The Sixth Day

CARMINE OLD died today, September 23rd, from suffocation and general inhumanity at his expense. He was 63. Another indirect victim of the destructive forces that hit the Gulf Coast over three weeks ago. A native of Mississippi, Mr. Old did not even receive the dignity of dying in his home town.

Ron Dubinski, an officer in the National Guard, found Carmine under a saturated mattress in the passageways under the Astrodome in Houston. His body was still warm.

“Ask me what I think…He died moments before I got to him. He just had that look. That feel. Not that we could have done anything for him earlier. He was there…but he was barely there.”

Apparently, Mr. Old had been considerably belligerent since being bused from Mississippi, against his will, six days ago. There was an incident between him and a Ms. Stephanie Flowers, a kind old woman from New Orleans, regarding a cotton blanket.

“He had two of them. I was just trying to get him to share. He wouldn’t let go. Kept talking about his teeth. Had to keep his teeth warm. They were going to get his teeth. He tried to hit me, then he ran off. I never saw him again. But what - with all of us in here together - I didn’t think it too unusual.”

With all the rapes and murders going on in the sporting arena, it’s easy to see how one - namely Mr. Carmine Old - could just disappear. Nobody was keeping track of anybody else. No one was caring for other people. Nobody was taking any kind of responsibility. In the meantime, while the world was trying to figure out what the hell to do, one man slipped away from it all and became a statistic.

We now know that Mr. Old suffered from severe paranoid schizophrenia. He entered the catacombs of the Houston Astrodome seeking refuge and some semblance of meaning after being ripped from everything he knew as life. He found an old mattress, covered himself with his two blankets, and for a little while, it became home. He lived on water and Captain’s Wafers for the remainder of his time on earth. And on the sixth day, which would be today, he pulled the now urine-soaked mattress on top of him for protection after hearing some strange voices. The weight was too much for his weakened body and he was smothered to death.

“Another thing,” said Dubinski, “the damndest thing. Other witnesses besides Ms. Flowers took issue with Mr. Old from day one at the dome. Said he was taking their share of the hotdogs that were found in a meat locker on lever two. Said he was chewing through the frozen wieners like they were going to disappear. Here’s the strange part - When I found him, one thing was missing from the picture. Poor guy. His teeth. They were just gone. Big open gasping mouth. A big black hole.”

For some, this passing is just another number. If that’s the way you feel, I hope someone comes into your room at night, in that place where you feel safe, and…steals your teeth.

Crazy George

CRAZY GEORGE, who bore the likeness of the Aristotle statue at Azalea Botanical Gardens, died sometime last week.

His ashes were spread by the reflecting pool where the feet of the marble sculpture stands. Also laid at the feet were bread crumbs.

Crazy George lived at 715 Norcova Avenue where the tall grass grows. Peeling pain, sagging porch, bread bags and a worn mattress are all that he left behind. He was burned in his well worn military jacket. Old enough to be a WWII vet but no one knows. When his mind went, so did his history.
He frequented the sidewalk of the A&P Market, Colonial Cleaners and Baby Clothes store. The butcher frequently gave him a loaf of bread or bag of Cheetos. He ate around his fingertips and what they touched was dropped for the birds to eat. Small piles of orange or white laying on the sidewalk corners like morning manna for robins and pidgeons. He had several missing teeth, a foul-mouth that he liked to share with A&P customers and keen knowledge of dentistry.

He was a dirty comfort to locals who had taken to his following and need for spare change. And now he is gone. A pair of his socks are resting on the corner next to a large orange-stained circle. The fresh summer rain will eventually wash that away.

His mind is gone. God rest his soul.

Angels and Devils

CECELIA POPE died today, August 25th, at 1:26 p.m., a victim of a botched assassination attempt. She was 17 years old. She is survived by her 6 month old child, Carlos. If God is a bullet, have mercy on us, everyone.

