FREE STORIES
Frustration Boulevard
A ballad
by Stephen Leary
Somewhere a car horn keeps a honkin’, a rock smashes through a window, at night the phantoms are hauntin’, a shooter reloads his ammo.
Abandon hope all ye who enter, unheeded words of the bard, sung off-key by a drunk tenor, echo across Frustration Boulevard.
At Danger Dan’s Café, the coffee is bitter, the bagels are stale, the tables tilt and quiver, the chairs are about to fail. You don’t wanna be here, it’s sad and bleak. Any fiend can walk in the door, a guy got shot last week, I saw him lying on the floor. I grab a seat, I sit down to write. I shoot words but my letters are amiss. Maybe it’s the melancholy, maybe it’s the light. I just can’t seem to find any literary bliss.
To anybody who asks, I explain it this way, “I picked the wrong number, I drew the wrong card, that must be how I wound up on Frustration Boulevard.”
So many shops selling so many wares, but nothin’ for me, what I want or what I need. Nothin’ in the basement, nothin’ upstairs. Everything is junk, nothin’ will please. The prices you wouldn’t believe, they belong over in Manhattan, not in here where everything is collapsin’.
The Candyman, he’s got so many sweets. He’s got cards and toys and pipes of peace. He’s got the works, nothin’ can’t be bought. You’ll find so many joys. Take a look and make your choice. They come in droves to gaze at the amazing stuff on the shelves, you’d think maybe they’re hypnotized. Where did he get them, they’re no place else, shoppers can only wonder, they can only surmise.
Around here, something strange happens to anything new. I guess it’s like the poet said, nothing gold can stay, but here you go downhill fast, like you’re riding in a sleigh.
Farmer Abe said it best: “Good seeds, good harvests are forever marred, on that plot of land they call Frustration Boulevard.”
The cars race up and down day and night without a care. What’s the deal, man, but nobody, not even Wheelman, is really goin’ anywhere. Me, I hurry on my way, I just try not to stare.
Preacher Pete didn’t last long, they boarded up the church. He was here to save souls, but everything went wrong. His search was rewarded with windows full of holes.
Carl the cop, he gave us the scoop, “Don’t relax for a minute, don’t let down your guard, if you find yourself strolling down Frustration Boulevard.”
Don’t be fooled if somebody laughs or sings. It’s all for show, it’s not the real thing. They’re doin’ well, they’re doin’ fine, they want you to think, but in their paper bag is an open bottle of wine.
Nate used to work at the Crab Grille, he just got his release. He’s lookin’ for somethin’ to grab or maybe kill, but got to avoid the cruisin’ police.
Busted windows, broken lives, so easy to see in the light, but some things are hidden when the sun turns to night.
Homeless Hal greets you from his spot at the corner, “Nothing works, everything is hard, you have just arrived on Frustration Boulevard.”
I feel beat down, I feel like I’m lost. There’s a fee you pay, but you can never add up the cost. I plan to get away, I’m going uptown, I don’t belong in this dismal chalet, I’m not your three-headed hellhound.
The old wood buildings, they’re rotting and charred, every sidewalk is littered with glass shards.
Thalia the therapist, she’s got good advice, “Your mind is jostled, your spirit is jarred, you’ve got to make your peace with Frustration Boulevard.”
Everybody hides, nobody wants to expose their profile, they’ve got their secrets, so many sins to reconcile. Their days are dense with nightmares, their nights are sleepless. They know their plights, they know their fears.
Despairing Dave gave up long ago, he repeats the same words wherever he goes, “Satisfaction and delight, those emotions are barred, no happy action goin’ on here tonight, just the same ol’ scrappy commotion up and down Frustration Boulevard.”
Don’t let the demons win, don’t be misled, a battle is brewin’ outside and in. Drink your daily grail, eat your daily bread. The light is veiled behind the constant din.
Every night I fend the gunshots, I sight the strutting dames, in every doorway somethin’ sleazy stands guard, and every weekend, somethin’ goes up in flames.
My mind is busy, I ponder my wrongs, I’m adjusting my plans, whenever I wander along Frustration Boulevard.
Me, I’m in the café, writing my books and dreaming of a better day. I’m at the table in the dark nook where nobody can see my face.
If anybody wants to find me, tell them it ain’t hard. My name is enshrined on the blazing marquee, at the stage they call Frustration Boulevard.