NEEDLING

I’ve never had much luck with cleaners, laundry people in general. At one point while still living in Paris, working this job I thought was going to get me places—supposedly a production company, turned out they were con artists—I ate well for almost a whole year, took the taxi a lot, went out to restaurants, flew to Poland three or four times, drank a lot of booze that I hadn’t paid for, and bought nice shirts for the first time ever. I also started to take my laundry to a laundry-mat where somebody else did the laundry for me. What a concept! I dropped off some shirts, came back the next day, and they were clean, folded, inside plastic bags, and looking like new. This experience was a pleasant one to me. I partook almost weekly until my last visit, the one that made me mistrust cleaners for a long time to come. I walked down the little alley from my work early in the morning before opening the office, one of those tiny streets between buildings so small nothing can go through them except bikes, pedestrians, mopeds, and one very small car at a time. I dropped off my shirts and picked them back up that evening. The lady was as usual very friendly, joking even, calling me by name, making chitchat, not acting as if I should be particularly worried about anything. Each shirt had its own bag. Each folded neatly ready to be put on the shelf. I took them home happy as a squirrel, got up the next day, and grabbed the shirt from the top of the pile. It took me a few days to get down to the bottom. When I got there, to my dismay as I took the shirt out of the plastic bag and unfolded it, I discovered that the right sleeve was burnt, that the holes had been hidden by the way it had been folded, that the shirt was lost and good for the trash. It had been a week, I had thrown away the receipt, there was no proof except my word, and I didn’t want to fight this one. I let it go, but never went into another cleaner again. Well, it’s not so clear, really. A few weeks later I quit that job because they hadn’t paid me in over a month. A couple of month later, I went on the dole for the following few years. Never really needed to visit a dry-cleaning business again until just recently. This morning, I stepped into the dry-cleaners just three doors down from my store. I was in a good mood, all bubbly, having spent a good weekend with my friends visiting from Berlin and so forth. I hadn’t unlocked the door to the liquor store so I was encumbered with my backpack, my wad of shirts needing cleaning, my sweatshirt, and the leash to my dog, Brutus. I set all the stuff down and tied Brutus to the post before walking in.

“Good morning, how ya’ll doing?” I bubbled out all happy, “I’ve got some shirts needing cleaning.”
“What’s your name?”
“Needles.”
“First name.”
“Francois … I’ve never been in here before, this is my first time.” I was still all happy.
“That’s all right. Is that your dog?”
“Yes, it is!”

The lady behind the counter was an older lady, overweight, and short. She didn’t smile. She didn’t take me down at first, because I was so elated. I was being overly friendly, overjoyed, though I didn’t mention why … it took me over a week of pondering to make the decision. I was all smiles, proud of myself. For the last couple of months now, I’ve been buying some nice shirts, having fun wearing them … next week, I’m going back to Paris for my six day paid vacation, and I want to look good, so I decided to visit a dry-cleaners. Out of convenience, I picked the closest one, the one three doors down from my place of employment. Nothing could go wrong.

“You take him to work with you?” Her tone was dry and not friendly, but I ignored it.
“Sure do … everyday … he’s such a good boy.”
“Where do you keep him? In the back room?”
“No, he stays up front with me behind the counter.”
“You keep him up front!”
“Sure, he doesn’t say a thing. He just hangs out. Everybody loves him that comes into the store.”
“That’s against the law,” she said nastily. I start taking note of her tone of voice. My shirts are in her bag now, and she’s printed out the receipt.
“What?”
“I’m going to have to call the Board of Health and tell them about it.”
“What!!!” This is like a brick falling on my face.
“It’s absolutely illegal to take a dog to work.”
“What are you talking about? There’s nothing illegal about it. I’m not doing anything wrong. My manager’s okay with it, so is my boss … I’m not trying to hide anything from anybody.”
“You can’t take a dog into a grocery store, can you? No you can’t. The other day, some man took his dog to the coffee shop, and he sat them on the chair with him. The attendants at the coffee shop asked him to leave, and he refused, so they called the pound to come take his dogs away.”
“What are you talking about? You’re going to call the cops on me? You gonna call the board of health on me?” I was starting to raise my voice. I was getting upset.
“No … no, I mean …” she was backing off a little bit, “I would call them just to ask them, to be sure,.”
“You going to call the BOARD OF HEALTH ON ME, I’m not doing anything wrong! I don’t sell food, I don’t prepare anything ...”
“I don’t want to argue with you, sir.”
“So what are you saying?”
“You can’t take your dog to work. If I knew of a place that let dogs in, I would never do business with them.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“No.”
“Give me my shirts back.” I said, my voice shaking.
“There’s no need to get upset.”
“You’re going to call the cops on me, and … forget it, just give me my shirts back. Come one, I want my shirts back, please.”
“Hold on, I got to get them out of the bag.”
“Give me my shirts back, please.”
“Okay, okay.”

I took my shirts and walked out of there. After work, I dropped the shirts at another dry-cleaner down the street. It was a younger woman behind the counter. She was very nice. I started taking my credit card out to pay.

“Don’t worry, you can pay whenever you pick them up tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You have a great day, sir.”
“You too.”

I know where I’ll be going from now on.

Been treading around in the mud. Barely catching sight of my toes. Like trying to grasp the slippery handle to the belly of the submarine while drowning … not remembering counter clock-wise from clockwise turning action. Swell and Swallow. Blow and go well down the shellfish shithole you find yourself in.