Those who live in the Mt. Prospect area of Baltimore, MD are familiar with the Angels/Devils gangs that populate the ‘last frontier’. Local knowledge states that just 2 months ago - in the heat of a blistering summer - Rapheal DeAgo (leader of the Devils) declared borderland immunity for anyone willing to ’take out’ Victor Shavez (leader of the Angels). Two days later, Victor declared the reverse. These proposals brought many long time vigilantes and bounty hunters out of the woodwork. It even encouraged some ’new blood’ to try their hand at gang activity. Quickly, things escalated from a small turf war to an all out civil war between light and darkness. These decisions are what ultimately sealed young Cecelia’s fate.

Today at 1:26, standing at the bus stop on Horner and Range, trying to get to her job at Super Cuts by 2:00, Cecelia was shot dead by a 13 year old male named ’Nacho’ (the only name we have at this time). Cecelia was, evidently, misidentified as Victor Shavez (who she looks nothing like, and who is male). She died instantly. Nacho has no previous gang background. He just wanted safe passage to the 7-11 behind his house.

In a brief, almost impossible, interview, Rapheal DeAgo was available to comment on this tragedy.

“I don’t give a no shits ’bout no little girl. Especially no little girl that couda’ been Shavez. We gonna’ get that muthafucka! Sho nuff! Look out bitch! We wont stop at nothing Holmes. Ain’t no dead girl gonna cool us. Little Nacho get out, we might recruit the little bastard to do some real damage on your ass. We’re coming fo ya!”

Cecelia is only one in a slew of casualties (mostly gang members) in the past two months caused, directly and indirectly, by the turmoil between the Devils and the Angels. People are beginning to move to the suburbs in droves and the Mt. Prospect area is slowly but surely becoming a wasteland.

Baby Carlos will be cared for by his great grandmother in Seattle until he gets to be too much for her and is taken away by CPS. Or maybe he’ll just grow up to be a gang banger and come back to Mt. Prospect to avenge his mother’s death on her murderer’s children. And his children’s children. And their children’s children. Nothing new ever happens.

A Chance of Rain

PAUL GELATA died today, August 12th at 11:50 a.m. He was 57 years old. Medical sources indicate that he died because of external pressures on his heart. However, it is highly probable that internal pressures were also a factor.

For going on 29 years, Paul has been a meteorologist in the lazy town of Spencer, Iowa. A lifestyle not the norm. Out of the ordinary. One would think.
But Paul was an unknown. Predicting precipitation for an audience of the few and far between. The unknown unknowns. On a good day. Thursdays, Wednesdays and Sundays at 5:50 a.m. On Spencer cable access channel 14. Granted Paul didn’t have the poise of his respected local counterparts. Nor did he have the exposure of the national weather champions. He didn’t even have any official training in the meteorology sciences. But he felt like he filled a void that wasn’t being filled. It was his destiny. It was his “making it”. If anything, he was faithful to the end.

Developing, over the years, a highly elaborate and complex system of gauging the weather using half filled coffee mugs, weights and pulleys and strands of his own thinning hair. He was deemed a “crackpot” by most of his more successful contemporaries - mainly the guys over at WTTG channel 9 - but, ironically, his unorthodox methods had a 25% higher accuracy rate. This fact only served to make his life more miserable and push him further into obscurity.

One of Gelata’s only friends, Jim Jameson of Sydney, was saddened to learn of Paul’s sudden death, but he wasn’t surprised.

“The thing about Paul was, he always knew where he was headed. And when. It does upset me that he was never really respected in the community of Spencer, but Paul used to say that it was what he was called to. Not just the weather thing, but the obscurity and ridicule as well. One thing is certain. He didn’t live with any illusions. Didn’t die with any either, I guess. Not many people know this, but he wrote a novel in his early 30’s called The Epidemic of Love. In it, he not only explained his whole process of gauging the weather, but he also foretold his death. It’s uncanny. Really. Did you know that his parents used to leave him out in the rain for hours. He was four. We hadn’t talked in quite a while, but I’ll miss him. I will miss him.”

