eric scrolled the contacts list of his cell phone -- amir to gina; gina to amir -- and flipped it closed. he flicked the antenna, opened it again, and opened a trial verision of a game. shifting his eyes to his car's rear view mirror every few seconds, he realized he was a nervous wreck. he started the car to run the air conditioning -- relief in five minute intervals from the july humidity. he exhaled audibly, reclined his seat, and began mumbling to himself.

12:30 - break #2
12:45 - manager's vault check
1:15 - drop-off
two armed: 1 behind the wheel, one at rear right door
1:35 --
. . . shit.

as eric lay, staring at the ceiling, trying to re-assemble his catalog of directions, his friend, otis, exited a store feet away. his body erect with confidence, otis held the door for an elderly couple entering after him and wished them a good day. otis cupped his hand above his eyebrows and noticed what appeared to be eric sleeping. he jogged over to the driver's side of the car and rapped on the window.

"fuck you doin', man?" otis asked, as he tapped the face of his watch. "12:40."

eric popped up into a sitting position and apologized. as otis entered the car, eric explained that he wasn't dozing; he'd just mentally walking through the plan.

"whatever," otis said. "hey, look, a few of the tellers are on break. keep checking the second window because that's where today's head manager is sitting. she should be checking and prepping the vault shortly."

eric's eyes were fixed on the car's reflection in the second window. rather than paying attention to peoples' movements inside, however, he was looking at a host of amorphous objects, seemingly materializing only to taunt him and tug at his emotions. "second window", he mumbled -- his expression cold and lifeless.

"you okay?" otis interrupted. "i need you to be with me right now. block out the bullshit and let's take care of this."

"what are we doin', man?" eric replied. "we get caught and nobody gets shit. this place is high profile, 25 minutes from our place. let's pack up and plan for something west of peabody. i hear they have what we really need over there: more money and less surveillance."

"we'll do that in a few months, but right now, we're here."

"o, man, i'm trying to tell yo--"

"tell me what? what's your plan between now and then? you know a way we can make ends meet? you know a way i can feed my kids? you gonna move my girl to deerborne before the start of next school year? right now, we're here."

"we can work, o. i mean, dolly's got plenty of night stocking positions. you got construction background, too, right?"

"right, but who's hiring someone with my background? i got two assaults and 1 possession with intent to distribute on my record. i get bumped out of every position when it's time for a background check. don't think i haven't been trying.

and you. let's not forget that you learned your trade in jail, too. we ain't white collar, man; and even if we were it'd be a struggle. you want a fast track out of here, right?"

eric was now sweating profusely. he turned on the car once again and aimed the jet of now warm air directly at his face. his eyes met those of a woman in the car next to his. she smiled and zoomed out of the shopping center parking lot. eric inhaled deeply and spoke over a metronomical, rapid heartbeat.

"after this, o, i'm in for two more and that's it. we'll handle this and shoot to the outskirts. i need just enough to get out of my aunt's basement -- maybe leave her with something. i'm thinking about school, too, because this robbery shit ain't me. i'm a scholar."

they both laughed, easing the weight of the impending action. otis checked the car clock and glanced at his wrist -- 1:17.

the armor truck, a little behind schedule, pulled close to the curb in front of the bank and sounded its horn twice to clear idle traffic. otis gave eric a once over to observe his body language. eric dragged his palms along his jeans. simultaneously, they reached beneath their seats and grabbed black cloths. the gun was heavy in eric's hands. he held it low and peered over at otis through glossy eyes.

"ready?" otis asked. "right now, we're here."

1:36

otis steps across the parking lot, chest more prominent, and smiles at passersby. eric glances furtively at the truck guard, finger poised on his gun trigger, trying not to arouse suspicion.

otis walks calmly into the bank.

from the second window, those amorphous objects take on the shape of bodies crouching to the floor.

i have reached a new level of foul body odor.

it's almost 6:30 PM and i haven't showered in well over 24 hours. i've been running errands all day, and with each trip out of the house, i've put my hygiene on hold, using the terrible excuse of not needing to be in close quarters with anyone. i've taken my dog to PetSmart, stopped by the grocery store, and picked up something from CVS, all without the aid of water, soap, or toothpaste.

