Part 18, beginning of 1B/orlfxashnx.blogspot.com

Bob and I were trimming houses for Johnny Van Soest at the time. One day Johnny called Bob to a private luncheon, leaving me at the job site where I continued to work, eating my lunch as I went along in my details. 
The thing about me, I am told, is that the work I do is exemplary, setting the standards of those around me, and would be expected of a well-trained Finish Carpenter. Bob, on the other hand, was an imposter. His accumulated skills gave him the resemblance of a carpenter but he was not. It was more accurate that he was a general laborer. Truth is, he had such an attitude, (much like Stan), and was so snide, that nobody could stand him long enough to get any kind of work done at all. He was so insecure; anyone getting the attention of the superiors, other than him self, was targeted to be subtly, and slowly, whittled away at with Bob’s tone. 

It was all fun and games on the surface but it was malicious and deviant in it’s intent; cowardly passive, yet aggressive attacks, veiled in humor. This is one of the purposes he had for my craftsmanship, passing my work off as his own where ever, and when ever, he could get away with it… until now.

Bob would soon come back from his little private luncheon, at The First Wok on Northland Drive, to make light of what ended up being an outright confrontation. John discovered that my work was what he had been promised in affect but with Bob on the job, trying to maintain a dominate grasp on the contract while fearing me taking over- the truth spilled out for the only one who mattered in the scheme to see… the man who signs the check.

Bob’s insecurity constantly rewarded me with information. If it hadn’t been for his uneasiness and guilt emanating from his disability of not being able to handle silence, he may never have told me what was said at the luncheon. Instead of a discussion about the next house or a price negotiation, Johnny flatly stated, “I don’t think you take pride in your work.” I was a bit shocked that Bob shared that with me but maybe he needed me to help him make light of it, so he wouldn’t feel the psychological sting, and the threat.

Bob and I both knew who’s work they all hired him for, and as they would learn that it was mine, he would paint out a gruesome picture of me- making himself look like a star for dealing with me. As long as he controlled me he could benefit from my work, keeping me on the weak end of the pay scale to insure that I was starving enough to keep performing. Constantly beating me down in my mind, extinguishing the flames of desire that burned in my heart, that gave me the spirit that I had. He would toy with my life as if I were a lab rat or a fly, only to torture me and keep my wings from being able to lift my self back up to the heights of who I had been in the past.

His mouth would leak things it never should have. He was his own worst enemy in that way. He is one of the first people you’d shoot, if he were in your crime family because he would run his mouth off and cause your inevitable ruin.

At one time he was an employee at a dowel company in Marne but quit when they scolded him for performing excessively in his position, denying him a raise that he had been pressing for. This didn’t wear well with his rejection issues. Before he left, being a deviant, and a psychiatrists dream, he altered all of the company’s production jigs. 

This malicious act caused a huge problem, and was a devastating blow to the business, that would rob the employees of their security by going out of business because of it this act. This was a problem in the Marne area because there were few jobs around that contributed to the local community and it’s Economy. 

This would be bragged about every once in a while, just for the sake of inflating his own ego and subtly letting me know that he owned me. Occasionally he would remark to me that I, “just don’t know how to suck up right.” This implied that maybe I should be submissive to his lust....

Later, he would reveal a problem at home involving the computer, mentioning the discovery of gay porn being viewed in the browser history. He suggested that it was the curiosity of the younger of his two charges that were being cared for in his home- his brother Joe’s kids. 

The boy was around thirteen at the time, and very meek, more than likely fearful of Bob. How convenient it was to use this poor boy for a scapegoat. Cheryl would now giggle a bit over the discovery, and continue to monitor the traffic on her Internet service, thinking the boys were being boys, as they say.

At one point, while staying at my mother’s house after my separation, an acquaintance convinced me into meeting him to go out and “party.” He picked me up as I walked down the street away from my mother’s house, and then doubled back to his apartment- the same building that Selena and Diamond had lived in. When we got there, I realized I had made a mistake. Apparently this guy owed money for dope and had just taken me hostage. The plan was that I would give them money in order to be allowed to leave. I spent ten hours trying to figure a way out of this situation without giving them what they wanted but ended up calling Bob to come and get me, using some of the money he owed me to fund these dirtballs for their precious crack. Just knowing that they are in their own hell is satisfaction enough, I suppose.

Yes, it was another convenient situation for Bob to use to his advantage....

Not too long after this is when I lived by the creek, saved Laura and Matt from losing their kids, and then got a job working for the carnival, which is a very interesting story, especially since it took about a year or less from the time Mindy left until I left with them on my suicide run.

I had just left 84 Lumber and was trying to get my job smoothed over. I think I was fired that day because as a Sawyer, I cut the parts for the trusses we manufactured but almost all of my cuts were wrong. With my brain injury dominating the situation, and alcohol compounding things as best supporting actor, everything was all mixed up. As I crossed the highway overpass, going towards town, a guy driving a king cab pickup truck stopped and asked me if I needed a ride or a job. People don’t just stop and ask you if you need any sort of help these days, and I should have been weary, especially since I was already in town. I got in, of course, only to find myself on my way to the carnival with a man who had to run for potatoes to use in his food wagon that he operated there. He explained to me that they always needed schleps, and me- I nominated myself. What a typical Pisces.

It was the first day of the carnival, which was still in set-up mode. Jerry’s Concessions were providing the show. The work I was assigned to do was running a ride called, The Force Ten. This ride was the feature on this midway, going in circle fashion, lifting high and tilting, spinning at a speed that generated a G-force in excess of three G’s. All of this while several pre-amps, and over two-dozen speakers blared music that I felt was appropriate for the rhythm and the intensity of the ride. It was up to me to decide what music to use. Metallica happened to be the best to choose from, so I selected “Battery” as the main track to use. The intro is kind of long, so I played it while loading the buckets on the ride. I would load a couple buckets and then jog the machine. Then I’d load a couple more, jogging it around some more, while burning through the introduction. When it got time to go, I would hit the run button, choreographing the music and ride for the rush and thrill- compounding the effect. What a Blast! People couldn’t get enough of it. The ride was drawing crowds of one hundred people or more that would watch. My costume helped a bit having long crazy two-tone hair from a dye-job I let some crack addicted woman talk me into. The music would fill the grounds and I would thrash my hair about, while playing air guitar. I loved being on a stage, especially five feet off of the ground. It was my own show that put two hundred and fifty dollars in my hand, per week. This was a huge pay cut, from the seventy thousand I made as a Finish Carpenter, to the fifty thousand per year I was making at Permalife but it didn’t matter anymore. My whole life was destroyed and all that was left was garbage. Little did I realize I was now a volunteer prisoner, serving time on death row in every possible sense of the phrase.  

One of the first couple days working for the ride owner, I was asked if I would be interested in leaving with them to go to the next spot. “Sure,” I answered. The very next question was, “Do you have any warrants?” This should have indicated the reality of modern day slavery but my common sense was completely out to lunch since my accident. I was on a suicide run, with that intention. That night, at close, I got a twenty-dollar tattoo of a runaway doobie on my left shoulder, and threw all of my identification in the nearest trashcan.

