There are those who find the phrase "Love is the answer." to be simplistic or trite. I understand this sentiment. When difficult times befall us and we want a solution to our financial problems or our health issues or problems with our family or living situation, "love" just doesn't seem like what we need at that moment. We need money. We need medicine. We need to fix our parents or our kids or ourselves. We need to move out or move in. We need "real solutions" to real problems, not platitudes.
If I took all the emotional pain I have ever felt in my entire life, I know that there are people in this world who have experienced far worse in just a single day. There are experiences so heart-wrenching that I cannot fathom what it must feel like to go through them. So I get it. "Love is the answer" seems to fall short for someone who just lost a child or left part of who they were on some far-away battlefield or languished in prison for something they did not do.
But, what is the alternative?
Someone far wiser than I told me to try this, so I did: The next time you feel like your situation is utterly hopeless, take just a moment and close your eyes. Take three deep breaths. In your mind's eye, picture your heart as a locked door. Now picture it opening. Imagine the fresh air and light that enters through it is love. Stay there for a few moments, for a few moments respite may be all you have at first. But it gets better.
Love is not the end; it is the beginning. It is the well from which all healing springs. It is the only place to start and without it, we are lost.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
INSIGNIFICANT
Once, when I was sixteen, I was upset about something...not sure what. Girlfriend? Parents? Maybe just some adolescent existential angst. So I drove. Fast.
That is what I used to do when I did not know what to do. Drive fast. I drove until I reached the shore.
I wish it was just like that, the road ending at the water's edge, forcing us to face our past by bringing us to where we came from. But it isn't like that. The roads bend and turn at right angles just when we have almost arrived.
We are left to take the extra step (or steps). So I did. I parked my mom's 1976 Malibu Classic, took off my shoes and walked to the water's edge. It was Autumn. The air was chilly.
I remember, now (the feelings, not the cause). I was not upset; I was distraught. I remember crying, standing in ankle-deep, bone-chilling cold. I remember the pull of it as the water receded back into the Atlantic , leaving my feet a little deeper in the wet sand. I remember thinking, "It (the sea) wants me back." I wanted to oblige.
After a bit, I turned and walked, aware of the earth beneath my sandy feet. I sat cross-legged in the sand and looked to the stars and asked God for answers to questions I do not remember. I looked out at the dark horizon where deep indigo was met by black and for the first time in my life, truly noticed the curve of the earth.
I also noticed that my tears had dried and the turmoil I was in was replaced with calm. I remember thinking, "I am a tiny creature on a floating, spinning sphere in an unimaginably vast universe. My worries are of little consequence in the grand scheme of things."
I should spend more time at the beach.
That is what I used to do when I did not know what to do. Drive fast. I drove until I reached the shore.
I wish it was just like that, the road ending at the water's edge, forcing us to face our past by bringing us to where we came from. But it isn't like that. The roads bend and turn at right angles just when we have almost arrived.
We are left to take the extra step (or steps). So I did. I parked my mom's 1976 Malibu Classic, took off my shoes and walked to the water's edge. It was Autumn. The air was chilly.
I remember, now (the feelings, not the cause). I was not upset; I was distraught. I remember crying, standing in ankle-deep, bone-chilling cold. I remember the pull of it as the water receded back into the Atlantic , leaving my feet a little deeper in the wet sand. I remember thinking, "It (the sea) wants me back." I wanted to oblige.
After a bit, I turned and walked, aware of the earth beneath my sandy feet. I sat cross-legged in the sand and looked to the stars and asked God for answers to questions I do not remember. I looked out at the dark horizon where deep indigo was met by black and for the first time in my life, truly noticed the curve of the earth.
I also noticed that my tears had dried and the turmoil I was in was replaced with calm. I remember thinking, "I am a tiny creature on a floating, spinning sphere in an unimaginably vast universe. My worries are of little consequence in the grand scheme of things."
I should spend more time at the beach.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Not Real
"Facts" fostering fear,
Worst-case scenarios present themselves as certainties to,
My muddled mind,
So hungry for something to fill it,
Forgoing the "healthy snacks" and,
Opting instead for,
Four cans of Pringles
Anti-butterflies,
Haunt my gut.
None of this is real.
I know this,
Because,
I invented it.
Worst-case scenarios present themselves as certainties to,
My muddled mind,
So hungry for something to fill it,
Forgoing the "healthy snacks" and,
Opting instead for,
Four cans of Pringles
Anti-butterflies,
Haunt my gut.
None of this is real.
I know this,
Because,
I invented it.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
LOST
I struggle to find a suitable metaphor.... "What," I ask myself, "is the softest thing I have ever felt?"
Cosmologists talk of a place where the laws of physics, as we know them, break down - where all that we see, feel, hear, touch and taste crash into the brick wall of the quantum - where "The Rules" simply do not apply - where cats are simultaneously dead and alive and phrases such as "spooky action at a distance" are not considered hyperbole.
We find ourselves in these amazing places only by letting go and allowing ourselves to become lost in the heady chaos of infinite possibility.
I find myself there and am surprised to discover that it is quite calm.
Can you not hear the slow and steady beat of my heart?
Cosmologists talk of a place where the laws of physics, as we know them, break down - where all that we see, feel, hear, touch and taste crash into the brick wall of the quantum - where "The Rules" simply do not apply - where cats are simultaneously dead and alive and phrases such as "spooky action at a distance" are not considered hyperbole.
We find ourselves in these amazing places only by letting go and allowing ourselves to become lost in the heady chaos of infinite possibility.
I find myself there and am surprised to discover that it is quite calm.
Can you not hear the slow and steady beat of my heart?
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
KILLING RAY
Jen and I were good friends. We were a couple, briefly. After we broke up, we still fooled around on occasion - usually when I was between relationships, but not always.
Jen is pretty, smart, funny and easygoing. She’s just a cool shit. I mean really cool. This one weekend, we slept together on Friday night and next night we went to a club with a friend of hers from work, Dianne. Halfway through the night, Jen tells me Dianne hasn’t had sex in over a year and that she could use some TLC. I was surprised and kinda flattered that she'd pimp me out like that.
“Are you sure you’re cool with that? I mean, you don’t feel weird sleeping with me on Friday and then me sleeping with your friend on Saturday?”
“Not really.”
There was no hidden motive. It wasn’t a turn-on for her or me. It was just her doing her friend a favor. I think Jen would have said the same thing if we’d still been a couple. Sometimes, Jen cared but didn’t give a fuck.
She lived in Lawrence, MA with her dog, a beautiful Alaskan Malamute named Mynx. Jen rarely had a boyfriend and always seemed most comfortable alone. She is often quiet and never loses her cool. Some people mistake her for a bitch.
Jen has a psycho sister named Mora, who is incapable of being alone. She is needy and drives men away. She stalks them until she stumbles upon the next poor fuck who gets ensnared by Mora’s legendary bedroom skills. But sex is not casual to Mora. She bought a wedding dress for $4500 when she was 19 and not even dating anyone. It hangs in her closet to this day waiting for Mr. Tux, I guess. She is a bipolar nymphomaniac who only feels alive in the midst of chaos.
These two sisters are both damaged. Their stepfather, Ray, regularly sexually abused them when they were young girls. Their mother is such a pitiful wreck of a woman that she accused both girls of lying when they told her what Ray had done to them. When she caught Ray with Jen, she believed Jen, but not Mora. I’m pretty sure that is why Mora is exponentially more fucked in the head than Jen. Years of watching your mother side with your abuser would make anyone come unhinged.
Their mother never left Ray. And, get this. They all sit down, the whole family, every Christmas and Thanksfuckingiving like nothing happened.
In all the years I knew Jen, I never met her Mom or Ray. I didn’t want to. I hated them both. Well, I hated Ray. I just pitied that poor excuse for a fucking mother who thought herself so unlovable, that she had to cling to the man who destroyed her daughters’ childhoods.
I used to often end up in relationships with these damaged women. I often did not know about the abuse they had suffered in the past. Things would start off great. And for a few months there was a great deal of fun, laughter and amazing sex. Then suddenly it would change. The laughter would subside and there would be no more rooftop sex or car sex or cemetery-in-the-rain sex. Soon there was no sex at all. Then came the chaos, the boozing, the blackouts, the verbal (sometimes physical) attacks. This would culminate in me leaving. A day or two later I would get the call. Tears. Apologies. Promises. I'd go back one more time, but it always ended the same way.
But with Jen, it was different. She seemed to have a handle on it. She didn’t seem to have any ill will toward Ray or her Mother.
Understand, I didn’t have it real bad for Jen. I just liked her a lot. I liked that she never had a boyfriend and I could just roll into town and hook up. Or not. She’d cook me a meal. We’d rent a movie and chill. I’d give her a massage and try to get in her pants and was never frustrated when it didn’t happen - which was most of the time. The fun was in trying. She was always a good sport. She’d never get annoyed. She’d just laugh and shoot me down...except when she didn't.
One night, we were not really watching TV. I remember it was right after Thanksgiving. There had been an early snow and Mynx was outside in sled-dog heaven. I was sitting on the couch, leaned back. Jen had her head in my lap as she watched David Letterman finish his monologue. I was stroking her hair, when I realized I really liked stroking her hair. I didn’t feel like chasing her around the living room. I just wanted to stroke her hair like that. We weren’t in love, we were just, you know...really comfortable with each other. But at that moment, I loved this girl. As I watched her lashes kiss her face with each blink and felt each breath enter her body, I loved her more. And I loved the child she was before I met her. And I stroked her hair and without looking at her, I asked what I had always wondered.
“Thanksgiving. How can you sit at the same table as Ray?”
She took half a breath and as she exhaled, the words just seeped out of her mouth and spilled on the carpet like blood.
“It just doesn’t bother me anymore.”
That was when I decided to kill Ray.
Jen is pretty, smart, funny and easygoing. She’s just a cool shit. I mean really cool. This one weekend, we slept together on Friday night and next night we went to a club with a friend of hers from work, Dianne. Halfway through the night, Jen tells me Dianne hasn’t had sex in over a year and that she could use some TLC. I was surprised and kinda flattered that she'd pimp me out like that.
“Are you sure you’re cool with that? I mean, you don’t feel weird sleeping with me on Friday and then me sleeping with your friend on Saturday?”
“Not really.”
There was no hidden motive. It wasn’t a turn-on for her or me. It was just her doing her friend a favor. I think Jen would have said the same thing if we’d still been a couple. Sometimes, Jen cared but didn’t give a fuck.
She lived in Lawrence, MA with her dog, a beautiful Alaskan Malamute named Mynx. Jen rarely had a boyfriend and always seemed most comfortable alone. She is often quiet and never loses her cool. Some people mistake her for a bitch.
Jen has a psycho sister named Mora, who is incapable of being alone. She is needy and drives men away. She stalks them until she stumbles upon the next poor fuck who gets ensnared by Mora’s legendary bedroom skills. But sex is not casual to Mora. She bought a wedding dress for $4500 when she was 19 and not even dating anyone. It hangs in her closet to this day waiting for Mr. Tux, I guess. She is a bipolar nymphomaniac who only feels alive in the midst of chaos.
