"Unavoidable Human Need" ; unedited

So, Michelle tweaked by one day, mentioning that they would, “Keep me alive.” I wasn’t really in a position to decline what little I was going to get, so I just let it ride without an argument.

Danny had left town for a while, to live in Chicago and regain his employment there. When he came back, we made it a point to play at Stooges on South Division, at the open mike they hosted there. We talked about going back to his place in Buck town but I only had a somewhat small amount of money. He came to Grand Rapids with very little cash to get back home. Instead of telling me that, and coming up with a plan, I felt a scheme where I’d be stuck in Chicago. Again, my conspiratorial reflexes were in affect. That was one of Danny’s hang-ups- he’d always put himself in the way of my plans or somehow talk me out of doing what I had to do, to put it off until later. In the back of my mind, I would justify it with Danny’s illness and that he was dying but no matter what it was, I always regretted deviating from my agenda.

Well, after performing I was reciprocating in conversation with a young, and pretty thick, black woman, who was giving me a lot of attention. Feeling sorry for her loneliness, (and probably making up for mistreating my very thick neighbor), I brought her back to my place to hang out. When we got back there, I hid my money underneath a large container of laundry detergent. Between my concerns with getting suckered into going to Chicago, and my experience with women, I was sure the money would end up gone, especially after finding my keys in the van, that I am pretty sure were in the pocket of the pants that had mysteriously disappeared on Prospect street, with almost three hundred dollars in my chained leather wallet. But that’s how bad addiction is, and how bad the drinking got to be. That was when I said I was going to get sober. Oh well. It was a pretty good hiding spot this time. I mean, who’d find the money underneath a big box of Tide? Someone would have to do the laundry in order to find it or be stealing the detergent.

Anyway, the next morning he wanted to go but I couldn’t remember hiding the money. So, he took the girl home and that’s when I found it. Now I was afraid to get stuck in Chi-town. When Danny got back, I denied finding it. Danny left, disappointed but returned an hour later. It was when he returned that I decided to go to Chicago with him.

Danny had s storefront in a building that was cut up into several apartments. The large apartment in the rear of the first floor was a recent eviction that had not been tended to, agreeing to help him by doing the labor, while he was at work in the city with his job of performing construction site management. His mom had given him her car to use because the van took its last breath. We cruised around town, where I got to see the various projects he was tending to. He was proud, mostly because this job had all the ear markings of a real job, and I was happy for him.

Dan was especially proud of his “system” using multiple ink colors to indicate the status of the project, and the level of importance: red ink was for immediate attention and need, blue might have been an indication of scheduling- I don’t remember exactly- or black. I could see where the ink colors would work, and I’d figure out how to if I were managing a project. Regardless, it was nice to see the work thing pan out for him. Eventually, we made it back to Dan’s apartment, where he instructed me to clean out the rear apartment.

This rear apartment was the residence of two men, whom I was told were, both gay and smoked crack. At least one of them was smoking crack. My eyes were wide with my astonishment of the condition of the place. There was oil everywhere. There was grease infused lint and saturated dust weighing on the blades of the ceiling fan. It has always been an impression of mine, that gay men were clean and fussy. This must have been a pseudo-gay species- only using homosexuality as a tool for manipulation, and as a cop-out for not having the ability to give anything of them selves, like commitment, responsibility etc… They appeared more concerned with their own obsessions and instant gratifications. That is, if you call that gratifying. I’m not saying there is no such thing as a genuine homosexual person; it’s just that too many people use it as a convenience- using people to enable their addictions and further enabling their own psychological illnesses.

At any rate, it was a filthy trash pit. It wasn’t long before I found a room that was an office of sorts- complete with a computer and an Internet connection. My first thought was, “Hey! I can email my kids,” but after clicking the mouse button I became shocked to find the monitor filled with very graphic images of him and his lover or, at least, parts of them. There was a big ol’ bung holeo and a sagging scrotum looking right at me. Now, I can’t even see that being interesting to a surgeon who specializes in anal reconstruction <shudder>. Suddenly I became very fearful of sending an email or even touching the computer… or the chair… or the…

My efforts at cleaning yielded some immediate rewards that were very useful for pulling myself out of the panic and anxiety that had all but incapacitated me. The first item was a super score- Bob Dylan Bootleg Series CD Collection: Rare and Unreleased Recordings. This was a three CD set with a book of photographs and some answers to where the songs originated from and what they meant. It is an expensive set, maybe over a hundred dollars. The CD’s have become casualties of a hard life in the valley of death but the book remains to be an article on my personal property.

