CCLaP Weekender, May 8, 2015

CCLaP Weekender

From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

May 8, 2015

New Fiction by Oliver Zarandi Photography by Heather Killion Chicago Literary Events Calendar May 8, 2015 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce SATURDAY, MAY 9

3pm Paper Machete

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / Free, 21+ thepapermacheteshow.com

A “live magazine” covering pop culture, current events, and American manners—part spoken-word show, part vaudeville review—featuring comedians, journalists, storytellers, and musical guests. Hosted by Christopher Piatt.

8pm Blackout Diaries

High Hat Club / 1920 East Irving Park / $10, 21+ blackoutdiaries.info

A comedy show about drinking stories, a “critic’s pick” at Red Eye, MetroMix, and Time Out Chicago. Comedians share the mic with “regular” people, such as cops, firefighters, and teachers, all recounting real-life tales about getting wasted. Hosted by Sean Flannery.

SUNDAY, MAY 10 10am

Sunday Morning Stories Donny's Skybox Studio Theatre / 1608 North Wells / Free

We performers are pre-booked. We feature novice as well as seasoned storytellers. On or off paper.

7pm Uptown Poetry Slam

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $6, 21+ greenmilljazz.com

Featuring open mike, special guests, and end-of-the-night competition.

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GO LITERARY EVENTS

enter.com/chicagocalendar] 7pm Asylum

Le Fleur de Lis / 301 E. 43rd / $10

lefleurdelischicago.com

A weekly poetry showcase with live accompaniment by the band Verzatile.

MONDAY, MAY 11 8:30pm Kafein Espresso Bar

Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com

Open mic with hosts Chris and Kirill.

7pm Write Now

Cafe Lutz / 2458 W Montrose / Free chicago-bakery.com

An open mic for comedians and live lit storytellers. Hosted by Danny Black and Anne Victoria LaMonte.

7:30pm Homolatte

Tweet Let's Eat / 5020 N. Sheridan

tweet.biz

With Scott Free, featuring gay and lesbian spoken-word artists.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 13 6pm Lyricist Loft

Harold Washington Library / 400 South State / Free youmediachicago.org

“Open mic for open minds,” presented by Remix Spoken Word.

Hosted by Dimi D, Mr. Diversity, and Fatimah.

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9pm

In One Ear Heartland Cafe / 7000 N Glenwood https://www.facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear/210844945622380

Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.

10pm

Elizabeth's Crazy Little Thing Phyllis Musical Inn / 1800 W Division

An open mike for poetry, music, comedy, performance, and whatever else.

To submit your own literary event, or to correct the information on anything you see here, please drop us a line cclapcenter@gmail.com

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CCLaP Publishing

A darkly surreal yet absurdly funny short-fiction writer, Matt Rowan has been a Chicago local secret for years; but now this latest collection of pieces, all of which originally appeared in the pages of the CCLaP Weekender in 2014 and ‘15, is set to garner him the national recognition his stories deserve, a Millennial George Saunders who is one of the most popular authors in the city’s notorious late-night literary performance community. Shocking? Thought-provoking? Strangely humorous? Uncomfortable yet insightful on a regular basis?

YES PLEASE.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/bigvenerable

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ORIGINAL FICTION

Everybody Make Way For The Comeback King was the first thing I saw on the convention hall timetable.

Outside the convention hall, this event was actually on a billboard with the title in red neon lights. There was a picture—airbrushed, plastic, unreal—of the Comeback King too. He looked like Tony Orlando—if Tony Orlando had fucking AIDS.

COME 6 | CCLaP Weekender

“Exodus,” by Adam Swank [flickr.com/21098412@N04]. Used under the terms of their Creative Commons license.

EBACK

BY OLIVER ZARANDI May 8, 2015 | 7

None of his features fit on his face right, like he was a Mister Potato Head and some backwoods retard slammed the nose and eyes and mouth in the wrong holes. He had thick, black hair and skin like caramel—a porn star moustache rented space just above his lips and these obscene white dentures.

Everybody in the foyer was talking about it. They all looked like they had cancer, these bald guys—they were all guys—with weird sunglasses on, talking about the Comeback King.

An old man with a loaf of bread said to me, Hurry, come on kid, don’t want to miss the Comeback King!

The event my father actually booked was called Coping With Anxiety Post Flight Disaster. Here’s the thing, my mom was on a flight back from London and her plane got hijacked or some bullshit and they blew it up.

Byemomimissyou.

