The Property of Lee Harrison Peeters – Chapter Three: The General Store

The Property of Lee Harrison Peeters

Chapter Three: The General Store

The stranger steps into the large log cabin. His dog is beside him. Except for a lamp over the front desk and a lamp hanging from the ceiling in the corner, the room is dark. In the corner under the lamp, four men are playing cards. One is an older man, balding, with none of his own teeth. A second man is much younger, almost a boy (he could be his son). He has a mop of blond hair and buck teeth. He seems to be perpetually smiling. A third man at the table is a giant. Part of his scalp has been removed and is heavily scarred. The fourth man, the best looking of the group, sports a thick handlebar moustache and sideburns. All four men are dressed in skins. They could be trappers or woodsmen. Behind the counter, the merchant stands trying to read a newspaper. The stranger puts a coin down on the counter.

Merchant: “What’ll it be?”

Stranger: “What ever you got.”

Merchant smiles. “That’s good. Cause it’s all we got.”

The merchant takes a bottle from beneath the counter and pours the stranger a drink. The stranger throws it back and puts another coin on the table. A second drink is poured.

Stranger: “I’ll need some things.”

The merchant smiles. The stranger hands him a list. The merchant begins to gather the things and put them on the counter.

The giant: “Get that animal out of here.”

The stranger does not reply but continues to enjoy his drink.

The giant puts down his cards and rises from the table. The dog growls. The giant steps over to the counter where the stranger continues to enjoy his drink.

The giant: “I said to get that…”

Before the giant can finish his statement, the stranger has stuck two of his fingers up the nose of the giant. The giant cries out. The stranger grabs one of the giant’s ears and pulls him down to his knees. His dog bares his teeth. Everything has happened so fast that the other men at the table have not had a chance to react.

Stranger: “I’m thinking if I stick my fingers up any higher I might hit your brain. Of course, I could be wrong.”

The giant squirms.

Stranger: “You hurt the General’s feelings, mister. I think you should apologize.”

The giant struggles to speak. The stranger still has a hold of one of his ears.

Stranger: “You’ll look a lot uglier with just one ear. Of course, I could be wrong.”

The giant in a strained muffled voice. “Sorry.”

Stranger: “My dog doesn’t understand English.”

The giant looks befuddled.

Stranger: “Bark!”

The Property of Lee Harrison Peeters Chapter Two: The Intruder

The Property of Lee Harrison Peeters

Chapter Two: The Intruder

The stranger sits on a log. Eating. Rabbit on a spit over the fire.  The dog is curled up next to the stranger. The stranger offers more meat to the dog. The dog declines.

The stranger laughs. “Eaten enough, General?”

The sad sleepy eyes. Look up at the stranger.

“Hell of a country we’ve found ourselves in. Ain’t nothing like Virginia.”

The stranger ruffles the dogs ears. Picks up a metal cup. Sitting by the fire. The stranger pulls his fingers away. The cup is too hot. He grabs a rag nearby and picks up the cup. He sips on his coffee.

“Sure wouldn’t mind a biscuit, General. Nothing like home cooked food.”

The dog raises her head and bares her teeth. There is some noise from a nearby woods. The stranger grabs his musket. The dog rises up. The horses, tied up nearby winnie. They pull on their reigns. Out of the darkness of the woods a large black bear appears. Fearless, it walks towards the camp fire. The stranger stands up and lines up his sights on the bear. He pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.

“Shit!”

The stranger reaches for his knife. The dog tears off towards the bear. The bear rises up on his hind legs. General circles the bear several times. Finally the bear falls back on all fours and retreats back into the woods. The dog returns to the stranger. The stranger kneels down and hugs the dog. The fire spits out sparks. That sizzle in the snow.

The Property of Lee Harrison Peeters Chapter One: White

I”m beginning a new project. I’m not sure how this is going to work. I have this idea to mix visual and the written word. Well, thats nothing new. But I want the piece to be rather small. No War and Peace. And yet I would like it to be somewhat ‘novelistic’. Not the graphic fiction I have seen. I want the images to be more removed. Not shadowing the fiction. Like a visual image of the words. But rather like the stage where the action appears. Like the mind where the imagination plays.

