The Celtic Wench

The Dream
"God damn it! I had that fuckin' dream again last night!" the Wench tells me.

Surprised at her outburst, I ask calmly, "Which dream?"

"Oh, it's the one where I am giving my cousin a blow job, you know...when I was six-years-old."

It's a dream where she is in a bedroom with her cousin. Behind her in the living room her mother is vacuuming. The bedroom door is open. The first time the Wench tells me the dream, I make light of it.

"Really...?" I ask her, not giving it much thought.

We all know how dreams are. Dreams play with our minds, tickle our thoughts and sometimes puzzle us.

We both laugh and have sex.

wench: Pronunciation (wnch) n. 1. A young woman or girl, especially a peasant girl. 2. A woman servant. 3. A wanton woman.

The Wench was all three.

My freshman English Lit class is my favorite. We read stories, write stories and study the masters. I am unlike most students in class and my appearance sticks out. My usual attire is a flannel shirt, Levi button-up blue jeans and my hair goes to my shoulders. At age 24, in 1975 I am older than most of the students in class. This also means I get to live in the foreign students dorm. It is quiet there, I can study AND I can have girlfriends over.

The first few weeks of class, I notice interesting people. But there is one student that sticks out above all others. It's not only her looks but her contributions, what she writes, her observations and how she carries herself. Her frizzy, orange-red hair falls to just below her shoulders. She wears a plaster cast on her right ankle and tells me she injured her foot playing touch football. I learn that the Wench is nineteen-years-old. I tell myself "Don't do it!" but I fall for her.

It amazes me how far I fall too. I am reeled in to the point that I am mystified. It is a grip that I can't shake, even though I know better. The Wench is like a single flower surrounded by bee hives and constantly being pollinated.

Her first tryst is the day after my father passed away. At 4:00 AM the phone rings she wakes up, answers it and hands the phone to me. Pre-dawn phone calls are never good. I hear my mother telling me my father has passed away. My friend Ram is spending the night with us, he's sleeping on the couch in the other room. I leave for home that morning on a bus to be with my mom and Grandparents. Not 10 minutes after I have left, she is in bed with him.

She carries on with Ram for another year, until he can no longer bear to keep the secret from me. On my trips back home to help my mother, she invites him over and they spend the weekend together. I suspect lots but say nothing. She was with me not them. I come home one day from out of town. Sitting on the couch I can see her in the bathroom. I notice that she is cleaning her diaphragm in the sink. If she didn't want me to know anything about it, she would have shut the door.

"What are you doing? Who have you been screwing?"

I question her a little shocked at her blatancy. Time to bring all of out.

"OK OK" she admits.

"Ram spent the weekend here; while you were away."

Amazed that she told me, I keep telling her that if she wants to have affairs just tell me, but don't be sneaky about them. However, for some reason she is compelled to taste them all. I suppose it was the thrill of it all. I am not sure why we didn't leave each other.

It doesn't run through the family, it GALLOPS...
It isn't just the Wench either, it's her whole family that's wacko, including both sides. Going to a family gathering is like going to a carnival complete with freak shows, tumbling midgets and evil clowns. I should have gotten the hint.

Then, there is the weekend at her parents.

We drive to her parents on a Saturday morning. They live on the plains in the middle of farmland, in a small rural town. The Wench and I aren't married yet and it was a pain in the butt not being able to sleep together. But this time it is different. Her parents let us sleep together and the idea of it doesn't seem to bother them. It's Saturday evening. Her mom is parading around the house excited that her sister is coming to visit the next day. Wine has filled up the refrigerator, the house has been practically remodeled with the cleaning she has done.

But I notice something very curious, almost out of place.

In the den amongst knick-knacks, pictures are scattered here and there in plain view...Polaroids. I notice this and pick one up laying on a stack of five or six. To my amazement there are various nudes and sex acts of her parents! The strange part is someone has taped paper over various parts of the photographs so that only the faces can be seen. If that was all anyone could see, it would be innocent enough...but I peeked.

I didn't say anything to the Wench about this. I figured that discretion was the better part of valor and kept my mouth shut. If the Wench stumbles across the photos that is one thing, but for me to go around to everyone asking about the photographs is quite another. Dinnertime conversation is the next interesting event of the evening.

"I can't wait for my sister to get here." her mother blurts out as I cut off a piece of charbroiled steak.

"When she does get here I am going to have her get rid of this boil on my butt. It really hurts too!"

She says this as I am about to take a bite of this luscious, blood-dripping and rare piece of meat.

At the very second after she said that, I fake a sneeze, kick the Wench under the table and stifle a laugh. This could get interesting.

"It's been bothering me for two weeks. I can't reach it either."

I almost gag...a "boil"?, at the dinner table? I don't believe what I am hearing. The possibilities that run through my mind are endless.

The next day, Sunday, starts out as a normal day, then the unbelievable gets weirder. Everyone goes to church except me and the Wench. I also notice that the Polaroids are put away as they are now nowhere to be found. I fix us breakfast, go to the den, turn on the TV and read a book. Around noon everyone returns from church and the Wench's aunt shows up.

There is Sunday lunch with lots of sandwiches, wine and talk among the women. I go back to the den to watch football with the Wench's father and brother. We laugh and joke and yell at the game on the TV screen.

The next thing I know her mother announces, "Me and Missy are going back to the bedroom and get rid of this boil on my butt. We'll be out in a little while."

This time I laugh out loud but no one laughs with me. My imagination gets a grip on me and doesn't easily let go.

The Wench's father grabs his son, "Let's go outside and finish cleaning the yard and haul it off to the landfill." This all seems to be quite normal around here.

Over an hour passes and I am the only one left in the house except the two sisters doing gawd-knows-what in the bedroom. I strain my ears to hear anything. I am even tempted to walk back to the bedroom and press my ear to the door. But of course I chicken out. The Wench, her brother and father are all outside doing yard work. After another hour, everyone appears in the house as if out of nowhere. I never talk to the Wench about what I thought was really going on in the bedroom. A boil...my ass!

"If you kiss me I will turn into a pumpkin"
I should have taken the hint. Why didn't someone hit me with a two by four and knock some sense into my pinhead?

The rest of my college years with the Wench are like that and worse. But I am busy with my studies and finishing my honors classes. In our Senior year we decide one night, after being blasted on mushrooms, to get married. There is only one place in the state that one can get married on a fluke and it is an all day trip to the corner of the state. After sleeping little that night we get up early and head out.

The town we get married in is notorious for getting blood work done, the marriage certificate signed and getting married at a preacher's house all in one day. We arrive just before noon and make our first stop at the courthouse. They tell us we have to find a minister to marry us first, then get a blood test, bring all that back and then pay a number of bucks at the courthouse and it's done. The clerk at the courthouse gives us addresses and a map to help us find a preacher. We pull up to one church and the minister is at lunch. The secretary makes a call to his house and we are told to go on over; he'll marry us right away.

I guess the mushroom effect really starts to wear off as I start thinking about the last couple of hours. I freak out and start to panic. I think the Wench does too. It's hard to tell what we both are thinking right now. I look at the Wench and realize that I might have to spend the rest of my life with her. With all the hints I have been given the last four years, I start to think about driving off a bridge somewhere.

We arrive at the preacher's residence and enter. We are greeted by a gentleman that I could swear just stepped out of a KKK costume. He looks at us like we are carnival workers just passing through. We chit-chat, laugh nervously and I then notice that the Wench hasn't said much at all in the past hour. My hands sweat, my feet sweat and my stomach is in knots. I feel like I have just swallowed a bottle of ipecac. The preacher goes through the ceremony. It is short an' sweet.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

It sounds reasonable to me. To my surprise, she has to make a big scene out of it. As I turn to kiss her, she turns her face away from me. I control my impulse to slap her, pay the preacher $25 and quickly get the hell out of there. I shoulda taken the hint...long before now.

The beginning of the end, the Dream
Having hitch-hiked across the Western U.S. for our graduation gift to ourselves, I leave Oklahoma for the last time. I occasionally return for visits. We have to decide what to do with ourselves and whatever we decide, we decide we don't want to do it where we are living. We pick New Mexico as our destination.

We hadn't been there for more than a week and we are sitting around in the trailer we are renting until we get jobs and get on our feet. We both look for jobs during the day and at night we are left to entertain ourselves. We have no cable and no phone, just books to read and a sad portable TV with aluminum foil on the antennae.

One evening, for entertainment, we decide to describe and analyze the dreams we remember. We talk about the dreams we have which seem to recur from time to time. Everyone has them and everyone ponders their meanings.

"You remember that Dream I have every now and then? The one that haunts me, the one that is like a nightmare, you know, the one about my cousin?" she asks me.

"Yeah, I remember, how does it go again?"

She retells the dream she has about the sordid intimacy with her cousin and her, with her mom vacuuming in the other room.

"I had it again the other night. It gives me the creeps."

Then...it all makes sense to me.

There is a long pause and the feeling of crystal clear realization hits me. It's as if someone came up behind me and hit me in the back of the head. I shudder for a moment. Then chills and goose bumps erupt over my body like a wave of electricity in slow motion. The feeling is not pleasant and my stomach is instantly in a knot.

"Whats wrong? you're white as a sheet." she observes.

I start to speak but the words won't come out.

"Are you OK?" she asks still puzzled.

"The man is not your cousin and it's no dream."

"The man is your father."

With that, her mouth drops open and she does not breathe nor moves a muscle. The inside of the trailer seems to be frozen in time. She turns pale and stiff as the words that came from my mouth echoes through her thoughts.

Some time later, long after we are divorced, her father is seated on a lawn chair. He is staring at his fence where he has lined up three empty beer bottles.

