Part 26 "We Need Gloves"

My recent stretch of sobriety began at Thanksgiving 2001, and lasted up until Valentines Day. 

It wasn’t very long after this that I had begun working for Shawn. 
I have to fill in some of that gap before I get too far.

One day I decided to get some hands-on experience in the studio, making recordings. At the moment I can’t recall how many hours I had spent working on recordings but I’m sure it was that day, on Valentines Day. Danny’s Alvarez Guitar called out to me, or it was the ghost in the house?
Picking it up, I was moved to begin playing, stopping after a few minutes because something in my head said to record #Medium

After about ten minutes, I found the end and stopped the tape. Next, I ran upstairs and got my notebooks from the desk in my bedroom. Replaying the tape, I got an idea of which poems might sound nice as an added track to the instrumentation. So, with the headphones on and the equipment running, I recited my poems over the guitar track- adding some harmonica fillers here and there, as I felt my way through it. 

Flipping frantically through the pages, as can be heard on the recording, I’d find another one, recite it, and then another. Four or five poems later I had a finished piece that I called, “Zactly ‘sperimental.” It was a very impressive piece of work- to me. 
Recntly it was renamed to, "The Despondent Sea"
https://www.reverbnation.com/prospectstudiozacheryspolk/song/26131486-the-despondent-seahttps://www.reverbnation.com/prospectstudiozacheryspolk/song/26131486-the-despondent-sea

That was the day, Danny DeRuiter, and, Jimmy "Knuckleberry" Huckleberry, came in with a twelve pack of beer- leaving it with me as a “welcome back” present after we all had a beer from it. 
Danny chuckled silently as they explained how Jimmy’s puppy died from Parvo, contracted because of eating cat poop. 
As they stood around me, I turned on my new recording, thinking Danny would be proud of my effort. It wasn’t very long into the recording when I realized Danny wasn’t really listening to it- only to become disappointed with his reaction. 

It really offended me that he rejected my solo flight in the studio after his having expectations of me learning how to use the equipment. He over critiqued my guitar accompaniment and failed to recognize my earnestness. Feeling hurt, I found myself drinking more of the beer they had brought.

When they left I drank some more of the beer, and returned to my efforts with an added bit of energy or anger. 
That was when I sat down with the harmonica and the microphone, and belted out the Valentines Day Song. 

Now, regardless of whether or not I had the pans out of whack or whether my vocals were too raw or the vulgarity in the improvisation from the alcohol- it made me proud just the same. You can actually hear the alcohol affect in the recordings, from one track to the next.

It wasn’t Danny and Jimmy’s fault that I drank alcohol that day. What started it was centered on the ghost in the house. 

Some very strange and unusual things went on in this house. The first thing to happen was that a stick in the shape of the letter “Y” showed up in my room, along with a hard cover book with a paper jacket titled, “How to Survive the Loss of a Love.” There was also a letter from years ago, that I had found in the closet of my room. It was addressed to whoever found it. This was eerie because it felt like a farewell letter, like an echo from long ago. 
It was a voice from the past- a voice from the dead.

My television would turn off or on- all by itself. My sleep was disturbed as well, waking up at about two in the morning, unable to move- like I was being restrained or held down by force, while a cloud-like thing swirled above me, I think I passed out because I do not recall recovering from that sensation.

On another occasion I was on my way back home from the Radio Tavern, where I had played at the open mike. My walk home took me across the footbridge between the Gerald R. Ford Museum and the Amway Grand Hotel, In Grand Rapids, Michigan. 

It was a clear night, and very peaceful so, I stopped to rest on the concrete foot-bridge, which spanned from the ,Gerald R. Ford Museum, side to the, Amway, side as I was listening to the sound of the river flowing. After rolling and lighting a cigarette, I tried to remember the name of a song by Ben Harper that was in my head earlier that day that I loved so much.

When I had left the Radio Tavern, it seemed likely that I could predict how long it would take me to get back home. It didn’t occur to me to factor in a break period. 
Just before I got to the yard I decided to try talking to the house. 

