1.
Scottyottyopolis. A real son of a mother, they say about him. Everyone remembers an old Greek schoolteacher. Back in Chesterfield, where Scotty got his start, they gave him dap. Here, not so much. Here he’s this Greek devil, motherless sin salesman. Scotty gets no love in downtown Kingsboro.
Would’ve stayed out in the woods except for the college crowd, their cash. Kids go through two, three bowls a year. Would’ve stayed out in Chesterfield except Chesterfield shotgun threat, master lock like a chew toy, glass being so delicate. Except son, sons. Except downtown.
One of them rednecks did it; Scotty can’t say for sure who.
It was supposed to be about glass, but. Grease stain on the top pane of a glass case. Black velvet for contrast. The weight of a newspaper truck parked outside, on his property, on his chest. Slash public sidewalk. Drippy wax memorial for a dead kid, got did just down the way. Tough town. Deserves a head shop on Main, right?
Devil’s work. Assware, they say about him. One of his posters flaps in the draft when the frat dudes come in, saying, “Scottyotty …”
Welcome. Scotty spreads his hands.
2.
Last fall Head Frees won the paper’s Best of Kingsboro award in the category of Best Head Shop on account of there were no other competitors. Then the paper dropped the category on account of some committee’s petition, but Scottyottyopolis got the certificate anyway and framed it and hung it in his front window next to the poster of Jenna Jameson sniffing an enormous silvery bud that hung above the seven-hundred dollar red dragon bubbler display piece.
3.
“Doing well enough doing the devil’s work?” says the man in gray because Scotty is counting a fold of cash.
Scottyottyopolis nods. “Can I help you with something.”
“You know, I think it’s ugly, a man can’t make a living without …” They say about him. It was an article the man in gray was reading. Typical local calibre reporting, describes Scottyottyopolis as looking more like a frat dude than an entrepreneur. Because of the softcore videos in the back, or the beaded curtain and incense, or the hangaround crowd of kids just eighteen who’d just as soon stab one another in the off-Main alley their parents want to put him—Scottyottyopolis—in.
Well, tell them no. He may be Greek, but he pays the landlord. State legislator, or whatever he is.
Plus I got an eighteen-plus sign, all legal.
“Yeah, well, it’s like: go tell that to Mister and Missus Taxpaying Social Conservative right?” So evidently this guy was being sarcastical. Rich. The guy laughs; Scotty smiles.
4.
The more they say about him, the more glass he sells. Back in Chesterfield, everyone remembered a Greek schoolteacher, so there was this whole perverse thrill factor for the local rednecks: buy a nitrous cracker off old Missus Audiopolous’s son. Sooey pig. Et cetera ugly talk.
But in downtown Kingsboro, Head Frees’s harbinger must be the press. Or the breath of collegiate murmur, warm with privilege.
Kid from the paper reported the landlord’s name, too. Turns out he’s a state senator or something. They say that about him. He’s going to make a statement.
Scott lets Pam handle the paperwork. He moves the glass. She was the one who said the market on the DVDs was up, told him to go for it. They did. The numbers feed his family of five, so he’s glad the numbers are Pam’s. Plus she stays at home with. At heart, Audiopolous is a family man, alright.
5.
And these two twenty-somethings come in and browse and bitch like Opolous isn’t even there and having also read the article are like, “… and it reinforces a negative stereotype of weed-smokers as sexual perverts, which is entirely baseless …” and they pontificate upon the “… mutual ghettoization of porn and pot …” and how this is the only reason Scottyotty operates in both arenas.
Heads like these—liberal-arts college stoners—don’t know Scott from Joe Redneck of Chesterfield. These War-on-Terror Era, Connecticut-Yankee-doodle pot jocks, hotshot intellectuals, carpet baggers, whatever you like—they don’t remember an old Greek schoolteacher. They don’t know or say shit about Scotty. Think he’s part-time. Looks like a frat dude. (They say about him.)
