent as each member hung a star shaped store tag or plastic bulb on the little tree. I suspect each person was remembering happier times with family. Our efforts produced a magnificent Christmas tree. Samuel planned a surprise. He removed the folded up Downbeat Cover from his wallet revealing a handsome young musician, and tacked it above the fireplace. He handed us copies of his poem and asked us to recite it slowly while he played beautiful notes on his tenor sax which he retrieved. Each note conjured up reminiscence of a beautiful lullaby spoken by loving parents to children eagerly waiting for Christmas morning. We held hands and recited,

                                                                          "Come out bright, lonely little star.
                                         Don’t fear the dark clouds, the cold of winter, or the pain below you.
                Bless us with your divine rays of hope, warm our spirits, and guide us to a peaceful world where
                                    every man, woman, child, and animal lives in dignity and happiness.
                   Come out bright, lonely little star. Don’t be shy. We’ll accept you as you are and take you into
                                                                                              our hearts.

                                           Come out bright lonely star, you won’t be judged nor shunned
                                            Just loved and adored atop our tree of many beautiful lights
                                                            Revered and respected for whom you are
                                                      Beautiful and original as you were created to be
                                                   You’re a loving reminder that we all have self worth.”
 
Samuel’s beautiful melody triggered memories and painful introspection. It particularly affected Rascal as he appeared to be slipping into his emotional dark space. He rubbed his arms indicating he was in need of a heroin fix. Queenie wiped a tear from her eye but woke us from our dreams of happier times, exclaiming, “My man, Samuel, still has the magic touch. Thank you, ‘ol man. It’s time to eat. Everybody find a seat at the table in the dining room.”

Wrangler showed up on time with a bottle of wine and sat next to me at the makeshift dining table. He put his arm around me pulling me close, and whispered, “I saw the red paint on your index finger in the kitchen. You’re “Mr. X”! Leave this old house be so these people can be left to live the small family life they made for themselves. This neighborhood is known to swallow people alive. Strangers come in and never leave if you know what I mean.” I knew it was a veiled threat but Wrangler didn’t know that during my secret inspection of the house, I was able to determine that it qualified as a “Historical Preservation Home” and with a simple check of the box on my inspection form; the mansion would be entered into the city database of “Historic Homes” which couldn’t be demolished.

Queenie and Roxie returned from the kitchen with the Christmas dinner, carefully placing the ham, mashed potatoes, vegetables and pies on the table. It was a magnificent feast and the look on everybody’s face was happy and ravenous. Roxie stood and helped Queenie sit, and took her chair at the table. Queenie pronounced, “Everybody take a moment and say a silent prayer of thankfulness.” I looked around the room and everybody, including Wrangler, bowed their head and mumbled a prayer. Queenie was the last to finish her prayer, and gleefully exclaimed, “It’s time to eat, brothers and sisters. Pass the food around family style.” For a moment, I wasn’t aware that we were dining in a boarded up deserted mansion. The food was bountiful, delicious, and the table setting, albeit picnic style, was beautiful.

Roxie sat across from Queenie, next to Rascal, saying, “I met an interesting trick last night. He didn’t want to go to the room but paid me to have dinner with him. He’s a big shot talent agent in Hollywood who scouts rappers and R & B talent.”  She pulled out a business card, handing it to Queenie, who handed it to Samuel and said, “Go on girl. Keep talkin’. Roxie continued, “I told him about Samuel and the dude lit up saying, Sam is still alive! The man is a living legend. Can I meet him?” Samuel wasn’t flattered saying, “Man, I don’t want to waste no time recounting my past with nobody! I’m retired!” Roxie was persistent, “He said he can line you up with steady, studio work!” Rascal was elated, “That’s fantastic, Samuel. You got to meet this dude!” Roxie continued, “That ain’t all. I mentioned you, too, Rascal. He said he can hook you up as a roadie, and, if you want to learn to drive a truck, he’ll get you into the Teamsters Union as a truck driver with full benefits and great union pay!”

