"Growth" unedited (crabs after thanksgiving)

Something keeps coming to mind lately: “Why does a mountain climber climb a mountain?” The answer used to be, “Because it’s there,” but now I have a different perspective and can see that answer as an obstinate reactionary answer. The truth is, mountain climbers climb mountains because that’s what they do. That’s what defines a person who climbs mountains. They see it and it interests them, so they persevere. The moral to the question is to pick something and do it. Maybe that’s why I went out with Helen. The beautiful part of it is that I was finally aware enough to read all of the signs that said, “Don’t do it Zach.”

Helen was a mess. She had erected, and constantly maintained, a shrine to her late husband, Mike, in the basement of her Kentwood home. She offered to buy Danny’s Jeep for me- to put it in her garage for me to work on it there. Oh, and the performance. She started talking about her problems with her yard- the erosion, and how she was just a woman. Oh! And the tears she shed. Geesh!  A few more drinks and a bit less of a warning from Danny, and Super Zach would have flown in to be the Hero. Thank God for what small amount of sense I had in my employ. And even though I’d pass that test and move on, I hadn’t enough sense to avoid some other situations that were far worse than Helen.

That was the same summer I became acquainted with a number of bums. Nominated for Super Bum was, Andy Flynn. Andy was, and still is, a real “A number 1 American Dirtball”. A number of people would have killed him if he weren’t already dead. This was the year 2000, I think. It was the year I finally felt a spark of happiness. The problem was that I discovered I was targeted. The non-stop drinking and the assortment of bad associations that were trying to get a piece of me were being realized as a real problem- a threat. It was the fact that I had an income source and that I was kind enough to be generous- routinely providing a certain amount of weed and drink, that I was preyed upon. Incidentally, Danny and I were almost exactly alike- people took his kindness for weakness also.

Andy used us bad. Who knows how much he stole from us to feed his habits, and the habits of the girls he brought around. We had the whole second floor of 40 Prospect, since the other apartment was vacant on that floor. And since Danny had the keys to the building, it was accessible. When we met Andy, we had no idea he was anymore of a bum than he appeared to be. I thought, “Just another guy, another artist with very little need for much in the way of material possessions.” I mean, look at me: on the street without a home or car or much of anything but I had all that and more not too long ago. It didn’t really mean anything really. Or did it? The truth was that he had traded it all for dope, sealing the deal by beating his wife, and the women he attracted.

You can go to treatment and counseling but when you smack a woman up you can forget it. If you lack the control to do that you’ll probably do anything because you are truly weak.

What he didn’t trade were the lies and deceit that he had stashed and accumulated in the basement of his employer’s home- Chet. Chet was a crook too, who taught Andy how to rob people with a paintbrush but I don’t need to drag another demon into my arena. These items were things that Andy siphoned from his household income while imitating a farcical rendition of a husband and a father, only to destroy a woman and the future of the children she had by turning her onto dope and using her for what he wanted, when he wanted it. He is the kind of guy you’d love to read about someone finding dead in a burning bed with his severed penis placed in his stash box smoldering in a heap next to him. Men, largely, make me sick.

The three of us played quite a bit of music together until we ostracized him, working on songs like “Harley Davidson,” and some other ideas. We got into some recording sessions one day, where Andy insisted on using one of the rooms in the vacant apartment as a sound room, having the room mike and an acoustic guitar off in the distant corner of the house, far away from us, under the pretense that the isolation was for the recording quality, which made logical sense. We didn’t suspect a thing.

It would be weeks before we discovered the signs of what else he was doing in there, right after we were all working on a painting project in Crystal Springs. He ended up robbing us of fourteen hundred and forty-eight dollars. We were having a great time before we realized we were screwed. But isn’t that how it goes? We were having cocktails and playing Frisbee golf at Brewer Park on our lunch breaks everyday. We were laughing the days away while doing something we loved to do, paint. It was a beautiful thing.

