Clarence Major - My Amputations

Money. Mason packed his W two-sixty-three. Money: a jockeyship itself: owing its fiber to confidence. Bamboozle there (even in his memory of child support which he paid, “buying his way out of guilt,” one judge said to his lawyer) in that sandcastle. Now the “stolen” money given to Ferrand: stolen because Ferrand had no right to it. He'd walk in: “Fucker, you doublecrossed—” then shoot the cigar outta the joker's mouth. For starters. No, he'd be more serious, factful. After all he only wanted the bread back. Mason arrived. Ferrand in his one-horse office sat with his kicks on his desk. Calmly, sweetly Mason told the detective the truth. It didn't impress. Then with ten-speed passion Mason shot: “I don't like being deceived. Once I climbed a pole for clarity: I was deceived. Then you pretended to give me the hoof marks of the man who snatched my — uh… ” “… your wallet?” “Ferrand, I came here to get my money back.” He took out the machine. Ferrand's pig-smile didn't take wings. Mason plunged on, hysterically: “I came to you sincerely. What a fool I was. I'm going to shoot you, and you know it. I came wearing the ugly mask of a dead mullet with glazed eyes. I coughed blood on the way. Ferrand, I—” He disliked his own pleading. It generated his anger; need for revenge. Mason saw that Ferrand was mindful of the pistol: as though it had a life. “I tell you: no cheap, two-bit private eye's gonna stand in—” but as Mason talked he angled the W two-sixty-three a way from Ferrand, carelessly, and in that moment Ferrand whipped out his own weapon, a forty-five, and in no time had it against Mason's forehead where his worried eyebrows met. “Nigger, don't you know I'll kill you. You mean nothing to me or nobody else! What kinda dumb nigger are you, huh? You talk like you just came down from heaven, boy.” Ferrand was turning red as he backed Mason — at gunpoint — toward the door. “Now get out of here before I have you strapped and sent to the nut ward at Bellevue!” As Mason turned to leave Ferrand shot at his left shoe. The bullet hit. Close range like that it had to take off the whole foot, right? Wrong. This explanation is called instant gratification. I don't believe in bait, foreshadow, the Judeo-Christian work ethic, the Theory Z Management philosophy, negative votes, October, gold diggers, Freud's reality principle, so: the bullet bounced off left — leaving a tiny hole in the window as it sped its way across the abyss created by this building and the one next door: it smashed through the window of another office — that of an importer of Hong Kong toys. Of course Mason was wearing his steel-toed boots from welding days.

Halfway through the “daring” stickup Mason felt less like a greenhorn than he'd the moment they stepped into the glassed, sterile and staid enclosure. You should've seen ‘em: Mason with a Thompson, Jesus fanning the silver thirty-eight (that probably would've misfired), Brad bullyng customers and clerks with Mason's W two-sixty-three. Two guards they disarmed and herded over with the jittery, dapper customers by teller windows. Mason and Brad held them at attention while Jesus jumped about — behind counter — with his potato sack filling it from cash drawers opened on command. The three saw everything they did through the dimness of nutmeg nylon smelling of Edith's Evening in Paris. Contrary to the plan: Edith was at the wheel alone. The Turtle did not show when the time came. Edith kept the Buick from Hertz hot. She was already dreaming of a vacation in Saint Tropez. While Jesus was busy with his Idaho's Finest bag, Mason stood firmly — yet with a mind as dreamy as Edith's: he'd show the world… that Ferrand hadn't been worth going back to though Mason'd had a mind to return and shoot up the place. And though they'd settled for one Thompson — look how things were going! Jed'd yakked on about the seasonal rhythm, a certain wisdom, yet he'd made a kind of sense about how human-rhythms turn out… in line with other life-rhythms. Jed'd yakked a lot, mostly about his great old pa, and his wonderful grandpa, wise men, in touch with nature, and the great simple life of hillbillies. Mason and Jed sometimes shared a bottle of booze after the day's chores and that character, Jed, would get so caught in his love for his hill folks and their “wisdom” he'd forget he was talking to a traditional enemy of his people. One time ol' Jed whimpered, “My gosh, boy, I forget you colored when I'm talking to ya. You just like anybody else. How you get like that?” Jesus finished his sack job. They all backed toward the turnable doors. Everything was going just dandy till Mason stumbled over a two-and-a-half-foot silver-coated metal ashtray filled with cigarette butts and decorated sand.

