in my old neighborhood, there is a park where we used to drink and hide when i was younger. and at its far corner, there’s this patch of evergreen bushes and a bench that overlooks the hillside and the highway, then the river, and the city lights across.
i was in the area a little while back. it was night time. and since no one else was around, i parked the car and walked over to that bench with some wine. it was colder than i ever remember it being before, and the lights from the city across the river didn’t dance like they used to either, but it was usually summer then and the heat can do strange things. i was thinking about the fire we watched rage one night when the moonman came up and scared the shit out of me.
the moonman was this bum from the neighborhood. everyday, he would write these three- and four-digit numbers all over the hill by the park…hundreds off them, each day, in pink chalk or yellow, electric blue. no rhyme or reason. sometimes there were words, but you couldn’t really make them out…they weren’t instantly legible in any case, and i mean, who the fuck is gonna stand there and try to read the words of some insane maniac.
yeah…so, the moonman…
we would catch him sometimes wandering around in the park at night, writing in this notebook, all looking up at the stars and shit. i don’t know if he had any family around here. you would see him walking around with this army bag slung over his shoulder and a notebook, but he didn’t fuck with anybody. sometimes kids would yell at him and he’d yell back, throw snowballs at him or some mean shit like that, but he would just take the hit and keep on going. no one ever got too close…like if he ever got his hands on someone, he’d rip them apart.
so anyway, when i’m just tryin’ to mind my own business and get drunk in the park that night a little while back, this motherfucker - the moonman - comes creepin’ up like a cat and just stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the cliff at the river and the lights. he was pretty close to the bench, and he must’ve seen me, right? so i reached in my pocket and took out my blade, clicked it open…cuz you know, i was ready to cut a motherfucker. i recognized him right away, even though he was wearing a suit and he looked a helluva lot cleaner than i ever remember him being. but there was no doubt who it was.
“what’s goin’ on,” i said.
he never took his eyes off of what he was looking at, just reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper and folded it lengthwise. i took a drink.
“you sound like one of those little kids who used to scream at me once upon a time,” he said.
“yeah, well, i ain’t some fuckin’ little kid no more, moonman.”
“now there’s a name i haven’t heard in a long time. moonman…” he held up his sheet of paper and inspected the folds by the moonlight.
“you still writin’ those numbers on the streets?”
“hmmm? numbers? i don’t remember any…”
“you know what the fuck i’m talkin’ about…all those numbers, man, that you used to write all over the street. didn’t make no sense. how the fuck didn’t you get locked-up in some hospital?”
“oh…those,” he said. and i was there waiting for something that never came. he just stayed with that piece of paper, folding it slowly. four folds, five, six, seven folds.
“is that a fuckin’ paper airplane?”
“you know, all those curse words certainly make you sound like a little kid.”
“check ya tone, moonman!
i CUT YA!!!”
he kinda half-laughed and threw the plane over the hillside. i thought i could make out it’s white reflection in the moonlight for a moment before it disappeared into the twists of trees and brush and vines below. after a minute or so, he turned and sat on the bench next to me. “what are you doing here?” he asked.
“nothin’,”
“nothing.
ain't doin' nuffin'," i think, but i'm not sure, he was mocking me. "ain't doin' nuffin' but messin’ around with those pills and wine. you better be careful. it’s just one step away from…”
“pills? i didn’t take no…”
“please…you’re so pilled-up, you rattle.”
“fuck you, old man. you wanna drink or what?”
“why would i drink with you?”
“well fuck you too, then.”
he laughed. now up until this point, i was humoring the sorry bastard. i felt bad for him. but that laugh...it really stuck in my head. and frankly, it offended me. “the fuck is funny? huh? what are
YOU doing here, huh? tell me
THAT! shouldn’t you be out…fuckin’…i don’t know…writin’ on the fuckin’ streets and shit. you crazy fuckin’ bum…”
“you know, there was a method to that madness, i think…”
“you think?”
“yeah, well…you know how things get…but, yeah…those numbers meant something.”
“what?”
“i don’t know anymore. something about the position of the sun and stars. the constellations, i guess. i don’t know.”
“the constellations?”
“yes…the constellations. the sun, the stars, the moon. radio waves. frequencies. lock combinations. communications. flight patterns of migratory animals, mostly butterflies. all sorts of…”
“you know what?”
“what’s that?”
“that’s the craziest motherfuckin’ shit i ever heard,” i said and started laughing this forced laugh that was shallow and hollow and mean.
“oh,
i'm crazy?” he laughed with me for a minute. only he meant his. “man,
you’re the one sittin’ out here in the middle of this empty park drinking alone.
you're the one who’s crazy. God only knows what else you have in you. got your hand wrapped around that knife in your pocket like…”
“what knife?”
“you know," he was looking right at me, "you’re the crazy who took my place. you know that?”
“ain’t shit wrong with
Me…i’m doin’ fine…
Smoove Sailin’,”
“you’re all wacked up with bitterness."
“fuck you, old man.” kissed the bottle. pretended not to hear another word.
“you know, the best way to get clean ain’t by stayin’ in the shit that you lyin’ in,” he said, and put out his hand like i was really gonna shake it or something. old crazy junkie drunken bum. fuck him.
