this is my effort for this week’s writing exercise. the song i am using is jungleland by bruce springsteen, track #8 from the album born to run.

the lyrics to which can be found here.



we stood by the overpass in the shadow of the exxon sign as he took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, the air heavy with world-weariness. the breeze from two passing patrol cars careening off into the summer night scattered the small cloud along with his façade of jadedness and his eyes shone bright with purpose.

“you don’t understand,” he began slowly, the telltale wheezing of his nicotine-riddled lungs adding a hollow quality to his voice. “there was this guy—guitar poet—and he tried…honest to god, i know he tried...”

i clapped him on the back. “i’m sure he did, man...”

he grabbed my arm in a vise-like grip. he was stronger than he looked, and faster, too. “you weren’t there, kid. you don’t know—you can’t know,” he accused, jabbing at me with a finger. and yet, in his eyes, i could see not just accusation but also something else. regret?

“OK, how about maybe you tell me, then?”

“all right, look. in those days, there was a bunch of guys, a crew i guess, and they ran around here. they all had weird nicknames. i remember one of ‘em, called him the rat. it was short for something, i don’t know what—ah, doesn’t matter. anyway, the crews all went to the saturday night battle of the bands—they did ‘em every saturday in the summer out at the old ballfield.”

he lit another cigarette off his last. “all right, so the rat is interested in this girl, see? and they’re having their fun, right? but the girl, she runs with a different crew, and turns out they didn’t like her and the rat together. guess you could say that the crews were worlds apart.

i nodded. “OK, that sounds like a classic story: boy meets girl—”

before i know, he’s in my face, shouting, “kid, just shut the fuck up and let me tell the story.”

chastised, i nod placatingly and say nothing.

“anyway—so they don’t like it. they don’t really want her back or anything, but they start talking shit, the rat starts talking shit, one thing leads to another and before you know it, there’s a fight out in the stands, and it’s going on for a while.

“wait, what about the cops?”

he snorted, and spat, “the cops? are you fucking stupid? way the cops figured it, if there’s rumble out on the avenue, it’s just a little…well, just a little darkness on the edge of town. pfft…cops…”

pausing just long enough to tap the ashes off his smoke, he continued. “anyway, so the rat, he knows this guy eddie, who knows about how everyone’s out at the races and heads on into the city, have a little meeting across the river, right? so by the time eddie shows up—and he’s got a crew of his own—it’s a zoo, guys are trying to get to tire irons and crap in the cars and nobody’s dumb enough to let ‘em. but eddie—see, eddie came loaded for bear and in the darkness, he sees this guy, looks like he’s gonna take a swing at this guy in the rat’s crew, so eddie, he shoots.”

“well, everyone hits the dirt except for eddie and the guy he shot. the guy turns, and the gun falls out of eddie’s hand: it’s the rat.”

“people are screaming, running for their cars and getting the hell out of there—the cops can’t ignore a gunshot, and eddie, he’s got a .357. magnum-load. know what a magnum is, kid? yeah, you’re nodding your head like you know, but you don’t.

i continue keeping my mouth shut.

“well, all hell breaks loose—some guys are packing, some guys aren’t, but nobody’s sure who is or isn’t. and a .357, that isn’t a sound makes you wanna stick around to find out. so to make a long story short, the girl tries to get him into the car and eddie, he’s just standing there.”

“so i head on over—i know a little first aid—and there’s so much blood, so much. and that’s when i hear the sirens and cars are peeling out, throwing up so much dust. and i see this one guy on stage, i guess his band was one when it all went down. well, he’s yelling into the mike, playing his guitar but the power’s gone, there’s no juice and he’s screaming but nobody can hear him. a hundred people and not one ear for him and his music.”

he stops as the wail of another siren rips through the night.

“so i can’t do anything for the rat or eddie, the girl, she’s hysterical, screaming at the rat, then at eddie, back and forth. and an ambulance pulls right up, the guys get him on a stretcher and eddie and the girl, they jump into the rat’s car and tear off after the ambulance. so i look back, and the guy, he’s still at the mike, but now that everyone’s gone, he’s still screaming like someone’s listening. so guess what i did then, kid?”

i start, not expecting that. “i have no idea. what did you do?”

smiling finally, he lit another cancer stick. “i walked over to the stage and sat right down in front of him and listened. the cords in his neck stood out, he was sweating like a pig, and i listened to him, listened as he poured his guts out. i don’t remember the words, i don’t remember anything about what he was singing about except that it wasn’t some cover, it was his, but i won’t ever forget his face. not ever.” there was a smile on his lips, tinged with something else, the same thing i noticed earlier.

i had to break in. “what was that makes you remember him?”

“he was singing his music and he wasn’t ever going to let anyone or anything take that away from him. wild-hair, eyes bugged out, old concert jersey and torn-up jeans…he was proud. defiant, even. and when you see something like that, it stays with you. and kid, there was something perfect, holy about it. but do you know what the saddest thing about all of this is?”

“did the rat not make it?”

“the rat? yeah, he made it, all right—it was hell on him for a few months but he made it. nah, it’s got nothing to do with the rat.”

“well, what then?”

“remember how i told you how i would never forget his face? i saw him on the street, maybe ten or fifteen years later. that same wild-haired, bugged-eyes kid was wearing a suit, short hair and carrying a briefcase. and there was this look in his eyes, saddest thing i’ve ever seen. it was the look that says he stares in the mirror every morning and hates what he sees. then he saw me and i saw that he knew me, knew who i was.”

squashing out the cigarette under his shoe, he added, “know what he did? seeing me after all that time? he looked ashamed. he turned and went the other fucking way. just turned tail and ran.”

then he got up in my face again. “kid, don’t ever let that be you. not ever. because that night at the ballfield, he had a dream, wasn’t ever gonna let anyone take it away. but he did, see? he let himself take it away.”



finis