Then one of them wants to see “… this one here, what is it a peacock, no a phoenix, right?” and Scott shrugs and says sure and the kid asks, “Didn’t you blow it?” even though they both know he didn’t, and Scott says, “Yes,” because they aren’t going to buy it anyway, and the kid says, “So what is it?” and Scott says, “Phoenix. Greek national bird. Burnt to a crisp and reborn—” so that now they can hear his affected accent (a mimesis of an old Greek schoolteacher’s) clearly, “—in the form of man. That’s me.” (i.e. Scottyottyopolis, but he doesn’t pronounce the sacred name because they won’t remember, only maybe say about him—).
6.
But no one remembers an old Greek schoolteacher quite like Scotty, the real son of a mother, whose mom refused to have him in the third grade. She prouded up and fed him once he got on to fourth (albeit a year later than he should’ve) but up until then: no regard. So when they say they remember her, they mean another old Greek schoolteacher than the supposed Mama Audiopolous of Scotty’s pitchy youth. In Chesterfield, where the keg’s never dry.
As long as he and Pam keep the babies coming, fussy and hungry, Scottyottyopolis might as well be selling crack. (They say about him.)
Dinner table discussions out in Chesterfield, bleak tax season, leaky shelter psychic atmosphere despite relative rural affluence. Pam’s brother sells. Pam’s other brother-in-law sells. Back in o-three, then again last year. First it was glass, then “those tapes.” Bottom line defined over a bottle of wine, at least three times. Pam could sell a snake a pair of gloves, they say about her. Among other things.
We have three children, we.
7.
Suspect Arrested in Sunday’s Stabbing. Stabbing Victim and Suspect Both Minors. Friends, Family Mourn Stabbing Victim. Stabbing Probed. Guilty Plea in Kingsboro Stabbing. Ongoing Vigil for Stabbing Victim. Police, Mourners At Odds About Memorial for Stabbing Victim. Church Street Vigil for Stabbing Victim. Arrests at Ad Hoc Church Street Vigil. Several Minors Charged With Resisting Arrest at Church St. Vigil. Controversy Builds Over Proposed Memorial on Church Street for Stabbing Victim. Church Street Businesses Split Over Proposed Memorial. Committee Raises Questions about Proposed Memorial for Stabbing Victim. Group Accuses Police of Insensitivity. KPD Chief: Recent Stabbing Was Drug-Related. Stabbing Reconsidered. New Study On Drugs and Violence Illuminates Meaning of Recent Juvenile Stabbing. Stabbing A Sign Of—. Memorial for Stabbing Victim a Sign of—.
Oh, and: Controversial Downtown Business is Smoking the Competition. (This one clever, from the tyke reporter, re: Head Frees.)
8.
Doing the devil’s work, they say about him. Boloney and white American cheese on wheat bread. Audiopolous perches on a stool behind the counter, fleet of fresh one-hitters against black velvet under his elbows. It’s for contrast.
Head Frees’s dim light is seemingly mythic and away from the downtown loud. It beckons passersby of stoner persuasion, and so his bell rings. Scotty glances up, nods, his long lips pinched. Welcome to Head Frees! Scottyottyopolis, here, hand extended gladly. (No of course not.)
It’s that glib prick reporter with the heavy hand, must have just graduated from his journalism BA this spring, local boy keen on maledictions and mischaracterizations. Looks more like a frat dude than a—what was it now, businessman? Citizen? Treading out the old college-related metaphor. Cute. Like everyone remembers an old Greek fraternity as referentially as Jimmy Olsen here. Got pictures of encrypted paddles still hanging in his studio apartment on Main. Audiopolous was building a glass empire out in Chesterfield while son was taking driver’s ed. He stormed the kingdom proper when homeboy’s tassel flipped. Audiopolous did it with no business degree or nothing. Now they say about him. A real son of a mother. His Greek schoolteacher, too. And this kid’s crumpled article simultaneously stoking the fire and the profit margin, doing the devil’s work for him.
