We enter Connecticut and it’s raining as 95 South takes us
through New Haven. The highway twists in sharp bends and the road becomes
divided by concrete barriers that form two narrow lanes. Orange and white
barrels flash arrows in sheets of rain. Huge rumbling trucks throw water and
dirt at the windshield from their tires. More sharp turns, flashing arrows and
layers of fog now. It’s 7:00 pm and I squint into the night as I drive.
Just outside the Bronx where the breakdown lane consists of
newspapers, smashed tire rims, charred tires and hubcaps I nearly hit a muffler
in the road. Suddenly 95 South creeps away from me until I lose it all together
and now we’re on city streets unsure which borough— Bronx or Brooklyn. The rain
falls heavily and visibility sucks. Taxi’s cut me off and I flip them the bird.
Rich sits beside me, smoking; the others are in back looking out the window for
highway markers. Another taxi cuts me off from the left and I hit the
brake. “Asshole!” I yell passing him
now.
“Jim, you better be careful. You’ll probably get killed,”
said Kevin.
”You got to man. They’ll
eat you alive here.”
“There’s a gas station,” said Dawn.
“I learned a little about driving here when I was in
Manhattan,” I continued.
At the gas station the clerk points us off in the direction
of the highway and our journey resumes.
In New Jersey a pungent stink comes through the windows and despite rolling
them up, the smell still enters the vehicle. The hills on both sides of us are
lit up with bright lights for miles. I turn off the highway to refill the gas
and Dawn takes over driving duty.
In Maryland we're consumed by Easter weekend traffic. To make matters worse
only four toll lanes of twelve are open. Dozens of cars sleaze ahead of the
others, bumper to bumper and after a half hour we finally reach the toll booth,
pay and move on. The rain has stopped too.
"Maybe we should have thumbed," I said.
"We would have still been in Massachusetts stuck in the rain,"
said Rich.
"Keep it in the journal, buddy."
The Washington monument, visible from the highway seems to tear holes
through the fog and other low lying clouds.
Finally, we roll into Alexandria and Richmond Highway— Route 1. We pass 7
& 11’s, Denny’s and liquor stores we had often visited before. The
excitement is building in me and I can’t wait to get to Bennett Barracks. I
think of Carlos— the crazy Mexican with the heartiest laugh; Scott— pure psycho
drunk but when sober a pure and honest soul; Hawk— an Irish drunk whore but one
of the most down to earth guys I’ve ever known; Tom— Saudi vet and Belvoir
prankster; Greg the southern boy and Deadhead; and the guys from the earlier
days when Rich first arrived there, Cortez the Killer, the free spirited drunk
and resident psyche tech; Cruise— the fiendish creative skit master. Such
madmen in the military! To Rich, the week-end was very special— a homecoming of
sorts, a reunion of mad frat house brothers and a time to celebrate the Bennett
Barracks Brigade. It has been over a year since Rich had been discharged from
the army.
Rich had served in the army for two and half years. He had joined to get
away from the staleness of Randolph that was consuming him— ‘the comfortable
old shoe” of wasting away. Perhaps he thought to see the world. He loved basic
training, the discipline it put on him, the work outs and even quit smoking for
a time afterwards. He wanted to be an EMT. After he finished AIT ( Advanced
Individual Training) school in (
) he
was sent to Fort Belvoir.
There he would meet all these new friends and be welcomed into this new army
frat house, the military’s version of Animal House where in their free time
they spent the days drinking, smoking and chasing women— almost like he were
reliving his youth. Even the Gulf War scare, the threat of being carted off to
get shot at, that didn’t change the attitude around the barracks— the guys
still got drunk, hosted toga parties and just hoped their numbers didn’t come
up. In the end only Tom and Cortez went to Saudi Arabia. Tom told me: “mostly
we just sat around on chairs drinking and watching missiles soar through the
air like bottle rockets.” Rich was second on the list to go. Carlos was ready
to “buy out”— pay cash to get out. He loved his life too much. He said a bunch
of guys had already done it. It was a secret thing. I don’t know who arranged
it all. Though the guys wanted no part of the war, lots of older veterans
welcomed it. A sign on the Dewitt Hospital door (where Rich worked before he
left) read: I’d fly 10,000 miles to smoke a camel. There was a picture of a
camel in a target.
Back home, mothers were scared— talk of the draft starting up again had me,
Dano and everyone paying close attention to reports out of DC. I was of the
mindset that had I been drafted, I would go to the draft rather than run to Canada.
I was so sure of there being a draft that at one point I thought about joining
the army so it would be on my own terms, more or less. But then the war ended
and life resumed in the “comfortable old shoe”; while the Belvoir crew threw
more keg parties to celebrate.
We arrive at the barracks parking lot at two am. Despite the poor driving
conditions we made good time. Rich and I leave the car to see if it’s okay if
we can all come in. The CQ on duty at the front desk is asleep and his head
rests on the guest sign in sheet. We sneak up the outside stairs, through the
door to room 4B, Rich’s old room they once called the Blues Room because it was
where everyone convened to smoke, drink or hang out. Rich knocks on the door.
“Open up… CQ,” Rich said.
Tom opens the door. His eyes beam through his round glasses. Scott and his
wife Eunice are there behind him. Hugs, handshakes and how-the-hell-have-you-beens.
The room still looks the same except the wall locker has been moved. Erased are
the sharpie drawings of penises on the wall and lampshade. Rich’s ETS party had
gotten a little out of hand; Cruise and I went to town with the sharpie. 4B is
now Tom’s room. A few minutes of small talk and I bolt downstairs to get Kevin,
Lori and Dawn.
The girls sat on the extra bed and listened to the stories of Belvoir
madness. They talk about Rich’s ETS party when Tom accidentally set off the fireworks
in 4B and the MP’s came flying into Rich’s room, smoke alarms ringing, and because
it was Rich’s room the police took him to the station. Another time coming home
trashed from the bar, Rich and Hawk, after dropping Tom off in his room,
they took the fire extinguisher off the wall and sprayed it all over the place
just to see what it looked like; however the gas set off the fire alarms. The
First Sargent called on the whole barracks at three in the morning and made
everyone stand there until the culprit was discovered and when no one stepped
forward, The Company Commander got in on the act and threatened to keep them
standing for two days if he had to for answers. Then there was the bottle incident
in 4B. For some drunk reason Rich randomly threw a bottle and smashed it
against the wall and it shattered all over Greg’s bed. The others followed suit—
Carlos, Tom, Hawk and Scott— glass exploding everywhere. In the morning, the
Staff Sargent came by for an explanation of last night’s glass smashing. Rich
was alone, hungover and standing in piles of brown and clear glass.
“Why?”
“Yes why!”
“I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Rich said.
Such tales and more through the night. The girls easily fell asleep on the
bed. Everyone but Tom had gone home. At 6:30 in the morning Kevin, Rich and me
crashed on the floor, hammered and happy.
Tom and I are the last to wake; Kevin and the girls left early to rent a
room at Keystone Motel no doubt for a little more privacy than room 4B allots. I’m
just happy to be out of Massachusetts again and don’t care where I sleep for
the weekend. Me and Tom leave the barracks for breakfast while Rich decides to
stay behind and catch up with Suzette, a former girlfriend and the girl whose
necklace he nearly pawned in Cleveland.
Though my mouth is all pasty from the night before, Denny’s hits the spot.
Tom wants to hit the links but I don’t like golf and tell him so.
“No man! Really, you have to try it.”
“No thanks, really.”
“I’m telling you man. It’s a blast.”
After breakfast I told Tom I would catch up with them later and he dropped
me off at the Keystone and he went to play golf. The girls are still getting
showered and dressed. Kevin looks tired, pale face and a little bored. His
auburn moustache makes him look like a young thin lumberjack. I decide to play
tour guide and show them around being that they had never been here before.
“You want to take a ride to DC?” I asked.
“Is it far?” asked Lori.
“Nahh… twenty minutes.”
“Sounds good,” said Kevin.
“A little hungover?” I asked.
“Very.”
After the girls are showered and hair dried, I take a quick shower too,
hoping it will wake me some more.
I drive route 295 into the city. Briefly I lose track of where I am as we pass
through slum sections. Dawn is fired up— if she were driving they would have
been there already, she says. She likes to drive. Finally we come to the
Capitol building— Independence Avenue, Constitution Avenue and I park along 15
th
Street. As we lock the car doors, it starts to rain hard and I start to wonder
what I have to do to stay dry on the road. In the distance, the Washington
Monument appears to be camouflaged by the grey sky. Huge crowds wait in line to
enter it. Lori and Kevin snap pictures. We cross over puddly Constitution
Avenue and into the area known as The Mall where there is a long pond. The
raindrops patter the water rippling it with little explosions. The paved
walkway twists gently through the park. Hot pink and cherry blossom trees light
our way— even in the rain. The girls steal a few branches but the rain shreds
the soft petals and they toss them.
They are happy to be here, despite the
weather and they joke about it. Around us birds chirp and pick struggling worms
in the mud.
The Vietnam Memorial is grand and an endless list of fallen war heroes
though now beaded in rain, the names are difficult to read. The black granite
glistens. Dawn asks why the names are not in alphabetical order and I have no
idea why. I’m struck, once again by the power of the statue with three
soldiers, life-sized men, muscles and veins, weary eyes and fatigued and
straining their vision down the war road, uncertain and threatening.
Lincoln Memorial is gorgeous too in its Greco-Roman type of structure and
great colonnades and its open design seems to draw one’s gaze toward the stairs
that lead up to Lincoln. Along the top edge, the names of the states are engraved.
“I feel so small,” said Dawn. She points to the center proudly and points out
Massachusetts. We climb the sweeping staircase and at the top is the huge
Lincoln in his chair statue with a pigeon perched on each shoulder.
“You know, it doesn’t look this big in pictures,” said Dawn. “There’s
nothing to compare it to for size. Know what I mean?"
As Kevin and Lori snap pictures, I wander over to the view of the Mall, from
Lincoln’s perspective. The angle recedes perhaps into infinity. Looking at the
Washington Monument, it seems so plain and silly like a big candle-pin.
We drive to Pennsylvania Avenue to see the White House. The girls are not
impressed with it; they expected perhaps a magnificent castle with hilly green
lawns. Across the street from the White House are anti- nuclear protestors
camped on the sidewalk with signs of outrage as homeless men and women float
around them. After the White House we check out the Jefferson Memorial, took
pictures and gawked at the beauty of its structure. Then it was back to Alexandria
and we ate at Busters who, makes the juiciest cheeseburgers I’ve ever had.
At the barracks, Rich is alone and sipping on a beer. Suzette has not been
by yet but she’ll be there tonight with her two sisters.
The night he met Suzette at the bar she was out with six of her friends.
Suzette and friends flirted heavily with him that night. In fact two of her
friends asked how many condoms he had on him. He laughed it off; they didn’t.
Suzette was not looking for a relationship and she was thrilled that neither
was Rich. They went on many dates— dinner, miniature golf, walks along the Smithsonian
and Potomac River walkways. She had a convertible little sports car and he loved
the fact that she owned it. They would drive up to the ER entrance where he
worked and kiss her goodbye and she would slide over to drive away. As he
approached the sliding glass doors all the ER— the nurses, EMT’s and doctors were
huddled together staring. He certainly caught their attention as he walked into
their smiling faces.
