The Bridge

Mark stepped out of Home Room into the noise and confusion of a school hallway between classes. He did not hesitate. He now knew where his first class was. He turned right and merged with the kids heading deeper into John Hanson Junior High's labyrinth of tight hallways connecting cramped classrooms. The old school was busting at the seams lately what with all the new residential construction going on in Oxon Hill, Maryland.

Jimmy G and his crew stopped Mark near the boys bathroom next to the gym. Jimmy puffed up his chest and shoved Mark hard. His entourage of Elvis haired bad ass wannabe's tightened their circle around Mark. Their Ban-Lon shirts were seriously tucked into thin belted sharply creased Big Mac work pants that almost, but not quite, touched their perfect high top black Chuck Taylor sneakers. They were the local equivalent of ultra cool. They ruled the halls at John Hansen

"Jack here says you called me a punk. .... Right Jack?"

The cro-magnon buddy towering over Jimmy mumbled, "Uh, that's right Jimmy. He said you were a punk ass greaser."

Jimmy squinted at Mark and smiled. "So, what do you say asshole? Did you call me a punk?"

Mark had had his share of these new kid in school encounters over the last 7 or 8 years. He sighed and looked down at this scrawny excuse of a school yard bully. He could almost write the script for the next day or two in his life. 

Punk gets in the new kid's face and challenges him. New kid considers what to do. Does the punk have back up? If so, it won't matter if the punk is bad ass or not. His crew will have their way. Mark decided to speed the process along.The encounter was going to happen regardless. Sooner was better than later.

"Shit Jimmy, I guess I must have called you a punk ass greaser, if that is what Jack here said."

Jimmy's smile faded and his eyes opened up some. He had not counted on this answer. For a moment he was stuck for something to say.

Mark didn't miss this opportunity to press harder. "So what do we do now Jimmy? Get into a fight? And if so, where? I am the new kid. I don' know shit."

Jimmy hesitated. This moment of intimidation had not gone down as planned. He stepped back and poked a puny finger at Mark. "The Bridge - right after school. Your ass is mine."

Jimmy G and his small band of cronies shuffled away, occasionally turning and throwing dangerous glares in Mark's direction. Mark shrugged and headed to class.

"The Bridge" was found on the 1000 yard path that ran through a small strip of woods separating John Hansen Junior High from Oxon Hill High. It spanned Carey Branch, a small creek that spilled into the Potomac River a couple of miles away near Indian Head. It was also a gathering spot for the derelicts who attended both schools. They would gather, smoke cigarettes, sometimes drink, hassle the girls walking through and pick on whatever boy they felt needed it that day. It was often an unpleasant gauntlet for any student outside their clique.

Mark was one such student who found it unpleasant. But he used the path because otherwise walking home the long way would add 15 minutes to his journey. So far, all he had suffered while passing the bridge were some dirty looks, some smirks and a few "Hey New Kid, you suck dicks". Mark also used the bridge because he had learned that to walk in fear would only make his time here in Oxon Hill more difficult. Experience taught him that standing up and taking what came was the fastest way for any intimidation or bullying to stop. It had been his experience bullies did not long pick on people who resisted. Today was to be the day the bullies decided to mess with him. Mark was actually surprised it had taken them so long to tag him for attention. The new school year was in its 3rd week.

Mark was not immune to fear. He was anxious and uptight as he walked through the ball fields to the path that led to the bridge. His palms began to sweat the closer he came to Bridge. He accepted he might take a beating of some kind and was determined to get  it over with. His only problem was how to respond to Jimmy G's assaults. Jimmy was a true runt. Not a dwarf maybe. But if he didn't grow anymore, he would become one. Mark in all his five foot-eight grandeur, towered over jimmy G by 12" at least.

Still undecided about what to do as he came up to the Bridge, he needn't have worried. The decision was made for him. Jimmy broke out of the gaggle of Greasers standing around smoking cigarettes. Jimmy came fast, only giving Mark a second to set his feet. He smacked Mark in the mouth. The appropriate "Whoa's" and "You get him Jimmy" comments rose from the gaggle as they began to encircle the pair.

Jimmy had miscalculated. His blow barely moved Mark's face. Mark looked down at Jimmy. Instead of hitting him, he shoved Jimmy hard enough to knock him off his feet. The Gaggle went quiet and their circle tightened.

"I don't want to fight Jimmy. Fighting is stupid."

