AUSHERMAN'S MANY CONTRIBUTIONS TO: |
| CRIME WATCHERS |
Now on one page! Revised versions
of your Bullfight favorites, including:
HITCHHIKING IN OKLAHOMA
WASHINGTON PARK
also from Bullfight Media:
of your Bullfight favorites, including:
HITCHHIKING IN OKLAHOMA
WASHINGTON PARK
also from Bullfight Media:
by Stephen Ausherman
"I never trusted folks who close their curtains at night."
That's what my father's parole officer would say. Said it so
much my mother finally snapped and ran about our home
yanking all the drapes from the windows. It was all we had to
keep the sun from bleaching the rugs and warping the walls.
Got so hot it felt like it was burning the oxygen out of our air,
and it would leave that heat in our beds and pantries long
after it sunk away. We sweat so much at night, my sister and
I, we feared we'd wake as pillars of salt.
My father brought home awnings on an Easter Monday.
They were orange, like faded lifejackets, and had fat white
stripes with rust stains where they folded over the pipes.
He'd salvaged them off the King's Highway Motel, which got
shut down years back for being what they call an attractive
nuisance. The Craybill's still owned the property, still lived
there. I envied their kids, all seven of them, each with their
own room, and each room with its own bathroom and ice
bucket and air-conditioning unit. And a TV you could watch
in bed. But now we had their awnings, the ones from the
north side, anyway, which made us the only trailer in the park
with such extravagant amenities.
According to our milkman, we had the only shaded stoop on
the delivery route. That's why he’d stop here to rest on those
days it hit 90 before 7 am, and he'd already be drunk, or still
drunk from the night before, so drunk sometimes he'd leave
an empty gin bottle instead of milk and I'd have to sweep up
his cigarette butts and peanut shells before running off to
school.
That's what my father's parole officer would say. Said it so
much my mother finally snapped and ran about our home
yanking all the drapes from the windows. It was all we had to
keep the sun from bleaching the rugs and warping the walls.
Got so hot it felt like it was burning the oxygen out of our air,
and it would leave that heat in our beds and pantries long
after it sunk away. We sweat so much at night, my sister and
I, we feared we'd wake as pillars of salt.
My father brought home awnings on an Easter Monday.
They were orange, like faded lifejackets, and had fat white
stripes with rust stains where they folded over the pipes.
He'd salvaged them off the King's Highway Motel, which got
shut down years back for being what they call an attractive
nuisance. The Craybill's still owned the property, still lived
there. I envied their kids, all seven of them, each with their
own room, and each room with its own bathroom and ice
bucket and air-conditioning unit. And a TV you could watch
in bed. But now we had their awnings, the ones from the
north side, anyway, which made us the only trailer in the park
with such extravagant amenities.
According to our milkman, we had the only shaded stoop on
the delivery route. That's why he’d stop here to rest on those
days it hit 90 before 7 am, and he'd already be drunk, or still
drunk from the night before, so drunk sometimes he'd leave
an empty gin bottle instead of milk and I'd have to sweep up
his cigarette butts and peanut shells before running off to
school.
includes the
Pushcart nomination:
Another Serena
by
Stephen Ausherman
Pushcart nomination:
Another Serena
by
Stephen Ausherman
includes
Name that Bacon
and
Washington Square
by
Stephen Ausherman
Name that Bacon
and
Washington Square
by
Stephen Ausherman
The day had started out like that when our dad's parole officer came looking for him on the playground
during recess period. It'd hit 113 by then, and he could see right off nobody was out there. Swings and
slides all too hot to touch. He took a good look around anyway. Maybe he didn't realize it or maybe he
didn't care, but his suit was a map of low country swampland with islands of sand on his shoulder, knees
and cuffs.
My sister and I came home to find the milkman still there, splayed face down on the steps like a cowboy
shot in the back. She woke him up poking him with a shingle from the doghouse, asked him if he needed
help finishing his route. He nodded yes, then nodded off again. We unlatched the doors on his wagon only
to get slapped in the face with the hot stink of milk gone bad.