“Look at you, you stud. Beautiful blond. Convertible. What more can you ask
for?”
The pride filled him like air.
Now we wait until they arrive. I knew Suzette but not her sisters.
“I think I’m going to stay here a week,” said Rich. “What do you think?”
“Well… we got some money. Can we make it last this time?”
“Maybe we can stay here for a week and take a bus home,” said Rich.
“Maybe we’ll just thumb.”
“Stove top stuffing? Yes sir, I’m staying.”
I feel a little uncomfortable leaving Dawn to drive home but she’s more than
capable. She says she doesn’t mind. We drive to the gas station and I fill up
her gas and check her fluids so she can leave first thing in the morning if she
chose to. Kevin seems gloomy.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” I ask.
“I can’t. I drank too much last night. I’ll stay sober with Lori.”
“All right Kev.”
I’m unsure if Kevin is happy he came here. He doesn’t seem at all like
himself. Maybe he and Lori had a fight. Me and Rich headed off for the
barracks.
Tom and Scott are drinking beer and watching TV. The room is clean— someone
has swept and made the beds. Rich and I grab Millers from the small
refrigerator— packed, no stuffed with beer and cheap wine and wedged beneath
that is a half stick of butter, curled at the edge. Tom puts on MTV where they
are playing the new Nirvana video, Come as You Are. The beers go down good and
help eliminate lingering post drunk shakes. Then Tom, half laying on the bed
bolts upright.
“Quick. Lighter.”
Scott tosses him his Zippo. Tom leans back, spreads his legs apart and
farts. A blue flame shoots from his ass. We all crack up.
“Not one of your better ones,” said Scott, grinning.
“Too forced. You’re not slipping Tom are you?” Rich asked, giggling.
“You’re right. No anal singe,” said Tom.
Tom even looks nuts. His head is shaved far below army standards like a POW.
His eyes, even though a soft blue emit a wildness of something that could potentially
explode. Tom was very gun-ho when Rich first met him. He had been in the
Special Forces Training Brigade and when he first got off the bus he had to do
100 push-ups right there before he was assigned a bunk but because of weak
knees, he eventually got the boot. Soon he would see the beauty of a less
strict world and the brainwash games the military used as a foundation for
logic.
Tom threw the Zippo back to Scott who sat across from him on the chair.
Scott seems kitten-like— short hair neatly combed a small well-groomed mustache and not the image of a man who throws his fist through glass in
drunken rage. His wife Eunice, perky and cheery, arrives soon afterwards then Carlos
and his longtime girlfriend, Robin and finally, Suzette and her two sisters—
suddenly we are in a party. The radio comes on, a deck of cards mysteriously
shows up and lots of beer and hallway chairs are brought into the room to accommodate
everyone. Rounds of speed quarters, lots of reminiscing and even more laughter
and good times. Suzette’s sisters look like Suzette, a down to earth simple
prettiness, squirelly cheeks and very cool and funny. Robin drinks her Pepsi
as she is pregnant but does not show yet. She is a petite blond with blue eyes
that seem to look far away from the present but she is very attentive to us and
laughs at all our jokes. Times moves on and I think Eunice is drunk— her rosy
freckled face lights the room. Carlos looks on smiling and laughing as the
quarters fly around the coffee table. Carlos’ smile seems frozen in time
beneath his dark mustache. He is muscular and tone too like a middleweight
boxer and he’s one guy I wouldn’t want to piss off. Rich turns up the radio a
few more notches….
I wake to Four Seasons still playing on the CD player. I’m on the bed and
can’t remember much of anything. Rich is wrapped in a blanket on the floor among
the bottle caps, broken glass and spilt beer. The ashtrays are tall with butts.
Then it occurs to me that today is Easter Sunday.
Dawn comes by to make sure that we are staying and that we hadn’t changed
our minds. I suspect Kevin may want to stay. There is definitely something
wrong but I can’t put my finger on it. I thank them all and say goodbye. After
they leave, Tom and Rich decide to go out and play some golf and they drop me
off at Denny’s for coffee and to write. On the road, one must try and stay
ahead of the game or at least parallel with it.
As I walk along Richmond Highway the sky is cool grey and it feels like more
rain is coming. I pass a dead dog in the breakdown lane, its body crushed into
the pavement and a thin layer of fur folded over its head. I pass by two more dead
dogs, freshly killed, bloody and it’s quite depressing.
I bang a left into the army base and follow the quiet curving road. Army
jeeps and a half track drive by. To my right are countless apartments, more
barracks and parking lots— children ride their bicycles. A barking dog starts
to chase me across the lawn in a blind fury and I stop. It’s a tiny dog and it
stops too, keeping a safe distance from me. It inches closer but when I move,
it turns back. A black child calls the dog from her front door and it runs to
the girl, yapping like a maniac. The street is sprinkled with delicate
pinecones the size of ping pong balls. I bend over a scoop up a handful then
whip them into the woods across the street. I aim for small trees. Back home,
in Belcher Park I used to throw rocks at the entrance sign and over the years has
taken on many chips in the wood. In the woods, a stream dribbles softly on. I
imagine a time, before paved roads and cars— a time in young America when
Algonquin tribes roamed the seaboard in nomadic stretches.
At the barracks Tom is extremely doubtful that we can stay in 4B. The First
Sargent, Campbell— an evil bitch of Belvoir, I’m told has heard that Rich is
back in town.
Said Tom,” I think she might come snooping around. She made it clear— ‘I don’t
want that Bartelamia coming NEAR the barracks.’”
Tom is torn, truly. Later Scott and Eunice invite us to stay with them for a
couple of days. They live in an apartment off base, Pembroke Village not far
from the barracks. I think Tom was more relieved than us and it’s all good now.
We all head downstairs to the recreation hall to shoot pool and drink beer.
We polish off a case of beer then drive to 7&11 for a bottle of wine.
Tebbs is with us now, a young kid, new to Belvoir and wants to fit in with the
Brigade— and he does. Back in the rec hall, we kill the wine and head back out
for two more bottles. Tonight Scott has to pull CQ duty here at the barracks
and his post, the front desk is beside the rec hall but he doesn’t care and he
drinks and shoots pool with us anyway. He slugs from the gallon jug— though it’s
a 24 hour shift. He’s dressed in torn army pants, his shirt is untucked and
missing buttons and his hair is tousled. He’s out of the army in a week and in
his mind Elvis has already left the building. Later in the night we move
outside on to the back lawn where the night becomes blurry and we stand
drunkenly around discussing the art of taking a shit, a stack, I like to say
and it’s very funny hearing everyone talk jokingly about the various size,
colors and shapes— even the proper technique of wiping.
Me and Rich wake on opposite sofas. Apparently Eunice had driven us back to
her place late last night. My body is stiff; my head hurts. I turn to Rich who
is staring at the ceiling.
“I think I might try sobriety tonight,” I said.
“Yes, me too.”
That afternoon me and Rich borrowed Scott’s tennis rackets and hit the court
behind the apartment. Rich had taught me how to play in Hawaii and I took to it
pretty well and I beat him every time now. I’m naturally athletic and I learn
sports easy and quickly. Of course the fact that I beat him all the time pisses
him off and I find myself dodging his racket as he hums it against the
chain-link fence. He can’t believe it. To make it more
frustrating for him, I developed a spin shot where I hit it, spin it so that
when it comes at him and hits the ground at his feet, it spins away to the
right and throws his timing completely off. In Rich’s defense of my new spin
shot, and none of us are tennis pros or ever even played the game at any level,
no one has learned how to defense my spin shot yet. Scott came by and played a
couple of sets against me too and I beat him easily much to his shock.
Later Scott returns to the apartment with Ed and a case of beer. I don’t
know Ed but he’s a member of the Brigade. He’s a big quiet kid with the body of
a wrestler. Of course Rich and I can’t refuse such southern hospitality. A few
beers couldn’t hurt I thought. Then out of the blue, Cortez drops by having
just returned from a day trip to his home in California. “Where’s the beer!” he
yells. Cortez looks like a smaller version of Carlos like a younger brother. He’s
dark and observant. His eyes look through me as if he were processing some
future gag at my expense. Tom had stopped by briefly but soon slipped out the
door and no one knows why. When the beer is gone we drive to the liquor store
for two more cases, a half-gallon of vodka and man, I’m getting buzzed fast. Me
and Rich are drinking vodka and cokes at a speedy rate. Now here comes Carlos,
more beer and here we go again.
Everyone is happy together again. As I’m sitting on the sofa about to sip my
drink I notice fish food floating in my drink. Instinctively I turn towards
Rich. “Hey what’s the idea? You dump this shit in my drink?” I ask.
He raises his head, peers into his own drink and starts laughing. “No man, I
didn’t do it.” As he puts the glass to his lips he sees that the perpetrator
had also sabotaged his drink with fish food. He stops and starts cracking up. “They
got me too!”
Barry shows up. He’s another newer face to me and Rich. He’s got apple pie
handsome looks and a dashing smile and I’m told has the hottest girlfriend
around. At this point the party is too big for the apartment and it is
redirected back to Fort Belvoir.
….everyone is packed into Ed’s room— all the boys, girls, Eunice, Robin and
Ed’s ex-girlfriend, Janet. Me and Rich are out of our minds, slapping each
other in the face, no idea why, laughing the whole time, faces red as blood and
next we are punching the war locker… Carlos and Rich racing down the corridor
screaming and tearing the nameplates off the doors until they came to Tom’s
room, sleeping now and they proceeded to beat the hell out of the door… Tebbs
asked Carlos for a beer and Carlos jumped up and wrestled him to the ground… at one
point Rich was standing on a table and I stealthily caught him from behind and
brought his pants to his ankles, much to the applause of the ladies in the room
and got Scott later too…the party began to scatter all over the building— even
the “brothers”, the black dudes who were sort of their own clique and kept to
themselves were hanging out with us and drinking. I found my way back to Ed’s
room and found Rich leaning out the window stacking beer cans on the Bennett
Barracks sign on the building and leaned so far I thought he might fall but
then Cortez went to the window and dumped a beer all over him… at one point me
and Carlos were ragging on each other, me a fat slob and he a stupid Mexican
for example but we were just trying to outwit each other, laughing the whole
time… beers were tossed from windows… the brothers hung around outside the
building calling us crazy motherfuckers… I dared Tebbs to sip my drink which he
did and he almost yacked…quarters games were going on in various rooms now…
bodies stumbling and falling all over the place… the CQ on duty, all he could
do was sit and watch… at one point Rich picked a fight with me, again, no idea
why but Carlos broke it up and peace was restored and at the end of the night,
me and Rich and Carlos were standing beside Eunice’s car waiting to get a ride
back to their place and Carlos is trashed and hugging us goodbye. “I love you
guys, man— I love you guys,” he said. He pulled us in for a group hug. Then as
Rich stepped back to take a drink, glass of vodka in hand, he began to sway,
and then lost control and fell backwards on his ass.