The customers or ‘mark’s, would come back after riding, a lot of times with “tips” that ranged from money to drugs. I was instructed not to accept them, so I let my alter ego handle that department. Sometimes people would pay me to get on, deciding to go on a ride after all but not wanting to go through the hassle of buying any tickets. There was a young guy with a crippled arm that ran a food wagon who told me that he would watch a joint at each spot, studying the traffic and business. He would tell me that my little freak show was getting all the ratings at the Berlin Fair, saying that it was the most interesting and entertaining thing he’d seen since he had been on the circuit. Feeling proud that night but not feeling proud enough of myself to want to live; it was a momentary thing. Maybe it was ego more than pride or maybe it was blind stupidity but there was plenty of stupidity on the carnival circuit, so I blended right in. Only they don’t call it stupidity because it’s not at all recognized as anything but normality. George Orwell may have written about it already or Hunter S. Thompson, but I am going to try to explain it anyway:

Working for the carnival is just like anything else in life. There are maybe three sides to the politics. There are ride jockeys, food vendors and barkers, and then there is the management, which would be the governor or dictator. The rides are mostly owned by the management except for some privately owned rides that follow along either by invitation or bid. Management sells tickets and each ride collects them, each paid a percentage of the tickets it draws. Barkers run the games in the same type fashion only it’s cash from the marks, directly into their hand so, even among those with no honor there is an honor system to split a percentage with the management. So you should be able to see how the jockeys and barkers are competing for the same monies.

Food vendors are always neutral because everyone has to eat. The food vendors are like Cleopatra’s in the carnival. Fights often break out between the jockeys and the barkers, and it’s always due to their frustrations with getting money out of the marks. Either they are just pissed off because people aren’t spending money at the games like they used to, or expect them to- blaming it on the rides, or they claim they can’t be heard well enough over the noise of the sirens and sounds that are used to add a layer of attraction or saliency- calling the attention of the potential riders.

At then end of the night it’s party time- drugs, booze and sex. Eleven P.M. comes and then it’s all too crazy. The clans group up and who knows what will happen next. Someone almost always gets beat up. It’s like the freaking jackals or hyenas on the African plains- just a bunch of beggars around me, biding their time until they are completely freed of responsibility as earthlings who are sick of having to wash up for supper even.

Biding time until death was mostly what I was doing but I wasn’t dying from anger and hate, I was dying from a broken heart. It was typical of me to get mixed up with the dregs of society because I was born, inconveniently. And being aware of that, as well as being socially scarred because of it, placed me right where misfits end up a lot of times- on the streets.

Part 17 (end of 1A orlfxashnz.blogspot.com) "Escaping The Despondent Sea" a Novel by Zachery Polk

There was one day that I recall quite frequently because I have a separated shoulder to remind me of it. It was a day that I worked in his shop, at his house in Marne. This particular day was a Saturday and we were drinking beer, pretty much all day long, along with smoking weed as well. At one point, early in the late afternoon, he said, “Hey, let’s ride the dirt bikes.” The boys wanted to ride, since he had promised them earlier that they could take the Fat Cat and three-wheeler out on the trails. He climbed on the Yamaha IT 250 Enduro, and gave me the Honda 100 Enduro to ride. Naturally, I got on the bike while the boys followed us. 

There was a trailhead that was near the house. It went out and around a farmer’s fields. At one point Bob stopped and ordered me to ride the 250, taking the bike I was on for him self, saying, “Here. Ride this if you want to beat on something.” Well, I jumped on and took off, racing along through the gears. I think it was about six seconds, if it wasn’t eight, until I came up onto a sixteen or eighteen inch lump of earth in the trail resembling a small jump. When I hit, it was like I ran into a wall. The bike mule-kicked me straight up in the air to a height of, what seemed like one hundred feet but was closer to fifty, causing me to activate my wonder twin powers into the shape of a rocket- coming straight down from my ascension head first into the well packed earth. The bike flipped over the jump and continued flipping in an “endo” fashion all the way down the trail repeatedly, with quite a bit of velocity, as would be expected since I was at the end of the wick, and up to fourth gear. It flipped rear over front for approximately forty yards, if not fifty, judging by the amount of flips it did, hitting the ground twelve times at the least.

I wondered ever since then, if the house overlooking the crash site might have contained any witnesses since it had a clear shot. It had to be quite a sight to see.

Bob came up to me, only to run past the heap I made, towards the heap I had successfully made of his bike, exclaiming “My bike! Look what you did to my bike!” His childish concern for the bike, ignoring my physical health, especially in the presence of the adolescents, spoke volumes. The bike he was so worried about was an acquisition he made by taking advantage of people, running his own one-way pawn service. I was in a bit of shock and there was a dull sting in my shoulder. Along with that sensation was a message that told me it was just popped out of the socket so, I slammed my arm down into the ground several times, trying to pop it back in. The doctor would later say that it was separated, requiring me to come back in two weeks to “talk about it”. I have been around enough to know that I wouldn’t be having my arm repaired due to not having any insurance. I never went back to talk about it. My mother was the one who took me to the hospital that day. They all thought I exaggerated the story of what happened, saying that I was “overly animated”. I could have sued Bob for the medical expenses, especially in light of the fact that he made me pay for every single repair to that bike, using the most expensive bike shop in town, Shawmut Hills Honda. I never brought up the entire situation and story to his wife. It was just another episode where Bobby unfairly took out his stored up anger on me, the only person, other than his wife, to truly put effort into whatever kind of relationship we had.

Yes, I could have said no but who would deny a dirt bike ride, especially in Marne, just because they had been drinking? That’s blasphemous. It’s a requisite for dirt biking. Every Marnian knows that. But Bob knew of my head injury and the psychological conditions I was dealing with, not to mention my problem with alcohol, and all of my accidents in the past. He knew better than to offer me booze while at work, and he knew better than to put me on or give me the opportunity to ride his motorcycles, let alone force me to pay for the damage to the bike. It’s not like I asked to come and borrow it. I was there to make money. I’m not sure if it’s needless to say or not but come Monday I was right back at work, cutting parts and assembling a stained Oak staircase one handed,  and by myself- single handedly if you will.

(Wayside motel, to move in with Ron Groenlier soon)

 Bob and I were working on newly built houses for, Ancil Mitchell, who was a preacher for a church called, The Grand Valley Voice of the Pentecost. This man built simple homes and duplexes for financially disadvantaged people who wanted to get out of the city and away from the potential hazards that went along with life there. Knowing Ancil would have been extremely helpful after Mindy left, which happened to be when I found out that the house I had been living in wasn’t mine at all. Soon after our separation I would end up being thrown out by her father, Marc, when I could no longer pay him the rent, which was seven hundred and fifty dollars per month. Marc, along with Minderella’s sister, Amy, (so Mindy claims), packed up what was left after Minderella had her way with everything of any use or value despite the judge’s fifty-fifty ruling. Trash bags suited this procedure because that’s how they treated my belongings. Some of which were heirlooms that I had received, that were to be handed down to my children- heirlooms like their Great, Great Grandmother Lindner’s cookie jar.

My Great Grandma Lindner was always known as the cookie Grandma. After her death, since I was the oldest Great Grandchild, the cookie jar was presented to me. This particular jar was a mother Pelican with a small baby Pelican on her bill, which happened to be the lid. The baby made the handle. Minderella had already smashed it once, in the not so distant past, during one of her Infamous tantrums of Princess-like temper. I used my crafting skills, and wounded sentimentality, to glue it back together, filling in the missing areas with plaster to sculpt it back into wholeness while trying my best to hide the fact that it had once been destroyed. I should have stripped the familial reigns that I had placed trust in her to hold, from her hands that very day. Why I didn’t divorce her, for that alone, probably had a lot to do with the children and my Love for them- along with the great Hope that I had for her to one day embrace her role in our relationship, and become everything she was expected, and vowed, to become. The beloved cookie jar was an item synonymous with Cody and Scarlett's very dear Great, Great Grandmother Lindner but was now marred with the scars of what seemed, to me, to be a loveless marriage. The thought of it now, still aches my heart. When Cody was born we were five generations living. To my mother’s family as a whole, that was a pretty serious thing for our family history. We photographed the event.

