Serious Business
I walked to the Police Station. The air was balmy but a fog rolled in off the bay and covered the sun. The police station was like any other junky third world one, but this one was in California on a decomissioned military post. Two fat police officers, a man who looked like his head shot out of his chest, possessing no neck and a flat top around his bald spot and a woman who looked as if she couldn’t walk let alone run after a criminal ended their conversation when I approached. I was not there to see them. They could have been discussing matters of corruption, a scheme they were involved in to write parking tickets to poor bastards who couldn’t read English and then keep charging them exorbitant late fees when they didn’t pay up immediately. Or they could have been discussing an illicit affair they were having off in the abandoned cold war style ruins, when they should have been on patrol. I did not bother to stop. I do not like fat people. They annoy me. It annoys me that in our nation’s supermarkets a single handsome male, like myself, cannot buy single male portions. Everything is designed for families. As if I wanted one of those. It is a conspiracy to fatten me up and make me breed.
I walked past the pair and the man looked at me through the corner of his mirrored Ray Bans. How did I know? His beady black eyes were behind the mirrored spectacles, but I have excellent peripheral vision. I thought that he might reach for his hand gun at any time. A quick sprint through the woods and I could have lost him, and then doubled back to my car to beat a hasty retreat. What did they want with me? I was only there to recieve signatures on my form.
The sidewalk was broken and junky much like everything at the decommissioned base. It is sad to think how many taxpayer dollars were sucked up by the great whore of Fort Ord only to be abandoned and turned into substandard housing and homes for crack heads. I think of how many doomed souls got shipped off to Vietnam from that dump and it makes me weep actual tears. They trickle down my face for a moment before they dry in the sunshine, unless the fog is there to make them remain at equilibrium with nature. I stepped on the sidewalk and immediately noticed that there was a cigarette wrapper next to a Cherry Pie wrapper that had a few crumbs on the side. The fat cop probably dropped it there because nothing remains on the ground for too long without the ravens swooping upon it, cawing to their relatives, and fighting with their enemies, the seagulls.
I recall watching a gang of crows tearing a seagull chick to pieces that had been abandoned by its parents. Maybe the mother gull ate some fishing line. It happened on the fishing pier right after a man hauled up a trashy fish and bitched to his wife that he was out of squid heads. The hook was buried, he ripped it out and kicked the fish below. It floated to the surface about five minutes later and the gulls began dive bombing it. Mother nature is a cruel bitch.
The police station was drab olive because it used to be a Provost Marshall’s office and was taken over by the civilians. No one bothered to spruce it up. The walls were sucked of all their asbestos in another massive taxpayer fraud to clear up cancer causing particles. Only in California would they care about their lives so much that they avoid anything which could possibly harm them. Life is a risk. Maybe that is just my book. I didn’t inherit a fortune or have a nice car.
The workers were shielded behind bullet proof glass. One of them, a portly man with no hair and flat features was aiding a military man. The fatso was wearing a Polo shirt from Walmart. It was not part of his uniform. Perhaps it was an office that sought to improve morale by wearing civilian clothes on Friday. To my front there was another windo to give the police the advantage on AK-47 wielding psychopaths. There was not even any to toss a grenade. The glass would not transmit sound and the customer had to speak through a small talk box like at the movie theater. There were two men, one cool looking and black and his dopey white sidekick who did not appear handsome in the least. They were wearing matching black leather jackets and Oakley spectacles to hide the deciet in their eyes when they spoke to suspects. They were wearing their sunglasses inside, and it was not sunny outside. I surmised that they were part of the sting operation to bust homeless homosexual hustlers on the North side. I heard about it from a friend.
There was a young woman sitting with a dazed look on her face. She was shuffling through paperwork nervously. Her hair could not decide if it wanted to be spiky or curly. It looked like a mess. She had a tattoo above her large breasts that I did not want to read lest I be accused of staring at her delicious tits. She was twirling car keys in her hand. The form that she was filling out was an APPLICATION TO REGISTER A VEHICLE. It looked black and white, plain, like it would involve five minutes of a wasted life to fill out. I did not bother to register my vehicle. I would never take it on the miltary post for fear of having it broken into by the psychopaths who lived there. They killed people for a living! My car didn’t stand a chance among them. I am a humble civil servant. When the young lady asked me for a pen I replied that I did not have one. She looked at me strange with off blue eyes and scratched out the form with a pencil that she found wedged in a stack of magazines laying on a formica table that was had poorly simulated wood grain.
