Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 1
Darla, my darling Darla, looked mighty fine as we walked down the Upper West streets. All shine and slick, she hung on my arm like class, hips singing their sweet swing as we popped down to Donnie’s for fish. Upper West just wished it had the shine that Darla had, all mighty fine. Gold and hip-hugging like my arms ached for, only classy. No trash walking with Ozzie, oh no. Ozzie wouldn’t be seen walking with trash on his wrist. And Darling Darla? She was no trash.
She walked in music with legs that caught a hundred gazes in fishnets and hanging chains of shining stainless. Short dress on one side past the knee, cover the thigh, other leg free and silky. Low cut to the navel, letting out peeks and curves. Full, I mean. To the brim. Pop. Handfuls of candy so sweet.
Upper West wished it had the shine of my darling Darla. See them all, wearing leather skin and shiny jewels in the nose and the ear and the lip. Painted faces and carved hair like statuesque. Got nothing on Darla. Nothing better.
Cindy says I’m punching above my weight. Says I’m a six at best. Says my nose too small, my chin too big, my ears all wobbles. She’s just jealous. Never rolled with Cindy, I think she’s a lesbian. She’s no ten herself. Jealous of Darla, I think, and what she has. Maybe jealous of me and who I have. Says Old Oz got gilt in his eyes. Says I went and bought the advert. Suckered in, right? Now Oz has to call Darla a ten, but no ten squeezes a six.
But Ozzie knows. No gilt in his eye, no no. Ozzie’s studied real close. Her eyes’ an eight, easy. Nose, sure, a six, but slopes up the brow to a seven. Chin’s an eight, but the jaw’s a nine. Ears, fine, maybe five, but Ozzie doesn’t care about ears. Hidden always in long brown hair, or done up in style. Eight all the way. Or Nine.
Mouth. Mouth is a ten. No lie, truth.
Yeah, no ten would squeeze a six, but Darla’s special, you see. She gets me. All the gazes caught in fishnet stockings, they all wonder what she see in him because they don’t know the truth like Darla Darling Darla does.
They jealous. They dream that one day Darla might walk away from old Ozzie, and look for another hook to bite. That would suit me fine, thank you. I’d see her tight round ass as she walked away, and the sexy shame on her face when she came back.
She’d come back, truth. Not because she’s dusty, but because she’s smart. She knows, like I know, the secrets of it all. Behind the curtain. She comes from green, but I don’t blame her. Gave it all up. Left home, because the cash is all smoke and mirrors. Not the real magic. Oh, it makes things happen, truth, but you can’t buy your way out of the system. You play, you pay. You have to play monopoly to get your hands on monopoly money. We don’t play.
She’s special, Darla. She’s more than anything I seen in Upper West. She’s special, because she didn’t fall into the gutter. She didn’t stumble like the rest. No.
Darla jumped. Feet first.
We have the real green, Darling Darla and I. The whole circle does. Spend most of our time at the Upper West Department, browsing stores for fun and profit. Finding the news and laughing at the sheep that hobble around blind, like. Can’t see the strings, so they think they have free will. We laugh at them, because we have to. Otherwise we’d pity them, and there’s no pity for the man what holds the butcher knife.
Never mind that. Upper West was the nines. Wonderful time at the court, eating cardboard noodles and wet fried chicken. Slippery salty fingers while we talk and undress each other with our eyes. Darla’s neck curve like a swan, long like. Not sticks and veins either, oh no. Smooth and creamy like caramel silk. Soft on the lips and smells of lavender. Tasty like.
Pearl teeth and bright ruby lips, sometimes velvet purple. Never drab or plain, oh no. Sometimes she wore a soft leathery black that drew me up, her lips begging for a good roll. Pop. Sometimes she wore soft pink like marshmallow, wanting a tickle. Ruby Red for casual play. Purple was kinky and wild. She would wink at me with her lips sometimes, and we both knew what she wanted. In the middle of the food court, we’d slip off to the bathrooms, and wait until no one was looking.
Her lips tickled my tongue, like chemical sweat from what she wore. Never tastes like it smells, like cigarettes or wine. I loved that taste — the taste of putting passions on lips and holding it there with clear shine.
Mouth was a ten. Hundred truth.
We must have rolled fifty times in those stalls. I learned the cracks in the wall by heart. I saw rolling waves and twisting rivers in the walls, cascading down like a waterfall towards the porcelain. I imagined boats full of fishermen and logs floating like alligators to sawmills. I saw wolves running wild, chasing after deer and rolling bitches of their own. I smelled paint and plastic, tin and leather, and she would bite my shoulder to keep from crying out.
Insatiable, my darling Darla. Thirsty. She gets it. She gets me. She gets all of us. She sees behind the curtain. Sees the real.
Anyone who can see the world for what it is knows the gutter is real. The couches provide, the streets fulfill, we live the life that everyone else in the world is too frightened to see. They have their books and their tweed and their spectacles. They have reservations and meetings and the system. They saw the world and made a machine, all cogs and wheels and springs and ropes and ties and nooses and porcelain. Called it real. Said it was truth. Not truth, no no.
The gutter is truth. We have the truth. We have the evenings. The mornings. The shadows around the corner and the bricks in the alleyway.
We have the real world. We have what’s behind the curtain. We have magic.
My name is Ozzie Fitch. Old Ozzie, they call me. Everyone knows old Oz, call me a real wiz. Funny like. Not as funny as they want it to be, but I don’t shout. Ozzie’s like that. Nice.
