The Left Side
by Ward Crockett

   My wife Sherry once said, "Think of me, Charles, when you’re in the bottom of a dumpster eating rat puke and J.D."

   Sherry and I was married for ‘bout twelve days. Thirteen if you count the day I found her in my king-sized waterbed with Michael the Plumber. No, not a real plumber. He was The Plumber for the same reason I’m The Foot. That’s how we take people out, see. He gets ‘em with a copper pipe, sometimes a wrench, sometimes even a plunger. Sucked a guy’s eyeballs out with one, I heard. When he was in a good mood, he shoved a funnel down someone’s throat and brought out a bottle of Drano. See, these nicknames are a courtesy deal for us cold-blooders. We all know who whacked who, scores are straight, and there’s no confusion.

   So I give Sherry a couple good knocks, then kick The Plumber straight to hell. I kicked that fuck for so long I couldn’t remember who I was kickin’ when I was done, and the bloody pulp on the floor choking on his own juice and the warm water gushing outta the waterbed mattress – well, let’s just say The Plumber couldn’t remember his own nickname.

   And as I was walkin’ outta there, Sherry says, "Think of me, Charles, when you’re in the bottom of a dumpster eating rat puke and J.D. Think about how good I was to you."

   What’s that? Nah, they didn’t get me for that. In fact, the pigs probably appreciated somebody takin’ The Plumber out of the game. But the deal was my savior, for sure. No chair for me. A nice, comfy life in here in exchange for the names of certain cohorts and the blueprints for certain organizational structures. You already know who. I’d be long gone if it weren’t for that deal. Cop killa, as they say in here. ‘Course, I didn’t do that, ‘cause it’s a poor dumb schlub who whacks a man with a shield. I was framed for that shit, see. Which I’ll get back to in a—

   What’s that? No profanity? Who you tapin’ this for? You gotta get a deal with HBO. They show all the real shit that goes down. Well, I know what you’re sayin’, but you gotta understand that it’s the language of the street. You know, the hopeless folk who have no path but down, as the psychologists say in here. Fuckin’ fuckers.

   You don’t think so? You try comin’ back unloved from an unpopular war after livin’ in a bamboo cage half-submerged in a river for two months, scarred and eaten away with half your foot blown off, an’ try to make somethin’ of your life. You wanna hear about my welcome home? How about livin’ in Denver, stretchin’ out my old man’s sleeping bag underneath the interstate overpasses or finding a little nook amongst the bushes in City Park? With the zoo nearby, it was just like livin’ in the jungle again.

   The nicest place I stayed was in a scrapped semi trailer between the railyards and a factory that looked abandoned exceptin’ the smokestack burnin’ like a giant smoke. On nice nights, I’d get all situated on my back on top of the trailer, light up a smoke, and stare up at the smoke stack and imagine it was my cigarette flarin’ up for all the world to see. People drivin’ around at night would look out over the city lights and see that fire dancin’ in the darkness. My own fuckin’ memorial.

   That was right about the time I met Joey Perez. Met him in an all-night trucker joint near my humble abode by the factory. Gruff’s Place. The punk workin’ the place told me to get out ‘cause I stank, and Joey Perez comes up and knocks the fucker out, sayin’ how he shouldn’t be disrespectin’ the men who fought for our freedom. Joey Perez saw the Army tattoo on my arm, see. He won my respect right then and there.

   Anyhow, he convinced me to drop the habit. He told me it wasn’t cool no more. The attorney general said the shit was no good. I read about that crap, but comin’ from Joey’s lips made it sound a little more truthful. Joey was always up with the times. He read the paper every morning, regardless of his current locale. He could be stayin’ on a bench downtown and he’d panhandle and use the change to buy a cup of joe and a newspaper.

   "The world is a backstabber, Chuck." He always called me Chuck. "You gotta know what’s goin’ on everywhere because you never know who’s in the alley with you." He did most of his jobs in alleys. The throats of the world, he called ‘em. Fuckin’ poet.