Rascal and Samuel were dumbfounded. They had both lived lives of false promises and rejection but this felt real to them. They needed to ponder the reality that their lives could change if they had the motivation to get sober. Queenie was interested in the trick’s motivation asking, “You think this man is sweet on you, baby girl?” Roxie was embarrassed but replied, “Yeah, we kinda have a thing brewin”. Queenie lit up, “Well good for you, girl! You hooked a big fish. Reel him in slow, the traditional, romantic way. Got it, girlfriend?” Roxie had an expression on her face like it was the first time she might be in love answering, “I got it, Ms. Queenie. He wants to have dinner with me, Samuel, and Rascal the day after Christmas.”

Roxie made good money on Christmas Eve and was generous. She gifted a pair of orthopedic shoes for Queenie and a set of cashmere gloves with the finger tips removed permitting Samuel to play the sax more comfortably in the cold weather. She bought Rascal a new hoodie and pair of trendy sneakers.

During Christmas dinner, Rascal descended deeper into a depression, as thoughts of missing his family weighed heavily upon him. I saw a fresh puncture mark on his arm and knew he shot up before dinner. Rascal was struggling to stay awake. Queenie remarked, “If you’re tired baby boy, go take a rest. It’s ok.” Rascal’s eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth began to foam, and his face fell into his plate. Wrangler shouted, “Get ‘em off the chair and flat on the floor.”

Rascal’s lips were blue and his breathing was barely noticeable. Wrangler went for his briefcase, hurriedly opened it, and its contents looked like a salesman’s sample kit of drugs. Samuel shouted, “Shoot ‘em with the Narcan, quick”, Wrangler reached into his briefcase and produced a two pack of “Narcan” nose spray, tearing one dispenser from the package, and pumped the contents into Rascal’s nose. Rascal didn’t respond. Wrangler yelled, “He’s not helping. He doesn’t want to come back. I’ve seen it before. Wake up, Rascal!”  Queenie was beside herself with fear but impressed by Wrangler’s fervent efforts to revive Rascal. She placed her arm around Wrangler, whispering, “So, you have a heart after all!” Wrangler replied, “He reminds me of myself when I was young.” Wrangler tilted Rascals head up, placed the second plastic syringe into his nostril and released the spray with a forceful pump.  Rascal slowly opened his eyes. Roxie cried tears of joy watching her “brother” of sorts regain consciousness. In all the commotion, nobody had noticed Samuel was slumped against the wall holding his chest and gasping for air. Queenie screamed, “Don’t you die old man! I can’t run this household myself.  Please, dear God, let him live!”

We huddled around Rascal and Samuel trying to render comfort and aid but there was nothing anybody could do for them in a blighted neighborhood on Christmas, except me. I carried a small flip phone hidden within my jeans. I knew that when I called 911 and identified myself as a City Building Inspector, medical help would arrive swiftly but break up the family, forever, placing each within the penal or the inadequate social services system. The old mansion would be locked up by the cops.
 
I speculated that if given the choice of dying or permitting Queenie and Roxie to go on living in the old mansion, Samuel and Rascal would have elected death, but not calling for help and letting them die, was a choice I didn’t want to make. Samuel’s beautiful notes resounded through my memory of saying goodbye to somebody you love for the last time, and, Wrangler’s admonition to “leave this old house be” were clairvoyant. It was the City of Detroit which led me to the old mansion but it was a loving, flawed little family, who extended their hospitality to a stranger, inviting me to share their love and kindness on Christmas. I looked at my paint stained, red index finger, and knew that I couldn’t be responsible for the “extinction” of the family. I was certain my call to 911 would be a final goodbye and never reached for my phone. I prayed for Rascal and Samuel to recover.

It was a sleepless night for everybody but the following morning, Christmas delivered a gift of life to both Rascal and Samuel who were resting comfortably, lovingly tended to by Queenie, Roxie, and Wrangler. I gathered my possessions and discretely removed the little Christmas tree from the living room. I placed a note alongside the Downbeat cover reading, “Tree at City Park”. I left the mansion without saying goodbye, not wanting to interrupt the family in their time of need.  It was my hope Roxie would find true and lasting love with the talent agent who would make good on his promise with jobs for Samuel and Rascal. It would be up to Samuel and Rascal to treasure the gift of life and seize any opportunity extended to them. I knew of one certain outcome.  As long as Queenie could draw a breath, I knew her love, strength, and inner beauty would hold the family together.