Looking back, those mistakes were a dreadful thing. Or is it dreadful to see how the solutions were always overlooked, and so simple, leading to the most difficult situations and the most needless suffering? None of it had to be the way that it had been but when you are alone in life with no one, and nothing to count on, you are forced to make all of the mistakes that you could have learned from others having done them before you. But there are those who would rather you made them instead, out of spite. After all, it didn’t kill them.

 Oh well. I didn’t know Ancil at this trying time in my life but I did know Charles. And when I was out on the street he tried to help by taking me to the only place he knew of where I could find a bit of hope or just a room to stay in. One of those places was at Ronald Jackson’s apartment. This is the same place, where sometime after this, I would plan to take Selena as a somewhat of a safe haven but became interrupted that morning when we were attacked. And incidentally, it was not the right place for either of us to go. The drug issue was about to get worse because this guy was a daily crack cocaine user. It’s probable that I was taken there due to the fact that I had been using, and Ronald Jackson was a user who was always calling people for a little cash so he could score more. Sort of like the buddy system for drug user’s.

At one point, while living at one of Ronald Jackson’s apartments, I managed to find the Independent Living Services in the phone book so, I called them and spoke to a woman named Tina Tilney, who did come to speak with me. It was a desperate attempt, on my part, to get out of the environment after I realized how bad it truly was and is. She was clearly overwhelmed because she had never followed through with finding me a home for “highly functioning individuals”, as she had discussed with me. She also mentioned various jobs that she could get me involved in, and some therapies to learn how to cope with my injuries and state of duress. She took all of my files that I showed to her and just vanished.

Living at Ronald Jackson’s apartment was turning even more ugly as the drug use continued on by the minute. In a desperate attempt to change my environment, I went to Ron Vokes house in order to ask him to rent me a room. It just happened to be that Ron Groenlier showed up shortly after my arriving. After he mentioned that he was moving into a house owned by his Aunt, I explained that I was looking for a room to rent. He was quick to ask me to come and share his place. When I went there to start moving my stuff in I had ran into Salih, owner of Native American Builder’s, he offered me another job that lasted for a few months, eventually ending once again. Only this time it was because her problem was that I knew more about there marriage than she wanted me to. It was one more time that I had to call Bob for work.

One day Bob came to pick me up for work at his shop. We had been working through the week for Johnny Van Soest, who was building new homes in the Rockford area. There were a few projects going on in the shop where Bob was building a few items to go in his house. Things like a sow’s belly draw standing cabinet for potatoes and onions, and a small desk for the mail, keys, and charging packs for cellular phones.

As I was trying to keep going with the momentum that I was being pushed to maintain, I made a poor decision to use a small piece of scrap wood to cut a part from rather than an ample sized piece to work with. My thumb got cut on the table saw while trying to rip this board to size. It was a board that I knew was too short to cut on the table saw when I was doing it but out of my wanting to keep Bob happy by letting less material go in the pile for the wood stove I nearly lost one of my hands. And although I was a very highly skilled woodworker, my head was twisted up with the residual affects of the substances I had been using the night before.

The saw blade became pinched by the twist in the wood as the board became separated into two pieces, caused by the nature of the wood grain as it had grown around a knot. The blade yanked the board and the force I was using to push on it let the weight of that force fall forward into the area of the blade, catching a piece of one of my fingers on my right hand. Had my senses not been compromised by a hangover, I would have been able to achieve it, as I had become known to do the improbable routinely. As the board went flying, bouncing off of the wall, my hand was struck and vibrated with a high frequency vibration. My fingers felt hot from the blow. It was my first reaction to grab the struck hand with my other hand, and grip the fingers tightly as if to hold them together. The pressure applied was to stop the blood flow that I knew was there. It was also to hold the pieces together. Fearing the extent of the damage, I just kept squeezing until I could stomach to look at the wound.

Bob took me home shortly after. I grabbed a half pint of Seagram’s Seven and a couple of pain relievers. Having thought that it was minor, I realized that it was quite a bit worse, so I got on the telephone and called around for someone to take me to the hospital but no one was around to help. Then I go the big idea to call The Independent Living Association to see if Tina Tilney could help me, and continue our discussion about my life situation. The way I saw it was that she would see that I nearly cut my hand off and would then recognize that I truly needed the help of her organization.

Tina Tilney did come to the house and took me to the hospital to be treated. While we were there I told her about a story I had been writing and a few nightmares I had been having. She didn’t really listen to me, thinking that I was delusional or crazy.

There happened to be a friend of my ex-wife’s there with her husband but she never said a word to me, only to relay her observations back to Mindy shortly after she had left the Hospital. Later on in the coming months I would hear how Carrie was there with her son, and with the impression that I was out of my mind.

Within a few months weeks Bob would land Ron a job working for a friend of his who owned a heating and cooling business, as well as an auto-body and mechanic’s shop.  This time things would get bad around the house with Ron, especially since he had an income now. His drinking had gotten so bad that I would question my own. Eventually he would end up losing that job.

Update to manuscript- I recently tried to contact Tina Tilney, as my only hope to regain services in Kent County, per my medical needs. After searching my info sources, I located her Office!! I called the number but a man answered. After asking for her, I learned that this wonderful humanitarian, who worked on so many levels trying to give people in need some sort of relief, 
The told me she had passed away in 2014, i believe it was. Forgive me for my haphazardness. I am extremely busy right now. Editing isn't what's important at the moment. 
I am very sad to hear of Ms. Tilney's passing, and I wish for Blessing for her loved ones.
Thanks for reading my nonsense. 
Zachery Polk.

Part 16

We moved everything but the couch. This couch was a gift from Bob but most likely his wife, Cheryl. When I moved it in, it required some disassembly and was a bit tricky for me because I had no experience with couch manufacturing, and had little clue how to do it. Bruce proved to be handy for this task but it was a bitch, which [ha-ha, bitch witch] is why I bailed on it when it came time to move it. Jens homosexual son, Ethan, drove us around in his little baby blue Ford Ranger until we found a place to rent a room that would charge us on a weekly basis. I think it was the Econo-Lodge near U.S. 131 on 28^th Street. At two hundred dollars a week, it was anything but economical. 

Since we had a storage unit there was plenty of room for my computer, one of many that I lost in the past fourteen years. This way I could continue to write the materials for my books that I fantasized about writing and publishing- mainly as a last will and testament to my children. The guitar I had at that time, given to me by William “Zig Zag” Goode, was claimed to have been given to him by Ted Nugent, along with a beautiful pair of black and white sculpted cowboy boots that he managed to find for me at a garage sale; all probably given to me to insure that I would be providing the booze for a while.

William Goode was a sad case. One night we were out on a walk-about, looking for people who needed help drinking their booze. We must have not had any money because I remember walking with him to the train track crossing on Bridge Street for a nickel that was embedded in the overly tarry blacktopped asphalt. It was about eleven o’clock at night. He couldn’t get the nickel up out of the tar, and with nothing to pry it with but another nickel, it remained embedded in the tar. It reminded me of the sword and the stone. I guess he wasn’t the one that was meant to have it. The back-up plan was to go into a bar called, “Our Tavern”, which we did.

The bar was pretty empty that particular night, all but for two couples, a lone man, and the barkeeper- all sitting at the bar. It must have been fairly busy recently because the tables were a bit disheveled, several having empty glasses and pitchers on them. Bill told the barkeeper that he’d clean them up in hopes he would be rewarded for his efforts with some alcohol. He set right to gathering the glasses and pitchers, emptying the ashtrays and pushing in the chairs as if he worked there regularly. A few of the pitchers had a little beer in them. He poured it all together and set a couple glasses down for the two of us. I could hear them quietly discussing this whole scene- a guy and his wife, who were laughing about it, ordered a pitcher for us. Guilt and embarrassment consumed me- for Bill, for us but mostly for me, I guess, because I wasn’t drunk enough to have no shame. It was probably because of a mixture of Bill trying to help out all of the time, and me having told him earlier that I had no money to buy anything to drink that day. And being his friend when he had so few, he was just trying to help me out the only way he knew how. I mentioned to the people giggling about him, in his defense, that he was hard to reason with, and that since he was drunk I was just trying to keep him company until his wife might let him come back to the house. This should have sunk in as a possible future for myself but maybe I was too preoccupied with my memories of the last and only time that I had ever been to Our Tavern, to see it.