Yes we have three children, he says. But these pipes, they say. This is art, he says. But those tapes, they say. We have three children, he says.
9.
Scottyottyopolis, last year: away from the fuss back at the old Chesterfield store during closing week, driving out to Kingsboro to sign the lease with a guy who turns out to be a congressman or a state senator or something. And Pam back at the store, handing out flyers announcing the new location, and most likely half the rednecks will up and boycott, accuse Audiopolous of selling out, climbing the social ladder, even if it’s just a joke, only a joshing. Nonetheless, they’ll say about him. Her.
Look, Scotty, did you ever look out for your own, the hardcore promoters in the front years, your mother the old Greek schoolteacher, you son of a mother? Did you ever look after? We have three schoolchildren, he says. Did you ever look after that wife of yours? Everyone all smiles.
Scotty wants to ask: Did you ever look upon my broken windows, my shattered glass, all my broken pieces amassed? You village of interlopers, you nation of racoons you …
“These cases represent about thirty-thousand dollars in potential profit,” Scotty tells the mirror. “That’s five thousand dollars per suitcase.” He will tell his men, his movers, this; but in the morning all they say is, “Scotty …” and “Scottyottyopolis …” and he grins and gives them knuckle-sized glass beads for their hemp necklaces which they won’t wear because they’re rednecks to the core.
And they wonder why, and they say about him. A real son of a mother.
One of them did it. If not him, then some other son of another mother they know, mother they know.
10.
Kingsboro PTA or town council or committee meeting or something. Scotty’s not going. He’ll read about it, sifting the nuggets out of that grad-school sand, the local paper. Citizens For a Puritanical Society Or At Least Immediate Downtown Want To Ban Certain Retail Business But Lack Legal Means. They say about him. Come into Head Frees rat-faced and pinchy, walk around, jot down notes, peek into the libertine back room.
Scottyottyopolis is with a customer, holding an emerald glass piece against black velvet cloth under a bright white light. It’s for contrast. … pressure on state senator so-and-so, who explains that while the nature of his tenant’s business did surprise him, he is not breaking the law, and therefore …
The boys in jackets buy a 35er each, and Scott IDs each assiduously. A man in a sweater takes notes. They say about him. Kids are like, “Scotty …”
Baloney and cheese, unfinished. Paper plate. Very subtle grease slick on glass case.
Can’t fuck him on the dope pipes and porno mags on account of free speech, but they get him on health inspection, right? Good joke, Scottyottyopolis; tell that one to Pam tonight when you get back to Chesterfield, Chesterfield, Chesterfield.
11.
Banishment, they say about him. It’s not a threat it’s a promise. Some of these thirty-something, heavy-chinned, muscle-up-to types, modern dads or whatever … it’s like: now who’s the frat dude, here? But some just say: Put him on a side alley, Church St. or Union St. … you know, the sort of place where seventeen-year-old kids gets stabbed to death over a hundred bucks in coke and then for seven years the teens leave waxwork lachrymatics and graffiti necrograms all over Scottyotty’s bong shop’s threshold. Want to use his bathroom all the time. Cops coming by to check it out every half-hour. Yeah, Scotty’s not having that.
12.
Help Wanted: I am lost on the outskirts of the village of my birth and have been since puberty. My mother was a schoolteacher. I sell sin, they say about me. I have been spinning all my life, in orbits around Chesterfield, farther flung with each year, wife, child, child, child. They say about me. How in the forest, wolves are devils. How Kingsboro is not the proper metropolis for Audiopolous, Scott. Little swarthy kid in the third grade so dark the rednecks called him nigger; loved him anyway, the way their dads loved Eddie Murphy for saying the word so many times.
Immigrant family promise: streets paved with colored glass, miles of reflective DVD surface.