I can’t breath, baby! All I can do is swallow some water …

Something solid, that’s what I need. No more nothing from these weak connections, these bi-polar conditions … no more, baby … I need a brand new battery running on nuclear powered juices.

All right, all I need is a spaceship full of friendly aliens abducting me for a few moments out of my boring time. PLEASE! You can do whatever unpleasant thing you might need to do in so far as the safety of the universe is concerned. Understandably, if we’re talking about some freewheeling potato mashing pleasure ride, up and down the Russian mountains zipping laughably by totally stoned … GRATITIOUS, is what I’m trying to say … then basically NO … FUCK you, honey bum … you just ain’t using my ass for no spaceship pleasure ride. Gotta bark down some kind of ruling somewhere. You understand?

Vodka and tonic kind of evening.

Thanks to all of you out there whose name I can’t mention. For helping me buy a brand new computer, for helping me connect back to the internet, for helping me stay home listening to some music and write down this shit! Bless you! It’s a brand new day, today, connected to the internet, typing on a brand new machine. …

THANKS!

Feeling good. Got out of bed just a few minutes past 5am this morning. Brutus wouldn’t get up. Kept looking up at me wondering what the hell was wrong with me getting up at this ungodly hour. I turned my room upside down looking for my bathing trunks. I haven’t gone swimming in ages. The last time was last summer in the Llano river at the ranch of Brian’s dad. The time before that was in that very same location. And the time before that, I believe was in the south of France in the ocean. Found my bathing trunk hidden underneath a pile of mismatched socks. Brutus started doing stretches. Since the lights were on, and it didn’t look like I was going back to bed, he started waking up. Took him out for a walk along the railroad track, came back home, locked him inside, and drove on down to the YMCA. Boy oh boy it was cold outside. The swimming pool is outside, and it was below forty degrees this morning. The water’s heated to a very comfortable 84 degrees. But you got to get from the locker room to the swimming pool, and there’s no way around that one. It’s cold. Period. But at least once you’re in the water, there’s nothing else to do but do laps. If too much of your body is sticking out of the water, then it’s too cold, so you just keep swimming, which is exactly what I did for about forty five minutes. 8h30. I’m all sore now. This being the first time in years—literally—that I’ve done any kind of exercise. I’m at the coffee shop next door to my car-oil-lub-place. It’s not even 9am, and I’ve manage to work on my screenplay, get some exercise, walk my dog, and get my car taken care of! What the hell’s wrong with me?

by Joseph Campbell


I’ve started re-reading this wonderful book. Here’s a whole passage that blew me away. It’s right at the beginning of the book (page 8 in the Princeton University Press paper-back edition).

“The unconscious sends all sorts of vapors, odd beings, terrors, and deluding images up into the mind—whether in dreams, broad daylight, or insanity; for the human kingdom, beneath the floor of the comparatively neat little dwelling that we call our consciousness, goes down into unsuspected Aladdin caves. There not only jewels but also dangerous jinn abide: the inconvenient or resisted psychological powers that we have not thought or dared to integrate into our lives. And they may remain unsuspected, or, on the other hand, some chance word, the smell of a landscape, the taste of a cup of tea, or the glances of an eye may touch a magic spring, and then dangerous messengers begin to appear in the brain. These are dangerous because they threaten the fabric of the security into which we have built ourselves and our family. But they are fiendishly fascinating too, for they carry keys that open the whole realm of the desired and feared adventure of the built and in which we live, and of ourselves within it; but then a wonderful reconstruction, of the bolder, cleaner, more spacious, and fully human life—that is the lure, the premise and terror, of these disturbing night visitants from the mythological realm that we carry within.”

(I’m at work—copying this passage as I’m checking people out—so excuse me if I make any mistakes … I’ll fix it all up sooner than later.)

Went to Vegas
sat at the roulette table
put my faith on red
every time
that was my game plan.

Tripled my money
started out with a twenty
Humphrey I thought I was
for a real short minute
in a movie I though I was
for an even shorter moment
some sort of secret spy
playing it cool
playing the chump
you know
lying low waiting for the villain
to show up all a brazing
showing off his stuff
with his wad of cash.

Basically
I was trying to stay inconspicuous
not making a nuisance of myself
being a magnet I thought I was
for an even shorter fraction
of an instant.

All the sudden my twenty
and my five crumpled ones
became like a big fat roll
of century folds
like a gangster boss I was
or thought so anyway
for such a short time
I cannot estimate or calculate
the seconds concerned
in human terms …
I became like a big fat rolling pig
in an Armani suit
instead of my red E.T. sweatshirt
I’ve been wearing just about everyday
for the last seven years.

Playing the red
at the roulette table
that was my game plan
hitting the big times
five to ten bucks per spin
the little white ball spinning
spinning and spinning some more
“No more bets”
said the croupier
passing her hand over the velvet table
to make her point clear to all participants
and she took all my chips
as the little white ball
chose a black slot
instead of a red one
for its few second of rest from spinning so much.

Yesterday was my blog’s two year anniversary! And I forgot! Shows where my head’s been hiding these days. Still no internet connection on the home front. Working on the little problem. Lots of hits, even when I’m not writing on my blog … yet … no comments! Come on, folks, send me little words of encouragements every once in a while, or let me know how much some entry really sucks, or anything … just say: Hi Needles, what’s up? What you drinking these days? What you reading these days? Any fun adventures in the near future? Why ain’t you writing on your freaking blog, you lazy fool … You know … little things like that, just so I know the void out there isn’t as big as I think it is.

(Visit me on myspace.com/fkneedles)