Postcard From The End Of
By Linh Dinh
Countercurrents.org
Chuck Orloski on his school bus with a fellow driver, Rob Henderson
It doesn't get any better than this. Luxuriating in Dunkin' Donuts, Chuck Orloski and I each have our own cup of coffee and, yes, our individual donut. Shrewd, I have ordered one without a hole since you get more donut for your bucks that way. Biting into a jelly filled, deep fried piece of dough, I too am fulfilled. Momentarily forgetting about his utility bills and the onrushing due date for next month's rent, Chuck smiles goofily as he gazes into the half-filled parking lot. Across the street is a cemetery. Life is good.
Chuck's younger son, 19-year-old Joe, has a new job at the Home Depot warehouse. Joe unloads merchandises, builds crates. Each working moment is pure exertion and the day is as long as several full-length marathons. Joe can deal with it. Soon, he will buy his first car, and it won't be any used piece of crap either. Vrooming on sporty wheels, Joe will add a few inches to his six foot frame and feel all of his muscles, including those behind his eyeballs, harden.
I am staying at the Orloskis for three nights. This morning, Carol, Chuck's wife, is making scrambled eggs with American cheese and canned potatoes. Chuck's older son, Dan, likes to squirt ketchup on it. We also have English muffins. After my third cup of joe, I bark, “Isn't it weird, Chuck, that this guy picked the oldest black church in the South to kill a bunch of people? I mean, it's not just any old black chuch, it has to be the oldest motherfuckin' black church in the South!”
“Yes, it is weird.”
From the kitchen window, I can see four Taylor Borough cops standing across the street. Their preys are hapless truck drivers who are steered onto this road by a bright sign, only to discover, via a smaller sign, that there's a weight limit. Since it's too late to turn around, those who are snared by this devious scheme must pay a $750 penalty, more than a week's wage.
Carol cooks but doesn't eat. I've never seen Carol eaten anything. She is 61 and gravely ill. Several times, Chuck has found her unconscious on the floor. The day before Carol's birthday, she cheerfully said to me over the phone, “If I get up tomorrow, I'll be 61!”
As a bus driver, Chuck meets many interesting people: violent kids who unleash their anger and sadism on those who can't fight back, foreign students working for no pay at a Pocono resort just to glancingly experience
According to the
Jose has a spacious, detached home on a rural looking street. Custom built for only $135,000, it even has a nice basement. Along the
In Jose's vestibule, there's a large clock and a rustic, wooden sign, “This House BELIEVES.” Chuck and I follow our host into the kitchen. On the central counter, there's a blender, and on a wall by the sliding doors leading to a beautiful deck, there's a small radio tuned to a Christian sermon. “I like this preacher,” Jose quietly says.
In a crew cut, Jose is a smallish yet very solidly built man, an alert welterweight with good punching power. His voice and demeanor are gentle yet insistent, for he has one message to deliver at all times. On his left hand, there's a tiny, inky “X” at the apex of the web between thumb and index finger. Perhaps more tattoos have been removed?
Working as a hospital security guard, Jose injured his spine while trying to hold down a psychiatric patient, so he's in constant pain. Hoping to feel better, Jose makes his own juice mix and drinks many glasses a day. “At first, I didn't think anything of it. Honestly, I had had bruised ribs and broken, you know, multiple surgeries. There were fights, lots of fights in there. It was a really physical job. I'm in a lot of pain, but I just have to deal with it. It's a part of life. God has a purpose for everything.”
Jose on moving to Duryea, “I love it, man, it's peaceful, and it's affordable, you know. I could never afford a house like this in
Astronomical rents in NYC has pushed many Hispanics into Eastern Pennsylvania, so there are many Puerto Ricans and Dominicans in places like
On July 14th, 2008, a 25-year-old illegal immigrant from
Fifty-six-years-old, Jose was born in
Jose's account of his harrowing life is fascinating, but his theology is not much more than, “You must accept Jesus as your personal savior,” and to do this, it's best that you join his church and contribute money, for God will reimburse you manifold. After making a large pledge, Jose unexpectedly received a huge check in the mail for his back pay. “God works in mysterious ways!”
Being an Orthodox Catholic, Chuck is certainly damned, and I'm even more so, since I have attended masses only thrice in 35 years. Once, it was for my father's funeral, and the other two times, I was with family and couldn't wiggle my way out. Though Jose has offered to make us cheeseburgers and hotdogs, it is time to leave. Before we drive off, Jose suggests that we pray, so here we all are, all of us, all clumped together, all standing, you too, on this appallingly murderous and goofy planet. Amen.
The most Catholic region in all of
I go where Chuck takes me, and our next visit is with Father Vincent Dang, a Vietnamese priest in Ashley, a town of 2,751 people just South of
I don't know anything about this priest, and neither does Chuck. Chuck left a phone message, Father Dang called back, so here we are in Ashley, an obviously poor but somewhat lively town, with folks walking on sidewalks. The clapboard houses are mostly modest but well-kept, with their tiny porches and yards neat. Though a few businesses appear long dead, I haven't spotted any graffiti or litter. The largest store here is Family Dollar. Ashley's population peaked in 1930 at 7,093. Now, it's roughly 2,750. Ashley's most famous native son is Russell Johnson, best known as “the professor” in Gilligan's Island. He also acted in the TV series The Twilight Zone and Outer Limits, and the movies It Came from Outer Space, This
We walk towards the back, ring the doorbell and a man of about 45 opens the door. (He's actually 53.) Grinning, I say in Vietnamese, “I'm sorry to bug you, Father, but my crazy friend, Chuck, insisted that we come to see you. I hope we're not bugging you?”
“No, no, come in.”
In Vietnamese, you can't just use neutral “I” and “you,” but pronouns expressing familial relationships. Since I address the priest as “father,” I have to call myself “son,” but him, being polite, actually calls me “older brother.” So I'm both his older brother and son, while he's my younger brother and father. It's like that scene in
The priest gives Chuck and me small bottles of water, instead of Yuengling, unfortunately, then he and I make small talk in Vietnamese. We're sitting in a high ceilinged and uncluttered receiving room. Suddenly, Chuck blurts, “Father, I need to make a confession. I haven't gone to confession in two years. If you don't mind, Father, I'd like to make a confession to you a little later.”
“Yes, we can do that.”
“Why don't you do it right now, Chuck?” I jump in. “Don't wait.”
“If Father Dang doesn't mind?” Chuck eyes the priest.
“No, we can go into my office right there.”
Alone, I wander into the next room where there's a statue of the Virgin Mary. Standing there staring at her, my head and stomach heat up and my eyes fill. Go ahead and laugh at me, but every so often I simply crack from the overwhelming sadness of it all, from how much has been taken away from all of us, from how we have been alienated from everything, our earth, our towns, ourselves.
Coming out, Chuck looks a bit shaken himself. My face obviously damp, I wrap my arms around my older brother, my father, my son, my long lost twin, “Get back in there, man! You have so many more sins!”
“I can't remember the Act of Contrition, Linh. I'm sorry, Father Dang. I'll say it later.”
Chuck goes to sit outside, and I soon take my leave of the priest, for an obviously distressed woman has just walked in. Stooped, she waits in his office for guidance and comfort.
Born in 1962, Father Dang escaped from
Though no longer Catholic, my mind has been shaped by Catholic concepts and habits. From the confession, I've learnt to examine myself quite ruthlessly, though not nearly as neurotically as before. I know that evil is in every man, and can flare out at just about any moment. From Swedenborg, I've also learnt that there are as many heavens and hells as individuals, and they are often misidentified, with hell confused for heaven. Heaven or hell, then, is more often a state of mind than a geography, and that's why one can leap, quite instantly, from heaven into hell, though never the other way around. To climb out of hell is certainly a bitch, grasshopper.
Leaving Father Dang, Chuck remembers there's a Lebanese bakery nearby, and so we spend a few minutes looking for it. Chuck wants to buy a special loaf of bread. Seeing a black man in a Yankees cap, Chuck leans out and asks for directions, then adds, “I'm an Orioles fan!”
“I feel sorry for you!” The guy laughs.
“They never win anything!” I pile on. Well, it's been a while. It turns out the store is closed, so we move on. After a few blocks, I say, “Chuck, man, you're broke. You shouldn't have wanted to buy it in the first place. Carol would give you shit!”
“Yeah, you're right.”
“When I'm broke, man, I hang on to every buck. I don't waste anything.”
“Yeah, I know. I was the only child. I'm spoiled.”
“Remember yesterday when you showed me how Navajo Indians drink aftershave by pouring it on a piece of bread over a cup?”
“Yeah.”
“That's a waste of a piece of bread! You might need it later!”
“You're right.”
“At my house, I don't throw anything away, man. I save the stupid packets of MSG from the instant noodles. I save ketchup packets from McDonald's. With a little bit of water, you have a bowl of soup! I don't throw shit away.”
“You know, I've never been careful with money, Linh. I was an only child. When I was a kid, I stole money from my parents to take girls out. I feel terrible now.”
“Well, don't worry about that now. Worry about next month. You're broke!”
To save money, Chuck would often ride a Suzuki motorbike instead of his KIA truck. Sometimes, he only has two bucks to put into any gas tank. For the last six years, Chuck has had to resort to his parish church's pantry and, more recently, St. Francis Soup Kitchen, where he also volunteers. At St. Vincent de Paul in downtown
I go where Chuck takes me, and right now, it's up some mountain in a fog, “Shit, Linh, I have no idea where we are.”
“You don't recognize anything?”
“No, I don't even know which direction we're heading.”
With my head and stomach like blast furnaces, I might just internally combust in Chuck's car, but it won't be a big deal, really, since he's well used to cleaning up bodily remains. The road twists and the fog thickens.
“We're fucked, Chuck.”
“We are fucked.”
After several random turns, we finally descend into sunlight. We need to get home to take Dan, Chuck's older son, out. Twenty-two-years-old, Dan has just graduated from college with $40,000 in debt and no serious job prospect. Majoring in psycholody, he's a cashier at CVS, the drug store. Dan is also down because his girlfriend dumped him, then quickly got married. Quiet and reflective, Dan is an admirer of the Tao Te Ching and Orwell's Animal Farm. I've gotten him to read Notes from Underground, Orwell's “How The Poor Die” and Hemingway's trailblazing yet often ignored gem, “The Sea Change.” It's about a woman who ditches her boyfriend to be with another woman.
On my last visit, Dan said to me quite matter-of-factly, “You know what girls are into now? Black guys and Hispanic guys.”
Dan and I are sitting in Julia's. Chuck has gone outside. No boozer, Dan rarely goes to a bar, so Chuck is very happy to see his son socializing. A bright, airy place, Julia's is a local institution, with a hotel above and restaurant out back. It's the first in
This day began with news of the
Returning, Chuck announces with a glint in his eyes, “I just won the lottery.”
With a flat voice, Dan asks, “How much, Dad?”
“$660.”
Turning to me, Dan states, “We would have been in deep trouble for this month.”
Nearly each day, Chuck buys a $1 lottery ticket. Sometimes, he buys more. The most he will spend each month is $60, and the number he picks is nearly always 614, after his mother's birthday of June 14th, or Flag Day.
Across this sinking nation, how many are buoyed by lottery dreams, casino hopes, stock fantasies, increasingly desperate prayers or, as Chuck is convinced in this one instance, miraculous grace? With legal means diminished and magical odds unlikely, many are turning to shadier or bloodier tactics. This month taken care of, there is still the next.
Attacked by Goldman Sachs monsters, spaced out children on earth island have reached outer limits of twilight zone.
Linh Dinh is the author of two books of stories, five of poems, and a novel, Love Like Hate. He's tracking our deteriorating socialscape through his frequently updated photo blog, Postcards from the End of America.
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