Gone second section of chapter 4

He was becoming enraptured by the harsh vastness of the desert. He persuaded Sandra Dee into a night of camping, on the nearby mountain. It was a good hour’s drive from the Wagon Wheel. She brought them to the spot where she once camped with her Grandfather. Alec was like an excited teen— running back and forth with hiking bags, clearing the ground of rocks and branches. He pitched a two-man dome tent beside a cluster of fat twisted rocks, some as low as the knees like steps, others as high and curvy as three story Bounce House.

They sat on adjacent boulders. Sandra Dee lit a fire and set down a pan. She boiled the water and crushed a bag of Ramen noodles into the pan. After dinner they played Rummy, drank Corona beer and waited for the moon to rise. The winds blew, carving the seamless dunes into wondrous shapes; the air fanned the flames. The firelight made dancing shadows on her face. After cards they climbed the rocks, rugged steps and leaps, to the highest point. A brooding, pensive desert, reddened beneath the setting sun as it dropped behind distant mountains. They sat beside each other and held hands and stared into the sky, now dotted with stars.

“Do you remember your parents,” he asked.

“My grandfather, mostly. He raised me from a child. Pappy was a big old happy Indian. Loved American sports— especially baseball. He taught me how to hold a bat, field a groundball and throw a curve. He saw talent in me, I guess. He used to say that one day; baseball would be my one-way ticket out of here. In little league, I made all-star. In high school, they called me the chick with the golden bat. I got looks from scouts too. But that was so long ago, kind of a blur now. It’s funny… I wanted to be the first Indian woman to play in the major leagues.”

Alec pictured her running to second base, taking out Derek Jeter on a relay throw. He smiled.

“I never met my father. Never even found out who he was— no name, nothing. My mother was sick mostly when I was a kid. I was too young to care all that much or really notice my dad’s absence. When alcoholism finally killed her, she took his identity to her grave.”

“There’s no way to track him?”

“When I grew older and curious I talked to Pappy about it. He was shush on it. He said my father was a hippy, traveling across country, just bumming around, I guess, when he met my mother. He stayed with her for three weeks before he hit the road again and left her for good. I don’t think he even knows I exist.”

“Did Pappy have any clues?”

“If he did, he didn’t let on.”

Alec turned his face toward hers. He squeezed her hand and she smiled. Behind her, a thin purple line traced the silhouette of the mountain range.

“Where’s Pappy now?”

She kicked the dirt.

“He was planning a big high school graduation party for me. All my friends, family even strangers were going to be there. He was so excited— you would have thought it was his own. He bounced around the reservation. He bought the food platters, balloons, streamers, beverages— he even dug up a band. He wanted a pop type band but, ha-ha, they had to play traditional Tohono O’ Odham music too. Shit— half the locals didn’t know traditional stuff existed. Everything had to be big and grand.”

The sky grew dark quickly. The firelight below thinned out.

“Two days before the party, he was at an ATM. So, he leaves and a thief sticks a stub nose in his back. Wanted his wallet. He shook the stubby at him but Pappy turned on a dime. He walloped the guy, catching the thief off guard. In the scrub, it went off and hit Pappy in the above the eye. Killed him instantly. The thief escaped. They never found him... if they even bothered to look. Just another dead Indian.”

A tear rolled down her cheek.

“I had nightmares— a hidden evil, tracking me, stalking me. I lost focus on my life. I gave up on a lot of things. And I gave up on baseball.”

A feral, ghostly illumination appeared— an opaque mushroom of cranberry light.

“My brother was killed too.”

“What happened?”

“His airplane. The engine seized and it went down.”

He had never discussed his brother’s death with anyone. When he spoke it, the buried anger and guilt seeped out and stretched the edges of the old wound.

“I just wish… I could have been there for him somehow. He spent his whole life helping me. Looking out for me. And I had a fucking bad feeling about that plane too. He would have laughed at me though.”

“Where was he going?”

“California.”

“Following a dream, yes?” she asked.

“I guess so. Crazy bastard.”

“If you can talk a man out of his dream then it is not his true dream.”

“I don’t know.”

“Some are lucky enough to find them before they disappear forever.”

“Shut it you. You’re depressing me,” he said. A hint of smile turned on his lips.

“Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,” she said.

“That works.”

“Yes.”

They descended the high rocks. At the fire pit, Alec reached into the sand, picked up an oversized pinecone and tossed into the dying fire. It snapped and crackled. He stretched a blanket across a soft patch of sand and pinned each corner with large rocks.

“Oh! There it is,” she cried.

The moon peaked above the mountain; a jagged sliver of silver light.

“This is nice,” she said. She leaned in close.

The moon rose. Before them, the landscape glowed. The red domed tent, the footpaths and prints through cactus groves and the spindly Paloverde trees— the shrubs and rocks and scuffmarks in the sand— everything glazed. The entire camp was cast in unworldly pewter glow— a desert drama of sculpted radiating neon.