This particular story begins at a time before the American civil war. Slavery is still legal in the southern states and it is legal for owners to pursue their runaway  slaves into the northern states and take them back south. The only safe refuge is in Canada. Men who pursued this property were called bounty hunters.

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The Property of Lee Harrison Peeters
Chapter One: White

The page is empty. The mind is lost. The snow is falling hard. Lightning strikes through the haze. White in white. Early in the morning. A horseman appears on the ledge of a hill. Pulling a second horse behind him. A dog. Lab. Bounds through the snow behind him. Winter. A cloud rolls out of the animals’ mouths. The rider’s hat is tied on his head. A scarf is wrapped around his mouth. Close up of the rider’s face. Chiseled masculine features. Eyebrows are dark. Eyes deep blue. Handsome. The dog barks.

“You smell dinner, General?”

The dog runs, leaping through the snow. The lone stranger takes out his musket. Puts in powder and a ball. The general disappears in snow. Then appears. Disappears. A rabbit leaps out of the snow.
The lone stranger smiles. His teeth are white. Places his musket up to his shoulder.

He pulls the trigger.

A crack opens up the quiet of the day. Red spits out into the white.

The Saints of Jazz – a cover

Well this is it. My cover for the book The Saints of Jazz. It is the layering of three faces, Dinah Shore, Nina Simone, Anita O’Day and Ivie Anderson. I think it turned out rather well. Now I have to find a publisher or some way to wave the flag in public. Maybe I’ll send it to Bob Dylan. (A remark right off the top of my head. Probably because I’ve been listening so much to his last 2 CDs which are wonderful.)

Ella Fitzgerald

Ella Fitzgerald (April 25, 1917 – June 15, 1996)

A brown eyed girl. Unkept and notoriously shy. Sitting on a lonely window sill. Her knees under her chin. Poison heartache. Strumming the pain with her nails. The heat pipes are growling. Her stomach. Harmonizing. Outside the drunken sun has stumbled. Into an alley. Looking for someone to blame.

Night juiced up. Dressed up like a paramour. Wooing the ladies. Who have their hands in his pocket. And their knees on the floor. Little Ella worked the horror show. Ran numbers for her uncles. Rumble in the alley. She could hardly breathe. Ella was kidnapped by the Sisters of Mercy. And placed in the Colored Orphan Asylum. No one knew Ella’s name. But they beat her just the same.

Ella’s mother died of a heart attack. After a car accident. Ella’s life was charmed. Her living room was the street. Her bedroom. Was her lover’s arms.

One day she stumbled into the Apollo Theatre. Sang two songs. A gawk. She had eyes for a bigger prize. The belle of the ball. How that lady could scat. I don’t know if she was happy or sad. Someone said if she knew. She kept it to herself. All she heard were Gabriel’s golden horns. The rush of the percussion. That low road that simple strife. Where she stole notes from the birds. And sang for her life.

There are days. When it seems that darkness. Keeps you sane. Keeps you from seeing the thief. That steals your time. But when Ella hits a note. Opens up her soul. It seems. The sun has been laughing. All afternoon. And you discover. Everything is light.

Billie Holiday

Billie Holiday (April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959)

He keeps hitting me. What can I do? Keep waiting for something to fall. Something to stop. Always another blow. Apologies and knocks. Thank the dear Lord. When he’s had enough.

Floor boards creaking. With wind and with wear. Trousers slung over an easy chair. That old man wore his Sunday shirt. And that awful curse. Spread those legs, girl! Was all that I heard. Didn’t care that I was ten years old. Someone should have been there. Someone should have heard. That wretched curse and those ugly words. Baths in cold water. And hot mustard.

Given a pillow. In The House of the Good Shepherd. Where Jesus kissed the dust off her face. Didn’t stop that tear in her eyes. That itch. That lament. That cry. Because no one knows. What the night had hidden. In her thighs.

With a knife. At your throat. Grinning while you’re scrubbing. And the soot would pour down her throat. From the bastards in brown trousers. Around their ankles. Down on her luck. Penniless. She sang one night in a barge. Brought the house down. Surprisingly, Billie wasn’t charged.

There was a trombonist. A pusher. A hit man for the mafia. All of them loving. All of them angry. Get on your back! Spread those legs! When they weren’t beating her, they were leaving her. Love will make you do things. You can’t sing about. (In a song.)