These two sisters are both damaged. Their stepfather, Ray, regularly sexually abused them when they were young girls. Their mother is such a pitiful wreck of a woman that she accused both girls of lying when they told her what Ray had done to them. When she caught Ray with Jen, she believed Jen, but not Mora. I’m pretty sure that is why Mora is exponentially more fucked in the head than Jen. Years of watching your mother side with your abuser would make anyone come unhinged.
Their mother never left Ray. And, get this. They all sit down, the whole family, every Christmas and Thanksfuckingiving like nothing happened.
In all the years I knew Jen, I never met her Mom or Ray. I didn’t want to. I hated them both. Well, I hated Ray. I just pitied that poor excuse for a fucking mother who thought herself so unlovable, that she had to cling to the man who destroyed her daughters’ childhoods.
I used to often end up in relationships with these damaged women. I often did not know about the abuse they had suffered in the past. Things would start off great. And for a few months there was a great deal of fun, laughter and amazing sex. Then suddenly it would change. The laughter would subside and there would be no more rooftop sex or car sex or cemetery-in-the-rain sex. Soon there was no sex at all. Then came the chaos, the boozing, the blackouts, the verbal (sometimes physical) attacks. This would culminate in me leaving. A day or two later I would get the call. Tears. Apologies. Promises. I'd go back one more time, but it always ended the same way.
But with Jen, it was different. She seemed to have a handle on it. She didn’t seem to have any ill will toward Ray or her Mother.
Understand, I didn’t have it real bad for Jen. I just liked her a lot. I liked that she never had a boyfriend and I could just roll into town and hook up. Or not. She’d cook me a meal. We’d rent a movie and chill. I’d give her a massage and try to get in her pants and was never frustrated when it didn’t happen - which was most of the time. The fun was in trying. She was always a good sport. She’d never get annoyed. She’d just laugh and shoot me down...except when she didn't.
One night, we were not really watching TV. I remember it was right after Thanksgiving. There had been an early snow and Mynx was outside in sled-dog heaven. I was sitting on the couch, leaned back. Jen had her head in my lap as she watched David Letterman finish his monologue. I was stroking her hair, when I realized I really liked stroking her hair. I didn’t feel like chasing her around the living room. I just wanted to stroke her hair like that. We weren’t in love, we were just, you know...really comfortable with each other. But at that moment, I loved this girl. As I watched her lashes kiss her face with each blink and felt each breath enter her body, I loved her more. And I loved the child she was before I met her. And I stroked her hair and without looking at her, I asked what I had always wondered.
“Thanksgiving. How can you sit at the same table as Ray?”
She took half a breath and as she exhaled, the words just seeped out of her mouth and spilled on the carpet like blood.
“It just doesn’t bother me anymore.”
That was when I decided to kill Ray.
Monday, October 24, 2011
HAIKU MOVIE REVIEW #5 - Dolphin Tale
Waaah-haaaa-haaaa-haaaa-haaaaaaaaaaa,
Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoooooo,
Sniff, sniff, waaaaaaaa-haaaaaa, sniff.
Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoooooo,
Sniff, sniff, waaaaaaaa-haaaaaa, sniff.
Friday, October 21, 2011
So Hard. So Easy.
Getting up. Making the bed. Facing the day. Cutting my nails. Shaving. Playing my piano. Flossing. Washing the car. Taking three deep breaths. Stretching. Listening. Stop checking Facebook. Writing. Playing my guitar. Putting away clothes. Replacing these sneakers. Hustling some cash. Saying, "Yes." Saying, "No." Turning off the motherfucking TV. Making a schedule. Eating healthy. Walking away from the table. Being on time. Going to bed.
So hard.
So Easy.
Baffling.
So hard.
So Easy.
Baffling.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
shhhhhhhhhhh...
Once,
I stopped talking,
For a week.
*pauses to allow for comments from the peanut gallery.
It's true. Ask Dave Orosz; he was there.
All my friends know that I talk WAY too much - always have. Sometimes my inner voice is telling my outer voice to shut the fuck up. I get it. Of course I get it! Do you think a guy that weighs 400lbs is unaware that he is overweight?
So one day I woke up and decided to conduct an experiment: I would remain silent for a week and see what happened.
Day one was a big deal. It was basically a daylong game of "charades". If my running off at the mouth all those years was intended to garner attention, I was definitely taking the wrong tack. Shutting my mouth brought me more attention in a day than I'd ever experienced prior to that.
"Are you sick?", "Do you have laryngitis?", "Is this a dare?", "How long are you going to keep this up?"
Someone asked if it was for spiritual reasons and I realized the answer was "Yes.".
It was 1987. I was a Lance Corporal in the Marine Corps, stationed in Okinawa, Japan. I was a computer operator and worked with mainframe IBM computers. It was like working in a civilian facility only everyone who worked there was dressed in military garb.
My colleagues clowned me for about half-a-day, after which my choice to remain silent was treated with reverence and respect by virtually all my friends, colleagues, and superiors.
During that week, I could imagine a life unspoken.
Or, at the very least, until I actually had something to say.
I stopped talking,
For a week.
*pauses to allow for comments from the peanut gallery.
It's true. Ask Dave Orosz; he was there.
All my friends know that I talk WAY too much - always have. Sometimes my inner voice is telling my outer voice to shut the fuck up. I get it. Of course I get it! Do you think a guy that weighs 400lbs is unaware that he is overweight?
So one day I woke up and decided to conduct an experiment: I would remain silent for a week and see what happened.
Day one was a big deal. It was basically a daylong game of "charades". If my running off at the mouth all those years was intended to garner attention, I was definitely taking the wrong tack. Shutting my mouth brought me more attention in a day than I'd ever experienced prior to that.
"Are you sick?", "Do you have laryngitis?", "Is this a dare?", "How long are you going to keep this up?"
Someone asked if it was for spiritual reasons and I realized the answer was "Yes.".
It was 1987. I was a Lance Corporal in the Marine Corps, stationed in Okinawa, Japan. I was a computer operator and worked with mainframe IBM computers. It was like working in a civilian facility only everyone who worked there was dressed in military garb.
My colleagues clowned me for about half-a-day, after which my choice to remain silent was treated with reverence and respect by virtually all my friends, colleagues, and superiors.
During that week, I could imagine a life unspoken.
Or, at the very least, until I actually had something to say.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
HAIKU MOVIE REVIEW #3 - The Lion King 3D
Wearing strange glasses,
Just like the original,
With a bit more depth.
Just like the original,
With a bit more depth.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
THE QUEEN OF KINGS - In loving memory of Cathy King May 11, 1954 - April 10, 2009.
I loved Cathy from day-1.
It was 1982. I had recently dropped out of Ithaca and had found work as a barback at Bentley's, the cocktail lounge at the Holiday Inn in Tewksbury. It was fun. Lame music (the house band would play Hall and Oates' "Maneater" three times in a night!), free drinks, tips, and lots of laughs. My favorite bartender was Mary. She was cool, funny and pretty. I had a little crush, but I was basically a kid and not to be taken seriously. But she liked me, and when I could no longer deal with living at my parents' house, Mary offered me a spare room in her home in exchange for a few hundred bucks a month and an agreement to be available to babysit her two boys, Joey, 6 and Jamey, 4. It was to be a very happy time in my life for many reasons, not the least of which was meeting Mary's older sister, Cathy.
Cathy pulled into the driveway in her big-ass Mercedes. When she walked into Mary's kitchen, she shined so brightly, she made the midsummer day look like night. All diamonds and teeth. Mary was pretty, maybe even gorgeous. But Cathy.... Cathy was...stunning. Literally.
And I responded appropriately. Stunned. Speechless. And to all who know me, I am not using hyperbole, here. I was, briefly, unable to speak. My crush on Mary was officially over and Cathy was now the "girl-I-don't-even-dare-to-dream-about-because-girls-like-her-do-not-consider-guys-like-me-serious-contenders". I was so insecure, so positive that I had no shot that there was no pressure on me and from that day forward I became very comfortable (on the outside) around the Stunning Miss King. We flirted shamelessly, harmlessly, without any hint of possibility in real life. I didn't even wish it, that is how off-the-charts-far-fetched the concept of "Cathy and I" was in my mind.
Cathy was married to Arthur King. No one called him that. He was simply, "King". I never met the man. To me, he was just some older guy who had paid for the accessories which looked so good on Cathy.
Cathy would come over fairly regularly for coffeetalk with Mary. I would greet Cathy with a hug, spin her around into a low dip, before asking when she was going to come to her senses, leave her husband, and run away with me. Her laughter would fill the room. Mary would laugh or roll her eyes at me. I would be on my way and not give her another thought. It was just a game we played. We played it often and stuck to the script. I moved away from Massachusetts in the Fall and did not see Cathy again until 1990.
Eight years is a long time. I worked for my Uncle Bob for a year in New Jersey and spent four years in The Marine Corps before moving back to New England, where I lived for another couple of years with my girlfriend, Helen. I had stayed in touch with Mary over the years, but I don't remember if I saw Cathy or not, but I must have. **update: I just remembered. I saw Cathy one time in the interim. She ran into my arms in Mary's kitchen and wrapped her legs around my waist. How could I forget that?
Helen and I broke up in 1990. I was lonely and sad. I knew that Cathy and King had divorced, so I asked Mary for Cathy's number. I just wanted a shoulder to cry on and four years in the Marines and working for Uncle Bob had made me brave, so yeah, I was making a move. Sue me.
Cathy's heart was bigger than her Carly Simon smile. Bigger than her 450 SEL. Bigger than her biggest diamond. Bigger than her ridiculously big house...and that is what I loved about Cathy.
To say that people did not get "us" would be an understatement. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes she was so sexy, she could (and did) stop traffic, but it was "Her" I loved.
At first, we were discrete. Cathy's boys, Gary and Brandon, were teenagers of divorced parents. She did not want to do them any more emotional harm and also wanted to be a "good mom". One night, she and I were watching TV in her bedroom. She suggested that I "fall asleep", fully clothed, on top of the covers, so that when Gary came into her room to kiss her goodbye in the morning, I would be asleep in the big bed, but in the most innocent way possible. Gary came in, kissed his mother goodbye and went off to school.
That night, Cathy, Gary, Brandon and I went clothes-shopping. Gary and I were trying on shirts. He looked at me and said,
"So, you got to sleep in Mom's bed, last night."
"Is that a problem?" I asked.
"Nope."
My motives were pure. I was straight-up in love. It also probably didn't hurt that I was a ticket-scalper, so Gary and Brandon got great seats for free after that.
We were together for maybe a year. We had a lot of fun. We had a lot of laughs. We had a lot of fights. Cathy drank. A lot.
At the time, I was sober. I tried my best not to judge people who drank heavily, but when we fought, she would sometimes say cruel things that she would forget the next day. She would apologize, promise that it would never happen again and it wouldn't until it did. I tried to help. I took her to AA once. At the time, I was on the outs with her family and could not discuss it with them. No one would have believed her to be an alcoholic, anyway. She worked full-time. She raised two boys. She didn't drink during the day. On and on. Even I didn't think she was a terminal case.
