The wind roared up from the beach surrounding my cabin. The pine paneling was creaking and the windows were rattling. I was laying in bed detoxing from a drinking binge, and after three days of not using I thought i was pretty much over the hump; no more vomiting, shaking, cold spells, flop sweats or hot flashes. My equilibrium seemed to be restored and i could make it to the refrigerator and back without falling over. I'd taken a handfull of Valerian root tablets to help me sleep, but they hadn't.
I don't know how long i lay there, or what time it was when I became aware that there were hillbillies in my bathroom. I heard their voices first; a man and a woman talking illiterate style. Blood rushed from heart to my brain and my veins filled with adrenaline. I was terrified.
The bathroom door was door was parallel to the bed on my right side; it was open wide and light was coming out. I didn't want to move and draw attention to myself. I wanted them to think I was asleep and no bother. But I also needed to see who these people were. I turned my head slowly so I could see into the bathroom. There was a woman in baggy clothes sitting on the toilet, using it as a seat. She had stringy brown hair and was talking to a big tall man with long hair and a beard. This man had a roll of duct tape, and was doing something with it to a kid who I couldn't get a good look at he was partially hidden in a sort of alcove behind the door.
I kept my eyes closed and stared at the ceiling, afraid I'd catch their eye. I don't know how long I lay like this, but it seemed like forever.
At one point I realized that the man had a gun, I heard him say, "Lets kill 'em both,” and knew he meant me. I jumped out of bed and ran outside. My feet were bare and I was wearing pajamas. The driveway was thick with ice and crusted snow. It was so slippery i couldn't stay up right. I started crawling towards my nearest neighbor. His cabin was only about fifty feet away, but it seemed to take forever, the whole time I thought the hillbilly was right behind me.
I didn't know my neighbor although he was what i considered a regular guy. I doubted that he'd ever been confronted with a situation like the one I was presenting him with, but he handled it well. I was sprawled out on his porch, banging on the bottom of his door, my voice was almost gone but I managed to get across that someone was being killed, and please call 911. He ran inside grabbed a coat and let me into his truck, explaining that he couldn't let me in his house cause he didn't know me.
I sat in the truck shaking from fear or cold I wasn't sure. Repeating pleasepleaseplease over and over to myself. I was sure the hillbilly would appear any minute. One after the other three cop cars pulled into the driveway, lights flashing. In the instant they appeared I knew that no one was in my house, I had imagined the whole thing, and that had to mean i was insane.
A couple of the cops ran into the cabin, my landlord had come out of the main house and he and my neighbor were talking to the others. A lady cop came over and and helped me into the back of one of the cruisers. I was still shaking and she turned the heat up.
The cops came over from the cabin and told me it was empty. I wanted to go back and lie down, but they were adament that I go to the hospital. I hadn't realized that my hands and feet were cut up from the ice, and covered with blood.
At the hospital they took some blood, and I talked to a psychiatrist for about twenty minutes. She told me that I wasn't crazy, I was detoxing, complicated by lack of sleep, and the Valerian root, which apparently can bring on psychotic episodes. I can't say this knowledge made me happy, but I felt some relief that i didn't have to continue life with the extra baggage of being nuts.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
a theme emerges
Wreck of the month
As a kid I would build complicated roadways in the sand and dirt under a huge five-trunked Weeping Willow near our house. My collection of HotWheels, Corgi, and Matchbox cars would barely hit the the streets before there'd be a violent pile-up, usually resulting in flames. Imaginary drivers and passengers who occupied cars with functional doors would run off, the others had no escape route and were imaginarily mangled or burned alive, screaming for help!
My friends and I also liked to hang around a gas station that had a new totaled car on display every month. We loved the smell of gas and would get nauseous inhaling the nearby fumes as we inspected the crumpled cars. Usually these cars were set up as warnings against teen drinking and driving. These tableau didn't scare us. We were intrigued by the drama and violence the twisted steel and smashed glass hinted at. The degree of damage and amount of blood and trash inside always told us a story. Aside from underage drinking teen sex was always a key ingredient. (Another one of our pastimes was rousting half-naked teenagers doing whatever they were doing down the beach from our house. The boys would always chase us, pulling up their shorts, threatening our deaths) We'd work up a scenario on the way home from the garage only to come back the next day because one of us would insist they had seen some bit of evidence that the others hadn't noticed. Was that a trace of blood on the tire iron, or just rust?
The hazardous roadways I built under the willow during the day rarely made it through the night, flattened by the passed out bodies of the bums that hung out there after dark and drank. They always left behind wine bottles and small label-less tins that I learned contained Sterno. She told me not to touch them that it was poison. I'd been using them as substructure for my highways and ignored her warning.
