Play it again

sam that=s what tim said that man=s name was the one who delivered the liquor for mickey after mark=s death

///sam it was sam he was sure it was sam so even if i was convinced the name was two syllables still tim was older by two years and besides the guy was a model maker let tim help with his models down in the shop so tim=d know reason enough to make it sam in the next book i=m writing sam tim=s father figure sam for that time between fathers

///sam play it again sam i=m thinking because i like that play it again play it again because after all mickey played sam again and again bouncing checks and shorting him on the bottles i remember the gleam in her eyes when she took them out of their brown paper bags the whole process over and over just the way she dialed the number or had us do it played us again and again too for that matter telling us each time this was the last she would never do it again then chasing us down yelling little shits little shits when we poured the second bottle of scotch down the drain so yes sam i=ll call him sam

for sure sam i=m thinking when tim calls back he=s gone downstairs to have a smoke charlie he says charlie he=s just remembered the guy=s name=s charlie not sam charlie he repeats as i imagine him standing on the chipped actually brown brownstone stoop sheltering his cigarette between his fingers to warm his hands as he looks out into the night to twinkling christmas tree lights in windows illuminated plastic santas on facades electric menorah candles in storefronts musical red rudolph reindeer sleighs in front yards and suddenly i wonder if two syllables aside tim=s changed his mind only because it=s the holidays and we both remember that pogo cartoon drunk=s favourite deck the halls with boston charlie sang it every year it was our anthem walla walla walla in kalamazoo so maybe that=s all it is deck the halls with boston even if its brooklyn charlie atlantic avenue charlie so i find myself thinking why not say fuck it and forget


///this trying for his real name altogether and just call him cutty for cutty sark mickey=s favourite cheap blend while what i favoured was the little white ship you could imagine carrying you its sails full of wind across the gold label the green bottle out to the open sea the way you could dream about the gold scotch spiraling down the green copper drain in the pantry so i almost say it why not cutty for cutty sark or for that matter make it johnny that=s two syllables too johnny for johnny walker because after he delivered the liquor at least that johnny could walk away

///while all those dark winters playing again in my mind reduce me once more to one syllable words piss on it i say i=ll just call him green forget the cutty sark for sailing the johnny walker for walking remember how tim said later sam must have popped into mind for that wide bright smile as big as gentle as sam=s in casa blanca and how green he must have been to never use it to play mickey back no irony or trickery there so let=s stick with green and move the year along a bit to yet another binge saint patrick=s day and the long drunk afternoon of the manhattan parade when it wasn=t just the painted stripe down fifth avenue the shamrocks pinned to lapels the leprechauns in bar windows that were green but the trees that grew in brooklyn

///spring and a green as generous as that sam=s that charlie=s that cutty=s that johnny=s that green=s enduring smile our invitation every year to walk to run to climb to skate to swim to bike our feet our hands our legs our arms our minds outside.


By Sarah Murphy

Sarah Murphy is a Calgary based
performer, author, intermedia and visual
artist who has contributed to the Canadian
arts scene and to her wider community
for over twenty years. Best known for her
award-winning performance monologues
and innovative novels and short stories,
Murphy has also produced installations that
coordinate with intermedia performances.
Her spoken word work is especially
groundbreaking, and richly deserves
recognition for bringing to spoken word
prose the resonance of poetry.