Songs are essentially poetry set to musical components of melody, harmony and rhythm.
Sometimes that poetry comes up with some pretty decent “lyrics”, as they’re more commonly known as.
Some lyrics are so well-known, that it’s sometimes difficult to find someone who hasn’t heard the song and its lyrics — i.e., all of the lyrics.
She Knows Every Word of Every verse. SOURCE : Generated by AI @ https://boredhumans.com/text-to-image.php
Yet, other songs, people really know only the first verse, and not the subsequent verses.
Why is that?
Because it’s not “radio” music, but rather, “TV music”.
Specifically, in the realm of TV show theme songs, which are usually less than 30 seconds, there’s nowhere near enough time to broadcast all the verses, and choruses, and bridges, and refrains, and solos, and you-name-it, of the full version.
So, after the first verse, they usually will cut to a three-to-five-second chorus, which, generally has the title of the song ( or TV show ) in it, and then go to a series of 30-second commercials, and then, when returning from the commercial breaks, they never finish the song.
Thus, you never hear the rest of the song, or the song in its entirety.
Consequently, the general public isn’t even aware that there are any second verses or third verses to their favorite TV show theme songs — “what they’ve heard, is all there is, and there ain’t no more”.
Wrong!
There is more.
For example, there’s the theme song for a given TV program that was originally on the air from 1978 to 1982, and then again, as a re-boot, from 1991 to 1993.
The show in question : “WKRP in Cincinnati”.
The theme song was unremarkably titled “WKRP in Cincinnati Theme Song” ( I really thought it was going to be something more artistic, such as “Bittersweet Love” or something like that, however, I guess not. But I digress…).
Although sung by the artist Steve Carlisle, he wrote neither the music nor the lyrics.
Instead, the music was written by Tom Wells, and the lyrics were written by the TV series creator, himself, Hugh Wilson, who, unfortunately, passed away, relatively recently, in January of 2018.
TV theme songs, as a general rule, are not broadcasted on radio stations along with the normal fare for whatever genre the station plays.
For example, on so-called “classic rock” stations, no program director is going to suggest playing “WKRP” in between Led Zeppelin and The Beatles; rap stations aren’t going to play the most loved rap songs, and suddenly insert WKRP somewhere in the mix.
As a result of the full version never being heard on the radio, there’s no one who’s familiar with any of the words beyond the first verse.
What a treat, through, to hear those rarely-heard lyrics for the rest of the song.
When I heard the lyrics for the second verse of the theme song for the old TV show, “Cheers”, I got a laugh out of that.
But that’s another story for another post.
For now, though, onward with WKRP…
Hear / Read The Unheard Second and Third Verses
The otherwise never-heard second and third verses for this song’s lyrics can :
[a] be heard in the embedded video below; and
[b] be read in the transcript below the video.
A transcript of the lyrics
[Full version:]
Verse 1
Baby, if you’ve ever wondered, Wondered whatever became of me, I’m livin’ on the air in Cincinnati, Cincinnati, WKRP
Got kinda tired of packin’ and unpackin’, Town to town, up and down the dial Maybe you and me were never meant to be, Just maybe think of me once in awhile.
Verse 2
Heading up that highway, leaving you behind Hardest thing I ever had to do Broke my heart in two, but baby, pay no mind The price for finding me was losing you
Memories help me hide my lonesome feelin’ Far away from you and feelin’ low It’s gettin’ late my friend, my love, I miss you so Take good care of you, I’ve gotta go
Solo 1 : Electric Guitar
Solo 2 : Electric Piano
Verse 3
Baby, if you’ve ever wondered Wondered whatever became of me I’m living on the air in Cincinnati, Cincinnati, WKRP
Got kinda tired of packin’ and unpackin’, Town to town, up and down the dial Maybe you and me were never meant to be, Just maybe think of me once in awhile.
Happy in life at the Radio Station . Image generate by A,I, @ https://boredhumans.com/text-to-image.php
“The price for finding me was losing you“
Wow! For me, that’s such a powerful lyric.
It’s so incredibly heartbreaking to have to sacrifice your closest companion to live the life you were meant to live; and, if you don’t let go, you can’t advance — stuck where you don’t have what you need, while self-defeatingly clinging onto that which is holding you back.
The idea that one can develop deep feelings for someone they weren’t meant to be with in the first place, just seems like a cruel joke if it were caused by a higher power who should know better than to inflict completely unnecessary pain for the mere enjoyment of watching the suffering.
The relationship becomes metaphorically synonymous with a drug addiction, like, say, morphine.
That is, there is an element of emotional euphoria, to be sure, when the addict is near the person/drug, whose effect is to distract you from the truth that you are dealing with pain, and the morphine is hiding that pain so well, that you actually “feel good”, but once the morphine wears off ( the person or drug is absent ) , the pain comes back with a vengeance, and the urge to stop the pain, at any cost,translates into another dose of morphine ( another rendezvouz of pointlessly futile “intimacy” )
A good example of this principle, I think, is the time I ended up in the hospital for an unimaginably severe back spasm while lifting a refrigerator.
After being ambulanced to the emergency room at Lagrange Community Hospital, I was in agony until one of the ER doctors pumped me with enough morphine to where every muscle was in the exact opposite direction of a spasm, but was, rather, loose as melting jello; I was so peacefully relaxed.
As they rolled me down the corridor to a private room, my eyes felt like two coin slots in a vending machine, as I stared up at all the individual fluorescent light bulbs which looked like one long light bulb. I didn’t have a care in the world ( I can see why many of our soldiers in the Korean and Vietnam Wars were getting hooked on the stuff — to go from nerve-racking machine gun fire in a nested trench to the indescribable peace of sitting by a quiet creek in heaven in the span of a few minutes via a syringe or method of oral ingestion, had to have been a pretty attractive alternative to dealing with the pain constantly ) .
In fact, when I awoke from my first post-ER “nap”, which was more like a deep coma, I was delighted to learn that I had a button I could press that would deliver a shot of morphine, to kill the pain.
Of course, it was mechanically regulated so that it would not just shoot a dose every time I clicked the button, because if it did, patients would be overdosing more often than not, since most people want to cheat pain, not deal with it, head on.
I know. I’m one of those people.
In any case, pressing the button frequently showed that I was willing to lie to myself, by claiming I was not in pain, when, in reality, I was, and all I had to do to convince myself that I was killing that pain, was click that button.
Even when it did not deliver a dose, psychologically, there was still a pseudo-sense of relief in the pressing of that button.
But the pain was still there all along. Not knowing it’s there, doesn’t mean the pain doesn’t exist; or that the relief is “real”.
It doesn’t matter.
It’s convincing : that does matter.
The relief was a pharmaceutically-generated illusion
Hanging onto the wrong lover serves the same function : the companionship stops the feelings of loneliness, but it’s companionship that is not conducive to the goal of being your true self — if there is such a thing
But, in the life of our imaginary Dee Jay — we’ll call him Johnny — I imagine him becoming more and more internally content in his life ( because he’s doing what he loves ).
So much, in fact, that he had been recently, daydreaming frequently of calling up “Dianne” ( the woman that he had to leave behind because she didn’t want to move away from where they were in the first place, since she was solid in her job where she worked, but wasn’t convinced the Dee Jay job was going to yield the same results for Johnny ).
He finally got the opportunity to call Diane and exclaim just how grand life was in Cincinnati, and that he was wondering if she’d be willing to revisit the issue of her possibly moving to Cincinnati and picking up where they left off in their relationship and possibly living together happily-ever-after.
Unfortunately, his mountainously -high emotional elation suddenly came crashing into the deepest pit of despair as he never got a chance to ask her since she interrupted his first few words to excitedly and hurriedly share with him the “good” news that she got engaged to “Bill”, and that life was grand for her, too.
Johnny’s heart was torn in two, but he had to pretend that he was happy for her.
But after they said their bittersweet goodbyes and ended the call, Johnny sat in the recliner in the corner of his living room, perusing his photos of him and Diane when they were together — the parties; the nights out at the bar, or days at the beach; their attendance to formal events like friends’ weddings; their hiking trips and cruise ship vacations, and every other impromptu snapshot in their lives together.
Now, someone else takes pictures with her and holds her close nightly.
Not him; and never again.
Those days can’t be brought back.
Their relationship is over forever.
All he has are pictures of an increasingly-distant past.
He tried fighting the urge to cry, and he closed the photo album, and thought, just before curling up into a ball, and crying himself to sleep, ” The price of finding me was losing you.”
There’s a glitch on the first half of the first verse on the vocal track, but that’s cleared up by mid-verse when the words “Caravan lost…” are heard — thus, the first few words are really hard to understand.
To do a sales order return or various other procedures, requires multiple steps, that I just never seem to grasp ( being an IT-challenged individual ) , and every time I have to do something, it’s never just click here and be done with it.
There’s all these choices that are “cryptic” in meaning, and I just look at ’em, and just click and see what happens.
If it works, great!
If it looks something really bad’s about to happen, I momentarily panic to find an “undo” button, and hope I didn’t already go too far.
Unfortunately, when I “guess” what the correct choice is, I’m almost always wrong ( again, fortunately for “undo’s” ) and I keep doing it until it works.
Sometimes I don’t figure it out, and this helpful chap in the shipping department, always precedes his assistance with the remark, “Nothin’s ever easy, is it?”.
“Reunion” is an instrumentalnot about a school reunion, but rather a band reunion.
What’s envisioned in this song is what a previously-super tight band sounds like, years, or even decades, later ( with them not playing with each other for all that time ) on their first song, which they’re just making up as they go along, with no sheet music, no chord charts, not even an idea of what key the song will be in, or the drum beat that’s going to be used.
They just started playing, and it actually sounded great, not because of any “maestro” skills on the part of the musicians, but rather because they work well with each other, because they all have a similar idea of what the final product is going to sound like as it begins to unfold, and everything starts magically falling into place as each member adds his part.
Since these melodies are not mine to begin with, I had to pretend these are “John’s” or “Paul’s” songs.
That is, I had to make up names for these “other writers” to personify and put a face on them.
So, I’ll attach the most recognizable faces of the rock and roll world (at least, the World I grew up in) : John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
In this relationship, they’re the writers, and I’m their “George Harrison”, and my job is to be their lead guitarist, and provide lead guitar solos (and “sitar”, or, in my case, guitar synth) to their “Strawberry Fields / Norwegian Wood” and “Get Back” compositions.).
I’ve never met these very capable song writers before, but by imagining that I’m looking at their faces, my ability to feel like I know them, allows me to feel a tad more inspired than if I’ve imagined their faces to look like what one might imagine they’d look like in some distorted-reality Picasso painting.
Moreover, you know I’m going to consider the drummer “Ringo”, the keyboardist “Billy Preston”, and our recording studio producer, George Martin”, and any other extra musicians as provided by EMI.
In any case, they’ve invited me into “Abbey Road Studios USA” in Lansing, Illinois to record some of their tunes.
Billy, Ringo, and I are already in the room, with our instruments and tuned up, and waiting for John and Paul who are still in the control room talking to George Martin about which song we were going to start with.
“Hello, my fellow musicians!” John says as he’s the first to exit the control room and enters into main recording room, and heads straight to his area, and picks up his Rickenbacker and straps it on.
Finally, a moment later, Paul comes into the room laughing about something Martin said in the control room.
“Billy, my friend! Glad you could make it!” Paul said to Mister Preston, who was tapping away at some really high notes on his piano as Paul walked into the room, and strapped on his iconic bass, who then looked at me and said, “How ’bout you, George? Ready to make it a go?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, Paul.” I replied, with my hand on an F chord. .
“Well, alrighty then.” John said looking at George Martin through the glass of the control room and nodding to go ahead and roll the tape.
“Song 1.” Ringo adds in, just before Martin presses the record button.
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“Day One“
This is definitely a Paul song.
It even feels “emotionally” similar to the McCartney song “Come And Get It”, which the Beatles never recorded, and instead, McCartney bestowed it on Badfinger who got a hit out of it, that helped establish Badfinger as a hitmaking band.
Source :
YouTube Account : ErtoSound
Video Title : Cool Country Song Guitar Backing Track Jam In F Major.rtf
This melodic pick sounds like something John could have written during the Rubber Soul album, as in “Norwegian Wood”-ish as far as the song’s relaxed-sound is concerned.
Plus, if I would have played, at least, a portion of my solo an octave, or two, lower (being that all the notes that I played were in the higher registers above the 12th fret) I think it possibly might’ve sounded a tad more interesting.
Why did I stay above the 12th fret?
I’m not really sure.
There wasn’t any kind of pre-recording intent to do it that way. I think, it just probably just felt right at the moment I was laying down the track.
But then again, this post is entitled the “Evolving Audition” which means I can update it at any time down the road.
So, I might just do that — time permitting, of course.
SOURCE :
YouTube Account : Elevated Jam Tracks
Video Title : Tender Mellow Groove Guitar Backing Track Jam in A.rtf
“Always On The Run” is about a bank robber I once knew.
He actually robbed two banks about 20 years apart, in addition to a face-to-face armed robbery attempt on some woman he saw on the street somewhere, according to one police report I saw.
But that guy, ever since he was a teenager, was literally, “Always On The Run“.
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“Lonely Eyes”
02-07
“Lonely Eyes”: Vocals
Sax Solo @ 3:03
S Solo @ 3:26
This is kind of an interesting story.
This tune was inspired by two models : one, I temporarily knew, and the other I never knew, but wondered if their two lives had the same result.
——— a-The One I Temporarily Knew
Specifically, the one I knew actually posed for Playboy ( she was not the centerfiold, but she still made the cut to get the nod from Hugh Hefner’s Playboy —the GQ of the porn industry ) and she ended up losing her job and her marriage ( but she’s the one that walked out on her husband — out of guilt of having “done it” with more than one person from Playboy during her stay at various locations for various sceneries for various photo shoots. Each stop turned into another adultress encounter.).
She got the ultimately erroneous impression that if she sucked the right men off, her career would skyrocket into fame of Hollywood proportions.
But, she was wrong.
Morally and Occupationally.
Morally, because she lost her marriage; and occupationally, because she lost her job.
But, she did receive her Judas-like “handful of gold coins” for her services rendered, and she got her “15 minutes of “…..well, we’ll call it “fame” for now ( i.e., being seen naked and drooled over by however many — or few — men who actually saw that edition of the magazine ), and not only lost everything ( i.e., her job and husband ) domestically, but occupationally, as well, in that she was quickly forgotten about by the very industry that seduced her into throwing her life away for a few bucks, so only a small number of men can view her pictures and likely masturbate over them, then throw the soiled pictures in the garbage can, where they belong.
All the men that literally had sexual intercourse with her, had nothing to do with her after her adultery-soaked “photo shoots”.
Not a one! They wouldn’t even take her calls.
“Who? Oh, you must have the wrong number. Sorry. Bye-Bye!” is all she ever heard.
It was all a “Wham-bam-thank-you-mam” from start to finish; they got what they wanted and/or needed; and she received what she was contractually promised.
Yet, what profit was there in losing it all, in exchange for her ruinous multi-locational adultery-fest?
Her life had to start all over again, with nothing to start from.
Whatever they paid her couldn’t have lasted very long…. or been “worth it”.
The daily regrets this woman must have.
——— b-The One I Didn’t Know
And the one I never knew?
She was just a face in a local Kohl’s ad, posing in women’s bikinis for some sale.
I wondered, “This woman has a beautiful face, and a nice body, and there are only two types of men in real life, who are going to notice that:
[a] those with good intent in that they want to treat the beautiful woman like a queen, love her and raise a family with her (and those men are few are far between which makes them more valuable than gold coins!) ; and
[b] those with no honorable intent, in that they just want to get laid, and move on to the next woman. They have no intention of being there in the morning when the woman wakes up (this would be the vast majority of men —- who might otherwise be the correct men for different women, but, who for this particular woman, is not well-suited to be her mate any more than a fidelity-worshipping conservative Republican should marry an open marriage-advocate like Jada Smith or an activist Democrat porn star).
Surely, at some point in her career, she’s going to get tired of weekly department store ads, and might want to take her career to “the next level”.
In her attempt to rub shoulders with the right people to advance her career in the right direction, will she, too, get invited to do a ,…ahem, “photo shoot”?
And likely for a magazine of far less “respect” than Playboy— e.g., some really raunchy pictures .
There has to be very few things more humiliating than having someone show you pictures of your girlfriend or wife doing a threesome in a third-rate skin magazine.
“Uh, Bill….Is this your…wife….Laura,” your co-worker asks while pointing to a magazine of big glossy photos, “with some cop’s dick in her mouth while she tries to suck her way out of a speeding ticket?”
“But I made $2,000 for the shoot, Sweetie.” she says hoping the money somehow mitigates the broken heart behind the infidelity.
What are the odds she’s going to make the right choice and be happy all her life?
Or, what are the odds she’ll make the wrong choices, and wind up with “Lonely Eyes“?
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“Tell Me Some Lies“
“Tell Me Some Lies”: Vocals“
02-01
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[a] A keyboard synth solo @ 1:36;
[b] a guitar / scat solo @ 2:46; and
[c] a regular guitar solo @ 3:58.
Lyrically, it means nothing. The words were fabricated to create the illusion of a song.
The real purpose of the composition was to experiment with the keyboard solo, and the George Benson-like (but darker and rockified) Scat guitar solo.
The truth is, though, as fabricated as the lyrics are, the story is very real in that there is absolutely no shortage of people are who are more than willing to “Tell Me Some Lies“.
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“You Made My Day“
02-03
“You Made My Day” is an instrumental that’s based on a much older tune I wrote called “Never Before” ( which had lyrics ), which has a mid-section that was a bit too similar to another song In the Originals set, so I deleted that mid-section, and altered the tempo , and omitted the lyrics, and I found it to be a good tune for me to listen to in the early morning, when I’m getting ready for work, or going on a short road trip
It has somewhat of a “rising sun” kind of feeling to it, and that “makes my day”.
Hence, the title “You Made My Day”
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“Night Life“
This one goes to John, since its mood is similar to “Come Together” — it’s much darker.
Like all these YouTube-sourced songs, I didn’t do any working out of any specific guitar solos. I just played the source video as a practice run only once, not to work out notes, but rather to find patches on my guitar FX pedal that would best give me the sounds that I’m looking for.
I usually just randomly fly through a range of about 10 to 20 patches, and listen to them, and decide which ones make the song song kick ass, and which ones make it sound weak and lifeless.
I found a range to work with and picked a few patches to try out on my recording.
When the song got to what essentially is the second verse, I tapped one of the foot switches and changed my patch to one called “Green Stew”, if I remember correctly, and I absolutely loved how aggressive it sounded.
In real life, that probably would have been a bit too intense for John’s liking.
“Wow! You made your guitar sound bloody mean on that one, George!” I can just hear John saying, while I wonder if he meant that as a compliment, or not.
But, even if John didn’t mean it as a compliment, I liked it, and as long as the Lennon-McCartney-Martin trio didn’t axe it from the masters, it’s a keeper, as far as I’m concerned.
Source :
YouTube Account : Pierpaolo Buzzi
Video Title : Tom Quayle Style Backing Track In A Dorian 75 Bpm.rtf
I’m just putting out some content of originals, covers, and “collaborations” to see if anyone might be interested in jamming with me, based on what they hear in the samples provided below.
I titled this post “Evolving Audition” because it is intended to be updated with new material as it becomes available.
Currently, it has 19 songs uploaded ( 12 originals, 5 collaborations, and 2 covers )
The focus is on my guitar playing and/or songwriting skills.
NOT my vocals! I’m not looking to do any singing!
My voice sucks! I fully acknowledge that!
The vocals are there simply because the music requires someone to sing, and I don’t have any money to hire a vocalist, so, it looks like I was the only one available to do the vocal tracks.
So, it is what it is.
I put notes were solos are, so the listener can fast forward directly to the solos for immediate evaluation.
NOTE : I’m not looking to be in a “guitar-only” band — where there are no keyboardists — unless….one or more of the guitarists use guitar synths ( I definitely do! ) , or some kind of sound-expanding module.
For me, if the only two guitar sounds are “distortion on” and “distortion off”, I’ll get bored in a matter of minutes!
I need pianos, organs, synthesizers, violins, mandolins, flutes, and definitely saxophones, among others.
I’m also not a recording engineer. So, if the quality of the recordings, themselves, are less than pristine, that’s because I also don’t have the best of microphones, and I record old school — standalone recording hardware; no digital DAWS or plug-ins; all stage mics for pa equipment; plugging directly in and not adding any special EQ or compression; etc.
Anyway, if you can :
[a] ignore the bad vocals;
[b] forgive the home studio-“quality” recordings; and
[c] focus only on the guitar playing ,
….and if you like what you hear, and are interested in possibly getting together, please check out the written content after the samples which displays information regarding my contact info.
Guitar And Amp Rig
Effects Rig
NOTE: Many of my songs have guitars, keyboards, and saxophones as the primary melodic instruments.
For now, check out the following songs below, and thanks for listening:
There are three categories of music :
[1] Originals, where I wrote the music and lyrics (and unfortunately, sung ) ;
[2] “Collaborations“, with YouTube Content Providers .
I put the word collaborations in quotes because the material I’m working with :
— [a] IS meant for tutorial purposes — , meant for people ( beginners, intermediates, etc., — to practice their theory and technique in scales, modes, chords, and chord progressions ) to jam along with.
— [b] is NOT meant to be posted as a formal composition from some band.
But…
Some of those jam tracks are very well constructed, and I would have been proud to have been in a band with these writers ( there’s definitely two or three that are first class writers , as fas as I’m concerned); and finally,
Although Originals are mentioned first in the list, two possible benefits of listening to the Collaborations collection first, are:
[1] The Collaborations are all recorded on a newer digital unit, and sound a little cleaner than some of the Originals and Covers — most of which ( but not all ) were recorded on older analog units of the semi-pro “quality” found in most home studios; and
[2] The Collaborations are more likely to showcase my guitar and keyboard solos.
Way moreplaying and far lesssinging.
That’s because I’m not auditioning for vocals, that’s for sure.
Not even as a lyricist : Neil Peart I am not.
I just threw in vocals on some collaborations because the song, to me, seemed like it would be better with vocals ( e.g., “Don’t You Know” ).
Otherwise, the Originals ( some of which are instrumentals — e.g., “Pictures of You”, “Reunion” ) will showcase both instruments and vocals ( sorry about the vocals which are never top-notch) .
INDEX
I-The Collections
—A-Originals
—— 01-Set 02; Song 01 — “Reunion” ( Instrumental )
—— 02-Set 02; Song 02 — “In The Dark Of Night” ( Vocals )
—— 03–Set 02; Song 03 — “You Made My Day” ( Instrumental )
( Notes Temporarily Misplaced ; will update when data located)
YouTube Account : ?
Video Title : ?.rtf
Source of Song Title : City Lights?”
URL :https : // www. youtube. com/watch?v=?????
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—C-Covers
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The Allman Brothers Band — In Memory of Elizabeth Reed
—— 1-Set 07; Song 01 — “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed“
Original Artists : The Allman Brothers Band ( Original Lineup )
Guitar Solo-1@ 2:14
Sax Solo @ 4:08
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—— 1-Set 07; Song 02 — “From The Beginning“
Original Artists : Emerson, Lake, and Palmer
Guitar Solo-1@ 2:37
Keyboard Solo @ 3:27
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II-You May Have Noticed…
— A-6-piece Band Design
My Original compositions, and my renditions of other peoples’ music ( both Covers and Collaborations ) often, but not always, are designed for , at least, a 6-piece band:
[1] Drums / Percussion
[2] Bass ( I wish I had a Chapman Stick to use ; but “no gots”)
[3] Guitarist 1 ( To trade off on Rhythm and Lead Guitars )
[4] Guitarist 2 1 ( To trade off on Rhythm and Lead Guitars )
[5] Keyboardist — that’s an absolute must for me . No Keys? Not interested ( unless……one, or more, of the guitarists in the band plays a guitar synthesizer, to get access to those sounds not found in the guitar world in its natural state — an electric guitar is woefully inept at supplying any creativity in the timbre department with only “distortion on” and “distortion off” as the only two choices in the guitar world ).
[6] Saxophonist If available, I can’t see saying “no” — awesome instrument
…[7] Vocalist — Preferably, the singer plays an instrument ( e.g., guitar, violin, flute, mandolin, harmonica, etc. ) and is not “just a singer in a rock and roll band”.
Why not?
My experience has been vocalists who do not play an instrument, tend to prefer songs that have lots of vocals, or, are centered on the vocalist, otherwise, they’re spending a lot of time onstage not singing, while the other musicians are getting their moment in the spotlight.
I admit, if I was the vocalist, I would feel self-conscious about literallybeing onstagenot doing anything for long stretches of time during the solos performed by the other band members.
That means, during those moments where he’s not producing any audio , ( because he’s not singing during the musicians’ solos ), he has to invent visuals to justify his presence onstage.
Otherwise, why is he there, if he’s not singing?
They could get anyone to stand on stage and do nothing — and there’s nothing of value, of him really visually “getting into the music” ( e.g., for example, pulling a “Roger Daltry” and swinging the mic from the cord; or, holding the mic, while it’s still clamped in the holder on the stand , while, say, rocking left and right in some “dance-ish” maneuver, dreading the moments of onstage inactivity for all to see).
That’s one reason I really don’t like the “backup singers” thing — i.e., with the “two or three women in the background” , snapping their fingers while they sing backup vocals.
Personally, I’ve found enjoyment only in Steely Dan’s use of backup singers ( check out Steely Dan’s album, “Aja”; lots of great examples of great use of background singers ).
Otherwise, your typical rock, blues, country, honky tonk, or hip-hop/gospel bands really ruin their performances with their version of backup singers.
It literally makes me cringe.
Also, notice that I called it a “6-piece band”, even though 7 are listed.
Why?
Do I “not” consider a Vocalist an instrument?
On the contrary, I most certainly do — and , in some strategic ways, it’s the most important one, in two ways :
[1] that’s a human organ and not a manufactured instrument, and thus, has no “repair parts” available at Guitar Center or Sam Ash.
You blow that instrument, you’re done! Have a nice day! No singing career for you; plus
[2] the human voice is so much more unique from other voices than, say, two typical folk guitars or two typical bass guitars sound “different” from each other.
If you swap out your Les Paul for a Paul Reed Smith, nobody in the audience is going to “hear the difference”.
The same goes for the keyboardist and the sax player — if the Keyboardist goes from Yamaha to Roland, or if the sax player switches from one professional grade brand to another professional grade brand, again, no one in the audience is going to pick up on those differences.
In complete contrast, are the vocalists of the music world — i.e., if you change vocalists, it would be impossible to not notice.
For example, immediately, one can tell the difference between, say, Phil Collins and Sting or Ronnie James Dio, , or between the late Christie McVie and Janis Joplin.
The differences are so much more stark in human voices than in instruments.
The reason that’s important to consider :
If a singer quits the band, guess what ?
The sound of the bandinstantly changes where that is going to be far more noticeable than if you changed drummers or bass players.
So, yeah, I consider the voice an instrument.
But…..
I count only six, because I’m hoping — really hoping ! — that the singer also plays an instrument ( e.g., guitar, harmonica, flute, violin, etc ) .
Why?
Because for every second that a guitarist or keyboardist or saxophonist is playing their solos, the singer is not doing anything at all, except watching the other musicians shine in the spotlight.
Personally, I really wouldn’t want to be that guy if the next five solid minutes ( or more ) involves me standing there doing and accomplishing absolutely nothing but semi-“dancing” in place with the mic stand, and playing with my …..hat.
Other singers like Ian Gillian, from Deep Purple, used to play harmonica ( Think “Lazy” ) and congas.
I believe Burton Cummings the vocalist of The Guess Who also played saxophone and flute.
The point is :
The more a singer feels under-used when his bandmates are soloing, the more likely that he or she will want to do more songs with more singing…..
And I do NOT want that.
I want just enough vocals that we’re not considered an “instrumental” band, but, by the same token, we’ll be far more likely to jam out to “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” by the Allman Bothers, than we will to Dylan’s “Tangled Up In Blue“, which has Way too many words in it, for my liking.
So…
If we do “…Elizabeth Reed”, what’s the non-instrument playing singer supposed to do with himself on stage for the eight to 14 minutes there’s nothing to sing?
I can’t believe that he or she would be comfortable with that.
But…
If he or she is playing a guitar or other instrument, they could join in on the jamming and still be the singer and get the spotlight twice as often as those playing only one instrument.
Some singers play instruments, too, and that’s the type I prefer because they’re far more likely to fit into my definition of a “6-piece band”.
Hence, I prefer instruments to singing.
III-Time-Saving Information : Music I WON’T PLAY
Sure, I like, need, and want money. Who doesn’t?
But, I’m not willing to do certain things, just to get a paycheck out of it.
If you’re in it “just for the money”, — and you’ll play any genre — then go for it : Be all you can be.
Just don’t reach out to me.
For me, it’s NOT about the money, if the job requires shit music.
I’m not going to pretend that I’m open to “all” genres.
I’m not!
There are certain genres that I just can’t take seriously, as I shake my head in disbelief that anyone likes that stuff.
And where I’m not interested, it’s hopeless to convince me to play “just this once”.
If I could do it “once”, I could do it repeatedly; and if that’s the case, I might as well just play the music.
To me, “making an exception” and playing music that one otherwise detests , — even “once” — defeats the purpose of not playing it in the first place.
If someone said, “I’m not a murderer”, and a someone requested that they commit “just one” murder, and they obeyed, could they ever say they’re “not” a murderer , since they only committed “one”?
Of course not : “doing it only once”, doesn’t mitigate a single thing in that crime. They’re still a murderer.
Maybe not a repeat offender, but one is all it takes.
The point is : there’s no point in ever hoping you’ll convince me to play that music even for a “great-paying gig”, because I’m not going to make any exceptions.
Regardless of how many “You’re a fool to pass up this gig!” accusations anyone throws at me, that’s fine. Go play “My Sharona” for your $2,000 gig. I’m happy for you.
Unfortunately, I won’t be showing up for that gig.
So, what songs am I laughingly rejecting?
The two posts linked below should answer those questions.
NOTE : Although the post’s title clearly contains the words “80’s music”, my definition of “80’s music” is slightly more “inclusive” than “just songs from 1980 to 1989”.
Where I’ve expanded the reach of the definition, includes two non-1980’s categories :
[1] music that caused the “80’s music” to get born, when it really hit the air waves in 1978 and 1979 ( i.e., punk rock, new wave, and glam/hair metal ) ; and
[2] music after the 1980’s that sounds like it’s influenced by “80’s music” ( e.g., Green Day is obviously influenced by punk and 80’s music — particularly Billie Joe Armstrong’s singing style, which has punk written all over it, similar to Robert Smith of the Cure’s punk vocal style, which is definitely a turn-off, musically speaking ) ;
III-Contact Information
If :
[1] after seeing my list of musical “allergies” ( i.e., what IWON’T play) ;
[2] hearing what I WILL play ( the links provided above) ; and
[3] you’re still interested in jamming, …
…then, contact me @ :
Email :
floydallen97a@gmail.com
NOTE : 1
On the Email’s SUBJECT LINE TAG: Enter “BAND AD” in CAPS to indicate the email is BAND-related.
Otherwise, email might get accidentally deleted ( there’s literally over 15,000 emails in my inbox(!) at any given time ). Thanks..
NOTE : 2
If you send any files, keep in mind that there is a 25MB Max upload on my Gmail account; if it’s larger than that, then some kind of link to the file’s URL addrress might work.
If you have any links to websites with your material on them, please feel free to include those, too.
NOTE : 3
I’m also a tech-challenged individual : I’m not on Instagram or Snapchat or any social media, so if you post those kinds of links, I might not be able to connect, since I’m not on those platforms — and not looking to be, either.
So……………
Spring is here!
Are we jamming in the garage or down in the basement?
Some places are destined to never see any kind of stability in terms of long-term occupancy, in that no one entity remains at that location long-term.
Every few years, a new occupant; and it occurs in both residential and commercial properties.
In the realm of commercial properties, that trend is common in the fast food industry/Store Front Small businesses in that I can think of, at least, a dozen places that are now something they weren’t two or three years ago.
Today, they’re Aztec Tacos; whereas, for four to eight years prior to that, it was Chicagoland Hot Dog Stand, and two years from now, it’ll be a Batteries Plus or a Dana’s Donuts, or whoever wants to rent out the space after the current business either re-locates, or goes out of business — the latter case, of course, probably making up 80 percent, or more, of the causes for the changes in occupancies.
In the realm of residential, single-family dwellings, similar issues exist with the property being occupied by someone else every few years — in both rental units and owner-occupied structures, where I can think of several reasons why current tenants become former tenants , such as :
[ 1 ] in the realm of rental units, the soon-to-be-former tenants have saved up enough money to buy their own house; or
[ 2 ] both owners and renters can suffer financial setbacks ( such as a layoff or a drastic pay cut ) wherein they’re subsequently unable to afford to continue paying the same mortgage or rent payment and need to relocate to something less expensive; or
[ 3 ] both owners and renters find new joba that pay better but are too far to commute to on a daily basis, so they move much closer to to their new job for a more reasonable daily commuting distance; or
[ 4 ] In the event of a divorce, the owners sell the property and divvy up the proceeds according to the divorce decree; or….
[ 5 ] The tenant died; or….
Any number of reasons could account for why Occupant A moved out and Occupant B moved in.
But for the house to go through that change repeatedly ( and relatively often ) over the course of a few short years ( both as a rental unit and as an owner-occupied structure ) would seem to indicate that something else might be operating somewhere in the background in the dynamics of the frequent occupant-changing transactions — details that are unseen to the public’s unprivied eyes “on the outside looking in”; facts revealed only to the owners and occupants of the property .
One such frequently-changing house is located right next door to my house :
It is a house of emptiness; it is the house next door.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I-Different Dudes : Same Story
— A-Ryan Anderson ( Gamer, kinda ) Pre-Cancer
—— 1-Our First Encounter
—— 2-Reveals to Us That His Father Owned The House
—— 3-The Music Angle
——— a-The Recording Session in My Basement
——————–*-An Ugly Surprise
——— b-His “Hatred” For Altered and Open Tunings
——— c-His “Love” For the Blues …….& Why I Mention It
—— 4-His Relationship with his Dad
—— 5-The Good,…Ahem, “Bad” News
—— 6-“Gamer” : Why I Mentioned It
— B-Willie Vaughn : A Boy And His Dog & Their Three Returns( Gamer )
—— 1-Return #1 : First Contact
——— a-An addition to His “Family” : Luke, The Beagle
——— b-He Had No Furniture
——— c-Deja Vu : Reveals to Us That His Father Owned The House
——— d-The Change : An Arizona Funeral
——— e-For Sale : By Owner
——— f-Bon Voyage 1
——— g-Side Note : House Became A Rental Unit For Several Years
—— 2-Return #2 : He’s Baaack! And Why
——— a-Five to Seven Years
——— b-Taylor Gets Married And the Bride Evicts Willie
——— c-Willie’s Week at My House
——— d-Bon Voyage 2
—— 3-Return #3 : He’s Baaack! Again! And Why
II-Pests
— A-Kingdom of the Spiders
—— 1-You’re Never More Than Six Feet From A Spider
— B-The Victims
—— 1-Ryan’s Room Mate.
—— 2-Willie, Himself
III-Conclusion
I-Different Dudes : Same Story
The two sub-headings for this section have been appended with the remarks “Pre-cancer” and “post-cancer”, simply to highlight the period of time in my life that I encountered these two individuals.
When Ryan lived next door, I hadn’t yet been diagnosed with esophageal cancer, yet, and I was still 265 pounds; when Willie moved in, it was shortly after my treatment, which included chemo, radiation, and surgery, and I was only about 130 pounds — I was literally half the man I used to be.
Anyway, the point is : I really was a different person in these two sequential timeframes.
Traci ( my wife ) and I moved into our home in March 2007.
I think we closed on the 3rd, and officially moved in on the 10th ( That was 16 years ago; and I frequently have difficulty in remembering 16 days ago ! LOL ).
However, the next day on the 4th ( after the closing but before moving in ) , we stopped at the house just to look around and toy with various ideas of what we wanted to do with each room, etc., and those kinds of considerations.
Being that the garage is a detached garage, and it’s located behind the house, and is accessed via the alley, there’s no driveway in front of the house, so, we parked out on the street in front, and walked up the sidewalk, up the steps, stuck the key into the door, unlocked it, opened it, and stepped into an empty reverb chamber with no carpeting or furniture to soak up the echoes against the hardwood floors and bare walls.
“Wow! Home, sweet, home, Sweetie!” I said as we both looked around in gleeful anticipation of our new lives in our new home.
As wonderful as that description sounds of us walking into our home for the first time ( as the official homeowners, that is, and not as “prospective buyers“ ) the truth is, Traci and I were having an argument about something within the first ten minutes of being there.
Specifically, as we entered, we left the front door opened, as we walked around the main floor, where the frontroom, kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms are ( not counting the basement below or the attic above ) .
A few moments later, while Traci walked around in the bedrooms, taking measurements, I went downstairs into the basement to look at a few things and then returned to the kitchen, where Traci also returned to, and we ended up disagreeing about something and our voices did get loud enough to make the disagreement sound a tad heated.
The point is, when two people are in the middle of an audibly heated discussion, most intelligent people think, “I’ll hold off approaching those people until things calm down. It does not look, or sound, like a good time to go say ‘ Hello’ .”
— A-Ryan Anderson ( Gamer, kinda )
But not this guy.
—— 1-Our First Encounter
I could see if he was, say, a cop, and he was ( out of concern for someone’s safety ) , just investigating to make sure that a loud discussion didn’t turn into an act of violence.
But no. This guy was actually coming to welcome us to the neighborhood.
There we were : Traci and I going at it .
“Oh, yeah!? Well, blah, blah, blah!” I’d say, and she’d retort, “That’s a crap idea! Blah, blah, blah!”
Back and forth we yelled our opinions, when suddenly, there was both a knock on the door, and the doorbell rang.
“What the…? Who’s ringing our doorbell and knocking at the same time?” I’m thinking, as I looked at Traci, when our argument got strangely interrupted.
I turned away from Traci and proceeded from the kitchen to the front door, with Traci in tow, to see who was there.
Just as my leading foot stepped across the threshhold going from the kitchen and into the living room ( where I intended to stand in my doorway and observe who was standing on my porch trying to get our attention, and talking to them through the screen ), I heard our screen door open up , and whoever was on our porch was letting themselves in without our invitation.
“Whoa! What’s going on?” I asked stepping in the way of the home “invader”, which turned out to be this guy, in his 30’s, with a stupid 1980’s-style mullet-like haircut, and this really goofy grin on his face.
“Yes?” I said, stepping in his way.
“Hi. I’m Ryan, your next door neighbor.” he said, ever so nonchalantly, pointing southward, over my shoulder, toward his house next door, and fumbling out an explanation that was not very convincing in its sincerity.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you were right here in the kitchen. I thought you might be somewhere in the basement, or somethin’.”
“We were just shouting at the tops of our lungs, right here in the kitchen, just six or seven feet away from where you’re standing, with the screen door’s screen wide open, just as you were knocking and ringing the doorbell,” I was thinking to myself as I looked at him in silence, “How could you have not noticed the yelling, and still thought that we were somehow ‘ in the basement, or somethin’ “.
“This guy is so full of shit, and I don’t like him already.” was all I could think of at that moment. “He’s got shitty timing; and questionable ethics….and a fucked up haircut!”
“Oh, I’ve been in this house a million times before.” he added, giving a brush off-like gesture with his hand, as though that somehow entitled him to just, in perpetuity, continue letting himself in without being invited in.
“Wow! And the hits just keep on comin’!” I thought, as I continued to stare at him in disbelief, in total silence, how his every word ran contrary to what I wanted to hear.
“Listen, man, this is really not a good time.” I told him as I pushed open the screen door, making the message unmistakably clear, to leave.
“I’m Traci, and this is Floyd.” Traci said over my shoulder, trying to make the otherwise series of awkward moments a little less frigid.
