Outside Lands: By Stan Clemons

This post has been provided by contributing journalist Stan Clemons and does not reflect the views or overall opinions of Dublin's World.

My mood and over all outlook on life had all gone sour as I walked up and down the streets of San Francisco, my forehead ablaze with exertion and irritation, not a cab in sight. As I trudged on with sweat streaming between my shoulder blades and down my temples I found other desperate people doing trying to catch a ride as well. They stood on countless corners and thorough fares at 3 o’clock on a Friday afternoon and looked determined and grim.
"How long have you been trying to find a cab?" I would ask.
"An hour."
"45 minutes."
"Two hours."
The reports were not good and we all looked at each other suspiciously, aware that we all wanted the same thing and that we were all close to the point of doing anything to obtain it.
"I've never seen it like this," one girl lamented.
"Outside Lands. Everybody's a passenger going to the park," a portly middle aged man explained.
Outside Lands. 130,000 people were headed out to Golden Gate Park for three sold out days of music art, and booze, and even though I was also one of these people, and even though I had a press pass, I couldn't help but think this was all such a pain in the ass.
Now remember, stalking the streets for an hour and a half in the relatively hot August sun will put anybody in a bad mood. Mine subsided slightly when a compact and cheerful Chinese cabbie rescued me from the corner of Sutter and Mason. He confided that he had already been out to the park once and didn't like the idea of going back but would help me out. He'd help me out by doing his job? Thanks. Appreciated. My mood took a slight swing back to the worst.
I explained that I needed to get to 41st and Lincoln to get in the media entrance and he said: "no problem, no problem. We're here now." He left me at 41st and what he said was Lincoln. I saw no entrance of any kind and it wasn't until I reached the next cross street that I realized I was on Fulton, not Lincoln. I cursed the cabbie a loud and began to hoof it, looking for a means into the festival.
I should mention at this point that I had bought a new pair of shoes the day previous and it was this pair that I was wearing as I stomped up Fulton. They were wingtips and slightly too small and at that point I could already feel the blisters forming along the heel and above the big toe. I felt like my feet were bound tight and every step was torture. I could hear a man crying out for the crowd to make some noise on a far off stage as I approached. The crowd responded with a mild cheer and I hated them all. My feet were turning into little bruised nubs and I felt like I would end the day with hoofs.
I reached the entrance to the festival and got on the phone, letting the bruised hoofs sit and take a break. An hour later a representative met me at the main gate, established my credentials, and I was inside.
Two things I noticed right away: 1) Outside Lands is full of Caucasians and 2) college age girls seem to really love head bands. Everywhere I looked: head bands. It's sort of this Pocahontas meets Flash Dance thing and I had no idea it was so big. I walked by the Sutro Stage first and it was MGMT wailing away up there. I had forgotten how much I enjoy their music.
I went to the Barbary Tent and saw The Shotgun Wedding Quintet do a few short sets in between burlesque and circus acts. Two girls wearing limited clothing would come out and swing swords around, a guy would join them with a whip, they would all stage fight for a while, and it was entertaining as hell. Some Australians took the stage at one point, a man and a woman. They had whips as well and juggled swords on unicycles. The man claimed he had 5 world records including the one for holding the most weight attached to an eye lid.
I watched a pretty little female comedian come out and imitate Asian pop singers, Lady Gaga, Michael Jackson, and a few dozen different versions of douchey men. I enjoyed it but it made me wonder how long the cute little white girls doing borderline racist (or just straight up racist) humor thing is going to last. Sarah Silverman got old for me a while ago, don't know about you.
The Shotgun Wedding Quintet played another set and then left. Having no other place to go and no one else I knew there at the time I decided to follow. They walked passed the food vendors and the rave tents and up to Fun Land, the VIP liquor garden. P-Dub had some drinks as did Adam Theis, as did Jon Monahan, and as did Dublin. Now most of my readers know my feelings about Dublin but if you don't I'll be brief: I can't stand him.
It’s not something I can totally explain. He just rubs me the wrong way. I appreciate him allowing me to present some of my writing on Dublin’s World but other than that; I really don’t care for him. Anyway, he had a couple of drinks and began to make comments I found offensive. After another round I couldn't take it any more and left Fun Land. I wandered out to the main stage and found some middle aged men playing music for the girls with head bands. I recognized the red headed front man and realized the men were the band Phish. Something about that scene was offensive as well. Or maybe I just don't get it. Whatever.
The sun was going down and my feet hurt so I returned to Fun Land and had a few rounds by myself. I was feeling light headed at this point, having not consumed any food in quite a while, but I followed a migration of twenty something’s and head bands to the Butro stage to see Big Boi from Outcast. There was a migration passing opposite my migration who had already waited some hours for Big Boi and had given up. My group pressed on.
Another hour passed as I sat in there in the crowd and I was starting to catch a chill. I remembered my press pass and used it to get back stage where I was told Big Boi’s DJ’s computer had died and there would be no way for them to go ahead with the performance. The manager went out on stage and announced the cancellation and a huge hostile cry went up from the crowd. It was the most reaction I had heard from any of the crowds that day and it made me recall what a performer friend had said about San Francisco once: “too cool for school. Worst audience ever.” I’m not saying I agree but it was interesting how reserved the audiences were that day, or at least until they had something negative to react to.
I found the back stage beer tent and began to swallow one after another. My feet were feeling more and more hoof like but the alcohol was helping. I was drinking my third by one of the trailers when the trailer door opened and woman emerged surrounded by two men. She was decked out in a long coat and wide hat and it took me a moment to recognize that she was Erika Badu. I stumbled after them and drank the beer by the stage as she performed. Once again the audience was mostly reserved but her performance was marvelous. I have been in love with her for many years and the crush continues.
After the show I wandered aimlessly until I was back near the Barbary Tent. The tent was closed for the night but the grove of trees that surrounded it were all lit up by colored lights and it was pleasant and slightly surreal. There were very few people left in the park and those that were still there scampered about doing their tasks and I minded my own business.
I was near the outskirts of the festival when a woman approached from the trees. She was older, hippiesh. She had a cup of something and she held it daintily in her grip and looked at me.
“You look thirsty,” she said.
I tried to reply but no words came and I realized she was right. I was so dehydrated that my mouth was too dry to work. She handed over the cup and I took a mighty swig. It was tea of some kind and my parched lips cried out in for more so I turned the cup outside down until it was completely drained.
“Not the whole thing you fucking asshole!” she cried and snatched the cup back.
She wandered off into the trees and I made my way back through the deserted tents and dark stages until I was back where the trees were lit up by the colored lights. The lights seemed to be glowing more now and I suddenly realized what I needed to do: remove my shoes. I took them off and put them down on the grass next to me and that was the last I saw of them because that, my friends, is the moment that everything changed.
There was light mostly, everywhere. And faces that smiled. The smiles were happy, to the point of being maniacal, and I was surrounded by them. I was walking but I couldn’t feel my body and I tried to hide from the light in the leaves of the forest floor but the light was too strong until I realized the sun was up and I needed to accept it. People were everywhere and the Black Keys were playing and then they weren’t and then I was in the Barbary Tent and Shotgun was playing and then they weren’t. People were eating kabobs and I couldn’t get over how the kabob was invented or who had discovered it and I went around asking people and nobody seemed to care. OK Go was playing and then they weren’t. I fell in love with a girl and she was the only one in the world that understood me until she disappeared and I started to question if she had ever existed in the first place. Then it was night again I was looking for the place where the trees were aglow in light and couldn’t find it anywhere and I was worried that I had no home and the tears were streaming down my face. Someone tried to comfort me but I didn’t want them to and I returned to the forest and the leaves and then all was black.

