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| THE SUMMER 2015 BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE in SEATTLE |
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| THE NEW FICTION PROJECT 2015 "THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS" SEASON III |
THE NEW FICTION PROJECT 2015
"THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS"
The Original Fiction Series: " THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS," began two years ago with Season One. An interesting experiment that originally introduced five fictional families, through dozens of characters that came to life before our readers eyes, when Editor Joshua Triliegi, improvised an entire novel on a daily basis and publicly published each chapter on-line. Season Two was an entire smash hit with readers in Los Angeles, where the novel is set and quickly spread to communities around the world through google translations and word of mouth. Season Three begins in August 2015 and the same rules will apply. The entire final season will be improvised and posted publicly on a weekly basis beginning, Friday August the 7th 2015 and continuing each friday to the stories final completion of Book One. "Improvised," in this instance, means: The writer starts and finishes each section without taking any prior notes whatsoever and publishes the completed episode on all Community Sites. Season III is The Finale'.
READ A NEW EPISODE EVERY FRIDAY IN AUGUST 2015
BEGINNING ON AUGUST 7TH / 14TH / 21ST / 28TH
SEASON THREE INTRO / ALL EPISODE ONE / CHAPTERS 34 - 39
CHAPTER 34 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes.
All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015
BREAKFAST : SEASON INTRODUCTION CHAPTER 34
The year after The Riots, life in Los Angeles continued. People went to work, children were born, time kept ticking and the story never ended. For those in the heart of the story, for those who were touched by the event, for those who lost and hurt and got burned: life would never be the same. An event that was your life, your experience, your history was being told by newscasters, mainstream publications and radio disc jockeys who knew nothing about what it was really like and never would know. The day after The Riots, a child woke, poured a bowl of Kellogg's corn flakes and watched cartoons on the television. The commercials in between told the child that when the milk was poured into the bowl, that it would, 'Snap - Crackle and Pop,' the child looked around the room, looked around the house, looked around the streets and noticed that every-thing had snapped, crackled and popped. The plastic had melted, the glass had warped, the wires lay open exposing copper, lead and silver, the perfect square box was now imperfect, corners were entirely melted off, the handle that changed the channels had broken and someone had attached a small vice grip tool in its place. The smell of burnt wood, ash and oil permeated the air. Helicopters, sirens and flashing lights became the norm. The curtains frayed at the edges and all along the sides been stained by fire, air, earth and water, the most basic of elements utilized in a fashion that created destruction, instead of construction. The rug was soaked and laden with tiny bits of broken glass, ember and grease stains. Smoke of all color and size wafted through the windows. Angry footsteps inhabited the ceiling, the hallways and alleys. A toy fire truck that lay in the backyard for years was now replaced with a real fire truck that roared incessantly passed its house, at all hours of the night and day. Police car sirens and lights engaged twenty-four hours a day, soldiers from the army reserves of the United States of America in camouflage standing on every corner, an entire world that, 'Snapped - Crackled and Popped.' And Life went on.
Houses went up for sale. Lots stood empty, Ashes piled up. Businesses were abandoned. Families were broken. Dreams were deferred. Third strikes were established by the law and people went to prison for stealing a pizza, a pair of shoes, a case of toilet paper. Men and woman in all manor, in all shapes, in all colors and sizes broke. Screaming through the streets, "Why?" But even a child knows that if you want to learn algebra, you don't ask why. You simply work on the equation, by learning the rules to the diagram, in geometry and trigonometry, there was no time to ask why. Even beer commercials directed the child to not ask why and shoe companies reenforced that ideology by telling the child to, "Just Do IT!" So the child did. Empty slogans had manipulated the population for 100s of years and so the population, in its desperation, in its pain, in it's agony and in its defiance, invented some empty slogans of its own and then quite suddenly, those slogans were inhabited, not so empty after all, for this was not a politician with a team of advisors, this was not a police chief with a speechwriter, this was not a corporation with a dozen brilliant ad executives working on a new account, this was the mother-f*cking-public, these were real people, this was a real event, this was the city of a child who ate corn flakes while watching television every morning before school and when its family and when it's friends and when it's neighbors and when its city began chanting the empty slogan that rang through the city like a Bell on Sunday, this child inhabited that slogan: No Justice / No Peace, Know Justice / Know Peace. Dragnet and One Adam Twelve and Police Woman and Baretta and Starsky and Hutch and CHIPS and The Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Woman, to quote a popular phrase in poetry, "...Will not seem so damn relevant, because the revolution will not be televised," and yet, It was televised after all. The transmission of images was blast across the city in the earliest hours of the event. The Parker Center flash-point had ignited hotspots all along the vertical and lateral thorough-fairs through the city of Angels in a giant grid that only those flying in airplanes and helicopters could view. With the exception of those multitude natural forces of life known as the animals, who watched in glee as the humans failed once again at their own game. A game of self extinction, an experiment of too many mice in a maze called Los Angeles.
Hawks circle overhead, crows cawed, seagulls glanced, thrashers, bluejays, sparrows, woodpeckers, pigeons, hummingbirds and all manner of birds flew overhead, bees returned to their hives, butterfly nestled under branches, spiders strengthened their webs, ants collected bits of this and that, squirrels climbed palm trees to get a better view, coyotes howled through the hills, deer looked on pensively, mountain lions patiently waited, possums stopped playing dead and walked along the tops of fences, a family of bears escaped from the zoo, an elephant stepped on its trainer in a parking lot downtown, snakes slithered to higher ground, raccoons sensed some easy pickings on the horizon and all the while domesticated dogs and cats sat with their owners, watching television. The first time it rained after The Riot, an inordinate amount of chemicals spewed through the streets, into the gutters, down the sewers, along the pipelines and on into the ocean: Formaldehyde, asbestos, concrete, plastic, tar, asphalt, rubber, fiberglass, aluminum, glass, lead, resin, stucco, lime, drywall, and the entire contents of dozens of 99 cents stores which included: bleach, roach killer, hair spray, comet, windex, baking soda, nylon, air freshener, butane, high fructose corn syrup, polyester, lysol, both the regular scent and the new and exciting pine flavor all rolled into one giant blob of city sludge and plopped itself into the intestines of the City of Angels, rolling through the LA River and dumping itself directly into the sea. Blue fin tuna, albacore, barracuda, lobster, sea bass and even mackerel were no where to be seen. There were no shark attacks to worry about. Sharks were too smart to swim in waters infested by chemicals of that variety. Within their very organism, they have a built in mechanism that can detect one ten thousands of an ingredient in the water from miles away. This device was originally evolved, no doubt, for survival, in search of something to consume, but due to the stupidity of the human race, the callous nature of the corporations, the shortsighted views of the now angry populist, this devise was used to avoid certain areas and avoid it they did. The chemicals that trickled down through the ashes, through the soot, through the smoke and through the tears had accidentally informed the organism, transformed the organism, reformed the organism and the child, who had sensed all along that all was not well, would never, ever, be the same again. Nor would the place that they call the City of Angels.
The little plastic box that had for decades transmitted ideas somehow still worked, the device that transferred images, sound and motion on a regular basis, continued to do so. Tony the Tiger, exclaimed to the child that the food it was eating, the contents it was consuming, the simple little flakes of corn in all manner of speaking and description could be defined in a two word phrase that was simple and easy to remember: "They're Great!" The big rabbit with the floppy ears was told time and time again that he was indeed a silly rabbit and that, "Trix are for kids!" The Frito Bandito, Captain Crunch, Count Chocula and a Lucky Charm with a Shamrock were also present, representing an old school variety of corn paste, flour, sugar and salt, added preservatives and in some cases food coloring that sometimes caused cancer, with a simple reminder that if you ever ended up in prison, you would indeed have to choose a cereal that represented something familiar to your general genetic make up. And of course there was the award winning commercial that had Mike-y and his brothers, representing a product that somehow encompassed the child's entire existence, by calling itself, 'LIFE'. "He won't eat it..." his brothers exclaim, as they put a bowl of blocked wheat style cereal in front of the freckled faced child, "...He hates everything." Then, quite suddenly, the boy begins to shovel the wheat blocks into his mouth as his brothers excitedly exclaim, "Hey Mike-y! He Likes IT!" For those with simpler tastes, you had Aunt Jemima and or Quaker Oats, in case you ever forgot who founded this country and what your position in the hierarchy was to begin with. Yes, the little box in the corner with the wire in the wall and the antennae on the roof still worked. And the child watched it. The picture was not as clear, the colors not as crisp, the audio was warped, the depth was foggy, the vertical and lateral lines often separated, but the endless trail of information, disinformation and programming continued on, it taught the child and eventually, the child had learned to transmit its own programs. The child and its family and it's neighbors and its city were all so busy programming, they had no time to wonder, just who exactly was actually eating the giant bowl of cereal that they were all now living in ? The entire city snapped, it crackled and it popped, surely someone was bound to eat it.
CHAPTER 35 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes.