The nation, this week, is mourning the loss of a newscaster they grew up with. A newscaster that got them through so many hard times in our tumultuous history. A newscaster with a face. A newscaster that mattered. A newscaster that buried Gelata with is fame. Now, they will both be buried.

Paul Gelata’s funeral will be held this Sunday at Boheme Episcopal. Outside on the front lawn. Few, other than Jameson, are expected to be in attendance. Chance of rain - 66%. According to Paul’s forecast yesterday.

On the bright side, the slot formerly held by Gelata, over at channel 14, is now open. Those interested should send their request over to city hall in downtown Spencer. Shining stars are on the horizon. I can feel it.

Sheep and Turkey

ABDULLAH BAYHAN, 53, died today, July 8th, at exactly 4:15 a.m. Shop owner, family man, and community vigilante of justice. Bayhan was found dead in his convenience store, New Fava, on the north/west side of Chicago. He died a victim. Leaving behind a legacy for anyone and everyone to aspire to and to mourn.

Since the sheep tragedy in Turkey yesterday, he had been quite distressed. For those of you who are not aware of the sheep tragedy, let me fill you in. It seems that yesterday morning, on a hill somewhere in Istanbul, just after breakfast. A sheep wandered away from the flock and committed suicide by plummeting to it’s death on the rocks below. For some strange reason, in an incident not repeated since the New Testament, this set off a chain reaction. 1,500 other sheep followed suit and went and did likewise. After it was all over, 450 sheep had been successful in taking their own lives. The other 1050 that had plummeted in the melee were saved by the cushion of those sheep that had perished. But who knows - they could never be right again.

This tragedy - and it is a tragedy, considering the $100,000 hit the owners of the herds took as a result of the mass suicide - has a direct correlation with the tragedy in Chicago. Let me fill you in. It seems that Abdullah Bayhan’s family, in Turkey, owned a large percentage of the flock that expired, leaving them in dire straits. Since the accident, they had been in contact with Abdullah, asking for money, asking for him to come home, asking him for help - for the family. And he did not know what he was going to do.

All of this pressure had caused the distress that Abdullah was feeling at 4:10 in the morning when two masked and armed men came into New Fava, with the intent to “rob his family” once again. With a long time history of defending not only his store, but many other establishments on the block, Abdullah did not hesitate to remove his shotgun from underneath the register. He was agitated. He was looking for retribution. Many think he would have killed the two men then and there. But it was too late. He took two shots in the chest from the masked men. And they were gone. And now, so is Abdullah.

In Chicago, Abdullah is survived by his wife, Alucia, and his daughter, Ramullah, 28. In Turkey, Abdullah is survived by many. If you would like to make a contribution to either family, you can contact the Turkish embassy in New York City. Also, any information concerning the identity of the masked men, would be greatly appreciated and will be kept confidential.

Buddha Boy

KYLE HAMPTON died today, May 23rd, at 10:25 a.m., from a bee sting. Well, from complications stemming from a bee sting. He was 11 years old and a damn inquisitive little kid. In fact, it’s probably what killed the poor guy.

Kyle had lived in East Tennessee for most of his young life. An orphan from the age of 2, when his parents died in a tragic car accident, he had been in 4 different foster homes since. Most recently, he had been living with Karen and Lee Foster, ironically, in a suburb of Cleveland, TN.

“He was just into everything. His mind went a mile a minute. I mean, Lee and I couldn’t even keep up with him. One second he was asking if they used real plastic in plastic surgery. Next, he was trying to figure out a cure for cancer or a way to stifle the rotten smell in the air around the pulp mill. Kyle was just a real thinker. Too much so, I think.”

Karen spoke to us across a vat of sausage gravy she was preparing in the kitchen of the Rebel Drive-In.

“I was lucky I could get Mel to cover my shift so I could go down to the hospital and identify him, poor little guy. If he had been in school like he was supposed to be, none of this would have happened. He liked to skip. Stay back at the house and study things on his own. Said the teachers couldn‘t teach him anything. I guess today, he just went a little too far.”