The fatso in the polo engaged in conversation with the military man.
“Your last name is Spanish. You don’t look Spanish.”
“My father was from the Canary Islands.”
“My family is from the Canary Islands.”
“Really which Island?”
“I don’t know, I just know they are from the Canary Islands.”
“Grand Canaria?”
“I don’t know.”
“The Canary Islands are seven major islands plus minor outlying ones.”
“I think the main one.”
“La Palma?”
“Yes that’s it.”
“Rosenos is that your family name? It doesn’t sound like it is from the Canary Islands.”
“No. My grandmother was from there. Her name began with a P.”
“Palma? Porteno?”
“I don’t remember. But I just said it the other day.”
The military man looked around. I did not notice his eyes. I was watching the men in leather jackets fill out paperwork. The polo wearing civil servant continued to make small talk to which the military man responded in short tense affirmatives.
A man, frazzled with his hands full of documents entered the door and held it for his wife.
“Is there a number I can take here?”
“No sir, she is next, then me.”
His wife had blue eyes, small breasts, and a large flat bottom. A pretty face with a long Germanic nose and blonde hair. Not a bad combination. She looked nervous. Her nervousness through her persona off. She should have exuded self confidence. Women like her usually light up a room. Maybe it was the place. They sat on the L shaped couch next to the girl. The man began filling out the same form.
“Car type? It’s a Nissan.”
The wife was not allowed to respond before the girl butted in.
“No they mean is it a sedan, SUV….they also want to know how many doors.”
“Ok. Thank you.”
The man was probably an officer. He needed everything explained to him in triplicate. His wife took the form while he sat back in his chair and twiddled his thumbs. His hair was long. He had probably been on several weeks of leave and neglected to get a haircut. Perhaps he didn’t need one because he gave orders instead of following them. Maybe I was confused about him altogether. I leaned back and hit my head on the wall. In that spot the wall was hollow and I felt nothing, no pain. The long haired man screamed to the girl.
“Oh look out!”
She leaned forward and the heavy picture frame that my head knocked off the wall narrowly missed hitting her in the head. Had it done so she may have been killed. It was heavy oak. I know because I picked it up and put it back on the wall. The girl was trembling as she looked. I apologized and smirked. The long haired man looked forward. His wife and he did not speak. When I sat down I felt eyes burning the side of my face. I looked over at the wife. She looked away and down. Then I noticed she fixed her hair two seconds later. I think she was attracted to me. There was no time to slip her my telephone number. No opportunity.
The girl continued to tremble until the military man was done with his paperwork and the fatso yelled through the microphone.
“NEXT!”
She walked up to the window and gave her documents through the small receiving hole.
“I am sorry. You have to have your boyfriend come in person and register his own car. I cannot register your car for you.”
Even though she almost met her doom in the office she was turned away. She walked through the office door defeated and did not even look at me, the man who almost killed her.
“NEXT!”
I stood up.
“I am here to sign out.”
“That window over there.”
I had waited for thirty minutes and nearly killed a young lady. The place needed a sign on the window that told you outprocessing happens at that window and not this window that everyone else is waiting for.
I handed my documents to the police officer. I could see why he was given a desk job. He was obese. Fatter than the fat cop outside. Probably a real fan of Red’s doughnuts and too much half and half in his coffee. A roll shot from the top of his shirt and gave him the appearance of having no jaw. His chin poked like a flesh colored speedbump from his puffy cheeks. I had no pity for him. Only a slight hatred that grew while I watched him attempt to make his way back to the desk from the recieving window. He had to dodge the men in leather jackets and Oakley sunglasses who left out the back door. I saw the guns they were carrying. They looked to be brand new Glocks or some other European arms manufacturer. They even wore designer jeans. It made me want to be a police officer, or at least a detective for a day. The waddler made it back to his desk and began looking at something on the computer. I was worried they would discover the parking tickets I neglected to pay. I could not make out anything on his screen. They wisely angled it so the customer could not see anything.
