Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 8
We come back from the show. Good show. Fall asleep. Darkness dreaming without. Within. No pleasure no pain. Empty void full of Ozzie.
Next morning. Hurts. Dry. Always a pain, the next morning.
Open eyes, see blurs, blink it back into shape.
Never know where you are at first. Everything settles on you in a different place. Still dressed from last night. No sheet. Mattress. Someone next to me. Darla, most like.
Get up. No aches, too dizzy to feel them. Stagger through tiny hallway, step over who’s sleeping there, get to kitchen.
Drink of water. Let it run. Then sip. Get coffee. Bubbling water slowly starts building. Starts dripping. Crusty old thing.
Who’s awake? Binny’s up. Sitting and smoking. Dirty plate next to him with toast on top. Leon on the couch. Cindy on the floor.
Who’s that?
“Good sunrise,” Binny points with his pipe. Light leaking through the blinds. I blink through the stabbing until it hurts less. Deep pink and soft blue. Chirping birds. I need coffee.
Can see clearer now. Who’s that? New girl next to Cindy. Don’t recognize her. Long black hair. Straight as chopsticks. No shirt. Miniskirt. Arm on Cindy’s shoulder. They stir, slowly coming back to life. Cracked lips open like mummy’s tomb. Need water. I watch.
“Damn,” Cindy rubs crusty eyes. Gets rid of dust. “What a night.”
Not right, that. No no no. Never talk about the night before. Don’t dwell. Keep moving. The new girl, kissed her last night. I remember that now. Orgy. Fighting the war with love. Grinding against her. Darla too? Where was Darla?
Eventually, everyone up. Even new girl. Bleary eyed. Swaying a bit. We all watch her get up, get a sip, come back. Sits next to Cindy. We see her pull out a stick and light up. Blows smoke like a nozzle, thin and sharp. Glances at us. No care. Breathes smoke at us. Who is this? Like it’s her place, not Binny’s. Does she know Binny? Binny don’t care. He sits and smiles, like it’s everyone’s place. Girl leans over, brushes hair behind Cindy’s ear.
Got it, then. See in my mind’s eye two girls kissing, pressing, writhing on the dance floor. Watch the girl as she licks the lips, kissing the lit stick and blowing hard. Cindy’s head rolls a bit. Brain sizzled up. Now soft cotton. Soft as pillows.
Darla’s still asleep.
Cindy goes to the bathroom, and girl gets up. Still hasn’t said a word. Picks up Cindy’s jacket, walks out the front door. That’s that. Was she chanter? Or just gutter? Old Oz couldn’t tell. She leave like a chanter. No mess. Just gone. Ghost. Gotta keep moving.
Cindy comes back all worried. “Where is she?” like she didn’t know. Goes in the kitchen, looks around like the room isn’t small. “Where is she?”
“Took your jacket,” I tell her. Ozzie’s like that. Nice.
“No she didn’t,” Cindy shoots eyes at me. I don’t smile. Rude. She flops down on the couch. Head in hands. Sad. Maybe tired. In my head, I see Darla and the girl together, licking salty up and down.
“What’s her name?” Leon asks. More a moan. Rolls over and coughs.
“Nice,” Cindy shakes her head like cobwebs. Clear the mist. “Dances real good. Dressed to nines.”
“No shirt.” Ribber snickers. “Could have rolled with her.”
Cindy gets up then, goes for the girl’s jacket. “That’s her jacket,” I tell her. “She took yours.”
“This is my jacket, asshole.” She’s gone, out the door. In my head, Cindy and Darla press pillows.
“Dressed nice,” Ribber says. “Good for a roll? Real nine. Could she be our seven?”
Binny doesn’t answer, just blows smoke over our heads, and smiles.
Me, I’m terrified. A seventh? Her? With JJ gone, Binny’s going to look for a seventh, and I know he won’t study. Binny’s like that, a real sage. Lets the little things pass by. Cindy bring a seventh? He’d nod and say sure. He’d let anybody in, because anybody can chant.
But not everyone’s a chanter. Not everyone knows the gutter. Lives and breathes. Lifestyle like. No, someone slides in like quick rat between the molding, nibbles away and it’s alright. Good and bad things live together. Thinks he can teach.
Then Darla’s up, getting coffee. Go to kiss her morning, while Ribber giggles and Leon groans.
