Part 27 of "Escaping The Despondent Sea" by Zachery Polk

Danny shot a lot of great footage of friends on that camera- footage of all of us doing what we did together. One of those friends was Ryan. Ryan had a father who was exposed to Agent Orange while serving in one of our branches of the military- Army maybe. Ryan’s sister was terminal, with some kind of cancer, in and out of the hospital quite a bit- liver cancer of some kind, I think it was. At one point the nurses were caring for her, providing her things that being confined to a bed would entail, like food and drink, for example.  

The doctor had some specific orders that were misinterpreted, one way or another. One of those orders was to take in plenty of fluids. When the nurse’s aid served her, she reiterated the instructions to the patient. Ryan’s sister asked for a sprite refill, and if that was okay. The smiling face assured her she could drink as much Sprite as she wanted. Eventually, the already tired liver gave out from the dehydrating effect of the carbonation in the beverage, leaving her to go into a coma, and at some point she actually died.

 The emergency response team managed to revive her, saving her life, and she did finally receive a new liver but the cancer wasn’t entirely gone from her body. The medical staff determined that her cancer was in remission but all that meant is that the tape was rewinding. It will start playing again when it gets back to the other end. I wonder if she is still house ridden or if she has lost the fight, and how her husband, children, and the rest of their family are doing in life today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter

The husband, Tom, wasn’t home from work yet on the day that I showed up near the Wooden Shoe Bar on the Tobacco River, which is six miles east of Gladwin. This gave his wife, Kathy, plenty of time to vent her frustrations onto me. After sitting and listening attentively; thankful for having escaped the reality I had just managed my way out of, I found myself in another world that was very much the same. Her husband was a recovered drug addict whom became a minister while in prison- if not the prison he had created for himself. California comes to mind. Yes, he was from northern California. Recently he had been experimenting with their son’s A.D.D. medication. She had become suspicious, and eventually, it all came out in the open. My own experiences told me it was behavior triggered and motivated by the vermin he was working with in the construction business. Either way, there were no clues to what kind of situation I had, unknowingly, volunteered to be a part of but come sundown the games would surely begin.

Shortly after dinner Kathy suggested going out for a drink- leaving her husband, Tom, home with their two sons. Oblivious to her plans, motives, intentions- her manipulation and, well, resentment I guess, it was music to my ears. Mostly, I was interested in the drinking.

Kathy was a minister also but today that doesn’t mean anything that it would insinuate traditionally. As far as I am concerned it just means you’re an acceptable criminal with actions having become tolerated by a heedless society but that’s just my cynical nature. Or is it?

Her and I sat and drank for what seemed like quite a while. She may have had some pot too, I don’t recall. She had let me know that she smoked the first day I met her, back when I was introduced to her and her husband byway of ‘Mike on a bike’. She got a thrill from taking out her one-hitter and smoking it in public, especially if someone offered her a light, being that it had all of the visual cues of being a cigarette and, in every way, was a cigarette.

If it wasn’t closing time, it was pretty close to it when we finally left. The next morning, Tom went to work. Since I was sleeping on the couch, I had been stirred awake by his rustling around that early morning. A couple hours or so later, the rest of the house got up. The boys went off to school, leaving Kathy and I alone in the tiny house. She made us some breakfast, while we talked about her family some more. This thing with her husband was quite a disturbance in their relationship. She felt her trust was violated and feared Tom to become swept away by a relapse.

Working in the construction trades happens to be a very tempting environment when it comes to relapses. Typically, tradesmen are free thinkers. They most always drink alcohol and use drugs. Having worked the trades for over twenty-four years, it has been my privilege to observe and study the habits and nature of those who make up the trades as a whole. The guys I stayed away from were usually drywall hangers, roofers, framers and concrete workers but then again, everyone stayed away from the Finish Carpenter.

After hearing my story of what had happened up to the point of showing back up at their house, she offered me a ride. It appeared as though she was helping me to get back on the way to Grand Rapids, and for that I was truly thankful. After washing up and gathering what little affects I had, we hopped in her truck and headed out towards a place where she felt was conducive to me getting “home”.

