sike.

art by Robert Rogers

by Baraka Noel

I’m sensitive. A smell can send me spinning. I cry for fiction more than life. Today, I saw this cavalcade of blue-black glistening flies vibrating on a dollop of canine feces. So many eyes kaleidoscoping over shit. So much dog shit on the streets. So much information.

I guess they call it empathy. As a child, I wished for synesthesia; now I shower in the dark to deprive my senses of context. I’m pretty sensitive. But, that’s not entirely why I wound up in a psych ward.

If I said – I lied to the psychiatrist – would they lock me up? If I charmed the nurses … I must not be crazy. Delay of gratification, boundary management, impulse control – that which sets any adult apart from a child.

I’m kidding. Legally, I’m kidding. Professionally. License to skillfully obfuscate on any subject; in various pubs, bars, and taverns. I’ve heard a sane man in a crazy world is – well … anyway, it’s subjective.

Ever wanted to die? You don’t have to answer that. I’ve talked down more than one friend with my mother’s advice. My family is odd. I never fit.

Usually, I tell this as the three times I was dosed with PCP. Which implies ignorance over complicity. Yet, honestly – I have to argue that I knew I’d gotten into something.

Freeze frame – I never trust police. That one who stalked me to a motel my brother rented (after the Lawyer left… another story, we’ll get back to it)?

One on the pier, when I asked “How do you feel about your complicity in the genocide of my people”? He said he felt fine.

One of the cops who kidnapped me on New Year’s Eve (and stole my rum)? Definitely not that guy outside my brother’s motel room. Should have trusted the Lawyer less.

Shouldn’t have trusted the Lawyer – not after the day before Thanksgiving. Let me backtrack:

My friend died.

And when your friend dies, then you get dumped and become homeless in the same week – if you’re me – you go on social media and ask … “does anybody want to go on tour?”

The answer was yes; for a new comic/ ex-lawyer with a box truck – I’ll claim to forget his name. Not sure who I’m protecting, but he called his tour, ‘Fresh from the Psych Ward’. I had never been (at the time). Never spent a night in jail either, at that point. My friend died and I went out on the road. Here’s what happened: I participated in a scam. Accidentally, swear.

Supposedly, it was a directing gig – until it wasn’t. I dragged some actors out for god knows what …that ended up being a pyramid scheme, I’m not sure? When I came home, I got dumped (again).

The previous breakup had landed me on a bus to LA, then a craigslist ride down to a parking lot in San Diego). Should I tell the San Diego story? I’ll be brief…

That time – I was calling a bluff.

She broke up with me, and I walked to a friend’s house; spent my last dollar on a bus ticket. This is where Miki comes in.

Hopefully, her husband won’t read this. Let’s say I changed her name.

I met Miki saying insane things on Zuckerberg’s platform. She wanted me to stab her; fuck, hit and – possibly – kill her. I agreed- on one condition: she would do the same for me.

An odd conversation. We’ll call this Part One.

1. Miki

Standing in an empty parking lot by some rundown little casino in a part of San Diego I’d never seen. Even before ‘Craig’ drove away in his rideshare car, I knew I’d made a serious mistake. And my phone was – obviously – dying. Damn it Miki, why’d you have to be so fine… I spend my last two dollars on a couple nips of liquor – those little bottles. Sipped slow to savor the gutter flavor. And this gnawing, more than hunger, eats away at my belly. What if she doesn’t come…

What if she does?

I heard her voice, reluctant. Husband out of town; she’s alone with the kids. She’s on her way. There’s no way she’s going to show up. I’m fucked either way. I’m in a parking lot. And Miki arrives.

Get in the car.

For some reason, we end up parked on the ramp, half in and half out of some shitty shut-down fast food joint. She wants to get caught. We barely speak, tearing at one another in the front seat.

I won’t get extremely graphic, let’s not be insane. We didn’t stab each other. Everybody got a taste. In some way, it was more penance than pleasure. We were looking to be hurt, seeking out danger – maybe we found the edge of something. Pheromones of someone new, smeared across your cheek; a bite, or a scratch. Finding fear acts as a kind of spice.

Risk losing something, to value it. When we were done; she wasn’t sure where to leave me, and ended up paying for a motel. I thought about grabbing her keys, pictured some accident at her place; a gas leak or fire. She drove away. Now, it’s me at the meth hotel (like that time in Dallas). Sleeping on top of the sheets.