Jimmy stood up. "So you are calling me stupid, huh punk?"

Mark looked around. He noticed some bigger kids wearing the same Ban Lon shirt, Big Mac pants outfits hovering over the inner ring of Jimmy's friends. He assumed they were early departing high school kids who also used the Bridge as a go to hangout. They looked mean and ready to tear Mark apart. One of them shouldered his way through the younger punks and faced Mark.

"Jimmy's my brother asshole. He's a pain in my ass, but I won't let anyone hurt him." He dropped his head to Mark's level. "Got it  asshole?"

Mark did not respond. He knew that with all his previous experience as the "New Kid", this one was turning out to be nothing like he envisioned. For the first time, he was scared; really scared. There were a lot of kids sporting hair grease and Chuck Taylors here. They looked ready to live up to their reputations.

Jimmy's big brother moved in closer and again dropped his head close to Mark's ear.

"Look," he whispered, "let Jimmy rough you up some. You rough him up some. Nobody gets hurt after. Okay?"

Mark nodded his head, unsure that Jimmy's brother had that kind of pull over his salivating buddies.

Jimmy was wiping his hands on the dirty rear pockets of his previously perfect Big Mac pants. He once again charged Mark and in a flurry of fist flinging, managed to bloody Mark's nose. Jimmy retreated and grinned. "Whataya think now asshole? You gonna call me a punk again?"

Mark grinned also. The intimidating build up to this fight turning out to be such a minor altercation made him sigh with relief inside while outside he stood tall and did not cower.  "No Jimmy, I won't ever call you a punk again. ...... Now are we done?"

Mark started to walk through the crowd of Blocks. Someone blindsided him with a fist to his ear, knocking him down. Mark jumped up and spun around to see who had thrown the punch. Too many impassive faces, no one looked guilty; everyone looked guilty. Mark stood there a moment glaring at all of them and slowly backed the rest of the way out of the ring.

Life got easier for Mark after that. He had stood his ground and that had gotten him some respect. But what really turned it for Mark was when he tried out for the basketball team and was selected to play. The blocks didn't mess with the jocks as a rule. 

During B-Ball season, Mark was offered a membership of sorts in their crew. The only thing was he had to change clothes. They were not tolerant of the button down collar, wee-juns with tassles look. Mark bought a few Ban-Lon shirts and was already using Chuck Taylors, but he drew the line at wearing Big Macs. He always thought the huge pants legs looked stupid with spindly kid legs sticking out of them.

_____________________

This fight did happen and I tried to describe it as accurately as I could. All the rest was created to try and make what was but one of a million stories of bullies a little more interesting. The next year when we moved back to Bethesda, I had to deal with two more bullies, one of whom really hurt me. The other, well, he never messed with me again. But that is yet another story to tell.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................................

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For today musical interlude, I picked "Jeremy" by Pearl Jam. I did not know it, but they wrote this tune in response to an incident at a school I think in 1991. A bullied student stood in front of his class and shot himself in the head. 

Yes, no encounter with bullying in my experience made me feel this desperate. And no, I don't think I could know or comment on how desperate someone can become after incessant bullying. I do know and have experienced bullying in my life. I am guessing most of us have. Yet it still happens.

Never underestimate the capacity of Humans to be complete assholes.

Started this post 12 years ago.

The Firebrand

Cult members with adoring eyes and clinched fists surround their new messiah. They want to touch him, but he pulls away. That is okay. Just to be near him is enough. 

Their eyes glaze over as he tells them he gets them and understands the tragedies that make up their lives. He promises the impossible and they believe him. They are sure this Heaven sent messenger will set them free and smite down all those who they have been programmed to blame for all their troubles.

The Orange One smiles. He knows now these minions here in East Bumfuck, Alabama are his to do with as he pleases. He has stirred the mob up into a single mouth frothing frenetic maniac. Just a few more words of imagined dangers to really set the hate and discontent accompanied by appropriate hand and arm flourishes and these brain dead stooges will be ready to mount the new crusade that will make him king.

He smiles his best insincere smile, steps back from the podium, raises his arms and does a victory lap in his mind. As he turns to step off the stage, his handler gently grabs his arm to guide this new pretender looking for a throne to the back stage exit and into the limo.

