The Towering Hills

Get off my foot.
Scratch is towed up the mechanical stairs in Grand Central Station. He threw the Daily Mirror into the waste paper basket. He used it to occupy the time spent in the awful morning subway ride to Manhattan. He watched the cadence of the asses of the secretaries in blues, blacks, reds and yellows. And, the men behind. Hoping that the best will happen and the worst will not. Remembering their sleep conversations?
Martha?
Yes George?
Martha, are you sleeping?
Yes, George.
Martha, do you remember when we were first, married?
Yes, George.
Goodnight, Martha.
Yes, George.
They are all here in front of me and their destination is nine o’clock. Scratch stopped in the coffee shop for his morning cup of tea. He spied the boss at the next counter and nodded. Taking out money to pay for the tea, he noticed a nick on the edge of silver. In God We Trust it said.
Speak for yourself please.
“Good morning Scratch.”
“Good morning Mr. Kowalski.”
 “Bye.”
“Bye.”
And the dumb man said nothing. As Scratch put a coin into the tin cup. He then moved toward the mammoth building that contained sixteen express elevators and one local. The local lifting him to six. He stepped from the car into a wide opening of beige and navy blue, past a receptionist named Carolyn. Her nickname is Chickie.
“Good morning Chickie.”
“Go to hell, Scratch.”
Her nickname should be bitch. I’m sure it must be another hangover for it certainly isn’t me. The double life of Carolyn Flynn, long and Irish with eyes half closed all the time, wearing leather boots and black knit stockings. No lipstick on pink lips that say foul things to her boss’s employees. I must find out where this one goes after work and meet her some time. That is if she doesn’t meet Kowalski in his midtown apartment. It would be better if I stayed in town tonight, honey. And Mrs. Kowalski making the phone call to the milkman. Okay, shithead won’t be home tonight so please your milk and milker; the children are sleeping comfortably. Dreaming about times when they very will be older in these castles that contain sixteen express elevators and one local.
At ten after nine Scratch arrived at his desk and drawing board. He took the cover cloth from the top of the board and rolled it into a neat cylinder at one end and looked up to see who was present and who was not. Except for Bill Bonner, who will be in at ten, the employees of the Kowalski Company are all present and accounted.
A fellow employee approaches the board and begins a daily conversation.
“Good morning Scratch ole boy. Do you think the rain will hit the rhubarb?”
“Hello Joe, how you doing?”
“I’m doing drunk.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
 “That’s very bad.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Joe, you know I’ll be leaving here soon, I’d appreciate the money back.”
“When the cows come home.”
“I better get it.”
“You will.”
“When?”
“I’ll have it for you tomorrow Scratch ole man. Don’t you. You can trust ole Joe Logan.”
“Sure Joe, sure.”
“Well, I better be getting back to the ole drafting board. Oh well good bye. Take care of yourself Scratch, that is, if I don’t see you before you go.”
“Don’t forget the money.”
“You can trust ole Joe. See ya.”
Scratch walked the length of the room to the water fountain. Could stand here for a very long time drinking this free liquid that quenches a thirst with such little effort.
Out the window into the city of grey, built of bedrock, refined iron and cement turned concrete. Where salons for sickened salesman exist in blind gaiety of Johnny Walker Red. Chauffeurs drive the poor rich to the bars. The rich poor take the subway. In this city of culture and Broadway’s best. Amused in the museums.
Apparently not many men went west for the opportunity is here. For all there are jobs. Gold is in these hills, the towering hills. Built of tears. Where they measure you’re height by weighing you’re gold. The plenteous city of New York.
 “Scratch! You have been here precisely one hour and seventeen minutes and have not begun to draw. Not a single line has put on this paper since yesterday. What have you as doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Thinking. About what?”
“About the many design possibilities.”
“Scratch, look, I know you’re leaving Kowalski soon, but don’t think you can sit on you’re ass all day and do nothing. There is work to be done. And I intend to make sure that that is done.”
“You used to be pretty sharp with the women. You made out quite well as I recall. I don’t let that bald head of yours fool me. There was Peggy O’Shea, Harry, Peggy O’Shea.” Take the bail Harry.
“Ah yes, Peggy, Peg o’ my heart. She was sitting alone on the sectional couch. Everyone had left. I was getting pretty drunk. She was asleep. I walked over, I should say staggered, and tried to wake her up. She woke up and told me to get lost. I pressed the issue and she told me to get lost again. I liked her spirit. But, I realized that she was drunk very. Her breath reeked. But I was drunk and didn’t mind. She was so beautiful. I picked her up, took her in my arms and marched her to the door. You know where she lived?”