Beach House
We had a canvas tent that my brother, sister, and I slept in sometimes. It was set up at the edge of where the grass met sand. Our mother called it The Beach House. One night as we lay on our sleeping bags waiting to sleep, a flashlight beam started darting around the wall that separated us from the lawn that led up to the house, someone was coming. We sat up on our elbows waiting to see what was up. The front flap opened revealing mother in a nightgown. She had a big knife that she waved around, motioning for us to follow her. As we left the beach the driveway filled with cop cars, and the officers took off towards the willow. We tried to malinger and see what was going on but mother hustled us up to the house.
The next day we found out a bum had killed another bum, stabbed him. We were banned from going to the tree, but overwhelmed by curiosity, we went. We hoped for evidence, blood splatter, ripped clothing, we didn't know. We wanted anything that would reveal the details of what happened cause no one was telling us. My streets were trampled of course, but evidence-wise there was nothing, not even the usual discarded Sterno cans. I suppose we expected what the wrecks-of the-month provided, a story. I checked the paper for a few days but there was nothing.
As a kid I would build complicated roadways in the sand and dirt under a huge five-trunked Weeping Willow near our house. My collection of HotWheels, Corgi, and Matchbox cars would barely hit the the streets before there'd be a violent pile-up, usually resulting in flames. Imaginary drivers and passengers who occupied cars with functional doors would run off, the others had no escape route and were imaginarily mangled or burned alive, screaming for help!
My friends and I also liked to hang around a gas station that had a new totaled car on display every month. We loved the smell of gas and would get nauseous inhaling the nearby fumes as we inspected the crumpled cars. Usually these cars were set up as warnings against teen drinking and driving. These tableau didn't scare us. We were intrigued by the drama and violence the twisted steel and smashed glass hinted at. The degree of damage and amount of blood and trash inside always told us a story. Aside from underage drinking teen sex was always a key ingredient. (Another one of our pastimes was rousting half-naked teenagers doing whatever they were doing down the beach from our house. The boys would always chase us, pulling up their shorts, threatening our deaths) We'd work up a scenario on the way home from the garage only to come back the next day because one of us would insist they had seen some bit of evidence that the others hadn't noticed. Was that a trace of blood on the tire iron, or just rust?
The hazardous roadways I built under the willow during the day rarely made it through the night, flattened by the passed out bodies of the bums that hung out there after dark and drank. They always left behind wine bottles and small label-less tins that I learned contained Sterno. She told me not to touch them that it was poison. I'd been using them as substructure for my highways and ignored her warning.
Beach House
We had a canvas tent that my brother, sister, and I slept in sometimes. It was set up at the edge of where the grass met sand. Our mother called it The Beach House. One night as we lay on our sleeping bags waiting to sleep, a flashlight beam started darting around the wall that separated us from the lawn that led up to the house, someone was coming. We sat up on our elbows waiting to see what was up. The front flap opened revealing mother in a nightgown. She had a big knife that she waved around, motioning for us to follow her. As we left the beach the driveway filled with cop cars, and the officers took off towards the willow. We tried to malinger and see what was going on but mother hustled us up to the house.
The next day we found out a bum had killed another bum, stabbed him. We were banned from going to the tree, but overwhelmed by curiosity, we went. We hoped for evidence, blood splatter, ripped clothing, we didn't know. We wanted anything that would reveal the details of what happened cause no one was telling us. My streets were trampled of course, but evidence-wise there was nothing, not even the usual discarded Sterno cans. I suppose we expected what the wrecks-of the-month provided, a story. I checked the paper for a few days but there was nothing.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Harbor Hall native oral
HH
Harbor Hall was a big L-shaped colonial mansion high on a residential hill. Massive injections of cash from wealthy, guilty alcoholics, had allowed it a return to its once former glory. It occupied a corner lot with inside access to the glassed-in porches along the public side, but none from the street. A roofed porch also ran along the inner flank of the shorter wing. It was bordered by the lawn and parking lot. It was out of sight from the street.
There were usually a few guys malingering on this porch til lights out. One night I hung out with them and found out it wasn’t only the last drag on their cigarette that was keeping them up late. It was also for the blow-jobs that were offered up by an old native woman who set up camp a few nights a week in an alcove between a row of bushes and the side of the vacant warehouse across the alley.
I was being a wet blanket because none of them wanted me to see what they were up to. At first I thought they were afraid I’d snitch, then I saw her, and understood their shame. She was built like a motel refrigerator, with short stick-like legs holding it up. Cropped dark hair was tucked behind her ears, her age was indeterminate. She stood still for a moment, hands on hips, and barked her presence. I couldn't tell what she said, if it was a word even.