After driving for over half an hour or more, we came to the edge of a city. It may have been Midland or Flint, I cannot remember. She found the on-ramp for a highway that was going west towards Grand Rapids, dropping me off at a car-pool parking lot where I could easily wander to the roads edge. Little did I realize, she was taking one last jab…

It must have been lunchtime because Tom happened to pull up with a couple guys that he was working with, heatedly asking me what I was doing there. Amid our mutual surprise, we now understood what had been choreographed. Kathy had placed me there so that Tom would see me. She had led him to believe that she had her way with me- her deliberate abuse of the trust in their relationship in exchange for the abuse of trust he had done by using their son’s medication. What a scandalous and conniving woman! Either way, between his imagination and my persona, I’d definitely worn out my welcome- no thanks to her.

A guy eventually offered me a ride. He had been up from Chicago, where he had been visiting with relatives. He was on his way back to Chicago after being in northern Michigan visiting his boyfriend. He was on a vacation break from the Middle East, where he was an English teacher in Iraq. This person ended up driving me all the way to the door of Jimmy’s apartment. Whether Jimmy was there or not, I cannot recall but the nightmare was the same regardless.

When I settled in that day, though I am not sure how much time lapsed before it dawned on me, the dog was gone. What the neighbor told me was that Jimmy had gotten rid of Brown Dog. Later, I would find out that Brown Dog was taken somewhere on the Westside, where Jimmy had left him- trading him for his fix. Brown Dog was never seen again.

The Kettlewell’s would be selling the building pretty soon, for one reason or another, though I am certain it had to do with the fact that Jim Kettlewell was in the hospital with some kind of cancer, needing a financial boost to help pay for the treatment he was receiving. Michelle’s catting around had depleted their finances, on top of his losing his income during the hospitalization, to the point where they had to liquidate some of their assets.

It wasn’t until after returning to work for them this time, that I had to deal with a lot of her crack cocaine and meth addicted associates. Having an agenda of her own, Michelle took full advantage of being the middleman. She preferred her own acquaintances in a lot of property maintenance cases, since the difference in the money she paid went to feed her drug habit, not to mention the fact that they always had dope to use.

A requirement of myself was to keep busy no matter what, whether it was with work, writing. When Michelle ran out of things that I could do for her, I would pound the pavement in search of other work. Her mother and father, Pierre and Sydney, were living in the same neighborhood as much of their rental properties. Their son, Robert McVoy, lived with them. Often, I would stop by to visit. Since Robert usually had grass, we’d sit and smoke on the porch, while having Martini’s. Mrs. McVoy would usually have a tip for me, on where to find a repair or two that a friend of hers needed done to their house. She also has things for me to do, as she could afford them. The last job that I did for her was repairing a swinging door between the kitchen and formal Dining Room. Michelle’s mother provided a welcome change of pace from time to time, although hopped up on martinis, judging by her grinding jaw.

It would come out, how Michelle had gotten her knees bashed in by a dope man that she owed some money to. Her claim was that she injured them on the golf course. She might have been attacked with golf clubs, if there is any amount of truth in her story at all or maybe she had golf clubs in the vehicle at the time. Whatever.

After a while, as her marriage continued to crumble, the work was less and less. The issue was that Michelle was the middleman, positioning herself between the hired help and her husband, who was ordering the work to be done. She would always create access to the money, while padding our costs and then shorting us- whatever she could do to get a chunk for herself to feed her habits.

Jimmy Huckleberry would end up hooking up with Terry Lynn, most likely meeting up with her on a dope run one night. They became an item, and she was, again, in need of a residence. Terry still had her job, only because she was such an addict that she couldn’t go very long without one. Jimmy couldn’t keep a job or an apartment, so between the two of them it was a real pathetic attempt at cohabitation.