2. J

Before J died – and this is a crazy story – I saw her, one last time.

Somebody must have called me an Uber, which I can’t really explain. One friend, or another – steering against my genetic death wish.

I ended up at J’s father’s place. Her mother had died. I remember J begging me to stay with her in Vegas, on house arrest from some domestic thing- with a guy called Snake. I guess he went to my school. I don’t know the man, but I blame him.

I couldn’t stay in Vegas. That’s what I told J. Had to get back and grind. I dropped three grand to clear some zeroes off the conscience of my bank account. Back to oval seven.

Now, I’m seeing J again – and she’s doing worse, if that’s possible.

This is how I met her father: J tonguing me flaccid on the living room carpet. “You’re not allowed to have guests.” It’s not pretty.

We became friends.

I made up with my girl; she got me a ticket north. Listened to Eric Andre’s revival moment in his Marc Maron make-up sesh. Cried on the bus, and walked back to my lover’s arms. We made up too; but she could smell Miki on me. I hadn’t washed. It didn’t last.

***

I just revisited that town in San Diego, passing through. It was a shit day. Literally. Let’s not get into it.

***

3. Bonny.

I guess you can’t protect everyone. She’s married now, it’s cool I guess. All your exes get married, have you noticed that? Bonny dumped me again. The same day, I got a message from J.

What’s she up to, now?

J texted me through Zuckermessage – I shit you not – she said: “I’m dead.”

Weird message. What a kook. J’s crazy.

She really died. Obviously, I got pranked. It felt spiritual – at the time. J’s dead. What to do now? I went on tour.

***

Touring Northeast over winter is not smart. The worst thanksgiving – and grandma went to the hospital. Worse than the one I spent on a bus – twenty four hours from DC to Chicago. And that was my divorce. This was worse – Thanksgiving with poor white folks in Connecticut. Terrifying. We’re not there yet.

***

4) Tour.

I’m staying at this warehouse – sleeping around and planning my tour, right? With this guy. Which is how I wound up in the psych ward, after meeting my brother for the first time.

Sidenote … have you ever smoked herb laced with formaldehyde? It acts like PCP, or so I’m told.

So, the tour started late. The guy with the box truck fell in love, and moved some lady into his house in north carolina. We missed the first show.

I had flown to Boston, somehow (god knows I didn’t have cash) and ended up overstaying the week at a college friend’s apartment. I’m slow-smoking cheap cigars on her Massachusetts porch in november, murdering the minutes. Eventually, the box truck arrived – too late to catch our gig in Pittsburgh.

The driver starts telling me stories.

***

I’ll call him Mike – or Mark. One of those. This dude was kind of funny. He told me about his wife cheating – she said she liked her husband better; because, the other guy’s dick was too big. It was uncomfortable. This: to make him feel … better?

“The middle five feet of his cock would rugburn, when he fucked me from the other room.”

A lot of laughing. But, he didn’t tell me everything. Mark (or Mike) never mentioned the accusations.

***

V) Mike/Mark

We haven’t got to where I took my clothes off in the parking lot. (You think this feels scattered – try living through it.)

M was a chill guy. He didn’t seem to have money – my friends’ charity kept paying for his food. But, he had that truck. And a concept: Fresh from the Psych Ward. Not a joke … he’d just gotten out.

Turned out kind of prophetic. M told me there was a disagreement with his wife, and it stressed him out. When I heard the rest – it stressed me the fuck out, as well.

***

Our first stop was Rochester. Some part of New York. I don’t want to say the racist part, but … not Albany. I could look it up. Buffalo.

Our first stop was Buffalo. Some of this is hazy – and I think you’ll see why. We were hungry. Definitely, didn’t get all our nutrients. We’d stop for a beer, or a sandwich; but I remember the hunger. First show – which was supposed to be our second – I’m pretty sure I have footage of, somewhere. Went by with no major note. I remember walking in the cold and being so hungry. Talking on the phone, finding a sandwich at some corner bodega. We passed through Massachusetts, Connecticut. I saw a friend with brain damage, for the first time in years. Spent the evening at a bar, then headed on to my cousin – just before turkey day.

I should apologize to Bobby.

***

Bobby is family, but I didn’t know. We met at Ralph’s Diner.