I woke up and there was a familiar face looking down at me. The face had a mustache and the top of the head was bald with long scraggly hair surrounding the baldness.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell. My skull felt kicked in and my face was on fire and I was hungry but other than that I seemed alright.
“Have The Roots played yet?” I asked.
“That was yesterday,” someone said.
“No it wasn’t. They play on Saturday.”
“Today is Sunday,” the familiar face said and I realized it was Gallagher the comedian.
I stood up and tried to gather myself. We were in the area behind the Barbary Tent where the stage hands stored the props and the equipment. Who knows how long I had been sleeping there. I went to a porta potty and looked into the piece of glass that served as a mirror in the door. My face was sunburned and there were leaves in my hair. I had missed the entire festival. Or had I?
I went back out and Gallagher was still standing there. I asked him how long I had been lying in that spot and he said for as long as he had been there. I asked if he was performing and he replied that he was about to go on.
“To smash fruit?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How did that all come about anyway? That act?”
I was genuinely curious.
“I added it to the end of a poem that I do. It was supposed to be part of the performance of the poem. But all anybody cares about is the smashing of the fruit.”
“Have you ever heard of Black Gallagher?” I asked and with that Gallagher was gone, either offended by my question or at a loss for words. He disappeared into the tent and soon there were cries of joy coming from inside as pieces of corn chips and hot dogs and watermelon began to spray into the crowd.
I had enough at that point and I wandered, still barefoot, passed the tent and beyond the booths and out passed the fence. I walked along the street that crosses through the park and my feet were gray from the asphalt. I caught a cab back to downtown where I caught a train to Antioch, which is where I live, and I got in my bed trying to remember how to sleep.
I had to wait a few days before jotting this report down because everything remained scrambled and incomprehensible in my mind. Now that I feel mostly normal again I would like to drop a few random notes of things that come to mind after the fact. These are memories that are still a bit foggy and were hidden in the recesses of my mind after I consumed the old woman’s tea:

-the Jazz Mafia and friends performing acoustic in the main field. I remember Danny Grewen playing the trombone. I remember Doug Rowan playing the saxophone. Danny Brown was there and so was Joel Ryan. They were playing their hearts out and I could see the music.

-men on stilts calling out to me. They were always looking down at me. They all resembled my father.

-Latyrx playing on stage. Lyrics Born was rapping and Lateef was rapping and I wanted to raise my arms but I couldn’t because I was worried exposing my armpits would allow the bad energy to enter me. They played the song “Latyrx” and I realized it was the greatest song ever made. The Jazz Mafia Strings were backing them up and Joe Begale and Chris McGee were singing with Joyo Valarde and I was overjoyed.

-Dublin’s mustache. At one point I remember it following me around, just the mustache by itself.

What’s the moral of the story? Does it have a moral? I suppose one lesson would be that one should never drink from an old lady’s tea cup if one does not know what’s inside. Another could be that it is always better to go with comfort then to follow the whims of fashion and end up with uncomfortable shoes and a head band on. All that I know it that Outside Lands was an experience, not good or bad, just an experience, and that I have grown as a person from it.
This is Stan Clemons signing off.

-August 16th 2011

Exclusive: Stan Clemons Covering Outside Lands!

We have just recieved word this morning that Stan Clemons, part time editor and contributor to the West Contra Costa County Business Times,is going head first into this year’s Outside Lands music festival in Golden Gate Park. He will attend all three days and try to catch as much music and art as he possibly can including The Shotgun Wedding Quintet, Latryx, and others.

Join us here for his exclusive report.

