There was a hot stifling
atmosphere. The sun was up there behind the pale clouds. Our wood shop teacher
recognized the heat and opened the shop doors to the outside to vent some air.
As I stood by the door gazing into the sky I realized that school was almost
out for the day. Calvin, my partner, interrupted my thoughts.
“You think we’ll see it?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Earlier this morning on the news,
meteorologist Bob Copeland predicted an eclipse between one and two o’clock today. It was almost two and I saw
other students, faculty gathering by windows and doors to witness the impending
spectacle. An excitement was building. However, the sun was still hidden behind
a grey blanket of clouds. Then suddenly, the clouds lifted as if on queue in a
mystical fashion and I could see a round black object— the moon had covered the
sun.
Then suddenly my thoughts turned
bleak. All outside noise diminished and only my own rambling thoughts were
heard bumping and thwacking into each other. Some deep anguish began to gnaw at
my spirit until I was isolated, detached. I trembled.
Then I saw a distant light that
grew brighter the longer I looked at it. Angels appeared, dancing before my
confused eyes. Such gorgeous angels whispering over and over in unison, “I told
you so.” And then, the big guy descended from the light, Jesus Christ. He was
on his cross like he always was except that his appendages were not staked to
it. The light began to fade as he whispered, “faith.” It was like a quiet
chant. My muscles tightened up, as if I were plunging from Mount
Everest ….
“Jim.”
I opened my eyes and shook my head.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, Mr. Chuckran.”
“You really should get more sleep.”
He looked at me strangely. I had
been leaning up against the red brick building beside the woodshop door. I
looked up into the sky and the eclipse was over. The moment had passed.
*
I jump out of bed and slip on my
work boots. I head downstairs to make instant coffee then gather up
necessities— smokes from my mom and flashlight; it might be dark in the woods
so early in the morning. My Uncle Bob then comes downstairs wearing his
pajamas.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m collecting cans.”
“You know you woke me up,” he says.
“Sorry.”
I don’t know how the fuck I did
that and besides he’s an early bird.
I finish my coffee and throw on my
coat. I quietly leave and Brandy follows me outside. I’m not taking Terry
because she runs in the street without looking. Brandy is a seasoned pro. It is
chilly like I thought it would be and dark. The sky is covered by a thick grey
blanket of clouds. Red and orange leaves fall from trees blow across the
street, streets which are bleak and desolate so early— even typically busy North
Street feels like a ghost town. Brandy loves the
walk, the morning air as she chugs along closely. I really should have brought
Terry though.
It’s about a ten minute walk to the
Curtis Compact store and it’s closed. Dead empty parking lot. I head around the
corner of the store towards the back where the trail begins. I open my trash
bag where a few beer cans are scattered at the trailhead. I follow the trail,
picking up cans as I go until I finally reach that point where the last nights
party had been and where most of the cans lie in wait. I go about collecting,
business-like and arbitrarily. It looks like a bomb exploded— cans, bottles,
cups, even dungaree jacket and two sweatshirts. Then the funny score of the
morning— Kevin’s baseball cap on the ground near the fire pit. The wood is
still burning, smoking.
Suddenly I hear what sounds like
gun shots coming through the woods, close by. I stop and crouch. They continue
to pop in the distance. Then I’m either becoming paranoid or the gun shots are
getting closer and closer. Brandy has gone from carefree and content to nervous
and alert, sniffing the air. The hair on her back rises up in a black stripe.
Maybe it’s a bunch of kids. I don’t
know what to think. In a moment I get bummed, for some unknown reason.
“Come on Brandy. Let’s see who’s
down there.”
I’m nervous but determined too.
Pop. Pop. Maybe target practice somewhere. I stumble across an empty beer can
with bullet holes through it. I gaze through the perimeter concentrating on any
small movement. As I scan, the gun shots start to fade, slowly until they are
gone and all is quiet and normal again.
*
Here I am walking home from a hard
day of school. I’m wearing tan chinos, a light blue valor shirt and work boots.
It’s pleasantly warm now but lately the air has grown colder as it plunges
deeper into autumn.
At home, Uncle Bob sits at the
kitchen table listening to Buddy Holly on the radio.
“Hey Bob. What’s up?”
“Nothing. You are supposed to do
the dishes but make sure Dawn dumps them. You know how I hate when I’m left in
the middle of your guys problems and ahh your mother and father chew my ass.”
He sounds like a boring repetitious
teacher who never shuts up.
“I know, Bob. ‘Before my parent’s get
home.’”
I head upstairs to my room, bored
and tired and lie down. I adjust the dials on my stereo, hit play and bring the
volume down low. I think about the day’s events and the on again off again
depression. It comes in different degrees and temperatures, sometimes very
light; other times black as space. However I try to use these feelings and bend
them into creative tools like poetry or writing. My eyes shut out the world.
Consciousness fades and I drift off.
I think about this past summer and
the great fun. A thousand gleaming smiles! Now, a lost jewel, hidden forever.
