Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 5
That was my circle. Binny, Darla, Leon, Ribber, Cindy, Me, and JJ. Circles are the families you make. We see the system for what it is, and the system hates us. Circles protect you. Strengthen you. They make you strong. If you don’t have a circle, you’re alonely. On your own. One voice shouting in the darkness, echoes of your own voice in the static.
Many voices together, all chanting the same. That’s real power. A hundred hands on the hammer. Without a circle, you horde. You keep. You don’t share. Dark magic. Being alonely is selfish, really. Some people deserve it, but most don’t. Without a circle, you’re not a part of the chant. Not like you could be.
Circles keep you strong. Together. They help you fight the fight. On your own, you’re just a rat. Nibble at the edges, little rat. Chew and swallow and shit under the radiator. You take, you don’t give. You’re not human, not really. Hundred truth, if you don’t have a circle, you’re not worth a thing. Not worth pennies.
It’s all about Circles. Hundred truth. That’s where the real power comes from. See, that’s what the dusted don’t understand. They think it’s all about the green and glitter, the name on the door, the white picket in the subs.
That’s how they hook, with green and gilt. Need a car? Get a job. Need a wife? Join a gym. Need friends? Smile when you’re sad. Smoke and mirrors. Not real magic. Fakery to make you think you’re alive.
See, when you’re a part of the system, the system keeps you apart. That’s Binny’s line. A real Sage, Binny. He knows things, all clouded with smoke. We all know it. System is keeping up with the Joneses. Keeping up with, not passing, not walking with, keeping up. Running behind. Never quite there. Keep stretching, reaching, never getting, because if you get, then you stop. You stop, the system breaks down. Everything stops. Them at the top don’t get their vacay. No caviar and bubbly. No mansions in the glitty.
Without a circle, you fade. No one sees you. Forgotten. The curtain that hides you becomes a wall. Suddenly, you don’t even know if you exist anymore. That’s what a circle is. People who see you. Water to swim in, air to fly in. You exist.
I’ve chanted with hundreds of circles. Jumped about a lot when I was younger. That’s how chanters do it. You just stay for a while, click away to another, then click back. If you want. Free love. Sometimes you keep moving more than others. Never settle. Keep shifting and spreading and sharing and never get tied down. If you get tired, you rest. You sleep. Then you get up.
Been in several circles. Never counted. Always gotta keep moving, or else you dust. Then you’re nothing but a cog.
Binny’s circle is the best I’ve ever been in, truth. Worst? Kyle. Doesn’t matter much, because that’s how chanters go. They move all the time. The real culture of the chant. Keep moving, never stop the flow.
Some chanters, though, some are rocks in the stream. They stay in place and become the center of their own circle. Like Kyle. Like Benny. Not dusting, because they’re chanters. They know how to keep moving when sitting still. Real sages, they are.
Kyle was bad. Hated him. Didn’t do anything right. Binny, he gets it. Taught me everything about the chant. Everything real. Kyle taught me too. Almost forgot all of it. See, when someone learns about the chant, they get excited, natch. They think about love potions and changing the weather, and think they’re gonna be Merlin or some shit. Get excited, start calling themselves powerful. Don’t last long, becuase that chanting never works. Most give up. Others get wise. Some don’t give up, don’t get wise, think that they’ve got real power. Think they’re better than anyone. That was Kyle. Thought that he could do things the chant can’t do, if only he got an army of wizards under his thumb. Real shithead. No one liked kyle. Circle only full of new-comers and Skips. Like me. Wised up quick, though.
Binny never calls me wiz. Binny’s the real wiz. He’s the shaman. He knows the Chant. He’s the wild one, smoking and shooting all day and all night. Eyes blood red under sandy brown hair that looks like wax because he never washes it. Got an old jacket that he always wears. Almost never goes out.