“Cool. I understand.” he said, as he stepped back out onto the front porch, and I closed the screen door, continuing to talk to him through the screen.
“Yeah, we need to talk about a few things, and right now’s not a good time for a visit from the Welcome Wagon.” I added, making up any excuse to get rid of his unsolicted and unwelcomed presence.
“Alright. That’s cool.” he said, somewhat gun shy from the less-than-open-armed welcome he got from me, as he stepped down the stairs, turned to face his house, and walked across the lawn instead of along the sidewalk.
“I didn’t want to be rude to the guy.” Traci said, as I slowly closed the big door.
“And, I’m lockin’ the son of a bitch, too!” I exclaimed, referring to the door lock, “Just in case he decides to come back, open the door on his own, stick his head in the doorway, to say something like, ‘ Oh, and if you need anything…’ “.
“Yeah, right, Buddy! You’ll be the first person I call.” I concluded sarcastically, shaking my head in disgust at his personna. “Wow! He’s gonna be a real nightmare, I think. Well, more accurately, probably a very bad dream.”
And I was right.
He was nowhere near as bad as my former “friend”, Fahrenheit, but I’m definitely glad he doesn’t live in that house anymore.
Whew! Good riddance!
“I just can’t get over how he just nonchalantly let himself in like that!” I continued on, considering the encounter to be forever remembered as an “unwelcomed invasion. ”
“Yeah, that was something.” Traci nodded in agreement, as we then continued on in our mission of interior design.
Anyway. The point is : there would never be a second chance at a “good” first impression where Ryan was concerned.
2-Reveals to Us That His Father Owned The House
Somewhere over the course of the next few weeks, he would again uninvitedly invade our privacy repeatedly by inviting himself over when it suited him to do so.
Although I do not remember him ever repeating the mistake of simply self-allowing himself to open our front door and enter our home ( after a “customary knock or doorbell ring”— where he got that idea, or the concept that I agreed with the idea in the first place, is beyond me ), he continued to frequently just waltz on over when he’d hear or see Traci or I sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette, since we didn’t smoke cigarettes inside the house.
Well, on one of those depressingly frequent self-inviting days, he explained to us the situation of “who actually owned the house” and other answers to questions that we never asked him to provide.
It turns out that his dad actually owned the house, and he bought the house specifically for his son to reside in.
All Ryan had to do was make the monthly payments on :
[ A ] the mortgage ( the property taxes were already escrowed into the monthly mortgage payment ) ; and
[ B ] the utilities
“That’s an awesome privilege, to be given a hand up like that from your own parents!” , I thought to myself, contemplating how some people struggle for years to come up with a down payment on a house, to break the perpetual cycle of paying someone else’s mortgage in the form of a rent payment that’s just as expensive, if not moreso, than an actual mortgage on a home that one would actually own at the end of it all, when there would be no more payments — paid in full!
Well, the government would still hit you up for yearly taxes; those will never go away.
But to come up with 20 percent down isn’t exactly easy when the figure you’re trying to raise 20 percent of, is in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, which would make the 20 percent down payment in the tens of thousands of dollars — not exactly “pocket change” for 90-plus percent of the American population.
But then, there’s people like Ryan’s father, who have enough wealth to just whip out their check book, and write a check for the down payment, that would otherwise remain years away for his son.
“So, here you are son, here’s a home for you!” his father says, bestowing a home upon him.
So, here he is : my (un)grateful neighbor.
I only mention it, because in the year, or so, that we had the “pleasure” of living next door to him, never once did he have a job.
He was always home when I got home from work in the evening, so I knew he didn’t have an evening job; and my neighbor on the north side of our house, worked all different kinds of crazy hours, so he could be home at any time of any day, and he said, every time he’s been home, he’s seen Ryan’s car parked out front.
If it was ever not there at any given time, he’d be home within an hour, or two, so, he obviously didn’t have a day job.
“How is he paying the bills?” I wondered daily.
He wasn’t.
It turns out that the deal was his father would pay the bills until Ryan could get up on his feet, and start doing it all on his own.
This deal was not meant to be one in perpetuity, but rather one with an expiration date.
That date was not pre-ordained.
If it took Ryan six months to get that job to pay the bills, then, so be it. That’s how long it took.
If it took longer, it took longer. Life sometimes works out that way.
That’s just how patient Ryan’s dad was with Ryan.
As long as Ryan was making an honest effort to find that job, his father would keep writing the checks. .
But Ryan wasn’t.
Not only was he not making an honest effort, he wasn’t putting in any effort at all, whatsoever. He hadn’t sent out a resumé in months; and he had no intention of doing so, either.
His father, fortunately, eventually figured out what was going on, and acted accordingly ( translation : wisely ), and sold the house out from under Ryan.
When I see fools blow golden opportunities like that ( that very few people ever see ), I want to publicly point and laugh at them, since to feel sorry or compassion for fools who deliberately didn’t even lift a finger to better their own lives, really is just as bad as being the fool, himself.
—— 3-The Music Angle
Unbeknownst to me, Ryan had a guitar ( a Seafoam Green Fender Strat, to be specific — and that’s my least favorite color in painted guitars ) and he was equally unaware that I had gear, too.
Ryan was barely a beginner; he’d have to do some serious educational advancement just to be considered qualified to be considered an “intermediate”.
And semi-pro or pro level status?
Hardly. That would be a status that he would likely never achieve.
In any case, one Saturday afternoon, I was in my studio in the basement, jamming out on some tunes, and Ryan, in his bedroom with the window open, overheard the music, and within a few days, he made an effort to casually “encounter” me in my back yard, to start up a conversation about getting together to do some jamming.
As soon as I mentioned “recording” gear, he was “all over it” with attempts to make an official date to get together.
Being right next door, it would be difficult for me to “fake it” that I’m not home, when he’s got a front row seat to see and/or hear everything I do .
Not wanting to be too much of a dickhead to him, I convinced myself to allow him to come over and see what kinds of things this mullet-headed dufus wanted to do.
——— a-The Recording Session in My Basement
It was a Saturday, and I had all day to work in the studio if I wanted to do so.
It was around 1:00 PM when Ryan came over, and entered through the side door.
He walked down the stairs into the basement, carrying his Strat in a case in his left hand, while his right hand ran along the bannister.
Once he saw the layout, as he took his last step off the stairs, his pace slowed down — evidently, to soak in the sight before his very smiling eyes!
It wasn’t so much that I had anything monumental ( in terms of size or quality — i.e., I didn’t have a hundred-thousand-dollar Fairlight® sampler or a 64-channel desk or anything jaw-dropping like that; in fact, as far as my studio mics were concerned, I didn’t have any! Not a single one! There were no $3,000 Neumans or even $100 cheap ones; I had no pop filters; all I had were three cheap stage mics ) but rather that I had essentially “one of everything”:
* One electric six string guitar;
* one acoustic six string guitar;
* one nylon-stringed classical guitar;
* one 12-string acoustic guitar;
* one 4-string bass guitar;
* two keyboards and one expansion sound module;
* a guitar synthesizer;
* an electronic drum set for anyone who plays;
* four drums machines with thousands of drums beats for those who don’t play drums;
* three amps ( one acoustic guitar amp, and two keyboard amps ) ;
* one PA head with two Bull Frog PA Towers;
* three cheap stage microphones;
* three effects processors;
* two harmonicas ( one Chromatic ; one Key of C );
* one mandolin;
* one violin; ;
* two 8-track digital recording decks; and a
* “Partridge in a Pear Tree” and a few other things that I’m momentarily forgetting to mention.
About the only thing I couldn’t supply was … singing talent !
That was something I couldn’t provide if you put a gun to my head to force me to sing well.
If death was the punishment for bad vocals, I’d be executed before the first verse was finished.
I can’t sing.
And neither could he, apparently, as we’d eventually see by the end of the evening when we reviewed the recordings we made.
Prior to doing any recording, when he first stepped into the studio, though, and he saw the arsenal of equipment that was available to him to make a decent recording, he must’ve thought he was going to record some kind of masterpiece.
One could almost hear a degree of self-assured cockiness in his demeanor, as he started to set up in the corner that I pointed him toward.
In his arguably unrealistic expection or anticipation of creating this “Dark Side Of the Moon” caliber of compositional excellence, he was visbly elated, as far as his facial expression seemed to indicate, upon seeing the seemingly adequately-equipped home studio, which he did not possess in his own home.
All he had was his Strat, and a small practice amp.
I don’t believe he even had any PC-based software, such as Pro Tools, or any other third-party DAW software apps.
So, he didn’t do any kind of recording on his own : no old school standalone recording, or modern, digital, DAW-based software for PC’s and Mac computers types of recording.
This was all new to him.
Although I had basically an entire band’s worth of instrumentation in my arsenal, I was, essentially, a “student of all, and a master of none”, myself, as far as my knowledge of the instruments I owned was concerned.
Although I consider myself a guitarist, who dabbles in other instruments, I don’t consider myself a “master” of guitar simply because of simple common sense-induced modesty : I know there’s “a lot I don’t know”.
There’s always someone better than you just around the corner.
Seriously! There really is! Always!
But, despite my non-legendary status as a guitarist, I was willing to lay down any tracks he wanted me to create, and we spent the next 10 hours, or so ( it was somerthing like 1:00 PM, when we started, and closer to 11:00PM when we wrapped it up for the night ) doing exactly that.
You see , lead guitar was not his forté, and normal, rock-style, rhythm guitar really dosn’t interest me, so it worked out to both of our advantages, as he played rhythm, and I played lead guitar.
He also asked me to play some mando on two of his songs — keeping in mind, that I’m not Sam Bush, on the mandolin, either, but he didn’t know that; and I wasn’t going to tell him, because I didn’t need to be.
Finally, it was around 8:00PM when we finished with the initial tracking, and needed to start making the stereo mixdowns.
“Hey, can we add some reverb to this track?” or “…some delay or chorus to that track?” and other requests came flying out as we listened to the mixes, and finalized the stereo recordings on the CD burner.
I made a master CD and a copy, and gave them both to him.
* An Ugly Surprise ( NO CREDIT for Work Done )
Then, in the last 10 or 15 minutes of our time together in this session, when he had his two CD’s in his hand, and I was sitting there smoking a bowl ( Cannabis was allowed in the basement ) , he mentioned that the reason he was doing this recording, was to give it to his father, who was the one who magnanimously bestowed the house upon him….
I’m thinking, “That’s kinda cool for him to do that for his dad.”
As far as my contributions to his project were concerned, I played lead guitar and bass guitar on every song, mandolin on two songs, and keyboards on two songs, and added drum tracks to all his songs. .
Oh, and I also did all the initial tracking, mixdown, and CD burning.
About the only things I didn’t do, was sing or play rhythm guitar.
So, if we had to print up a package ( e.g., “album cover” or “CD case”), I would have envisioned that Ryan would include in the credits : Lead Guitar, Bass, Mandolin and keyboards played by Floyd; project recorded, mixed, and finalized by Floyd.”
But no.
Without my input, he would have had only a guitar and his voice. That’s it! He didn’t even have the means to record his performance.
Yet, after all my work, as he’s walking up the stairs, exiting my basement, he turns around, and makes the WTF remark of , “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna tell my dad that I did all of this myself.”
“Wow! Seriously?! This dishonest piece of shit isn’t even going to tell his dad about the other people that were involved with this recording — in this case, me! He’s just going to take all the credit himself!” I thought to myself in total disbelief at this guy’s shitty ethics.
“Hey, thanks, though, for everything you did today!” he said as he walked out the side door, and went home, next door.
“What? You’re not even going to mention that I had anything to do with this ?” I thought of the question as he closed the door behind himself. “How do people like that get created in the first place?”
——— b-His Hatred For Altered and Open Tunings
A few weeks later — maybe a month — I was out in my back yard, playing on my acoustic six-string, when Dufus McRyan just ( repeatedly ) made himself at home ( again ) , and just came into the yard ( without being invited explicitly, or even implicitly — he just invites himself and magically appears out of nowhere, as though whoever’s privacy he invades is somehow considered “such a close friend” that an official invitation isn’t even required ) and he just nonchalantly just sat down in a lawn chair right next to me while I played one of my originals.
It’s actually kind of creepy, especially when you really don’t like the person who seems to think you’re “friends”.
Anyway, for whatever reason, I momentarily put my guitar down in the portable stand , and he immediately picked it up ( without asking, of course — Shock ! ), and fingered out a chord, and then started strumming away, but it immediately sounded like crappola because the guitar was in an open tuning, which, in this case, was Open E, and not standard tuning.
Every note he attempted to play was “sour” to the ear.
He quickly realized something was wrong.
“What the fuck? You’re fuckin’ guitar is all out of whack, man!” he said as he immediately reached up to start re-tuning it.
“Whoa! No, don’t, man!” I quickly interjected, the nanosecond I knew what he wanted to do because he was all confused.
“Whaddaya mean, no?” he asked genuinely sounding like he knew for a fact that it was me, that didn’t know what I was doing. “it’s way outta whack, man!”
“It’s not outta whack, …man!.” I countered emphasizing the word “man”, because I was mocking his stupid tone of voice. “It’s in open tuning. Open E.”
“Yeah, right.” he added, plucking the open High E string in 16th-notes, obviously not understanding what I saId, “open E string?”
“No, not open E string, Open E Tuning!” I emphasized.
The look on his face was not one of enlightenment, but rather one of a displeasured-like grimace.
“What, are you trying to do something the guitar wasn’t designed to do, or somethin’? Like tune all the strings all wrong, or whatever?” he so cluelessly said with furled eyebrows, as though I was just making stuff up as I went along.
“Seriously?” I asked with a somewhat insulting chuckle, revealing how turned off I was by him being so deliberately obtuse, “You’ve never heard of altered tunings, like Open E, or Dropped D or Double….Drop…D…”
I slowed down almost to a screeching halt, when I realized that he was reacting to my mildly hostile rebuttal with a facial expression that seemed almost like the beginning of a snowflake’s “why-are-you-yelling-at-me?” type of “squinted eyes” look.
On the one hand, with me being a non-confrontational introvert, myself, who wants to avoid conflict wherever I can, I actually cringe at the thought of me hurting someone’s feelings ( at least, in social situations — politics is an entirely different matter ) .
On the other hand, his sudden change in demeanor had me momentarily wondering if I had somehow succeeded in “making contact” with Planet Ryan, and that he was now making some internal re-assessments regarding his own conduct, and thus, might start behaving differently — e.g., respecting other people’s property and privacy, and not condescendingly second-guessing what knowledge they already possess.
Yeah, I know : “Good luck with that one!”
What happened was his mood creepily changed immediately.
His facial expression changed in that it looked “several clouds darker” than a moment ago as his normally-stupid-looking-grin on his face unnervingly morphed into an emotionless straight line, no longer giving me the impression of general happiness, but was now far more of a look that was noticeably more stern, almost like the prequel to a moment of anger.
“Yeah, I don’t do that stuff.” he said, showing his ignorance of the very existence of altered tunings, by trying to avoid talking about them in the first place.
“I’m tellin’ ya’, man, ya’ don’t know what you’re fuckin’ missin’, dude!” I said, in defense of altered tunings. “They open up a ton of new worlds! Some of Zeppelin’s finest acoustic songs are in open tunings! South City Midnight Lady, from the Doobies; or, there’s even a couple of Stones tunes….”
“Nah, I’m not into that shit! I hate open tunings!” he interrupted in such a way that it was obvious that he was just so embarassingly transparent in his ignorance on the subject matter, that a moment ago, he never even heard of them, and now, seconds later, he hates them.
“Yeah, right. Ok, Ryan” I wanted so badly to say out loud. I really hated that guy! I really did!
I think I hated him because he couldn’t, as a human being, respect privacy or property and was horribly unimaginative as a musician!
And that f***ing mullet made him look irreparably defective and stupid.
How he “thought”, just didn’t compute with me.
When it came to Ryan, though, nothing computes! And I mean, absolutely nothing!
Anyway, I then took the guitar back from him, strummed it with no fingers on the fretboard to demonstrate what Open E tuning was all about.
“See? Open E.” I said, picking out 16th notes wth my right hand while not using my left hand to finger any notes. “Just as though I was actually playing an E Major chord.”
I then played this pretty cool, medium-tempo arpeggio to demonstrate what an open or altered tuning can do.
He just silently shook his head “no”, with this smug smile, as though he wanted to say, “No, thanks, but I’m above all that silliness.”
“OK, whatever you say, Ryan.” I thought silently, blown away by how intense his witlessness was.
I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t feel sorry for the guy. I felt somewhat that he deserved to be the idiot that he was.
That may not be the compassionate or appropriate way to look at someoen who might actually have a mental deficiency,. but in Ryan’s case, I just don’t give a rat’s ass what others think about my conduct toward other undesirables like Ryan.
I think his personality would make even Jesus snap!
I then put the guitar back into the stand and told him, “Hey, if you wanna fuck around with Open E tuning, have at it! I’m cool with that. Just don’t re-tune it to standard E. I’m workin’ on some stuff right now, and I don’t want to re-tune it again.”
It only takes two seconds to tune it to any tuning, but that’s besides the point.
If anything, you’d think he’d like to toy around on it just to lean how to make chords in different tunings.
But no.
The disgust in his facial expression at a guitar he could not sound good on, suddenly inspired an idea as soon as he spoke.
“Eh,” he let out a frustrated sigh, giving the guitar a sour look “Not right now. I’m good.”
“I just remembered, I gotta go take care of a couple of things. I’ll talk to you a little later on.” he said so unconvincingly, that I wanted to say, “Yeah, I’ve used that excuse, too, and it does seem to work.”
But I didn’t want to jinx a good moment. I figured I’d quit while I was ahead, and kept my mouth shut.
He then stood up and went back to his house.
“Wow! And I thought I was a strange bird!” I joked with myself. “This guy, wow!”
Then, that metaphorical light bulb suddenly flickered on. “Hey, if I tune all my guitars to an altered tuning, and tell him to not change the tuning, he might be discouraged from ever wanting to come over here and play my guitars again! Hmmm. Now, that might be an awesome idea!”
——— c-His “Love” For the Blues …….& Why I Mention It
A mile, or so, south of us, is the Lansing Airport, and along that route was a now-defunct tavern called “The Landings”.
Like many taverns that are owned by music lovers, the folks at The Landings held “open jam” sessions, which are different from “open mics”, which I’ll elaborate on shortly.
Anyway, late one evening around 10:00PM, or so, Traci and I were on our front porch, having a smoke, and you know who suddenly came walking across the front lawn.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on, folks?” he asked, in that unbearably annoying voice.
“Not much. What’s up with you?” Traci responded in kind.
“Ah, just got back from The Landings.” he replied.
“The Landings? What’s that?” I asked, not being familiar with the place.
“Really? You’ve never been there?” he said, genuinely shocked that I had never heard of it.
“Nah. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” I replied.
“Ah, man, you’ll have to come with me the next time I go.” he offered, not realizing that, coming from him, it was more of a threat, than an offer.
“Oh, fuck! What did I just get myself into?” I wondered silently to myself, fearing that I might have somehow committed myself to some kind of a nightmare.
“Yeah, maybe.” I said, allowing myself to continue conflating civility ( which he didn’t deserve ) with not making clear my total lack of desire to do anything with this dude.
“Yeah, The Landings’ a bar, over by the airport where they occasionally have live music,” he said, momentarily playing air guitar, to dramatize the comment, “and like once or twice a month they do one of those open mics, and I’ve been goin’ to that one for about three or four months now.”
“Huh. I did not know about the place.” I admitted, not too enthusiastically, since I immediately got the impression that if he liked the place, it might be something I wouldn’t like.
And, as it turns out, I was right….again.
Well, not about the place, per se, but rather, the featured activities — in this case, the open jam night.
“Aw, man, you’d love it!” he added, “We did a bunch of blues tunes, and it was pretty awesome. It really was. You’d really like it.”
“Was it an open mic, or open jam?” I inquired.
“Open…mic…I think?” he replied, squinting, sounding obviously unsure of his own answer. “Why?…Is there a difference?”
“Oh, yeah, a big difference!” I added, “Is there a house band?”
“Well, sure, absolutely!” he exclaimed, “That’s exactly who everyone jams with.”
“So, no one just goes up on stage, by themself, to start playin’, say,…Pink Floyd’s ‘ Wish You Were Here’ ? ‘ on an acoustic guitar?” I said, mimmicking an air guitar.
“Oh, no, it’s not that kind of setup.” he said. “You sign up, and tell the band what song you wanna play, and then, when it’s your turn, you just step up on stage, and the band already knows what to do.”
“Just so you know, that’s what’s called an open jam . Sometimes referred to as a Blues Jam, just in case you were wonderin’ ” I told him. “Open jams are where you jam with a house band, and an open mic is where anyone can go onstage and play by themselves, or with their own band, or even a house band. I, myself, prefer open mics, because they’ve got way more variety in genres, like blues, jazz, rock, country, singer-songwriter, folk, whatever, hence, way more creativity, whereas open jams are almost always, strictly blues, and that’s just way too narrow-minded for me. I call it straight jacket music.”
“Blues?” he asked all shocked.
“Nooo!” I clarified with a laugh, “I love blues! I’m talkin’ about the only-one-genre part. That’s straight jacket music.”
“Straight jacket?” he asked, not understanding the reference. “Why straight jacket?”
“No wiggle room on genres ” I replied, mimmicking someone in a straight jacket, being unable to move. “Wherever your arms are, that’s where they stay! All night long! They don’t move!. There’s no change in mood. Yyyyuuuck! No can do!”
My apprehension regarding the blues, is not with the music, per se, but with the vast majority of those who profess to “like blues”, because it seems to be a common trait on the part of those who claim to love blues, to want to play, or listen, to ‘nothin’ but the blues’ — and nothing else.
Yuck!
I don’t love any one genre to the exclusion of all others.
“That’s was one feature of Zeppelin, ” I added, “they combined the blues, like, ‘ You Shook Me ‘ or ‘Since I’ve Been Loving You” along with acoustic folk songs such as ‘ Battle of Evermore’, or ‘Going to California’. Heck you can even find country influence on ‘ Tangerine ‘ or ‘ Down By the Seaside’! I mean, if your albums have all those genres, your live shows should also highlight all those genres. Ya’ know? So, yeah, Zeppelin wouldn’t do only one genre. Every album and every concert contained some kind of combination of genres. I don’t believe in a one-genre show.”
There was an uncomcortable short silence, so, I kept talking.
“I couldn’t play ‘ nothin’ but the blues ‘, ya’ know?; or be ‘strictly jazz’ or ….” I added, when he interrupted me.
“That’s kinda what I liked about it, though, ya’ know?” Ryan said, rather sincerely. “Because you know exactly where everyone is at any given moment.”
“Why’s that?” I asked wondering what he meant.
“Well, like, if the guy’s in the key of G, after four to eight bars, you know he’s going to go to,….let’s see, ” he said looking down at his imaginary fretboard, “oh, yeah, the key of C, I think? Yeah, C. Then D.”
“Okay, so,…what if he’s in, say, the Key of A, instead?” I asked, wondering how he was going to answer.
“Well, then he’d go to…D, then E.” he replied, still envisioning his imaginary fretboard.
“And starting in the key of B?” I continued.
“Same formula. He’d go to E.” he said.
“Yeah, I knew the answers. I just wanted to see if you noticed a pattern in your answers.” I said.
“Whadaya mean ? ” he asked.
“Well, if you know where someone’s gonna be in any given song, because they all use the exact same formula or pattern, well, then, you’re essentially playing the same song, in different keys at different tempos singing different words. It’s still the same song, for all intents and purposes! That’s like singing the melody of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ in five different keys, and claiming you’ve written five differnt songs, when it’s all the same song, like I said, in different keys at different tempos with different words. It’s such a sham!”
He just shrugged it off.
“Yeah. Nah. There’s just no way that I could do that : Just play one genre of music? One? All night long?” I chuckled, “Might as well be stuck in a recently-used bathroom, with no window or exhaust fan to let out the stink that builds up. Too much of one single thing just doesn’t work for me. That show would stink!”
His reaction was one where he had this facial expression that resembled that of someone with heartburn, as though what I just said somehow made him feel uncomfortable — which I didn’t care if it had; in fact, I actually hoped it had.
He was a constant black cloud for me.
.......& Why I Mention It
I mention the blues issue, because Ryan asked me if I liked the blues, and not realizing ( especially with him ) that I might have had to add in some clarifications, I ended up making a big mistake.
I just foolishly and erroneously replied with a simple, unqualified “Yes”, and the next thing I know, he’s in my back yard again, and trying to “jam along with me”, and the entire time I was in absolute misery.
Every time I’d noodle away on something boogie-ish ( it’s my yard, and I was here first ), or non-bluesish, he’d just lose total interest and start doing some sluggishly-slow chug blues chord progression, which is where I would lose interest.
it was like a see-saw : there would never be a moment when we would both be in the up position ; for one to be up, the other had to be down!
It was a lose-lose situation from the very start — and I knew that, before it even started!
in any case, every eight bars, or so, he’d look up at me and notice that I wasn’t even trying to jam along with him, but he’d nod, facially gesturing for me to play leads to his chug blues.
I might as well have had my testicles in a slowly-closing vise. It was almost that painful.
Evidently, although we both “liked the blues”, we obviouly and definitely defined “The Blues” very differently.
Personally, as I’ve mentioned, I prefer up-tempo blues ( some would call that “boogie” blues ) such as, say, Steely Dan’s “Bodhissatva” or Lynyrd Skynrd’s “I Know A Little” or Deep Purple’s “Lazy”, because, like I mentioned, they’re up-tempo.
Ryan was of the exact opposite opinion, and laughably tried using the already-overused excuse, “I’m a blues purist” to hide behind his fear of admitting he didn’t know any of those songs by claiming he wouldn’t need to, since they’re…ahem “not really blues tunes”.
So-called ( or self-proclaimed ) “blues purists” will always claim those songs are closer to rock and roll, and not blues because the tempos are much faster than the funeral dirge ( which is crawlingly slow in tempo ) “standard” they’re dishonestly using as a yardstick, to define the “blues” — as though blues is “intrinsically slow” by definition.
Faster than a funeral dirge?
“Sorry. Not Blues.”
I don’tknow who made up that rule, and I totally laugh that one off, since the existence of swing, which pre-dates rock and roll by about 20 to 30 years, shows blues at faster tempos, ( and with jazz — also not rock and roll — chords )
So, in my view, “boogie” is a type of “swing”, and not rock-and-roll, and the only reason anyone would dismiss boogie as blues, is that basic blues is easy for eveyone to play, ( and blues is often used to try to recruit or unite all musicians — competent and incompetent, alike ) whereas boogie usually involves musicians who are not beginners, and who are very proficient at their instruments.
Thus, a beginner is not likely to want to do boogie, ( because they’re less likely to be able to play it ) and those who want to hide their amateur-ness, will conveniently call themselves blues “purists” and reject anything that would spotlight their deficiencies, so they end up “punching up” at their betters by denying their kegitimacy — because they can’t keep up, and, as beginners, they’ll look silly being obviously clueless about what the next note should be, and thus, hitting sour notes every which way, making for an unpleasant “performance”.
So, reject the composition. Don’t play it! ( Or, more accurately, don’t butcher it!, which is exactly what they’re fearing about those songs! )
That’s an indefensibly poor excuse to knowingly exclude great music ( because it exposes— and embarasses — the incompetent ) — and beginners always seem to ruin it for the true lovers of music all the time by omitting that which they cannot perform, by laughably claiming it’s “not worth” performing, when it’s actually, “I’m not good enough to play that, and I just didn’t want anyone to know that , so I make fun of that which is above my pay grade, like a beginner making fun of a pro.”
I realize I went off on a tangent there, but that’s because people like Ryan use the blues “purist” crap as a shield to hide behind their own deficiencies, weaknesses, and ignorance.
It’s not about the “purity of the product”, but, rather, of the proficiemcy of the musician ( or lack thereof, in the vast majority of the cases where so-called “purists” are questioning the legitimacy of music their small music minds can’t comprehend ) , and it’s used by beginners who have no business using that excuse.
Just admit it.
“I’m a beginner, and I don’t know enough to play certain songs.”
There’s no shame in admitting you’re not “all-knowing” on your instrument.
But Ryan couldn’t admit his beginner status. He was a… ahem, “semi-pro”.
Yeah. Sure.
For me, if music was a highway, it would be the Autobahn, where there is no “Speed Limit” to enforce.
No one has any business slowing anyone else down.
So, there is shame in not allowing anyone to pass you because your car wion’t go faster than 55 mph.”
Your fantasy mandates that you have to be the “fastest car ( The Star ) on the highway”, and you think blocking others from passing you “protects” that image?
It doesn’t.
But amazingly, there are people who are that stupid — i.e., they believe it does!
They just don’t get it! Nobody believes the scam!.
The jig is up. There are faster cars nehind you!
We all know it!
You being in front by blocking everyone else, makes you a fraud, which we can all see with our own eyes.
So, please, stop being an asshole, and get the fuck out of the way! Stop using “purist” arguments to slow down the whole highway system because of your “beginner status” is too embarassing to admit and advertise.
The fast being legally trapped behind the slow is not analogous to :
[ a ] the abled-bodied, showing “compassion” or “respect” to the handicapped, by not passing them up ( and, thus, not leaving them in the dust with hurt feelings” ) ; instead, that’s far closer to
[ b ] the handicapped disrespecting the abled-bodied by blocking the lanes so none of the abled-bodied can do their FULL POTENTIAL and “legally pass up” the handicapped, and do the speeds of up to 150 miles per hour that their vehicles are otherwise very capable of travelling at..
Remember, this is the Autobahn, where there are no speed limits !
The slow have no rights to hold back the fast!
Period!
But I’ll alway prefer my version of blues over the usually-slower tempo’d compositions of the more traditional bluesmen.
But Ryan?
The exact opposite.
For Ryan, the slower, the better.
Those are the super-hyper-ultra-mega slow tunes with a tempo of around 40 BPM, which, for me, is more like listening to a funeral dirge — i.e., painfully slow.
It’s like watching “continental drift”, which, in turn, not only does not move me in the slightest, but it’s actually quite a pain in the butt to sit through one of those songs in their entirety.
There are exceptions, of course, ( such as Zeppelin’s “Since I’ve been Loving Y ou” — another song that purists say, “isn’t really blues” ) but Ryan, and his ilk, wouldn’t have enough class to even recognize those tunes.
So, on his last uninvited time over before moving away ( Awesome! ), he tried jamming along with me, but it was total car crash from the very start.
Like I said before, every time I’d start one of my boogie tunes, he’d lose interest and start doing that slow chug blues, which is where I’d stop playing.
I don’t think there was 30 seconds of music between us the whole time he invaded my yard.
So, here’s this guy with a mullet ( I can’t prove it with data, but my experience over decades, is that everyone I ever knew that wore a mullet, were all kind of goofy in such a way, that it’s always made me feel somewhat uncomfortable being around them. I can’t quite put my finger on it ) who wants to play only blues — and only slow blues at that — and absolutely nothing else, while the guy he’s trying to connect with is looking for the exact opposite, and that he’s wanting to jam multiple genres, including blues, but only the faster-tempo’d blues.
There was no fixing this.
He :
[a ] hated alternate tunings ( my passion ) ;
[ b ] he didn’t like “too many chords” — three to four chords, at the most, in an entire song; and
[ 3 ] he didn’t like boogie.
That was definitely Strike One ( and that’s a big one — it’s like having a gigantic hole in the space shuttle at the time of launch ; a real “deal-breaker” ) .
He frequently self-invited himself to enter my home without an invitation and pick up my equipment without asking.
Definitely strike two.
But, just to be official, and call him out : he wore a mullet.
Strrrriiiiike Threee! You’re out!
——— 4-His Relationship with his dad
This part of the story, chronologically speaking, is actually the same evening that we — I mean, “he” — recorded his CD for his dad, in my basement, using my equipment, my knowledge, and my labor.
But I had “nothing to do with any of it”, according to his disturbed mind..
This conversation took place just before he actually picked up his guitar case, to turn toward the staircase, and walk upstairs.
What happened was — if you’ll remember, I mentioned me smoking a bowl — I exhaled one of my hits, and toward the end of the expulsion of smoke from my lungs, I let out a small cough — and I normally cough loudly.
But this was a tiny one. I wonder how he would have reacted had I let out one of my typical “Sweet Leaf” coughs ( Black Sabbath fans will understand that reference )?
He probably would’ve called 9-1-1.
“Ya’ know, my dad smokes pot, too.” he said, but with a degree of apprehension toward saying it without the negative vocal inflection to not-so-subtly display disapproval of it.
“Why do I get the impression that you don’t approve?” I asked noticing his attitude toward his dad’s personal and private activites.
“I just don’t get into that shit, that’s all.” he replied with squinted eyes like he was suddenly stressing out as though he really didn’t want to talk about it. “I just think it….does ….something…. I dunno.”
“Wait! Didn’t you say your dad owns his own insurance agency?” I asked, just to clarify that his dad was not some homeless person living under a bridge somewhere.
“Yeah, why?” he asked, not understanding my reasoning behind asking the question in the first place.
“Well, I mean, is he showing signs that he can’t run the business anymore, or somethin’?” I asked, wondering what this “something” was that he was referring to, when he said “I just think it does something”.
What does he think should be happening to his dad because he smokes pot?
He didn’t have an answer.
Of any kind!
Not even a slogan to recite.
He just continued to shake his head in a “that’s-a-shame” kind of way.
But what, specifically, is a shame?
Ryan either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say.
Because he didn’t know, himself.
“I dunno, Ryan.” I added with a sigh. “I say any self-employed pot-smoker who’s smart enough to amass enough legitimately-acquired wealth to own at least two, or more homes, plus a business, is a far better person than a non-pot smoker who doesn’t own any property or possess any significant amount of money in their personal checking accounts, or doesn’t even have a job.”
Translation : “I think your home-owning, business-owning, pot-smokig dad is a far better person than you are as a non-owning leech, with no job or money in the bank”.
I think that was ground zero, where I dropped that bomb.
Which might explain why he planned on excluding me from mention in the credits.
Ryan just stared at me with a perplexed look on his face.
“I hope this dufus doesn’t think he’s a better person than his own dad, because his multiple home-owning, business-owning, father smokes cannabis.” I wondered as I tried to interpret that weird look on his face.
——— 5-The Good,…Ahem, “Bad” News
Finally, one day he saw Traci and I sitting on the porch, having a smoke, and he came over uninvited, as usual, to tell us the “bad” news, which he didn’t realize was actually great news! Well, for me, anyway.
We’re sitting on our porch, having a cigarette, when uninvited visit # 182 resulted in him telling us, “Yeah, I think my dad’s gonna sell the house. Looks like I’m gonna be moving. When? I don’t know. Not sure yet.”
“Woo hoo!” Traci and I shouted out loud as we danced with glee, “Alright! Lyin’ Ryan is flyin’ outta hear! Let’s celebrate!”
Just kidding, of course. That didn’t happen.
We cried our eyes out!
Yeah, right.
No, again, just kidding, of course.
You can definitely bet that didn’t happen!
“Aw, gee, sorry to hear that.” we both said with about as much emotion as heaing about a total stranger moving away.
“Why’s he selling?” Traci asked, out of idle curiosity.
The look on his face was priceless, in that he didn’t know how to answer the question without making himself look breath-takingly stupid.
We both knew the answer to that question : he literally refused to get a job, and take over paying the bills, and his dad got tired of writing checks he should have never been writing all along the three years Ryan was there before we moved in, plus the year and a half, or so, after we moved in, which would have meant that his father wrote approximately 48 to 54 months ( four years, plus or minus ) of checks that he shouldn’t have had to write in the first place had Ryan got off his criminally lazy ass, and got a job.
This guy was a total piece of shit.
I couldn’t help but entertain myself with pretending that my turds were him in the toilet, when I’d flush after dropping a deuce.
“There goes Ryan!” I’d imagine as they’d swirl in the bowl of yellow water with soiled toilet paper into oblivion.
Too much information?
About the turds?…Or Ryan?
Possibly both?
I know, it’s difficult to decide.
——— 6-“Gamer” : Why I Mentioned It
Up until recently, pretty much my experience with people who were “gamers” was that literally 90 percent of those who played regularly, were lazy fucks who didn’t want a full-time job, because that would involve putting the joystick down for eight hours a day — and that’s eight hours “they’ll never get back”, so, screw the job, and just keep playing games!
I wrote “up until recently” because I now know of two or three gamers who’ve actually showed up for work regularly now for about two years, so, I guess, not all gamers are shockingly ultra-hyper-mega lazy.
But until I met those guys, the first four that I met all had that trait that “putting down the joystick” was unreasonably painful to do.
And Ryan?
Yep. He was a gamer.
I’m glad he took his joystick and went elsewhere!
— B-Willie Vaughn : A Boy And His Dog & Their Three Returns
Unlike Ryan, Willie, was someone I liked ; and, in many ways, I still like the guy, but there’s a component to his personality that would make it difficult, if not impossible, to continue trusting the guy.
—— 1-Return #1 : First Contact
At this point in time, it’s now post-cancer, so I no longer smoked cigarettes, or any form of tobacco.
But I did still smoke Cannabis — throughout my treatment ( with my oncologist’s approval, I might add ) and afterwards.
So, when Traci would go out on the front porch to smoke a cigarette, I’d frequently join her by smoking a bowl ; and even when I didn’t have any, I’d still go out there and sit with her while she smoked.
One day, when I didn’t have any, and we were sitting on the porch, I was just saying to Traci, “Can’t wait to get paid. I can go get a quarter; maybe a half, then.”
“What? You ran out?” she asked.
“Yeah, like a day, or so, ago.” I replied.
Suddenly, our new next-door neighbor, emerged from his front door, and he “pulled a Ryan” and walked across the lawn to come over and introduce himself.
“Hey, how you guys doin’?!” he said as he came within 10 feet, or so, of us and reaching out to shake our hands as he approached. “I’m Willie. Your new neighbor!”
We reciprocated with the handshake and the exchanging of first names, and a friendly conversation commenced, entailing all the usual introductory information of where we’re from, how we got here, and those types of topics.
We also briefly mentioned the fact that I was currently in recovery from my treatment for cancer, ( where parts of my upper digestive tract had been removed and what remained was surgically re-routed) which Willie was completely able to relate to, since his own mother was currently undergoing treatment for cancer.
So, his mother and I had the cancer thing in common as far as having any form of cancer is concerned. The main difference was I was past my treatment, whereas Willie’s mom was still currently undergoing her treatment.
Somewhere in the timeline of the following 20 minutes, or so, he slipped in a mention about weed.
I don’t remember his exact words, but I think it was something along the lnes of ‘ Do either of you smoke?’, which we both realized he meant cannabis, since it was obvious that he wouldn’t have meant tobacco, with Traci standing right there smoking a cigarette.
Suddenly, Traci just let out a chuckle.
“Seriously? You couldn’t have timed it better.” she shook her head in amazement at his timing, then pointed toward me, “I don’t smoke, but he does, and he just ran out. Without it, he has a little difficulty in generating an appetite, and then eats like a bird; and then, once he eats, he gets nauseated really easily, so, he also fights post-meal neausea with pot, too.”
“Well, that’s expected for there to be some after effects when they rip out literally the top half of your stomach, the bottom three-quarters of your esophagos, including the lower esophageal spincter, your spleen, and four lymph nodes, throw those into a garbage can, and then they sew the bottom half of your stomach to the top quarter of your esophagus”, I said, holding my flattened hand, palm facing down, at my solar plexus to show about where my stomach was in my chest, instead of my abdomen, “leaving my tiny, tiny stomach about right here, or so.”
“What used to be able to consume a typical McDonald’s meal of a hamburger, small fry and a small Coke, now maxes out at about a half of that hamburger, half of the fries and half of the coke. Beyond that, I start getting nauseous,”
“That kinda sucks, huh?” he said, shaking his head.