American pianist Alexander Kelberine. Programmed his last recital with pieces. In minor keys and melodic funereal lines. He then went home. And took. An overdose of sleeping pills. Made Billie laugh. Put the bottle of wine back on the shelf. And wondered if he had worn. His best suit. Then wrote a song. On some postcards. Of southern trees. And strange exotic fruit.

When Billie died she owned 70 cents. The crowds in the street. Read her name. On the Times Square ticker tape. The church bells vent. And the bums in the alley explained what they meant. To hear her sing was to see what monsters and what fools we could be. Made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. A last breath. Like a southern breeze.

Betty Hutton

Betty Hutton (February 26, 1921 – March 11, 2007)

 

There was a hole. In the backyard. Where Betty buried her secret. A girlish delight. We’ll dig it up when we are much older. Hope shivered. In her bony legs. The little kid called ‘Tackspitter’. Sang for bleeding thumbs. Repentant saints. Biblical scum. Here that slap. Windshield wipers. And the sweet police.  Grabbing Betty’s mother’s. Ass. Escorting the family. Out of town. Like it was an apple. And they were the worm. They would sing. Hoping to embarrass good fortune. ‘Don’t say goodbye. Just say until we meet again.’

Ceiling fans. Chopped up her name. Liverwurst. Betty became. The high priestess of frenzy. Jitterbugging. Thrashed around so violently. Orgasm in the orchestra pit. The drummer sued her for assault. Her lover confessed. It was too much. Too much of the same old shit. But Betty had a miracle. It was hidden in her secret.

Indian owner Bill Veeck held funeral services to bury the 1948 pennant. Christine Jorgenson. Went under the knife. The 1st person to undergo a sex-change operation. Betty’s mother bought Clarence Birdseye 1^st bag of frozen peas. And chipped her tooth.

On Broadway. On radio. In Hollywood. In movies. Where does she get all that energy? Success was satin sheets. Soiled. Cigarette veneer. Stains on the lamp shades. And that pool. Shaped like a kidney. Dr. Caligari’s cabinet. Without the cure.

Oh God! Let me fall in love! Some words sound better in music. Bouncing Betty. From lap to lap. Let’s call some friends, and have a party! Marriage. Kids. Sleeping pills. Divorce. Life moves so fast. When you’re never around.

On her knees weeping in the shower. The water swirling so perfectly down the drain. Down and out as the jitterbug Detroit juke box queen. On the sticky floors in the local music hall. Down with feathers & tears and a local boy. His future choking your throat. Down the paint red ran. In the long halls of miserable hotels. Painted so garish. On Avenue Marlene. Down in the kitchen. In St. Jude Parish. Patron saint of the hopeless. On her knees before her broken hearted lovers. Weeping in her tower. Down lip stick smeared. Across painted skin. Where was her secret buried? 86’d. Daddy ran off with suicide. Mommy ran a speak easy for the dead. None of Betty’s kids showed up. At the funeral…

 

Ethel Waters

Ethel Waters (October 31, 1896 – September 1, 1977)

Troubles are what you make them. Mother was 13. A brash little girl with buck teeth. Raped by a man with webbed hands. Ethel was born in a manger. Where the horses undress. Dragged around like a rag doll. Through the swamp. And the smell of giant tupelo and bald cypress.

Look at all those extra stars. In heaven. Born in the darkness. Ethel bathed. In a big lard can. Until she was 13. Ethel was given away. Like a second hand kitchen chair. To a big barrel of a man. A smile three blocks wide. Fucked her for fun. Beat her when he got bored. But all good things must end. He left. She was left. To fend for herself.

Worked as a maid. In a whorehouse. 9 until unconsciousness. Sang in dives. The smell of drunks. And stale beer. And late night confessions. Hearts torn by what they hated and loved. Worked the black vaudeville circuit. Mostly for food and applause.

President Truman increased. The minimum wage. From 40 cents to 75. J Edgar Hoover gave Shirley Temple. A tear gas fountain pen. And some advice. Don’t let anyone get too close to you at night.

Fell in love. Ethel was jealous. He was in love. With heroin. Happiness is a fist. Saved by World War Two. He went to Europe to find his soul. Ethel went to California. On the City of San Francisco.

Nominated for an Academy Award. Pinky.