The others were watching to see what I'd do. It seemed like a good enough opportunity to get my first female blow-job, plus it would put them at ease, so I went after her. I found her squatting with her back up against the side of the warehouse. It looked like she was taking a shit, and my penis inverted at the sight. Her head was tilted back, eyes slitted, and her nearly toothless mouth wide open, abnormally wide. Arousal was out of the question. I wondered if they paid her, they must, and dropped a five in her lap. She didn't move, she was waiting. God built her for this, I thought.
Harbor Hall was a big L-shaped colonial mansion high on a residential hill. Massive injections of cash from wealthy, guilty alcoholics, had allowed it a return to its once former glory. It occupied a corner lot with inside access to the glassed-in porches along the public side, but none from the street. A roofed porch also ran along the inner flank of the shorter wing. It was bordered by the lawn and parking lot. It was out of sight from the street.
There were usually a few guys malingering on this porch til lights out. One night I hung out with them and found out it wasn’t only the last drag on their cigarette that was keeping them up late. It was also for the blow-jobs that were offered up by an old native woman who set up camp a few nights a week in an alcove between a row of bushes and the side of the vacant warehouse across the alley.
I was being a wet blanket because none of them wanted me to see what they were up to. At first I thought they were afraid I’d snitch, then I saw her, and understood their shame. She was built like a motel refrigerator, with short stick-like legs holding it up. Cropped dark hair was tucked behind her ears, her age was indeterminate. She stood still for a moment, hands on hips, and barked her presence. I couldn't tell what she said, if it was a word even.
The others were watching to see what I'd do. It seemed like a good enough opportunity to get my first female blow-job, plus it would put them at ease, so I went after her. I found her squatting with her back up against the side of the warehouse. It looked like she was taking a shit, and my penis inverted at the sight. Her head was tilted back, eyes slitted, and her nearly toothless mouth wide open, abnormally wide. Arousal was out of the question. I wondered if they paid her, they must, and dropped a five in her lap. She didn't move, she was waiting. God built her for this, I thought.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Tits-N-Ass Stack
Every weekend we had to do a thorough house cleaning. You either had to hide or look busy. I was assigned to dusting in the big/main room. It was long but not deep with an entrance/exit at each end. I guess back in the day this area was where the nuns kicked back. One wall was glass and the other lined with built in book shelves and cupboards where us clients kept our books, cigarettes and candy, although I didn't stash candy or any other food, I was getting fat as it was. The floor was high-gloss green linoleum, so shiny you could see your—grotesquely distorted—reflection in it. Someone buffed it every other week, one of the jobs that inspired my library, cause I didn't wanna get stuck with it or something equally unpleasant. Any job that involved physical work looked bad to me. I could see that letting any staff members know you had an exploitable skill was a big mistake.
A big faux-fieldstone fireplace took up one end of the room. There was never a fire, instead it was used to house a plastic Ficus tree. I didn't know it til I ventured out into the town but all the stone used in Alpena was fake. Aside from the dead paper mill, the big industry was making cement blocks that stood in for real rocks and stones. The nunnery was a design anomaly. It resembled mid-century west coast architecture, with red stained wood and faux limestone siding. The highest floor was 2 ½ and the roofs were flat and slanted. All the rooms were made for two and had built in closets, shelving and sinks that didn't work.
Do to the inactive sinks we had to use a community bathroom down the hall, for everything. Every morning for a few weeks toilet paper wads were stuck to the tile walls using bits of shit as glue. If you were seen leaving the bathroom without washing your hands, word would get out and no one would hold your hand during prayer circle. The culprit was never discovered and the mischief eventually stopped.
Saturdays sucked, there was so much dead time, and you could only pretend to clean for so long. Also there was really no where to hide, the basement was off limits after someone set fire to the laundry room. There were so many snitches, you couldn't go anywhere really without being reported, although most of the snitching was vendetta based so if you had no enemies you were safe.
Initially I was just going to sort the National Geographics in chronological order, and I recruited a couple guys to help me. Very quickly though it became apparent that everyone was drawn to the naked flat African breasts so we started cataloging those separately. Penis's and gore was fun too so those issues also got separate shelves. We laughed a lot pricking up the interest of the others, but we didn't want to get shut down so we kept mum, irritating them even more. After we finished word got out and you couldn't walk through the room without passing a couple guys perusing the tits-n-ass stacks. The issues with both nakedness and gore were stacked in their own cupboard and used one issue at a time as weekly specials, and were displayed accordingly.
A big faux-fieldstone fireplace took up one end of the room. There was never a fire, instead it was used to house a plastic Ficus tree. I didn't know it til I ventured out into the town but all the stone used in Alpena was fake. Aside from the dead paper mill, the big industry was making cement blocks that stood in for real rocks and stones. The nunnery was a design anomaly. It resembled mid-century west coast architecture, with red stained wood and faux limestone siding. The highest floor was 2 ½ and the roofs were flat and slanted. All the rooms were made for two and had built in closets, shelving and sinks that didn't work.