“NEXT!”
The fatso in the polo shirt at the window I had nothing to do with had finished his email break and called up the fidgety long hair.
“How can I help you?”
I walked down a small hallway to look at a trophy case. It had a few tarnished medals in it that I could not make out what they were for. There was one bowling trophy from 1978. That was the last year they still made trophies out of metal. After that they became cheap plastic garbage. I recalled being very jealous of the trophies that decorated my 0lder brother’s room, as a child. I would go and look at them when he wasn’t there. They were mainly dusty like the trophies in the case. They were made of cheap plastic. One time I broke the baseball bat off of his Little League Championship trophy. I wanted to see if I could pull it from the hands of the batter. I hid the broken bat under his bed and obscured the bat with one of his ribbons. The year was 1984. He discovered my crime when he packed up for college in 1990. I was able to feign innocence.
The most ridiculous memento in the trophy case was a picture of SWAT training. Fat cops with moustaches, camoflauge, and machine guns. They looked as threatening as a girl scout rifle outing. Many were smiling. I was taught never to smile when you carried a weapon. Especially never to smile in a photograph with a weapon, it documented your psychosis. Lee Harvey Oswald smiled in his photographs with weaponry. He did not smile in the photographs where he held his children. A few of the cops in the photograph did not smile, those were the sane ones. They had probably been in the shit. Maybe Vietnam, they weren’t old enough for WWII.
Behind me an argument began to take place. It was amusing.
“What do you mean I can’t register her car here?”
“You need to go to the Legal Section and get a waiver of liability.”
“Listen. It’s her car. She has her own insurance! What is the purpose of this document?”
“It is a waiver of liability….it’s serious business.”
“I’m always dealing with this bullshit, I’ve been here three fucking times already! You need to put in your recording all the documents that are required before people come out to this dump!”
“If you would have read our website all the required documents are on it.”
“I’m new here! I didn’t know you had a website. You should make available all means to help people!”
He was out of his mind.
“I won’t debate you sir I’m sorry. You need the form.”
I tried not to watch them. I had the recurring feeling that I was trapped in a vortex where people only cared about themselves. It was their problem. Bureaucracy is good for sustaining narrow self interest. I had no urge to talk to anyone in that establishment. For God sakes this man had just saved a young girl’s life and now he was losing his mind over a form that took ten minutes at the most to get after he drove over there. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to slip his wife my phone number because she would have alot of time on her hands while he was catastrophizing over the very rigorous course he was about to take. I heard that he was a student because the fatso tried to defuse him by making small talk. It didn’t work. The man gave short tense one syllable answers. I felt sorry for them both. Especially her. I placed bets on the health of their marriage. She did not try to calm him down. If she corrected him in public he would probably have corrected her in private. I didn’t know though. Maybe she wore the pants.
My form was done. The waddler waddled to the window and handed it through the small tray. I felt like I was being released from prison of my own recognizance. I waved him and bade him a good day. He looked trapped. Maybe someone was keeping him in that plastic bubble and force feeding him at night. I didn’t care. I was free. I walked past the stewing man. I would never see these people again in my life. I walked out into the parking lot. Birds were chirping in the trees. The abandoned buildings had a new glow about them. The plotting officers were still there but they smiled to me as I passed them.
I got into my car and waited for the ignition to catch. It roared to life. The Pacific ocean glowed and shimmered like glitter on a young woman’s sweaty breasts.
“Focalizing” is a Good Method for the Untalented
Handle one thing at a time? Spread oneself too thin like butter on a piece of bread? Dream immense dreams and then put on your overalls. If you have not envisioned a greater possibility for yourself, then you aren’t an American. If you haven’t wanted to flee the race between the too wide roads and ugly parking lots, you are happy at the dollar store.
Learn to focus on one thing at a time. I say no. If I could do that I would have been a boring doctor. I would probably be driving a Maserati and surrounded by phony women in pony tails, capris, and nothing on their mind – but who cares.
