21st Century Bogatyr

Tuesday, November 9, 2021

An Arcade and a Penny for Your Thoughts

"The story of my life is about back entrances, side doors, secret elevators and other ways of getting in and out of places so that people won't bother me." ~ Greta Garbo

This is a fictional work in progress. Links to the rest of the story are at the bottom on this page.

by Zvi Baranoff

By the time Frank got back from sorting things out with Zuhrah, I had already found the command center and lounge of this Piney enclave and had introduced myself to Bo, the nominal patriarch of this particular Piney clan. We were comfortably seated in lounge chairs, drinking moonshine from Mason jars, smoking Cuban cigars and listening to Beethoven on a fantastic sound system.

This was an extended family with deep roots in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. From the earliest Colonial Period this clan spawned and nourished smugglers, moonshiners, poachers, draft dodgers, highwaymen and other highly resourceful and independent sorts.

For centuries they managed to outrun the Revenuers and other sorts of authorities as well as outmaneuver the gangsters and mobsters and bikers and thugs that tried to muscle in on their turf. They knew every nook of these twisted forests. A dark, brackish muck ran through their veins. The Pine Barrens were encoded into their DNA. These were my kind of people and I felt right at home.

Throughout the centuries, they always made their own whiskey. Most of that time, they supported themselves from it. Now, there is no longer any money in bootlegging. Nonetheless, these folks maintain and operate a still and continue filling Mason jars with smooth corn whiskey...because that is a family tradition. The product is smooth with a fine texture. The family business, however, is Cuban cigars.

Frank helped himself to some White Lightning and before long Bob and Spider found their way to the lounge as well. We each were quite ready to let go and seek some level of numbness. With the help of that Piney Elixir we reached that stage without much delay.

I drifted into a fluid sleep and dreamed I was cruising through the Pine Barrens in a high speed hovercraft. I drifted through nights and days. The sun filtered through the twisted trees and when darkness fell a bright moon and crystalline stars guided the way. Everywhere I went felt familiar as if I had been there before and quite recently.

I woke, feeling surprisingly refreshed. The lights had been dimmed and the music had been turned off. Spider and Bob were both sleeping comfortably and snoring in syncopation. Frank was nowhere to be seen.

I went to find the pisser. Most of the underground compound was surprisingly light and airy. It was easy enough to navigate and I easily found the facilities and then headed back towards the lounge where I had left my compadres.

On the way back, I found an alcove with a sign reading "Penny Arcade" and could see that one wall was lined with ancient Mutoscope machines.

I remembered similar devices on the Boardwalk from my childhood. When I was growing up, these things were already an oddity and an anachronism. However, at the beginning of the Twentieth Century, they were the cat's pajamas. These contraptions offered the first semblance of motion pictures.

I stepped in to have a closer look. In the Arcade the lighting was much more diffused than the compound as a whole. The flooring seemed to be of wooden planks reminiscent of the Boardwalk of my childhood, although it was likely imitation wood. The air was filled with the smell of salt water and cigarettes and stale perfume. I think I heard the sounds of waves peripherally, and some tinny music filtered into the Arcade from somewhere beyond my sight.

Above the row of Mutoscope machines there were posters advertising the Zeigfeld Follies and other theatrical performances, all from the 1920s and each featuring a contemporary, scantily dressed beauty.

Each machine had a coin slot to activate and a crank to operate. I found several pennies in the coin return cup of the first machine I approached. I remember pennies from my childhood. They weren't worth much then, but in this Arcade pennies were the Coin of the Realm.

I fed a coin into the slot of that first machine and looked into the viewer as I turned the crank. The images jumped as cards flipped. They created the illusion of motion. A buxom beauty wearing little to nothing moved about in sepia tones, climbing into bathtubs or out of a bed or through palm leaves. I was captivated by her allure. I moved from machine to machine and the same vixen revealed herself to me in each, with feathers or silks or bubbles or other sorts of ephemeral cloaking of her otherwise nakedness.

With each view I became more enamored with this beauty of another time long gone. It briefly crossed my mind that she was a contemporary of my grandmother. I assumed that my grandmother and she moved in very different social circles. My grandmother did not seem to be the sort who would pose semi-clothed, even in her youth. I don't think she would have approved of that sort of thing. Of course, Grandma was quite old when I knew her.

The woman in the Mutoscope would be the same age as my grandmother...that is long dead. Nonetheless, to me, in that arcade, she was very much alive and with every coin that fell in the slot and every viewing of her nearly naked form, I became more obsessed and infatuated.