VI) Ralph

My girl – today – is from Massachusetts. Like my grandmother was – we used to go for summer, when I was a kid.

I met Bobby randomly, passing through (after my divorce). I was on a run of shows – Brandeis, NYC, Pittsburgh. The road has taken me away. Ralph’s Diner was chill – some kind of poetry show that went weekly.

***

Should I offer context? How my writing is a modified howl. Why I’m reflecting on this now … Since I’ve heard of a lyric essay, it seems that’s all I’m capable of.

I have a stye.

Heard of them, never had the pleasure. Ask me how I got it. I am missing Friendsgiving, though they aren’t MY friends. This story is all over the place.

***

Ralph’s was chill. Maybe they comped me, or I had a little cash for drinks. Semi-typical small scene dive; the passion of unknown artists – writers drinking, espousing their views.

Who knew? I met this guy who shared a sad story. You’ve heard it before: he liked a girl. He thought – and I somewhat agreed – she was not being entirely kind.

From what I could gather … she stopped being into him, then brought a new guy to the Poetry Show- he’d introduced her to. Bobby felt it was his refuge. To me – it seemed like a decent platform for revenge. But I’m vindictive.

***

One time, I performed at a creperie in Santa Cruz. They wouldn’t offer us food for our trouble, travel and show. So, we made a decision… we left it up to the crowd. Halfway through, we asked the audience to vote on whether our life’s work deserved an exchange of dough. The owner was pissed, and we were never asked back. But the crepes were fantastic.

Once, my touring company signed up for an open mic in Ashland, Oregon. They wouldn’t feature us, so we took four slots in a row. We took over the show – eventually, the host unplugged our mic and we went a cappella, closed hard and sold merch (while he toked a joint outside, in his car). My family holds grudges.

I was booked once for a show in Fort Worth, when they canceled at the last minute. We’d driven ten-plus hours for the opportunity, scheduled months ahead – and they cut our feature spot. Told us we could open mic. What did we do?

I called a camera crew. We rolled in with an audiovisual entourage, and ended our set with an invitation: Stay at the mic? Or leave with us (and the cameras) to rock-out on the sidewalk.

We ended up cyphering for hours. I never saw that footage.

***

I guess Bobby’s different. Perhaps my family survives within a sort of heroic depression. How many times have you almost died?

I had a good time at Ralph’s, then headed to Brandeis. Bobby and I kept in touch through Zuckerberg. Months later, he began sharing news about his father, Raymond.

Ray – unwell, in and out of the hospital – died within the year. That week, I heard from my mother that her uncle Raymond passed. I had to call Janet.

“Grandma, hi. Uncle Raymond died? I talked to Bobby.”

How often do you meet your cousin, randomly? I told my grandmother, “that’s why I date white girls”. Can’t be too careful – I don’t know most of my family. Thanks to my father.

***

7. Bobby

Just before Thanksgiving, we’re in the box truck on our Fresh from the Psych Ward tour. I was so cold and hungry in Buffalo, I lost it for a minute- on the street. We’re eating sparsely, a beer here and there. Same shitty dive shows, maybe a drink ticket.

Was good to see the homie, though. I still like the road. We pull onto my cousin Bobby’s block around six. It’s getting dark in Massachusetts. I need a drink. We find the spot; Bobby opens his door.

I went out for a six pack, Bobby laid out some leftovers and we made plans to hit a bar. As we’re stepping back out, Bobby laid down the rules.

His daughter was in her room, with the door locked. Mark (or Mike) the Lawyer, didn’t want to go out; so Bobby said: “She’s in there with a knife. I told her, if the door handle jiggles – stab whoever comes in.” Them’s the rules.

That night got out of hand. I remember the bar. After a few vodka mixers, I wandered outside to walk the block. Head pounding, spinning through the parking lot – I started taking off my clothes. Left a hoodie on the pavement. Shirt in the grass.

Bobby came out and found me; put me in his car, got me into bed.

*

VIII) Connecticut

I woke on Bobby’s couch, to a screaming fight. This is where things got weird, as though they weren’t already. I heard this white girl.

***

Trigger Warning: no one gets shot. Well – one of my Massachusetts cousins shot himself, running from the cops. I heard he isn’t doing too well.