“And, it becomes somewhat of a balancing act in that although smoke allows me to get an appetite, if I eat too much, I can get nauseous from overeating,” I said holding my hand over my abdomen to dramatize the nausea comments, “but if I smoke to fight the nausea, I risk getting the munchies again, which, in turn, risks more over-eating, and hence, nausea. So, I gotta be careful to not eat too much, or too fast, and I won’t need the smoke to fight post-eating nausea. Bur if I don’t smoke at all, then I won’t even have an appetite in the first place, and guess what? I can get nausea from being too hungry, as well.”
“It really is kind of a unique situation of balancing my herb use to coincide with cycles of an empty-stomach/full-stomach paradigm of sorts; in some ways, it feels like a lose-lose situation, wherein, I really can’t win, per se, so I fight the pain , translation : nausea, with Cannabis.”
“Did they try to prescribe you something, officially, for the hunger-nausea issue?” he asked.
“Yeah, a thing called Megace.” I replied, not too positively, that’s for sure, “But the shit, like any other drug, has its list of side effcets, some of which can be quite scary; and I saw one website that listed literally over a hundred side effects, of which, something like more than ten were considered deadly. Really crazy shit, ya’ know?”
“Are you on the pot program?” he asked. “Ya’ know, the medical marijuana deal they got?”
“No! And you know why?” I offered .
“Uh-uh. No. Why?” he said, shaking his head.
“Willie, it’s both a financial scam, and a legal nightmare, at the same time!” I exclaimed rather angrily. ‘Only in illinois do they think up crazy shit like that…I think
“Why? How so?” he continued inquiring.
“Well, on the financial end of it, you have to pay for a license — an actual fucking license! — for this so-called privilege to smoke weed, and it ain’t cheap! It’s like three or four hundred dollars every….two years?…I think?…” I said trying to recall the specifics, “And!….And the money doesn’t go to any doctors, or research facilities. Oh, no! That money goes to bureaucrats who want you to repeatedly make these payments in perpetuity. The payments never end! What…the…fuck!, Ya’ know?”
“Plus! No joke! It’s cheaper on the street! I shit you not!” I added. ” I can get an ounce for just under, to just over, $200, depending on who I get it from, whereas they want the equivalent of about sixty to seventy bucks for a lousy three and a half grams at the medical dispensaries, which is like a piddly eighth! That’s a buck twenty for a quarter; over two hundred for a half….Four hundred for an ounce! Oh, how fucking compassionate of them! I mean, no! That’s absolutely fucking ridiculous! I go to Billy’s, and I get a half for about a hundred to a hundred twenty. Again, depending on who I get it from and the quaklity of the strain.”
“Four hundred for an ounce?” he laughed and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that is fucking ridiculous!”
“What was the legal end of that?” he continued.
“Wow! These arrogant sons-of-bitches actually believe, if they grant you this privilege, to smoke weed,” I said, emphasizing the word privilege to imply I believe it to be a personal right, not subject to their “approval”, shaking my head in total disbelief, “that they somehow also have the right to nullify your Second Amendment right, too. Literally! They can tell you to surrender any guns you have! Surrender your Firearms Owner I.D. card! These are rights, you stupid mother fuckers! Not “privileges”! Wow! I can’t believe how mother-fuckingly stupid and or evil those pieces of shit lawmakers really are! It’s absolutely breath-taking! And I’m sure it’s both your inner city Democrats representing neighborhoods drowning in violent crimes, and downstate Republicans who agreed for whatever reasons they concocted to explain their lack of constitutional judgement.”
“So, no! I wasn’t gonna let them put me on some register that says, ‘ if Floyd wants a gun, he can’t legally have one, so you can’t legally sell him one,’ kinda thing. Ya’ know?” I concluded, shaking my head in disgust at the retards we refer to as Illinois politicians.
“But, no, on Friday, I get paid, and I’ll go out to Billy’s and score a half…for half the cost!” I laughed, and no fuckin’ license to do so. What fucking turds those politicians are! Ya’ know?”
“Really? So, right now, you don’t have any?” he said with genuine concern in his voice.
“It happens.” I replied. “Sometimes the dollar doesn’t stretch as long as the week.”
“That’s very true.” he nodded in agreement.
“Hold on.” he added . “Don’t go nowhere. I’ll be right back.”
With that , he turned around and went back into the house and about two minutes later he came back with one of those black Kodak film containers that are about the size of a “D” battery, packed with a couple of buds of some medical grade cannabis.
“Here. This should hold you off until Friday.” he said as he handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, not knowing what it actually was, but fully aware of what it likely was, as I accepted it from him.
“Just a couple buds. That’s Diesel, by the way.” he said, “Weird name, I know. But tasty. And, no, it has nothing to do with actual diesel fuel.”
“I didn’t think it did.” I grinned.
“Wow! Seriously?” I asked, as I popped open the lid and peeked at the interestingly multi-colored flowertop. “For me?”
“Absolutely!” he smiled back.
“Wow! Willie! Thanks, man!” I said, almost teary-eyed, “I don’t know what to say.”
“You just said it : thanks .” he laughed. “Nah. That’s a gift for you, brother. Enjoy. For right now, I gotta go take care of a few things. I just wanted to come out and introduce myself, ya’ lnow.”
“Well, I appreciate that.” I said standing up to shake his hand again.
“Hey, no problem.” he replied. “I’ll talk to you a little later on.”
With that comment, he went back home.
“Huh. God provides.” Traci said, smiling at me, as she turnbed to go back into the house.
“Yes, he does.” I replied, with myself right behind her.
That wasn’t the only time that he had done that for me.
Probably not too much longer after that date, he sent me a text telling me that he left me a present on my front porch, and I went out there to look, and he had another “care package ” in an empty Walgreens prescription bottle.
He was just that kind of guy; and I’m sure he still is.
—– a-An addition to His “Family” : Luke, The Beagle
Shortly after he moved in, Willie went to one of the local humane societies and adopted a dog — in this case, a Beagle-type dog, which he named Luke.
Most dogs from Poodles to German Shepherds have basically the same mechanism for a bark, varying mainly in “hoarseness” and “pitch”.
But Beagles have — at least, this one did — a really weird bark that kind of starts low in pitch and rises. I can’t quite explain how he sounded.
But Willie took Luke everywhere.
——— b-He Had No Furniture
One odd thing about Willie is that throughout the entire time in that house, I never saw him have furniture.
The only things I saw him have once I was in his house, was , literally :
[ 1 ] A box spring and mattress in his bedroom
[ 2 ] One of those $19, plastic, see-through three-drawer clothes drawer setup; for his clothes;
[ 3 ] A large screen TV that was used as a monitor for his gaming computer; and
[ 4 ] his computer.
That’s it! Literally!
He was a gamer on steroids!
He made Ryan look like an infrequent participant.
These two guys were two of the three sources where I got the impression that gamers were people who didn’t want a full-time job — but they still want an adequate supply of food, shelter, clothing, education, healthcare, and, of course, endless amounts of time for gaming!
The other one was the ( fortunately ) very temporary boyfriend of a relative’s daughter. He changed jobs every two months, and in between jobs, he played video games 100 percent of his free time, which was essential, 24/7, while he was unemployed.
Anyway, back to “all of Willie’s worldly possessions” .
In the kitchen cabinets, there were some pots and pans and dishes, but I wouldn’t consider that “furniture”.
It’s possible he might have had some things in the garage, since I was never out there. But outside of that possibility, unless he had things in some storage facilitry, he had absolutely no furniture whatsoever.
In the front room, there were no couches, loveseats, recliners, chairs, of any kind, and there was no cocktail table.
However, there was an end table with a plugged-in table lamp on it. But, I get the impression that table probably came with the house. It was antique, beat up, ugly, and definitely not Willie’s style; and he definitely didn’t take it with him when he moved out.
——— c-Deja Vu : Reveals to Us That His Father Owned The House
Like Ryan, within a few weeks of him moving into the house next door, Willie offered up the information that his dad had actually owned the house and that he just needed to get up and running on making the payments, himself.
Boy, did that sound like a familiar story.
The main difference between the two stories was the location of the house-owning fathers : in Ryan’s case, his dad was local, just a few towns away; whereas, in Willie’s case, his father was 2,000 miles away in Arizona.
Both Ryan and Willie were both from the area.
Although Ryan’s father was still working, as a self-employed insurance agency owner, Willie’s father was a retired school teacher, and upon retiring decided to relocate to Arizona, and Willie initially went with him, but eventually became homesick for the area he grew up in, and the friends within that area, and wanted to return, which is why his loving father bought him a house to live in back in his hometown.
I found Willie’s revelation to be so creepy in it’s parallel to Ryan’s situation — in both situations, not only did the father own the house, out of love for his son, but the son, didn’t have a job at the time he moved in, and, ultimately, neither one ever landed a job, because neither one ever put any serious effort into looking for one, so the father had to sell the house out from under the son he was trying to help, but to no avail, since the son didn’t seem to want to help himself.
How could both stories be so parallel to each other?
Was there some kind of lesson in being exposed to these two back-to-back stories?
Also, both Ryan and Willie took in boarders to pay bills.
I’ve seen those kinds of households before : there’s something intrinsically cold, lonely, and self-destructive of every one that I’ve seen; and this house was no exception.
In Ryan’s case, his roommate was a woman at least 20 years his senior, and she was only a recent development after we moved in.
In Willie’s case, his room mate was employed as a pizza delivery driver, which is where Willie ended up getting a part-time job, and doing the same thing, which, by itself, wasn’t even close to paying the bills.
Truthfully, Willie also tried his hand at dealing weed. But he hadn’t developed much of a client base, by the time he had to move, so, I really couldn’t see anything he might have done in the pot-dealing department that would have generated enough income to pay for even a fourth of the monthly mortgage payment — plus the other bills!
Unfortunately, for Willie, and his ability to pay the bills of that household, that wasn’t the type of job Willie’s dad had in mind when it came to being able to pay the monthly bills including the typically large bill of a monthly mortgage payment.
Like Ryan’s dad, every month that Willie couldn’t pay the bills in their entirety, Willie’s dad had to similarly write checks to pay his kid’s bills.
That had to have gotten old pretty fast for Willie’s dad.
——— d-The Change : An Arizona Funeral
At one point within the next few months, Willie’s mother succumbed to her cancer and passed away, so he went out to Arizona for his mother’s funeral, and I’m sure, to take of other family matters.
When he returned ( like a month later, since his pizza delivery job wasn’t something he wanted to rush back to ) , his demeanor had changed into a more serious, stern-like attitude about things.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a productive change that would indicate that he was going to take things far more serious from that day forward, but instead was closer to being angry about something he couldn’t change.
He never volunteered the reason for his change in attitude.
——— e-For Sale : By Owner
“But what could he be all worked up about?” I momentarily wondered, guessing that he might be facing a Ryan-like situation where his father is planning to sell the house out from under his son.
Now that his mother was gone, he probably had “no one in his corner” to speak up for him in regards to remaining in the house. Mothers do tend to be more lenient about certain things than fathers in certain situations.
My guess?
As soon as his mother passed, his father probably had “the talk” with Willie :
“Listen, your mother wanted you to stay in that house for as long as possible, but, Willie, I can’t keep writing those checks to keep paying that mortgage.
This is my retirement years, and I shouldn’t be writing for two mortgages, of which one, I’m not residing in. So, I’m selling.”
Like I said, that was just a guess.
But, a month, or so, after his return, I came home to see a For Sale By Owner sign on Willie’s front lawn.
“Here we go again.” I thought silently, shaking my head in disbelief, at the house being sold again in less than two years, or so.
Of course, Willie was over that very night to fill us in on the details.
“Yeah. It Looks like this is it.” he said, with not-too-subtle disappointment in his tone. “My ol’ man’s sellin’ the place.”
“Wow, Willie!” I said, similarly disappointed in one way, but completely unsurprised in another, “What are you gonna end up doin’?”
“It looks like I’m going back to A-Z.” he said, shaking his head. “I wish I had some alternatives, but I don’t.”
I had known the guy for something like two years, or so, at the time, and in that timeframe, like Ryan, I never knew him to have a job.
That’s problematic for me.
Like I said, as much as I liked Willie as a fellow human being, with a pleasant personality, and his benevolence when it came to sharing his personal stash with me, I’m deeply suspicious of people who do not want to work.
I certainly felt happy that Ryan was displaced due to his disgustingly intense laziness; but I was not as pleased to hear the same thing happening to Willie, for the exact same reasons, even though it’s only fair to hold Willie to the same standard.
I guess it would be more accurate to say that I felt it was justified that Willie was losing the house — but I enjoyed rubbing it in Ryan’s face, but didn’t want to do the same to Willie.
But…
I also couldn’t offer him to stay with Traci and I because my theory was :
“If he won’t get a job for his own father, he’s certainly not going to get one for me!”
And, no, I couldn’t stand the thought of someone rubbing their “un-removeable” presence in my face in my own home.
Yes, I’ve had that done to me, not once, but twice! I’m a little gun shy about opening my home to anyone. Period!
You don’t know the nightmare they can become, once they realize you can’t remove them.
So, I had no intention of offering him that “alternative” he was looking for.
In the end, though, he didn’t go southeast to Arizona, but rather north to Canada, to go work for an ( illegal, of course ) indoor grow operation that was operated by some fellow gamers he met online.
——— f-Bon Voyage 1
The evening came when he was leaving for Canada.
He chose to leave in the evening, and not at the top of the morning.
Although he never specified, my guess is that he probably didn’t want to hit morning rush hour traffic, which, in the Chicago area, is so bumper-to-bumper bad, that it’s likely surpassed only by L.A. and New York !
I don’t know that for an empirical fact, but one session of traffic on the inbound Stevenson in the morning, or southbound TriState in the afternoon, and you’ll likely feel empathy for those who engage in road rage : “Yeah. I can kinda see why you might want to kill a driver like that !”
Anyway, there we were standing on the curb, shaking hands, saying goodbye.
Again, it was a heartfelt moment. I really liked Willie.
I just can’t relate to the self-induced “indefinite unemployment” he so passionately embraced.
He had so little in the realm of physical property, that everything he had — everything ! — fit into that car, and the back seat still had some room for boxes if he had needed the space, which he didn’t.
He got into his car, said goodbye, put the car in drive, gave us one last smile, tapped the accelerator pedal, and away he went, down the street, on his way to Canada.
The car he was in was an older four-dour sedan — a larger-sized dark blue Chevy. Impala? Way bigger than a Cavalier or Cobalt. But I don’t think it was a Monte Carlo. Maybe it was. Or a Lumina. Whatever.
In any case, we thought “that was it. Willie’s gone. Time for the new tennants”.
——— g-Side Note : House Became A Rental Unit For The Next Several Years
The guy who bought the property turned around and made the house a rental property, until he sold it to the woman who lives next door to that house, and she’s now using it to house her elderly uncle, who would otherwise be forgotten in the infirmary of a convalescent home, if that’s where he otherwise resided, because he is not, by any means, physically independent enough to reside in a unit designed for relatively self-sufficient people.
He needs care, and she just so happens to be a nurse by occupation, so she does what she can when she gets home from work.
But that house was a rental unit for easily the better part of ten years.
—— 2-Return #2 : He’s Baaack! And Why
It was probably far less than a year later, when I received a text from Willie :
“I’m baaack! I’m living out in Alsip at a friend’s house. I’ll give you a call a little later on in the week.”
And he did.
His friend was his best friend from college, Taylor, who was a paramedic or EMT for one of the local municipalities, but I know it wasn’t Alsip.
In any case, the reason for his call was not strictly social, but rather had a business component to it, as well : he wanted to know if I’d help him score some smoke, since he had a falling out with his connection.
Fortunately, it was about time for me to go out to my friend, Bill’s, and pick up some smoke for myself, so I could kill two birds with one stone, and pick up two bags.
So, from that day on, I also became Willie’s connection.
Of course, when I got to Taylor’s, to drop off their package, I had to ask Willie why he came back again.
The grow operation had to shut down or something like that, and Willie either couldn’t get legal employment ( I don’t know if an American needs something like a work visa to get legally employed in Canada — Willie never brought up those topics ) — or if he didn’t want any, but without the grow operation, he didn’t have a source of income or a place to stay, so he came back home to Illinois .
“I was gonna go home to Arizona,” he began with a disapproving look on his face, “but I don’t really get along with my ol’ man. So, I called Taylor up, to see if he could use a room mate, and, uh, it just so happens that he said, ‘ Yeah’, come on down! So, I did! And here I am!”
He sounded genuinely happy that he had a place to escape to, and didn’t have to go back to Arizona; and I was happy for him that it was all working out for him — and for me, too, in the sense that I now had a built-in “discount” in my expenditures on smoke.
——— a-Five to Seven Years
This new arrangement lasted for about five to seven years, because it started in the early 2010’s and easily lasted to almost late 2010’s. But I did lose count over the years.
Throughout that time I often wondered how Willie was getting away with living there without ever having a full-time job the way that Taylor ( his home-owning friend, who took him in ) did.
There was one run I did for them ( and this had to have been at least three years, or so, of his stay at Taylor’s house ) where by the time I got to Taylor’s house, Willie hadn’t yet returned home from whereever he was at, and it was only Taylor and I there, and we both went into “the room” where he had things set up for everyone to just sit around and get stoned, and listen to the stereo, and what not.
And I’m not sure how I raised the subject, but I somehow got Taylor to say, “Well, I’ve told him on many occasions to just apply online at certain companies that I know are always hiring, but, for whatever fuckin’ reason, he just never does it. I dunno, man. He’s gotta do something and soon! i mean the guy’s got two degrees! There’s no fucking reason in the world that no one would hire him!”
“Two degrees?” I asked, rather impressed.
“Yeah, he was a double major!” Taylor laughed. “I think what happened was, that he had enough credits in his minor, that he could qualify as a double major, or something like that! I dunno. But I know he’s got two degrees! And he won’t get a fuckin’ job! I mean, he gives me money to pay the bills, but he’s not showing any signs of bettering himself enough to move out on his own. I mean, yeah, he took that job at the ice arena, running the Zamboni machine, and only part time at that, but….that’s not a job, ya; know?”
Taylor talked on about that subject, so, I knew that topic had been discussed between them at some point in the past.
I wasn’t aware if those discussions ever got heated. If they had, that would have been a possible indication that something could change at any given moment.
But, I guess, Taylor just wasn’t confrontational enough to issue Willie an ultimatum : “Get a job, or get out!”
A few minutes later, Willie came home, and he entered the room where Taylor and I were smoking a few bong hits.
We weren’t talking about the subject of Willie looking for a full-time job, when he walked into the room, and I had no intention of re-raising the topic once he was there, since I didn’t think there was ever going to be a long-term solution that he was going to proactively propose, himself, and my asking about it right then and there, certainly wasn’t going to serve any positive purposes or expedite him into evaluating his seemingly indefinite residency in Taylor’s ( well, for the time being ) “bachelor pad”.
But unbeknownst to Willie, that was about to change.
——— b-Taylor Gets Married And the Bride Evicts Willie Upon Their Return
Being a paramedic, rolling patients on a gurney into an emergency room every day, Taylor encountered the most beautiful woman in the world in the triage department, and he fell in love with her enough to marry her.
Somewhere on their honeymoon, the bride, no doubt, told the groom, “Uh, Taylor, listen, Sweetie. No, where not going to allow Willie live with us in perpetuity! He’s a grown man, who’s been living with you for what, five, six, seven years, now? And after all this time, he still doesn’t have two nickels to rub together; he still doesn’t even have a bed frame for his mattress and box spring that have been on the floor, since Day One; he’s showing no signs that he ever intends to leave the nest, so to speak!…”
So, when they came home, they had a message for Willie.
But, the way Willie told me the story, it sounded like Willie saw Taylor as betraying him in some way.
Specifically, Taylor, being the non-confrontational person he was, wasn’t the one who told Willie to get out.
His bride did all the talking; but Taylor was standing directly behind her, as she told Willie in no uncertain terms, “you gotta get out tomorrow!”
He had nowhere to go, so he freaked out and called his dad, who said he could come home to Arizona.
By this time, Willie had long since junked the Chevy, and he had inherited his sister’s Ford Escape, which would have been fine for local driving, but he wasn’t convinced that the vehicle would make it all the way out to Arizona.
So, his selfless father agreed to pay to have his vehicle fixed to make it healthy enough to make it to Arizona. All Willie needed now, was a place to stay while his car was in the shop.
So, who does he contact?
You guess it : me.
“Hey, give me a call when you get a chance. I got something important to talk to you about.” read the text message he sent me.
Even though he didn’t use any caps or exclamation points to indicate any kind of urgency to the message, I still somehow sensed this was an important call, and I was right.
I almost didn’t call him back.
But, like I said, I like Willie, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and called him.
——— c-Willie’s Week at My House
Although Willie never did anything to me to indicate that he’d take advantage of me, I could not dismiss the reality that he did seem to take advantage of Taylor — for seven years!
“If he’d do that to his best friend, why wouldn’t he do that to me?” I wondered. “I mean, surely Taylor, who he’s known for decades, means more to him than I do.”
I only worried about that possibility, because of a room mate I had ten years earlier.
After he moved in, he told me the story of how his own brother had to take a motel one night when the cops kicked him out of his own house ( where he’s resided since birth ) , when him and his girlfriend ( who only lived there for two months! ) got into a fight, and when the cops arrived ( someone called them because their yelling was that loud ) he asked the cops to get her to leave because she wasn’t the owner of the house, the cop asked her if she had any proof that she legitimately resided at that address, she showed him a Vogue magazine with her subscription showing her address to be that house, and Rick was forced to leave his house, so she could stay.
Wow! That blew my mind!
If I had any say in that matter, no human who owned a house would have to vacate it in favor of a person who was not the owner.
Don’t get me all worked up!
The point is : my room mate told me that story as an ear bomb to make me realize that there would be nothing I could do to get rid of him, once he had so much as a single piece of mail with his name at my address affixed to it.
That was an odd way to show his appreciation for me taking him in : to let me know I can’t get rid of him even if I wanted to.
You know what they say : “No good deed ever goes unpunished”.
In any case, I wasn’t sure if Willie’s predicament would cause him to do something similar to me, and force me to accept him in my home, with no ability to evict him.
Willie really hated the idea of going back to Arizona that much, that it would not suprise me if he’d go to such an extreme!
I didn’t want him clinging to me in perpetuity, just so he wouldn’t have to grow up and get his own place.
I seriously “white knuckled” it all week, hoping he wasn’t going to pop any surprises on us.
Fortunately, he didn’t.
This would be the second time he launched a long road trip from in front of our house. The first time being, of course, his trip to Canada; and this time, to Arizona.
The last time, I was genuinely sad to see him go, even though I basically agreed with his father to sell the house, given Willie’s non-participation in paying the bills to keep living there.
This time, I was actually relieved to see him go .
Not the same way that wanted to catapult Ryan out of the neighborhood, but I was not totally comfortable providing him with an alternative to moving back to Arizona.
Anyway. There we were, again,standing on the curb, saying our goodbyes, and again, he got into his car, and drove down the street on his way on a another long road trip.
—— 3-Return #3 : He’s Baaack! Again! And Why
Then, about two to three years ago, maybe in 2020 or 2021, I received another text from Willie saying that he’s back again! And that he “misses the fuck out of us “.
Again?
Yep. Again!
This time he texted that he’s “living out in Lynwood”, and essentially said that the two reasons he came back to Illinois was that he didn’t get along with his dad, and Arizona was far more harsh on personal use quantities of cannabis, and none of his packages were personal use sized. .
The latter comment I took to mean that if people get 3 months jail time in Arizona for possession of two ounces of weed, he’d likely get 10 years for the non-personal two pounds he carried around with him at any given moment in time.
It wasn’t worth the risk to get caught dealing in Arizona; but he didn’t know any other way to make a buck — despite having two degrees, or a double major, whatever is more accurate to say.
So, he found someone in Lynnwood to take him in.
Why he texted me I do not know, since I never replied to his text.
For all I know, he could have been in the process of being kicked out of yet another place and was looking for someone else to leech onto again.
I couldn’t risk it.
So, I didn’t reply to his text, and I haven’t heard from him since.
II Pests
— A-Kingdom of the Spiders
—— 1-You’re Never More Than Six Feet From A Spider
You’ve probably heard that factoid that “you’re never more than six feet from a spider”, and I googled it to see if that was true or some urban myth, and there were plenty of links that discuss that topic,
I admit, Im a card-carrying arachnaphobe.
I don’t like spiders one bit, I don’t care how many “factoids” you tell me about their benefit to our environment.
Unfortunately, for those people who inhabit the house next door, they’re going to be encountering some brown recluse spiders, as did two previous tennants : Ryan’s roommate; and Willie, himself.
— B-The Victims
—— 1-Ryan’s Room Mate.
I only met the woman once, but she came over to our house in an emergency capacity.
I can’t remember her name, but I’m going to invent one just to make referring to her a little less cumbersome.
I’ll call her Lilly, since she reminded me a bit of “Lilly Munster” — i.e., a skinny body, with long, straight, black hair. But unlike Lilly Munster’s complexion which was almost powder white, this Lilly had much darker skin.
What happened was, at some point in the previous weeks, Lilly had been bitten on the palm by a brown recluse.
What happened that day was Traci and I were on the porch smoking, and we saw Lilly come out her front door and walk across the lawn directly toward us, holding her right hand out, with her palm facing up, and holding something in her left hand, swinging by her side as she walked.
She had never approached us before, so this was a first for us.
“Hi, I hate to bother you folks, but I was wondering if either one of you could do me a favor?” she asked, with an understandable amount of worry in her tone, as she approached our stairs and explained to us her predicament, “My nurse normally does this, but she just called and told me that she was stuck behind the train down the street, and this thing I’m supposed to do is supposed to be done within 15 minutes of the first step, and she just called and said can’t get here on time, and told me to hold off Step One until she got here, but when she called, it was too late, I already did Step One, and I’m thinkin’, ‘ Now what?’ I was wondering if either one of you could apply this creme to my hand. I know it’s nasty looking, and I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done this, but I’m kinda in a predicament.”
Fortunately, for Lilly, Traci was present, because if she hadn’t been, I’d likely would have failed Lilly, because to say that I almost passed out would be inaccurate; to say that I wanted to pass out would be far more accurate.
I never saw anything like it.
The venom had literally eaten a hole through her palm all the way down to the bone at the center of her hand.
I never saw any flesh at the wound, but a hole filled with a white puss-like milky fluid built up in the hole, surrounded by what looked like dried blood-covered scab material.
It was an unforgettably disgusting sight.
I quickly learned that my ability to watch blood-and-gore scenes in the genre of horror films ( where people are getting their iimbs or heads twisted off, and watching blood vessels rupture one-by-one and squirting profusely in every direction and tendons ripping away, and bones snapping and tearing through flesh. etc ) without wincing once had not prepared me for the real world of real wounds.
I then realized that I would have never made a good medic in the army, if they sent me to attend the wounds, that soldier’s health would be in serious jeopardy. I would not be the man for that job!
We were suuposed to apply some kind of medicine to the wound, which Traci gladly did..
——–2-Willie, Himself
Yep, Willie, too, got bit.
In his case, he got bit on the inner right thigh , just above the knee cap.
Standing on our porch in shorts, he pointed it out to us one day, and it dawned on me that Lilly got bit, too, and I told him about that story.
It looked like Lilly’s case was not an isolated incident.
“How bad is the spider problem in that house ?” I’ve often wondered from that day forward.
I would never want to accept a gift ( where spiders could hide like tiny Trojan Horses ) from anyone who lived in that house.
I read online about one realestate developer that was being sued because the home he tried to sell was infested with approximately 4,500 Brown Recluse eggs, according to one exterminator’s estimate.
I couldn’t sleep in that house! Even with one eye open.
4,500!
Wow!
That just gives me the creeps!
III Conclusion
Currently, the house is occupied by someone who is not the owner, but is a relative of the owner.
He is a wheelchair-bound senior citizen who I’ve seen only once, very briefly on his front porch, at a distance of about 50 feet, or so .
The woman who owns the house, also has several kids, all grown, and all boys, no girls.
The oldest boys all have their own places.
The two youngest boys have wives and kids but can’t really move into the house since there’s not enough room for everyone with only two bedrooms, and one already being used.
Although the house is way more space than her uncle needs, for himself, there really is no one else that can fill the rest of the space .
It’s quite possible , when he passes, he’ll pass with no one else in the house, and nobody might even realize he’s dead until several hours later, unless she has a video monitor of his bedroom.
I wonder if it’s just a matter of time before he gets bit by a brown recluse spider.
It’s definitely a house of emptiness; and it is the house next door.
“Fahrenheit” was the nickname we gave to a kid we hung out with when we were growing up.
He looked a lot like one would imagine what a young Marty Feldman looked like. Think Nicholas Cage but with “bug eyes” and you have Fahrenheit.
Fahrenheit looked a lot like Marty Feldman. IMAGE SOURCE : Martin Vorel @ https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSTKwA5rF6bFoXuztBBo-DnLwzN8WE9QajgbhDkpvN8H3ZCFyyAn7oRnK8Au0A&s
Like most people, we like to abbreviate words, so, when we’d reduce his nickname to a one-syllable utterance, we’d usually just simply say, “Fair”,
In any case, he was an interesting character to say the least; and I mean that in an unfortunately unavoidably negative, ominous sense.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I-FAHRENHEIT AND ANIMALS
–A-DOGS
—-1-HIS OWN DOG : PORK CHOP
—-2-A FRIEND’S DOG : LADDIE
—-3-MY TWO DOGS : RUSTY & FRIEDA
–B-THE REST OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM
II-FAHRENHEIT AND PEOPLE
–A-STEAMROLLERS, GARAGES, AND CADILLACS
—-1-THE CALL
—-2-HIS ARRIVAL
—-3-A SURPRISE
—-4-AT THE HEAD SHOP : LOST HORIZONS
—-5-BACK AT FAHRENHEIT’S HOUSE
—-6-IN THE GARAGE : MEETING THE CAR
—-7-HIS MOM INVADES THE GARAGE
—-8-THE AFTERMATH OF HER OUTBURST
—-9-SHATTERED “DREAMS”
—-10-CHANGING GEARS AND OTHER DISTRACTIOND
—-11-BRAKE TORQUE IN REVERSE
—-12-MY ESCAPE
—B-DANNY SHOOT’S FAHRENHEIT IN THE CHEST
—C-DANNY “CYCLOPSES” FAHRENHEIT
—D-THE “SLOW DOWN, YOU ASSHOLE!” STORY
—E–THE M80 STORY / TWO ACCIDENTS STORY
—F–THE CHEVY CAPRICE AT THE BERWYN CARNIVAL STORY
—G-THE BUST AT THE HOFFMAN TOWER
—-1-THOSE PRESENT
—-2-ACQUIRED AND CONSUMED OUR DOSES ( LSD )
—-3-DANNY’S ILLEGAL CAR
—-4-OUR AGENDA AND ITINERARY
—-5-ONE CONDITION
—-6-ONE WEIRD SIGHT
—-7-STARTING TO PEAK
—-8-THE “BIG RED FLARE”
—-9-THE FUZZ ARRIVE
—-10-DANNY AND JERRY DITCH THE WEED
—-11-DANNY COULDN’T TALK HIS WAY OUT OF THIS ONE
—-12-SEPARATE INTERROGATION ROOMS
—-13-STUCK WITH FAHRENHEIT
—-14-NO CHARGES FILED
—-15-NO ONE RETRIEVED THE WEED
—H-THE BUST AT ARGONNE NATIONAL LAB WOODS
—-1-THOSE IN THE GROUP
—-2-THE TIME FRAME
—-3-THE WEATHER
—-4-THE AMENITIES
—-5-OUR DESTINATION
—-6-OUR ARRIVAL
—-7-OUR ENTRANCE
—-8-THANKS TO FAHRENHEIT
—-9-FAIR BUILDS A FIRE
—-10-THE COPS SHOW UP ( DID WE EXPECT ANYTHING LESS? )
—-11-I HID MY STASH
—-12-WW PUT OUT THE FIRE WITH THE BEER
—-13-THEY ESCORTED US OUT OF THE WOODS
—-14-WE DROVE AWAY
—I-MY SECOND TO VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”
—-1-MY CAR’S MASTER CYLINDER PROBLEM
—-2-THE YANKEE DOODLE FLAG POLE ACCIDENT
—-3-THE $250 MEAL
–J-MY VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”
—-1-THE CALL
—-2-THE JOURNEY BACK
——a-THE THIEVERY AT THE GAS STATION
——b-THE LADY AND HER ESCAPED DOG
——–*-THE AWKWARD SILENCE
——c-SMOKING A BOWL OUT IN THE OPEN IN BROAD DAYLIGHT
——d-KNOCKING ON A WOMAN’S FRONT WINDOW
——e- THE TRAIN OF AUTOMOBILES
——f-OUR VERY LAST MOMENT OF “HANGING OUT”
III-EPILOGUE
—A-SEEING FAHRENHEIT AT SPEEDWAY
—-1-HIS ADDICTION
—-2-HIS ARREST AND INCARCERATION
—-3-HIS LACK OF GRATITUDE & JUSTIFIED EVICTION
—-4-HIS ( DENIED ) REQUEST
—B-“FAHRENHEIT’S IN PRISON IN MEXICO”
I—FAHRENHEIT AND ANIMALS
I ended the opening foreword with the statement that I meant the term “interesting character” “in an unfortunately unavoidably negative, ominous sense”
I used the word ominous because it was a well-known factoid that all animals ( i.e., domesticated and wild, alike ) tended to dislike Fahrenheit immediately upon laying eyes on him—as though they saw something we humans couldn’t.
Edgar Cayce, The “Sleeping Prophet”
For example, Edgar Cayce claimed he saw auras enveloping people—different color auras meant different types of people ( e.g.,
*-people with a green aura were into love, emotions, a desire to help people, and thus were likely to be healers of different sorts, such as doctors, dentists and social workers;
*-while people with a red aura were the athletic types—sports lovers and jocks;
*-purple auras, were the creative types—musicians, painters, poets, actors, and the like;
*-other colors meant a different set of personality traits. ).
In much the same way that Casey saw auras, it makes me wonder if maybe animals see auras, too, or something of similar value, endowing them with an instinctive awareness of a person’s actual “soul” ( that is, what their true ultimate target is—i.e., help or hurt people, animals, or things ) for lack of a more accurate term.
I’ve personally witnessed dogs and cats ( who could not possibly have encountered him before ) scurry away from his presence in a noticeably unnaturally accelerated rate—they didn’t just step out of the way, they “ran for the hills”!; for dear life, itself.
“Why?” I’ve always wondered. “What do they see that we don’t?”
–A-DOGS
Especially dogs!
In any neighborhood we were in, every dog that would see him would bark with emphasized aggression; much more noticeably than their barking toward other strangers.
We can all tell that normal “This-is-my-yard-and-I’m-here-to-make-sure-that-you-don’t-come-in-without-my-master’s-permission-and-until-I-hear-the-‘He’s-OK’ -command-from-my-master-I’m-going-to-walk-along-my-side-of-the-fence-and-keep-barking-at-you-until-you’re-at-a-safe-distance-away-from-here” type of bark that all protective dogs issue to the standard stranger walking by.
But, in Fahrenheit’s case, the dogs weren’t content with merely being defensive and protecting their own property ( or “territory” in dog language ) , but were visibly enraged enough to want to go on the offensive, and literally climb the fence so they could escape the confines of their own fenced-in yard, and proactively pursue him down the sidewalk with full intent of attacking him ( and I would think anyone else standing next to him , such as myself ) as viciously as possible.
Fahrenheit Eater
Thank God for fences — especially tall ones!
—-1-HIS OWN DOG : PORK CHOP
There are animals that I know, for a fact, that he had abused in various ways—including his own dog ( a mid-sized, black-and-white spotted mutt named “Pork Chop” ) onto whom he forced a “shotgun” hit of weed from a corn cob pipe, up the dog’s nostrils ( likely a thousand times more sensitive than that of a human’s nose) causing the dog to scurry under the dining room table to vomit a pretty decent pile of puke onto the carpeted floor.
It looked a lot like cream of mushroom soup, which I couldn’t eat for many years afterward.
My apologies . I hope I didn’t ruin your meal, whether breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Sorry about that.
—-2-A FRIEND’S DOG : LADDIE
In another case, we were at a mutual friend’s ( Jerry’s and Ben’s, brothers ) house, which was a three- or four-bedroom ranch on a slab, and we were all sitting in the dining room, which is not actually separated from the living room with a wall, so both rooms were essentially the same room.
All but one of us was sat at the table.
Fahrenheit was sitting on the couch in the living room, tormenting Jerry’s dog, Laddie, with hits on his nose.
Specifically, Fair would whistle for Laddie to come to him, under the false pretense that he had something to give Laddie to eat, but, when Laddie would slowly approach, and get within reach, Fair would flick his middle finger onto the tip of Laddie’s nose.
“Quit fuckin’ with the dog, Fair!” Jerry said as he noticed what Fahrenheit was doing.
Naturally, he didn’t heed Jerry’s warning, and continued to trick Laddie into yet another hit on the nose. He did this more than once or twice; it was more like three or four times.
Suddenly, we heard “Ow!” and we looked over and saw Fahrenheit shaking his hand “walking off” the pain, so to speak, of just having been bitten on the hand by Laddie.
“He bit ya’?” Jerry asked with a grin on his face.
“Yeah” Fair replied continuing to shake his hand, but actually with a chuckle while saying it.
“Good for ya’!” Jerry laughed. “I told you to stop screwin’ with the dog. But no! You don’t listen!”
“Did he draw blood?” Jerry added, slightly smiling, kind of hoping Fair said “yes”.
“Nah!” Fair replied, after taking a closer look, and relieved that the bite was just Laddie’s warning—“Do it again, and you will see blood the next time, you piece of shit! WTF did I do to you to deserve abuse like that? Go ahead, try it one more time. Please! I’m sure my owners will back me a hundred percent on this one.”
And Laddie would have been right. Not only his owners, but all of us would have cheered Laddie on, too, and petted him with praise in our tone of voice, as we’d each give him treats afterward.
“Good boy, Laddie! Good boy!” we’d each say as we’d pet him one-by-one.
I never let him anywhere near my dogs. They would have justifiably mauled him, and I would have been unjustifiably sued.
—-3-MY TWO DOGS : RUSTY & FRIEDA
My dogs?
They were very good watch dogs! We could control them like robots with any verbal command.
“Stop!” and they stopped dead in their tracks, waiting for their next command.
Period!
Except….
…when it came to Fahrenheit, for some reason.
Not sure why.
They both let it be known that they were going to be proactively, very unfriendly toward him . Forget it.
Seriously! Their hackles would go up, and their growl would be extraordinarily focused on him with their eyes.
There was just something about him that animals did not like one bit!
When he came over, we would put our first dog, Rusty, a female German Sheperd / Australian Sheep Dog mix, into the bedroom and close the door, to keep her at bay while he was present.
For the duration of his presence, she’d be growling, barking, and clawing incessantly at that door as though she wanted to attack him as viciously as she could.
It was strange how she was never that upset with any other visitor. Only Fahrenheit.
And Frieda, our second dog, German Shepherd, pure bred?
Far more manageable, but I still wouldn’t trust her left alone in a room unsupervised with him.
–B-THE REST OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM
Even the neighborhood animals of squirrels, raccoons, and feral cats, got bionic in their escape velocity in leaving the immediate vicinity whenever he’d arrive in the area—like the calm before the storm, they could tell something ominous was present or soon forthcoming, and they ran off to hide.
If animals had an audible Civil Defense system like human societies do, their alarms would be going off constantly just tracking his whereabouts.
There would never be a moment of silence as long as he was present.
It makes me wonder if he ever visited the zoo, and if so, how did those animals react to his presence?
II—FAHRENHEIT AND PEOPLE
Although people did not scurry away from Fahrenheit the way animals did, I’m sure there are plenty of people who wished they had.
I know : I’m one of them.
Even my father tried to wake me up when he asked me, “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”
He used that phrase to describe Fahrenheit more than once.