So many good times. Wisdom is an elaborate throne beside the maiden of
experience. Many nights awake until sunrise watching the universe unfold new
again. Those early skies full of wonder and mystery. Late night parties with
kids from school. Friends, girls, music— kegs and acid. Love born and lost in
the fading light. My summer at 16.
I am sad too. The skies become
blackened by smoke as if there were a great fire on Olympus .
The earth shakes with such force it is driven from its axis— tidal waves,
earthquakes and mass hysteria spell the end of mankind. That is until Zeus
races into the fray and sets the world right again.
“Hey Jim!”
It’s Uncle Bob.
“Telephone!”
I slink my way down the stairs. I
must have fallen asleep because my mind is foggy and vague. I take the phone
from him and pull the chord around the corner into the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“What’s up Jim?”
“Nothing much, Kev.”
“Dude, the air is going to drop
tomorrow— 45 degrees. That’s fucked cause it’s like 75 now,” he said.
*
We were just sitting around the
kitchen table. My mother who was smoking a butt seemed to have something on her
mind. I lit a smoke too.
I have just started smoking on a
regular basis. During the summer I had smoked a little because it gave me a
high. Now I’m just smoking because it gives me something to do when I’m bored.
It’s a lazy kind of day. I look out
the window. The sun is covered by clouds. Every so often another leaf plunges
to its death. The yard is a bright smorgasbord of fallen leaves, fall colors—
ghosts of the summer maples. It’s an autumn calendar picture moment.
“What class do you think our family
would be considered,” I ask.
“Well,” began my mom, “I’d say
we’re a little less on the scale than the average middle class family.”
She paused and gathered her
thoughts.
“All it means is that we just don’t
make as much money as some other people.”
My parents make a reasonable
amount, to me anyways. Considering that my dad doesn’t have a GED or diploma.
It’s not that he’s stupid. He came from a large family, twelve brothers and
sisters combined. His parents had their hands full financially with that brood.
His father left his mother and that made matters worse. When my dad was in 8th
grade, a friend offered him a job with good pay so he took it to help his
mother and family. So he quit school and never looked back. I once asked him if
he’d ever go to night school, he shook his head no.
“Just because we’re not as rich as
some other people, that doesn’t mean they’re better than you. As long as you’re
smart, which you are, work hard and graduate, nothing can stop you from
becoming successful.”
She snubs the cigarette in the
ashtray.
“You know, when you were born you
had to take a test, an intelligence test. You proved to be a very bright boy.
Rather than being an auto mechanic or construction worker, you proved to be
more inclined for computer work. David will never be as smart as you. I don’t
know where you get all those brains from,” she laughs. “Certainly not from us
because we’re not that smart. You would do so well in some kind of intellectual
work.”
She’s really flattering my ego,
like all mothers do.
“You would make a great politician.
No. Don’t laugh. I’m serious. You’re a con-artist, you can manipulate people.
You could even become a lawyer. I can just picture you now. You have this way
with people. But, to be a lawyer you would have to be honest.”
“I am honest.”
Well for the most part I am, with
the exception of a few lies to stay out of trouble.
“The thing is, you have all those
brains but you don’t use them. I really wish you would.”
Fuck that. What does she know
anyway?
“I suppose I could be a minister
too, huh, mom.”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t picture
you especially as a minister. Why are you planning on being one?” she asks.
“No, but maybe I have the charisma
to be one and teach the ways or our Lord to the dearly beloved ones.”
“Well, yes you could.”
Only time will tell I suppose. It’s
interesting, life. You come to a door and it opens and you pass through another
door until you start to come across some that are locked and you have to figure
out how to navigate all the options. Find the right keys.
*
As I lay in the hammock, a soft
breeze blows through the pine grove. The sun warms the road. Grasshoppers
chirp. Birds are singing high above the hammocks. Two houses down from Grammy’s
house, children are laughing and swinging on swings and seesaws. My brother and
ex-girlfriend, Vangie are chuckling over a game of horseshoes.
I get to thinking about life and
how small I am in the grand design of things, a fleck of dust in some undefined
oblivion. I’m a rolling stone down a hill collecting everything in my path,
moss dirt and pebbles. My mood darkens and I feel like I’m trapped in a coffin.
There is no joy in this box. There’s danger on the edge of town.
Vangie is such a flirt. Lay off
Dave already. It sucks. I thought I was over her. I still like her. I really
did love her. Betrayal. I thought she was mine forever. I’ll show her. I’ll get
her back somehow. She teases him with finger points and gentle punches. He
smiles that awkward shy smile. He throws a shoe and it clangs off the post.
Neither one are aware I’m watching them. I’ll just ignore Dave when she goes
home.
My friend, Jay stops by just then.
“What you doing?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Want to come over my house?”
That Maine
accent is funny.
“I guess so.”
I really want to get her bad.
As we walk the long cracked road,
he looks at me curiously.
“What’s wrong, Jim? You seem bummed
out.”
