Part 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As the summer got underway, festivals sprang up. Dan and I decided to accept an invitation to play at the Ann Arbor Art Festival with the guys from the band “Werkshop”, however lame they really were. On the day of the show, I made an executive decision to keep Danny on the sober side by helping him drink the booze he had bought that morning, which meant he’d only be half as drunk as he would have been, had I not intervened. It really worked pretty well until we were in Ann Arbor. After getting Danny set up, I took it upon myself to buy another fifth of Burnett’s Gin for the three of us.

By the time the guys from Werkshop arrived, we had drawn a crowd and I was photographing everything I could. The need for a second fifth had already come, which I had fulfilled, and I’m sure we had consumed by then, at least for the most part. Werkshop was upset because we upstaged them by getting there when we were suppose to but we didn’t know they were that upset yet, so I helped them unload and carry their gear. Just a short time after the band was playing a set there was a muffled spat, where they complained about Danny being too loud. The jealousy of the moment found a way to the surface.

In a band, it’s always about volumes, to start with. I imagine they knew Dan was drunk, and I am sure my being drunk added to the deficiency of Diplomatic skills at hand but we had been there for hours and were ready to move on anyway, so we packed up and tried to leave. That was when we met the police officer that got involved. Of course, the cop was not trying to spend the next few hours trying to stay in our way, and was more than happy to accept our stating that we were leaving to meet up with our driver, since Mike from Werkshop was the snitch trying to alert them that we were driving somewhere after we’d been drinking. If ol’ Mikey had known to what extent we had drank that morning, he may have fainted. Well, we were so drunk that we had to let the girl drive- once we finally found the Jeep. One of the last things I remember was Dan asking her if she could drive, and if she could navigate us back to Grand Rapids. The other thing I recall is Werkshop Mike calling to ask if I had his keys after we had been on the road for some time. The keys were in my pocket, little did I realize. We stopped at the first truck stop we could find and I took them in, placing the little guitar figurine in the clerk’s hand. “Someone may come looking for these. You might want to put them in the lost and found box.” Then we got back on the road.

It was pitch black when I awoke to the woman saying that we were almost out of gas. Dan jumped up from his seat yelling, “We should have been home by now. Where are we?” A road sign came into view that said West Branch. “Gimme the map. Where’s West Branch? The Michigan map revealed that we were traveling North when we were supposed to have been heading South. She drove the wrong way. We were as far from going the right way as a tank of gas could get us. There should have been a quarter tank of fuel left when we got home. Why would a person continue driving while unclear if they were going the right way? Why not stop and ask someone to be certain? The answers to those questions would never be answered, however superfluous they were at that moment.

Dan yelled at her to get out of the truck, switching seats so he could drive, while cussing for several minutes. He put the truck into gear, and then it happened. 

Less than one minute later the bubble lit up on a West Branch County Sheriff’s car. The three of us were put under arrest and the cop went through the Jeep, finding our band equipment and my briefcase that he insisted on opening but couldn’t. There was nothing in it but my Harmonicas and notebooks, where I think he expected to find drugs, at least. The truck was impounded and we all went to the station, where they let the woman go, putting her on a Greyhound bus to take her back “home”.

Dan got another DUI but due to them misspelling his name, it was his FIRST ONE. We had to laugh about that. If he had gone to jail for a while, as one does for multiple DUI’s, it would have altered how everything afterwards that pertained to my life, would have played out. So, instead of Dan DeRuiter getting a DUI, Dan ReRuter got one.  Myself, I was arrested for false information to a police officer when I told them I was Bill Clinton, and that I never inhale. The real torture came when I realized they were holding me until I could see the judge.

The problem with that was I was finally going to be able to see my kids due to the fact that they were in Grand Rapids while their mother was visiting for the holidays- Independence Day, I think. We were finally to have time together for the first time since they were taken out of state. Their grandmother was arranging the visit. Other than music and art, the kids were the only concerns I had.

