Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 13
When my sizzle is done, I climb right back into the kitchen off the escape. Stick half finished, pocket for later. Grab a drink of water on the way, dry mouth, no pop. No clean glass. No dirty glass. Use my hands and slurp like thirsty.
Walk into the room. Kid’s gone, everyone else sitting around, looking at the ceiling.
They’re all silent. Not moving. Not speaking. Rude.
I look up. Nothing there. Cracks and plaster. Nothing.
“Show tonight at the Square,” Cindy says. No one answers. I don’t answer. Didn’t know. What was I supposed to say?
Binny blows smoke. Creeps up to the ceiling and crawls across like fog. Suddenly I’m looking down, seeing valleys where there’s mountains. Smoke curls into the nooks, seeps into the cracks. Where does it go from there? Fills the space between what we see and what we don’t. Eats away at the rotten wood. Someday the whole roof fall in because of smoke in the cracks.
“Gotta spare stick?” Ribber takes a swing at Leon, playful like. Not like hard. Leon, the nut, taps his pocket like nothing. Ribber rolls over.
Darla, she just sits there.
“Going to go to the show?” Cindy asks.
Leon moans, shifts like lazy. “Anyone good?”
“Who knows?” Cindy says.
“Square’s good,” Binny, he shrugs. “Always a good show.”
“Not Deepslide,” Leon groans. “Hate Deepslide.”
“Think it’s Kelly-Jeans,” Ribber giggles, holding out his hand, like asking. “Gotta stick?”
Me, I stand there. What the hell? Could have at least asked. Sure, I leave, give a blackball, but still ask, right? Polite. “Here,” I pull out my saved stick and throw it at Ribber. He giggles, sticks it in his mouth like a lollipop. No, not even ask. They agreed, know they did, the New Kid wasn’t in. What did they think was wrong? Didn’t even ask. They judging me now? Bringing in a kid that was no good?
“Go to the show?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I’m free,” I say, eager like. “Got no garbage dragging me back now.” Clever. Slag the kid, show Ozzie knows they’re no nine.
Binny shrugs. Ribber, he giggles. Darla, she just sits there.
I want my stick back. Ribber, he’s still sucking on it. “Hungry,” he says. “Like a slice, a ‘wich. Something.”
“Chips,” Binny points with his pipe. “Hold you til you go somewhere.”
“Go where?” Ribber giggles. “Don’t feel like Chinese. No burger, neither.”
“We going?” Cindy asks.
“Yeah,” I unfold my arms, I speak, I don’t know to who. “Wash out the mouth of that rot. Waste of time, yeah?”
Cindy shrugged. “I liked. Thought was nice.”
Leon just moaned and groaned, waving his hands over his head, the nut. Ribber giggled. “Yeah, nice. Fun like.”
Darla, she sat there.
“Let’s go,” I say. I don’t want to keep talking. They judge me, think Old Oz thought the Kid was someone special, then they learn quick they’re wrong. Me, I go to the stash and pick up a pill. Always good time at the Square with a pill.
Pop the pill early. Mistake. Going to sizzle on the street before we get to the Square. Don’t even know when we’re going.
Doesn’t matter. Not talking anymore.
Not everyone can be a chanter.
Kyle called it the Economics of Power. The fewer chanters there are, the more powerful a chanter can be. He thought the most powerful chanter was alonely. Asshole. Hated Kyle, truth. Didn’t stick around.
He was right about one thing. Not everyone can be a Chanter. Posers. Tagalongs. People want to be chanters, but wanting isn’t being. Why not? Everyone wants to be a chanter. See the strings. Power there, and security. Knowing the truth. It’s real, not like the fake.
To be the chant, you have to need the chant. There are people who want the chant, but aren’t willing to get lumps. They want it easy. They want it without suffering. They want it like they get everything, handed to them packaged in plastic with a shiny logo.
No ads for chanting. Chanting doesn’t fall from the sky. You gotta be in the gutter. At the very bottom, when there’s nothing else for you, nothing but dust and ash, and then you look up and see someone else. They hold out their hand, because they been where you are. They don’t give you a sandwich, they don’t give you green, they give you a pen. A scrap of paper. A match. They say there’s others. They say you’re not alonely.
Some of them dance on street corners. Others hide in alleys. They’re signposts, sitting and waiting. They grab who comes by, like spiders. Keep the chant alive. True Bohemians.
If you’re not starving, you’re selling out. Hundred truth. The cogs don’t give houses to chanters. Cogs get houses. Cogs get white picket. Cogs get green. If you got green, you ain’t a real chanter. Some people get some things. Other people get nothing. Cogs spinning just right.
System ain’t broken. That’s what Leon says, says it’s broken. It ain’t. Working just like it’s supposed to. The nut thinks we can fix it, like it aint working just fine. Like, train’s broken because it goes between two bad train-stops. Man, it’s following the rails!