The Firebrand settles his imposing figure into the plush leather seat in the rear of the limousine and leans back. Looking up at the crushed velour fabric ceiling, he mutters to the limo driver, 

"Did you smell the crowd behind me? Sure hope the next crew bothers to take a shower. ........Damn I love the Stupid, just wish they washed occasionally." ........... Where we off to now?"

"Uh, no sir, I noticed no bad smells. I was with the limousine.....  The itinerary says Mobile sir, but it has been canceled. I have been told to head back to the plane."

The Orange One continues to stare at the ceiling. He wonders why Mobile has been canceled. As if he is a mind reader, the limo driver anticipates his next question.

"Your man in Mobile said there was not enough people there and he knows how much you hate small crowds."

"Well okay then. .........  I'm feeling like McDonalds. A Big Mac and fries would be just the thing right now. Oh, order a vanilla shake while you're at it."

"Sir, I am not allowed stop anywhere but the hotel or the airport, you know that."

"Don't tell me what I know."

The Orange One leaned forward and through the sliding window separating him from his driver, he hissed,

"By the way driver, when we get back to the plane, you are fired."

"Yes sir." 

____________________________________

** Thanks to Duff Moses for the best political cartoon I have seen in years.

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I had chosen the music for this post before I wrote it. I offer up "Megalomaniac" by Incucbus. Perfect for this post, especially if turned up to wow. Enjoy.

Rainbow Night at Club Venus

James always looked sharp. His bell-bottoms always wore a sharp crease and his platform shoes never went out in public sporting scuff marks or cigarette butts stuck to their heels.

One day James convinced me to accompany him to Club Venus over at Perring Plaza to pick up women who were amenable to dancing under the big glass ball.

"But”, said James, “we gotta take you shopping for some new threads.  I have seen your wardrobe man and frankly it sucks. Might work for those big Mother Earth, Ms Natural types I see dragging you around, but the women over to the Venus need you to step up your game. They have some class.  They actually shave their armpits and use lipstick.”

He could tell I was a tad miffed.  He turned me to face the big glass doors on the front of the Towson State University library.  “Look at yourself fool.  You’re a schlub, what with all that tye dyed hippie shit cut off jeans flip flop look you are sporting. Really Bro, time to pick up your game.  No sulking, we are hoofing uptown to Hutzler’s. Besides, what are you going to spend that paycheck on anyway, more weed?” 

So we began the hike up York Road.  James strutting in his everyday best and me flip flopping beside him in my everyday worst.  After a short stop at the bank to cash my check, we crossed the street and entered the department store.

Forty five minutes later we strode out of Hutzlers looking like twin brothers of different mothers.  I had transformed from an ugly duckling into an imagined swan. Tucked into a pair of baby blue bell bottoms was the classic “Fever” shirt with the big collar and puffy sleeves opened of course to show off the authentic fake gold chain. Toss in those outrageous 3” platform Disco shoes and Jack, I was ready to kill me some ladies.  Least ways, James said I was gonna knock em dead.

Thursday night came.  James called me.  Said something about being jammed up and he would meet me at Club Venus around eight - eight thirty.   Left to get there on my own, I bummed a ride with some other folks from the dorm and walked in the club.  A banner over the entrance to the ball room claimed in three foot letters, that this night was the first annual “Rainbow Night”. 

Not placing any special importance to the notion of “Rainbow Night”, I walked onto the massive dance floor.  Disco Jacks and Disco Jills were getting their grooves on.  I was maybe halfway across the floor when it dawned on me that I was seeing mostly bucks dancing with bucks and does dancing with does.

“That goddamned James, …..I’ll kill the bastard", I thought. I smiled instead.  James thought he had been safely living in the closet.  He had no clue most of his friends knew he was gay and didn’t care.  …… “But yeah where is that little bastard?”  I finished crossing the dance floor and found the 50 foot bar.  I ordered a shot and a beer and settled on a bar stool to watch the light in the loafer folks do their thing.

Into my second shot and second beer, I noticed a woman heading in my general direction.  She was taking disco to an ultimate height, fashion wise.  She was wearing a one piece silver hot pants outfit, thigh high silver platform boots, and topped off with a brilliantly white afro two and a half feet across.  Woah, she wanted everyone’s attention.  She would not be ignored.  She smiled at me and………..  Damned, if it wasn’t James, doing his best tranny act and pulling it off to boot.  He looked perfect.  But then James always looked sharp. 

All I could do was grin and head out to meet him on the dance floor for his first coming out dance.  I had a blast that night with him and all the friends he used to keep in his closet.