Thief robbed her. Jewelry and cash. Some say it was a fella. With a big barrel of a smile. Who threatened to go to the papers. With a story about her life. Ethel went back to working for tips.

Found Jesus in a trailer park. Under the big tent. Toured with Billy Graham.  Oh how she envied the Catholics. And the smell of ashes. The splinters. And the fog of forgiveness. Where you could forget all your sins. And laugh at the son climbing down from his tree.

Sometimes it seems. You will live forever. Until its gone. Like the smell of dew and flowers. Buried in the morning sun.

Dinah Shore

Dinah Shore (February 29, 1916 – February 24, 1994)

 

Blue skies from shore to shore. Crutches in the ballrooms. Blondes lining Arlington Cemetery. With tears that should have stopped wars. Big frilly dresses. Puffy sleeves. In the golden days of America. When men wore straight pants. Women in church. Were on their knees. Praying to the lance instead of to Christ. 1950s. And life was perfect.

Dinah kept a diary. Mommy’s advice. Don’t let your mouth turn the milk. Chin up. And smile. A million eyes watched Dinah every Sunday evening. You could hear her black and white laughter. Fill their hearts. America was in love. With being blonde.

Richie Ashburn fouled a ball.  Hit Alice Roth twice. In the same at bat. 1st one broke her nose. 2nd one hit her. While she was on the stretcher. Enraged a white mob. Little Rock Arkansas. Forced 9 black students. Who had started high school. To withdraw. It was the bottom of the third. And America had a new home movie. It was called the ‘The Battle of Los Angeles’. UFOs attacked the city of angels. Through the smog. And the alleys. And all their mighty ships were shot down. But no one could find. Where they had crashed. And Dinah kept smiling. That smile. In the back seat of a Chevrolet. Her leg draped over yours. Laughter that was contagious. The touch. Of her fingers on your lips. Sent shivers. Through your teeth.

Dinah loved Tarzan. And his jungle. A general named Moose. And his jingles. Singers. In alphabetical order. It might have been the Cantabile Choirs Of Kingston. A drummer. From the old school. Several actors named Jimmy. A senator. Who wanted to be President.

Dinah. Loved to start her weekends. In that wide eyed glee. I’ll sing to him, each spring to him. And worship the trousers that cling to him.

Halloween. Ed Gein butchered his last victim. The fight for cancer was lost. And Dinah passed. Throwing a kiss. Across America. To that drunk. At the end of the bar. In Tonawanda. To the professor. Sleeping with his assistant in Baltimore. That waitress in Tucson. Feet swollen. All Dinah’s lovers sighed. And all those little girls. Dyed blondes. In suburban homes. Felt like something inside. Was gone.

Nina Simone

Nina Simone (February 21, 1933 – April 21, 2003)

 

Blood in the fountains. Ropes dripping from trees. Whispering in the bar rooms. Electric lights flickering. At last Jesus breaths. Again. Raining so hard. Water canons. Mississippi mongrels. Teeth so white. Snarling at the end of their chain.

Elegant fingers. Fred Astaires. Dancing across the ivory. Large hard eyes. Filled with softness and pain. Nina. A voice like an exotic flower. So much anger. So much injustice. So many men falling into holes. In other men’s flesh. Too much stupidity. Too much vulgarity. Too much nothing.

She wept into the microphone. No one will ever be happy in this country. Except at the end of a gun. Nina sat silently. Patiently. Would not move. The world is mad. Like a dog. If I tip toe across the stage, will it catch me? Would someone kiss me on the breast. And clear the fog. From my eyes.

Sang Mississippi Goddam. A Baptist bombed. Church in Alabama. 4 dead children. Who were playing with their dolls. Which were white. If I sing with anger, will it leave me alone? Will it not sneak up. At night. And grab me. By the ankle. Or a lock of my hair.

The world is filled with terrors. The bookie man wears a badge. Or a three piece suit. He smiles from the front row. Or you’re bedroom. His jacket torn at the shoulder. Like Jesus crucified in tweed.

Running. From the black wolves. Of night. Driving her car through the narrow streets. The madly French darkness. I tell you, everyone is going to die. Such a shame. Wouldn’t it be lovely to do this all over again?

After Nina died they took her ashes. Like an old rocking chair out on the verandah. And scattered her laughter. Over the African savannah.