This was the suggestion made to me when I had, Ryan, and a female co-worker of his, over one evening a few nights before this- the night I had explained the ghost story to them, while having a toast with my new set of wine glasses- one of the holiday gifts I had purchased for someone but never gave them. (I know- run-on sentences)
Memory of whom I had chosen them for is blank but when I served them to my guests, my not sharing in the toast left one out of the act. 
Ryan’s female friend said it was not good and, in fact, was bad luck to not break them all in at once. That was the week I resumed drinking but it was my being forced to tell the story of the ghost in the house- my nervousness, more than the threat of bad luck. 
Like maybe it would make them take me more seriously, I don’t know. Either way, there was pressure. Her suggestion to me was that the entity/ghost/spirit was sure of my receptiveness and that it wanted to communicate. So, I was supposed to try talking to it. That’s what I did that night, coming home from the Radio Tavern.

As the house came into view on my right, I swallowed hard and took a deep breath- hoping nobody was home that would think I was crazier than they already did. 
As I turned toward the house, I began to talk to it when my feet hit the property. I talked about my roommates, and their piggishness, the condition of the house, my hopes to care for the property, the raccoons in the attic- generally apologizing that the place wasn’t in better condition.

When I got to where the front door was at, the phone began ringing. My key was for the back door, so I went to the rear of the house, continuing to talk while the phone rang. It must have rung four or five times before I got in to get to it. In the dark, I answered it and waited for a reply but there was none. 
There was a connection but no talky-talky, so I just decided someone should talk- continuing the chat that I was having before the phone rang.

After about fifteen minutes I told “it” that I, really, had to use the bathroom bad, explaining my evening, also mentioning the incident from a week earlier when my steak mysteriously disappeared from the grill, while I wrote on my computer in my bedroom, only to find the steak in the center of the staircase, halfway up the steps. WTF?? I thought. 

Anyhow, I explained that I’d be happy to talk some more, and for “it” to call back later. The phone didn’t ring again, and I never had another weird episode or smell or sensation again either.

Yeah, the night of explaining my ghost situation, breaking in the wine glasses, kicked it off- my drinking that is. It was the perfect excuse for drinking, drinking that slowly progressed due to those persons that made up the environment that I was in, (as well as my own weakness), and by my birthday it was steady again but not really excessive. 

It may have been April when I started working for Dusendang. And it was sometime in June, by the time Joe became involved in the project.

The night I had spoken to the house was the night I chanced to make a prediction of how long it would take me to get home. Had it not been for dawdling, listening to the sounds of the river, and the song in my head, I would have been exact in that prediction. That’s proof, to me, to never second-guess your instincts.

Survival of the fittest isn’t about who’s the strongest when it comes to men. It is about being in tune with the planet. 

That tuning becomes compromised when we pollute ourselves with excessive stimuli and psychological imbalances, such as low self-esteem and doubt, as well as, the ill mentalities that make up society, coupled with the subliminal programming byway of music, so-called, and advertisements-  
Is that assumption a part of my own conspiratorial reflexes?
I don't believe so!

                                                  "Self Made Man"- Sculpture                                                    

So, when the Dusendang projects turned sour, I began doing work for the Kettlewell’s. Speaking of sour, ( just choked on my coffee reading this part). I’ll never forget the time the guy on Shawn’s crew took me to the strip joint- Parkway Tropics. They were talking about it when I mentioned that I had never been to a strip joint. 
It was their cue, of course, to drag me there that evening. What a filthy hole that place is.
 The beers, at "The Parkway Tropics," were four-fifty each, and the patrons had a real creepy vibe perfuming in the air. There was a weird energy in that establishment that let me know I may be in the wrong place. 

Failing to put the change in my pocket must have been an invitation for an encounter because, after a few minutes, a brush cut bleach blonde with a mono-fox tramp stamp came over, made some kind of seductive move, that felt more like, “Oh, if I have to,” while sticking her boobs in my face, as she scooped the money up off of the table. 