“Nothing. I’m a little bored.”
He starts to reminisce about this
past summer— when we would sneak out of the house and drive around and smoke
hash or drive to the beach and meet his friends and drink beer. It takes my
mind off her for the moment. I remind myself that I still have to get her back.
At his house, he shows me a litter
of puppies born this week. They’re all so beautiful, heartwarming as they
blindly topple over one another in search of mother’s teat. They whine incessantly.
But the mother is in the pasture barking and chasing the horse.
“Your dog better be careful. One
swift kick and its over,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry.”
“You’ll have some motherless pups.”
He calls to the dog but his
patience is strong. I suppose it’s a game between dog and horse and they are
buddies just messing around and everything is going to be okay.
We start down the road to Gram’s
house. I can see the children again, the seesaw, the swing. I hear the wings of
grasshoppers and songs of birds. In the end I decide, nothing is worth waiting
for revenge.
*
The morning has risen from its
chamber. I’m tired and still shaking sleep from my head. I’m bummed. There’s no
milk for coffee and I hate black coffee. Coffee seems to stimulate my body each
new day. So now I have to make some money, walk to the store for milk and
cigarettes.
This is what I do to make money as
I’m not quite old enough to get a job and my parent’s only give me two dollars
for Allowance. I have a little system. First, collect the cans and bottles. I
walk all over Randolph to where
kids and adults like to drink outside. I collect them all— dirty or bent. Mostly
I go to JFK, the football field out back; under the bridge on North Main
Street; the barrel across from the old electrical building and near the bowling
alley; and Belcher Park, my hood. Once I get them home, I hose them down and
take the bends out. Then I sort them, label by label and pack them into boxes.
I march into the liquor store and thank you very much. In the end it’s not much
but something is better than nothing. Besides I don’t need much. Smoke money.
Money for books or week-end mayhem.
I spend the afternoon collecting.
It’s cool out and good day for a walk.
The Bridge, as it’s known to local
teens is just an old bridge that North Main Street
runs over. There are old abandoned railroad tracks still laid out that, during
its day, went from Randolph to Hartford ,
Connecticut and New
York in the early 1900’s. Here and now, beneath it is
a perfect mess of debris. Old gas cans, food containers, yellowed dissolving
newspapers, butts, shards of glass, a rusty Fernandes carriage, blown tires and
on the supporting walls so much spray-paint and graffiti I can’t even read most
of it.
I leave. I follow the tracks and
they go right through Belcher Park .
I get a sudden memory of the first time I ever set my eyes upon Belcher
Park . When our family moved to Randolph
in 1981, I was quite excited to see that we lived right across from the park. I
would stare at the entrance, full of wonder and trepidation as to what was
inside it. From my house, it was just a mass of full grown and very green maple
trees and a dirt road that lead into it.
I was nervous on that first
walk-through. I was with my girl-friend, Ann Woods and friend Richie Miller,
both from Watertown who were
visiting for the day. I was blown away how clean the air smelled and how absolutely
quiet and beautiful. Yellow and pink flowers danced in the light wind. The
trees shaded the road from sunlight. I wondered about the wild men and parties
that must take place in here at night. The further me and Richie pushed
forward, Ann got nervous and had thoughts of getting raped so finally on her
insistence we turned around.
Back to now, even in only a couple
of years time, signs of change in the form of trash has reared its ugly head— a
pile of broken shingles, a bicycle tire and a ripped couch. Some of the trash
has even penetrated into the deeper parts of the park. It’s just a fucking
shame really.
On my way to the JFK I bump into
Kevin, my closest friend since I moved here. I offer him 50% of the take if he
helps and he joins. On the way he tells me how a cop once threatened him to
leave the bus stop because it was loitering and if he didn’t, the cop was going
to arrest him. So he calmly walked away and as he got to the street corner,
Kevin started yelling obscenities at the cop who just stared vacantly at him for
a few seconds before getting in the police car and driving away.
We arrived at JFK where there had
been a party last night— mostly jocks and their stuck-up girlfriends I’m told.
The cops had broken it up, leaving behind a mess of cans.
“Score,” I said.
We spent a minute just looking at
all them.
“This is great. Perfect,” I said.
“It’s only good for parties deep in
the woods,” Kevin said.
“Well, let’s make some money,” I
said.
We began collecting. We strolled down the shallow grassy
hill and passed huge boulders. Cans just seem to have fallen from the sky,
crushed. I could fix them. My bag smells like dust and beer. The sight of a
empty crushed cans remind me somehow of ex-girlfriends. As Kevin scoured the
field I went further into some woods where the grass turns to sand. I followed
a narrow path, passed fire pits, streams, thorn bushes and secondary paths. The
area was clean, nothing. In the distance, a motor bike roars. I turned back to
help Kevin.
Mission complete, well almost. Now
we had to get to the house and finish. On the way Kevin began talking about
music, rock videos and alcohol. He’s an avid rock/ heavy metal kid and follows
in the footsteps of his rock heroes.
