Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.
When the old man was younger, he thought he looked like Jack Nicholson. Something in the eyes. When they changed his identity, he made them change his face. Truth was, he just didn’t want to look at himself any longer. That guy was dead.
At least he had moved on. And he had to get control of himself. If everything is fucked up, why get all heated and riled about much of anything. Especially the Presidential campaign. When did it become a Broadway show. All that’s missing is an orchestra.
The country’s become a circus and too many clowns are running for office. And the Lion-Tamer. And The Ringmaster. Other side you got The Snake Lady and Uncle Festus.
Not my monkeys, not my circus. He was not a scientist, but when he looked out the window, seemed the Bay’s water level was up a half inch over this exact moment last year. And he had grandchildren.
He realized he was drowning in awareness, sucked down by understanding. Humbly. You notice nobody ever said, I love the highly educated. Nobody had said that. Then you listen to that Canadian, that Harvard outsider, and you realize a lofty scholastic background don’t make you lovable.
The old man had binge-watched The Wire and walked many miles listening to Moby Dick almost simultaneously. Made for some curious syntax. Feelth me, yo?
Then Chinatown came into his head. Because basically the world all the same old same old same old over and over again. Shit happens, injustice ensues, powerful people use their power, shit continues, gets worse. The weak end up paying for the shit. One way or another.
And that’s true everywhere. Maybe not the moon. Not yet.
Today he saw an article which raised the specter of outer space pirates. Guess then the missionaries will follow next. Before you know it, the Clampetts will be in Beverly Hills.
And it’s always been that way and it’s always going to be that way. Doesn’t matter what you do. And if you make too much noise, your ass is theirs. Nothing you can do. Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown. Look away.
Forget it, McNulty, it’s Baltimore. Forget it, Obama, it’s Congress. A line from the movie reminded the old man of a certain neighbor – You’re dumber than you think I think you are.
There’s always some motherfucker on the street who somehow seems to think he lives deep in the woods. Or thinks he owns the woods. Forget it. It’s Royal Grove.
The old man chuckled. Which one of us is the sociopath, he wondered. Ann Rule had told him three out of every hundred men are sociopaths. One out of three wives, he told her. One out of three explains a lot, if you ask me. The old man and Ann Rule got along great after she threatened to cram an IBM Selectric up his ass the next time he described her as “stout.”
The old man loved the idea all these Second Amendment folks have, they are going to resist the Feds like a revolutionary militia. Yeah, well, they may have an Army and a Navy and an Air Force and Marines and a whole lot of secret stuff we have no idea. But I have my twelve-gauge and my honey has a pink Glock. Let them just try to tell us we have to become lesbians and worship sharia law. We’ll be ready for them. We’ll go to the mattresses.
Chinatown is the world. You are Jake. Everybody is Jake. Almost everybody.
The old man didn’t think he was everybody. Long been a problem. Maybe the problem.
He could make the neighborhood great again. He could. He wouldn’t look away. Couldn’t look away.
The old man drove around and about every street and lane and avenue. Couple cul-de-sacs. His grandmother had once been quite favorably impressed to learn he was then living on a cul-de-sac. He had explained that’s French for dead end. Still…, she had said with some pride.
Quiet. Stone cold quiet. Any crime happening tonight was up to him. And he was up to it.
Nothing wet. Too soon for that. But he could make the neighborhood quieter.
Moist ground you have to worry about footprints. Dry ground worry about noise. Not that this loathsome troll would hear him coming. Boy liked his music loud. The old man could sense Nickelback pulsing windows all the way down the street. Besides, he was wearing sneakers.
Demon Burble’s carport looked like a yard sale at Home Depot. The old man paused for just a breath, to take in all that metal and plastic, then he saw it. The power blower. Not just any power blower. Two wide black shoulder straps and a waistband to hold the weight. A Volkswagen Beetle engine hung off a frame on back. And a long ribbed hose suitable for dog agility.
Just as he thought, an exhaust pipe. With a chrome tip. Did he have it tuned to make that much noise?
Heavy, too.