***

This white girl is screaming her head off, and I wake up on the couch. I do not remember coming home – in fact I’m homeless; and don’t fully recall where I am.

At the moment, I’m on Bobby’s couch. Why so loud? Whose voice is that? What happened last night? I go into Bobby’s living room, and meet the angry caucasian lady. She was interesting.

The woman had taken umbrage at a point of narrative that had come up in conversation. I guess she’d asked why our tour was called “Fresh From the Psych Ward”. And the Lawyer told her. Maybe his name was David? I’ll stick with ‘M’.

It was an issue.

***

Remember the trigger warning? It’s for now.

*

This is the story I heard: M had a conflict with his ex wife. She made an accusation. Real serious – I wasn’t there. His ex accused M of inappropriate contact with their daughter. Which, he denied. The trauma sent him to the Psych Ward, by his own admission. I took the man at his word; but comics talk too much. He disclosed to a stranger, and she was freaking the fuck out.

***

I’m off the couch, in someone else’s shirt – disoriented as hell. People are screaming; voices I don’t recognize. I open some door in my cousin’s place. This random white girl is screaming at the Lawyer.

I couldn’t figure what the fuck was going on. My cousin Bobby’s like, “Sorry. You have to go.” So we left.

Next stop Connecticut.

***

Right now, it’s December. My uncles have been falling. Into a nursing home. Down stairs. To cancer. Into the pond. Somehow, I’m becoming an elder – distant memory to parents of kids I’ve never met. A long lost cousin, or Drunk Uncle; building what I can in the ruins of this life I imagined, with whichever bricks I’ve managed to gather as I ramble.

Today I’m walking to find tampons with shit on my shoe. Life gets weird. Small things can derail me.

***

Connecticut was fucked. We arrived the day before Thanksgiving. A strange drive, for possibly obvious reasons. (He’s like, “I didn’t do it”. I’m all – ‘right man, of course’.) A lot of silence.

We get there; I’m so hungry – there’s no food. Everything seems to be closed, and it’s getting dark. I see an apple and inquire; after some debate – it seems better left alone. This is a dry house. No beer, do not mention anything harder. Good times.

I pull the Lawyer outside; plotting an excuse to leave. We find a bar. Beer is food when it needs to be.

*

Strange times in Connecticut, but I have to say – I found some fascinating literature. Specifically; a translated memorandum of third reich meeting notes. Incredible. For another time.

*

Thanksgiving Day arrived inauspiciously. At some point, I asked about a shower; and our hostess expressed concern that I would ‘get the soap dirty’ – which I found troubling.

Sometime in the late afternoon of Thanksgiving day; I was offered a meal. ‘Pizza or hamburgers?’ Not loving pizza, I leaned toward the latter; which (I learned later) was McDonald’s. Coolio. Happy Thanksgiving. Later, that evening: I got a call from my brother. My grandmother was not doing well.

From his description; all light escaped her eyes at the dining room table. Paramedics were called. I contacted an Rx friend for advice – another bridge burned. Me and the Lawyer decided to drive south – we had a few days til the next show (in New York). Not that DC was on the way.

IX. Washington.

We made decent time in the box truck. I had this idea to livestream from the cargo bay, but nevermind. Arrived in the city, barely recognizing the streets. I kept getting reports from aunts and cousins – grandma said we could see her at home.

As we’re pulling in, I’m near-blind with hunger. We stop at a Burger King – after a ten count, I can’t stand being ignored behind a counter. I don’t want to say I’m starving, but I can feel my cells cannibalizing themselves.

We pass the Popeyes closest to my grandmother, who lives on the border of DC and Maryland. None of the bullshit – I order, right away. Popeyes likes to play “Let’s Make a Deal” in the hood. I barely make it to the parking lot, before I’m on this chicken like a fox in the henhouse. Literally, sobbing on the asphalt – devouring fowl. My god. Then, I see my grandmother. Janet.

***

Wow.

Janet stories. What can I get away with? Let me put it this way: Imagine someone’s grandmother. Some kind, sweet elder lady. A fictional woman.

Named Janet. This lady’s fascinating. A strong woman – married her brother’s brother-in-law.

That sounds wrong. Now I have to explain.

*

X) DICK.

So cute, he was said to resemble a dickie bird. And that’s what everyone called him – Dickie. Dick for short. Dick Gross.

