MR. MALDARK: GRANTED

being poor changes you. you never think it's gonna happen to you. well you don't think at all when you're young. young and dumb. i never thought i'd find myself in this position, writing about something immediate. i was always into those thimgs of the past, exciting adventures in bronze helmets and wispy clouds and dubious food, i could reach back into the past cos it was safe. i could land myself in an ancient Greek War on the Peloponnese and not fear getting speared. cos it was all in my head. waxing eloquently about times when wax was the in thing, used in everything from letter-writing to sexplay. now it's used in statues. now i have to worry about every calorie i intake, and this isn't the diet plan i had imagined for myself. i hadn't imagined ever being on a diet. diets are ludicrous. and i thought i was skinny before. now i write to document, not to be funning in fiction. about real concerns not imaginary ones of made-up characters. i write cos i don't need to be saved. i need desperately to be distracted.

damn workers. they're building a fence next door. well tearing down the old sawdust one creaking loudly to be put to sleep and erecting a brand new shiny one. one built of craven concrete. i can't sit back on my own sofa cos the windows look outside to the workers on their break eating lunch. a triangular pole with a hardhat on top sticks in my lawn. i'm more sensitive to noise now than ever. especially my stomach. i know now what it means to go hungry. when your stomach starts howling at 11, not satisfied with the fried egg you had for breakfast and yearning for an early lunch. and all you can do is quietly touch your tumtum with your hand and hope it rubs its ruins away. but the pangs remain. of guilt more than hunger. the body you once knew, that you filled up without a care, is gone and weary. your gut wants food so bad. and you can't give it to it.

all this fucking noise is gonna get me sick. excuse me while i close the windows. my cats won't be happy to have their perches removed. i should turn on the tv. the ultimate distraction. my stomach is starting to swirl again. there is one thing that's worse. the sameness. i used to watch tv for the ads. those quick 15 seconds of pour shots and juicy newest cheeseburgers. and taquerias which went best with Coke. strange breakfast sandwiches i willed my body to get up for at 7. rise for good ham. now this was the lost art of food. i can never afford these luxuries again. i have to eat the exact same thing every day for lunch. it's the sameness which gets to me. i'm an artist. every time at around 11 i'm a slave to my stomach. the two slices of bread which will only be made toast if the plug is positioned just right for the toaster's lighted numerals to work. sometimes i achieve that position, sometimes it takes yoga. two balls of asparagus, one dipped in artichoke brine, on top of the first bun. sprinkle of salt. on the other slice of bread a sliver of iceberg lettuce, wedge of orange tomato, dash of pepper. sailor's mustard and low-quality ham top it off. smush together like two big breasts. and some seeds from the Cura Annonae, that should satisfy my Ancient Roman lust. make my cat-ears perk up with culture. like i'm doing something right. mozzarella if there's any left. all served with a side of cucurbita. as each day passes i'm getting better at the pepper. i use the same dash motion and the same sprinkle pattern stains the meat everytime. the same thing. the same sandwich. each and every time. once all day.

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President Bump is enjoying his new cooking show. his face melts under the hot lights:

Bump: let me just remove my crown and put on this chef's hat.

the white long chef hat is too big and sinks to the bottom of his eyes.

Bump: today on my cooking show, we do the best things. did you know there were once things called grain supplies back in the day? Codrus taught me that. now sadly they no longer exist. we sent them all to Puerto Rico and they got lost at sea on a boat. cruise ship. we have no more supplies. for anyone. including ourselves. but never fear, ladies and gentlemen, i have enough whole grain for this sandwich.

Bump: we are here at Milk Street. and i have the best milk betta believe dat. look i'm twirling the light-spotted fern here that signals out the nook window.

Bump: so this recipe calls for two main things. i got them here. let me wrestle them from their packages. Mighty Bananas! oh well you know how much i love sucking on bananas. good source of potassium and unresolved rage. and a Tireless Frog! tireless frog like me! this little buddy was killed for science. full of squirts and red guts and the inner turmoil of nature. mix the ingredients all up in a bowl, soften with milk, hey you got any milk on Milk Street?

witch behind the camera: fresh out.

Bump:........and mix with a wooden ladle. mash them up. toss into a wok here and do a little dance as the pot sings and simmers and spits up its sauces. look at me twirl! not easy for a fat guy. 15 minutes at 15 degrees Fahrenheit, always fahreinhet never that European garbage celsius, and voila! le masterpiece!