One day Andy mentioned a couple times, how he could spray the hell out of some paint while on Heroine, so it wasn’t long before some bare foot lookie-loose rich kid started coming around… who wasn’t painting. Next thing we knew, we had a house with paint all over the driveway and a wretched smell inside. It was soon clear that someone, only God knows who, puked all over one of the rooms in the basement. I wonder how that came about??? Well, that was the weekend that we didn’t get paid, and when Andy went into hiding. We never saw him again. What we did get out of it was a new friend or two.  Brad Lake was one of those guys.

Brad lived in Grand Haven with his wife and two children. They were “Seven day Adventurer’s”, as he stated. He had a crew of guys from the Eastown area- slacker hippie types who soaked up the kind bud and the music scene. In the past, Brad had worked with Chet, breaking out from under Chet’s wing in order to start his own crew. They were still associated, working the Crystal Springs development on the south side of Kentwood, past Sixtieth Street. In the past, when I worked with Paul Jensen, we had performed a lot of trades there. It was a farm that they had turned into a private Country Club, selling lots to be built on, and houses- big houses. They were all bought up by business owners, like the car dealers and restaurateurs- the better-established people with a history in the Grand Rapids area. I like to think of them as segregationalists because they created their own community separate from the rest of the city.

These segregated communities were sprouting up all around the Surrounding Grand Rapids area. It was a boom in the early nineties. But now, here I was again, working behind hacks. Pulte Home Builders were responsible for quite a few of these homes. Being a finish carpenter, I had a position to critique the woodwork I was prepping to paint. A section of baseboard, not more than three feet long, had twenty-nine nails in it. They were easy to count, as I had filled each one with putty. It is a wish I have, that I could say it was an anomaly but that wish proves to be only that- a wish. What I will say is, if something like this was done by me or one of my crewmembers, not only would we have been back-charged, we would have been completely out of work in the area. The problem is- that’s just what you could see. What other problems were concealed within these sheeted walls? It doesn’t matter, as long as you can keep it pasted together until one year after completion.

The homeowner is the pawn, and it’s only a chess game to get the money. There is little pride in workmanship required. Just ask Bob. Today’s Builder and Tradesmen have little to no respect, and this is true of the majority. They do not appreciate the value, the worth of anything but the dollar in their pockets and the beer or thneeds it will buy them. But hot damn! It better be the best they can get! Oh boy.

 Joe Grimminck was one of those guys that we got along well with. He was eager to perform, eager to learn, and reciprocative. Joe knew when to ask questions, and although he was unskilled at that point, he was teachable which made him a value. We became good friends with Brad and Joe.

Brad, incidentally, played the Bass very well. They would find their way back to our place on Prospect Street, where we’d do what we did: hang out, play music, do art- whatever. We’d find ourselves in Eastown, at the coffee shops, where Joe and his friends hung out, playing chess and resting up for their tomorrows. It was while in East town that we would meet musicians like Ralston Bowles and Billy Edwards.

Billy told us about a small festival happening at Riverside Park near the Veterans home, where his band was hosting the Open Jam. “Beats Sittin’ Home,” he said. A clever pitch, his bands name as well. Of course, Dan and I went. We were going to be playing Frisbee golf there anyhow.

That was the day that I ran into Beverly Knopf, my ex-wife’s Aunt. Being pretty lit up, I lit into her with some of the sting I was feeling over Minderella’s destroying my children’s household- my life, although I don’t know what I said, like it matters. It was later my regret for causing her to feel upset. She never did anything that I know of, to harm me but the fact alone that my family was not repaired meant, to me, that she did nothing to help. And being drunk on top of harboring anger and resentment didn’t win me any favors.

My favorite advice from a successful person is from Warren Buffet: “You can always tell someone they’re a jerk tomorrow.” Which, in this case meant, “Don’t run your mouth when you’re drinking because it could cause irreparable damage.” Once something is said, no matter what it is, you can’t un-say it. It would be too long after this event that I would decide to stop drinking, at least for a while.

After the Jam, Billy and his band mate came up to 40 Prospect Street to hang out, smoking, drinking and playing music. Danny showed off his talents, and then, William Norman Edwards played a few guarded bars of his songs- claiming he was working on recording his own album.

Just like anywhere with anyone, everyone has a line of crap that they feed you. Just because you never get called on it doesn’t mean people believe you, one way or another. I have the four track studio recordings from that day to prove it all.

