Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 2
Met Darla because of the chant.
Didn’t chant for her, no no. Never chant for Darla, truth. I swear truth. Darla’s special.
About a year ago. Knew it would be her, the moment I saw her. That’s part of it, knowing without knowing. Seeing and feeling and your gut driving your limbs, robot like. Didn’t think about it, thinking just confuses your gut. Our brains shout it all down. Sizzle the brain and your gut takes over. Shows you truth.
Met her in the library. What was old Ozzie doing in a library? There with Leon. Being a friend. Thought it might be a laugh, to see the nut shove through the dust and the books, to see if he could see. Hunting like a dog. Looking for chants. Didn’t know the real repository, or maybe forgot. Poor Leon. He’d hate me thinking “poor Leon,” but poor Leon.
See, the Chant’s not in books. It’s not. No chanter ever write a book. Think pamphlets; a piece of paper, fold in three. Scrawl in pen. Done. Spread wherever you want. Hand it to someone, don’t leave it there on a shelf to gather dust. Like a shark. The chant is always moving. You get it from people, from connections, from circles, from hopping from place to place. Pinch here, dash there.
Leon thought the chant was in books. Knew better, but hope, always hope.
“Nothing here,” I told him. I told him I did. “Never. All fake witches and incense. Bless the sun and dancing. Posers.”
Leon, the nut, did his frown. Funny frown. Wrinkled his nose like a rabbit, mouth all pursed. Cute, even though he was angry. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Wanted to,” I said. Smiled at him. Frowned at me. Knew I wanted a laugh. Wanted to see him, brow all furrowed, grabbing books like a drowning man.
“You’re such a jerk,” he said, walked up the steps. Followed, me.
It’s quiet in the Library. I like that. All dust and whispers. Good place to sizzle, the library. Thought I could watch Leon jump about, let the sand fall in a hiss from my brain down my spine into my stomach.
I fingered the tab in my pocket. Not yet. Like to wait. Let it linger.
Found a table in the back, sat down. Leon ran up and down the stacks, the ladders and stairs, filling his arms with dusty books. Different ones every time. Books on magic. On witches. On demons. On pagans. None of them the chant. None of them were real.
“Who the hell’s this IQ?” I picked up a book. High-brow had no hair, thick glasses. Awkward smile. Didn’t want to be photographed, could see that in his eyes. Had a pipe. Truth! Goddamn pipe!
“Professor,” Leon shrugged, dropping another load. “Sociology. Studies old magic rituals. Seven years or more. Might have some ideas.”
Stupid Leon, laughed at him. Hushed by the librarian, all wide with gray hair. Dusted long ago, poor dear. “Looks at us through a telescope, you mean. I’ll tell you what he say, you hear? Truth, he’ll talk culture. Talk society. Talk witch-burning and tribes in Africa, waving their hands over their heads. He’ll call it religion. Truth, he will.”
“You don’t have to be here.”
Dropped the book, leaned back and put my feet on the desk. Fingered the tab in my pocket. “You won’t find a chant in a library. Too dusty.”
“Fuck off.”
I wasn’t wrong. Looked through other books, just for a laugh. All of them garbage. Most were posers. Stupid names. Torlok, or Autumn Harmonystar. Talked moon phases. Talked spirits of nature. Talked satanic power and importance of love. Of Hate. Called it magic. Garbage.
Real chants aren’t in books, they’re on lips. Don’t come from ink, come from tongues. Whispers in raves. Napkins. Gum wrappers. See it for yourself.
I didn’t take the tab. Read a book instead. Don’t know why. Curious. Book was boring too. Some girl wrote it, least a seven. Eight if she was younger. Didn’t read much. Wouldn’t listen if I read more. Got a book published, you got nothing to say.
Everyone who’s got something to say, they don’t say it. You hear them all the time, people shouting about nothing. Speaking just so their voices are heard. Nothing in the head because it all leaked out through the mouth. Keep quiet, and you’ve got everything to say. Kept safe and warm in your head, not a speck of dust gets in. Too full. Thoughts bouncing around like balls in there, sometimes words break off and fit in other places. New thoughts. New words, even.
You can tell the talk of the chanter. “The other day I walked down to the store” and asleep already. “Went shopping.” Past. I. You care I walked? Not jazz, but you hear what don’t say. Like eastern. Zen. Lose what you don’t need. Sizzle the brain, and some words just don’t matter. No words for what you know when you sizzle. Colors and sounds. Feelings. Hundred truth.
So I read the book. Flipped through. Skipped across like rock on pond. Had a thought. Kept it to myself.
When I looked up, saw her.
The end of a chapter, I think. Maybe started a new one. Lifted my head a bit, work out a crick or two, and she was standing in the stacks, hip on the side.