He aims his revolver. ONE...he shoots the first bottle, TWO...he shoots the second bottle, THREE...he blasts the third bottle. He then places the revolver to his temple......FOUR......

She tells me a few years later. "My only regret is that he didn't go see my mom and shoot her first."

The Magician, The Chasm and the Jaguar Priest

"You were gonna do what?" I asked in total amazement. The Magician stares through me.

"Oh yeah, you see, I came home from college one day, and I woke up, sittin' in the car, in the garage, with the garage door shut and the engine running." The Magician tells me this as if he is repeating this story for the one millionth time.

We sit in the room and for five minutes there is...total...silence. The Magician does not twitch a muscle and I stare down at the sunlight hitting the floor in the room. My throat is thick, I can't swallow and I can't talk. I feel like weeping.

Thus begins my spiral down into the chaos, enlightenment, darkness and knowledge of The Magician. The depths of his plunge are infinite, twisted and broken. His soul is stretched with pain, brightness and horror. I know he lives where there are jagged edges constantly; it never leaves him. The terror is unrelenting and like a vicious junkyard dog it snarls and bites him every day of his life. The wretchedness flashes like lightning and rips his inner fabric to shreds.

The Magician's own existence is magic of the spirit, it is soul-wrenching, and it is powerful. It has a name and it's name is schizophrenia.

"Cat's foot iron claw"

During my student internship, I arrive at the clearest moment of realization; I can never fully know my own follies. They are the follies that wake me up in the middle of the night. I can only recognize their presence and I quickly learn this.

The class is a group therapy session with a psychiatric social worker. The class is developed by my boss, a psychologist. I live outside of town on her brood mare ranch with the Celtic Wench, where I work as a ranch hand. I shovel horse shit, dog shit, mend fence, and pick wild persimmons.

Two weeks into the class, we are assigned clients to talk with and help. The Magician is assigned to me along with a woman. The first questions that come to my mind are; what is he like? Who is the Magician? Of course, the psychiatric social worker doesn't tell us. We are left to figure out who they are. It doesn't take long for the class to realize we are working with people we won't be able to help. Discovering who the Magician is becomes easy. What to do with the discovery is difficult.

After a few weeks of talking with the Magician, I realize that I am face to face with a schizophrenic mind. This discovery is crystal clear. He goes into a reality that is unfathomable. Yet one lucid day I find out more. He sometimes mentions suicide.

"Magician, do you remember becoming this way?" I asked in one of the first times I met him. "Why did you want to kill yourself?" I sit and listen after asking the question. I expect to hear a nonsensical answer.

"I got a scholarship to go to Boston College." he starts out. "I received a bachelor's degree in Philosophy." he tells me. "Where did this come from?" I quiz myself not expecting his answer. I can see part of his soul bleeding through now. Is the Magician that educated? "I then graduated and received a scholarship to go to seminary at Southern Methodist University." He tells me this while lucidness is still with him. "I was home for Thanksgiving and I was depressed and wanted to kill myself. I tried to kill myself sitting in the car, you know, I've already told you about that time."

I can only imagine what his family and local authorities thought about his strange new behavior. "And then during that Christmas I found myself on top of the water tower. I want to jump off of it." He goes on to tell me how the police of the small farm town where he grew up, tried successfully to talk him out of it; that is when he first knew something was really wrong. He met with the doctors and they sent him to the state hospital.

I am taking Intro to Logic, so I ask him about the Informal Fallacies. To my amazement, he rattles them off with a description for each one. He does so in lightning fashion while staring into space. I come to learn that this indicates that he is partially off his medications and that he will shortly plunge into the depths of his own hellish realm.

The slide into oblivion begins when the Magician starts taking "walks". As the slide from our reality and into his secret reality deepens, he withdraws from everyone that knows him, until he no longer recognizes or acknowledges anyone. The slide is slippery and the line separating our two realities is a punctured hole and the puncture is growing ever wider.

There is no surprise for me when after meeting with the Magician for 3 months, he now slips away from my grasp. I am unable to see him until the following February. The Magician is hidden away from us all. The mental health center is the place where he feels safe and secure from our reality. The world we know does not shatter his world. He battles with his torments deep within The Chasm.

"Neuro-surgeons scream for more..."

Describing the descent into the hell of schizophrenia, is not easy. It is rather like this. Imagine taking every conscious thought, every memory and put them in a bucket, like multi-colored confetti and in a precise order. Shake the bucket up. Next throw it as high in the air as possible, from the edge of an infinite pit, with a strong wind at your back. Now, somehow go to the bottom of The Chasm and make sure you gather everything you had in the bucket. Put it all back in the same order you had it when you first started.

The drug Haloperidol (AKA haldol) is the Magician's transport to the bottom of The Chasm and back. The Magician is always running up and down the canyon of despair. While inside the mental health center three months he wanders, for three months, lost at the bottom. The Magician is searching for the confetti that is the structure of his existence. I am not allowed to see him or help him and I am assigned a new client.

Eventually, the Magician emerges from the depths of the spiraling hole. In February he is allowed to go home. I go to see him once again and to help him. I find out from him that the holidays were too much for him to deal with. The mental health center always becomes full during the holidays. The Magician stopped taking his medications during that time and doing so took him to the bottom.

I take him to lunch and we talk about him being inside the mental health center. He doesn't say much about it, so we talk about philosophers I am studying and logic. He enjoys those discussions and I revel in his knowledge of the subject.

"At paranoia's poison door."

Now, having emerged from The Chasm yet again, he once more has hope. This hope infects me as well. Yet for the Magician, hope is a Trickster in disguise. Hope is always there for the Magician but nothing about it can be achieved. Hope is another torn and punctured line between him and I. Hope is so thin, and so transparent for him. Hope is always just beyond his grasp. Spring arrives and with it comes new life and hope is renewed.

The Magician wants to work, to support himself and he's given the opportunity. I am encouraged and think that maybe a corner is somehow turned. But the Trickster called hope is never far away from the Magician. It's only a matter of time before hope fades away and the Trickster overcomes him.

He has a chance to clean yards with a crew and he gets picked up by the crew chief every morning. This works out for awhile. But one day I find out that he does not show up at the curb to be picked up by the crew chief. I am supposed to meet with him the next day.

"No...I am not here..."

I discover he is nowhere to be found and no one has seen him. I decide for the first time, to go to where he lives and ask around. As I approach the old two-story house where he lives, I feel my heart quickening. I don't know what to expect. In a way I am scared of what I will find. I enter and start asking people where his room is.

Approaching his room, I see that his door is open. Looking in, I notice the room is a total wreck and to my left is the Magician. He is laying on his back, and staring straight up into the universe past the ceiling. At first I suspect the worst. "Magician!, it's me Jaguar, I came to see how you are doing." I am uncertain what, if anything, will happen next. The Magician is straight and stiff on his bed; he does not answer me; his eyes do not blink. Dusting off a chair, I pull it up and sit down. Long moments pass. I watch him carefully and hopefully. Finally, I notice that he is taking shallow breaths.

"Huh?" I hear him say. Maybe he's coming back. Maybe I am the bit of reality that he needs to re-enter what we call normalcy. "No, I am not here." he tells me, still staring straight up. For a brief moment, the Magician recoils back to reality, from the thin thread he is treading on; then he is gone again back to The Chasm. My heart sinks as he re-enters his despair. I sit there for a bit longer, trying to contact him. It is as if I am Mission Control trying to reach a wayfaring space traveler.

Then all of a sudden, he raises up, barefoot and walks out of his room, as if I am not there. The Magician quickly leaves, as I follow walking behind him, I call out to him. He cannot hear me. He walks around the house a few times and then he is gone. I go to the center and tell them. "Oh yes, we will find him and have him picked up. Thanks". The lady at the front desk says this so matter-of-factually. "Shit! doesn't she know how important this is?" I think to myself. She doesn't care, Magician is just one of many.

"Twenty first century schizoid man."

Again, days go by and he is gone. I wonder about what will happen to him. I finish my student internship not seeing him again in a professional setting. I find out from people that he has been "walking" lately. He walks barefoot, on the streets until his feet bleed and are a mess. Upon hearing this, on nights when I can't sleep, I drive around the small town to see if I can find him; I drive and search and drive and search.

The police see him occasionally at nights, during their patrols and when they do, they pick him up and take him to the mental health center. Hearing this relieves me a little. But the loneliness he must have, the constant fear he must confront, at times overwhelms me. I ask around at the center about him. One of the psychiatric social workers tells me he is not doing well and won't take his medications. I remember a conversation I had with him once. "Would you ever consider taking your life again?" I asked him then. I remember the Magician telling me, "If I became myself again, if I became what I was ... I might." I am such a neophyte, an idiot. The insight he gives me is astounding, yet simple.

There are times during the summer that the Magician occupies my thoughts. The thoughts are not good and are burdensome. They are like copperhead snakes in my mind, always there hiding, ready to strike and easily provoked. I envision him swirling around deep within The Chasm, furiously grasping at each tidbit of his spirit. Yet with each step he must be tumbling further downward into deeper depths. There is no magic wand nor a silver bullet to save him the misery and despair he must constantly live with. No matter what, I cannot save him. I have no secret spells nor magic potions.

Then on a hot summer afternoon the Wench and I go to get an ice cream at the drive-in. As usual, I keep one eye to the road and one on the lookout, for the Magician. There on the side of the road, walking barefoot, is the Magician. I stop the car and yell at him as loud as I can. He whips back to my reality briefly and sees me motioning him over to get into the car. I run over and help him into the car. I tell the Wench to get in the back seat and when he gets in to lock the door and make sure he does not unlock it.