-August 11, 2011

The Adventures of PB James: The Noxious Neighbors Part 4

The Noxious Neighbors Part 4
Two of the people in cloaks have dragged the girl over to the bald man and have thrown her to his feet. She is trying to scream but the gag in her mouth refuses to let the sounds carry beyond her lips. Everything is moving slowly. PB is seeing it all before him but his mind denies that it is happening. He refuses to except that he is witnessing a murder.
The bald man has begun to chant again and the circle around him is repeating the words. The girl lies at his feet, her hands tied behind her back, her head twisting left and right in terror. The bald man screams the words at the moon and the dagger reappears from his cloak. The girl stares up and she no longer moves, she can only watch the flames reflect off the blade.
PB is running towards a tree by the cliff ledge and before he realizes it he’s ripping a low limb off the trunk. It comes off easily but it is long and heavy and he throws the newly freed limb on to his shoulder and turns back towards the fire. He is not in a panic because everything is still moving slowly. The cloaked figures are still chanting, they do not notice his approach.
He drops the limb from his shoulder and lets it drag on the ground as he closes in. He can see now that the cloaks are dark crimson, not black like they had appeared from the bush. The only faces he can see clearly in the fire light are those of the bald man and the girl on the ground. The bald man has the dagger in both hands and has raised it above his head, the blade looking down at the girl hungrily. PB is running now, ten feet away from the circle, the tree limb lifting off of the ground.
He hits two of them with one swing, the branch smacking them across the back of their hoods. They are falling over each other and PB enters the circle through the hole. He doesn’t know if he’s going to make it out, all he wants to do is hit the bald head with the branch. He lunges forward and swings the branch above his head. His momentum is unstoppable.
The eyes of bald man have shifted in PB’s direction and he is no longer chanting. PB brings the tree limb around and let’s go, the heavy end propelling towards the clean cranium that shines in the fire light. The bald man ducks and shifts out of the way and PB is cursing. He feels someone on his heels and swings the branch around, catching another cloaked member in the chest. Crimson cloaks are fluttering around everywhere. The smoke from the fire is mixing with the dust and PB is swinging the tree branch wildly.
“Let’s go!” he screams at the girl.
She is rolling on the ground but can’t get up with her hands tied behind her back. PB realizes this and curses again. There is distance between he and the hoods now and he lets the branch fall as he reaches down and grabs the girl under her armpits. She’s surprisingly light and the adrenalin in PB’s arms has her hoisted up on her feet in one toss.
“Run God damn it!”
She is not listening or moving, she is watching one of the cloaked men come towards her. He’s huge, with hulking shoulders that are stretching the cloak around his wide neck. PB sees him too now and snatches the tree limb from the ground as the big man bares down on them. PB is in a half crouch and he has just enough time to swing the branch up and crack the end of it across the giant’s face. The hood has flown off with the blow and PB watches the eyes go dumb on the wide face as the big man falls back onto the bloody rock.
PB and the girl are running for their lives now, flying off the edge of the field and scrambling down the rocks. The girl is quick and nimble, launching herself from rock to rock in her bare feet with her hands still tied behind her. They get into the canyon and PB’s breath is solid, burning his lungs like he’s breathing ammonia. He doesn’t notice that the gag has worked its way out of the girl’s mouth.
“Diablo!” she screams “Diablo!”
The have reached the road and even with the adrenalin pumping PB feels his legs turning to rubber. He is almost to his car and realizes he’s lost the girl. He turns around and can see her down the street, running in the opposite direction. He gets in the car and rips out of the gravel and dirt onto the road, determined to snatch the girl and escape with both of their lives.
He has her in his headlights until she runs off the shoulder and into the trees beyond. PB jumps out of the car with the motor on and chases her. Its pitch black under the trees and he stops in his tracks, trying in vain to spot her. He stands still and listens but it’s only his heart beat in his ears.
He hears the sound of his car’s motor as it accelerates and drives off. He runs to the road but the car is long gone and all he can see is empty asphalt in the faint moonlight. He has no choice but to walk the way he came and he scans the shoulder for cloaked figures, wishing he still he had the tree branch.
The sun is coming up when he gets within a block of the apartment. Instead of going home he catches a bus and makes his way to the police station were he goes inside and announces to the woman behind the glass that: “My car was stolen and I almost witnessed a murder.”
Two uniformed officers are summoned, Officer Timmons and Officer Schelznek, and after doing a brief interview they drive PB up into the hills to the place where that morning’s fracas had occurred. PB leads the two men up through the canyon and over the rocks to the field above. There is nothing but trampled grass and the black mark of dead bon fire.
“You say they killed a goat?” Officer Timmons asks.
“Yes. Right there. The guy got its blood all over this big flat rock.”
“What rock?” asks Officer Schelznek.
“I don’t know. It’s gone now.”
All three men climb back down to the road and the police officers drive PB to his apartment where, after getting the model and make of his stolen car, they leave him. PB watches them drive away and he is exhausted. He walks back towards his apartment, the idea of his bed the only thought in his head. He is almost to the gate when the screaming begins.

To be continued in Part 5.