All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015
CHAPTER 35 : DIGITS
Within minutes of entering America, Junior was dead and he didn't even know it. He had been directed to follow a diesel truck trailer, while a duplicate of his car was to distract his police escorts who were meant to get him to a hospital, so that an emergency operation could reattach his thumb. When the duplicate vehicle appeared, Junior dropped back behind the eighteen wheeler with a rolling ramp and drove his car up into the trailer. While his duplicate played decoy on into the hospital an unexpected event occurred. Before crossing the border from Baja into the States, an armed carload of 'exporters' shot their way through the border and drove up into America on the wrong side of the freeway, while Juniors escorted decoy had been exiting the freeway, on the overpass above, the runaway car, heading due north drove head on toward a south bound diesel truck that swerved off the upper level, flipped in mid air and landed directly onto Juniors decoy, entirely crushing the vehicle into an even rectangle of metal, the car looked as if it had been compacted by a machine at the auto wreckage yard. Whoever the driver had been, was entirely unidentifiable, there were absolutely no distinguishing marks to even survey, he had been flattened, not mangled. It was a strangely hermetic accident, blood had oozed from either side of what had once been a car door, but now looked like a suitcase with wheels, though, even they had buckled and folded inward on impact. For all official purposes, Junior was dead before arrival. In reality, he was actually sitting in his car, which was lodged in the back of a diesel truck that was now driving due east. His thumb sat wrapped in a shirt atop the dashboard, while his hand was soaking in a bucket of ice, he had made it across the border alive and was deep in shock. Having never actually looked under the back seat after he had the upholstering re-done, under the orders of his employers, and now that the goal to reenter America had been achieved, curiosity had got the best of him. He opened the door and the ceiling light illuminated the interior enough for him to lift the back seat with his one good hand, there, wrapped in a vacuum sealed plastic cover, was an ancient piece of fabric displaying the image of a man that appeared to be the man known as Jesus the christ. Junior didn't know what to believe, his entire journey had all been entirely unexpected. He had returned to his homeland to spend time with his father, to see the family ranch and to meet with the old Indian and now all that too had presented unexpected results. Would his life never return to some semblance of normalcy, he wondered ?
That is when he noticed the light emanating from the trunk. He re-lodged the back seat cover and there was just enough space between the interior wall of the diesel trailer and the drivers side door, to walk to the back of the car. The trunk had been broken into when Junior had been lured into helping the group of men raise the tower bell in the Plaza Park, just south of Boulevard Revolution. He now assumed that the entire event was a ploy to distract his entering America with the current contents of his back seat, but when he opened the trunk and lifted a blanket, he discovered that he was in a world of trouble, deceit and misery, much larger than he could ever have expected. There under the blanket sat more paper currency than he had ever seen in his life, stacked, sealed and organized in a giant block, next to that was an equally daunting object that scared the living daylights out of the man, something he would never have expected, something he had been promised would never ever be a part of his employment, something he abhorred more than death itself, the very thing that had ruined more lives and created more misery and devastated more men than Junior cared to recount. How many times had he watched men slowly dissolve into nothing ? How many times had he heard about so and so being found dead on the streets ? How many times had he watched as his fellow inmates writhed in pain and in total out and out torturous conditions turning this way and that for hours on end as if they were lizards who had lost a tail, squirming, screaming, moaning, begging, sweating it out while the guards walked by and chuckled ? How many times had he wondered what life for him, his friends, his relatives and even the world would have been like without the very thing he was staring in the face ? How was it that he, Junior, a simple man, could possibly be carrying a most sacred object known to believers across the entire world and also have in his possession the substance that was possibly the very worst and most disgusting element ever invented ? A substance so vile, so despicable, so ruining, so demonic that through the years he had actually thought of this substance as, and there was no other way to put it: The devil himself. There in several blocks of transparent material was the purest of the pure, the worst and above all evilest thing Junior had ever know existed. If the natural shock that occurred from losing a thumb, just less than an hour ago had provided a buffer between him and his feelings, creating a comfort zone, sedating his body and mind from the pain, blocking the nervous system from excruciating and jolting physical effects, all that had abruptly ended: Junior woke up. He tied a rope from trunk to bumper and waited for whatever was next, he knew whatever it was, that his life would never be the same again.
An hour passed and Junior noticed that diesel truck must have pulled off the freeway and onto a smaller street or road, when it came to a stop, he heard the driver unhitch the trailer from the cab and then the cab pulled away. He stepped to the back of the trailer and noticed a double latch that opened from the inside, not knowing what to expect, he grabbed his thumb from the dashboard, tucked in his shirt and slid the dismembered finger down the front, with his one good hand, he grabbed a blackjack from the back seat and slowly and quietly attempted to lift the door to the trailer. As he did so, he realized he was alone, in pitch darkness, he jumped from the trailer and there to the North he noticed a brightly lit cinder block cube of a building. Junior was now out and out frightened. He had been scared, he had been fearful, but he had never actually been frightened before and somewhere in his constitution, somewhere in his make up, some where in his fortitude, he found something of himself that was new territory and now he knew there was no turning back. He walked back up one of the small narrow wheeled metal perforated ramps that followed the trailer, he unhinged the rope to the trunk, opened an old tool box and found a padlock that he had once used to secure his locker in junior high school. Junior silently pulled the trailer door shut and walked toward the brightly lit building in the middle of what felt like an abandoned army base in the middle of the desert. There were no signs out front, but when he looked inside, it was clearly a medical facility, with a flat-topped front desk attendant and several nurses dressed in scrubs and operating garb. He could see no patients, he could see no security guards, if he wanted to keep his thumb, he had no choice whatsoever, except to simply walk into the place, and as he did, the attendant, who was youngish, clean shaven, clear eyed, simply said, "We have been expecting you sir." Junior just looked at the man. "Due to the dire situation, there will be no forms to fill, we are ready to take care of you now." A nurse walked up and asked for the missing finger. Junior, who had shed not a single tear throughout his entire ordeal, reached into his shirt front and handed the girl his thumb. His eyes watered, he took a deep breath, looked around the facility and decided that whatever the hell was going on, first and foremost, he wanted five digits on each hand and so, he sat in the lobby and waited for the attendant to make the next move. The nurse unwrapped the finger, laid it out onto a stainless steel tray and stared at the object for what seemed like a very long time, then she abruptly, looked up at Junior and exclaimed, "Believe it or not, you are a very lucky man." The attendant smiled and called for the patient to be admitted.
Junior had refused to be put to sleep, the operation lasted almost eighteen hours and he slept through much of the operation. He had now been wheeled into a room with a window facing the trailer which could barley be seen in the now two a.m. moonlight. Several bottles of medication sat on the table to his left, his keys and the contents of his pockets had been put into a small basket, his pants had been washed and folded, his shirt and socks had been replaced, the blood that had poured from his hand had been washed clean from his shoes and he was the only person in the room. His hand was wrapped in gauze and an aluminum stripped device protected it from any possible damage. Junior began to review the series of events that had preceded his accident. The first call he had made to his people prior to leaving the US all had seemed appropriate and valid, the voice seemed to be the usual, the directions, the action, the procedural aspects all in line with a familiar tone, but the second call, made from the Bull fight arena, there was now something definitely wrong with that call. He couldn't quite focus on exactly what it was, but something was askew. The voice was just a little different, the change of plans seemed totally out of place, the entire directive was not at all in line with a protocol that he now could put together in a cohesive way. Junior had always been promised that under no circumstances whatsoever would he ever have to come into contact with the substance that was now sitting in his trunk. Nor was he ever asked to be put in a position of ever returning to prison without proper warning of the assignment up front. Either he had clearly been lied to, or someone redirected, intercepted or tapped his conversation and interjected or straight out impersonated someone from his organization. There was a third possibility, but he didn't even want to think about that. The only way to find out, was to head north, enter the harbor and find out for himself. Junior quietly put on his clothes, shoved the bottles of medicine in his front pockets, opened the sliding glass window, jumped out and walked into the cold dark night. He fumbled with the combination lock, could not for the life of him remember the numbers, finally giving up, simply bashed the thing with a rock, slid the door upward, backed the car down the ramp and drove down the moon lit dirt road with no lights on for over half a mile, when he could no longer see the facility in the distance, he turned on his lights and headed toward civilization, if you could call it that. On the way out, he passed several burnt out bunkers, defunct check points and now wireless radio towers. It was a ghost town and Junior still had no idea that, officially, he did not exist.
By the time Junior drove into the Harbor, it was just past four in the morning, for the obvious reasons, he neither went home, nor did he go directly to meet his so-called people. He had been racking his brain while driving and still had not come up with any true or obvious conclusions. Having not eaten in over twenty-four hours, he needed a cup of coffee, he had to figure this out and found himself driving in the direction of Ma' Fritters Coffeehouse, where his father, Louis had been a busboy all those years. It was absurd for him to fathom the fact that, in less than a week, he had actually repositioned his father on the family ranch and been through what seemed like a lifetime. He parked the car a half a block away, positioned it so that he could see it front and back and was pleased that the waitress, nor the busboy recognized him as Louis' son. He ordered breakfast and as was the tradition, the waitress brought over the days paper. Junior, who had gotten in the habit of voraciously reading anything and everything, while in the joint, turned the page of the metro section and there, near the bottom, was a small article that had an extremely familiar image, it was a picture of him, taken a few years back by prison officials, the headline read: Recently Released Ex-con Dies in Auto Accident. The article described the events at the border, the fishing accident cover story, the visit with relatives and the actual accident on the way to the hospital. Now Junior knew that possibility number three was more than likely. He left a ten dollar bill on the table and walked. It was still before five, fog covered the streets. Junior made a decision. He drove up to the home of his brother in law Chuck and his sister Celia's through the alleyway, opened the garage door, where Chuck kept his sunday car, a completely restored woody station wagon and unloaded the contents of the trunk into Chucks wagon: the money and the drugs. Than he quietly closed the garage door and drove four blocks east to a storage facility parking lot that housed old boats, cars and rental units for storage. He pulled his car onto the lot, tucked the fabric artifact from beneath the back seat around his torso and threw a tarp from the trunk over his own car, fastening the corners one by one with his good hand. The placed was closed and a security guard sat in the front office. Junior held up a fifty dollar bill, the man slid open the window and accepted the bill, but said nothing. Junior took a hundred dollar bill and an insurance slip that had his plates, his insurance and the vehicle i.d. and pointed to the tarp. "Put this on the old man's desk." Again, the man said nothing, took the bill and slip and walked over to the old mans desk. Junior eyed the man's newspaper on the counter, grabbed the metro section and walked out into the fog.
