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I'm Craig. I like to write. I'll be posting stories here, along with poetry and whatever else I can think of that might earn me a dollar! Support a struggling artist! Give me money!
A sample of my work is down below
The Soup Place
The charred scent of beef stew comes to me, front of the store, and rushing towards the back I see a mound of roast beef bleeding down the slicer. I’m on my second pot of coffee. Frank, my boss, is asleep in his cramped office, passed out drunk, his feet kicked up on the desk, his jaw slacked open. A new recruit is due today; if he has legs I’m going to hire him myself. In the front, along the rows of steaming soup containers, my hands shake too much to handle the ladle, by the end of the night I have to light a cigarette on the gas-flame of the stove to stop the jitters. It’s during my first slow drag, I hear a kid knocking on the front door; I’ve locked up ten minutes early to give myself a break.
“They’re coming!” Frank yells from his office. Been talking in his sleep all night, rehearsing for gambling debts he’ll have to explain to his bookie. “I can hear them!”
At the door, I say: “You’d better be looking for a job.”
The kid’s black, grins wide, shakes my hand. His hair is auburn, and wild, more like a flame than an afro. “Pleased to meet you.”
“What’s your experience?”
“Let them in already!” we hear from the office. “They’re already coming.”
The kid—he’s young—looks over my head. “Well, I’m from the glades. Cooked, bussed, waited. Usually work with my pops roofing.” He tosses up his hands, callouses thick as rocks line his palms. “Guessin’ I can do ‘bout anything.”
“Oh, Junior,” we both hear from the office.
“You serve for now,” I say. “Starting tomorrow.”
After I send him off, I walk to the back kitchen—a small, narrow hallway, with a dishwasher and stove on one side, and a cutting board, walk-in fridge and freezer on another. At the dishwasher, plates and bowls and cups are piled, thick layered crust of burnt soup coating their bases. I strap on an apron, and down another cup of black coffee, feel it move down me as I start the faucet. Frank’s office door opens and he emerges, rubbing his eyes, as tall as the door frame. I’m rigid as he walks up, ready for an outburst, the chastising, declarations about my work ethic, about my wandering mind. I feel his hand rising behind me, my neck and shoulders stiffen and he pats me on the back, says: “You’re doing hard work, Junior.”
I move the faucet; feel the burn of water on my palms.
“I feel awful,” he says, waiting for me to respond. “Just awful. Not just psychically, it’s something else, I don’t even have words for it. Something’s out of alignment here.” His eyes are red around the rims, bags underneath. He avoids looking directly at me when we’re alone. His face has swollen over the years—the alcohol, the fights.
“We have a new employee,” I say.
“Good.” He lights a cigarette on the stove. He inhales, and his body loses its tension. “That’s good. Survival’s just hanging on the horizon. You really gonna do all those dishes?”
“That’s the plan,” I say. There’s a rustle of change as he digs through his bleach-stained sweat pants, pulls out a stack of twenties.
“Here,” he hands three of them to me, looking at the stove, the grease stains, the work left undone. He picks up a rag, rubs the ridges of the stove, and puts it down. “Teach him about the process of cleaning, too. I like this place. I see a future here.”
It’s late enough to let something slip, blame it on the coffee. Great place to kick back, I think, and rage against it—hold it between my breastbones like a blow to the chest.
“You okay? Where are you?”
“Yes,” I say. I turn, face him, take the money out his hand. “I’m right here. Just busy.”
The kid shows up on time, dressed in Khaki pants and a black tee tucked in. Regulation Non-slip boots. I told him to shave the fro and he’s had it corn rowed, the ends dangling every time his head swings.
“You’re sticking with the hair, I presume?”
He runs his hand over the rows of braided hair, throws up the other. “Samuel lost his strength when his hair was cut. Don’t chop my wings off!”
I snicker. His edginess and energy might work here, where everything is momentum. It’s the after-effects, when work let’s out, how to calm down, how to sleep that worries me.
“When do I get to meet the boss?”
“I’m the boss.” I say. “We met yesterday. Now let’s get started.”