Bill Bolthouse and I had been called out on a service call to repair the bathroom plumbing about ten or more years ago. We showed up there and went inside to the instructions of who ever took charge of the bar at that moment. The men’s urinal wouldn’t flush, only to spill out onto the floor every time someone tried, which, despite the mop bucket and the sign saying, “Do Not Use The Urinal,” they did. We checked every fixture in the room, inspecting the entire plumbing assemblies before we settled down to the one particular object of concern.

One of the toilets liked to run on, and sure enough, the urinal was clogged. With me holding the tool tray up off of the urine stained floor, Bill lifted the lid to the tank on the throne. He burst out laughing, only because it was always comical to find a brick in the toilet tank.

It’s a valiant effort to want to conserve water but regardless of whether or not a brick saves water, the solution is within the mechanics. The float-bulb is in the water tank, connected to the water valve by a threaded rod. The threaded rod is made of a soft copper but sometimes it’s soft steel or aluminum. This bulb controls whether the valve becomes on or off by the downward and upward motion of falling or rising water in the tank. If you bend the rod in the middle so that the bulb sits lower in the tank, it will shut off sooner, using less water per flush. It’s not Rocket Science or Magic.

The urinal, on the other hand, had… an organic problem. When we yanked the urinal from the wall mounting plate, we found out why it wouldn’t drain. Apparently they drink so much beer, so fast, that it doesn’t become digested or broken down by the body. The drain port had a collection of gelatinized residue from the beer clogging it to the size of a quarter when it was a two and one half inch piece of drain pipe. It looked very much like Tofu or maybe even a Jellyfish sewage monster or maybe… well, let’s just move on. It was one of those jobs where you thought your chances of getting a disease were pretty likely. This always runs through my memory banks when I recall anything to do with Our Tavern, and it had to be a distracting thought that night, while I was there with William- distracting me from receiving the messages that were there for me to take in.

Anyway, one item, of all the things that I had with me at the Econo-lodge, which were all important to me at the time, was my computer. I cannot remember where I had gotten it from but I do remember it did not like to work with it’s casing on the hard drive. It took me a while to figure out that it quit working when I put it back on but that’s as far as I ever got with it, continuing to use it with the guts hanging out of it. I had written on it with a black Sharpie: “I Only Work Naked.” This computer was nothing to me but a simple tool for writing, for focusing on writing my stories with. The only thing of value in it to me was that which I had written. At this time in the turmoil of the events and people in my life, I clung to the idea of writing but not for the sake of writing, for the sake of my very dear children- Sarah, Cody, and Scarlett. These writings were to express myself to them in any and every way I possibly could, to tell them how much I loved them and how much I grieved over our separation. The writings were to share the things I had gone through in my duress and the strange dichotomy between wanting to die to end my pain, and wanting to survive to see the day I had them back in my life. They would serve to be my final testament and an expose’ of the truth of their so-called mother and the terrible thing that she had done. So, when I wasn’t in an alcohol-induced coma, I would write.

Now and again, I would lament a hope that I will be reunited with those songs, stories and morsels that I spilled out through the keys but my perspective of Realism say’s that they are gone forever because the girls would vacate the room, taking the unused payment on the room, along with all of my possessions, disappearing with the entitlement to the storage unit- all of what was left of my entire life, and my attempt to rebuild it.

Of all the things I had been separated from, the one thing I am saddened by the most was a cardboard box that once held Paslode Framing Nails in it, repurposed to hold every photograph I had ever taken of my children. These photos that I took I had to beg Mindy to allow me to accumulate, since she thought nothing for our family’s need for a camera. Other than photos, the most peculiar and significant thing about that box was the actual blood that was sprayed and splattered on it, human blood. It was evidence of the reality of my struggle to find my way back in life.

Howard robbing me for crack after Mindy left.

That little detail just spun the clock back on this yarn to before I lost the house to Minderella’s father. The company I had become associated with led me into a lot of unusual situations that may or may not be typical of the crack cocaine scene. This company went by the name, Howard. I met Howard when I found myself off of Franklin Street between Eastern and Madison Avenue. My mission was to score fifty dollars worth of cocaine. He and an associate of his were working the streets, hustling by hooking people up with dope or taking their money entirely. I was one who got ripped off. Instead of fifty dollars worth of dope I was left with a crack-head who did everything he could to stay by my side. Only in hopes of me buying dope, so he could smoke some. He fed me a bunch of sob stories that caused me to end up bringing him back to my house so he could use my shower and eat something. It wasn’t until much later, steeped in the environment, that I would learn of his social status, and the intentions of an addict for an unsuspecting victim, especially someone love starved, friendless, and being psychologically and emotionally impaired.  

He would coach me on how to smoke the drug, always doing what he could to insure that the next hit he had would be doubled due to the dope I tried to smoke running down the pipe to the other end when it became liquefied from an inappropriate amount of heat being applied. He would shove the screen to the other end, load it with another piece, and blow out a huge cloud of smoke. I got sick of his instruction, at one point realizing what he was doing and why, shouting at him to shut the hell up. “You graduated, baby,” was what he said to me at that moment. I was suddenly disgusted and sickened by what I had gotten myself into, and sickened by the reality of the drug I was dabbling with, and all of the people associated with it. Without anyone from my past around to see, I slipped deeper into the grasp of the Demons that I allowed to torment me. Although a part of me knew it was bad, a part of me still said that I could do anything I set my mind to, which was walking into the caves of seriously dangerous Demons, taking what was mine, and walking back out with my life. 

Despite my anguish and misery I still reached out to help people like Howard, asking them questions like, “Is this how you want to die?” At some point in my delusions I even wondered if I might be Jesus incarnate, coming back to try to stimulate a change in mankind. It’s crazy, I know but I wondered that just the same. I was desperately searching for a reason why I had gone through such changes of events and circumstances in my life. How could I go from being a successful business owner, with everything I always cared to have for myself, to the edge of the grave? There had to be something more to it that I did not understand. I couldn’t just simply be stalling from my death, could I? Kind of like, “Screw it, I might as well, I am dead anyway.”

One night, around nine, we were approached by a group of kids, asking us to buy them booze. Howard took up the collection and went into the store. Moments turned into minutes when the kids decided it was time to vandalize my truck because Howard wasn’t returning. They grabbed up steel pipes from a vandalized chain-link fence and proceeded to trash the cap on my truck. These kids were eventually arrested for the vandalism. Howard had ripped the kids off while they had attempted to buy some booze. The money ran through Howard’s fingers and led him right out the door to the next dope house, which was right around the next corner. My truck paid the fee for the evening.

Howard would introduce me to his child’s mother whom I would find out was another addict. Her name was Selena. A little while later I would end up at her place, where she lived with a roommate named Diamond. There was a man there who had been beating them up but I had no clue why. He wasn’t there when I got there but would be returning soon. She was scared and asked me if I had any friends she could stay with, so I took her out to my truck, which had been idling in the snow and ice covered parking lot for about twenty minutes. As we got to the truck, this guy they called Grey (short for Grayson) saw us and came running toward us. We got into the truck but he jumped into the bed, trying to attack her through the window. I was trying to drive away when he got in the back, opening the slider window. Why she didn’t beat him with any of the tools I had in there, I don’t know. All I could think to do was drive, trying to fling him from the back of the truck without running into any of the other cars or people that were in the parking lot. How he managed to be removed from the truck is not a recollection I have but the truck did overheat in the process, blowing a radiator hose on the top end of the engine. I parked the truck down the street from my house that night, thinking he might come looking for me, identifying my truck at the house. What I didn’t expect was for her girlfriend, Diamond, to rat out her whereabouts for a twenty-dollar piece of dope.