   See, a town is like a man, he used to tell me. It’s got its head in the government and corporations and country clubs (‘course, its head is usually up its ass), its body in the average schlub makin’ a few bucks but not livin’ it up, and it’s got its feet in the workin’ men, who do all the real shit. And there are the bowels, somewhere between the average schlub and the workin’ man. I’ve found that the bowels of a city are the best places to hang and lie low, whore motels, all-night tattoo parlors, but sometimes you gotta move higher up on the body to stay alive and sane. See, a city’s got its bright sides and its dark sides, and Joey Perez taught me you gotta live in a town like you’d live with a woman. Get to know ‘em till you realize it ain’t safe to be stickin’ around for so long and you can’t stand ‘em anyway so you move on to the next one. That’s what Joey Perez always said.

   A smoke? I just told you I quit! Now, hold on. I never said a little puff now and again would hurt anybody. And Joey Perez is stone cold. Thanks, bud. Light me up. Yeah. That’s nice.

   The Opie story, eh? I’m gettin’ to it. First you gotta hear a little story ‘bout The Foot and some punks throwin’ a little disrespect my direction.

   See, Joey Perez hooked me up with a sculptor friend ‘o his, who cast a nice set of bronze toes for me, you know, so I could balance a little easier. And I managed to work my way off the cane, too. Sure, it hurts a little when I give people the foot, but pain’s a part of the biz and if you don’t like it then get the fuck out.

   After I landed in here, I came to realize via a certain shower event, starring yours truly as the soap-dropper and Farley’s gang as the rapists, that I needed to let the locals know exactly why I was given my nickname. So to spice things up a bit, I had my cellmate use a couple stones from the yard to sharpen up my bronze toes so as to discourage folks from makin’ a move when I went to retrieve my soap. Ever since I put holes in Benny’s kidney, Farley’s gang has pretty much steered clear of my ass.

   Boys, I’ll tell ya, I wasn’t always this talkative. My various lines of work always required a certain amount of quietude: I shelved books for the U. of Nebraska library for a few weeks one summer when my old man landed a custodial job there. So naturally that was an occupation that required few words from yours truly. That was a couple years before ‘Nam.

   And a soldier’s gotta be able to keep it low when he’s in the shit. He’ll get his tongue shot right off. Hell, I seen snipers who coulda put a bullet straight through that eyebrow ring you’re wearin’ and not break the skin. I saw more ‘an one dumb schlub get his brains splattered on a tree trunk ‘cause he started yappin’ in the jungle with Charlie lurkin’ about.

   And a talky dealer is a dead dealer. You talk and backstab your buds, you’re gonna get one in the back yourself. And people remember a talker. ‘Specially pigs. And if you leave an impression on someone, they’re probably a talker and you’re gonna get busted. So you keep it quiet and unmemorable. Sometimes I think it’d pay not to know your own name.

   But these days, in the light of recent developments, I try to talk and make impressions on everyone I meet. I’m talkin’ ‘bout ol’ Hackett and the doll’s head.

   So here’s the story you came in here for. See, Hackett was a crazy sumbitch. Shot and killed a convenience store clerk for thirty bucks forty years ago, spent most of his life here in the joint. Anyway, he’s always been a little unpredictable, a little moody, a lot like my wife. Got in a few cafeteria brawls, held his own pretty damned well. I’m glad I never faced him one-on-one.

