Jackpot. Chapter 10
And just like that, José is launched into stardom. Word of Pete’s defeat spreads like a disease, killing off all reverence for the popcorn poet and replacing it with fanatic adulation of the sublime verse of the recently unknown man of the desert, his bourgeois past as co-CEO of Saguaro Sombrero Solutions Unlimited carefully concealed by his publishing house. Within no time, José’s first collection tops the bestseller list, and his life whips into a whirlwind of poetry readings, high profile interviews, and exclusive workshops.
This evening finds him at the annual Los Angeles Poetry Guild Banquet, the most prestigious poetic gala in the whole city, if not the country, if not the world. This year’s Poet of the Year is, of course, José Jones. He’s not shocked, yet he’s still overcome with emotion. He gets up from his table and walks over to the stage on shaky legs. Everyone stands up, applauding as he accepts his trophy, shakes the host’s hand, and steps up to the mic.
“Wow. Just––wow. I don’t know what to say. I’m lost for words, lost from pain and loneliness and silent suffering. I know we haven’t all met, but I feel surrounded by family. You have no idea how much that means to me.” He can’t hold the tears back anymore and the applause grows louder, all the critics and poets and patrons of the arts brimming with admiration and gratitude for all José has done for the world.
An hour later, José’s the life of the after party. Everyone wants a piece of him, they just can’t help themselves. He’s flattered but overwhelmed by all the adoring words, smiling faces, and grasping hands. Finally enough’s enough. He excuses himself to the lavatory, pushes his way to the front of the line, and locks the door behind him. Free at last.
“Whoops.”
José turns. A beautiful woman with an afro wearing a green canvas jacket is seated on the toilet with her cargo pants down. He covers his eyes and turns away.
“Lo siento! I didn’t know you were in here!”
The woman smiles and wipes. “It’s my bad. I forgot to lock the door.” She stands up, puts her pants back on, and flushes the toilet. “You can look now.”
José turns around, blushing. “I’m so sorry––”
“Hey, I said it was my bad. Besides, how else would I get a private meeting with José Jones?” She extends her hand. “Renée.”
José almost shakes it, but hesitates. “Um––”
Renée’s almost offended. “What?”
“Your––the sink?”
She laughs. “Of course.” She washes her hands with soap, dries them off on a disgusting monogrammed hand towel, and finally they shake hands.
“Nice to meet you,” says José.
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
José shakes his head. “Alone with a beautiful woman––I must disagree.”
Renée rolls her eyes. “Do you flirt like this with all your lady fans?”
“No.”
“Liar.” She pushes him up against the door and sticks her tongue down his throat.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping his dick off with tissues after three hours of passionate lovemaking, José can’t help but wonder if this is going to go somewhere this time, if he’s growing too used to transient relationships, to melting the wings of angels flying too close to his poetic brilliance.
Renée lights a cigarette. “You want one?”
“Sure.” He reaches over and takes one, ignoring his mama’s pleas.
“Come lie back down.”
José shakes his head. “I don’t like getting ash on my chest.” He lights it, then stands up, parts the curtains, and gazes out at the city.
“You really are a deep guy, aren’t you?”
“No deeper than anyone else.” He exhales smoke.
Renée sneaks up from behind and wraps her arms around him, her breasts pressed against his back, her delicate hands on his flat stomach.
“What’s bothering you?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Bullshit, you’re a fucking poet! Of course you know!”
Cigarette in his mouth, José says nothing.
She slides her right hand down and grabs his balls. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Yes,” he says, wincing.
“Say si mami.”
“Si mami.”
She laughs and lets go, then walks back to the nightstand and resumes her cigarette.
Six months fly by and they’re still at it. José calls her his muse and Renée calls him her dude. All the poems in his latest collection are about her, sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically, always written with intensity and tenderness. Early reviews are already hailing Poems About You, My Love as an artistic breakthrough, a bold risk that has not only paid off, but solidified José as a chameleon comfortable writing in any style, a true visionary with an unmistakable voice, an honors roll student of the heart––in short, one of the Greats.
When José arrives at the Fighting Mambos Precinct #5 after a long day writing in his study, Renée greets him with a passionate kiss and a stack of reviews.