Although I found the house to be a treasure trove of recyclable building materials, the most valuable contents were the people who created a loving family despite the bleakest of conditions.  I would never forget them. I threw my can of red spray paint in the trash. I left the mansion with the potted Christmas tree which I would plant in the City Park as Samuel wanted. The evening sky was turning to daybreak and I gazed upward finding the lonely little star shining brightly.

Jonathan Ferrini is a published writer who resides in San Diego. He received his MFA in Motion Picture and Television production from UCLA.

* * *

And All The Ghosts Sang Hallelujah
By Evan James Sheldon

And all the ghosts sang hallelujah

There’s an abandoned church, about a five-minute walk from my apartment, where I used to go to smoke weed. People know about it, but no one goes up there. Only me, and if I take anyone up there it is just to fool around in a creepy place. There’s something exiting, almost exhibitionistic, about going down on someone in baptismal font. 

The last time I went I was alone, and today I was walking up the road by myself and I thought I was beginning to recognize a theme.

Work had sucked. My coworkers had sucked. The weathered had sucked and continued sucking, like nature itself agreed that the day was shitty and we might as well feel shitty and be shitty too. I don’t normally drink, but an artsy ex had left a bottle of absinthe in the cupboard, and my soon-to-be-ex was out and about, making sure that our lives were as disconnected as possible to make the coming breakup easier. We’re just different people, into different things. It’ll be better for both of us. I could picture their shapely lips forming the words already.

The shitty thing about this imagined breakup is that my soon-to-be-ex would be right when they said those words, and it made me preemptively irritated at the possibility they might so casually dismiss what we were losing.

So, I took the absinthe and walked to the abandoned church, planning on getting as shitty as I felt. It was snowing, but not the pretty fluffy flakes that float down and remind you that there is gentleness in the world. No. This was the sleet-like, wet, driving type of snow that chills your marrow and burns as it freezes.

The door to the church was shut, but opened easily, welcomingly, after a solid kick from my size-eight Sorel boot. The lights didn’t work, but the moon was up and churches always have lots of windows, with this being no exception. One window along the right wall had a small hole, the size of a dove, and snow had blown in at an odd angle, piling and dusting the end of one blood-red upholstered, wooden pew. In that light, it didn’t even look like snow. Rather it was grainy and sand-like, as if the church had been abandoned in Egypt or somewhere far more exotic than a dying Colorado mining mountain town.

I sat down next to the pulpit and poured myself a shot of absinthe in a plastic communion cup. One silver platter filled with the cups had been left behind, along with a couple of bibles, all the hymnals, two white baptismal robes, and a handful of tiny pencils without erasers. I took the shot and poured another before it hit my blood stream and took that one too. It tasted like Listerine and gasoline had been mixed with some witch’s herbs in a cauldron. It burned all the way down and lingered—deadening, dampening. It hurt a bit. It was perfect.

As I waited for the blanket of alcohol to wrap me up, I looked over my sanctuary. I tried to picture the congregation, hands clasped before them, singing in four-part harmony. It may have been the poor light, but I could almost make out a family holding hands near the back. Though I knew they weren’t really there, I strained to hear a song they may have never sung. Normally, on either side of the entryway hung two metal and glass sconces. But now, the one on my right was missing. A cluster of torn wires was exposed and protruding from an ugly hole. That was all that was left. If the sconce had been still been there, it would have hung over the family and the ghost of their song.

The thought that someone had been here, to my church, and had taken something was irritating. Who knew about this place? My exes for sure. But who else would come out here just to take one sconce? They hadn’t even bothered to take both sconces. Somehow this made the intrusion worse. Not only had someone invaded my space, or a space that I thought of as my own, but they had vandalized it.