"You naughty boy, you!" came a voice from across the arcade. I looked up from the viewer. Standing there with her hands on her hips was a woman with the face of the woman in the Mutoscope.

My mouth may have been hanging agape. I was assuredly startled and confused and I wasn't in much shape to hide it.

She was fully clothed, including a coat and what certainly was a fashionable hat in the 1920s. She was definitely the same person as the woman in the machines that I had been oggling.

She pouted in a most lovely way, began wagging her index finger clearly in my direction and continued speaking.

"How long have you been in town?" she asked. "Why are you here watching me on the peeps when you should have just come by the hotel and up to my room?!?" This was probably more of a statement than a question. This she said as she walked in my direction, still wagging her index finger.

"I am angry with you." she said as she stood at my side. "Furious," she whispered in my ear and then took my earlobe gently between her teeth in what seemed to be a very friendly bite. She kissed me on the cheek and hooked her arm around mine. She implied a possessive claim on me with absolute surety.

I got the feeling that if she was really angry with me at some point she was mostly over being angry by that point. She led me out of the arcade and onto the Boardwalk proper, which was, of course, quite surprising for me although my young companion seemed right at home in our surroundings.

The air was cool and the sky was overcast. She led me past a doorman into the lobby of a hotel with plush furniture, brass furnishings and carpets. There was an antique elevator door with an electric button on the wall. She pushed the button and impatiently tapped her foot.

The doors of the elevator opened. An old Black man wearing a red cap and uniform operated the curious mechanism of the elevator. He greeted my companion with a broad smile, a slight tip of his cap and a particularly polite "Mam".

We entered the elevator. "Fifth floor, James," she said to the fellow.

Then she turned her head in my direction and said to me, "Give the boy a nickel, why doncha." It took me a moment to remember what a nickel was. Meanwhile, I was looking about the elevator for a child, but found none. I must have appeared baffled.

"Oh!" she continued, while looking at me. "Mister Big Shot, you are! You don't even have a nickel, I bet!" She said this as she fiddled about in her purse. She found a nickel and handed it to the old man.

All this time she kept one arm hooked around my arm as if to assure that I wouldn't slip away. Clinging to me was not necessary at that point to assure my compliance and submissiveness. I had nowhere else to be at that moment. I also had no way of getting out of that elevator other than to wait for the doors to open when we reached her floor. Besides, I was looking forward to spending some time with the woman from the Mutoscope.

Mostly, however, standing there in that elevator, I wondered what my connection was to this beautiful young woman. I couldn't remember her in any sort of way. I wondered how I would go about even finagling a name to hang on her as it seemed that I was heading to her room for the night and it might be appropriate to know something about her.

Links to the other posted parts of this story, Chapters 1 - 26.

Part 1: Grace and Mercy If Luck Holds

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/05/grace-and-mercy-if-luck-holds.html?m=1

Part 2: Everything Was Fine Until It All Went Sideways

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/everything-was-fine-until-it-all-went.html

Part 3: I Blink In & Out and Awakened In the Zone

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/i-blink-in-out-and-awakened-in-zone.html

Part 4: Out Of Time

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/out-of-time.html

Part 5: Even Without Clocks

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/even-without-clocks.html

Part 6: Cerveza & Barbecue Before I Go

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/cerveza-barbecue-before-i-go.html?m=1

Part 7: Heading Towards the Exit

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/heading-towards-exit.html?m=1

Part 8: A Sign, Divine Guidance & Moxie

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/a-sign-divine-guidance-moxie.html?m=1

Part 9: Somehow We Kept Breathing

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/somehow-we-kept-breathing.html?m=1

Part 10: I Squinted and Stared Through it All

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/i-squinted-and-stared-through-it-all.html?m=1

Part 11: Riding a Wave

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/riding-wave.html?m=1

Part 12: Some Relief Amongst the Chaos at Woodpecker Flats

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/some-relief-amongst-chaos-at-woodpecker.html?m=1

Part 13: A "Classy" Operation in the District of Columbia

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/a-classy-operation-in-district-of.html?m=1

Part 14: In the Shadow of the Dome

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/in-shadow-of-dome.html?m=1

Part 15: Hidden Places and Dark Corners

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/11/hidden-places-and-dark-corners.html?m=1

Part 16: On the Jersey Shore

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/12/on-jersey-shore.html?m=1

Part 17: Dreaming at the No Tell Motel

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/01/dreaming-at-no-tell-motel.html?m=1

Part 18: The Coffee Didn't Help

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/the-coffee-didnt-help.html?m=1

Part 19: Like Two Drops of Rain

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/like-two-drops-of-rain.html?m=1

Part 20 : Chased by the Devil

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/03/chased-by-devil.html?m=1