I ask, “Would you ever drop your
pants on stage?” I’m alluding to the Jim Morrison Miami incident.
“No you wouldn’t,” I said. “I’m not
even sure he did it. I think Miami
just tried to scapegoat and frame him.”
“Want to play baseball this
weekend?” he asked.
“It was a strange time in America
then. Anti government movements, youth rebelling, bands like the Doors and
Stones scared adults— not to mention Woodstock
and the Manson murders. Morrison was definitely a target.”
We got to my house. We counted the
cans and only had six dollars and twenty cents total. We returned them at
Crovos Liquors, Kevin went home and I had my smokes and milk.
*
I am alone and sad. I am a lonely
tree standing along the edge of the mountainside, my roots twisted and losing
their grip in the earth— sliced and diced by the forces of nature. Why? I don’t
know.
*
*
The sun crossed the celestial
equator seven days ago on September 22. The air has become cooler and cooler.
Today I let my mother read a nice
catchy poem I had written about the changing seasons. I never show her or dad
my stuff. When she finished reading it, she chuckled. That got me mad,
especially the way she took it as a humorous presentation. To me it is a
serious poem.
What are parents anyway? What is
the adult world? They love to portray roles of authority— parents, teachers,
policemen and I’m sure those are just a few. “Don’t do that.” Or “you’re punished.” We are ruled by adults,
no question.
In my house, I’d say mom is the
dominate force. When she gets mad or doesn’t get her way she will scream, a
blood curdling scream. Dad just sits back and let’s mom take care of
everything. He’ll sit and stare at the TV, face not moving, eyes not wandering,
just taking in his mental escape from reality. When they come home from work in
frustrated tired moods, us kids get hassled. We get put down and metaphorically
spit on. I try to accept this reality but it is frustrating as hell.
Police are the worst. They stand
above everyone. They think they can intimidate anybody. Power hungry humans.
Anyway, the sun is out. Shadows
from trees are cast about; the sunlight dances through breaks in shade. The
neighbor’s dog, black with white collar around stomach walks into the backyard.
I love animals. Dawn is over a friend’s house. No idea where Dave is. My dad is
watching the Sox take on the Orioles while mom is removing all the window
screens and replacing them with glass in preparation of the looming frost.
*
*
“Hey Jim,” Dave says. “You know
that guy I met about a week ago? I was drinking with some of his buddies? He’s
in Belcher now… drinking again.”
This guy, I’m told by many is
supposed to be this vastly intelligent being. They say he has the third highest IQ in
the world. I think the kids just look up to him so much that they are
blind to the truth.
“Come on down and meet him,” says
my brother.
“I don’t know. We’ll see,” I said.
I’m watching TV alone and bored and
before you know it, I have my boots and jacket and heading out the door and
into Belcher Park .
I light a smoke. The road winds around a corner and up ahead on a hill there is
a large gathering. It’s my brother and a bunch of his friends: Tim Bulman, Mark
Fitzgerald, Mark Shattuck, Adam Sorgeman, Tom Williams, Brian Hersey and more.
Eric Sorgeman is there too and he’s talking and yelling non-stop acting like I
don’t know what.
The guy’s name is Frank. He seems
to have on a good buzz. He’s wearing a dirty plain blue t-shirt, faded dungarees
and worn cowboy boots. He’s got long curly dirty blond hair, long sideburns. He
has two girls sitting beside him and another guy probably the same age. They
look like they’re in their early twenties. Frank, like Eric, are enjoying all
the non-stop talking.
“Hey Jim,” says my brother loudly.
I think he has a buzz too. “That’s Frank. The guy with the third highest IQ in
the world.”
I can feel Frank concentrating on
me. I just look at the ground.
“Well Dave, we all have our own IQ,”
I say.
“That’s right,” says Frank. “We all
do.” He smiles big.
“Jim’s kind of interested in
philosophy too, “says my brother.
“You are? That’s good. Reading
is good for your mind.”
“Do you read?” I ask.
“Hell yes, man. You know I’ve spent
most of my life in libraries just absorbing all kinds of information. I also
work for a living. That’s right. You know what I do most of the time? I read.
Read, drink and work you know to make the bucks. And girls. I really love
girls. And kids too,” he says.
He’s one busy man. It’s hard for me
to get a word in edge-wise. In a way he reminds me of Neal Cassady— the old
side-burned hero of the snowy west. Now between everyone one else talking and
Eric’s screaming look at me voice, it’s hard to focus on any one idea.
“You know, every morning I buy a
newspaper and check out the forecast. It always says: tomorrow this, tomorrow
that, tomorrow rain thunder. Well you know what? Always on that next day, it’s
never tomorrow, it’s still today. I never get to tomorrow.”
The crowd loves that and they start
cheering him. “All right Frank!” yells Eric. I’m just trying to find something
logical to shatter his observation but I come up empty.
“Hey Frank. See if Jim can pass
your test.”