His jobs are simple enough: slice the meats, serve the soups, and handle the customers. Every once in a while he’s gotta make a salad. “Hardest part is the customers,” I tell him, showing him how to slice the roast beef, where to keep your hands. The grinder whirls in front of me, a blade sharp enough to cut through bone. “But you’ve got that smile, melts em. Wish you’d cut that hair, though. Old ladies are gonna be scared.”
“Danger’s sexy,” he says. “I’m serving soup, how scared they gonna be?”
“Touché.”
“Who’s that guy sleeping in the office the other night?”
“That guy,” I say, feeling the words across my chest, “is my father.”
“And where’s he at right now?”
“If I could figure that out, you’d be out of a job. Understand?”
“Watch your hands, man!”
I snap my hand out of the way, just fast enough to cut my ring finger. “Get me a paper towel.” I smile, gripping my hand, feeling the trickle of blood slide down my wrist. It’s all you can do. “Let’s finish up here. It’s a long day tomorrow.”
Months ago, before the drinking started up again, the mania was still in full effect. Frank worked eleven hours a day, coke-fueled. I’ve never seen somebody move so fast, genuine guinea charisma to keep the customers coming back, when he’d use the stock pot up front which has since been left vacant. Back when the sun still fell behind the open back door—where we’d smoke our cigarettes,—behind a Lincoln Navigator parked just outside. A black man was running for office, everybody knew he was gonna win.
“He’ll be dead before the first year,” Frank said. “Mark my words.”
“That a threat or a promise?” I’d say, keeping my eyes on the soup, my ears honed to catch the buzzer of the front door.
“A lament over our species,” he sighed, stirring the soup, unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. “Too much change too quick. There’s always a backlash to anticipate. It’s like this soup: I just poured flour in, right? If I don’t stir it to hell before I fill it with water I’ll have flour-balls. That’s what the country is full of right now: flour balls. Obama knows that, though, so maybe there’s hope.”
Somewhere, I thought, is a coherent thought in all of this.
“What? You don’t get it? Where the hell are you?”
“I thought you said real change happens overnight. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?”
He grins, pulls the cigarette out, steps out back and lights it. “Well, you listened so you proved it.”
He hired me to watch the food, keep everything from burning as he scrambles to the front, to serve customers. By the second week I’ve learned how to cook half the soups. By the second month, he’s left me in the back alone, a steady pace between us. I’ve only had to poor honey over burns once, stirring the beef stew, the bubbling overflow, the rich burn, searing, tears falling in steady streams.
“That’ll teach you to respect the product,” he says, wrapping my hand. “Burned you any more and all the skin on your hand’d fall off like a glove.” I’ve seen his scars over the years, seen him put a butcher knife through the tendons in his hand, wrap it, pour vodka over the cut, finish cutting the turkey. “It’s a goddamn seasonal bird, and a sharp knife. You’d think I’d know how to handle the two,” he wheezed through a strained face. Then he’s disappearing, coming in late. I’m making sandwiches for catering gigs alone, serving customers and cooking food, locking the door early. The Lincoln Navigator is gone. When I show up at our house there are towels soaked in blood, half his face is bandaged, he’s lying on the couch, his long legs hanging over the edges, wrapped up. A pair of old metal crutches are lined up by his head and when his eyes open, he’s angry. “What are you doing here? You locked up early! Go back,” he says, pressing the towel to his eye, his whole head swollen. “I don’t even want to look at you.”
The kid, Jacob, shows up half an hour early. Claims he has to take the bus here and back or he’ll be busleft. “Busleft, you know? Long walk down here, I ain’t gonna make it.” There’s a twinge to his voice, he’s cut his hair to the scalp, doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Listen, what happens at home, whatever happens, you leave that at the door,” I say. “A decent front is all we can cling to.”
He looks wild at me. Bald, I only focus on his eyes and for a second I think he’ll swing, and I eye a bread knife on the counter between us but up comes his smile, like a sunrise, and I hesitate.