The fights became more frequent and eventually the day came when leaving her was less heartbreaking than fighting with her or watching her fight herself. No one could fathom why someone like me would break up with someone like her. I don't know if people realized we had been talking about marriage. We stayed in touch for a bit and then...not.
I called Mary last Summer. It had been a long time and I wanted to catch up. She told me that Cathy had died, years ago. She described the lonely, excruciating death of an alcoholic that I had heard described countless times while I was attending AA meetings. My wife, Allison's Father had suffered a similar fate. I could not believe it. I could not imagine a line from the nightly vodka and tonic to the description Mary gave me on the phone that evening, last Summer. I still cannot.
I am sad and guilt-ridden for not having stayed in touch with Cathy. Knowing what I know about alcoholism, I am confident that I could not have "saved" Cathy, but I would give almost anything for the opportunity to open my heart to her as she opened her's to me twenty some odd years ago. I intentionally distanced myself from her because she seemed to have a bitter streak toward me. I was too self-absorbed to not recognize that she was just hurt.
I know why Cathy drank. She told me once during one of the hundreds of heart-to-heart talks we had that are so easily obscured by time and rancor and regret. The gist of it was no real mystery to anyone who wanted to know. She drank to forget. She knew there was work she could do which could help and I watched her try. But the fear of the truths she would have to confront was too great for her. And booze worked. It was not a perfect solution, but it worked. At least it still was last I saw her.
That is all the sorrow I have for the memory of Cathy King. Though she passed years ago, the wound is fresh for me; but joy still creeps into my consciousness like a mischievous 4-year-old sneaking out of bed to watch "Late Night With David Letterman" from behind an overstuffed chair.
I choose to remember Cathy as I remember her: Vivacious and flirtatious. Compassionate and funny. Loyal and tender. And one of the truly great kissers of all time.
Rest in peace, my love. It is for people like you that the human imagination has conjured heaven.
xo,
ron
It was 1982. I had recently dropped out of Ithaca and had found work as a barback at Bentley's, the cocktail lounge at the Holiday Inn in Tewksbury. It was fun. Lame music (the house band would play Hall and Oates' "Maneater" three times in a night!), free drinks, tips, and lots of laughs. My favorite bartender was Mary. She was cool, funny and pretty. I had a little crush, but I was basically a kid and not to be taken seriously. But she liked me, and when I could no longer deal with living at my parents' house, Mary offered me a spare room in her home in exchange for a few hundred bucks a month and an agreement to be available to babysit her two boys, Joey, 6 and Jamey, 4. It was to be a very happy time in my life for many reasons, not the least of which was meeting Mary's older sister, Cathy.
Cathy pulled into the driveway in her big-ass Mercedes. When she walked into Mary's kitchen, she shined so brightly, she made the midsummer day look like night. All diamonds and teeth. Mary was pretty, maybe even gorgeous. But Cathy.... Cathy was...stunning. Literally.
And I responded appropriately. Stunned. Speechless. And to all who know me, I am not using hyperbole, here. I was, briefly, unable to speak. My crush on Mary was officially over and Cathy was now the "girl-I-don't-even-dare-to-dream-about-because-girls-like-her-do-not-consider-guys-like-me-serious-contenders". I was so insecure, so positive that I had no shot that there was no pressure on me and from that day forward I became very comfortable (on the outside) around the Stunning Miss King. We flirted shamelessly, harmlessly, without any hint of possibility in real life. I didn't even wish it, that is how off-the-charts-far-fetched the concept of "Cathy and I" was in my mind.
Cathy was married to Arthur King. No one called him that. He was simply, "King". I never met the man. To me, he was just some older guy who had paid for the accessories which looked so good on Cathy.
Cathy would come over fairly regularly for coffeetalk with Mary. I would greet Cathy with a hug, spin her around into a low dip, before asking when she was going to come to her senses, leave her husband, and run away with me. Her laughter would fill the room. Mary would laugh or roll her eyes at me. I would be on my way and not give her another thought. It was just a game we played. We played it often and stuck to the script. I moved away from Massachusetts in the Fall and did not see Cathy again until 1990.
Eight years is a long time. I worked for my Uncle Bob for a year in New Jersey and spent four years in The Marine Corps before moving back to New England, where I lived for another couple of years with my girlfriend, Helen. I had stayed in touch with Mary over the years, but I don't remember if I saw Cathy or not, but I must have. **update: I just remembered. I saw Cathy one time in the interim. She ran into my arms in Mary's kitchen and wrapped her legs around my waist. How could I forget that?
Helen and I broke up in 1990. I was lonely and sad. I knew that Cathy and King had divorced, so I asked Mary for Cathy's number. I just wanted a shoulder to cry on and four years in the Marines and working for Uncle Bob had made me brave, so yeah, I was making a move. Sue me.
Cathy's heart was bigger than her Carly Simon smile. Bigger than her 450 SEL. Bigger than her biggest diamond. Bigger than her ridiculously big house...and that is what I loved about Cathy.
To say that people did not get "us" would be an understatement. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes she was so sexy, she could (and did) stop traffic, but it was "Her" I loved.
At first, we were discrete. Cathy's boys, Gary and Brandon, were teenagers of divorced parents. She did not want to do them any more emotional harm and also wanted to be a "good mom". One night, she and I were watching TV in her bedroom. She suggested that I "fall asleep", fully clothed, on top of the covers, so that when Gary came into her room to kiss her goodbye in the morning, I would be asleep in the big bed, but in the most innocent way possible. Gary came in, kissed his mother goodbye and went off to school.
That night, Cathy, Gary, Brandon and I went clothes-shopping. Gary and I were trying on shirts. He looked at me and said,
"So, you got to sleep in Mom's bed, last night."
"Is that a problem?" I asked.
"Nope."
My motives were pure. I was straight-up in love. It also probably didn't hurt that I was a ticket-scalper, so Gary and Brandon got great seats for free after that.
We were together for maybe a year. We had a lot of fun. We had a lot of laughs. We had a lot of fights. Cathy drank. A lot.
At the time, I was sober. I tried my best not to judge people who drank heavily, but when we fought, she would sometimes say cruel things that she would forget the next day. She would apologize, promise that it would never happen again and it wouldn't until it did. I tried to help. I took her to AA once. At the time, I was on the outs with her family and could not discuss it with them. No one would have believed her to be an alcoholic, anyway. She worked full-time. She raised two boys. She didn't drink during the day. On and on. Even I didn't think she was a terminal case.
The fights became more frequent and eventually the day came when leaving her was less heartbreaking than fighting with her or watching her fight herself. No one could fathom why someone like me would break up with someone like her. I don't know if people realized we had been talking about marriage. We stayed in touch for a bit and then...not.
I called Mary last Summer. It had been a long time and I wanted to catch up. She told me that Cathy had died, years ago. She described the lonely, excruciating death of an alcoholic that I had heard described countless times while I was attending AA meetings. My wife, Allison's Father had suffered a similar fate. I could not believe it. I could not imagine a line from the nightly vodka and tonic to the description Mary gave me on the phone that evening, last Summer. I still cannot.
I am sad and guilt-ridden for not having stayed in touch with Cathy. Knowing what I know about alcoholism, I am confident that I could not have "saved" Cathy, but I would give almost anything for the opportunity to open my heart to her as she opened her's to me twenty some odd years ago. I intentionally distanced myself from her because she seemed to have a bitter streak toward me. I was too self-absorbed to not recognize that she was just hurt.
I know why Cathy drank. She told me once during one of the hundreds of heart-to-heart talks we had that are so easily obscured by time and rancor and regret. The gist of it was no real mystery to anyone who wanted to know. She drank to forget. She knew there was work she could do which could help and I watched her try. But the fear of the truths she would have to confront was too great for her. And booze worked. It was not a perfect solution, but it worked. At least it still was last I saw her.
That is all the sorrow I have for the memory of Cathy King. Though she passed years ago, the wound is fresh for me; but joy still creeps into my consciousness like a mischievous 4-year-old sneaking out of bed to watch "Late Night With David Letterman" from behind an overstuffed chair.
I choose to remember Cathy as I remember her: Vivacious and flirtatious. Compassionate and funny. Loyal and tender. And one of the truly great kissers of all time.
Rest in peace, my love. It is for people like you that the human imagination has conjured heaven.
xo,
ron
Saturday, September 24, 2011
I AM or I AM NOT
Looking into his eyes. Listening to his voice. Holding his hand. Holding him in my arms. I am.
Gazing into her eyes. Taking in her scent. Softly kissing her mouth. Holding her close. I am.
Awakened by the call, "the pull". Allowing the seed to take root. Ignoring the world and creating my own. Letting go... Writing. It. Down. Losing myself. Reading. Re-writing. Showing one trusted friend. Fixing. Fade out. I am.
Otherwise, I am not.
Gazing into her eyes. Taking in her scent. Softly kissing her mouth. Holding her close. I am.
Awakened by the call, "the pull". Allowing the seed to take root. Ignoring the world and creating my own. Letting go... Writing. It. Down. Losing myself. Reading. Re-writing. Showing one trusted friend. Fixing. Fade out. I am.
Otherwise, I am not.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Grateful Dead MSG Onsale - 199?
It was the SOMETIME IN THE EARLY 1990'S. The Grateful Dead was still one of the top-grossing acts in the United States; this, despite the fact that they had only had only one top-ten hit in decades (Touch Of Grey - 1987 Arista) and their policy of allowing fans to record all their concerts - in effect, giving there music away. This was a band that simply had to be seen live, and their fans did so in record numbers over and over again.
They were a great band. But behind that great band and their loyal fan base, was a business which generated hundreds of millions of dollars. And though the hippies who followed the tour with their vision of a giant commune where love, alone, was the coin of the realm, the fact was that this was a giant, capitalist machine which churned out stacks of cash for everyone from the promoters, agents, accountants, bankers and venue-owners and operators at the top of the food chain all the way down to the Deadheads down on "Shakedown Street" selling tour shirts, glass pipes, LSD and grilled cheese. They were even more loathe to admit that the greatest beneficiaries of this model of Capitalism was The Grateful Dead, themselves. But, in fairness, though the members of The Dead were all multi-millionaires, The Music drove the profits, not the other way around. Their love of their music and the fans who inspired and worshipped them was always evident. When the Grateful Dead performed, they never phoned it in.
Back to the cash. Where there is a successful act, there are scalpers, and Dead concerts were no exception. Working a Grateful Dead concert would have been just another day at the office for me if it weren't for one simple fact:
Deadheads hate ticket scalpers.
This fact cannot be overstated. While peace and love may not have been all there was, they most certainly served as a backdrop, the tapestry on which the whole Scene (and it was a Scene) was painted. Kindness in the form of brotherly and sisterly love was thick in the air. But derision was not absent. It was kept hidden and allowed to foment until one came across a ticket scalper. Only a confidential, police informant would be viewed with more disdain, and not by much. Shirts bearing the words "Die, Scalper Scum!" were only seen at Dead shows. These haters represented a minority, but a VERY vocal and aggressive minority.