The other reward was also recordings, only in the form of actual cassette tapes. These were all Grateful Dead shows. The Dead were the only band to allow people permission to record their shows, which made a huge impact and contributed to their becoming a very big success. This set of cassette recordings was individually labeled, all in cases, and all kept together in a cassette storage case that holds about a hundred cassette tapes. It was about full. So, with these items, how could I stay depressed? It’s not really possible to stay distraught while listening to The Dead.

Danny would end up finishing the clean up after bringing me back to Grand Rapids, where I returned to Jimmy’s apartment and the Kettlewell’s nightmare. A few days would go by before I came across the digital camera that Dan had bought from Charles. This item was actually part of a cache of items that were stolen from a warehouse location, setting it up and recruiting me to help him. He had a big stack of pallets blocking the rear door, which he had left unlocked earlier that day. After getting in, I opened a door for him to get in being that I was much thinner and able to squeeze into tight places. He gathered up the loot, while I staged a break-in point- making it appear as though someone didn’t have prior access, taking the suspicion off of the employees who worked in the warehouse. This part was my idea, and it made a difference. Had we not taken that step the investigation would have turned inward, on the employee’s. This wasn’t a great moment for me but it is what it is. Had I not been using crack, at that point in my so-called life, I would have never, ever, been even remotely involved. God, forgive me.

There is little to nothing a person won’t do that’s on that garbage, Mess with a prostitute these days and you will become acquainted with it, and most likely, become a user. We would be better off if these criminals that target us for our money would just rob us at gunpoint but the truth is today’s big tough manly “gangsters” are cowards- sending women and children out to destroy the communities that they are too lazy to earn their own rewards in the work force of. They fear the prison sentences associated with a gun charge, so they use the guns to beat women and children with instead- boosting their Ego, which is really the only thing you have when you don’t have any integrity. The crack is to shackle your paycheck to their pocket, and you would become coaxed into a murderous rage if I told you more about it. Citizens should be allowed to bag drug dealers- terrorists right outside our doors. Open season is what I say. Enough! Where are the real men at these days? Gran Torino?  

Danny shot a lot of great footage of friends on that camera- footage of all of us doing what we did together. One of those friends was Ryan. Ryan had a father who was exposed to Agent Orange while serving in one of our branches of the military- Army maybe. Ryan’s sister was terminal, with some kind of cancer, in and out of the hospital quite a bit- liver cancer of some kind, I think it was. At one point the nurses were caring for her, providing her things that being confined to a bed would entail, like food and drink, for example. The doctor had some specific orders that were misinterpreted, one way or another. One of those orders was to take in plenty of fluids. When the nurse’s aid served her, she reiterated the instructions to the patient. Ryan’s sister asked for a sprite refill, and if that was okay. The smiling face assured her she could drink as much Sprite as she wanted. Eventually, the already tired liver gave out from the dehydrating effect of the carbonation in the beverage, leaving her to go into a coma, and at some point she actually died. The emergency response team managed to revive her, saving her life, and she did finally receive a new liver but the cancer wasn’t entirely gone from her body. The medical staff determined that her cancer was in remission but all that meant is that the tape was rewinding. It will start playing again when it gets back to the other end. I wonder if she is still house ridden or if she has lost the fight, and how her husband, children, and the rest of their family are doing in life today?