   So he gets thrown into solitary for a couple days for losing his temper with a guard. He can’t stand the place, he tells me later. He grew up with ten brothers and four sisters, and then he got thrown in the joint, so he was used to being around a lot of people. The last time he got thrown in solitary he just about went shit-crazy, so we were all expectin’ him to come out white and wild-eyed. But, no. Sumbitch came out glowing, fuckin’ smiling! I asked him if he got some nice poontang in there, but he wouldn’t talk about it. And then the next day he started a fight with Gunther the Idiot out in the yard. Gunther didn’t do nothin’, either. Well, other than his usual dullard smacktalk. But he wasn’t even talkin’ to Hackett, and Hackett just tackles the Idiot like they’re playin’ football. And so he goes back into solitary. Again, we thought for certain that sumbitch was gonna come out half a brain short. But that sucker was happier than the first time he come out. And he did the same damned thing a week later, only this time with Farley, which wasn’t such a good move.

   I’m getting a little suspicious by this time, so I start up a friendly little conversation with ol’ Hackett at supper.

   "What the fuck you come out so happy for, Hackett?" I says.

   "I don’t know what you’re talking about," he says.

   So I says, "Like hell you don’t know what I’m talking about. You get yourself thrown into solitary on purpose. I saw it. What the hell’s in there that’s so goddamned special?"

   He looks at me offended-like. "Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain," he says.

   So I grab him by the collar of his prison denim, and I says, "Fuck the Lord. What’s goin’ on in solitary?"

   He stares at me scared-like – and The Foot knows fear when he sees it. I think maybe I was the only one in here he was afraid of. I let him sit back down. He looks around the cafeteria, and I follow his eyes. I notice Farley and his cronies glancing over at the old man, but Hackett doesn’t see ‘em. He’s a dead old man, I was thinkin’.

   "It’s a necklace, Charles." Hackett was a good guy, but he was no Joey Perez. No Chuck-privileges for him. "A necklace."

   "What the fuck are you talkin’ about, a necklace?"

   He slams his fist down on the table and our paper dishes bounce. His milk spills down the table but he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are crazy-wild. Maybe solitary did push him over. But then I see that it’s a kinda pleasure-crazy ecstasy. Lust, but not for chicks, see.

   "My grandmother used to tell me a story, Charles. One of those wish-tales. Do you know what I’m talking about?"

   "Like the wishbone?"

   "Yes! Like the wishbone! Yes." He strokes his chin and his eyes jerk ‘round like he hasn’t slept in days. "She said there was once an evil wizard who imprisoned a princess in a tower. An insurmountable tower on the top of a mountain. An enchanted tower. If she left the tower, she would die. Drop dead upon her first step outside. And if anyone came to visit or rescue her, they would fall down dead, and she would have to live with the knowledge that she was responsible for their deaths."

   "So you got it on with a princess in solitary confinement?" I says.

   He says, "The wizard cursed her. She would live there for the rest of her days. But he gave her one gift. An amulet on a chain necklace. While she wore it, whenever the clasp worked its way down to touch the amulet, she would know that someone she knew was thinking about her. She would make a wish for that person, and then she would pull the clasp back up behind her neck."

   "Why didn’t she just pull it down to touch the amulet so she could make a shitload of wishes?"

   "It wouldn’t work. It only functioned when someone thought of her. She could feel the clasp move down toward the amulet, and she could count the hours and minutes until another thought of her occurred to someone she knew."

   "What the fuck are you talkin’ about?"

   "I’m saying I found a necklace just like it! I survived solitary by living in the good thoughts and memories of my family and friends. It allowed me to escape, Charles!"

   He started looking around the cafeteria like a hawk searching for mice, probably craving another fight.

   Well, I was tired of his fairy bullshit, and I was gettin’ a little nervous with Farley and his gang glancin’ over at us, so I took my cornbread and meatloaf over to Dennis and Harry’s table. After all, Joey always said, "You never know who’s in the alley with you." And I wasn’t about to walk down it with Hackett at my side. Farley was waitin’ in the shadows.

   And the next mornin’ I was glad I had a smart buddy like Joey. Hackett was stone cold the next morning. Busted up and bleeding out all his orifices. No doubt Farley and his cronies with a little help from a guard. You don’t piss off Farley. You do, expect a long, black sleep.

