Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 3
Darla had a shit family in the subs. Hated them, trying to make her like things she didn’t like. Told her who and how to be, like everyone does. Forced her into college. Didn’t like the culture, she said. Full of people trying to change themselves, weren’t happy with who they were. Try on different kinds of people like different clothes. Made her feel bad. Stupid. Not good enough. Decided to leave.
Has a room of her own. Tiny. Good to stay, though. No flop nor couch for Old Oz, long as Darla’s his squeeze. She still has green, still has glitter. Took it from her mother’s box, she said. Sells it for cash when she needs it. Doesn’t always need it. My Darling Darla, she’s got fingers. Takes books from the library. She knows how to take back what’s been taken. Mall’s a good spot. We all spend a lot of time there, watching the dusted shamble by like zombies.
“So what?” she’d say. “Who’s paid? Who hurts? So what? Doesn’t matter. No one cares.” No one cares. ‘Cept the dusted, and we free, natch.
Darling Darla had a thing for public places. Had to keep quiet, but I didn’t mind. We rolled all over Upper West. I was game. Shower house at the beach. Public stalls. Food court at the mall, that was her favorite. Mine too. Learned all the cracks in the wall by heart.
But that was later. Long time after I met Binny. First was Dear Mamma. And Kyle, the bastard. Met Paula before I met Binny. Lots of girls. Lots of living on the gutter before I lived in the gutter.
The gutter calls that a Skip. Skip along the surface like a stone. Gutter, but not deep. Don’t know about the real underground of the gutter. Soup kitchens. Doorways. Leeches eating your green with tabs and pills but don’t give back. We all Skips at first. Old Oz was a Skip, truth. Some skip because they don’t know there’s anything below. Some skip because they don’t know where to find it.
That was Old Oz. Knew there was truth in the gutter. Had to be. Not in the subs with the glitters, no no. Kept moving until I found it. Until I found Dear Mamma.
Couldn’t not meet Dear Mamma. Like a star. Pulled you in, like gravity.
She don’t live in Upper West, oh no. Live in another city. When I first jumped in the gutter, feet first, didn’t know anyone. Didn’t know a damn thing. Stepped off the bus onto concrete. Not a soul knew Ozzie Fitch. Felt good. Felt great. No one thought they knew me. No one expected grades or medical school or the white picket. It was freedom.
Oh, they saw old Oz, but they didn’t look or watch or think that what I did was right or wrong or not what I usually. I was a new person. A new Oz. I could stretch. Breathe finally. No one thought they knew me, they’d have to learn.
But I saw them. Holes in old clothing. Took from the street. Didn’t have anything but each other and their pain. Knew it was real. Had to be. Subs all about avoiding pain. Here, couldn’t avoid it. Lived it. Breathed it. Could breathe, finally. No one knew me, but I knew them. This was real. Behind the curtain. So I thought. Didn’t know a thing.
Got a dump hotel room. Stayed for a week then left one day without paying. Found a spot in the park and sat down with wax-wrapped grease and gristle. Did that every day for a while. Found places to sleep. People to watch.
Not everyone in the gutter is a chanter. Not everyone’s a layabout. Some have problems, not enough in the head or in the wallet. Some get thrown down, others trip and stumble. Some people, special, jump feet first.
Gutter living ain’t easy. Gotta eat, gotta sleep, gotta stay fresh. Eating’s easy if you know the spots. Cheap food only takes a bit of green, you can take stuff, or pawn stuff, just need to learn the rules. Finding sleep can be hard. Gets cold at night, so you need somewhere warm, dry, private like. Police, the Boots in blue, know the best places, and a Boot sees you, they kick you off somewhere else. Hide and seek with the Boots. What we called it, ‘play hide ’n seek.’ Not many good places without Boots. Gotta snap them when you’ve find them. Never let them go.
If you’re lucky, you find a flop.