That was the hook. Caught my cheek. Hip to the side, could fit a coffee cup. Looked her up down. Liked what I saw. Started thinking about the roll we could have. felt the skin under my fingers, smelled the sweat on her neck. Gripped the hip like a handle.
Used to go prowling a lot. Less after joining Binny’s circle. Not much point, when a good roll was nearby. Sometimes Paula. Sometimes Liz, but she left. On to another circle. Never dusted, Liz. See her sometimes in a rave. At a dance. Does her hair short now. Still an eight. Never Cindy; didn’t like old Oz. It’s alright. No skin off my nose. Oz never pushes for a roll. Plenty willing, if I ever need one. She’s only a seven, maybe.
Once, I remember, went out with Cindy and Binny. Soft sizzle, bit of a puff, sitting on the steps and laughing at the sheep walking past. Scanning for a good lay, me and Cindy. Binny just watched. Liked watching.
Shook our heads at the threes and fours, appreciating the sevens, pointing the eights out like wildlife.
“Move past the eights, Old Ozzie,” Cindy said, picking fries out of the basket like a chicken, her fist tight with her pointer and thumb. “You never get a roll with standards. Find something your level, and let me aim for the nines.”
“My level’s got eights,” I grabbed at her basket. She pulled away while Binny laughed. Chuckle like.
“You’re no one,” she had to admit it. I knew I wasn’t. She knew it too. “You’re no eight, either. Shoot too high.”
“You shoot for sixes,” I munched a potato.
“Asshole,” she hit me in the arm, because she knew I wouldn’t hit back. “I know how girls roll better than you ever will. I’m no six.” She wasn’t.
Binny laughed, smoke pouring from his mouth. Sweet and smooth, good with fries. Had a few more. Didn’t tell truth. Truth was, Old Ozzie isn’t a nine, but people look. Word spreads. Old Ozzie is worth a nine. I may be chaff, but to me, a nine is cred.
Darla, darling Darla, standing in the stacks with hip to the side. She was dressed to nines. For the Library.
No one in the library. Knew then, she was dressed to nines for me. Wanted to be seen. Be watched. Look around and catch the eye, smile and wink and come-hither. Waited for it, didn’t come.
“Come on,” Leon was mad. “Nothing good here.”
“Told you,” Old Ozzie kicked legs to the ground. “All dust in libraries. No chants here, only in the gutter.”
“This library’s a gutter,” Leon shoved a book aside. “I’m heading back to the digs.”
Decided to follow. Getting hungry, had some chips at Binny’s digs. Maybe bum toast. Stood up, and spared a glance to the girl in the stacks. Saw her lick her lips all shiny. I fell in love.
Came back next day. Same Library. Brought tabs to pass the time, sizzle in silence. Read a little. Nothing good.
Saw the librarian, hair gray and face wide, wander about putting books on shelves. Everything back in its proper place. Dust settled again. No life. No energy. Old thoughts spilled out ages ago, leaving emptiness behind. Sizzling brains had more in them, all static. Sizzle pop sizzle. Feeling good.
Sizzle the brain to stop the words, keep things flowing like river down the bed side table. Stream like. Lie back and float while waiting for the girl Darla. I put the tab on my tongue. Fox. It’s my favorite.
Had to learn her schedule when she came decided to come wasn’t when I was there for a long time. Hard to focus when the brain sizzles like bacon the tabs made the waiting easier because so much to think and not say couldn’t say in the library have to be quiet POP keep it all inside all jumbled knocking against words fall apart make new.
Didn’t see her again for a while just waiting like moss growing on rocks to the north where it’s cold POP and licking lichen off the trees. Ursa major tongues rough like sandpaper can smooth out the grooves in stone and metal rolling like marbles down a ramp to the bottom, gutter ball. All smooth and shiny like lips licking soft and strong tongue in the mouth SIZZLE sexy like to the nines.
Spent my time watching the motes swirl in the air beams of light like holiness in white top hat cane monocle on a chain down to the depths of water filled basin wash away the POP unclean refuse to the gutters where they belong. Always better with a flush. Keep the gilt all shiny gold for the royal rump the apple in mouth bobbing for Halloween costumes and masks to hide what’s really underneath.
All becomes static like Tesla shooting light through the air like lightning through the clouds like balls and strikes thundering down the tracks called return stroke follow through across the tennis court. Sizzle sizzle feels good. All the thoughts POP bouncing balls over the net and smiling lemonade in the glitty glitter everywhere all white and clean.
Sizzling like onion. Tears to the eyes. Make what’s underneath come clean and true.
