Here’s a snippet from my new novel, Phil’s Siren Song. Kearsley Park played a part in every East-sider’s childhood, am I right? I enjoy remembering the things that happened there, as well imaging scenes that never occurred. I hope to have the new book out before February. Sam Cronin (amazing musician and graphic artist now based in Chicago) has designed an amazing, exciting cover.
*Phil, the narrator, is tossing a Frisbee around in the parking lot of Kearsley Park with punk rocker Five O’clock Shadow Brian.
I am not exactly an amazing athletic specimen, but Brian is crazy about Frisbee. We spend some time in the parking lot beside the pavilion at Kearsley Park. The Frisbee seems exceptionally heavy to me, like a weapon. Technique is paramount to safety and, well, enjoyment, let’s be honest. I do not like sports because I do not excel at them.
It is a beautiful fall day. The woods circling the park are orange and red. The working class neighborhoods are faded: a watercolor. The sky, likewise, is stone-washed. Soft denim. Pre-washed cotton. Why would anyone leave this town?
I wing a Frisbee well over Five-O’clock-Shadow Brian’s head, but he glides back with grace and ease to snag it in full stride.
The pavilion is painted a dull green like the color of a hospital orderly’s uniform. Aside from us, the park is still. A vehicle occasionally passes around its perimeter.
If you are not careful, there is a grit to this town that can get into your shorts. Transparent granules of sand that can wind up in your Jockey’s or Hanes. A rogue long hair that can find its way into your mouth. Unemployment is high. The murder rate is outrageous, but it’s never anybody I know. Stuart talks about the whites, the blacks, the Mexicans, and now, the Indians. He talks about the East Side, the North End, the West Side, the South End. He rambles on about plumbers and pipe fitters, shoprats, unions, GM, GMI, U of M-Flint, the working class, blue collar, white collar, cops. High school, elementary school, the nuns.
“So, you have no idea how Nigel is doing?” I am a little out of breath.
“Nope.” When Brian swings his arm out, releasing the Frisbee, he looks like a poster child for an ad campaign for healthy lifestyles for skinheads.
“It would be nice to know,” I shout.
“Nice to know what?” he shouts.
“How Nigel is doing.” I am panting. “Should I actually be sweating? Is Frisbee an actual sport?”
“Why?”
“I need to get in shape.” The Frisbee stings the palm of my hand, falls to the asphalt.
“Why are you so worried about Nigel?”
“I’m not.” I am concentrating on properly returning this fucking disc, man.
Traffic has picked up on Iowa Avenue which runs along the eastern portion of the park on its way to Robert T Longway Boulevard. The thought of someone else joining us in the parking lot makes me anxious.
“Political Silos is thinking about a tour.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I’ve got a fuckin’ job, man. I’m taking classes.”
“Same here,” I say.
I put my hand up to indicate a halt to the Frisbee. “We need to do this more often,” I shout. “So I don’t totally suck.”
“Yer fine,” Brian shouts.
He is lying. When you get right down to it, everybody is.