CHAPTER 36 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes.
All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015
CHAPTER 36 : BROTHER
Mickey was running late. This was not an uncommon occurrence. Through the years, he had been known as an easy going dude, who enjoyed the company of everyday people and everyday people reciprocated in kind. Mickey had been touched by a long since past casualness that had once pervaded Americans everywhere. He always had time to listen and this old fashioned activity did not derive from some idea of politeness or even a social responsibility, he simply enjoyed hearing and telling stories. As far back as he could remember, Charles and his friends, who had included an extremely wide variety of storytellers sat around, night after night, talking, conversing, excitedly describing events past and recent in a way that, in todays world, had been entirely lost. Mickey's ability to make appointments often neglected to build in a certain amount of time, for that very thing he loved so much to do and invariably, he was often playing catch up with those he loved, most notably, the love of his life: Moon. Now that Charles had returned and the family had cohesively bonded, getting together on a weekly basis over a family dinner, had become the norm and Mickey always seemed to be the last to arrive. Cally would be the first to exasperatingly announce. "I'm ordering anyway..." and Maggie would say, "Your'e waiting for your brother." Charles, who had indeed once been a soldier in Vietnam, a roadie for rock and roll royalty, a doorman for one of the toughest bars in America and one of the West coasts most prominent builders of Harley Davidson motorcycles had mellowed during his lost years. The man was still strong as could be and yet his sensitivity was more than beautiful. "Why is that," Maggie asked herself ? In the old days, Maggie had watched as Charles once lifted a man above his head by the collar and pant leg and threw the guy into a six foot wide mirror that had a logo for Flynn's Irish Whiskey that stated: It was Simply The Best. The unsuspecting man had reached over and simply grabbed the breast of Charles best friends wife, who had taken her beer mug and swung it into the guy's jaw and then Charles finished the job. Maggie watched from across the bar and could not understand why that had turned her on, all she knew is that it did. Now all these years later, she watched as Charles took his giant hand and ever so gently removed the dangling hair from his daughters face, with a single and graceful gesture. The hand that had turned a million spark plugs, slugged countless fools, even pulled a few triggers back in Vietnam, was also now, so graceful, so smooth, so reflective. The road had been good for Charles, where most men crumble, this man had clearly triumphed.
Venice beach was full of musicians, artists, pro, con and otherwise. Very rarely, these days, could anyone actually, 'discover' a new act or a viable mainstream breakthrough for the current markets music scene. Maggie had been known and affiliated with music from another time period. She had been interviewed in countless documentaries about artists such as Bob Dylan and anyone connected with the late sixties and early seventies, where she had made a mark managing bands, tours and all variety of popular musicians including folk, rock and country. When she had been asked to help organize a fund raiser for the inner city youth after the desecration of the riots, she wanted to gather a line up that would encompass the very cultures who had invariably clashed due to the divisions throughout Los Angeles. Already she had commitments from artists like Tom Waits, Fishbone, a couple of the guys from War and Isaac Hayes, but she needed some new acts. Maggie didn't mind doing her part, but underneath all the showmanship and unification, this 'do right' woman was a shrewd and calculating business woman with several children and a career of her own. It had been almost a decade since she had actually, 'discovered' a new act or artist and brought them from the streets to the clubs to the studio to the radio and on into the major marketplace, which had already moved from rock to punk and new wave and now back to rock with the so-called 'grunge' scene coming out of Seattle. Punk and New Wave had entirely eclipsed many of the artists she had represented and it left Maggie feeling, a bit out of touch. She could understand this new scene a little more than what had happened musically over the past decade. The basic melodic chords, the return to rock & roll riffs, the garage style aesthetic had a familiar ring and was getting the kind of play on radio that turned the tables in her direction. So, when she noticed a couple of kids, playing a few songs in the boutique directly across the street from the restaurant where everyone was waiting for Micky, she excused herself from the table. The boy played guitar and sang, the girl played a small keyboard and sang, then they did a duet a cappella. They utilized folk, reggae and soft rock elements with an upbeat vibe that was exactly what Maggie needed to round out the line up. When she asked their name, they both answered in unison: She Said / He Said. Maggie listened to a few more tunes and immediately booked them to open the show. When she asked who their manager was, they both answered in unison: We are. The boy explained that they had recently received a small investment from a local businessman who had recorded a live single that was currently being remixed and it would be ready for distribution soon. She saw the opportunity and invited them over to the house on Sunday.
Maggie returned to the restaurant to find one of her early rivals sitting in the chair she had left at the table. A woman whom she had not seen since those early days, and who had vied for Charles affections, way back when. She hated to admit it, but the lady had barely aged at all. Her hair had grown longer as had her dress and as Maggie now perceived the situation, so to had the woman's teeth. As she walked up to the table, Maggie remembered her name and quickly placed it into context, she tried to conceal what Moon and Cally and her girlfriend Jezz all noticed, that, for the first time in years, Maggie was actually jealous. Now all the girls perked their ears to hear what Charles and the lady were discussing. The lady, with long golden hair and tight blue eyes, was recounting a story about Charles and an obscure musical tour they had all endured long ago. Charles laughed and kissed the woman, like a man might kiss his mother or his sister on the forehead and asked the manager for another seat and a round of drinks. The lady noticing Maggie's arrival, sat up to surrender the throne, but Maggie feigned disinterest and took the new seat handed by the waiter, on the other end of the table with Moon, who was now completely perplexed and had never seen Maggie in such a state. "We just arrived from New York," and "still own the house on speedway," the lady explained. Now Maggie stared at her and remembered everything. She had been the only other woman who had received Charles' affections prior to Mickey's birth. Maggie tried to take the floor by announcing her new musical discovery, across the way, but it came out forced and didn't take hold. Charles began to recount a mammoth party that had been the last time he and the lady had seen one another, the final concert of the tour in which they had previously discussed. Charles, one of the few people that could casually drop the names of some of the greatest musicians that had ever lived in a manner that was neither braggart nor brazen, described the final concert, the party and the after party that had the entire restaurant listening. A large man, both in spirit and in personality with a booming voice, a handsome and chiseled face with a humble yet trustworthy tone. No wonder Mickey liked storytellers, his dad was one of the best. Maggie looked on with ringing ears and burning eyes as Charles finished his story and everyone laughed aloud. Then he turned to the lady and said, "So, what exactly happened to you after that night ?" The lady looked around the table, now realizing that all ears and eye were on her. "Well, for one, I had a son ..." and as she said so, a young man who looked exactly like Mickey's twin walked into the room, "Here he is," she said, as an artist might unveil a new work of art to the world. Moon gasped.
Charles, who was slow to display any type of automatic reactions or responses in general, put his hand out and shook the young man's hand, "My name is Charles," and the younger man took his hand and shook it,"I'm an old friend of your mom's," he explained. "I have heard a lot about you," the young man said and turned back to his mother, who was by now beaming in all directions. Now Moon, Cally and Jezz, were all trying to add up the details of Charles recent story with the young man standing before them, who looked, not 'sort of' like Mickey, he looked exactly like Mickey. Same age, same build, same eyes, same everything. His manner of dress and his style of grooming was not at all like Mickey, but his actual physical make up was a downright doppelgänger. "So, your mother tells us you're just in from New York," Charles noted aloud. The young man looked again towards his mother, who added, "He has just passed the bar." Charles looked into the other room, which housed a lounge and didn't entirely understand the reference. The lady looked at Charles quizzically, "He's a defense lawyer working for a firm here in Los Angeles." Charles finally caught up, "Congratulations, I'm glad you choose the right side of the law," he laughed and everyone joined in. By now, he could not help but notice the way all the women in his life were now staring at the young man standing next to him. Charles called out for another chair and the young man sat down. Finally, Moon asked, the young man how old he was, when he answered, everyone could see the human calculator on Maggy's face doing the math, they too began calculating. When the results were in, as it turned out, the young man was exactly one year older than Micky. Charles explained that they were waiting for his son Mickey and by all means, if they would like to join them for dinner to do so or to drop by the house sometime. The tall, graceful lady declined the offer and they both began to stand and excuse themselves from the table, "It was such a pleasure to see you again," she countered, glancing in Maggy's direction, who was now, quietly, politely, imploding inwardly. The lady raised her wineglass, "To old friends." Charles raised his beer mug and everyone joined in, 'Salute,' - 'Cheers,' - 'Asante.' And then Mickey finally appeared in the front window, he glanced in through the glass and for a split second, the image of his reflection and the young man's met in perfect unison. The young man and his mother walked out the front door as Mickey entered and sat down in the seat his twin had just inhabited. Maggie rose and took her original seat next to Charles. She didn't say a word. Everyone was quiet. Moon just stared at Mickey, who said he was sorry for being late. Cally looked at Jezz and smiled. Maggie looked at Charles, then at Mickey, she took a deep breath, exhaled and stated aloud, "I think we are ready to order."
CHAPTER 37 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes.