Flop is an open door. They’re all over if you know how to look. Door always open, Boots never come by, no one knows or cares. No one bothers you, because they don’t want to be bothered.
It’s not the surfing. See, there’s them that have apartments, beds, rooms, things. They got small jobs, bit of green, enough for a roof, a door, a couch. To surf, you find one of them and sleep there. If they have room, you got a spot. They’re real nice. You’re not part of the surf if you don’t let anyone crash. That’s the surf. You know the scene well enough, you never have to flop. You can always surf.
Gotta be careful. To many surf a spot, becomes a flop. Someone makes a call. Landlord, leech, sees the blood they could be drinkin’, calls the Boots. Laws against it, Leon says. Doesn’t matter. Boots don’t care about the law. Care about pissing in the gutter. No more surf. Gotta know the rhythm of the surf. Back and forth. Here and gone again. Gentle like.
When I stepped off the bus, I didn’t know anything. Spent my first days in Upper West at a flop. Had a spot in the far corner next to an open drain. Smelled bad, but warm enough.
First night, I cried. Want to say because I was happy. Wasn’t. Scared. Dark and alonely, no one but myself around, natch, and I wasn’t great company. Sat listening to the gutter sounds; mumbling from layabouts, scratching in the walls, cars outside. Miserable. Cold.
But thing is, didn’t want to go back. Didn’t want warm. Didn’t want happy. Cold and sad, knew was real. Wasn’t like the subs, where smoke and mirrors fill the streets. Nothing there for me. Here, in Upper West, I could find something. Found something. Pain like drinking water in a desert. Pain like opening my eyes the first time. Pain like hungry man eating. Pain is good. Pain is truth.
One night, I see a guy. Got a tea-light next to his face and he stares into it, all focused like. Not a world around him, yeah? He takes this paper, and folds it. Folds again. Folds again. Three folds, right? Only I think he’s fiddling, but he smooths it out and tries again. Smooths it out and tries again. Muttering, right?
I watch, and then he gets it right.
He knows it. I know it too. I don’t know how, but he breathes out like he’s run a mile. Just finished a good roll with a lover, right? Blows out candle and falls asleep.
So me, I have a receipt in my pocket. Don’t remember where from. I fold it three times, like he did. I do it again. I keep doing it until I fall asleep.
See, I thought it was like a password. I do it right, they let you in. Like a prayer.
Never felt right. Not like what I saw. Sometimes felt better, sometimes worse, but felt like I was moving. Every time I did it wrong like a stab in the heart. Tickmarks on the arm. Failure meant I’d never get there, but I was alive. No dust.
Then one day, in the park, Dear Mamma comes up to me, rolling over like a barrel. Started talking. Strange old bird talking about nonsense. I thought she was homeless, like me. Brain lost in a fog, talking about magic.
I knew something, not nothing. Not much. Everyone knows Luck; rabbits’ feet, four-leaf clover, kiss the necklace, avoiding cracks. That’s the big one. Cracks are where you fall. No one finds you in a crack. Don’t step. Worse than a curse. A worse curse. That’s chant. I knew that much chant, but didn’t know it was the chant. Knew the three-fold, didn’t know why it didn’t work.
She knew. Dear Mamma, she saw the chant in me. She looked and saw that piece of paper I was folding. She showed me. Taught me. Not like in school, but real teaching. Did it while I watched. If I got it right, I flew. If I didn’t, no place for me in the gutter. Slept good that night. First time in weeks.
Came back the next day. She talked some more. Next day some more. Shared a sandwich, she slipped me a stick. Sizzled a bit that first time, saw things I never seen again. Opened the door. Saw the real curtain. Wanted to look behind, but didn’t. Too big. Too stiff. Like wood.
Found a loose brick in the flop, a small hollow, perfect to hide little things. My gear. Gear’s important for a chanter. Had a bic, a tea-candle, a spoon, a thick piece of paper, a pen someone had dropped in the park. That’s gear for a chanter. Enough to start. Need more, but need a start. Hid everything behind the brick before bed.