Do to the inactive sinks we had to use a community bathroom down the hall, for everything. Every morning for a few weeks toilet paper wads were stuck to the tile walls using bits of shit as glue. If you were seen leaving the bathroom without washing your hands, word would get out and no one would hold your hand during prayer circle. The culprit was never discovered and the mischief eventually stopped.
Saturdays sucked, there was so much dead time, and you could only pretend to clean for so long. Also there was really no where to hide, the basement was off limits after someone set fire to the laundry room. There were so many snitches, you couldn't go anywhere really without being reported, although most of the snitching was vendetta based so if you had no enemies you were safe.
Initially I was just going to sort the National Geographics in chronological order, and I recruited a couple guys to help me. Very quickly though it became apparent that everyone was drawn to the naked flat African breasts so we started cataloging those separately. Penis's and gore was fun too so those issues also got separate shelves. We laughed a lot pricking up the interest of the others, but we didn't want to get shut down so we kept mum, irritating them even more. After we finished word got out and you couldn't walk through the room without passing a couple guys perusing the tits-n-ass stacks. The issues with both nakedness and gore were stacked in their own cupboard and used one issue at a time as weekly specials, and were displayed accordingly.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
She told me she was a christian and a pineapple and a lesbian.
She told me she was a christian and a pineapple and a lesbian. I knew that the Mary on the dashboard was not ironic, without asking. I also knew straight away that she meant no harm and maybe she knew the same thing of me. That even beyond the illusion of the nice suit, I was harmless, just some lost and drunk guy, at the edge of a carless boulevard, stranded, in the middle of the night. One lone crystalline tear trailing down his cheek...just kidding there, couldn't not. I passed the gutter test, once again, but a few days later sitting sober by the pool, it occurred to me that my luck may be soon running out and that Los Angeles was not Traverse City, and that my next free ride may not turn out so well.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Acton
Marc made us a quartet, not just behind the bush but in the lines too. Meals, meetings, classes, meds, bathroom. We had to wait in line for everything, but if one of us was where we were supposed to be then we all didn't have to wait. He was British and had the requisite rotted teeth. It's funny but there weren't a lot of bad teeth at Acton, probably because most of the residents had done prison time and felons got free dental care.
Marc had been in a band called Sex Gang Children. I’d heard of them, maybe even seen them when I lived in MPLS. I told him that if I'd seen him I'd been drunk and didn't remember it. He said he was pretty sure they'd played there but he would've been fucked up too and so wouldn't remember it either. We had the shared human experience thing. We were both members of the worldwide drunken/drugged brotherhood of man. I asked him if he'd ever heard of the Spahn Ranch, he hadn't, but he had heard of Auschwitz and nodded knowingly when I pointed out the cinder block shower building.
I had a theory in mind that the State of California was using Acton to funnel undesirables off the streets of L.A. and into some netherworld existence further out in the vast desert. Lacking sufficient food and water, we would become dried brown husks, creaking around on stick-like limbs. Our crackly carcasses would be absorbed into the Salton Sea and provide meals for hideous fish mutations. Somehow this vision comforted me, I didn't share it with Marc though, not yet.
Marc had been in a band called Sex Gang Children. I’d heard of them, maybe even seen them when I lived in MPLS. I told him that if I'd seen him I'd been drunk and didn't remember it. He said he was pretty sure they'd played there but he would've been fucked up too and so wouldn't remember it either. We had the shared human experience thing. We were both members of the worldwide drunken/drugged brotherhood of man. I asked him if he'd ever heard of the Spahn Ranch, he hadn't, but he had heard of Auschwitz and nodded knowingly when I pointed out the cinder block shower building.
I had a theory in mind that the State of California was using Acton to funnel undesirables off the streets of L.A. and into some netherworld existence further out in the vast desert. Lacking sufficient food and water, we would become dried brown husks, creaking around on stick-like limbs. Our crackly carcasses would be absorbed into the Salton Sea and provide meals for hideous fish mutations. Somehow this vision comforted me, I didn't share it with Marc though, not yet.
Friday, February 5, 2010
pre-acton/ I meet Melba
Pre-Acton
Melba saved my ass at a bus stop on Sunset Blvd. I’d been drinking my way through
I’d forgotten that Sunset buses heading west stopped running early, like at midnight. There was no traffic, nothing. I could walk back down to Wilshire or
I’d been standing there awhile when a primer grey serial killer looking sedan rolled slowly past. The windows were dark. I watched as it did a u-turn and pulled up in front of me. It was a nice night, December, blurry stars hung in the sky. I recognized it’s potential but felt no fear. A large light-skinned black woman leaned over smiling, and asked if I needed a ride as she opened the passenger-side door. I don’t know what I was thinking as I climbed in, I was curious.
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