“Oh José, baby, they love it––I love it! Why didn't you tell me you were writing about me?”
José grins. “If I’d told you, you would have wanted to see them before they were finished, and I wouldn’t have been able to resist.”
“You know me too well.” She squeezes him tight and he hugs her back, careful of the assault rifle slung across her shoulders. “Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me. The words flowed from my heart as naturally as breath from my lungs. Those poems are just an inevitable byproduct of our love.”
She rolls her eyes. “So modest.”
They head inside. The compound’s bustling with activity. Committed freedom fighters stroll the halls, hold meetings in windowless rooms, shoot paper cops in the indoor firing range, study revolutionary theory and guerilla tactics in the people’s library, and smoke weed and play ping pong and videogames in the lounge.
“Yo, what’s good, José?” says Chairman Clyde, a brawny guy in cargo pants and a tank top sporting the Fighting Mambos logo, a fist with a mambo snake entwined around it, representing revolution and healing. Next to him, Anita, a shredded woman wearing the same outfit, is playing Jumping Plumber on the TV.
“Yo, what’s up Clyde?” José and Clyde do their personal secret handshake and all the other fighters in the room acknowledge him with cool nods. José sits down in a comfy armchair and Renée drapes herself across his lap.
“What’s the plan today?” she asks.
“Some comrades are trying to take over this factory just outside of town. That’s cool, right?” he asks, turning to José.
“Yeah, of course,” says José, not sure why Clyde’s asking him.
Clyde looks into his eyes, searching for some kind of hidden reaction. “Yeah. Only problem is, the fat cat’s in tight with the pigs. Already crushed an uprising at the white collar level and made those suckers pay big time. Word gets out that our comrades are making moves to get what they deserve, well, let’s just say he ain’t gonna be too happy about that.”
“So that’s where we come in,” says Renée, cocking her rifle.
“We’re gonna bring the revolution to these motherfuckers one factory at a time!” says Anita as she stomps on a lizard and raises the plumber’s flag high above the castle.
“Most definitely. So you in or what?” Clyde asks.
“Of course! Sounds like fun,” says José.
“Right on, brother.” Clyde brings it on in for another secret handshake, and for the first time since he and Renée started dating, José feels like part of the gang.
The factory’s all the way out in the desert just past the airplane graveyard. The Fighting Mambos roll up in black jeeps. A worker comrade opens the gate. A lot of other comrades are already outside holding signs, but it’s pretty hot so they’re all crowded together in the building’s shadow. Cheers erupt when the Fighting Mambos arrive. Clyde gets out and raises his fist.
“Comrades! Let’s win this fight!”
The workers raise their fists and burst into revolutionary song. The other Fighting Mambos get out and assume tactical positions around the premises. Randall, the leader of the workers, walks up to Clyde and gives him a soldier’s hug.
“Clyde, my brother, you really came through.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. This is one righteous fucking cause y’all got going.” He waves José and Renée over. “Randall, this is Renée and her boyfriend José.”
Randall shakes both their hands. “Thanks for joining the cause.”
“No need for thanks, brother,” says Renée. “Clyde’s been telling us all afternoon how underpaid and mistreated y’all are.”
“Yeah and there’s no AC in there! Honestly, if that’s the only demand they meet, I’ll be chilling. Literally!” He laughs.
Clyde puts his hand on Randall’s shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short, brother. We’ll get y’all everything y’all deserve!”
“Goddamnit, Clyde, this is why you’re the man!”
In the midst of the comradery, José notices something that makes his stomach sink. Written in huge letters at the top of the factory is a familiar name: Saguaro Sombrero Solutions Unlimited. He’s not sure what to do. He loves Renée, but without Leroy he never would have made it big in business and poetry, and they would never have met. Before he can make up his mind, cop cars roar through the desert and surround the workers, choppers swarming overhead.
“Get back to work!” commands a voice from on high. “Any further disobedience will be prosecuted to the fullest extent as trespassing and vandalism!”
The crowd boos.
“Pigs!” shouts Renée, aiming her rifle at the sky.