________________________________

 660 words -more or less

• First written in Fall of 2018 for a writing class I was in.
• Cross Published in the original "Lost in the Bozone ll"
• Added a smidgen and a half of fictional bling just to gussy it up some.

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Music for this tune has to be the infamous, one of the first of its kind, a song from back in the day that tied Anita Bryant's panties in a knot, the one and only  - "Lola" - The Kinks Live

A Sunday, Long, Long Ago

I tried hard to get out of going to church that Sunday so long, long ago. My mom came into my room wearing her Sunday best and literally tried to drag me out of bed. I resisted by grabbing the headboard. 

"Mom, I feel sick, really sick. ........ Here, feel my head."

For once I was not using the "I'm sick" routine to avoid giving God his/her weekly due. I was actually ill; stomach gurgling, head on fire ill. 

Seems I had overstepped my reliance on that lie too often in the past. She was having none of it. She was determined to see me in church wearing that new suit she made me try on at Penny's the previous week.

"I did not get up early and spend an hour putting on my face to let you laze away this beautiful Sunday morning. Now, get up or I call your father."

Invoking the threat of my father's wrath indicated a level of commitment on her part I could not ignore.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting up."

Mom turned and started to leave my room but stopped at the door way. She turned around, leaned into the jam and focused her best evil eye on me. I did my best to respond in kind. But I was not up to the task. I capitulated, averted my gaze and threw one leg over the edge of the bed signalling my honest intention to get up. 

"Really Mom, I will be down soon."

Still burning a hole through me with that eye of hers, "Nah, I don't trust you. You'll go back to sleep before I make it to the kitchen. I am standing right here and watching you get dressed."

I went into immediate panic mode. It had been at least a few years since my mother watched me get dressed. I had become used to the security and safety of my own space. To add to my discomfort over dressing in front of my mother was I was a prepubescent boy just beginning to come to grips with the upcoming changes in my body and my attitude. Morning boners had become a regular and disturbing thing for me. I certainly did not want to, nor would I ever show my mom what had happened to me overnight while I slept.

"Mom, please, I will get up. Just leave okay?"

I wasn't sure if it was the obvious panic on my face or my desperate grip of the covers over my crotch that clued her in, but her hard face softened. She backed up into the hallway and grinned. 

"See you downstairs. Be quick. We don't want to be late."

My panic subsided and I put both feet on the floor. Sitting up reminded me of how sick I felt. A wave of nausea hit me and I puked a small bit of bile in my mouth. This incentive to head as quickly as possible to the bathroom kicked into gear a rush response on my part. I quickly gathered my clothes for church and using them as a shield to hide the embarrassing abnormality God had cursed me with, I made a dash for the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later I was in the back seat of the family station wagon wishing I could die. I did not dare to look out the window at the sunny world buzzing by at its usual nauseating pace. Each time I peeked out the window, my stomach flipped. So I stared at the trash on the floor behind the front seat my litterbug hating parents refused to throw out onto the highway. I was reminded that I better clean the car out soon, or no allowance this week. The swap of focus to chores that needed doing allowed me enough of a distraction that I was able to avoid blowing chunks on the way to St. Albans Episcopal Church.

Sitting through the service was torture. My head was burning up. My stomach was alternating between cramping agony and threatening to enliven the somber proceedings with a technicolor yawn. I was miserable, but I had toughed it out. Now all I had to do is make it through Communion. ..... Yeah, Communion; the most ceremonial part of the service when the priest is in all his glory as he shares the pompous wonders of God's love and then puts hands to all who genuflect before him.

I look up and see that our row is next. Telling myself I can do this, I follow my parents to the barricade around the Altar. I kneel down and wait. I am sure our row is the longest one in church that morning as it takes the priest forever to work his way to me. In the meantime I can feel another wave of nausea building in my golliwots. I bite my lip in desperation to hold it in. It is almost my turn.... I feel I can make it ....... He holds out his hand  and, and, ................. I puke all over the priest from his knees down and cover his previously shiny shoes with the typical green gruel, vomit characteristically displays.

Mom was on one side of me. Dad was on the other. They both turned their heads and looked down at me. I wiped some residual barf from my mouth and looked up at one and then the other. Dad was grinning. Mom had that horrified and indignant look on her face she usually reserved for the lowlifes she might encounter occasionally in public. I looked up at the priest. His mouth was open, his eyes had bug eye look and he had stopped that nonstop mumbling of religious tomes he mumbled every Sunday. 