In the morning, the ringing phone wakes us up. Rich pops up off the sofa and
answers it. His voice is hoarse. I can’t hear him talking but it is brief and
he hangs up.
“Who was that?”
“Cruise. He wants to see us this week. He only lives in Baltimore.”
“Cool.”
“I’ve got that guilty feeling I did something stupid last night,” said Rich.
“Yeah me too.”
It’s Monday and Scott and Eunice are at work. After we vacuum the carpet,
mop the floor and wash the dishes we spend the day lounging in front of the TV.
It’s raining again and I’m unmotivated to write. The phone rings and its Tom
checking in on us. He told Rich that both of us tried to hook up with Janet but
were denied.
“Did you see Hawk last night?” Rich asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“He showed up.”
“Wow.”
Later that night Rich and Suzette went out on a date and I stayed in and
watched Benny Hill reruns on Comedy Central. He just died yesterday.
Rich is inside watching TV, Eunice at work and Scott is at the DeWitt
Hospital attending a bon voyage party in his honor put together by the work
staff. I sit out back beside the duck pool. At any given time at least fifteen
ducks and ducklings are swimming, walking across the grass or lounging. Rich
said ducks live the best of both worlds. Well, the sky is leaden grey and
there’s not much to do. So I watch the ducks, three in particular are fighting.
Two aggressors, thin brown-chested, green heads poke and bite at an older
fatter duck. I walk to the water’s edge and chase them off but they only move
to the other side and one of the aggressors catches up with Fatty Duck who’s
too slow and awkward and bites and pecks him again. I shout. Suddenly a burst
of yellow cloud, no idea what but it shoots out of Fatty Duck’s ass and the
aggressor turns and floats away toward a small wooden bridge. Fatty Duck
scratches his head with webbed feet, thrusts his head into the water and shakes
his head then seems to stand on the water’s surface, flapping his wings
defiantly like some strange victory duck dance.
The sun peaks through but quickly consumed by the grey clouds again….
Now we’re in Hawk’s room who’s only here briefly. He’s spending the night at
his girlfriend’s house. He offers up his room to us if we have to crash. He
knows that Cruise is coming up from Baltimore to hang. Hawk looks fit— he’s
lost some wait and wears glasses now and looks polished like English royalty.
Butch Hawk was the senior rank of the crew, E6 Staff Sargent but laid back
and very proud of his pot belly. In his pre military days living in Ohio he
would hang out with bikers and had hair passed his shoulders. Once his friend
shot another one of his friends with a shotgun filled with salt, as a joke,
right in the chest and they laughed all the way to the hospital. He was
infamous for going out with the gang in some Alexandria bar, packed with hot
babes and he would lay a stinky fart and walk away— the fart would clear a ten
foot radius, leaving Rich, Tom or Scott scratching their heads “That fucking
God damn…where is that sum bitch?” They would finally spy him across the bar
smiling holding his drink up in the air, toasting them.
“Where’s that Dano? And what about that, um, that Slabs kid?” Hawk asked.
“Couldn’t make it.”
“I like them guys. Dano still have a passion for golf balls?”
“What do you mean?”
“Last time he was here that fucker came back drunk with a shirt full of golf
balls.” He laughed.
“Must have been the Belvoir atmosphere,” I said.
Cruise arrives with a case and a half of beer. Cruise looks like he’s lost
some weight too and his hair is longer now passed his neck. He’s been out of
the army for a year and living with his folks in Ellicott City.
Julie, some military girl, goes to her room to fetch a bottle of wine and it
looks like it might be another roulette wheel of drinking. Sure enough… Cruise
has disappeared with Tom and Tebbs and Rich and me find ourselves alone with
Julie who has a rocking body. Of course I’m thinking about hooking up with her
now. However I think Rich has the same idea and if that’s the case I got no
chance. She gets up to use the bathroom.
“I think we can double team her,” said Rich.
“What?”
“Fuck yeah— me and Cruise did once.”
“Yeah?”
“Military chicks are easy,” he said.
“Ok.”
Of course I’m getting drunk by the minute and not sure exactly how a double
team works but what the hell. She returns with more wine and Rich directs the
conversation on sex— straight, lesbian or queer. She has many opinions on those
matters. Of course I tell her I don’t mind fags— to each their own. I move my face
close to hers only inches from her mouth and she doesn’t flinch. Ok it looks
like I’m in, I think. Then Rich is massaging her shoulders and she draws back
into the chair. Julie asks if I’m gay. Of course not I reply.
“Really it’s okay to be gay. I have gay friends,” she said.
She puts her hand on my inner thigh and closes her eyes as Rich gropes her
back. She opens her eyes and looks seductively into mine. This it is. This is
really going to happen.
Suddenly Cruise bursts into the room all happy drunk and clueless. He jumps
on the bed. “Hey guys!” Me and Rich withdraw from Julie who excuses herself to
pee.
“Cruise! We missed you,” I said
Before we can give him a heads up on the situation, she’s back. Fuck it, the
mood is gone and I grab a beer and forget it.
Come midnight me and Cruise are still drinking. Tom and Tebbs crashed and
Rich eventually got into Julie’s room. I’m really drunk and I come up with a
really stupid idea to pull off all the door nameplates— I return to Hawk’s room
with them all cradled in my arms.
“Where did you go?” asked Cruise.
“Let’s play cards, a little nameplate poker.”
“Wonderful idea, maestro.”
I shuffled the nameplates and dealt out a hand. “Okay, the hand with more
letters that begin with and match last names wins,” I said.
“Let’s make officers wild,” said Cruise.
We bet drinks. I’ve got Benson and Bonilla.
“Your call.”
“I’ll stick,” I said.
Cruise threw down his nameplates. “Three of a kind— Hardy, Hanson and
Hedges,” he said.
“You are counting nameplates. Cheater.”
“Thank you sir.”
We left for Baltimore early in the morning. Me and Rich slept the whole way
and all three of us crash as soon as we arrive at Cruise’s house.
Rick Cruise had served two and half years and left as an E2 because he had
been demoted twice. He never had much of an army mentality. Now he is writing a
spy detective story. As he showers he lets me read his manuscript. I dislike
the genre but am always interested in student writings. His story moves well
and I can see it— the getaway, the police car and the gun. Cruise is
comfortable with his draft but his professor wants him to remove Constitution
Avenue from Manhattan because it doesn’t exist. “She’s a bitch. ‘Everyone knows
that’s not a street in Manhattan.’ It’s fiction for Christ’s sake.”
It’s sunny now and warm. Ellicott City is a pleasant mix of Main Street
shopping malls and green hilly pastures, horses and farm houses. Cruise takes
us to a place called, The Far Side, a huge apartment complex with grand heights
and green pasture. He parks the car, pulls out a joint and sparks up. “Anybody?”
We decline.
“This place is beautiful, man. Whenever I get stressed out, I come here and
get baked.”
“Nice.”
“I’d like to film a skit here. We could shoot some scenes by those trees,”
Cruise said.
“Lots of film potential here, sure. If the groundskeepers would let you," I
said.
“We just did a skit,” said Rich. “Called Cape Beer when DeNiro first
confronts Nick Nolte.”
“Yeah we drew the McDonalds arch, Miller lite logo and Seagram’s Seven
tattoos on his arm. We kept the dialogue patterns but changed the words to mean
the opposite. Rich was Nolte,” I said.
“Did it work?” he asked.
“It was pretty funny but I haven’t edited the tape yet,” I said.
“Cool. Hey, let’s go see my friend, Karen.”
At Karen’s apartment we are led into her bedroom where her boyfriend, Steve
is sitting on the bed. The guy is so tall he doesn’t have to get up to shake my
hand— just remaining seated he is taller than I am. His eyes are glazed red.
Karen is a knock out gorgeous beauty on par with a fashion model however she’s
very cool, friendly and down to earth. After all introductions are made and a
silence falls over, Cruise breaks it. “I think it’s time for Bong Yahtzee.”
“All right,” said Karen.
Though me and Rich don’t smoke weed, we play anyway, for points. It doesn’t
take long before the room is fish bowled as each winner light up the bong; as
the game drags on, I’m either getting second hand stoned or just plain
restless. I look out the window, through the haze of weed as the sun lights up
the day.
Later, we take a drive to a small country town called Ilchester. We park the
car. Cruise and Steve (Karen had stayed behind) lead us down a small path to an
old railroad bridge. We walk along worn tiers of the rail and below the tracks,
below us is at least a fifty foot drop to the bottom. I walk deliberate— a
little afraid to take my eyes off the track and look up toward the distant
tunnel. To my right, the reposeful neighborhoods of Ilchester rest upon steep
hills; to my left are woods, lots of wilderness. We pass over a river now and a
cool breeze brushes my face. I look back on to the tiers but my eyes are a
little blurry and mesmerized by the golden sparkles beneath on the water.
Finally we approach the tunnel where inside it’s too dark to see anyone— the
only light comes from the other side maybe 100 yards and it’s not a lot.
Condensation drips from the moist ceiling. The sound of rocks kicked and puddles
stepped in echo. As we close in on the other side, I see the faint trace of
Cruise and as he steps out of the darkness, his outline against red brick
walls. Something squishes like a wet sponge. “I think I just stepped on a dead
animal,” Cruise said. As we exit the tunnel, branches frame the arched curve.
Engraved along the top is the year, 1902.
We turn right and follow them into a bushy hemmed in path that leads to an
old dam half clogged with pieces of plywood; still the water moves good, a
turbulent flow of grey water. Below us to the right is a cluster of flat wet
rocks where a rainbow is caught between the light and vapor. Far out in the
river towards the center of it is a big yellow crane half immersed in it; along
the muddy banks are a few lonely trailers.
While the other guys scatter to look around, I light a smoke and head into
the woods. I follow the river, quiet and leafy. I enter a section of woods
where the sunlight is almost surreal. I’m surrounded by electric greens,
shimmering maple leaves and fragile halos of light that fall on the entwinement
of bulbous branches. Arthritic trees are bent over, poised to fall like dominoes
on the bushy spidery floor. For some reason the scene reminds me of the story,
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. Maybe it’s the haunting imagery. The last
view before complete blackness sets in. I know nothing… but I am haunted.
Later that night, Cruise and Steve drop us off at Denny’s in Alexandria and
we bid them farewell. All I’ve got left for money now is goes towards two
coffees and a plate of cheese nachos for dinner. Rich is broke. We aren’t sure
what we are going to do about taking the bus. Again, we just pissed our money
away without regard to the next day. We’ll probably walk to Belvoir and from
there… who knows? Just then Tom and Suzette come walking through the front
door.
“Hey what’s up you guys?” Rich asked.
“We’ve been looking all over for you two,” said Tom. “No one knew what
happened to you.”
“We were worried what kind of trouble you got into,” Suzette said.
“You missed a big cook out at the barracks,” said Tom.
“We didn’t know,” said Rich.
We all drove to the barracks where we met Scott, Eunice and Hawk and spent a
nice quiet casual night together with just a few beers.
