fiction: Clem's Crossing Over

Zeniths and nadirs come in a gradient of heights and declivities.

Clem had reached an under-pinnacle.  And he had in front of him, spread around him on his few square feet of safety, many of both his extremes.  Like spilled Cracker Jacks.

 There are worse  conditions than Clem's, e.g. bamboo shoots under fingernails, or a slow physical mangling courtesy of angry Ton Ton Macoutes,  but he was at a point where certain people buy a bus pass, and ride the buses all day, for no particular reason.  Except for the absence of a goal.  Clem was like a cockroach, still moving, after being struck with a rolled up Wall Street Journal.  His investments were in differing stages of decline, as was Clem.

Too, it was his relations with other people that dropped him an ontological notch down the cosmic bumper jack beneath our souls.  It ratchets people up and down, with equal effort either way, simple as physics.   All souls come equipped with a spare tire.  Clem had neglected to put air in his, and he was depressed.    And on the 'outs.'  His portfolio of penny stocks all failed, in sequence, at least those that he hadn't sold too soon.  The thrill of making a profit was  replaced with "Jesus Christ, I should have waited."  His friends in the online stock trading community stopped answering his e-mails.

  Short-lived though joy is, the slow burn from watching the remaining stocks decline enjoys its longevity, as Clem rides aimlessly on a city bus.   People in that type of condition always, invariably, find themselves in imagined debates with Dick Cheney, and with solipcised social breakthroughs, in a chance encounter with the Bush Family.  In this childish rescue fantasy, he was even given a fraternal nickname, like W had for Carl Rove.  W called his dear friend and staff person 'Turd Blossum.'  Clem was longing for that apex of earthy  prestige.

At the same time that he lived the life of a day trader, he lived in a shitty house in the slum he felt he belonged to.  Women from his ethnic grouping, as if Clem was really in a group, were less than scarce, while he saw, daily, an abundance of beauty  in women of color.  A fucking stupid term for a person, none-the-less, crossing cultures is a bitch.  He realized that everything, libido included, came in  lever operated, indexed levels.  Came the day, on the bus, that a conversation changed his life, for a little fucking while.  Her skin was the kind of radiant brown, like lighted from within, and the pale blue ink on her fore arm was alive.  Men like Clem respond to enlivening, gentle colors by going loosy-goosy.

She looked at his right hand a moment.   "Are you into Snoop Lion?"  She was sharing a seat, riding from downtown to Oakland, she to return videos to the library, Clem going both somewhere and nowhere at the same time.  He saw that she was looking at his ring, a bright stainless steel lion's head, large enough to span two knuckles.  Thinking slow, for a quick squirt of the mind, as Clem was cursed, he recalled that Snoop Dog had changed his stage name to Snoop Lion, and had committed his songs to inner city peace and nonviolence.  Clem first said, 'no' but then stammered, "well, yes.  I love the Snoopadelics, they're a really tight rock band, and I love the way Snoop fused rock and hip hop.  The man is a genius."

Helpless mental static for  Clem.  Wouldn't a cow, woodchuck or gazelle better symbolize peace and nonviolence, then would a lion?  Alrighty, it takes the strength of a lion to address the times, irrespective of purpose.

He knew he had said too much, yet he  sensed in the woman beside him the capacity to forgive and forget social awkwardness.  His johnson was tumescing, not to it's full length and girth, but it was  to some degree more sensual than in the moments preceeding.   "That's a strong symbol," she said, still looking at his ring.

  It was soon after that his segmented judgement, coiled in the tall grass, split at the valences, and restacked itself into a column, like a maypole.  He was going somewhere, then, and if you go there, you can't go back.  Clem was clear in mind,  as he was ever likely to get.  A white man needs to rock and roll.  And with certainty, Clem needed to get hip.  He was out a long way.  He had been neglecting his obligations.  A  man needs to rock and roll.  There are higher levels of  aquiescence, but not for day traders  like Clem.  His mind filled with lyrics to a song. Foxy Lady, by Jimi Hendrix.  He let the sound take him away.