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(Synopsis: Niño de Jesus Benitez, having escaped from the mental hospital on Ward's Island, is determined to save the world from the infernal demons, lesbians and Jews whom he is convinced are infiltrating New York City from a hidden stairway leading from Hell to the boiler room of an industrial bakery in Hell's Kitchen)
He decided to alert a priest, Father Guzman, a saintly man who ministered to the unfortunate Central American undocumented aliens out of St. Anthony’s Parish in Corona. Father Guzman listened sympathetically to Niño de Jesus’ description of the events taking place behind the green door and wrote him a referral for psychiatric counseling, which Niño de Jesus immediately tore up after leaving the priest’s office.
“If they think they’re going to get me, they’re crazy!”
About the only thing that could mitigate these feelings of isolation, conspiracy and rage percolating through the skinny body of Niño de Jesus Benitez was the tranquillizing effect of watching the oozing, gooey blobs of putrefied bakery waste as the plunger forced it into the bowels of the rear-loading garbage truck each morning. The mesmerizing swirls of fermented dough, damaged product, grease, oil, vegetable coloring, purple blueberry, brown cinnamon, egg, whole wheat, brown sugar, pumpernickel, etc., all squished together and molded in texture and shape like a putrid, stinking lava lamp of decay reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock tableau (in actuality, the garbage truck was a vastly more talented artist), aroused in Niño de Jesus feelings of cosmic harmony. The spectacle of all this oozing decayed slop rising, falling and reformulating into kaleidoscopic shapes and textures of filth spoke volumes to him about the cosmic cycle of rebirth, like a pictorial essay in National Geographic about the birth of the universe illustrated with photos from the Hubbell satellite telescope.
As he sat in his forklift, sprinkled with a light layer of the flour blowing out of the back of the garbage truck like a wedding cake ornament dusted with powered sugar and transfixed by celestial reveries of euphoria, the spell was suddenly broken by an insistant klaxoning of a tooty little car horn.
Stationed directly behind him, a very expensive metallic green German luxury car driven by a well-nourished oriental businessman was insisting on its right of way. This Korean man, impatient and offended to have to have his egress impeded by a dirty, dark-skinned workman riding a battered piece of heavy equipment, felt entirely justified to lean on his horn.
Though the guy was letting his horn do the talking for him, Niño de Jesus got the message loud and clear. In the Asiatic scheme of things, whoever had the money was on top, and the rest of us were suckers. Calmly, he put the forklift in reverse and smashed it into the front end of the beemer. The guy got out and started screaming horribly.
Niño de Jesus drove forward, raised the forks, wheeled the machine around so that it was facing the car face nose to nose, smashed into it and lowered the forks, crushing its hood and flattening its suspension so that the tires were flat onto the pavement like seals’ flippers. The great screaming of metal and crunching noise of destruction greeted the cacophony of oriental screams and curses as the car’s owner helplessly witnessed the willful destruction of his expensive vehicle.
Niño de Jesus jumped off his machine and ran off down the street. He was not arrested until months later, by which time everybody had lost interest in the affair, including the judge who ordered him held in Ward’s Island Sanitarium for psychiatric evaluation.
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Posted on 12/25/2005
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