He is wearing a heavy leather jacket in the incredible summer heat. He has sweat so much that he is totally dehydrated. I look at his bare feet and they are bleeding and raw-looking. "Magician, let's get you a lemonade, OK?" He stares straight ahead and says nothing. "Then I will take you to the mental health center so you can take care of your feet." Magician must have been walking all night and into the afternoon.

At the drive-in I order two large lemonade drinks for him. He quickly drinks them down, realizing his own thirst. I order one more. But before it comes he crawls out the window of my Corvair. He did it so fast I couldn't stop him. My mind is racing about what to do. I decide that if I get him back in the car that I would be unable to keep him there and he might jump out while I am driving down the road. I call the MHC and they tell me they will get the police to pick him up. Maybe that is what he wanted. I ask myself what are the police to him?

"I talk to the wind, my words are all carried away"

I go on with my life and I suppose the Magician does too. He taught me many things. I often see people in the city where I live, walking and talking incoherently. I am briefly reminded of the Magician and his hopelessness. I try not to think about it too much. I look at them briefly...and then...I look away.

NOTES: I should note that the section headings are from lyrics of the first King Crimson album. The lyricist is Peter Sinfield.

The Pirate and the Death Chamber

What follows is a back reference to The Pirate character I wrote about in this story a couple of years ago.

I met the Pirate long after he was a 5-year old kid who on a fateful day decided to be a 'cowboy' in a game of 'Cowboys and Indians'. He was ambushed by the Indians with the result being a crude arrow slammed into his eye, squashed it like a grape and was blind in that eye ever since.

The time met him, I walked into his mom's house and immediately a giant red squirrel comes down the drapes and runs up my leg to rest on my shoulder. Pirate hands him a peanut in a shell. I didn't have time to even blink. It's like having a small cat resting on your shoulder. "Hi I am Pirate, this here on your shoulder is my furry brother. He doesn't have rabies either."

Yet, among other things he is one of the greatest artists you will never know and that doesn't matter either. This isn't about that anyway. You probably wouldn't care.

The Pirate Disguise

During that time in his life he was almost the perfect burglar. The Pirate and a couple of buddies would get in the car around midnight, drive to rural towns in Oklahoma and Southern Kansas, break into drugstores or auto supply stores (preferred) and lift all the shit they could carry of value and sell it on the black market, in a small college town. It was lucrative BUT they got lazy.

Their ultimate demise was that they started burglarizing closer and closer to home. One night a road block snagged them and they landed in jail. During their trial they were told to quit college and join the Army. Otherwise, they would be put on 6 years probation. The Pirate couldn't join because one eye was missing. A fact the judge did not find amusing.

"Why is there a patch over your eye?" the judge quizzed before sentencing. "Are you trying to be funny in this court and insult this court with this pirate patch over one eye?"

The pirate tried to speak but the judge did not allow it. In actual fact the Pirate thought of himself somewhat of a pirate.

"I sentence pirates to jail." the judge continued, "You would have been better advised by your lawyer had he told you to not wear that nonsense in my court room."

The Pirate obeyed but the moment the judge realized his own flawed request, gave the Pirate 6 years probation instead of 10 years in the McCallister Sweathouse; the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. I always knew him as the Pirate.

Moth Man...Butterfly Man

Years later I would visit him in his two room adobe shack in the middle of the Mother Primeval Desert. He lived like a fucking monk and celibate too. He was queer as a football bat but I didn't care. You don't get rid of friends because of that. Hell, I tried for years to get him to let my ex screw him (something she was more than willing to do) but he would have none of it. She would even try to sneak up on him in the middle of the night and give it a pull or two. He'd wake up screaming at her to go away.

Standing at the entrance to his place you could see a handful of furniture: a chair, a bunk bed, a door on a sawhorse (his meager studio), a chair and a tin stove. He cooked all his meals on a disca which is a Northern Chihuahuan wok. That morning we had to work for breakfast. We had to crack 50-60 quail eggs from his quail coop into a bowl just to have two omlettes. You don't want to know what the quail were for but I will tell you anyway.

I was trying to contain a tequila hangover from exploding from the night before by getting the quail eggs cracked, when I look over at the quail coop. The Pirate emerges with a small cage of 4 quail. He reaches in and takes one out. Before I could blink he took the poor creature and slammed it as hard as he could against his adobe shack. Quail guts splatter everywhere.

"Food for my falcons." he said seeing me about to puke. "The desert is a mean place. They don't feel a thing."

Cracking quail eggs for breakfast became a torture. The whole scene was out of whack at that moment...throwing quail against the wall like a baseball to feed falcons and cracking their eggs to feed ourselves seemed surrealistic. Yeah...the desert can make you mean, if you let it. The Pirate started dressing out the quail for 4 falcons. Everyday started out the same "sunshiney day".

"You want fries with that?" seemed like a reasonable thing to say.

The Death Chamber

What fascinated me the most on my trips to visit him that summer was the evening 'entertainment'. He had a small gasoline generator that he rigged up lighting inside the adobe shack and a black light that always sat just outside the door.

The desert for those that have never paid much attention to it, is overflowing with creatures and life. The only problem is that you never see it unless it is night. The black light attracted creatures for miles. The Pirate interest was in the moths. During the day he collected butterflies and in particular Swallowtails but at night the most interesting were the moths.

Each night we'd turn on the black light, sit on the ground and knock back a half quart of some nasty tequila; I didn't want to know how he got it either. Then we'd wait for them to come in and land on the black light. When they did, he'd inspect them, determine if he had that species and if he didn't the poor moth was put into a fruit jar that had cyanide in it and he sealed it shut. He killed on average two a night. Some were big moths and some were very small.

The next morning he'd pin them on Styrofoam boards to dessicate in the desert air. This only took a day. Then he would pin them on boards and entomb them in cases for viewing, studying and painting. His watercolors of butterflies and moths were stunning. Each stroke of his brush was perfect almost too perfect. He painted to perfection each one he killed. Then he placed the paintings on a pile on the floor. Many times I tried to get him to let me sell them for him. He would have none of it.

After a couple of years he moved away from the desert and in with some friends in another part of the state.

Blind Man's Bluff

I lost track of him for a number of years. I too moved away. One night I get a phone call. I knew his voice right away.

"I'm goin' blind" he said.

"You're already blind." I said jokingly. I thought he was kidding me.

One night he was mowing his lawn with an electric mower and had stretched the cord almost out to the end. He decided to unplug it by forcibly unplugging it by jerking the cord out of the socket. He told me it all happened in slow motion and he can recall seeing every inch of the plug flying towards his head. Because his arm was over his head the plug hit his good eye knocking it out of ITS socket. Horrified he somehow stuffed his eyeball back in and a friend drove him to the hospital.

I never talked to him after that. It is hard to imagine him blind.

The Super Nova

The Super Nova

Sunflowers In The Desert

Sunflowers In the Desert

My parodied version of

William Carlos Williams' famous poem This is just to say

...the cell phone rings @ 6:30 ... a text message appears...

This is just to say

I forgot and left
the dvd
of me and my boyfriend
and forgot to take it out,

when I was finished, while you slept.
he came over
and you were asleep.
we were as quiet as possible.

forgive me it won't happen again.
I ironed your shirt and pants
and breakfast is in the fridge.
please don't be mad.

Taking A Few Days Off

I will return shortly...

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Sotol Moonshine

It's June 1981 in the early summer afternoon and the temperature in this oasis is well over 102 degrees F. I just got off from a four day shift, with about 12 hours sleep. I'm raw, smell like a goat and look like a bum. So despite the heat of the vast northern Chihuahuan Desert, a nice soak in hot springs of a Mexican-tiled tub seems relaxing.

Pugilist Paul greets me with his nearly seven foot frame, as I step out of my truck. His yap-dog terrier is barking so loud and hard it almost shakes itself off its legs. "Don't worry 'bout 'im, he never bites." Pugilist makes this bold statement while the little rat dog bites me behind the right knee. "Shit!" I yelp, "You just said he wouldn't bite for christsakes!" Pugilist let out a half-assed chuckle. My thoughts are really warped now. "Dammit!" I think, "this ain't starting out right at all."

"Aw shit!", Pugilist said, "Come on inside and let's take a look." I am corkscrewed around watching blood trickle from the two puncture wounds. Pugilist grabs some hydrogen peroxide from the medicine cabinet. "He's had his shots." Then I watch the peroxide foam as he pours it on the dog bite. Pugilist next pulls out a five gallon jerry can and two half-sized midget shot glasses. "No we're not going to pour gasoline on it," I'm thinking. "I don't care if the dog does have rabies!" Twelve hours sleep in four days twists your thinking.

Solamente elixir de agave

Pugilist Paul an ex-Marine and his Austrian wife, are restoring and renovating the Kingston Hot Springs, now years later, it's known as the Chinati Hot Springs. Half the adventure of ending up at the oasis in the desert is the trip to it. The usual route is going through Presidio, TX on US Highway 67 out of Marfa, TX, one of the oldest highways in the US highway system. Then one continues along the river road The more adventurous way to get there however, is to take the Pinto Canyon Road, Texas FM 2810. I call it the pucker road.

It takes you past the base of Chinati Peak and limestone outcroppings where peyote cactus and sotol agave grow. Each turn of the road is an Ansel Adams print on steroids and amphetamines. The drive involves a blue highway scenic route that degrades into a dusty dirt and washboard nightmare. At 11 miles the road dives down into the bottom of the canyon, then over a native stone arched bridge. If you take the correct fork in the road after coming up and out of Pinto Canyon, you pass by a precarious and old landing strip, an oasis opens up and you go down into the hot springs. Humans of the area, though long since passed on, have been making this journey for thousands of years.