Danny’s mom would bail him out of jail in a phone call, and come up to get him in a few days. So, he’s put up in a motel and I am in jail. When she got there they came and got me out of jail, and then we went off to find the truck. What an ordeal that was! We searched and searched for this place, having been given misinformation to begin with. When we finally found the place, over an hour and a half later, it would become clear that we weren’t suppose to find it at all. It was hidden. This particular place was way, way out of town, out in the boo-oo-oonies! The only reason we found it was out of sheer determination and the fact that the stuff in it meant that much. As an artists and musicians, the equipment is half of the whole world.

The Jeep Wagoneer was loaded with odd’s and ends: Danny’s Fender Stratocaster Electric Guitar, the amplifier, effects processors and pedals, keyboard and stands, P.A. speakers, patch cords and cables, not to mention THE COWBELL.

The place had no signs and no visible mailbox. A dense wall of forestry, mostly evergreens, concealed it very well. Once we got an idea where the driveway was, it led us in a ways, much like a moonshine operation was going on. Even Dan’s mom, Eleanor, said that they were up to no good as we came upon the gated entrance.

When the gate opened Dan got out to talk to the guy that approached, while I stayed with his mom in the car. About twenty minutes later Danny came back to tell us they were moving vehicles so he could get it out. The Jeep was all the way in the back of the property, buried behind almost forty other vehicles. We knew what time it was here. Thank God Danny’s mom came to help us.

They were hoping to lay claim to the contents of the truck in a matter of days that would easily add up to way more than the truck was worth or that we could put together. They under estimated our determination, and our geographical and navigation skills. That, and we were just too hard-pressed for cash, since we had no other option.

Danny led the way out, driving Nancy, the Jeep, while I rode with Eleanor in her sporty little red Chrysler. Once we got to the gas station to fill up the tank, we were feeling more like we had recovered. The problem we had now was that the store had no alcohol.

I really felt bad about Eleanor driving back by herself but my own smoking habit and Danny’s insistence were controlling the situation. Danny listened to my story about my needing to get back for court in a couple weeks, promising to bring me back for a court appointment that I never made it back for. It wasn’t a secret to me, that I wouldn’t make it back, and it didn’t surprise me either.

Before we made it home I had a thought run through my mind. This was more of a voice with a message than a thought. The voice told me to put on my seatbelt because something was about to happen involving a wheel. My thoughts were then focused on loosing a wheel, picturing the lug nuts on the hub. One of them was broken off on a couple of the tires. After I fastened my seatbelt, a loud rumbling grinding sound came from the rear end of the truck. My brain replayed the previous thoughts, the fastening of the seatbelt with my right hand, the startling noise…  The truck didn’t feel like a wheel fell off, so when Dan pulled over to investigate the noise. We had no idea what we would find. Well, being mechanically inclined, and in disbelief that I knew before it happened, I jumped right out and poked my head under the chassis. “What the hell is that?” I asked. “It’s the spare tire bracket. See if we have something to rig it back up with,” he said.

Luckily for us the county had been out earlier that day, placing the wire coat hangers on the roadsides for people to find for miscellaneous vehicle cobbling. The winds created by the passing big-rigs rocked the Wagoneer as Danny and I mended the dangling spare tire bracket back up to the underbody. Moments later we were back on North bound 131 and coming up onto the Burton street overpass and exit. Dan lit another cigarette and offered me the pack. As I lit one, my thoughts went back to my intuition of loosing a wheel. “Wasn’t there a spare tire mounted on it?” I asked, curious why we didn’t pick up the spare too. “The spare is on the truck,” Dan said. “You mean we have been adventuring the stateside without a spare tire?” I asked. Dan said, “ It wouldn’t matter, we haven’t got a jack to put it on with anyway.” Well, I suppose that made sense, if anything made sense about any of what had happened all week. That was probably the bulk of it. And so, it’s just another day in the life, being a starving artist.

We got off of the highway and pulled into a party store parking lot, where Dan got us a bottle and a pack of Marlboro reds. While waiting, I made a mental note about trusting my instincts or at least considering them, especially in light of the spiritual encounters I had experienced in the past… and continued to have in the future.