JJ was gone now, and we needed a seventh. Binny said we needed a seventh. Binny, he thinks seven’s important. Binny’s weird about numbers. He thinks seven is the number for chanters. Zen like, think monks in a temple. Others around you chanting, helps your chant work better. Like geese flying in a V. Like your chant catches onto another chant. Chain of chants. Chains sailing through the air like snakes. Hissing. Ssssssss.
Cindy laughs at Binny. Doesn’t agree. See, Cindy doesn’t think in numbers, no no no. Thinks in words. Or pictures. Old Oz doesn’t know about Cindy. Weird girl.
Some chanters think the chant is the ritual. The performance. They think you need the right candles, the right ingredients, the right tone of voice. Not wrong, but not all right.
Some think it’s the headspace. Doesn’t matter what you say or how you say it. Throw out the words, say whatever you want. It’ll work same either way. Not wrong, but not all right.
Sometimes it’s humming. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s burning sage and swaying under the moon. Sometimes it’s grinding bits of garbage into a watery sludge. Sometimes it’s the right sounds, sometimes it’s the right thoughts, sometimes it’s the right movements. Sometimes it’s chemistry or mathematics, sometimes it’s dancing and singing under the stars.
Lots of ways to chant.
But you never write it down. That’s not the chant. No no. Ink and paper, makes the words the sounds the movements stay. No movement. Dusty death the chant dies when written down. Dissected frog. Chant art, not science. Leon, the nut, thought you could science the art. Work right this time? Try a pinch of this or that. Work better? Thought he could trap the chant in a grid.
That’s dusting if ever I heard it. Force it to the grid. Make it work the way you want it. Get workers and wage-slaves to do the same thing every time. Robots. Movement, but no life. POP out comes the heart rolling on the ground picking up the dust where it rolls along rolls along.
Sizzling brain now keeping the words from POPing out right all wrong the words don’t matter the thoughts there only words to say them or not alive POP rolling through the riverbed flowing splashing so thirsty want a drink cracked dry lips licking smacking POPing sizzle.
Never write it down or it makes no sense no words to say what it really happens ‘cuz the chant’s no human no animal no machine does what it wants can’t force it what does it do you can’t see what it does could be wind could be a nudge but it works, it works, it works, know it does.
You can’t force it into the grid. Fights back. Not a machine. No clink clank of ticking time measure out a POP meter of movement from one tock clock to the next text locking clocking in the words.
No science, only art. No lines, only curves. Like snakes. Hsssssss.
Lots of ways to chant. Binny thinks numbers matter. Cindy thinks words. Leon thinks thoughts. Me…
POP
It has to look right.
Not for the chant to work. Chant works, it doesn’t work, fine. It does what it does. But you chant, you got to look right. You do the chant, you light the lights, you anoint the oils, you brew the bubbles on your big spoon, you speak, you sing, you hum, you make it look right.
Chant work, it don’t work, it does what it does. But if it doesn’t look right, then why are you doing it?
It’s respect. You dress to the nines. Darla, my darling Darla, she knows. She gets it. Dress to the nines not for yourself, it’s for others. You dress nice is a gift. You talk nice, you be kind, you smile, you dance, is a gift. You give it.
You give to the chant, the chant give back. That’s what I believe.
What do I chant for? Different things. Not important.
See, Binny thinks seven is the right number. Never asked him why, he knows things. If I had been the eighth person, he might not have let me stay.
Ribber, he chanted like however he wanted to.
Every circle has a Ribber. It’s the bell. Ones and tens. Not many ones, not many tens, but even the ones have their ones. Omegas of Omegas. That was Ribber. He wanted to be a chanter. We let him think he was. Single minded, was Ribber.
What did Ribber chant for? Truth, only ever chanted for a roll. Different girl every time. One he saw in the supermarket. The cashier. Walking down the street. Leaning against a pole. Always chanted for it. Never got it. Said he did, the liar.
Every time, same chant. Said it worked. Always showed up with a new willowy platinum or muscular raven beauty story. Tried to convince us he was rolling and squeezing every night. Giggled his giggle. Crazy fool lied through his teeth. Wanted it to work so bad. Badder than anything.