Scott McNabb was from Tennessee and an E-4 Specialist. He lived his life
full tilt. If he loved someone (women or just his friends even) he fell over
his head; if he hated someone he would fight and hold nothing back.
Rich and Scott had begun to see each other around the base for months before
they started hanging out. The first time Rich remembered seeing him, eating in
the chow hall, he was taken aback by how closely Scott resembled his brother, Dave. Scott was taller and thinner but their faces and hair were unbelievable
matches.
Months later, Rich was mowing the barracks and headquarters lawns on a 100*
day. He was busted drinking in the pool room, he being under 21. So he was punished with extra duty. On that day, a monstrous black
staff Sargent, Grant, walked up to him on the front stairs as he was on break
smoking a cigarette. Behind him, Scott followed. Grant told them that they were
taking some old mattress from the barracks and to the dump in a military
pick-up with driver included.
“Now go take lunch. I expect you here on these stairs at thirteen hundred
hours. You too understand my orders clearly.”
They both nodded.
“What?!?”
“Yes Sargent,” they said in unison.
Grant left them.
“My name’s Scott,” he said, lighting a Marlboro light.
“Rich.”
They shook hands and walked up the stairs to the entrance of the barracks.
They only lived a door away from each other.
“I got pizza in my room,” Scott said.
Rich walked in and saw that Scott’s room was just as trashed as his—
overflowing ashtrays, beer cans and clothes everywhere. Rich knew he was going
to like this guy. Scott opened the fridge and Rich noticed twelve cans of
Meisterbrau beer.
“You also got a bunch of cold beer too,” Rich said, laughing.
He threw Rich one and took one for himself.
“Fuck it. Extra duty isn’t like real duty is it?” Scott asked, smiling.
“Naaaah. It’s like … kind of on duty duty,” said Rich. They both laughed.
They talked about why they were even on this duty. Someone had turned Scott
in for drinking while he was on the military version of Alcoholics Anonymous (a
5 step program). They guzzled their beer, talked of women and as their buzz
grew, they discussed how anti-military they were.
Time passed and Scott peered out the window and saw Grant walking in perfect
stride about two hundred yards from the window. They jumped up from their
relaxed positions, Scott tossed Rich a Certs candy and they rushed downstairs
and sat laughing and burping, each laugh a comment on their feelings for rules,
each burp, a symbol for their disrespect of authority.
After they removed the mattress, they knew they were done.
“I got a meeting at the 5-step in about twenty minutes and I got a hell of a
buzz,” he said.
He got caught too that evening for being buzzed at the meeting and extra
duty was a part time job for him for the next three weeks.
We left the barracks and drove back to Scott and Eunice’s apartment. Scott
loved his fish. He has a huge fish tank in the living room. I watch them glide
in and out of plastic caves, skulls and shipwrecks trying to understand why
people took to owning fish. He owns an Angel, a Dog, an Algae and Moldfish
living in the fish bowl universe while his cat is constantly perched above the
ledge like Satan, waiting for his opportunity to snag a fish soul. That cat is
a real psycho too. It runs around the room attacking anything that moves whether
it’s the breeze blown curtains or our bare feet. He’s a carpet prowler for
sure.
Today is Saturday, the big party. Everyone runs around shopping for beer and
food. At 2 o’clock, Scott drops us off at the barracks and rushes off to do
errands. Me and Rich head upstairs to 4B and stock the refrigerator with an
additional four cases of beer. Hawk, Tebbs, Tom and his girlfriend Jen are
already drinking. Hawk’s got two beer balls— 5 gallons each. As more people
arrive we leave the barracks and spread out into the back yard. Beside the
picnic table is a huge barrel stocked with beer and ice. Hawk brings out his
massive speakers and posts them at the windows and music fills the yard. The
food hasn’t arrived yet and neither myself nor Rich has eaten anything yet and
I can feel the alcohol working a bit too strong on my empty stomach.
“You guys want some whiskey?” Hawk asked.
“Sure.”
We follow him into his room. He says a friend of his gave him some cocaine
and asks if either Rich or myself wants some. Now I don’t do drugs as a general
rule but there are exceptions from time to time— like remaining alert and sober
until the food arrives, at least that’s the plan. So we do two good sized lines
each and on que, Scott and Eunice arrive and a round of toasting for Scott as
the night is upon us now.
Shenanigans are the order of business. Suzette, Robin, Janet and Eunice
have Rich pinned to the ground and struggle to pull off his pants. Rich is
drunk and laughing his ass. The girls shout in unison, “Get ‘em off!” Finally
they succeed in pulling down underwear and all to his knees… later, Suzette and
Robin would get me too, ripping my skivvies in half as I did not submit as easy
as Rich… I run around like a madman, jumping and falling off the patio railing
all bruised, dirty and mindless… someone had squirted the mustard bottle at me
and now I have the mustard bottle and no one is safe… after the military police
break up the party I meet an Indian women, married with children and we fool
around in her car until 4:30 in the morning.
Night of nights and I recall little— brief moments of cloudy remembrance.
Perhaps it was the iron that fell and struck me flush on the head. Through all
the drunken chaos I’ve managed to keep my journal going. I wonder about more
impressionistic writing— a cascade of images that splash the senses, an
impressionistic story. After the journal is all said, done and written maybe I
can use some of it as a basis for some really nice story. My road journals as
they exist now are just boring flat narratives of events and people. I would
like to, someday, bring them to life in an interesting way.
We leave tonight for Boston. Scott and Janet are driving us and will
probably crash at Rich’s for the night. We’ve been here for a week and a half
and everyone has treated us with such southern hospitality and kindness. As I
sit at the table (we leave in four hours) I study my bleached orange shorts and
realize I’ve been wearing them through the winter, spring and on into the
summer, a staple I guess of my road journey.
It seems so long ago, that moment at Greyhound when I shook Paul’s hand
goodbye on that cold February morning. Maybe life should stop once in a while
for reflection. The merry go round of parties and stupidity has me fatigued right
now but I have no regrets, especially after three confusing years of life with
Anne. I’m too young to worry. Hell when I’m old and bald I still hope to not
worry. Why torture myself? Life is going to keep on happening whether I like it
or not.
I should be gazing upon my horizon. It’s too cloudy so I linger and relax. I’ve
got nothing— bills, car, job or money and I don’t care right now. I know I
should. I should seriously reconsider college, a career, heck right now any job
would do— something to get me by but then that shit job will just become about
the road, providing the cash for the next adventure; the road excites me more than anything. The road is the present in
all its glory. It has no yesterday and the future is out there— always out
there to be discovered. As I float along now, I realize I should start making
some smart choices but I just can’t seem to get my hands off the wheel.
Randolph bores me. Nothing seems real or important.
Dream: I’m hanging out with Dano’s girlfriend, Mary in her apartment. She
has been flirting with me all night then suddenly she hops up and kisses me.
I’m startled and kiss her back until I come to my senses and push her off me.
She says she wants to fuck me. I say no. She’s persistent but so am I. I tell
her I’ll think about it and I leave. I find Rich and Dano and ask them what I
should do.When I get Dano alone he says I should fuck her. That will give him a
valid reason to break up with her.
Then I woke up fell asleep and continued to dream.
I killed a man, some faceless man of authority. I hacked him to pieces.
There is no way I can get caught— it’s a perfectly conceived murder. After a
time though my conscience begins to bother and tear at my head. Then I get
paranoid and in my confusion I wonder if maybe I killed another man too. Such
doubts. If I did kill two men, I don’t remember and now I will surely be
caught. My mind flutters and suddenly I realize that I betrayed God and now
Satan is laughing, waiting for me to arrive. After days of intense recall and
rational thinking I realize that yes, I only committed the one murder and this
makes me feel much better. When I wake up, the fucked up logic of how one
murder is less evil than two stumps my thinking.
Just as quick as I can say, “bored” I’m in Virginia again on Scott’s sofa.
It’s memorial day weekend and on this journey, accompanying me and Rich is
Slabs and Paul Wabrek. Alexandria is our launching point for Virginia Beach.
Slabs and Wabrek are keyed up. Slabs is five years older than me but this big
round guy loves to laugh and loves his beer and fits right in with the Belvoir
crew; Wabrek, for some reason he has always been called Wabrek and not Paul, by
us anyway, he’s on a much needed break from the grind— he looks the part of
musician with the long hair and the skinny physique and the girls just swoon
over his good looks. However he has a girlfriend back home and as far as I know
he’s faithful to her.
The Belvoir crew had taken this trip last year and had such a blast they
decided to do it again. Hawk had already booked a room at the Dolphin Inn. Rich
had been on that trip. And last year Rich and Hawk hooked up with two girls
from New Jersey— Rich with Kelley and Hawk with Kim and both girls were
returning as well and have a room above us. Hawk seems to think he’ll have an
easy time juggling Kim and his current girlfriend, Renee who’s staying with
nearby relatives.
The sun is hot and bright as we begin our journey south. We suck down cold
beers and I’m very excited to see Virginia Beach. Our crew is a three car
caravan. In Wabrek’s car is myself Rich and Slabs and the vibration outside is
festive near the beach as packs of hot women wave and shout greetings to us.
The Dolphiin Inn is on the corner of 17
th Street and Atlantic
Avenue. In our room, 105, we toss our bags in the corner, stock the
refrigerator with beer and let the weekend begin. Hawk is leaving to get Renee
soon but lingers for mixed drinks. Ed appears on the balcony, stoic but happy.
Rich grabs my arm,” come on,” he said.
“Where?”
“Upstairs. Kim and Kelly.”
“All right.”
We climb the stairs and follow the corridor and come to a room. Rich knocks
and shortly, a pretty blond with sea blue eyes opens the door. Her eyes light
up when she sees Rich.
“Rich. Hi y’all doing?”
“Hey Kelly— you look good.”
“Come in,” she said.
There is a girl at the table, I presume is Kim.
“Whats up Kim? Drinking early I see,” said Rich.
”It’s never too early for a beer,” she said.
“Girls— this is Jim, my friend from back home.”
“Hi.”
“Hello Jim.”
“Feels good to be in like presense,” I said.
The girls laugh. We sit at the table and drink and talk and laugh. Kim is
very cute— full lips, big-chested and her Jersey accents drives me nuts. There’s
a wildness that runs beneath the surface with her, a sort of all-in mentality.
I’m forming a crush on her with every beer but then again, she is supposed to
be with Hawk this week-end… or not, I don’t know. Well we will just see how
everything plays out.
After awhile, others drift into the room— Wabrek, Slabs and Ed. It’s night
now and rounds of speed quarters rock the table. Matt, another Belvoir guy
stops in. Somehow the curtains above the sliding glass doors that lead to the
balcony get torn off. I remove myself from the game, step outside on the
balcony and breathe in the salty air. Partiers stumble by in droves and I call
out and flip them the bird, laughing the whole time. Inside the room people are
trashed, drunken laughter rings out. Kim joins me on the balcony and helps me
heckle the passer-bys. Somehow, we got close, embraced and kissed. We stayed
there a long time hugging and talking until finally making off into her
bedroom. As we passed through the trashed apartment, I heard Rich trying to convince
Kelly that they didn’t need a condom. At that point, the party had moved
downstairs to Hawk’s room.