One day, came back and Dear Mamma, she gave me a name.
It’s like a slope, crowd-surfing. Go here, then there. Never stay. One night only. Get there early, or lose your spot. You there, you listen, you learn if they teach. If not, bad luck. Didn’t chant right. Go next. All over Upper West, you meet the people. Chanters. Layabouts. You look you see the door, but it’s your choice to step through. They don’t take your arm.
Old Oz, he jumped through. Drooling. All hungry for more.
For two months, taught myself the gutter.
Slept on a different couch every night. Learned the words, the code, what you say and when you say it. Had my first real sizzle on the surf. Met Kyle, the bastard, first time. Met Ribber too, didn’t know who he was. Lost track of Dear Mamma. Met others. Some good. Some bad. Was robbed. Robbed people myself. It’s what you do. How you survive.
Left my gear at the flop. Didn’t need it. Gear’s not important for a chanter. You find things. Find them then and there. Use it once, then done. You can’t prepare for a chant. Not really. Gear gets used up, like coke can, like burger carton. Use then toss. There’s power in that.
Took weeks, months, before I found the Chant. Before I found a circle. Maybe make my own circle, someday. Circle, see, is a family you make. Darla hates her family too. She gets me.
In the gutter, you make your own family. That’s what the gutter does. Catches the refuse.
The dusted, the cogs, the sheep, they give us names. Lots they call us: idlers, drifters, aimless, dropouts and layabouts. Refuse. We have different names. We see the system for what it is, a mass produced assembly line making boards. Bored boards. Standing at bus stations and holding briefcases. Wearing ties and leaving their kids with strangers for money.
How fucked up is that? You’re supposed to love your kids. Protect them. Teach them. Be in their lives. Support. And what do they do? Pass off their kid to some stranger who wants green. Not to teach, not to love, but to get the green. Who knows what they’re teaching your kid? Not the real lessons, the lessons life teaches. They just teach how be in the system. If you listen, they teach you how to be a stiff board. Robot, truth. Shouldn’t pay them anything.
We’re no stiff boards. We’re not dusty. We see their lines and angles. We see the suits and the polish and the dust, and we said no. Cross our arms. Turn away. Chin held high and strong, wave a middle-finger flag in the air. No cogs, us. March down the street, hang out next to doorways and street corners where they have to see us. We’re strong. We’re invincible. They can’t hurt us, because we don’t buy-in. Why? Why no buy? No green, natch. Scratch the surface and find a hollow toy. All thin, like paper. What’s beneath? We go looking. Found it, too. Society doesn’t like us for that. Pushes us out if we don’t jump. Find ourselves in the gutter. System not for us. For the cogs. Take care of their own. Step away from the cogs, you get the gutter, where we belong.
We all belong. Find each other, if we look. And we look. Together we get stronger. So we circle up, natch. Gotta be part of a circle when you chant. Circles are the only thing. All circles magic, even those who don’t chant. Bring a mess of people together. Look in the eye. Talk. Listen. See. Hide behind the curtain where it’s safe. Where we’re strong. That’s the circle.
Me, I never stayed long enough. Hopped in and out. Never did the chant together. Learned a bit here and there, word of mouth, like.
Then met Dan and Francine. Weirdos, but nothing fancy. Stayed with Dan and Francine longer than most. Almost a week. Then one day they told me to come with them. Walked half a mile to an underpass outside Upper West. Five of us: me, Dan, Francine, and two others. They thought you needed five, like five makes it more real, somehow. Used flashlights instead of candles, like light was more important than smoke.
First time in my life I chanted with a circle. All five of us there, chanting. Together. I don’t remember what we were chanting. I don’t remember what for. Maybe for visibility, to be seen, no more overlooked and forgotten. Chanted a lot for that in the old days. To put yourself in someones mind, to catch the eye and draw the gaze. Young and stupid, I thought it was for girls. Boys. Love and a roll. Nope.