The Adventures of PB James: The Noxious Neighbors Part 3

The Noxious Neighbors Part 3
PB waits around the corner of the building for Owen to walk to his car on the street. He hears the car start and then he runs to his own rusty Honda to begin the pursuit. The adrenalin is making its way through his veins but he can’t help but feel slightly foolish. For all he knows Owen is making a late night snack run or an emergency trip to the store.
The clock on his dashboard says it is two twenty two in the morning. The break lights of the Volkswagen look like two evil eyes staring back into the night. PB follows them cautiously, staying an even one hundred feet behind as Owen drives off of the city streets and up into the hills above the east bay. There are no other cars on the road and PB is worried the other man will easily notice the tail. The unrelenting curiosity and worry from the last twenty four hours spur him on and keep him navigating the car up into the hills, staring into the two evil red eyes.
Owen’s car pulls over onto a dirt turnout on the side of the road and PB continues passed him and watches the rearview as the headlights of the Volkswagen turn off behind him. He continues to drive until he gets to an extended shoulder along the road and he turns the car around. He waits for a few moments, keeping an eye on the rearview for any on coming cars and then eases the car forward and down the road until he can see Owen’s parked car in his headlights. He pulls over and parks as well.
He approaches the car slowly, walking along the asphalt almost on his tip toes. When he gets within fifteen feet of Owen’s car he pauses, dropping down to a crouch. He can see from the light of the half moon that the car is empty and he looks along the shoulder for some kind of movement. He sees nothing but he can hear a noise, what sounds like the rustling of fabric, and he creeps along the shoulder and into the high grass off of the road.
He crouches again and he can see Owen under the trees just ahead of him. It’s hard to make out in the darkness but it looks as if Owen is pulling some sort of bag or shroud over himself. He has the thing completely around him and then pulls what looks to be a hood over his head. He straightens and flattens the shroud around his body and then walks quickly on passed the trees and PB follows closely and quietly behind.
They make their way up through a shallow canyon, one man slinking along like a hooded ghoul, the other stepping gingerly along, one foot after the other, trying to keep his heavy breathing controlled and inaudible. The canyon goes uphill between two rocky cliffs. There is a trail but PB can not make it out in the darkness, he simply follows the ghostly shape in front of him and pauses behind bushes momentarily. The trail becomes rocky as it reaches the summit between the two cliffs and PB is climbing the rocks almost vertical, trying to make out the shape above him.
He is at the top and he finds himself looking into a field. There is a bon fire burning in the middle of the field but it is obscured by a line of cloaked figures that surround it. There is one cloaked figure standing outside the circle and PB thinks it must be Owen. PB crawls through the field on his belly, trying to keep his body below the high grass and out of the light coming from the fire. The same low hum that was keeping him awake at night is now coming from the circle of cloaked figures but the volume is increased ten fold.
He crawls all the way to a clump of overgrown bushes that sit thirty feet beyond the fire. He slowly sits up and peers through the sharp leaves. He watches and one of the cloaked figures breaks from the others and steps into the circle. The figure holds up one of his arms and the low hum stops instantly. He points the arm towards Owen and the circle breaks, allowing Owen to enter. Owen removes his hood and the other man does as well, revealing a bald head and a face whose thin mouth is surrounded by dark black handle bar mustache.
“How is your progress in the raising of your shadow?” the bald man bellows at Owen.
“Not good. I have failed but I came close.” Owen replies.
The bald man’s eyes converge into a squint. He nods solemnly.
“Did you read from the book?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Did you draw the symbol?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use the blood of an animal?”
“I found one dead on the road and used it.”
“It was already dead?”
“Yes.”
The bald man laughs heartily into the flames between them.
“Well, there’s your problem,” he motions with his hand and three of the other figures break away from the circle “Will you join us as we raise the night shadow now?”
Owen nods and pulls the hood back over his head. He joins the rest of the figures in the far side of the circle and the three that had broken away return lugging a large flat rock into the circle and place it next to the fire. A fourth person brings up the rear pulling a small goat by a rope wrapped around its neck.
The bald man takes the rope and drags the goat over to the flat rock. He holds the goats between his legs and the goat braes and screams out into the night. PB can feel a long line of sweat making its way down his back. He is confused and frightened and wants to run but he can not look away. The bald man begins to bellow out strange words and the circle repeats them, one after another. The words are grotesque and ugly but they are no language that PB can identify.
The bald man pulls a large dagger from out of his cloak and holds it up to the moon. He begins to scream the words, saliva spurting out from his lips and dissolving into the fire. The goat is screaming and the circle is repeating the words. The bald man is hysterical and brandishing the knife and then he reaches down with the goat between his legs and slices open the animal’s throat. He holds the riving goat’s head steady so that the blood splatters and covers the flat rock.
PB tastes bile in his throat. He begins to crawl backwards, away from the bush. He looks out into the field, trying to spot the crushed grass of his earlier route. He lies down and begins to make his way slowly in the general direction of the trail down to the valley. He will go home and he will finish the tequila. He will sleep until morning and then he will go out and find a new place to live. He will forget this night and all of its freakiness.
A human scream stops him. He can’t move. He turns around and crawls back to the bush and he looks through the leaves. Two of the cloaked figures have dragged a young woman into the circle and they are pulling a gag over her head and into her mouth. The bald man is raising the dagger and says:
“Now let us spill the blood of the sinful and raise the night shadow!”