How late it was when I finally went to sleep, I do not know but when I woke up it was due to her screaming. I tried to get up but I was attacked from behind, beaten about the head, and punctured in the upper left side of my back with a shard from a bowl that he had broken when he threw it at me.  Exhaustion was dominated with an adrenalin rush, motivated by the persistent screaming of Selena. I rolled off of the mattress toward the wall, grabbing the mattress and rolling it over with me to stand using the mattress as a shield. Now I got a visual and moved to shove him out of the room and down the staircase with it. When he realized I was coming at him, he fled the scene. That’s when I saw the other guy with a gun in his hand. He fled right behind him after making eye contact with me.

I looked down at Selena, who was still screaming, and now I knew why. Her face was busted up pretty badly. Her top lip was split in two pieces below her nose. Blood was all over her. Blood was all over the entire room. It looked like a slaughterhouse, sprayed all over the floor, walls, ceiling, and us. We must have been having a heart to heart about addiction, life, and kids because my box of pictures was there in the room with us, now splattered with blood.

It was the neighbors who called the cops, bringing an ambulance arrived ahead of them. Selena and I both ended up at Blodgett Hospital, where we received care for our injuries. Both of us needed stitches- her far worse off than I. Mindy showed up to see me, and told me about all of the different chemicals ending with “caine” that were found in my blood. This was how I ended up learning of how many different ways I had been robbed. Robbed by myself, or by others, it didn’t matter. I needed to somehow remove myself from where I was, to elevate my social class but seeing the mother of my children only added insult to my injuries, and was anything but up-lifting.

Now here I am, two years later, coming away from crack but cavorting with heroine and living with addicts all over again. Bob had been entertaining himself under the guise of helping, by finding things for these girls to do for him. In his wife’s eyes, he was a hero but the truth is that he was so miserable in his own silence that he grabbed onto anything that he could gossip about- probably to comfort himself in his questionable sexuality. I don’t believe that the girls having money did anything to offset my financial burdens, ever, even in the slightest sense. It seemed I continued to pay for things despite their working for Bob.

Anyway, Bob didn’t want these girls to work this particular day, and me, being so trusting, even though having trust issues, I left them at the motel without a second thought. I assumed it was so he could bitch at me for the situation that happened a few days earlier, where the girls were painting a gable end on his house but couldn’t reach the peak area, complaining to me about needing me to help them do it. Well, me being a show-off, I went up to show them how, and they went down to the ground without considering the need to hold onto the paint bucket for me. Though I was on an entirely different task in the shop, I took time for this.

On the roof of the garage I am doing my mighty mouse routine, or better yet, my underdog routine, trying to help out a lot lesser than a Sweet Polly Purebred, when in my haste, I knocked over the pail of Cabot’s Stain. This stuff goes running all over the roof, down into the eaves trough, just like it’s supposed to do when it’s spilled on a rooftop. My first reflex was to use a rag to dab at it with, only because it seemed like a splatter but I realized it was not going to work. One good thing about this was, when I sent them up with the paint, I only sent them up with a small amount of it so there wasn’t really that much. This was a job for the hose, only after getting it and trying to wash it off, I realized it was an oil base product. I did manage to rinse it off once I got it loose from the surface but it left a heck of a residue behind. When Bob finally got back he saw the yard was wet, then he saw the stain on the shingles that he had installed with a one inch crown pneumatic stapler- he lost it, mostly screaming and yelling at me for the contamination of his little garden in the clay. This land in Ottawa County is all clay. Hardly anything grows on it at all. And he is the last one to give a crap about the environment but now I have ruined everything for him. If he was a rational person, even in the least, this wouldn’t have been an issue and I would have left the paint on the shingles to be dealt with on another day but since he was such an irrational person, I was too scared to be able to properly deal with it- starting with helping the girls and reading the can to begin with. I was simply afraid of his reaction, which I am sure being abused by my father was a major factor in my confrontational disorder. [Take notes.]

Anyway, Bob and I are almost to the job that day when his phone rings. He answers the phone and then say’s, “I don’t know,” giggling and turning towards me. “I don’t know? Zach? Where do you want your stuff?” It was Amy and Jen. Suddenly I start freaking out, wondering why I would want my stuff anywhere but at the room where I had left it. It hadn’t dawned on me that they would cash out early, taking the money to feed their addiction. They had recently explained to Bob how I was, “A ray of Hope,” in their lives. It didn’t seem like it but I was shooting craps in life again. Here would have been a great time for Bob to drive to meet them in order to salvage my interests but Bob was so pretentious that he didn’t stink, and if he did it was only fitting that everyone else had to smell him because nobody was fit to breathe the air as it was. My days with him were much the same everyday, most likely reserved for him to express his perpetual vehemence at his mommy abandoning him to his hateful father- dear ol’ daddy.

Bobby grew up in a rural setting, on a large farm property that was just another nonchalant junkyard where dreams that were once someone else’s were bought, hauled to, and cut up into bits. It would become a result of old man Smith’s junk in the yard that no one in Wright township could have anything that resembled junk in their yard. Blame cannot lay only on people with the items in their yards, believed to be or expected to become, monetarily valuable. It gets to be distributed as well to the morons who want to take farms and transform them into high density residential property upon them inheriting it, only to bulldoze the farm and everything on it, and cashing it in as a housing development, which happens to be right next to the highway only separated by a parallel running set of train tracks. This would be his last laugh at his dad for not ever showing him love. Funny thing is, Bob has a brother who did not escape the familial devastation, and actually ended up on the worse end of the suffering, having struggled through life in some hard luck situations. Joe would watch while Bob did what he could to dupe a woman from a well off family into believing he was a loving family man, all the while just a thief. And Joe would grab at the world’s straws, trying to find himself a decent life.

Joe ended up in a situation involving cocaine, where he allegedly managed to manufacture some checks, only to cash them in to buy dope. He went to jail and served his time at a work camp, managing to pay the money back. Somehow, his wife lost the kids whom Cheryl spearheaded getting the custody of, leaving Joe to be forced to pay Child Support to Bob and Cheryl. It’s odd how Bob beat his brother up with the system, all the while mean-mouthing the children to me, while at work all day. Bob was such a hypocrite, bragging about his drinking and pot smoking, while humiliating poor Joe over the pitfalls he had found on his search for happiness. Without Cheryl, Bob would just as soon continue in his self indulgence and deviant activities, all the while drooling over other women every other second of his time out in public- a travesty. Frequently, he would have me get him pot, only to throw it in my face that I was a dope-head while he would be drinking and driving. And ridiculing me, on top of it, about my drinking problem and how big of a problem it was for him to have to deal with, while he came to work religiously with a hangover, only to abuse me until he felt better, which was quitting time when he could start all over again. It was the price I had to pay for having an understanding of him. All the while, he remained ignorant of the least of my charity, as well as my forgiveness for him.

Sandy pt 15 from 1A of "A Broken Life" blogspot- real title "Escaping The Despondent Sea"

It would come out later how, Tim Steele, a local Radio Celebrity for WLAV FM, had lived upstairs in the recent past. He had a girl over who had overdosed on heroine and forced him to solve that little problem without drawing attention to his own activities that would surely become strewn about by the Media. The Grand Rapids Press would have had a hay-day with it. It is possible that WLAV would have had their attorneys step in the clean up and quiet down the mess without any attention but who knows what would have been done until it happened. If it were my self in his shoes, I’d be praying that I had a larger than life reputation to pull the real strings on the situation. That would definitely be when a person like him would find out just how important he is. 