When I woke the next morning, Kim was sleeping and lovely and naked. As I
rose to leave, sand fell from my hair; I shook my head like a dog— there’s
grainy sand stuck to my chest and legs. The room is trashed— chairs are toppled
over and ashtrays are spilled everywhere and beer cans thrown about. The torn
curtain over the sliding doors is gone now too and the sun blasts through the
glass. I leave the room, head downstairs and walk out on to the beach. The
Dolphin Inn runs parallel to the beach and Hawk’s room actually opens up on the
shore. I jump into the water to clean off all the sand. Three foot waves pound
the shoreline. Rich had said that Virginia Beach reminded him of a smaller
Daytona Beach where he lived with Dano for a spell. Tourists are already
forming into crowds and the paved walkway that runs passed the Inn is packed
with bicyclists, moped riders and girls laying out in the sun.
After my brief swim I head to a nearby restaurant to write. As I collect my
notebook from my bag, Scott, Eunice and Carlos appear. I see Rich and he’s
already drinking (truthfully I’m not sure if he ever stopped).
Come afternoon the beach is a human blanket of flesh. Hot girls strut down
the walkway, slender bodies, bright pink and yellow bikinis and cool shades. Hawk’s
room is 105, Kim and Kelly 305 so we have a nice festive monopoly of the Inn. Hawk
is with Renee at Norfolk Beach— I’m unsure if he knows about me and Kim— he
probably wouldn’t care; he’d probably walk up and shake my hand. Well, Matt is
down the beach playing volleyball. Wabrek is asleep, he, probably not used to
all this binging. Slabs is in the room, nursing a beer. He’s thinking of his
sick dad and wondering if he should have come and left him alone. Scott parades
around in drunken anger— he and Eunice got in a bad fight and she left to stay
with her sister. Carlos is on the balcony of room 305, shirtless and handsome
and whistles at girls. He wants to stay but has work early in the morning. Rich
and Kelly are on the ground sitting on chairs, facing each other. Me and Kim
lay beside the sliding doors and cuddle like newlyweds, rolling in the grass,
hugging and kissing.
“I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time,” Rich said.
“You might be right,” I said.
Later, Kim and I sit on the walkway. She is photographing people— oddly
dressed folks, strange looking couples— just anyone remotely different. I’m too
drunk to care— shoot away. She calls over a guy who is pale as sand. He’s got a
sailor cap on and is walking his cat on a leash. She politely asks to
photograph him and he nods yes and smiles a big Pee Wee Hermanesque grin with
the cat rolled up in his arms. “Thank you so much, sir. Thank you,” she says. I
put on my shades to quell the sunlight. Just then this woman, a whale of a
woman waddles by and Kim completely misses her. I tap Kim on the shoulder. “You
must be slipping,” I said.
“No one’s perfect, Jimmy.”
Rich and Carlos are on the upstairs balcony. They motion toward Kim and make
with a fisherman reeling in his catch motion. I laugh and shrug.
“What the fuck are you looking at?!” Kim yells.
I turn to her. “What?”
“That guy is staring you down.”
She’s right. Some guy, my age is staring at me without regard. There is a
certain familiarity but I got nothing. He walks toward me and I’m starting to
wonder if I know this person and if I do, he hadn’t come in our three car
caravan.
“Jim?”
Then it hit me. “Holy shit Keith.”
“What’s up, man? I spotted the Bruins t-shirt through the crowd,” he said.
“This truly is a small world.”
“I’m saying to myself, ‘man, I know that guy.’ Who are you here with?” Keith
asked.
“Rich, Wabrek, Slabs— and some friends from Fort Belvoir.”
“No shit. Where’s Dano?”
“He couldn’t make it.”
Keith was an old school Randolph guy. I last saw him a year ago. He had
moved to Georgia for a few years, popped back to Randolph from time to time and
last I heard he had joined the Marines, in fact he was there with some of his
Marine buddies for the weekend.
Later that night we wandered to a nearby club and when we got there I
realized I had left my license in my road bag. As I walked back alone, the wind
shook the trees. At the inn, in 105, Matt is on the balcony, stretched out
drinking a beer. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing special, waiting,” he said.
“For who?”
“Jeanette.”
“Nice. You get lucky?”
“No but Rich did.”
“What about Kelly?”
“I’m supposed to wait here for Jeanette. She’s meeting Rich here later.”
“Where’s Rich?
“With Karla.”
“What??”
Matt chuckled. “Got to love that kid.”
“Are they good looking?”
“Jim, probably the hottest girls on the beach.”
“That bastard,” I said, laughing.
On that note I left and returned to the club to meet back up with Kim,
Kelly, Slabs, Wabrek and Keith.
After last call we headed back to the inn. Kim had heard the song, Under the
Boardwalk, at the club and now wanted to take a walk to the nearby pier. We
loaded up on towels and blankets and then at the pier we found a cozy spot
beneath it. Pattering feet echo above us, some slow, some fast— we hear the
drunken shouts; and the whir of flashlights on the beach cut through the
darkness like cigar heads. We lay down on the blanket. I pop open a beer but
the wind blows sand into our eyes. Then I kissed her. I removed her shirt… then
her shorts….
In Hawk’s room, Rich and Jeanette are in bed. Matt is still relaxing on the
balcony. There is a knock at the door and Matt gets up to answer it. It’s Karla
and her girlfriend and Matt was right she was hot— swarthy hot body. I can
almost hear Rich’s thoughts through the bed room door: please Matt, make her go
away… please. The girls enter and stand there in the clutter and mess.
“You can wait if you want but I don’t think he’ll be back for a while,” Matt
said.
“Well, okay. Tell him Karla will stop by tomorrow,” she said.
As they left I swear I heard the bedroom door sigh with relief.
The morning is cloudy and cold. We are leaving this afternoon and we drink
lightly despite so much beer and vodka left— I bought a half gallon yesterday
and Kim two cases of Budweiser on one of our strolls down Atlantic Avenue— Hawk
has coolers full of assorted cans bottles and brands and the refrigerator has
mysteriously been restocked.
 |
| Kim took this picture of me. Virginia Beach, 1992 |
Everyone is scattered about in 105 or on the beach or renting bikes. I’m
with Kim on her balcony and she’s wearing my UMass sweatshirt. A storm at sea
has brought in a bunch of sea gulls and they pirouette across the balconies for
food. Kim tosses a potato chip down to the ground; a gull hovers in close now,
waiting. She tosses another but it is another gull that had been off to the
side, in stealth mode I guess, who darts in and snatches the chip. Kim smiles
and laughs. She throws up a big handful of chips into the air and a rough
looking pack of gulls overtake the balcony and we jump back into the room.
Another night of parties has begun to take shape in 105. During the course
of the day, the gang sort of just randomly assembled there. Even Hawk came by,
bringing Renee (at this point neither Hawk nor Kim had anymore interest in each
other). Matt, Wabrek and Slabs are in great moods, drinking moods and after a
few beers it was easy convincing Wabrek and Slabs to stay one more night.
Eunice pops in and out (I had heard she threw her wedding ring into the ocean),
Scott too all quiet but happy. It’s difficult to figure out if the two are back
together or not. Karla is here with Rich but after a time, the two retire into
the bedroom. Kelly, seemingly unfazed by Rich’s snub, has a new target. It is
Wabrek. She pays undivided attention to him and he in turn flirts with her,
innocently enough but as far as I know, it went no further than that. Keith
came by with three of his buddies and more drinking games and group photos and
stupidity— the kind of stupidity that feels so right at the time and natural
and fun— of course until the morning.
A bunch of us traveled up to the top for to swim in the heated pool. We play
rounds of Marco Polo and the heavy air smells like chlorine and beer. At one
point Scott staggered away mumbling something about Eunice. Hawk begs me to get
a close look at the water just behind him and as I stare at it suddenly tiny
bubbles rise up and snap. We laugh. Slabs laughter just booms across the pool
room and he cannon balls into the water. Kim and I pause to fondle each other
as Kelly leaps upon Slabs back, both laughing. We notice a security camera in
the far corner so we decide to hit the room again— We race to the bottom down
twenty flights of stairs— when someone slips behind me and I hear a roll of
thuds, at least four until it stopped. I paused to wait. Then Slabs comes
chugging by laughing.
Rich is still in the room with Karla. Me and Wabrek decide to have a little
fun at his expense. We take turns knocking on the bedroom door pretending to be
a post-man, a hotel stock boy and a Sing-O-Gram. Then in a flash, Wabrek flings
open the door and I snap a picture of them on the bed, half covered in sheets
and we shut the door. Rich is laughing and explaining to Karla that we are nice
boys and meant well.
Then we open the refrigerator and gather eggs, milk and butter without
saying anything to anyone— they are all watching, laughing and starting to
figure out our intentions. Matt hides off to the side, armed with the camera
and a good view. Wabrek and I move silently to the bedroom door, crouch down
and seamlessly crack the eggs on to the dry floor— six perfect unbroken yokes.
We cut up a few thin slices of butter and add some milk and we stir it up into
a yellowish white goo that blends in with the color of the floor tiles. We wait….
Scott corners me in the bathroom; his eyes seem to be on fire.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Listen— Kim. I want her. Hook me up.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Come on, Jim.”
“Don’t you think that’s up to her?”
“Then you don’t mind if I try.”
“I guess not.”
He bolts and goes right for Kim and I try to have faith that she likes me
and only wants me.
Rich and Karla finally came out of the bedroom however it was very anti-climactic.
We grew tired waiting and drunk. Besides Rich said later he expected something
and he opened the door slowly.
I head upstairs to meet Kim. She’s real drunk.
“Where you been?” I asked.
“Trying to lose Scott. He’s all over me,” she said.
“Well that’s strange….”
I wake at three am. Kim, in a deep sleep didn’t flinch as I rose out of bed.
I closed the door and went downstairs to 105. The television is on but muted
and on the radio cranks the new U2 song, One. Wabrek is passed out beside Matt
on the floor and Slabs is asleep on the couch. As I reach over to turn the TV
off, the Bruins playoff highlights come on and I watch; in overtime, Adam Oates
scored the game winner on a face-off to beat Buffalo. Yes! I walk back upstairs
but the door is locked. I go outside, pry open the window and slip into the
small opening.
Kim and Kelly are staying for three more days but we have to leave. I really
love being with Kim and want to see her again. She sits on the bed as I collect
my things. I turn and kiss her. She hands me a piece of paper with her Jersey
address and phone number.
“Will you call me?” she asked.
“You bet I will.”
I write down my number and hand it to her.
“I’m going to miss you guys— especially you,” she said.
“Tell you what. Jersey is only a four hour ride. When I get settled, me and
Slabs will come looking for you guys.”
Slabs has developed a big crush on Kelly.
“You will?”
“It’s only a four hour drive.”
We kiss again and say goodbye. I haven’t felt this comfortable with a woman
in a long time. Never with Anne like this. On the drive home in the rain, I
wonder vaguely about my future, still up in the air with no ground in sight.
