Jesus Cuckoo Christ
- for Joseph "Poe" Paynter
Grandpa Poe moved in with us
the summer after Grandma Grace died
and brought his best effects with him.
A bedside table with drawers
almost too heavy to open,
every issue of Playboy from 1969-1983,
a hundred dollars worth of bicentennial quarters,
rubberbanded stacks of Raleigh cigarette coupons and
Old Spice proofs of purchase, all packed inside.
A massive wooden wardrobe where
he kept his old Army uniforms,
American flag, a rainbow of
button up big collared polyester shirts,
sleek Bob Barker suits that had
hundred dollar bills tucked into pockets.
He kept his old knife and gun collection
rolled up and secreted inside reams
of threadbare jaundiced underwear
fully knowing no one would dare to touch.
My parents gave him the catbird seat
inside our Port Richmond rowhome.
A front bedroom with expansive vistas
of the Polish ballroom and its gravel parking lot.
It allowed him to ogle hot middle aged women at night
and watch our daily wiffle ball games during the day.
I would wait, along with my little brother Michael
and best friend/fiend Corey - who Poe hated -
for the old man to make one of several jaunts
down to his favourite bar, The Case is Altered,
for six packs of Ortliebs pounders.
While Poe was away we'd pick the locked door
with one of my mother's bobby pins
and step all over one another to get inside.
The room had the rich ripened odor of Poe himself,
an olfactory assault of tobacco, cheap beer, Old Spice,
and a faint suggestion of lingering flatulence.
In the manner of tongue to bad tooth
we were drawn to that sacred Playboy drawer
and within seconds we'd have glossy issues
spread-eagled on the floor. A scotch bonnet hot harem
of silk skinned, saucer-eyed, shotgun legged, classic reverse S-shaped
wild honey blondes, smoky brunettes, and firecracker reds
staring and smiling back at us,
promising nothing more than a sweet moments rush of blood,
which somehow felt like forever,
a certain weightlessness in head and heart,
an erumpent hardness in our loins that made us feel invincible.
After staring bruises into the pages
and discussing with great passion which Playmates we'd someday marry
while never once looking at each other,
we neatly placed the holy mags back in chronological order
detumescing as we pilfered a few dollars in bright bicentennial quarters,
the drummer pressed into them reminding us of Dennis Wilson or Gene Krupa.
For the coup de grace we splashed on some spice, for it made us smell like men,
then we'd lock up the room, go down to D&L Deli to buy
Italian hoagies, Sunkist® pops, and Topps® baseball cards.
Later Poe would return to the room, count his quarters,
find his Playboy stack ever so slightly disheveled,
yell, "Jesus Cuckoo Christ!" and place full blame on our boy Corey.
Poe called him "a fat fart fucking pig," shouting,
"that kid's so ugly it hurts my feelings!"
A viciously hilarious stream of other jagged jewels followed:
"The boy has a mind like a sieve; he could go pound sand up his ass;
his mama should ask her doctor about the benefits of retroactive abortion!"
He was convinced Corey only used me and my brother for our family wealth;
our parents were house proud thousandaires after all.
Poe proclaimed all of this in crying holler voice only old men seem to have.
Corey was consequently banished from the room
during Poe's storytelling and bull sessions.
Sometimes he'd throw on his Army hat
and show off his medals and weapons.
Delivering picaresque, often sordid narratives
while consuming fantastic quantities of Ortliebs beer,
occasionally offering us secret sips until we were all
half-assed and glassed over.
Once he told us a story about Al Capone, he knew him personally,
said it wasn't the booze or the syphilis from whores that blinded him
but rather his incessant masturbating that stole his sight.
Being a catlick school kid I felt a pang of guilt, a cold grip of panic.
Michael, ever the wiseass, said,
"Ah, so that's why you wear those coke bottles, Poe!"
I placed a moratorium on myself after that,
no more of what the priests and nuns at school called,
"manipulating one's genitals," for little Willie C.