Come to find out, Ryan had cancer too- in his chest. He told me about the pain he was experiencing in his rib cage, saying that he could feel the lump when he breathed. He also told me about a pretty serious car accident that he was in, and how he would never really have known about the tumors if it hadn’t occurred. His friend was driving, and they were drunk. The car went off of the road and into a ravine, rolling over multiple times. Ryan’s face hit the dash and his head went through the windshield, knocking out a bunch of his teeth and crushing part of his skull. The surgeons managed to pack his brain back in after picking out the bone fragments, and, somewhere along the path of recovery, they fixed his palette. His best friend, who was driving, fared none. He was killed before the car stopped rolling. Ryan told me about his life expectancy after telling me the story of the accident the night that Danny brought me back to Grand Rapids from Chicago. His main reason for stopping by that night was because he was going to see his mother and needed some things for the trip- one of those things was a joint or two for the drive. It wouldn’t be very many more days until he would be gone from this world and he wanted to have time with his family in preparation. He asked me if he could have a copy of the video footage of our party, where we did the Blind Poem that he was on, so he could show it to his mom. There was a very slim chance that she would be able to view the diskette, so I gave him the camera to be able to play it, along with a bag of weed instead of a joint.  Getting more for myself was no big deal, and I knew a joint wouldn’t be enough. The footage was a great thing to share with his mom, so she could have a little pride to know that her son was in good company, having clean fun, playing music, writing poetry, and happy- if only for those few moments.

We sat and drank a couple beers together but I ended up drinking the one he opened because his trip to his mom’s was more urgent than I understood- he was going NOW. He might have told me about how long he had but I don’t remember. I remember we shed a tear together, and I remember he told me that he did, at least, have a son. The whereabouts of the camera isn’t known, and I never saw Ryan again but I know his mom was living in Tennessee. And I know the mother of the child worked at a bar that was right by the railroad tracks on Lake Michigan Drive, where the local police were known to frequent. Ryan had told me that this woman was heavy set, and a beautiful woman who only wanted to have a kid. He knew that he would never be around long enough to marry and have his own family so, she, and he, got together and both got a compromise.

It’s possible, though unlikely, that I may find her someday. Hopefully, I can get the camera back. Not for the camera itself but for the video footage on it. It was footage from Joe’s birthday party. We were singing a song and playing guitars. Ryan got a few lines in on the song, and we all had a grand ol’ time. It was a Bob Dylan song but ours was “I got my Ass in Trouble”, a spin off of our own. Somewhere, I have the audio recordings of that evening- a four-track cassette tape that we mixed down to distribute to friends. The video would be a fantastic supplement.

Life goes on, I guess. I still wonder if Ryan wasn’t confiding in me for another reason- maybe trying to ask me to look in on his child in the future, to tell him a bit about his dad. Hopefully, I will find him someday.

There was a house to the south of my building, facing to same westward way, in the evening shadow of the Devos Children’s Hospital. A Mexican family occupied this house. They had two little girls, approximately six year old. They were twins, and were absolute darlings. They would come up to where I had the puppy tied up to the porch, to play with him. His name was Brandy II, a caramel colored Boxer with short hair. Brandy II was a replacement pup to Brandy that died of Parvo a few months earlier.

My job was to care for the dog and keep the apartment until Jimmy came back from jail. The children would get comfortable with me quickly and began to actually go right into the apartment. Having the children’s hospital looking down on my apartment made me a bit nervous with this whole scene, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. Sitting frozen in place on my porch until they came out- either instinct or maybe a supernatural awareness, I don’t know but something felt terribly wrong.

The twins were always “helping” by straightening up the coffee table clutter and sweeping, putting food in the dogs bowl- even trying to wash the dishes once or twice but, hearing the water running and the clatter, I’d dash in and stop them- shooing them out and returning to my chair as quickly as I possibly could. My senses were piqued, and I was fearful but my self was distracted with the alcohol and substance that blocked my conscience from receiving the messages that I was being given. All I knew was there was something that was trying to be communicated to me- something that I needed to worry about… what was it?

Their company was enjoyable even though we didn’t have a very comprehensive means of communicating. They didn’t know any English, and I knew very little Spanish but they would try to teach me, daily, pointing to items and giving me the words for them. Having them around was uplifting, just like the girl on the other side of me, only double. They rekindled my passion for parenthood and re-opened the wounds, once again exposing the grief over the loss of my own children- a bellows working at stoking my simmering anger and hurt into a blazing fury and a quenchless thirst. It was bittersweet, as they say but that all came to an end one day- the dog, the kids in my life, my renewed hopes- everything.