now, i'm sitting at the computer with a cloud of my own acrid stench surrounding me. my oily skin gives me the appearance of a wax figure and my breath has begun to taste like some sort of lamb and chocolate dish. every few hours, i also dip an index finger into my perspiration-soaked boxer briefs (my ass is really big) to see if the smell can make me curse aloud. at 5:17 PM, i screamed "Got damn!"

i want to ride this shit out -- see where it takes me. i'll be back at work tomorrow; however, since i have my own office, is there any reason why i should get out of this funk?

chocolate rain

i feel like a sellout for wanting to buy an iPod.

something about it doesn't feel right. i'm guessing it has a lot to do with the fact that i can't find an Archos media player in any local stores.

(and, yes, i'm too impatient to order anything online.)

cleanin' my paws

charles sat at the edge of his rocking chair, his eyes fixed on the scenery of his backyard, munching on a johnny cake. with his dog, buddy, at his feet, he picked away at the food, dropping crumbs on the porch. one chunk of the johnny cake escaped charles's bite and rolled in front of buddy's nose. the dog altered his lazy gaze, studied the morsel, and lapped it up quickly.

this scene was a familiar one for charles. in his old age, he shunned all forms of media, especially the television. the landscape and sounds just outside his home were enough entertainment for him, even if the elements seldomly changed. every morning, he'd outfit himself in the same trousers, cotton shirt, and chocolate brown leather boots and eat his breakfastwith buddy by his side. when hunger or an approaching storm drove him back inside, he'd use his walking stick to poke buddy's ribs and shuffle back indoors. this routine, while painfully bland and unchanging, was a far cry from the lifestyle charles once lived.

inside the house, charles's wife, margaret anne, busied herself in the kitchen, standing on her toes, blindly navigating her hand through the spice cabinet. atop the stove cooking was a large pot of grits and thick sliced bacon, swimming in pool of lard. margaret pulled a container of pepper from the cabinet's darkness and emptied its contents into the pot. a tiny ball of grease leaped from the pan, landing perfectly in the center of one of the flowers on her house dress.

"skunk?" margaret yelled. "skunk, you want sum'a what i'm cookin'?"

charles replied no before she had a chance to retract her offering. she'd had a lapse in reasoning, forgetting that he had to stay clear of foods that would raise his cholesterol. margaret continued cooking breakfast. she flipped the bacon over with a fork, sat it aside, and began daydreaming about the couple's past.

__________________________

margaret and charles met when they were both teenagers. margaret was the petite, gorgeous, soft-spoken daughter of a minister. each day after leaving school, boys would offer her rides, and she'd always turn them down, giggling with her books clasped tight to her chest. charles was the high school dropout, who'd been charged with helping out on the family farm rather than finishing his education. to escape his discontent, charles would spend every evening working on his guitar and singing skills. he was a virtuoso -- some say he was born just to finger the frets and belt out heart-wrenching tunes. charles was a blues man. he brought the anguish of a childhood lost to life through song.

one eveing, margaret caught charles's eye during one of his performances at an elks lodge on state route 14. margaret was sitting near the stage, sipping sweet tea with a few of her friends, when charles showcased a new tune, "i ain't goin' back". margaret found his performance stirring and powerful. she shifted in her seat as he stomped his heel and crooned. the next song, "dirt fuss", drew her attention to charles's propensity for curling his lips and making strong faces when he sang. during the final verse of the song, charles's brow was furrowed, his mouth pursed, and his eyes squinted nearly shut. someone in the rear of the room yelled, "look like he done smelled a skunk!" the crowd roared with laughter.

(too add to his moniker, charles once awakened in his house to the sight of a raccoon nestled alongside his body. drifting in and out of sleep, he'd mistaken the animal for his pillow and didn't see its tiny legs until he awakened. he screamed and raccoon scurried out of the room. the following morning, there was a streak of gray hair running down the center of charles head.)

margaret and "skunk" dated for years and eventually eloped. he'd pen songs for and sing to her every night.

__________________________

the smell of burning food jarred margaret back to the present. the bacon was charred to a crisp and a deep, black spot had formed in the middle of the pot of grits.