"This will ease your pain a little", Pugilist Paul shrugs with a bit of swagger. With his huge hands, Pugilist takes the 5 gallon jerry can and fills up the two midget shot glasses. "What's this?" I laugh, while looking in amazement at these two midget-sized shot glasses filled with light greenish-gold liquid. "Pugilist, you're a little fuckin' light on the drinks tonight aren't ya?" He only grins and holds up his glass for a toast.

We click glasses and we both knock back the midget shooters. I am half expecting to resist spitting it out. Pugilist looks at me, "Um...you really need to treat this stuff with some respect." he calmly speaks, "Or you'll end up on your ass." Pugilist is always calm. Then I notice how this is as smooth as honey and it just slithers down my gullet like a liquid rattlesnake with no poisonous bite. Noticing also that Pugilist only has half a thimble left. He waits with a sly grin for my reaction which is surely to come forth.

I slowly realize what an odd sight this is. This huge ex-marine sitting across from a scrawny, skinny legged, dog-bit half-wit, drinking god-knows-what, with two midget shot glasses and a jerry can on a red-checkered table cloth. It reminds me of a twisted Norman Rockwell scene. "Wow! What is this? It's great!" shoving my shot glass towards him. He pours me another. "It's sotol moonshine."

Sotol grows weed-like everywhere around here, it makes for all the mysterious scenery. Up to this point, I am thinking scenery is all it is good for. I start relaxing a bit and knock back shot #2. BAM! easin' it down slowly... "yeah right I am," I think to myself.

hecho en Chihuahua, Mexico

"Where'd you get it?" I inquire. We both know this would be my next question. Pugilist goes on to tell me about a Mexican family across the river that makes this to sell on the U.S. side of the frontier. They are poor ranch workers that, like most here, love the vast Chihuahuan Desert and its mysteries. They've never lived anywhere else. Occasionally, they come across the river to immerse in the healing powers of the hot springs. Every time they come across the river for a stay, they always bring a jerry can of sotol, to pay for their stay for the weekend and drink with Pugilist.

It is smooth as silk. "How much is it? Can you get me a can?" Of course I know the answer but it's worth a try anyway. Pugilist gets a serious look on his Scots-Irish face. "No way, too hard to get it." he tells me.

Indeed, I suppose. This type of agave mezcal is only made in the state of Chihuahua, Mexico. Even then it is confined to Northern Chihuahua along the frontera, the border. Like it's cousin tequila, sotol is made from the same family of plants, the agave. Unknown to most people all tequilas are mezcals but not all mezcals are tequila. Sotol is a regional mezcal and not common. Sotol is a rarity for anyone except native chuahuanistas. That is why this night is a special and rare treat. The light golden-green liquid is superb.

Tequila is made from the maguey plant and sotol is from a related but different plant. Like tequila, sotol is made from a mature plant and I assume that the older the better. The reason being that the more mature the plant the greater the abundance of natural sugars in the root. Some say, this is the reason there is rarely a hang over after drinking tequila, at least under normal circumstances.

I have never seen sotol being made [see NOTES below]. But the process must be similar to that of tequila. I know that like the tequila maguey, sotol starts from the large root of the plant. It is then low baked in earthen ovens fueled by mesquite wood for a number of hours. Then it is allowed to cool and the baked root is pulverized and chopped up. This presumably masticated mess is then fermented for almost two weeks after which it is most likely distilled once and canned.

Visions of mezcalito

I hammer down #3, then #4, then #5 and start talking about whatever shit that starts popping into my head. Hell, I don't even know what kind of psycho babble I'm spewing. I do keep wondering why Pugilist appears to be growing a second head. This stuff loosens your tongue with the result being outbursts of brain farts and a lubricated false sense of deep self-knowledge. Maybe it is my state of mind or my frame of reference. The thought passes through my mind that I might be getting the onset of rabies...wacko thinking indeed. I envision the local paper in the morning headlines! "Rabid man brought in for observation while drinking gasoline from a jerry can and striking a match." Or "Naked Man found wandering in desert claiming to be mezcalito and foaming at the mouth"

I finally decide to listen to Pugilist and sip it slow. Winding up as a headline in a small local paper is not something I want work to find out. Elixer de agave is like that. I know this though, I will never go to a party that has sotol in cans, not without wearing a .45 revolver, an extra six rounds and wear it on the hip. One minute people are standing up and laughing and the next minute those same people having over-indulged in sotol are either laying around passed out and slobbering on themselves or they're chasing your wife or girlfriend. Trust me, the party WILL get out of control.

This strangeness continues when I look up and notice two hours have passed. Pugilist and I have talked and laughed and I can't even remember about what. My body feels like rubber and I haven't moved much of anything but my mouth and bending elbow. I don't feel my legs and I don't care either. With sotol you can saw your legs off and bleed to death in a messy blissful state with a smile.

I decide I've had enough, gone too far with this and turning all of it back is impossible. I am going to lose it into the swirling oblivious chaos. I see Pugilist and I declare to him that he now has two heads and I'm crosseyed. "Let me help you to your cabin" I hear him say, in a voice that seems far off and echoing from a distance. I tell him I am fine, just a little tired from the trip and in need of some desert air.

I stand up from the kitchen table fully expecting to take two steps to go out the kitchen door. As I try to take the first step my knee buckles and I fall backward. I almost land flat on my ass but Pugilist catches me, props me back up. "You sure you don't need any help?" he asks as I step out the kitchen door. Sotol (mezcalito) creeps up on you oh so gentle and then hits you in the back of the head with a bat.

el brujo

In the night desert air, things are clear. All one's thoughts vanish to allow for the next moment of realization. A deep breath of it can clear one's mind of all thinking, the mind becomes peaceful and at rest. In this state, there is always a brief moment when the world stops and the universe is frozen in time, in its vastness. It is then that you see the spirit of your soul and then, just as quickly, it flits away to leave forever.

I trail off to my cabin for a peaceful night's sleep. In my dreams, I dance and I fly.


"Mescalito"
Mescalito has opened up my eyes
Mescalito has set my mind at ease
Mescalito has opened up my eyes
Set my mind at ease!
Ah!


-James Taylor

NOTES:
1. DO NOT go to Mexico and try to score some moonshine. You DO NOT know how it is made and you could go blind and worse DIE. See NOTE 10 instead. You can purchase commercial sotol and not cause serious injury to yourself. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! Not to mention getting arrested by the judiciales and getting thrown in a Mexican jail, and getting the daily "soda pop" treatment and trying to figure out Napoleonic Law.
2. Mezcal is not the same as mescal. Mescal will be another story
3. The Mexican state that makes more mezcal than any other is Oaxaca. The most notable mezcal from there is Gusano Rojo, Red Worm mezcal.
4. Blue highways are U.S highways that are scenic and NOT part of the U.S. Interstate system. On many service stations' maps they were marked in blue
5. The Chihuahuan Desert is THE largest desert in North America.
6. 102 degrees F == 38.9 degrees C
7. Spanish pronounciations: sotol: soe TOLE accent on 2nd syllable, chihuahua: chee WAH wah, solamente: soe lah MAIN tay - only, de: day - of, elixir: ay LEE here, agave: ah GAW bay, hecho: AY choe - made, en: ain - in,

The Ride of the Valkyries

I can't bear to watch. But looking off to the left of the trail, I want to crap my pants or scream. Is the burro I am riding on steady enough ground for this? "Um...Abogado? My ass is sore and besides I am allergic to these beasts. How much further?" The burro slips on a jagged rock.

"Run Rabbit Run..."

"Senor Jaguar Preest, you sheet your pants, these Indians weel laugh their asses off at you!" Abogado chuckles at me. Of course he is right about that. I would be disgraced if I entered their village smelling like shit. So I shut my whiny-ass mouth and try to enjoy the descent into the jungle valley below, occasionally looking for fer-de-lance pit vipers to amuse myself. At least, that is what I tell myself.

We are high in the Sierra Madre in the state of Guerrero, Mexico. Guerrero is Spanish for warrior. The Mexican federales do not like to confront these people and the federales will push anybody around. It is an all day trip by car and burro to this remote Indian village. Abogado is a Mexican lawyer. I met him a week earlier and volunteer to go on this trip...willingly even. I figure it will be an interesting adventure.

Finally, as we approach the Indian village, we are greeted with brightly colored dressed women and men. They look like flowers and the occasion seems to be a festival of some kind. Everyone is smiling and staring at me and Abogado. I notice and it is quite obvious, that Abogado is speaking a mixture of Spanish and some-kind-of-Indian language. "If I ask you to do something," he motions with his eyes to a crowd of men, "Do it without hesitation and don't question me." Now I am becoming a bit concerned about the wisdom of accompanying him.

People come to greet and touch us, especially me. Have they never seen a white, longhair flippo with a beard before? We soon dismount and I feel raw and sore. Abogado immediately starts speaking to the group of men that are gathered before us. They listen intensely. I assume he is telling them about the government grant for their water and irrigation project. There are no interruptions as Abogado speaks. They politely wait until he finishes. Then suddenly when Abogado is finished, there is an immediate burst of speaking among the Indians, to each other. Abogado remains very quiet. I am saying nothing but my mind is racing like a rabbit on meth, in front of a car, at night.

It is approaching sunset, I slowly begin to calm down and start to enjoy this village. I have very brief conversations with Abogado. I seem to be mainly an observer. The men of the village build a fire and we gather around it. There definitely is a festival feel about everything. Abogado laughs and is engrossed in everything that is going on. In fact, this is rather amusing since he and I look so out of place and weird here. Abogado has on this guayavera shirt, dress slacks and sandals. I look like some pinhead from freakland. Yet, the indios seem to think nothing of it. That is odd too. We are in a remote village in the Sierra Madres, in a jungle, sweating and looking like apes and they hardly seem to notice us.