And ever since then, I haven’t been able to speak properly. I speak in spasms and blurt-outs. I speak like a machine gun. My bullets rarely hit their target. Is that a metaphor? Whatever. So anyway, my Dad booked me in to come here. I didn’t want to come here. If I had any gumption, I would’ve said to my dad, Fuck yourself, ass-man!

Or more accurately, Fuckyoudadyoubigfuckingfuckingassman!

But in reality, my Dad was a successful football coach with bigger arms than me and a big pink dick—which I saw in the shower, once—so who was I to argue?

I had a high school counselor who made a few pat judgements about me.

He told my dad that I might have psychotic tendencies. I shake all the time and might or might not have a mother/teat fixation.

Not that I mind. I had no choice. I never did. My dad tells me what to do. When I masturbate, all I see is my dad, Dad and his stinking wet armpits and that pink hog dick, Dad crying like a baby when Mom died, crying into her underwear. He’d cry in every room: in the bedroom, in the shower, in the toilet, in the laundry.

Stopbeingabigpantysnifferdad!

The auditorium—was it an auditorium?—was big and smelled like a funeral home. The carpet looked like ginger pubic hair, which was fun to walk on for a while, but lost its novelty quickly.

The talk hadn’t started yet. I could hear a group of guys talking and they saw me listening so they told me to join in. I waved my hand at them to say it’s okay, but no doing—they pulled me in.

What’s your tragedy, kid? said the fat one. He had a bum bag on and khaki, three-quarter-length trousers on with scabbed ankles.

I said, Idon’tknowthanksthanks.

Good reason, I guess. Guess a few people are here for that, said the thin 8 | CCLaP Weekender

one. He carried on and said: My wife fucked a spade. Left me for a spade.

Fucker’s name was Arthur. Kind of name is that? Anyway. She took my money. She took my house, she took my fucking dachshund and my three kids.

Jesus, said the fat one.

Christ, said a ginger man.

Yeah, tell me about it, said the thin one. But look. I’m back on track. I boozed. I drank. I got on the wagon. I went down—so far down you could see China—and, well, yeah. I was so drunk I ran over a kid. Killed the kid, straight up. Head broke on my window like a watermelon.

Wow, said the fat one.

Yeah, a real big watermelon. But you know, it made me think—I need to change my life. So maybe this kid’s death was actually a blessing in disguise.

Everybody nodded and got into a ‘group hug.’ I was included and couldn’t breathe. Somebody whispered that we were brothers now—brothers in tragedy.

They were all broken, desperate human beings. Men whose wives left them, wives who died, eaten by cancer, men who murdered, lost businesses, lost a nut, lost a dick, lost a mind—it made me feel as if I’d not lived a life.

Iamtheworst, I said.

Why’s that, the men said.

I said, Igotafuckingteatfixation.

Another group hug. They said my life was going to change.

I farted and said, Thankssomuchbyenow, and scooted off.

The lights dimmed. Music came on from a stereo system. It was too loud so it distorted.

On he came. Spotlights. He didn’t walk the way I thought he’d walk—he clearly had one leg that was shorter than the other. He kind of see-sawed his way onto the stage and kept his left arm up in a frozen wave. His wig was black and his forehead was melting under the spotlights.

He came up to the mic and lapped up the applause. I saw grown men in the audience crying as they clapped.

Fucking hero, one guy said.

Next to me, an empty seat was filled by a latecomer—a woman. I couldn’t believe it. I started getting palpitations and swallowing my own farts back up into my guts.

So fucking pumped for this, she said. She was a freckled ginger girl who looked like a praying mantis—think Sissy Spacek, circa 1971, and that’s about it.

She said hello and smiled. She was waiting for a reply and I tried to say something to her—something that resembled a hello, but no, I couldn’t. It May 8, 2015 | 9

just came out like a stillborn greeting, another example of my ineptitude.

Hiyeahgoodnicetomeetyesno.

Fuck. Her smile was still on her face, sure, but it wasn’t like a real smile. It slanted slightly, like she just unzipped my pants and she was confronted with a long, thin, dry noodle.

The music died down. The music finally shut the fuck up. Everybody watched the Comeback King hobble over to the mic. He tapped it.

I used to live in a box, he said.

Applause. Rapturous applause. So many clammy fat man hands clapping.

Cheers and whoop whoops and whistles. He started signing autographs in the air. What was he doing?

He started blowing kisses at the audience. Some guy in front of me jumped up and caught one of these air kisses and ate it.

