Fascist Catfish
Succulent hot catfishcornmeal breaded and deep fried
golden giving up steaming oil rich
flesh in delectable bite sized chunks
brought 'em hungry and grinnin'
just about droolin'
for all they could eat
at the popular Meat 'n Three
in a small town in Tennessee
wearin' coveralls, "lahyiar" duds,
county mounty uniforms and jeans
to celebrate the Feast of St. Weekend
on Fridays as was the custom
quasi religiously observed
to feel a little fat and contented,
a little extravagant,
a little sociable,
a little cultured,
a little alive,
a little prominent after a week
spent craving prominence.
The deco theme of the Meat 'n Three
was "country" without a doubt,
with riddles printed on place mats,
hillbilly brainteasers at all the tables
challenging a feller to leave
just one peg after jumpin' a bunch
like checkers.
The walls were covered
with cheerful hanging quilts
sewn with inspired energy and care
square by motley colored square
forming innocent whole cloth,
a demonstration of utility,
the quits were truly exemplars
of autochthonal art.
Deputy county sheriffs sat beneath
a wild hanging quilt
which seemed to emanate
from above their heads
as an ethereal aura of the type
psychics claim to see.
The deputies were having catfish
in a mannerly good natured way
manipulating knives and forks
in well muscled hands,
immaculate in uniform and demeanor,
the role models of public etiquette,
smiling cherubic smiles
with a twinkle in their eyes,
(and don't y'all do nothin'
to make 'em otherwise),
in concert with the aura
of the wild hanging quilt
stitched thickly in places
bunching the cloth
to form lines which ...
Jimmy the builder walked in
wearin' his stars and bars belt buckle
followed by his crew of
granite faced, reticent and able
miscreants purged of chewing tobacco
one step ahead of the law
with respect to tickets 'n
"behind on child support,"
they assumed poses of the devout
across the room from
the county mounties
under the aura of another
hanging quilt of stitching forming lines.
Jimmy nodded at the sergeant deputy.
"Hey Jimmy!" the sergeant exclaimed.
"Catfish for you guys?" The waitress asked.
"Sweet or unsweet tea?"
"Sweet." "Sweet." "Sweet."
"Unsweet." said Unsweet Bob.
"Bob's havin' unsweet," Jimmy announced
in a cryptic tone.
"Does he think he's got pull with ya?"
A deputy asked the sergeant.
"We go to Sons of Confederate Veterans
Tuesday nights."
The deputy persisted.
"I'd like to pull that bunch over
and search that van for dope."
The sergeant issued orders.
"Leave "em alone. They're just
good ol' boys payin' bills. Jimmy
might lose a few of 'em
on account of Eyerack."
Jimmy considered his crew.
"Y'all look like you're off your feed,"
He chuckled. Is Speed Trap lookin' at ya?"
Unsweet Bob spoke up.
"It's a wonder he don't see
the corner dope pusher out yonder
in broad daylight."
Jimmy worked fish bone patiently
to his lips and spit lightly
into a napkin.
He shook his head for dramatic effect
and declared, "I hate corruption."
He glared at his crew
with the pale stare that
could weld steel.
"Hear?" he spoke sharply.
The boys nodded comprehension
and sat taller suddenly
stretching coveralls and ate
with a ravenous appetite.
...the stitching in the quilts
was prominent in places,
bunching up the cloth
in thick lines which formed
crosses in the quilts
and creased the cloth
at the ends of the crosses
so as to form
thick handles ...
The insurance adjusters
made their animated entrance
into the now giddy Meat 'n Three
and made pumped up
theatrical appraisal of the
hanging quilts with the
behandled crosses sewn into 'em.
They wore slacks, shirts
with collars and cell phones
at the hip.
"Quilts! Cool! I feel right
at home!" One said to the other.
"Yeah, real cozy." the other said.
I'm feelin' cozy," he eyeballed
the waitress, "How about you?"
"Sure am hon'," She said unruffled.
He studied the menu
and its tired options
to save a buck maybe.
Is Andersen still fightin' ya?"
"I'm fixin' to tell 'im
what Tennessee law says.
It'll be one more go 'round
I reckon."
"Good ol' law pitch,
blows most of 'em off.
Well there was that one guy
who wrote me back sayin'
I didn't know beans
about Tennessee law."
"So what happened next?"
"Well, I made him a reasonable offer."
He laughed. After a few seconds
the other professional laughed hard.