“No!” shouts José, but Renée opens fire and rips a chopper to shreds. It spirals to the Earth and explodes in a fiery plume.
“What are you doing?!” screams José.
“Protecting the workers! Don’t be a pussy!” She laughs and unloads another stream of lead into the blue.
José pukes.
The cops pull barricades out of a big truck and fortify the perimeter.
The workers and Fighting Mambos close ranks.
“We need some motherfuckers on the roof!” shouts Clyde, giving the signal to Squadron Gamma.
The cops fire tear gas over the barricades and it’s instant chaos. Everyone’s coughing and crying, eyes stinging, colliding with each other in the crush through the factory doors.
“Seal it up!” Clyde shouts. In seconds every entrance is blocked off. Those not gassed as badly help the wounded recover, fetching rags and pouring water in their eyes.
Outside, the Chief of Police gets on the loudspeaker. “You have thirty minutes to come out with your hands up! We were willing to negotiate, but now that you’ve opened fire, we have no choice but to bring you in!”
“Pigs!” screams Renée, and the whole crowd jeers with her.
José knows what he needs to do. He climbs the stairs to the foreman’s office and hunts around for the intercom. He thinks it’s a big red button, but that just sets off an ear splitting alarm. He quickly turns it off and finds the right switch.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Wrong button.”
Now he’s got everyone’s attention.
“José?” shouts Clyde.
“Please, everybody, please listen. Most of you may know me for my poetry, but what you don’t know is that I was one of the two founders of this company. In fact, less than a year ago, I was still one of its joint CEOs.”
The crowd boos.
“I understand how you feel, but please, hear me out!”
The disgruntled crowd reluctantly simmers down.
“Now I didn’t leave this company to be a poet. Poetry’s always been in my heart, and that'll never change. No, I left because I felt something was deeply wrong, that somewhere along the way, we’d lost our way. I was too high up to see any of your problems, but now I understand that I could feel them rippling up through the ranks, chilling my bones, unsettling my soul. Not to mention the damage inflicted upon my honor, my integrity, my self-esteem in my dealings with hollow people up at the top, monsters who care only for money, for luxury, for power, heartless fiends who have no appreciation for the simple things in life, an absolute necessity that no one can truly live without, for in its absence each rung climbed on the ladder of wealth and power causes the others to disintegrate beneath you, and you find yourself not on a ladder at all but a treadmill from which you cannot escape, cannot understand the meaning of, cannot feel the––” José stops and clears his throat, realizing he’s losing them. “Those cops outside aren’t here to protect you or hear your concerns. They’re here for one thing––to protect the wealth of their corporate benefactors.” The crowd roars in agreement. “And so I find myself in a unique position. I have all the connections of a business tycoon, and yet I’ve chosen to become a poet of the people. Let me fight for you! Give me a list of your demands and I’ll go out there and make it happen!”
Some people are enthralled by José’s rallying cry, but others are suspicious.
“How do we know we can trust you?”
“Yeah, what if he’s a spy?”
Now half the crowd’s jeering at him. José’s not sure what to do. He puts his hand over his heart, about to say something about how they know his heart through his poetry, when Renée fires a few rounds into the ceiling.
“He’s my boyfriend! You think I’d be dating him if he wasn’t one hundred percent with the cause?”
No one can argue with that.
“Go on, José,” says Clyde. “Show us what you got.”
A list of demands in his pocket, a megaphone in his hand, José climbs out onto the roof. He walks out to the edge and stands in silhouette against the sky, one man against an army of cops, hair blowing in the wind like a messiah. He lifts the megaphone to his lips and holds down the button.
“Friends! Hear my words!”
“Who the hell is that?” asks a cop.
“I don’t know, but we don’t negotiate with terrorists,” says another.
“My name is José Jones. I was once co-CEO––” A shot rings out and he falls back.
“Did he just say he was José Jones?”
“There’s no way––”
“Well you better go check, cause if he is, and we just killed him––”
The cops get on the radio and have a chopper fly over the roof. Two commandos rappel down and inspect the body. It really is him. They radio the Chief who just about loses his lunch when he hears what happened. Hands shaking, he calls his boss.
“Mr. McMenahan? I’m afraid I have some bad news.”