Part 17 – Hero Apomixis

Hero2

Synopsis of Hero Apomixis by C.A. Seller

Hero Apomixis is a work of stream of consciousness written over 22 months while the author was incarcerated in Attica Correctional Facility in 2000/01. A story of tortuous experience at the hands of a broken social services system, bad parenting, and the Prison Industrial Complex, Hero begins to lose his mind as evidenced by fantacide and dreamories only interrupted by prison feedings. Hero is either a victim or a sociopath. The book challenges us to ask, “What would you do?”

“If you like Dante, if you like Bosch, if you like Burroughs, you’ll dig the brutally dark brilliance of C.A. Seller’s HERO APOMIXIS. A rare stroke of ever darkening courage. Welcome to hell.” Ron Whitehead

 

https://www.amazon.com/Hero-Apomixis-mr-chares-seller/dp/1517359465?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0

 

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

And the dreamories continued. Hero always said that he didn’t think GG Allen’s last gig really qualified as a “gig.” His old friend, Johnny One Eye, had asked him to help out with the equipment and sound over at The Gas Station on 2nd street and Avenue B, a performance space littered with cut and welded metal art, cannibalized motorcycles, washing machines, restaurant fixtures, broken toys, hair dryers, you name it. It was a literal sculpture garden full of junk and works of art if you

could tell them apart. Hero found most of it grotesque and

quite good – he admired any artist’s use of garbage. Truly

recycling if ever there was.

They unloaded Johnny’s truck for the late afternoon show,

set up the equipment and covered the cabinets with heavy

pieces of plastic drop cloth and cut plastic bags. Johnny was hooking up the P.A. off to the left of the band area

inside a small room with a metal roll down gate when GG

arrived wearing a German World War I helmet with a huge

spike on top of it, a three-quarter length tweed over coat,

frayed long-johns, a torn tee-shirt, and a pair of beat

to shit paratrooper jump boots. Oh, and a very cheap pair

of dark sunglasses. Hero introduced himself and told GG

that he used to play bass with Missing Foundation, a band

not too far behind The Murder Junkies in the strange and

disgusting behavior category, although MF’s rep was no wheres

near what theirs was. He said that, “We understand what

you do and respect it, we just ask that you don’t fuck-up

any of our equipment…”

GG listened out of one ear with his head tilted slightly

down. Hero hadn’t been aware of how physically big he was

and felt good when the man barely tipped his head.

Hero said, “Cool,” and quickly found something to do running

cords and setting up glad to get away from him. The

Murder Junkies were trying to do a sound check and GG yelled

through his mic but there was no P.A. yet. He looked back

at the Junkies and, when Johnny yelled, “Hero! Everything

connected?! Check the kick drum – there’s a cinder block

and some blankets in the truck.” Hero shook his head and

ran for the items he’d requested. He could hear the Junkies

warming up from Johnny’s truck parked just outside in the

sculpture garden and he speed walked back inside with everything – wanting to secure the bass drum and mic before the

band really got going. Hero set up the mic and then the

cinder block to keep the kick-drum from moving forward with the blanket between the drum and the block. GG’s brother, Merle, said, “Well alright!” and his long Hitler stache moved forward with the wind he made shouting his approval. Hero ran around checking everything one last time and then he headed over to join Johnny at the P.A. The band was ready – they’d been

ready. About a dozen people were already hanging around

and more came in as GG Allin and The Murder Junkies did

a sound check that Hero thought was surprisingly tight –

he hadn’t known them primarily for their music. A group of

half drunk art punks crowded into the old garage; it was

built just big enough to fit two cars and maybe a rollaway

tool chest. The latest lease holder had constructed a really

cheesy bar on the 2nd street end of the building where the

service department had once been. Hero was checking out

the girls and decided to get himself some free beer; perks.

He was still big from all the body building he’d done up

north and he liked how the girls were watching him and trying

not to get caught. He was shy.

One chick with wavy brown shoulder length hair

was built like a shit brick house in tight, dark denim blue jeans and matching  jacket wearing expensive cowboy boots looked as if she’d come alone. Hero wanted this big voluptuous girl but she didn’t pay any attention to him whatsoever instead standing at the very front of the crowd

only a few feet from GG who was belting out the 2nd

of his sound checks. She was wearing a big glass eyeball

held in a silver eagle’s talon on a long leather thong that

hung around her neck. Her tits were huge and healthy and

the eyeball was hanging right in between them just above

the last closed button of her shirt. This girl was something

right off the farm – at least if looks counted for anything.