Home again in Boston— Causeway and Newbury Street, Harvard and Kenmore
Square and seasons of sun and snow. I’m trying to back into the swing of
reality, trying to find a job— any job just to get things moving. In between
looking for jobs I fill the long hot summer days spinning the fat circle of
alcohol to dispense the boredom, the stillness. My mother has threatened to
kick me out of the house if I don’t focus harder on getting a job, any job. No
more road trips, she says, settle down. Rich is suffering the same ennui, the
same dead end job market.
Barnham and Bailey is in town for the week. Sickened by our nothing lives,
Rich and I decide to drive to Rockland High School to see about a job working for
the circus. We meet the employment director in his trailer and yes they are
hiring. A hundred and fifty bucks a week plus three hots and a cot. He walks us
around the grounds. There’s plenty of work he says— electrical, carpentry and
shit cleaner. We pass the elephant tent where there are huge mounds of shit
plopped down along the hay. A man approaches us with a shovel and I pull him
aside. “Do you like this job?”
“It’s a job.”
The director informs us that if we want to work to be here tomorrow
afternoon, packed and ready to move down the east coast for the rest of the
summer. We agree reluctantly. I go home and pack.
Later that afternoon, Rich called and backed out. He said Mofford Forms can
give him some work in a couple of days. I still had no choice and I was
mentally gearing up to go on the road again albeit with the fucking circus.
That night, Paul Mallet or Mal brings me to a party and by the end of a long
drunk night I had him coming with me. He hadn’t worked at all this summer and
was desperate. In the morning he arrived with backpack and joyous mood. I’m desultory
about the whole idea.
We’re just waiting
for Slabs who’s going to drop us off in Rockland.
The phone rings and I answer it.
“Jim. It’s Rich.”
“What’s up?”
“Want a job?”
“Where?”
“Remember that moving company we applied at?”
“United Trucking?”
“Yeah, yeah— they just called. They’re looking for lumpers. I’m working
tomorrow. Call them now, man unless you like elephants.”
I hung up and called them and I was hired and had to be there at 8 tomorrow
morning wearing Dockers. I told Mal the bittersweet news.
“Fuck… fuck…. Jim you don’t know how bad I wanted to go,” he said, still in
shock.
No, I guess I hadn’t.
It’s been three weeks since Virginia Beach. The first two weeks I talked to
Kim by phone three nights a week— long conversations, remembrances and
promises. On the third week, the phone went silent. I called her house and her
mom says that she hasn’t seen her. Now I’m curious.
Rich and I lumped at United Trucking for a week. Every morning we reported
to the yard in Dorchester to wait for our names to be called. Every morning—
long lines and long waits. Sometimes they wouldn’t call us until ten. Then they
stopped calling our names altogether and I was back in a funk again. I decided
it was time for a trip to New York City to remove the funk.
Between the money I made at United and landscaping with Slabs I had plenty
for a two way bus ticket and a long New York City week-end. Rich can’t
make this trip. Karla, the girl he met at Virginia Beach only lives in Rhode
Island and he wants to spend time with her. Rich is happy and settling a bit.
However I would not make the trip alone. This guy, nick-named Crash who I only
knew through mutual friends heard I was going and wanted to join me. At the
time, he was an unemployed roofer living off unemployment checks. He begged to
go. He’d never been to the big apple. I didn't really know him. He was a little over the top for me— a
brawler, playboy and totally into himself. I really wanted to go alone but he was so insistent that
finally I just agreed to have him tag along. So I went to Greyhound and bought
two tickets, open-ended for two weeks, to give myself some maneuverability just
in case I meet up with Kim over in Jersey.
We decided that bicycles would be a great way to get around the city. I
called Greyhound the night before we left to make sure we could bring bikes and
as long as they were broken down we could take them. That morning, Dano gave us
a ride to Park Plaza for 10:00 bus. I still have the backpack that Chris had
given me in Flagstaff, dirty and ripped. We got our 12 speeds— front tires
hooked to the back tires. Of course like any Greyhound trip, consistent
inconsistency rules and the driver now says the bikes can’t come unless they
are in boxes. News to me. Crash protests but I know better. We scatter in the
back alley and dumpsters looking for boxes but none are big enough. Shit. I
call for Dano at Mary’s house but she says he’s not there. I call Slabs who’s
home. I beg him to part from his schedule. “All right,” he said. “But you owe
me.” So we left our bikes in the office and boarded our bus.
We arrive at Port Authority at 3:30 and head outside where the heat is
brutal— sidewalks congested, stifling air and it feels like I’m dressed in wool
even though I’m in t-shirt and shorts. Crash wears a Patriots tank top and high
school wrestling shorts. He’s got a strong physique and a leathery face, due,
no doubt from long hours working on rooftops. We duck into a deli for lunch and
then a lounge to chill out in over a few beers. Crash says he’s got a buddy
who lives on the West Side who would definitely let us stay with him for a
few days. Great. He calls him. When he returns he says he will meet us in front of
Dunkin Donuts on 96
th Street. We head into the subway and hop on the
#9 train.
Crash’s friend’s name is Pat and he’s a scraggly diminutive kid— wearing
heavy black boots, grungy jeans and studded vest. He wears a biker cap— his
hair is dyed with green stripes. He sort of comes off presenting this image of
the artist with an attitude. At this point I can’t tell if he’s genuine or not.
He’s with a friend, Mike from Baltimore who wears big round glasses and greasy
dyed red hair. It’s difficult to imagine Crash and Pat as friends— the all-me
jock and the little Goth man.
It’s a small studio and sweltering with humidity. The kitchen has a coffee
table. On the wall are charcoal drawings and strewn about on two lamps are
rings, necklaces and roach clips. Crash falls on the couch to rest. Pat throws
in a punk band CD on the stereo and cranks it. Mike and Pat sit at the kitchen
table and discuss art, music and weed and for some reason ignore me— even
though I’m standing right there listening. Fuck them. I head out in search of a
liquor store.
Later as I sit at the coffee table drinking a beer, I converse with Alan
Abel, the man who leases this apartment. The others are watching a cheesy black
and white science fiction movie they rented for kicks. Alan is 55 and affable,
talkative and young in mind. He says he’s a writer, published a book called,
Thriving on Rejection. It’s a humorous look at rejection. He drops a couple of
names— Buck Henry and Jane Fonda. “Can I see your book?” I asked.
He said he would bring it by later. He’s got to leave— much work to do now.
“Unless you find me a job, I’m out of here Sunday,” I said.
“My friend, do you want to work?”
“Sure. Doing what?”
“All you have to do is pass out fliers in Times Square.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Really. I’ll pay you six dollars an hour plus expenses.”
“To hand out fliers?”
“Yes, my friend. Fliers,” he said.
With a renewed buzz, I vaguely promise to meet him Monday afternoon. After
he leaves, I make a series of phone calls to Kim and then Kelly. No one is
answering. I’m determined to get to Jersey tonight, regardless. As time grew
late, I finally got in touch with Kim. She’s drinking with friends but says she
wants me to come by later. Though I suspect she might have a new boyfriend now,
I hope I still have a chance. I call Port Authority to get the bus schedule to
Hillside. Crash doesn’t feel like coming but I’m buzzed and could use the
company. I convince him that there is this cute blond, Kelly who just happens
to be single and… he’s all on board now.
By the time we leave, I’m drunk— in Times Square I agree to meet pimps later
and pass out money to homeless. We arrived in Hillside at 1:30 am via bus for
3.95 one-way. We are dropped off at Liberty Street which is a main road. We
wander the dark road looking for her street, Hillside Street. In the parking
lot of a closed Dunkin Donuts is a car with a man sitting in it. We approach it and the man rolls down his window. I ask for directions.
“You’re only going to Hillside? Hop in. It’s just down there,” he said.
I’m stunned by his kindness.
We walk up Kim’s drive-way, on to the porch and I ring the doorbell. The
door opens and it’s Kim’s mother, Linny.
“Hiii, is Kim home?” I asked.
She shades her eyes from the porch light.
“It’s me, Jim.”
“Come in. She’s not here right now. Let me beep her.”
She leaves the room for a moment and returns. “She’ll be right here,” Linny
said.
Kim arrives wearing white jeans and she’s lost some weight. She looks
awesome. We hug. I fall for accent all over again. Kelly arrives soon
afterwards. The four of us sit on her porch and drink beers. Everyone is happy
and it is a wonderful vibe. Eventually Crash sidles up to Kelly and they have
their own conversations. Linny comes and goes and she is a great person.
Finally when I get Kim alone I try to kiss her and she pushes me away.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’ve got a boyfriend now. I can’t.”
“Is that why you didn’t return my calls?”
She looked away into the dark street.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Silence surrounded us.
“I came here to be with you,” I said.
“I didn’t know. When I met Hawk we talked on the phone all the time. He kept
promising how he’d visit— all those week-ends. I thought you were just talking—
like him. I didn’t know,” she said.
“Well you were wrong.”
“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
Before I finally passed out, I tried one last kiss to no avail. She doesn’t
cheat on her boyfriends, she said.
In the morning I wake on the porch, sunlight burning my face with my legs
strewn over a couch. I’m wearing my road shorts. I’m really hung-over. That
familiar vague guilt spins in my head. I don’t know why. I feel like shit
because of Kim’s snub of me— whatever it is, break-up, blow-off, I don’t know.
Maybe I feel guilty because of my last attempt knowing that she had a
boyfriend. Too early to tell what I’m feeling so I try and forget about it.
Unsteadily I rise and head into the living-room. Kim is there watching TV. “Hello,”
I said.
“Hello.” Her voice is soft and hesitant.
I lie on the floor and fall asleep.
When I wake, Kim’s car is gone from the drive-way. As I sit on the porch
smoking a cigarette, Kelly’s car roars to a halt beside the curb.
“Hi Jim!”
“Hello. Kim’s not here. Know where she went?”
She joins me on the porch for a smoke.
“She’s with Ray. They had a nasty fight this morning,” Kelly said.
“What happened?”
“First of all, Ray’s extremely jealous. Well, he came by here early. You
were passed out here and that guy, Crush— no Crash, he was sleeping on the sofa
across from Kim. Not to mention she was asleep in a shirt and underwear,” she
said.
“I guess it was a big mistake coming here.”
“No, no, no— she’s very glad to see you.”
“Doesn’t seem it.”
“Well she is.”
“What’s Ray like?” I ask.
“We can’t stand him. Linny doesn’t like him either. He’s too possessive and
he’s a jerk.”
“Is he good looking?”
“Jim. He’s 38, a drunk and going bald.”
“Obladi.”
“What happened to your friend?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He must have gone back to New York.”
“I didn’t really like him anyway. He’s pushy.”
Later when Kim returns she’s full of zeal and spirit— like the girl I met at
Virginia Beach. Her and Ray have smoothed things out. She asks if I want to go
for a ride around Hillside to see where she lives. Sure. In the car she pops on
a Motown tape that Ray had recorded for her. Hillside looks like it’s more of a
black community and sometimes she says there are racial related fights in the
suburb. She points out hangouts of her youth, old boyfriend’s houses, her
Junior High School and the Public Storage building where she works. I’m glad
that she’s happy again but not why she’s happy. As I sit there in her car
sorting through her past in Hillside, I really don’t know what to say to her.
