Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 10
Old Ozzie never Dust.
Dust.
Dust is like…
Dusted. Settling. Drifting down, and when it touches, it’s dead.
We’re all dust in sunbeams, floating drifting caught on drafts. River currents carrying us along. Alive as long as we’re in the air.
Stop moving, step aside, drop to the ground. Settle. Dead. Not moving again, without a strong wind. Caught then. Trapped. Dusted. Same thing every day. Dust on a dashboard still moves, still dead. Dust rests on a breeze, not moving, still alive.
We’re all just dust. Trying to stay alive.
We chant for the currents. We flow on the streams. We live. No cog. No settle. No dusting. We swim and fly and breathe free.
Free.
In the chant.
Breathe.
Sizzle and spark.
Gotta keep moving. Shark. Not shark; bloody teeth and dead eyes. No, like wind and rain and flowing river. blood in the veins, and eyes that see.
No dust. Never dust. Dust and sand and grit and blow it away into the wind, never again.
World passes you by. Dead things. Cracking and snapping under your rotten and foul fingers, picking and rubbing between the fingertips. Loose teeth. Musty dusty rough and crusty.
But there’s a secret. Shhh. Deep secret. Here’s the thing. You listening tight? Natch. Old Oz has the skinny. Here it is. You gotta keep moving, but it’s not moving that keeps you dust free.
See them move? The dusty mannequins running on the street? Briefcases and ties and fancy parties with gilt and glamor all dressed? They climb and move and swim like sharks, but they’re dead as dust inside.
See Binny? Sitting there on his throne with clouds around his head? Some days he never moves. Rock in the river. Mountain top. Same apartment, same shirt, same pants, every day. Not a speck of dust.
Not the movement on the outside, movement on the inside. Gotta be alive. Gotta change. Gotta spread from one circle to the next. Keep the exchange rate up. Back and forth. Ebb and flow. Life of static and sparkling water. Gorgeous.
See, you believe the ads, you start running in circles. Spinning in place. A cog. Trapped in 9 to 5, motion not moving. Robots. Doing different things, always the same. Get a new something, throw out the old, then look around. See how nothing’s like how you want? Gotta do something else. Throw it out. Get something new. Always a different thing, the same.
But Ozzie’s no dust. Same thing, different ways. Chant changes with the sun and the moon. Stars shift about and chanting shifts too. Chant from the heart, becomes art. Chant from the head, you’re dead. Dead as a cog. The grid and the cogs and the machine, that was dusty. Nothing worse than being dusty. You let the real world pass you by, the river flow on past.
Then you look around one day, and everything’s washed you up. You walked the grid your whole life, and what’s left but all the things you never wanted. Fake trophies, fake memories, fake pictures, fake fake fake. Nothing real.
Always hated that idea, that one day you might look around and see that all the things you thought were so important didn’t matter at all, not really. Was supposed to marry someone someday, but marriage wasn’t love. Was supposed to get a job so I had money, but job wouldn’t make me happy.
The grid never show you to something real. You find something real, the grid take it from you. You supposed to be a good cog. Turn in place. Up and down. Like a lever. Like a cog. Do what the system wants, and from 9 to 5 you move. You don’t live. No life in a cog. Just motion.
Life is everything. Together. All at once. Lines and ties and holding together so we’re all one. Peace and harmony. You live, you see the system for what it is. You break the grid. You peek behind the curtain. You special, you see the gutter and wonder what it catches.
Then you jump. Both feet.
Them at the top, they know one thing. Keep moving. They never dust, but they’re always eating. Dark Magic, that. Binny never lets it happen. Can’t chant to eat, to hurt, to steal. Chant for, never against. Selfish. That’s why he kicked out the guy. Why there was room for me. In the circle.
Everyone chants. In the head, in the dark places, the dark times, the fear grows and the heart beats fast. You want. You need. You care. Binny says that’s the dark magic. Never hunger and chant, or else it comes back at you, the hunger, and you starve with a full stomach.
What was it all for? How many people died building this world the way it was? Centuries ago, did the Romans ever think about me, what I wanted? They just did it for themselves, and now I have to deal with the consequences. What about centuries from now? Why doesn’t anyone ever consider them?
I won’t chose for them. I won’t make a world they don’t want to live in. I’ll fight for them, even though no one’s paying attention to them. I’ll make sure when they grow up with their flying cars and whatever that they have a world full of life, not movement. They might not even know the chant, but I’ll know, and that’s enough for me.
I’ll know.
