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The Power
Donnie Cox
Donnie Cox is Blues musician/poet, originally from South Carolina, now
resides in Watertown, Massachusetts. He has been published on-line in: Verse Libre
Quarterly, LauraHird.COM, Zygote In My Coffee, Remark, Underground Voices, Sacramento Poetry
and Art & Music. His work has also appeared in print in: Aesthetica, Circle Magazine, Shadow
Poetry, My Favorite Bullet, Mystery Island Magazine and Open Wide Magazine. He has played guitar
since the age of 14. After graduating from high school in 1966, he did a 4-year stint with the
U.S. Marines. After his discharge, he moved to Boston, Massachusetts to attend the Berklee
School of Music, where he eventually found the blues circuit.
The child
is crying--a lonely sound off in the distance, insistent and impossible to ignore. Why doesn't
someone check on this kid? Where's the mother? When he tries to get up and investigate, he feels
as if he's strapped down, powerless to move. He concentrates with all of his might, trying to
make a connection between his brain and useless limbs, but it's impossible. The harder he tries,
the more frantic he becomes.
* * *
When Harris Stone
comes awake, it happens all at once, as if someone has just thrown open a door. Sweat pours
freely into his eyes and his breath comes in ragged gasps. The fragments of who he is, and where
he is, slowly drift into place. He turns over on his side to check the time. The red digits on
the clock show 6:00. It's just beginning to get light out. He slides his legs over the side of
the bed, sits up, and feels around on the bedside table for his cigarettes and lighter. After
fumbling with the lighter, he manages to get one lit and takes his first drag of the day.
For the third time this week, he's had this
same crazy dream followed by the feeling that someone has arrived just in time to save his ass
from some unnamed evil. He considers calling his doctor to ask about cutting back on some of the
drugs, but knows he'll get the same old ration of shit, "Mr. Stone, if
| "His holy father,
coming home thundering drunk on a Saturday night and rousing everybody out of bed. Ranting and
raving, promising them the worse beating they've ever had." |
you stop taking the medication, you're going to end up right back in the hospital…" - "So fuckin' what", Harris
grumbles, "I could use the rest."
He leans over, snaps on the table lamp and pushes
himself to his feet. Cigarette dangling from his lip, he bends down, grabs a pair of jeans off
the floor and slips them on. Glancing around the small bedroom, he notices the cardboard boxes
he hasn't unpacked, and a huge stack of plastic model cars that he presently has no interest in
putting together. Lately, he hasn't felt like doing shit. He hasn't even bothered to put in an
appearance at work for over a week, and he's pretty sure the foreman on the loading dock hasn't
missed him. Harris takes a hit off his cigarette and catches his reflection in a grimy,
full-length mirror propped against the wall. He spends a few seconds glaring at the image, as
if trying to place the face, then says in a low-pitched voice: "who do you love"?
Still half-asleep, he walks down the hallway
to the living room. A tiny night-light, plugged into the wall outlet, allows him to navigate
through the minefield of crushed beer cans scattered across the carpet. Dropping into his
battered recliner, he clicks on the television with the remote control. On the screen, a
Sunday-morning evangelist is pacing back and forth, sweating, shouting and pointing an angry
finger at a group of scared sinners.
Harris retrieves an empty beer can from the
floor, and jams his half-smoked cigarette through the opening in the top. Using his hand as a
pistol, index finger aimed toward the screen, thumb cocked, he drops the hammer. A soft
exploding sound comes from his lips followed by a mocking "bullshit".
As the camera scans the crowd, every face
reflects the same guilty expression, eyes cast downward, as though they'd like to crawl under
the folding-metal chairs to avoid the punishment that could come at any second. A penalty dished
out by some unseen force under no obligation to answer for itself--absolute, petrifying power.
Feeling exhausted, he leans his head back,
closes his eyes, and tries to rewind the dream that's been causing him to lose so much sleep.
For the last few days, he's been catching more shut-eye in this chair than in the bed. He scans
his brain for details, but can remember nothing except the sound of crying, and the terrifying
helplessness of being unable to move.
* * *
In the
background, the fire-and-brimstone
voice grinds on like a metal-driven dream. There's something about the sound of that voice that
really gets under his skin. And the cold, conceited face; the kind of face he always loved to
sink his fist into when he was seventeen. Back when every fucking traffic light was a figure of
authority, and every beer bottle smashed in a 2 A.M. parking lot, a toast to his father...
His holy father, coming home thundering drunk
on a Saturday night and rousing everybody out of bed. Ranting and raving, promising them the
worse beating they've ever had. His sister, hiding in the bedroom closet, crying, terrified.
Calling out for her mother--calling out for him--his mother sitting motionless, a posed mannequin
| "He knows something
vital has been stolen from him and there's no way he can ever get it back--not with overpaid
doctors, multicolored pills or sweet prayers to Jesus." |
on a
beat-up, brown sofa, while he stands in the corner, helpless, angry tears rolling down his face,
inadequate child-sized fists clenched at his side.
Both of them, frozen-in-place, too frightened to
move into the next room and hold her. They can only stare at this furious, red-faced bully
pacing back and forth across their living room floor, and pretend not to hear; pretend it will
end soon; pretend they recognize this man…
Suddenly Harris raises his head, thoughts
rushing around his brain like a runaway train. Now he remembers--remembers it all--every shitty
detail buried behind the stucco exterior of that derelict, little mill-house. A thousand
Technicolor images etched into his mind: every whiskey-driven scar fixed in faded walls; every
shattered glass; every meaningless minute spent begging mercy for every wrong thing.
Old shadows descend on the room like a
judgment. Something deeper than sadness washes over his body, and for the first time, Harris
Stone sees himself as he really is--a broken toy, a defective machine bent by a brutal hand.
He knows something vital has been stolen from him and there's no way he can ever get it
back--not with overpaid doctors, multicolored pills or sweet prayers to Jesus. For him, there is
no redemption--no road home.
He reaches over, picks up the remote control,
and turns off the television. Pulling himself out of the chair, he walks slowly down the hallway
to the bedroom. He opens one of the cardboard boxes lying on the floor, and rummages around until
he finds what he's looking for. He pulls the .38 from the box and walks into the bathroom.
Mind floating somewhere on the edge of time,
Harris stares into the mirror, body trembling under the weight of what he can never set right.
Trails of sweat travel the lines in his face, as he focuses intently on his shifting reflection
until, gradually, he sees his father's face; hears the menacing voice; feels his sister's fear;
and his mother's humiliation…
Feeling totally exhausted, Harris closes his
eyes. Both arms hang limply at his side and the revolver feels almost too heavy to lift. Opening
his eyes, he sighs and speaks directly to his reflection, "O.K., old man, it's just me and you."
Harris raises the gun, places the blue-metal barrel just above his right ear and pulls the
trigger… click...nothing! click.click.click.click.click...dead-silence!
The face in the mirror smiles. Harris Stone
screams.
* * *
Pigeons
explode from the rooftop of the apartment building, tearing the still morning-air. One church
bell is ringing--a lonely sound off in the distance…
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