Others saw through the con better than I though.
One time we caught our cousin Danny inside Poe's room.
He had encircled himself with Playboy centerfolds
and was masturbating into a five and dime
Halloween mask of a wizened witch
while screaming, "Freeeeeee!!!" over and over again.
Another time the door to Poe's room was left ajar,
I watched my grandfather sit on the bed dressed to the nines
in his military best replete with medals and epaulets.
He was clutching a framed photograph of a young beautiful Grace,
talking to her in soft measured tones as tears streamed from
bloodshot eyes down onto the glass making their tiny honest sound.
Poe died in that room,
body shrunken by cancer.
I was with him when he passed.
We were watching a Jets Monday night football game.
Wesley Walker had just scored a touchdown.
I thought he was trying to high five me
but he was just reaching for my arm
which he gripped and clung to trying to rise.
He said to me,
"I can see the exit light blinking, it's her eye after a joke."
He laughed and it seemed he was gone before finishing.
His eyes fixed on something only he could now see.
There was still light there, probably just the slivers
of gray shrapnel from the war he never lost
reflecting silver in the light off the TV.
I closed them.
Switched off the TV.
The darkness, the silence,
saying all the things I couldn't
and never would.
He was buried with the decorated uniform, flag, guns, and photograph of Grace.
I still have one of his shirts, it was his favourite,
bought with six proofs of purchase from Old Spice.
An armada of cool mint green clipper ships sailing a placid white sea,
mother of pearl buttons and butterfly collar,
yellow crusty arm pits.
A faint scent of the man still on it, a ghost.
I wore it just the other day, to mixed reviews.
The treasured Playboys were sold at a flea market.
The cigarette coupons were redeemed for fannypacks and coolers.
My mother still has the bicentennial quarters we didn't steal.
And I still use Poe's one liners religiously and take full credit.
In fact I just titled this piece after one.
Enjoy responsibly, Poe.
William Crawford
- for Joseph "Poe" Paynter
Grandpa Poe moved in with us
the summer after Grandma Grace died
and brought his best effects with him.
A bedside table with drawers
almost too heavy to open,
every issue of Playboy from 1969-1983,
a hundred dollars worth of bicentennial quarters,
rubberbanded stacks of Raleigh cigarette coupons and
Old Spice proofs of purchase, all packed inside.
A massive wooden wardrobe where
he kept his old Army uniforms,
American flag, a rainbow of
button up big collared polyester shirts,
sleek Bob Barker suits that had
hundred dollar bills tucked into pockets.
He kept his old knife and gun collection
rolled up and secreted inside reams
of threadbare jaundiced underwear
fully knowing no one would dare to touch.
My parents gave him the catbird seat
inside our Port Richmond rowhome.
A front bedroom with expansive vistas
of the Polish ballroom and its gravel parking lot.
It allowed him to ogle hot middle aged women at night
and watch our daily wiffle ball games during the day.
I would wait, along with my little brother Michael
and best friend/fiend Corey - who Poe hated -
for the old man to make one of several jaunts
down to his favourite bar, The Case is Altered,
for six packs of Ortliebs pounders.
While Poe was away we'd pick the locked door
with one of my mother's bobby pins
and step all over one another to get inside.
The room had the rich ripened odor of Poe himself,
an olfactory assault of tobacco, cheap beer, Old Spice,
and a faint suggestion of lingering flatulence.
In the manner of tongue to bad tooth
we were drawn to that sacred Playboy drawer
and within seconds we'd have glossy issues
spread-eagled on the floor. A scotch bonnet hot harem
of silk skinned, saucer-eyed, shotgun legged, classic reverse S-shaped
wild honey blondes, smoky brunettes, and firecracker reds
staring and smiling back at us,
promising nothing more than a sweet moments rush of blood,
which somehow felt like forever,
a certain weightlessness in head and heart,
an erumpent hardness in our loins that made us feel invincible.