Next day, the whole neighborhood stank of spoiled dairy products, and shards of glass bit up from the
gravel roads. I wanted to ask the milkman about that, but we never saw him again.
Way I figured it, my father's parole officer was to blame for the disappearance of our milkman. If he hadn't
harangued us to death about the curtains, we never even would've thought to get fancy awnings to tempt
him into resting a spell. But my mother disagreed, said it was my father's fault. If he hadn't got caught
checking into the King’s Highway Motel with the milkman's 15-year-old daughter, then the parole officer
would've never had to bother us in the first place.
Funny, before she said that, I always thought of my father's offense as a victimless crime. That's what he
always told me. But my mother's words, the way she spoke them, they made me see it in a different light.
Seemed like the whole world lit up just then with a blazing white ray of sun, the kind no draperies or
awnings could ever block out, and I wished I could crawl down to the bottom of some cool, deep watery
hole.
But I realized there's no hiding from crime. It's all around you. If you look at anybody's behavior long
enough, you'll find a criminal motive behind it. Or something that should be a crime. And you might not
think it'll affect you, but then one day you'll wake up without any milk and your whole neighborhood will
stink and you'll know then how wrong you were.
My mother figured this out long ago because she had the wisdom. Heat kept it trapped inside her, but it'd
come out in the rain. Whenever the sky darkened and poured down buckets, she'd stop what she was
doing and take a stand. In the yard or out on highway 68, it didn't matter. She'd stand there, arguing with
thunder, and it always sounded to us like she was winning.
during recess period. It'd hit 113 by then, and he could see right off nobody was out there. Swings and
slides all too hot to touch. He took a good look around anyway. Maybe he didn't realize it or maybe he
didn't care, but his suit was a map of low country swampland with islands of sand on his shoulder, knees
and cuffs.
My sister and I came home to find the milkman still there, splayed face down on the steps like a cowboy
shot in the back. She woke him up poking him with a shingle from the doghouse, asked him if he needed
help finishing his route. He nodded yes, then nodded off again. We unlatched the doors on his wagon only
to get slapped in the face with the hot stink of milk gone bad.
Next day, the whole neighborhood stank of spoiled dairy products, and shards of glass bit up from the
gravel roads. I wanted to ask the milkman about that, but we never saw him again.
Way I figured it, my father's parole officer was to blame for the disappearance of our milkman. If he hadn't
harangued us to death about the curtains, we never even would've thought to get fancy awnings to tempt
him into resting a spell. But my mother disagreed, said it was my father's fault. If he hadn't got caught
checking into the King’s Highway Motel with the milkman's 15-year-old daughter, then the parole officer
would've never had to bother us in the first place.
Funny, before she said that, I always thought of my father's offense as a victimless crime. That's what he
always told me. But my mother's words, the way she spoke them, they made me see it in a different light.
Seemed like the whole world lit up just then with a blazing white ray of sun, the kind no draperies or
awnings could ever block out, and I wished I could crawl down to the bottom of some cool, deep watery
hole.
But I realized there's no hiding from crime. It's all around you. If you look at anybody's behavior long
enough, you'll find a criminal motive behind it. Or something that should be a crime. And you might not
think it'll affect you, but then one day you'll wake up without any milk and your whole neighborhood will
stink and you'll know then how wrong you were.
My mother figured this out long ago because she had the wisdom. Heat kept it trapped inside her, but it'd
come out in the rain. Whenever the sky darkened and poured down buckets, she'd stop what she was
doing and take a stand. In the yard or out on highway 68, it didn't matter. She'd stand there, arguing with
thunder, and it always sounded to us like she was winning.
HITCHHIKING IN OKLAHOMA
by Stephen Ausherman
upon the vinyl seat, cruise control set at one-twenty minimum, and she changed the
radio stations with her heel. Sun glints showered in the blacktop like shooting stars in
falling skies. Obsidian eyes on the horizon, she glared at the Wild West ahead of us.