“You think you can give me a ride tonight? I’m actually in Lake Worth now,” he asks.
The door rings, a customer comes in, spares us something from the movies and suddenly the kid’s in action, walking behind the counter and making his pitch to the guy. “Welcome to Frank’s, where we do soups and stews, which is our livelihood and our pride.” He thought it up, but it’s been working. He’s memorized the soups, but from the quiet looks from the customer, twitches of the eye, I know I was wrong about the hair. The guy’s more afraid than ever.
We’re hurtling through the streets of Lake Worth, past the art galleries, night clubs and the noise pouring out, the laughing women, smoking men. I leave the windows down: no barriers between us and the rest of the working world. The kid reaches out, twists the radio dial and I notice a fresh burn on his hand, the skin flaring up, turning white.
“Put some honey on that when you get home,” I say. “Next time tell me. You know how many customers will notice that stuff? How much they’ll buy from a kid with a sopping wound?”
“One big fat goose egg,” he says, finding a rap station. We listen to the ultra masculine beats for a minute, and he rubs his hand. “I had a bandage on it, and a glove. It was sanitary. I took ‘em off after doors closed. It needed to breathe.”
“Are you still to school?” I ask. We stop, I glance at him veiled in red traffic light.
“I’ll start again next year. I’m in a rough spot, it’s not easy to explain.”
“It gets harder, every time,” I say. “My father’s at a point where he can’t explain anything. He stubs his toe on a door and suddenly he’s bewildered. Claims the universe is aligning against him.” We laugh; listen to the music until I find his house—a chain-link gated house on L Street, an RV camper parked behind it where his sister stays or something. “This where you’re staying now?”
“My cousin’s crib. Half-cousin, actually. She’s . . . ,” his voice trails off. “She’s helping me out.”
“Help is good,” I say. “In fact, you did hard work today, man. Here,” I try to hand him twenty bucks, my share of the tip jar. He shakes his head, gets out, says he’ll see me tomorrow, bumps my fist with the undamaged hand. As I drive off, I see him hop over the gate of the house, straight into the back, and fold the money into my pocket.
Two years ago I’ve visited my father in prison. He compounded crimes on top of crimes and was caught with cocaine and driving on a suspended license. The Lincoln Navigator was impounded. There was probably more, I wasn’t interested. I just needed to see him. I walked through the scanners, through the checkpoints and passed the bored eyes of fat guards in uniform, all the way to the booths were me and other family members lined, to the graffiti carved into the glass, on the other side: L-Dub. Sal waz here. I am so goddamn fucking wet.
“Hate to let you see your father like this,” he said, when they led him to the booth, decked out in his blue jumpsuit. “How many times does this make? I need to know how much to make up.”
“Four. Every time I come they’ve changed your dorm.”
“It’s rough,” he said, sighing. “There’s been clerical errors.” He lifts an arm up, puts it down fast.
“Was that a cut?” I sat up, scared now. There were stitches along his arm, along a slash. “Nobody called me! Were you jumped?”
“It’s nothing. You’d be surprised how territorial guys can be in here. Sit on the wrong guy’s mattress and it’s all out warfare. Doomsquad, shakedowns, strip searches. And these guys are resourceful, too. They welded a razor to a toothbrush, with lighters they’d smuggled in (don’t ask how). But if they wanted to kill me I’d be filling out a few drawers in the morgue.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“They call it the gladiator dorm where I am now. It’s funny, the things you learn . . .You know they bury a man upright if he dies in prison? Then, when his time’s served, they dig him back up and lay him down flat. I swear, it’s a vengeful species that won’t even let you die properly. But you get by.” He talked more, but I didn’t listen, just watched his arms, which he kept down, the swift movements of his eyes. When the bell rang for us to leave, I pressed my hand against the glass.
“What’s this?” he said behind the glass. They’d turned the phones off. He tapped his hand, looked at the graffiti for a second, and walked off laughing, in line, blue jumpsuit and slippers. I remember the car ride home, the way the sky turned silver-grey, too bright to look at.