I’m hurt.
Back at the house, Kim is dressing for a wedding she’s attending with, who
else but Ray. Her friend Cory, who seems very nice, is helping her with her
dress and man oh man, Kim is gorgeous in black. Meanwhile I sit at the kitchen
table and read the classifieds in the New Jersey Tribune. I drink a beer. As
Kim gets ready to leave for the night she hugs me and says that we can meet
tomorrow. Maybe, I tell her but I’m not sure if I will be here tomorrow. Linny
asks me to stay another night. Kim looks hopeful. I’m not sure what I should
do.
“Sure. Why not?”
It’s another hot day as Linny, myself and Cory drink beer on the porch, talk
and make jokes. Linny seems to have the soul of a 21 year old. Nothing is too
far out, far-fetched or absurd for her to relate to on some level. I’m guessing
she’s 45 but she’s attractive, fun and has that sexy husky voice. I ask her if
she went to Woodstock. She wanted to but her daughters were only a year old.
Kim has a twin sister who I haven’t met yet. Cory is my age, very pretty, down
to earth and loves beer. She is a practicing masseuse and demonstrates her
technique, quite well, all around my neck. Kim had warned me that “Cory is
crazier than you. Look out.”
Across the street, a black family hosts a large gathering of family and
friends. Children play tag and teens mix with adults and play volleyball. The
neighborhood is quite relaxed as the sun settles high over rooftops. Linny’s
friend, Ruth stops by to see what’s happening. She looks to be in her 30’s,
blue eyes, curly brown hair and very large breasts. We’re buzzed, happy and I
invite Ruth to hang out with us for a few beers. She’s got to run though she says
she will stay for a quick beer. Kelly and Kim’s sister arrive briefly to make a
quick phone call. They are hitting Greg’s Place, their local hangout bar and
the place where Kim met Ray. Cory declines the bar and instead hangs out with
us and says she’ll meet them later.
A dented beat up blue van pulls up in front of the house and Kim exits the
passenger door. She greets us quickly and rushes passed us into the house to
change out of the dress. Linny tells me that it’s Ray’s van. I ignore Kim, as I’m
suddenly overcome with anger; I hope Ray is overcome with jealousy again and
that he starts a fight with me— even though I’m probably too buzzed to fight. I
want to kick his ass. While he waits for Kim I stare at the van with an evil
eye. When Kim leaves I say nothing to her. I now realize that I really should
not have come here.
Ruth is still here and on her 6
th beer. She asks me to come to
the liquor store so she can buy a bottle of vodka.
“Just one beer, huh?” I joke.
“You don’t know it yet but I’m going to sleep with you tonight,” she said.
I’m stunned and laugh it off.
“Go ahead. Laugh. But I will,” she said.
“We’ll see about that,” I said.
“He’s definitely cute enough,” said Linny.
“Not now but later tonight,” she said.
I’m too drunk to argue. Linny pinches my cheek; Ruth brushes the hair from
my neck and starts sucking on my neck. My ego suddenly boosts and the snub by
Kim is becoming a distant memory.
“Good, he doesn’t bruise easy,” said Ruth.
“Let me have a turn,” said Linny.
She sucks the other side of my neck.
“Let’s get some Absolute, Jim. I’m buying,” Ruth said.
Later after Linny passes out, Ruth brings me up stairs into Kim’s sister’s
room. I’m ready to just pass out but Ruth pulls off my shorts and blows me. I
must say it felt good. She takes off her clothes. “Fuck me,” she says.
Instead I flatten out and close my eyes to sleep. She quickly dresses and
stomps downstairs.
I woke at noon, naked. I can hear the TV in the living room. I find my
shorts (my shorts having been to Hawaii, across country, Virginia and now New
Jersey are worn so thin they are ready for the afterlife), roll out of bed and
stumble downstairs. Ruth is sitting there on the sofa and I’m embarrassed and
it’s too late to turn back. I sit on the opposite sofa. It could have been a
lot worse I suppose— based on some events from last night, I mean, it would
have been fucked up waking in Linny’s bed— the nightmare of trying to explain
to Kim that I slept with her mother. The funny thing about vodka: it pumps me
up to do the craziest things but just as quick, it pumps me up so much that I
just want to pass out and call it a night.
After Ruth leaves I spend the next two hours watching Point Break. Linny
stayed in bed most of the day, hung over. No idea where Kim is or when she’s
coming home. She really hurt me. I never thought this trip would turn out so
backwards. She hasn’t bothered to call. Fuck this. I’m leaving.
It’s hot, muggy and gloomy. I’m broke from all the liquor store runs. It starts
to rain (of course it does). I head to Bloy Street to catch the bus back to
Manhattan and after 15 minutes of straight walking, I come to the bus stop. I
sit on the curb and light a smoke. Something makes me turn around and I see,
partially hidden by a Burger King, Greg’s Place where Kelly’s car and Ray’s van
are parked.
Once I get back to Manhattan, penniless and thirsty, I head to Pat’s studio.
I walk from 42 Street to 96
th. I don’t even know if Crash is still
in New York. As I’m just about wiped out from all the walking, I arrive and yes
Crash is still there. However Crash tells me that last night the water pipes
burst and everything is soused— clothes, furniture and everything. Pat’s
girlfriend is pissed and doesn’t want any visitors. “I know it sucks— I don’t
even know if I can stay,” Crash said. It just feels like to me that no one even
wants me there and they are trying to get rid of me and I don’t fucking care
anymore. I’ve lost faith in him as a travel companion. I see right through the
lies. They can all go to hell.
As I gather my things, I have two options: Boston or Jersey. I only think of
New Jersey because I don’t feel ready to go home yet, as if there was still
something to accomplish. However, I have no money, just a return bus ticket to Boston
and there’s nothing there in New Jersey for me anyway. That ship has sailed. As these
thoughts come and go, Alan Abel enters the studio.
“Oh good Jim. You’re still here,” he said.
“Not for long.”
“Aren’t you still planning on working?”
“Doubtful. I have no place to stay.”
“Oh. Don’t be silly. I’ve rented out a room that we’re working out of— you
can stay there for free.”
“Tonight?”
“Of course. The hotel is called Milford Plaza. It’s on 42
nd and 8
th,”
he said.
“Great. I’m your man.”
“We’ll start tomorrow. Here’s twenty in advance. I want you to have some
money— you might need it.”
“Thanks.”
“If you want to just wait a moment I just have to grab a few things. I’m
going there now,” he said.
“Okay.”
After Alan Abel leaves the room momentarily, Crash tells me he’s just going
to stay at Pat’s for the night, just as I suspected.
“He probably wants to get you in the sack,” Crash whispers.
“I can take care of myself.”
We taxi towards Times Square. It’s my first taxi ride ever in the city— I’ve
taken the bus, train, walked and driven but never taxi. It’s very relaxing. The
driver, a young guy from Minnesota tells me he’s ‘a struggling musician.’ The
seat divider is pushed in toward the dashboard as if some sort of struggle took
place.
“What happened to the seat?” I asked.
“What a shit day, man,” said the driver.
Alan Abel is staring out the window lost in his thoughts.
“Some punk tried to get out of paying his fare— he tried to run but I
grabbed him. We fought.”
“Another typical day huh?”
“Damn right! But one day… I’ll get my break.”
We grab a quick meal in Times Square at Sbarros. He pays for the pizza and I
sign the receipt. He says all rides and meals are free— the people he works for
will reimburse him later. I’m still unclear about what I am going to be doing
or his intentions— just the vague passing out fliers act. If Crash is right and
he’s some twisted homo, I have no problem bailing or punching him in the face;
however, I’m a pretty good judge of character and everything about his aura
comes across as genuine so… I will wait and see what he’s got cooking.
Later that night at Grand Central Station, armed with white spray paint and
a stencil that asks: Where’s Porky? We go to work. We hit all the exit and
entry points. Actually Alan Abel does all the stenciling— I’m keeping an eye
out for the cops or security. It’s tough in the dark to distinguish between
taxi cabs and police cruisers. At one point a homeless man asks Alan Abel for
change.
“My friend, keep guard and I’ll give you a couple of dollars!”
“Sure thing, my man!”
We move on and hit crosswalks, traffic lights and sewer caps— a trail of Where’s
Porky stencils. At the hotel, Alan Abel gives me the skinny, finally. This week
begins the Democratic National Convention at Madison Square Garden and Alan
Abel is trying to get the expected guests and tourists to wonder… Who the fuck
is Porky? The people he works for— friends or family I’m not sure which, have
opened a restaurant six months ago in Westport Connecticut. The name of the
restaurant is Porky Manero. However business has been slow and they hired him
to drum up some attention to their restaurant. Alan Abel is a well-known media
prankster, as far as I can tell— I’ve been reading his book and in it are some
of his crazy stunts that include newspaper articles that verify their authenticity.
Where’s Porky is just one more stunt in a line with many others.
He’s got an office rented out near the Garden. He’s expecting another guy,
Paul, a young actor from New Jersey to help out with the fliers who has worked
for him twice before. He’s got all kinds of stuff too— thousands of ‘Porky for
President’ fliers and bumper stickers with address, phone and fax number
printed on the bottom of the pages. On the flier, it tells you how Porky’s
character is defined: good values 1) one cup of loyalty 2) a tablespoon of good
taste 3) a pinch of wisdom 4) an ounce of adventure. There are ten ideas listed
that outline his platform— ‘the hospitable candidate’ would like to take congress
off salary and pay them on a straight commission basis; SAT exams for membership
in the Electoral College; publish doctor’s medical school grade averages in the
telephone book; to erase post office deficit, print Madonna’s picture on stamps….
So here I am on the committee to elect Porky for President. On the day of the
convention we will go to the Garden and distribute the fliers.
Easy enough. Hopefully, it will drum up the
attention Alan Abel is seeking. Coincidentally, Ross Perot dropped out of the
race so now Porky can be our new write-in candidate. It all sounds silly to me
but I’m getting paid and free room and board so… go Porky!
I sit on the bed in the air-conditioned room. Alan Abel is in the bathroom
shaving. On the desk where the phone is beside his bed, is a big clutter of
papers that he’s been working on. I lie down and skim through his book. The
phone rings. “Hello?” I ask. It’s Crash. He wants to know if he can work with
us tomorrow. As Alan Abel exits the bathroom with a ring of toothpaste around
his mouth, I ask him about Crash. Sure he says. Tell him to be here at nine
tomorrow. I hang up the phone, lie down again and wonder what kind of
strangeness tomorrow will bring.
I’m awake at 8 am. Alan Abel explains a few more details to me about our
event then tells me he has a few errands to do first and to stay and wait for
Paul to arrive. Crash arrives a half hour late at 9:30. He is dressed in
shorts, tank top and freshly shaved with his hair neatly combed. He’s anxious
to start.
“You know what Alan told me?” I asked.
“What?”
“We might march through Times Square in parade formation.”
“Yeah, right!”
“I’m serious— look at this, a snare drum,” I said.
Then I pulled away the curtain and revealed a big hand held Porky for
President sign. We both laugh, a little nervously not knowing what in the world
to expect.