   So Hackett’s fairy story was keepin’ me up nights. Don’t know why. Maybe I liked that princess-in-the-tower shit. I wasn’t sure why she’d leave her precious necklace in this shithole, but it was worth checkin’ out. And if it wasn’t there, then at least I’d start sleepin’ again. Loose ends don’t suit The Foot.

   So I wail on some fresh fish just come in for first degree. Ran over his parents on their front lawn with his buddy’s H2, accordin’ to Dennis. Ma and Pa didn’t want him going out that night. Dumb kids doin’ dumb shit.

   So I get solitary for beatin’ up the punk, an’ I don’t find shit. But then I’m still not sleepin’. I figure it must be in a different cell, so I punch Tompkins in the jaw, get a little more backlash than I expect ‘cause the guards weren’t keen on savin’ my ass too quickly this time ‘round. Tompkins’ buddies, including Gunther the Idiot, get me a trip to the infirmary for a bruised rib and broken nose. Then solitary.

   And I find it. I find a fuckin’ necklace under a loose panel in the floor. The old man wasn’t completely gone. Ugly thing it was. Scratched-up plastic figure, like a little doll or something with all the paint rubbed off. Missing one leg. Leather cord goes right through a hole in its head. So I put it on, barely fits over my head. I have a big, egg-shaped head, you know, but you can’t see it when my hair’s long, which is how I kept it before I got in here. I pull the knot up to the back of my neck, and I sit and wait. Nothing. Hours go by. Not a goddamned thing.

   I’m ‘bout ready to pull it off when I look down and see the knot has just come to rest against the side of the little doll’s head. And then the dark cell disappears. I’m not in solitary anymore. There’s a woman in blue, a nurse, and a bright room, and big hospital beds, and an old woman lying in one of them. And I’m in the other bed, and I look down at my hands and I’m holding a photograph of myself wearing my private’s uniform. Just about to ship out to ‘Nam. And the hands holding the photograph are old and wrinkled. Then it’s all gone and I’m back in the cell.

   I know you think it’s a bunch of bullshit, and so does everyone else. So much the better. Now shut the fuck up for a minute.

   So I pull the knot back up to my neck, wait for it to move down from my head to the doll’s head again, and when it does, I’m in a big, fat body talkin’ to a lady in a dark bar. I’m talkin’ about The Foot, the quiet man who was always a kick at parties. The lady is laughing.

   "The Foot was a great guy," the fat guy says, but at the same time it’s me saying it. "Wish you could meet The Foot, but he’s in the joint now."

   And then I’m back in the cell again, tryin’ to figure out just who I was experiencin’ just then. Well, it was gettin’ me higher than any dust ever had, so I kept loopin’ that knot back up to my neck, up to its farthest point from the doll, see. And by the time they dragged me out of solitary, I was giddy as a teenager after his first fuck.

   Ah, now you’re beginning to see. You’re not as dumb as you guys look. Yeah, I found out that sometimes I could make people do things. The people who was thinkin’ about me. Only sometimes, though. And then I noticed it was always when the people was mad about somethin’, or they was cursin’ my name.

   That’s how I came upon Sherry again. She was in a shithole of an apartment, a baby cryin’ somewhere, looked like there were cigarette butts smokin’ in ashtrays and dishes all over the place. I felt something pushing into me, into her, and when I looked down I saw an ugly-ass man lying on the bed beneath me, beneath her, his mouth moanin’ and his eyes strainin’ in pre-orgasm like they were trying to keep him from dying. I looked down to see Sherry’s naked body stretching down before my eyes, and that fat old man squeezin’ her tits – and it fuckin’ hurt! - and clumsily thrustin’ inside her like he hadn’t gotten any in forty years.

   See, Sherry was rememberin’ the good screwin’ we got done in our twelve days of marital bliss, and tryin’ to block out the face of this sumbitch. If only she’d known I was right there with her, feelin’ sorry that she had to whore herself out, especially to this guy.