"aw'shit," margaret said. "not payin' attention, done burned up mah whole gatdamn breakfast."

skunk, without removing his eyes from the backyard, yelled to margaret.

"sum'in burnin', baby."

"i know, i got it. food wasn't no good nohow."

margaret once again felt a wave of nostalgia flush her body. skunk's hands were rigid with age, so he never picked up his guitar. he could still carry a tune, though, even with his raspy, airy voice. margaret removed the pot and pan from the range and unbuttoned the top of her house dress. she walked out onto the porch, brushed a host of dead insects off a seat cushion, and took a seat a few feet away from skunk.

"you don't sing for me no more, baby," margaret said. "i wanna hear sum'in, skunk. i know you got in in ya'."

skunk swallowed a piece of his johnny cake and peered over at margaret. she was looking on in admiration, just like the teenager he'd falling in love with, and her withered breast was now beginning to peek from beneath her polyester dress. skunk began tapping the heel of his left boot on the porch floor. he added snapping between the beats, making his trademark "boomtap--boomtap" sound, and began to speak.

boomtapboomtap

"when i first met ya', margaret ann, i wasn't what i needed to be."

boomtapboomtap

"i say, i needed to work on some thangs to be what you needed me to be."

boomtapboomtap

"i was like . . . ol' buddy here: a dog who was roamin' and needed to find his way home."

boomtapboomtap

"this here called, 'cleanin' my paws'"

skunk leaned back in his chair, face curled, and began wailing his tune.

i'm just a nasty ol' dawg
knots in my black ass fur
yellow teeth in my jaws
i am stinkin' ol' dawg
but i'm cleanin' my paws just for you

margaret closed her eyes and moaned in satisfaction.

i got fleas on my balls
can't scratch 'em off
and sometimes i step in my own doo
but wait 'til you see me next time, suga'
mmm, girllll
i'll have my paws clean just for you

skunk's singing fellt to a low hum. margaret was now rocking side to side, her hands clasped over her chest.

boomtap

boomtap

skunk drove his walking stick into buddy's ribs, causing the dog to stand. he then showed the dog the last of his johnny cake and tossed it into the backyard. as margaret's eyes widened, buddy took off running at full speed towards the food. when the dog was off the porch completely, buddy waved both his hands in a shooing motion. skunk curled his face even more and began belting the final verse.

gotta get on outta here
gotta get myself all cleaned up for you

gotta keep runnin', suga
gotta clean my paws for you

i'm runnin' though montgomery

boomtap

eatin' in birmingham

boomtap

cleanin' myself in those selma streets
i just don't give a damn

so here i am, sugar
i done got it all right for you

yeah, i'm here on your front porch, baby
paws all clean for you

margaret squealed with excitement and leaped from her chair. as buddy looked from the yard, the couple shared a embrace and kiss.

i just broke the office copier

keeping with my theme of making work suppplies non-operational, i jammed the copier so badly that it's not making a sound. i followed the instructions for removing the jam; but when i thought i was in the clear, the same display popped up. as i repeated this routine, a few co-workers walked into the room and gave me the timeless encouraging words: "Copier jammed? Oooh boy!" the worst part was having my face level with one co-worker's ass while i pulled hot, mangled pages from the slots in the front of the machine. i was sweating nervously and he was mumbling something about fixing the recurring problem.

i'm waiting to hear my name in the hall when someone mentions printing problems.

greg ambulated around the table, empty plate in hand, trying to determine what he wanted to eat. he was one of the last to arrive at his aunt's house for her holiday cookout and was reluctant to eat the day-old food. he paused at one container, lifting its foil as though it was a blood-stained sheet at a crime scene.

"don't eat that potato salad," a voice from behind him whispered. "that wouldn't have been no good even if you were here earlier."

it was greg's aunt's neighbor, irene, and she was inspecting each dish as though it was her own function. with perspiration forming around the armpits and neckline of her shirt, she consolidated the contents of most of the dishes, hoisting the now hazardous foods into a nearby garbage can.