Part 21: An Arcade and a Penny for Your Thoughts

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/an-arcade-and-penny-for-your-thoughts.html?m=1

Part 22: We Have to Talk, She Said

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/we-have-to-talk-she-said.html

Part 23: She Climbed Out of the Water

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/12/she-climbed-out-of-water.html

Part 24: Passions, Fires and Unfinished Business

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/04/unfinished-business.html

Part 25: The Book Trade Hasn't Killed Me Yet

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/05/the-book-trade-hasnt-killed-me-yet.html?m=1

Part 26: A Detour Through the Fire

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/12/a-detour-through-fire.html?m=1

Thursday, September 16, 2021

He Walked Home

By Zvi Baranoff

Morning comes early in jail. Not with sunshine and birds like a rural morning nor with commuter traffic and rushed coffee.

The lights snap on and the guard yells "Chow!" Prisoners echo the calls "Chow!" "Chow!"

120 men dress in orange uniforms and begin to line up. He rolls off his cot, steps into his orange pants and joins the line of hungry inmates.

The line moves slow. Some cut ahead. As each man approaches the front of the line, he gives the guard his last name. The guard crosses the name off a list and a trusty hands over a tray.

"Whadda you gonna give me off your tray?"

"Anything you man enuf to take!"

Breakfast. Grits. 3 slices of white bread. One hard boiled egg, some applesauce and a small carton of milk. Served on a plastic tray with a plastic spoon.

He takes his tray and finds a spot on the metal bench at the metal table.

He picks the shell from the egg. Methodically, with the plastic spoon he slices his egg into three equal parts, one for each piece of bread. Breakfast goes down quickly, each man still hungry, each tray emptied, cleared, returned.

120 prisoners back to their cots. The guards change shift. The inmates are counted. A new day has begun.

Eventually, the "yard" is opened for exercise. The yard is a concrete slab surrounded by high concrete walls. There's a pole with a backboard and basketball net.

Some go back to sleep. Some sit at the tables and play spades or dominoes. Some head to the yard. He heads to the yard.

Fifteen paces north. Twenty-two west. Fifteen paces south. Twenty-two paces east. Some lean against the wall striking poses and talking trash. Basketballs bounce and fly and swish the net or not. Jailhouse experts discuss legal fine points about why they will get off or why they should have gotten off.

Some men simply walk. Fifteen paces north. Twenty-two paces west. Fifteen south. Twenty-two paces east. Again fifteen north...

He walks and walks; arms moving and legs striving, passing the dawdlers, the pacers, those with nowhere to go.

"What's the hurry, man? There's nowhere to go."

"I'm walking home" he responds, keeping up the pace, rounding the yard.

Two men sit against a wall. They are a shade of gray you never see in the outside world. One sits with his shirt off, an eagle tattoo on his right arm, a dog eared paperback folded in his hands. The other gray man is reading a twenty year old National Geographic. They take no notice as he passes by.

Rounding the yard again he passes a group of young bloods in the corner. "What's up, Pops?" "I'm just walking home" he tells them. He moves on and the jitterbugs go back to trying to outdo each other with street corner bravado to mask their jailhouse apprehensions.

An airplane flies overhead. The sun rises above the eastern wall and begins to heat up the western end of the yard. He rounds the yard again passing the Preacher Man who walks slowly while reading the Scriptures.

The gray men are still sitting against the wall. The sun shining on them permeates their gray not at all. They are now watching ants as the ants work at consuming a cockroach. He passes by once more at a fast pace.

Again he passes by the Preacher Man. "Amen! Thank you Jesus!" shouts Preacher Man. The Preacher is as passionate now pitching his brand of religion as he was passionate selling crack a few months ago.

A basketball bounces into his path. He catches the ball and tosses it at the basket. Not bothering to see if the ball connects, he continues on his way.

On the next pass the gray ones are gone. Three men dark as night with rippling muscles and tattoos are doing push ups. They count their push ups by tens and by hundreds. It looks like they've done jailhouse push ups for years. It looks like they will be doing them for years. He walks past them, continuing on his way.

The jitterbugs have gotten over their bravado. They are now debating which snack cakes are best. Their bodies pose less as the day gets warmer. He nods at the young bloods as he walks on.

The basketball session takes on a more serious tone. Eight men play hard, sweat running down them. Charging, pushing, taunting, jumping. The sun bakes down and the bouncing ball thunders.

Two Mexicans have found a small bit of the remaining shade and are talking in Spanish. The muscle bound with the push ups have headed for the showers. The Preacher Man has a new apostle cornered for an impromptu lesson.

