seedlings of a new story - Democracy in America

My first apartment in Brooklyn was above a bar where none of the regulars looked under fifty. I'd go in to give my rent check to the bartender and heads would barely raise, nod slowly before going back to their Bud Light bottles. When I turned off the lights to go to sleep, I usually heard the moans of the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith drifting through the floorboards.

The rest of the block was quiet, except for on the first of every month another U-Haul would double-park on the hill, young mothers and fathers with babies attached to slings on their chest unloading antique bookshelves, new Ikea beds and lamps, raising their hand in apology to the Car Service guys who'd honk and mouth "Dios Mio" through their blue-tinted windshields. Usually the month would drift by, the mornings and nights marked by the rising and falling of the metal grates on the bodegas, but when I walked up the block and saw mildewed boxes of paperbacks and floral-print dresses hung on the iron railings of a stoop, I knew that another move day was coming, more honking, more apologies, more change.

One night I remember watching the snow trickle past the street lights as I sat on my radiator. I had plans to meet some friends at a bar on 14th Street that gives you a free pizza with every beer, and all I wanted to do was sit on the futon in the living room and watch a cop drama or a replay of a Yankees game, but I put on my boots that gave me blisters on my in-step and my puffy jacket with the zipper that stopped halfway up and headed toward the above-ground subway station. I tried to read a free newspaper on the platform, but the cold gnawed at my reddening fingers and I had to shove them in my pockets until the F came chugging out of the tunnel.

It was like any Saturday - we had a few beers and pizzas and then hit up another bar down the street where men watched the baseball game and complained about the weather and traffic. There were more young people than usual, all crammed in the back and throwing their arms over each other, some pumping dollars into the jukebox and looking for songs that they could dance to. We figured the bartender decided to stop checking IDs. Maybe they were short on rent for the month and needed cash fast. One of my friends went to the back to meet some girls and waved to us a couple minutes later, but we ignored him and finished our beers and gave a good tip and braced for the cold.

The subway back was fucked up, it was always fucked up on weekend nights. We waited at Jay Street, I thought about walking to the end of the platform and pissing into the dark tunnel, but then then the train came and we packed in and smelled the booze on everyone and tried to stay out of the way while some kids danced and flipped in the middle of the car. I got off at Fourth Avenue and trudged up the hill, slid my feet to make long tracks in the fresh powder. The plows had not made it down here yet; the quiet was perfect.

Towards the end of the block, I saw a cardboard box in front of a brownstone. It was half-filled with snow, but when I brushed it off with my hand I found a stack of books, some texts on school subjects like biology and geometry and a notebook filled with nothing more than the dates and titles of different novels. Pushed against the side was a copy of Alexis de Tocqueville's "Democracy in America".

The cover was a picture of a rolling pasture with smoke billowing out of the chimney of a small gray house in the background. On a dirt path, a boy rode on a red carriage pulled by a horse and two men carried huge planks of wood down toward a shelter they were building by a pond.

I took it because it was in surprisingly good condition, and I couldn't remember if I'd read it before. Maybe it had been assigned in my government and politics course in high school. The only thing I remembered about that class was a mock campaign video that I made with some friends. I played the candidate. In one scene, I was dressed in a suit and tie and stood in front of a wall covered in grafitti. I pointed at the wall, and the grafitti disappeared.

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When the war of independence was terminated, and the foundations of the new government were to be laid down, the nation was divided between two opinions - two opinions which are as old as the world, and which are perpetually to be met with, under different forms and various names, in all free communities - the one tending to limit, the other to extend indefinitely, the power of the people.

Bygone

Bygone

We talked about
opening an old-timey gym

Strength cables and jump ropes
would sit in milk crates by the door

The weights would be globed
at the end of unlabeled bars

The exercise bikes would
have a giant front wheel

Medicine balls would be
everywhere

For wardrobe, we would require unitards
preferably with stripes
as well as handlebar mustaches and
stiff hair slathered in pomade

What about the ladies?

Well, there's a row of domed hair dryers
in the lobby

But shouldn't you go home
and put the roast in the oven?

I mean, we're going for
authenticity here.

We Like Ike.