Well, you guessed it, being such a big sucker and a glutton for punishment; I brought the girls in to my apartment too. I have no real clue how long it took before everything that could go wrong went wrong at my place. It didn’t help that these girls recruited an ex-girlfriend of Dan’s to “help.” This woman just so happened to drop in to Dan’s a day or two after this all went down. She was an elementary school teacher with a huge drinking problem and no fear or shame with taking it to the streets when she needed money. I can only assume that they bought dope with the money because for some reason we got a hotel on the edge of town very close to Marne. It is easily remembered because this woman and I went there and ended up being thrown out of the Pit Stop Bar by the barkeeper, who was a friend of mine, for dancing without my shoes on. In a few short days she would be gone and I would finally lose my cool with the rest of my strays.

It was a day when I had just gotten home from work. As I settled into my favorite sitting place in the living room I discovered that the girl in the Beret was in the front bedroom with one of the strays, which not only made me angry, it confused me because if he fell into a barrel of tits he’d come out sucking his thumb. They were just using me for my apartment, my money, my property- everyone in the place was. They were there by my undeserving grace and had taken me for a huge sucker. This happened just as I had realized how obvious it was that nobody would be contributing to the household. It would become clear when I found my weed and booze gone regularly. These were items that I shared with them when I was home. They must have figured that it belonged to the house as a part of my unusual hospitality. The world’s biggest fool was my self for the moment but that was about to become an impression that I was going to demonstrate a correction of.

Right about now, I discover that the girl in the Beret was trying to practice witchcraft on me. As I am reading them the riot act and telling him that he was leaving, she came out of the kitchen with a small saucepan that had some strange looking mixture of ingredients in it. There were small vials containing some types of extracts in her pocket of her smock, as well as strewn about and on the counter in the kitchen. It was clear that it was done franticly. She was urging me with a sudden suspicious affection, to ingest the mixture. It wouldn’t be anything but a waste of time and energy for anyone to try to convince me that I may be wrong, for you should always trust your instincts and the messages that you are in tune enough to receive, however late they may come to your attention.

At the very moment, putting words like these in ink, I am curious if a deity of an evil kind wasn’t something that had become a part of my reality years ago, and continues to follow me until I become destroyed, I wonder…?

Where was I, Oh, the girl was a big mistake to bring home. For some reason I decided, in all fairness, to give them a certain amount of time to vacate my apartment then next morning. They must have thought that I didn’t really mean it when I had told them to leave the night before. I was right in the middle of giving them the count of ten to gather their things and leave when Bob pulled up to pick me up for work that morning. Maybe I had already gotten to ten because I recall him mentioning something about the stuff that was strewn about in the front yard, like clothes and hangers, along with a couple of old sea chests and a foot locker… When I had gotten to the count of five, I went to the front picture window and opened it as wide as it would go to let them know it was real. The guy she was in bed with- the stray, I call him, was crying saying, “Why Zach, why?” It didn’t begin to soften my fury and only enraged me that he had the nerve to insinuate that I was in the wrong. When I got to ten I grabbed the biggest package I could find and launched it out the window and into the yard below. Some of the things bounced out into the street among the cars that were parked along the road. Right after launching the second chest out the window, the Beret attacked. She came at me like I would imagine a full-grown lioness, in a wild rage. Wow! She put up a real fight- one hundred times more than anyone had ever came at me with before. All I could allow myself to do was to minimize what harm could come to me by blocking her and wrestling her to the floor in an attempt to restrain her, overpowering her into a nicely rolled up ball. She was like holding onto a huge spring that I had compressed, waiting for the slightest easing up on the pressure so she could fly apart. We were both breathing extremely heavy with exhaustion, hormones and adrenaline flooding through our veins. It was exhilarating, sexual, as if we had been through a series of rigorous sexual acts sought out by those who hungered with lust to make their wildest fantasies come true.

Now, I gave the other guy two weeks to find somewhere else to go but he gets up, as up as his stump of a frame could raise him, squaring off in an attempt to fight me. I really didn’t want to fight with him at all. When he made motion to grab at me I placed my hands at the shoulders along his biceps just above his elbows and twisted him down to the floor like I was laying down a one hundred sixty pound cabinet, saying, “Don’t make me hurt you. I gave you two weeks.” With that, I took a cigarette out, lit it and went down to the van to speak to Bob briefly about leaving for work.

Bob had a nervous air about him, not knowing what to expect, and having witnessed the eruption from the upstairs window out into the yard as he pulled up in front of the house. “I need a couple more minutes,” I said to him, “I’m almost finished.” He just chortled a bit in complete surprise, and with a bit of disbelief over what he had witnessed. As I think about it now, I am wondering if she wasn’t part of the group from the beginning but maybe that’s giving them all too much credit.

Anyhow, on the way out to the van to finally leave, I stopped at their car, finishing my protest at being duped by puncturing all four tires on their Plymouth Horizon sitting behind the house. Maybe I did it at some earlier point in my fit of rage, either way; it sure put a stick in the spokes because now they had no vehicle to leave with.

Lesson learned? Respect the vehicle and learn to recognize what a vehicle for change is. They take many forms. I had immobilized a vehicle for change in my life and now that much-needed change was going to be more unlikely to satisfy my desires.

Well, I had no idea how that little loss of control was going to affect me but after work that day I ended up going to some other little dive of a bar, on Leonard Street, Slackers Bar. How appropriate, considering. Stumpy, having just got off of work for the day, had ran into me on the street and wanted to talk, so we went inside and grabbed a beer.

He was in the habit of wearing a black over-coat, like he must have thought he was a warlock or something. It was the kind of coat that you see these wannabe Goth kids wearing or flashers at night on the city streets of Chicago or New York City. His job was working at Louis Padno’s Scrap yard through a day labor company that places like these cheap screws use to undercut their regular wage expenses.

Anyway, while we were sitting there at the bar, the female bartender starts giving me a bunch of crap- an attitude that was almost as big as she was. It wasn’t like me to not say anything to her about being rude to a paying customer when the place was in so dire need of patrons, so I sounded her about it, explaining that the place wasn’t exactly flourishing with business, and that I was a paying, customer who tips, not a punching bag, which was ironic because while I was taking another sip from my mug, a punch makes contact with the side of my head and lands squarely on my ear. What kind of guy hits you in the ear anyway? Sparks lit up in my sight in a blazing flash. This punch was from Stumpy, and it was a big mistake because I was still lit with a good amount of fury still residual from that morning. Maybe he got his ego bruised when I overpowered him. I didn’t mean to do that to him, and was only trying to avoid hurting the guy. I didn’t want to have to hurt anyone, and I never really have before. I only wanted them to contribute or get out. Or maybe he was getting back at me for throwing his friend out or puncturing the tires of the car or for throwing the girls trunks out of the window. Well, upstairs or not, whatever it was, I was thankful I hadn’t seriously hurt one of them or had sex with the girl, for that matter. That would have only added to my serious confusion.

Now, I don’t like getting hit. And I don’t like spilling booze, especially when at a bar with so little cash. And I hate getting wet, unless it’s my idea, so when I got hit in the ear, causing for me to spill my drink on myself, I was firstly- in disbelief, and then feeling violated by someone who I was extending myself out to help. Then I was, though quite rare, in another fit of blinding rage. All three sensations or emotions were easy to lament, denial-violation-rage, even though it was all in under a half of a second. Never the less, I reacted. Bar stools went flying as we were both heading to the floor. Next thing I knew, I had shown him to the Jukebox. Fortunately the connection to my ear was the only one or the only one I noticed. How he faired really wasn’t a concern of mine, not like getting out of the place and disappearing before the cops came as quickly as I could render him motionless.