But the reason we hung out with him was because he always ( and undeservedly so ) had a car, money and weed, which meant that we never had to depend on our parents to transport us to and from our locations—especially if they saw the locations we wanted to “visit”.
Trust me : no parents allowed in those places.
–A-STEAMROLLERS, GARAGES, AND CADILLACS
For some unknown reason, Fahrenheit’s mother actually loved him.
We could never figure out why, since he showed her absolutely no love whatsoever.
He was the laziest and most ungrateful kid I ever saw : he didn’t want to do “Jack Shit”—mow the lawn, wash dishes, shovel snow, do laundry, absolutely nothing!
In return for doing nothing around the house, his mom bought him one car after another, and no matter how many cars he wrecked, his mom was right there, writing another check to buy him another car; and she never bought him any extremes such as brand new or old clunkers.
Instead, every car she bought him was used but in mint condition—67 Camaro, 69 Camaro, 71 Caprice, An early-1970’s Cadillac ( I forget what year it was), and even a mid-1960’s Dodge Coronet, which died and he abandoned in a gas station parking lot in Madison, Wisconsin.
The Types of cars his mother bought him.
At that moment in time, during this story, he had a black Chevy Camaro, but I forget if it was the 1967 or 1969, but the passenger-side door was bashed in, so passengers riding shotgun had to enter in from the driver’s side and climb over the gear shift in between the bucket seats.
—-1-THE CALL
It was a summer Saturday afternoon, and Fahrenheit called me up to tell me that he got a new car : in this case, a Cadillac, fully-loaded with every option “under the sun”.
“Ah, cool!” I exclaimed, “Pick me up and let’s take a ride over to Lost Horizons. I saved up enough money to buy the smallest Steamroller they got, which is like fifteen bucks, or so.”
“I’ll be over in a little while.” he said, as he hung up the phone, and I went to sit outside on the front porch waiting for his arrival.
—-2-His Arrival
A few minutes later, he arrived — only, in his beat up Camaro, instead of the Cadillac.
Understandably, after his elated state of mind when he called me to tell me the good news, I just assumed that he’d arrive in the Cadillac he was raving about only moments earlier.
I stood up to walk down the stairs as I saw him pull into our driveway.
He put the car in park and exited the vehicle, so that I could crawl over the drivers seat , and gear shift, to get to the passenger seat.
Once I was in and situated, and he re-entered the car, and sat in the drivers’ seat, I looked over at him facetiously and said, “Nice Cadillac, Fair! Check out the amenities…bashed in passenger door, a visqueen window, no air conditioning. Nice!”
“Shut the fuck up! You’re real funny!” he interrupted.
“Well, where’s the fuckin’ Cadillac, dude?” I laughed. “You called to tell me about the thing, so, I assumed you would have arrived in it. But no.”
“Nah. The ol’ lady said the insurance doesn’t kick in until Monday, so I have to finish the weekend driving this thing.” he replied.
“Where’s it at?” I asked.
“Back home; in the garage.” he said, “We’ll check it out when we get back from Horizons.”
“Cool.” I said, “Let’s bolt.”
So, he backed out of the driveway, and started driving eastward on my street, 44th Place, heading toward the Frontage Road that runs alongside First Avenue.
—3-A Surprise
As we rolled slowly down the street, he reached into his right pants pocket, and pulled out a bag of weed and said in a not-too-convincing Jamaican accent, “I got a surprise! Check this out : Jamaican, mun!”
“Whoa!” Where’d ‘ja get that?” I asked all intrigued.
“K.T.” he replied, who was a connection we had who lived on the other side of Lyons.
“Seriously?” I asked “How much?”
“Twenty five.” he replied.
Back then, in the mid-1970’s, the main thing on the street was “Mexican” which sold for $15 per ounce—or “lid” as they were called in the world of slang.
My guess? The THC content of Mexican was probably in the mid to upper single digits; whereas Jamaican was noticeably more potent ( probably in the low teens) , and better-tasting and therefore cost more.
$10 more per ounce : $25 per lid.
But it was worth the extra cost.
Quality Bud
In any case, Fahrenheit gave me the bag to run my fingers through the “buddage”, as we often called it, and drool in anticipation of a bowl out of the virgin pipe of the Steamroller I was about to purchase.
—-4-At THE HEAD SHOP : LOST HORIZONS
The headshop was over on Ogden Avenue, about a block west of Joliet Avenue, on the south side of Ogden.
We walked in, and heard the WXRT radio station playing on the store’s stereo system, and we smelled the fragrance of strawberry incense, and saw the black light posters on display on the wall.
The place was just so psychedelic.
Head Shop
The man who owned the shop, Ron, was a pretty cool guy.
Fair and I walked in, and I immediately headed for the glass case where all the glass pipes were on display.
“Hey, Ron! What’s happenin’, sir!” I said as I leaned over the glass case to peruse the merchandise in search of my Steamroller pipe, hoping he hadn’t sold it on me..
There it was. Looking all pretty, with a tiny white tag that read $14.99.
“So, what can I do for you gents, today?” he asked, doing his thing.
“That bad boy right there!” I said, pointing at the smallest of three Steamrollers. “I want it!”
Ron opened the rear of the case, reached in, and grabbed the pipe off the shelf, and placed it in front of me.
“Oh, and definitely some screens, too, for sure.” I added.
“Comin’ right up.” Ron replied reaching into a different display to retrieve a pack of screens—which, back then,were five in a pack. Nowadays, I think it’s three, maybe?
Anyway. Fair bought some strawberry-flavored rolling papers and some “Pimp Oil”, he called it—it was like a fragrance you squirt or spray into the heating/air conditioning vents in your dashboard, and every time you kick on the blower motor, the entire cabin fills up with the smell of whatever scent you put into the vents, such as strawberry, vanilla, lavendar, and whatever other scents they had available at that time.
We got all the things we needed, paid for them, and out the door we went.
Steamroller
I wanted so bad to sit out in the parking lot, and fill a bowl right there, but Fahrenheit countered with, “Nah, let’s just get back to my house, and we’ll fire up a brand new bowl in my brand new Cadillac…well, not brand new…but it might as well be, since it’s such in beautiful shape. Just wait ’til you see it!”
So, he started the engine, pulled out of his parking spot and we were on our way to his house.
—-5-BACK AT FAHRENHEIT’S HOUSE
Fahrenheit lived on Konrad Avenue, a few houses from the corner of the second block south of Ogden Avenue. I think his front yard was only one of two yards that had a chain link fence around it.
House ( Fence around front yard no longer there ) SOURCE : Google Earth
We pulled up in front of his house and exited the car, and we opened the gate and entered the front yard, and as we got within five feet, or so, from his “front” door—which was really on the side of the house—Fahrenheit said to me, “Wait right here. I’ll be right out!”
With that he went into the house as I stayed outside in the gangway, waiting for him to re-emerge.
Then, I heard muffled yelling going on—muffled because it was happening inside his house behind closed doors and windows.
But it sounded pretty heated!
Suddenly, the door swung open, and I heard her continuing to yell from somewhere in the house, something along the lines of, “…and get your lazy ass out there and mow that friggin’ lawn, right now! It’s startin’ to look like a fuckin’ jungle out there!
And she was correct. The grass was getting quite tall, and definitely needed a mowing.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he said so dismissively to her as he shut the door behind himself, exiting the house.
“Come on! Let’s go check it out!” he said to me as he jiggled the keys in his hand, and started walking toward the garage in the back yard.
As I followed Fair in tow, I couldn’t help but notice how his grass was tall enough to where he might not be able to mow it with a normal walk behind mower; that it was starting to look more like a job for a tractor with multiple decks.
—-6-In The Garage : Meeting The Car
Several strides later, Fahrenheit opened his garage door, walked in, turned on the lights, and said as I entered, “Behold!…Ain’t she a beaut’?”
1960’s Cadillac
And she was.
Looking all clean, shiny, dent-free, and not a spec of rust as far as I could see, although, it has to be noted that I was looking at the car’s body in less-than-ideal lighting conditions, being under a roof, behind walls and closed doors and covered windows, and illuminated only by the dim lumens of a 50-watt incandescent bulb, mounted on the wall.
Despite the inability to visually verify the “pristine-ness” of the car’s paint condition, given all of Fahrenheit’s mother’s previous choices in cars for her son, there was no reason to suspect that this one car was somehow going to be of any lesser quality than any of her previous choices.
I took it on blind faith that this car, as well, was in mint condition.
The car was backed into the garage with the front end facing the overhead door that lead out to the alley, and the rear end facing the wall the faced the back yard.
He walked over to the driver’s door, and I, to the passenger’s door.
“Hop in.” he said as he opened the driver’s door, and reached for the unlock button to unlock the passenger door.
I heard the click of the “unlocking”, and I opened the door, quite impressed with the luxury of amenities that were immediately noticeable.
The leather seats looked billowy like they’d be as soft as a pillow. The dashboard had simulated woodgrain trim; it had air conditioning; power windows; power seats; power steering; power everything!
Cadillac Interior
“Nice, Fair!” I said as I sat down in the passenger seat.
“I know!” he replied, with a big, shit-eatin’ grin on his face, all elated about Monday when he can shed the wrecked Camaro and start driving in style and comfort in the Caddy!
Even the smell of the car was unique in that the previous owners must not have been smokers, since there was no stale smoke odor that’s commonly embedded in the fabric of cars whose owners smoked while inside the vehicle.
But not this car.
The obvious non-smoker status of its previous owners ( even the evidently-unused ash tray was virgin in that it showed no signs of any tar buildup from ashes and extinguished cigarettes ) endowed the car to a degree with it’s original “new car” scent, which is largely the smell of the fabric or leather used in the vehicle’s interior’s coverings such as carpets and cloth or leather seats, and a foam-like ceiling, that definitely absorbs tobacco odors over time.
But not this car.
It was clean, through and through. I’m assuming that even the trunk was immaculate—although I don’t remember ever seeing the trunk. The vehicle was obviously garage kept, and probably driven by a little old lady only on Sundays on her way to church.
“Dude!” I said pulling out my pipe and screens from the bag . You got a new car, I got a new pipe! Let’s celebrate!”
I retrieved one of the screens from the package and put it into the bowl, and handed him the pipe to fill up with a bowl of that new-fangled “Jamaican” stuff that’s all the rage of recent history. Let’s find out why.
He pulled out his baggie and proceeded to extract a bud from the bag, and break it up into a finer pieces for smoother smoking in a pipe.
While he prepped the smoke for the bowl, I looked around the vehicle in relative awe of the luxuries it offered.
“Wow, Fair. This is really nice!” I said, continuing to admire the vehicle’s interior.
“Yes, it is!” he agreed, with a smile on his face, as he was about to light the bowl and take the first hit, and suddenly stopped short of doing so, and handed it to me, instead, and said, “Your bowl; you’re first hit!”
“Don’t mind if I do! I appreciate that!” I said, as I gladly accepted the offer, and pulled out my own lighter and “Flicked My Bic®” and took that hit in ultra slowly, since I knew that with a brand new screen in a virgin bowl, I was going to get a massive hit.
And I did!.
I coughed my brains out, too, as I handed the pipe to him.
Cough! Cough! Cough!
“Wow! [cough! cough!] That shit [cough! cough!] really expands [cough! cough!] in your lungs, [cough! cough!] like a Mother Fucker, [cough! cough!] doesn’t it?” I said, in a cough-broken sentence, continuing to expunge more tiny little wisps of yet un-exhaled smoke with each cough.
The Cloud
“We’re about to find out.” Fahrenheit gleefully said, as he followed suit, and took what I would call an ultra-mega power hit—enough to knock out an elephant!
Now, it was his turn to cough, cough, cough, as he handed the pipe back to me.
Having nothing to drink to calm the harsh on the throat from the previous mega hit, I really wasn’t ready to take another hit yet.
“But this is Jamaican, mun! I need to go for the gusto, and try to get as baked as possible, even if I end up coughing for five minutes straight!” is what I was thinking as I took the bowl into my hand. “It’s now or never!”
I put the pipe’s mouthpiece over my mouth and and my left hand over the carburetor, fired up the lighter with my right hand, placed the flame on top of the bowl, and took an extremely slow, but extremely large Fahrenheit-style hit, and tried to hold it in as long as I could.
But it was a monster hit, and it was not going to remain contained in my lungs much longer, as the forcefully-stifled coughs began leaking out in tiny semi-coughs, becoming less stifled and releasing more exhaled smoke with each violent coughing fit.
Back and forth the bowl went as the vehicle’s interior was filling up with a Cheech-and-Chong sized plume of smoke.
We almost couldn’t see each other — despite being only about a foot away from each other, the smoke was starting to become that thick.
We both traded coughing fits while passing the pipe back and forth.
Suddenly,….
—-7-His Mom Invades The Garage
The entrance door to the garage suddenly swung open violently, slamming wildly against the wall, causing the studs to shake!
“This woman is pissed!” I’m thinking to myself as I looked into the passenger-side, sideview mirror at her as she walked from the garage’s entrance door, to the driver’s door, of the mint Cadillac that she bought for him, as she was coming into the garage to give him a piece of her mind, regarding his laziness.
As Fahrenheit realized she was coming, he panicked and placed the bowl under the seat, as he rolled the window down so his mother could talk to him ( or, more accurately, yell at him!), about whatever was upsetting her, which, in this case, was everything evil he “does” do—and everything good that he “won’t” do.
What a scene! That cloud of smoke that had built up over the past few minutes, was definitely worthy of a scene in a Cheech and Chong movie.
When he opened that driver’s side window, the vacuum sucked out that monster cloud, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if his mom caught a buzz in the aftermath.
As the cloud dispersed, and I could see his mom using her hands to “sweep” away as much of the cloud as possible, as she began her rant.
From where I was sitting, I could only see her lips as they ragged on about him needing to get his shit together or “get the fuck out[!]”. Her lips were moving at roughly 90 miles per hour and non-stop throughout the whole speech!
“You lazy bum! I buy you car after car, and you jam it right up my ass! Well, I got news for ya’, bub! That shit ain’t happenin’ no more! Got it!? Now you get your sorry little ass out there right now and you mow that freakin’ lawn, or you might as well pack your bags right now, and get the fuck out!…..”
I almost thought I was in some kind of comedy show watching her faceless lips move that rapidly in her rant to him.
Suddenly, as rapidly as she came out of nowhere to express her angry feelings to her one and only son, Fahrenheit, she stopped talking and stormed out of the garage and slammed the door shut on the way out.
—-8-The Aftermath of Her Outburst
It was kind of eerie that immediately after her departure, there was this short lull of absolute silence between us, as though neither one of us had any idea of what to say about her impromptu outburst.
It was actually quite intense.
Angry Woman
On the one hand, I can’t blame her : she gave him everything, and he gave her nothing but deliberate and inconsiderate grief.
On the other hand, …
Heck, there is no “other hand”.
He was being an ungrateful son toward an undeserved amount of love coming from an otherwise obviously-self-less mother.
Then, with a disturbing amount of indifference to her feelings, he just grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and nonchalantly said, “She’ll get over it.”
I found that kind of creepy.
“Fuck it, let’s smoke a bowl, man!” he said as though nothing negative or out of the ordinary had just taken place.
Maybe in his fatherless household, that wasn’t out of the ordinary.
I just stared at him, wondering why he was the way he was.
—-9-Shattered “Dreams”
“Oh! I forgot to show you!” he said all excited and suddenly changing the subject to something completely unexpected, “Check this out!”
With that, he reached with his left hand to tweak the buttons mounted on the side of the driver’s seat, that controlled the power seats.
The seat began to move backward.
“Power seats!” he exclaimed with a grin on his face. “Fuckin’ awesome, or what?”
Then, he pressed the button to make the seat go back forward to its original position, where he could reach the pedals, whereas, too far back, and he couldn’t reach them.
He just wanted to show me the feature.
But, as the seat was returning to its original position we suddenly heard something that sounded like it was under pressure, but the sound was only momentary as it quickly ended with the sound of shattering glass, at which point he stopped the forward movement.
“What the…?” I thought immediately after hearing that sound.
“Fair?” asked.
“Yeah?” he replied.
“What was that sound? Where is my bowl?” I continued on.
He looked at me with genuine concern in the look in his eyes, as he realized that he might have just crushed my Steamroller with the power seats.
Slowly, but cautiously, he reached under the seat and we both heard the sound of pieces of broken glass rattling around under the seat.
“Fair…you didn’t…” I started to ask wondering if that was the sound of my pipe breaking.
“Yeah, I think I did.” he interrupted immediately upon feeling the glass on his fingertips.
“Ah, man! What the fuck, Fair?!” I said all pissed off, “That’s sixteen bucks you owe me. And, no, I don’t want a lid of Mexican. I want a fucking steamroller!”
I just shook my head in disbelief that I only had the thing something like a half hour, and already it was destroyed.
I moaned on and on in disappointment in the way that turned out.
“Dude! I’ll get you another fuckin’ pipe!” he countered with a degree of impatience in his voice.
“I only had the son-of-a-bitch, what…a half hour? And it’s trashed already! I might as well have thrown it down on the sidewalk as hard as I could, just outside the front door of Horizons! ‘Cause I’m not gonna have it anymore an hour from now.”
“Kshhh!” I said mimmicking the sound of shattering glass and the motion of tossing the pipe onto the ground, “There’s fifteen bucks down the drain! What a fucking waste!”
“Alright, alright, alright!” he interrupted, in an attempt to stop the flood of complaining, “For now, let’s just drop it, and let’s roll a fatty and we’ll smoke a doob with strawberry papers. I get paid next week, we’ll….. go over to Horizons and get you your pipe then, or whatever.”
“Or whatever.” I sarcastically repeated his words implying that I wasn’t going to hold my breath, that’s for sure.
—-10-Changing Gears and Other Distractions
To hopefully change the subject as soon as possible, he turned on the car’s stereo to show off the sound system in the car.
“Killer stereo, too.” he said as he reached for the volume knob and started to turn it up real loud.
While the tunes were window-shatteringly loud, he rolled that joint and kept my bitchin’ to a minimum, as far as his ability to hear it was concerned.
—-11-Brake Torque in Reverse
Once the joint was rolled, we smoked about half of it while we continued to listen to the radio at maximum volume levels, passing the joint back and forth and then, mid-doobie, he suddenly turned the radio down to a level to where he could be heard talking when he said to me, “Hey, Floyd, have you ever seen a brake torque in reverse?”
“No, Fair, I haven’t.” I replied as indifferently as I could, since I had absolutely no interest whatsoever in seeing one of those even if I was in a good mood, much less in a bad mood; and, believe me, I was now officially in a bad mood, and for good reason.
“They’re really cool! Here, check it out.” he said as he put his car in reverse with his left foot hard on the brake and his right foot increasingly harder and harder on the accelerator pedal at the same time, causing one tire to spin and burn rubber in place while the brakes prevented the car from actually moving in any direction making the rubber squeal and the rubber to literally melt into the concrete of the garage slab.
The sound of the engine slowly raised higher and higher as the engine’s RPM’s increased from two or three thousand RPM’s to more like four or five thousand “R’s” ( as they’re often called for short ), and the spinning tire was literally burning and melting the tire’s rubber into the cement and that was causing thick black smoke to build up, so, now, there wasn’t only normal carbon monoxide building up, but also the toxic “lung mud”: of thick black smoke coming from the burning rubber of the spinning tires.
Unlike the smoke emanating from the Camaro outdoors, which has a place to escape to and dissipate , the smoke inside his garage had no place to escape to and thus built up to a “smoke-inhilation” level of absurdity. It was starting to make me gag!
Smoke From The Tires
It would have been a choke fest to breathe that amount of pollution into one’s lungs.
Moreover, visibility in the garage was reduced to about 12 inches with how thick the smoke was.
Suddenly….
Brake Torque ( The Brake Torque in this GIF is a FORWARD-Direction demonstration; whereas Fahrenheit’s was a REVERSE-Direction one; but I couldn’t find a GIF of a reverse version; the forward one would have to suffice.
He must have inadvertently allowed too much pressure to be released from the brake pedal because the car suddenly lunged backwards, and hit the garage wall behind us that faced the back yard.
All of a sudden, there was an increase in the amount of sunlight leaking into the garage’s interior, now that one of the walls had literally been separated from the garage’s foundation.
Interestingly, the collision of the vehicle’s rear bumper with the garage wall did not result in the car putting a hole in the garage wall, but rather, it literally knocked the entire east wall off the studs, and the bottom of the wall was literally “swung” out into the yard by about six to 12 inches, which really messed up the integrity of the structure by making various points very weak and vulnerable to distortions due to pressures on unsupported points in the walls and the four sections of the pitched roof.
Realizing he hit the wall, he immediately put the car in drive, and pulled forward to get away from the wall.
Returning to his original position, he put the car in park and killed the engine.
“What the fuck, Fair? What did you do?” I asked, instinctively knowing this was not a minor accident.
He just looked at me speechlessly for a moment, and then turned to exit the vehicle, as I immediately followed suit and exited the car via the passenger-side door.
As we both got out of the car, we could immediately hear the sound of the rafters above our heads stressing out with frightening creaks that sounded like the garage wanted to collapse in on itself.
“Not with us still inside.” I’m hoping as I immediately headed for the entrance door.
“Uh, oh, Fair!” I said, at first, in a mild panic in that moment that I feared we could be trapped inside the garage if that door didn’t open enough for us to exit the garage, which it was frighteningly stiff to open—it almost didn’t want to open the first six inches or so.
Once we got past that point, the door opened a bit easier, and we didn’t waste one nano-second getting the hell out of there.
We both stepped outside, and we heard more scary creaks, thinking we might have just avoided being crushed to death by a fallen structure.
We both stood there in the yard, looking at the garage , which was obviously off kilter—it was going to collapse if that weight issue wasn’t addressed ASAP.
“I think you better get your ma.” I said to him, as I stared in disbelief at what I was seeing.
In slow motion, he started walking backward toward the side door, wondering if he was going to have a garage five minutes later, and if not, whether or not his mint-condition Cadillac still inside the soon-to-be-collapsed garage, will still be driveable post-collapse, after a skid steer, wheel loader or an excavator with the appropriate attachments removes the garage from on top of the otherwise-trapped vehicle.
It’s certainly not going to be in mint condition, even if it does survive.
The hood, roof and trunk are all likely to have all kinds of small and huge dents or gashes of all kinds on them, depending on what landed on them.
I walked out into the alley to view the garage from that angle, and the garage was visually in trouble; anybody driving by would be able to easily see that.
—-12-My Escape
It suddenly dawned on me that if I thought Fahrenheit’s mom was pissed when she stormed into the garage moments earlier, about his laziness, she was going to go ballistic when Mike came into the house and announced to his mother, “I think the garage is going to collapse with my car inside!”
“Do I really want to be here, when she comes out to see the damage he did?” I silently wondered to myself, as I pondered the benefits of leaving the immediate vicinity—immediately!
Although I didn’t run, per se, down the alley, I did walk rather quickly to reach the end of the alley ASAP and be out of sight by the time his mom would come outside to see the problem Fahrenheit caused with his failed performance of in-garage automobile acrobatics.
The Alley
As I reached the end of the alley and turned the corner, I lit a cigarette and started walking back home, which was only four blocks away, as I contemplated the events that just unfolded in the last 20 minutes, or so :
“Fahrenheit destroyed my brand new bowl, and he wrecked his car and garage in moments flat.”
I’m not sure if that was the 18th time, or the 30th, where my dad asked me yet again, “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”
UPDATE ON THE GARAGE : Fahrenheit had an uncle who came by with a bunch of bottle jacks, and used them to lift the wall back onto the studs.
Garage saved.
And the Caddy? The bumper was scuffed; but no body damage.
–B-DANNY SHOOT’S FAHRENHEIT IN THE CHEST
Another hilarious story that I, unfortunately, did not personally witness, but I’ll share with the best of my knowledge according to my memory of what others told me.
Memories fade; details get fuzzy.
Anyway…
I believe present was, of course, Fahrenheit, Danny ( a friend and a drummer I used to jam with ), Jerry, and a guy named Kevin ( a connection of ours )
They were all over at Danny’s house in the basement.
There was one of those bench seats that you find in a passenger van, down in Danny’s basement. Where it came from, I have no idea. But Fahrenheit was sitting on the seat, while others were sitting on regular chairs.
Also worthy of note, Danny’s father was a police officer in town, and, as such, had a cache of weapons in a safe in the basement .
Well, one cold, winter day, while Fahrenheit was in one of his “I-like-to-get-under-people’s-skins” moods, and getting on Danny’s nerves, Danny went and grabbed one of his dad’s shotguns, and a 12 gauge shell, which he emptied all of the BB’s inside, and just left the wadding.
He, then, walked up to Fahrenheit, ( who was sitting on that van bench seat ),. pointed the weapon at his chest, at a range of about 12 to 18 inches, and said, “I’ve had enough of you, Fair!” and pulled the trigger.
Boom!
The weapon went off and the force literally blew Fahrenheit off his chair and unzipped his zipped jacket.
No doubt, Fahrenheit saw his life flash before his eyes in that moment as he was thrown to the floor by the force of the gun powder in the 12 gauge shell!
I know, you’re probably thinking, “What kind of friends do you have , Floyd?”
LOL!
–C-DANNY “CYCLOPSES” FAHRENHEIT
Another hilarious Danny/Fahrenheit story involves the same two guys in the same place : Danny’s basement.
In this episode :…. ( LOL )
Danny and Fahrenheit were in Danny’s basement, playing ping pong, and Fahrenheit was, as usual, perverting the art of whatever he’s doing into an act of aggression or stupidity or both.
Specifically, every time Danny would paddle the ball back onto Fair’s side of the table, Fahrenheit would smack that ball as hard as he could, causing it to bounce violently back onto Danny’s side of the table, and usually bouncing up and hitting the ceiling with an absurd amount of force, and then ricocheting off into some crazy direction where it would land in a spot where it would remain unseen and undiscovered—hence, unrecovered—for months ( e.g., on the floor behind a group of boxes; under the stand of an unused aquarium; wherever )
“Knock it off, Fair!” Danny said, grabbing yet another ping pong ball out of the bucket so he wouldn’t have to go searching for the ones that bounced wildly out of bounds.
Again, Fahrenheit doesn’t listen to Danny’s multiple pleas, and continues hitting the balls with a ridiculous amount of force, causing them to bounce all over the basement.
Finally, Danny had enough….again.
Oh no, not the shotgun again. LOL.
No, this time, Danny thought of something far less lethal, yet equally rewarding and comically entertaining in its effect ( well, rewarding for Danny, anyway, and any onlookers, enjoying the long-overdue karma for Fahrenheit ).
“That’s it, Fair! I’m sorry to do this, but you must be punished!” and Danny grabbed Fahrenheit by the back of the head with his left hand, and the swinging light above the ping pong table with his right hand, and said something like , “Forehead, meet lightbulb!” and he pressed the blazing hot bulb against Fahrenheit’s forehead, leaving a one-inch round burn mark on Fahrenheit’s forehead, making it look like he had a third eye.
For the next few weeks Fahrenheit’s other nickname was “Cyclops”
I know, “What kind of friends do you have , Floyd?”
LOL!
–D-THE “SLOW DOWN, YOU ASSHOLE!” STORY
Yet, another personally-unwitnessed story is the one where he’s in one of his Camaros—not sure which one.
In this story, he’s driving, I believe, southbound on First Avenue, in Riverside, heading into Lyons. He’s moving at a pretty good clip of around 60 or 70 miles per hour, in a 35 mile-per-hour zone.
Simultaneously, unseen and just around the curve on First Avenue, is a Riverside cop, heading northbound, and as Fahrenheit blazes by the cop going in the opposite direction, they saw the cop stick his head slightly out his driver’s-side window and shout, “Slow down, you asshole!”.
But when they tell the story, they always emphasize the Doppler Effect of the second syllable of the word, “asshole” as the decibels rapidly decrease as the distance between their two cars rapidly increases.
“Slow Down, you asshooooollll!”
Why didn’t the cop just bang a U-turn, flash his lights and siren and pursue Fahrenheit and give him a ticket?
I’m not sure.
I suppose one possible reason could be that the cop already had someone in the back seat, and couldn’t deal with two separate crimes at the same time; or, it was the end of the shift on a long, harrowing day, and the cop was on his way back to the station to punch out ( or however they log in their work shifts ) and he just didn’t want the headache of one more asshole to write up; or maybe there was a lot of traffic behind Fahrenheit, and the act of pursuing him would have entailed an unnecessarily dangerous amount of maneuvering in and out of lanes trying to catch up to him.
Who knows? There could be any number of reasons the cop never turned around to pursue him.
But I always thought the mimicking of the Doppler Effect when dramatizing the rapidly-fading sound of the cop’s voice as they zoomed by him going in the opposite direction, was always a funny way to tell the story.
“Slow Down, you asshooooollll!”
LOL.
–E-THE M80 STORY / TWO ACCIDENTS STORY
In yet another personally-unwitnessed story is almost a two-for in that there are actually two separate stories, same day, same culprit : Fahrenheit.
In this episode, the timeframe is within a few days of July 4th, since one of the two stories involves fireworks.
You can almost envision where this story is going.
In any case, two of the several people I’m told were present were Fahrenheit, and another mutual friend, Jeff, who was nicknamed Bubba.
They were in Fahrenheit’s car with Bubba, I believe, in the back seat as they were driving southbound on First Avenue approaching Ogden Avenue.
Bubba had a small bag of fireworks, which contained a bunch of M-80’s, which, I think, are just a hair under a quarter stick of dynamite.
Bubba pulled one out of the bag to show it to Fahrenheit, and he held it up to show it to him
Fahrenheit, being Fahrenheit, couldn’t allow a golden opportunity like that one to pass without him putting his “golden touch” on the moment, by taking the cigarette lighter he had in his hand, and he quickly lit the fuse.
“What the fuck, Fair! What did you do?” Bubba asked in a panicked tone of voice, staring at the lit fuse.
“Get rid of that fucking thing!” the person sitting next to Bubba exclaimed.
Unfortunately, for the driver approaching Fahrenheit’s car from the right lane, when Bubba tossed the M80 out the passenger side of their car, the mini-bomb entered the open rear window of the victim’s car, and exploded seconds later, causing that driver to lose control of his car and crash into a ditch along the road.
Realizing what they had done, they realized that they had to flee the scene ASAP!
Somehow, karma, fate, or whatever you want to call it, played a role in forcing Fahrenheit to face the music regarding the matter of the rogue M80 that blew up in that one driver’s car.
How did he get caught?
What had happened was that minutes after the M80 incident, Fahrenheit got into another accident, but this one, he wound up at the police station to fill out a bunch of accident report-related paperwork.
Unbeknownst to Fahrenheit, the M80 victim, was also in the police station, filling out a police report regarding his own accident.
By some chance, that victim, looked out a window and recognized Fahrenheit’s car, which was in the police department’s parking lot, and he told one of the cops, “Officer, the car that threw the M80 into my car is in the parking lot!”
The cops couldn’t have been more delighted to know the culprit was already inside the police station.
They figured out who the car belonged to, and went straight into the interrogation room where Fahrenheit was talking to other police officers about his second accident.
There he was : in the police station, getting written up for causing two separate car accidents within the span of 10 minutes.
That was not Fahrenheit’s day, that’s for sure.
Of course, there’s those words of wisdom from my dad, “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”
–F-THE CHEVY CAPRICE AT THE BERWYN CARNIVAL STORY
In another case of Fahrenheit putting his touch on a given situation, we had gone to the carnival at Berwyn Faire.
At that time, he was driving a 1971 Cevy Caprice, silver with black interior.
When we were leaving the carnival, he was having a problem with his car keys—they didn’t seem to want to open the driver’s side door.
“Do me a favor, and try opening your door with the keys.” he said to me as he tossed me the set of keys.
I had the same problem : the key didn’t want to open my door, either.
“Let me try again.” he said to me, motioning me to toss the keys back to him, which I did.
At first, he was still unable to get the key to turn to unlock the door.
Suddenly, the key turned and the door unlocked, and he got in and leaned over to open the passenger-side door with the inside handle.
We got in, closed the doors, he inserted the key into the ignition, but it wouldn’t turn there, either.
“What the…” he said, all confused why his keys weren’t opening doors or starting engines.
Fahrenheit always had artificial fragrances coming out of the vehicle’s vent system to “cover up” the smell of the 24/7 pot-smoking activities in his car, and he had two large speakers in the back window.
I neither smelled the fragrance nor saw the speakers in the rear window ledge.
“Fair, I don’t think this is your car, dude!” I said as I looked around the interior, and pointed toward the rear window. “I mean, I don’t smell any pimp oil, and I don’t see any speakers in the back there. This ain’t your car, Fair!”
We got into the wrong car.
Same year, make, model, and color—only a different VIN number and license plates.
So, what does he do?
“Let’s smoke a bowl!” he exclaimed with a laugh—and he wasn’t kidding.
So, he quickly filled the pipe, fired it up, and passed it to me, and we smoked that whole thing and left the dude’s car filled with a huge plume of smoke just wafting around inside, looking to settle into the fabric of the upholstery and the carpet.
If we would have gotten caught inside that guy’s car, I imagine the cops could have written it up as attempted grand theft auto.
I know, I know : “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”
G—THE BUST AT THE HOFFMAN TOWER
Here’s another trippin’ story.
—-1-Those Present
The group included : Fahrenheit, Danny, Jerry, a young lady named Sheri, and, of course, myself.
—-2-Acquired and Consumed Our Doses ( LSD )
We had scored some “Mickey Mouse” blotter, and we were starting to “peak”—i.e., when the drug takes maximum effect.
—-3-Danny’s Illegal Car
We were in Danny’s illegal car.
I use the word “illegal”, because Danny didn’t have a license yet. He was either only 15, or he was 16, but still didn’t have his drivers license.
Either way, he somehow convinced some small used car dealer on Western Avenue in the city, to sell him an old Rambler from the 1960’s.
The license plates on the vehicle? Totally fictitious.
Danny had been getting away with it for quite some time at that point.
He parked it in a not-too-well monitored semi-abandoned parking lot a few blocks away, so that his parents didn’t find out about it.
—-4-Our Agenda and Itinerary : Acquire Some Cannabis
It was night time and we needed to go to a friend’s house and get an ounce of weed—in this case, Columbian, for $35 a lid.
So, we all jumped into Danny’s Rambler and we took a ride to our connection’s house.
The layout of who was sitting where in the car was : Danny driving; Jerry, shotgun; Fahrenheit in the back seat, driver’s side; myself, back seat, passenger side; and Sheri sitting in between Fahrenheit and myself.
—-5-One Condition
Our friend was understandably concerned about “traffic” building up around his house when his customers would stop by to pick up whatever goods they “ordered”. To keep the traffic to as inconspicuous a level as possible, he would not allow anyone to come directly to his house, vehicularly speaking.
That is, they needed to walk up from around the corner, or “wherever”, but just no cars in the driveway, or even pulling up out front.
It had to appear to be a “vehicle-free” pickup.
Our friend’s thinking was that the neighbors were far more likely to notice headlights pulling up or the sound of car engines coming and going, with car doors slamming shut, etc., than they would notice two people quietly walking down the sidewalk, where they could silently go to the side door and just walk in.
No knocking; and, be prepared to stay at least 15 minutes. No “drive thru” service. If 15 minutes to a half hour was too much of your time, he wouldn’t sell to you.
I don’t blame him. He didn’t want to draw attention to quantities of brief visitors.
Some neighbors got nothing better to do than stare out the window policing the neighborhood.
He wasn’t having any of that.
Ergo, we had to park down the street by what was known as the Hoffman Tower, along the damn on the Des Plaines River.
—-6-One Weird Sight
We parked the car down by the damn, while Danny and Jerry ( who would otherwise be sitting in the front seat) got out of the car to walk to our connection’s house, leaving Fahrenheit, Sheri, and I, all sitting in the back seat, with no one in the front seat. .
That’s a head-turner.
It was late autumn and going into winter, so the weather outside was not exactly “70 and sunny”, so we stayed in the car, while Jerry and Danny went to pick up the bag of smoke.
Fortunately, because Danny was a humanitarian, he left the keys in the ignition and the engine running, so we could have heat and tunes, while he and Jerry enjoyed real house heat and TV for entertainment, while they were inside the connection’s house engaged in their money-for-pot transaction.
So, there we were : three kids—two of them tripping, since Sheri didn’t dose with us, and was just along for the ride— sitting in the back seat of a running car, with no one in the front seat, and no sign of any other people anywhere in the immediate vicinity—for like, a block.
Really strange!
Anyone driving by, might find that sighting a bit odd : Passengers, but no driver.
“Huh? How does that work?” would have to be the question people would ask themselves upon seeing “chauffer-less” riders sitting in the back seat of a parked car with no one driving it.
——7-Starting To Peak
Meanwhile, as Fair and Sheri were talking back and forth, my LSD-tripping mind suddenly realized that I had launched a good hour ago , or so. So, I was “peaking” as they called it. I was staring at the wall of “Pizza Palace”, a well-known restaurant at that time.
I was seeing non-threatening, tiny amoebas or paisleys crawling up Pizza Palace’s dark brown brick wall.
I was beginning to experience all the visuals associated with LSD trips as my mind was entering an entirely different “realm of thought”.
Jerry and Danny would soon be in the house; Fahrenheit and Sheri were in the car; and I was in a completely different dimension altogether—I was no longer present on Planet Earth.
Well, my body was, yes, but my mind had warp-driven itself well outside our own solar system, that’s for sure.
The music was “ridin’ the waves” and I was “groovin” with my smile getting bigger and bigger by the moment,
What an awesome trip!
If we had exited the car and simply wandered around the dam’s spectator section while Danny and Jerry were inside, we probably would have never been arrested, since observing the river from the damn’s observation point was not only not “illegal”, the observation point was built specifically to encourage people to hang out there—and I don’t remember ever seeing any signs that the dam’s observation point had a “closing time”.
It would have been completely legal to be seen there at 3:00 AM, with no official closing time.
But we didn’t exit the car, because it was chilly out, and we didn’t want to end up freezing our asses off while waiting for Danny and Jerry to return from scoring.
Staying put inside the car, triggered the whole episode. It would have been worth chattering our teeth for a few moments.
—-8-THE BIG RED FLARE
Approximately five minutes, or so, into our “ride in a parked car”, some tune came on the radio that Fahrenheit just absolutely loved.
Now that I think about it, it was either “Eruption” or “Runnin’ With the Devil” by Van Halen. I forget which tune it was, but it was definitely Van Halen, a band that I get absolutely no enjoyment out of whatsoever.
But Fahrenheit did! Big time!
In his “excited dog”-like reaction to the song, he suddenly sat up, leaned over the driver’s seat, and reached for the volume knob, and cranked it to the maximum level.
“Yeah, dude! Van Walin’!” Fahrenheit shouted as he sat back down to a sitting dance, during the blast.
The stereo that was in the Rambler was not the original factory, but some powerhouse car stereo with powerful six-inch Jensen’s, so that music was plenty loud.
In fact, loud enough to attract the attention of you-know-who : the police.
Just the sight of three teens sitting in the back seat of a car with an unoccupied front seat was itself a red flag for the cops.
But the thousand-watt blaring of rock music was also a nice touch that was just way too impossible to ignore.
“He might as well have shot up a big red flare into the sky to announce our suspicious presence.” I thought to myself as I took a momentary glance at Fahrenheit in blaming him as the culprit of all our problems that night.
——9-The Fuzz Arrives
Just as I’m staring at the wall, enjoying my visuals, a bright light is suddenly shining in my eyes, as the squad car had its spotlight on us.
“Oh, fuck! This ain’t good!” I’m thinking as I could see the flashing lights, and Fahrenheit suddenly leaned over the driver’s seat again, this time to turn the radio down—all the way down!
“Shit! What the fuck’s gonna happen now?” I was thinking as I was all paranoid ( and tripping on LSD certainly led to the wildest of thoughts and fears, all of which—fortunately—later proved to be of zero reality ).
As soon as Fahrenheit killed the volume, and rolled the window down, I could hear the sound of the chatter of the police radio going off in the background.