I’m feeling a little embarrassed
now.
“You want to try?” he asks.
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Ok. What is it that you— well your
mind think about all the time?”
“That’s easy. Everything.”
“Right, right, right, that’s right,
man,” he says smiling.
Now they are all cheering me on.
Frank turns back to his friends to finish off; I assume their conversation on
logistics of properly designing houses. He turns back to us and starts up a
conversation about how to beat computers, like in the movie, War Games. This
guy is smart and everything makes sense. Suddenly he turns to me.
“You know… that I’m dead,” he says.
Yes sireee, dead; yet alive at the same time. Ever since I came to be, I’ve
been dying.”
The morning rolls on, as do my classes. My teachers always supply me with heavy work load and studying. Sometimes I really get into working, doing a careful intelligent job on my assignments. Other times I pay no attention or irritate my teachers. I really detest some of my teachers, maybe even ¾ of the teacher faculty. But the thing that keeps me alive and focused is that soon I will be free of school discipline and at2:15 all my anxieties explode
from my head. On any given day, I may have a huge amount of built up tension
and anxiety. I can barely wait to release it. I really don’t understand the
forces that run around in my body during a school day. My grades, so far are
above average. In English, my teacher will give us a quiz on a story we’d read
and sometimes I’m waiting for that slick 100% or 90%, but then I’ll get a big fat 60%.
Makes sense to me. It’s a strange
death but I see his point. We grow. Old habits die. Our youthful looks. Each
broken fingernail and strand of hair, death. And our souls separate from the
body, more death. And our soul sails away like a balloon into the sky for some
mysterious unknown world. Every day we die just a little bit more.
Frank and his friends say goodbye,
hop into their car and drive off through the park. Dave and his friends begin
to scatter as if a movie had just ended.
A day or two later, as I’m
returning empty beer cans to Crovos Liquors, and I enter the back door where
can return area is, I hear a familiar raspy voice coming from the store front.
It’s Frank at the register. He looks drunk. He jokes around with the counter
help, just rambling on and on yet with a certain controlled jazzy rhythm and
manages to always command attention. I move to an angle so I can see his face
without him noticing that I’m looking at him. His eyes are blood red. I’m
thinking that it must be time for him to die a little bit more today, right
now. He looks frazzled as if he just survived a terrible ordeal. I remain
quiet, observant. I doubt he sees me or would even recognize me from the park.
He smiles at the man behind the counter, takes his case of beer and leaves out
the front door.
Another couple days later, as I sit
on my front steps, I watch as the house across from us is under construction.
Last winter, 1983-84, the house caught fire due to a faulty wire at the TV and
the house burned to the ground killing the family dog, Bandit and not-that-old
Mr. Poole. It was a devastating fire on a bone chilling February night. My
parents had opened up the house to the firemen for warmth and coffee as they
battled the fire into the early morning. The same family is moving back into
the house upon completion. I wrote a poem about that night and showed my mother
who thought it was excellent.
Sadly I threw it out, along with
three or four notebooks, love letters, poems and ripped up and tossed out my
entire photo collection of my life and friends in Watertown ,
about 200 total. I don’t really know why I did it, maybe I do but I’m not sold
on anything. I really wish I hadn’t done it now. This stuff was treasured
material. I’m not sure what caused me to do it but I did and that’s that.
(This is 45 year old Jim and I know
exactly why I threw out my personal stuff. I was rejecting the present, Randolph
by trying to destroy and forget a happy past, Watertown .
Watertown was my glory then. My first
years in Randolph were filled with
identity-crisis, confusion, loneliness, anger, hurt, mistrust, rejection and trying to fit
into a world I knew nothing about. Eventually it led me to pot, Quaaludes and
blotter acid and if I remember correctly, I was high when I tossed everything
out. It wasn’t until these days in 1984 that I had emerged from my fog, more
confident and sure of who I was becoming, of course I’m only 16 here but….)
As I watched the construction
workers, a familiar, skinny figure stood in the newly framed doorway. It’s
Frank again. He’s watching the workers and offering advice on building
techniques. He pitches in here and there. He drinks his Miller beer. His maniacal
laughter rings out over the hammer drill.
Later that night after everyone had
gone home for the day, I scouted out the house, inside and out for cans. To my
surprise, I found two full cases of unopened beer. I’ll be damned! Then I
thought about Frank and death and Frank killing himself with alcohol and drugs.
Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.
Now I think I’ll get drunk.
*
I still remember the first hit. It
was late, 1 in the morning. I was with a close friend, one of a handful of best
friends I had then and his name was Scott Costello and my soon-to-be girlfriend
Ann Woods. She was the first girl I ever had feelings for; you might even call
it love. After our separation, it killed me. Anyway, Scott pulled out a bone
and asked if anyone wanted some. Now in the past I always refused but tonight
was different. Hoping Ann would think I was some kind of hero I said yes. I was
11 or 12.