A shadow darkened the floor
causing a perceptive lull
hardly noticeable
as a tall presence filled the doorway
in the person of the auctioneer,
a daily icon who sipped coffee
slowly at the Meat 'n Three
with all the charm
of the Grim Reaper,
he was the end of the line
when the farm had to go
along with the guns and chain saws.
He sat down slowly
exuding the gravitas of a judge
who judged judges
and listened and watched
receptive to serious conversation
that one would care to engage in
with a foot in the grave. Words with
Mr. Haskell were final. You
couldn't take anything back
upon pain of very raised eyebrows.
He noticed the hanging quilts
and began studying them,
searching for some meaning
in the squares of cloth
as he knew quilts conveyed
a message sometimes
like that AIDS quilt about
some damned thing.
Was there some kind of a message
here? He needed to know
of such matters. He could not
afford to miss out on
the "only game in town" if
there was one.
The quilts looked like just
hunks of cloth sewn together
by old ladies or girls from the
high school who didn't know
message from cribbage.
He focused on the wild quilt
hanging over the cops
like a living aura
displaying their inner thoughts
and level of tah-khet-empfeh.
His face froze into stone
as he recognized a crude shape
in the quilt.
It was kinda hidden and crude
but it was there
in an uneven way plain as day
like he'd seen it scrawled
on walls and bathroom stalls.
the stitchin' made a cross
then handles at the ends of the cross
goin' in the same direction,
always to the left if
the damned thing was flipped over
end over end.
The shape seemed bound
by the bunched stitchin'
like it was being held back
from jumpin' out
and flyin' around the room
like some mindless moskeeter.
The shapes were all around him
trapped in the quilts.
He was overcome suddenly
with vertigo and he closed his eyes
to recover his sanity.
Surreptitiously he reexamined
the quilts and confirmed
the swastikas were there,
all around the room,
growin' in the quilts!.
A waitress stopped by and spoke
with concern in her voice,
"Are you alright Mr. Haskell?"
He met her eyes with
terrifying sobriety resenting
her condescending tone since
he was always "alright."
"I'm just fine," he stated a cold fact.
She glanced around at the quilts.
"Pretty, aren't they?" she said.
He stared at her.
"We made 'em"" she announced with pride.
He nodded, "Yeah, real pretty," he intoned.
"Kinda turns the place into an art museum."
"Yes, it does sure enough!" She giggled.
She left and he watched the cops
sucking catfish bones, carryin' on
belted in shining patent leather.
He smiled at the blissful embryonic
fascism thriving around him and
sipped coffee deliberately as he recalled
the days of his very early manhood
when he was certified for the
Browning Automatic Rifle to go
to France. He recalled the letter
he still had at home to prove it.
He recalled the Krauts' swastikas,
all the shooting, the blood. "Yeah,"
he said to himself, "It's about
people lookin' for an answer."
The white noise of the conversations
going on around him was the
familiar buzz regarding fragile
contentment attached to the grid of
a desperate economy he knew
was still crawling along.
The swastika loomed in front of him
throbbing in the cloth hanging
over the cops. He felt so
German all of a sudden. His distant
German roots came alive. It was
the amicability here. It was
the indefatigable optimism in
the face of adversity. The
sight of the uniforms gave him
a sudden surge in appetite. He
suddenly noticed discipline,
strength, greatness. He chuckled
at the swastikas. He noticed
America the way she oughta be
minus all the pain of course.
He'd be keeping an eye on things
as time went on.
The waitress came by again
leeching condescension toward
his age, he knew. "Will you be
eating today Mr. Haskell?" She
asked out of politeness. "Yes,"
He said, "I'll have all the fried
catfish I can eat." She rolled
her eyes saying, "My, this is a
surprise." He glanced up
at her revealing all the teeth
in his massive head with a
humorless grin. "Well," he
said, "We're just full of
surprises aren't we?"
Fascism going once, twice,
three times. Sold.
The spirited consumption of
catfish went on until piles
of skeletons were all
that remained.
(I watched the cops and everybody
eating under the dancing swastikas
hanging about their art museum. I
shared no interpretation with management
regarding the objets d'art.
After all, one keeps one's opinions
to oneself in an art museum.
Six years later I visited the
Meat 'n Three to check on the
quilts. The quilts were gone.
The waitress told me they were
taken down because they just
got dirty.)
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 674 times
Written on 2007-02-25 at 22:44
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