While sitting on my porch, drinking a double-deuce and smoking a cigarette, I noticed movement out of the upper left corner of my eye. It was the girls in the upstairs window. At first, it was nice. They were vying for my attention but I think they were suppose to be taking a nap or, at least, out of the way for something or another that the adults in the home were doing. It went from their smiles and waves, to them lifting their shirts up to bare their chests. Yeah, that’s right- flashing me.

My first thought was that they had been exposed to a lot of things they shouldn’t be exposed to but my second thought was, that they had been molested. My world went black. Suddenly, I became mortified that I would be accused of something that scared me to death.

Today it doesn’t matter. An accusation, alone, will destroy you. Jumping up from the porch, I went inside, shut the house up, and retreated from all view. Now that I think about it, I wonder if I should have called the Child Protective Authorities but then again, there’s the accusation effect. There is no telling what the right thing to do is sometimes. Soon after, I left the house, going to the Singh family’s home on College Street, to get away for a while. My goal was to put my mind at ease and smoke a little of their grass, while hearing what they had to say about it. Robert McVoy introduced us recently- Dave, his wife, and two little girls, and two dogs. One of those dogs was named Brown Dog, which fell in love with me. It would come out that Dave was much older that his wife, that they had become acquainted when she was very young- 14 or 15. Now that I look back on it, my inquiries about what to do about the situation weren’t received as well as I would have liked but, then again, that could be my own misperception. The next problem I had was, when I got back home… Brandy was gone. After asking the people in my building, all of them claiming not to know a single thing about it, I went to ask the Mexican family next door. The woman of the house reiterated that she saw the dog being put into the van belonging to Mrs. Goode who then drove away with him, only to return without the dog. This was dumbfounding. There were a whole lot of questions coming out of me but the only answers I got were my own. All of these people in my building, these women, were obviously not my friends. This reality was more reinforcement to my own resentment brought on by a life of continuous mistreatment from women.

The Singh family became a regular spot for me- clinging to everything about them that resembled normalcy, in order to discuss life and my developments. During the next few days they would find a home for Brown Dog, in me, mostly because it was too much for them to feed two dogs and a family of four on their income. Originally, they had rescued Brown Dog from the street. Without a second thought, I gladly took Brown Dog, and he gladly took me. We were inseparable, yet, I could only think of Dusty, and that thought couldn’t go through my head without thinking of my kids, which only kept adding fuel to my thirst.

Brown Dog was a great companion. For the next several weeks we would do everything together- go to work, walkabouts, fishing, playing music, even going to the bar. The people at Mulligan’s Pub let me bring him inside. Consciously, I wasn’t aware that he was a temporary replacement for my losses. At night I’d put him in the backyard but he would get out and roam the town. As the days would pass, I learned of his romps- clear up to so and so’s house, and all the way over to what’s his name’s- everywhere I had taken him to on our jaunts.

My hopes were for this dog to make up for the loss of the other but when Jimmy came home he wouldn’t see the beauty of, a house broken and trained animal, over a pup that needed all of it’s shots and the expense of that, yet, to be incurred at the Vet.

Jimmy was furious, especially since there was nothing in the house to drink but reality. The girl I made the flower box for was on her porch, with her phone in her hand that day, ready to call the police if things got as violent as they did the last time he was home, I imagined. It isn’t hard to admit that I was pretty frightened over that confrontation, especially since I don’t like being on the defensive end of things, and I hate to see people get hurt. Never having gotten into it with Jimmy before, I was worried how it would turn out, particularly since he had just gotten out of jail. And here’s the girl in the end apartment with her hand on the phone, who more than likely called the police before. With my having been on the defensive end all of my life, it would seem that I would be accustomed to it but maybe being frightened is being accustom to it.