I jumped up and fled stage left, out the side entrance and slunk back to the family station wagon to await a sure execution when I got home.

Some minutes later, my parents showed up at the car. Mom was silent and stiff as she got in on the driver's side. My dad however, got in on the passenger side and turned to me sitting miserable in the back seat.

"You all done with the puking?"

I nodded my head. "I think so."

And those were the only words spoken on the way home until I puked on all that trash on the floor in the back seat a block from our house. 

My mom slammed on the brakes, pulled up the emergency brake and got out of the car. "I can't stand it." She looked hard at my father. "Bob, you know how I am about vomit." To emphasize her displeasure or commiseration with me, she held a hand over her mouth and began walking in the direction of home. "I'll see you at home."

My father slid over behind the wheel, released the brake and turned to me in the back seat. 

"Looks like you have a real mess to clean up now."

___________________________

A Post Script - The barfing in church story is true and the unasked for erection story is also true. They happened at different times. I just thought it would be convenient to kill two boners with one post.

__________________________

There was only one song that made sense for this post. It is by a band that was at least regionally famous on the Atlantic Seaboard back in the 1970s. I saw him once in B-More. An acquired taste maybe. Banned from playing certain venues maybe. But there is no doubt his band was talented.

Here is "Boogie Til You Puke" by Root Boy Slim & His Sex Change Band, along with the Rootettes.

The Boardwalk

The truck slammed into the loading dock behind Thrasher's Fries with a bang.  "Here ya go fellas, Ocean City."   

Porko and Phil grinned.  They had really lucked out.  One ride from the DC Beltway all the way to OC was as good as it got.  All they had to do now was help the driver unload 40,000 pounds of potatoes.

Just over three hours later, Phil finally located the one hundred pound bag of Idaho's finest they had been looking for.  Of course it was the last one on the truck.  Phil muscled that last bag out to the pallet sitting on the dock.  Porko was busy trying to figure how many bags it took to total 40,000 pounds.

"Let's see.........10 bags is ...uh .... 1000 pounds..... 20 bags would....................."

"Jesus Porko, you are such a dumb ass.  400 bags, you bonehead.  And since you are lazy to boot, that would mean you carried maybe 50.  I carried the rest."

Porko sat on the last skid of potatoes and lit a cigarette.  He tipped his head back and blew a large plume into the air.  "Yeah, I'm a lazy bastard.  Good thing I brought you along."  He grinned at Phil.

The driver came through the dock doors with his pallet jack.  "Last one guys."  He jacked up the pallet and swung it around.  "Give me a few minutes and I'll be back with fries and some pop.  Thrasher's fries are the best there is you know.  You guys did a great job.  I'll make it back to B-more by dark."  He yanked hard on the pallet jack and disappeared through the doors.

~*~

"You know the kid working the peeling machine at Thrashers told me he and his buddy usually get $40 each to help unload.  We got $15.  What a rip off."

Sitting on the boardwalk at Ninth Street with his bare feet in the sand, Phil looked at Porko and shook his head.

"The man gave us a ride.  He paid us, fed us, and you complain?  You aren’t just lazy, you're an inconsiderate whiner to boot."

"But $15 each?  Slave wages.   The sooner I find a rich woman ........."

"Can it Porko.   You are so full of shit."

"Yeah well........at least I'm not still a cherry like you."

"Screwin your sister don't count."

Porko shoved Phil off the boardwalk onto the soft sand.

"You take that back.  It was her buddy I nailed.  You know that."

Phil was not smiling.   His virginity hung heavy on his mind.  Jeez, he was 17 and still seducing his hand.  Phil stopped thinking about it.  He was resigned to the notion of dying at age 80 un-laid and grumpy. 

"You fellows want some weed?"

Porko jumped.  "What the Hell man?  Don't sneak up on us like that."

Still on the sand and on his back, Phil strained to see over the edge of the boardwalk. A scruffy hippy wearing blue tinted granny glasses was standing behind Porko.  Phil hopped up on the boardwalk

"Uh, sure man, we’re always looking for weed.  How much and what kind?" .

"Hold it Phil.  We don't know this guy.  He could be a narc."

"Porko, shut up.  So what if he's a narc.  It's just weed."

The hippy grimaced.  “Man, if I was a narc, would I be selling weed?