He started speaking, I used to live in a damned box. I was so poor, I lived in a box. Can you believe that folks? A box. And I was so ashamed of my physical appearance—like, you wouldn’t believe—that I wore the box on my head sometimes.

I cut eye-holes in the box, sure.

It wasn’t like I was blind. But I couldn’t bear for people to see who I was. I wanted to die. You ever felt like you wanted to die? Any of you?

Of course you have. Everybody wants to die at one point in their life. Everybody. For some people, it’s a big thing. For others, it’s just there, a little annoying thing, leaping up and down like a chimp in the back of your head.

I tuned out. I couldn’t focus. I wanted to be loved by this girl next to me.

I whispered, What’syournamehi?Howaboutadrinkafterthis?

She turned to me and said that she was actually here to fuck the Comeback King. She said her name was Marta and she was here for dick and winked at me.

Ohgreatsorrynoproblemofcourseofcourse.

The Comeback King continued to speak and the girl next to me started to frig herself. She unzipped her pants and slid her hand down there. She

I was so poor, I lived in a box. Can you believe that folks? A box. Believe that folks? And I was so ashamed of my physical appearance— like, you wouldn’t believe—that I wore the box on my head sometimes.

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looked at me in the eye and winked. Was I meant to join in? I went to join in.

I touched my dick, but then I stopped. And then my Tourette’s burst to life, but I managed to stifle this one, I’msohardandturgid.

She wasn’t exactly an endearing person, but at least she had something about her. She was different. He kept talking, she kept frigging. I could hear a clicking sound in her pants.

My real name is Walter Sears. You know this. I lived in a box. We all live in boxes at one point in our lives. Am I right? Yes! Thank you. But I got out of my box. I hadn’t had any tang for seven years. Seven years with no poon.

Imagine that, folks. But I dragged myself up from the gutter.

It went on like this for hours. It ended. The lights went up and Stevie Nicks’ “I Can’t Wait” serenaded us out. The applause was deafening, so many clammy hands smacking together like a room of retards. We all got goodie bags filled with candy and weird medallions with Walter Sears’ face on them.

We got little books with some hints and tips on how to fulfil your potential.

Inside there were pictures of Walter standing next to his speedboats and Porsches.

Marta leant over and said, Let’s go and see Mister Sears!

Surefuckitwhywhynot!

Marta zipped her jeans back up and took my hand. Female contact felt great. Her fingertips were soaked. I got an instant hard-on. I was pretty excited.

Maybe a one-on-one audience with Walter would mean I’d stop this stupid stammering and get my life started and maybe I could have a speedboat like his.

We were backstage and Marta cornered Walter. He looked smaller up close, like most celebrities do. He was all hunched. I wondered if this would happen if I saw Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise. Small, impish celebrities with boils and spine curvature and webbed feet.

Marta said, Hi there. I followed up with a, Yeahsurehi, and blushed, driving my chin into my chest.

Look, I don’t do autographs, said Walter. He fumbled for a glass of water on the table. I couldn’t bear to look at him. He was an embarrassing piece of meat.

Marta sat down and said, Look, let’s get this straight. I want you. I travelled nearly 100 miles for you and the least you could do is get a drink with us.

She winked at him. I stood there and winked at him too. Jesus.

Walter perked up. He pulled out a plastic bag of coke and emptied it on the table and snorted it up his fat nostril with a dollar bill.

You guys want any?

Nofuckingwaythanksanyway!

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Marta bent down so Walter could get a face full of her ass and snorted a line.

Walter said, Let’s take this to my place. I got a place up in the hills. I have a speedboat. What do you think of that?

Iknowireallywanttohaveonetoowow.

Who’s this fucking cripple? Walter said.

Marta said I was a good kid who needed his help more than anybody else.

I was shaking.

Walter clicked at the towering bulk of man just outside and said, Let’s go with my driver.

The three of us, we walked out into the car park. The car park was lit by a pale light and under that light Walter looked like a ghost.

On the way back to Walter’s, Walter told us his name was really Davey Rogers and that he never lived in a box. He took off his hair. It was a wig.

Underneath, the dome of his skull was patchy and I was tempted to ask if he was a burn victim or if he had an accident whilst freebasing coke. His hair looked fluffy and patchy, something my dad once described as ‘cirrose’ hair.

Inside the limo and there was champagne on ice. He said it was ‘champs on fucking ice,’ and if I called it anything else, get out.

He said, You wouldn’t believe how much money those jerks pay me to turn their lives around. I’m a crook and a lush and I fucking love it!