However, it didn’t come to blows that day. Even after I explained about the neighbors, and how they did it- to take the dog away from the bad home they felt the dog had. Still, he wouldn’t accept Brown Dog and said that he couldn’t take “my” dog from me. Brown Dog would not have liked that anyway but, then again, he wouldn’t be given any choices in a moment- either one of them.

Brown Dog and I had grown accustomed to going to Eastown, going to the bars there, where he was allowed inside. One particular night I had gotten a half of an ounce of compressed weed and went out drinking with Brown Dog. It never mattered how drunk I got, Brown Dog had always gotten me back home.  Well, on this night, our trip homeward was interrupted. Some guys who had been drinking on their porch, for some reason, called the cops. The cops came and arrested me for trespassing, taking me to the Kent County Jail. Shortly after waking up in the drunk tank, I would scratch at an area of discomfort on my calf to find a one half ounce piece of marijuana, that looked like a buffalo chip, tucked inside my sock. After spending some time in holding, I decided to eat it before I got caught with it, which was a good idea because, little did I know, I was going to be taken to another county on another charge.

One day they said, “Polk, pack your stuff,” so I gave away my useful stuff to people in need, expecting to be released but when I got up to the bubble to get my discharge papers, I was told that I would be going to Gladwin County for a warrant! ARGH!! Now, I would be going to jail for another six months.

Well, six months quickly shaped into three months because of the day for day good time credit, which I think is just another scam on the taxpayers but honestly, nobody cares enough to give two minutes of themselves to see or respond to it. If you pull the plug on one scam, you might disturb your own, so everyone pretends everything is all right, just doesn’t miss church on Sunday.

One day, while sitting in the ten-man cellblock, a chubby female guard came to the window with a newspaper- pressing it against the glass. It was a Bay City Times, and the article read, “Polk the Impersonator, Back in Gladwin Jail- This time as Polk”. Oh, it was a hilarious article- all lies, of course. It remains on my list of things to tend to, and I always swore that I would get the real story to them someday but have not been able to do so. That has not happened yet, mostly because the Editor will not get back to me. When I was released I didn’t try hiking home again- not right away. I figured I’d visit but other than finding a way to drink, I’m not sure what I was thinking.

I ran into a guy with a bum arm whom claimed to be a small engine mechanic. He asked me if I’d be interested in working for him or helping him make up for the shotgun blast that removed the piece of arm bone that connected his elbow to his shoulder- Humerus it is, though it’s nothing to laugh at. He tripped with a shotgun, falling on his face while hunting, which all but blew his arm completely off, more or less, so he claimed.

He was living in a trailer that should have been condemned. It was like an old sardine can with a little dried up sauce, and some scales and bone left behind. It was as old as they get, and looked like it was abandon forty years ago. The trailer was beyond dilapidated, and what was worse was that he had two children and a wife. She was a pretty good-looking woman and he was seriously mental. This reminded me of the movie Overboard- the house, the kids, and her. The place stank like several different odors of urine, and would have been condemned if the health department ever stepped in. Not to mention the kids would have surely been removed. Whoa, Gladwin!

Well, this wife of his had a female friend from Flint that was visiting at some point soon after I arrived, and after I had mentioned my story. The woman friend of hers was offering a ride as far as Flint. It was better than nothing, so I jumped at the chance, leaving with her that night or the next day. Whichever way it was, I was free from their reality.

The sickest part of it all was that this guy’s mother lived on the right side of him, possibly sharing the same property. Her place was beautiful- with all the trimmings, and extremely well kept. It was a strange dichotomy, and very creepy. What was I to do but resist the desperate attempts of this wife of his- her subtlety, implying I was to rescue her from her helplessness- her reality? My reality had become so convoluted that it barely had enough room for me to fit in it. Oh, Life is strange and unfair sometimes.

This woman’s name, I cannot remember but it’s easy to recall that she had a serious weight problem- bad enough that you couldn’t tell if she was male or female. One thing was unmistakable, she often smelled like dirty ass. Her friends that socialized with her, at the trailer park she lived in, would whisper in her ear sometimes, that she needed to, “spruce up”. She was a nice enough person. Don’t get me wrong- just another unfortunate soul to which her life became accumulated with a variety of contamination that all but robbed her of her existence. It’s sad to see people surviving with the psychological damage that comprises a decent living standard and how they feel about themselves. Good parenting is, ultimately, the foundation for every creature on the planet. You might as well outright kill your kids if you aren’t going to, at least, care enough for them to give them up to someone who will. You might as well kill yourself while you’re at it. Oh, but we’re far too self absorbed for that.