Terry had just gotten a new job working at Tilman’s Steakhouse since she could no longer travel all the way out to Standale to continue working at Agape’ as a material handler. The two of them managed to secure an apartment on Barnett, west of Lafayette, on the south side of Leonard. It was an upstairs apartment overlooking an apartment complex that Jimmy referred to as “Little Africa”. It was all black, heavily populated with children and wannabe gangsters, crack dealers, and your general one-size-fits-all hood rats. It was a sad sight at any hour of everyday.

Jimmy offered me a room but it was only because I had a purpose in his eyes, with an income source and all the trimmings. Since it was convenient, I took the room but not without a plan for myself to move on as soon as I could.

The people who lived downstairs were two gay men, in the fifties. One of them had a tracheotomy. They both were users of cocaine and crack, as well as smoking and drinking heavily, which made them a convenient hang out for Jimmy whom rarely had money of his own for anything.

My first day was a barometer for what the goings on would be. Jimmy had claimed my orthopedic mattress was stolen right off of the porch. Truth is that he traded it for crack. Anyhow, eventually I got the mattress back, only after constant protesting but it was not easy to get over due to the fact that the addict that had been sleeping on it had funked it up so badly that it took over five weeks and a whole bottle of FeBreeze to get rid of the sweet smell of fermenting garbage juice and a powerful and perfectly pungent brand of Nigerian toe cheese. I’d have to say it was aged for at least three months.

So, I had a room but I wasn’t safe although I really didn’t have too much choice available at the time. It wasn’t an environment lacking entertainment, by any means. Next door, on our west side, was a house that also faced south. A Mexican family lived there, spending quite a bit of time outdoors in the summer.

There was an empty lot between our houses that may have had a house on it at one time but they may have torn it down. We all used that space to work on vehicles at times; since the road was so narrow you couldn’t do much of anything, only being able to park on one side of the road. We had no driveway at our place so we parked in this empty grass covered lot.

Jimmy had been drinking whiskey and using cocaine for, I don’t know how long. The Mexican guy next door had some friends over and they were out in the yard drinking beers, and barbequing with the hatch back of their car open to let the festive sounds escape out into the open air from their car speakers- Mexican music playing on the radio. Hung over, and probably still drunk, Jimmy ran out yelling and screaming at them. He knew no Spanish, and they knew little English. “AM-PM”, they kept trying to say but Jimmy kept yelling. “AM-PM”, they kept saying, “AM-PM.” Jimmy, at some point further into his tirade, shut up long enough for his brain to start working as they kept repeating, “AM-PM.” By now I am yelling at him that it’s almost five o’clock in the afternoon.

Jimmy was, and is probably still, known as AM-PM but that’s just an example of a person sleeping through life. It’s never time to wake up, and if it is, you don’t know or care anyway. It really began to be clear to me, to take my life seriously. The environment I was steeped in, and the criticism I had for those around me, enabled me to see my own problems. It really surprised me that I was, once again, in the same environment that Terry made into her reality. My guards were always up against becoming a junkie. My reality was bad enough, and quite frankly, I was literally scared to death.

I began volunteering for the community outreach at BelKnapp Commons. Robert turned me onto it after I lost my job for Shawn Dusendang. Before the work stopped I made friends with a painter on the Rivertown Crossings project who happened to live a block away from the Commons. His apartment was right on my path when I went to it to get food and to use the facilities, like for a job search on the community computers etc…

The place he lived in was a two and a half story brick house that was divided into two residences. He lived upstairs, mostly because the downstairs was haunted. The painter’s name was Tom, and just like everyone else I knew and met, he was tormented with substance addiction- alcohol mostly.

On one of the nights that I visited Tom, since staying at home was so expensive, he told me the story of the ghost in the house: The lady of the house had been in love with the mailman. One day she discovered that the mailman had interests in another woman on that block. She had known the man for a lengthy time and had a friendship established with him but when she learned that he had chosen another woman for marriage she hung herself in the living room.