I often tried to engage these scalper-haters. I have a disarming personality and as a result, have very few enemies. I am a hard person to hate and I tend to get along with nearly everyone I meet. A typical argument would go something like this:
I would be walking between rows of cars, announcing, "Tickets, tickets, tickets! Buying, selling. Tickets!" over and over, as I walked, when I would be accosted by a Deadhead, selling tour shirts with the band's name and/or image on it.
"Why don't you just leave, scalper? No one wants you here!"
Someone else would come up and buy a couple of tickets from me and the Scalperhater would harass them...
"Don't buy tickets from scalpers! Find a fan who has an extra, bro!"
"You're ripping off the band, man!"
At this point, I would introduce myself and engage in a sort of debate where I would state my case -
"You are selling shirts with the band's logo on it. They are not making any money off this. You are literally stealing money from the band you claim to love. This ticket I am selling was initially purchased through legitimate channels, so every member of the band as well as the promoter and venue operator have already received their cut. The Grateful Dead already got paid for the ticket I am selling. Also, every ticket I sell ends up in the hands of a happy fan. Why do you hate me and what I do?"
"Why don't you just leave, scalper? No one wants you here!"
Someone else would come up and buy a couple of tickets from me and the Scalperhater would harass them...
"Don't buy tickets from scalpers! Find a fan who has an extra, bro!"
"You're ripping off the band, man!"
At this point, I would introduce myself and engage in a sort of debate where I would state my case -
"You are selling shirts with the band's logo on it. They are not making any money off this. You are literally stealing money from the band you claim to love. This ticket I am selling was initially purchased through legitimate channels, so every member of the band as well as the promoter and venue operator have already received their cut. The Grateful Dead already got paid for the ticket I am selling. Also, every ticket I sell ends up in the hands of a happy fan. Why do you hate me and what I do?"
The responses ranged from the inane:
"Because you represent Babylon, bro!"
...to justification: "I use all this money to get to the next show. For me it's about the music. You're all about the money. I bet you don't know one Grateful Dead song. And the band doesn't care that we sell these shirts."
This latter point was not true. The band spent hundreds of thousand of dollars protecting their trademarks. That being said, they were also pragmatic. Band members often wore bootleg shirts on stage.
The best I would get from a scalper-hater would be an acknowledgement that I seemed like an alright guy, as far as scalpers went.
"Because you represent Babylon, bro!"
...to justification: "I use all this money to get to the next show. For me it's about the music. You're all about the money. I bet you don't know one Grateful Dead song. And the band doesn't care that we sell these shirts."
This latter point was not true. The band spent hundreds of thousand of dollars protecting their trademarks. That being said, they were also pragmatic. Band members often wore bootleg shirts on stage.
The best I would get from a scalper-hater would be an acknowledgement that I seemed like an alright guy, as far as scalpers went.
So, on to the part where scalpers really do suck: The "Onsale", the initial offering of tickets to the general public.
Back then, there was no internet, so the only way to buy tickets from an outlet like Tickemaster or Ticketron. There were only two ways to buy from these outlets: by phone or by standing in line in front of a store that sold hard tickets.
In 199?, the Capital Theatre was one of only a few outlets selling tickets for the upcoming Grateful Dead's Madison Square Garden shows. This is was where I chose to make my move. I brought half-a-dozen kids with me. This was my "crew", who would stand in line with me, use cash I had provided them with to but tickets, then give me those tickets. In return, I would pay them anywhere from $30 to $100 each, depending on how many seats they got. There are two reasons I was successful at onsales:
Back then, there was no internet, so the only way to buy tickets from an outlet like Tickemaster or Ticketron. There were only two ways to buy from these outlets: by phone or by standing in line in front of a store that sold hard tickets.
In 199?, the Capital Theatre was one of only a few outlets selling tickets for the upcoming Grateful Dead's Madison Square Garden shows. This is was where I chose to make my move. I brought half-a-dozen kids with me. This was my "crew", who would stand in line with me, use cash I had provided them with to but tickets, then give me those tickets. In return, I would pay them anywhere from $30 to $100 each, depending on how many seats they got. There are two reasons I was successful at onsales:
1. I put together a great crew. I would choose someone with initiative and ambition as a sort of foreperson who would then, in turn, recruit their best friends - people they trusted implicitly. I only really had to trust the one in charge, who in this case was Sandi. Sandi was and is still a cool fucking chic with a bunch of friends who she brought into my scene. Loyalty was rewarded. There were bonuses for bringing in more tickets or better seats. I ran crews for ten years and never once got ripped off by anyone on my crew. Well, almost never, but that is a tale for another day.
2. I was always first. Or nearly so. I would do everything in my power to be first in line. When people were lining up the night before an onsale, I would drop my crew off two nights before. This was the least defensible part of my business. I can justify my actions by stating that anyone could have gotten in line ahead of me (which happened from time to time) and though i was not without compassion for "real" fans, ultimately greed was my motivator. And the fact remained that tickets were limited and the front of the line was the smartest place to be.
For this event, I and my crew had arrived two nights before the actual onsale. We were the first seven in line and were joined by only one or two fans that night. It was important for my crew to not let these "real" fans in on the fact that they were working for a ticket broker. It would be a very uncomfortable two days if everyone behind us knew what we were about. However, everyone would figure it out eventually, but as long as everyone got tickets, no one usually bitched. Of course, the occasional scalperhater would rant, but if people behind us did not get tickets, they would either try to buy them from me or any one of the ticket agencies I supplied.
By the second night, we had been joined by twenty or more people on the sidewalk. These were actual concertgoers, many of them deadheads. The combined odor of Speed Stick, Pantene Shampoo and Conditioner, and weed gave way to the heavier smells of clove cigarettes, Patchouli oil, and better weed. In a short time, most of the Deadheads were on to me, so I bought a keg and made friends. I soon fell into the "not-a-bad-guy-for-a-scalper" category. I was on the sidewalk with them, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and codeine cough syrup (sobriety was eluding me). It was a fun and festive night.
One of Sandi's friends, Renee, and I hit it off. She also hit it off with one of the local residents who was in line, a super cool guy named Jeff who let me and my crew take turns going to his nearby apartment to use his shower . Renee came back from her shower looking amazing. She was laying it on pretty thick with Jeff and would teasingly look over at me hoping to playfully arouse some jealousy. This totally worked. Jeff was better looking than me, he was so cool, I liked him, and worst of all, he had his own place only blocks from where we were. My hopes with Renee seemed dim.
I was ready for a shower myself and Renee suggested that she and Jeff join me at the apartment so we could all get some food. I know this sounds like she was hoping for a threesome, but I assure you that her goal was to inflame my jealousy further. Renee was 20 and I was 27. I was not sexually adventurous enough to consider sharing her with this Jeff guy and was sure that they would be fucking while I was showering.
I was ready for a shower myself and Renee suggested that she and Jeff join me at the apartment so we could all get some food. I know this sounds like she was hoping for a threesome, but I assure you that her goal was to inflame my jealousy further. Renee was 20 and I was 27. I was not sexually adventurous enough to consider sharing her with this Jeff guy and was sure that they would be fucking while I was showering.
We went to Jeff's place and the two of them had some grub, while I showered. I did the full-on "I-might-get-laid" shower, even though I felt my odds were less than 50-50. I got out of the shower and was drying off. I could hear Renee laughing at whatever witty shit Jeff was saying.
Sensing my hookup slipping away, I decided to search for a consolation prize...in Jeff's medicine cabinet. As I mentioned before, sobriety was not a priority at this point in my life. I was pretty savvy as to the effects of various prescription medications, and if i did come across a previously unknown substance (remember, this is pre-internet and I did not carry a Physician's Desk Reference), I could always look for the "Sleepy Guy" warning label.
As soon as I opened Jeff's medicine cabinet, a smile crossed my lips. I could not have dreamed better drugs.
Sensing my hookup slipping away, I decided to search for a consolation prize...in Jeff's medicine cabinet. As I mentioned before, sobriety was not a priority at this point in my life. I was pretty savvy as to the effects of various prescription medications, and if i did come across a previously unknown substance (remember, this is pre-internet and I did not carry a Physician's Desk Reference), I could always look for the "Sleepy Guy" warning label.
As soon as I opened Jeff's medicine cabinet, a smile crossed my lips. I could not have dreamed better drugs.
I entered the kitchen with a swagger. Renee immediately picked up on my new confidence and was confused, for up until now, she had had me totally off-balance, yet now, here I was, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Jeff was handsome and used to women throwing themselves at him, but he was not that bright and had no idea that Renee had been taunting me right in front of him. He excused himself and went to the bathroom. Renee tried to regain the upper hand.
"I think Jeff is really into me!" she teased.
"Seems so." I responded, coolly.
Renee furrowed her brow, wondering what was I up to. I leaned in.
"Before you and Jeff swap bodily fluids, you might want to check his medicine cabinet. See you on the sidewalk."
I walked out of Jeff's apartment and headed back to the party in front of the Capital Theatre and smiled, satisfied, as I waited for Jeff and Renee to return.
It is pretty rare for most guys to be absolutely sure that they have won one of these battles, but I was certain, because I knew two things:
1. Renee had worked herself into such a lather, that someone was getting laid, that night. And,
2. I did not have a medicine cabinet, containing half-a-dozen bottles of Tetracycline.
Renee and I shared a blanket, that night. The next morning, I was happy, Renee was sore, and Jeff was confused.
EPILOGUE
Only thirty or so tickets were sold out of the Capital Theater's Ticketmaster machine that morning. No one behind me and my crew got tickets. We high-tailed it out of there pretty quick, before things got ugly. The whole onsale was shady. Ticketmaster and/or The Capital Theater released many more tickets a couple of hours later and though I have no evidence that someone within one of these organizations diverted tickets for the same purpose I had, these things were not uncommon in those days. It was one of the things that made me justify my own actions. While I competed with fans for thirty tickets, some unseen hand scooped up hundreds or perhaps thousands of tickets which never saw the light of day. Not that day, anyway.
"I think Jeff is really into me!" she teased.
"Seems so." I responded, coolly.
Renee furrowed her brow, wondering what was I up to. I leaned in.
"Before you and Jeff swap bodily fluids, you might want to check his medicine cabinet. See you on the sidewalk."
I walked out of Jeff's apartment and headed back to the party in front of the Capital Theatre and smiled, satisfied, as I waited for Jeff and Renee to return.
It is pretty rare for most guys to be absolutely sure that they have won one of these battles, but I was certain, because I knew two things:
1. Renee had worked herself into such a lather, that someone was getting laid, that night. And,
2. I did not have a medicine cabinet, containing half-a-dozen bottles of Tetracycline.
Renee and I shared a blanket, that night. The next morning, I was happy, Renee was sore, and Jeff was confused.
EPILOGUE
Only thirty or so tickets were sold out of the Capital Theater's Ticketmaster machine that morning. No one behind me and my crew got tickets. We high-tailed it out of there pretty quick, before things got ugly. The whole onsale was shady. Ticketmaster and/or The Capital Theater released many more tickets a couple of hours later and though I have no evidence that someone within one of these organizations diverted tickets for the same purpose I had, these things were not uncommon in those days. It was one of the things that made me justify my own actions. While I competed with fans for thirty tickets, some unseen hand scooped up hundreds or perhaps thousands of tickets which never saw the light of day. Not that day, anyway.