No irony escapes me. Not that my father’s first partners disappeared after the first month, no word, no trace. Not the phone ringing in his office; a woman on the other line telling me she’s a prosecutor, that Frank’s a witness in a federal case—all this before I even tell her my name. “Is this true?” I say into the receiver. Truth, Junior? Frank would say, though, You sound like a child. This your first rodeo?
“Tell Frank we need to talk whenever you find him,” the woman says and hangs up.
At the front, I’m shaking. A customer notices, an old man. As I ring him up he reaches across the counter and touches my wrist, tells me to lay off the coffee. “It’ll rot you from the inside out,” he says, eyes on my hands. Then he takes his bag of bread and soup and starts inching his way out with his walker, bag held between his chin and chest. Jacob opens the door for the man, thanks him.
“That’s some good ol’ sage wisdom for you,” he says. “Take it from me—dude’s been around since before the telephone.”
I tell him to stir the Beer Cheese or it’ll start to separate. Then I go to the bathroom, run cold water over my face.
We’ve switched produce carriers four times in the year I’ve been here. Things are breaking down. When the freezer gives, I’ll give. As long as things stay cold, I will work.
I didn’t look forward to Frank’s release date. Is that a crime in itself? I was barbacking at a club, making enough money on my own to pay rent, put money on his canteen for coffee grounds and soup, pay for his phone calls. I’d come home late, tired, lay back on the couch, too exhausted to eat, too pumped up to fall asleep. I’d look over at the clock, four am, and know he was just waking up on the east side of the county jail. His cell looked over the Trump golf course, the first thing he saw in the morning was fields of the greenest grass in Florida, rich men in golf carts navigating the small hills. I would exhale, peel my work shirt off, and felt the comfort, however small it is, however cruel, of knowing exactly where he was and what he was doing. He was never safe, but safety wasn’t the question. Survival is triumph enough—his words. You want safety? Tell me where it’s safe! I’ve been in the trenches since before you were born! This ain’t my first rodeo! I saw him three times a week. I got phone calls from him twice a day. It was the closest we’d ever been. When he’d walk up to the glass window of the booth, he’d be sober and with a natural charisma and cheer. It was enough.
The kid, Jacob, finds me in the office, the lights turned off, my hands pressed to my temples.
“This quittin’ time?” he says. “The fryer needs to be cleaned out.”
“I’ll do it later,” I say. I’ve been sitting with my palms pressed into my face, waiting on phone calls from produce carriers wanting their money, bookies wanting their money, prosecutors wanting my father. “It’s a pain in the ass,” I say, outloud, thinking about the phone, the phone, the phone.
“That bad?”
“Huh?”
“The Fryer?”
“Oh. Yeah. My dad used to do it. You gotta turn it off, let the grease cool off, drain it into one of those giant soup pots then dump it in the grease canister behind the dumpster.” I lift a shirt sleeve up. “See that? That’s why you let it cool off first.”
“Damn.”
“Should see the other scars.”
“Check this out,” he lifts a pantleg up. Teeth marks bend around his leg. Blonde hair. He’s mixed race. “My father’s pitbull. Harley. Hated that dog. Would growl and growl, ever since a puppy. Finally got big enough to bite me. My pops watched from the doorway, drinking a colt. Told me if I hit his dog, he’d tie me up.”
“Want to help me clean that damn thing? It’s good for a ride home and ten bucks.”
“You ain’t gotta pay me extra to do my job.”
Grease. It covers us. Not just the grease from the fryer, but from the work itself, the sweat, the grime. It fills my car, seeps into my clothes, my skin.
“How often does he do this?” Jacob says, lighting a cigarillo and unrolling the passenger seat window.
“Often enough.” I say. He tries to turn the radio on and I block his hand.
“You tried calling his friends? Hospitals?”
“I haven’t tried anything. I figured he’d be found when he wanted to be. But maybe he counted on my resourcefulness.”
“Your what?”
“Tell me this: why did you cut your hair?”
Stares off. Lifts a hand, halfway to his head, lets it fall.