Ribber wasn’t a real Chanter. Thought he was. Tried to be. Couldn’t manage it. Had been in Upper West since before Binny, jumping from group to group, hanging on. Definite one. But we nice, we let him chant. Doesn’t have to work for it to be the chant. Not a bad guy. Still a champ. Still more of a chanter than the best of the dusted.
“Chant is subtle,” Binny said once, his eyes closed in the middle of blue smoke. “You work against it, it won’t work. Like a cat. You can feed it, but you can’t train it.”
“What’s that mean?” Ribber giggled.
“Chant makes them look,” Binny smiled, his eyes still shut, “Maybe say hi. That’s it.”
“Your smell takes it from there,” Leon said, the nut. “Push them away, spell is broken.”
Ribber just giggled. Something about him kept him laughing. Never saw him frown. Never heard him cry. He still chanted. Couldn’t let us see it not work. Had to keep it alive. The Dream. Like all that mattered was smiling, when there was so much more to it, to the universe, like the chant wasn’t pleasure enough.
To be one with the system behind the system. Be behind the curtain, where no one sees you, and you can do anything you want without being told off, or beaten, or called a loser. Like that wasn’t enough.
Ribber, he’s fun to be around, but that’s it. Sometimes he brought in used condoms filled with Vaseline to show he had rolled and squeezed. Tried to make Leon touch it, giggling all the while.
“See?” He said. He threw the condom to the ground, in the middle of the rug. Lay there like a sick dog. “Did that last night. She was thin and brown.”
“That’s Vaseline,” Leon said.
I never rolled with Cindy. I don’t think she likes men.
Tries to hide it. Talked about a boy once, sounded like they were squeezing. A couple times, in fact. So I asked her once if she’d like a roll. I was sizzling, so was she. Thought it’d be fun. Good bond, a roll when you sizzle. Feels great, and afterwards, you got a story together.
She wasn’t interested. Laughed at me. I didn’t mind. Truth. My mistake, thought she’d roll with guys. But then see the secret truth. Girl brushing her hair aside, never even look at Ozzie, look at Darla like she’s jealous, like she wants to drink deep.
Not a problem. Lots of them in the gutter. Families kick them out. Churches burn the witch. Chanters, we open arms welcome. Come inside. Friends. Family. The curb gives you power when you’re kicked to it.
Truth is, there’s pain there. There’s power.
“Like muscles,” JJ said once. He got it. “Heavy weight makes muscles. You struggle, you get strong. You fight, you get tough. You hurt, you get power. They going to rule us, you know. All the letters. They get shat on their whole lives. They stronger than any of us.”
“The fuck you talking about?” Leon got angry, then. Don’t know why. JJ was right. Pain is power. It makes you strong. Get jealous sometimes, truth.
Cindy could be the strongest chanter among us. Don’t know about others, but she got real pain. Wanted that. Wanted a taste of that. Could do things I couldn’t. Go places I couldn’t. Knew things I couldn’t. What was it like? Behind the curtain. See, I lived behind the curtain, so what’s another curtain? Why is it there? Why can’t I go behind that one too? Why just for her and hers?
She has power, but power doesn’t mean anything without focus. Aim. Light through magnifying glass.
Real punk, Cindy. Leather and spiky hair with lips all black and eyes sunk deep. Round face, cheeks, chin, smell of smoke and cheap cologne. She, truth, joined the circle because she had nowhere else to go. I didn’t ask, she didn’t tell.
Never joined in like the others. Not one of the boys. Not really. Chanted, but didn’t make like it mattered much. Like something missing. Vacant. Get jealous.
Like you got that power, not use it? What the hell? People want that power, yeah? You hide it? Horde it? Let it dust? No, you gotta let it be free! But I don’t yell. I’m nice. Being mad don’t help, truth. Let the grit slide off the smooth. Clean like.
I think she came from a bad circle. Wanted to invite her in. Made me sad, thinking lonely lost girl shivering alonely in the cold. Wanted to make her one of us, but she never reached out to me. Old Oz, he never pushes.
Joined before I did, think she chants with other circles too. Moonlighting. Nothing wrong with that. Looking for a place to call home. I get it. Never see her with a main squeeze. Not that she wasn’t pretty. Even for her size. If she put the effort in, sometimes she’s an eight. Ozzie doesn’t squeeze no six, and Ozzie thought about rolling her, hundred truth.