A legacy. My grandfather had a second family, before ours. When he died – Janet stopped hosting family gatherings. We slowly splintered off, or I did. I don’t know everyone anymore.

*

Janet was beautiful. She met Dick through the wedding of her brother, who married Dick’s sister. Convoluted, perhaps – branches of an ancestral tree intertwining by way of faith and convenience.

(I’m basically not suited for life on earth. A lost ancestry.)

This essay feels like Xeno’s Paragraph. My family tends not to move. They stay put, so to speak.

*

Am I losing it? Did Los Angeles kill my love of comedy in four months? Did stand up kill the passion for itself, after a decade? Am I losing the plot?

*

How does anyone fill the time, except for drinking? I don’t do cocaine anymore. I don’t sleep around. Days – I fill with delusion and industry, in almost equal parts. What’s the sound of no one listening? Will it fill the dark?

*

My grandmother refused to speak to my mother for a year, after her second marriage. Bill was a twenty four year old sober file clerk. My mother, Melanie, doesn’t like to lose control. She’s quiet, he was kind: they got along. I first met William at the law office; he showed me an incredibly long and boring period film. I liked him anyway.

When Bill married Lenny – I’m told – grandma refused to allow another elopement. She demanded a formal wedding. My mother went to city hall, and brought me (as a witness). I witnessed.

And, for fifty two sundays, sat while Grandma Janet talked around my mother – never quite aiming her gaze in my mother’s direction. After a year, the story goes, my Grandfather (Dick) said: “That’s enough.”

And it ended. Grandaddy held the family together. Until they found him lying on the floor.

***

So, I’m visiting my grandmother … post-Popeyes … and I introduce her to the lawyer. She gives me one hundred dollars – for food; and we head to a motel my brother reserved. We were all still worried over Janet’s collapse.

This is where things kind of took a turn.

XI) Mo(tel)

The spot was close to Janet’s. A vaguely familiar street in the vicinity of silver spring. Every zip code seems to overlap, where I’m from. The box truck pulls up a hill to some nondescript hotel and we’re there.

*

I have to assume the next piece had something to do with Trump-era surveillance in the DC area. Sounds similar to paranoia, but the story seems to unravel logic; I am – perhaps – a creature of delusion. I’ve heard that’s necessary in my line of work, so similar to the unemployment line.

As a child, growing up in Maryland – I’d imagine a floating camera, recording my life in some kind of invisible movie; an imagined show. I’d reflect on a multiplicity of universes and wonder at alternate versions of my favorite (and least favorite) films.

Years later, I’m told surveillance drones hovered over Washington, DC; after the Patriot act – and others like it – limited our privacy into a joke between zuckerberg and the NSA. Maybe so, perhaps not.

I felt like someone was watching.

*

Alright.

*

(One more thing – a passing thought. Once, I witnessed a murder. Another time I saved a man’s life. Tell me why, I sobbed upon the knowledge of a man’s salvation. Ask me why I smiled the morning following a witnessed kill. How twisted a heart can be.)

*

At the hotel, waiting for Alex (who called ahead to cover the room with a card).

*

Fuck. I should apologize to alex.

*

The lawyer stood around awkwardly, and we had a few visitors.

First – my cousin.

IIII IIII II. CHRIS

*

I’m not sure Chris is my cousin. He’s my cousin’s cousin, and that’s good enough.

*

Chris came by. He brought a blunt. A maryland blunt. Be forewarned.

*

There are three times I’ve smoked cannabis laced with (what I assume was) PCP. Aka formaldehyde. I’m not a scientist. Maryland’s herb is suspect, in my experience.

*

So we smoke this blunt – and I should have been suspicious. All love to my ‘cousin’. Some folks learn from experience.

*

The first time I saw some variation of angel dust, I was walking along mission street in San Francisco. Two kids – maybe high school – passed me on the sidewalk; huddled over what looked like a blunt roach. They offered it to me, and I took it.

Back at the artspace, we examined this weird roach. No one would light it with me, except Torchia (the drummer). You remember Torchia.

*

This is where everything got fucked up. 

*

Three ways I ruined my legs: Portland, San Francisco, Silver Spring. (Portland was the stage. In SF, maybe I thought I was in an action movie. Maryland, it was cops.)

Oh shit. I forgot to tell you bout the captain of police. (I used to babysit for the captain of police.)

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