The night he told me that story, and others about his own life, I wrote a poem out for him. It started out with: “It’s times when life’s got you in a poke, when there’s not enough cash and there’s nothing to smoke, and you just can’t think of or hear a joke that’ll make you laugh enough to forget…” It was a beautiful poem about friendship- the value of it, I guess.

One day, after having been visiting with him, I noticed a house that had a Ministry sign in the window. The ministry was looking for computers to salvage. My computer was in need of some work, and I hoped to become able to repair it- thinking that they could help me become somewhat educated enough to do it. They led me to believe that they had a job for me there, invited me to a fellowship meeting that was held once a week in a community building that was part of the “Little Africa” complex.

Within two weeks of becoming acquainted with the “Ministry”, I would be asked by a person, from the BelKnapp Commons, to help out with a neighborhood carnival that was being held at a tiny park located directly east of this particular apartment complex. A small building that housed the restroom facilities had a large official area- an office, where a covert operation of in cognito police investigators worked. What I learned was that they were part of an undercover operation of this area of town. The guy who ran the ministry was a suspected drug dealer. The carnival was held under the pretense of motivating family activity, all the while it was working on identifying people, pairing kids with adults and helping them connect the dots in the community’s drug activity. There could have even been listening devices in their prizes that were awarded- who knows.

The two female investigators had already told me enough. This was the information that helped further motivate me to get away from Jimmy and Terry, and the rest of the lurking evil. Going to jail again, for any reason, was not on my list of convenient things to do.

Going to jail only made things worse for me. Having no support group, I ended up losing what little I had gained- starting with my job, every single time. In order to recover, the expenses are fifteen hundred dollars at the least. Unless someone is loyal and responsible enough to take care of the bills, and even then, you’ll come home to a place empty of all of your possessions that even had the least of value.

The meetings that the ministry held became a routine before the carnival. Even after what I learned, I still went. It was better that hiding at the bar to avoid the house. It was a support base despite anything else. The Alcoholics Anonymous meetings on College Street also became part of my routine. It was at these meetings that Dan Doyle and I crossed paths.

Dan Doyle was about to begin working on a project that involved woodwork in a log cabin. He had another project or two going on that involved electrical service. He was happy to offer me a job, knowing my skills in the trades. Now I was gainfully employed again, giving me a seemingly safe escape, and filled me with new Hope as well.

The first project was a community building in a trailer park on the south end of Wyoming off of South Division, where we installed the electrical system. Dan had already completed most of the groundwork, leaving the light cans to be laid out in a grid pattern, symmetrically spaced. Being a finish carpenter, I handled this part of it while Dan and his helpers pulled the last of the wire and installed the switches and fixtures.

Working with Dan was enjoyable, especially since it entailed gaining some hands-on experience to the electrical trade, which I knew little about since I never had the opportunity to work with an electrician. The end of the day would come and Dan would drop me off at Jimmy and Terry’s. It was always the same- they’d bum smokes from me and ask me to buy drinks, so you can easily understand my going to the local bar after work to buy drinks and time before I could go home for bed. So, the Scoreboard Bar became my routine hangout, until one night when Jimmy and Terry bumbled in- learning my secret.

Terry’s job at Tilman’s involved waiting tables, putting cash in her pocket every night, which enabled Jimmy to squeeze booze out of her anytime. The Scoreboard was right on the dusty trail.

Tilman’s was a regular hop for a lot of older affluent women. Terry tried to get me to apply for a job there, claiming the women would line my pockets with gratuities. No amount of money could get me to work or relate with Terry after the nightmares she gave me in the past. A room in the same house was already too much.

My secret motivation behind going to the Scoreboard, in addition to delaying going home until the last minute, was hoping to find someone to fill the huge void in my life. Since recognizing approximately how big that void truly was, I became anxious and as desperate as I could ever become. It would be here, at the Scoreboard that I would come into the acquaintance with, Michele Shackleton.