Monday, May 2, 2011
In Loving Memory - Saints & Sinners
Sometime, just before 2am on Sunday, May 1st, 2011, Sir Ian Dangerous poured the last official drink at one of LA's most iconic and relevant neighborhood bars, Saints & Sinners, just as he had poured the first official drink there, five years earlier. The place was jammed with regulars paying their last respects as well as bewildered first-timers trying to understand why this amazing place was closing. Jen and Charlie provided the killer soundtrack while Ken guarded the gates and kept us all safe right up until the time he lost consciousness. Ian, always the professional, ran the place as if he would be opening the next day. He also breathed so much fire, he was clearly channelling Glaurung. It was a night to remember and a fitting farewell to a great and unique lounge.
I was a relative newcomer to Saints & Sinners, but from that first visit a year and a half ago, when Ken checked my ID at the door and Ian introduced me to my first Hellfire, I was proud to count myself among its regulars. Saints & Sinners was made great by both its staff and its customers. Both groups were comprised of far more cool cats and far fewer douche-hoses than exist in the general population of Los Angeles. It felt like home. That is, if your dad breathes fire, your mom drinks copious amounts of Jameson and your sister flashes her tits occasionally - all to a soundtrack of metal, hip-hop, classic rock and karaoke. It's a place where everybody knows your name, but they call you lots of other things, instead. Not exactly like "Cheers", more like Cheers' younger, edgier brother who told his parents to fuck off, sold his father's Lexus and used the money to buy an electric guitar and a year's worth of drugs before moving to Norway to join a death-metal band he met on Craigslist.
Truly great bars are few and far-between. The last one I remember was a dive called "My Place" in Okinawa, Japan in the 1980's. I have dropped by other places during this last year and a half, but they were all afterthoughts. There was never a close second and up until this past Sunday there were only two kinds of bars in Los Angeles: "Saints & Sinners" and "not Saints & Sinners".
Farewell and thank you to all who made it so.
rk
I was a relative newcomer to Saints & Sinners, but from that first visit a year and a half ago, when Ken checked my ID at the door and Ian introduced me to my first Hellfire, I was proud to count myself among its regulars. Saints & Sinners was made great by both its staff and its customers. Both groups were comprised of far more cool cats and far fewer douche-hoses than exist in the general population of Los Angeles. It felt like home. That is, if your dad breathes fire, your mom drinks copious amounts of Jameson and your sister flashes her tits occasionally - all to a soundtrack of metal, hip-hop, classic rock and karaoke. It's a place where everybody knows your name, but they call you lots of other things, instead. Not exactly like "Cheers", more like Cheers' younger, edgier brother who told his parents to fuck off, sold his father's Lexus and used the money to buy an electric guitar and a year's worth of drugs before moving to Norway to join a death-metal band he met on Craigslist.
Truly great bars are few and far-between. The last one I remember was a dive called "My Place" in Okinawa, Japan in the 1980's. I have dropped by other places during this last year and a half, but they were all afterthoughts. There was never a close second and up until this past Sunday there were only two kinds of bars in Los Angeles: "Saints & Sinners" and "not Saints & Sinners".
Farewell and thank you to all who made it so.
rk
Thursday, February 17, 2011
SATO!
It was hot the night everything changed, I was asleep with Father. I was dreaming we were on the mainland and Mother was there and she looked radiant amidst the cherry blossoms we had come to see. Dream Mother looked like Mother before she was sick. Beautiful, with warm, loving eyes. She put her hand on my cheek. I tried to speak but no sound came out. Then it was dark except for the moonlight coming through from the window in the big room. Father's hand was on my mouth and his finger on his lips. When he saw that I understood, he arose silently and motioned for me to get under the bed. The bed frame was only six inches above the tatami, but I was small for five and easily slid underneath. I was scared, but never doubted that Father would keep me safe.
"What is going on?" I wondered. Before Father left the bedroom, he kneeled down and looked under the bed. I knew he had read my thoughts. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and our faces were close enough for me to see the tiny flecks of black and grey stubble on his cheeks and head trying to catch up with his goatee. He made no sound as he mouthed the name which had come to mean fear and inevitability in my home. Sato! And then father was gone. I watched his feet as he walked catlike into the big room. He slid the the bedroom door closed behind him.
There was silence. Then there was chaos. Two men grunting. A vase breaking. A voice not my Father's or Sato's pleading for mercy. A sound like a bunch of celery breaking followed by a man screaming in pain, very loud. The front door crashing open. The screaming getting fainter.
Father came back. His robe was torn. His face was scratched and bleeding. He held a gun in his hand which he did not have when he had left me. He asked me if I was okay. Before I could answer, we heard Sato shouting at his man outside. "Is this a joke?!" Sato railed. The man whimpered as Sato lit into him. "A gaijin schoolteacher and his half-breed five-year-old boy?! Do I need to ask which one humiliated you?!"
The whimpering man began to apologize to Sato. I heard something like a firecracker and the man suddenly stopped whimpering. He made no more sounds at all after that. Sato spoke more quietly to his other men and neither I, nor Father, heard him. But Father knew what he said. I remember knowing that Father knew things he could not see or hear. I could not comprehend adult deduction and did not think this was an ability shared by all adults. I assumed it to be some type of special ability that Father, and maybe several other people in the world, shared.
Despite this, I began to feel afraid, truly afraid, for the first time in my life. "What if Father's magic fails this one time? I could actually be harmed or killed," (unthinkable, before this moment). That is what I was thinking when I heard the footsteps of Sato and his men angrily approaching our house.
Father held my shoulders and looked deep into my eyes and told me, calmly and quietly, "Do exactly what I say." My fear evaporated like ether. Moments later, I barely remembered ever doubting him. That is the truth.
When Sato smashed his fist on our front door, Father and I were already standing on the other side; Father in his silk robe with Dragon on the back, and I, standing next to him, with pajama bottoms only. No shirt. It was hot. Sato began shouting to Father, through the door. "Michael-san! Open the door." Then, quieter, his face close to the wood, "Michael-san, let us in and I will be quick. You will feel no pain. I will care for the little one as if he were my own son. He will grow to be a wealthy man and give honor to your worthless name."
Father swung the door open, catching Sato completely off-guard. Sato had been leaning on the door and almost fell into our house. He caught himself and was shocked to see my father, unarmed and unafraid standing before him. He was even more confounded to see me there, in the open, as fearless and unafraid as Father.
Father knelt down next to me and put his hand on my back. I felt a surge of confidence. At that time, I truly believed that Father was giving me some of his power, an action I was sure was forbidden by the alliance of gifted ones to which he belonged. But this was truly a case of life and death, so they would have to make an exception, no?
Father and I exchanged a brief smile which we both maintained as we turned to look at the momentarily confused Sato and his men, all of whom carried guns of various types. "Sato," My father began, "An honor. You know my son, Daniel."
What happened next happened in no more than a second. But time slowed to a crawl for me. Father slid his hand down my back and pulled the pistol out of the waistband of my pajamas. He stood up and pointed the gun at Sato's face. I covered my ears, as Father had earlier instructed. However, I ignored his other instructions. To run away. To not look. I looked right at Sato's face and watched his eyes go round as a cow's with shock and fright for a millisecond, before his expression changed to that of a tiger about to spring.
Then Sato disappeared. One moment, he was standing on my doorstep. The next minute he was just...gone.
The boom was deafening. My ears rang even though I had covered them. I knew little of guns, "But, could a pistol be so loud?" I wondered. My whole body felt light it had gotten a gentle, yet firm push by some unseen hand. "More of Father's magic, " I remember thinking. Had there been fire? There was a cloud of grey smoke where Sato had been, yet Father's gun (which he still held out as if Sato were still there) did not have any smoke coming from its barrel. With his outstretched hand on the pistol grip, Father drew the gun closer and stared at it with disbelief. He held the barrel in his other hand. He said one word, "Cold."
Father, bewildered, looked up at Sato's men, standing outside the doorway. There were two. Neither man pointed a weapon at Father. A third man appeared from the left. He wore a shotgun strapped to his shoulder, pointing down. Smoke wafted out of the barrel like exhaust from a tailpipe on a not-to-cold day. The man who killed Sato, one of Sato's own lieutenants, entered our house and approached Father. The man looked down at the pistol which Father still held in his hands. "May I please have it?" the man said. "It was my brother's." Father did not hesitate, offering a slight bow of his head as he handed the pistol to the man who killed Sato. The man pulled his own handgun from a holster on his hip. He tossed it into the air a few inches and caught so that the handgrip faced away from him. He offered it to my father. "Please accept this gun," The man said as he bowed a bit deeper than my father had. "and forgive my brother's trespasses. He was a good horse being ridden by a ruthless driver and suffered greatly for it." Though Father knew the customs of our country, sometimes he would look to me for guidance, even I was so young. Father glanced at me and I gave him a barely perceptible, emphatic nod. Father took the gun and thanked the man and told the man that he and I would honor the memory of his brother, forever. He went on to tell the man who killed Sato that he would retell the story of this day to me, often, and instruct me to do the same with my children and so-on generation after generation. The man and his brother would be remembered as heroes to all who bore my Father's name.
The man stoically held back tears as he gave a very low bow and said something that only Father could hear and which Father never shared with me. Then the man left. Father closed the door behind the Man Who Killed Sato. I remember that I started to walk to the window. I wanted to watch them take away Sato's body, which I still had not seen. Father placed a hand on my shoulder and I stopped in my tracks. I looked up at his kind, green eyes and he shook his head. Sometimes, he gave me advice, too.
The next morning, everything had changed. All of the villagers, and I mean every single one, not only treated father as an equal, but as an elder statesmen, though he was not yet forty-years-old. Not a single old woman spoke ill of my dead mother like they did every day of my life, up until then. No children laughed when Father erred when speaking Japanese. They would take him aside and politely correct him, before bowing and walking away, respectfully. It was like Father turned Japanese that day. So did I. Though at a distance, any Japanese stranger would assume I was pure Japanese, as I possess none of my father's Western traits, except for the color of our eyes, I had always been called "Mongrel, " by children as well as adults.
Let me be clear about this mistreatment. This harassment was not a regular occurrence, it was constant. I cannot remember a single day that neither Father nor I was insulted, verbally. At Mother's funeral, a priest muttered something under his breath, which Father heard and did share with me, though I will not share it with you.
But all of that was before The Night The Man Killed Sato on Michael-san's Doorstep. Every Friday, from that day forward, one of Sato's men would come to Father's school, the school Father and Mother had built, themselves for children with various differences who were once shunned by villagers, often their own parents. The man would "demand" the school's weekly "tax", the very "tax" which Father had repeatedly refused to pay Sato and his men which led to the events of The Night Everything Changed. Only this time, Father paid.