The sound of police radios is never a relaxing thing when you’re a teenager “up to no good” with such activities as smoking weed and dropping acid.
Those sounds and tripping just don’t go together very well.
“What are you folks up to tonight?” the officer asked, as he bent over to take a look to see who was sitting in the back seat of the car.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shit in my pants right then and there, or wait until we got to the police station.
He went through the standard motions of asking us who we were in lieu of an actual state I.D., which neither Sheri nor I had, being pre-driver’s age; but Fahrenheit did, in that he had a drivers license.
So, Fahrenheit gave the cops his license, and Sheri and I told the cops our names and where we lived, etc.,
——10-DANNY AND JERRY DITCH THE WEED
From the house that Danny and Jerry were at, it was around a curve and a corner of a building, so there’s no way for them to see the cops until they’ve turned the corner.
As they turned the corner and saw the flashing lights of what was now the presence of two squad cars, since the first cop had requested ( per official protocol, I’m sure ) backup, and they had arrived by the time Danny and Jerry exited the building and emerged from around the corner.
Fortunately, for Danny, they were still approximately 300 feet away from the scene of the cops surrounding his car.
He realized that he needed to ditch the weed, and there was a tree near the road and he flicked it as inconspicuously as possible by that tree, as they nonchalantly continued walking toward the police surrounding his car.
Although they were confident that they weren’t going to get caught with any drugs, Danny was not so confident that his involuntarily-ditched bag of weed would be safe where it landed, since, although it was removed from the beaten path by about 10 feet, the bag could still be seen by anyone walking by whose eyes just happened to randomly land on the bag at the base of the tree—we all like to look at all scenery and the trees in the picture, so to speak—so, a passerby accidentally seeing the bag on the ground was not exactly out of the question.
If I saw a bag on the ground like that, I’m sure I’d investigate.
And there were going to be plenty of people with a chance to see it as the path in question is the very same path that our connection’s other customers take when they park down by the Tower and walk over to his house, and if he averages 10 people each night, that’s 10 people who qualify for a front row seat to seeing Danny’s bag of weed; and if he averages 30 people in a day, that’s 30 people who could find themselves getting a bonus bag just for glancing in the right direction at the right time.
——11-Danny Couldn’t Talk His Way Out of This One
Being that Danny’s father was a cop in town, I can’t tell you the number of times his dad’s law-enforcement position, endowed Danny with some privileges not afforded to working class kids who dads were not politically-connected in that way.
In any case, I believe Danny actually thought he could talk his way out of this one.
Why not? He’d done it before! Was he a smooth talker?
Hardly.
As mentioned in the story of Fahrenheit getting “shot” in the chest by Danny, his father was not only a cop, but a cop in the very town we were getting arrested in.
He wasn’t on shift that night, but he was at home relaxing and enjoying his day off.
That is, until he got a call from the station, from his co-workers with a “come-down-to-the-station-and-pick-up-your-kid-who’s-being-detained-for-the-following-reasons” type of call.
——12-We All Wound Up In Separate Interrogation Rooms
We all ended up at the police station ( shock! ), divided up into separate interrogation rooms.
Danny was in one with his father; Jerry was in a room with Sheri; and yours truly got stuck with Fahrenheit in another room.
——13-I Got Stuck With Fahrenheit & His Razor Blade
Unfortunately, for me, I had to watch Fahrenheit do some really stupid stuff that he seemed to think was not only funny, but he was also under the erroneous assumption that we were the only ones able to see the shenanigans he was up to.
“Hey, Fair, that mirror is actually a two way mirror. They can see what you’re doing!” is what I wanted to tell him, but couldn’t because that would be pointless with Fahrenheit not absorbing even the most rudimentary of sentences..
What was he doing?
Unlike the rest of us, Fahrenheit liked to do any drug he could get his hands on.
In this case, he liked doing “Dummy Dust”, which, I believe, is PCP.
Getting buzzed on that stuff?
He called it “Moonwalking”.
Like cocaine, PCP was handled ( at least, the way Fair did it ) with :
[1] a razor blade for chopping and dividing the product into piles of reasonable doses; and
[2] a straw to snort the product up their noses with.
Well, he had such a razor blade in his wallet, which the cops had no intention of searching, but Fahrenheit did not know that.
In fact, he was convinced the exact opposite was true : that they were going to go through his wallet with a fine-toothed comb, and throw every charge in the book at him once they found that razor blade.
Thus, he wanted to get rid of it by tossing it into the garbage can.
Unfortunately, reaching into the very tight spot where he had the blade hidden in his wallet, he inadvertently ended up cutting himself bad enough to make it bleed .
“Fuck!” he said as he realized he cut his middle finger on his right hand.
“You’re bleedin’, dude!” I said to him as I watched the blood rapidly form a stream and started to drip on the floor.
“Find a napkin or paper towel or somethin’, man. It’s like drippin’ everywhere!” I said in LSD-enhanced horror at his macabre show.
“Watch this!” he said excitedly, and laughing as he started slinging the streams of blood across the room, landing on everything : garbage cans, tables, chairs, walls, you-name-it.
“What the fuck you doin’, Fair?” I mumbled, knowing that the mirror in the room was a two-way mirror and that anyone and everyone could have been standing on the other side of that window watching him act like a total asshole on so many levels.
I was also pointlessly hoping that he’d somehow—if even by accident—regain at least some of his senses and stop behaving like the demented person he really was, if only because I was stuck in the same room as him.
If he had been in any room other than mine, I wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass what he did, as long as it didn’t reflect badly on me, which this asinine behavior certainly did.
“Ah, man, what the fuck!” I silently thought to myself, closing my eyes and shaking my head with my face shamefully facing the floor in total embarrassment in being seen with him while he was in this mode.
——14-No Charges Filed : We All Walk Out Of The Police Station
At some point, a lieutenant was instructed to discharge us without further detainment, and he went to each of the rooms to announce our right to get up and leave.
And we did!
He didn’t have to tell us twice, that’s for sure!
As we each exited the rooms, we saw each other in the hallways, as they led us to the front doors, and told us to have a nice night, and don’t let the door hit us in the ass on the way out.
Moreover, since none of us were being charged with anything, and it wasn’t past curfew, the cops didn’t even call our parents to pick us up.
Walking out into the open air in front of the police station, was such a relief.
The last thing I wanted to do was call my dad, so he can come pick me up at the police station, and then ground me while I’m trippin’.
Thanks, Fair. You’re a real “friend”.
Yes, we had to walk home, although we didn’t actually go home.
We just wandered the neighborhood, laughing our asses off on our way back to our side of town, since we all lived west of First Avenue — i.e., the “West” side of town.
We had a ball, laughing our asses off, once we realized we were out of harm’s way.
But once on our side of town, where were we going?
Home (as defined by one’s parents’ home ) is not a place I wanted to be while in “cartoonland”—as some people were calling it back then, since reality can seem somewhat cartoon-ish when tripping. .
Come to think of it, I don’t remember where we ended up that might. I just know I didn’t go home until probably 2:00 AM or 3:00 AM—somewhere in that neighborhood, in that it was still dark out, and the sun didn’t rise for another three hours, or so, by the time I went to bed. .
——15-No One Went Back For The Ditched Bag of Columbian
Now that I think about it, I don’t remember any of us going back to retrieve Danny’s bag, since we knew he couldn’t do it, himself, if he was in his father’s “custody”.
It’s possible Danny went back later that night, or no one did, and some lucky son-of-a-bitch just found an ounce of Columbian to enjoy.
–H-THE BUST AT ARGONNE NATIONAL LAB WOODS
In yet another case of Fahrenheit-attracting-cops-while-tripping, would be the story of him getting us almost busted at the Argonne National Laboratory in Westmont, Illinois, off of I-55 and Cass Avenue.
——1-Those In The Group
Jerry, Fahrenheit, Chris, Jimbo ( Chris’s neighbor ), and myself.
——2-The Time Frame
The Time frame : late 1970’s or early 1980’s. Somewhere around New Years Eve or Day
——3-The Weather
The Special Element of that day?
The weather.
Specifically, it was unseasonably warm out, as in the upper 60’s or even mid-70’s.
In December or January?
That’s not the norm.
But when it happens, you want to get out and enjoy it.
And that’s exactly what we intended to do.
——4-The Amenities
We already had weed; but we needed to score some blotter and some beer, which we acquired both en route to our ultimate destination— the forest preserve of DuPage County.
——5-Our Destination
Rocky Glenn.
The forest preserve just outside the Argonne National Laboratory in Westmont or Darien, Illinois, south of I-55, along Cass Avenue.
We always loved going to the woods when tripping. The outdoors is where tripping should take place; at least., that’s my experience!
——6-Our Arrival
We parked along Cass Avenue just before the point where the road takes a hard left.
The entrance was in the corner where the “L” in the road was.
There was a Forest Preserve-supplied 55-gallon drum, painted white, and offered as a garbage can for visitors to responsibly deposit their garbage there, instead of leaving it in the woods as litter.
We exited the vehicle with Jerry carrying the case of beer, as we walked past the nearly empty 55-gallon garbage can.
——7-Our Entrance
We fired up a doobie as we walked past the threshold of the entrance way, and walked along the main path for probably around an eighth of a mile, where we came across a clearing a few feet lower in ground level where there was a bunch of flagstone along a creek, that we always joked was “radioactive” and loaded with three-eyed fish, being the likely recipient of “experimental waste water” coming from the lab’s sewage system.
——8-Thanks To Fahrenheit
We all had cottonmouth from smoking weed, and were thirsty enough to start slamming beers, so we “pulled over”, so to speak, ( on foot, of course ) at that flagstone rest area.
Initially, we were all sitting on the flagstone by the creek, in a semi-circle, as we passed around a second joint, cracked open a beer, and discussed what our first “tourist attraction” was going to be.
Over the course of the next 15 minutes, or so, everyone, except myself, stood up and just started stretching their legs, and walking around the immediate vicinity.
——9-Fair Builds a Fire
For whatever reason, Fahrenheit decided to build a fire.
If……it was cold out and we needed heat, or if we were going to cook a meal, or if it was dark out and we needed some kind of lighting, then maybe we might have needed a fire, but it was none of those things, so, we didn’t need to build one in the middle of a sunny day in 70-something degree temperatures at the end of December or the beginning of January in the upper midwest.
But Fahrenheit saw things differently, and he built a fire anyway.
——10-The Cops Show Up ( Did We Expect Anything Less? )
Unfortunately for us, the platoon of security personnel ( some of whom are in tall watchtowers ) who guard the lab and the forest immediately surrounding that lab, saw the tiny little plumes of smoke wafting up out of the tree tops, and in minutes flat, there was a small group of cops on scene, both on horseback and in a K-5 style Chevy Blazer.
While Fahrenheit was by himself by the fire, and I was by myself by the creek, Jerry, Chris and Jimbo were all just grouped together chattering away with each other.
All of a sudden, I heard the all-too-familiar sound of police radio chatter…again, and obviously, thanks to Fahrenheit.
“What…the…fuck!” I silently thought to myself, closing my eyes, and shaking my head, at how much I truly hated Fahrenheit for the shit he pulled that attracted law enforcement that spoiled the fun every single time!.
I think, “If the cops didn’t show up, it was a boring party” was Fahrenheit’s philosophy
——11-I Hid My Stash
With my back still to the cops, as inconspicuously as I could, I slipped my hand into my pants pocket to retrieve all my stash ( weed and blotter , alike—especially the blotter ), and then tucked it under a couple of receding layers of flagstone, with the intention of returning a few days later to retrieve it from under the rocks ( needless to say, I never did, because I didn’t yet have a drivers license so I would have had to ask someone to give me a ride there to go get it—and it is kind of remote, in that once you park at the scene, you still need to walk approximately an eighth of a mile to get to that flagstone landing—and I never did ask anyone to do me that favor).
That would have been 40-plus years ago, having taken place before 1979.
That stash had, no doubt, disintegrated a long time ago with all the weather extremes and animals sniffing and biting at the zip lock baggie it was in.
In any case, after ditching the evidence under the rocks, I stood up and turned around, and joined the others as the cops gathered us all around the fire.
After asking everyone for an I.D., except Chris and I since we didn’t yet have licenses, so it was just our word who we said we were.
——12-We Put The Fire Out With The Beer
“Well, we still need to put this fire out.” one of the cops chuckled, after they pretty much realized we were just a bunch of teens out to have a good time with a case of beer, “And since no one here seems to have a pail to go get some water from the creek, to put the fire out, I have an idea ! What do you say we put the fire out with this case of beer.”
What are we going to say? “No”?
Yeah, I don’t think so.
So, we each reached into the case, retrieved a beer, popped the top, and held it upside down over the fire as we emptied each can one-by-one.
Even after the fire was out, we had to keep emptying cans until all 24 cans were empty.
So, for the next five minutes, or so, all we heard were the sounds, “pssst” ( the can being opened up ) and “glug, glug, glug” as the beer “chugged” it’s way onto the soaked ashes in the now-muddy and bubbly soil.
——13-They Escorted Us Out Of The Woods
Finally, when the last can was completely emptied out, they watched us put all the empty cans back into the case, and then they escorted us out of the woods, watched us deposit the empty case of beer into the 55-gallon drum, and stayed by the entrance way, until they saw us pull away.
——14-We Drove Away
It was as we were pulling away from the woods, that I started to peak, and I was thankful that it wasn’t triggered while in the cops’ temporary, investigative custody
That would have made that far more terrifying.
We got lucky in that we weren’t taken in and having to be bailed out.
Boy, I’ll tell you, there were times that I really hated Fahrenheit!
–I-MY SECOND TO VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”
The end of my time of hanging out with Fahrenheit was just around the corner—only, I wasn’t quite aware of that fortunate fact yet.
The second to the last time I ever hung out with that nightmare of a personality, he called me up, asking me to give him a ride to his boss’ house in LaGrange Park, to go pick up his paycheck.
—-1-My Car’s Master Cylinder Problem
The problem : the master cylinder in my 1965, puke green, Chevy Impala, four-door sedan, was leaking and my brakes were soft and not exactly trustworthy, as I would truly find out the hard way, after listening to Fair’s advice on how to deal with a leaky master cylinder : “just keep pumping the brakes”.
I sat in my driveway, testing his theory that pumping the brakes rapidly built up the needed pressure to stop the car, and when the pedal seemed to be rising with more tightness with each rapid pump, I convinced myself that his advice was do-able.
So, I backed out of my driveway, going ever so slowly as I began to pump rapidly a half block before a planned stop, and that “prescription” did seem to be working, as the car’s brakes did seem to grab once I built up enough pressure for the calipers to squeeze the pads onto the rotors and bring the car to a stop, but the speed at which I drove the car was so ridiculously slow, that it could be argued that I should have had my flashers on to warn people to go around me wherever they could.
But I didn’t. I just drove enragingly slow en route to Fahrenheit’s house, and then to his boss’ house.
All the way there, our journey was problem-free.
However…
—-2-The Yankee Doodle Flag Pole Accident
On the way back home, we were driving southbound on LaGrange Road just north of 31st Street.
About three or four busineeses north of 31st Street, on the east side of Lagrange Road, was a hamburger/hot dog joint called Yankee Doodle, and just as we were within about four or five businesses north of Yankee Doodle, that’s when he suddenly said, “Pull into Yankee Doodle! I wanna get something to eat.”
There was enough distance left to pump up the master cylinder to sufficient power to slow the car down to turn into Yankee’s parking lot.
The place was packed, and the only two spaces open were the second and third spot from the very end, but the second spot was in fromt of the big $10,000 lit up, “Yankee Doodle “ sign, and the third spot was in front of the flag pole on which the American flag flew.
Specifically, the parking lot in front of the restaurant was divided up into two halves, with the lot being divided by a median strip about the width of a typical sidewalk.
So, for every spot facing south, there was another spot directly in front of that vehicle that parks north-facing vehicles.
In the middle of that median-strip, in betweeen the second spot’s north- and south-facing cars, was the large business sign that read “Yankee Doodle” that likely cost in excess of $10,000.
In the third spot’s slot, was the flag pole.
The third slot had no car parked in either the north- or south-facing spots; the second spot had a car parked on the north-facing side.
Something told me to not park in the second slot, but to use the third slot.
I’m so glad that I did because, as I pulled into that spot, the brake pedal went all the way down to the floor, and I panic-pumped as though I had a bionic leg, but it did absolutely no good.
Absolutely no pressure was being built up, and my car was not stopping as my pedal went all the way down to the floor — repeatedly!
“Oh, fuck, Fair!” I said with my eyes wide open like a Barney Fife moment, “We ain’t stopping!”
From that second on, I watched my front end climb over the curb of the median strip; then, I saw the front end hit the flag pole, and I watched the flag pole fall to the ground with no more effort than knocking over a nerf pole.
Even after the flagpole hit the concrete, my car showed no signs of slowing down.
Approximately half way to reaching the other end of the parking lot, I realized there was “nothing going to stop this car except that retainer wall on the south end of the parking lot, or me throwing the car into park while still in motion!”.
I wasn’t going very fast ( maybe five miles per hour) , but I still wasn’t going to crash my car into the retainer wall, so, I announced out loud, “Hold on, Fair!” and I threw the steering column-mounted gear shift lever into “P” for park!
Screech!
We came to a stop, alright!
With my heart pounding from the adrenaline of the moment, I stepped out of my car to see :
[1] all the customers inside, staring out the window at the kid who just ran over the restaurant’s flag pole; and
[2] the flag pole laying on the ground.
Had there been a car parked in slot for Number 3 northbound, I not only would have hit the flag pole, but also would have caused the flagpole to hit the opposing car, and also possibly landing on the hood of the car in the north-bound slot.
This accident was problematic because I was on probation for having three or more tickets inside a 12-month period ( and I had four), this would have made five.
Not good.
—-3-The $250 Meal
I immediately went into the restaurant to talk to the manager, who let me use his phone to call my dad, who, an hour later— came out with $250 and convinced the manager to not call the police in the matter at hand.
We thought the manager would use the money to put in a new flag pole, but instead he hired some contractor to simply core a new hole in the median strip, and he stuck the old post in the ground, making it literally short enough to where people of average height could literally touch the bottom of the flag.
–J–MY VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”
This was it.
This was the very last time that I would ever hang out with Fahrenheit—only, I didn’t realize that, at the beginning of the day.
As far as how we connected?
—-1-The Call
Ditto. Just like the previous week, he called up to ask that same favor.
“Hey, can you give me a ride to my boss’ house to …” he began before I interrupted him.
“Let me save you some time and breath, Fair : ain’t happenin’ ” I interjected.
Amazingly, despite his own personal eyewitnessing of not only last week’s accident, but also of my dad handing $250 cash to the store manager for the property damage, he still thought I was being “unreasonable” in saying, “no”.
“Ah, come on, dude!, you just didn’t pump fast enough…” he began to say attempting to use “logic” to persuade me into taking another ridiculous chance. ”
Finally after shooting him down repeatedly before the end of each of his wasted sentences, he switched gears and said, “Alright…tell you what…why don’t you just walk with me to my boss’ house, and we’ll smoke a bunch of doobs.”
Although walking from Lyons to LaGrange Park, and back, isn’t exactly a marathon walk, it’s farther than “a block or two”.
With nothing else going on, and it being fairly nice out (we were still wearing jackets ), I found the idea of just sitting at home doing absolutely nothing, to be less appealing than going for a nice long walk.
So, I left the house, walked over to Fahrenheit’s, and from there, we walked to his boss’ house and picked up his paycheck.
—-1-The Journey Back
Although our trip going there was uneventful, the trip coming back was an absolute nightmare—in fact, bad enough to where I never hung out with him again.
——a-The Thievery At The Gas Station
For starters, there was “the theft”.
At the northwest corner of LaGrange Road and 31st Street, was a convenience store, three or four businesses away from Yankee Doodle’s — the same block. .
As we were walking diagonally through the store’s lot, Fahrenheit said to me, “Hold on, Let me get something from the store”.
“Alright.” I replied as I stood just outside the store’s customer entrance door, and lit a smoke, waiting for him to emerge.
A few moments later, the door opened and he came out looking rather scared.
“Let’s go.” he said acting all funny, “Just walk fast and don’t look back.”
He was walking funny because he was hiding a quart of orange juice under his jacket that he stole from the store.
“What did you do, Fair? Did you steal something?” I asked
Back and forth I asked a valid question, and he evaded an answer .
“Just keep walkin’,, dude!” he reiterated.
“Fair?” I pressed for an answer.
“Just keep walkin’!” he said as he darted across 31st Street, crossing from Lagrange Park into Brookfield.
I followed him across the street, and he didn’t stop sprint-walking until we got halfway down the first side street, out of view of the store, where he shoplifted — after getting paid!
In cash!
Finally, mid-block, he opened the left half of his coat to reveal the quart of orange juice he crammed into the waistband of his jeans.
“Fuckin;’ ay, man.” he said with a disturbingly nonchalant, self-congratulatory smile on his face, ( feeling, I guess, some degree of pride in getting away with outright theft — like I said, despite the fact that he just got paid in cash ) as he “proudly” displayed the quart and opened it to take his first sip.
I’ll never understand that reasoning.
——b-The Lady and her Escaped Dog
Literally, a few strides later, as we walked southbound along the sidewalk, we saw, approximately 150 feet away from us, running toward us, was a small lap dog of the Terrier-type, with its leash dragging along the sidewalk.
Apparently, it had gotten away from its owner, who we could see about a hundred feet behind the dog.
She did not appear at all worried about the dog biting anyone, but was likely concerned about the dog running into the street and getting hit by a passing vehicle, or whatever.
It was a friendly dog, in that it ran right up to us, panting with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, and his tail excitedly wagging, expecting us to bend over and pet it, I guess, which I did.
Sucker!
I picked the dog up and it immediately licked me in the face as I continued walking toward the dog-less woman who was walking toward us with this appreciative smile on her face.
As we got within arm’s reach of each other, I handed the dog over to its obviously grateful owner, who exclaimed, “Thank you! You boys are so nice!” as she took the dog from my hands.”He slipped out of my grip, and off he went. So thankful that he didn’t run into the street”.
I genuinely felt all “warm-and-fuzzy” at that moment.
But, thanks to Fahrenheit, he brutally trashed that moment with an unprovoked insult ( pertaining to the woman’s “waistline” ) that, I think, should have resulted in his ass getting brutalized right there on the sidewalk by someone, such as that woman’s husband.
But she was alone. So there was no one present to defend her honor.
What happened was, as soon as she complimented us for being so nice, Fahrenheit so sickeningly and unnecessarily added, “Yeah, and why don’t you go on a diet, you fat ass!”
I imagine the look of horror on my face, when he spoke those words, would have definitely been worth a photograph.
But no one had a camera.
“What the fuck, Fair!?” I said in disbelief, as I looked at the woman and the look on her face, as I fumbled out am incomplete and incoherent apology . “I’m sorry, mam! I dunno wha…..”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?!” I continued on, turning my attention to Fahrenheit, and noticing in my peripheral vision, the offended woman walking away in disgust.
He just kept walking like “it was nothing” , what had just transpired right before my very eyes.
——–* – The Awkward Silence
I had no intention of catching up with him.
“This was a bad idea.” I just kept thinking to myself, and re-hearing my father’s 24/7 warning : “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”
But about a half block later, he slowed down in his pace, and “allowed me” to catch up with him.
We walked several strides in silence, without saying anything to each other.
Then, I had to ask.
“What the fuck’s up with you, man?” I asked all pissed off about his demeanor towards life, in general, and toward complete strangers , in particular. “Everything you do is designed to hurt property or offend people who’ve done not a fucking thing wrong to you?! I don’t get it! I really don’t.!”
“Oh, come off it, man!” he retorted, after a momentary stare, as though he was perplexed that I wouldn’t expect such behavior from him. “What? Are you from the Good Ship Lollipop, or somethin’? The bitch had it comin’, man! Fuckin’ walkin’ ’round out in public lookin’ like a fucking moose in jeans. She had to have been four hundred pounds for cryin’ out loud! What the fuck!” That’s disgusting!…..”
On and on he went in a tone that resembled the societal disgruntlement of someone like Charles Manson, in the sense that it sounded like he was just about to Machiavelli-ingly justify his ends via his criminal means, as I just started tuning it all out, staring down and “counting” the blocks of concrete in the sidewalk just to pass the time as we continued on in our increasingly quiet and estranged southbound journey, where I was beginning to feel like I couldn’t wait to get away from this guy.
——c-Smoking a Bowl Out in the Open in Broad Daylight
After about a half block of total silence between us, he began to openly fill a bowl.
“Whadaya’ doin’, Fair?” I asked sternly, letting it be known that I wasn’t comfortable, in the least, with what he was about to do, “It’s fucking broad daylight out, man! Even if that was a joint, it’d still be a little too risky being that open with it in broad daylight, dude!. What? You don’t think in the literally hundreds of houses we’ll be walking past between here and home, that not a single person is going to be coincidentally looking out his front window, or if he’s standing out on his own front lawn, for whatever reason, that they’re not going to notice two stoners walking down the street, smoking a bowl of weed? Seriously? Someone in that mix is guaranteed to get all offended, or whatever, and call the cops,
” ‘ There’s two hoodlums smoking marijuana as they scope out the neighborhood , looking for a place to burglarize!’ ” I mimmicked a resident calling the police, “And this is Brookfield, Fair! There’s never any real crime in this town! If they get a call from some Gladys Kravitz, and they’re not busy writing up a speeding ticket somewhere, at the moment, the cops will be here in like, … two freakin’ minutes, or whatever, and we’ll be standing on the curb talking to the cops who are parked there interrogating us about who we are, and why we’re in the neighborhood. And you?! You’re probably already a wanted man, being the one who stole the orange juice from the corner store….”
“They’re not even aware that orange juice is missing.” he interrupted to get me to stop ranting. “You’re just being fuckin’ paranoid!, dude!”
“And with good fuckin’ reason, I might add!” I retorted. “You’re a fucking walking crime scene, Fair! You’re a…a fucking cop magnet”.
I imagine anyone within earshot of our back-and-forth banter, would probably be amused by how comically futile it was for me to continue to debate Fahrenheit on anything, since that walks right into the ( I think ) Abraham Lincoln-parable of how foolish it is to argue with a fool, since onlookers will not be able to determine, from looks, which one’s the fool.
“Alright, whatever.” he said all disgusted and disappointed, as he carefully laid the already-filled pipe inside his top right coat pocket.
I suppose, just to keep things from getting too awkward with an over-abumdance of silence between us, he decided to ramble on about other things, that had nothing to do with robbing, cheating, assault, or whatever, and once I realized the content was not dangerous in the criminal conduct sense, I guess I felt far less compelled to hang on to every word, and I foolishly let my guard down and the volume of his voice faded out like the end of a song, as my mind wandered off into my own little world.
——d-Knocking on A Woman’s Front Window
At some point, throughout my hearing-“impaired” state of mind, I slowly switched gears into a more outwardly-aware state of consciousness as a question I wanted to ask Fahrenheit emerged from the back of my mind somewhere, but as I was just about to ask the question, I realized that he was no longer walking by my side.
I was that “tranced” : I didn’t even see or hear him walking away.
“Wow!” I thought to myself, “I’m actually free of that monster!”
But I wasn’t!
“Psst!” I heard coming from somewhere unseen, as I looked around in confusion at his unseen presence. .
“Psst!” I heard it again.
“Here! In the bushes!” he said in a loud, forced whisper, from behind the bushes of a two-story brick bungalow with a bay window as the front room window — only I hadn’t noticed the bay window until I went behind the bushes that camouflaged the window..
At this point, I wasn’t aware of the window, because I hadn’t seen it yet.
Although I was looking in the correct direction, I still couldn’t see him.
“What the fuck you doin’, Fair?” I asked, with nauseated concern at the recidivistic tendencies of Fahrenheit to repeatedly act out in ways that are unmistakably outside the bounds of socially-accepted behavior.
In this case, not only did I not know what he was up to, I literally couldn’t even see him, although he was only about 12 feet away from me.
“Come on, Fair! Let’s go!” I said, standing on the sidewalk, not being interested in whatever it was that he was up to.
“No, seriously! You gotta check this out!” he said rattling the branch that I should move to enter the bush area where he was.
Foolishly taking the bait, as I closed my eyes and walked across the front lawn by about five or six strides, toward the bushes, shook my head in disbelief at his relentless parade of dysfunctional conduct, and proceeded to spread the branches of the bushes apart to enter the area and see whatever it was he wanted me to witness, and as I spread the branches apart, there, in plain, unremarkable view, was some lady, dressed the part, doing aerobic exercises, in her dining room, while facing away from the window Fahrenheit was looking into.
“Really, Fair? This has your attention? How did you even know to come behind these bushes to look in the first place?” I said, having had enough of his behavior. “What if she suddenly turns around and sees us staring at her….What the…Ah, Fair!… I don’t get you, man!”
I stepped back out of the bushes and started walking toward the sidewalk to “just get the fuck away from this guy!”, as I kept repeating that thought in my mind over and over and over again. .
Suddenly, I heard him pound on the window loudly, and shout, “Hey!”, and then he ran out of the bushes, saying with actual laughter, “Go! Get the fuck outta here!”,
He ran past me, leaving me to be the one “last seen in the vicinity”.
“Thanks, Fair!”…not!
“Now, we’re running from someone’s house who might call the cops for us trespassing and disturbing the peace!” I’m thinking in my head as we ran, and I was hoping there were no other neighbors who might end up calling the cops simply out of a “neighborhood crime watch” sense.
Either way, whether it’s the lady whose privacy was somewhat violated, or one of her well-intended and concerned neighbors, the last thing I wanted was for either of them to justifiably call the police, at the suspicious behavior of one to two suspects, only to be interrogated, on the street, by the police for behavior I had nothing to do with, simply because I was hanging out with the guy when he decided to become a criminal, without formally asking me for my voluntary participation, which he knew I would not give, if I knew what he was intending to do at each step of his method of madness.
We finally got about a solid block or two away from that house, as we made our way closer and closer to the rail road crossing at Maple Avenue.
By the end of our sprint away from the crime scene, we were no longer walking side-by-side, but rather he was, at least, a half block ahead of me, and I was completely fine with that, since I could keep an eye on him, to make sure that I didn’t have to be aware of behavior, on his behalf, that I might have to answer for, if any onlookers or eyewitnesses make the erroneous claim that “we” did whatever crimes “together”, when nothing could be further from the truth,.
——e-The Train of Automobiles
Finally, we reached the crossing at Maple Avenue.
At that point, Fahrenheit was still safely way ahead of me.
Of course, there’s another crossing about six to eight streets eastward, called “Prairie Avenue”, and that’s where I wanted to cross the tracks.
Then, halfway between Maple and Prairie Avenues we see a lone train car , all by itself — with no engine or caboose.
It was one of those railroad cars that transport actual vehicles like cars, trucks, vans, and the like, and this train car, had actual vehicles on it. Brand new ones, in fact.
Suddenly, Fahrenheit had another can’t-pass-up obsession.
As he approached the train car, he began to climb all over it, peering inside the windows of the individual vehicles, presumably because he probably thought he’d see the vehicles’ keys inside the ignition, or something exciting along those lines, where he likely envisioned that he’d start one of the cars up, and drive it off the rail car, and possibly even drive it home.
Only Fair could think something like that. .
Anyway, as I passed by the train car while he was peeking into the car windows, he was talking ( I think ) to me. But I wasn’t paying any attention to his words, but couldn’t help but hear his voice, since was deliberately talking loud enough to be heard.
Whatever he was saying, I didn’t hear or respond to a single word.
I just kept walking and ignoring him.
——f-Our Very Last Moment “Hanging Out”
Finally, I reached the Prairie Avenue crossing, Prairie ran north and south.
The street that ran parallel to the east-west bound railroad tacks on the south side of the tracks was called Burlington Avenue ( presumably named after the Burlington Railroad ).
Crossing diagonally from the north side of the tracks and the west side of Prairie to the south side of the tracks ( Burlington Avenue ) on the east side of Prairie, was a three-store front building, sandwiched in between the bar on the corner and the mom-and-pop, hamburger / ice cream joint, called Cock Robin two buildings away ,
None of the stores were open; not even Cock Robin.
So, I knew I couldn’t stop in and get a soda to drink on my yet incomplete journey home, which was still, as the crow flies, only about a mile away, but when one factored in the zig and zag of the actual path, ( since there is no geographical path that leads directly from where one is currently at and where their destination is ) it’s probably actually closer to two miles.
Either way, it’s a journey I’d have to make, sans hydration.
Humorously, just as I crossed from the side of the street where the commuter train station is, to the business side of the street , and as I looked into the windows of the disappointingly-closed Cock Robin ( momentarily daydreaming of the Coke I would have bought had they been open for business ) Fahrenheit finally caught up with me, only to tell me what he thought of me.
What he did and said was :
Instead of actually poking me in the chest, he stood in front of me, going through the “poking” motions and aiming them at my shoulder, and said like an angry child, “You know what? You’re a fucking drag! And I ain’t never hangin’ out with you again!”
With that off his chest, he turned around and literally stomped his feet as he walked away.
That was the nicest thing he ever did for me.
However, the way he said it, one would get the impression that he didn’t mean it as a “favor”.
He probably thought severing our relationship was somehow a “punishment”.
Doesn’t matter to me, as long as it’s severed.
And severed it was.
Thank, God.
Like…wow!” I’m thinking to myself as I watched him storm off to the first side street and then started walking southward,
Finally!
It occurred to me .
“My dad was right. Fair was ‘ a couple cans short of a six-pack! ‘ ”
I, for understandable reasons, elected to go one more side street eastward, and take my own path home.
I never saw him again for, at least, 20-plus years — from late 1981 or early 1982 to mid-2000’s.
III—EPILOGUE
—A-SEEING FAHRENHEIT AT SPEEDWAY
The gas station where I saw him was, in a sense, a “social hub” for our side of town, in that it was the only gas station on our side of First Avenue, and it seemed like 90 percent of the residents in the area, came to this specific gas station ( having literally no other options, geographically speaking — the nearest gas station eastward, was eight blocks east of First Avenue; and the nearest westward was about the same eight blocks going into Brookfield at Maple Avenue . Neither could geo-realistically be considered a “neighborhood” gas station ).
Heck, if they had a liquor license to serve tap beers, it would be the “Las Vegas” of the west Side of Lyons. It was always ” a happenin’ place'”
The point is : it was never a shocker to run into faces one hadn’t seen in decades, while frequenting this gas station.
And, on this day, I ran into Fahrenheit.
Wow!
What he said to me next, just blew my mind!
First, however, allow me to preface this part of the story with the prologue that if you were to try to get away with something devious or nefarious in some way, I would think you’d do everything in your power to disguise you true intentions with whatever information you deemed appropriate to sway the person into granting you the favor you seek, right?
So, for example, if I was trying to rip you off, I wouldn’t knowingly and deliberately come right out and say it, would I?
Nor would I mention the fact that I was guilty of some kind of wrongdoing in another situation, that would cause you to doubt my sincerity.
You’d be understandably worried that I might rip you off.
And yet….
That’s exactly what Fahrenheit did.
I’m grateful for his honesty, but he just caused me to lose all respect and trust for him, in a way, that it’s not possible to ever trust him again…ever.
What did he say?
He admitted to : [ a ] an addiction ; and [ b ] a very special eviction, both of which are permanent disqualifiers in my book.
—-1-His Addiction
Over the years, we all heard stories that Fahrenheit had a gambling problem at the horse races. I’m not sure which tracks he hung out at — Hawthorne? Sportsman’s?
Who knows? Who cares?
Me?
No clue.
Didn’t care; don’t care; and never will care.
But, we’re told, the finances pertaining to raising the money for his betting, was generally funded by robbing garages and pawning the stolen proceeds at local pawn shops.
Nice, huh?
“Where did that fucking chain saw go?” asks an angry and un-informed homeowner as he pointlessly looks around his garage for his 20″ chain saw, not realizing that it’s on display in the store front window of Joe Blow’s Pawn Shop on Main Street, for $100, while the guy who put it there, is spending the $50 he received from selling it to the pawn shop, on a bet that will be lost forever, the moment his horse loses.
And if he had won?
Would he have shared the proceeds with the victim from whom he stole the saw?
Seriously?
Get real.
—-2-HIS ARREST & INCARCERATION
That was Fahrenheit’s source of funding : garage burglary.
Well, one night, while “raising funds”, going up and down some alleys ( in the town of Maywood, I think ), he got stopped at the end of one alley that he was emerging from.
As he reached the end of the alley, the patrol car stopped directly in front of him, blocking his way, and Fahrenheit was forced to stop his car,
“Busted!” he must have been thinking, staring at the flashing blue lights on the cop car that was about to give him a free ride to the police station, with complementary and stylish steel bracelets for his wrists for the ride in the back seat.
Within seconds, a second backup patrol car came down from the other end of the alley, and parked immediately behind Fahrenheit’s car.
Even if he wanted to, Fahrenheit would not have been able to escape. He was trapped.
And busted.
One of the things the cops immediately noticed was that although the trunk was closed and latched, all of his car doors were slightly open and unlatched.
Why?
According to Fahrenheit, rather than making noises repeatedly opening and closing the trunk on the car, he thought, “just throw the stolen goods on the back seat and don’t close the door all the way. That’s the quietest way of hitting multiple garages in one alley”.
He told the story with almost no negative emotion. He almost tried to make his mistakes seem comical, with little, tiny chuckles in some syllables. His tone was similar to that of what someone might think a burglary instructor might sound like. It was nonchalant, with a touch of pride.
Anyway, he goes on to say that he just sat in the drivers seat as he watched the two officers walk around his car, “admiring” the evidence they had in the back seat of Fahrenheit’s car.
One police officer told him to step out of the car, which was a request that he claims he complied with immediately. .
From that moment on, it was straight to Maywood lockup, where he was eventually transferred to Cook County Jail, where he was never actually bailed out.
I don’t know if his mother refused to bail him out ( I know I’d forget his ass and let him rot ! ) or if he never even reached out to her to bail him out.
The only reason he got released was due to over-crowding — Cook County is packed with thousands of inmates!. They had people sleeping on the floors without a cot.
In any case, he was deemed among the non-violent, so he got out while awaiting trial.
—-3-His LACK OF GRATITUDE & JUSTIFIED EVICTION
Although his mother did not bail him out of jail, she did take him in to live with her once he was released from county jail —- whether that move was intended to be short- or long-term, I’ll never know ( or care about ), but, in reality, it was definitely short-term, as she almost immediately kicked him out of her house and changed the locks!
Changed the locks!
On her own son!
Why?
When he told me why, there was no going back. I couldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
What did he do?
He stole from his own mother and her friend!.
Specifically, one evening, while his mom had a female friend over, they were all sitting in the living room, when the two women decided that they wanted to go into the kitchen to get something to drink, like tea, or a can of soda or whatever.
While they left the living room. Fahrenheit started rummaging through both of their purses, including his mom’s.
It’s absolutely mind-blowing the morals ( or lack thereof ) that he embraced.
His own mother!
He grabbed money, a bottle of pills, and who knows what else?
He then darted out the door to go do his thing wherever.
But…..
When he came “home” later on that evening, he discovered that she had a friend come over and changed the locks.
His keys no longer worked!
He was now homeless.
And for good reason.
—-4-His ( DENIED ) Request
Here is where all this got me : even if he had lied, and told me a story that made him look like an altar boy, I still would not have taken him in.
But he didn’t lie.
He told me the truth ! That he had stole from his own mother!
Why would he lie about that?
But, having laid out all his cards, I could see that it would have been a terrible idea to take him in.
I mean, come on ! : he stole from his own mother !
There is NO WAY you can trust somebody who rips off his own mother…literally!
“Sorry, Fair! No can do!” I said as I walked into the store through “Door A”, to go buy smokes, and when I exited out “Door B”, he was there again, and I reiterated my “No!”, proceeded directly to my car and drove off, leaving him there to beg whoever would be foolish enough to put themselves and their families into harm’s way.