Sweat runs down his face and his legs ache, but he maintains a steady pace.

"You still walking, man?" he's asked.

"I'm on my way home," he answers.

"You gonna out walk your shoes," he's told.

"If they can't keep up, it's their problem," he responds as he slides on by.

Fifteen more paces north. Twenty-two paces west. Fifteen south. Twenty-two east. And onward he goes.

A cloud covers the sun and he walks on. The ache in his legs is now a throbbing and the sweat is now a steady stream. He's almost there, he thinks. He's almost there.

Birds fly overhead. Some perch on the telephone wires. One step after another, he walks on the side of the road. Cars blow by on the long stretch of highway. The sounds of the surf washing against the shore mingles with the wind blowing through the trees. And then he is in his neighborhood.

A rooster crows as he walks through the neighborhood. A dog laying in the shade of a large tree barks without much enthusiasm or conviction. Another rooster further away responds to the first.

He walks up the wooden steps of the yellow house, pauses at the top of the stairs on the wide wooden deck. A Guatemalan hammock is in its place. Two palm trees are in planters on the deck, providing the hammock with some shade. Oversized wicker porch chairs sit by the door.

Flowers are growing in the boxes balanced on the white railing. "My wife has a green thumb," he thinks as he looks past the deck to the yard for just a minute. Then through the front door he goes.

The radio is playing, tuned to the oldies station. His wife is in the kitchen, tossing a salad. Something is baking in the oven. He breathes in the aroma, trying to guess at the seasonings.

"You look hot and tired sweetheart," says his wife. "Did you walk far today?"

"I've been walking a long time" he responds simply.

"Have some ice tea and sit awhile" she tells him. "Lunch is almost ready."

He pours himself some peppermint tea and plops himself into his favorite recliner. "It's good to be home," he thinks. "It's good to be home." He nods off into a pleasant nap.

A hand shakes his shoulder. "It's lunchtime Pops. You coming?"

"Chow! shouts the guard. He joins the others in line.

[ I wrote this story while in the County Jail in 2007. The graphic is a painting by Vincent van Gogh entitled The Prisoners' Round.]

Friday, March 5, 2021

Chased by the Devil

"High above me, ponderously and sharply sundering the air with its wings, a vigilant raven flew by, turned its head, looked sidewards at me, took wing and disappeared beyond the wood with strident cawings."

Ivan Turgenev, Sketches From A Hunter's Album

by Zvi Baranoff

The fog thickened. The air was moist and tasted salty with each breath. Visibility was approaching zero as we worked. We emptied the bungalow and filled the truck with the crates of books.

The heavy fog certainly may have given the attacking forces some early advantages. The conditions probably delayed our sighting of their drones.

Most likely the driver of the decoy vehicle was our first casualty. His brother was the first that I was aware of. A burst of light went through his torso and he was no more. When he fell to the ground the pet lizard scurried off into the woods.

The brothers that spoke in their own language lived their short intertwined lives and died far from the place of their birth for absolutely no reason whatsoever. The first died in a useless delaying tactic. The other met his ultimate fate absorbed in separation anguish and mental confusion, wandering about babbling to himself in a language that no one else understood.

The battle that ensued left no time for contemplating such matters as the meaninglessness of these deaths. Immediate survival and avoiding my own demise was the only thing swirling about in my skull. My own reptilian brain took control at that moment.

For the attackers, their primary interest was to snatch the merchandise. Because of the inherent value of the cargo, they certainly didn't want it damaged or destroyed. For this reason, they didn't attack with full direct force but rather attempted to pick us off one at a time or drive us away from the loaded truck.

Bullets and mortars were flying fast and furiously. The van and one of the cars were in flames. Off to my left, I heard a thud as one of the snipers fell from his perch in the tree and crashed unceremoniously and quite lifelessly on the ground. To my right, I could hear a wailing cry emitting from the woods where at least one of our Security Crew was evidently wounded and in quite a lot of pain.

Zuhrah was monitoring her drone to determine the condition of her troops and to gauge the strength and the whereabouts of our attackers. She was in touch with her troops via electronic communicators.

The fog, though initially an advantage for the attackers, helped obscure our position so once the battle was engaged it actually began to serve our interests more than theirs.

Zuhrah added smoke to the mix. She tossed a Napalm Pineapple through the open door of the bungalow where we had slept and tossed others at the surrounding, most likely unoccupied, bungalows. She managed to set most of the back end of the No Tell Motel ablaze.

For some reason the thought crossed my mind that the Motel's insurance probably would not cover this sort of thing, not that I cared a rat's ass about the Motel, their management problems or the fucking insurance company.