He made a big show of giving Sato's man the envelope, bowing low. Sato's man would take the envelope and wag a threatening finger at Father who appeared frightened, then relieved, as the man exited with the envelope. The children in the classroom mirrored Father's emotions, until the man left. Then they all smiled as if they had been watching a play - which they were. The envelopes were empty, of course.
And the children would plead for the story and Father would "refuse" several times before relenting. We must have heard that story hundreds of times. I never grew tired of it. Neither does my five-year-old girl who requests it far more often than once-a-week.
Father is nearly 80, but in good health. He lives in Santa Monica and does Tai Chi at Dorothy Green Park, nearly every day. I know he is grateful that the universe spared him the burden of killing Sato himself. I have asked him many times if he would have fired a bullet into Sato's head, had fate not intervened. His answer is always the same. Silence.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
LAWRENCE 1989
LAWRENCE
April of 1989. I was living in Lawrence, Massachusetts, an old mill town on the banks of the Merrimac River. In 1989, Lawrence was a poor, working-class city on the decline. The city's claim to fame that year was having the distinction of being the car theft capital of the United States. An average of ten cars per day were stolen from its seven square miles that year (that figure has since been reduced to less than one per day at the time of this writing. Kudos, Lawrence!).
Like many of my friends, I had grown up on the other side of the tracks in well-healed Andover (I am not using hyperbole, here. There actually were railroad tracks separating the two municipalities.). But could not afford to live in the town we grew up in. Ours was to be the first generation of Americans with less buying power than their parents since those who weathered the great depression (not this one; the first one, with all those sad-faced old men wearing floppy hats). I lived in one of the most notorious drug-riddled neighborhoods in what was already an infamous city. This worked out well for me because in 1989, I was pretty drug-riddled myself.
I lived with Helen, my girlfriend and most recent hostage. I met her in Albany, Georgia and moved her up to Mass to live with me. That story is a whole 'nuther Oprah which I won't get into at this time. All you need to know is that we lived with her two dogs, a cool-as-shit Cockapoo Terrier named "Pepper" and an always bossy, sometimes vicious little, white, alpha female Pekingese named Princess Bojangles something or other. We called her "Bobo" or just "Bo". One time, Helen was taking both dogs for a walk and Pepper and Bo started rough-housing, a term I rarely get to use, when one of Bo's eyes popped out. I shit you not. Helen freaked the fuck out as one does when these things happen. She wrapped Bo in her jacket and ran home with Pepper trailing behind, gleefully wagging both tail and tongue as she got to experience the almost unheard of treat of a run right in the middle of what started off as a scent-filled, but otherwise unremarkable walk. When Helen got home, she called the vet who told her (I am NOT making this up!) "This is not uncommon with the breed and is no cause for alarm." It should be pointed out at this time that throughout the ordeal Bo did not seem to be in any pain and seemed like a perfectly normal, smash-faced, tear-stained Pekingese...except for the FUCKING EYEBALL hanging out of its socket by whatever gore errant eyeballs hang by.
The vet told Helen to stay calm and to bring Bo in, both of which Helen did. The vet cleaned Bo's eye with saline and popped it back in her squished, little face. Bo didn't even flinch. She just sat there panting adorably with her little curled tongue like Peeks do when you fall in love with them at the store and decide you are going to buy them, before you find out that not only can they be vicious, but they also are apparently prone to losing the occasional eye. The next couple of times Bo's eye fell out, Helen put it back in herself. I am certain I am the first person to have ever typed that sentence. Anyway, not long after that, Bo started listing to her left when she walked. She was an older dog and the Vet said she had a problem with her equilibrium associated with dogs her age. He assured Helen and I that this was not uncommon with the breed and I decided to love Bo in her waning years and, going forward, not go out with any more girls with Pekingeses. One positive side effect of her equilibrium condition was that Bo had what can only be described as a second puppyhood. She went from being a real cunt of a dog to a little love muffin. Go figure.
I bartended and Helen cocktailed at a local Italian restaurant called the Cedar Crest, a holdover from Lawrence's slightly more upscale past. This was family style dining, what my parents call, "Soup to nuts". You got soup, salad, an entree and dessert for a reasonable price and you got so much food, there was always a "doggy bag" to take home. The Cedar Crest's doggy bags pictured an actual doggy which passed for clever in Lawrence in 1989.
We drank. A lot. I had built up a fully stocked liquor cabinet at home, which I told myself was for company. Never mind that in four years, Helen and I never had a single house guest. The place was a small one bedroom and a mess. We never vacuumed that apartment. Not once. And remember, we had two dogs. I'm not bragging. I'm just saying....
The neighborhood was shady on a good day and dangerous on bad days. I used to buy coke from a Dominican guy through the chain-link fence that separated my backyard from the alley. This alley divided my street and Bradford Street. Bradford Street was only two blocks long and was to the cocaine-buying public for miles around what Lawrence itself was to the world of auto theft. The Lawrence Police, many of whom frequented the Cedar Crest and new me by name, did the occasional sweep, but generally tended to look the other way so long as there was no violence. Rich kids who still lived in Andover would come to Bradford Street to pay top-dollar for our shitty, stepped-on product (Lawrence, while noted for the quantity of drugs sold, did not have the same reputation for quality, at least as far as cocaine was concerned.)
I had a bit of an issue with cocaine in the eighties. Not like Charlie Sheen or anything. But I definately had a problem. While the quantities I consumed were quite small by even partying (paaaahtying) standards, the effect was Mr. Hydian. Ask my friends. It only happened one hundred percent of the time I used cocaine. Anyway, I got ripped off once - which is like saying, "I got a shitty prize in a Crackerjack box, once." or "This girl I was dating turned out to have daddy issues once." or "I had a bad meal at Sbarro's once." OK. I might have overshot the mark with that one, but you get the general idea. "I got ripped off." Not that unusual in the drug trade. "I got ripped off on Bradford Street in Lawrence by a shady, Dominican, street dealer." That would be slightly more unusual. "I got ripped off on Bradford Street in Lawrence by a shady, Dominican, street dealer who knew me well and who I would have had a hard time picking out of a line-up if it wasn't for the COON SKIN CAP he was sporting on his little tweaker head."...that is a bit odd. No, that was not a typo. I got ripped off by a scrawny, sucked-up, Dominican with a coon-skin cap. He looked like he was straight out of the Kentucky hills if the Kentucky hills had Dominicans. I need to point out hear that the VAST majority of Dominicans are hard-working, delightful, life-loving people who like many of the same things I do: Baseball, sex, beer, Santana, overtime pay and for some, the ability to produce the most realistic exotic bird-calls I have ever heard. But this guy who ripped me off...I don't know what world he came from. Why would anyone steal from a dude my size who lived in the neighborhood? I had just finished four years in the Marine Corps, and though I did not see combat, I was in the most amazing shape of my life. I looked pretty fucking intimidating. How did he expect me to react? Like some rich kid from the 'burbs (which i had been, years before)? Did he think I wouldn't know it was fake? (he sold me a gram of salt, but I'll get to that fiasco a bit later) Did he think I would not recognize a guy who looked like he was the sole Latino performer in Dachau's production of "Davey Crocket"? I walk home. I had climbed the fence this time. Sometimes, I walked around the block rather than navigate the barbed wire at the top of the fence, but I did not want to attract attention. Oh. I almost forgot. Did I mention that I was in my underwear? It was hella-hot that Summer. Like ninety degrees with real high humidity and this was at night. So, like I was saying, I didn't want to attract attention AFTER buying cocaine from an emaciated Dominican in a coon-skin cap at three in the morning while I was in my underwear, so I hit the fence and avoided the street.
I got to my apartment, my heart pounding. Cocaine always began to take effect on me before I ingested it, so the change had already begun. I looked and felt quite mad and wild-eyed when I did a key bump which I KNEW was suspect but snorted it anyway. The only difference between this cocaine rip-off and countless other cocaine rip-offs was that I did not feel the need to do a second bump "just to be sure". I knew exactly what it was. For the experimenter out there, I will say this once: Do not snort salt. I put on pants, grabbed a steak knife from the butcher-block knife set in the kitchen, noticing and annoyed that Helen had left my favorite Henkel chef's knife in the fucking sink. Again. I made a mental note to harangue her for this next we spoke which I hoped was not tonight (Helen usually slept through my late-night adventures, thank the lord). Where was I? Right. I take the street this time, purposefully semi-circumnavigating the block. Coon-skin cap guy is on the corner and has just handed two guys in a '76 Chevy Malibu Classic a bag of shitty coke if they were lucky, Morton's iodized if they were not. He has his back to me. I keep the knife in my pocket. It never comes out. I think I forgot it was there. I was enraged and I am not one of those guys who goes there, into rage, I mean. I know guys like that. The kind of guy that beats someone unconscious and keeps beating them, then comes out of a rage blackout in jail. I was in control. I grabbed the guy just above his right elbow, digging my fingers and thumb into what little meat he had on his arm. I had had this technique used on my by Military Police, one time. It works well, so my friend was only going where I led him. For those of you who haven't been arrested or kicked out of a club, this escorting technique is standard and very effective. No fancy, kung fu shit. Just showing an undesirable the door or cell or whatever. I calmed down at this point a little. I was still pissed, but I had my guy and I had a plan. I knew how this was going to turn out as I launched into my halfway decent high school Spanish. "Donde esta tu jefe?". I only had to say it twice. He pointed to one of the three-deckers and put up no resistance as I walked him in and up the stairs. I hurried him a bit so he stumbled once or twice and begged in English for me to "Calm down, man! It's OK!"
We got to the apartment. I pounded on the door with my left hand and held Coon-Skin tight with my right. A moment later, the door opened slightly, the chain still attached, and a man appeared. He seemed to be a very reasonable, sober-looking, slightly concerned, somewhat scared Dominican guy with his own steak knife in his hand. No Uzi. No Glock. Not even a switchblade. Like I said, the cops left this block alone so long as there was no violence. I never heard a helicopter overhead like I do here in Venice every other weekend. I never heard gunfire like I've heard more than a few times hear in LA. I don't know if it was the neighborhood, the people, the moment in time, but I have never seen a place so riddled drugs have virtually no gunplay. As I stood there in the hallway, outside that door, still kept almost closed by the flimsiest of chains (no Pitbull with a spiked collar, salivating at the thought of tearing into me), I realized I was looking at a family man running a small business whose biggest problem was street level dealers who were users themselves. He opened the door and asked me to let his man inside, which I did. He asked me to wait in the hall, which I also did. He closed the door and disappeared into the apartment. I heard yelling inside. I was very calm at this point, as if I was returning an item at Home Depot and the refund was already being processed. A minute later, the same man appeared. He came into the hallway. He apologized for his employee and assured me he would be dealt with. He told me his name was Reinaldo. "I know you." He says in English. "You live in the grey house. I see you at the fence." His tone was unmistakable. He was not making some veiled threat. This was clearly a genuine, neighborly gesture. I realized that Reinaldo was often the man handing me a bag through the fence during daylight hours while his wife worked and his kids were in school. He handed me an eight ball of uncut...far less cut, anyway. Regardless, it looked beautiful and sparkly. It was one, scintillating chunk of future misery. The only improvement was that my nose felt way better after it was gone than with the usual shit I got. He told me to buy only from him from now on. At the fence, please. Not his home. We shook hands as friends. I looked after him as he entered the apartment and felt like a jerk when I saw his worried wife through the open doorway, the moment before it closed. I remember thinking it felt like I had just gone to court and gotten a favorable ruling.