Marta laughed and rubbed his crotch area. I think Walter started getting hard and he took a swig of champagne and threw it to me, telling me to drink it and to stop being a fucking dick.

I took a swig and I started getting drowsy.

The rest of the journey seemed like a blur. Marta looked like she was well and truly fucked. Her eyes were reflecting the lights outside the limo. In fact, she wasn’t really moving at all. Outside, empty streets, palm trees, and fences.

I stuck my face up the window and pressed my eyeballs against the glass. I watched the empty streets, saw broke TVs and occasionally little animals, scarpering into hedges.

Marta’s jeans were open and Davey Rogers—the fucking Comeback King my ass—had his whole fist down there, mooching around like he’d lost some change down there.

He said to me, Bet you want some of this, don’t you? He smacked her ass and the butt cheek wobbled.

Boyohboyyessirgimmegimmegimmebooty! I said. He started smacking her ass repeatedly and I saw the sky in Marta’s glassy eyes bob up and down.

His house was this post-modern collection of vertical and horizontal white rectangles. It looked as though that if you even walked into a wall, you’d get impaled somehow.

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The inside of the house was what people like my dad would call ‘ambiguous.’ Big words that don’t mean anything anyway, so thanks Dad. But maybe he’d be right in calling this house ambiguous. It didn’t really look like a house. It didn’t look like anything. It wasn’t a place. It was a non-place, like an airport. You don’t really feel like you’re meant to be there for long. Just passing through. There were no pictures on the wall, no furniture, nothing.

I walked into the hallway—if you could call it a hallway—and Davey asked me to slip my shoes off. I slipped them off.

I didn’t walk forward. I just stood there like a tree and waited for something to happen. I started breathing heavily. I think it was a panic attack.

Davey came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. He told me not to worry. He told me that he had a whole room that didn’t have windows where we could do anything—anything at all. I wondered what he meant by ‘we’ and he gave me a wink.

I didn’t wink back. C

Oliver Zarandi is a writer. His recent publications include Hobart, Keep This Bag Away From Children and The Boiler. You can follow him on Twitter @zarandi.

May 8, 2015 | 13

CCLaP Publishing

Orest Godwin is ruining his long legacy three fingers of rye at a time. His lectures have become bizarre. He’s smoking indoors. And he’s begun to carry a knife. When Orest nearly burns down the campus destroying memoirs in his attic, the College has no choice but to dismiss him. After 50 years, a prestigious career is ended in a humiliating act of senility. Or so The Provost thinks. Orest decides he is no longer satisfied to be a known historian; he wants to be historic. So he cashes his pension, draws a new will, and vanishes. With the help of a failing Spanish student whom he has promised a fictional scholarship, he embarks on an adventure from northern California to the lawless badlands of Mexico to join a true rebellion. Armed with Wyatt Earp replica pistols and a case of rye, Orest and Augie trespass through a thousand miles of brothels, cantinas, jungles, diners, and motels, threatening those they meet along the way. If Orest can just elude the pimps he’s crossed, the ranchers he’s sworn vengeance upon, and kidnapping charges, he might just join his peasant uprising. At least while he can still remember where he is going. And if no one gives him a drop of mescal.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/orestandaugust

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CCLaP Publishing

It’s 2039, and a political faction called the Lifestyle Party has risen to power under the Presidency of Deepak Chopra. The new government bans scientific innovation and introduces a set of policies focused entirely on maximizing personal happiness.

So why is Grady Tenderbath so unhappy? Believing that he’s fallen short of his professional potential, he buys a personal robot muse to nurture his talent and ego, while his wife Karen, a genetic scientist, becomes more entrenched in her lab. But just when Grady seems on track to solve his career crisis, he discovers a new problem: he’s swooning for the empathetic yet artificial Ashley. Not only that, he’s distracted by haunting visions of Karen transforming into...something else. Half speculative fiction and half marriage thriller, Rise of Hypnodrome explores how future generations might draw from the realm of epigenetic engineering to eventually control their own biology. Whether human or robot, the characters in this cutting-edge science-fiction novella have one thing in common: an irrepressible desire to evolve.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/hypnodrome

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The CCLaP Weekender is published in electronic form only, every Friday for free download at the CCLaP website [cclapcenter.com]. Copyright 2015, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication.

Editor-in-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Behnam Riahi. Layout Editor: Wyatt Robinette. Calendar Editor: Taylor Carlile. To submit your work for possible feature, or to add a calendar item, contact us at cclapcenter@ gmail.com.

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