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FRIDAY TYRANT - BRANDON HOBSON'S DOWNTOWN

There is fake-sad writing (the kind of writing that's filled with phony thoughts about grief that is so false-sounding that I always end up hating that shit completely), and then there is real-sad writing (the beautiful stuff). Brandon Hobson draws from the second well. As a writer-person, Hobson is above employing the former brand of sadness because it's too simple to do and only posing writers settle. Sitting down to read Hobson is much like fighting a southpaw; he always beats you because you never expect such strong punches to come in at you from that odd angle. You never count on those wild punches to come at you from that weird corner of suffering.

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You might be one of the better guys, one of the stoics. You might think you're condition is above being at the mercy of a writer and his fancy little words. Please try not to think that way. It isn't very real of you, at all, and it's basically a snob-move and a charlatanish way to be. You are not above being moved, so please don't think you can't be made sad from these couple of pages. This is how I imagine Mr. Hobson writing:

1. He opens up his temple with a knife.

2. He catches with the tip of his pen some of the grief that dribbles out.

3. He writes down truth.

Or maybe it's his neck he cuts into, or perhaps it's his guts. Whatever it is, it comes from a familiar place. A place that makes you think, "I also have one of those places." I am always amazed when someone like Hobson just fucking nails the plainsong so well. Very calmly, I'm all, "Hm. No big words, no showing off, no forced poetics, and only a couple of pages. HOW IN THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT TO ME JUST NOW? I FEEL LIKE I"VE BEEN MUGGED! I'VE BEEN MUGGED BY BRANDON HOBSON!

This piece is from the latest Tyrant, the one with Cherry Valance on the cover. There are a few left. I doubt there will be any left once you try and buy it but you can always try.

Oh yeah. What makes this story truly sad for me is the different jams.

Downtown, by Brandon Hobson

His elderly mother needed help getting out of bed. One morning when she called for him he went into the bathroom and ran her bath water. Then he went into her bedroom and helped her sit up in bed. He undressed her and walked her to the bathroom and bathed her. He rubbed a washcloth over her body and put his hands in her hair. Once she was out of the tub and in her robe, she was able to walk by herself to the recliner in the living room. He turned on the small television set and looked at it. On the screen a woman in a dress twirled around and fluffed her hair.

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"I'll just need my juice," his mother told him.

"It's there," he said, pointing to the glass.

"It hurts. Did you hear me?"

"I'll make toast. You want it? I can make toast for you."

"It hurts," she said. "It's your fault."

"Your juice is there," he said.

He went into the kitchen and made her toast. There were jars of blackberry, apricot, peach, and crab apple jam in the cupboard. He looked at the jars and then closed the cupboard. He stood for a moment, looking out the kitchen window that faced the elementary school across the street. Then he put the dry toast on a plate and took it to his mother. When she was done eating she told him she wanted to be left alone. It was like this every day.

Later he took the bus downtown and walked three blocks to the strip bar. The place was usually empty in the afternoons. He sat alone at a table until the waitress arrived.

"Inez was off at noon," the waitress said.

He looked up at her.

"She's not here," the waitress said.

The music was loud. He took a piece of cotton from his coat pocket and placed it in his right ear. A moment later a girl who worked there came over to his table and sat across from him.

"You're back," she said.

"Come here," he said.

She came over and sat on his lap. He gave her a ten-dollar bill.

"What do you want this time?" she asked.

"Sit with me for a while," he said.

"So you want a dance or what?"

"My friend got me tickets to the jazz club downtown," he said. "You want to go? We'll have us good times."

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"All right," she said.

He leaned in close to her. He was smiling.

That night after he made eggs and toast, he gave his mother her medicine and waited for her to fall asleep in the chair. Then he put on a different shirt and combed his hair. He didn't shave. He put on his coat and took the bus downtown. At the jazz club he sat on a bench by the front doors and waited. She arrived late. He stood up and smiled at her. He kept smiling as they walked inside. They found a dark table in the corner of the room and he ordered them beers.

"You got egg in your beard," she said.

He wiped at his chin. "Maybe later we can go see your kids," he said.

They sat and drank their beers and waited until the band started. The sax player wore dark sunglasses. The girl got up and danced. He stood and watched her dance. They ordered more drinks. At the end of the night they went outside and she lit a cigarette.

"We could check on your kids," he said.

"My momma's there," she said. "Another time, all right?"

She drove him home. During the drive neither of them said anything. The radio was playing country and western music. When she arrived at his house she thanked him for the good time.

"I had me a nice time too," he said.

"You come see me at the bar," she said.

He got out and watched as she drove away. Then he went inside the house and put his hands to his face. His mother called for him. She was coughing, sitting slumped in the recliner with a blanket in her lap.
The dog was looking up at him.

"Don't touch me," his mother said.

INTRO: GIANCARLO DITRAPANO