She was really healthy, not overly attractive, but plenty

sexy and clean was all Hero could think of although

there was definitely more going on here than met the eye.

Yeah, really healthy and really odd.

When the band finished, GG put his mic back on the stand

and disappeared out the garage’s entrance. The Murder Junkies

were still fucking around with their instruments while the

little crowd of drunk punks milled around them. The blond

chick was taking pictures of the Junkies with a very expensive

35MM. camera. A humongous, sly, rotund Puerto Rican dude – an outlaw for sure – with clean mc boots and new jeans sporting

a club patch on the back of his vest walked over to talk

to Merle. He gave Hero the willies. He imagined this

dude, and his somewhat noticeably thinner and dirtier flunky

behind him off to the left, hanging out with GG and the

MJ’s, chopping up the bodies of crack heads they’d killed

for rec somewhere deep inside the South Bronx; drinking

cheap beer out of  gallon bottles shaped like jugs, maybe

out of someone’s boots – who the fuck knew what might happen?

They all appeared to know each other pretty well, and, had

Hero the presence of mind, he’d have realized a lot sooner

that nothing of the sort was going on – no matter how grungy

The Murder Junkies might look.

Johnny called over and asked him, “Well, what’a ya think?

Where’d GG go?”

Hero knew John was nervous about his equipment.

“He went outside – he’s cool,” he said, but wasn’t sure

of anything and could hear it in the second half of his

answer. Some more free beer and then Hero headed outside

carrying a big, red, plastic to-go cup. Slack humid summer’s heat

and only the very poor or the very unlucky are still in

town. Muggy with a capitol “e”.

He checked on John’s truck where Louie the pit bull

was taking a nap in the cab. The dog looked up at him when

he got close and then, disinterestedly, let his muzzle settle

back down on top of his paws. Hero and Louie had known each

other a long time – in doggy years anyway – so he went and

got the keys from John and set him up in the bed of the

small pick-up with his leash looped through a cinder block

and then folded some blankets for him to lay on. Johnny

came outside and got his keys. Flies buzzed fast on the

warm gentle breezes of wafting domestic garbage odors. Hero

wanted to go cop. He was starting to feel, “a little hinky

around the edges,” as he would often say when he was just

beginning to get dope sick. He told John that he had to

go somewhere – maybe a phone call – or something.  John

asked him, “Where?” He didn’t want to lose Hero before the

gig was over.

“I gotta go make a phone call,” but Johnny knew by the

way he’d said it looking out towards Houston Street exactly

what he had to go do.

“You’re gonna go cop,” said John in between sips on his

trademark cup of coffee: always blue and white, always paper,

and they always said “Thank You – Come Again” on the side.

It was as if he took NA with him everywhere he went right

inside that coffee cup – which was pretty good considering

the fact that he was dealing enough herb to keep half of

the Lower East Side stoned for a fortnight and maybe then some.

“I hope so, Hero, I can’t deal with all this shit by myself,

right Lou? “ and Louie squinted back at him in full agreement

bribed with nothing more than a scratch behind the ears.

“I’ll be right back,” Hero called to them over his shoulder.

Louie stood up to watch him leave .

Hero headed downtown by only blocks to Clinton and Rivington

where he copped a bag from a Dominican guy he’d done time

with, sniffed it on his way back to The Gas Station.

The summer sun would stay out late. The blond chick,

he kept thinking just to tease himself with a little mental

mind fucking; she was different and not in any good way

either. Anyone who wanted to stand in front of GG Allin when

he was on stage, or even on cement – like today, was guaranteed

to get shitted down, pissed down, and, most probably knocked

down by a naked and hysterical GG Allen covered in, D. all

of the above mixed with blood. All of it real, too.

Hero played a lot of games but not any involving those particular

body fluids. GG had been put in jail more than a few

times and the only song that Hero had ever heard by him

went something like this: “Hey, New Hampshire! Stick that

warrant up your ass!” and so on and so forth, an inventory

of all the states where he was no longer appreciated for

his imaginative style of Punk Rock performance “art.”