"you can have some meatballs and barbeque chicken. maybe some ribs, too, but that's it. don't eat any of this other shit or you'll be spendin' the rest of the night up in your aunt's bathroom."

greg chuckled nervously as irene dragged away the garbage can. when she was out of sight, he placed his plate back on the table and decided against eating anything at all. he then made himself a drink -- 3 three parts rum, 1 part cola. he took a sip, winced, and plopped down on a hard metal chair.

greg's uncle, cubby, was manning the music: a stereo system placed in three windows at the rear of the house. each time he switched CDs, he'd do his best DJ impression, annoucing the upcoming album or song to the remaining attendees. craning his neck into the humid air, he'd yell, "Peabo! 'Reaching for the Sky!'" or "Brothers Johnson! 'Look Out For #1'". this time, however, it was the summer staple that always sounded the best when everyone was intoxicated.

"oooooh wee! Marvin! 'Let's Get it On!'"

two cherry bombs exploded in the neighbor's backyard, scaring the small crowd that was preparing to dance. a plume of smoke rose from the brush and a group of kids scrambled towards the main street.

"y'all don't worry 'bout that," cubby said. "go on and dance!"

couples clasped together as though they were shielding each other from the fireworks. right hands joined, fingers intertwined, plunging noses and mouths into sweaty, alcohol polished skin. greg looked on, seeing himself in the dancing old men. he chuckled as women twirled with their partners' assistance -- just sober enough to not lose their balance. i wonder what i'll be dancing to when i'm old, greg wondered. feet shuffled in unison to Marvin's crooning.

greg heard cubby's through the song's vamping. he was calling greg's name and pointing towards the front of the house.

"someone's lookin' for you out there."

it was greg's cousin, xavier, smoking a cigarette and leaning on his car parked in front of the house. greg took a gulp of his drink and began walking across the yard, cleaving the makeshift dance floor in two. two kids lit a fountain just behind the bumper of xavier's car, sending an array of colors streaming towards his trunk. irate at the discovery, xavier turned and kicked the fountain as hard as he could, sending it skidding into a curb. sparks spewed from the cone tip for a few more seconds before it diffused.

"what's up, man?" greg said, laughing.

"lil' mu'fuckas do this shit every year," xavier replied. "anyway, ain't shit up, really. still workin' for Metro. janitorial. nothin' major."

"i feel you," greg said. "how's your mom? i heard she just got out of the hospital."

xavier took the last pull from his cigarette and blow the smoke into the glow of a nearby streetlight. he inspected the contents of greg's cup and asked if he was finished with it. there were still a few sips remaining, which were being diluted by melting ice.

"yeah, i'm done." greg said. xavier took the cup from his hand and dropped in his cigarette butt.

"mom's in and out, man. you know how it is. her liver's gettin' worse by the month. last week, her doctor said she got about 4 months to live. they can't do nothin' to help her. it's shit like this," xavier said, pointing at the drunk couples in the backyard, "that messed her up."

greg nodded his head in agreement. the subject matter was so intense and alarming that he fixed his eyes on a group of three small kids holding sparklers in their hands and dancing to music streaming from a car stereo.

"pretty soon, i ain't gonna have a place to stay," xavier said. "they're either gonna put my mom in hospice care or she's gonna die. either way, with my job, i won't be able to afford to stay in that house."

greg fixed his eyes back on xavier, who was now dragging a piece of cardboard back and forth with his toe. xavier's voice was now breaking as he spoke.

"i need help, g. i need a place to stay. i ain't never asked you for nothin', and i know we don't see each other that much since your dad died, but i need help. cubby said you were gonna be here. help me get on my feet, g, please. it ain't much else i can do."

greg felt a lump forming in his throat. he began thinking back to his father's funeral and xavier consoling him. just then, a string of fireworks broke his concentration. xavier picked a bottle up from off the ground and turned to the group of culprits, who'd already begun sprinting up the block.

"yeah, man, whatever you need," greg said. "just let me know when you want to move in. i have the extra space. i'll take care of it."

xavier's legs weakened as he crumbled into greg's embrace. his apprehension quickly turned into a sensation of salvation as xavier wept onto his shoulder. greg felt the unparalleled feeling of despair that can be brought on only by the death of a parent. as xavier thanked him repeatedly, greg noticed cubby standing on the front porch, nodding in gratitude.