As I drove down the street, I couldn’t help but contemplate all the questions ; “Why does he tell me up front that he’s untrustworthy?” , “Why would he steal from his own mother?” and “Who would be idiotic enough to trust such a self-destructive person?”
I never saw him again.
Whew!
–B-FACEBOOK DISCUSSION / UNSUBSTANTIATED RUMOR : “FAHRENHEIT’S IN PRISON IN MEXICO”
I’m not sure if that’s true but someone on Facebook said they thought they heard that he was in prison in Mexico.
I don’t miss him; and I can’t envision a single soul who would.
Wherever you’re at, Fair, if it’s nowhere near me, stay there!
NOTE : At the end of this recording, you will hear the mad laughter of this song’s namesake : Jimmy, himself.
The laughter came from a different track in an ancient recording session we had in my makeshift recording studio in a house I rented on Custer Avenue in Lyons in the early 1990’s.
What had happened was that I had accidentally turned on the digital delay unit and had it assigned to Jimmy’s vocal track, and every time he said something, he’d hear it echo back to him two or three times as the feedback would decrease with each repeat, and Jimmy found that to be quite entertaining as he’d say “Hello” and he’d hear “HELLO, Hello, hello” repeated back and eventually he just burst into laughter and deliberately started speaking gibberish, just to hear the echoes.
Those crazy moments were the source of the laughter you hear on this song’s ending.
All Tracks played by Floyd Allen @ Man Cave Studios (Lansing, Illinois)
Verse 1
Nineteen Hundred Seven Four Was our first Cigarette We smoked a bowl and drank a beer Those days I Won’t Forget
Much Too young, I can’t deny The past can’t be undone But if I could , Not sure I would “Cause I had so much fun
Refrain 1
I wish we took some pictures Then Some memories to enjoy Some super eights of merry Mates The Fun That we employed
The Jokes we pulled, the laughs we had Just hangin’ in the woods Never sad, and always glad We always had some goods
Chorus
‘Cause I’m Floyd You’re Jimmy Boy
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Verse 2
From Seven Five to Seven Seven We hung with Chris and Dave We tripped on Dots, at Party Spots The Roads that we would pave
We played guitar and dreamt afar Of Stardom in the Sky We rode our bikes, the girls we liked We thought We’d never die
Refrain 2
But Now I see that’s just not true A brother’s left the band You’re not the first, but it’s the worst That I can’t shake your hand
But that’s the deal, the way I feel There’s nothing I can do To bring you back, from dark and black Back into the crew
Chorus
‘Cause I’m Floyd You’re Jimmy Boy
Solo
Verse 3
From Seven Eight to Ninety One We went our separate ways I stayed at Home, and you had roamed Those were some darkened days
But Ninety Two Brought Me and You Together once again We played guitars, and healed the scars Like reunited twins
Refrain 3
The last few years, avoided tears We tried to keep in touch But miles apart, we could not start The distance was too much
To say goodbye, before you go I would have been there, Friend A chance I missed, I pound my fist I’ll miss you in the end
Chorus
‘Cause I’m Floyd You’re Jimmy Boy
How do you remember your best friend growing up ?
I didn’t meet my best friend until the end of 5th grade ( May or June 1974 ) .
I had never connected with any “friends” prior to that time mainly because for whatever unknown reasons, my father kept moving us on the average every two years—give or take six months.
But finally in 1974, at the age of 11, I met my best Friend, who, even though I really only hung out with him for roughly three and a half years, those were happiest years of my life, short of marrying my wife, Traci.
After our short, life-defining time together, we ended up not seeing each other for approximately 15 years ( 1978 – 1992 ).
Then we hooked up again in 1992, where we ended up having parties and jam sessions at the house he grew up in.
Unfortunately, that chapter of our lives ended in either 1994 or 1995, when Jim lost the house due to all kinds of financial ( e.g., not enough income ) and structural ( health of house failing due to badly-needed repairs ) reasons, and our little get-togethers had come to a sudden ( and sadly ) permanent screeching halt!
I never lived in an apartment or house that could host our jam sessions.
Suddenly, we found ourselves with no place to gather—except, of course, at the bar, which, Jimmy liked, because he liked to drink; whereas, I was starting to become disinterested in the bar scene, unless it was a live music act.
But just to sit at the bar and drink?
I couldn’t do it. But Jimmy could. Every night!
So, we drifted apart….again.
For all intents and purposes, although we talked on the phone throughout the last few years, we never again physically saw each other.
Then, I called in December 2017, just before Christmas, but he didn’t answer his phone, and instead my call went into his voice mail, where I left a message, and waited for him to call back.
He never did.
Then, a month later, a mutual friend of ours, Kim, sent me a private message on Facebook, linking me to ….
.
.
…Jim’s obituary.
Apparently, Jimmy had passed away from Stage Four lung cancer, which had metastasized far too much by the time he was diagnosed.
He was in hospice for something like literally, one day. One lousy day! And he died.
I wish I had been there for him in his last moments.
The following story is why Jim was so important to me.
Unfortunately, if you’re expecting a story with wholesome content, you’re going to be very disappointed, because the story between Jimmy and I is one centered on substance abuse—and amongst children, yet : in this case, 11-year-olds.
But I went from having absolutely zero—I repeat, zero!—friends to hanging out with Jimmy—not exactly any parent’s idea of the ideal kid for their children to associate with, but I enjoyed every minute I hung out with him, and I regret none of it.
We just had so much fun together.
In any case, if you can hear me, Jimmy, from that cloud on high, this song is for you : Jimmy Boy!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I—My Pre-Jimmy Days : No Time For Friends
* A—Places We Moved To
**1—In The Very Beginning : Pine Crest Avenue, Colonial Village(Bolingbrook) , Illinois ( 2/1963 to 8/1966 )
**7—Hessville ( Hammond ) , Indiana ( 6/1972 – 7/1972) Summer Only Between 3rd & 4th Grades
**8—Summit , Illinois [TORN DOWN ] ( 8/1972 – 12/1972 ) 1st Half of 4th Grade
***a—The Architectural Anachronism
***b—Pneumatic Tires and Concrete Pavement : What A Growing Boy With a Bike Needs
***c—My Short-Lived Desire To Be a Lutheran Minister
II—The Jimmy Years ( 6th Grade Thru 8th Grade, and First Half of Freshman Year ) : From Zero Friends to Best Friend in 18 Months
* A—The Only Home That Led To Friendship
**1—Lyons, Illinois ( 12/1972 – 12/1980 ) 2nd Half of 4th Grade Thru Mid-Sophomore Year in High School
***a—“Connecting” With Jim
***b—“DIS-Connecting” With Jim : The Nickname Conundrum
***c—Jimmy Connects Elsewhere : The Kenny Connection
***d—“RE-Connecting” With Jim
****[i]—Jimmy Loses The House
****[ii]—Jimmy And The Can ( Sometimes Bottle )
****[iii]—Jimmy’s Letter of “Sobriety”
***e—A Brief Encounter on Gage Avenue…Then Tumbleweed again
***f—Losing Track of and Re-Connecting With Jimmy…Again…and For The Very Last Time ( His Last Earthly Phone Number )
***g—Jim’s Passing
***h—The Memories
****[i] Our First Cigarette
****[ii] Our First Beer ( and other Assorted Liquors )
****[iii] Our First “Doobie”
****[iv] Our First “Trip”
*****{001} Our Best Trip
******(aa) Captain Cloud
******(ab) The Conversation With “Myself”
******(ac) The Death
******(ad) Digging The Hole In The Woods
****[v] The Lilac Bushes and My Knee Injury
****[vi] The Big Bust At The Woods
****[vii]The First Avenue Quarry—Coke Bottles and Trespassing
III—The Post-Jimmy Years
I—My Pre-Jimmy Days : No Time For Friends
Just when I got to know the name of the kid sitting next to me in class, it was time to move on to our next home, which was always, always, always, miles and miles and miles away from the location we were now leaving — definitely could not ride my bike, much less, walk the distance.
With one exception, it was never “just down the street” from where we had just left.
Different town, different schools, and in some cases, a different state altogether—moving back and forth between Illinois and Indiana.
Maps of Illinois and Indiana, side-by-side Image Generated by A.I, @ https://boredhumans.com/text-to-image.php
There were no obvious reasons for the frequent relocations. We weren’t on the run from the law, and we weren’t exactly poor, in the sense that my dad was earning a union scale wage.
Image Generated by A.I, @ https://boredhumans.com/text-to-image.php
Although my father was a truck driver, he was not an over-the-road driver. He was strictly local—and union!
He was home every night as a Local 705 Teamsters, Tractor-Trailer driver, handling local cartage pickups and deliveries for a company called Orscheln Brothers Trucking, which, although still in business ( I think ) in Moberly, Missouri, they pulled out of the Chicago area a long time ago, in the early 1980’s, because of the high cost of dealing with organized labor, which didn’t really exist in Moberly in the early 1980’s, although today it might be an entirely different story. Who knows?
But I’m guessing that they’re non-union in their outfit in Moberly.
In any case, being home every night and making pretty good money ( approximately $11 or $12 an hour in mid-1970’s—which is probably closer to $25 or $30 per hour in today’s income bracket ) so, it wasn’t like we didn’t have enough income to settle down with a 30-year mortgage to acquire a “long-term” address for a couple with three of their six children still living with them ( the oldest, Gail, Tom and Linda, having already moved out on their own) .
A—Places We Moved To
1—In The Very Beginning : Pine Crest Avenue, Colonial Village (Bolingbrook) , Illinois ( 5/1963 to 8/1966 )
#1—My First Home
IMAGE SOURCE : Google Earth
In fact, when I was born, my parents already owned our first, last, and only home they ever actually purchased. In fact, I believe they had just purchased it in mid-1962; a little less than a year before I was born..
The purchase price : $16,000.
My guess? Today, a similar house, in that same area, brand new, would probably be between the mid-$200,000’s to lower $300,000
It was a five bedroom 2-bath, bi-level, with a finished basement out in what used to be called Colonial Village, but is now part of Bolingbrook, Illinois, off of I-55 and Route 53.
In fact, you can see the back yard of our former home from the expressway as you’re driving south on I-55 approaching Route 53.
But….
For “whatever unknown” reasons, we only stayed there three years ( my first three years of life—1963 to 1966 ) , and then we ended up selling the house, where we began this seemingly-never-ending odyssey of moving every two years ( like I said, give or take six months ) .
2—Warrenville, Illinois ( 9/1966 to 6/1967 )
#2—My Second Home
IMAGE SOURCE : Google Maps
From Bolingbrook, Illinois, we moved to Warrenville, Illinois, where we rented a farm house, but we weren’t farming the land; merely residing in the house on the property, while my dad remained a local truck driver, at a terminal in Summit, Illinois, at least 30 miles away.
a—The Barn Fire
One interesting side note about this house is that although I was only about three or four years old when we lived there, I can actually recall an event that happened on a very “special” night ( people generally don’t remember anything from such an early period of their lives; but I believe significant events, especially those involving heightened emotions or even traumatic events, might actually stay remembered, instead of forgotten about ).
In my case, one evening at dusk, after dinner, I was in the kitchen with my mother, as she finished washing the dishes, and then I wandered out the back door out into the back yard that faced the barn, which was only about 20 or 30 feet away.
I remember staring into the wide open doors of the barn, where I could see two faces ( which were largely obscured by the darkness, and only dimly-illuminated by the light coming from the back porch light fixture, but there were definitely faces) looking back at me.
There shouldn’t have been anyone out there since all my siblings were in the living room watching TV with my father.
The strange part of the sight, was the fact that the faces were low to the ground, and one was above the other, and the one on the bottom was upside down.
How does a three- or four-year-old, who has not yet mastered the language even at a kindergarten level, articulate such a scene to his mom to tell her what he just saw outside in the barn?
I went back into the house to tell my mom but I guess my talking just sounded like babble coming from a child barely out of his toddler stage—meaningless phonetics of children imitating their parents.
Understandably, she ignored my warning, and nonchalantly picked me up and killed the kitchen light as she whisked me away to go into the front room to watch TV with the entire family, despite me pointing at the back door pointlessly continuing on in my attempt to warn her of the “stranger danger” in the barn I just saw.
I was not yet linguistically equipped to successfully convey my message of potential danger to the people directly in harm’s way—me and my family.
The two faces I saw out in the barn were likely the culprits in the starting of the fire—or, should I say, deliberate setting of the fire?
It could have been arson, and not accidental, but not likely.
Moreover, what about the weird location ( near the ground ) and strange positioning ( one above the other, and the lower one being upside down) of the two faces?
I think I might have solved the mystery.
It was a young man and a young lady ( more than likely, teenagers ) in the barn ( in the trespassing sense ) on the barn floor, doing the Horizontal Cha Cha in the only private place they could find to explore each other’s bodies.
On the one hand, the “upside down” face was the woman, lying on her back, and looking up at me, from her “lying-on-her-back-with-her-feet-facing-away-from-me-and-her-head-toward-me” position.
On the other hand, the “right side up” face, was the man, lying on top of the woman, looking up at me.
I saw their faces as they both looked up at me—probably startled at me suddenly coming out of the house and noticing them in the barn.
That’s the “who” of what I saw—people!
(ii)—The “HOW” of the Fire
The “how” of the fire is still a mystery : accidental or deliberate?
On the one hand, if they were teenagers, just partying and looking for a place to have sex, then the fire was likely accidental, since they probably brought along a kerosene lantern for light and “ambience” and they spilled it, and it started some hay on fire, and it spread far too fast for them to safely put it out themselves, so they pulled their pants up, and high-tailed it out of there as fast as they could, hoping nobody saw them in the vicinity and tie them to the guilt behind the fire.
On the other hand, about 40 years after the fact ( mid-2000’s), somebody once told me that around that exact time frame, there was an actual article in a newspaper ( Which newspaper? I’m not sure, myself) regarding a series of Warrenville barn files in one single night!
Whether or not our barn fire was the same night as the multiple-barns-on-fire night, I do not know.
If it was, then the fire was likely deliberate.
Who knows?
The mystery continues…..
(iii)—The “WHY” of the Fire
As far as the “why” teens would have used our barn to “get drunk and get it on”, well, I really don’t see any mystery there.
Teens will go anywhere for a good time.
I know that my “first one” ( the mother of my daughter) and I certainly went through great lengths and traveled far to go do our thing.
It wouldn’t surprise me if teen boys in any other era ( even the 1960’s ) would trespass into abandoned barns with the modern day equivalent of a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine to woo their girlfriends into slowly making their way around the “baseball diamond from first base through Home Run”!
A defunct barn on a defunct farm?
That’s the “equivalent” to an adult “Sybaris”—minus the hot tubs and other romantic amenities, relying instead on the smell of cow manure or horse hay to set the mood for the intimate encounter.
Of course, the barn probably looked so tempting to those adventurous teen boys in search of a “bachelor pad”.
The land wasn’t being farmed at that time, and I’m sure the locals could usually tell when a place might look abandoned, and thus, open to teenage parties.
However, our house didn’t look abandoned; in fact, it looked very lived in with the lights on inside, a car in the driveway, and likely the smell of cooked food wafting out the kitchen window, so, they obviously knew the house was not abandoned and open for teen parties.
But, I guess the the barn was “fair game” according to their rules.
In any case, someone started the barn on fire. That was my moment of “excitement” in my pre-school days!
But we stayed in Warrenville for only a few months ( 9/66 to 6/67) and then we moved to the near west side of Chicago in the 26th and Komensky neighborhood, where we rented an apartment in what I believe was a two-flat bungalow ( 7/67 to 7/68 ).
Just as I got the last pair of socks out of the old moving boxes into my chest of drawers, my dad announced that we were moving again as he handed us new boxes to put our things into.
It never seemed to end.
About the only two significant events that occurred to me while I lived here was : [1] I fractured my ankle in a “Superman” accident; and [2] I actually recall having the same dream twice.
a—My Fractured Ankle
My second oldest sister, Linda, who was 19 or 20 years of age at the time, married, and living out on her own with her husband, Joe, had agreed to stay at the apartment for one week, and babysit the rest of us kids, while our parents went out of town on a badly-needed vacation up in Northern Wisconsin.
It was a Friday, and characteristic of my father, he had the car loaded and my mom sitting shotgun and pulling away from the curb ( we didn’t have a driveway ) to leave before the crack of dawn — he absolutely hated traffic; and I’m exactly like that, too.
Where they were going was in the upper section of Wisconsin near the Upper Peninsula, so their destination was easily eight to ten hours away, depending a speed traveled and other factors.
Factor in stops for gas, bathroom breaks and meals, and you can see how such a lengthy trip could easily be extended to 12 hours, or more.
The point is : They had traveled for hours to get to their destination, and the very first thing my mom did when they arrived at the resort, was find a phone and called us to tell us that they had arrived safely and to check on us, as well.
Unfortunately, either Linda was a terrible liar, or my mom had ESP, because she knew something was wrong the very second Linda answered the phone.
“What’s wrong, Linda?” my mom inquired instinctively knowing something was up.
After only a few, brief, futile attempts to deny anything was wrong, Linda fessed up and told her what had happened.
“Yeah, well, um…Floyd…kinda jumped off the side of the house and fractured his ankle.” Linda replied in an understandably nervous voice.
What had occurred was : it was late morning or early afternoon, and while Nancy and Jim were already outside , sitting in the front porch’s concrete staircase at the bottom where the stairs meet the sidewalk, I was inside with Linda who was working in the kitchen.
I was in a “Superhero” kind of mood, and I wanted to go outside and play “Superman”.
So, I grabbed a small hand towel and a safety pin from the bathroom linen closet, and took it out to Linda and asked her to pin the towel around my neck like a cape.
“Going outside to play?” she asked me.
“Gonna play Superman.” I replied as I waited for her to finish pinning the towel around my neck.
“Well, don’t wander too far from the house.” she concluded as she finished the job, and as I turned toward the front door to exit the apartment.
As I exited the doorway, and closed the door behind myself, Nancy and Jim were sitting at the bottom of the concrete staircase, and they must have heard the door open and close, as they both looked over their shoulders up at me, as I stood at the top of the staircase with my hands on my hips and my cape flowing gallantly in the wind—or so my imagination led me to believe.
“I’m gonna play Superman!” I exclaimed as I looked down at them at the bottom of the staircase.
They both just looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders, and then looked away without a care.
I then climbed up on the concrete banister ledge, shouted “Superman!”, and I leaped into the air to fly….
But I couldn’t.
Gravity yanked me to the ground like an iron anvil, and I ended up letting out a scream and a cry, when Nancy and Jim came running along side the house to see me lying on the ground writhing in pain, well, they knew that wasn’t any good.
The next thing I know, I’m at the hospital and they’re putting my right leg in a cast.
After that, I was home and lying in bed with a leg cast on for the next six to eight weeks, where I crawled around the apartment to get to and fro.
My parents were back home the very next day.
My little adventure ruined their long-planned and badly-needed vacation.
Sorry Mom and Dad.
b—Nightmare Reruns
Another event that I remember while living at that apartment, was having the exact same dream twice!
I admit, it was a stupid dream. But, I remember having it twice!
THE DREAM : I was on my back porch playing with my toys, and suddenly, a very mean Frankenstein came up the back stairs from the basement, grabbed all my toys, and took them down into the basement with him.
I know. That sounds ridiculous, but that was the dream
It wasn’t “just” an act of theft; there was something really ominous about the whole thing with Frankenstein being the main villain.
But, like I said, one broken ankle and two nightmares later, yep, you guessed it, it was time to move again.
Only, this time, the move was extremely short : just a block or two away to Karlov Avenue to a single family dwelling we rented.
From that apartment, we moved to the 26th and Karlov neighborhood ( 8/68 to 7/69 ), into a single-family dwelling, that we rented from a group called the Rossi Brothers.
Why I remember that, I haven’t a clue. I just simply never forgot the name, “Rossi Brothers”, which was the only move that was literally “down the street” from our previous home.
All our previous and subsequent moves were literally miles away from our previous locations.
26th & Karlov ( 8/1968 – 7/1969 ) Kindergarten
IMAGE SOURCE : Google Maps
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Here is where I started my schooling “career” in kindergarten at Eli Whitney Elementary School
Although I didn’t form any long-term friendships, I frequently played with the children of the neighborhood, most of which were Hispanics of Puerto Rican heritage.
I played perhaps a handful of hide-and-seek games with the neighborhood kids, and yep, you guessed it, it was time to move again!
This time, 120 miles and two hours southeast of Chicago to super-hyper-mega rural Monon, Indiana—right on Shafer Lake. Our own pier was literally 30 or 40 feet from our living room window.
This was pretty secluded and remote by my standards.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think my parents were on the run from the law…or the mob.
Anyway…
Thinking that the city was a petri dish for all social evils, my father wanted to move us as far away from the city as possible, to cleanse us from any bad traits we might end up developing hanging around the masses of “dysfunctional” people and learning all the wrong ideas from all the wrong role models.
Obviously, not being a fan of the city, my dad found a place out in “God’s country” of Monon, Indiana, 120 miles away .
Small Cabin On The Lake
IMAGE SOURCE : Google Maps*
The property was owned by some distant relatives on my dad’s side : Uncle Jack and Aunt Bert ( I’ll never forget how the smell of bacon frying up in a pan, wafting out her kitchen window, really set a precedent for me in the “bacon enjoyment” department. When I smell bacon, I think of Aunt Bert “out in the country” ).
NOTE The House pictured is not our home; our home had long since been torn down—it was old when we added onto it, and what we added probably wasn’t worth saving if new owners ever decided to do a tear-down and build from scratch ; the house pictured is simply a random house I found on Google Maps that somewhat exemplifies what we started off with before adding onto it..
The “community” that Jack and Bert owned, was a series of cabins or cottages in what was obviously a financially-defunct fishing resort of some sort that was located along the shores of Lake Shafer.
I believe my parents did have an investment in this property, too, in that they invested in building onto the cottage to give us enough bedrooms for the three remaining kids — Nancy, 9; Jim, 8; and Floyd, 5.
Socially ?
There were NO KIDS —Zero! Not one!—my age, in our little “rustic subdivision” in Monon.
Not one.
The two kids I tried to hang out with, were two or three years older than me, and didn’t want to be tagged along by a “kid”!
In fact, one of the kids, Carl, had such an aversion to my presence, his desire to make me feel uncomfortable ( and therefore, go away for good ) was so non-stop, he’d went beyond being a simple “devil’s advocate” to make a valid point about a valid subject, and instead, he’d just go immediately and directly into “contrarian mode” in such an absurd way, that it obviously sounded as silly as a Monty Python Flying Circus TV skit, it was that ridiculous — e.g., when I said that my mother took my father’s last name when they got married, Carl, without missing a beat, replied sarcastically, “Nuh, uh! Not in my family! My dad took my mom’s last name!”
Unbeknownst to both of us, his mother was within earshot of our conversation as she was washing dishes at the kitchen sink, and the window at the sink with five feet from where Carl and I were talking.
Immediately, she said through the window, “You know that’s not true, Carl! I took your father’s name!”
That was the last straw for that conversation, apparently, as Carl looked at me with disgust — as though it was I who caused him to be humiliatingly countered — and stood up and stormed into the house.
“Hmm. I think that’s my cue to leave.” I must have edivently thought, since I don’t remember staying there after that moment — or returning there after that day, either.
I don’t remember missing Carl, after we left Monon, at the end of Second Grade.
So, I did a lot of solo fishing and ice skating on Shafer Lake and wandering the adjacent cornfields that surrounded us opposite the lake.
All the cabins, had this particular smell to them. It’s not like the smell of, say, sawdust, but instead like “musty sawdust”; I’m thinking the smell was caused by the high humidity of the lake that was literally only 30 or 40 feet from the cabins, and the wood was probably far more likely to suffer water-related problems, like waterlogged woods in home exteriors or interiors.
Moreover, instead of a refuse company, our camp had an incinerator, where everyone deposited their garbage.
Countless times we heard the sound of exploding aerosol cans reacting to the furnace levels of extreme heat. Most of the time, though, there was nothing accidental about exploding cans, in that they were deliberately tossed into the flames for their entertainment value as a “loud boom”.
Boom!
“Cool!” ( everyone smiles ).
However,…
My dad’s job did not move away with him: his job stayed in Summit, Illinois.
So, being a solid three quarters of a tank of gas, ( in his eight-cylinder, gas-guzzling boat of a Pontiac Bonneville ) and two hours away ( at highway speeds—three or four hours via back roads), one way, and times two for round trips, was obviously too extreme to be feasible for a daily commute, so, my dad had to find a means for “lodging” throughout the work week and came home only on the weekends.
The problem with that setup, was that my mother did not have a car…or even a driver’s license, for that matter, so she couldn’t even borrow someone else’s car and drive that vehicle, either.
Thus, during the week ( i.e., Monday through Friday) when my dad was 120 miles away in Summit, Illinois, with a car to get around in, my mother was a stay-at-home mom with no wheels to transport herself and/or us kids around ( out in the sticks where there was no public transportation and the nearest grocery store, school, or hospital was easily miles away in every direction ).
Should any emergencies have arisen while we were at school, my mom would have had no way of getting to the school to pick us up, if we needed to come home for whatever reason; no way of getting to a drug store or hospital , without having to depend on what few neighbors we did have.
But we did have a phone.
So, communication was not a problem—only transportation.
As usual, two years later, it was time to move 10 miles north up the road to Francesville, Indiana, where I spent Third Grade walking along the railroad tracks by my house, and, as usual, all by myself.
Farm House
IMAGE SOURCE : Google Maps
It was another farm house, again, on land that wasn’t being farmed, and we were simply residing on the premises.
We didn’t live in town with the houses, but out on a farm a mile or two outside the residential, retail zone.
As expected, there were zero kids of any age to hang out with on a remotely-located farm.
I did join Cub Scouts, however, but it was a short-lived experience because I really wasn’t there long enough to make any friends, and the only kid whose name I do remember was of Ricky Rodriguez, the only kid who would talk to me; and that was in school, not in Cub Scouts.
After school, when I was back at home, I was nowhere near Ricky’s house; nor was he near mine. Ergo, socializing with Ricky was—for geographical reasons—strictly a school-hours opportunity.
After school, it was back to total isolation.
One sad note would be that for whatever unknown reasons, nobody ( in us surviving children ) have one single photo of our life there : none of the interior nor the exterior of the house.
Not one single picture.
Even the house doesn’t exist anymore.
It’s as though, not only were we never there, the house never existed in the first place.
7—Hessville ( Hammond ) , Indiana ( 6/1972 – 7/1972 ) Summer Only Between 3rd & 4th Grades
The exact same thing is true at this house, too : not one single picture, inside or out.
My shortest-lasting residence : lasting less than three months !
I wouldn’t know the house if I was standing on its own front lawn.
Hessville Ranch
IMAGE SOURCE : Google Maps
We lived a block or two off of Cline Avenue, on a small side street whose name has long been forgotten by all of us surviving kids. But, my sister, Nancy, took a wild guess and thought it might have been on Tennessee Avenue, of which, there is a Tennessee Avenue listed in the Hessville ( Hammond ) area, so, she’s probably correct.
I remember it being a one-story ranch with a front door. But I admit, I forgot what color it was.
It was summertime—i.e., no school !—and both of my parents worked full-time jobs, and as a bored 8-year-old, “sitting at home on an eighty-degree summer day doing nothing” was about as appealing an idea as watching grass grow.
So, out the door I went, in search of entertainment, action, and maybe even a little international intrigue as an imaginary covert spy for the CIA.
I spent most of my time walking—nay, make that wandering—up and down the streets of my immediate neighborhood, mindlessly “kicking cans up and down the alleys”, so to speak, since there was absolutely nothing else to do…nor anyone to do it with.
There were no Saturday Morning Cartoons Monday through Friday, nor were there any “cartoon channels” in those pre-cable TV days of the early 1970’s.
Game shows; talk shows; soap operas, and public TV kids shows ( such as ” Sesame Street”, “Romper Room”, and “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” being the normal fare of shows broadcasted at those time slots on the only six channel pre-cable Chicagoland TV programming ) were the only things on the boob tube, and those were things I had absolutely zero interest in.
Asking me to watch these shows would be like asking me to hold my breath indefinitely.
In other words, there was nothing on TV for me to watch during the week with only channels 2, 5, 7, 9, 11, and 32 to choose from (Although, UHF band, WFLD, did play afternoon kids shows of which one I remember watching was called “B.J. And the Dirty Dragon”—which waslater re-branded as “Gigglesnort Hotel”….I think )
I believe WFLD also played 1950’s- and 1960’s-era Warner Brothers cartoons of the Looney Tunes® and Merry Melodies® franchises, featuring such characters as Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, and Daffy Duck with Mel Blanc doing the voice overs for most, if not all, the characters.
But before the afternoon showing of these pre-adolescent delights, there was absolutely nothing on TV for me to watch, so, out the front door I went to wander the streets for hours and hours.
One rather unpleasant memory I have about that place was that there was obviously some kind of a sewage-treatment plant somewhere nearby ( I never found it on my travels ) because the entire neighborhood—for blocks and blocks in every direction—would smell like sewage.
I never forgot that stench.
Lastly, since I never spent a single day in the local school, I never met a single kid—of any age! Not one!
Ergo, there was definitely nobody to keep in touch with, back in Hessville, that’s for sure.
I know I joked in a previous paragraph about having just unpacked the last thing and finally getting settled in, only to find ourselves being handed new boxes because it was time to move again, but, in this case, the boxes were “still in the hallway” still unpacked, and we were told that we were moving again.
Just throw the boxes back on the truck, and do it again.
Carrying on the tradition of no photos of that part of our lives (but, at least knowing the actual location of the house ), I have nothing to reminisce with—or about—at this house.
Not only having no photos of the house when we were there, but also the house no longer being there having been long since razed and removed, all I could do was an attempt to re-create the setup with Google Maps.
The image below is divided into three sections : A, B, and C.
I included B and C because having been 50 years ago, and the house no longer existing, I kind of lost track of the fact whether our house was the second or the fourth lot from the corner.
I thought it was the second lot, but there’s a relatively new apartment standing on the lot now, which still could have been built after the old cabin was torn down.
The fourth lot, however, is empty, and it does show signs of a small foundation inside the red box.
Oddly, though, the location of the driveway does not line up with the foundation, so the foundation was not likely a garage foundation but something that had nothing to do with that driveway—in this case, a 100-year-old cabin.
Cabin In The Woods…on a Suburban Block
IMAGE SOURCE : [A] Properties = Google Maps; [2] Tiny House, https://unsplash.com/photos/TpJPoWC1ZCk Tommy Kwak @ unsplash Badly photo-shopped into image of unoccupied property
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From September 1972 to the first half of December 1972 ( about three and a half months ) my father moved us ( all five of us ) into the very “house” he was living in during the week when we lived in Monon and Francesville, Indiana for the previous three years.
a—The Architectural Anachronism
The house was on Hanover street. It could have been joked that it was the smallest house in the industrialized world.
It has long since been torn down.
At the time it was still standing, it literally was a never-torn-down three-room fishing cabin-in-the-woods that was still standing in the middle of a residential block as late as the early 1970’s—the canal was only a few blocks away, and I’m sure there was a time when there were plenty of fish in that canal when it wasn’t polluted.
Nowadays, I would think you’d only catch some three-eyed carp or some mutation with all of the chemicals that get leeched into the water in countless ways.
Anyway, as far as the cabin, itself, was concerned, it was an architectural anachronism, to say the least, that’s for sure!
Like a rusted, dilapidated Model A Ford on a street surrounded by state-of-the-art “Jetson-era” flying vehicles.
The cabin had a bathroom ( with toilet and sink, but no shower or bathtub—so we had to take sponge baths with a small tub of soapy water ); a “kitchenette”—with no place for a kitchen table; a pantry; a bedroom; and a “front room”….for a couple with three kids!
But we did it!
My parents had the bedroom. They threw a set of bunk beds in the pantry for my brother and I, and my sister, Nancy, had the living room as a bedroom.
So, we had no living space; no living room. Just a completely-out-of-place cabin-in-the-woods in the middle of a suburban residential block, turned into a motel of bedrooms, with a kitchenette, and a bathroom-ette.
Not exactly what Robin Leach meant by living the life of “Champagne wishes and caviar dreams!”
This was the place my dad lived at for three years while we were stranded out on the sticks with no means of transportation.
Plus, being understandably embarrassed by the house, I chose to walk to and from school, instead of taking the school bus.
One day, though, for some forgotten reason, I elected to take the bus home, and when I got off the bus, all the kids saw my “home” and they all laughed.
It was the first, last, and only time I ever took the school bus; it never happened again.
b—Pneumatic Tires and Concrete Pavement : What A Growing Boy With a Bike Needs
Despite the anxiety of having to deal with the social ridicule of living in a house that was literally—no exaggeration—smaller than most people’s garages, I was still grateful for being back in the city because I wanted to ride my bike on concrete , which the cityoffered, and the rural areas did not.
Specifically, the only paved roads out in the country were the interstate highways, county routes, and the business district of most small towns, all of which my parents understandably prohibited me from riding on.
The only places I was allowed to ride my bike, were on the “streets” close to my home, all of which were either unpaved dirt, or gravel, neither of which is easy to do with the skinny legs of a five- to seven-year-old kid.
I’d pedal my hardest, and still, I’d be lucky if I got my bike up to 10 or 12 miles per hour.
But, man, when I dangerously planted my wheels on the concrete of the highway, my skinny little legs were able to accelerate me to what seemed like 15 or 20 miles per hour—much faster!
And much more exciting!
But once my parents found out about my excursions out onto the public highway system, I was immediately notified of the indefinite and permanent prohibition against such rides in the future!
Once I got a taste of that speed I could achieve on concrete instead of dirt or gravel roads, I was forever changed. I couldn’t stop begging my parents to move us back to the city where I could ride my bike on a sidewalk.
Moreover, I think my mom also wanted to move back to the city where at least she had access to public transportation, where she could get to the store and the doctors without needing my dad’s ( or anyone else’s vehicle ) to transport her around all day long taking care of family matters. .
Finally, my father must’ve given in to my mom’s demands because we went from Francesville to Hessville and then to Summit.
Now we were back in the land of paved roads, sidewalks, and public transportation.
Once my bike’s tires hit that sidewalk on Hanover Avenue, in Summit, Illinois, my bike felt like it took off like a rocket!
The exhilaration I felt from such “speed” ( of 15 to maybe 20 miles per hour ) was addicting!
In fact, in my excitement, I rode so hard on my banana seat of my Schwinn “Stingray”, ( which we stored just outside the front—and only—door, since there was no place to keep it in the cabin, without it literally blocking the only “doorway”in the house. With theft not exactly being unheard of in “the big city” I was always understandably worried that someone was going to steal it. Being left outside and unchained to anything, it would be free for the taking for anyone with the balls to walk right up to the house and ride off with it; but luckily, no one ever did steal it) that I actually developed a pinched nerve in my urinary tract, as I was experiencing pain when going “Number One”, and part of the “prescription” was to not ride my bike for a few weeks and learn how to sit differently on my seat to not cause that nerve to get pinched.
Not riding my bike was somewhat akin to a smoker going cold turkey and not smoking any cigarettes and going through attention-distracting nicotine withdrawal symptoms.
By that time, though, that I was ready to start riding again, the autumn weather was history, and snow and ice were everywhere, so my “no-bike-riding” prescription got inadvertently extended until spring, when I was more-than-ready to start riding again.
c—My Short-Lived Desire To Be a Lutheran Minister
While in Summit, for more unknown reasons, my parents decided to send my brother, Jim, and my sister, Nancy, to the local public school, which was Walsh Elementary, but, they forked out actual cash to send me to Zion Lutheran, both of which were on Archer Road, about a half mile from the house—and about three blocks from each other.
The only “friendship” I developed in Summit, was at school, where my teacher, Gloria Seim (again, not sure why I remember her name, but I do) had given me a sendoff gift when she found out I was moving ( again! ) which, in this case, was a one-year subscription to a religiously-oriented, Lutheran-associated magazine ( about the size of a “Readers Digest”—only thinner with fewer pages ) called “Devotion”.
Back then, in my “I-want-to-be-a-surgeon-today-a-policeman tomorrow-and-a-fireman-the-day-after-that” growing-up period, I went through my “I-want-to-be-a-Lutheran-minister” period, and I think Gloria just wanted to keep that desire going in me.
In fact, our next-door neighbor had a tool shed in his yard that was built just like a church—with a steeple, and stained-glass windows—and I was so enamored by it’s image, that I asked my mother if she’d ask the next door neighbor if he’d let me use his tool shed to practice my imaginary sermons.
Of course, for obvious reasons, she never did follow through with my request, and I never did get a chance to give a sermon in my neighbor’s tool shed.
But that phase of my life ended the very nanosecond we moved away from Summit, across the highway, to Lyons, Illinois, the first place where the duration of our stay was longer than the “standard” of two years.
II—The Jimmy Years ( 6th Grade Thru 8th Grade ) : From Zero Friends to Best Friend in 18 Months
Two-Story Wood Frame on a Slab
8650 W 44th Place—01-Old
This time, it was more like seven years : from December 1972 to December of 1979 ( the middle of my sophomore year in high school)!
Unheard of!
And appreciated.
Jim, Roxanne, Chris, Jerry, Donny, “Ben”, Kelly, the Rank brothers, Macko, Sheri, Willie, John and Wayne and so many others, became names associated with the word “friend”—something I had never experienced before.
But those friendships didn’t occur overnight, that’s for sure.
In fact, although we moved in December 1972, my friendship with Jim didn’t start until another year and a half later, in either late May or early June of 1974.
It would be another year and a half after moving in that I finally connected with someone I could identify with.
And, when I say “connected”, I mean that literally. LOL.
A—The Only Home That Led To Friendship
1—Lyons, Illinois ( 8/1972 – 12/1972 ) 2nd Half of 4th Grade Thru Mid-Sophomore Year in High School
Although I told the story in another post “8650 W. 44th Place, Lyons, Illinois“, it can be retold here since Jim is central to this post’s purpose.
In any case…
The Lengthy Quote below is taken directly from the above-linked post.
The incident that brought us together, was a “fight” between us.
Specifically, we were on a Field Trip literally days before the last day of 5th Grade.
Instead of taking us to an educational outing (e.g., going to Holsum bread or Coca Cola to watch them make bread or bottle soda, like I had done in previous field trips) this was a purely-for-fun trip, and it was only blocks away from school—at Ehlert Park, in Brookfield.
The teacher was Miss Ciccio (who, the following year, got married and became Mrs. Uhler [?]—I’m bad with the spelling of names ).
Anyway, here we are almost at the end of the day for our field trip, and Jimmy starts approaching people asking them if they want to slap box.
He wasn’t finding anyone to take him up on his offer. He must’ve approached four or five classmates before he got to me.
Finally, when he got to me, I wasn’t interested, either, because I really wasn’t a fighter. But somehow we just couldn’t avoid each other and he took a couple of swipes at me.
“Come on, Colbert. Let’s box.” he kept saying as he did his boxing “dance”.
I didn’t want to do it—slap box, that is.
So, he took a couple more swings and he grazed my cheek.
That stung.
So, I returned fire, but not with an open hand, but with a clenched fist.
Crack!
“WTF, a–h—! That’s not a slap, that’s a punch!” he said as he tried to do the same.
The next thing I know, Jim and I are really going at it with punches, not slaps.
Of course, every time kids see a fight in the school yard, they like to shout out “Fight!” to get everyone to notice and gather around and watch it happen.
Well, that also attracts the attentions of teachers, who like to break up fights, which Miss Ciccio tried to do, by saying, “Now, break it up, boys!”—warnings, which we, of course, being boys, completely ignored and continued on in our hand-to-hand combat.
There were no male faculty present to assist in the breaking up of the fight, but Jimmy and I ultimately ended up “ceasing-and-desisting” in our physical attacks on each other, and the next thing we knew….
We were friends—inseparable friends, in fact.
It’s funny how that works—“Violence brings friends together”.
Doesn’t sound quite right, does it?
But, in some cases, that’s EXACTLY how some friendships begin. That’s how OURS began!