My ear soon turned black. It must have ruptured a blood vessel or something. I have no clue how long it stayed that way either, since my ear-ripheral vision was out of order at the time. Otherwise I would have ducked when he was about to sucker punch me. The situation was efficacious because when I got home, all three were gone. Now all I had to do was rid myself of the rest of them, little did I realize at the time.

Soon after this came the notice of eviction. Bruce’s spending of the rent allocation had caught up with me, not to mention him showing up on the police radar in the area. I cannot recall how it happened but I think it was a psychotic episode or a senility thing. When the police took him off of the street, asking him where he lived and how long he had been there, he had told them that he built the house and hauled it to it’s location with his car! Though I suspected it before, it comes out that Bruce is out of his mind. How he managed to keep it to himself this long is still a mystery.

All of these people, and the situations around them, just go to show you that you cannot help those who aren’t taking the initiative to help themselves. Helping myself seemed to be a great difficulty but I managed to continue finding work to finance my activities despite my dysfunctions. What would have been smart right about then was to finance a replacement Michigan identification card because being evicted created a bit of a problem.

Why didn’t I call Danny for help? Even though I had just met him, he would have helped me but out of guilt over the situation with the girls, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was forced, or so I thought I was at the time, to rent a storage unit from a place on Leonard, right next to the Arnie’s Bakery, and since I had discarded my ID card, it was necessary for the girls to put their name on the paperwork. They were all to eager to take advantage of that situation, to help, of course. What a costly mistake for me that would turn out to be.

A Morbid Reality- part 14, how unlucky.

At this point in my life I had gotten through a lot of bad situations. These situations tempted my patience and willpower, and my very life, reshaping my existence and potential future into the needs of the people I was around. The coke and degradation was an everyday thing, a re-run. It was like the movie “Groundhog Day,” with Bill Murray. Only on one of those mornings I had hoped to awaken in my death, I awoke to find life and fought back in a whole-souled effort, and what I thought was, finally meeting a female companion to help me to save me from my self. Little did I know, I was about to order a beer and meet someone who would prove to be the only good thing I had found in Grand Rapids since my selfish, arrogant, ignorant wife took my children, destroying my family empire, my identity and my heart, refocusing the sights of my reality to the bottom of a pit.

The only things that I felt prevented me from killing her were my children and my love and grace. It’s been a bit of an unsettling thing to deal with. It is frightening even, when you come to learn how easy and instinctually familiar it is to you. Seeing the images of the act of killing. Seeing yourself handling the body, feeling the various sensations from the emotions, from the exertion, the sting of the sweat in your eye, the smells of bodily discharges and a smell like wet rusty steel. And there is the splattering and taste of the blood, the stickiness of it on your hands and between your fingers. And then the sensation of it as it cools and the water moisture evaporates, causing it to thicken in a short time. And then there are all of the ways of disposing of it or of them, cutting it up on a band saw after having had it in a freezer for some period of time. And then the burning of it, dumping the ashes in the river or even a blow to the head that would indicate a slip and fall that resulted in drowning while they may have been hanging out on the river alone while extremely intoxicated. Then there is always the old way of feeding the pieces to some pigs or the dogs. And then my favorite sensation: the feeling of my hands around her throat, the sounds of her last struggle, the feeling of her body twitching and finally going limp as her head changes in form, from round to flattened on the backside, and turns softened as I repeatedly pound it on the pavement like it’s a coconut and it’s all I have to use to stop the earth from spinning.

These are all very dark images, I am well aware. The funny thing is that I even imagined my imprisonment for the crime/s. No part of it bothered me any more than my usual nightmares I have. These thoughts had become to be just another thought playing on another of the multiple theater screens playing in my head. It was just another day that I had to live through. And out of all that I have lived through, and been through, and was forced to endure, it would be learned that this would have all been expected. These images really paled in comparison to my nightmares. But who was I to interrupt her fate in my hands by resisting?

Well, I have always felt that I had a purpose, a gift, a calling in life on Earth, and no matter if I found it or not I do not want my donations to man to be ignored or rejected by something as petty and as self serving as satisfying an itch for wrath on such a deserving individual. It was only because of the children that I didn’t do it. Had I done this terrible thing, they would have hated me but had she never given birth this would never have been a torture that I had to feel. I accept that I’ll never be given credit for my restraint but a large part of me would like to hear a “thank you” and an apology. One I do not expect in any foreseeable future.

It doesn’t take a very smart person to be able to tell how healthy a person is. A caring, well-tuned person can easily see it in another’s eyes- the hurt, the pain, the damage done by a loved one. I can’t help but wonder if my damages were revealed to Danny that day at Konkle’s Bar in the winter of ’99.

The barkeep handed me a draft beer, one of the booths on the wall invited me to sit, where I did, lighting a smoke. The person with me was a guy I was letting stay at my apartment on McReynolds Street, him and a buddy of his. They were a couple of guys I had met when I was out smoking crack on a recent night of stupidity. He was quiet, probably wondering when we were going to get some dope. Still plenty disgusted with myself from the last crack-about, it would soon be a moment or two in life before I realized the error of my ways, as they say.

My immediate attention was on a young girl in her early twenties. She wore a Beret and had a way about her that sucked me in. Later, I would realize that it was her plan, to suck someone in, trapping a man’s affections in order to use him for whatever she could get. We would speak, and even dance together but not sit together. She remained with a seat at the bar. At one point, my ears perked up on the words “Billie Holiday”. That really stopped my twisted mind in its tracks because Konkle’s bar full of uncultured persons. It was a place where a guy could feel like a star. If you sang Karaoke, you were great. Compared to the other people that frequented this place, my teeth were fine, and I was very looking. There would be the occasional reminder of how smart you were, a psychological booster shot, so you can see why I’d be surprised to hear about Billie Holiday in the conversations at another table.

“What do you know about Billie Holiday? I asked them. A man who sat with the two women and another man said, “We’re members of WYCE.” This man was Robert McVoy, and I would learn of his craziness soon enough. Just then the other man interjects, “Yeah, and I’m an artist and a musician.” I responded with my being a musician to which he then stated, “I’ve got a studio, let’s go record.”

As best as I can recall, that’s how it went but either way, the statement was, “Let’s go record.” Of course, we left promptly but it was tough, only hesitating since I had just received another beer. It took a second to slam it down, and then we all piled into Danny’s Jeep.

Well, when I got to Danny’s studio, my senses were in a bit of shock- more positively than they were accustomed to at that time in my life. In time, ironically enough, this place would prove itself to be haunted too.

There were creations everywhere. Watercolor paintings, sketches, sculptures, musical instruments and equipment were everywhere you looked, like a battle of the arts had taken place, and continued perpetually. There was a fireplace like I had seen only in movies and in books showing Victorian style Castles. You could fit a large tree stump or two within it.

Later, I would learn that this Heritage Hill district home, at forty Prospect NE, was once a Mansion, complete with a Ball Room floor. This property overlooked much of the city of Grand Rapids. There were five apartments carved out of this place, of which Dan’s was on the actual Ball Room floor, the second floor of the building. The kitchen was small, a simple galley style, where a rear-service staircase entered- once used by the servants. I doubt that the kitchen had existed before, and if it had, it was probably just for Hors d'oeuvre and as a drink preparation-type wet bar. We would soon use this area for another aspect of the arts- our own culinary efforts. There was a screened in porch-type nook that was just a kind of a box that hung out off of the south side of the house. It was a nice place to sit and listen to the elements of nature while reading, smoking, drinking, listening to or playing music, writing or just passing out. This overlooked the parking area and the wooded portion of the property to the rear of the house, where he had an outdoor art gallery set up in the past summers. 