Saw Binny before I met him. Got his name from a party. Introduced, and remembered seeing him before. Just a man on the side of the road, smoking and drinking. Had a pipe. Like old pipe, not hard stuff. Curved and long. Who smokes a pipe like that? Sat like a man with no house, no money, but damn he didn’t look like he owned the world. Kyle never owned nothing. Kyle was a real bastard. Held it all in an iron grip. Binny runs his circle communal. He’s a hippy. He knows circles don’t got points. No rungs. No levels. Like King Arthur. A real gang, Binny’s circle.
See, Benny knows the Chant and the Chanter are one in the same. Wizard of the old kind, smoking his pipe with a floppy hat and bathroom robe. The river flows through the world, and you swim against, you suffer. You suffer, that’s your own fault. Not like Karma, like point of view. Real eastern shit. Benny’s a sage. Doesn’t even sizzle his brain. He just smokes. No pills, no tablets, no needles, no powders, no liquids. He just smokes his blue smoke and smiles in the haze.
“Why would I want to?” He said once. “The whole world is amazing as it is. Why do I need to make it more colorful? The Chant is all the fizzing I need. When I see the threads and the curves, when I flick the small pebble that glides along and knocks the marbles where I want them to go…that’s all the fizzing I ever need.”
Binny, he wasn’t anything like Kyle. Equals, though not really. We chanted together, sometimes apart, always a circle. I knew them. I knew them better than I knew anyone. You learn about people from their Chants. Some better chanters than others.
Sometimes, I just sizzled and listened to everyone else chant. Like spectator. Not teams, recitals. Enjoy the mastery. Hard to say. Need to take a piece, let the brain free itself. Start sizzling and let the static flow. Truth, it’s easier to chant when the brain sizzles. Easier to let go and let the impossible happen.
Real Sage, Binny. Everyone gets the chance to chant. That’s the point. Circles. Flat. Linear on the ground, not towering above like a father or mother. Not like Them. Everyone’s the same, unless you don’t want to be.
I love the circle. It’s how I want to live. Everyone equal. We’re all in this together. No one better because they have better clothes, more green, smarter, stronger, better, just the chant.
Darla was lucky I found her first.
Before I met Binny, I drifted around a lot. Little clusters of people, trust for a bit, move on. Share the couch. Share the chant. After Dan and Francine, I found all the Circles.
Not many of us in the city. Not many, but lots. Depends on how you count, truth. Now, I know six real circles in the city. Maybe five others that call themselves circle. What’s that, like eighty? Less, I think. Fifty, maybe. Know most of the names. Edges get fuzzy. Drifters. Skips. Posers who make like they want it. Forty rocks, real chanters. Community. Forty at least. Know most of them. They know Old Oz.
Back then, knew only five, maybe ten. Then I met Kyle. The bastard.
He had a strong circle. Ten, more, never knew how many. Gang like. Clique. You were a part of Kyle’s circle, you belonged. You knew you were with Kyle, and he told you how things worked. Not like Dear Mamma, not like Binny. They pointed. Kyle pushed.
Didn’t know better. Young, yeah? Thought Kyle had answers, and was shoving us towards them. Gotta shove some people to the truth. I was young.
Didn’t last long. Thank god. See, went to a party; lotsa names, the parties. Might call it a Sabbath. Holy-day. Orgy. All silly names. They’re parties. Gatherings. Time to unwind and meet people. New connections. New threads. Make the chanters stronger. Web tighter. Share a piece here and there. A bit a sizzle.
Met a girl at the party. Don’t remember her name. Nice face. Hair was a four, but nice face. She said I looked sad.
“That’s just how I look,” I said.
“Aww, you a sad puppy?” she laughed at me. Her brain was sizzling, I could see it in her wide eyes. I took a sip of drink. Not sizzled, but fuzzy. Soft like. Felt nice to relax. She was all jumping. Maggie, her name was Maggie.
“Hey, you with Kyle?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I was. Thought it was hot stuff. Didn’t like Kyle, but still thought it was hot. One of the gang, right? Thought it was payment. Pay for power. Didn’t know better.
“Kyle’s real shit,” she laughed. Kept laughing, like it was a real joke.