When I moved to Randolph ,
I began to like the cool, burn-out image. I began to smoke and lots of it. Pot
relaxed me like nothing else. I could get it anywhere— in school, after school,
streets, bowling alley. This led me to alcohol. My whole life I hated alcohol
but pretended to like it. Well the pot smoking characters led me to drinking
characters. I began drinking too. But now I liked it. I got wasted and I loved
that feeling of letting go and falling down. Then from there I used blotter
acid, Quaaludes and hash all easily available.
An old proverb states: the road to
excess leads to the palace of wisdom. I kind of believe this to be true. It is
a phrase derived from one man’s own experience through excess. I can relate.
*
My Uncle Bob and I were sitting in
the living room watching TV. I wasn’t really paying attention to it, a comedy
show but with few laughs. The phone rings. After the forth ring or so it
becomes clear that Bob isn’t going to answer it. Between 5 and 8 o’clock , he never does. He’s afraid it might
be Aunt Carol.
Aunt Carol is the family gossip
hound. Loves to talk about the Utley’s in Brighton , Waltham —
wherever and apparently, according to my mom loves to gossip about Bob’s
week-end adventures. Bob parties with close friends and most of the time ends
up legless. Well I don’t blame Bob because it’s none of her business. He hates
her deeply.
So I get off the couch and answer
the phone.
“Is Bobby there?” asked a voice.
“Yeah. Hold on. Who’s this?”
“Lisa.”
The voice is young and girlish like
one of my sister’s friends. Why would a friend of Dawns be calling him?
“Hey Bob. It’s for you. I didn’t
know you had a girlfriend.”
“What? Tell her I’m upstairs
sleeping.”
His voice teeters on panicky.
“I can’t. I told her you were right
here. Her name is Lisa.”
He looks around for help. He doesn’t
know what to do. Finally, he gets off the chair and heads toward the kitchen.
“I don’t know any Lisa,” he says.
I wait. He comes back in.
“Yeah right, Jim… Lisa,” he says suspiciously.
I guess Bob took too long and she
hung up.
“Really Bob. There was a girl named
Lisa asking for you.”
*
I can see the whole structure in my mind.
Sometimes when I’m alone or in company, I get negative feelings to my ego or
rather inadequacies. It’s not a constant thing, just something that creeps in
and creeps out. When it happens I’ll try and push myself mentally to the other
side of these negative waves. If I push hard enough and am patient, something
magic-like occurs. It’s some kind of movement or transcendence into the
positive side. If one dwells in this negative side one becomes weak, prudish
and ignorant as opposed to bright cheerful and hopeful— if one works hard
enough at it.
*
It is a perfect October day as the
sun shines through the colored trees. The birds, squirrels, raccoons, rabbits
even the family dog and cat must be drinking up the cool atmosphere. Children
run merrily carefree through the raked piles of leaves. It’s all good until I
hear the news through the Randolph
grapevine that some people have invited themselves to my brother and sister’s
birthday party later that night. Apparently a rumor started that there was
going to be a beer fest; in reality it’s a pizza coke type of thing— a combined
party for my younger brother and sister. So I’m going to personally make sure
no assholes get into our house tonight. This is a special occasion for everyone
in our family and I will make sure they don’t get humiliated. The kids in school
look forward to drug and alcohol parties. My brother is 14 and sister 12 and
their time is about cake, ice-cream and Pepsi. The younger kids look up to the
older kids and emulate their lifestyles and environments in which they live.
The invited guests begin to show up
at 6:30: Brian Hersey, Mike Pitts, Bill DeMarco, Mike Loundsbury, Pam Jope,
Tina Beck, Shelley Kardas, Amy Bellea— and their friends and acquaintances at
the time— Mark Shattuck, Mark Fitzgerald, Chris Beck, Bob Brutenitti, Lisa
Lewis, Tracy Berry and more. I was the doorman. I was feeling angry, frustrated
waiting for this alleged party crash. However, after an hour or so, it became
apparent that the uninvited guests were not going to show and I began to relax,
sit back and enjoy. It was a good old-fashioned party— happy, exuberant and my
parents had stocked up with mega food and tonic. Kids sang along with records
on my dad’s stereo; others sat in small groups of three or four and talked,
laughed; while others danced. At one point my dad exclaimed, “this is
craaaazzy.” When it was over, they all thanked my parents for a good time. Some
just drifted off into the night while others got rides from parents. And it
never got out of hand. Heck, I even made $9.00 dollars on the empty soda cans
the next morning.
*
Kevin and I walked up North
Main Street , cut through Fernandes parking lot,
the shrubby path behind it, over the train tracks and toward the bowling alley
until we got uptown. I was in the mood for a walk tonight so agreed to join him.
We just talked and joked. He thinks he’s getting laid tonight but I just carry
on regularly. “Really, Kev?” It’s a reposeful night, cars quietly drive by, no
people but a three twelve year old
kids breakdancing in the back parking lot. The moon glimmers towards the
southwest. A phalanx of stars, like protective warriors surrounds the moon.