If visibility was close to zero before the battle began, once the fires kicked in we were probably in negative numbers. I couldn't see what was there and I was seeing things that weren't there at all. I mostly was just trying to keep an eye on the merchandise and not get myself killed. I guess I managed to do that.

Somehow, between the use of her drone and her communicators and perhaps augmented by intuitive powers, Zuhrah kept tabs on her troops and had an overview of the entire battle. She moved about, shouted, cajoled, ordered and controlled throughout the chaos. She moved her troops like pieces on a chessboard, foreseeing the moves of the opposing forces and outflanking them.

Eventually, the bullets stopped coming in our direction. The only sounds were those of the fires all around us and the moaning of the wounded. Zuhrah and I set out to inspect the damages to our equipment and check on the conditions of the troops.

In an open field the body of the African teenager was face down. Zuhrah used her boot to turn the boy over. She bent down and emptied his pockets of a pocket knife and an orange. She put the knife into her own pocket and calmly peeled and ate the orange while we walked on.

We came upon two wounded mercenaries prone in a ditch. Zuhrah cursed as she climbed down. She lifted the first victim to level ground and proceeded to provide first aid. She stopped the bleeding and bandaged the wound.

Zuhrah climbed back down to where the second mercenary moaned and wailed. She put a pistol to his head and relieved him of any further pain.

We moved on to check on the rest of her troops. Of the wounded, those that could be moved were carried to the remaining functional vehicles.

Those mercenaries that were most seriously wounded, Zuhrah, showing no emotion or regret, shot to death. The bodies were left in place, with no obvious further thought from the Commander.

For what it is worth, there were more dead attackers scattered about the battleground than defenders. Before long, I supposed, crows or other scavengers would make no distinction. Which side their sustenance had fought on or how they had died would not be a concern.

Our convoy moved out. Frank drove the truck and took the lead. He had secured a hideout and he knew the way. I rode in the cab of the truck and Zuhrah sat next to me, cradling her Kalashnikov. Spider followed the truck, driving my car, crammed full of armed mercenaries. I don't know how many were in the back of the truck with the merchandise, but that is where most of our wounded were.

We headed up the road and further inland. As we did so, fire engines passed us in the opposite direction, heading towards the No Tell Motel.

No doubt homicide detectives and probably the FBI would be out there soon, after the Fire Department reported that the area around the fire was strewn with corpses. We kept going. We drove into the Jersey Pine Barrens.

We left the paved highway and drove the winding, rutted dirt roads with strangely twisted trees reaching in all directions. Branches scratched, bent and occasionally snapped as we barreled at high speed through the dark and eerie woods.

There were no clear markings, but we changed direction several times at what could roughly be called intersections if we are to use that term loosely. At times I felt as if we were being observed. From the cab of that truck, as we sped along, all I could see were the twisted trees and twisted shadows. Frank drove as if being chased by the Jersey Devil Himself.

The narrow dirt road presented us with a sharp bend and a fallen tree blocked forward progress. Frank rolled down the driver's window and armed guards stepped out of the shadows. Frank greeted them and they moved the tree from the roadway allowing us to proceed. As our caravan moved forward, the guards replaced the downed tree, once again making the roadway impassable.

In a small clearing there was a fenced compound with a barn-like structure. To be more accurate, there was the ruins of a barn. We pulled behind this and we were met with more armed guards. We were in a Piney stronghold.

A panel in the floor of the barn began to rise and before us was a ramp. The opening was big enough to drive the truck and down the ramp we went. We disappeared from view as the panel slid back into place above us.

This was a cavernous underground complex. I was very glad to disembark from the truck and hopefully decompress some. There was plenty of room for our load of contraband books, our vehicles and our crew.

I told Frank to send our Security Force home, as we would no longer be needing their services. He went to talk with Zuhrah and about twenty minutes later he came back with an itemized invoice.

I gave it all a quick perusal. Zuhrah was charging us per hour for their time as well as a fee for weapons lost and equipment damaged or destroyed. There was a charge for each injury, based on the severity. Each death had a monetary value placed on it based on the skill set of the deceased. For instance, there was an extra charge for the death of the sharpshooter. At the bottom of the list was a moderate charge for the two slaves.

The total of the charges, of course, were astronomical but probably weren't that far off of fair market value, all things considered.

"Offer her half the amount, payable in thirty days," I told Frank. "Settle for around seventy percent, with the payment in a week. If she will take her payoff in books, we can settle up now and she can take the merchandise with her."

Frank tapped his nose, indicating that he "knows" how to handle it and he went off to reach a settlement.