The gutter. It’s a place like any other. Only wider. Space in-between, block like. The Subs, the Glitty, Downtown, the Dregs. Then the Gutter.
See, Glitty all gates and mansions. Downtown got shops and apartments. Subs got houses and white pickets, while the dregs got everything, but no one cares.
The gutter got it all. Got its own mansions, its own apartments, its own clubs and shops and mayors and all that shit. You want a bite? You know the right store. You tired? Alleys across Upper West. You need something? We got shops hidden everywhere. Nothing like what you’re used to. No storefronts, no street signs, no shop boards, just names. People. Find Jack or Jill or Alex. Find Greasy Eric or the Hat Kid. Go west, find Lee. Dirk hangs out up north, near the Laundromat these days. Like migratory. Dirk never have anything on hand, but get you anything you want. ‘Five days,’ that’s what Dirk says. You want a knife for protection? ‘Five days.’ You want a box to hold your kit? ‘Five days.’ He get you anything.
Gutter’s got its own green. Sometimes dollars, but not always. Not worth as much. Dollar don’t buy you a dollar in the gutter. Sticks and tabs, useful things, like barter.
“Coca,” Leon told me once. “Mayan green. Made a drink, butter, anything. Glit was fancy food. See, they did it right. Your gilt is what you grow. Luxury, right? Then you smoke it, eat it, drink it, whatever, then you don’t got it. No more dollars, only drugs. That fix our economy.”
Ribber giggled at that. “You crazier than me.”
“No, hundred truth,” Leon smacked Ribber aside. “Think about it. You rich? Why you rich? So you can drink and eat and smoke. So you drink and eat and smoke your green, and you ain’t rich anymore. You want to be rich, you don’t drink it or eat it or smoke it.”
“Like potatoes,” I said. Eating fries.
“Nah,” Leon laughed, pushing Ribber aside again. He was sizzling hard. We all were. “Not what you need. Bread and water too important. You can’t trade away life. You trade away happiness. That’s gilt. Drink it, then grow more. Buy what you need, drink the rest.”
Leon, the nut, thought he was talking sense. But we trade tabs and pills and sticks in the gutter. Right about that. Even a secret market for chanters. Old Oz knows how to brew up a potion, gets you good value. Not for everyone. Only them that know. Go to Squik down on the slide, and he trade a nice piece for a little stick and maybe some shine.
Rest of time, good for a little stroll. One street is Gutter, next street is Glitty. No map to the gutter, you got to live it. Feel the currents. Dodge Boots. Own a corner for a day before they chase you off.
We’re the modern day nomads, hunting wildebeests and traveling deserts. Follow the herd and the setting sun, find a spot to call your own. An oasis. Relax and let the spikes slip out of your head.
Went walkabout for a bit. Thinking about things. Stuff. Little bit of clutter. Nothing important. Good to roam after a night of the club. Let things fall back into place. Remember names. Places. Things. The world comes back a bit at a time.
When I look up, I see the New Kid.
Knew it as soon as I saw them. Skip, hundred truth. Never seen around the street before. Fierce eyeliner curled up towards the temple. Cheap lipstick, faint and faded. Tight jeans torn at the knees, and ragged shoes chewed up by the streets. Hugging themselves against the cool breeze in a puffy jacket two sizes too small.
Suddenly felt the stick in my mouth. Been there. Forgot. Still there. Took a puff then, let the smoke fill my lungs as I watched. Kid looked around, aimless like. Didn’t know where they were. Didn’t know where they were going. Knew that look. Seen it thousand times. Wore it myself once, truth. The look of a Skip.
Never seen the new kid before. Can’t see everyone, but Ozzie sees more than most. Keep an eye to the keyhole. Know who’s with who, where and why. Gotta keep tabs on the pulse. It’s a community, right? Pools need lifeguards. Gotta know who’s in and who’s out.
Kid was new to Upper West. Easy to spot. You get to see the little signs. A look in the eye. Something’s in their pocket, and they can pull it out if they need to. Bit of green. Like the world they’re in isn’t the world you’re in. Like they’re dreaming they’re awake. Had a safety net. Didn’t jump feet first. Skip. Gone in a week.
Watched while they took a piece of paper out of their pocket. Folded it. Put it back. Pulled it out again and folded it.
See, Cindy got me thinking. Gotta keep moving or else you dust. Gotta keep the chant alive. We needed another. Without JJ, only six. I was glad JJ was gone, but Binny wanted seven. Could find a seven. Skips on the surface, sometimes, you can stop them so they sink. Like a service. Drag them down.