“It’s like we’re on the moon,” he said.

She kissed him on the lips.

“It’s okay. It’s just life, yes?”

He nodded, unable to take his eyes of the lunar landscape.

At the Smashing Pumpkins show last night

I was going either way. I looked online. It was all so confusing. Ticket prices verses seating. Extra fees to buy online. Reaching out to Craigslisters to buy their tickets— if they were real. I just said fuck it (and this may be my new method of buying tickets). I drove into Boston alone, parked at the Commons garage and walked to the Orpheum hoping they had tickets for sale and if they didn’t maybe I could buy a scalped ticket. It couldn’t have worked out any better. I approached the ticket window and they said they had 4 tickets left. I bought one for 75 bucks and the seat was like 10 rows from the stage, right smack in the middle.

So, heavy acoustic set. I’m not a big unplugged fan— give me drums and heavy guitar every time but, as far as acoustical versions go they nailed them. There were some strange parts of the show— at one point, the drummer disappeared during an electric song and a drum machine filled in; then Billy did a version of Disarm, solo, just singing it and playing the music on a keyboard. But there were also moments when they rocked the house and I felt like it was 1994 again and they were full of rock and rage. They didn’t play a lot of their hits which was obviously disappointing but the non-hits they did play, they killed it and the sound was amazing. The non-hits so good, I had to go back to my early CD collections and upload those records into my Ipod. I had no rhyme or reason to my recordings of the show but, the two songs I really wanted to hear, Rhinoceros and Cherub Rock, they didn’t play. I also didn’t want to be a slave to recording and just picked my spots when I felt it. They did do some nice covers— an acoustic Space Oddity, an electric version of Hole’s Malibu, a song Billy Corgan helped write with Courtney Love and as an encore, the Rolling Stones, Angie. All in all, a great way to spend a Saturday night.

Sean's basement

I was listening to the Howard Stern interview of Cheaptrick celebrating their becoming elected into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Even though I had listened to their music many times over the years, first on the radio and then on my Ipod, today, as I listened, it brought me back to Watertown, more specifically to Sean Monahan’s finished basement. It’s probably  1979, when I lived in Watertown on Bromfield Street.  I was about eleven years old. His playroom— it was like an adult room but for kids. I couldn’t believe someone our age even could have such a room, away from the parents. He had a loud stereo system that he cranked— usually playing new records by new adult bands— Kiss and Cheaptrick. He had his very own pin ball machine that filled the room with blinking lights and beeps. It was unheard of freedom for a kid my age.

One night he had a little party— me, him, Scott Costello and another kid and four girls, to even things off. We played spin the bottle. I was scared, nervous— petrified really that I might have to kiss a girl. Bottle in the middle and us kids huddled around it— lights dimmed. Spin. Phew, dodged a bullet. When it finally did land on me, I quit the game and went upstairs. I couldn’t do it. Yes, I was chicken.

That first kiss did finally come— Friday night at the Watertown skating rink. Every Friday there was public skating and I used to go all the time with friends or without. We used to skate by and steal each other’s hats. So anyway, that night, Tina Ricci was there and I had a crush on her. She was Tom boyish, played catcher in little league and in my school/grade. Her parents owned Millie’s Variety store— a short bike ride from Bromfield Street. Anyway, I don’t know how it came about but her friend informed me that I had to meet her out back behind the rink. So I did. She was alone sitting beside a huge pile of snow. Everything was dark except the snow and her face. She seemed shy too. I don’t remember how it happened but it did, my first kiss on the lips and it felt like a fireball candy.

1994... found these pics on My Space... brings back lots of memories.

Dano, Rich, Johnny and me.

Johnny, me and Dano at Jean and Johnny's house 1994

Aaah... freed at last... too much death and depression... I shall retire into my non cyber cave and just forget the last three and a half months.

Gone Chapter 4

                                                Chapter 4              

After the movie, Mystic River, Alec and Sandra Dee walked to nearby Rattlesnake Bar and Grill. They ate chimichangas, tostadas, laughed and kidded each other. Alec mocked his Boston accent, quoting dialogue from Mystic River. Sandra Dee smiled and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I was just pahking the cahr in Hahvahd yahd.”

After a few beers, they walked back to his motel room where they fell on the bed, snuggled and kissed. He was out of practice in romance etiquette; his hands groped, all over her chest. It aggravated more than it pleased her. Her shirt and bra tossed on the floor. He was ready to explode in his jeans.

“Slow down. Easy,” she said, smiling.

“Sorry.”

“Patience.”

She unzipped his pants and stripped them to his ankles. She climbed on top of him, her breath warm on his thigh. She sucked on his cock and he came in thirty seconds. Just like that, he was all done. His stress floated off; the world was one peaceful unified rhythm. He sighed. He massaged her breasts softly.

“That’s more like it… relax,” she said.