“Fuck you,” I said. You had to. Close ranks. Part of the team.
“Nah,” she took a puff from a stick in her hand, and blew in my face. “You with Kyle?” she asked again, like she wanted to give me another chance or some shit.
“Yeah.” I was getting mad. Why the hell she want me to say no?
“Too bad,” she blew again. “You should find a better circle. Get better.”
“I chant to the nines,” I didn’t shout. Could have shouted, was real mad. Where did she get off, calling me a bad chanter? “I chant better than you.”
She laughed again. Know why, now. ‘Chant better than you.’ Christ.
“Kyles a real shit,” she blew again, laughing. “Like a real shit.”
“Fuck you, like you got any better. Who’s yours?”
She took a slow puff from her stick. “Between circles.”
“Kicked out?” I was real mad. “No good? Used like tissue, thrown away? You got no shine, you can’t chant worth a shit, I bet.” That was real mean of me. I was mad, though. Where did she get off?
“Yeah,” she didn’t answer me. Talked like she was answering her own question. “Yeah,” she said again, “I bet Kyle’s real good to you. Likes the young white boys. Give you a totem?”
“Yeah,” I lied. I thought it would shut her up.
“Ha!” She giggled herself off. “Yeah, you a good sad little puppy. He train puppies good. Bet you still use burger wrappers.”
“No we don’t,” I shook my head. “What for?”
“Shine!” Her eyes lit up. This was what gatherings were for. “See, the paper and the oil. Burn the oil and paper together, right? You chant for shine?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “All the time.”
“Bet you use burger wrappers. Brown paper wrapping, soaked with grease. Kyle still like Fleet Burger? Doesn’t matter. Beef not as good as chicken,” Maggie winked. “Like how chicken soup is good for you. Get a bucket from Honey’s Fried. Soak a napkin. Works much better. Burn that and you chant up some real shine!” She laughed again. “Poor little puppy, think his master all mighty.”
“Fuck you,” I was real mad. We hooked up anyway. It was pretty good.
She sits up first. I look at her back in the dim light, start to trace her spine with my fingers. “Stop it,” she twists away. She reaches out with thin fingers and grabs a stick from the bed-side. Flicks a lighter and puffs. Doesn’t lie down again.
Her back is beautiful. I love how it curves against the faint dark, like a painting. Reminds me of old oil canvas, some ancient painter. I reach out to her back and she twists away again.
“Good for you?” I ask. Polite like. Oz won’t be rude.
“Sure.” She pulls another puff. Blowing smoke out like a candle.
“Thanks,” I lean back. Party still going on. Might sizzle in a bit. Might get another sip. Feeling dry. Harsh throat. I looked at the ceiling. It was one of those old plaster ones. Cracks and holes everywhere. Spider-like across the sky. Wonder, how does that happen?
Then she turns and looks at me like, like I don’t know, like she pitied me. Hated it. Hated it more than she call me shit. “You doing alright, kid?” she asked, staring at me with her bare tits hanging down.
“I’m no kid,” said. “Doing fine.”
“You pale,” she said. No fire in her voice. When we roll, she cried out. When we argue, she laughed and breathed in my face. Now, like dead fish. “You pale and you angry. You okay?”
“Doing fine,” she was pissing me off. “Don’t need pity.”
She stared at me, with those eyes. Searching like. Looking for something that I was hiding. Like I was lying to her. I hated it. “I have a shot of fortune,” she scratched her arm. “You want it, I can make more.”
She was being nice to me. I should have said thank you. Shot of fortune can really help. Instead I put on my pants. “Fuck you.”
“Hey kid, I mean it.”
“No kid.” I was getting angry again. Why the hell did she think I need her help? Like I’m some loser? Ozzie no loser. Ozzie a real wiz. “Get the fuck out of here, hag.”
“My room,” she took another puff. Didn’t know if she was lying. “You know about the static?”
“Fuck off, hag,” I wanted her to be angry again. Laugh again. Anything but pity. “Old and done. Used tissue. Fuck off and take your rotting chant with you.”