Scotty rides shotty in the van with his movers, his men, from Chesterfield. At the helm of the great migration. Those wine-dark rural routes of southern New Hampshire. Plus, Scotty is actually Macedonian, right? (Ha, tell it to Pam tonight when he—) He just keeps moving east, and these guys follow him. Employees. Clientele. Ready to fall off the edge of the world for pot and porn. Maybe even die for Audiopolous, despite what they’ll do in a second behind his back, or when he’s off signing the papers or the woods are dark enough or the master lock plastic enough or the spoils red enough—
13.
Except the rent. Accept the rent. Oh but and this is a land inhabited by Christian democrats, or—
14.
“Scottyottyopolis!” they say when they come through the door, knowing him, and they are loud. Young men to whom he sold their first nitrous oxide capsule cracker, butane lighter, titty mag. Chesterfield kids, some of them only what, three years younger than Scotty? Now they’ve all got coke habits, and their nephews, nearly their own age, are catching sucking chest wounds at Church and Union for it.
They say about him: that it’s the fault of Scotty that the tots get caught, shot.
Imply, really.
Scottyottyopolis, the dirty lollipop wop.
Pammy, the girl who would chew gum. They used to say about her.
Not these dudes, though. These are some real sons of some mothers. These dudes just say they’ll take one packet of screens, this here ten-buck little metal number, and a red bag of American Spirit rolling tobacco. Scotty nods, takes cash, makes change, gives dap, returns to sandwich as they bounce. No one hangs out anymore. Could be location, could be—
15.
Pam and Scott are like Chesterfield trailer park royalty, except Scott’s swarthy. (Accept Scott swarthy.) Pam’s rep shot through with talk, kids only seventeen, plus him a real son of a mother. Greek schoolmother, I mean -teacher, I mean. Her brother sold Scott his first one-hitter, a metal tube painted to look like a cigarette butt; not a camel at the filter but a, what was it now a dragon, no, a phoenix, no—?
Someone’s mother’s on coke. In a lavender room above a head shop out across an icy river, through a small but terrible black wood. Pam had to get from one township to another with a bag of goodies, but there were wolves in that wood, and one talked her into a waltz but she only knew how to two-step; everyone remembers the folk, the tale.
And then Scott: the promise of a regular family. Everyone remembers an old Greek schoolteacher, even when she chose to ignore. Son the third-grader. Things they say about him, her. Do things Scott’s only seen on tapes, her brothers’, her mother’s trailer park boyfriends’.
He was never one of them: brown, otherish, plus everyone remembers a Greek schoolteacher. Scott was the devil’s man, and Pammy had the numbers. The big town loomed just through them woods.
16.
“I hope you are happy.” She is in his face, her hand on the glass slipping around in the boloney grease, and he is pretty sure she doesn’t mean happy. “Children are dying over drugs in our community.” She is trying to cry by remembering her mother’s funeral, wherever privileged it was. “My community I don’t even recognize” she cry is slipping in the “everyone remembers” slip country club eyeshadow cracking crow’s feet crying not “school mother children” sucking-chest church “we have three those tapes dirty under under” trailer park royalty. “Downtown.” Sex. School. It’s all the same. Scottyotty asks her to leave. She laughs, sarcastical.
She’s like: what’s he going to do, call the cops? She wishes he would, better yet the press, or the state senate, or the drugs-and-porn czar. Her son is still finishing his grad program? She says something about a job at a newspaper? No, but something about children …?
17.
Long bong hits in the dark. Frat dude infinity. Chesterfield is a heaven from which Scotty is cast, continually, time a great string of palindromes, a Mobius strip of magnetic video tape. Hold a lighter up to it, it plays pornographic music, burns strawberry incense soft. You can hear the primal sounds of a thousand childhoods. Everybody remembers a.