   Now, it didn’t make me sick like some prison lovin’ at the hands of Farley and his gang. I guess I was feelin’ it the way Sherry was feelin’ it, and it felt, you know, natural. Not that I liked it or anything. And she was thinkin’ this guy was a nasty fuck and he’d better pay the fifty bucks he owed her for this, plus the fifty from last week.

   Yeah, light me up another. Thanks, bud.

   Then it was all gone again. It was a fuckin’ trip, I tell ya. I got tossed in solitary three times in the month I found that necklace.

   Well, like I said, The Foot is a man who don’t like loose ends. So I got to thinkin’ that I should start taking care of some unfinished business in the outside world.

   You got it. That’s how I’ve rubbed out Opie and half his gang. None of those guys had very fond memories of me, and every time my memory came up it was like a fuckin’ civil war in Opie’s territory. I popped into Bumper’s head right in the middle of a bank job ‘cause he and I did a bank in Carson City once and I yelled at him ‘cause he was bein’ a dumbfuck by tryin’ to rip off this chick’s skirt. So I’m there in his head, and I swing my sawed-off 12 gauge around and blow Chopper across the lobby. Then I see Rennie fire at me, and it hurts like shit and the world’s flyin’ ‘round me, and then I’m back in the cell again. And I chuckled ‘cause they were all wearing Star Wars masks for disguises, and I still knew who they were ‘cause Bumper knew who they were. A trip, man.

   I bust up a few more of Opie’s men, make sure it’s the work of The Foot. Kick their brains out. So Opie thinks of me, wonders how I could be out and about after he had Joey pin me for nailin’ that cop in Houston. Star cop. Family of five, medals of honor, community service freak. Might as well have been Christ hisself. And Joey did the kickin’, made it look like the handiwork of The Foot, and he did it so well ‘cause of how well he knew me. ‘Cause he was the only one who could call me Chuck, and I didn’t read the paper enough. I didn’t know who was in the alley with me.

   So I take Opie on a search for Joey Perez, who frequented Austin. See, Opie doesn’t know where Joey is – Joey never let anybody know his whereabouts – but I know exactly where Joey frequents ‘cause Joey made the mistake of walkin’ down the alley with me. He didn’t know I’d be back in the throat of the world again.

   It was an easy hunt ‘cause Opie wouldn’t stop thinkin’ of me. See, he was worried The Foot was after him, and his mind was racin’ with terror at the thought of The Foot sneakin’ up in the dark. I had to laugh, and it came out as Opie’s weasely little laugh. He was strippin’ down a mickied little boy for a little stress-relief when I popped into his head. Kid couldn’t have been more than ten. Sick fuck. I walk outta the room, tell Jed to get the kid dressed and to drop him off at the school where he found him. Then I’m out the door and on a first-class to Austin within the next few hours.

   I find Joey in his favorite hotel bed with Sherry, who’s completely strung-out, bruises up and down her chunky arms. It surprised me a little to find her there, but, then again, every chick I ever introduced to dreamy Joey Perez had a soft spot for the schlub. I want the Judas-lovin’ bastard to know who’s whackin’ ‘im, so I shake him awake and says, "Hey, Joey. It’s Chuck."

   Then I deliver a series of kicks with Opie’s steel-tipped boots that breaks every bone in Joey’s body. But I leave him alive ‘cause I know he’s gonna hurt for the rest of his fuckin’ life. I crush his larynx to keep him from talkin’, but it was more old habit than anythin’. What could he say?

   So I scoop up Sherry, who coulda been dead from an overdose for all her movement – she didn’t wake up through the whole thing – and then I crash through the window of room 517, Joey’s favorite room in Austin. See he’d made the mistake of fallin’ in love with a city. And though he often left to do jobs here and there, he always returned to that town. And it betrayed him, piece of trash city that it was. Even in the middle of the night it was eighty degrees out there, and humid as hell. Even red-haired Opie sweat like a fuckin’ pig as we plunged to the ground. I knew he was in there somewhere, watchin’ all this from the back of his own brain, and he couldn’t do a fuckin’ thing.