Billy really was recording an album. Whether he was or not, we didn’t really care one way or another. All we cared about was that moment, and what we were doing with it… enjoying it and making music. If we came up with a few bars worth repeating… that was fantastic. If we got an idea, perfect. If we discussed something meaningful… that was great too. If we just enjoyed the time… that was fine too. Any and all of these things made up the goal, and were what Danny and I did everyday. We were “having too much fun,” as Dan would often say.

It would be Joe that introduced us to Jesse MacIntosh, a rogue bagpiper playing the streets and the hilltop of Coit Street. In a couple years I’d learn that Jesse was Billy Edwards’s son. It was like a lot of things that were right there, in my face or being told to me. It took a while to learn because my comprehension was delayed from the booze, added to the rattling my brain took in the accident of ’97. People said things but it never registered until later. That is, if it ever did register.

One morning, a short time after Billy was over, someone came in and helped themselves to Danny’s fifty-dollar phone card and a video we had rented the night before. It was Danny’s suspicion that my friend, Charles, had came in and took these things while we slept but it could have been a few other suspects, more likely. My trust in people was very little but I had more trust in Charles than that.

About a week later, my favorite pair of pants came up missing- along with my wallet that was chained to them. There was two hundred and forty-eight dollars in my wallet. My to-do list was to pay on my child support on Monday. When I awoke to find my pants missing, I freaked out.

Now, I have a head injury. People are always stealing my stuff, although later I find whatever it was that was stolen. It wasn’t clear to me, so I didn’t really know if my pants were stolen or if I had hid them while I was stoned, so they wouldn’t get stolen. What I do know is that the ring of keys that I had in my pockets would later turn up in the console of Danny’s van.

Right across the street from where we lived was the apartment of Lisa Pressey. We had recorded, “Brand New Day,” earlier that summer while she was detoxing at our place. Now, she was over, hanging out with us. Who knows what we were discussing or if Danny was with us. It was her words, on top of a lot of recent and not so recent hardships that jostled around in my memories, causing for me to stop myself and think. She responded to my statements regarding thinking of making a drink with, “Do you ever think about not having a drink?” This was coming from her only a month after Dan and I would console and comfort her.

She had been out with the guy who rented an apartment in her building, doing coke all night. She was pretty upset, overwhelmed with the depression that follows, and shame, afraid of the silence that helped induce her guilt. She came to us and spilled her guts. She just needed a hug and a shoulder to cry on, I guess. So we comforted her with our kindness. She curled up on one end of the couch, and Dan put some incense to smoldering, while I made some homemade hot cocoa for her. So, while she “came down”, Danny and I came up with a song. For the next five to six hours we played, wrote, sang and recorded with Lisa curled up on the sofa with Dans Siamese cat, Miko.

That day I learned a lot from Danny about singing with a microphone, and recording. It proved to be a bit of treasure in the mistakes of others; had she not been in distress, we might not have worked as earnestly as we did- writing, recording and working out the lyrics as we had done. Looking back, I’m sure that a certain amount of it was fueled by our secret desires to win her heart- fools we were or I was. Apprised, though not a prize.

RB would soon pay a visit to record a couple songs and ask us to make a trip out to help him paint his house and cut a window into the southern gable, where he had a room he used a lot but had no light coming in. It was a great excuse to go to Grand Haven, and we loved it. It was a fabulous way to end our summer and to help recover from the grief we received from Andy and the whole West Branch incident, just to name a couple of the situations. But a strange thing happened while lounging around RB’s pool.

I made a gruesome discovery that I had crabs! I had been looking at the sweat glistening on my belly when I noticed these little specks near my navel. I thought, “Wow, blackheads on my belly.” So, I scratched at one with a fingernail and picked up the speck. As I looked closer at it I saw that it was a bug of some sort I had never seen. After looking closer at my belly I noticed there were a few more “specks.” And, boy, did I become instantly agitated! Now, I’m thinking this must be associated with the mysterious itching sensation that I had been dealing with. Extended my arm out towards Danimal with one of them on my finger, I was frantically asking, “What the hell is that? What is that? Is that a crab louse?” Sure enough, it was a crab louse, especially since it had little crab claws on it that made it look like an actual crab!

