The Flood

by Doug Draime

The levee was breaking
and a call went out
over the local radio station
for all able bodied men
and any male children
that could lift
at least
forty pounds,
to come down to
the levee to help
fill and stack sandbags
to reinforce the old
dilapidated walls. I piled
on a flatbed trunk
with my grandfather and
some neighbors.

The sky was black
and ominous, ready to
split open again
with thunder and
another massive downpour. We
got to 1st  street
across from the levee,
where four or five other flatbed trucks
were parked, men and kids
getting off them, and one
truck already empty
heading back out
to pick up more people. Women
were serving coffee, donuts,
and hot chocolate; makeshift
tables were lined up for
a block down 1st street. There were
about ten men filling sandbags
and sealing them up. We had
gotten off the truck and the
National Guard was directing
everyone to form a line
in front of the men filling the sandbags,
to pass them down to a few
other men standing by
and ready to stack them against
the levee walls.

We could all see and
hear the raging Wabash
flowing and busting
over the top of the walls. I was
only nine, skinny and barely
able to pass the bags
down the line. We heard
shouts from
the National Guard,
that there was another crack
farther down the wall. Almost
simultaneously it started
to  rain, falling down on us
like spilling buckets. I don’t know
how I passed those bags,
my arms and legs and hands
were throbbing with pain.

It was a long time before we
got a break, as others fresh from the trucks
replaced us on the line. I
wolfed down four powered donuts
and a cup of
hot chocolate. And just as we
were being directed to form another
line, the National Guard
on bullhorns were
shouting again and this time, that the dam
a couple of miles down
river was breaking and that we all
had to EVACUATE THE
AREA IMMEDIATELY and go back
to our homes. We scrambled like monkeys
and piled back on the trucks, and I looked back
as we were hauling ass out of there
and watched people shouting
and running for vehicles and just
plain running helter-skelter in every direction;
the garbled sound of bullhorns echoing and
vibrating through the lights from the trunks
in the deluge of
pouring rain.

Romantics, My Ass!

by Doug Draime

 Byron drilled him as he was
 coming in the door
 of Mary’s Bar,
 with his colt 44.

 The bullet hit Shelly
 just under the collarbone,
 and went through
 his silk blouse,
 coming out his right
 shoulder blade

 Then it hit Keats’
 cell phone, as he was calling
 the cops on his
 crazy-drunk friends, and he
 started thinking -  as parts
 of his phone flew all over
 the bar - that maybe
 these fuckers might just be
 revolutionaries, after all.

Local Man Running For Governor

by Doug Draime

 Someone
 remarked
 that he
 looked
 a lot
 like
 Hugh
 Hefner.
 But to me
 he
 looked
 a lot
 like
 Bank of
 America
 with a
 white
 sheet
 over
 his head
 burning
 down the
 local
 food
 bank.

Lily And Bob

by Doug Draime

Bob was back
in the corner
by the juke box, his
shotgun propped
up against the
machine. No one
had noticed him
coming in the back-
door. Lily was serving
some rowdies at the
front table. I’d been
watching the Reds kick
the shit outta the
Cubs on the black
& white at the
end of the bar.
And if I hadn’t
turned when Jerry
asked for another beer,
I wouldn’t have
noticed Bob sitting
there either.
I walked over
and drew Jerry
a draft. Bob was
craning his neck around
trying to get a good
look at Lily. I sat the draft
in front of Jerry
and reached under
the counter for the
.357, and stuck it
under my shirt, and
started walking back
to the table.
Bob spotted me coming
and moved his
shotgun, laying
it across the
table, with 2 fingers
resting on the trigger.
He yelled at me,
“This is done of
your concern, Doug.
I just came to
get Lily. Go back
behind the bar
and tend to business.”
Lily was
right behind me by
then and I knew
she could see the
bulge of the gun.
“Bob, you need
to take your
fingers off the trigger
and sit the fucking
shotgun back against
the juke box.
And I need you
to do that, now, OK?”
Bob just stared
at me, trying to
stare me down.
The place grew
as still as a rock.
“I don’t want
any trouble with
you, Doug. I
came to get Lily,
like I said.”
I could hear
Lily starting to
cry behind me.
“You come in here
with a shotgun
and you don’t want
any trouble? I
think you’re
a little confused,
man. You need to call it a
night, go home and
sleep if off.”
He was just tapping his
fingers on the stock of
the shotgun
near the trigger
and staring at me.
I could feel
Lily moving, as she
touched my
shoulder and stepped
out in front
of me.
She took a couple
steps toward
the table,
haltingly, gently
reaching out
her hand.
“Bob, honey, I’ll
leave with you
but you have
to stop this
before someone
gets killed. We
can work
this out, baby.
You don’t
want anybody
to get hurt, Bob.
I know
you don’t.”
Locked on mine,
Bob’s eyes moved
slowly away
to Lily’s,
his whole
body softening.
He took his hand
off the
shotgun and stood up,
his eyes
filling with tears.
Not another word
was spoken,
as Bob
began to sob.
Lily had his hand and was
leading him
out the back door.
When I heard
his old pickup start,
I walked over
and picked-up the
shotgun, broke it open,
and took
the shells out,
put them in my pocket.
Walking back
up to the bar
with the unloaded
weapon, some wise ass played
Lovesick Blues, by
Hank Williams,
and there was an
uproar of laughter.

Romantics, My Ass!

by Doug Draime

Byron drilled him as he was
coming in the door
of Mary’s Bar,
with his colt 44.

The bullet hit Shelly
just under the collarbone,
and went through
his silk blouse,
coming out his right
shoulder blade

Then it hit Keats’
cell phone, as he was calling
the cops on his
crazy-drunk friends, and he
started thinking - as parts
of his phone flew all over
the bar - that maybe
these fuckers might just be
revolutionaries, after all.

Jimmy The Toad

by Doug Draime

They said I was
babbling incoherently
and swinging at
anyone
who got within
5 feet of me.
No one in the bar
at the time,
could handle
the situation.
And Maxine ran
next door to
Ray’s Market
and got my friend
Jimmy the Toad.
All I know
is when I woke up
in the hospital
with a broken nose
and 2 cracked ribs,
Jimmy was leaning
over me
crying
and apologizing
for using a little
too much force,
offering me
a bowl of
orange sherbet

Night Of The Slow Drummer

In Memory of Mike Eagle Claw

by Doug Draime

He banged his drum steady,
slower than most
In the moonlight haze,
in the falling mist of 3 A.M.
When all the other
drummers were asleep in dreamland
He banged his drum steady,
slowly till the white doves of dawn
began to coo gently in bright sunbeams,
in change shifting waves of morning light
He banged his drum steady,
slowly till all the living earth awoke
from the prolonged dark night of its dream