Paul arrives wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and shades. He’s got long dark
hair and atop his head is a red, white and blue styrophone campaign hat. In the
book, Thriving on Rejection I read a part where Alan Abel, Paul and a girl
staged a phony winning the lottery party in a very expensive New York hotel. To
help create the illusion of wealth, they tossed 60 bucks (all singles) out of
the window in front of a swelling media blitz. They were even interviewed by
the New York Post. That stunt, Alan Abel had said, was merely for fun.
The four of us walk up to Broadway among thousands of people. Sure enough,
Alan Abel arranges us in single file. At the crosswalk, the light flashes to go
and we begin our march toward the Garden. Alan Abel leads the way as we march
in cadence with his loud snare drum, strapped around his neck; myself next,
holding the big sign (luckily I remembered my shades to hide my embarrassed
eyes); and Crash and Paul followed behind me, handing out the fliers and bumper
stickers.
Its 11 am when we pass through Times Square, a work day and the street and
sidewalks are packed, bursting with commuters. Alan Abel bangs his drum and
stares unwavering ahead. I hold the sign high and with my free hand, I wave my
first finger, the number one sign. “Porky’s the man!” I yell above the roar of
traffic. I give thumbs up. They continue handing out stuff and answering
questions to curious people. We march, a silly little group of men who look so
serious. At Don’t Walk signals, time slows to a crawl as I wait and can feel
hundreds of eyes on me, maybe thousands. It’s only a job I tell myself. Truck
drivers honk their horns in support of us; homeless men scream praise for
Porky; cab drivers shout out, “Who’s Porky?” Heads turn toward us. Pretty women
smile, I guess, at our silliness or bravado or stupidity. Mostly people think
we are campaigning for Porky Pig as a few people call out,” Porky Pig for
President!”
Outside Madison Square Garden, it’s a friggin zoo. I spot the NBC camera
platform. We’re still in formation but it’s tight moving through clusters of
delegates, protestors, film crews, journalists, tourists and police barricades.
The police smile and giggle at us— they lead us into an open section of street
reserved for various groups protesting one thing or another. Nearby is a soup
kitchen for the homeless; Vietnam veterans and religious groups to our right;
and to our left are rabid anti-abortionists and an old white haired nut in rags
who preaches God’s word and that he is God’s spokesman. We find an open spot
where we can breathe a little and it is ours for the next four hours.
The sun makes me sweaty and tired. I’m sick of Alan Abel’s drumming. People
pass us by like we are an exhibit and snap pictures of us. I stay quietly in
the background and let Paul and Crash talk to the interested persons and
newspapermen. I just can’t wait to call it quits. Eventually Crash comes to me
to complain. “Man, this kid Paul keeps cutting into my interviews,” he said.
“Take turns,” I said.
“He’s taking them all. I’m getting pissed.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I’m talking to this reporter and he sleazes right in.”
“He’s done it before— don’t worry about it.”
He moans on. I try to phase out his complaints, phase out everything. I just
want to leave. Finally, when it’s over, we march back the same route we came
and at Times Square we hailed a cab back to the hotel except for Crash who was
staying at Pat’s again and he says he’ll meet us in the morning.
 |
Crash, Paul and me on the campaign trail. New York City, 1992.
|
I kick back in the room, drink a few beers and watch a very upbeat
Democratic National Convention on TV. Alan Abel stays busy for long hours
contacting people by phone.
Someone from the Jerry Brown camp got hold of our flier, contacted Alan and
invited us to a mini-convention. So that morning we are on the march again,
drum banging, sign waving and high-fives to people as we head toward the
convention hall. The heat is just as brutal as yesterday. We follow Alan Abel
back and forth out front the hall until he feels he’s gotten his message through
for Porky.
We leave our stuff at the door and enter a vast auditorium where behind the
podium is a movie screen. We sit and the lights dim. I want to sleep but I don’t
in case I miss anything interesting. It’s a public relations film of a
political candidate running for a lesser office. Afterwards, the candidate
stands at the podium to speak. I yawn and close my eyes. Then after long
painfully boring rhetoric, he introduces political film maker Michael Moore. Michael
Moore steps to the podium to introduce his new film, an anti-George Bush skit. Though
politics doesn’t interest me, the film made me laugh quite a bit on the humor
alone. Alan Abel had hoped to hear Jerry Brown who is supposed to speak but it’s
getting late. We head back to the Garden for round 2 of Porky for President.
After day 2 of campaigning, I went to the liquor store and bought a bottle
of their cheapest Scotch Bourbon, two liter of Coke and smokes for twenty
bucks. I’ve been craving a stiff drink after today’s hectic march. Crash
started up with his complaining again about interviews and I just ignored it
best I could. Today I even did a couple of interviews, nothing long winded but
short and direct. It was a long day and the Scotch helps me wind down. Crash
went to Pat’s again— so much for those water pipes and no visitors. Fuck Pat
and his bitchy girlfriend. After a warm buzz, I go downstairs into the lobby and
watch the people come and go.
Day 3: now Crash is complaining that Alan Abel is stealing away his interviews.
Good fucking grief. He’s really paranoid and I don’t even acknowledge his complaints
now. The media coverage is stronger today and there are many more cameras flashing
on the scene. Finally, Crash leaves early so he can spend time with Pat before
he heads back to Boston tomorrow. It feels good to not have to listen to him anymore.
The police sense our comedy. They wave, nod and smile at us. Beside us the
crazy man falls to his knees and screams for divine intervention. A dozen
cloaked grim reapers walk the line protesting nuclear power plants. The
homeless now have a place in the line-up yelling about the economy. The
anti-abortionists shout hateful things to Bush. “Porky for President!” I yell.
Suddenly, we are avalanched by cameras at least 15 in rapid fire— tourists
enter the fray with their camcorders. I stay calm; stay cool beside Paul who’s
handing out fliers like hot cakes while Alan Abel bangs at his little snare
drum. For over an hour, I felt like some B celebrity but then the crowds began to
thin so much and the time is late, we call it a day.
At the hotel I nurse a six-pack and watch the American League destroy the
National league in the All-Star game. It’s not very competitive baseball but
it’s more relaxing than say the Tigers beating up on the Sox. I pour a Scotch
and coke. The phone rings and its Crash. He asks if I want to meet him for
beers. Fuck it, we’re not on the trail so I agree and tell him to meet me at
the 42
nd Street train stop at 10:00 pm.
I wash up, shut off the tube and take the elevator down to the lobby.
There’s a woman in the elevator with me.
“Are you with the convention?” she asks.
“Yes— I’m working.”
“Really?”
“Just campaign stuff.”
“Are you off work now?”
“Yeah. I’m just heading out for a few drinks,” I said.
“I’m going to a club on 42
nd. Would you like to join me?” she
asks.
She certainly is cute, however, I got Greenwich Village on my radar.
“I have to meet a friend but maybe I can meet up with you later on.”
On the train somehow I missed Crash and I forget the name of the club on 42
nd.
Now its 11:30 and I head out on the windy Lower East Side in search of a
college bar. Instead of enjoying a nice night in a club, I wander the streets
for an hour until I come across an empty place on Bleeker Avenue. The bartender
says usually this place hops— it’s an alternative dance club. Well she gives me
a few free shots of something or other and no one else comes in so I call it a
night.
One last day of campaigning and in the morning the three of us taxi to Grand
Central and sticker phone booths and bathrooms; at the train platform, we drop
fliers on the seats. The train is Connecticut bound and lots of people will be
returning home today.
Outside the Garden, more interviews. A reporter from a Baltimore rock
station (the call letters escape me but I listened to them all the time in
Alexandria) asks me what this is all about. Paul and I chat with newsmen from
Seattle, Oregon and Nebraska. More cameras. A reporter from the New Jersey
Tribune approaches me with a microphone and says, "tell me. Who’s Porky?”
“If you hang around you can see for yourself,” I said.
“Is he coming?”
“Yes, he wants to address the public.”
“Come on. What’s the deal here?”
“Porky for President,” I say, smiling.
“I know. What does he look like?”
“Well… when he was a child he got burned in a terrible fire. You didn’t hear
it from me, of course, but he’s very hideous.”
“Is he paying you people?”
“Nope. We’re just here to spread the word and support him.”
“What are Porky’s chance?”
“With Perot out, very good,” I said.
He chuckles.
“Where are you from, sir?”
“All over.”
“Where did you meet Porky?”
“Boston.”
“You met in Boston?”
“Yeah— I was at a political rally at U Mass Boston. At the time I majored in
Taxidermy… but then I met Porky,” I said.
He writes with his pencil in a little notebook.
“Thank you.”
That night I called Kim. Linny says she’s not home; in fact she hasn’t been
home since the night of the wedding. I finish the Scotch and it’s almost
midnight. My life suddenly seems dead and meaningless. Virginia Beach has all
but fell off the continent. Things perish. I’ve got to do something, get on
with my life somewhere. I’ll leave in the morning. No more road trips for a
while except for home.
I take a stroll on 42
nd and 5
th Avenue. A poem comes
to mind and I stop and write it down.
Times Square shuffle
sad Broadway
clock says, three
AID’s banners cling
their campaign
skeletal chests.
Unkempt bodies wallow in night
hands that grip the cup
urine splashes on my soul.
To die in a bar broken
bottled joy; suicide streets
just poor enough.
In her eyes a country
chaos tears at the edge of maps
she is gone, married.
Out here I wonder
loose shred rise
fall back below.
When I got home I went right to Paula’s house to see Rich. I’m tired but I
want to talk. We share a 12-pack. I’m wearing Paul’s campaign hat and those
shorts, so thin and worn they could tear any minute. They were such fine shorts, really.
I should burn them. Relieve them of my burden and disparage memories. But I still like
them. Well, anyway, Rich is sorry he couldn’t make the trip. As he talks about
him and Karla I can’t stop pulling at the loose thread above my knee. I really
don’t know what to do with them. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll throw them out. Buy some
new shorts. Find a new beginning.
POST SCRIPT
Thus ends my journal post road trip. One can see why I may have wanted to
call it Fat Habits 2 (working title) as it follows the journal timeline of my
road trip. Now, over 20 years later I suppose there may be a story here
although I’m not sure if it could be a stand-alone or an actual part 2. I guess
my preference would be a follow up to Fat Habits (A different title than Fat
Habits 2). Of course as the journal is in journal form now, it would need a
pretty good overhaul. I would need to flesh out a new story— I could keep Trent
and Luke Adams as two main characters, maybe even kill Luke at the end as a
dramatic but theme aiding ploy for the story. I would have to trim down the
secondary characters quite a bit. Trim the road stuff or combine them together
to give it more balance. Or maybe not. Obviously develop Trent and Luke more. I
don’t know. I hadn’t read this journal pretty much since I wrote it on my mom’s
word processor probably shortly after the events of journal sometime in 92 or
93. For now I will let ideas incubate in my mind about a follow-up story. Maybe
take a break from posting old journals and stuff (blogs) and just try and focus
on this and see if it goes anywhere.
 |
| Lights, camera... me, out. |