All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015
CHAPTER 37 : DADDY
Fred felt divided. Ta had been hinting that if they moved in together, they would save money, have more quality time and could possibly even take longer vacation time later in the year. She even did the math over a three year period and had mentioned, the exact numbers they could save, she was, after all, a rather calculating woman. Fred had gotten use to living alone, he had made peace with his losses and even enjoyed the solitude. Running her own business all these years had made Ta into an enterprising lady and her sense of initiative and 'can-do' style is what attracted Fred to her in the beginning, after months of campaigning, she won the debate and had finally convinced Fred. She had planned to put her townhouse up for rent and was looking forward to starting the beginning of her new life with Fred and right in the middle of the move, Ta received a startling phone call from the government in South Korea. The call opened up an entire chapter of her life that she had all but forgotten. Ta had never discussed her childhood with friends or associates much, nor did she speak much about her parents. She was not secretive, many people who had found their way from the north of the country to the South had difficult transitions and discussing assimilation and the actual difficult arduous physical challenge to cross into the South was not something people wished to converse about casually. Ta had been extremely lucky, having stowed away on a boat at an extremely young age, had made her journey and her entire teenage years in the South seem normal. She had never mentioned her father to Fred or anyone and had not even known if he was still alive. Ta had assumed that he was dead or maybe even worse, in a concentration camp or as they were called in the North, a work camp. As it turned out, Ta's father had once been a ranking officer in the North and when her mother passed away, an Aunt had put Ta on a boat to the South and had died doing so. That was decades ago, since then, she had heard nothing of her father in those years and could hardly remember his voice, his face or anything about him. The only object left in her townhouse was the telephone message machine She pressed the play button on the recorder and heard the voice of a woman from the government, "Hello," she formally greeted in Ta's native language, she gave her name, her location and the department she worked for, which was immigration, then she explained that a man describing himself as Ta's father had defected from North Korea over ten years ago and had finally made his way to Seoul, then Ta could hear the woman tell the man to say hello, "Hello, daughter, I am your Dad."
Ta heard the voice and began to cry. This was a chapter in her life she had willingly forgotten. The painful journey, the loss of her mother, the death of her aunt, the entire experience and deep rooted pain of leaving everything behind and starting anew had never given her time to heal or to even reflect, and now, after all this time, she did not want to deal with it. But there it was, sitting in the room with her. She sat in the empty apartment and cried like a child, she screamed aloud, shrieked and rocked back and forth while sitting on the floor. She had returned to the place simply to take down the floral patterned curtains, and now, she ripped them from the walls and yelled into them as loud as she could, muffling her own voice and the pain that had been hidden. Feelings of abandonment and helplessness overtook the woman and she fell to the floor like a child and broke. Hours passed, it had gotten dark, Ta awoke, turned the recorder back on and listened to the voice again, "Hello, daughter, I am your dad," and again, "hello daughter, I am your dad," and again, "hello daughter, I am your dad." She looked out upon the city lights gleaming, the boulevard below was busy, the other apartments across the way, so full of life, families eating dinner, old men and women watching television, kids running in and out of rooms, she had been running from her past towards success for so long that life itself had become something that Ta had disconnected from. How many times had she watched as families came in and out of her restaurant without once consciously thinking about her own childhood, her own family, her own past, in America and in Seoul. A successful business had been her everything and now she looked out the window into the lives of her community and felt a giant empty cavern. The townhouse was empty, the curtains were down, the lights were off. Ta took off her clothes, walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, the bathroom had been stripped of all her girly items, the liquid echoed when it splashed to the tile, there was not enough water in all the world to wash away the pain. Ta walked out into the empty living room naked and stood there, dripping water onto the floor, she watched the night, and hours passed. Fred who had been waiting at home for her to return eventually called and when Ta answered, he hardly recognized her voice, "Hello," he said, "Hello," she answered back, "Are you my daddy ?" she asked, and Fred, laughingly played along, "Yes, I am." Then Ta began to cry and Fred didn't understand, but he simply listened quietly. "Will you come and get me ?" Ta asked with the voice of a little girl he had never known before and Fred, now confused, simply said, "I am your daddy and I will come and get you." Ta dropped the phone, stared into the night and Fred arrived.
Alex and Fred had become partners after Alex's father had passed away. The loss of the liquor store had created a bond between the boy and Fred. Now They had a water dispensary and a yogurt shop. Alex had been a weird kid, nerdy, not exactly popular among his pears, even considered out of step and maybe a little slow. But when it came to music, Alex was actually way ahead of the curve. He had gone to school to become a sound engineer, having tried his hand at playing piano and even drumming, he settled on engineering and sound mixing and everyone in his immediate family and even his girlfriend, who was now pregnant, had always felt that he should grow up and just get a regular job. Fred had given Alex that job and now he had time and money to invest in the music. He bought mixing gear, microphones and started creating all types of sonic experimentation, from electronica style tracks to mood music that sounded like cinema soundtracks. When Fred had asked Alex if he knew of any bands that could play for the opening party of the new yogurt business, Alex answered yes and called some friends he knew. Without Fred knowing, Alex had actually gotten the band to agree to be recorded and remixed with a distribution deal for a single track to be owned by Alex as a producer, in exchange for remixing the concert for the band. He had even gotten a contract signed. Since that time, the band, who was a guy and a girl duo, had now been asked to play a live fundraiser with some serious headliners, which put Alex in the position of owning a new single from a band that had only played local clubs and gigs up to that time. When Alex got news from Ryan's little brother that, She said / He Said was the opening act to a major Concert, he went into superdrive and created a standard track, a special remix and a dance club electric mix that went out to local radio stations, the disc - jockeys that he knew from school and he handed a stack of cd's to the band for promotion. To imagine that this was the same kid who, months back, had in desperation, tried to burn down a palm tree to collect insurance on his father's business, was almost impossible. With the loss of the boy's father, his pregnant girlfriend and his own particular introversion, Alex had lost all hope. Fred had done what he felt was the right thing to do, against all common sense, he had not only forgiven the boy, he had seen something that no one else could see and now, it was paying off. Alex ran the yogurt shop in the daytime and prepared for the child on the weekends. He began to dress differently, he handled himself in a whole new way and everyone in his family noticed that he had actually become a lot like his father. With Fred's partnership and with Fred's trust, the confused and angry boy had now quite definitely, simply become a man, while no one was looking, Alex had bloomed.
When Ta told Fred about the phone call, he was neither surprised nor worried. They sat at the breakfast table and Fred began to tell her a story about working in the factories. He described the way he and Sam had saved their money, the way they had made a pact to succeed, the way they had followed through with a dream that had now recently ended in flames and smoke and anger in a new country in which a history had preceded that they could not even fathom. Americans, he explained, knew nothing of our real history and maybe, we too, know very little of theirs. How many times had he been called Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, anything but Korean. They know nothing of the actual desecration of our country, the civil war, the rebuilding of the South, the trade deals, technological and new manufacturing that went into making South Korea a viable and modern day trade partner with the world. And here we are, in the middle of a city that is tearing itself apart. "Maybe we are here for a reason," Fred said, "maybe our basic understanding of indifference and division and struggle and rebuilding is exactly what we have to contribute to this country." Fred was avoiding the real problem and could see that Ta was waiting for him to approach the phone call. "What I am trying to say is that you and I both have a history. Whatever yours is, I accept. Now what do you want to do?" Ta was looking to Fred for those answers and she simply stared out into space, blank. Fred's house was covered in boxes, clothes, furniture and all the items that had represented Ta's existence were now strewn throughout the place. He looked around and then looked back at her. She was, to him, absolutely and downright beautiful. Her hair thick and deep black, her shoulders whiter than ivory, her eyes, dark and watery, fingertips cold and sharp, breasts that lifted with her very breath, long legs that extended to and fro, her feet delicately sculpted, he had always seen her as a woman and now was seeing her as a little girl. Whomever had created this woman, this lady, this girl, deserved to be taken care of and Fred knew then what they had to do. Fred walked down the hall into the den, turned on the old time jukebox and selected a tune from long ago, it had been popular years before the war and joyfully described the simple pleasures of having a home. Ta understood what Fred was saying and without mentioning a word, she stood up, walked into the living room and together they slowly danced to the music, arm in arm. Each one wondering what it would be like to return home after all these years as the lyrics of the tune happily chanted, 'Home is a place you can never forget, no matter how far, you can ever get, no matter the people, that you have met, home is a place you can never forget.'