Jimmy and I did everything together in 6th, 7th and 8th Grades, and then drifted apart in early high school.
b—“DIS-Connecting” With Jim : The Nickname Conundrum
Jim and I did not fall apart for any reasons pertaining to our relationship with each other.
Rather, it was due to the fact that he didn’t like a certain group of friends we had—or, more accurately, he didn’t like the way they treated him in his nickname.
Specifically, he didn’t like his nickname, which I won’t divulge here, since there’s no reason to or benefit from doing so.
Suffice it to say that we all had nicknames. The brothers in one family had names like “Ben”, when his real name was “Bill”; His second oldest brother, Donny, was “Duck”; the oldest Mike ( R.I.P., Mike) , was “Goat”; because my name could be associated with several other characters, I was called “Pink Floyd” ( the band ) , “Pretty Boy” (the gangster), “Floyd the Barber” ( character on the 1960’s sit com, “The Andy Griffith Show”), among yet others; we had another Mike that we called “Fahrenheit” ( I have a post pending on “Fahrenheit” stories ) ; my brother had a friend , Pat, that we called “Worm”, and his friend Larry,was “Maggot”.
But the name they came up with for Jim was one that none of us had any qualms with, but just knowing Jim hated it that much, I never called him that name—I was friends with Jim before I was friends with this particular group.
But, my brother was also friends with at least two of the brothers, and I, two of them, as well. In fact, my then-girlfriend, Roxanne, ended up marrying the step brother of these boys.
It’s not like I could have just tossed them out of my life, since, I still talk to the youngest two boys to this day.
That’s a going-on-50-year relationship that I would have tossed out the window had I totally cut myself off from these people. I’m glad I didn’t do that.
But, that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t relate to Jim’s hurt feelings in the matter at hand.
c—Jimmy Connects Elsewhere : The Kenny Connection
He ended up meeting some more musicians, in this case, a one Kenny Eismann, an extremely talented musician ( singer-songwriter guitarist ) who was otherwise an unemployed high school dropout who was living on borrowed time at his father’s house in Riverside, Illinois.
Little by little, Jim started hanging out at Kenny’s house and out at the local forest preserves where Kenny, among others of similar ilk, would frequently gather to play live acoustic tunes in the pavilions.
What was sad, was that many of the musicians who played at those “venues”, as talented as they were musically, were actually homeless people who actually lived in the very woods they “performed” at.
Once the show was over, and the ones with homes departed for those homes, those that didn’t have any place to go, retreated to their little corner of the forest preserve to a certain clearing, usually with a felled tree as a log to sit on, “picnic bench” style.
This clearing, they called “home”.
I couldn’t feel at ease with these people.
None of them ever told me any hard luck stories of being thrown out of a home-centered life through involuntary unemployment, or “death’s bed” types of diseases, or a messy divorce, or anything catastrophic.
It always seemed like they just didn’t want to be “held down” by a full-time job and a long-term mortgage, or even a short-term renting of an apartment.
Yet, despite no visible means of income, they always seemed to have enough money for booze.
Where did that money come from?
I’d be afraid to trust any of them to, say, stay at my place overnight, for fear that they’d either steal something…or worse, refuse to leave.
I’ve heard horror stories of squatters exercising their “rights’ on premises that are already occupied…and it still takes a court order to evict them.
That’s absolutely insane to allow a “Michael Meyers” to just move into your home, putting you in such fear, that you sleep with one eye open.
But that’s how our absolutely insane system works in the name of being “compassionate”—but…compassionate only toward the aggressor/criminal, but no compassion for the rightful owner.
It’s absolutely demented the way we think.
In any case, I was just as displeased with Jim’s new friends, as he was with our original group we hung out with.
He hung out with Kenny, and I chose to stay with our original group.
From there, Jim and I went our separate ways.
d—“RE-Connecting” With Jim
This went on from 1978 to about 1992, when we ran into each other at the local gas station ( it’s now a Speedway®, but back in the day, it was a “SuperAmerica“®, or S.A. for short ).
I was walking in to pre-pay for some gas, and Jimmy was walking out after buying a couple of packs of smokes—which later ended up killing him in January, 2018.
Needless to say, it wasn’t a simple handshake that occurred between us, but a massive bear hug between us.
Humorously, a third party, Joe, who had known Jim and I since we were all kids, who just happened to be standing in line waiting to pay for his items, saw us doing the “hug”, and Joe blurts out, “Get a room, guys!” to which, I looked over my shoulder at Joe and said, “You wanna join us? You want in?” to which Joe just bowed and shook his head and laughed.
Jimmy explained to me that he was on his way home, and when I asked him what he was driving, he replied that he was walking. He had no car.
“Hell, let me give you a ride, man!” I said as I took my place in line to pay for my gas. “I just gotta get about ten bucks in my tank, or else, I’m pushing my car home.”
“Cool!” he said genuinely excited about the lift, “Which car is yours?”
“That blue Z-24 out there on the outer aisle.” I replied.
“I’ll wait for you out there.” he said, as he pushed the door open and exited the store, and I waited to pay the cashier.
Post-purchase, I exit the store and Jimmy’s standing outside the passenger’s door waiting for me to unlock the doors, since I lock my doors everywhere I go.
So, I open the doors with my remote FOB, he jumps in, I pump my gas, and then I jump in, and the next thing I know, we’re cruising down Custer Avenue trying to verbally catch up on all the highlights of whose been doing what for the past 15 years, or so.
His house was only 6 blocks from the gas station, so, we weren’t likely to get many words in, in such a short ride.
We pulled into his driveway, at the one and only house he has ever known ( unlike myself ) and we sat there talking for about a good 10 to 15 minutes. I had never forgotten his phone number ( 447-0167) , and I told him I was probably going to call him that weekend, if not the next one.
This was a top priority to re-connect with my very best friend I ever had .
There was a third party , a guy named Mike, who went to grade school with us up to 6th or 7th grade, but he wasn’t there in 8th grade, so he didn’t graduate with us, nor, of course, is his photo in the 8th Grade graduation picture. I’m not sure if his parents moved out of district, or the reason for his departure from us as a school group.
Yet, despite his absence in our academic circles, he was still in the picture, socially speaking.
At least, on Jim’s end his was. Specifically, Mike was also friends with Kenny. Somewhere in the middle or end of our Freshman year ( i.e., Mine, Jim’s, and Mike’s—since we were all the same age) Jim and Mike accompanied Kenny out to California where they were going to make it big as rock stars playing at every gig they could find.
That was the start of not seeing Jim at all, since even not hanging out regularly, we’d always bump into each other at house parties, or the get-togethers at the woods that I did attend.
We just weren’t hanging around together.
But, going out to California, meant that I couldn’t find him if I needed to contact for whatever reasons—of which, there would have been at least one reason, when I was getting married and I needed a Best Man.
But Jim , Mike and Kenny didn’t stay out in Cal’ permanently. They traveled back and forth over the years, and I was almost certain that one of those trips was going to be where they stayed out there permanently.
But they never did.
Jimmy came back, and stayed back.
That’s when, in 1992, our paths once again crossed
[i]—Jimmy Loses The House
But our reunion was short-lived in that approximately two or three years later, Jimmy lost the house he was living in.
He didn’t lose it to a foreclosure or anything like that. In fact, I think the house was actually paid off a long time ago.
But…
The house was actually held in common with his two sisters ( one older, Linda, and the one younger, Sandy ) that they inherited when their mother, Irene, passed away from Leukemia in the late 1970’s.
But, 15 years after her death, the two sisters had long since moved away and Jimmy stayed at the house, which was now in woeful disrepair.
The overhead door on the attached garage was off track and slanted—it would never again go up or down on that extreme of an angle; the front entrance’s screen door wasn’t even attached to the door frame, and was instead simply leaning up against the front wall between the big wooden door, and the front room window; the actual wooden door had no door knob, so there was no way to latch the door. much less lock it; the 30-by-15 foot above-ground swimming pool with a finished deck in the back yard, had long since fell in disrepair, with the water long -since drained, and the external panels all flapping off the sides and falling onto the grass; there was a second full bath ( in this two-bath house ) where the toilet was literally broken in half; the water heater had been non-operative for almost a full year; one of the bedroom doors, had a huge hole in it from Jimmy doing a “Here’s Johnny!” ( as in the movie scene in “The Shining” where Jack Nicholson, playing a demented writer stranded in a remote resort with his wife and son, as he goes into a rant of terrorizing his own wife, played by Shelly Duvall) imitation while drunk one night—yes, he put his head through the door; the front room carpet had been pulled up and all the tacking along the edges left poking up like sharp needles; even the furniture was held together with duct tape.
Jimmy was behind two or three years on property taxes, and his utilities had been shut off—no electricity, no gas, no cable TV, no phone.
He might as well have been living in a log cabin somewhere in Appalachia. He had absolutely NO AMENITIES of modern life.
He got arrested one day, when after Jimmy climbed up the pole to turn his power back on, the electric company filed charges and Jimmy was arrested on theft of utilities or something like that.
Then, his oldest sister, Linda, at that time lived way up north in either the Gurnee or the Lake Zurich area, and she just stopped by unannounced one day—after several years of not having been by the house—and when she saw just how bad the condition of the house was, she knew she had to do something quick, before the house got condemned and the kids would get nothing out of selling the house.
Unbeknownst to Jimmy, his sister Linda got an attorney to get Jim to sign papers allowing the sale of the house before it was too late—since neither Jimmy or Linda had the funds to bring the house up to par.
So, Jim thought he was signing papers pertaining to a paternity lawsuit his then-pregnant ex-girlfriend had filed against him, but he was unknowingly selling the house out from under his own nose.
A few months later, he received a letter in the mail, which he didn’t understand and he asked me to look at it and see what I thought it meant.
I looked at it and then looked at him, and said, “It says you don’t live here anymore…or, you won’t after the house sells. You’ll have ninety days to leave the premises once the house sells”.
“What do you mean?!” he asked all nervous, “I never sold the house!”
“You’re right. It says you’re selling the house.” I added.
“I ain’t sellin’ diddley.” he insisted. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m just tellin’ you what it says here, Jim.” I replied. “I have no idea who’s selling your house out from under you. I’d call Linda, if I were you, and let her know. Maybe she should know about this!”
Jimmy did eventually call Linda,. and ultimately found out that she was the culprit that got that ball rolling.
She tried to explain to Jimmy what was at stake, should they have allowed the house to go any further into disrepair than it already was.
The house had been in the family for three generations—and now, it was no more.
After that, Jimmy lost it all.
[ii]—Jimmy And The Can ( Sometimes Bottle )
You see, Jimmy was an alcoholic.
Beer was his thing, not hard liquor, although it was hard liquor he was drinking the day he got his life-changing D.W.I.
Make no mistake, if offered a free Rum and Coke, he’d never turn his nose up at one, if a cold brew wasn’t immediately available. It’s just that he preferred beer over whiskey or gin.
We started drinking together at 11 years of age—only, Jim was much better at it than I was ( i.e., I don’t think Jimmy ever passed out from drinking too much when we hung out).
I, on the other hand, passed out on more than one occasion, so, for me, drinking was never my thing.
Jimmy received only one DWI (Driving While Intoxicated—which was a relatively “milder” crime than the current D.U.I. [ Driving Under the Influence], where the punishments are much stiffer ) in his entire life—but it did cost him his license.
Although, legally, it was not a permanent revocation, in actuality, Jim semi-deliberately turned it into a lifelong handicap.
Why?
Because Jimmy didn’t trust himself, because he knew his love affair with alcohol was much too strong to want his license back as bad as he thought he did.
For instance, just before losing his house, he told me that he was actively pursuing getting his drivers license back.
That was encouraging.
[iii]—Jimmy’s Letter of “Sobriety”
As part of the procedure to do so, Jimmy needed as many letters as possible ( from relatives, friends, bosses, mentors, whoever ) attesting to Jim’s sobriety and good character.
So, I wrote him a letter.
Although I consciously avoided saying obvious bullshit like, “He helps little ol’ ladies cross the street”, or “Jim has recently expressed an interest in joining the seminary”, or anything that expresses non-existent angelic conduct, I did attest to his sobriety, which, of course, was just as much of a big fat lie, since there had been countless times that I saw Jim with a beer in his hand, like the moment I handed him the letter.
I typed the “letter attesting to his sobriety” up on my PC, printed it out, and brought it over to his house.
We were in the kitchen when I gave it to him, and he walked away into the living room as he perused the letter.
While he read it, I opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a can of Miller Lite®.
I popped open the tab, and pretty much at the same moment I heard the sound of the initial “pssst” of the can’s carbonation getting released, I thought I also heard the sound of crumbling paper.
Somewhat disturbed by the thought of Jim crumbling up the letter, I immediately entered the living room where Jimmy was sitting in this dilapidated Lazy Boy recliner with the crumbled-up letter in the palm of his fist.
“What was that I just heard?” I asked, inquiring about the sound, “Was that the letter you just crumbled?”
“Yeah.” he replied sounding all depressed.
“Why?” I asked genuinely wondering why the change of heart on the letter.
“That’s not me!” he exclaimed.
“I know it’s not you.” I added, “If it was the real you in that letter, I can assure you they would not give you your license back!”
“I don’t care!” he continued, “I’m not handing that in.
I wasn’t inside his head at that moment. I couldn’t tell what his thoughts or reasons were.
He was so much more headstrong about things than I was. There was no way I was going to convince him to do a “180” and go in the opposite direction, and go for the license, even if all our letters were fibs.
He wasn’t worried about the immorality of lying, but rather he was convinced that he would get another DWI the very night he got his license back.
In other words, there was no way he was ever going to be sober at the end of the day, so there was a 100 percent chance that he’d be guilty of DWI, but what would be the chances that he’d be caught.
Fifty-fifty?
All it takes is for someone else ( e.g., some inexperienced teen driver ) to collide with you, and even if you’re not at fault for the accident, per se, the fact that you’re evidently impaired gets you into more trouble than the person in the wrong.
Are you willing to take that chance?
Jimmy wasn’t.
Somehow he was being totally honest about his own doubts about the likelihood that he’d ever be a “sober” driver, which was essentially zero.
So, onward Jimmy trekked without wheels or a license.
Then, he ran into the problem of making money—not all jobs are within walking distance, or even accessible via public transportation.
When you’re in the construction trades ( as Jimmy was as an electrician ), your “jobsite” changes every time you finish a job. You never know in advance where your next job will be.
With that level of uncertainty, one needs the flexibility of his own transportation to ensure arrival at the ever-changing locations of job sites to get the job done.
Jimmy realized he was cornered.
He needed wheels—whether he had a license or not.
When his house sold, it sold for only $75,000 because of its poor condition.
Had it been kept up, they could’ve gotten $200,000 to $250,000 for it easily: four bedroom, two full bath, with attached one-car garage, and a nice spread of a back yard.
In any case, the three kids split the $75,000 three ways, and each got $25,000.
Jim spent a portion ( How much? He never told me ) of his money on a work van that could carry around his tools.
One day, while en route to a job interview, he forgot to use his left turn signal as he was turning left onto the street where the interview was at, and unfortunately, a local traffic cop spotted Jimmy’s error, and decided to pull him over for it.
He pulled up behind Jimmy, flashed his cherries, momentarily beeped his siren, and Jimmy looked into his side view mirror, saw the flashing Mars lights, and thought, “I’m fucked!”
And he was.
The cop threw all kinds of tickets at him, including driving without a license, and suddenly Jimmy was sitting in jail, with no real family, no attorney, no job, and no backup plan…essentially, no hope.
Although he didn’t get any jail time, he was sentenced to several grand in bail, court fees and post-conviction “therapy” costs and you-name-it.
I don’t know how he got through such a challenge, but apparently he did.
From that day on, the days that Jimmy and I got together to hang out became fewer and farther between—until it was never again.
When Jim no longer lived on 45th Place, and his phone number was no longer 447-0167, I was unable to locate him, since we didn’t have any friends in common.
Throughout that time, Jimmy’s life became more disintegrated every day, until he was literally desolate and living in the woods—the same woods, in fact, that Kenny and company played at during their “Forest Preserve World Tour” days, back in the late 70’s and early 80’s.
A clearing that once belonged to a man named “Iceman”, now belonged to Jimmy.
e—A Brief Encounter on Gage Avenue…Then Tumbleweed again
I think it was in 1998 when my van’s transmission decided to take a shit on me, and for the following six weeks, or so, I ended up having to walk to work, which was a good six-mile hike, round trip ( three miles each way ).
One morning, while walking southbound on Gage Avenue about mid-block on the first block off of Ogden Avenue, I could see—a solid two blocks away from me—someone walking toward my direction.
Whoever it was, we’d soon pass each other on the sidewalk, and likely nod or even say “Good Morning” to each other as we passed. We wouldn’t know until that moment our paths crossed, of course.
What caught my eye was that person’s walk.
We all have a “walk”; and Jimmy was no exception. He definitely had a walk.
And this person walking toward me? He, too, had a walk. In fact, his walk was identical to Jimmy’s—almost as though he was imitating Jimmy.
That’s because it was Jimmy.
As we got within about a block of each other, I think I was way more sure that it was Jimmy walking toward me, than he was that it was me walking toward him.
But once we were close enough that we both knew who the other person was walking toward him, it was almost a bittersweet moment of “Oh-my-God-It-Is-So-Good-To-See-You” as we did the ol’ handshake-then-hug thing and went through all the expected salutations of “So, how ya’ been?” and “It’s so good to see you”, “Whatcha up to these days” and all the rest.
When it came to the standard question, “So, where are you off to now?” we both gave the same answer, “Work.”
When it came to the other question of “Where’s your car?” his answer was that he still didn’t have a license or a car, and my answer was “Saving up money for a rebuilt transmission”.
What’s somewhat funny is that we both had a plastic bag in our hands; the kind that the grocery stores give you when they bag your groceries.
The difference between the contents of his bag and mine was that my bag contained my lunch and my daily supply of caffeine—i.e., Mountain Dew—whereas his contained his breakfast—and, a “liquid” one at that.
Why the alcohol?
Jimmy did not like heights.
Roofing would seem to be a bad choice for someone who’s afraid of heights.
But to stop being homeless and living in the woods, and instead, having a roof over his head, he had to get a job that would pay the bills and put food in his belly.
This company offered him a job when no one else would.
To face the near-trauma of working on a roof, Jimmy fortified his courage with…well, yeah, you guessed it : alcohol.
The six pack in his bag was how he got through the work portion of the day : two before going up on a roof; two after those two beers wore off; and then, the final two.
Spreading out a six pack over the course of a ten-hour day, averages out to about one can every 1.667 hours : not exactly a consumption rate that would generate wild, rip-roaring drunkeness, like at most college parties.
In any case, as he explained to me his formula for liquid courage and how it was just enough to “calm the nerves” while working a potentially dangerous job, he explained to me that he could not “just be standing there with a six pack, when the truck pulled into the parking lot”, so he had to sneak the six pack onto the job site, by going to the shop first when very few people were around, and he’d sneak into the shop and put his six pack in with the tools or gear he was assigned to, then he’d go to McDonald’s and nonchalantly get on the truck—empty-handed—with his crew, ride back to the shop, grab his gear, as though everything was just normal, and once on the job site, he’d get prepped with his tools, both solid and liquid, and “dance on that roof like Fred Astaire”.
Realizing that we both had a work-related rendezvous to attend to, we had to say our goodbyes.
Although we talked a handful of times on the cell phone ( ten, or so, years later when we had cell phones, which we did not have at this last encounter or any other encounter prior to that moment ) THAT WAS THE LAST TIME I EVER SAW HIM WITH MY OWN TWO EYES!
After that encounter, I would not talk to him for about another 10 or 12 years later, just after my cancer treatment.
Between that last encounter and the first time we talked on the phone a decade, or so, later, I had no idea where he was.
Living off the grid ( either living in flop houses or being homeless ) as he had been, I had no phone number or address. I didn’t know anyone he knew, so we had no friends in common.
For all intents and purposes, I expected to never see or hear from Jimmy again.
f—Losing Track of and Re-Connecting With Jimmy…Again…and For The Very Last Time ( His Last Earthly Phone Number )
Then, Ben ( the youngest brother of the family we hung out with together when we were kids) , told me that he saw Jimmy on a jobsite, and got his cell phone number for me.
I was so lucky and grateful that Ben was aware of our friendship and saw fit to get Jim’s cell phone number, else, that last encounter on Gage Avenue would have been the very last time we talked.
But I got his number now!
Awesome!
I called.
We talked.
But with Jimmy showing far less energy than he did back in the day, I could feel a crack in the foundation of our youth.
But that was Jimmy’s voice, because that was Jimmy.
Listening to him talk, although somewhat lessened in enthusiasm and jocularity, was still nevertheless a gift to hear.
We talked maybe four or five times over the course of the following years, but we never got back together again.
And every time we talked, the sessions got shorter and shorter, not because of any lack of desire to talk, but because of “beauty sleep” — i.e., he said he needed at least eight hours of sleep each night to have enough energy to get through the following day’s workload, and of that, I have no doubt.
Roofing is exhausting!
Especially when you’re no spring chicken, and you have a few challenges like age and declining health.
So, our one hour, “Remember when…” reminiscent conversation was suddenly only a 40-minute call ( which was still awesome!) on the second conversation, 20 on our third, or so, and by the time we got to the very last call between us, we were probably done in five minutes, tops!
Saying “Goodbye” and hanging up for the very last time—ever!, although I did not “know” that cognitively, I could almost feel it in my bones—with the one and only best friend I ever had, was a privately emotional moment for me.
If I knew then what I know now, I would’ve called him right back and said, “I just want you to know, I love you, Brother! Without you, I would have never—ever—known that feeling of “blood-brother”-like bond we had in grade school. How cold a world it would—not “could” but would— have been without you in my life. Oh my God, I don’t even want to imagine it. Just sayin’, Bro’, you meant everything to me as a kid growing up! I will always remember you in my heart. Your friend, Floyd. Good night, Brother!”
But I didn’t. I didn’t call back, because I didn’t know; at least, not in any definitive sense. It was all a gut feeling—that I should have heeded.
But didn’t.
And now? A multitude of regrets of the “if-only-we-had-one-more-day” types for not having spoken when I could have and, obviously, should have, but didn’t.
But it is what it is, irreversible mistakes are made and life goes on.
In any case, back to the reality of that moment in time when we hung up the phone for the very last time, I was not yet officially thinking of Jimmy’s passing simply because he “isn’t dead yet; I just got off the phone with him a minute ago, so, there’s no reason to be worried or sad”.
“One of us will call the other in a month, or so.” is what complacently goes through our heads as we do not anticipate any problems in re-connecting in the near or distant future.
I feel so horrible that I allowed myself to not reach out to him more diligently in the interim between calls, to keep the momentum going.
But, like I said, the calls kept getting shorter and shorter, and the fear of placing a call that almost felt unwanted ( because of the enforced brevity of the timeframe of the increasingly shorter and shorter conversations ) made the act of dialing his number a “game of chance” of sorts in that I would never know how happy he’d sound, or how long he’d want to talk on the phone.
I know that when I was doing my chemotherapy, I had way less than “zero” energy.
I just slept—literally 12 to 14 hours every day.
I was not in a talkative mood. At all!
I would hope that nobody would hold that against me.
Trust me, chemo will kick your ass, and radiation makes it all that much worse.
I also realize that a person does not need chemo to be as lethargic as I was, since any disease has the potential to turn one into a “couch potato” or a “life-sized bed pillow”.
Despite knowing the true reasons for the brevity, I didn’t want to sub-consciously intensify insecurities on my part by calling someone I know doesn’t really want to talk if it zaps them of energy they need for other, more-important things.
I just didn’t want to feel “rejected”, so, I’d dial all but the last digit, and hesitate to press the last key to place the call, only to hit the cancel button at the last second, and feel frustrated at being stuck between wanting to talk with him, but not wanting to be “rejected” by him, even though I cognitively realize it’s not a rejection of me, per se, but simply a deficit of energy to engage a conversation beyond a few breaths and syllables.
I know! I’ve been there.
You don’t want to be there. Trust me!
I figured, “Well, if he feels up to it, he’ll call me.” and I left it at that.
He never did.
So, I called him one more time, in December of 2017, just before Christmas, got his voice mail, left him a message, and figured maybe a call to him would trigger him into calling back.
Again, he never did.
Then….
g—Jim’s Passing
In January, 2018, a mutual friend of ours, Kim, had shared with us on our group page in Facebook, Jim’s obituary.
I couldn’t believe my suddenly-tearing eyes.
Tower Funeral Homes in Lyons (Jim’s home town ) was handling the services, but, unfortunately, for me, or anyone else who wanted to “see Jim” for the last time, his two sisters decided to make the affair a private family matter, not open to friends.
I’m not sure why.
But I found out that he’s buried next to his mother, Irene, who passed away in the late 1970’s from Leukemia.
I miss her, too. She was a great mom for Jim.
I think her premature passing is what pushed Jim over the edge of a life of alcoholic excess.
She died way too young in terms of him needing a mother, while still a teenager, and not having a father figure in his life—Jimmy’s father was the Fire Chief in Lyons when his mom passed, but his relationship with his father wasn’t exactly “tight”, so, emotionally, he was metaphorically “orphaned”.
Yes, Jim’s father (who just happened to be the Fire Chief in town, and who also Jim was named after, as in, James Robert Spolar Senior, and Junior) was still alive when his mother died, but Jim’s parents were divorced and estranged from each other.
Although I did visit the fire station on a few occasions with Jimmy, showing that he was not exactly “estranged”, per se, from his father, their relationship was still, nevertheless, less-than-tight.
They never did a single “father-and-son” thing together throughout the entire time that I knew him.
So, up until his Freshman year in High School, the only male figures that were directly in his life on a daily basis, in his life were his cousins—who lived across the street—and male friends, of which there really was only one such person : me.
I was his best friend; and he was mine.
***h—The Memories
There was a TV show, a sitcom in the 1970’s and early 1980’s called “Barney Miller”, which revolved around the antics of New York City’s Police Department in the 12th Precinct, headed by “Captain Barney Miller”, played by actor, Hal Linden.
In their series finale, in the last five minutes of the final episode, Barney, standing in the middle of an office now completely empty of human beings (except himself, of course ), looks around the office and reminisces about the days of the past and other suspects and police officers formerly of the 12th Precinct, who did not do any series-finale cameo appearances.
They simply re-played a few chosen scenes that were the most memorable throughout the years.
After he finishes glossing over the final memory, he walks over to the door of the Detectives Squad room , opens it, steps across the threshold, takes one last look around the room, turns the light switch off, and closes the door behind himself, where the producers of the show threw up an exiting salutation , “Goodbye from the Ol’ One-Two”.
In any case, in the same way that Barney stood there silently re-living old memories, I pretty much did the same thing when I stared at Jimmy’s obituary on the monitor.
I couldn’t believe that I was staring at Jimmy’s name—in an obituary.
I actually have a screenshot of that page, but I misfiled it somewhere in my catalog of thousands and thousands of image files.
[i] Our First Cigarette
I don’t know why we chose so far away to smoke our cigarettes, but back in the summer of 1974, Jimmy and I would ride our bikes to what was called the “Old Field” in Lyons, Illinois.
The Old Field was the original baseball diamond for the local town’s little league baseball games.
It was also physically connected to a portion of a local forest preserve.
Although the town had built a new park, obviously referred to as the “New Field” ( Later named William G. Smith Park, the mayor of Lyons at that time ), there were still some games still being played out at the Old Field, but they were increasingly fewer and farther between as time went on.
In any case, our “secluded” smoking spot was approximately a mile away, as the “crow flies”, but felt more like five miles away when pedaling your Schwinn® Stingray® bikes there.
I’m not sure why we started on “menthols”, but we did.
Specifically, Kool’s®; somewhere shortly thereafter, we started go a tad lighter and went to Newports®.
Ultimately, though, we somehow made our way over to non-menthols. In this case, Marlboro®, but that wasn’t until a few years later.
But when Jim and I started smoking, we were “Kool” guys, not to mention that we were young and stupid, too.
We’d ride our bike’s to the Old Field, in the thick of the trees that visually separated the baseball diamond from the residential street, Fisherman’s Terrace, that ran alongside the park at a parallel angle.
No one could see us, as we’d take a cigarette out of the pack, and light it up with our paper matches, take a drag, cough our brains out, laugh, and say, “Cool!”.
We’d chew bubble gum—specifically Bazooka® brand—as though that hid the smell of cigarette smoke : you know, the way a breath mint fools the cops into thinking that you’ve had no alcohol to drink, after an all-nighter, swerving while driving, and a parade of slurred words when talking to the police officer, who actually feels like he’s catching a buzz from the alcohol vapors emanating from your own mouth every time you utter a slurred syllable .
A friend of a friend who was probably ten years our senior, tried to dispense a spoonful of wisdom by encouraging us to stop smoking before we really became addicted.
But did we listen?
Hell, no.
That guy was closer to an “adult” then a “kid”, so he was actually the enemy and not our “friend”.
That’s how young-and-stupid boys think and behave.
Needless to say, I ended up “quitting” smoking in 2007, when I was diagnosed with Stage 3 Esophageal Cancer with metastasized growths in my stomach, and I ended up on a gurney in an operating room where they spent the next 19 hours removing the bottom three quarters of my esophagus, the top half of my stomach, my spleen, and four lymph nodes—and where I ended up having not one, but two, heart attacks when they tried to surgically separate a portion of the esophagus from the heart muscle, as it had become fused to the heart because the radiation treatments literally “melted” the tissues together.
Nice, huh?
But I’m not going to exclaim “proudly” that I survived two heart attacks, since all that credit belongs to the two surgeons and their assistants who did 100 percent of the work.
I’m lucky; not invincible.
Now, with what’s left of the upper end of my digestive system, 100 percent recovery is not really possible; I can only deal with the post-surgical aftermath issues when I’m confronted by them : nausea ; vomiting; acid reflux; bile attacks—the last of which unleashes a “cracken” of nausea that’s much too intense to be dealt with sans medicinal assistance.
In Jim’s case, though, his cancer had spread to far more areas than mine did.
It cost him his life in January of 2018; approximately six weeks before his 55th birthday.
From what I was told, he was only in hospice for one day. That’s it!
He showed up one day, and he died the next.
I so wish I had been there for him.
From Kool to Newport to Marlboro to hospice to the casket.
He’s alive on Tuesday; he’s dead on Wednesday.
Just like that. Now you see him; now you don’t. It’s over within the blink of an eye.
[ii] Our First Beer ( and other Assorted Liquors )
Tobacco was not our only vice.
We thought we’d try booze, too; and we liked it.
Jimmy way more than me, to be sure, but I still had fun. There’s no doubt about that.
The main and huge difference between us is that I don’t think Jimmy ever passed out from drinking, whereas I did about 20 to 30 percent of the time. I really couldn’t handle my booze.
There I’d be, over in the corner of some room, totally out, either sitting up in a chair or lying down on a couch.
Not that it was a contest, per se, but simply, if the point of getting drunk or high is to enjoy the buzz, that’s kind of hard to do when you’re sleeping it off, or otherwise somehow unconscious and not experiencing anything in the woken state.
Sleeping is not the goal of substance abuse—escapism is.
Anyway.
Our first beer together was in Jim’s back yard.
They were cans, not bottles, I remember that; but I forget the brand name of the beer.
It wasn’t Stroh’s® or Old Style® or Budweiser® or Miller® or Hamm’s®, or Coors® or any of the other gigantic brands here in the Chicago area. It was more like Meister Brau® or Pabst Blue Ribbon® or Schlitz® or some other brand that wasn’t really all that popular here in Chicagoland, at least , not as far as the grocery and liquor stores I had been in at the time.
It definitely wasn’t anything that Jimmy and I actively sought out after that initial experience; if anything, we probably were proactive in avoiding that brand like a plague.
Although I preferred the “green bottle” beers ( Heinekens®, Beck’s®, Lowenbrau®, Hacker Pschorr®—i.e. the ones that have a “skunky”-like taste) my buddies preferred the American Lagers mentioned at the top of two paragraphs back.
Since we bought collectively (i.e., we all pitched in for a case or two, or a half barrell on occasion—kegger parties are awesome! ) I had to settle for what the democracy voted for, which, in most cases, was Old Style® or Stroh’s.
At the bar, when it came to domestic lagers, I’d buy pitchers of Miller® after I knew my friends were hammered enough to not notice the difference, or not care about.
I preferred Miller to Bud, Old Style or Stroh’s, and it made me feel good that I got to drink brands that I liked on occasion.
But when it came to our very first beers together, they were not of our own acquisition, per se, but rather, “borrowed” from Jim’s then step dad, who was not in the picture much longer after we started hanging out with each other.
I’d have to say that within the first 12 months of our friendship, Jim’s mom threw out her second husband, who, according to Jimmy, was a mean alcoholic who abused his Jimmy’s mom.
So, no love lost there between Irene and her kids on one side, and the departing Bob V. on the other side.
But those beers belonged to Bob.
However, Bob’s departure had zero effect on our access to six packs of beer.
Jimmy’s mom worked at the corporate headquarters of Jewel-Osco Grocery Store/Pharmacy chain in Melrose Park, Illinois, so she brought home all kinds of goodies all the time.
In fact, although not technically a “horder”, almost every inch of shelf and counter space was occupied by some cardboard box loaded to the top with things like can goods, boxes of cereal, bathroom products, and you-name-it.
She never put any of it away because there was no place to put it.
In any case, among the things Irene brought home was beer.
Specifically, Michelob®, which she drank rarely. In fact, I’m not sure why she brought it home—maybe there was a beer salesman who had a thing for Irene and he frequently “donated” multiple six packs to her. I don’t know. All I know is that Irene’s basement had stacks of Michelob® six-packs in 12-ounce bottles, just sitting on the floor, staying room temperature and never getting cold.
Until Jimmy decided they needed to be refrigerated—and then consumed : yes, by us.
Much too young, I grant you, at 11 years of age, but it just happens to be when Jimmy and I “met alcohol”.
What did we do when we drank? That is, besides drinking?
We built model cars.
We went to a long-since-departed hobby store at the tracks off Prairie Avenue in Brookfield, Illinois.
We’d each find some model that looked too cool to pass up—e.g., 1957 Chevy, 1969 Camaro Super Sport, 1970 Dodge Super Bee Charger, 67 Mustang, 1972 Chevelle SS, and all the other muscle cars of the era—buy the paints and the glue and ride our Stingrays back to Jimmy’s house from the hobby shop.
Then, we’d go back to Jimmy’s basement, put on an LP on the turntable, such as Led Zeppelin’s “II” album, or Montrose’ “Montrose” album, or Deep Purple’s “Machine Head” album—the heavier stuff.
We had a table set up in the basement with desk lamps for maximum lighting while putting together the models.
While listening to tunes, we’d drink beer and put together model cars.
Then, Jimmy’s mom bought an eight-foot slate pool table for the basement.
So, if we weren’t building models, we were shooting pool…or, swimming in his above-ground swimming pool with a finished deck in the back yard.
Moreover, Jimmy’s back yard was a metaphorical “Garden of Eden” in that it had multiple fruit trees, including an apple tree, a pear tree, and a very productive grape vine that output a ton of deep purple grapes.
No jar of grape jelly ever tasted that good as those grapes fresh off the vine.
But we’d also sit in his back yard and get drunk, too.
But, that’s an area where Jimmy and I departed in that he became an alcoholic and I didn’t.
In fact, I preferred Cannabis over alcohol—and I certainly couldn’t mix them!
No way!
One or the other was fine, but both was not do-able.
If I had consumed, say, a six pack and then smoked a joint or two with someone afterward, I was asking for trouble.
It was a crap shoot : I could either become loud and obnoxious, or so quiet and dizzy that I had to lie down for the duration of the “bed spins”, where it feels like the room is spinning, and blowing chunks onto someone’s carpet becomes a distinct possibility.
For me, it was one or the other, but not both. I couldn’t handle it.
And for that, I am grateful.
If I had been “good at drinking”, it would have been possible that I could have drifted down the same alcoholic path that Jimmy did.
I was very fortunate in that regard.
His liver was actually deemed “destroyed” by a doctor long before his lung cancer came along.
But, despite how the excess of alcoholic intake destroyed his liver, and cigarettes gave him lung cancer 44 years later, I still cherish those “firsts” moments with Jimmy.
Sometimes, I “want” to light a cigarette, sip a beer, build a model car while I listen to the songs we enjoyed in order to re-live and reminisce about those moments that remind me of….friendship : something I never had before meeting Jimmy.
[iii] Our First “Doobie”
The family of brothers that gave Jimmy his nickname ( that he detested so much that he stopped hanging out with them because he hated hearing that nickname that much ) was the same family of brothers that turned us on to our very first joint.
This family—we’ll call them the Daltons—consisted of six kids : four boys and two girls.
It was Mike, Michelle, Sue, Donny, Jerry and Billy in descending order of age.
The boys were nicknamed “Goat” ( Mike ), “Duck” ( Donny), Jerry, and “Ben” ( Billy ).
Jerry, for whatever reason, really didn’t have a nickname that stuck with him—although he had a baseball coach that called him “Rare” because the coach thought Jerry had unusually advanced baseball skills for his age.
But the name “Rare” never stuck on him the way his brothers’ seemingly zoologically-oriented nicknames stuck on them.
In any case, there wasn’t a sober mind in the house all the way down to the youngest child, “Ben”, who, himself, was only nine or ten years old, at that time, and yet, he knew the difference between pot and Lipton Tea when we tested him.
As far as who we were with when Jimmy and I smoked our first joint, it was Jerry ( the second youngest ) and Chris ( a class mate of Jim and I).
Jerry was a year older than us, in that he was in 7th Grade, whereas Chris, Jim and I were all in 6th Grade.
It was mid-autumn—still warm enough where winter clothes were still overkill for what one would need to stay warm in 50- to 65-degree temperatures, yet, cool enough, where short sleeves and no jacket would not be adequate to stay warm for the typical person.
So, there we were, in Jerry’s living room, sitting on the couch, with our windbreakers or vinyl jackets on, on a school day evening, around dusk, and we’re bored out of our skulls.
It’s not really a party night, so, it’s not like we were out to score any beer or anything like that. Just maybe play a game of pool by Jimmy’s house, and then, go hang out at the hot dog joint called “Jimmy The Greek’s”, a place where his “large” order of fries was a massive brown paper bag that had huge grease spots on them once the fries has soaked the bag with excess grease, but, man, those fries were awesome!
Undoubtedly unhealthy with all the grease that was plainly obvious—but tasty!
In any case, we were bored, and Jerry stood up out of the chair he was sitting in, and he exited through the front door, and wandered outside onto the front lawn, where there were several other people who were friends of either Duck, Goat, or the girls.
As Jerry stood up and exited, Chris stood up from the couch and followed suit, and then, Jimmy and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and figured we’d go outside, too, since that’s where everyone else seemed to be.
Standing on the front lawn, Chris leans over to Jimmy and I and said, “Hey, you guys wanna go smoke a joint?”
Again, Jimmy and I looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Sure! Why not?!”
With that, Chris looked over at Jerry, who was standing about 10 feet away talking to his brother, Duck, and motioned to him to follow us.
We started walking northbound down the sidewalk on Cracow Avenue and when we got to the corner, which was 45th Place, Jimmy’s street, we started walking eastward on 45th (which is away from Jimmy’s house ) into a tiny, middle-of-the-block park for kids, where there were bushes along the sides to help obscure the view of nearby residents who couldn’t see into the park once the bushes bloomed. Fortunately, the bush’s leaves had not yet departed for the season, and were still attached to the branches providing us with all the camouflage we needed to carry out our devious plan to smoke a joint in the darkness of the park.
It was kind of windy that evening, in that every time someone would try to light a cigarette, the wind would blow out the lighter’s flame, and you’d have to re-strike the flint and try to light the lighter over and over again until you succeeded in lighting your cigarette, bowl, joint, cigar, whatever.
So, to deal with the repeated “blowing out” of the flame, Chris suddenly stopped walking, so he could cup his hands around the lighter as he attempted to fire up the joint.