“Let’s just keep our eyes open for him,” I say. “He loves the pool places, the bars. Seen him one time at the bar. Guy kept touching his ass. No shit. Right in front of me. My dad smiles, sets down his pool que, asks if I want a beer. You getting this? I’m like fifteen at the time. “You want a beer, Junior?’ Then, turns around, punches the guy so hard he flays across the pool table—so quick nobody in the place realized what happened—then came back with a pitcher and a plastic cup. ‘Cheers, Junior.’”
He inhales the cigar.
“Maybe not the nicest guy in the world.”
“He shaved me,” Jacob says, staring at me, smiling. “Put me on the ground, put his knees on my shoulders and shaved me.” He rubs his head.
We hit the hospitals, the bars I’ve driven Frank home from, five o’clock in the morning. Everywhere, I’m looking for the big leased Lincoln, the tinted windows, the stolen plates.
“Duffy’s he was kicked out of for pouring a beer on his girlfriend’s lap. Anchor Inn for spitting on the bartender, then getting into a fight in the parking lot. He owed the guy money. He owes everybody money.”
“Hey, my father, check this, he showed up once when I was a kid. At the baseball field. I’m like, nine, ten years old, with my buddy. Guy shows up stone drunk. Could tell as soon as he parked his Rodeo. He leans out the window, his silver dreads hanging out, and just looks right at me “You needed a ride, I heard?”
“Funny? My father passes out behind the wheel! He looks over at me in the passenger seat, his face drooping, and asks me to hold the steering wheel for him!”
“Shit, man. Maybe I should let you drive!”
“Maybe you should.”
When Frank’s release date finally came, after being lengthened three times, I’d saved up enough to get the Lincoln out of the impound. By then, I had no reserves about walking around the jail, listening to the jeers of inmates. Some of these guys, I knew, probably fought with my father, and lost. The ones who won, wouldn’t have time to brag about it before he came up with some scheme to get them back. I walked right up to the car, back arced straight, pointed to it, took the money out of my pants. A week later, when the doors opened, a crowd of guys walking into the sunlight towards me, the tallest one meeting my eyes, I felt like things had changed, like I was on equal footing, like a man.
“You’re one resourceful motherfucker,” he said, shaking my hand. “You’d undoubtedly do better in here than I did.” Beside him: a tall black guy, head shaved to the scalp. He shakes my hand too, asks me how I’m doing. “This is my son,” Frank said. “He’s gotten me my car back.”
Bars. The stale scent of beer, liquor. The faces in the neon light: hanging, sagging. My father called these places Bull Pens. Taught me the value of a beer after a long day of work. Now, these guys pretend not to know him.
“Frank. Oh, haven’t seen him in a while. You tell em he ain’t welcome here.”
“Frank? That scumbag!”
“No, haven’t seen him. Don’t want to see him.”
“I love Frank!” a woman shouts. “Who’s Frank?”
“We aren’t getting very far,” Jacob says.
“We are narrowing the list down, though. There’s only so many places a man can get drunk in this world. Or beat up.”
“This thing drives beautifully.”
“Lincoln, baby. The man who freed the slaves.”
The ride home, neither me or Jacob says anything. The air closes around us. When I open the front door, the house is exactly how I left it, the bachelor-esque cleanliness, can’s of herbal tea left on the coffee table, our only means of sleep. Jacob comes behind me, shuts the door. What can I call my own?
“You can have the couch tonight,” I say. “We call your father in the morning.”
“I won’t be here,” he says.
“Well, take the couch tonight anyways.”
“I promise you, I won’t be here.”
A simple touch would do it. There’s no mistaking the wildness of his expression. He’s eyes are smoky, lips trembling. I could reach over, put my hand on his shoulder, or on his wrist and he’d fall to his knees sobbing. His scalp has flared from the razors he’s used, clothes cheaply washed, living off soup he takes home. There’s a lot of work to be done on him. “I know where you are,” I say, standing a foot away. He’s still in the doorway, hasn’t moved. “I know exactly where you are.”