I took a slug from the absinthe bottle and made a mental list of exes. Which one could have done this? Which one had the audacity to come out here and take the sconce? I tried to picture each of them, at home with their new lover, casually showing it off. It would be a concrete reminder of my crazy, a reminder of how much better they had it now. But none of my exes fit my mental image; they looked wrong in the photo of my mind. I tried to insert my soon-to-be-ex, but they didn’t fit either.

My cheeks were flushed with alcohol, but I knew my body would be cold, even if I couldn’t quite feel it. I had read somewhere that alcohol pulls the blood toward your stomach, and even though you feel warm, you aren’t. You can freeze that way. The church walls kept most of the wind out, except any that leaked in through the dove-sized hole in the window. I could feel it, the draft coming from that hole, so cold as to be hot. I laughed and thought about desert winds, and in the echoic sanctuary my voice didn’t sound like my own.

I got up and pulled one of the baptismal robes over my head. It was still so clean. Pure even. And it made sense that people would wear this to get dunked. But the added layer was thin, and didn’t warm me.

My hands had shrunk with the cold and I shoved them beneath the baptismal robe. I shouldn’t have come out here. I shouldn’t have come out here alone. And I definitely shouldn’t have drank the absinthe. I took another quick swig for the road, because fuck it, that’s why, and I set the absinthe on the altar. Maybe whoever had taken the sconce would come and find it. Maybe they would drink sips and wonder who had invaded their space. Maybe I could ruin their perfect little escape.
I wobbled my way home. The snow stung my face, and I was glad for it. My soon-to-be-ex was already there. And sober. I tried to shake off the church, the absinthe, and the cold. What are you doing back so soon? I asked. After I saw their smile dim, I wished I could have changed my tone. My soon-to-be-ex turned away and I thought that was going to be it. But they turned back with a small box in their hands and a smile flared so bright it hurt my eyes. It was a small box, with a curved top. It was the kind the held rings.

Do you remember when you took me to that church? Well, I went back, and took something, and I had this made for you.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. They kept speaking, explaining why they had been gone a lot recently, but I couldn’t understand any of the words. I couldn’t respond, my would-be-words turned to sand in my mouth. I could only think about how my hands were so cold and shrunken. How easy it would be to slide on a ring. And how easy it would be for that ring to slide off.

Evan James Sheldon's work has appeared in CHEAP POP, Ghost City Review, Pithead Chapel, Roanoke Review, and Typehouse, among others. He is an Assistant Editor and the Editorial Coordinator for F(r)iction. 

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The Moon In Her Veins
By  Ann Tinkham

Crystal awoke to pulling and prodding and men barking orders while tying her to a stretcher. Before she could make sense of it in her woozy state, she was outside her tent, a captured prisoner on a plank.

“No! Don’t do this!” she screamed, trying to kick her feet, but they were bound as were her hands. Her screams became shriller in hopes that deafening the kidnappers would dissuade them. An EMT covered her mouth with his calloused hand. She bit his hand as hard as she could muster.

“Fuck!” He shouted. He shook his hand in pain. “We’ve got a live one.”

“Don’t hurt her,” she heard Piper say. Crystal would recognize her sister’s hoarse voice anywhere.

“Pipe don’t do this, again, please,” Crystal said. She knew what awaited her—weeks of lockdown, withdrawals, antidote administering, therapy sessions delving for reasons, false compliance to expedite her release, judgmental medical professionals, shaming administrators, all subjecting her to their overcoming addiction agendas. They would repeat various versions of: a life well-lived is one in which you’re not a junkie. Who says? Perhaps it is the very best life one can live.

“The patient has to want it,” she said to her captors. “You can’t make me want it no matter how hard you try.”

“Cry’s, please. Do it for us; do it for Mom and Dad.”

“I love you. Why can’t you love me in return no matter my choices? I’m a junkie. That’s what I am, no matter how much you don’t want me to be.”

Her sister plead through tears. Crystal’s junkiness always made Piper cry. If she could only get Piper to see she was happy, even though society thought she shouldn’t be. She knew it didn’t look good from the outside, but it was only if you defined life as sobriety, a job, and a reproductive unit inside a tidy landscaped dwelling with a patio for BBQing. Crystal didn’t want to be tied to that world. And why should she have to be?
 