In equine scorn, her nostrils flared as she huffed fumes from a deputy's hat soaked in
gasoline and scorched under the brim as though rescued from a man on fire. Welts at
the corners of her lips spoke of preacher men who’d pulled too hard on her reins.
I told her: Stop. Let me out here. Anywhere. Now.
She said she preferred to drive alone, just not today. And she wouldn't set me loose
until she found a steakhouse where she could rip her teeth into a 72-ounce slab that
was, preferably, still bleeding. Way she swallowed it made me think of a child falling
down a rabbit hole, with silver birch roots tearing the flesh from his bones along the
way.
When she finished masticating her last morsel of cow, her teeth looked like cherry ice
cream. She ordered a fortune cookie and got one with a message that read:
THEY SHALL KNOW YOU FROM YOUR TRAIL OF DEAD.
And she obliged with a wake of blood that flowed like a tsunami from Tucumcari,
crested in Albuquerque, and ebbed in a graveyard 52 miles west of the Arizona
border. That's where I told her I loved her, said we should find a chapel in Vegas,
where neon cauterizes the skyline and a homicidal carnivore can make some scratch
for her craft.
She said: I don't make scratch. I am Scratch.
We then descended seven circles and crossed the river
into the furious heart of Sin City.
She wanted to know if I was afraid.
Afraid.
radio stations with her heel. Sun glints showered in the blacktop like shooting stars in
falling skies. Obsidian eyes on the horizon, she glared at the Wild West ahead of us.
In equine scorn, her nostrils flared as she huffed fumes from a deputy's hat soaked in
gasoline and scorched under the brim as though rescued from a man on fire. Welts at
the corners of her lips spoke of preacher men who’d pulled too hard on her reins.
I told her: Stop. Let me out here. Anywhere. Now.
She said she preferred to drive alone, just not today. And she wouldn't set me loose
until she found a steakhouse where she could rip her teeth into a 72-ounce slab that
was, preferably, still bleeding. Way she swallowed it made me think of a child falling
down a rabbit hole, with silver birch roots tearing the flesh from his bones along the
way.
When she finished masticating her last morsel of cow, her teeth looked like cherry ice
cream. She ordered a fortune cookie and got one with a message that read:
THEY SHALL KNOW YOU FROM YOUR TRAIL OF DEAD.
And she obliged with a wake of blood that flowed like a tsunami from Tucumcari,
crested in Albuquerque, and ebbed in a graveyard 52 miles west of the Arizona
border. That's where I told her I loved her, said we should find a chapel in Vegas,
where neon cauterizes the skyline and a homicidal carnivore can make some scratch
for her craft.
She said: I don't make scratch. I am Scratch.
We then descended seven circles and crossed the river
into the furious heart of Sin City.
She wanted to know if I was afraid.
Afraid.
WASHINGTON PARK
by Stephen Ausherman
My cousin David lives at the base of a volcano in a shotgun house allegedly haunted by
Portland's first trolley engineer. I set up camp in his basement. He told me not to worry
about the glossy black spiders inhabiting nearly every corner. They weren't black
widows, he assured me, just clever imposters.
He has an altar in his basement that contains found objects—rocks and shells, as well
as candles and nonnative plants of varying psychotropic properties. David likes to build
little shrines in various locations throughout his home and the Americas. Occasionally
he returns to them to find them enhanced by other anonymous wanderers, and I'm
afraid one day he'll inadvertently launch a cult of mystic flower children.
He told me he still hears from Opa from time to time. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with
that. I never hear from Opa, and I was his buddy. That's what he always called me,
anyway. "Buddy," and sometimes "Buddy Boy." I never heard him call David that.