Don’t remember. But remember the Chant. Reaching out and picking up the threads. Smooth like. Calm and misty, and the stars…
I remember the stars.
Hadn’t sizzled my brain at all, that first time. There was just the chant. The chant and the stars, and the five of us sitting there together. I don’t think I even believed it at the time. I knew the chant, but circles…I didn’t realize.
Didn’t have anything that night. I mean really, I finally didn’t have anything. You have everything in the subs. Have green. Have a roof. Have clothes. Have a job. Have place to stand. Not a place to be, a place to stand. Statue. Guard. Have to be there, or else. Wear a noose around the neck. Strings like puppets. Smile when you were sad. Nod when you were angry. Bullshit! All bullshit lies and fucking assholes making like they care when they don’t. None of it real. No pain. Just numb.
The stars, they were so beautiful. Distant and still, twinkling like sequins, but they didn’t know. They didn’t know what they did to me. Some of them had already died, billions of billions of miles away. Ancient light that only now met my eyes. We were so inconsequential, that night. Sitting there, chanting, together.
I found something that night. Something deep inside me, that I didn’t even know had been there, because I didn’t have anything in the way. I think I still know where it is. I find it during the chant, sometimes when my brain sizzles. It’s more than just a feeling, it’s a truth. Something deeper than all the lies and ads and everything that people say is important.
Then it was over. We packed up, said goodbye.
Dan and Francine were not as good as Binny and his circle, but I thought they were hot stuff. Didn’t know any better. They weren’t bad. Good for a new kid. Onboarding.
Binny knows everything. Advanced like. Didn’t find Binny for a while, though. Left Dan and Francine a week later. Don’t remember why. I might have done something. Wanted more. Kept moving. Found a lot of different circles. Then I found Kyle, the bastard. Through friends of friends. Found every circle that way. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, always keep moving ‘cuz it might be better. Might be worse. Nothing’s worse than dusting out. Skipping stones don’t sink.
Word of mouth. Know-a-guy who knows-a-guy. Be one of the crowd, and the crowd knows you. That’s how I found Binny. Binny the sage, I call him. He just laughs, says he’s no sage. Says he’s a guide. Believes it too. Truth.
It’s not like marriage. Circle’s not like that. Exclusive. No, we swing free, click from place to place like magnets. Some chant with three or four circles. Some circles unorganized. Some spontaneous. Sometimes just one other person. No oath. No blood. Just show up, sometimes. Other times, they make a promise to meet, or say a prayer. Like a secret handshake. Ozzie don’t care about that. Old Oz just wanted to chant. Meet others like him.
Circles are big. Circles are small. Once was in a circle of twelve, truth. Crazy time. Hard to hear the static with all the voices. Did it work? Must have worked, but that’s the thing about the chant. Four a lot better than three, twelve ain’t much better than eleven.
All you need? Two. Two can make a circle. It’s different with two. Not intimate, like, but clearer. Cleaner. like you’re being spotted, hands on your back to keep you upright. Holding each other clean. Clean as a bean.
We know about circles, we layabouts. We know about the system about the world, truth, because we’re outside it. Fish can’t see water. Birds can’t see wind. Only on the outside can you see both. We see the rot and the dust and how it eats away at everything beautiful and lovely and kind. We see and we said no. We left. We found the gutters. Or they pushed us there.
So we found ourselves there, and made ourselves stronger. Circles are the weapons against the lies and dust of the world. Truth, the only weapon against a lie is the truth. The only weapon against the lines is a people. Crack the cogs like clam-shells.
Circle is a culture, natch. A way of life. An ethos. A way of being that you flow along like a river. Rain-water in the gutter. A thousand ways that are natural, not tacked on like tacky shine or smell. It’s everything. It’s the Chant.