I got the feeling that she didn’t like men and was left, not only penniless but with the rotting smell of a dirty towel that she must save special for wiping off with when she comes to “work.” 

Going to another, so-called, “Gentlemen’s Club”, never crossed my mind again. The smell of a sour towel triggers that recollection every time. It’s imprinted in my memory forever, along with burning chicken feathers and cat-piss stewing on a wood stove. Consequently, I can't get in the mood with a brush cut Blonde! I hate being handicapped.

Yeah, speaking of tramps, back to the Kettlewell’s. A lot went on while working for Michelle and Jim Kettlewell. 
Jimmy Huckleberry was living in one of their dumps, working off the rent, while stretching out his budget for cheap booze and crack cocaine. 
The way I happened to become involved was that the girl he lived with got aggressive and decided to fend off his abuse one night, resulting in a bunch of broken windows and the neighbors calling the cops. 
Being delinquent in child support, and a town nuisance, they were more than happy to book him for domestic assault and creating a disturbance, on top of the FOC warrant.

Danny had got word from Michelle Kettlewell that the place got busted up and needed to be dealt with, so he recruited me to stay there and take over until Jimmy got out.

This building was in an alley right behind the Devos Children’s Hospital, on the east side of it, facing west. There were three apartments in the building. One of the tenants was a young mother of a four-year-old little girl who was a darling child. She used to walk the grassy areas with me to look for snakes. I fantasized about being the much-needed father and tried to get to know the mother. While at a home remodel on Coit Avenue I made a cedar flower box for them, in hopes to win a foothold in their lives but that quickly eroded with my drinking. The other tenant was also a single mother but no matter how hard she worked to get close to me, I shoved her away by becoming obnoxious and displaying typical drunkenness with purpose. In all of my perfection she was no gift to me. Strangely enough, her mailbox displayed a card that read: “The Goode Family.” She would later get even with me for being so rude.

People ruin many opportunities based on appearance. Had I been so shallow still, in 2008, I would have overlooked the most wonderful friend I ever had in my life- missing out on the one thing I had been so desperately trying to find- LOVE.

People today have grown fickle and should be ashamed, especially men. 

Before life is all over we will all know certain truths- making for the greatest sadness we will ever feel, the sadness to know it’s too late to make even the slightest correction or even have our apologies heard as we slip into our deaths. 

That is why they say: “Ignorance is Bliss.” 
And not one of us, who has a functioning mind, will be awarded that gift. I am so grateful to have these revelations at the age of 42, while I still have a chance to make a difference, and to be a role model, a father to a child, and to share love with someone special. 

That is why I write- to heal myself, to forgive, to grow in all the ways I can, AND to share that journey with others with the hope that others will join in on this very special revolution- The Individual Revolution- the pursuit of truth and wholeness, and to break free from the illnesses of society and the slavery of economics. 
Money is not what’s important.

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

Danny had left town, for a while, to live in Chicago and regain his employment there. 
When he came back, we made it a point to play at Stooges on South Division, at the open mike they hosted there. 
https://www.reverbnation.com/prospectstudiozacheryspolk/song/27242363-love-aint-no-crime

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

Well, after performing I was reciprocating in conversation with a young, and pretty thick, black woman, who was giving me a lot of attention. 
Feeling sorry for her loneliness, (and probably making up for mistreating my very thick neighbor), I brought her back to my place to hang out. 

When we got back there, I hid my money underneath a large container of, Tide, laundry detergent. 
Between my concerns with getting suckered into going to Chicago, and my experience with women, I was sure the money would end up gone, especially after finding my keys in the van, that I am pretty sure were in the pocket of the pants that had mysteriously disappeared on Prospect street, with almost three hundred dollars in my chained leather wallet. But that’s how bad addiction is, and how bad the drinking got to be. That was when I said I was going to get sober. 
Oh well. It was a pretty good hiding spot this time. I mean, who’d find the money underneath a big box of Tide? Someone would have to do the laundry in order to find it or be stealing the detergent, which never occurred to me since it is expensive.