Seems young Kyle had captured a large bumblebee and was trying to dissect it’s stinging nodule. Probably to develop a serum to combat the poison.

“Evidently he was highly allergic. We had no idea. The child services people don’t tell us anything. I mean, I feel really bad about all this, but at least we still have Roxanne and Daggett. Besides, it’s not like he was really ours or anything. And things have been kind of tight lately. Money-wise. But Lee and I will both miss Kyle. He was different.”

Already the owner of a bad crew cut and case of adolescent obesity, Kyle was found by the next door neighbor, Kenny Chatham, lying in the row of box bushes that separate their houses.

“He was swollen up to about twice his normal size. Just squatted there in the bushes. I have never seen anything like it. I mean, Kyle was a big kid already, but today, he looked, well, like a little Buddha out there. And there was this whole patch of bees just circling around him. The buzzing. Humming. It was creepy.”

And all this on the highest holy day in Tibetan culture. The birthday of Buddha. The cost of knowledge, once again, trumping life.

Leader of the Pack

THANDIE RENEE BYZANTINE died today, May 6th, at 11:15 am. She was 15, and a sophomore at St. Mary’s High School in the Regal Estates area of Greenwood, Ohio. She is survived by her sister Raven, 11, and her parents, Trinity and Clark Byzantine.

It’s sad really. Not only because she was so young, but because of the way in which she died. A harsh and terrible death I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Dogs. She was eaten by dogs. Not completely, but enough to make her dead. And not the kind of dogs you would expect either. Not Rotweillers or Dobermans or even that really scary kind of dog from The Omen movies. Border Collies. That’s right. A pack of Lassies stole Thandie Byzantine’s young life and never looked back.

“We had jumped the fence in that alley off Payne Street. Same fence we always jumped. Through the Germaine’s yard. We were late. I was getting mad at Thandie because she kept rushing me. I told her we were already late. No need to kill ourselves trying to get to school on time now. That’s when I saw them. From out of nowhere. Four of them. Could have been five. Maybe even six. I don’t even know now. They just…attacked. I ran, but I guess…she must have fallen or something. I couldn’t do anything once they had her. I was going to but…I just couldn’t. It was too late. I went for help, but by the time all the cars came, she was…” Raven broke down while trying to explain the last precious minutes of her sister’s life. There was blood on her NorthFace book-bag and a glazed look in her Isaac Mizrahi framed eyes.

Thandie’s parents were too choked up to comment at this time, but the feeling across the entire neighborhood of Regal Estates is one of shock and horror. Karen Parsons expressed her concern over the incident. “We have no idea how any of this happened. The dogs do not belong to anybody in this neighborhood. I am sure they came from somewhere over in Rocksruff. It wouldn‘t surprise me.”

( *Rocksruff is a less desirable neighborhood to the south of Regal Estates. Many criminals are supposed to live there. In shitty little shacks. They eat chicken bones and chew on leather straps. It is also where children end up when they are kidnapped.)

“I am sure this is a sign of the coming apocalypse. Things like this just don’t happen. Not without a reason. Not without a warning. I am scared.”At this time the dogs have not been found. Although the authorities have put out an A.P.B. warning Regal Estates and surrounding areas of the dangers of these rabid dogs. (But not Rocksruff. They‘ll have to fend for themselves.)

If anyone knows the whereabouts of the canines, they are being asked to contact local authorities. “Do not try to capture the dogs on your own. There is no reward. Don’t even approach them,” said Captain Gary Smalls of the Greenwood Police Department. “I know they look cute, but they are lethal. We don’t want any more dead people.”

The dogs, once taken into custody, will be promptly shot. Thereby ending the threat to Greenwood and Regal Estates. We hope. Unless Karen Parson’s warning about impending doom comes to fruition.

What’s left of Thandie will be buried on Mother’s Day. It is hardly fitting, and our prayers will be with her mother as she remembers the way her oldest daughter used to be. Before the dogs came.