After staring bruises into the pages
and discussing with great passion which Playmates we'd someday marry
while never once looking at each other,
we neatly placed the holy mags back in chronological order
detumescing as we pilfered a few dollars in bright bicentennial quarters,
the drummer pressed into them reminding us of Dennis Wilson or Gene Krupa.
For the coup de grace we splashed on some spice, for it made us smell like men,
then we'd lock up the room, go down to D&L Deli to buy
Italian hoagies, Sunkist® pops, and Topps® baseball cards.
Later Poe would return to the room, count his quarters,
find his Playboy stack ever so slightly disheveled,
yell, "Jesus Cuckoo Christ!" and place full blame on our boy Corey.
Poe called him "a fat fart fucking pig," shouting,
"that kid's so ugly it hurts my feelings!"
A viciously hilarious stream of other jagged jewels followed:
"The boy has a mind like a sieve; he could go pound sand up his ass;
his mama should ask her doctor about the benefits of retroactive abortion!"
He was convinced Corey only used me and my brother for our family wealth;
our parents were house proud thousandaires after all.
Poe proclaimed all of this in crying holler voice only old men seem to have.
Corey was consequently banished from the room
during Poe's storytelling and bull sessions.
Sometimes he'd throw on his Army hat
and show off his medals and weapons.
Delivering picaresque, often sordid narratives
while consuming fantastic quantities of Ortliebs beer,
occasionally offering us secret sips until we were all
half-assed and glassed over.
Once he told us a story about Al Capone, he knew him personally,
said it wasn't the booze or the syphilis from whores that blinded him
but rather his incessant masturbating that stole his sight.
Being a catlick school kid I felt a pang of guilt, a cold grip of panic.
Michael, ever the wiseass, said,
"Ah, so that's why you wear those coke bottles, Poe!"
I placed a moratorium on myself after that,
no more of what the priests and nuns at school called,
"manipulating one's genitals," for little Willie C.
Others saw through the con better than I though.
One time we caught our cousin Danny inside Poe's room.
He had encircled himself with Playboy centerfolds
and was masturbating into a five and dime
Halloween mask of a wizened witch
while screaming, "Freeeeeee!!!" over and over again.
Another time the door to Poe's room was left ajar,
I watched my grandfather sit on the bed dressed to the nines
in his military best replete with medals and epaulets.
He was clutching a framed photograph of a young beautiful Grace,
talking to her in soft measured tones as tears streamed from
bloodshot eyes down onto the glass making their tiny honest sound.
Poe died in that room,
body shrunken by cancer.
I was with him when he passed.
We were watching a Jets Monday night football game.
Wesley Walker had just scored a touchdown.
I thought he was trying to high five me
but he was just reaching for my arm
which he gripped and clung to trying to rise.
He said to me,
"I can see the exit light blinking, it's her eye after a joke."
He laughed and it seemed he was gone before finishing.
His eyes fixed on something only he could now see.
There was still light there, probably just the slivers
of gray shrapnel from the war he never lost
reflecting silver in the light off the TV.
I closed them.
Switched off the TV.
The darkness, the silence,
saying all the things I couldn't
and never would.
He was buried with the decorated uniform, flag, guns, and photograph of Grace.
I still have one of his shirts, it was his favourite,
bought with six proofs of purchase from Old Spice.
An armada of cool mint green clipper ships sailing a placid white sea,
mother of pearl buttons and butterfly collar,
yellow crusty arm pits.
A faint scent of the man still on it, a ghost.
I wore it just the other day, to mixed reviews.
The treasured Playboys were sold at a flea market.
The cigarette coupons were redeemed for fannypacks and coolers.
My mother still has the bicentennial quarters we didn't steal.
And I still use Poe's one liners religiously and take full credit.
In fact I just titled this piece after one.
Enjoy responsibly, Poe.
William Crawford