When we finally got to her trailer, I was a bit shocked of how degraded that area of town was. The park was, really, pretty small. Maybe there were forty trailers, if there weren’t only a dozen. A few of them were fairly well kept. A couple of the trailers were nice but most of them were typical of very low incomes. When I set foot in her place, I was shocked at how well kept it was. The place was spotless- I dare say beautiful. A woman friend of hers was inside, standing at the sink. She had been washing the dishes. Soon, I learned how her friends had all pooled together to delouse her house. My benefactor was shocked, (I’ve got to find a larger vocabulary. I think I used “shocked” four times in the last paragraph, and I’m not even speaking of electricity!), and overwhelmed with joy, becoming moved to tears as she realized what they had done for her. Now all they had to do was sterilize her and her vehicle, having already treated her daughter since that’s where the discovery was made.

Since I was there for several days, I had plenty of time to get to know her friends. We went fishing a few times. One of those times I realized that her, maybe fourteen year-old, daughter was crushing on me… Uh-oh.

This woman had to go to Bay City to pick up her roommate, giving them plenty of time to pick my brain. It was her roommate’s addictions that controlled the situation now. Again, the best answers are often too easy to see, and always overlooked. I could have sought refuge with relatives in Bay City but my wit and intelligence, however minimal, was not employed. Two hours may have passed when I was informed that we were ready to leave, only it was more like, ”How would you like to go fishing with us tonight?” well, I don’t’ know about where you’re from but where I’m from that means drinking, so I said, “Of course I’ll go fishing!”

Well-water. When the mother asked the daughter if she wanted to go, instead of staying there, and that I was going too- she came running out to the van and said she’d be right out. Twenty minutes later she came out of the house in high heels and giddy. In the euphoria of flowing hormones, and drunk on my Pheromones, she tripped and fell with the tackle box in her unfamiliar cloak of womanhood. It was at this time that I put it all together. It probably didn’t help matters any when we talked about music, and I sang some of the lyrics from one of my favorite songs by Leon Russell, called, “My Cricket:

“I was just thinking about you today, and the evening was hefting a mountain; But I cannot get through to you, find words to say, oh my darling you’re so far away; Oh no, I’m not crying these ain’t tears in my eyes, I’m so happy I’m dying with laughter; If you’d only come over I’m sure you would see, we’re not lonely- my cricket and me.”

When we got back to the trailer park, a reference to me finding work, locally, was made a few times, casually mentioning a strip club. That made me afraid of being set up to be used sexually, which is probably why I avoided their bait- that is, if it even dawned on me. Someone spread the word about going fishing to the gang, so they got things together and we were gone by sunset.

When we got to the river, where they liked to fish, the golfers were leaving the course, staring at us as they took the only way out of the country club. Everyone claimed a piece of the riverbank and set up to fish. The woman’s daughter spent her energies staying in my sight, and at my side. As I think back on her tripping over her borrowed heels, I still feel embarrassed for her and wonder where she is today. My only hope for her is that she has found good things in life, and connected with someone to properly care and share with her.

It doesn’t seem like we caught any fish that night but we had a few bites and beers, and just enjoyed the moments- people enjoying being together, thankful to have survived the day and pulled through all of it’s agonizing demands.

My fright between the girl trying to gain my affections, and the mother hoping I’d stay, has left little more than a blur from the time I left Gladwin until the time I had her drop me back off there. It was my escape attempt, “There’s people there that I can work for”, I told her.

My sorrow for their circumstances, and for the realities of many like them in the world, made me wish that I could be in everyone’s life who is in need but the only way I can have a hope to do that is with music. The songs I would write for all to share, an uplifting message and my bottled up love and understanding for the world’s heartbroken to use to quench their thirst for an unavoidable human need.