Page 248 - Flaunt175-diana

but not much, it’s just a street life. Sam said he had good stuff, but it wasn’t that good, not really good at all, so I didn’t think I was high. In fact, I’m sure that wasn’t the problem, but the bus drivers own the roads downtown, and this driver, he just pulled out, and I couldn’t react fast enough, and the bus hit me, some- where waist high, and I just went flying, and I remember it vividly, up in the air, spinning, thinking first that I couldn’t afford a new skateboard, but knowing I had no idea where the skateboard
had skidded out to, maybe up Broadway, maybe turning a corner, maybe gaining its own free will and taking a turn down seventh Street, but I knew I was in the air, and I was falling back down onto the pavement, but I didn’t know I was hurt, not until later,
I think the wheel of the bus ran over my hand, but I didn’t feel it at first, and I never lost consciousness, but almost, and the bus stopped, and the driver got out, and some passengers got out, and they were screaming, because I was bleeding, and lying in the street, and I was screaming too, because of the pain, and then I saw the flashing lights, and the cops came, and I was always afraid of the cops, so I thought they were coming for me, and usually they were, but this time they were coming to take care of me, and then the EMTs, and they examined me, and they looked to see if my head was bleeding, and it wasn’t. Because it was a Metro bus, they had all sorts of people come out to take notes and file reports, government people, because they had to take note of this sort of thing, but I was aware of it, then they took me to County USC hospital, where they told me my fingers were crushed, which I could see, and I learned about their plan to amputate, and they gave me painkillers, and then I sat there for a while, or rather laid on the gurney, until they could see me again, which took a while, because they asked if I had insur- ance, of course I had none, so I was with that group of people, my people, the people they took to County USC, among the homeless, and workers from Farmer John’s meat packing plant, who also needed to have their fingers amputated, because that’s what the machines do to the people who work there, cutting pigs, filleting pork, making sausages, that often included small pieces of their bodies, mostly fingers, that would become part
of the sausage, packed and wrapped and sent to market. I’m not sure what they would do or did do with the fingers of mine that they amputated, but I’m pretty sure they’re not on someone’s breakfast plate.
PARKER:
I sell my poems for a dollar apiece on the street corner. Very
few people buy my poems. I know I’m not a very good poet,
but that’s not the reason that I don’t sell more poems. There is no interest in poetry and people don’t like what I have to say. I’m homeless off and on. When I have a place to stay, It’s at the Rosalinda Hotel. Even the desk clerk there eyes me suspiciously. I don’t look like the kind of guy you want to associate with. Peo- ple walk across the street when they see me. My skin is dark, my hair is wild, I have a few tattoos, back when I could afford them. No, it’s not even the content of what I write. It’s me. Even the young progressives shun me. I am not their kind of hipster. My hand is gnarled; I’m missing fingers. I’m a street kid. They want to be like me, in theory, they just don’t like me.
PARKER—A Poem: Brazen
Brazen rows of bad-ass crows, Hand-in-hand with hopeless hopheads— Cocktail of semen, snot and spittle, Served over shaved ice.
My broken thumb—
It’s better to swallow shattered glass Before the new moon rises:
Fear fractures bias
In all the worst ways—
The myriad uninvited guests
Become full-scale stars of the show— Then, at long last, we can say
That we’ve kicked down the doors.
PARKER:
I’ve always thought about dying, even before the accident. I
admit that getting hit by a bus focuses your attention. But I only lost a few fingers. Amputation is weird though. I think I can still feel them. Even though they’re not there.
I was more afraid then than now. Seems weird to me.
I get knocked out cold. ER. Surgery. Doctor cuts off the mangled fingers.
I mean, I’m not scared anymore. I skate still. I think about death even more now but without the same panic. I ask myself if I’m suicidal. I’m not. I write poems now, and I sell them on the street. A buck apiece. I’m not getting rich. But maybe ten people buy one. Not shit. What the fuck am I going to do with ten bucks a day?
Not much.
But I’m not dead.
PARKER—REFLECTIONS:
I don’t know what the fuck to do. I don’t know how to make
any money. Before my injury, I did shows, showing off my moves, X-Games kind of thing, skateboarding in unusual places, can- yons in the desert, film crews shooting our runs, didn’t pay well, the producers got all the money, but it was something. After I got fucked up, that whole thing dried up. People just think I’m some dumb-ass skater punk, but I’ve always written poetry. It may not be any good, but I read books, I write, and I sell my work on the street corners, a buck a poem, I don’t sell many, maybe 10 or 15 today, that’s not bad, but back in the day, when
it supplemented my income, that was drinking money. Now it’s all I got. Then I got this job at a hardware store, I didn’t need full use of my hands, I didn’t need to be athletic, but it pays the minimum wage. You may not like my poems. I’m no Jack Ker- ouac. But I know what it’s like to be almost homeless.
I’m not a pretentious writer. I’m a skate punk. I know I’m not very good. I grew up in Montreal—only until I was ten. My first language was French but I’ve lost it. I still like the sound of it. My mother spoke to my aunt in French so we kids wouldn’t understand.
Then we moved to Boston. I worked in a pickle factory. It sucked.
I bought a skateboard with my factory money. I got good at it. I moved to LA.
I made some money. Then I got hurt.
Straightforward. Shitty. I’m broke.
I write shit too. Whatever. But I do read.
It’s never been Kerouac for me. I’ve never been that free. I
mean, who paid his fucking bills?
I read about this guy, a French guy, not Canadian, really
French, who jacked off on his paper when he wrote. I can’t remember his name. Pierre or Jacques. I don’t know.
I wish I could do that. I mean, have that much passion. I don’t. I want my old life back, but that’s not going to happen.
CODA:
Broken-down, busted-up Parker—severed fingers and all—
represents what’s left of the future in Los Angeles for Z-boys and poor kids and kids of color that want to rap poetic, not commercial, who seek cheap rent in roach-infested digs and don’t give a damn about the bugs; they make something, any- thing—beer, jewelry, poems—and they’re broke as hell, and now the Rosalinda is changing too, and the rooms no longer rent by the week, and the tenants look different and are different, and they’ve read about the place in travel books and guidebooks, at first from Germany and Holland, young tourists with backpacks looking for a place to stay just a cut above a hostel, right in the center of downtown LA, and for them the Rosalinda is perfect, but for Parker and the Garcias and Mrs. Johnston, the young Europeans are an ominous sign that they do not yet compre- hend. But perhaps the fight isn’t over. Parker and all the other Parkers just like them—born in the basement, fucked up and mired in the storm and the swamp of contemporary life—a miasma of mud and of muck: evictions, shit wages, and all the other shackles of being poor—still they grasp a simple truth, seemingly lost for generations: they go on.
248