To be continued in Part 4.

The Adventures of PB James: The Noxious Neighbors Part 2

The Noxious Neighbors Part 2
He raps his knuckles against the door and immediately everything is quiet and still. The light is no longer pulsing from under the door. There is no low hum coming through the walls and there are no screams. He raises his hand to knock again but pauses, concerned that what he heard was just a television that has now turned off. He will look a fool in his first meeting with the neighbors. The droplets of red liquid that still sit on the stairs leading up to the landing confirm the strangeness of the night and the sudden silence makes the fear creep up his skin and catch in his throat.
He retreats back to his own apartment and locks the door. It’s cold in the room and he’s sweating. He goes into the kitchen and grabs his phone off the coffee table, the only piece of furniture he owns. The fear lingers and it has him handling his phone and contemplating calling the police. What would he say? There were some screams. Could it have been a television? Yes. I just moved in you see but I have a feeling, a feeling that something evil is going on in the next room.
He places the phone back on the coffee table and returns himself to the mattress where he takes down a gulp of tequila straight from the bottle before settling back down. He doesn’t rest but when the sun is finally coming up through the window he is asleep.

The next morning he makes some coffee on the stove and after drinking it he realizes he has no choice but to approach the neighbors again. The sounds from the night before are haunting him. The memory of the screaming sits in his ears.
He goes out into the hall and the red liquid has disappeared. The stairs are clean, cleaner than they were the day before. He almost second guesses himself again but forces his hand up and the knuckles against the door. A moment is passing but he can hear the footfalls inside the neighbor’s apartment as someone approaches the door. It swings open and a girl stands in the doorway.
She’s a pretty girl but her face is a bit too full and her eyes are weighed down by the eyelids which make her look dull. The skin on her face is very pale and she looks tired and washed out. Her hair is brown and limply surrounds the round face.
“What?” she says.
“I’m your new neighbor,” PB replies.
She nods.
“Did you happen to hear anything kind of weird last night?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“Kind of like screaming. And a washing machine.”
“I don’t think so.”
Her dull face is a blank and it makes him feel stupid. He steps back towards his own door and awkwardly waves to her.
“Well, sorry. Have a good day.”
He closes the door on the dull face. Some people you connect with and some you don’t he supposes. He begins to dig through the boxes looking for something to eat and there’s a knock on the door. He opens it and is surprised to find the girl standing there, still dull. She walks by him into the apartment and stands in the middle of the studio among the boxes and the mattress.
“You heard screaming last night?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t at home. I was at work.”
She looks down at PB’s scattered processions and sees the tequila bottle lying by itself next to the mattress, three quarters empty.
“Can I have some of that?” she asks.
He digs the other shot glass out of the box and pours one for her as well as himself.
“I was working but my boyfriend was here,” she says and sips her shot.
“Does he scream at night?”
“I don’t know. He has been acting weird though.”
“How?”
“Just weird. I work at the senior home at night and I sleep during the day and sometimes I’ll wake up and he’s just sitting there, not saying anything.”
PB doesn’t know the boyfriend so he doesn’t know if that’s weird or not.
“What’s his name?” he asks.
“Owen.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ellie.”
PB can’t really think of anything to say beyond that.
“The apartment smells strange too,” she says.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, just kind of weird. Like sulfur or something but really salty.”
Her description of the smell is disturbing. PB can’t think of what would create a smell like that.
“Have you talked to him about this? About the smell and how he acts?”
She shakes her head.
“Is there anything I can do? To help I mean,” he asks and immediately feels stupid.
She takes what he says and seems to weigh it for a moment before downing the rest of her shot and placing the empty glass on the carpet.
“Thanks but I think I just wanted someone to talk to about it. Welcome to the building.”
She goes out the door and PB watches her leave.
That night he sleeps on the mattress and dreams of the apartment next door and it is horrifying. The main room and the kitchen are just like his but the walls are covered in blood. There is a wide variety of snakes and potato bugs crawling through the carpet and on the linoleum. Ellie is in the kitchen and she is naked but it’s not sexy or erotic, it’s disturbing. She is acting processed, dancing madly around the kitchen and stepping on the insects.
The dream shatters. The walls are humming and the sound has woken him up again. This time he jumps up and gets dressed immediately, rushing around half blind. He gets to the door and the humming stops. He stands perfectly still, waiting.
He hears the door across the hall unlock and open and he looks through the peephole and sees who he assumes is Owen make his way out and with a backpack strapped to him. He’s a little shorter than PB and his hair is cut short with a scraggly beard of grown out peach fuzz that lines his jaw line. Owen makes his way down the stairs and out the gate. For a reason that he can't give at that moment, PB slips out his own door and down the stairs in pursuit.