The crowd was getting thick outside the tiny space and

had begun spilling out into the side of the yard full of

arc welded sculpture and 20th century fossils. The

organizers had put up a few stolen NYPD crowd control barricades and some clothes line to try and corral the fans into an

orderly queue before coming into The Gas Station without having to worry that the drunk and rowdy punks would run amok in the art garden or crash the show.

 

Suddenly, Hero’s lights and radio went off. They stayed

off for a little less than a minute and then came back on

again. Two minutes later – they went off and stayed off.

“Why are you turning my lights off?” he whined, knowing

full well that whoever had done this most foul of evil deeds

had done so from the beginning of the catwalk behind the

cells way up at the front of the company.

The cops would turn a guy’s lights off for:

  1. playing his radio too loud.
  2. playing his TV too loud.
  3. fat mouthing on the gate.
  4. arguing with the C.O.
  5. to put him on the burn for any real or imagined offence.

It was a punishment the C.O.s had been using ever since

the jail opened 70 years ago and was never a part of any

official punishments that could be imposed after a Misbehavior

Report and Tier Hearing like keep lock, box time, loss of

phone, commissary, recreation or personal property, and reduced

rations which consisted of a mouth watering vitamin enriched

“cabbage loaf” 3 times a day for as long as the hearing

officer thought you needed it. The cops also burned guys

for chow by not letting them out of their cells to go eat

one, two, and sometimes all three meals in a day. Hero hadn’t

done anything wrong and thought that it must have been a

mistake – which in the larger scheme of things actually

aggravated the whole situation since he didn’t have a clue

what it was he was being punished for. That is, until

Jughead and the kid in the cell next him, Mike, came back

from the commissary and found out that not only were their

lights off  too. When Jughead ran an extension cord

from Matt’s cell to his he discovered that the cops had also disconnected the antenna hook-up for his precious TV – one of the $75, 12”, no-name B&W pieces of shit that someone working in Attica was collecting a very healthy kickback on.

“Something must’ve happened while I was at the store,”

said Jughead conspiratorially and knowing. Intimating that

Hero had done “something” since he was the only one who hadn’t gone to the commissary for 10 cells in either

direction and had been spacing out silently for the past

48+ hours. He stayed shut and prayed for Jughead’s early

death. Anytime that evening would have been just fine. He

was an arrogant idiot and arguing with him was about as

rewarding as hitting yourself in the face with a shovel,

although it could have been worse. This was only Hero’s opinion.

 

The Murder Junkies had just returned with slices of pizza.

Johnny One Eye was drinking yet another cup of coffee from

the bodega on the corner, his disfigured ring finger (the

result of a childhood accident), permanently bent at the

last joint before its nail, hung over the lid’s edge at

an eerie 45 degree angle while the rest of his digits removed

the white plastic cover so he could drain the last warm

dregs of the only drug Johnny did now. Caffeine

 

Right away Hero missed his radio with the cheapo commissary

headphones that he’d repaired 4x’s with a couple of plastic

wire-ties a few rubber bands and some scotch tape. He’d

had them for over a year and was very accustomed to their

crappy sound.  Jughead proceeded to conduct an investigation

that got him less than nowhere and plenty pissed-off. Mike,

kind’a slow, kind’a dopey, kind’a got his ass kicked by

George the Aryan in the A-block yard for, “just being dorky,

why? Do I need a reason?!” George had said and no he

didn’t. He was watching Matt’s TV with a plastic mirror

hung on the end of a cell broom ( a short itty bitty version of

a regular straw broom – about one third scale) in what

was known as a “satellite hook-up.” Hero’d never liked it:

too hard to hear anything and the image was always distorted

but some people, he knew, just had to watch television no

matter what.  Hero paced his cell (2 paces front and then

2 paces back) trying to come up with a reason for the fucked

up shit the police had done to all of them. He laid down

on his rack fully clothed and sat up on one elbow with his

hands folded over his mid section to watch the C.O.s pass

during the ten o’clock count. Jughead asked them why his

electricity was off and some young cop with a jock’s build

from playing high school football said, “I don’t know why

there’s no power. I’ll let them know,” without breaking

his stride and he was gone.

“What’d he say?” whined Hero not too loudly.

“I don’t know, he said he’ll let them know,” Jughead answered. The man was retarded and there was the last

proof of it that Hero would ever need.

“’Let them know?’“ repeated Hero, “he is them!” And under

his breath he added, “fuckin’ clowns,” secretly lumping

the retard in with “them.”