Once we reach uptown (Crawford
Square ) kids start appearing all at once like a
rogue wave. Kids from school, their friends. First we hang out at Burger King
for awhile and then we walked back to the movie theater and hung out with some
kids there and talked and laughed and checked out the girls. I mostly just hung
back, watched and listened as I’m generally pretty reserved around kids I don’t
know too well.
*
My bedroom clock reads 6:30 . I can hear the birds outside my window,
chirping in their nests. The neighborhood dogs yelp from the chains they are
tied to. Dreams and nightmares are over. Down the street traffic is building.
And my sad realization that I have to go to school drifts through my mind.
Downstairs my parents and Uncle Bob
are up and awake. Dave and Dawn are still sleeping. By 7:10 they are up too— washing, eating and getting dressed.
I drink my coffee and have a smoke. When I’m fully dressed and have my school
texts I’m ready to go. “See ya everyone.” I say.
Outside the high school, the entire
walkway along the front is filled with kids waiting for the home room bell to
ring. The usual preppie kids are smoking cigarettes against the wall towards
the school parking lot; around the corner are the other kids— wearing
dungarees, work boots leather jackets and long hair. It’s here some kids sit in
their cars, listen to the radio and get high— the kids who deal, basic
juveniles or the rock and roll guys.
Inside the school, the dull dreary
hallways make me depressed. The school has three floors— a basement and first
and second floor. That’s a lot of fucking hallways, man. The classrooms are a
flat sickly green or yellow hue due in some part to the poor lighting.
The morning rolls on, as do my classes. My teachers always supply me with heavy work load and studying. Sometimes I really get into working, doing a careful intelligent job on my assignments. Other times I pay no attention or irritate my teachers. I really detest some of my teachers, maybe even ¾ of the teacher faculty. But the thing that keeps me alive and focused is that soon I will be free of school discipline and at
Inevitably, the new year brings new
faces up from the junior high schools. Since I stayed back in 9th
grade, I no longer share the same classes with friends or acquaintances from
the past. Now, in 10th grade there are kids in my classes younger
than me. Most of them are little goof balls with dumb jokes and they act like
second graders. However I was once kind of like them so I really can’t
complain. But I will, to a point.
School isn’t the best place for good
conversation either. I’m not a social king in high school but I’m okay with
that. I’d rather have a low profile than knock myself out at being popular.
Besides I’m kind of shy too.
The auditorium is where we have our
football rallies and assemblies. Because our principal perceives the 9th
and 10th graders to be overly childish, assemblies are rare. But
today we had a guest speaker. He was a man about 30, lanky and balding. He
spoke quickly, fluently and gesticulated with facial expressions and waved and
pointed his arms to good effect. The subject of his speech was economics and
demonstrated the rate at which gasoline, oil and other sources of energy are
being used carelessly in abundance.
Meanwhile Principal Saba watched
anxiously off to the side. At times the students annoying conversation rose over
the speaker’s voice and caused Saba to interrupt the man
and calm the students down. At one point the speaker addressed the audience of
his disappointment of their behavior. I could tell Saba
and the vice-principal was pissed. So come 7th period, a familiar
angry voice came over the PA system and announced that “and furthermore, no
more assemblies will be presented this year.” I was in science class and all
the kids groaned like babies blind to their own disrespectful behavior. It was
the other kids they said, not them. Just shut your fucking mouths.
The boy’s room can be interesting
though. In the bathroom beside the cafeteria the atmosphere is probably one of
the darker cynical places to be in the entire school. Kids are assholes,
mostly. Tough guys. Bullies. Cool jocks or preppies. Troublemakers. Drug
dealers. It’s always filled with the smell of cigarettes other times pot. The
puke green painted floor is always covered with butts or spit clumps and snot.
One time, some asshole spit a huge
lungy on to the ceiling and it hung there, slowly falling. It was in between
periods so kids were walking in and out of the door for piss or smoke break.
The lungy hung there, inching closer. The spitter and his friends rolled with
laughter, anticipating that it would fall on someone’s head. I laughed. It was
pure idiocy and I couldn’t help myself. I leaned against the wall, waiting like
everyone. When it finally did fall, it didn’t hit anyone. It just missed one
kid as he was walking by and pulling out his smokes from his jacket pocket. It
was an asshole move but still funny.
I hear many stories in here as
well. Stories about wild parties, rumbles and fights, who’s getting laid,
robberies, destructive carousels, all night drug trips and fucks— I dread the
day I hear someone bragging about how they fucked so and so and the girl in
question was someone I liked a lot. The bathroom is where reputations are made
or affected. Again, I mostly sit back and observe and listen.