To be continued in Part 3.

A Conversation on Film between Dublin and Robert Fong: Reservoir Dogs

(Dublin and Robert Fong met up on a furlough day and watched a film together. This time Robert Fong picked the movie)

D: Reservoir Dogs? I’ve seen it.
RF: So have I.
D: Shouldn’t we watch something neither of us has seen?
RF: F**k that. This movie is the sh*t.

(They watch the movie)

RF: So?
D: What?
RF: What did you think?
D: I’ve seen it before. What can I say?
RF: Say what you thought when you saw it?
D: When I first saw it? Or what I thought just now?
RF: How about when you first saw it.
D: Well that was like fifteen years ago so it’s kind of tough. But I know it f**ked me up.
RF: What do you mean f**ked you up?
D: Well, it’s gruesome. I mean the guy is sitting in a thick red pool of blood the whole time. It’s disgusting.
RF: It’s real.
D: What does that mean? It’s real?
RF: That’s how people bleed when they get shot in the stomach.
D: Oh yeah? I didn’t know you ran across people when they’re shot in the stomach. That’s interesting Bob.

D: For some reason Harvey Kietel annoys me.
RF: Watch it buddy. That’s the Bad Lieutenant you’re talking about.
D: Why does he have to get all in the blood with Tim Roth? You know what I mean? I know he feels bad about the guy getting shot but does he have to roll around in the blood like that? It’s gross.
RF: The two guys are bonded. He’s trying to help the guy.
D: By rolling around in the blood? It’s disgusting. Plus what’s with the little whine he does at the end before the cops bust in.
RF: He just got shot. People have a tendency to whine when they get shot.

RF: What’s your favorite part?
D: I don’t know. I kind of like the scene where Tim Roth tells the story about the weed and it changes location six times. I like when he’s saying it to the cops in the bathroom. It kind of breaks the moment from the tough guy bulls**t and becomes surreal for a moment. I’d forgotten about that.
RF: I like the part where Michael Madsen chops the ear off.
D: Of course you do.
RF: It’s horrible. I know that. But it’s funny too. When he chops off the ear he talks into it. That’s f**king hilarious.
D: That’s what’s horrible about it.
RF: Exactly. Its f**king horrible because Michael Madsen is so cool and charming-
D: And a psychopath.
RF: Right.

D: Why did you want to watch this?
RF: I don’t know. It’s been years and it’s one of my favorite movies.
D: Don’t you think it’s kind of weird that there’s no women in it?
RF: Why?
D: I’m just pointing out a fact.
RF: That’s bullsh*t. There are women in it!
D: When?
RF: The chick that shot Tim Roth. She was a woman!
D: C’mon. She was in it for three seconds tops.
RF: I’m just pointing out that your f**king fact is in fact false.
D: Fine.