He loved her attitude, confidence and the way she made him feel like a man. She observed great humor, with an edge he related to. A feisty, loyal tribesman, she harbored no bad feelings toward whites, unlike her family and most of the tribe. She measured a person, not by color or politics but by the size of their heart.

“You look like a little boy,” she said.

“What?”

“Your little bad boy smile. You are so cute.”

“Ha— it’s because I just came.”

“Oh. And I thought it was because you liked me. I get it. You’re using me.”

“Right. I secretly hate you,” he said.

“You repulse me very much.”

“Whore.”

“Pimp.”

She cackled.

“So why are you in Tucson? Of all the places you could go why here?”

“I… I woke up one morning, sick of my life. I just sort of… left. I didn’t know where I was going. I hopped in my truck and just drove. It was like something guided me here.”

“What made you leave?”

“I guess I was just overdue, long overdue. I guess I needed a road trip.”

“I’m glad for it.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time doing nothing. Just wasting away. Here— with you, I don’t think of the past. It’s like you make me forget. I feel reborn.”

She kissed his chest.

“Have you ever wanted to leave?” he asked.

“I love the land here… it’s very old, very dangerous. It’s the only land I know.”

“You never wanted to see how others live?”

 “Where else will I go? I was born on the reservation. My mother died here. My grandfather raised me.”

She turned her face toward the cracked ceiling.

“I like it here. It’s home. I have cousins here you know. My grandfather. He was a great man. He taught me about our heritage. He taught me about America.”

They lay on the bed a long time. She rested her cheek on his chest. Her breath warmed his skin. He had never met a woman so open, free, and crazy. Good crazy, he thought.

“Besides I make good living.”

“Oh right, super waitress.”

 “Well, many of my cousins run illegals across the border.”

“You mean like Mexicans?”

“I mean like Mexicans, Brazilians, Puerto Ricans, Nicaraguans… the list never ends.”

“Isn’t that… very dangerous?”

“It’s just a day in the life here, honey.”

She lived on the Santa Rita Ranch in the Tohono O’Odham reservation, west of Tucson. The reservation covered 90 miles across the southern boundary of Arizona— its boundaries lay in the US as well as Mexico. Most of her family disliked Mexicans as much as they disdained whites, she said. Mexicans were invading their land, destroying homes and cemeteries. They smashed fences, doors and ravaged barns and sheds often disposing trash, clothes and sometimes, dead bodies in their yards. Their reservation sat right smack in the hot spot— on the frontline of drug smugglers, robbers and illegal alien crossings. It was commonplace practice for many Indians— smuggling was simply part of the economic atmosphere.

“That’s crazy shit,” he said.

“Which part?”

“Everything. Sounds like a mean business. And a good way to get killed.”

“It is what it is,” she said.

She rolled her hips on top of his. She stroked him until he got hard again.

“Ok. Let’s do this, sweetie. Just relax, ok?”

“Ok.”

3-21-16

We called her the “Cat Lady.” In the 80’s and into the early 90’s, this sweet old lady showed up every morning at Belcher Park to feed the wild cats that lived there. In 1986, Belcher Park was less a park and more like an overgrown forgotten piece of land. Our neighborhood was still a friendly place where you knew almost everyone on the street and said hello and talked about the weather or the Red Sox. The Cat Lady lived on our street at the bottom of the hill. Every morning she slowly trudged up the hill with her plastic bags of cat food.

The cats knew too. They sensed her presence. They would gather at the Belcher Park entrance sign, running back and forth excitedly like children in a schoolyard as she turned the corner into the park. At times there could be up to ten cats. As she bent down to portion out the food in bowls, the cats rubbed up against her, tails sticking high in the air. The party was on. These were by no means friendly cats either—they were super shy and if it weren’t for the Cat Lady I would never have known they lived there. If by the odd chance I came across one as I was cutting through the park to the fort, it was gone in seconds.

In 1993, when she got older and the hill was probably too much for her to climb, she began to drive her car. And like a good mother she continued to feed them— rain or snow.

By 1995-96 I lost track of the 70 Allen beat. I was traveling around a little, off partying with my friends and not living at home anymore. It wasn’t until years later when the neighborhoods started to change— good neighbors sold their houses and older folks passed away that ignorant inner city families moved in. It was then that I remembered the Cat Lady and wondered if she were still alive or not. She was such a good person. When I think of her now it reminds me of two things: first, the basic goodness in people. Secondly, it brings me back to an idyllic time, a sort of golden age when neighbors were neighborly and life was fun and pure.

ps... I woke up at 4:30 am and for some reason was thinking about the Cat Lady who, in reality was Mrs McGann-- not sure about spelling but I knew her son from High School. He was a good guy but he just wasn't part of my crowd and we never bumped into each other. Anyway, I don't know what brought it on but I felt compelled to tell this small story. It was snowing, despite it just officially turning spring a few days ago and I knew the kids would have school cancelled and if school was cancelled, I wasn't going to work. So school was cancelled and instead of going back to sleep I went right to my desktop and wrote about our beloved Cat Lady.