![CHAPTER 38 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes. All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015 CHAPTER 38 : ERRANDS Jordan learned how to ride by riding. He took the new motorcycle to Lompoc, checked into an old motel about a half a mile from the prison and called it a day. Next morning, he was the first in line for visitors and had to wait a couple hours to put in his request. Jordan always had big eyes for life, always watching, always looking, had an eye for details. In a place like this, that was not necessarily a good thing. He eventually got the message that Mac would be available at two in the afternoon, went outside and waited another couple hours. Looked at the joint, metal everywhere, concrete, steel, wire, posts, galvanized, extruded, exposed and painted. Doors and gates clicked and locked and clicked and opened, cameras on every post and doorway and lookout, armed guards and security and sheriffs and people working for the man of all variety, shape and size. Not one of them exposing their eyes directly. Hiding, from what he thought ? The sun drifted across the sky and Jordan's mind with it. The question was not how the hell was Mac? The question was who the hell was Mac? He didn't know his old man from Adam. Oh he had some early memories and lots of stories told by aunts and uncles about how Mac had been with Malcolm in those days when being black meant something very different from what it means now. How Mac had been targeted ever since his association with Malcolm, how he'd been set up time and time again, for this and for that. How his intentions to lift up those around him had often done just that and ever so swiftly, he would find himself being dragged down because of his efforts. Jordan was as straight as an arrow. He knew his way around, was no fool, but he was not what they would call entirely streetwise, had never done time, never even been arrested and did not intend to either. It was getting close to two, Jordan walked back inside and waited with the rest of the visitors. He sat and watched what prison does to those associated with those unfortunate individuals who lived in this place. Wives, kids, lawyers, friends, girlfriends, everyone seemed to be beat down by the experience. A constant barrage of amplified audio announcements, lines to stand behind, forms to fill out, times to stand and times to sit and times to wait, permission to eat and permission to drink and permission to relieve oneself, always with the disdaining eyes of men and women in uniform, while a very thin, almost invisible veneer of soot & finite filth seemed to cover everything and everyone, the sun was hotter and the shade was colder, a place of exaggerated everything. It seemed unreal and yet Jordan knew it was actually more than real, more real than anything on the outside. Mac sat at a table in the farthest corner of the room, facing outward. Jordan watched his father watching him as he walked up to the man and shook his hand. He noticed right away that there was no finite soot on this man, who looked healthy, big in spirit, whites of his eyes, clear as a piece of paper, skin moist, hands big, nails clean and trim, voice deep, clear, unbroken. Jordan opened up the conversation, "They say, you're a big man in here." Mac looked at the boy and out chuckled a small bitter breath, "A big man in here ain't nothing much compared to a small man out there." Mac continued, "I saw you on the television, retrieving the 'family heirloom'..." he laughed, "... that was something boy." Jordan replied, "Oh yeah, that was something, something that nearly cost me my job, put my privacy in jeopardy, my relationship into turmoil, got me the kind of attention I never wanted." Mac, looked at his son, "Well, it seems our family has always been in the middle of history in one way or another, looks like you got the same dna as the rest of us." Then Jordan mentioned that his momma, who went by the name of Baby, was staying with him and they were all concerned about Mac's welfare. Mac replied "For the record, Mac was never on no damn welfare, but I appreciate the thought." Then he continued, "Look, I heard you got some friends in places that could mean something to me." Jordan went blank, couldn't think of who Mac was referring to. "Your biker pal... and the lady lawyer... thats a powerful hand you're holding son. In here, politics and friendships, favors and returns on investments mean the difference between life and death, food and starvation, between day and night. Look, I need a favor. And I realize, I got no place to ask you, 'cause I never give you nothing but life itself, but I got something I need done and ain't no one I can trust anymore, been in here too long, people taking advantage of my game on the outside." Jordan stared at Mac, "I'm not a hustler." Mac stared back, "I'm not asking you to hustle. But I got nobody else I can trust, son." Jordan heard the word son and he looked Mac in the eyes. "How did you know about my ... friends?" Mac didn't have to time explain how things worked from top to bottom. "Look, I know things, just trust me on this." Jordan had always mistrusted anyone who had ever told him to 'trust him on this', but because this was his father, he let it go. "We don't have much time here, where you staying ?" and Mac rattled off the names of six different motels that were possibilities and Jordan replied, when Mac mentioned his. "Late tonight, a man will be stopping by with a few things for you and a to do list, If you do things right, I might have a chance to get out of here. Can you do this ?" Jordan didn't know what to say, if he said no, he was just a punk, if he said yes, he was in deep shit. He nodded his head no, but said, "Yes." Come three in the morning, with his clothes still on, lights on, passed out on the couch, Jordan heard a rap on the door. He looked out the eye-hole and one of the whitest, the straightest, the most police officer looking guys he had ever seen was at the door, mustached, freckle faced, yolked up, full on middle American male. Jordan opened the door and the guy said he was making a delivery for 'Mac' with a duffle bag in hand. Apparently, his dad was a big man after all, had dudes that could do things when necessary and do it they did, for a price. Whatever that price was, Jordan did not know, nor did he want to know. Already, he was regretting the decision, but now it was way too late. He stood there, staring at the dude. "Would you mind letting me in ?" Jordan did mind, but all of that was way too late, he let the guy in. The man threw the duffle bag on the bed and pulled out a list, he handed it to Jordan. It was a full itinerary, looked like a damn bus stop schedule, Jordan thought. Then he reached in and pulled out an envelope, when he took out the contents, there on the table lay an airline ticket, a list of addresses and a stack of cash that look pretty thick, real thick, thicker than he wanted it to look, damn. When he opened up the ticket it read, Destination Detroit Departure 9:00 AM. and then he re-read the itinerary. The man pulled out a new suit, shirt, tie and shoes that, when Mac had sussed up Jordan's size, he assumed would fit. "What the hell is all of this?" Jordan asked. "I am just here to make a delivery that never happened, understand?" And he walked out and drove away. Jordan looked out the window, black car, dark night, no license plates. Jordan just shook his head no, as he had done before he had actually said, Yes. He was way out of his league, then he looked at the airline ticket and realized he had to toss the duffle bag onto the bike and head out toward the airport, now, if he was ever going to make, "A nine a.m. flight to goddamned Detroit," he muttered to himself. He drove into the night with the sunrise eventually to his back, found a car park near the airport for his bike and stepped onto a shuttle. Jordan got into the airport, darted into a stall in the restroom and changed into the clothes that Mac had left for him. When he stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror, among the international, business class and everyday working stiffs, he saw his reflection in the mirror, looked down at the suit, the tie, the shoes and realized that he looked like a pimp from nineteen sixty-eight, pin striped suit, deco-page tie, black shirt and two-tone Stacy Adams shoes that were two sizes too big. He approached a row of a half a dozen sinks which were all inhabited by guys shaving, plucking ear hairs, washing their hands, three of the sinks immediately became available. Jordan bought a disposable razor from the attendant, got a shave, tipped the dude and boarded. Jordan thought about Detroit. The place of his birth. How long had it been ? He'd been living on the West coast for long enough to forget much of it. He'd spent a good amount of time in Oakland and eventually settled in Los Angeles, each, he thought, had a different degree of blackness. People liked to think of blackness as chocolate. It was always being compared to and packaged as this or that degree in music and in popular culture. Before he had become an adult, he thought of this comparison and wondered what that was all about? Now that he was a man, he would say to himself that LA was black like milk chocolate or like Martin Luther King, he didn't mean it in a disparaging way, it was just the way he saw it, as different degree of blackness. And he felt that Oakland was like a purer chocolate, with cocoa and possibly a Huey Newton or Bobby Seal representing. But Detroit, to Jordan, was serious blackness, dark chocolate, as black as black culture could get and right in the middle of it, was Malcolm X. And out of that came Mac, his dad and Baby, his mom and now him, Jordan, a child of true blackness, a very real blackness, Detroit Motor City stuff. In his mind, the only place blacker was the continent of his origin itself. Than he realized that all this was mainstream thinking. He was dreaming a child's dream and he needed to wake up and wake up quick. Jordan pulled out the itinerary and looked at what needed to be done. His first stop was the Hall of Records, where he was to request and make copies of a full detailed description of a court case with dates, names and numbers listed in capitals, than in parenthesis it stated: [ bring four rolls of quarters, two for spending and two for comfort ]. What did that mean ? "Two for comfort ?" he said out loud, than, under his breath, "Goddamn it, Mac..." The stewardess asked if Jordan wanted anything, a cocktail, a beer, Corvousier? Jordan just looked at her quizzically, "Yeah, I'd like a large cup of coffee." Than, as she walked away, he added, "Black," and several passengers turned in his direction. He had pre-rented a vehicle when he had checked in and when the plane arrived, he was again shuttled to a near by rental lot, where he was given a brand new black cadillac sedan. He asked the lady at the desk, "Don't you have anything a little more ... nondescript ?" A term had had heard though never used. "Well," and then she pointed toward a small white ford, a light green pinto and several passenger vans. "Never mind, this will be fine..." Now he was really fronting. Well, he knew one thing, Mac and baby would definitely be proud of him. Then he realized that he had not called home in the last 36 hours. What was he going to tell Wanda and Baby? I'm in Detroit, driving a big black Cadillac, dressed in a pin striped suit, green two-tone shoes with a wad of cash and I'm just running a few errands for Mac?](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJosWWQahfu9ttIrImBgk6iUaAi25HVv6ydUKfGrO4TENYzfhBv-PctT63GuB5J4jYdVvO7C889nYfsQ17UxbzTuDBKA33EGZ5uHWZhOev6E_4l2srbeacAcFTebdHvzJsWNEN6nL3oC8/s1600/web+THEY+CALL+IT+THE+CITY+OF+ANGELS+2015+EPISODE+ONE+SEASON+THREE+Joshua+Triliegi+-+1.jpg "CHAPTER 38 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes. All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015 CHAPTER 38 : ERRANDS Jordan learned how to ride by riding. He took the new motorcycle to Lompoc, checked into an old motel about a half a mile from the prison and called it a day. Next morning, he was the first in line for visitors and had to wait a couple hours to put in his request. Jordan always had big eyes for life, always watching, always looking, had an eye for details. In a place like this, that was not necessarily a good thing. He eventually got the message that Mac would be available at two in the afternoon, went outside and waited another couple hours. Looked at the joint, metal everywhere, concrete, steel, wire, posts, galvanized, extruded, exposed and painted. Doors and gates clicked and locked and clicked and opened, cameras on every post and doorway and lookout, armed guards and security and sheriffs and people working for the man of all variety, shape and size. Not one of them exposing their eyes directly. Hiding, from what he thought ? The sun drifted across the sky and Jordan's mind with it. The question was not how the hell was Mac? The question was who the hell was Mac? He didn't know his old man from Adam. Oh he had some early memories and lots of stories told by aunts and uncles about how Mac had been with Malcolm in those days when being black meant something very different from what it means now. How Mac had been targeted ever since his association with Malcolm, how he'd been set up time and time again, for this and for that. How his intentions to lift up those around him had often done just that and ever so swiftly, he would find himself being dragged down because of his efforts. Jordan was as straight as an arrow. He knew his way around, was no fool, but he was not what they would call entirely streetwise, had never done time, never even been arrested and did not intend to either. It was getting close to two, Jordan walked back inside and waited with the rest of the visitors. He sat and watched what prison does to those associated with those unfortunate individuals who lived in this place. Wives, kids, lawyers, friends, girlfriends, everyone seemed to be beat down by the experience. A constant barrage of amplified audio announcements, lines to stand behind, forms to fill out, times to stand and times to sit and times to wait, permission to eat and permission to drink and permission to relieve oneself, always with the disdaining eyes of men and women in uniform, while a very thin, almost invisible veneer of soot & finite filth seemed to cover everything and everyone, the sun was hotter and the shade was colder, a place of exaggerated everything. It seemed unreal and yet Jordan knew it was actually more than real, more real than anything on the outside. Mac sat at a table in the farthest corner of the room, facing outward. Jordan watched his father watching him as he walked up to the man and shook his hand. He noticed right away that there was no finite soot on this man, who looked healthy, big in spirit, whites of his eyes, clear as a piece of paper, skin moist, hands big, nails clean and trim, voice deep, clear, unbroken. Jordan opened up the conversation, \"They say, you're a big man in here.\" Mac looked at the boy and out chuckled a small bitter breath, \"A big man in here ain't nothing much compared to a small man out there.\" Mac continued, \"I saw you on the television, retrieving the 'family heirloom'...\" he laughed, \"... that was something boy.\" Jordan replied, \"Oh yeah, that was something, something that nearly cost me my job, put my privacy in jeopardy, my relationship into turmoil, got me the kind of attention I never wanted.\" Mac, looked at his son, \"Well, it seems our family has always been in the middle of history in one way or another, looks like you got the same dna as the rest of us.\" Then Jordan mentioned that his momma, who went by the name of Baby, was staying with him and they were all concerned about Mac's welfare. Mac replied \"For the record, Mac was never on no damn welfare, but I appreciate the thought.\" Then he continued, \"Look, I heard you got some friends in places that could mean something to me.\" Jordan went blank, couldn't think of who Mac was referring to. \"Your biker pal... and the lady lawyer... thats a powerful hand you're holding son. In here, politics and friendships, favors and returns on investments mean the difference between life and death, food and starvation, between day and night. Look, I need a favor. And I realize, I got no place to ask you, 'cause I never give you nothing but life itself, but I got something I need done and ain't no one I can trust anymore, been in here too long, people taking advantage of my game on the outside.\" Jordan stared at Mac, \"I'm not a hustler.\" Mac stared back, \"I'm not asking you to hustle. But I got nobody else I can trust, son.\" Jordan heard the word son and he looked Mac in the eyes. \"How did you know about my ... friends?\" Mac didn't have to time explain how things worked from top to bottom. \"Look, I know things, just trust me on this.\" Jordan had always mistrusted anyone who had ever told him to 'trust him on this', but because this was his father, he let it go. \"We don't have much time here, where you staying ?\" and Mac rattled off the names of six different motels that were possibilities and Jordan replied, when Mac mentioned his. \"Late tonight, a man will be stopping by with a few things for you and a to do list, If you do things right, I might have a chance to get out of here. Can you do this ?\" Jordan didn't know what to say, if he said no, he was just a punk, if he said yes, he was in deep shit. He nodded his head no, but said, \"Yes.\" Come three in the morning, with his clothes still on, lights on, passed out on the couch, Jordan heard a rap on the door. He looked out the eye-hole and one of the whitest, the straightest, the most police officer looking guys he had ever seen was at the door, mustached, freckle faced, yolked up, full on middle American male. Jordan opened the door and the guy said he was making a delivery for 'Mac' with a duffle bag in hand. Apparently, his dad was a big man after all, had dudes that could do things when necessary and do it they did, for a price. Whatever that price was, Jordan did not know, nor did he want to know. Already, he was regretting the decision, but now it was way too late. He stood there, staring at the dude. \"Would you mind letting me in ?\" Jordan did mind, but all of that was way too late, he let the guy in. The man threw the duffle bag on the bed and pulled out a list, he handed it to Jordan. It was a full itinerary, looked like a damn bus stop schedule, Jordan thought. Then he reached in and pulled out an envelope, when he took out the contents, there on the table lay an airline ticket, a list of addresses and a stack of cash that look pretty thick, real thick, thicker than he wanted it to look, damn. When he opened up the ticket it read, Destination Detroit Departure 9:00 AM. and then he re-read the itinerary. The man pulled out a new suit, shirt, tie and shoes that, when Mac had sussed up Jordan's size, he assumed would fit. \"What the hell is all of this?\" Jordan asked. \"I am just here to make a delivery that never happened, understand?\" And he walked out and drove away. Jordan looked out the window, black car, dark night, no license plates. Jordan just shook his head no, as he had done before he had actually said, Yes. He was way out of his league, then he looked at the airline ticket and realized he had to toss the duffle bag onto the bike and head out toward the airport, now, if he was ever going to make, \"A nine a.m. flight to goddamned Detroit,\" he muttered to himself. He drove into the night with the sunrise eventually to his back, found a car park near the airport for his bike and stepped onto a shuttle. Jordan got into the airport, darted into a stall in the restroom and changed into the clothes that Mac had left for him. When he stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror, among the international, business class and everyday working stiffs, he saw his reflection in the mirror, looked down at the suit, the tie, the shoes and realized that he looked like a pimp from nineteen sixty-eight, pin striped suit, deco-page tie, black shirt and two-tone Stacy Adams shoes that were two sizes too big. He approached a row of a half a dozen sinks which were all inhabited by guys shaving, plucking ear hairs, washing their hands, three of the sinks immediately became available. Jordan bought a disposable razor from the attendant, got a shave, tipped the dude and boarded. Jordan thought about Detroit. The place of his birth. How long had it been ? He'd been living on the West coast for long enough to forget much of it. He'd spent a good amount of time in Oakland and eventually settled in Los Angeles, each, he thought, had a different degree of blackness. People liked to think of blackness as chocolate. It was always being compared to and packaged as this or that degree in music and in popular culture. Before he had become an adult, he thought of this comparison and wondered what that was all about? Now that he was a man, he would say to himself that LA was black like milk chocolate or like Martin Luther King, he didn't mean it in a disparaging way, it was just the way he saw it, as different degree of blackness. And he felt that Oakland was like a purer chocolate, with cocoa and possibly a Huey Newton or Bobby Seal representing. But Detroit, to Jordan, was serious blackness, dark chocolate, as black as black culture could get and right in the middle of it, was Malcolm X. And out of that came Mac, his dad and Baby, his mom and now him, Jordan, a child of true blackness, a very real blackness, Detroit Motor City stuff. In his mind, the only place blacker was the continent of his origin itself. Than he realized that all this was mainstream thinking. He was dreaming a child's dream and he needed to wake up and wake up quick. Jordan pulled out the itinerary and looked at what needed to be done. His first stop was the Hall of Records, where he was to request and make copies of a full detailed description of a court case with dates, names and numbers listed in capitals, than in parenthesis it stated: [ bring four rolls of quarters, two for spending and two for comfort ]. What did that mean ? \"Two for comfort ?\" he said out loud, than, under his breath, \"Goddamn it, Mac...\" The stewardess asked if Jordan wanted anything, a cocktail, a beer, Corvousier? Jordan just looked at her quizzically, \"Yeah, I'd like a large cup of coffee.\" Than, as she walked away, he added, \"Black,\" and several passengers turned in his direction. He had pre-rented a vehicle when he had checked in and when the plane arrived, he was again shuttled to a near by rental lot, where he was given a brand new black cadillac sedan. He asked the lady at the desk, \"Don't you have anything a little more ... nondescript ?\" A term had had heard though never used. \"Well,\" and then she pointed toward a small white ford, a light green pinto and several passenger vans. \"Never mind, this will be fine...\" Now he was really fronting. Well, he knew one thing, Mac and baby would definitely be proud of him. Then he realized that he had not called home in the last 36 hours. What was he going to tell Wanda and Baby? I'm in Detroit, driving a big black Cadillac, dressed in a pin striped suit, green two-tone shoes with a wad of cash and I'm just running a few errands for Mac?")
CHAPTER 38 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes.