After several failed attempts, we all huddled around Chris to help him block the wind, and get that doobie going.
Flick. Flick. Puff. Puff.
Finally, we saw smoke.
Chris took the first hit, and allowed the smoke to “curl” into his nostrils as he pulled the joint away from his lips and momentarily held onto the joint, as though he was deciding whether or not he got enough of a hit and was contemplating taking in more of a “toke”, but instead, must have suddenly realized it was, if anything, too big of a hit, as his coughing fit was about to start as he passed the joint to Jerry.
Jerry did the same : he toked, he coughed, he passed the joint to Jim.
Meanwhile, prior to Jerry passing the joint to Jimmy., I watched both Chris and Jerry in their mannerisms, in the way that they held the joint, the way they “puffed” on the joint, and the like, and I got the impression that this was not their first joint.
But it was certainly ours, as I watched Jimmy fail at an attempt to “look cool” while toking on the joint—he held it and puffed on it like a cigarette, and both Chris and Jerry immediately chuckled and instructed jimmy on the proper way to hold a joint, and how to toke on it and ” hold it in” for as long as you can.
All along, as the joint was getting closer and closer for me to take my turn toking on the thing, I was starting to get a bit nervous.
About what?
Well, we had all seen the education department’s smorgasbord of anti-drug propaganda movies, and, based on the “nightmares” the movies warned us about, I was nervously wondering if I was going to suddenly find myself being rushed, in an ambulance, to a hospital due to some overdose.
Having just witnessed a front row class on the etiquette of pot-smoking, I felt a little less threatened by the possibility of looking like a geek when it came to my turn at taking a toke off the joint.
As Jimmy passed me the joint, he also took his turn at coughing up a storm.
Suddenly, there it was was : the doobie—it was in my hand.
I looked at it as tiny wisps of smoke rose off the tip of the glowing ash. Knowing that all eyes were on me as the moment of “my very first toke” was about to take place, I slowly rose the joint up to my lips and took my first “toke”, and I sucked it in, the way I watched Chris and Jerry do it.
Just as I finished inhaling, and Jimmy was still coughing hard, Jerry immediately chimed in to me, “Now, hold it in for as a long as you can!”
So, I did, for as long as I could, after passing the joint pack to Chris.
And within a few seconds, I too, had joined the chorus of “cough-ers”.
Put together, between the four of us, there was not a moment when one of us wasn’t coughing. As one person would stop coughing, another would start, in a somewhat-like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”-like fashion.
Finally, when the joint was finished, the coughing had stopped, and just the coughing alone was enough to give me a case of the “dizzies”, so, I wasn’t sure if I had “caught a buzz” as they often phrased it.
We smoked that whole joint, and although I felt different, I didn’t feel “stoned” in the sense of what I anticipated what it would be like.
As we walked back to Jerry’s house, I felt like, “What’s the big deal about pot?” I didn’t feel any different.
But…..
Once we walked back into Jerry’s living room, where there was bright lighting everywhere, everything looked different : sharper; crisper; and far more “yellow-ish” in tint.
Now, I knew something was up.
“I think I’m stoned!” was the thought in my head as I looked around the room to verify that the visuals were real and everywhere, and not being caused by some kind of weird lighting snafu or anything like that.
But something was different…and I liked it!
A lot!
I couldn’t wait until the next joint.
While we sat in Jerry’s house, one of Duck’s friends, Pat, walked in from outside to use the bathroom.
By the time he exited the bathroom, Jimmy and I were standing in the hallway, just outside the bathroom door, talking to Chris who was by the refrigerator in the kitchen, which is only like four feet, or so, from the bathroom door, and Pat tapped me on the shoulder and told me to follow him upstairs into Jerry and Duck’s bedroom.
So, I followed him; and Jimmy followed us.
As we left the last upward step, and crossing the threshold into the room, Pat explained to us that what he had was called “Columbian Gold” ( $50 per ounce ) which was better than the Mexican ( $15 per ounce ) that was common on the streets.
Jimmy and I smoked that joint of Columbian with Pat, and by the time we finished, that bedroom was a “smog fest” and we were so baked.
Jimmy and I were both smilin’ and diggin’ the buzz.
And we were both sold on the idea of getting our own bag.
But…
Even $15 ( for Mexican ) was still a lot of money to an unemployed 11-year-old in 1974, when the minimum wage was $2.65 ( maybe less—because it was $2.65 when I got my first part-time job in 1979—and this was in the late summer or autumn of 1974, so the minimum wage might have been even less, making $15 even harder to earn ) ; at that wage, $15 was slightly more than a half day’s wage.
And $50 for Columbian?
Forget it! Out of the question! That would have been a half week’s check right there.
Even for Mexican, how could we raise that kind of revenue to buy our own bag of weed?
Well, the economics of the 1970’s was a bit different than it is today, in that soft drinks were once sold in 8-packs, of 16-ounce glass bottles that could be turned in for cash once they were empty : specifically, 10 cents per bottle.
Therefore, the price for every eight-pack of bottles was 80 cents higher than the actual price of the eight-pack. It was assumed that you’d turn in the empty bottles and get your eighty cents back.
Pepsi, Coke, RC, 7 Up, etc, were all part of the program.
Pretty much all the grocery stores ( major chains and small mom-and-pop-owned stores alike) had a clerk that handled the “return-for-deposit” transactions.
The two stores in our area were :
[1] Srain’s ( later DeGeratto’s ), at Plainfield Road and First Avenue, in Lyons; and
[2] C & C, in Brookfield, on Ogden Avenue, about 10 blocks west of Srains.
Jimmy and I knew that not everyone went through the trouble to return their bottles—too much bother. we guessed.
So, they’d throw them out into the general trash.
Knowing there was a “gold mine” of bottles in the local allies, we would use this wire frame-like cart on wheels and we’d go up and down the alleys looking for those people who threw their bottles out.
A typical day would be about $8 worth of bottles, but, when we combined that $8 with our allowances, we had closer to $20, so we could score a “lid” as they called ounces back then.
Jimmy and I had a few connections that were rarely “out of stock”.
We’d score a lid, split it in half, and life was good!
11-year-olds with their own personal half ounce of weed was the norm for us from those days forward.
Later on in life—like, 20 years later—I discovered that although Jimmy would still smoke when he was around me, he told me he rarely smoked anymore, and preferred to drink than smoke.
I was completely the opposite : I preferred smoke over alcohol.
“To each, his own” as they say.
But when I’d stop by his house, or he stopped by mine, when I’d pass him the bowl, he never said “No”, so we got stoned together.
But, back in those early days, when Jimmy and I started getting stoned, we would go to a head shop on Ogden Avenue in Lyons, called “Lost Horizons” where all kinds of Cannabis-related paraphernalia (e.g. rolling papers, rolling machines, pipes, bongs, screens, containers for your stash, and even non-drug related stuff like tee-shirts, incense and black light posters ) could be legally purchased.
The “puritans” in town , marching down the street with torches and pitch forks, convinced the town government to run him and his pre-Nancy Reagan “Say Yes To Drugs!” campaign out of town!
Ron, the man who owned the business, moved into the neighboring town of Brookfield, Illinois, where, although allowed to open as a record and tee-shirt shop, was not allowed to sell paraphernalia of the Cheech and Chong type , if you know what I mean, and he dropped the word “Lost” from his company name, and he became simply “Horizons”.
So, he sold he remaining stock quietly among customers he could trust, and he initially morphed into an open-to-the-public used record store ( of which I bought many records from Ron, and they still have the oval-shaped, fluorescent-colored, “Horizons” stickers on the album covers), but ultimately went wholesale only, and not open to the public.
Then, I never saw Ron again.
Eventually the store front closed, and Horizons was history.
A huge chunk of my earlier stoner period was slowly wiped out into total oblivion!
[iv] Our First “Trip”
“Different Strokes For Different Folks” was one saying that I grew up with.
Some people like sports; some people couldn’t care less about sports.
Of those that like sports, some prefer the team sports like baseball, football, basketball, hockey, and soccer, while others prefer the more individualized sports such as Nascar racing or martial arts combat contests or marathon endurance bike rides or races, and the like.
Different strokes for different folks.
Well, the world of substance abuse is no different.
Some people are somewhat “OCD” when it comes to the discipline required to achieve certain tasks, and therefore are impressively diligent when it comes to maintaining puritan levels of conformity when it comes to guidance in the realm of things like nutrition and regular exercise, so they don’t smoke, drink, snort, shoot, use foul language or engage in any other activity they deem negative in whatever way.
Others are little more likely to let their hair down a little more often, and are fine with nicotine, caffeine, and a little alcohol.
Some people want to grow their hair “real long”, as they prefer to add a little cannabis in with the nicotine-caffeine-alcohol thing.
Some want to wear a bandana and sunglasses and explore various mindsets by going a little farther out into space, and using either “organic” mushrooms or chemical LSD as the vehicle to transport themselves to a consciousness on a completely “different plane of thought”.
Others, wanting to feel good about themselves, choose to cut their hair, and embrace the confidence-“enhancing” properties of cocaine.
Still others, like cosmic Star Trek explorers, want to actually leave the solar system, and try things like heroin.
Jimmy and I?
We were of the nicotine-alcohol-cannabis-mushrooms/LSD school of thought.
Our first trip?
It was on these tiny little orange dots called “Orange Sunshine”—literally less than an eighth of an inch in diameter.
They reminded me of that St. Joseph Aspirin for children, since they were orange and round, too.
Wow!
What a trip!
We laughed for hours!…and hours…..and hours…and hours!
We smiled so much, that my facial muscles were actually sore from smiling so much.
Even when we weren’t actively laughing, we were still wearing that stupid shit-eatin’ grin on our faces.
We didn’t even realize we were smiling.
At the end of the night, when we were all coming down from our trips, we couldn’t believe how sore our faces and jaws were—our faces because of the non-stop smiling and top-of-our-lungs laughter, and our jaws from subconsciously grinding our teeth, a by-product or side effect of the amphetamine-like “speed” of the drug’s recipe.
{001} Our Best Trip
But our absolute best trip together was on the exact same stuff in the color of purple, as it was called “purple microdot”.
I’ll never forget that day.
I can even remember many of the songs that were played on the radio that day: The Atlanta Rhythm Section’s “So Into You”; pretty much all the songs on both of Fleetwood Mac’s albums, “Rumors” and “Fleetwood Mac”; The Eagles “Hotel California” and “New Kid In Town”; Manfred Mann’s Earth Band’s , “Blinded By The LIght”; Peter Frampton’s “Do You feel Like We Do?”; and Al Stewart’s “Year Of the Car”.
I just don’t remember if we were listening to WMET or WDHF. Either way, I could live that day over again. That was an awesome day!
We had gotten so lucky in that the weather was not only warm, it was spot-on perfect—all day and into the evening.
Our little group that day consisted of five of us—Chris, Jim, another classmate named Dave, Albert—a neighborhood kid who went to Saint Barbara’s Catholic School in Brookfield), and, of course, yours truly.
We all gathered at Dave’s house, which had been our main nightly hangout for approximately a year.
His house had a rather large recreation room built onto the back of it, with a concrete patio and a picnic table just outside the back door of the rec room. His back yard was long enough to play frisbee!
We showed up to Dave’s house around 9:00 AM, because we knew the trips would last all day long, and we wanted to be coming down before midnight, otherwise, we’d still be up at 5:00 AM, if we didn’t start tripping until, say, mid-afternoon, or anywhere in that general time of the day, or later.
Anyway, we were all sitting around the picnic table by 9:00 AM and just itchin’ to drop those dots.
Like a football team, we huddled around in a tight circle, and fired up, not one, but two big fat joints ( smoked consecutively, not concurrently ) while we discussed our totally impromptu itinerary, and how we were hoping the upcoming events would unfold, in what sequence, and other considerations.
It was during this discussion period that we took out our tiny “Purple Microdots” and put them on the tips of our fingers, then our tongues, and then realized it was just a matter of time for the trips to kick in and we could enjoy the ride.
As usual, we arranged for the acquisition of alcoholic beverages ( in this case, two cases of Old Style®, 12-ounce cans ) the night before, but….
Our connection hadn’t yet shown up to drop off the goods. So, for the following two or three hours, we were beer-less—although it has to be pointed out that it was, after all, only nine O’Clock in the morning; so, we weren’t exactly writhing in pain “jonesin’ for alcohol”…yet.
Approximately three or four days earlier, I had purchased a pipe with a bowl that was carved out of “Turkish Stone” which changes color when you smoke out of the bowl—the heat, apparently, somehow triggers the “stone” to change colors when it’s exposed to the high temperatures coming from the flames of the lighter or matches one uses to ignite the leafy cannabis inside the bowl.
Oh, and you’re not supposed to touch the bowl with your fingers, instead holding it only by the mouthpiece and main tube.
Evidently, the oils on human skin have a negative effect on the stone’s ability to produce the reaction it’s popular for producing.
Moreover, the stone was carved into the shape of the head of a sea captain—complete with captain’s hat, and his own tiny pipe sticking out of his mouth.
It was a cool looking pipe; that’s why I bought it.
But…
Like an idiot, I forgot it at home that day, and, being a 13-year-old without a car or even a drivers license, I certainly wasn’t going to go all the way home to go get it, since we had plenty of other common pipes we could use for the day.
Yes, it would have been nice to have it as a conversation piece, but it was, after all, a luxury, not a necessity. Plus, it’s likely it could have ended up getting broken. So, perhaps it was a blessing-in-disguise when I accidentally left it at home that day.
Of course, though, Jimmy did bring it up in conversation.
“Floyd bought this super-cool pipe! You dudes really gotta see this thing!” he exclaimed to everyone getting them all excited, “It changes color when you smoke out of it. It is so fuckin’ cool, man! You gotta see it!”
“Where is it?” Albert inquired.
“Captain Forgetful here, probably left it at home, didn’t ya’?” Jimmy asked knowing me like the back of his hand.
“Uh, yeah.” I confessed, all embarrassed, mocking shame by staring down at the ground.
“Figures.” Jimmy added, with a slight chuckle as he shook his head in amusement at my forgetfulness.
Lacking any beverages of any kind, Dave decided to rob a six pack of soda from the kitchen refrigerator, and brought it out to distribute among the thirsty, which consisted of all of us, given our cannabis-induced, dry “cottonmouth”.
To get things going, Chris, Jim and Albert spread out into the yard to start tossing the frisbee around.
Dave went back into the house for something, while I remained sitting on the picnic bench, all by my lonesome self, filling another bowl, since I wanted to be nice and baked when the microdot started to take effect.
An interesting side note about tripping, is that time seems to fly by—what might literally seem like only 10 or 20 minutes, can easily be a two or three-hour time frame.
That’s exactly what happened here. What seemed like only 15 minutes was actually about an hour’s time.
From the moment Dave went into the house and the other three went to toss the frisbee, I smoked a cigarette, took a hit of weed, then a sip of my soda, and I repeated the process a few times and I probably smoked about three or four cigarettes by the time the trips were kicking in.
My behavior was certainly beginning to show signs of the drug’s influence on my psyche.
_____{aa}”Captain Cloud“______
For starters, when Jimmy brought up the subject of my pipe, an hour earlier, that subject, for whatever reasons, never left my mind sub-consciously.
Every time I’d look down at the pipe I was smoking out of ( which was a typical metal bowl with a 90-degree elbow, connected to main tube that was about the size of 3/8″ tubing approximately two inches long ), I kept thinking about my “Captain” pipe.
Then…
I looked up into the sky, and saw a group of big billowy fluffy white clouds floating by in the distance, and one of the clouds looked exactly like my Captain pipe, complete with the Captain’s face, hat and mini-pipe, and the whole shebang!
Then, the Captain’s face on the cloud came alive, smiled, and winked at me.
“Whoa!” I thought to myself as I couldn’t believe what I just saw.
I looked over at the guys to see if they saw it, but they weren’t paying attention, as they were preoccupied tossing the frisbee back and forth.
I realized that no one else saw it.
Wow! What a vision!
I’ll never forget that sight.
Not only that, but I also noticed that Dave was also out there tossing the frisbee around, as well.
I saw him go into the house, but I never saw him come out.
“How did he get out of the house without me seeing him walk by?” I wondered to myself, since Dave was a monster in terms of size—over six foot tall, and easily in the mid-200’s in weight.
That would be like not seeing Sasquatch walk by.
“And…how much time has passed since Dave went into the house?” was another question I pondered.
“Was I that oblivious to my surroundings?” I silently wondered to myself. “That he walked right by me, and I didn’t even notice? Or, that an hour’s time has passed, and not a mere five minutes.”
_{ab}The Conversation With “Myself”
Despite the fact that all four of them were too far away for them to hear me talking to them, I nonetheless carried on a conversation with them as though they “could” hear me.
“Wow! I can’t believe you guys didn’t see that!” I exclaimed in what I thought was an emphasized tone of voice, when it was actually closer to a soft-spoken mumble, which, obviously could not be heard from five feet away, much less 30 or 40 feet away, where the nearest person was standing.
While I was “telling the guys” what I just saw, Dave’s older sister, Donna, was upstairs on the second floor, in her bedroom, looking out her window, watching me talk to myself.
Technically, she couldn’t hear my voice, but she saw my hands and lips moving, as though I was having a conversation with someone—but, as far as she was concerned, there was no one there listening, with the other four out in the yard, too far away to hear a normal voice, much less a quiet one.
She sat there, watching me carry on, and after about a minute, or so, she finally stuck her head out her bedroom window, and said to me, “Who you talking to, Floyd?”
As buzzed as I was, I knew that her voice was not a hallucination, and, in fact, I knew where it was coming from, even before I looked, simply because she had stuck her head out that very same window countless times before, so I just looked over my shoulder, and upward, toward Donna in the second-floor window, and replied, while pointing at them playing frisbee in the yard, “Dave and them.”
“What?” she repeated, not actually hearing what I said.
“Dave and them.” I repeatedly mumbled, as I re-pointed my finger at them.
“They can’t hear you from there!” she pointed out. “Hell! I can’t hear you from there, and I’m, what, fifteen feet away? And they’re double that! I think you’re gonna need to speak louder, or walk over closer to them, so they can hear you.”
I remember looking over at them and thinking that it was way too much energy to talk any louder than I was already talking.
I wasn’t going to repeat any of it.
“It was my hallucination, and I guess I was never going to be able to share the experience with any of my other four companions.
_______{ac} The Death
The most “ominous” moment of that day, was later on in the early afternoon, when we were on our second round of non-stop frisbee throwing, by which time, I had joined the fun, and suddenly, we heard the slowly-getting-louder-and-closer sirens of what turned out to be an ambulance.
Next door to Dave’s house, was this hundred-year-old, tiny, one-bedroom, late-1800’s, wood-frame house on a slab that a woman easily in her mid-eighties, if not nineties, lived.
We’re not sure who called the ambulance, but for whatever reason, when the ambulance pulled up in front of the house, on the street, they must have discovered some seemingly insurmountable obstacles, because they ended up pulling around to the alley and coming into her house, via the back door, as there was a sidewalk that led directly from her back door, out to the alley.
So, they parked in the alley, and with the rehearsed smoothness of pros who’ve done this hundreds, if not thousands, of times before, the back door of the ambulance swung open and the gurney was wheeled out with the rapidity of a pit stop at a Nascar race, and within seconds, the two paramedics were halfway down her sidewalk en route to her back door.
Of course, with morbid curiosity, we all stopped doing what we were doing in a “gaper’s block” of sorts, as we watched the two EMT’s open the back door and enter into the house.
We all looked at each other, and slowly got back into the groove of tossing the frisbee around.
A side note about the property next door : not only was the house a shambles, just waiting for a village declaration to condemn the property and clear the way for new new development of that particular plot of land, but even the fence was long since past it’s “last leg”. One good wind storm, and that fence should be laying flat on the ground.
Portions of the fence were missing, and of those that remained, none of the fence posts were plumb—leaning on 70-degree angles.
I any case, a few minutes after the moment when the EMT’s entered the house, and we went back to tossing the frisbee back and forth to each other, the back door opened, and the EMT’s were about to emerge with the woman on a gurney, prepped for transport to the nearest hospital.
Or, so we thought.
Instead, and unfortunately, for everyone involved, at the very same moment the EMT’s were emerging from the doorway, the frisbee accidentally flew into the woman’s yard, and Dave dove for the frisbee and as he leaned against the fence, the entire section he bumped into collapsed, and Dave fell crashing to the ground as the frisbee continued on un-intercepted into the woman’s yard.
But, like I said, when Dave clumsily fell to the ground, we all busted a gut laughing at the tops of our lungs.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” every one of us laughed as we pointed at Dave, having comically gone horizontal on us.
I’m talking real hard belly laughs that keep you trying to catch your breath.
While we’re laughing and having the time of our lives, the EMT’s came out of the house with the woman……..completely covered—head included.
She was dead.
But here we are laughing like we just saw a funniest skit ever on one of our favorite TV shows.
“Aw, man! That was so wrong!” I kept thinking to myself a day, or so, later,after the fact, when we weren’t dosing on trips. “Those EMT’s must have thought we were the worst human beings on the planet!…Laughing at dead old ladies. No class, whatsoever.”
Of course, the EMT’s have no idea that we were not laughing at the dead lady, but rather at a 280-pound Goliath we call Dave who humorously collapsed a 100-year-old fence.
To this day, I wish I knew who those EMT’s were, so we could explain to them that we were not laughing at the dead lady.
Just bad timing all around.
But it is what it is, and we can’t change the past.
But that was gut-bustingly funny when Dave collapsed that fence.
_{ad} Digging The Hole In The Woods
We culminated our ever-changing, impromptu-based agenda by attempting ( but not completing) the digging of a huge hole in the woods that we could use as our private party spot—underground!
Yes, we were dreamers!
Not very smart or realistic dreamers, but dreamers nonetheless.
We all got a bunch of shovels from our houses, and we went to the northwest corner of First and Ogden Avenues, where we dug a hole approximately 15 feet long, six feet wide, and only about four feet deep—we were shooting for 6-feet-deep or better, so people could stand up once inside our boy-made cave.
But we were only at about 4 deet of depth—and we were exhausted, hot, sweaty, sticky, filthy, and all things unpleasant.
Even if we did put a piece of plywood over the top, to create a roof, we would not be able to stand up. We were too tall for a four-foot tall space. Plus, we hadn’t considered various other engineering aspects of how to keep water from seeping into our boy-cave; if water did get in, how would we drain it, since the lack of sunlight with a “roof” over it would prevent the water and moisture from evaporating, in which case, sickness-causing mold and mildew would engulf the interior. Animal feces and other odors would likely be unbearably present.
There were a lot of things we hadn’t thought all the way through.
Then again, we weren’t expected to : we were stoned teens on LSD.
Moreover, it was getting dark, and we were starting to come down off our trips, and all the things we deemed “entertaining” just a few short hours prior, were no longer on the interest list, and we were getting close to that point where we all just wanted to call it a day, and go home and relax until we fell asleep.
So, we stopped at those dimensions, and without yet having reached that realization that there was much more to be done if we really wanted to have our own, secluded, hangout, we actually had the genuine intention to return and finish digging the hole to a depth that would make standing up possible.
But, before actually doing so, we had our little epiphany of just how pointless our little idea was, especially given our erroneous assumption that just digging the hole would accomplish our dream of having an established hangout that no one else would know about.
Once we realized our foolishness, we never did return to finish the job.
But, within two days of digging it, Jimmy and I returned to see what we had done, only to discover that other unknown fellow party-goers discovered our excavation site, and decided to build a fire and throw empty beer bottles in it.
We really didn’t want to clean that up.
We were done with the project.
We left our shovels there, only to end up rusting in the elements.
Well, they were actually our parents’ shovels, but that ‘s another story for another time.
Kids!
I think Jimmy and I tripped together only a handful of times before we went through our first “separation”—which was the longest one : approximately 15 years from circa 1978 to 1992.
Come to think of it, we never tripped together again, since by the time we reunited in 1992, Jimmy had long since been finished with tripping since the mid-1980’s when he first lost his drivers license to a D.W.I [ Driving While Intoxicated ].
But, I’ll never forget the trips we had together, though.
Jimmy eventually toned down the cannabis and tripping, but maintained a steady diet of cigarettes and beer.
Me?
I was a nicotine-cannabis-mushrooms/LSD fan.
The only real overlap was nicotine; but cigarettes aren’t a party drug, so, they didn’t count.
That left Jimmy and I with nothing left in common in terms of substance abuse.
Well, we did both play the guitar, but Jimmy really liked the simplicity of the blues, whereas I preferred the ever-changing complexities and nuances of progressive rock ( e.g., King Crimson ), classic rock ( Led Zeppelin, The Beatles), Southern Rock ( Marshall Tucker, Skynrd, The Allman Brothers), Art Rock ( Jethro Tull, Supertramp) and acoustic folk rock ( America, Jim Croce, Simon and Garfunkel ), anything, but not—definitely not!—three-chord garage rock.
I also absolutely hated punk rock and new wave, while Jimmy seemed to be completely OK with both.
There were other differences, too, but before we learned of our differences and where we disagreed, we first discovered our similarities and where we agreed.
While we were in this state of ” agreement”, we were listening to Zeppelin, Montrose, REO Live, Frank Zappa, and other bands that normally didn’t get any real radio play (Zeppelin excluded, of course).
Whether we were shooting a game of pool or swimming in the swimming pool we tended to agree on what to listen to.
[v] The Lilac Bushes and My Knee Injury
In another post I wrote about a house I grew up in where I made my first friends.
In that post, I discuss these huge lilac bushes that used to “hide” the house from street view, and gave us a degree of privacy that I really enjoyed. Unfortunately, for whatever reasons, my dad decided to pull the bushes out with a front loader and a set of chains.
Prior to that day—much prior ; as in six to eight weeks prior—Jimmy and I had planned an all-day event consisting of riding our Schwinn Stingrays® on the bike trails in the woods on 47th street just east of Harlem Avenue.
I forget what was so special about that particular weekend, but our event was planned specifically for it.
As the weeks went by and the week of that special weekend approached, we rode our bikes around our own neighborhood, planning what kinds of maneuvers we were going to try in the realm of riding up and down ridiculously steep hills, and crazy “jump attempts” across various daring and challenging paths.
Well, at the very last moment, on that very same morning of the bike trip, around 9:00 AM, I was just outside our back door, getting ready to leave for jimmy’s house, when my dad informed me he had a friend with a front loader coming over to help tear out that precious row of monster-sized, privacy-ensuring lilac bushes, that I loved so much.
And I’m thinking, “And this concerns me, why?” as I began to nervously worry that my long-since-arranged plans could possibly be under threat if he’s about to tell me what I think he’s gonna tell me.”
As sure as a pile of shit stinks, he told me that he needed me to help him and his friend pull the bushes out.
Again, I’m thinking, “Help? How? His friend operates the front loader, and my dad ties the chains around the bushes. What am I going to do? Be a mere spectator?”
I was a naughty boy. I ended up sneaking out the back door and cutting through the yard of the neighbor behind us.
I rode to Jimmy’s house, and then we went to the woods to ride our bikes.
Of course, the story doesn’t stop there.
Nah, no happy endings here!
Approximately two hours, or so, into our little “Evel Knieval” act, We decided to take this one hill—downhill. It was pretty steep.
Jimmy went down first and wiped out about three-fourths of the way down, sliding on his left side, the remaining quarter of the way.
When he came to a stop, he stood up with a big smile on his face, and realized that he had no cuts, no bumps, no bruises, no broken bones.
He got back on his bike, and went onward to the next challenge.
When I went down, my front tire caught a pretty thick tree root sticking out of the ground, and by the time I saw it, there was no way to avoid it and I ended up doing an airborne somersault and landing a few feet away from where my bike landed.
Like Jimmy, no injuries.
Or so, I thought—at least, for the next two or three minutes or so.
We both got back on our bikes and rode back up to the main path.
When we got back on level ground, we came to a stop to discuss which daredevil stunt we were going to pull off next…and, of course, light a cigarette, because that’s what “cool” kids do.
While standing there, I suddenly felt “liquid” rolling down my right shin, under the pant leg of my jeans.
“Hold on, man.” I said as I bent over to roll up my right pant leg, to investigate the mystery fluid running down my leg.
Halfway up toward my knee, I saw smeared blood on my shin.
I didn’t feel any pain, like a cut or anything like that.
But, as I rolled up my pant leg yet even further, there it was, just below the knee cap, a gash approximately one inch long, and deep enough to keep it bleeding for a while.
“Dude! You’re cut!” Jimmy said as he watched me dab the running blood with the cuff of my pant leg.
“Yeah, I see that.” I replied as I slowly let the cuff back down and stood straight up. “Wow! I never felt anything.
“That’s gonna need stitches, man, that’s fer sure.” Jimmy said shaking his head.
“Yeah, I gotta do somethin’ to stop that bleedin’.” I added, as I looked around my immediate vicinity on the ground to see if there was anything I could use as a tourniquet.
“Let’s just go to the fire house!” Jimmy enthusiastically suggested . “My dad’ll have one of the EMT’s stitch you up right there in the station!”
It sounded like it was worth a shot to me. It was only about 12 blocks from he trails to the fire station.
So, we rode our bikes the distance, figuring I wasn’t bleeding bad enough to “bleed out” during the bike ride to the station.
As we arrived in front of the station, we rode straight into one of the wide open overhead doors, and Jimmy went straight to his dad’s office, and told him the story that I cut my knee open, and needed stitches, and asked if he’d have one of the paramedics stitch me up.
Jim’s dad came over to the overhead door where I was sitting on my bike, and he took a look at my injury, and decided that my own parents needed to take me to the hospital for stitches.
So, Jim’s dad, called a friend of his—a Lyons police officer—to give me a ride home.
Just what I needed : to be brought home in a police car, after splitting on my dad when he was pulling the bushes out.
Yep. I was hoping to sneak back in through the back door, but no, instead, I’m going to be delivered via a squad car—just the kind of grand entrance I was hoping for.
They threw my bike in the trunk of the squad car, and since I was bleeding, they put me in the back seat of the squad car.
Jimmy stayed at the fire station with his dad, the Fire Chief.
As we pulled up in front of my house, the squad car pulled into our driveway, and there was my dad, standing next to one of the last bushes to get pulled, and he’s looking at the car, wondering who’s going to emerge from the car.
Since the rear doors on a police car don’t open from the inside, the officer had to get out of his seat, come around to the rear passenger door and let me out of the car; then, he popped the trunk open and retrieved my bike for me, at which point, I saw the anger in my dad’s face, when he saw the son that skipped out on impromptu chores to go have some long-planned fun, returning home like the prodigal son I was.
Needless to say, I was grounded for some time—well, officially, anyway, which was like a month. But, in actuality, it lasted maybe two weeks, if that.
In our house, doing house chores was extra credit toward early parole when grounded for transgressions, and when there’s nothing else to do when grounded, you might as well kiss ass and get an early release!
In any case, my dad had my mom take me to Lagrange Community Hospital for stitches, and when I got home from that, I got “The Lecture”.
[vi] The Big Bust At The Woods
Another infamous moment in our time together…
One of the forest preserves that we congregated in frequently was “Plank Road Meadow” which is at the northeast corner of First and Ogden Avenues in Lyons.
Our little corner of the woods was called, “Tableau”, a relatively secluded area with picnic tables.
This particular grove was really tiny : less than a thousand feet of pavement, with a boat launching site.
Because of its tiny size, it rarely had more than a dozen people in the grove at any given time.
Ironically, there were easily 60 to 70 parking spaces—more spaces than the actual number of people ever expected to be present at any one given time.
There was never, say, a group of 50 or a hundred people present. It just didn’t happen.
With the exception of “Critter Brother Saturdays”.
What were Critter Brother Saturdays?
It was a sadly short-lived regular gathering of “hippie” types to play 16″ softball.
During the summer months, all the “long-haired” stoner types in the age group between upper teens and mid-20’s gathered to play softball—weather permitting, of course. .
There’d be approximately 30 to 40 of them ( spouses/partners included ) barbequing, drinking, smoking, playing softball, and what-not.
Well, this particular Saturday included not only the Critter Brother crowd, but a whole lot more people, as the weather was just somehow so perfect that day.
We got to the woods, fairly early, around 10:00 AM, to make sure our group got a bench to call home base.
By noon, the grove already had way more people than it ever had.
This was not normal.
Welcomed, yes; but expected, never.
In fact, there were so many people in the grove that day, that the number of cars present had surpassed the grove’s parking capacity, and people were parking across the street in the parking lots of two taverns, plus they were parking all along the edges of Plainfield Road between First Avenue and Ogden Avenue.
Normally, forest preserves close at sundown, which, at that time of the year, is around 9:00 PM.
It was still mid-afternoon, so we had plenty of time left before having to vacate the woods.
Or, so we thought.
The absolute rarity of a gathering this size at this grove was so unusual and unheard of, that when a Cook County Forest Preserve cop was driving by the woods, he must’ve done a “WTF”? double-take, and thought, “Maybe I should pull into the grove and find out what all the excitement is about!”
So, he did.
He slowly pulled into the grove and realized that there wasn’t even a single parking spot for him to park in; in fact, he would have to drive all the way to the boat launch to turn around.
But he never went that far.
Instead, he pulled about halfway into the grove, and came to a complete stop behind some other parked cars, who would now not be able to leave unless the cop moved his squad car.
He stayed parked in that spot for quite some time, with all his windows up—whether for protection or for the purposes of enjoying some air conditioning, is unclear.
I only remember watching closely as he sat parked in that spot, presumably observing all the activities he was surrounded by.
I was easily a couple hundred feet away from the squad car, and obscured by dozens of people standing between the squad car and myself.
Not that I was wanted by the law, or anything like that, but rather, I was under age, and the beer in my hand could possibly cause me some problems if an authority figure inquired about its presence in my hand.
Plus, having weed in my pocket certainly added to the paranoia of being in the vicinity of a nearby cop.
Anyway, during that time of no visible activity on the officer’s part, I assume he was probably on the radio talking to a supervisor via radio and saying something along the lines of, “Yeah, uh, I’m at Plank Road Meadow, which normally has abound zero to 20 people total, but today has easily a couple hundred people. In fact, there’s not even a single parking spot for me to park in or turn around in. This is a lot of people! What do you want me to do? Let it go, and come back at normal shutdown time? Or do you want me to disperse the crowd now? I mean, it’s only like four P.M. now, and closing time isn’t for another four or five hours. But, something this huge could snowball into something unmanageable a few hours from now…”
Whether it was at the officer’s own discretion, or a direct order from a superior officer, the decision ultimately ended up being to close the grove early.
So, approximately 10 to 15 minutes after he parked idly, the officer got onto the squad car’s p.a. speaker and announced, “Attention everyone! The woods are now closed. Please gather your things and disperse immediately.”
Apparently, some disgruntled drunk asshole about three or four crowds away from us, decided to zing an empty beer bottle at the squad car’s windshield.
Bad move!
The officer immediately backed up his car to the grove’s entrance, turned on his lights, and blocked the entrance to the grove, so that no one could enter or leave the grove, as he called for backup.
Within seconds, we could hear the sounds of more and more sirens getting louder as they were getting closer.
And boy, did backup come : it wasn’t just Forest Preserve police, but pretty much every available local municipal cop, as well—Lyons, Brookfield, Riverside, North Riverside, LaGrange, Countryside, regular Cook County police, state police.
Pretty much everybody and his brother was there in the realm of law enforcement.
A few of us lucky ones, however, who were from the immediate area were fortunate enough to have arrived on foot, and thus, were not “trapped” by a parked car in the grove.
Nope. We were free to leave.
Well, free to escape, anway.
So, we ran as fast as we could across the prairie to get onto the other side of First Avenue, away from all the commotion.
There was a strip joint, called Michael’s Magic Touch, on the northwest corner of First and Ogden Avenues, back then, and we stood in the parking lot and watched the events unfold as dozens of squad cars from countless local towns showed up to lend a hand in the mass arrest operation .
Even a friend of ours, John, realized that he had inadvertently left his bag of weed on the picnic bench, when he ran in fear with the rest of the crowd that also dispersed in fear of the approaching convoy of cops.
He decided to take a chance and go back into the chaos to retrieve his stash.
He succeeded, yes, but he also claimed that he got hit in the head by a flying maglite that an officer tossed at his head as he was spotted retrieving his baggie from the table, then, sprinted when he realized he was being pursued.
Ah, the memories.
[vii] The First Avenue Quarry—Coke Bottles and Trespassing
Directly across the street from those very same woods, was a quarry.
Jimmy and I would, on occasion, walk along the quarry on First Avenue, and we’d find empty soda bottles that litterbugs zinged out their car windows while driving down First Avenue.
Since those were returnable bottles, we’d normally save them for turning in for the deposit money, but occasionally, out of idle curiosity, we’d toss them over the fence of the quarry just to see if they’d break once they hit the ground 600 feet below street level.
Amazingly, many of those Coke, Pepsi and RC Cola bottles did not break or shatter when they landed. You couldn’t hear them hit the ground, but you could see them bounce instead of breaking.
We also broke into the quarry one evening after sundown, just to see all the stuff going on inside.
Yes, we were tripping.
There was a point in the chain link fence alongside the Ogden avenue section, where the fence was not tied to the post with tie wire, and all you had to do to get in, was pull the fence away from the post and crawl under the fence—which we all did .
It was Jerry, Chris, Jimmy and I.
Once we were on the other side of the chain link fence, we had to find a starting point on how to get to the bottom of the quarry.
There was this gravel road that “S”-shaped it’s way to the floor of the quarry. We walked that road. It took us over an hour to walk the entire distance.
It was so cool down there, though.
It was deafeningly quiet down there. If there was an explosion at ground level, I’m not quite sure that we would hear it.
The environment was so unique to me, that I thought the quarry would be a great place to film an “other worldly”-like movie, such as a “Planet of the Apes” type of sci-fi flick.
III—The Post-Jimmy Years
Wow! The list of memories I could reminisce over in detail is seemingly infinite.
Every time we’d see each other, it was like a reunion of brothers.
What gets me about life is that there are no grand pronouncements of particular “milestone”, especially the “last-time-we-were-together” moments that we all would have treated differently had we been told that “this was the very last time that we’d all be together, so, make the very best of it, and let each one of them know what they all meant to you—because you’ll never have a chance like this ever again. Mark it on your calendar for all future posterity : July 19th, or August 31st, or whatever that magic date is where the “last time” occurred.
On the lighter side of “last moments” would be the last Christmas visit you got from your parents before they both died on you in a year’s time, and they would never again be sitting in your living room, nor you in theirs.
On the darker side of that same “last time” theme, would be the drunk friend who left your party at 2:00 AM, and ended up getting killed in a car wreck on the way home.
In both cases, the people who were there and left, never again returned to visit again, and that last time was the very last time—only, you didn’t realize it at that time.
“Now you see them : now, you don’t—and you will never again.”
If only you could have announced your appreciation for their presence in your life, on that day. But you didn’t. You didn’t realize the significance of this very last visit.
From having our little fist fight at Ehlert Park to our first cigarette, beer, doobie and acid trip, to discussing which girls we had a crush on, and going from grade school to high school, I’d love to live all those moments over again, but the main difference this time is that I would pay special attention to our very last day together, and make sure I gave him the tightest handshake and bear hug, to convey just how important he was to me in my life growing up.
It was only four years, but we lived a lifetime in that span of time.
We even tried to pick up where we left off two times, but, in both cases, life somehow got in the way.
This is the house where my first and only “Best Friend” was formed.
Lots of positive memories associated with that house.
And it all started with Jim : James Robert Spolar, ( RIP , March 1963 – January 2018 ).
8650 W. 44th Place, Lyons, Illinois 60534
Without Jimmy to talk to, I might be able to take a ride past the house I grew up making friends in; but wait! Nah, that won’t work, that house was taken down in the early 1980’s—even the two Rank brothers who lived next door, are deceased.
Jim’s gone; my old house is gone. In fact, my roots are gone.
There’s nothing left, except my memories of both.
So, if you can hear me, Jimmy, this song is for you.