Hero paced some more trying to adjust to his “return”

to the 18th century and then he went to bed.

During the morning count, first Jughead, then Mike and

finally Hero, all asked the cops what was up with the electricity?

The same jerk-off from the night before was working

And told all of them, “I don’t know, all white guys, huh?

Must be a racist thing,” and then he smirked and marched

his little bitch-jock-ass back up the gallery.

“Fuckin’ bitch,” Hero hissed through his teeth. A few

minutes later his cell was cracked for A.M. meds – Jughead

told him, “Tell him to put my cable on.” Hero didn’t even

bother to answer him. The cable connection was behind

the cells on the catwalk and as such would be the hardest

thing to get turned back on. Not only that but why should

he break his head getting anything of Jughead’s turned back

on? Hero was going to work on his own shit .

“Fuckin’ scumbag,” he said to himself and the words echoed

inside his head the way a basketball does in an empty gymnasium.

He walked up front where the psych nurse was giving

out the meds, took the little paper cup she’d set out

for water and saw that when the gate was open the kiddykop

was standing just out of view – hiding – no doubt.

“Can you tell me why my electricity off?” Hero asked jr.,

looking him dead between the eyes.

“I don’t know. I can put a work order in,” he answered.

Hero felt that somehow he’d ruffled baby’s feathers ever

so subtly. His answer was total bullshit and before he

could get the 2nd half of this waste of breath over his lips

to go on fouling up the air, Hero had turned into the slop sink

to fill the medication cup. He turned right around

with the full cup and as the nurse was giving him his

lithium tablet asked puppy, “You said earlier that it must have been a racist thing – are you saying my lights were turned off because I’m Jewish?” this time with a little

more octane in his voice than before, and again he dead eyed

the bully-bitch loser.

“No, I said that because it must have been a black officer

who turned off all of your power,” obviously referring to

Jughead and Mike and, just as before, Hero turned around

and started walking away while jr. was still trying to finish

his sentence; in essence – and fact – giving the asshole

his back.

That son-of-a – bitch had some fucking nerve – black officer

– there were 2 in all of Attica and one of them

swore he was an Indian! That was alright though because

Hero’s strategy was 2 fold and guaranteed effective to accomplish nothing more than piss this asshole off: the cop had

used the word “racist …” Hero had used the word “Jewish.”

That right there was enough to be entirely misconstrued

so that he might start all sorts of shit for jr. – who didn’t

look too bright to begin with and the nurse had heard

all of it, too. Hero had been rude on purpose so as to catch

the cop’s vein, and he had. That way his guard was down.

Later when Jughead came back from breakfast he told Hero

how jr. had said that he was an asshole. He smiled and

then a mildly annoying JugFacts discussion began about how

he’ d handled the situation that Hero promised himself he would

not allow to evolve into an argument. Jughead was his usually

rude and patronizing self in an effort to, “impart some

of the knowledge  I’ve learned in these places,” and the

old JugFacts standby, “I can see you ain’t done a lot’a

Max  time,” which is where Hero stopped the expert witness

from Hell because he was becoming condescending and told

him so. Silently, Hero believed Jughead was beginning to resemble a television show re-run, more and more, over and over and over again. In other words he was shot-to-the-socks. The guy was such a predictable fucking creep mouthed know-it-all and you couldn’t tell him shit. It was upsetting to watch how he spoke one way to one person – and another way to the next – and didn’t exhibit one iota of shame or maybe he just didn’t think

anyone was paying attention or maybe he just didn’t care

and thought that it was his prerogative to do so – either

way he was a piece of shit for it. His philosophies and

his motives were pure, wet, runny, sme1ly bullshit. Hero had seen his two faced behavior and noted right away that he

was a lousy liar an idiot and a loser. It was the subjects

he lied about that made him dangerous until you knew what

you were dealing with. After that he was just an idiot.

Jughead had practically gotten his head kicked in on one

side by the C.O.s in some Medium over a fucking Scrabble

game. That was about a year earlier. Hero didn’t bring it

up, the man was too much of an idiot, an annoying idiot,

a fucking idiot, to even entertain the thought of an argument

with. Hero wished his health were better because with another

20 lbs. on his frame he thought he could’ve stood an even

chance of busting Jughead’s ass with nothing but his hands

and then he would have told him all about himself. That was another “funny” thing about Jug, he won a lot of fights;

thing is though that he never fought anybody who might give

him a hard time. Hero’d  heard him cop a plea with General, what more did he need to see?