All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015
CHAPTER 38 : ERRANDS
Jordan learned how to ride by riding. He took the new motorcycle to Lompoc, checked into an old motel about a half a mile from the prison and called it a day. Next morning, he was the first in line for visitors and had to wait a couple hours to put in his request. Jordan always had big eyes for life, always watching, always looking, had an eye for details. In a place like this, that was not necessarily a good thing. He eventually got the message that Mac would be available at two in the afternoon, went outside and waited another couple hours. Looked at the joint, metal everywhere, concrete, steel, wire, posts, galvanized, extruded, exposed and painted. Doors and gates clicked and locked and clicked and opened, cameras on every post and doorway and lookout, armed guards and security and sheriffs and people working for the man of all variety, shape and size. Not one of them exposing their eyes directly. Hiding, from what he thought ? The sun drifted across the sky and Jordan's mind with it. The question was not how the hell was Mac? The question was who the hell was Mac? He didn't know his old man from Adam. Oh he had some early memories and lots of stories told by aunts and uncles about how Mac had been with Malcolm in those days when being black meant something very different from what it means now. How Mac had been targeted ever since his association with Malcolm, how he'd been set up time and time again, for this and for that. How his intentions to lift up those around him had often done just that and ever so swiftly, he would find himself being dragged down because of his efforts. Jordan was as straight as an arrow. He knew his way around, was no fool, but he was not what they would call entirely streetwise, had never done time, never even been arrested and did not intend to either. It was getting close to two, Jordan walked back inside and waited with the rest of the visitors. He sat and watched what prison does to those associated with those unfortunate individuals who lived in this place. Wives, kids, lawyers, friends, girlfriends, everyone seemed to be beat down by the experience. A constant barrage of amplified audio announcements, lines to stand behind, forms to fill out, times to stand and times to sit and times to wait, permission to eat and permission to drink and permission to relieve oneself, always with the disdaining eyes of men and women in uniform, while a very thin, almost invisible veneer of soot & finite filth seemed to cover everything and everyone, the sun was hotter and the shade was colder, a place of exaggerated everything. It seemed unreal and yet Jordan knew it was actually more than real, more real than anything on the outside.
Mac sat at a table in the farthest corner of the room, facing outward. Jordan watched his father watching him as he walked up to the man and shook his hand. He noticed right away that there was no finite soot on this man, who looked healthy, big in spirit, whites of his eyes, clear as a piece of paper, skin moist, hands big, nails clean and trim, voice deep, clear, unbroken. Jordan opened up the conversation, "They say, you're a big man in here." Mac looked at the boy and out chuckled a small bitter breath, "A big man in here ain't nothing much compared to a small man out there." Mac continued, "I saw you on the television, retrieving the 'family heirloom'..." he laughed, "... that was something boy." Jordan replied, "Oh yeah, that was something, something that nearly cost me my job, put my privacy in jeopardy, my relationship into turmoil, got me the kind of attention I never wanted." Mac, looked at his son, "Well, it seems our family has always been in the middle of history in one way or another, looks like you got the same dna as the rest of us." Then Jordan mentioned that his momma, who went by the name of Baby, was staying with him and they were all concerned about Mac's welfare. Mac replied "For the record, Mac was never on no damn welfare, but I appreciate the thought." Then he continued, "Look, I heard you got some friends in places that could mean something to me." Jordan went blank, couldn't think of who Mac was referring to. "Your biker pal... and the lady lawyer... thats a powerful hand you're holding son. In here, politics and friendships, favors and returns on investments mean the difference between life and death, food and starvation, between day and night. Look, I need a favor. And I realize, I got no place to ask you, 'cause I never give you nothing but life itself, but I got something I need done and ain't no one I can trust anymore, been in here too long, people taking advantage of my game on the outside." Jordan stared at Mac, "I'm not a hustler." Mac stared back, "I'm not asking you to hustle. But I got nobody else I can trust, son." Jordan heard the word son and he looked Mac in the eyes. "How did you know about my ... friends?" Mac didn't have to time explain how things worked from top to bottom. "Look, I know things, just trust me on this." Jordan had always mistrusted anyone who had ever told him to 'trust him on this', but because this was his father, he let it go. "We don't have much time here, where you staying ?" and Mac rattled off the names of six different motels that were possibilities and Jordan replied, when Mac mentioned his. "Late tonight, a man will be stopping by with a few things for you and a to do list, If you do things right, I might have a chance to get out of here. Can you do this ?" Jordan didn't know what to say, if he said no, he was just a punk, if he said yes, he was in deep shit. He nodded his head no, but said, "Yes."
Come three in the morning, with his clothes still on, lights on, passed out on the couch, Jordan heard a rap on the door. He looked out the eye-hole and one of the whitest, the straightest, the most police officer looking guys he had ever seen was at the door, mustached, freckle faced, yolked up, full on middle American male. Jordan opened the door and the guy said he was making a delivery for 'Mac' with a duffle bag in hand. Apparently, his dad was a big man after all, had dudes that could do things when necessary and do it they did, for a price. Whatever that price was, Jordan did not know, nor did he want to know. Already, he was regretting the decision, but now it was way too late. He stood there, staring at the dude. "Would you mind letting me in ?" Jordan did mind, but all of that was way too late, he let the guy in. The man threw the duffle bag on the bed and pulled out a list, he handed it to Jordan. It was a full itinerary, looked like a damn bus stop schedule, Jordan thought. Then he reached in and pulled out an envelope, when he took out the contents, there on the table lay an airline ticket, a list of addresses and a stack of cash that look pretty thick, real thick, thicker than he wanted it to look, damn. When he opened up the ticket it read, Destination Detroit Departure 9:00 AM. and then he re-read the itinerary. The man pulled out a new suit, shirt, tie and shoes that, when Mac had sussed up Jordan's size, he assumed would fit. "What the hell is all of this?" Jordan asked. "I am just here to make a delivery that never happened, understand?" And he walked out and drove away. Jordan looked out the window, black car, dark night, no license plates. Jordan just shook his head no, as he had done before he had actually said, Yes. He was way out of his league, then he looked at the airline ticket and realized he had to toss the duffle bag onto the bike and head out toward the airport, now, if he was ever going to make, "A nine a.m. flight to goddamned Detroit," he muttered to himself. He drove into the night with the sunrise eventually to his back, found a car park near the airport for his bike and stepped onto a shuttle. Jordan got into the airport, darted into a stall in the restroom and changed into the clothes that Mac had left for him. When he stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror, among the international, business class and everyday working stiffs, he saw his reflection in the mirror, looked down at the suit, the tie, the shoes and realized that he looked like a pimp from nineteen sixty-eight, pin striped suit, deco-page tie, black shirt and two-tone Stacy Adams shoes that were two sizes too big. He approached a row of a half a dozen sinks which were all inhabited by guys shaving, plucking ear hairs, washing their hands, three of the sinks immediately became available. Jordan bought a disposable razor from the attendant, got a shave, tipped the dude and boarded.
Jordan thought about Detroit. The place of his birth. How long had it been ? He'd been living on the West coast for long enough to forget much of it. He'd spent a good amount of time in Oakland and eventually settled in Los Angeles, each, he thought, had a different degree of blackness. People liked to think of blackness as chocolate. It was always being compared to and packaged as this or that degree in music and in popular culture. Before he had become an adult, he thought of this comparison and wondered what that was all about? Now that he was a man, he would say to himself that LA was black like milk chocolate or like Martin Luther King, he didn't mean it in a disparaging way, it was just the way he saw it, as different degree of blackness. And he felt that Oakland was like a purer chocolate, with cocoa and possibly a Huey Newton or Bobby Seal representing. But Detroit, to Jordan, was serious blackness, dark chocolate, as black as black culture could get and right in the middle of it, was Malcolm X. And out of that came Mac, his dad and Baby, his mom and now him, Jordan, a child of true blackness, a very real blackness, Detroit Motor City stuff. In his mind, the only place blacker was the continent of his origin itself. Than he realized that all this was mainstream thinking. He was dreaming a child's dream and he needed to wake up and wake up quick. Jordan pulled out the itinerary and looked at what needed to be done. His first stop was the Hall of Records, where he was to request and make copies of a full detailed description of a court case with dates, names and numbers listed in capitals, than in parenthesis it stated: [ bring four rolls of quarters, two for spending and two for comfort ]. What did that mean ? "Two for comfort ?" he said out loud, than, under his breath, "Goddamn it, Mac..." The stewardess asked if Jordan wanted anything, a cocktail, a beer, Corvousier? Jordan just looked at her quizzically, "Yeah, I'd like a large cup of coffee." Than, as she walked away, he added, "Black," and several passengers turned in his direction. He had pre-rented a vehicle when he had checked in and when the plane arrived, he was again shuttled to a near by rental lot, where he was given a brand new black cadillac sedan. He asked the lady at the desk, "Don't you have anything a little more ... nondescript ?" A term had had heard though never used. "Well," and then she pointed toward a small white ford, a light green pinto and several passenger vans. "Never mind, this will be fine..." Now he was really fronting. Well, he knew one thing, Mac and baby would definitely be proud of him. Then he realized that he had not called home in the last 36 hours. What was he going to tell Wanda and Baby? I'm in Detroit, driving a big black Cadillac, dressed in a pin striped suit, green two-tone shoes with a wad of cash and I'm just running a few errands for Mac?
CHAPTER 39 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes.
