"Look Out!" unedited (thanksgiving with danny's fam- Helen)

Well, after losing my house on McReynolds, and the hotel room on Twenty-eighth Street along with all of my possessions, I went to Danny to tell him a select portion of what happened. He gladly took me in and we started doing whatever we could to feel alive. At some point we rehashed the intimate details of my past, of each other’s past, other than just the basic overviews. We were enjoying the days that we were given. Besides, he was battling with colon cancer, and with no health insurance or money, the outlook has only one ending. That end was closer than I could know or imagine.

Other than the excessive drinking and some marijuana, we didn’t touch anything else although stuff was all around us. We’d practice music until we could go out and perform, appearing at open mics all over town. We’d host art parties and music sessions that would pick up, and become more frequent, as our employments would enable us to do. I was still working for Bob, absorbing the routine ridicule and abuse that I came to expect but my spirits were lifted, empowered with art and my love for music. These things helped to keep me from falling back into the cocaine scene and the people that went along with it.

The city bus got me out to Walker, where I would get off in front of the Police station. Bob picked me up there unless I met him at the D and W shopping complex, about a mile before the last stop at the police station. This time period was the year two thousand.

While working in the shop at Bob’s, I had built five memento boxes from knotty pine v-groove car siding, one for each of my children, one for myself, and one for a lady who drove the city bus, (GRATA). Danny and I would be asked to move soon. Aside from property maintenance for the landlord, Danny worked property maintenance for the Kettlewell’s.

The Kettlewell’s were affluent, if not rich- his wife being an addict and quite a promiscuous tramp. Michelle Kettlewell was beaten about the legs for a debt she owed to a coke dealer, for crack. She claimed she was hurt while playing golf, injuring her knees in a freak accident. We all knew it wasn’t true. Her brother, Robert McVoy, lived in the apartment upstairs but was one of the regulars in Dan’s crew before I came along. He was a Paranoid Schizophrenic and was relatively unstable because he bounced in and out of reality, sometimes refusing to take his meds for fear he was being poisoned. Now and again he would rant about the “Secret Police”. Suspicions are that the “Secret Police” were related to the Dutch Construction Mob, which can be traced through to the Grand Rapids Home Builder’s Association. Anyhow, he’d end up in the Forensics Hospital for a while, long enough to stabilize him, and return him to his apartment. Then he would just be crazy enough to deal with.

On Thanksgiving Day, there would be a gathering at Dan’s mom’s house, to which I was always invited. Of course, I would go but only to end up being accosted by Dan’s ex-girlfriend, Helen, whom was the widowed wife of Michael DeRuiter- Dan’s older brother.

Dan was the last straw for his father, leaving Dan’s mother, Eleanor, the moment he learned that she was pregnant with another son. Danny was the last of four, having two sisters: Kathy and Linda. Linda may be the oldest in the family. She is a parole agent in Kalamazoo. Kathy was once busted for trying to smuggle a block of hashish into the country when she was a spring chicken. The family had to put up the house to help her out of that one. Mike ended up driving his car into a tree, which killed him. His death was claimed to be a result of his intending to commit Suicide. Come to find out, the wife, Helen, drove him to it. She was Danny’s ex-girlfriend to begin with. The interesting thing is that Dan’s dog, Chewy, never liked her from the beginning. Mike ended up having two children with her- a boy and a girl. Helen.

Danny, Mike, Kathy and Linda grew up mostly in Grand Haven, near the beach. Actually, the house was in the hillside, on the south end of the beach, overlooking Lake Michigan. Danny’s uncle was the male role model in their lives, for the most part. He was always doing the things that reflected a certain amount of ingenuity and creativity that I imagine is what had the biggest influence on Danny’s evolving or gravitating toward the Art world.

The house in the hillside would turn from a rickety shack, into a beautiful two family home, and today is still owned by the family. This was the second wake location when we celebrated Danny’s life. It was here, in Grand Haven, where Danny started studying music and playing guitar, eventually meeting someone who would become his best friend, Rick Belkofer, also known as “RB”, a musician who became a consistent, and large influence, in Dan’s life.

RB, today, is one of the top Blues guitarists in West Michigan with many albums, as well as having a string of musicians he plays with as the band, “RB and Company”.

Well, Danny had no idea what would be happening beyond the typical Thanksgiving Day merriment or he would have prepared me for Helen a little more than he did. It wouldn’t be long after this that she would make a full on attack at gaining my attention for an exchange of affection. Later on, If Danny would not have told me to be extra cautious, I may not have noticed the red flags that let me know I wasn’t ready for this or that this mission of mercy was just too much for me. It was only about a week after that meal, that she called, preparing for the holidays and her coupling needs. This was also the same time Danny was relieved of his property management services that he was providing to his landlord, which meant we had to move. Luckily for us, a guy we worked with on painting projects that we performed for Brad Lake, was renting a house around the corner that had several rooms for rent. So, we moved from forty Prospect Street to six twenty Lake Drive. By now, the Jeep Danny had was out of commission, having lost the gas tank while driving back to Heritage Hill from Coit Park, also known as, “Look Out Hill”. We were now driving RB’s old camper van around. It had been parked out at Dan’s uncle’s house, where his mom stayed. This period of my life was a bit tumultuous but surprisingly restful compared to the cacophony I was in when I met him.

Meeting Danimal was really the one event that I can say made the difference, that got me started on a path that I could see, helping me turn my life into something more closely resembling what my life could be without trying to destroy myself for the sake of being a failure on too many levels for me to accept living with. More irony- I found music when I first needed comfort, and now it helped me to save my life.

We went to all of the music clicks in town in order to perform and meet other musicians. The west side of town usually meant the Radio Tavern for open mike with a host Blues band. And then, for a while, there was Arco Iris, which was an informal place- a dive that served coffee where they hosted an open jam and a drum circle. It was the west side where we would become acquainted with Andy Flynn, an addict who used a fake smile and a hodge-podge travesty of musicianship to infiltrate the New-Age hippie scene. It would be close to too late before we would learn that he was just another dirtball who was trying to sneak heroine and crack cocaine into our reality. Thank God that never happened.

Dan named him “Bad Andy”, because he ruined everything, always. Before we banished him, we would record his attempts at songs, some of which I did the vocals. One night the three of us ventured to the west side, where we performed at the Radio Tavern. A woman would throw herself at me and follow us back to the studio. Little did I know she was merely an alcoholic, and a homeless woman, in between her options for a fool. Well, me being such an excellent fool, I was game to give her a chance. She soon emptied her bags for me, explaining her epilepsy and a falling out with her roommate, and her having to quit her job working for her dad at the cemetery. This was only because she was sick of the pre-requisite that she have sex with him as part of the job.

As wonderful as Catholicism seems to be, I don’t understand the advocacy routine. It must be the real selling point. And what’s with those creeps working around the dead? Anyway, we let her stay, even though her story about the total body shave and cigar burn didn’t correspond with any known history involving losing at strip poker. That’s the wonderful thing about alcohol; it enables us to alter our perceptions long enough for them to develop a tolerance for anything.
AND THAT is why it's everywhere.... think about that for a minute.