Of course the cop was trying to flip Jughead on Hero

for nothing but saying something that had really got under

the prick’s skin. Jughead told Hero that jr. said, “Well,

the electric, that’s easy – but the TV? I gotta walk all

the way down there – that’s gonna cost you.”

Yes, “all the way down,” the catwalk – the exact same

distance as it was on the gallery side of the cells, “all

the way.” Yeah, sure you’re right. Extortion was not at

all uncommon between prisoners and police alike. To send

food to another company usually cost a pack of Flavors,

or the cop might tax the bag instead, go shopping so to

speak. And why not? He might take the whole fucking thing

if he felt like and often without any worry of retribution.

The right cop could fix a dirty urine for anywhere from

5 to 25 packs of cigarettes – depending on who was collecting

your piss. The entire prison was corrupt as all get out.

The Superintendent and his Deputy’s had mess hall inmates

forever loading up their car trunks with meats and cheese

and cereal by the crate. It was as good as it was bad. Everyone

was stealing – the only real crime was if you got caught;

then the politics were cutthroat. Now that, thought Hero,

was a Catch-22!

A little later the C.O. made his rounds and Mike asked

him very politely if he and his neighbors could get their

lights turned back on, he said he had legal work to do.

Smart, Hero thought or at least worth a try. The cop, not

jr., he was off somewhere probably still attempting to make

sense out of what Hero had done to him earlier that morning,

said he’d get the keys from the lobby where they were kept

for security reasons. That was the only part of his statement

that was true; the keys  kept in the lobby – ran back

and forth as movement necessitated. They would never lose

control of that jail ever again. Ever. Ever. When 2 bells

sound’ed over a fight, the entire jail locked in – if you

were stuck in the corridor you played the wall. Maintenance

and porters were locked in either the shower or the slop-sink.

“Hey, Mike,” Jughead called out of his gate, “you think

you could could’ve blown’im any harder?”

Hero couldn’t get over the nastiness of this fucking idiot scumbag.

Bravo, Mike, Hero wanted to yell but thought it

better to just stay shut and avoid any unnecessary bullshit.

And besides, things were uncomfortable enough as the hard

reality of having no power was fast making itself more and

more apparent. For instance: to shit, you always tied your

blanket to the bars for privacy (and out of respect), and

took care of your business; but in the dim light of the

gallery or with an overcast sky, Hero was afraid he might

miss a dinkleberry or a klingon, you know? Shaving was difficult, too and would now have to be done facing the bars

with a bucket of water on the floor according to the sun’s

schedule. He missed his NPR and hoped he’d be able to hear

“Science Friday” at 2P.M., and “Whatta’ Ya’ Know?” on Saturday night; the radio that had become his lifeline to sanity

but it didn’t look very promising. He wondered, what

of George C. Scott’s aneurysm? Hero had overheard some tabloid TV. show that one of the brain surgeons had been watching say that it was alleged to have been caused by a bad jalapeno pepper in his salsa. Enquiring minds wanted to know. Scott was a great actor and tough for real, he was a 4 year Marine Corps veteran. He’d called the Academy Awards,” a self-serving meat parade,” in what was one profoundly accurate

observation that expressed what he saw as the foster promotion

of competition in what was originally an art form. Scott

refused his Oscar for Patton but Hero always liked him

best in Airport with, what was her name? Helen Hayes as

the old lady? He couldn’t remember and thought that she

should have at least been nominated. It was rumored that

Scott had once left his phone off the hook for an entire

year. Cool. Very, cool. Hero, truly the news junkie, waited

in his silent cell for sick call. Maybe jr. would burn him.

Maybe he’d search Hero’s cell while he was out and “find”

a razor or a shank. Maybe Hero didn’t care. [see absentee

question marks. id.] Too sick, too tired, and too miserably

annoyed at being punished in such an unorthodox and unlawful

manner – for nothing. Nothing. No-thing. “In-mate. What

the fuck is an in-mate?” he spat. “I’m no fuck-ing ‘mate’

to this – or any other system of waste and lies and pain

– I’m not a ‘mate’ to any motherfucking system, period.

In-mate, like a willing participant or something. Fuck no,

not me, Jack.”

 

CA Seller
Art Dan Reece


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