All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015
CHAPTER 39: LIARS
Stan was facing death in the eye. He had neglected to inform Dora, his wife and Cliff, his son, what the doctors had told him. And now he had to reflect on the how's and the why's. Dora had transformed their diet after Cliff's birth, cooking and eating organically grown foods, being conscious of varieties of meat, processing, preservatives and additives, even making a healthy lunch for Stan, which often times went unconsumed. The man had been stubborn, even short sighted and at times, he was downright foolish, when it came to his health. Now, as he walked through the desolate halls of the empty courthouse, with its marble floors and travertine siding and worn down concrete benches, he reflected on how many cigarettes and how many lunch combinations that included a piece of pizza, potato chips and a coke he had consumed. How many hours of his life had he spent in the company of counsellors, lawyers and liars ? All in an attempt to preserve justice for the people. He had, at one time, actually believed that one person could, would and indeed did make a difference and now, in the desolate hours, in an empty chamber, Stan was unsure if that was possible. He walked into his office, opened a locked file where he kept up a project he thought would never see the light of day or meet the public's eye and now, after all had been said and done, Stan decided that the project was his last chance at redemption of a system he knew was broken. Stan had kept a detailed diary of every important case he had ever resided over. While on the bench, he had written about each and every important twist and turn of the screw from prosecutors to defense, from his vantage point to observations on the jury, who had gone unnamed for obvious reasons. Between his most recent meeting with doctors, the final decision in the case that caused The Riots and his deep love for Dora and Cliff as well as his original and rather naive intentions in becoming a judge to begin with, Stan decided to go public with a book that could blow the roof off of a hundred years of abuses of power in America, which would, most likely, equal his retirement. The day he and Cliff played golf against The Governor, at the request of the President, was a watershed moment: a 'Game-Changer.' Stan knew life was not a game and yet, real lives and real laws and real people were being pummeled into a system that left them disrespected, disabled and dishonored for the rest of their lives. His stroke on the golf course had given him a voice that seemed unfamiliar. He opened the file and realized that the narration in his book, all those years, had that same honest voice. Stan got up off the bench, walked out and headed home.
Dora got a call from Jordan that seemed out of character. Normally, he was, how would she put it: Cool headed ? He had left a message explaining that he was in Detroit, attempting to gain access to a file on record regarding a court case that had pertinent information regarding his father Mac, who was doing time because an inside jail house snitch had opened up on a group of people whom his father had been associated with long ago. Apparently, he was having trouble getting a copy of the file released and wondered if she could have somebody in Detroit or anywhere assist, he gave the serial number, dates and names. In the background, Dora could here people stressing Jordan over their need to use the phone booth, then, he finally said, "I gotta go, see what you can do." Then he gave her Mac's serial number, identification and Location. Dora could hear Jordan taking some serious heat as he attempted to drop the receiver and hang up the phone. Since then, she had received a copy of the file, made a duplicate and had another sent directly to Mac at Lompoc. She had been studying the case and realized that it was tinged with a prison politic that had leaned heavily on racial divides within the actual prison system itself, the other unspoken laws, codes and power lines that average people never knew about. She put the folder aside and waited to hear from Jordan. Twelve minutes later a rust colored brick measuring eight inches by three inches by four inches was thrown threw the air, it came into contact with the plate glass window of her front office and shards of glass landed all over her front sofa, table and waiting room. Dora was never one to panic, she called a local security company that worked directly with her office and went to check on Cliff, who had been quietly watching what had become a new obsession of his, direct and unedited cable feeds from a satellite dish which had recently been installed in the law building that Dora leased. Within minutes, a witness identified a lady, driving a small vehicle, who had pulled to the side of the road, picked up a brick from the garden walkway, threw it through the window and drove directly into a parking lot three blocks away and ordered an ice cream. As the incident came to a head, it came to Dora's attention that the culprit had been the volunteer at Cliff's school who had lost her position because she and Stan had reported the fact that the volunteer had been dressing disabled kids in attire that was meant to send messages to a former boyfriend. When they asked Dora if she wanted to press charges, she asked around about the woman. It turned out, the lady had a large family, kids of her own and a husband who was already in jail and Dora decided not to press charges. Instead, she called some friends in the community and within days the window was replaced and the woman apologized.
The woman, who had some serious psychological issues of her own, had no idea who Dora actually was. When she heard the term 'lawyer,' she flipped out. Then word got out and the lady got schooled by people she had known all of her lives. Dora was practically a hero to folks in that community. How many times had she written letters to judges, lawyers, city council members, employers, social security employees, probation officers, churches, drug rehabs, mayors, congressman and senators on behalf of the rights of underage men and women, first time offenders, abused kids, wives and beaten down working class people ? Thousands and thousands, too many to list and too many to mention. When Stan got home that night, Dora told him about the window and then he told her about the book and they both just looked at one another they way partners often do. He knew very well that she knew how to handle herself and she knew that, if he was serious about the book, life as they knew it was never going to be the same. The phone rang, Cliff, who had been coming up with new surprises just about everyday now, answered the phone, "Hello, Yes, Just a minute," then he turned to Stan, "it's for you dad, some guy from something-something studio," then Cliff walked over and latched onto Dora. "This is Stan, Yes. Well, I don't know, I'd have to think about it. Do you mind if I ask how this came about ? You're kidding? All right, I'll think about it, goodbye." Dora and Cliff stared at Stan as he hung up the phone."They want me to consider doing a television show." Cliff turned his head excitedly in Dora's direction, who was nonplussed by the idea. Then she asked, "What kind of show ?" Stan walked into the kitchen, poured two glasses of wine and said, "A law show of some sort." Dora replied, "Of what sort ?" "I'm not entirely sure, they want me to go down there and do a few tests, apparently my little speech at the golf course, with this little man," referring to Cliff, "made an impression on someone who is handling the Presidents re election and they want me to host or reside as a judge over some kind of law show." Then he added, "He said they want to call it, 'Stan The Man'. Apparently Judge Woppner is old hat these days." Then Dora added, "Judge Woppner was old hat the day he was born and what about your book ?" Stan just mused at the whole idea and said, "Lets not get too far ahead of ourselves here. Cliff and I are making dinner." Then he walked down the hall, turned on the shower, walked back into the bedroom, there sitting on the dresser was the medication he had been given by the doctors, then he looked over at the book file that sat on the credenza. As he walked back toward the bathroom, Dora, who had deciphered Stan's condition by his prescriptions simply hugged him and whispered, "Do what makes you happy."
Cliff woke before anyone else and decided that he was going to make breakfast. He had painstakingly watched his father take two eggs, crack them in a bowl, pour the pre mixed powder and oil and milk and mix them with a fork for a minute straight. He had actually counted it to the seconds. Then the butter was put into the pan and small amounts of the mix were poured onto the grill and then each circle was flipped over after exactly ninety-seconds, cinnamon and butter and syrup were added, sometimes with berries or fruit on top and served up hot. He had made an incredible mess doing so, but he had done it. Cliff carried the giant plate into his parents room to discover the coupling parents completing some type of activity he had, prior to that moment, been entirely unaware of. "Hey, what's going on here?" he exclaimed while carrying the giant plate of syrup covered pancakes into the room and proudly presenting them to his post coital parents. Stan laughed out loud at the very fact that the boy had actually made a pancake breakfast and Dora, completely red in the face, quickly switched modes from the shy woman caught in the act of making love to a proud mother of a boy who had been improving his abilities and for a kid with his issues, actually over achieving. Cliff knew that he was different and being young and self conscious, he made a decision to be different in ways that he could enjoy and not different in ways that made him feel more in control of his everyday comings and goings. The first thing he did was began to pick out his own clothes, reorganized his entire closet, he stacked his books on the shelves in alphabetical order and soon both his parents wondered exactly what was going to happen next. His new obsession was watching people to see if he could tell wether they were telling the truth or lying. It had become his main activity and he was very good at it. Dora had to teach him when it was appropriate to expose his findings and just how to describe those particular observations. So, slowly and rather deliberately, he was introduced to words and to phrases that could describe a liar without calling them out: insincere, inauthentic, stretching the truth, coloring the situation, telling only one side and so on and so forth. To Cliff, it mattered not what you called it, the fun was in being able to decipher such an act, the body language, the blinking of the eye, the tone in the voice and sometimes, while he watched television, he noticed simply that the entire facade of humanity appeared to be doing what one of his favorite comedians would have no interest in rephrasing, which is why Richard Pryor had always meant so much to the boy: Because he told the Truth and he did it without all the clever phrases. Then Cliff just stood up and for no reason at all, simply said, in his best Richard Pryor attitude, awfully loud and very clear, "You - a - God - Damn - M*ther - f*cking - Lying - sumnabitch!" His parents were out on the patio.
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Welcome to The SUMMER 2015 Edition of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE MAGAZINE. This Edition contains The BUREAU ICON Essay on Georgia O'KEEFFE, A Photographic Profile on Robert FRANK's Classic Book The Americans, INTERVIEWS with Photographer Alex HARRIS, The Portrait Painter Jon SWIHART, The Legendary SURF Photographer Jack ENGLISH and The BUREAU Summer Guest Artist: Irby PACE. CINEMA: On The Set of The Classic Film RAGING BULL. CUISINE: PALMS Beverly Hills & Pedro INOSCENCIO, Heir to The Throne: Jamie WYETH, BOOKS: David BROWNE's Opus on The Grateful Dead. Herb RITTS in Boston, Charles RAY in Chicago, Andy WARHOL in Phoenix, Peter BLUME in Hartford, FASHION: The Dandy LIONS Photography and New FICTION by Linda TOCH. +An Interview with The Bureau Editor's Mom, Maria Francesca TRILIEGI on her New Book. We are pleased to have New Readers in The SOUTH: Texas, Arizona, New Mexico and Louisiana at our Newest Community Site, BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE: THE SOUTH. Links to Summer Events across the USA including, The CHICAGO Blues Festival, AUSTIN Biker Festival, Scorsese Collects in NEW YORK, 4TH of July Celebrations + so much more. The BUREAU EDITORIAL DIS - Organizations: Are Groups in America Abusing Power ?MUSIC: Lets ROCK at Fahey / Klein Gallery in MIAMI, MUSEUMS: National Gallery of Art, PORTRAITS: Native American Portraits from The YALE Collection of Western Americana. Plus Links to Our Eight Different Community Sites Celebrating The ARTS Across AMERICA . The Social Media Sites serve More as a look back at Previous BUREAU Editions + Features
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