At one point just after sunset, with a nice bright fire, a ladle is being passed around. "Drink this." Abogado says quietly as the ladle is given to him. "Act like it is the most wonderful drink you have ever tasted." I look at him, trying not to look suspicious. "What is it?" I am always leery of putting something foreign in me while in a foreign country, disastrous results can mysteriously appear. "Pulque..." Abogado answers fiercely with his eyes gazing at me. I take a drink of it and pretend to be very pleased.

"The goddess Mayahuel, has 400 breasts which ooze pulque..."

For those that have never tried the drink discovered by the goddess Mayahuel, don't. Pulque is a slimy, sweetish, milky, snot. It has the alcoholic content of beer. I act like it is wonderful. At this point, we are all seated around the fire. It's sort of like cumbaya-girl-scout-cookies night. I am handed a ceramic, terra cotta looking cup. After a few cups of this stuff, I am feeling woozy and light-headed. I figure I have sweat all day and I am probably dehydrated, so my body absorbs it quicker.

As the evening is rapidly overcome by darkness, everyone sitting around the fire starts to look weird. I tell myself this is due to the fire lighting up everyone's faces. Still, it is unsettling. Three or four of the Indian men begin passing around a pipe. In my ignorant, white-man way, I suspect they are smoking pot. It is not unfounded for me to think this either. Guerrero, Michoacan and Oaxaca are famous hemp growing areas. But I get a whiff of what they are smoking and I notice the smell of tobacco.

Abogado takes the hand-worn pipe handed to him and puffs on it deeply. He then hands the pipe to me, "Take this and inhale it." he tells me. I assume that he means for me to smoke it like pot. Dutifully, as promised, I do. Everyone is looking at me or at least it seems so. Abogado motions for me to pass it on. The men around the fire and Abogado are laughing a lot more now but I feel like I am approaching moments of shear terror.

As the pipe comes to me again and having studied how the other men have been smoking this stuff, I take as deep an inhalation as I can, then pass it along. Within minutes I find myself feeling like my body is somewhere else. I laugh euphorically at anything that moves. Vacillating between hilarity and fright I drink one more cup of pulque and decide to head off to bed somewhere.

WRONG! Like a jolt from a cattle prod I am energized. Instantly, everyone stands up without a word being said, as if we are a flock of grackles or primeval dinosaurs. "What did we smoke? Is something in this pulque stuff?", I blubber at no one in particular. No one can understand me anyway. My head is swimming and as I look into the fire I see fractals and mandelbrots. The men's faces are becoming distorted. Abogado looks like a hairy ape, with his skin sliding off. He has acquired a sinister laugh too. I see an Evil Clown in him and animal faces on everyone else. My vision of reality seems to be slipping away from this place. What will take its place? Can I stop this whirly-gig?

I don't understand and neither can anyone tell me, what is happening. We are all dancing around, in unison. There is lightness in my whole body, while the dancing continues more furiously. It is very flock-like. I glance at Abogado curiously and he seems not to have a care in the world. Sounds have an echo effect that appear to be infinite, my sense of these sounds approaches lunacy.

At this point, every action seems to be delirious and there is a great deal of confusion. My breathing was light too. Then, like a flock of geese, that have been sent a shock wave, we fly off in unison, flying and chasing a black jaguar through the air, in the jungle darkness. I feel the cool and light air all around me and I sense that not only am I stunned but so is Abogado. This flying is silent, swift and unstoppable. We pass through objects as if we are ghosts. With the darkness and speed, I find it hard to imagine. I remember nothing else.

The next morning, I am awakened by a strange Indian woman. I hear the crackling of a fire and see her smiling, pleasant face. Groggy and barely awake, I hear Abogado approaching as he enters the quaint hut. "Get up queeck! hurry! Don't say a word!" Abogado whispers through his gritted teeth. "WOW!...b-b-b-but...", my stuttering is cut off with his hand covering my mouth. "I brought two burros weeth me. Hurry! We must be queeck!". I am stunned, but obediently follow his instructions. We mount the burros and leave the village quicker than we arrived. Abogado keeps silent while continually looking behind us.

His silence continues until we reach the car. We tie up the burros where we picked them up, get in the car and immediately leave. "What the hell is going on?" Abogado doesn't answer and starts talking small talk. "What the fuck happened last night?" I ask again. He totally ignores me on that question for the rest of the ride back to Mexico City.

We return to Mexico City and Abogado drops me off at my room. He never says a word about the amazing night, despite my urging. It is as if "jaguar night" never happened. I don't look him up again before I return home. I did keep his Mexico City address and years later I write him letters. They are either never answered or never received. Sometimes I wonder if that night ever happened at all.

NOTES:
Pulque Deities:
Conejo, Ometotchtli, Two Rabbit, generally regarded as the supreme God of the drink pulque. Pronounced: oh, may, tote, cheetel, ee

Mayahuel - To the Nahuatl, the maguey agave was divine, represented by the goddess Mayahuel, who had 400 breasts which oozed pulque

Harvest Moon

A Harvest Moon

Steely and the War

Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"

December 1969, The Great Plains -- The three of us stand in the wind, together on the highest place we can find. For me it is a sacred place. We are very serious about what we are about to do, Steely had talked a lot to us about his plan. The great idea came to Steely one night on an acid trip. It's funny but on the way from the farm house he nervously jokes about his plan. He is especially determined and serious. I can tell. I know I couldn't do this. He is my friend and I choose to stand by him.

"OK, I'm gonna do this now."

His face looks strained and scared. Steely next inserts the rim fire .22 cartridge into the single-shot bolt action rifle. So, with a lot of thought, Steely lowers the rifle, "shit..." he mumbles.

In the distance, I notice smoke and steam boiling off the distant Kremlin, OK coke plant. The late afternoon is quiet, clear and freezing cold. The three of us pan the horizon together, Steely grimaces, he points the rifle barrel at his foot.

Then... BANG! The report of the rifle echoes, makes the three of us jerk and look down at the ground.

"Fuck, I missed!".

Not surprisingly, he is now more determined as he quickly reloads, Again Steely points the rifle at his foot, this time holding the stock with both hands... BANG!

"FUUCCKK! That stings!"

He throws down the rifle. Shocked, Frizzle and I both look at his foot. A stream of blood oozes out of his tennis shoe. "I can't feel my foot!"

Frizzle grabs one leg and I grab the other. We carry our wounded Steely back to the farm house.

Steely just recently received his draft notice. His physical is in two weeks. He was cheated in the draft lottery a few months earlier and ended up high on the list. We think that shooting his foot will somehow get him out of the draft or at least postpone it. It turns out he reports a month later than he would have. We are worried, helpless and very sad.

The government tells us the war is winding down. Yet the year before, I go to two friends funerals. Because of the Tet Offensive, 1968 turns out to be the deadliest year of the war, 16,511 war deaths. Steely's protest is to shoot his foot. For me, I choose to banish myself to Canada for the rest of my life. All over America, the war has worn everyone down. The hate of the Vietnam War finally arrives in the nation's heartland. My birth date will be in the next lottery...and I'm not waiting for it to arrive.

My birthplace is on the southern Great Plains, but my spiritual birthplace is Seattle. I saved enough money to get a plane ticket and go to Seattle. My high school sweetheart lives in Everett. My plan is to go there, see her, get laid and go on to Canada. It doesn't quite work out that way. Just turning 19 I am as dumb as a puppy. A week after I arrive there, I take a bus to Blaine, WA. and am turned back from the border. Thus my dream is shattered. Maybe Seattle will absorb me and no one will know I am here.

I am staying with this kinky black and white couple and they are lots of fun. But it can only last so long. One day I receive a letter from my mom.

It reads,

May 1, 1970
Dear Son,
we received this from the draft board the other day
and we think you should tell them where you are. Let
us know what you want to do.

I hope all is going well for you. Will you be trying
to get back into college?

We love you,
MOM and DAD

Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"

For a few moments, I don't know what to think. I thumb through the stack of papers the local draft board has sent her. I decide to call her and tell her to tell them my address. A few weeks later, the Seattle draft board sends me a notice for me to show up for a draft physical. I figure that if I pass the physical I can always bail to Canada. I come to my senses on that idea. I decide that Steely is in Vietnam and even though I haven't heard from him, I will take my chances, instead of going to jail.

On the bus I realize I am at the point of hallucinating. I enter the induction center completely plowed on Moroccan hashish smoked from a hookah. I figure it can't hurt. Besides what would they know. A Sargent points me into a large room full of all types of young men, mainly freaks like me probably as high as I am. We wait for an eternity. I keep to myself, and as a result of my altered state I start getting paranoid thinking monosyllabic thoughts. An officer in uniform wearing rose colored "granny" glasses walks in stage right.

"Good morning men!" No one as much as takes a breath.

"Before we begin, I want to tell you a few things. First...the Seattle region has not met its draft quota since World War II. "

Very long pause as he pans the room several times left to right and then left again. He looks as though he is stifling a grin.

"...and we don't plan to start meeting that quota anytime soon."

Me and everyone else in the room get electrified and stunned.

Everyone gets herded downstairs except for me and a few others. The officer comes up to each of us and tells us we checked the wrong box and that we need to change it.

"But it's the truth." I tell him.

"I don't care if Jesus Christ told you to check it, unmark it or you will end up in Vietnam."

That was the end of the discussion for me. I do what I am told, grab all my medical folders that I have been chanting "Om Mani Padme Hum" over and continue downstairs.

"Strip to your shorts." He orders me.

I look around and everyone else is half naked and I strip. We are told to line up against the wall. The Sargent says he will take our medical papers if we have any.