He says fix it, when what he wants is to break it. Smash it to pieces and build something new. Not anyone’s fault. How it’s built. Just happened. A nip and a tuck, and there it is. You get a wrench, you fix it for yourself, not for those beneath you. Human nature.
We’re beyond that.
That’s why the count. One to ten, the count keeps us even. Nines don’t get what the ones are. Eights got more than threes, and to be a chanter, you can’t be a ten. The more you suffer, the more power you have. The Chant is the equalizer. The count keeps us equal. When you know where you stand, you know where you’ll fall.
Pleasure isn’t real. It’s a curtain. Ads. Smoke and mirrors to hide the rot. They put it up so you don’t see who’s next to you. Sometimes you do it yourself. It’s ties of humanity. Spirit and soul. Empathy. Sympathy. If you hurt another you hurt yourself, and when someone is aching their aches become yours.
That’s why the people who have it the worst, they’re the most powerful chanters of all.
This is how it goes. They see us walking, handyhand, and they stare at Darla first.
All dolled up, she’s a ten. Gilt to the gills, all sparkle and shine. Didn’t trade nothing for it, took it all. Catches every eye in fish-nets and tight curls. Slick skirt like silk or polyester. Swinging her hips like a tide, back and forth. Lips so fine, all the eyes see her, eat her up like hungry wolves, desperate to lick but they’ll never taste, not a touch.
Then they stare at me.
Not a ten, old Oz. Even dolled up, only a seven, eight at best. Ears too big, chin too small. Skull’s okay shape, but eight, I know it. They know it. Darla knows it to, I think. Could do better, but knows there’s more ways to count than the shine. Ten in other ways, but they don’t know that. They look at Darla then they look at me. They glare. They wonder, how a six like old Oz lands a ten like Darla.
Sixes don’t get tens. Not supposed to happen. Tens get tens. Sixes get sixes. Sure, wiggle-room, a four and a five or a nine and a ten, but a six? No way. Doesn’t happen. Hundred truth, if you see a six and a ten together, something’s wrong. That’s how they think, all the dusty people staring at Darla and me.
Even some chanters look with envy. They think they know how I got Darla, with a chant worth chanting. Strong. A big circle. They’re wrong. Hundred truth, I never chanted for Darla. If I chanted for her, maybe I get her. Then where am I? Not special if I chant for what I get.
No, Old Oz is special. Get’s Darla without the chant.
She wants me for who I am, what I see, what I know. I showed her the chant, and she leapt with both feet. Darling Darla. Didn’t care I was a six. Liked it, in fact. Made me real. She knew the gilt isn’t real. Pain’s real, and Ozzie’s seen his fair share.
It wasn’t she didn’t care. Darla cares about the count, like old Oz does. The count is important. You have to know where you stand. Not a steady rise, from one to ten. Jumps and hops in strange ways. Ones are awful, but not their fault. No one’s born a one, ones are made. Scars and twists. Bulbous goiters and gnarled hands. Not your fault.
Twos have to work at it. Threes don’t put in any effort. Most everyone’s a four or a five. Six, six is better than five. Natch. But the difference is more than just one, it’s a whole life.
Five, you don’t see. Fives roll off the eyes. Never ask who it was, because you didn’t realize they were there. The average of static. The boring. Nondescript. Seen a hundred times so why bother with one more. No one ever a five. They a real five, you never think to look.
Six is the real average. Not so average you can’t see them, nothing special when you look. See, but don’t remember. Watch, but doesn’t stick.
Me, they remember. Old Ozzie is no Six. They look, no, they glare, and hate me because I got so lucky.
Not lucky. They think it’s luck, but all the dusty drones stare and glare and don’t know the first thing about the chant. Not luck. No, not fair either. That’s the point of the chant.
No such thing as a Zero. Call people zeroes all the time, but it’s like joker. Wild-card. Out of the system. Always bad, but like a car accident. Cringe. A nine with a screeching voice. A four with gilt to the nines. A six who thinks they’re a ten. Don’t know any better, or thinks they get away with it. Doesn’t, though. Never does. Cringe, that’s a Zero. Technically worse than a one. Always good for a laugh, though. Always better to see a Zero than a one.
Long time before Darla, looked for a roll once with Cindy. Sitting and staring at the go-by, sharing a stick. Ribber there too, thinking he help Old Oz by pointing out sixes and sevens. Before Darla, this.
“Move past the eights, 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 Ribber laughed. Chuckle-like.
“You’re no zero,” she had to admit it. I knew I wasn’t. She knew it too. “You’re no eight, either. You 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.”
Didn’t answer at first. Waited for Ribber to point out a catch. “I could roll her,” he said. “Bet she moans real nice.”
Poor Ribber, didn’t know the score. Long time ago, he was still new to Upper West. “Red blouse,” Cindy shook her head.
He looks at her then, Ribber did. Laughed. Looked again. “So what?”
Smiled her smile. “Let me tell you about girls like that. They dress to the nines? they’re not worth a quarter.”
“Truth?” Sitting in stick smoke, I could tell he didn’t believe. Thought she was winding.