Some of the teachers on this floor
get their fair share of abuse from students. Usually it’s the shy timid geeky
teachers. These teachers will enter the bathroom to tell them to stop smoking
and tell everyone to exit, pronto. Mostly kids will just start wising off or
blowing smoke toward them until teacher left in a hurry. Really it’s only the
floor teachers who carry a badge here, they are the ones who won’t fuck around
and who will pull your ear off. I generally hang in the quiet uninhabited
bathrooms in the newer part of the school, away from the cafeteria, shop and
retard classes; where the writing studies, English and humanities classes go
on. When I’m tense or uptight, I sneak off into bathroom and have a smoke. My
favorite bathroom is the one across from the school library. It’s the most
quiet but I only can go there if I have a nearby class or pass to the library.
Usually I’m alone and without
threat of any teacher popping in. I smoke and stare at the white tiled walls that
remind me of the movie, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest or the graffiti on the stalls—
a mustachioed cop drawn with thick black marker and in one hand, a can of mace,
in the other he points at me. His face is mean and eyes penetrating. The hung
ceiling is ravaged and torn and tile less. When I’m alone I try to get my mind
focused on the school work ahead. Sometime friends or acquaintances will join
me and we talk about our weekend adventures or the girls who are holding our
attention. Or we just bitch about teachers, rules, grades….
I personally don’t know much about
the girl’s bathrooms but I do know they smoke as much, if not more, than the
boys do. I have walked by there at times, consumed by a cloud of smoke as the
girls march in and out, a constant flow, so constant the door remains open. I
have seen some very pretty girls in this school. Most of them, despite their
beauty or attractiveness, I’ve never been turned on by because of their dismal
or stuck up personalities. There are so many stuck up girls in this school who
only date popular kids anyway. I’ve had attractive girls, usually through a
friend, tell me they wanted to go out. I refused solely because of their crummy
personalities. Friends would say,” are you crazzzy? Look at that body.” But
hey, that’s life. In the end, a nice body won’t make me happy. I’ve had a few
short-lived relationships from girls here. Their names don’t even need
mentioning. I’m not the type that needs a girlfriend around the clock. Some
guys, they need it. Not me.
*
Science class was the same as
usual. Kids constantly socialize and pay no attention to their school work. Mr.
O’Brien must have already taken a thousand points off their daily efforts.
Today he is talking about environmental hazards in a community. I’m not into it
either as I doodle in my notebook. It’s a pencil drawing of an arm pointing at
something in the distance. But the finger is really a mean penis with sperm
shooting out. The other fingers that make up the fist aren’t really fingers but
testicles. This makes me laugh. A classmate, Ed Ryan looks over my shoulder and
he seems a little shocked by it. Then the two girls in front of me see that I’m
hiding something. One asks to see it. I shook my head. “Nope.”
“Come on.”
“You wouldn’t like it. It’s a
drawing for health class and it’s pretty obscene,” I said.
“Come on. Let me see it.”
She reaches over and tries to grab
it.
“No, I said.”
The second girl who’s been quiet
until now looks me in the eye.
“Are you a brain? Do you get all
A’s and B’s?” she asked.
Now they’re really starting to piss
me off.
“I’m okay. I get along.”
I hope they just go away.
“Do you want to go to college?”
That does it. These pinheads just
won’t leave me alone.
“No… I want to be a mortician.”
Evil leer towards them.
“What’s that?”
“It’s someone who works with dead
people.”
I said it with such a serious face
but inside I’m laughing like a maniac. They look shocked but it shuts them up
and they quickly turn around.
*
In between periods, students flow
through the hallways like rivers. The hallways are so depressing. I think about
the book I just read on Jim Morrison and he used to call his friends fuckheads
in the hallways. Sometimes, as I’m walking to class I remember past school
memories— the good and the bad, even though most of my memories of Randolph
High are bad. Bad teachers. Detentions. Lectures. Suspensions. Expulsions.
I think about the novel called, The
Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Thomas Wolfe. It’s wild assortment of real life
characters like the poet Allen Ginsberg, road hero Neal Cassady, the novelist
Ken Kesey (who wrote One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest) and the Merry Pranksters.
They helped turn the whole west coast into acid freaks with LSD in the
infamous, magical 60’s. Kesey took the idea from Aldous Huxley’s essay called
Doors of Perception based on his own findings in similar drug experiments— found
an altered consciousness that runs parallel to everyday normal reality.
Then I think of the Beat
Generation, comprised of Jack Kerouac, Cassady, Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti
and many others. Kerouac’s novel, On the Road is a brilliant observation of one
man’s world.
Then I’d think of the book I read
last summer called No One here Gets out Alive, the biography on Jim Morrison.
In the school corridors he’d see a pretty girl, casually stroll over and recite
8 to 10 lines from a sonnet he memorized and then bow and walk away. Funny
stuff.
It came as a surprise to me how
Neil Cassady died, well the speculative stuff anyway. Some say he was speeding
on the highway when his heart just totally collapsed. Others say he was in a
deep despondency, and having mixed downers with alcohol, it killed him. His
pale lifeless body was found along Mexican train tracks by local Mexican
police. This was explained to me in the epilogue in Electric Kool-Aid Acid
Test. He died a hero.