"Every man will see a doctor. If there is any reason whatsoever for you to get released for medical reasons, you will be released after you see the doctor."

Standing there quite confused and at the same time relieved to hear this, I give him my name and he writes it down as he takes my folders. "There goes my ticket." I think to myself. I don't trust these bastards but I have no choice.

I am so near-sighted that I may as well be blind without my glasses. So I fail the eye exam. Because I played in a loud band for a number of years, I also fail the hearing exam. They tell us everyone fails the hearing exam.

Then a doctor lines all of us up and tells us to face the wall.

"Drop your shorts, everyone!"

I freak out. They're not gonna make me do that are they? They do.

After an hour or so, we are all dressed and seated on benches waiting to see a doctor. They call my name and I walk into one of the offices where a doctor is seated, wearing his white doctor coat. He tells me to have a seat. I am so nervous I am about to shake out of myself.

The doctor flips through all of my medical folders I had given up at the beginning of this affair. I am sitting there waiting for him to say something, anything. He seems to be enjoying this charade. He's done this thousands of times. He sighs and shakes his head.

"Well...I don't know."

He writes something on a pad, rips it off and hands it to me. I don't even look at it. In my head I start planning my strategy on leaving for Canada to enter illegally. I am sickened, I will be forever banned from coming back to the US. The thought chills me.

"We have determined that you can go now. You won't be drafted because of your eyesight. Give that paper to the Sargent at the front desk on your way out."

God damn! He grins and chuckles at me. I waste no time leaving the induction center.

Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done?"

The wonderful Summer turns into Winter and in Seattle it means only one thing; rain. That year there was more rain than previous years. I wasn't used to it and it was depressing. That soggy Winter was the most depressing year of my life. Lots happened, but my concern turned towards my friend Steely. I receive a letter from him one day.

Jaguar,
I hope you are OK. It is fucking weird over here.
It's like I have been camping out for six months.
Sorry this is short but we are always on the move.

There are some really cool guys over here and we
drop acid all the time while on patrol. It is weird
but, we never know what will happen next or how long
we have. I just need to make it 13 months and then
I come home.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. Please write when you can.

Steely

I try to imagine what he is going through, if it is anything like we talked about, so long ago before he shot his foot. I wonder if he is in harm's way and if he would return at all. I can't bear the thought of never seeing him again. So I make a promise to myself that no matter what, I will write everyday about what I am doing, thinking and experiencing, until I have a 10 page letter written in tiny handwriting. I end up writing "books" to him. Then I no longer hear from him.

I can't find anything out about him and I worry. I am in this depressing converted motel that is on the road to Everett, WA. It is owned by an Italian man. He is nice to me and has pity on me and comes by for chats. It is one bedroom and Roomy is, unbeknownst to me, converting himself into a Jesus Freak. It is funny too. He spends hours screwing Cross-eyed Linda while I write Steely my "books".

"Hey Jag! She wants more but I'm worn out!"

"Be there in a second!" I tell him.

Linda tells me to hurry up and get in there. Roomy and I laugh as we pass each other in the doorway. I strip naked and get above Cross-eyed Linda and try to look deep into her soul. I try to find her spirit deep inside her and then enter her and pull her inside my being while she wraps herself around me. In the background, I often hear and look over into the living room and see Roomy on his knees, praying to his plastic Jesus, asking for forgiveness.

"Roomy! Shut the fuck up you fuckin' idiot! Jesus!"

"Me and Cross-eyed can't come when you do that shit!"

He continues unperturbed. Cross-eyed and I continue as well and at that moment, I am praying to the house of pussy.

Jag,
....
I am jealous. The only chicks we see here are
Vietnamese in Saigon. I don't want to catch a
disease while I am out in the field. So when
days are light and there aren't no fire fights we drop acid
and smoke lots of weed. You wouldn't believe
the weed they have here.
....

I quit telling him about my ladies.

God says, "Out on Highway 61".

It's Christmas Eve I am lonely. Cross-eyed Linda can't come over. My Italian landlord comes by with a huge plate of spaghetti with real Italian sausage and marinara sauce. I am impressed and grateful. I invite him to sit down. Christmas day he invites me over for lasagna Christmas dinner with his girlfriend. I receive a gift of his generosity.

Jag,
...
Christmas here sucked. All I want to do is
come home. If I make it back to the world, I
will be getting married. I really appreciate
the letters you send. I have saved them and
read them over and over.
...

Years later, Steely and I talk about Vietnam. We make a trip to "The Wall" together. It is too sad. All those men... What would the world be like today had they lived.

On Steely's wall after all these years, he finally displays his commendation; the Bronze star. I ask him about the commendation, yet he never tells me why he received it. We never talk of it again.

Now the rovin' gambler he was very bored
He was tryin' to create a next world war
He found a promoter who nearly fell off the floor
He said I never engaged in this kind of thing before
But yes I think it can be very easily done
We'll just put some bleachers out in the sun
And have it on Highway 61.

_{Notes: Lyrics "Highway 61 Revisited" - by Bob Dylan}

Red Necks, Red Dirt and Red Beer

"Ya'll a bunch of hippies, livin' with a bunch o' queers!..." - Joe Redneck

I grew up in the wheat country of Oklahoma. In the mid-60's, the guys I hung with liked rock and roll, playing snooker at the Wheat Shock and drinking beer. We all listened to the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones and a wild man named Hendrix. But if you were really hip you listened to Wolfman Jack from Del Rio, Texas on the car radio or in your room late at night. To settle disagreements, there were fist fights. The huge changes that were coming, were yet to reach farmland America. Getting high, long hair and Zen philosophy were yet to arrive.

Anyone hip, there weren't many, read 'Circus' and 'Rolling Stone' magazines. Those two rags clued us in on how to be and how to look. Most guys were obsessed with three things; getting laid, gas money for cruising, and guzzling beer on a Friday night.

I was different, I wore glasses, didn't play sports and my folks hated my long hair. I was wimpy and didn't fight much. Friday nights, the weekends, meant playing at dance halls and bars, any place where they would pay us to play. I loved it and there were always girls hanging around. As a teenager it was great until one Friday night, in Jet, Oklahoma.

Red Dirt

What was once a sea of grass for buffalo, became the land of red durum wheat tilled by Mennonite farmers, in the late 1800's. But the 1960's were a time of change for the youth there. They started seeing guys like our band with long hair and dressing different. Football games meant everything. On early Winter nights there was a dance after the game.

For farm towns, there was nothing else to do on a Friday night. We called them hicks and red necks. We weren't nice about it, it was a derisive term. We weren't much more than hicks and red necks ourselves. Only we were playing loud rock music.

I was in the band because I played keyboards. I could afford a portable Farfisa organ, a portable Wurlitzer piano and a Fender amplifier. I wasn't great, but I added to the sound the band made. There were five of us and a couple of other friends that always went to our gigs.

Booking dances was by word of mouth. It was always a hustle. Most of the time during the week, we were able to play clubs. More often than not, we wouldn't start playing until 10:00 PM and we would play until 2:00 AM in the morning. I slept a lot in school.

JR the drummer and motorhead, had a '66 Olds 442, a muscle car with a Hurst 4-speed shift. Lawrence the guitarist drove a Dodge Barracuda that we hooked up a trailer to. Late that Friday afternoon we loaded our equipment into the trailer and both cars drove to the gig.

Red Beer

We arrived right after sunset, found the dance hall and started unloading equipment. A crowd of kids gathered around us as word got around town. Guys came with their girlfriends and followed us around. "Do you guys play Hendrix?" "Do you know '96 Tears'?" "How about 'In the Midnight Hour'?" "Do you know anything by the Doors?" We played many of these songs a hundred times. Sometimes we members in the band felt like a jukebox.

Around 8:00 or so, kids started drifting into the dance hall. We started playing at 8:00. Over the next hour and a half, Lawrence kept coming over to me and asking me, "What's with all the tomato juice cans?" We were playing rather loud so I yelled back him, "I noticed that in the restroom on the last break!", and thought nothing more about it. Tomato juice cans were starting to fill up the trash cans. It was dark in the hall and with the stage lights the way they were, I only paid attention to the girls in the crowd standing in the front row. I could barely see to the back of the hall. But straining to see, I noticed a group of guys in the back, not dancing much and they were all holding large paper cups.

In between one of the songs I go over to my friend Steely, "Can you find out what the deal is with all the tomato juice cans?" "I already know", he said with a silly grin. "They're mixin' it with beer." Yuck, I thought, sounded to me like a good way to get sick. I yelled over to Lawrence during a song that they were mixing tomato juice with beer. The face he made threw me into hysterics. I needed a good laugh. The crowd was not real friendly. Usually, people would come up and talk to us during breaks, they seemed uptight and .... well ... hostile.

On the last break, with 45 minutes left to play, Steely and I headed for the restroom to piss. Two guys followed us inside and leaned back against the wall with their arms crossed, not smiling and not talking. Wanting to be friendly I turned around and decided to tell them a joke, maybe get them to laugh. "Hey man, have you ever seen a bird stand on it's head?" They both shook their heads, didn't say a word and didn't look amused either. "What's with these guys?", I thought to myself. I took my left hand, with my middle finger extended and stood my middle finger on the palm of my right hand. I laughed at my own joke and walked out of the restroom, thinking that not only are these bumpkins not friendly, they don't get any jokes either. "Jeezus! why'd you do that!?" Steely yelled at me, as we blended into the crowd on our way to the stage. "I was tryin' to make 'em laugh, get a little humor around this place.", I explained. "Man!, he thought you were flippin' him off!" "He started comin' after you but the other guy grabbed him."