Everybody remembers Audiopolous. Everyone remembers, Ottyopolis. Now you’re the guy for it: Pam’s brothers’ money has got other mothers, trailer park lovers. A basket full of wicked candy covered in a steal-your-face tapestry. Not for a Greek schoolmother, these, nor the real son of a.
Tell her it’s all for the grand kids. Cracking mascara, crows feet, thinking about and pretending to cry. The streets are paved. Downtown. Church St. Where the tourists get coffee and the children get stabbed over coke.
Scotty washes the grease off his baloney hands. Just then his bell rings.
18.
Of course this young feller type comes into Head Frees in a blue button-down shirt and enough hair off his face to indicate working public schoolteacher type but enough hair on his head to spell hip young cat, you know, a frat dude-type like just out of college. And he tells Scott he feels like he can’t even walk from his house to the pizza place on Main because he has to walk past Head Frees, and the way things are going with him, you know, looking like a frat dude but really being a sort of hip young schoolteacher guy and kids always asking him stuff like, Yo, dude, do you toke? Like on the weekends, or maybe you used to, like in college, and maybe still sometimes do? And now he’s got to walk past Head Frees every time he wants a slice of pizza, so at night the local kids who know him from school and sweat a glance of him in his bluejeans and sneakers after hours, right, like on-the-outs, right, like he’s some sort of frat dude spectacle type, and he’s got to walk past this window all lit up with bowl pieces and posters of chicks young enough to be his students or old enough to be his own frat dude post college-aged hookup and look, he’d have come in here earlier than now just to check out what’s going on because look, he doesn’t, like, personally have a problem with it, but of course he can’t say that out loud at school because some asshole administrator or parent will go the papers or the school board, right, and say he’s doing the devil’s business in those classrooms, right, talking about weed and pornography, right? This place makes it look automatically like he’s a pothead, right? Plus he’s had way too much coffee today, and it’s a Friday right before April vacation, and that’s the only reason he came shuffling in here over-caffeinated and urgent to let Scotty know he read the article, and he thinks it’s only so much bullshit, I mean Frat dude? What kind of amateur, just-out-of-college journalism-type shit is that? Talk about small town/small minds, right? Right? Right? I mean, Scotty’s an immigrant-type, right? Greek national type, right? I mean, they say that about him, right? Right? Right?
But Audiopolous doubts this guy knows anything. What it’s like. To be the real son of an old Greek schoolteacher. Everyone but him. Or how she plugged away at papers in the glow of a desk lamp, forevermore in the shadow the first Head Frees cast over all Audiopolouses, over all of Chesterfield, that dread valley where the rednecks spend their gold on glass, and when they can’t get the gold they get mad and bay and claw at the window to get, and then shuffle grim into an old Greek schoolteacher’s classroom the next morning high on high on high on.
Grease stain. Glass top. Black velvet cloth. Glassware. Assware. The old joke. Old as Pam’s porno numbers, third child, a Church Street stabbing. Young as this whippersnapper teacherman, this.
Ottyopolis is become death, I mean it. Something in his eyes, they say.
19.
Back in that dark wood, the wolf was either Audiopolous, someone’s brother, or one of the rednecks. Maybe the woodsman was able to make a deal with the wolf for Pam’s still-beating heart. Money was exchanged. A glass pipe served to commemorate the peace. What’s passed is passed.
When Scotty got beyond the mauled back door, its latch torn free and swaying, and beheld the chaos, the billion pieces he could never put back together, well … Certain alphabetic hexes, dark mutterings issued from the head of Opolous. Upon the kids.
Upon the kids with press passes. And the kids who pass him on Route 9 on his way to town with the merch for them to buy or steal or kill one another for. Upon the kids who press past him on their way to college, on their way to a burglary, a stabbing. Upon the kids. Bad cess upon.
20.
The devil’s work. Scotty will be our man. They say he kindled a flame in our city, and now the ember blazes against the velvet black of night. He passes it to us now, and we reach to take, some real sons of some mothers.
_________________________________
2012