If you are born with piles of work ethic and an atom of talent, you can bring the two into harmony by spending upwards of 10,000 hours practicing your craft. It will be a long road. You will probably end up the next blockbuster writing mega author, who doesn’t have much to say, but sells well anyway. You will be rich, able to purchase happiness at a discount.
If you are born with piles of talent and an atom of a work ethic you will probably go nowhere fast unless you have rich friends who allow you to sleep in guest bedrooms while you waste your life in hand me down underwear.
I traded caring for nihilism and am now in recovery. Sometimes it is healthy not to have a point of view. A view from nowhere. This enables you to run around the issue instead of wearing it as a T shirt.
I have attached the above photograph to show that you are but a small vessel in an enormous ocean. Let us hope that Ahab is not at the helm. If you are talented you are more likely to drown in this sea of garbage known as the market. Legions of mentally handicapped with the intellects of children is who you should be writing for. Aim it at people who like flashing lights and commercials. The world has become a disgusting greaseball where the nothing is valueable, but everything’s price is immediately quoteable. Or is that Walmart? This too will see its end.
If you wish to be happy, seek contentment and do not think beyond appearance. There is no need to ban books in the United States of America. Those that start underground, remain underground, like a corpse. Good luck in corrupting the youth. There is no need for hemlock today. Nothing edifying can be said in the time it takes to load a video game.
“Boats on Horizon” is copyright 2009, Jeffrey M. Hopkins, All Rights Reserved. Photograph composed with Leica M3, Leica Summicron 50mm F/2.0, with Ilford Delta ISO 100 Black and White Professional Film.
Thoughts on Writing
Dear Fans and Friends,
I relish imperfection. I am nearing completion of the rough draft of my second novel. Its title and premise shall remain secret. Like this photograph it is imperfect. There is dust in its lens. But it will be something for me to work on. Something to polish, an uncut diamond to be cut. Perhaps a difficult cut like a marquise. I am not a gemologist, perhaps that is an easy cut.
I began it in December, but I started thinking about it immediately after writing Broken Under Interrogation. Now I am thinking about my third novel which I will get to work on immediately after the editor gets “XXX XXXXXX”.
Mind you I wrote this novel while I was involved in the most challenging intellectual course perhaps in the military. Mind you that I published and wrote and edited my last novel while I was in the interum between Iraq and Monterey, California.
This brings me to the point of this little post. Writers write. That tautology is the only rule. You can toss your grammar coventions out the window. I don’t know how any grammarian could ever achieve success as a writer. They are too bent on correctness of parts of speech and other things I don’t understand fully. That is the reason you get an editor. Editors edit. The writer is the artist with the vision.
Edgar Allen Poe’s prose is clunky to a fault. People don’t care, he was immortalized for his vision. He invented the detective story. He died a miserable laudanum addicted and alcoholic wreck in the Baltimore gutter but he made the world richer in the process. In his lifetime, he was an awful failure who was told that he couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag by the establishment writers, critics, and publishers.
Listen! If someone tells you that your work is awful, take it into consideration, but don’t give up. Read the classics. Don’t just read them. Eat them. Internalize them into your soul, make them a part of your being. Borrow from them, but do not copy anyone’s style. That is what made them unique.
If you look at my photographs, I attempt to find beauty in the mundane. I find a harmonious order in about everywhere I look. I love urban decay. The cities of the East, the abandoned rust belt factories and half rotted homes are my playground. I cannot wait to go back there, the cities of California are phony, plastic, built of garbage bags and soda bottles. In my writing I take the middle path. I deal with weighty issues, things that no one else wants to think about. They are important though. Eating them will be a bitter pill that makes you stronger and better able to cope with the daily stupidities that surround us.
Writers. Your first move should be to purchase a large sledgehammer. If you are small and weak, get a mallet, but not a rubber one. You have to make sure that your fancy plasma screen television will be smashed to bits and your satellite receiver utterly destroyed in your creative catharsis. Or you could sell it to some other slob for a discounted price. Parting ways with your television will be difficult at first. You may have withdrawals. You may say once or twice, “Jesus Christ deliver me from my boredom!”