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. Oh my gawd, I did the one thing you don't do in a strange town or a strange dance hall, INSULT somebody when they are drunk. Not only did I feel like shit, I got scared. There were a hell of a lot more of them than there were of us. As we started the first song of our last 45 minutes of the gig, I looked along the back wall and saw the guy I told the joke to, counting how many guys there were on the stage. This was not good.

Red Necks

The dance came to a merciful end. Then it was time to pack it up and get out of there. Steely comes in, "There's a whole crowd of red necks and their girlfriends outside, and I bet they are waiting for you", he chuckled. It wasn't funny. I had to explain to the other members of the band the dumb ass joke I told. They weren't happy at all. "You break down the equipment in here, we'll load it up into the trailer." JR said in disgust. I was a little relieved but I knew I had leave at some point. Walking out into a pissed off crowd of red neck drunken kids was not something I looked forward to.

As I tried to reach JR's 442, I saw him talking to a guy sitting in his car. "I want him out here. I wanna kick his ass now! He pisses me off!" I was standing behind JR. "There he is!" he slurred. Before I knew what was happening, his door flies open and he put both feet down on the ground to get out of the car. Before I realized what I was doing, I lunged at the door of the car and SLAMMED the car door across his legs. "OOOOUUUUUUcccchhhhh!", came his agonizing yell.

I did it before I even thought about the consequences. We're dead now I thought. I backed off and he came out of the car drunkenly swinging his arms. JR realizing the situation bear hugged him pinning his arms to his side. He was yelling and screaming obscenities and I was standing there like an idiot. JR is trying to push him back into the car so we could get the hell out of there. The crowd is goading the homeboy to kick my ass. JR turns around to me, "When I get him in the car and shut the door and lock it let's get the hell outta here". He no sooner does that then we all run over to JR's car get in it and peel out in a cloud of dust.

"One More Red Nightmare..."

U.S. Highway 64 back to where we came from was long and straight. JR's bright red Oldsmobile/Hurst 442 had lots of horsepower. So we were headed back to town in no time. "Well, it looks like he's not gonna follow us", JR laughed. We all lit cigarettes and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Uh oh!" Pickitt the bass player just looked out the rear window. "There's two headlights comin' up behind us". Shit...I turned around and sure enough, there are a set of headlights. "Be cool you guys!", JR sounded stern. He started slowing down from 85 mph to around 65. "Whatcha doin' that for!?" I yelled at JR. "I wanna have a little fun idiot", he yelled back sounding a bit peeved at me.

In no time, a car pulled up behind us and then started to pass. As the car came up to our side, JR bumped up the speed a little just enough to stay a half length ahead. Our speed was creeping higher as they tried to pass us but couldn't. Then JR would reduce his speed so they could almost be even with us. We kept going back and forth like that until we reached a very high rate of speed. Their car couldn't keep up.

The carload of guys drifted further and further back. As quickly as they came up to us, they faded back, into the dark. I noticed a car going past us on the other side of the highway. JR laughed and we were all relieved and joked around a little on the final stretch into town. "Their piece-of-shit car probably blew up!", JR said snuggly. He was very proud of his hot, red car. He treated it like gold, for situations like this.

We got into town early that morning. We were tired and hungry so we stopped at an all night diner and ate, laughed and I took a fair amount of kidding to have gotten us into that mess. By 4:00 AM we were so exhausted we were acting like idiots. We drug out of the restaurant and went home and slept nearly all day.

When I got up that Saturday morning, my mouth was dry, my hair a was a mess. I threw on my robe and walked out to the kitchen. I noticed the morning's newspaper on the dining room table, next to an unfinished bowl of cereal. I scrounged through the refrigerator looking for something to eat. "Want some bacon and eggs?", my mom asked as she entered the room and sat down at the table. "That sounds good." I noticed my stomach let out a growl as I said that. "Oh my word!" I heard my mom say with a tone of disbelief in her voice. "The paper says a car load of kids were killed in a head-on collision on the highway to Jet last night". I was stunned. As my mom fixed my eggs, I sat down and read the news story. I knew who that car load of kids were and why they were killed.

I never played professionally again after that night. I never played those keyboards for a band ever again. My band members never knew why I decided that.

Agave Blossoms

The Machine and the Desert

I am going down the only highway in a Camaro IROC, headed for the Big Bend.

“Slow down! You’re scaring me!” The Midget says.

The only way to go down this highway IS FAST. There is nothing on the road out of Alpine, TX and GOING FAST is the only way to get there; wherever it is.

The Crazy Cuban is wearing a pair of cutoffs and a halter top, so is the Midget. But it is the Midget I want to impress. I failed it though. We are rolling down the highway at 110 mph (177 kph), flat out with more pedal to spare. The road is straight an smooth.

“Should I push it more?” I ask myself.

It’s 110 F (43 C) and I have plenty to spare before I redline the IROC. At this rate, I should get to Lajitas in an hour and the Kingston Hot Springs 45 minutes after that. The IROC has a nice throaty sound when you push the pedal down.

I punch it down a little more and read 115 mph (185 kph) on the speedometer, while both ladies reach into the cooler for more beers. I stare straight ahead with both hands on the steering wheel and I feel like we are gliding on glass. The sooner I get there the sooner I get both of these sweethearts in a hot spring; then I will break out the sotol moonshine.

Until then it is white line fever and not a car in site. My mind is spinning round and round and the needles on the dials beckon me even more. The Chisos Mountains are getting closer, calling me like the Sirens with their lovely breasts.

It is noon, the lighting is harsh as the desert. Creosote bush whizzes past the side windows as the wheels grind away on the asphalt. I back off completely on the gas and the momentum lunges all of us forward. The throaty sound of the engine gets louder. Then as I shift into 3rd gear the rear wheels screech and we slow down.

“What’s the matter?” the Midget says relieved.

“Piss stop…beer dump.” I tell them both.

The heat rising from the desert floor is suffocating and impressive, the automobile likes it. There are no shadows, there are no whispers. Lizards scurry as I piss on a rock, flies start buzzing from the catclaw bushes as we disturb their peace. All is quiet but the sound of humans on the desert floor.

Once again I push the machinery and slide through each gear and once again the creosote and catclaw bush flash by in silence; Crazy Cuban likes this. The white lines pass underneath…tortured beneath the wheels and the needles on the dials still jitter at me.

We are hypnotized by the bleak expanse as we glide on top of it. We are soon on the river road lined with canyons and the bleak Solotario caldera.

“Such beauty! what is this called?” the Midget says.

Indeed, what is it called?…the machine and the desert. It is an odd symbiosis, it is unatural and I continue to lash through the heat, ripping through the quiet desert, in a metal sliver. The engine rumbles at a steady pace wanting more, surging more. The machine is hungry and left wanting.

The land and the roads are ancient followed so many times by so many others. The edge of the caldera looms above us to the right and soon the canyons above us to the left. Cave swallows and canyon wrens swerve before us as we disturb their domain.

The machine is the beast in this realm. It is gross in its manners but beautiful under my hand. It obeys me, with every inch of its metal.

We get our room at the Hot Springs finally. The 3 of us strip naked and ease down into 100 degree F (38 C) mineral water. Outside, in the quiet evening, the only sound I hear is the clanking of contracting metal as it cools and breathes. We all sizzle as we enter the water.

“It is a folly.” I say.

“What ees a fawly?” The Cubana asks.

“All of this. Every single bit of it.” I blurt out.

“You’re fucking nuts!” the Midget adds.

I splash water in both of their faces, as a mockingbird sings in the night and the clanking metal fades…the beast is asleep.

Elmer's Bar-B-Q

There is a photograph. I recently re-discovered it, taken many years ago. It's of LC, his head cocked to the side, snappy and sure of himself, propped up by his hand on his chin, grinning. A painted sign Elmer's Bar-B-Q is behind him. It's a warm Spring day next to the creek bottom.

I remember LC's voice as being as sweet and joyful as Louis Prima's trumpet late at night, maybe sweeter. LC's songs were different. His voice made them that way. I often wonder what could have happened to him if life had gone differently. Maybe my never meeting him could have changed things. A person wonders. You never know for sure. We are all connected somehow.

Years earlier, I know that as a five-year-old kid, I had no idea what the future would bring. How could I have known that this little kid would grow up to have such a sanguine, soulful, voice so mellow and rich?

1. Pork chops and mustard greens Special...$3.00

Startled to consciousness, I awaken retching my guts out, I see my dad. He is holding a bowl for me to vomit in. My throat aches from the tonsillectomy. The ether anesthetic has worn off just enough for my mind to surface and for me to get sick. "Where am I?" I think and I quickly fall back to sleep.

Waking up again shocks me more. I see a little kid lying in the bed where I was earlier. The window blinds are pulled, I see that it is morning. As I look around, I am overwhelmed by chlorine and antiseptic smells. "What's your name?", I ask. "LC." LC is there with his right arm bandaged. "What happened to you?" I ask indicating his arm with my puzzled look. "Stuck my hand in the washin' machine". At first I don't believe him. Later my mother tells me that he stuck his hand in an old-time wringer washing machine. Wringer washing machines are curious beasts. The bottom is a large tub that is used for agitating the clothing. Above the tub, there are two rollers that squeeze out excess water from the clothes so they can be hung up to dry.

LC was goofing off, the way kids do and stuck his hand in the wringer part of the washer. The old washer pulled him in to his armpit and stopped. He was too little and didn't have the strength to pull his arm out so he struggled; and the more he did, the more his skin got burned by the two rollers continually turning. Scared and in pain, he could not reach with the other hand to turn off the machine. Before I leave the hospital, we become great friends. We traded addresses and promise each other that we will stay friends.