In a panic, I jumped up and ran into the shed looking for solvents or chemicals of any kind that might kill them. A gas can was on the floor that had gas for the mower in it. So I doused some on my hand and rubbed it on my belly to see if that would kill them. Nothing I tried worked, so I had another Foster’s, pissed off that I allowed myself to get crabs! I said nothing to anyone else about this, mostly because if Judy got wind of it, she might throw us out. It didn’t dawn on me that her and RB would have gotten me the medication to use to get rid of them. There was far too little humility in me to begin to understand that. It was my loss and aggravation. I did, however, vow to forever be more careful to avoid such filth- yet thankful it was only crabs. A few drinks later I had all but forgotten about it.

As a reward for our efforts, RB and his wife took us to a joint called, “The Rosebud,” where we had a light meal and a few drinks. The place became packed. Danimal and I were kicking our feet to the beats of a hot Chicago style Blues band, popping the cork off of the dance floor for the evening. Nobody had broke from the form of restraint and order until after that. Now, the people were enlivened and becoming less inhibited. All it takes is for someone who is unabashed to draw the attention and be the fool. We sat down to rest, and drink, unconcerned that we should be proud and satisfied as the trendsetters for the evening. It was just one of those times when the band was working hard and people had no clue anymore how to respond naturally.

We just couldn’t hold it in. We’re musicians, we had to express our feelings to the band. It’s insulting to not have any dancers when you’re working so hard and sounding fantastic. People have no respect for themselves and, yet, they put so much effort into respecting themselves that they are out of touch with a sense of gratitude and humility or any sense of what love is. After playing the fools, the real fools don’t look foolish anymore. Somebody just has to be first. Many wives were happy with their escorts being forced to play their hands that night. As for the ones that didn’t lighten up- I’m sure they had to “play their hand” in the end.

Well, now that people were on their feet, Danimal and I could do what we did- work the crowd. The Captain was there, from Captain Morgan’s Rum. We were hanging out with him, doing shots and talking with the stereotypical vernacular and attitude of seamen or pirates. All the people around were laughing and shouting. We went back to dancing and then sat back down with RB- Judy had left for home. A couple minutes later a young woman approached me from behind, tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I would dance with her. My astonishment stole my words, mostly because I was unfamiliar with how to respond to being approached by someone, someone so… innocent, asking only to share some joy. Overcoming my unusual speechlessness, I asked, “Why do you want to dance with me?” She smiled a big smile and threw her head back exclaiming, “Because you’re fun!” And that was that.

After dancing with her she brought me her friend and I had to dance with her too. These two girls kept Danny and I busy dancing all night, bringing their friends to dance with us too. Come to find out, the first girl that I danced with was there with her father. He had brought her and her friends out to celebrate her twenty-first birthday! Needless to say, I wasn’t his favorite person.

Everything was heavenly until Danny bumped into someone’s table- spilling a guy’s drink. My guess is that he was one of those persons who wouldn’t dance and was already offended from his date comparing us to him. He refused to accept our offer to get him a new drink. He was obdurate. We were promptly asked to leave the premises.

Actually, it’s more accurate to mention that Danny was asked to leave. My guess is that many were envious of us because it didn’t take much for the management to side so easily with the spilled drink guy. And I’m sure that a lot of wives and girlfriends wanted to cut the rug with us, due only to their men confining them to imprisonment with their self-awareness, insecurities and inhibitions; unable to enjoy any part of the evening. Surely, somewhere, someone still talks about it. Out of loyalty to my friend, I left with him. Besides, we had enough fun in one spot; it was time to move on anyway.

We’d end up back at the Rosebud a few weeks later. Walking in, I did a little footwork to the music as I crossed the floor. The music grabbed me with the vibe as soon as both feet were in the building. From behind me came a voice that belted out, “No floor shows!” It came from an apron-clad, stumpy, grimacing barkeeper. Surprised, I found a seat at a table, rather than sit at the bar where the man now stood.