After that, I usually bought from Reinaldo at the fence during the day. He gave me free bags from time to time and we always talked about family before we parted. A few months later, when I started scalping tickets and making some real cash, Helen and I would buy new stuff. Sofa, dinette set. I always gave Reinaldo the old stuff. He was always grateful. He knew someone who could use it. But always through the fence. I never met Reinaldo face to face again without being separated by galvanized squares. But, Mr. Hyde has no clock, so I did not only buy cocaine during the day. For me, "The Pull" would, more often than not, have its hooks in me at night or in the wee hours, so I bought off the street sometimes. I never got ripped off on Bradford Street again. One late night that same Summer, I was sneaking into my car in the driveway, trying not to wake Helen. I was scouring the glove compartment for change. I was nine dollars short of a half gram. I kept the dome light off so as to avoid detection. I was half in and half out of the passenger side door when I heard Reinaldo yell, "Hey!" I stood up. When he saw it was me, he smiled and said, "I think I see someone breaking in your car." Ten cars a day stolen in Lawrence, and none of them were mine. No one ever fucked with my shit after I met Reinaldo. Remind me to tell you about "coon-skin cap part II". The sequel is shorter, but wicked awesome.
THE WHO, THE GRATEFUL DEAD AND MY FIRST CAREER
Up until this time, I was a n'er do well, which sounds so much better that, "A chronic fuck-up". I had my moments. I served four years in the Marine Corps which seems like something a guy with his shit together would do, but that move was cosmetic, at best. I joined on a dare at a time in my life when my heart was broken and I had been working for the past year for my Uncle Bob. He was a tough taskmaster in those days so Marine Corps Boot Camp was a lateral move as far as stress was concerned. I got in plenty of trouble during those four years. I did drugs, tested positive on a piss test, got busted back to Private and often did the bare minimum required of me. But it was peace time and I was a computer operator so no one got hurt. I managed to leave with an honorable discharge. It still looks good on a resume, but I was a slacker and a fuck up for much of my time in the service. The military has their own term for this. Shitbird. I never even considered this to be an insult.
I was stationed in Okinawa during my last year with the Marines. I had six months left on my contract and had turned things around enough that my superiors actually wanted me to consider re-enlisting. The Company Commander, himself, called me into his office (for you civilians, having a full-bird Colonel call you in his office would be like having a Cardinal, or even a Bishop wanting to have a chat with you) and asked me, "What are your plans after leaving my Marine Corps, Lance Corporal?" The Marines had taught me to be honest so I told him the truth. "Sir," I said, "I plan on growing a beard, growing my hair down to the middle of my back and smoking a joint as big as my leg." After a pause, this Colonel, with forty years of service under his belt said, "I meant...for a job." I was dismissed and the subject of re-enlistment never came up, again. Six months later, I was discharged and on my way to the aforementioned city of Lawrence.
Helen and I didn't make much money at the restaurant. But rent was cheap and just about our only expense. We went out with our co-workers and drank till closing at a bar like the ninety-nine. Bartenders hook other bartenders up, so our tabs were minimal and often exceeded by the tip. DUIs were fairly rare in those days. Jury pools were peppered, liberally, with people who partied like us and so was the police department, at least where I lived. I don't know about you. I'm talking about hard-working people who like to get crazy on the weekends. It was 1989. Studio 54 had just closed a few years earlier and though the truth about cocaine was out, many people still had their own romantic version of the disco scene fresh in their minds, like teenagers in the late 1970s hanging on to the last remnants of a recently deceased counter-culture. It was 1989 and The Grateful Dead and The Who had both launched world tours, selling out stadiums - some say just selling out.
I liked music, but, at that time, had attended few shows compared to my friends. My first concert was a dozen years earlieer. Yes was playing "in the round" at the Boston Garden. My best friend, Brent Ballard worked at a record store and got us tickets. His father, a corporate lawyer who loved classical music and would conduct the orchestra from his living room, was going with us. Mr. Ballard was a huge Rick Wakeman fan and Brent loved Yes. I was not that excited. I couldn't understand why the two of them were listening to Yes songs in the car - an Oldsmobile 98 Regency which Brent and I called"The Oldsmobubble". Why would you listen to music on tape you are going to hear live in an hour? I still only half get that. The concert was great. I remember only a couple of the songs they played - "Roundabout" was one, obviously. I just remember the vibe of the whole scene, as it unfolded. This started way before the show. It was like the first time I went into a strip club. I can't describe any of the dancers, but I felt like my head was going to explode because I was in a bar and there were beautiful, naked women all around who seemed to thing I was just the greatest guy they'd ever met. At the Yes concert, I remember beach balls and frisbees being bounced and sailed respectively. I remember seeing pot for the first time in real life and instantly knowing what it was and being shocked that it was in public. At one point, early on, a joint was being passed down our row. Brent was to my left and his Dad was to his left. The joint was going to reach Mr. Ballard first. Holy fuck! What the hell was he going to do?! When the joint got to Mr. B (which we never called him), he casually reached around Brent and Me and politely handed it to the person on my right like it was a soda. My eyes bugged out of my skull like a Pekingese as I turned to Brent whose father was now facing forward toward the stage. Brent was as surprised as I was as I mouthed large and whispered what Brent could only think: "Your father TOUCHED pot!" We were fifteen. We never spoke of it again.
April of 1989. I was living in Lawrence, Massachusetts, an old mill town on the banks of the Merrimac River. In 1989, Lawrence was a poor, working-class city on the decline. The city's claim to fame that year was having the distinction of being the car theft capital of the United States. An average of ten cars per day were stolen from its seven square miles that year (that figure has since been reduced to less than one per day at the time of this writing. Kudos, Lawrence!).
Like many of my friends, I had grown up on the other side of the tracks in well-healed Andover (I am not using hyperbole, here. There actually were railroad tracks separating the two municipalities.). But could not afford to live in the town we grew up in. Ours was to be the first generation of Americans with less buying power than their parents since those who weathered the great depression (not this one; the first one, with all those sad-faced old men wearing floppy hats). I lived in one of the most notorious drug-riddled neighborhoods in what was already an infamous city. This worked out well for me because in 1989, I was pretty drug-riddled myself.
I lived with Helen, my girlfriend and most recent hostage. I met her in Albany, Georgia and moved her up to Mass to live with me. That story is a whole 'nuther Oprah which I won't get into at this time. All you need to know is that we lived with her two dogs, a cool-as-shit Cockapoo Terrier named "Pepper" and an always bossy, sometimes vicious little, white, alpha female Pekingese named Princess Bojangles something or other. We called her "Bobo" or just "Bo". One time, Helen was taking both dogs for a walk and Pepper and Bo started rough-housing, a term I rarely get to use, when one of Bo's eyes popped out. I shit you not. Helen freaked the fuck out as one does when these things happen. She wrapped Bo in her jacket and ran home with Pepper trailing behind, gleefully wagging both tail and tongue as she got to experience the almost unheard of treat of a run right in the middle of what started off as a scent-filled, but otherwise unremarkable walk. When Helen got home, she called the vet who told her (I am NOT making this up!) "This is not uncommon with the breed and is no cause for alarm." It should be pointed out at this time that throughout the ordeal Bo did not seem to be in any pain and seemed like a perfectly normal, smash-faced, tear-stained Pekingese...except for the FUCKING EYEBALL hanging out of its socket by whatever gore errant eyeballs hang by.
The vet told Helen to stay calm and to bring Bo in, both of which Helen did. The vet cleaned Bo's eye with saline and popped it back in her squished, little face. Bo didn't even flinch. She just sat there panting adorably with her little curled tongue like Peeks do when you fall in love with them at the store and decide you are going to buy them, before you find out that not only can they be vicious, but they also are apparently prone to losing the occasional eye. The next couple of times Bo's eye fell out, Helen put it back in herself. I am certain I am the first person to have ever typed that sentence. Anyway, not long after that, Bo started listing to her left when she walked. She was an older dog and the Vet said she had a problem with her equilibrium associated with dogs her age. He assured Helen and I that this was not uncommon with the breed and I decided to love Bo in her waning years and, going forward, not go out with any more girls with Pekingeses. One positive side effect of her equilibrium condition was that Bo had what can only be described as a second puppyhood. She went from being a real cunt of a dog to a little love muffin. Go figure.
I bartended and Helen cocktailed at a local Italian restaurant called the Cedar Crest, a holdover from Lawrence's slightly more upscale past. This was family style dining, what my parents call, "Soup to nuts". You got soup, salad, an entree and dessert for a reasonable price and you got so much food, there was always a "doggy bag" to take home. The Cedar Crest's doggy bags pictured an actual doggy which passed for clever in Lawrence in 1989.
We drank. A lot. I had built up a fully stocked liquor cabinet at home, which I told myself was for company. Never mind that in four years, Helen and I never had a single house guest. The place was a small one bedroom and a mess. We never vacuumed that apartment. Not once. And remember, we had two dogs. I'm not bragging. I'm just saying....
We "pahtied" as we say in Mass. We drank, did coke and 'shrooms. We smoked what seemed like good weed at the time. One day I decided to grow my own weed. I bought a device I saw advertised in High Times called a Phototron, and converted a walk-in closet into a grow-room. The Phototron looked like an escape pod from a spaceship. I bought seeds from Holland and grew some sick Afghan that no one in Lawrence, Mass had ever seen. Then one day the Phototron broke. No warning. It just shit the bed. My plants died and I was on to the next adventure.
I had a bit of an issue with cocaine in the eighties. Not like Charlie Sheen or anything. But I definately had a problem. While the quantities I consumed were quite small by even partying (paaaahtying) standards, the effect was Mr. Hydian. Ask my friends. It only happened one hundred percent of the time I used cocaine. Anyway, I got ripped off once - which is like saying, "I got a shitty prize in a Crackerjack box, once." or "This girl I was dating turned out to have daddy issues once." or "I had a bad meal at Sbarro's once." OK. I might have overshot the mark with that one, but you get the general idea. "I got ripped off." Not that unusual in the drug trade. "I got ripped off on Bradford Street in Lawrence by a shady, Dominican, street dealer." That would be slightly more unusual. "I got ripped off on Bradford Street in Lawrence by a shady, Dominican, street dealer who knew me well and who I would have had a hard time picking out of a line-up if it wasn't for the COON SKIN CAP he was sporting on his little tweaker head."...that is a bit odd. No, that was not a typo. I got ripped off by a scrawny, sucked-up, Dominican with a coon-skin cap. He looked like he was straight out of the Kentucky hills if the Kentucky hills had Dominicans. I need to point out hear that the VAST majority of Dominicans are hard-working, delightful, life-loving people who like many of the same things I do: Baseball, sex, beer, Santana, overtime pay and for some, the ability to produce the most realistic exotic bird-calls I have ever heard. But this guy who ripped me off...I don't know what world he came from. Why would anyone steal from a dude my size who lived in the neighborhood? I had just finished four years in the Marine Corps, and though I did not see combat, I was in the most amazing shape of my life. I looked pretty fucking intimidating. How did he expect me to react? Like some rich kid from the 'burbs (which i had been, years before)? Did he think I wouldn't know it was fake? (he sold me a gram of salt, but I'll get to that fiasco a bit later) Did he think I would not recognize a guy who looked like he was the sole Latino performer in Dachau's production of "Davey Crocket"? I walk home. I had climbed the fence this time. Sometimes, I walked around the block rather than navigate the barbed wire at the top of the fence, but I did not want to attract attention. Oh. I almost forgot. Did I mention that I was in my underwear? It was hella-hot that Summer. Like ninety degrees with real high humidity and this was at night. So, like I was saying, I didn't want to attract attention AFTER buying cocaine from an emaciated Dominican in a coon-skin cap at three in the morning while I was in my underwear, so I hit the fence and avoided the street.