She now had a secret that made this trip extra treacherous. If they discovered she was pregnant, they’d try to lock her up, force her to get clean, and lay on the guilt so thick it could bury her. She knew smack wasn’t good for her baby and yet she hadn’t wanted to abort. Now she was four months in with no real plan. Planning in Crystal’s life was simple; after scoring and hiding smack, she lived from injection to injection. She figured she was like a squirrel—procure and stockpile nuts. Hoard them if need be. A squirrel lived from nut to nut. Why couldn’t she?
 
The EMTs slid her into an ambulance and slammed the doors. This was ambulance trip number ten or twelve, maybe thirteen in three years. Thinking about the drill that followed made her weary. Piper sat with her and reached for Crystal’s hand. Piper’s was cold and shaking. Crystal sandwiched her sister’s hand with hers to steady her. Piper cried softly as they zoomed off.

“Pipe, I know what you want for me is to be someone else. I wish I could be a sister you could love, one you could be proud of.”

“But don’t you see? You were once and you can be again.”

Crystal reached up to hold her sister’s damp cheek. “I wish you could see that I’m happy.”

“You live in a tent under the highway. You shoot up until your arms and legs are shredded, until you don’t have any good veins left. You’re filthy and your hair is matted. How could you be happy?”

“Are you ashamed of me?”

“I just want better things for you.” Piper stroked Crystal’s matted hair.

“That’s what you want me to want. Pipe, I don’t know how to say it any other way—the best thing you could do for me is to leave me alone.”

“But you’re going to die.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“You know what I mean.”

“So, I die a little sooner. At least I will have lived the life I wanted.”

Then Piper did a very non-Piper thing; she snatched her hands back and yelled. Her bellow filled the back of the ambulance. “Stop being so god damned selfish. Don’t you see, Crystal? It’s not just about you and your fucking self-centered fix. You’re driving that fucking needle into our hearts.”

“So, let me go. Forget that you ever had a sister.” Crystal glanced away from Piper and toward the whizzing world outside. It made her dizzy, so she stared at the ceiling.

“Fuck you, Crystal! You’re choosing smack over us. That’s so fucked up.”

“Maybe stop yelling at me and try to understand.”

“Okay, why, then?” Piper said in whisper.

Crystal risked looking deeply into Piper’s eyes to get her to understand. “I need the moon in my veins.”

Piper rolled her eyes. “Here, let me try a less poetic translation—you’re a fucking addict.”

Crystal blinked her eyes closed. “Do you want to have this conversation or not?”

“I do.”

“You know when you’re walking in complete darkness and you wander into a moon beam? The sparkle flows in my blood. Without it, there’s thickening crude.”

Piper looked away, her arms crossed in front, squeezing her torso as if she might fly to pieces without her own embrace. “We have to face you every day without the moon in ours.”

Crystal’s eyes lit up. “Just sayin’, Pipe.”

“Never. I will never.”
 
As they signed Crystal into Desert Canyon, Crystal plotted her escape, knowing she had just a few hours before the nausea and vomiting, aches, and high anxiety took hold. She had never been to this facility; her family had clearly forked out big money this time. As she walked to the check-in, she noticed an infinity pool with a desert backdrop and steep canyon walls on all sides. The desert blooms were intoxicating and would have been more so if she had just had a hit.
 
She was escorted to a small room with an intake specialist with a top knot hairstyle and dressed in soft desert colors. Crystal had asked for confidentiality, not for privacy’s sake but because she was scheming.

“Let me start by saying, I’m going to run, so there’s no point in going through this charade. Let’s just call it a catch and release,” said Crystal.

The intake specialist was unfazed, like she had heard it all before. She continued to fill out her online paperwork.
“Listen, I’ve been to rehab ten times. Do you really think this one will take? Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me where to find the bathroom with the best escape route. You’re going to walk me there and tell my sister we’re going to detox. Then wait 30 minutes before telling her that I’ve left the premises. Okay?”