RF: I give that movie two thumbs up. It’s a f**king masterpiece!
D: Well you’re going to have to explain that one. You can’t just go around calling things masterpieces.
RF: Why are you so against it? This movie changed film.
D: How’s that?
RF: You don’t know s**t. This movie broke open a whole independent movement in the nineties. This was huge.
D: Maybe so. But does that make it a masterpiece?
RF: Look what you said. You said it f**ked you up.
D: Right.
RF: That’s the sign of a good film.
D: Is it?
RF: Yes! Tarintino knew what he was doing. He was taking the audience for a ride. He knew he was f**king them up.
D: Maybe so. I don’t know.
RF: Yes!
D: Well how do you feel after the movie is over?
RF: Like I just went on a crazy a** ride.
D: Anything else?
RF: What the f**k do you feel?
D: Nothing really. That’s the problem. Shouldn’t we leave a movie and take something from it?
RF: What the f**k is your problem? Did you like it the second time?
D: Sure.
RF: Were you entertained?
D: Yes. It was entertaining.
RF: Bam! Here’s a movie that you’ve seen before and you’re still entertained. That’s the sign of a great movie.
D: Hmm…

(November 2010. El Cerrito CA)

The Adventures of PB James: The Noxious Neighbors: Part 1

The Noxious Neighbors: Part 1
He carries the last box of books up the stairs to the new apartment and he puts them down on the landing so he can unlock the door. He pulls the key and swings the door open and he looks at the four walls of the cramped studio and feels…. he doesn’t know. Loneliness perhaps? Definitely sadness. He feels the end of something but feels no new beginning and that is painful.
He turns around in the doorway to pick up the box and eyes the door to the neighbor’s apartment. The new apartment is in a duplex built above a Peruvian restaurant. There is only he and the neighbors in the building. He hasn’t met them yet. He doesn’t want to. The one good thing he expects now that he has his own place is total solitude. He will read and eat food and watch television (once he gets one) and mind his own business. He thinks that is all he wants. What he knows is that he wants a drink.
He goes through one of the fifteen or twenty boxes that lie on the carpet of the apartment and digs out the bottle of tequila. He goes through another box and comes up with a shot glass. He drinks two shots in a row there on the carpet and then crawls over to the mattress and sits on it with the bottle in one hand and the shot glass in the other.
He is thirty years old and this is not how he had pictured his life turning out. He had imagined that he would have a career of some kind. He had thought he would have a few things figured out. He at least thought he would be in some sort of solid relationship but now she is across town in the old apartment and he is here on the mattress.
He pours another shot and puts it down his throat. This apartment does not feel like home. He has two more shots and then falls back onto the mattress and doses off.


He awakes to the low hum. It’s pulsing through the walls and it annoys him. Is this how living here will be, large washing machines running and vibrating the walls all night? If it is then he must get used to it and he lies back down. He begins to drift off again but he dreams of her and that is annoying as well. Then the screams begin and he is instantly awake.
He sits up and tries to figure out if the scream was part of the dream or if it was real. Could a scream from a dream wake him up? He thinks not. He knows not because now the scream is piercing through the room again. It is muffled by the wall which means it is coming from the neighbor’s apartment. The machinery is still vibrating the walls. Maybe the screams are from a washing machine that has an overly human sounding alarm?
He digs his watch out of the carpet and looks at it using the light coming from the window. God damn it, its 3:39 in the morning. This can’t go on, especially if he gets a job some day. He pulls himself off of the mattress and stumbles over at least four boxes trying to get to the door of the apartment. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and stands in his stocking feet, contemplating the walk across the hall.
It comes again: the scream. It is not a machine he realizes now. It is most definitely not. It could be a woman but it seems too low. It is incredibly frightening listening to the scream through the door. In fact it's blood curdling.
He opens the door to the hall and stands on the landing. The scream comes again. It is screeching out through the neighbor’s door and there is a light coming from under the door, a blue light that could be from a television. A television, that’s it! He glances down the steps to the gate below and notices thick dark droplets of some kind of liquid dribbled out all the way up to the landing. He reaches down and touches one of the drops and holds his finger up to the light of the hallway. The liquid is sticky and it is red on his finger. It is a dark red, like spilled blood.
The scream comes again and PB James realizes he has no choice but to find out what is going on behind the neighbor’s door. He is standing in his boxers and a t-shirt and he is very scared. He reaches up and knocks on the door.

To be continued in Part 2.