Anyway, the next morning he wanted to go but I couldn’t remember hiding the money. So, he took the girl home and that’s when I found it. Now I was afraid to get stuck in Chi-town.

 When Danny got back, I denied finding it. Danny left, disappointed but returned an hour later. It was when he returned that I decided to go to Chicago with him.

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

Dan was especially proud of his “system” using multiple ink colors to indicate the status of the project, and the level of importance: red ink was for immediate attention and need, blue might have been an indication of scheduling- I don’t remember exactly- or black.

 I could see where the ink colors would work, (I said woodwork), and I’d figure out how to if I were managing a project. Regardless, it was nice to see the work thing pan out for him.

 Eventually, we made it back to Dan’s apartment, where he instructed me to clean out the rear apartment. It was a nightmare disaster, as usual. Is the whole world like this?

This rear apartment was the residence of two men, whom I was told were, both gay and smoked crack. At least one of them was smoking crack. And at least one of them were gay. 
My eyes were wide with my astonishment of the condition of the place. There was oil everywhere. There was grease infused lint and saturated dust weighing on the blades of the ceiling fan. 

It has always been an impression of mine, that gay men were clean and fussy. If I was gay, I would insist on being clean and fussy... 

This must have been a pseudo-gay species- only using homosexuality as a tool for manipulation, and as a cop-out for not having the ability to give anything of them selves, like commitment, responsibility etc… They appeared more concerned with their own obsessions and instant gratifications. That is, if you call that gratifying.

 I’m not saying there is no such thing as a genuine homosexual person; it’s just that too many people use it as a convenience- using people to enable their addictions and further enabling their own psychological illnesses.

At any rate, it was a filthy trash pit. It wasn’t long before I found a room that was an office of sorts- complete with a computer and an Internet connection. My first thought was, “Hey! I can email my kids,” but after clicking the mouse button I became shocked to find the monitor filled with very graphic images of him and his lover or, at least, parts of them. 

There was a big ol’ bung holeo and a sagging scrotum looking right at me. 

Now, I can’t even see that being interesting to a surgeon who specializes in anal reconstruction <shudder>. Suddenly I became very fearful of sending an email or even touching the computer… or the chair… or the… Yeah. it was that bad!

My efforts at cleaning yielded some immediate rewards that were very useful for pulling myself out of the panic and anxiety that had all but incapacitated me. 

The first item was a super score- Bob Dylan Bootleg Series CD Collection: Rare and Unreleased Recordings. This was a three CD set with a book of photographs and some answers to where the songs originated from and what they meant. It is an expensive set, maybe over a hundred dollars. The CD’s have become casualties of a hard life in the valley of death but the book remains to be an article on my personal property.

                       And, well... I am an ANIMAL. I will Walk Right Out- You Watch.

The other reward was also recordings, only in the form of actual cassette tapes. These were all Grateful Dead shows. 
The Dead were the only band to allow people permission to record their shows, which made a huge impact and contributed to their becoming a very big success. This set of cassette recordings was individually labeled, all in cases, and all kept together in a cassette storage case that holds about a hundred cassette tapes. It was about full. So, with these items, how could I stay depressed? It’s not really possible to stay distraught while listening to The Dead.
And it is my study of, The Greatful Dead's success, while at, Lansing Community College, (and living), thta has empowered me with my own marketing campaign-
Hence, giving away my writing.
Smoke that. I went to school for this stuff but just long enough to pursue my DREAMS. 
Remember one thing- #FIRSTUSE    call me- 231-487-8889

I sincerely hope that you get some enjoyment out of what I have to share. Every bit of its true. I'm "on the level"!
Zachery Scott Polk  revised today- right now. Peace, Love, Care-
Come see me. You Might Find Something Special   #qoute me on that.