When I sat down at the bar, I instantly recognized a man who had come to look at the Suzuki Stinger that I had advertised as being for sale before Joe and I were evicted from the Lake drive house. My drinking was reprioritizing everything important in my life, so I lost it. He stole it rather. Anyway, this guy who was at the Scoreboard was celebrating having just had a baby boy but he was acting like a fool on a stool. He claimed he was, “Robo-trippin”, off of a bottle of Robotussin, a fairly common thing people do for kicks.

His stupidity got me laughing and the next thing you know, we were both laughing our fool heads off. He was rehashing an old Monty Python bit- Sir SpamAlot. Michele (with one L), was on my left but I hadn’t noticed her yet. She was vibing on us, and was also laughing like a fool, just riding along. At some point he had bought her a drink. After a while she was trying to get me to follow her home to hang out. I was up to do anything that didn’t involve going back to Jimmy and Terry’s place. What I found at her house was just as bad, if not twice for the worse.

Shortly after getting to her house I passed out, while sitting there on the couch. She had put one of her Trazadone pills in my bottle of beer. When I came back to life the next morning my harmonicas were gone along with my money and my smokes. It took a month to get my harmonicas back. She had taken them to someone down the block for some reason or another. At some point I realized she had sold them for beer money but that wouldn’t be until much later.

Insert the college inn story and that I had been off that day .The missing harmonicas were a good excuse to go back to Michele’s, instead of home. Eventually Jimmy got so upset about me being there, and not at his place with my money, that he busted in the door one night with his brother- thinking we had crack. Michele was a lot closer to the door. She jumped up and started freaking out. They grabbed her and were roughing her up; hair pulling and smacking her. Then it appeared that one of them had choked her out. They had shoved me across the room where I flipped backwards over some furniture, trying to get up by the time she was falling into a motionless heap.

Jimmy’s brother was going through the house, looking for drugs, money and booze- taking a few twenty-two-ounce bottles of Icehouse from the fridge. Now they were calm, like freaking Jekyll and Hyde. Jimmy responded to my asking him to help me put her on the couch. Then he started yelling at me about being down here instead of his at house, and actually commented on me spending my money with her and not them.

Michele had responded with instinct, going limp during the moment he had his hands on her throat- probably the smartest thing she had done in years. I knew that in my gut, when it happened but that didn’t make Knuckleberry any bit less of an ass at all.

Earlier that day had been a no work day for me, so I played benefactor, taking Jimmy to the only place around that he thought might serve him. After all, the day was young and he wasn’t drunk, so there was a chance everything would go smoothly. We walked up to the College Inn, which is kiddy-corner from Michele’s place. After managing to slide in, we made our order for a couple beers, only Jimmy chimed in that he wanted a rum and coke instead- a difference of about three bucks. It must have been three or four minutes later when I heard the statement from twelve feet away, over my left shoulder: “I don’t think you like me very well,” and then the stools went flying. The lady behind the bar, Kathy, said that she was calling the cops and told me to get him out of there. Kathy yelled at me, saying that if I ever brought him back, even just to the parking lot, that I’d be barred from there too. When I did go back there was a sign on the wall with a list of names on it. The sign read: Barred till Pigs Fly. Jimmy’s name was at the top in big fat red letters. There were four other names on that list; Michele Shackleton’s name was among them.

When Jimmy decided to throw me out of the house for not supplying the various consumables, his brother helped him swap a bunch of wires around in my computer’s hard drive. It isn’t clear if they did that before or after they made off with my acoustic guitar. They were kind enough to load up my belongings or what was left after helping themselves to things, and bring them to Michele’s house for me. The orthopedic bed disappeared again but for the last time. It was doubtful that I would want it back again if it ever did resurface.

After a few days of pleading with him I did manage to get my guitar back. He knew how much it meant to me and had hidden it behind the television. Terry, most likely, had a hand in him getting it back after selling it for dope, probably harping on him until he actually began to feel like the bum that he was, so I am thankful for her in that matter. It wasn’t anything special, just a hundred dollar Jasmine made by Takamine but it was mine just the same.