   That jump was my special touch, ‘cause all Opie ever talked about was bein’ Catholic and Christ-this and Christ-that, and I heard God don’t look kindly on His folks committin’ suicide. ‘Course, I thought, as the hood of a Buick came flyin’ up, Sherry’s hair tossin’ ‘round in my face, I doubt He looks too kindly on organized crime or fuckin’ pedophilia, either.

   Why’d I take Sherry with me? You think she was makin’ a good life in the world? I took her ‘cause I fuckin’ loved her.

   So that’s how I took care of some loose ends on the outside. These days I’m toyin’ with Farley and his buds, gettin’ ‘em to fight each other. Soon I think I’ll have Farley drop his soap. That’ll shake up his little gang a bit.

   Why don’t I just break outta here? You know what kind of a mess that’d be? I’d need a little more help than some telepathic control. I can’t control everybody at once. Besides, I kinda like it in here, in my own little tower. I feel pretty damned safe these days, and I’m gettin’ used to bein’ a little more open with myself, as I said. More sociable. These days, it pays to make an impression.

   Yep, this is it. What, you thought I would get myself thrown into solitary forever? They look down on that shit, see. Nah, I decided I’d bring it out here in the open, and it still works just fine. Get a nice close-up of it with your little camera there. Yep, little missus on a cord. Lots of power in this little woman. And I’ve come to notice that when the knot touches the right side of her head, people are remembering me fondly, you know, like flowers and songs and shit. Like my mother did that first time I put it on. Stuck in some nursing home, mind gone, but she sometimes remembers she had a son who never came back from a long-ago war, thinkin’, "I hope he’s happy wherever he is now." Sometimes someone I don’t know, someone I don’t remember remembers me on the right side of the doll’s head. Playin’ in a sandbox with other kids – he’s always digging holes, that Charles – throwin’ stones at the alley cats – he’s a good shot, Charles is – cashin’ a large government check at a grocery store – he’s not bad lookin’, if only he’d shave – and then thoughts in a foreign language, Vietnamese, lookin’ down at a cage half-submerged in a river, at the haggard, wild-eyed skeletons of men standin’ inside, a strange crimson pulsing, a pain in the eyes like confusion and regret and undeserving — how could I have tortured those people – a skyscraper office looking out on an Asian city, a rich office. And then they’re gone.

   But the knot usually falls to the left side of this little doll’s head. And that’s when I can take charge of things, see. And it’s happenin’ more, now. Now that rumors of The Foot escapin’ prison are circulating through the underworld, or that someone’s doin’ work for The Foot, some vengeful kind of work. The thoughts and memories are plenty. Come to think of it, if I worked hard, I bet I could break outta here, like you said. See, I have a feelin’ the wizard’s story was bullshit. The princess coulda left that tower anytime and anybody coulda come in to see her. I bet she liked her power, and I bet she killed anybody who came to see her. You just gotta figure, well, I can live out there in the alley, watchin’ the shadows and always lookin’ over my shoulder. Or I can be the alley, and I don’t have to walk down it with anybody ‘cause everybody’s walkin’ through me. I’m everybody, and I’m the shadows, and I’m the throat of the fuckin’ world, see.

   All right, that’s it. That’s all you guys get. Nah, that’s it. I’m sick of talkin’, and I think I’ve made enough of an impression on you and your viewers.

   Hey, thanks for the smokes. And good luck to ya, fellas. When’s this goin’ on the air?

 ©2004 Ward Crockett

Ward Crockett is a writer and filmmaker based on the central coast of California. He enjoys the ocean, racquetball, and computer games. Visir his web site at www.corpsebooty.com