“And why should I do this?”

“Because I’m pleading with you to see the humanity in me. What I want is to be a junkie and to be left alone. What good are you doing by standing in the way?”

“Listen, I hear you, but I could get fired, and I really need this job.”

“Okay, fine. Have it your way. I really need to pee, so please tell me where the bathroom is, and I’ll take a piss and return to follow your orders. Girl Scout’s promise.” She held up three fingers.

“How do I know you were a Girl Scout?”

“You don’t, but I can still make a promise—right?”

She nodded skeptically. “Down the hall to the left. And no monkey business—okay?”

Crystal hoped like hell that a bathroom window was her answer to freedom. When she threw open the bathroom door, she was delighted to see a window, but it was out of reach. She had noticed a table with pamphlets on it right outside the door. She would grab it, position it beneath the window, and catapult herself out, ideally without anyone noticing. She prayed the jump wouldn’t harm her little one, but she had to risk it. If she stayed, they would find out about her baby boy and have her on lockdown until she gave birth. A prison sentence wasn’t healthy for her or her kid. Then once she did the hard work of birthing, they would snatch him away from her and give him to a different mother unless she agreed to get clean. Nope, she had to fly and go for a soft landing. As she hurled her body to the ground, she cradled her abdomen and said, “Hold on for your life, little guy.”  
 
Crystal remembered the day she surrendered. It had started in a rehab support group meeting when her fellow heroin addicts were swapping stories and reasons to stay straight. And it hit her.

“But what if we don’t want it?” Crystal said.

“Don’t want what?” the therapist asked.

“To stay straight.” The fellow addicts nodded like they shared Crystal’s thoughts but didn’t have the nerve to express them aloud.

“That’s just your addiction talking,” the therapist said as she stared Crystal down.

“No, actually, it’s me talking. I don’t want to be straight.”

“You don’t know what you want.”

“That’s really fucking arrogant of you to say.”
 
Crystal was able to return to work, having been beaten into recovery submission by the rehab system, but two months in, she relapsed. The computer-as-modern-day-altar had lost its allure. As a digital crime buster, she was responsible for halting cyber-attacks. During a strategy meeting on Russian cyber-attacks, she tried to care that companies and government systems were vulnerable. Their fortunes and reputations were at stake! As she listened to the exchanges, her fingers traced the tracks on her arms under her sleeves; such longing. She ached for the moon. She knew then she would never look back.

Not telling a soul, she sold her life on eBay, gathered her provisions—a tent, sleeping bag, cooking stove, and other essentials—and moved outside near a highway under the moon. Crystal had one remaining societal hold—a bank account with money from her eBay sales. If she spent carefully, she would have enough for five years. She knew where to score smack and how to hide it so junkies wouldn’t raid her stash. She could outsmart them all, even while high.
 
At first friends and relatives frequented her highway hideout trying to talk sense into her but it was nonsense to Crystal. “The life I left? I felt dead inside.” But they couldn’t understand. They thought it was giving up. “This is my life,” she’d say. And they would touch her arm with tenderness shaking their heads, trying to get her to see that she was making a grave mistake.
 
She loved nights best when the chorus of crickets would sing liquid gold into her veins. She sensed the world moving, pulsing beyond her, without her. She didn’t miss it one bit. The wind whispered her name and the cloak of night enveloped her. She remembered when her family had accused her of dropping out and shooting up. And that’s when she knew it was exactly what she wanted. Just me and the poppy. Such a simple equation. People pursued happiness with a vengeance and many never found it.
 
As her belly grew so did her appetite and she watched her savings dwindle. She hadn’t factored into her budget a baby growing inside her. Crystal tried to subsist on freeze-dried rice and beans, but the little one inhabiting her body made her crave big juicy burgers and milkshakes. Several times a day. She hoped junk food wouldn’t hurt her baby.

In a moment of weakness, she had let Bryce, a fellow junkie, into her tent one winter night for warmth and companionship. Most days, he was an irresistible nuisance who tapped down her stash. That night he had tempted her with his gorgeous tattooed abdomen and blossoming cock. But before she could have him, he said, “Man, I’m tweekin’. Are you holding? Crystal hesitated, so he knew.  