I got to my apartment, my heart pounding. Cocaine always began to take effect on me before I ingested it, so the change had already begun. I looked and felt quite mad and wild-eyed when I did a key bump which I KNEW was suspect but snorted it anyway. The only difference between this cocaine rip-off and countless other cocaine rip-offs was that I did not feel the need to do a second bump "just to be sure". I knew exactly what it was. For the experimenter out there, I will say this once: Do not snort salt. I put on pants, grabbed a steak knife from the butcher-block knife set in the kitchen, noticing and annoyed that Helen had left my favorite Henkel chef's knife in the fucking sink. Again. I made a mental note to harangue her for this next we spoke which I hoped was not tonight (Helen usually slept through my late-night adventures, thank the lord). Where was I? Right. I take the street this time, purposefully semi-circumnavigating the block. Coon-skin cap guy is on the corner and has just handed two guys in a '76 Chevy Malibu Classic a bag of shitty coke if they were lucky, Morton's iodized if they were not. He has his back to me. I keep the knife in my pocket. It never comes out. I think I forgot it was there. I was enraged and I am not one of those guys who goes there, into rage, I mean. I know guys like that. The kind of guy that beats someone unconscious and keeps beating them, then comes out of a rage blackout in jail. I was in control. I grabbed the guy just above his right elbow, digging my fingers and thumb into what little meat he had on his arm. I had had this technique used on my by Military Police, one time. It works well, so my friend was only going where I led him. For those of you who haven't been arrested or kicked out of a club, this escorting technique is standard and very effective. No fancy, kung fu shit. Just showing an undesirable the door or cell or whatever. I calmed down at this point a little. I was still pissed, but I had my guy and I had a plan. I knew how this was going to turn out as I launched into my halfway decent high school Spanish. "Donde esta tu jefe?". I only had to say it twice. He pointed to one of the three-deckers and put up no resistance as I walked him in and up the stairs. I hurried him a bit so he stumbled once or twice and begged in English for me to "Calm down, man! It's OK!"
We got to the apartment. I pounded on the door with my left hand and held Coon-Skin tight with my right. A moment later, the door opened slightly, the chain still attached, and a man appeared. He seemed to be a very reasonable, sober-looking, slightly concerned, somewhat scared Dominican guy with his own steak knife in his hand. No Uzi. No Glock. Not even a switchblade. Like I said, the cops left this block alone so long as there was no violence. I never heard a helicopter overhead like I do here in Venice every other weekend. I never heard gunfire like I've heard more than a few times hear in LA. I don't know if it was the neighborhood, the people, the moment in time, but I have never seen a place so riddled drugs have virtually no gunplay. As I stood there in the hallway, outside that door, still kept almost closed by the flimsiest of chains (no Pitbull with a spiked collar, salivating at the thought of tearing into me), I realized I was looking at a family man running a small business whose biggest problem was street level dealers who were users themselves. He opened the door and asked me to let his man inside, which I did. He asked me to wait in the hall, which I also did. He closed the door and disappeared into the apartment. I heard yelling inside. I was very calm at this point, as if I was returning an item at Home Depot and the refund was already being processed. A minute later, the same man appeared. He came into the hallway. He apologized for his employee and assured me he would be dealt with. He told me his name was Reinaldo. "I know you." He says in English. "You live in the grey house. I see you at the fence." His tone was unmistakable. He was not making some veiled threat. This was clearly a genuine, neighborly gesture. I realized that Reinaldo was often the man handing me a bag through the fence during daylight hours while his wife worked and his kids were in school. He handed me an eight ball of uncut...far less cut, anyway. Regardless, it looked beautiful and sparkly. It was one, scintillating chunk of future misery. The only improvement was that my nose felt way better after it was gone than with the usual shit I got. He told me to buy only from him from now on. At the fence, please. Not his home. We shook hands as friends. I looked after him as he entered the apartment and felt like a jerk when I saw his worried wife through the open doorway, the moment before it closed. I remember thinking it felt like I had just gone to court and gotten a favorable ruling.
After that, I usually bought from Reinaldo at the fence during the day. He gave me free bags from time to time and we always talked about family before we parted. A few months later, when I started scalping tickets and making some real cash, Helen and I would buy new stuff. Sofa, dinette set. I always gave Reinaldo the old stuff. He was always grateful. He knew someone who could use it. But always through the fence. I never met Reinaldo face to face again without being separated by galvanized squares. But, Mr. Hyde has no clock, so I did not only buy cocaine during the day. For me, "The Pull" would, more often than not, have its hooks in me at night or in the wee hours, so I bought off the street sometimes. I never got ripped off on Bradford Street again. One late night that same Summer, I was sneaking into my car in the driveway, trying not to wake Helen. I was scouring the glove compartment for change. I was nine dollars short of a half gram. I kept the dome light off so as to avoid detection. I was half in and half out of the passenger side door when I heard Reinaldo yell, "Hey!" I stood up. When he saw it was me, he smiled and said, "I think I see someone breaking in your car." Ten cars a day stolen in Lawrence, and none of them were mine. No one ever fucked with my shit after I met Reinaldo. Remind me to tell you about "coon-skin cap part II". The sequel is shorter, but wicked awesome.
THE WHO, THE GRATEFUL DEAD AND MY FIRST CAREER
Up until this time, I was a n'er do well, which sounds so much better that, "A chronic fuck-up". I had my moments. I served four years in the Marine Corps which seems like something a guy with his shit together would do, but that move was cosmetic, at best. I joined on a dare at a time in my life when my heart was broken and I had been working for the past year for my Uncle Bob. He was a tough taskmaster in those days so Marine Corps Boot Camp was a lateral move as far as stress was concerned. I got in plenty of trouble during those four years. I did drugs, tested positive on a piss test, got busted back to Private and often did the bare minimum required of me. But it was peace time and I was a computer operator so no one got hurt. I managed to leave with an honorable discharge. It still looks good on a resume, but I was a slacker and a fuck up for much of my time in the service. The military has their own term for this. Shitbird. I never even considered this to be an insult.
I was stationed in Okinawa during my last year with the Marines. I had six months left on my contract and had turned things around enough that my superiors actually wanted me to consider re-enlisting. The Company Commander, himself, called me into his office (for you civilians, having a full-bird Colonel call you in his office would be like having a Cardinal, or even a Bishop wanting to have a chat with you) and asked me, "What are your plans after leaving my Marine Corps, Lance Corporal?" The Marines had taught me to be honest so I told him the truth. "Sir," I said, "I plan on growing a beard, growing my hair down to the middle of my back and smoking a joint as big as my leg." After a pause, this Colonel, with forty years of service under his belt said, "I meant...for a job." I was dismissed and the subject of re-enlistment never came up, again. Six months later, I was discharged and on my way to the aforementioned city of Lawrence.
Helen and I didn't make much money at the restaurant. But rent was cheap and just about our only expense. We went out with our co-workers and drank till closing at a bar like the ninety-nine. Bartenders hook other bartenders up, so our tabs were minimal and often exceeded by the tip. DUIs were fairly rare in those days. Jury pools were peppered, liberally, with people who partied like us and so was the police department, at least where I lived. I don't know about you. I'm talking about hard-working people who like to get crazy on the weekends. It was 1989. Studio 54 had just closed a few years earlier and though the truth about cocaine was out, many people still had their own romantic version of the disco scene fresh in their minds, like teenagers in the late 1970s hanging on to the last remnants of a recently deceased counter-culture. It was 1989 and The Grateful Dead and The Who had both launched world tours, selling out stadiums - some say just selling out.
I liked music, but, at that time, had attended few shows compared to my friends. My first concert was a dozen years earlieer. Yes was playing "in the round" at the Boston Garden. My best friend, Brent Ballard worked at a record store and got us tickets. His father, a corporate lawyer who loved classical music and would conduct the orchestra from his living room, was going with us. Mr. Ballard was a huge Rick Wakeman fan and Brent loved Yes. I was not that excited. I couldn't understand why the two of them were listening to Yes songs in the car - an Oldsmobile 98 Regency which Brent and I called"The Oldsmobubble". Why would you listen to music on tape you are going to hear live in an hour? I still only half get that. The concert was great. I remember only a couple of the songs they played - "Roundabout" was one, obviously. I just remember the vibe of the whole scene, as it unfolded. This started way before the show. It was like the first time I went into a strip club. I can't describe any of the dancers, but I felt like my head was going to explode because I was in a bar and there were beautiful, naked women all around who seemed to thing I was just the greatest guy they'd ever met. At the Yes concert, I remember beach balls and frisbees being bounced and sailed respectively. I remember seeing pot for the first time in real life and instantly knowing what it was and being shocked that it was in public. At one point, early on, a joint was being passed down our row. Brent was to my left and his Dad was to his left. The joint was going to reach Mr. Ballard first. Holy fuck! What the hell was he going to do?! When the joint got to Mr. B (which we never called him), he casually reached around Brent and Me and politely handed it to the person on my right like it was a soda. My eyes bugged out of my skull like a Pekingese as I turned to Brent whose father was now facing forward toward the stage. Brent was as surprised as I was as I mouthed large and whispered what Brent could only think: "Your father TOUCHED pot!" We were fifteen. We never spoke of it again.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Salt Of The City
Steven,
I miss your hand-painted birthday cards and the poetry inside them. I promise to one day open the last one you sent.
I faced the man who killed you and forgave him so that we both could move on. He will die in prison or leave when he is much older than you were.
I wear one of the copper bracelets you wore when you died. I sent the other to Joe. I feel close to you, wearing something you made with your own hands. Something of the earth. Elemental. As you are now.
I will honor you by Living. Thank you for those you have sent to help. They truly are Angels. They are getting me into game shape and providing me with limitless possibilities.
Blake is growing like a weed. I talk of you often to him and he knows and loves you.
Your words and my music resonate with me, today:
"...Don't you run from it. Don't you forget it. Oh no, you'll never regret it. You're gonna' be what you want to be.... Salt of the city."
I love and miss you.
ronnie
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