We would transform it once again and entertain the community and ourselves until Mother Nature protested. The yard sales were always a treat, placing a slew of items out for sale, only to embellish upon them as if they suddenly meant more than we realized. Dan called it the “anti-sale”, saying, “Oh, well, I shouldn’t sell that…” He would then add how it had some sentimental aspect, being handed down to him by someone in his family or past, making it all the more interesting or curious to the potential buyer to the point where they would offer him much more for the item than he originally priced it. We would laugh and giggle about it after they had long left, tickled to get so much money for something we either dug from the trash, found at a thrift store or came across while cleaning out after evictions.

All of those classes at Kendal School for Art and Design paid off at these sales in small dividends that would yield us more gin, cigarettes and even more entertainment. In addition to the music, photography and art classes, Danny had studied psychology just enough to become a bit of a hustler. It was a new world to me, one that I had been searching for since long ago, and finally found, fully loaded including it’s own Demons.

A baker’s rack held many electronic stereo components that added up to be a sound system for doing anything you could want with sounds. There was a four track Tascam Port-a-studio, a Yamaha keyboard, a Fender Stratocaster, mics, amps, pre amps, lights etc…  There was everything but an audio slave for lights, and a CD burner. It was not a big elaborate system, nothing at all like what I thought that I would find in a “studio”. It opened up my eyes to a new reality, one where a guy didn’t need anything much more than the “want to” to create recordings that were pretty powerful. It’s always amazing to me, when I see something in its raw form that I had thought was something different, something more difficult or more intricate. Danny made it look too easy. And along with all that he would show me while we became to be close friends, I would learn of what kept him so deeply immersed in art and alcohol as well … his health.

If ever I am stricken with Alzheimer’s, I don’t think I will ever forget that first day I met Danimal or when he popped a tape into the Tascam, adjusting a knob or two and handing me the Shure SM58 saying, “Here, put lyrics to this.” And having no clue what I was listening to, and no idea in my head, much past, “Microphone, lyrics?” I listened and let a few bars play and just started in where I felt the spot was to start. It was almost as if someone else was driving. It may have been spiritual even, now that I think about it. As if I was a medium for a spirit just then, having no idea where it was coming from. It was like my conscious mind had been out to lunch from my body forever, and I had just gotten home to myself, like I didn’t even know me. Well, maybe I didn’t. Whatever I was doing got Danimal excited. He picked up the Fender Strat and started playing leads. Little did I know, the tape was rolling, which meant that he was recording the music we were making. Nine minutes later he’d play the tape back and it would become one of my most prized possessions, proving to be a gift. And it was a gift. It was a gift of my rebirth of mind.

Music was my oldest, closest friend and we had been, finally, reunited with her. I had been kept distanced from her, by Mindy, tormented with the view of her and the unobtainability that was hard to bear thought of. Once a month, I was allowed to go play in a basement for an hour or so, with friends. At home it was a different story. I could get no personal time to play at all. Her fingers would silence the strings during my attempts, in order to remove my guitar from my moment of attention. Only to replace it with some menial task that had little to no importance, merely her demand. Red meat was not allowed, nor was I allowed to watch any action films that featured men such as Clint Eastwood or Sylvester Stallone. It was so ironical to me, how I had married a Jewish girl who was so… Hitler-like. She would later satisfy some of my unrest with the knowledge of her unhappiness that I learned of in the near future to this moment- this moment in life when I had become reunited with music, and in a growing friendship with Danny.

That same satisfaction was a detriment to my children, especially my only son, Cody. She continued to punish me for no reason at all through him, and now he is living with the damage for me to have to, painfully, observe. When he was five he wanted to learn how to become the President of our country. He will be released from prison on August 24^th, 2014, according to Michigan’s Offender Tracking System, on the Internet at this moment in January of 2013.

This particular weekend I had spent at Dan’s was four days long. I am sure we drank at least six fifths of gin and rum. The bottles were there to prove it, and had enough residual booze droplets in them to make us both a drink, which, in fact, they did.

There was also Amy and Jen- the lesbians. Later I would learn that Dan had met one of them or both, while in Rehab. They were both Heroin addicts. [Here’s where I have to put it out there that it is not a very good idea to make any new best friends at Rehab. This is, simply put, a future stumbling block. Take note.] I awoke on one of these first few days at Danny’s house, and couldn’t find my weed. I was certain that it had been taken. My frontal lobe syndrome caused suspicion to point to the girl with the Beret that I had brought with us from the bar. It wasn’t like I openly accused her but, boy, was I sure it was her that took it. After a while of searching like a madman, I found it tucked in between a chair cushion and the wall of the armrest that I had been sitting in the night before… Whoopsie. It wasn’t that I actually pointed fingers. It was my body language that screamed out the statement for me.

Not until this little time out, at Jackson Prison in 2011, would I realize that my “bamaged” self can only endure a few hours of the normal stress of everyday life before symptoms, like confusion, inability to concentrate and “people stealing my stuff” become disabling. Now, after focusing on recalling my past for a couple of hours, I lose things, always wondering if they were stolen but before I find myself wrongly accusing someone and creating discomfort in our close quarters, I dig around and always find what I it was that I could not. Fourteen years later, I am finally identifying some of my handicaps and learning to cope but still fighting for my compensation and proper medical attention to suit my needs.

Somehow I had found out that this girl wearing the Beret was squatting in an abandoned house. Why I got it in my head to “help” by taking her in at my house when I could barely help myself was typical of me. So many things went on that I have a hard time remembering it all. Maybe part of the problem was because I had spent so much of the time as drunk as I could possibly afford. Things like, how soon after that, that I let the lesbians Danny was caring for talk me into giving them money for heroine.

As I said before, and it is like this for all of my recollections- I can recall few things the way they were, some things with accuracy and no sense of time, and other things in a generality but eventually, if I think hard enough, for long enough, I can remember the details I am looking for. Sometimes it will pop into my head a few days later, and sometimes the answers come to me a few years later. Like the last name if Jen, it’s Rasmussen. Anyway, one of the problems I deal with is that these memories are sometimes on a loop, always playing, as if my mind was a multi-screen theater- open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with shows on that I don’t want to pay money to see. It’s a lot like the tell-lie-vision. My sleep is continuously disturbed by nightmares from the past, mottled with morbid graphic images and horrific situations. These things were issues before the substance and alcohol use, issues that I maintained at bedtime with marijuana for several years and all during my marriage but no matter how hard I tried, with or without drinking, sleep could only be avoided for so long. My habit would be to drink until I was unconscious. I began to call on Danny as my free time permitted, usually on the weekend since I was working for Bob at this time. My trips to Dan’s house were a fast paced hike on the heel-toe express. The girls, as Danny called them, were home and seemed upset. Dan was not there yet or he was at the store, I think, soon to arrive but not until after I gave them the fifty dollar bill.

Anyway, Jen was crying about the court and child support, and about the threat of going to jail because of the money that she claimed she owed. Knowing first hand about the scenario, and having some money, my malleable heart gave in to them. They thanked me profusely and skee-daddled with Mr. Grant. When Dan got back he asked me where they were, only to add that I better not have given them any money. The room instantly gloomed over. He was so upset with my having given them money- and the fact that he now was forced to tell me their secrets. My heart sank, for I had just contributed to a possibly fatal disaster in the making. I went from Hero to Zero in a split second. When they arrived back at the house, Amy was dragging her girlfriend up the stairs and into Dan’s house, where they were living. He scrambled for the bathroom to fill the tub with cold water. Now there was a mess, and the mess really hit the fan. Dan would throw them out in another day or so. And Danny, having just now completed his hoop jumping for a DUI- it was a possible fatality that would be sure to bring cops and investigators, a whole can of worms about to be spilled. NOW, what did I do?