Opa was renowned in horticulturalist circles for his expertise on roses. He even has a
rose garden named after him in New Jersey. The Rudolf W. van der Goot Rose
Garden. His daughters scattered his ashes there back in 1993, shortly after David's
sister, Rachel, read the lyrics of a Grateful Dead song at his funeral in the Garden
State. She said he liked that song, but I don't believe it. Nobody in our family ever
listened to the Grateful Dead, except David and Rachel, though I can see how Opa
might have appreciated the Grateful Dead logo, that one of the skeleton with all the
roses around its head.
David took me to the rose garden in Washington Park. This multi-tiered wonder in
landscaping prides itself in being "the oldest official continuously operated public rose
test garden in the United States." I’m not sure what that means, but I have to admit it's
more impressive than the van der Goot Rose Garden.
The only advantage in Opa's garden is its accessibility for the blind. That was Opa's
idea, installing Braille plaques in front of all the different roses so that the visually
impaired could learn to name roses by smell and texture. Sometimes, however, I think
a cruel sense of humor spawned this idea. How else could you trick blind folk into
groping through thorny rose bushes?
David and I spent the whole day walking around Washington Park. I was in no mood
for it, this unassisted ambulation. But ever since the incident with the fugitive Apache, I
was forced to resign myself to pedestrian status. On the lam after robbing a casino
three states away and presumably gunning for Hell or Canada, the fugitive had
managed to hotwire my Pontiac Sunbird and drive it into the Juan de Fuca Strait.
I always knew somebody would die in that car. For a while I wondered why it had to
be her, and I asked David to find out. I figured since he was able to channel Opa so
readily, a dead Indian would be a cinch.
He said he'd get back to me on that, but he never did.
Portland's first trolley engineer. I set up camp in his basement. He told me not to worry
about the glossy black spiders inhabiting nearly every corner. They weren't black
widows, he assured me, just clever imposters.
He has an altar in his basement that contains found objects—rocks and shells, as well
as candles and nonnative plants of varying psychotropic properties. David likes to build
little shrines in various locations throughout his home and the Americas. Occasionally
he returns to them to find them enhanced by other anonymous wanderers, and I'm
afraid one day he'll inadvertently launch a cult of mystic flower children.
He told me he still hears from Opa from time to time. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with
that. I never hear from Opa, and I was his buddy. That's what he always called me,
anyway. "Buddy," and sometimes "Buddy Boy." I never heard him call David that.
Opa was renowned in horticulturalist circles for his expertise on roses. He even has a
rose garden named after him in New Jersey. The Rudolf W. van der Goot Rose
Garden. His daughters scattered his ashes there back in 1993, shortly after David's
sister, Rachel, read the lyrics of a Grateful Dead song at his funeral in the Garden
State. She said he liked that song, but I don't believe it. Nobody in our family ever
listened to the Grateful Dead, except David and Rachel, though I can see how Opa
might have appreciated the Grateful Dead logo, that one of the skeleton with all the
roses around its head.
David took me to the rose garden in Washington Park. This multi-tiered wonder in
landscaping prides itself in being "the oldest official continuously operated public rose
test garden in the United States." I’m not sure what that means, but I have to admit it's
more impressive than the van der Goot Rose Garden.
The only advantage in Opa's garden is its accessibility for the blind. That was Opa's
idea, installing Braille plaques in front of all the different roses so that the visually
impaired could learn to name roses by smell and texture. Sometimes, however, I think
a cruel sense of humor spawned this idea. How else could you trick blind folk into
groping through thorny rose bushes?
David and I spent the whole day walking around Washington Park. I was in no mood
for it, this unassisted ambulation. But ever since the incident with the fugitive Apache, I
was forced to resign myself to pedestrian status. On the lam after robbing a casino
three states away and presumably gunning for Hell or Canada, the fugitive had
managed to hotwire my Pontiac Sunbird and drive it into the Juan de Fuca Strait.
I always knew somebody would die in that car. For a while I wondered why it had to
be her, and I asked David to find out. I figured since he was able to channel Opa so
readily, a dead Indian would be a cinch.
He said he'd get back to me on that, but he never did.
[video version now on youtube]
watch the day [video version of Crime Watchers]
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |