john grantner

WORDS

C H A R A C T E R S K E TC H E S

There's no story here. I don't know if there ever will be… or should be… or if I'm the one to tell any such story. This is simply sketched character types. I may add to this from time to time… or not.

Big Money is Dead
©John Grantner, 2007

A stranger stared at Sonya.

Yet there was something vaguely familiar about this face. Yes, she had known her as a girl. Beneath the dark circles, the crows’ feet; the slightly jowly jaw line was the girl she once knew as herself.

She turned away from the mirror, picked up her cigarette from the ashtray, took a deep drag and then exhaled with a sigh.

How? How did she grow so old? It seemed as though it was yesterday when she was seventeen years old, lithe and brimming with life. Sexy. Loved. In love with love and with life. How did middle age happen so fast? Only yesterday she was young, and now, after an early marriage, motherhood, divorce and raising a wild daughter — wilder than Sonya had ever been in her wild days — she was a grandmother at forty five. And tired. So worn out from work and worry that she hardly recognized herself.

She blinked back a tear and gave her head a quick slight shake as if to slough off the depressing thought, and went back to applying her makeup.

She was making up and getting dressed, in formal black, for Big Money. For the last time.

~ ~ ~

Big Money was dead.

He died of a heart attack in prison. He had been unhealthy for some years — diabetes, heart disease, gout — the maladies borne of excess that in a bygone era effected the aristocracy, those who once owned both the land and the very souls who worked it. In Big Money’s case, today, they are the ills that characterize the “Russian Mafia”.

Big Money had made a tidy fortune in the Soviet Union before he ever set foot in America and really got rich. His principle business back then was black market currency exchange; exchanging Soviet Rubles (useless for buying anything other than the most basic staples) for US Dollars or Deutchemarks at a handsome rate... and in the process laundering foreign criminals’ money, also at a handsome rate.

He was also involved in smuggling, black marketing and prostitution, but the big money was in dealing foreign currency. Hence everybody — friends, enemies, total strangers — called him “Big Money”. His proper name was no longer even necessary. Virtually every man woman and child in Odessa knew that the American English phrase, “Big Money” means Grigory Yakovich Fein.

So when he came to America he didn’t have to got through the typical Soviet Jew’s immigration rite of passage. No West Rogers Park fourth floor walk-up with dilapidated furniture donated by the local synagog and a stairwell perpetually suffused with the smell of cabbage and schmaltz for Big Money! He and his family immediately settled in suburbia.

He opened a small import shop on Devon Ave selling books, videos, enameled samovars and matryoshka nesting dolls as a legal cover for his real business — money laundering and narcotics. Business flourished (especially the real business) and life in America was everything he dreamed it could be. So it came as a shock to him when he was caught in an FBI sting operation. It was an even greater shock when he learned that the officers were not simply hitting him for a bribe but fully intended to arrest and prosecute him. Business is business, and the business of America is business as somebody wisely said... so what is this?

So it was that after fifteen years in America, after climbing up the socio-economic ladder; moving through progressively tonier suburban residences — from Skokie to Northbrook to Highland Park to Kennilworth; using and discarding luxury cars as casually as if they were snotty tissues; festooning himself and his wife and his lovers with ever gaudier jewelry; after having fully realized the potential of entrepreneurial ambition outside the law; Big Money moved from his 8500 square foot suburban McMansion with five baths and a Jacuzzi and a four car garage to a prison cell in Joliet. A year later he died in his sleep.

~ ~ ~

When Sonya arrived at the funeral home, it was already crowded. Many people came to pay final respects, of course, Big Money had many friends, acquaintances and business associates. But many others came simply to see other “mourners” and to be seen by them. Big Money’s funeral was the social event of the year for the Chicago area Soviet immigrant community. It was to be followed by a sumptuous (naturally) banquet at Rachmaninov’s with live music and dancing; foie gras, buckets of Beluga caviar, fillet mignon; and torrents of the sweet “champagne” favored by Russians, cognac and vodka. Big Money’s life was to celebrated to the fullest after his death was duly mourned.

But Sonya didn’t fit in, socially.

An odd thing about the former citizens of the Socialist New Order is that they’re insufferable snobs. They’re sticklers for social status. Most of them came to the states with marketable professions and prospered quickly, becoming construction engineers and contractors, doctors, jewelers or occasionally — like Big Money — professional criminals. What they all had in common was money and the idea of money as the primary yardstick of social status. (In that way they adapted readily to American culture.)

So it was because of his wealth, as well as his ruthless outlaw business acumen, that Big Money was readily accepted in spite of his lack of education and good manners. Sonya, on the other hand, though not poor, was not prosperous. Worse than that, she was merely a hairdresser. People treated her affably while in her chair, but at occasions like this funeral there was a discernible cool reserve. For important social events (weddings, birthdays, bar Mitzvahs) she was not invited as a matter of course. As Big Money’s one time lover — likely the only one he actually loved — there was no way her presence would not be tolerated. Nevertheless, everybody, by their looks and their tone and their body language, made sure she knew her place.

The characters portrayed here are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

# # #

A S T O R Y

Sleep.

There are few pleasures in life that can rival that of sleep. I mean good sleep. Good sleep is certainly as good as a good meal.

Like eating, sleeping is a must -- it sustains and replenishes the body. Like eating, sleeping may be perfunctory, if need be. It can be done autonomically, forced into a slot of time stolen from a busy schedule, as a simple recharging of the biological machine. Or it can be appreciated aesthetically, it can be savored and relished.

The good meal is eaten with a meticulous leisure, with each bite carefully masticated so as to fully appreciate and deconstruct the subtle complexities; each pause between courses used to reflect upon the pleasure just experienced and to anticipate those to come.

It is the same with good sleep. It delights the epicure. Each change of bodily position and adjustment of the pillow or blanket -- each emergence from deep sleep to a shallower half sleep -- is a joy, is a pause to smile and celebrate and degustate the sweet delight of luxurious sleep before sinking back into the depths.

This was such a sleep; a rare, exquisite, blissful slumber. Until...

The telephone rang.

Suddenly bolting upright my eyes snapped wide open. I was at once angry and disappointed at the rude disruption of sweet sleep. The alarm clock’s LED readout glowed an ominous fiery red 2:34 AM.

Godfuckindammit! A phone call at 2:34 AM is either a life or death emergency for somebody I know or (more likely) some asshole had dialed the wrong number. Shit!

I stumbled out of bed on wobbly stiff jointed legs and raced frantically to the phone. As I picked up the receiver, I cleared my throat and rasped,

H’llo?

An aged female voice answered , “Hello... I’m sorry to bother you... I’m looking for Martin Jancik... he used to live in Chicago and you’re the only Jancik I could find listed in Chicago. Do you know Martin?”

Martin Jancik... I know that name, I thought as I struggled to wake up.... Of course, of course. Uncle Marty.

Uh yes, yes, Martin Jancik is... um, was my Uncle. I’m his brother Joe’s son.

“Do you have a phone number for him? An Address?”

Oh no, no... I’m sorry. He passed away.

“Oh-h...” her voice trailed off. I could hear her pain. “When?”

Uh, jeez. Musta been fifteen years ago? Um, God... no, longer than that. It was in the late seventies or early eighties.

Holy shit, I thought. Notorious Uncle Marty. Uncle Marty the Lothario. I’d heard the stories, piecemeal as I grew up, spoken in hushed whispers (with sanctimonious nods, pursed lips and arched eyebrows) by my mother and aunts. Bad Uncle Marty with the bastard children and jilted women left in his wake. Eventually one of those women was able to force him to the alter, their unborn son in attendance, and he settled down (we think) to married life and five more children.

He wasn’t attractive in any conventional sense; no pretty boy. Indeed, he was undeniably homely, although to call him “ugly” would be an overstatement. Short and sinewy and beanpole skinny, he had a horsey looking face with prominent cheekbones, a long sharp nose and an overbite. Uncle Marty wasn’t too bright. Not like his brothers and sisters mind you, who all simply lacked formal education, but in fact somewhat stupid. His laugh (and he laughed often) was an invariably unsubtle goofy guffaw with eyes shut tight and head thrown back to display a prominent Adam’s apple and large teeth. I remember being embarrassed as an adolescent at family functions whenever he laughed. But it was a genuine, honest laugh -- like a small child, he laughed from the very bottom of his heart. He was always irrepressibly affable and fun loving, and that must have been the key to his success as a philanderer.

Many philanderers (perhaps most) have a deep seated contempt for women. The pleasure they take is not in straightforward sensual gratification, but rather it is in dominating and objectifying women. The real turn on for them is in humiliating a woman by rejecting her after having used her. I believe that Uncle Marty was not like that. Not really. I think he was simply an irresponsible happy-go-lucky twit; the pampered child of the family who was never held accountable for his actions and never grew up.

Now it seemed that one of his old flames had called me. Maybe some floozy -- as she would have been called in the nineteen thirties or forties -- or perhaps some nice girl that he had deflowered. He may have been the one true love of her life or just the best lay she had ever had, or maybe both. In any case Uncle Marty must have been important since she was thinking of him on a sleepless night sixty years later. Now I felt somewhat ashamed of myself for having been annoyed a moment earlier.

“I knew the Janciks... I was Marty’s friend... in Chicago, years ago, before World War II. Could you tell me something about him? Do you mind? Did he have a family?”

Oh sure, sure. Yes, he had a family. He married a woman named Mary -- must’ve been in 1945 or ‘46... um... I forgot her maiden name... something Irish... they had six kids. He worked at the Ford plant until he retired. They moved out of the Chicago area -- to New Mexico -- in the early seventies. That’s where he died. A couple of his sons (and maybe a daughter?) lived there too. Still do.

“What did he die of?”

Cancer of some sort. I forgot exactly what kind of cancer, but I know it was cancer.

“Is his wife still alive? Do you see his kids? (You don’t mind me asking, do you?)”

Oh no, no problem. Yeah, I think his wife is still alive in New Mexico. Like I said two of his sons and maybe a daughter live there. The oldest kid, a boy, he’s there. He became a Franciscan brother. The other kids are married with their own children. I know that one daughter lives out this way in northwest Indiana. Another daughter just kind of disappeared... fell in with a bad crowd... motorcycle gang or drug dealers or something... nobody knows where she is now. That’s about all I know. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I was never very close to them... and then as we grew up we all sort of drifted apart.

“What about Marty’s brothers and sisters?”

Most of them are dead too. My dad -- Joe -- he’s still alive.

“Mmm... I’m sorry, I didn’t know him.”

Yeah, you wouldn’t, he wasn’t around much. He was out on his own when you knew Marty. Leo is still alive. That’s all. Just Joseph and Leo are still alive.

“Yes, I remember Leo. And some sisters...” Her voice was wistful now.

You probably didn’t know the oldest sister, Mary. She was married long before the family moved to Chicago. There was Annette and Christine. And there were two other older brothers, Bill and Gus. Bill (his name was Bela actually) was married in ‘29, so he didn’t live with the rest of the family then.

“Yes, I remember Christine and another sister and Leo and a crippled brother...”

That was Gus.

“Yes, Gus, I remember now...

Suddenly there was an awkward silence as neither of us quite knew what else to say. She had run out of questions (after all, contacting Uncle Marty was her primary interest) and I didn’t know what else I could add.

“Well,” she said, “...uh, that’s all, I guess. Thank you very much for talking to me. I’m sorry to disturb you. I see it must be almost three in the morning out by you. I’m so sorry, I must have waken you up... I live in Washington state so I’m a couple hours ahead of you. See, I wasn’t sleeping and I dialed information looking for ‘Jancik’ in Chicago, see, and the operator, she just connected me... I thought she’d give me a phone number, but she just connected me... I’m sorry I woke you up...”

That’s OK, that’s OK. I don’t mind. Glad I could help.

“Thank you again. Goodbye.”

Bye.

I hung up. By this time I had fully awaken and had my senses.

Dammit! Why didn’t I ask for her name? And a phone number?

I shuffled back to bed, and lay down. I stared at the ceiling until the alarm clock went off at seven, then I got up to go to work.

The characters portrayed here are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

###

A N E S S A Y

For some time now I have been of the opinion that the Democratic party is already dead… they just lack the sense and good taste to lie down. I suppose that they could continue to exist in their current walking-dead state indefinitely, but the question is: should they? They ceased to be relevant when I was but a wee sprig.

So today we're supposed to vote Democratic for old times' sake? Because Franklin Roosevelt once offered hope to a troubled nation? Because Lyndon Johnson gave us the voting Rights Act and Medicare? That's not good enough. For over 30 years the national Democratic Party has refused to be anything other than Republicans Lite. They're response to Republican success (for which the Republicans labored long and hard while they were out of power — something the Democrats seem unwilling to do) has been to adopt Republican positions as much as possible. They have offered no program, stated no principle that is uniquely theirs. They have shown no indication that they're ready to change that strategy, so who needs them?

What we really have here is a one party system, what certain wags (such as this humble writer) like to refer to as "The Republicrats". The 2004 "election" is a case in point. Bush and Kerry were in fundamental agreement on every major issue. For Christ's sake, Kerry even caved in on Tort Reform! So why vote for Kerry? Kerry's thought was that enough people would want to punish the Bush administration's bungling ineptitude, and enough people would be terrified of the prospect Bush's judicial appointments that he could slip into the White House through the back door. However, on the major issues — the war, energy policy, tort reform, healthcare — he offered no change. His loss should come as no surprise (although, I confess, that in the last few days I thought he might win.)

I recently noted in a blog that the only candidate I knew of in 2004 who stated principles, in detail, and defended them, in detail, was Alan Keyes — unlike that bowl of tepid Farina, Barak Obama, who had only vague bromides to offer. It may have seemed that I was cheekily tossing a rhetorical water balloon when I said that. Republicans cringe in embarrassment every time Keyes speaks, Democrats are reduced to sputtering apoplexy. How can a right wing firebrand possibly be tolerated? I say, how can he not?

Or how can the Democrats not be profoundly embarrassed at the amount of money and time and energy they expended to keep Nader out of the race?

Alan keyes is precisely what this process needs. As is Ralph Nadar. Every election should be a fair contest with a right wing firebrand, a left wing firebrand, a fiscal conservative, a libertarian a green, a religious conservative, a religious liberal and so on and on. There should be a diversity of people defending a diversity of ideas, and a run off election when there is no simple majority of the vote. In other words, this nation desperately needs more than two viable parties. Unfortunately we don't even have that many.

Aye, there's the rub.

Even way back when we actually had 2 distinct parties, that was a rather half-assed attempt at democracy. In spite of America's proclivity to thump its chest and arrogantly call itself the model of democracy for all the rest of the world, the fact is that every other nation that can rightly wear the label "democracy" does a better job of it. So, I too celebrate the demise of the Democrats, and I hope for the demise of the Republicans because together they are the symptom of a larger systemic malaise.

john grantner

visual artist, painter, photographer, graphic designer

WORDS