I watched a bit longer before I walked over. “Hungry?” I asked. Always how Ozzie asks. Gotta test them first. Find out if they got the darkness in them. If they got pain. No green a good sign — no green is its own pain. They got green, they need another pain.
New Kid looks up at me with eye-liner eyes, scratches their dirty jaw in nervous uncertainty. That’s when I knew they were new. Not just to Upper West, but to the Chant. No fear in the eyes of vets. “Nah,” kid says, being polite. I could see a bit of hunger, but it was starving hunger, not dark.
“Donnies is good,” I say, taking a puff, looking down at the poor kid. “Always a good fish sandwich.”
“Thanks.” Kid doesn’t know to say anything else.
“New in town?”
“Yeah,” after a pause. That’s trust, admitting newness. Something beautiful in the innocence. It’s giving control, truth. I owned the new kid after that. Like old days, knowing a name gave you power. Know they fresh? Know they clean? Know they not scarred? That’s another kinda power. They didn’t know any better, but I was nice. Wasn’t going to crush no new chick in my hands.
“I know the spots. Want a list?”
Kid didn’t answer, just pulled out the paper, folded it.
“Got a circle?”
“What’s that?” Kid asks.
“You don’t even know what a circle is?” I puff again. Poor kid would have been eaten without old Oz. I knew it. “Paper’s getting old. Lotsa folds.”
Kid shoved the paper away. “Got it from a friend.”
More than friend. Folded paper has real use. Things get caught in the folds. Lines cross. Catch. Bad people catch bad things, give them away. Press into each other and keep them from getting into you. Like a curse. Leave it on the bench, the train, the street. Clumsy though. Easy for it to slip out of the fold. Slide out and find its way back. Good people catch good things, give them away. Keep you safe. From outside and in. Someone cared about the kid, once. Where were they now?
“All alone?”
Kid didn’t answer.
“Paper. They do it alone?”
“No. Helped.”
“What chants you got?” Kid doesn’t say a word, just looks at me like I’m going to eat him. Could have. Didn’t want to. Ozzie’s no monster, old Oz is a real wiz. “Got any at all?”
“Maybe,” kid hedges. Looks at fingers like they’re going to leap of the hand and spell out truth to old Oz.
I pity the kid, truth. Didn’t need pity, going to help anyone who needs it. That’s what it means to be a Chanter. You don’t gotta be in a circle to help. Pitied the kid anyway. Hunched there with broad shoulders curled in like a dried leaf. Faded lipstick and ratty shoes. No circle worth the name. That’s what you do, you help.
“It’s sharing, not selling,” I said. I offer the kid a puff. “Here, I’ll show you. Folding works better with thick paper. Get an old train card, trashy ticket, something. Works much better.”
Kid’s hand goes to the pocket, fingering the folds, the lines.
“Saw you fold, used a fingernail to scrape the edge. Good, that. Good form.”
Kid pulls out the paper, stares at it while I talk. Then puts it back. “I know a bit of luck. Not very good at it though.”
“Everyone knows luck. Not everyone does luck. Hard chant. You chant it alone?”
“You gotta,” Kid shrugs. “Doesn’t work with others.”
Red. I see red. Who the hell was this kid’s friend? No, not friend. That’s abuse. Telling some new kid to stay alonely? Who the hell was this? Hundred truth, I wanted to curse then. Throw some dark magic out into the world, cuz it would find that friend. It would find them, and make them suffer. Nothing but torn jackets and lost keys for the rest of their days. A real hell, old Oz wanted to bring down on their head.
Thought about all the things I could do, and then took a puff. That’s not helping the Kid. Kid’s lucky Old Oz found them first. Now I can fix everything that’s all screwed up. “You know Binny?” I ask.
“No,” kid looks ashamed. Should be ashamed, but didn’t know why. That’s how Binny’s powerful.
“Gotta circle up north,” I say. “You wanna join?”
“What’s a circle?”
“It’s sharing, not selling. You learn. You chant. With, not alonely. Get real friends. Learn the ropes. See behind the curtain. You chant luck, and you’ll get it.”
Kid’s listening now, with eyes wide and a bit of hope in the breathing. Old Ozzie knows how to reel them in. “It’s nice,” I say. “And we’re down one anyway. Could use a seventh. Binny’s a real sage. You see.”
Poor kid didn’t even know the scene. “Seven?”
“There’s more,” I take another puff. “Behind the curtain. There’s more of us.”
“How many are there?”
“Scores,” I say. Not much of a lie, really. “You see, you’re not alonely.”