It is clear to me even as a five-year-old, that there is no way I can visit him. They tell me it's because he lives too far away. But I know better. There is still segregation in Oklahoma in 1956. They call it "separate but equal". And LC is separate from me. I soon forget about him and started growing up, taking piano lessons, learning music and going to school.

2. Smoked sausages and poke salat...$3.00

Garage bands are everywhere in my hometown, in the spring of 1968. I'm in one myself and actually making money playing gigs. I am able to afford keyboards and a Fender amp playing at dances on Fridays and clubs on weekends. Everyone wants me in their bands, not because I'm a great keyboard player; because I have a keyboard.

Early one evening I hear a band practicing in someone's garage. Nothing extraordinary at first, but then floating on top of the soft southern breeze is a voice that stands out above the instruments; a voice sweet as Magnolias.

I rush to garage and stand in the street. Amazed and delighted, I see a tall skinny black kid singing. When the song is over I yell, "hey! That sounds cool! Who are you guys?" Then I introduce myself. "My name is LC, man." I am floored. I pause for a few moments and look him over. LC is standing there, his shirt off and I see scars covering one arm. "By any chance, did you get your arm chewed up in a washer?"

It dawns on him who I am. "Wow man! I've wondered about you," he says. The other band members look on surprised. "Yeah, and I play piano now too." I say, hoping for an invitation to jam with them sometime. LC's band has no piano player. I could play behind a voice like that! However, the band wants to be rockers and I can tell LC wants to sing soul and rhythm and blues. "Give me your number I wanna talk to you, good seeing ya man", he tells me as he walks back to his microphone. I stay and listen as they continue rehearsing.

3. Mud bugs and beer (Wed night only, all you can eat platter)...$1.00

A couple of days later, LC calls me. I am excited as he describes to me the band he wants to start. I tell him I'll learn anything. We talk about soul and rhythm and blues. We talk about the bands we like, James Brown ("Papa's Got A Brand New Bag") Hugh Masekela ("Grazin' In the Grass"), Wilson Pickett ("In the Midnight Hour", "Mustang Sally"), Bobby Blue Bland ("Turn On Your Lovelight", "Cry, Cry, Cry"), Ray Charles ("What I'd Say", "Hit the Road Jack"). He tells me that his band is going to have tryouts and rehearsals at Elmer's Bar-B-Q outside of town. I know exactly where it is; many late nights, I sneak over to Elmer's. It's on the highway on the way to the airport. I sit in my car and listen for hours to the coolest blues, the smoothest soul and, R&B and the liveliest a capella Doo wop. Late in the night I go home and listen to the originals, with Wolfman Jack on the radio coming out of Del Rio, Texas.

The day comes for the tryouts and I am scared, nervous and excited. There are all these black-as-spades cats standing around smoking, drinking, talking and laughing. There are couples here and there wanting to dance. A lot of the guys have their hair "processed" (conked), some are in "process", with nylon hose covering their head to keep the process flat. Some have on shiny, slick, creased gray, sports slacks, a rayon shirt and a fedora. I'm going to stick out --a white boy, wearing dark Levi's, white socks, black Converse high-top sneakers and a white t-shirt. Before I get out of the car, LC comes running over, with the biggest grin showing the whitest teeth, he knows I am scared. The weight of my whiteness evaporates. Acting as cool as a 16-year-old can, LC introduces me to the band members. There is Randell the guitarist, Rufus the drummer, Zeke the bassist.

Elmer's Bar-B-Q is set off the road outside of town on East 429 Rd. It stands in front of a hedgerow of trees lining Boggy Creek. Because they sell hard liquor drinks, the club is located outside the city limits. It's dark inside, small and crowded. Every seat is filled with cool, colorful black cats. It's a late Sunday afternoon. I learn that Sunday evenings are jam sessions and that half of the people there are musicians waiting to jam. The rest are hung over from the night before and are here to listen to LC. I unload my portable Wurlitzer piano, set it up and help Randell and Zeke tune up.

I try to impress the band by playing the opening bars to "What'd I Say" by Ray Charles. They immediately follow along. Then, that wonderful, soulful, sweet voice of LC's comes in. It doesn't sound at all like Ray Charles but like dark honey. The fact that I play the complete piano part, including the solo gets me the job. By the time the song is over the whole place is up and dancing. I am hired.

For the next few hours we play without stopping. We play blues jams with long piano and guitar solos, plus the few soul and R&B songs that I know. A cat with a saxophone sits in and plays some riffs on "Shotgun" by Jr. Walker and the All Stars. By now it's as dark outside as any of the people in here. Cicadas along the creek bottom are making their own music. I go outside during the breaks where it's cooler. People are milling around thinking about whethere they should talk to me. A few people come up. They shake my hand and tell me how cool the piano sounds. I tell them I wish I had a Hammond B-3 with a Leslie amp so we could really cook.

4. Combo plate...$3.50

Elmer's is a strange world for a goofy white teenage white kid to find himself in. The band members try to make me a part of the scene but I never quite fit. As the long days of summer pass, they do all they can to protect and include me. They try their best to make me hip with them. But I always know I am an outsider.

One night while on break, LC comes around from the side of Elmer's. "Come 'round the back with us, man." he says motioning me over. I walk around the side and to the back behind Elmer's. There is a crowd of black guys standing around grinning real big, laughing and carrying on. "Hey man, try this." one of them says. He hands me a doobie. I take a big hit not knowing what to expect at all. It's my first time trying pot. I want to be with these guys. "Yeah man, that's some bad stuff there" one said. I enjoy smoking pot and hanging out with these guys. The crew I hang with even fix me up with some nice swank black chicks. They all talk in a cool, hip lingo and a heavy black southern dialect. I can barely understand what they say half the time.

On a late July night, Elmer's is a big party and everyone is having a blast. People dancing inside and out. It's hot and sultry inside and hot and sultry outside. It's time for a break and on my way to the back of Elmer's, I grab an iced whiskey and a pickled hog's foot. I say hi to everyone and demand a hit off a joint. Randall gets called away and walks around front. Some people follow him. It's just me and a tall skinny guy everyone calls Process.

Process is quite a character. He's fidgeting, singing to himself and dancing in place while snapping his fingers. He suddenly notices me. "Hey man, try summa dis shit." He takes something out of his pocket; I can't see what. I hear a snap sound and then Process sniffs whatever it is he is holding. "WHOAAEE!" he exclaims in a high-pitched voice, looking wild-eyed and pulling another one from his pocket. "Try it man!" he yells. Snap! Before I know what's going on there's a capsule under my nose. I sniff.

My head feels like it is FLYING OFF. My heart starts pounding and my skin tingles. "What a rush!" I yell without thinking. "Shut up man!" he yells at me. Then in a whisper, looking at me straight as he can, "I could slit your muthafuckin' throat right now if I wanted to, ya dig?" With that, he reaches down and pulls out a hollow-ground straight razor from inside his tight nylon socks. Before I know it the glistening blade is flashing next to his face. I'm stunned and too high to realize what could happen.

At that moment, Randell and LC round the corner and stop dead in their tracks. Then after what seems like hours, Randell screams at the top of his voice, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING PROCESS?!" Quickly I grab Randell and pull him away while LC starts verbally abusing Process. "Keep that muthafucka away from me." I half whisper to Randell as we scurry from behind Elmer's. I explain to Randell what happened. "He won't never do dat again 'round you, I promise." Randell assurs me. "I'll make sure he won't give you anymo' snappers". I hear LC and Process arguing loudly. Shaking and high I am unable to think straight. After that I never see Process again.

5. Moonpies...$0.10 Royal Crown Cola...$0.50

We play at Elmer's regularly every weekend. During the week, I split rehearsing between my rock and roll band and LC's group. On weekends I play at Elmer's. I learn so much about music. But as summer begins to close I start to think about going back to high school. It's late August and the heat is oppressive, even at night.

LC never says much about himself. He tells me very little about himself. By design or by his nature, that's how he is. Sure we talk for hours about music, but nothing much about his personal life. It doesn't matter to me. Just hearing him sing tells it all, his soul always comes through. There is talk of doing a demo for record companies. But that cost more money than we have or can save.

6. Ribs Platter all you can eat...$4.00

One night after the gig is over, we go to Randell's house. Randell lives in the Black part of town I had never been before. White folks just don't go there. Randell put ribs on the smoker and we sit around drinking beer and talking about music. People are out walking around the neighborhood visiting neighbors. It is too hot to sleep and no one has air conditioning. He introduces me to his neighbors and people he knows, everyone wants to hear LC sing. I didn't know it but this is my last look at a changing culture. The Black Power movement is arriving and all of this is changing.

The return to school is approaching. The end of summer is near. I tell them that I need to quit the band. There isn't a choice. Besides it's plain to see that LC has outgrown the band and Randell can't hold it together. LC is too good. He is ready to move on and so am I.

Postscript

Like a cheap velvet painting, time faded away after that summer and my focus became the rock band I was in. The photograph which I had taken of LC that summer lay in a pile with the others I took. I would return home from time to time and black folks lived in all parts of town. The black part of town I had known no longer existed.

Eventually, I heard rumors that LC was busted for dealing drugs and spent some hard time in the Oklahoma State Prison. There were times in my life when I wondered what happened to one of the greatest singers I have ever heard and the part of his life that he let me view.

"Virgil, Quick! Come see! there goes Robert E. Lee" The Band "The Night They Drove..."

There are no small portions at Elmer's Bar-B-Q, no small portions of food, or people or of life. Everyone could get their fill. No one left hungry and no one left unsatisfied.

NOTES:
Conked hair
"Green Onions" - Booker T. and the MGs
"Shotgun" - Jr. Walker and the All Stars.