Porko considered this.  “Uh, I guess not man.  Whatja got?”

“ Nickel bags of Commercial or Sinse.  Mersh is $10, $15 for the Sinse.”

Phil and Porko huddled.  Pockets were checked.  Mumbled words exchanged.

“Look fellas, I ain’t got all day.  You want some weed or not?”

Phil turned.  “ Two nickels of Sinse.”  He reached in his pocket.

“Jesus guy, not here.  Let’s take it over there.”  The hippy nodded towards a narrow alley separating a couple of souvenir shops.

~*~

“Where the Hell did you get $50?”  Porko studied Phil’s face.

“The truck driver gave it to me.”

“He gave you $50?  What the Hell man?  He gave me….”

Phil smiled.  “Yeah, he gave you $15.  Told me you weren’t worth even that much.  But who cares anyway?  We have weed, we’re baked and we can still eat tonight.  This trip to OC without the parents is working out just great.” 

Phil passed the joint to Porko and laid back on the sand.  A wave broke over his legs, creating a rush that slowly worked its way up his spine, ending in a full body shiver.  Who cared if school started in a couple of weeks?  Who cared what happened tomorrow?  Tonight he was free and stoned.  Life did not get any better than this.

Phil turned his head toward Porko. Porko was holding the joint and staring at it. He was not smoking it.

“Damn Porko, if you ain’t gonna smoke that doob, don’t Bogart it. Pass it back over to me asshole."

~*~_____________~*~

The Boardwalk – fictionalized memoir from 1969 - @ 800 words

A tale that is mostly true. Expect "Part 2" at some point. Those 6 days were full of seminal moments.

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Of course I can't forget some music to help set the tone - The Drifters',  "Under the Boardwalk"  will do just fine. Enjoy!

Buckeye, Arizona or Near By

 

The four truck David Bowie Tour left SHOWCO's headquarters in Dallas, Texas on the 25th of March, 1978. We were given three days to make it the 1500 plus miles to San Diego for the first show. The second show had us backtracking to Phoenix, Arizona the next night and then turning around again for a show in Fresno, California on the second of April.

So it went for the whole tour. Back and forth, up and down and then back again. A crazy person constructed this itinerary. Add in the five flat tires, missing mud flaps tickets and a coolant leak among the four truck entourage those first few days and right out of the gate I was sweating bullets.

The load out in Phoenix went smoothly. By 2:00 AM all four trucks were loaded and on their way to Fresno, 600 miles away.  I drove the last truck out. With two full days to make the trip, no one felt much pressure.Cleetus ran into trouble on a bypass off  Interstate10 around Buckeye, Arizona about 30 miles outside of Phoenix.

The construction detour stretched for miles in the desolate tumbleweed country betwix and between the dusty bo-dunks scattered across western Arizona. Nothing but moonlit desert and the occasional reflection of coyote eyes caught in my headlights as they crossed in front of me. A few miles into the bypass I came across Cleetus’ truck pulled over. Cop cars and their flashing lights were parked at both ends of his rig. Not the typical driving violation scenario.

I pulled over just past the mess of vehicles and jumped out of my cab. As I ran back towards Cleetus' truck, a cop magically appeared in front of me with his hand up insinuating I was to stop and engage him. A few yards away, Cleetus was standing in the lights of his truck. He was handcuffed and playing the sad cowboy perfectly without his "Gus Model, Fine Palm Double S" cowboy hat sitting on his balding head. Yeah, nothing more pitiful than a cowboy with no ten gallon hat perched loud and proud on their noggin. 

I explained to the cop that Cleetus was driving one of the tour trucks. The cop seemed unimpressed and remained unwilling to let me pass. I pushed past him anyway and crossed the few yards remaining.

I was fired up. I knew Cleetus going to jail would put yet another crimp in a tour that had already gotten off to a rough start. All I could think about was "the show must go on" attitude that permeated everything in a Rock tour. I yelled, "What the Hell Cleetus? What is going on?" I could feel the vein in my forehead begin to bulge.

A small man with a very large sidearm strapped to the side of his brown uniform turned toward me. Parked on his head was one of those small bill dress "Cattleman Stetsons" all the cowpoke bankers and lawyers wore with their string ties and Tony Lama boots. He looked at me hard and asked, "And who might you be?"

Without thinking I blurted, "Okay, maybe you know what the fuck is going on."