What a luxury it is to have the time to be bored! Your ancestors fought tooth and nail with sabertooth cats and wooly mammoths so you could sit and watch American Idol and rant and rave about who should have won and who should have lost. More than one was devoured by a crocodile before we conquered them and made them into Gucci belts and Hermes wallets. Others slaved their lives away in the agricultural fields under the yoke of serfdom. And you’re bored! Get a video game. Or CREATE SOMETHING!
That the youth of today are bumblebees who buzz lazily from one sweet flower of entertainment to the next is apparent. Life is being entertained. How many of them would trade this world for the World of Warcraft?
Writers of today and tomorrow. You are entering into a lonely endeavor. You will have to isolate yourself. Surround yourself with your friends. Your friends are your fellow writers who may have died hundreds of years ago, but live through their works. Meet and greet William Shakespeare and John Milton. Go insane with Byron. Do a line of blow with Hunter S. Thompson. Ride a raft with Mark Twain. If you feel like reading Moby Dick, by all means go ahead. Commune with the blind Greek immortal Homer. Don’t watch the film Troy. Read the Iliad. Please.
I am signing off from the blog postings until all else is taken care of. Of course when the novel is complete, it will be available for sale on Amazon.com. I will also post the free .pdf file here for your perusal.
Thank you and happy writing,
Jeffrey M. Hopkins
New Review of Broken Under Interrogation
This is what I feel to be the most relevant review of this “most relevant work of fiction to appear in quite awhile.” It is from M. Whetstone and they gave it Five Stars out of Five on Amazon.com
Focusing on America’s two wars, on terrorism and drugs, author Jeffrey Hopkins’ first novel might be the most relevant work of fiction to appear in quite awhile. As the debates on the legality and morality of both torture and drugs sweep through the U.S., Broken Under Interrogation provides us with the haunting reality of both topics.
The novel provides a clear view into the dark world that surrounds those who torture and those who are tortured. As many previous reviews have stated, Hopkins uses graphic desciption and an extreme focus to take a reader inside the true heart of torture. If it seems harsh, it is because torture is harsh in nature. By refusing to romanticize the topic, the author gives readers a true scale to weigh their own moral standing on an issue that helps define who we are.
More importantly, from the view of affecting more lives, Broken cuts through the propaganda of the western world’s “war” on drugs and gives a brutal answer to the question, “Who is benefitting from this war?” That the author is seamlessly weaving the war and terror and drugs is certainly the novel’s high point from a philosophical standpoint.
Jeffrey M. Hopkins is the author of Broken Under Interrogation. It is available on Amazon.com.
Redemption
Redemption
“Redemption” copyright 2009, Jeffrey M. Hopkins, All Rights Reserved. “Redemption” composed with Leica M3, Leica 50mm Summicron F/2.0, with Ilford Delta 100 B+W Professional Film.
A Revolution
A Revolution
“A Revolution” is copyright 2009, Jeffrey M. Hopkins, All Rights Reserved. “A Revolution” was composed with Leica IIIF, Leica Elmar 50mm, Ilford Delta 100 Film.
Writing
Writing
“Writing” copyright 2009, Jeffrey M. Hopkins, All Rights Reserved. Photograph composed with Leica IIIF, Leica Elmar 50mm, with Ilford Delta 100 Black and White Film.
Death, Rebirth
Death, Rebirth
“Death, Rebirth” is copyright 2009, Jeffrey M. Hopkins, All Rights Reserved. Photograph Composed with Leica M3, Carl Zeiss Summicron 28mm Biogon T, with Ilford Delta 100 Black and White Film.
Our Sojourn
Our Sojourn
“Our Sojourn” copyright, Jeffrey M. Hopkins, 2009, All Rights Reserved. “Our Sojourn” composed with Leica M3, Leica 50mm Summicron with Ilford Delta 100 Black and White Film.
Thinking
Thinking
“Thinking” Copyright 2009, Jeffrey M. Hopkins, All Rights Reserved. Photograph composed with Leica IIIF, Leica Elmar 50mm Lens, with Ilford Delta 100 Professional Black and White Film.