“Hundred truth.”
He pointed. “Girl there? Eight?”
“Seven,” I had a better view, could see her legs as she walked. “Maybe.”
“Dressed to the nines,” Cindy sniffed as she smacked on a fry. “You roll her, Oz?”
“I roll everything,” Ribber giggled, bouncing up and down like a ball. “She’s worth a quarter.”
“Nah,” silly boy didn’t get it. “All dressed up to look better than she is, because talk spreads, you know? All classy, full of herself, hoping no one thinks she’s bad in the sack. Any nine that rolls with one of us, not a nine, they’re covering. You’re not a score, you’re chaff to them. Safe.”
“Then afters,” Cindy’s smoke made me cough, “you don’t say anything.”
I nodded along. “‘Cuz who believes that is a bad roll? Eight’s gotta be a good roll, while you…you’re a six. Six’s no good in bed. Gotta be your fault.”
Ribber thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Still roll her. Bad roll still good, and I’d rather look at a nine than a five.”
Food’s good in Upper West. Cheap is cheap. Cheap don’t mean bad. You can get a good meal for a dollar if you know the right place, know the right order.
Donnies got a good fishwich. Regular like. Frozen in packages always give you the same thing. Can live off of Donnies.
But need more than a ‘wich a week. Go to Jump’Jack or Ma’s Side Grill to get a good fry. Bag or basket. Cheap as hell, crisp and greasy. Ma’s give better fries, but Jump’Jack pour on the grease. Paper bag. Good for the chant. Ma’s, that’s for vacay. Relaxing.
Pizza, no choice. You flowing smooth with a solid brain, you get Pickadillo. Not great. Cheap. Thick bread, buttery, but know how to top it. Gives you something to bite into. Keep you ready for another day.
Sizzling, you go to Metropolitan. Metro pizza no better than cardboard. Manky. Crusty. Sick as shit. Garbage. Sizzling, the best thing you ever tasted.
We sharing a metro, the circle, when Cindy asked. Out of nowhere, like a flash of lightning. Crazy. Slice in my mouth, and she just asks. “New kind of chant,” she says. “Want to have a go?”
“All of us?” Leon pulls back, like slapped. Ribber’s mouth fell open like a drawer. Darla, she cooed like a mother, kind and gentle. Made her lap shift, where my head was.
“Chant the same,” she nodded. “Same thing. Same chant. Works well. Worth a try?”
Leon, the nut, groaned and waved his hands. Didn’t like the idea. Asked a lot of questions, like what she wanted to chant for. Would anyone else be there. What time. How long. Gave her a real load.
“New chant,” she says. “Friend of mine made it. Going to make real change.”
“Oh yeah?” Leon crossed his arms, like sentinel. “Who?”
“I met her,” I say. “Tall. Good face. Thin, though.”
“Not her,” Cindy spits at me. Like spits. Like I was her enemy here, not being supportive. What the hell was her problem?
“What’s the chant for?” Darla asks, like she’s curious. Never going to happen, right? Terrible way to chant. Holding hands. Awkward as hell.
“Going to help,” she says. Not an answer. Chant for lot of things: luck, love, happiness, curse another, catch an eye, turn a head, get the deal, slip the cuffs, jump between the curtains. Lots of things to chant for, all help.
“What’s that mean?” Ribber giggles. “Gonna get more girls? Roll some more?”
“Shut up, Ribber. Truth, why not? We chant different ways before, I want to chant my way.”
“You want us all to chant your way.” Leon isn’t happy.
“Better,” Cindy insists. “Keep us away from the grid. Keep chanting like forever, we dust.”
“Can’t chant and dust,” I laugh. It’s ridiculous. Ozzie never dust.
“Let’s try it,” Ribber giggles. “More girls to roll, yeah?”
“Not for girls.” Cindy’s getting mad. “Oz, you said it was good, yeah? Do it again?”
What the hell did she do that for? Now everyone’s looking at Old Oz, like I’m going to decide once and for all what’s what. Yeah, we held hands in the park, but it wasn’t cheating on anyone. Besides, what good was it? Awkward as hell. Didn’t even know what we were chanting for.
Now everyone thinks I’m in her corner. Like it was my idea or something. They all looking at me like Old Ozzie say yes, then they know it’s special. Why she wanna put that on my shoulders?
I shrug. What else I gonna do? Not going to say no, but can’t say yes, after she try and pull me down with her, like a crab in a bucket. Truth, hundred truth, that was some real grit for me. Ground in my teeth. Didn’t like it at all. That’s not the chant, right? No trade, no cost, no payment. Share. Yeah, Leon wouldn’t say no to her, but she shouldn’t have brought trade into it. That’s the system, right? The grid.
Binny spoke then, raised his hand, all smiles and beneficence: Says yes. It could be fun, he says. Voice light and lilting, like talking to children. Ribber laughs and says yeah, lets have some fun. Leon shrugs then. It’ll be fun, maybe.
Darla, she smiles too.