“Where?”
“In three eleven of the same building. Imagine that. She lived just down the hall from me. I brought her to her apartment and set her down in bed. She looked lovely lying there. I can see her now. She opened her eyes and told me to get lost. I told her I’d have breakfast with her in the morning. After that we really hit that off great. You know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Hey Scratch, where are you going?”
“To lunch.”
“Okay. But be back here by one o’clock. We have to get work done around here. How do you think I got to be Senior Architect, by sitting on my ass all day?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
GET LOST HARRY
Elevator arriving at lobby. People departing from the car.
EXCUSE ME. EXCUSE ME. EXCUSE ME.
Scurrying to their favorite eating place and perhaps to get a drink. Scratch grabbed a hot dog and deposited that into his body while walking toward Fifth Avenue. Past pawn shops and diamond dealers and a man selling a tour of old New York, past the museums and planetarium and statues of liberty, past the theater and where George Washington slept. Scratch goes in for a few drinks.
I Don't Want, And I Don't Have Faith
I Don't Want, And I Don't Have Hope
And Now Someone Offers Charity
Scratch finishes his tenth beer and walks down this side street. No telephone poles, no advertising. Clean handsome and old fashioned. And past more stores and more times. Passing another pub. Raunchy songs of yesteryear remind me of Marylou days, porch top philosophies and bleeding hearts at Saint Bart’s track meets Newtown. Ancient thoughts about the Edgar people, with Black-Jack Halloweens. Our very close friend Goggles got goggled in the bike room or was it under the piss stenched staircase. White shirts and red ties if you were not Catholic, otherwise maroon. Father of Jewess not trusting the ball throwing crossed eyed Jew hater. Slapping him once and once again. How close we were to Floyd the vagrant, wondering why and speculating about his sleeping in the pew of the church. We did see the emperor’s clothes and perhaps we still do. We didn’t live happily ever after and sensed another way.
The summer peach days of the fair world. Reaching there by hook or by crook to the fenced green grass that smelled oh so young. But my nod now is different. The grass is gone and so is Goggles. The web we wove was structed and instructed and constructed to fail us finally. The fly trapper has us and won’t let go. The dream book: says to see a spider in a web is to achieve you’re ambitions through industrious work. All these fucking demons haunt me at night and I’m glad you don’t see them. Oh how they are there though. But these scars I’ll take care. And, very soon, the womb. Staggering dizziness, bouncing from side to side down the street. Two lovers detouring, drunk.
Scratch Stanchfield. I won’t hurt yow, I can’t. Helplessly hoping that this spinning scene stops soon. That feeling inside that dictates that the shit will soon set in. And at the very next moment I pass by Reagan’s Hardware and Plumbing Supplies.
A plate glass window reflects the light that shines upon porcelain kitchens and bathrooms. Cabinets and sinks and pipes and toilets spotlighted in this drunken afternoon’s night. I have no choice now.
I could do nothing else. I forced the shop’s door opened with my shoulder, stumbled to the bathroom display that was lighted by four theatrical lights designed to allow people walking or driving by, took down my pants, sat on the thrown, and began to take a crap.
Scratch then put his head in his hands and fell off to sleep.
A bright meadow in a shadow filled woods. The brook springs forth from a cool stony orifice. Coursing and swelling and pushing and bending and greeting the gold heralds of spring time. The babes in blue satin robes walk the inner path in majesty. From the darkness they left behind into the sunshine of the warm mourning. Soon they will frolic in the hills as all others have done before. They stop for a moment to consider that long train ride they were on.
Coming through the mountain in the seemingly endless tunnel. At a steady pace. Not yet able to see the light but knowing it is there. Sugarcane siblings seeing the rainbow and loving it so. And the purgation continues. The holy hills with flowers of colors swaying to and fro and the one child lies down to sleep. Closing his eyes now to re enter that mysterious of mysteries. Secrets shared at this great hour. Back there.
A tug on the shoulders brought the child, Scratch Stanchfield, out of his sleep.
 “Hey you. Get off the pot, pick up those pants and come with us. You’re under arrest. Now get a move on that. Now!!!”
And in the cold darkness of the night. A voice is heard from the horizon.
DON’T FORGET TO FLUSH THE TOILET