“Then smack up my bitch.” Afterwards they made love for hours stopping only to shoot up.
 
One night feeling restless in her little encampment, she wandered over to a lake a mile from her home. She wanted to see the water’s moving canvas of the moon. Crystal sat on the shore mesmerized by the lapping water and the moonbeam flirting with lake’s surface. Lost in thought about how to care for her baby once he arrived, she at first didn’t hear the soulful cry rising from the depths of the lapping lake. As the haunting sound grew closer, she wondered what creature called out in the darkness. She found a good vein, inserted her needle and released liquid gold into her body. The universe bellowed to her from its depths as pressure grew inside her and pushed down toward the earth.

Holy crap, not now!

She was many miles away from a busy road and many more miles away from a hospital. This was not part of the plan—not that she had a plan. But she knew one thing—that she wanted this baby to live. She popped up to find a soft grassy area to try to resist having a baby in the wilds. She would lie very still and focus on keeping her baby inside. Then once the contractions had ceased, she would go directly to a busy road and hitchhike to the nearest hospital, hoping that drivers would notice her belly. But the contractions came fast and furiously, and she could feel her baby’s head pushing down toward the earth. She reached inside and could feel the head inching toward the opening. He would be crowning soon. Crystal had nothing with her—no tools for cutting the umbilical cord, no cloth to wipe him clean, no blankets for wrapping him. She had read about lotus births where the mother kept the umbilical cord attached for days—until it dried up and fell off. But what was her plan once her baby arrived? Hitchhike with a newborn all bloody and dripping with the juices of birth? No, please, sweet pea, wait for your mama to be somewhere safe. Though her instincts told her it was too late. First, she felt a rush of fluid flowing down her legs. As her baby pushed toward his opening to the world, the burning and ripping sensation grew unbearable. She felt she was going to tear open. Her moaning was low and soft and then was punctuated by high, fast-paced yelps. She reached in to pull on her baby’s head, but she didn’t want to yank too hard.

She cried out, “For God’s sake, help! I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Crystal had seen photos and videos of women in the Third world squatting to let gravity assist in their births, so she squatted on the cool, wet grass and pushed. The pushing went on for an eternity, but the baby inched down until his head was out, then shoulders, and then his wet sliminess slid right into her trembling hands. The moon, which had been obscured by the clouds made its debut, the sparkles lining the water. Its light illuminated their little patch so that Crystal could see that the baby she cradled in her arms wasn’t a boy.

“Luna,” she said. “Bella Luna.” Luna squirmed and wailed. “Thank God, you’re breathing,” Crystal said to the grass, shrubs, and moon. “But your mama’s not—you take my breath away.” Crystal sat on the scratchy damp earth, cradling Luna, tears streaming down onto the baby. Her baby. Her breasts were full and ached for the little one’s mouth. Crystal guided her mouth up to her nipple and hoped she would latch on. She worried about her wee one ingesting heroin from her mama’s breast but then laughed aloud. Heroin had helped make Luna who she was—perfect.

As her wailing trailed off, Crystal kissed Luna’s slimy face, sensing the cord that connected them, the cord that had delivered life-giving sustenance, the cord that had delivered smack to the new life growing inside her.

“Sweet pea, did you know we are made of stardust?” The little one’s eyes flew open and locked onto hers. Peering into the twinkle, Crystal could see the expanse of the cosmos. “We have stuff in us as old as the universe.” Crystal pulled her baby close, her arms lined by tracks, awaiting the next hit.  

Ann Tinkham is an anti-social butterfly, pop-culturalist, virtual philosopher, ecstatic dancer, political and java junkie, and Maui-lover. She blogs about pop culture and politics at Poplitix. Her fiction has appeared in the Adirondack Review, Foliate Oak, Word Riot, Toasted Cheese, and others. Her essay, "The Tree of Hearts" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her second collection of short stories, Stories I Can't Show My Mother, will be released in March 2019.

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