Bump:...okay so it doesn't look appetizing at all. it's a smelly green dish of clump that is thoroughly inedible. y'know my advisors keep telling me to escape my ivory tower. get outside, they tell me, meet real people. so let's step out of the studio and see if we can't sling some of this product to the poor or something.

Bump: here i am. on the streets.

LeBron James is returning from a pick-up. his one finger twirls a sweaty headband, his other finger twirls a bouncing basketball, and he twirls his tongue singing the Globetrotters anthem. his face gleams with the asphalt of the inner-city park.

Bump: hey whistling black man, don't stick me up. where'd you get that basketball? i'm looking for a ball, too. red one. let me know if any of you hood homies steal one. want a hand-out?

LeBron: you bum! i can't wait till they throw the bums out.

Bump: i don't get it, food is food. this is why my advisors become my benefactors. do you hear that, home audience? are you still with me? my phone's ringing. now if i can only get this infernal ipad to update to 11!

Bump: hello? Elton John? i love your songs. you're my favorite man.

Elton: that's Sir. not Siri but Sir. no you know what?, i'm not falling for this again. i've received too many prank calls in my lifetime. i don't trust humanity anymore. i'm done helping. goodbye. or rather, toodles.

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Ashley Parker is dressed to the nines and 22 cents for a typical evening out on the New York town. she wears high socks like a green candy cane to her crotch. her shorts are velour and pink and shimmy to the rhythm of her hips. her skates are old and brown football leather and retain that red stop. untied laces. her beige shirt with the words in '70s rainbow vinyl HIP CHIX is punctured by her razorsharp nipples. she hides big breasts as most babes in the era did with deceptively flowy T shirts. she makes sure to hip-check everyone else skating, even the little kids. she blows a pink bubble and the rest of the time her purple-lipsticked mouth is sucking on a lolly. her choker is African. wanting so badly for her auburn hair to be blowed into an afro, it's too sensitive to the aridness inside the studio so she settles for sparkles in her hair.

she hasn't a care in the world. cos it's her break from news. she spins around the oval track doing her figure-8s on the basketball court surface as the disco ball up above streamers into multi colors. christmas lights all year. the place changes from black to white but maintains its blue hue. she bumps into the sides of the rink many times but she's not drunk. one of her bumps is Michael Buble.

Michael Buble: care to blow a Buble?

Mueller approaches from the side. he comes from the bowling alley waving around a bowling pin in his hand like a club. he slaps his palm with the pin up and left, up and left. he unbuttons one button of his silk shirt. he leans into Ashley's ear but misses and catches her lusciously lovely lips.

Mueller: how's the multiracial coalition going i planned?

Ashley: don't you mean suspected?

Mueller: so whaddaya say?

Ashley: i dunno. i'm taking a break. i shagged your best friend for years.

Mueller: you sure did! it was days but time is messed up in this universe as we near the end. i can be cool, too. i know my mouth is weird but my collar is popped open. here, meet your son.

a little kid creeps from behind Mueller's short legs.

Ashley: i have a kid? when did this happen! maybe it's better i don't remember.

Mueller: i don't want to trouble Comey's wife with the news. she'll faint and die. let's keep this on the hush-hush, we're both good at that. i'll raise the kid with you as my own.

Ashley: but he is my own.

little kid: hey you're the lady who bumped into me!

Ashley: *covering her mouth* i am so sorry. for so many things.

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at the U.S. Open the fabulous confab summit is doing an autopsy. the legends all sit around a white circle table in the middle of Ashe Court, with an umbrella for the heat. and waters. they all wear white. cept Fed, who wears a black suit.

Federer: it just wasn't to be. Nadal and i will never meet on American soil. what do we care?, we're European cultivars.

Pat Cash: but you had it! did you choke? those two shots were layups.

Roger: no, it was the lights. they blinded me.

Pat Cash: whatever helps you sleep at night.

Cliff Drysdale: my South African boy had a nervous serving day. we're taking over!

Pat Cash: how's the love life?

Cliff: could ask you the same thing. you and your charge?

Pat: no, she's a tomboy. we're Coco & Cash.

Fed: sounds like a bad Miami detective agency.

Cliff: that joke can be said cos the hurricane swerved to the left. speaking of dank sex, i hear the black umpire and the white-woman umpire who winks are bumping uglies.

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