I have a history. Everyone does. Don’t like to talk about it. Chanters never talk about it. It’s never worth it. Looking back means you aren’t here. Here is truth. The past is all lies. Nothing sticks, all tricks. Wonder if it matters? It doesn’t. What you do with what you got, that’s the path forward. That’s the Chant. Future? Why, that’s yours to shape.
Pop a tab, smoke a stick, sizzle your brain and dive feet first.
I have a history. Came to Upper West some time ago. Couple years. Got away from them. Stepped off the bus and walked away, never looked back.
Horrible places, stations and stops. Places to sit and stare. Wait. Feel the dust. Not get yourself moving, waiting for someone else to come along and open the door for you. Give you a seat. Dollar fifty. How much does it cost? Don’t care, never using it. Just sit and wonder what’s going to happen. Where will you get off? Will they take you there? Will they crash? People there too. Looking. Listening. Smelling. Can’t get free, just people up and down the row. Hot flesh glistening and grunting. Nothing but windows to look out.
It was hard to get on the bus. Real hard. Had to time it just right so I wasn’t sitting and waiting. Missed three busses, because I got there, and no bus. Kept walking. Around the block, down to the store, back again and time it just right. Three busses. They pulled away. Third one saw it coming, would have had to wait half a minute. Less. Couldn’t do it. Turned back and tried for number four. Number four got it right. Barely had to run to jump on board. No waiting.
Waiting, you start thinking. Changing your mind. Everything you knew starts to slip away. Got to hold onto something.
I hate bus stops. Terrible places. Not here nor there. Gotta wait for someone else. You can’t walk. No drive. Just sit. Let dust settle on your shoulders. Thick like. Everything passing; cars, strollers, joggers, cogs and chanters all. Walk right past. No one looks. No one sees. Just wait. Limbo. Eventually, someone comes. Maybe. Could be late. You got a plan? They don’t care. They got a schedule.
You gotta wait with yourself.
Hated that ride. Took too long. Had to drink, set my mind buzzing. Static to quiet the thoughts. Took a tab, started sizzling. Was alright. Took another tab when I stepped off. Fell asleep next to a dumpster. First taste of Upper West, that dumpster. Smelled bad. I smelled worse.
That’s what we call it in the gutter; “Upper West.” Northwestern side of the city, see. North is up on maps, unless they flat on the ground. Then there’s Downtown, and the Dregs, Bridgewalk, Foresters — which gets its own name ‘cuz there’s not a better spot in the city for a beer and a smoke, everyone loves Foresters — and the Glitty, which is anywhere the glitters go. Mostly north east. Some downtown. Definitely out in the subs; glitters everywhere in the subs, jewels shining and teeth all white, rubbing their furs on their cheeks and silk ties between their fingers. Darla was almost a glitter, but jumped feet first. Love her for that. Love my darling.
Don’t hate the glitters. Did once, don’t anymore. Pity them, mostly. Sad dusted souls drinking wine. Sitting in motel rooms with their prostitutes and in restaurants with their steaks. Huge houses to get lost in, dust everywhere. Poor souls.
Family? Got my circle.
Do I got parents? Sure, don’t talk to them much anymore. Left a long time ago. Then the money machine stopped spitting green. “Account closed.” Tried three times, tears in eyes, before yanking the card out and throwing it on the ground. Tried to tear it, but you can’t tear plastic. Not like real money. Left it there, useless. Fool, me, didn’t know how powerful frustration can be. Should have saved it. Pocket the plastic. Last thing they gave to me. Didn’t know the chant well enough. Powerful totem, could have kept it. Strong magic, that. Oh well. Kept moving.
Don’t got a phone. Don’t got much money. Don’t do much except live. Live and chant. Live and chant and keep moving. Three ways of saying the same.
Some say it’s family that makes you. Takes a village. Nature and nurture. Me? I say I chose my real family. Found them in Upper West. Hard find. Truth, was a bit of luck to find them. Real luck, not the chant. I was looking hard for family when I stepped off the bus. Find a family worth having. But you look hard, you don’t find. Friends like cats and dogs, nah. Friends like rabbits. Hide until you forget they there.
Have to leave my circle eventually. Leave Binny and the others. Don’t want to, like to stay with them forever. I know them. They know me. Good fit. Old Ozzie they call me. Oz the Wiz. It’s funny.
When I move on, because you gotta keep moving, I’ll leave Upper West and head to Downtown or up into the glitty, try my chanting in the sub wastelands. Take from them that have.
Cindy just laughs. “No chanting in the subs,” she says. Cindy says they got nothing but garages up there. “Garages and middle-age old women who think they got magic. Sit around playing cards. Sipping white. Laughing and twisting their pearls. That’s a circle in the subs.”
Old Oz knew she was lying. Middle-class circle not a thing. Like a four-sided triangle. Hundred truth, the subs never change. That’s their appeal. That’s why you go to the subs, to stay the same. Same job. Same spouse. Same TV. Same front door. Same walkway same car same grass same trees same windows same granite counter top same carpet same dog same same same same. Nothing but dust.
JJ, he looks to the scrapers. He looks up. Thinks that means anything, like up is better than lower. Truth, like he thinks Upper West better than Downtown, like it’s always better. Like it’s natch. Angry JJ, he says circle and boardroom the same thing. Like they broken the chant. Got powerful, and now think the chant works for them. Nothing truth about that. They think they pull the strings, only it’s not them that pulls. They think the dust is perfume.
Old Ozzie’ll never dust. No, not to the subs. Not in the scrapers. Ozzie going to stay forever in Upper West. Got a circle. Got Darling Darla. Maybe make my own circle some day. That’s me. Old Oz. A real wiz. Man behind a curtain.