“Serious,” she scratched her other elbow. “You want to be a real wiz, find a rock.”
“A rock?” I laughed. “Got a rock. Flint. Real power.”
“No,” she smiled, not laughed, sad like. Motherly. “A chanter who’s a rock. Wizards who stay. Kyle, he’s a real shit. Like hates chanting kinda shit.”
“He’s serious about it.” I thought I knew the skinny. “Reads books.” Like books had the chant. Played serious too, played it well. Got mad when it didn’t work. Yelled a lot. Hit his girl, which was a shit thing to do.
“Yeah? He ever smile?”
Natch he smiled. Not smiling didn’t mean he hated. Wanted to slap the girl right there. Always about smiling. Smile when it don’t mean nothing. Smile because if you feel bad, that’s hurting someone. Can’t feel bad. Plaster the smile. Advertise. Smoke and mirrors. Happy little cog. God I wanted to slap her.
Didn’t. Not nice. Didn’t say anything.
So what if he didn’t smile? Pain was real. Smiling just lies. Kyle yelled. Yelled at everyone. Scared people. Not me, he wouldn’t hit me, I knew it. Just let him yell. The others didn’t leave, so he must not have scared them much. It’s what chanting is, right? That’s what I thought.
“You want to be a real chanter?”
I was a real chanter. I knew it. Not a sage or a wiz, but real. Hit the tabletop, then. Side-table. Whatever it was. She just looked. “Poor little puppy, probably know luck real good. Waiting for more, aren’t you?”
She got up and started putting on her shirt. She hated me, I could tell. I don’t know why. Something I said? No, I hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t spoken for hours.
Shirt on, pants on, she blew another puff and tossed her stick into the ashtray on the bed-side. She started pacing, angry like. Didn’t know why, so I crawled back on the bed. She glared at me when I did, but I didn’t care. I just looked at the ceiling, and drowned myself in the long twisting cracks on the ceiling, like lightning bolts. Beautiful black lightning bolts that crawled across the sky.
Like, there’s lightning, which is light. All bright light, flash for a second. All across the sky. What if it’s black? Everything suddenly dark. You see everything so clear, eyes wide open, night vision, then BAM. All blackness. Can’t see a thing. Then it’s all back, and you see a crack in the sky, where everything vanishes. Nothing looks the same.
I wanted to say something, the right thing, make the air change, but didn’t know what to say, so didn’t say anything. I didn’t move. The cracks and holes were drowning me. I was drowning in them. Like little pieces of the sky that dripped rain down my lungs.
“What you chant for last?” she asked.
“Fuck off,” I said.
“Never know,” she said. “I might be what you get. You know Wellen?” Jersey Wellen, yeah, I knew Wellen. Used to go by Jack when they first came to Upper West. Now they got a long ponytail and a pair of tits. Good soul, they say. Old Oz never talked with them, much. Gotta be a good chanter, though. There’s real pain there. Almost jealous. Wish I knew that pain. “They got sick, and don’t have enough green for a hospital. So we all chanting for them.”
That was how it works. Word of mouth. Sweetness. That’s chanting for you, always close ranks. “Yeah, I’ll give a chant.” I’d be a real shit if I didn’t.
After a minute, two maybe, she sits down next to me. “You want to be a real wizard?” she asked.
I laughed. I thought I was already a chanter, truth.
“Kyle’s no rock. You watch, he won’t chant for Wellen. He let you slip. You talk, you listen, you find a real chanter, you get the real chant. Ask around, you’ll find them.”
“Yeah? Thanks.” I kept looking at the ceiling. She stared at me like I was supposed to say something else, but I didn’t say anything. After another minute or two, she blew out a puff, and grabbed her things. Angry like. I still don’t know what she thought I did wrong.
I had wanted to hit her, but thing is, I didn’t want to want to hit her. That wasn’t what I wanted, but that was all I had, right?
Last thing I chanted for was like seeing the future. Like focus, so you know where you’re going. Like direction. I had chanted for direction.