Coming down now, softer pops, less the hiss and more the static white to brown to soft whispers. Tingles on the skull. Feeling soft touches on the chin and cheek like a lover. No judgment rapping gavel on the brain. Then the mouth goes dry as dust a desert sand gritty and course. No smoothness and the tongue like rubber, foul and sour like bad beer. Thirsty like. Motes hurt now, specks, stabs of light through the eye into the brain. Sinus sneezing dust everywhere no water for mucus. Itching. Pleasant tickles turn headaches and pinpricks. Want to scratch it off, find winnings underneath. Lucky lottery turns up sour patch. All aches. Acres of aches. Stiff muscles snap as I sit up. Thirsty.
Did I cry out? Cry out sometimes when I sizzle. Don’t know. Binny says sometimes, I cry out. No one looking. If I cried, no one makes like they heard. Thirsty.
Need a drink. Check the time. How long? About an hour. No Darla. Didn’t know her name, but didn’t see her. Get a drink, come back tomorrow.
Did it again. Again and again. Always different, never Darla. New people. Fives and sixes, an eight or two. Saw a nine that wasn’t her. Could have loved her. Didn’t. Had friends with her, giggling. A six and a seven. Didn’t want the hassle. Some of them looked like chanters, but they were in the library. No real chanter looks in the library.
Then, woke up from a sizzle to see hip to the side. Grab the handle. It was her. In the stacks. Small book in one hand, fast-food cup in the other. Hair was up this time, strands falling to the side, curled like. Eyes half shut. Turned a page with her finger, then sucked on the straw. Lips perfect red. Shiny. Soft. Wet.
Thirsty, but didn’t move. Stared at her instead, watching every move, feeling skin under fingertips, smelling sweat on her neck. Rubber tongue. Tasted so good.
Wanted to roll, but didn’t stand. Couldn’t. Lips so shiny and she was standing in sunlight. Dust motes swirling around her head, but never touching. Never settling. Slid off like water on shiny oil. Swirling in sick rainbow colors.
She had a skirt, short and flared. Denim. Clean and classy, no trash. Thin sleeves and low-cut, showing what she had, which was nice of her. A gift for me. Her high heels were red, but scuffed. Thick makeup, and bright nail polish. Art in an art gallery, but not dusty. Still moving, being painted while I watched. All for me. My own private showing.
Watched her. Kept watching, as she closed the book and put it in her purse.
Looked around, the thief. Eyes darting back and forth, to see who saw. Didn’t see me. No one else looking. No one else around. Just old Oz, admiring the beauty. Lips to straw again, saw her suck. Stood up, then. Had to speak to her, to get her name. Had to know who would take what was free.
Watched as she moved to another stack. Looking at titles. I looked at the title in front of me, written on her cup. “Donnies,” I read.
She looked at me with bright brown eyes. Uped and downed me as perfect eyebrows arched appraising. She knew she was a nine. Was I a nine? No, not even an eight, but I knew what I was, and knowing makes you more than a six. at least a seven to even talk to her.
Her lips opened to wrap around the thin straw. I saw the sweet slip up the plastic into her mouth. Smooth skin twitched on her neck as she swallowed. Wet lips.
“I’m sorry?” She asked, smile on her mouth. She liked what she saw. We’d be rolling soon, but first, foreplay.
“Donnies,” pointing at the cup. “Trashy place. Better food in Upper West.”
“I like it,” she said, glancing around, looking for a private place. “Always a good fish sandwich at Donnies.”
I had never had the fish sandwich. Fancy salmon dinners with black ties and violins. They ate salmon, inviting over friends to laugh and drink while talking about everyone worse off.
Up close I could see the gilt. Like they wore. Shiny necklace and a bracelet that sparkled, only wore a denim skirt. Red high heels were all scuffed.
But eyes were sharp. Appraising. Smirk. Smell of smoke and grease. She was gutter, no matter the glitter.
“Fries like wet noodles,” I said. “Not real fries. Not like the kind at Handy’s.”
She looked up at me through her lashes. Didn’t run, but crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow like a model. Eyes shimmering like glass. Her lips were smooth and inviting like flower pedals. I couldn’t stop feeling her hair ringlets curled around my fingers.
“Don’t eat the fries,” she shrugged. “Eat chips.”
“Too salty,” I said, stepping closer. She still didn’t move.
“Not for me. I like salty.”
We rolled in the stacks, quiet like. No one around, so it was fine. Thirsty, so drunk from her straw. She laughed at me. Asked her name. Told her mine. I’d like to see her again, and she said she had a place to stay.
That was that. Old Ozzie had a Darling Darla. Everyone knew it. That’s the power of the chant. They see it in you. They want it. I didn’t chant for Darla, but the chant, it got me Darla. Old Ozzie hit the jackpot.