Several moments later, a waitress finally found her way to me, asking me for my order. She mentioned something about having vacant seats at the bar, to which I explained being put off by the barkeeper. “Yeah, we had to throw you guys out a while ago,” she said. This told me it must have been a memorable occasion. It must have been his daughter among the women we danced with. The first girls were part of a big birthday celebration, I remembered. There were at least twelve girls at the table arrangement, along with the father.

Why I failed, (or why I have to consider), recognizing the possible repercussions for being able to enjoy myself at a public function, is still frustrating to understand. Why do some of us have to endure being persecuted by those who cannot exist without overly concerning themselves with the opinions of small-minded people? You can actually afford to devote energy to being angry with me for my ability to allow myself to be moved by the music, or my girl’s joyfulness? How arrogant and self absorbed. It reminded me of the movies Elvis had been in where he was always being attacked for being able to dance and sing a song. Whatever.

Danny came back from the bathroom and we left moments later. I don’t recall what we did that day but I know we hung out at the music store for a while, where RB was working at the time. The place has been out of business a few times but the owner kept trying. Now that I think about it, maybe it was a cover for something else- laundering money. Why would you keep trying to run a business that consistently goes belly up? Taxes? I don’t get it but then again, I don’t have to.

Being starving artists, it wasn’t long before we were looking for another place to move to. This was just after Halloween. Helen had been offering me to move in with her after Christmas. Joe mentioned several rooms at the house he rented, so Danny and I went over to have a look-see.

The place Joe was living in was huge. It had five bedrooms and two baths. There was a very large porch, a full Michigan basement, a garage and a decent backyard. It was perfect, especially since there was also a fireplace, a small library area that we made into the studio/equipment area, an upright piano, nine-foot ceilings, crown molding and an attic, complete with a family of raccoons living in it. My money was coming from working for Bob, traveling on the city bus, to and from Standale everyday. Little did I know the well was running dry for Danny and the property maintenance business.  His reputation had become tarnished due to his Alcoholism affecting his performance. We went back to Prospect Street to discuss the move.

Lisa’s question echoed in my head, and my frustration over the disappearance of my pants or more accurately, my money, gnawed at me. Jimmy and Danny were arguing about something- cigarettes I think. That’s when I decided that she was right. Here I was, broke basically, and if I was going to be broke, then I need to make myself broke. When I drink I get loose with my money, my smokes, my weed- everything. These guys were consuming my money because when I drank I let them. “That’s it, I am not drinking anymore. I’m paying my child support before I get home from work, and what’s left of my check I’ll budget, buying tools and other liquidable assets,” I declared to myself. I was so mad that I quit drinking to fight the battle of the bulge- my wallets. Now that I think about it, I must have been pissed off because I was thoroughly enjoying alcohol- or so I thought.

Boy, did sparks fly from Jimmy. “You think you’re better than us?” he’d scream at me when he realized I wasn’t buying any booze. Danny, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. Certainly, he must have been frightened by a number of things. This only put him in check with reality involving his own health. And although we discussed our substance abuse, and what we wanted in life, it was like I was leaving him as a friend. His dreams of being a husband and a father were useless because he was all but dead already. All he had left was music and art. And now that he had my promise to publish his compositions- to “get the music out there”, he just had to kick back and enjoy what was left. At this point he still had five years left. And right now, I’d be happy to have one day of that back.

My newfound sobriety didn’t have a positive affect with Bob despite my anticipation. He felt a spotlight on himself as well, and re-appropriated an enormous amount of his energy at me in hopes of causing me grief that would amount to my failure but the more I did better, the more hateful he became. Never, have I seen so much hate come from a married father with so much to show for his self.

My notes and journals are stashed and not at my disposal since I am writing this from prison. When I get back to my life, home and family, I will elaborate on the nastiness and evil that was forced upon me. The fact that I really cannot recall a lot of it may be a natural part of my subconscious warring against depression, fighting to stay in a positive state but I am happy with that. To me, it’s signifies growth on so many levels. Also, it would be a convenient time to “beat up” on Bob, since I am elaborating in a certain amount in this bio but I am not- reinforcing the significance of recognizing that growth. Did I say that right?