Boy, was he hot to trot! Mason'd just left the Valenti-D'Amico place of operations in Little Italy and was walking north on McDougal. He held in his right hand, at stomach-level, a dark blue booklet, looked with dancing eyes at its cover; the thumb and index of his left hand poised, ready to lift the cover back. As he walked he read: United States Government Printing Office. He looked at the snapshot of himself on the fourth page: didn't like the expression puttering around the full mouth. The passport photographer's fault: no sensitivity to subject. Too much a mug shot. Number J111967. Cover again: in gold letters: Passport. Beneath those precious words, also in gold, was the United States' seal: an eagle facing left with a left-talon clutching thirteen arrows and a right one clamped around a branch of olives — strength and peace. That's me , jack, strength and peace! Not a native son for nothing! Above the eagle's head: a mandala with stars at center representing the original (again) thirteen colonies. Well, this was Mason's passport and he felt close to the lofty efforts those sparkling stars represented. He'd get on a soap box for them: you bet your boots: after all this was his country, too. Wasn't it? Opening the booklet again with proper reverence, he whispered aloud the language of the third page: “The Secretary of State of the United States of America hereby requests all whom it may concern to permit the citizen(s) / national(s) of the United States named herein to pass without delay or hindrance and in case of need to give all lawful aid and protection.” God! Just think! the support of the entire government behind his identity! Money talks, yessirree boy. He turned to the fourth page again: “Warning: Alteration, Addition or mutilation of entries is prohibited. Any unofficial change will render this passport invalid.” Then this vital data: name, place of birth, date of birth, date of issue — which was February 3,1980—and date of expiration — February 2, 1985. The picture again: although the expression was not his it was the face of “a serious writer” like those on the jackets of novels: the tormented look, the scowl, a permanent expression of cynical disapproval. A man of profound thought? Spare me. The next page gave him only a fluttering pause: “Notice: This passport must not be used by any person other than the person to whom issued or in violation of the conditions or restrictions placed herein or in violation of the rules regulating the issuance of passports. Any willful violation of these laws and regulations will subject the offender to prosecution under Title Eighteen, United States Code Section fifteen-forty-four.” This followed by blank pages for entries and departures, for visas. At the end of its last two there was more — the highlights: “This passport is the property of the United States Government. It must be surrendered upon demand made by an authorized representative of the Department of State. The passport is not valid unless signed by the bearer on page two.” Mason stopped at the corner of Prince and placed his heavy left boot on the top of a fire hydrant, balanced the booklet on his knee, and with his trusty Bic signed the thing. Happy day: signature du titulaire. The gods smiled. Znotchy was in high gear. Mason stepped briskly: he was making it in America. Hotdog! Yet he was no penance payer: any judgment would be secular since he wasn't a 1940s James Cagney of the Lower East Side caught excruciatingly between Church and State. If repentance must be then make it a civic sacramental ordinance: his forgiving priest was his own knowledge that he'd done his so-called best, that the Forces had been so powerful, so overwhelming, and poverty and misuse so pervasive, that he could not have done better otherwise . Lie? The Department of Justice would not agree. So: absolution wouldn't be forthcoming? How about confession? Had the system nailed him so profoundly to the cross? He insisted that the angels of The System had lice under their wings. He too? You bet. Was there guaranteed another sea up ahead? No, but he had no trouble at all getting a driver's license in the ctesired name. He went downtown to the Municipal Building and stood in line like everybody else. That was the hardest part. The passport did the rest. Applying for a Visa Credit Card wasn't quite so copesettic. The computer said The Impostor already had one. “Uh, excuse me, I forgot.” A day later, elsewhere, Mason applied — with fingers crossed — for a Master Charge card. Luck would be with him.