To a Twenty-Two-Year Old, New to the City (Part One)

I

Thy first bedroom shall be walk-through
but the fire escape thy sanctuary
Thou shalt crank A Tribe Called Quest
from tinny speakers
and drink High Life from a bottle at sunset
waiting for friends to yell from below
to join thee in summer eve's merriment

From thy roof, thou shalt see all of
Brooklyn laid out before thee
The F train winding up the hill
toward Smith-Ninth Station
Manhattan and Jersey City sparkling
Lady Liberty peeking above the BQE

One too-imbibed midsummer's night
thou shalt sleep on thy roof
Dawn will find thee dirty, groggy, cold
Let thy view warm thy soul

Thou shalt splash thy face, tie thy hair back,
and ride the M train to Queens
Rumble over Bushwick and peer through
acid-etched windows
and remember all that thou hast

Love Poem From One Monster Truck to Another

I watched you
Perched on the mound
Motor purring
Shaking on your haunches

It reminded me
of the time we were in Nashville
The Meineke Car Care
WRECKFEST

You showed that little Escort
what a Monster can do
His dash smashed into his wheel base
Oil and wiper fluid staining the dirt

And I know it’s just our job
I know we envy their lot
Their highway-to-garage lives
Saturdays wiped and buffed
at the car wash downtown

But the look in your eyes
The passion for destruction
Made me believe that for you
it was about more

Than the applause
than the flashbulbs
than putting on a show

And I wanted you to drive next to me
Put your little door handle in mine
Ram the daylights out of the non-believers
The Tauruses, the Camrys, the Neon’s of the world

And know that when you Rev
You Rev for us all
All of us big-wheeled beauties
Longing for that perfect crush

Meet me in Memphis
at SUPER SLAM 2
I’ll show you the crushing
we were meant to do

George W. Bush's 25 Things

My Fellow Americans,
I hope you're all settling in nicely to the new administration. I miss the times we shared - the laughs, the tears, and most of all, the honor I felt representing such a proud people every single day. To stay in touch with the American people, my daughter Jenna told me I should write a note with 25 things about myself for something called the facebook. I'll try anything once.

1. Girls always told me I was the most handsome Bush boy. Jeb is still jealous.

2. One told me she liked my big bushy eyebrows best - maybe cause my name is Bush? That's funny.

3. Should I get eyebrow implants? They're looking a little thin.

4. What about hair dye, America?

5. Jenna just told me that facebook doesn't mean I'm supposed to talk about my face.

6. I used to love sitting on poppa's lap riding a mower around our yard in Houston.

7. A couple of Mexicans take care of my lawn now. I offer them chips and salsa because it makes them feel at home.

8. I'm starting a speaking tour soon. What should I say?

9. 9/11.

10. Remember when Al Gore kept talking about that lockbox?

11. 9/11.

12. I still wear the flight suit sometimes.

13. I miss waking up so close to my office. Now I have to go downstairs.

14. John Kerry forgot Poland.

15. Obama is 800 billion dollars in debt in three weeks, and I was a bad president?

16. Back to my face - The first time I noticed that I had crow's feet was when I caught my reflection in the window as I flew over the devastation in the Gulf Coast.

17. It was horrible.

18. Dick Cheney doesn't have my new phone number. Shhhhh.

19. Enduring Iraqi freedom is the foundation upon which the potential for Democratic societies in the volatile Middle East must be built.

20. Ditto Afghanistan I hear.

21. I'm gonna need a trip to Camp David before I finish all these.

22. Oh. Right.

23. What about a Dave and Busters (George and Laura's?) instead of a presidential library?

24. Laura cuts up my pretzels for me now.

25. I'm sorry.

Seventh Avenue

When it rains
on the corner of 130th street
The water level rises to meet the curb
Floods over the edge

Men wearing jackets caked in dirt
Trudge through the puddle
Pushing refrigerators onto the sidewalk
New appliances for a new condominium

I try to follow their lead
but my shoe has a leak
and cannot keep all the water
at bay

I can't seem to miss the flood
completely

Taste, Part Two

As his tongue hit the wet pavement, Mr. Lepic felt the sharp prick of a pine needle. The Christmas tree that had shed on that spot belonged to Lamar and Sheila Warren, a married couple who lived in an old brownstone on the block. Mr. Lepic knew Mr. Warren, but was unaware of this fact. Mr. Warren was the owner of a deli/grocery on AC Powell Blvd., and everyday Mr. Lepic walked by and nodded hello through the window. Mr. Warren appreciated the gesture, always thought of Mr. Lepic as "one of the good ones" on a block that was being overrun by entitled pricks from downtown. Mr. Warren had reason to worry - a developer had already come by to take a look at his home, claiming that the lease didn't make clear whether the property could legally be owned by an individual and not the city. He thought about this when he dragged the tree from his living room to the sidewalk, scraping off the twig that stabbed Mr. Lepic's tongue.

Mr. Lepic tasted acid from yesterday's rain, grease dripped from a slice of pizza, rubber from the bottom of new sneakers, hair left by the new Bijon terrier adopted up the block...

Mr. Lepic stood up and brushed off his pants. There is too much here, he thought. Too much to taste. From now on, I'll stick to wine.

(You know how some people are "completists" for certain bands or artists or writers? That's who this is for. If you're just dying to read everything ever written by Oscar McPhee, first of all, seek help, second of all, sorry this piece was not...dare I say...OSCAR WORTHY! Next one will be better. I hope.)