The look on cop's face was one of true incredulity. I knew immediately this guy was not used to insolence from anyone. A local Napoleon of some kind I guessed. 

"Steady there son.  Don't go off half cocked."  

Dress Stetson stepped toward me and continued, "Son, we locals don't get the chance to associate with you boys in the big rigs much anymore now that the Interstate is built. The state says we aren't officially allowed on it. So, all we have are our local roads like old US 80 here. But lucky for both of us…….” He hesitated, grinned and continued, "Well it’s lucky for me and the boys there is construction out on Interstate10. The bypass dumped you and your friend here in our jurisdiction. And son, we don't tolerate as much foolishness on our roads as the State boys do on theirs."

I heard what he was saying but could not focus on the words. He was obviously on a different page than I was. I needed to bring us together. I stuck out my hand, introduced myself and stated the reason I stopped. Bowie Tour, need to move on ASAP and what can I do to make that happen? I really was not interested in the why of the stop at that point.

Dress Stetson took my hand. Instead of shaking it, he covered our mutual grip with his other hand and squeezed hard until it hurt and then let go. "Son, I am the sheriff here. You are in my town now and this driver has broken our laws."

My mind was beginng to calm. In a more measured tone now, "Okay. What law did he break?"

"Initially it was a lighting problem with his trailer. No lights. Then it turned into much, much more."

I looked at Cleetus. He shook his head. I was immediately suspicious. Cleetus was always meticulous to a fault regarding his tractor and trailer. This seemed to be an encounter with cops looking to commit some extortion or worse.

"Much, much more? What do you mean?"

"Drugs son, drugs. His brief case is full of drugs. …… Take a look.” He signaled one of his deputies to hand him Cleetus' briefcase.

I looked at the cop and said nothing. He stepped closer to me with the open briefcase in his hands. There in the glare of truck lights I saw neatly packed on top of Cleetus' itinerary, more than a few bags of what I figured were go fast pills. Nestled right next to them was a sizable bag of pot, maybe an ounce or so. I shot Cleetus a hard look.

The sheriff’s eyes stared at me throughout this review of the evidence. When I looked up he said, “A bigger question though is, what are we gonna find if we search your cab? More drugs or what?"

I was no longer anxious. I was pissed. The kind of cold, well controlled pissed I needed to be as it turned out. I looked the local sheriff in the eye and I lied. He didn’t deserve the truth.

"You won't find drugs. Got some Jack Daniels and cigarettes in the sleeper, but no dope."

We looked at each other. The sheriff finally turned to one of his deputies and told him to search my cab.

I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" The sheriff turned back to me.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I did not get pulled over for anything, suspicious or otherwise. I stopped on my own. And I don't remember giving you permission to search my cab."

The sheriff smiled. It was not a friendly smile. But he did stop the deputy he had charged with the search.

"Son, you are making this more difficult than it needs to be. Are you giving us permission or not?"

I looked at him and said, "Go ahead. ..... Though, it would have been nice to be asked first. You won't find anything."

Meanwhile inside my head, my mind crossed its virtual fingers and hoped the deputy would not find my bag of pot hidden in the cassette tape box. The sheriff and I continued to stare at each other for some seconds. He broke our mutual trance and yelled at his deputy just as he opened my cab door. "Nevermind, come on back here. We gotta go. Take the cuffs off. We'll continue this back at the station."

The sheriff looked at me and then at Cleetus. His smile had disappeared. "You two follow us back and we'll figure all this out."

I had a moment with Cleetus before I headed back to my truck. He looked so pitiful I couldn't be mad. He said, “Mike, my trailer lights were fine until after I stopped. They must have pulled the pigtail. And you know I wasn't speeding. They're just breaking my balls. I think this sheriff is looking for a pay day."

I had already considered this. "Yeah, me too Cleetus, me too. Go ahead and follow them back. I'll be there directly."

All the way back to the cop shop, I considered how to approach paying a bribe. I had only done it one other time in Cherry Hill, South Carolina. And in that case, the cop had been right up front. Plead guilty on the ticket and pay him an extra $100 dollars over the fine and I wouldn't have to stay overnight in jail in order to go to court the next day.

Back at the station, I was struck by the sad condition of the adobe covered building. But this was Arizona in 1977. The whole state was run down. The wave of retiree condo constructions and golf courses was still a decade or so in the future.

Inside the station was a single big room cluttered with desks, tall files and bookcases. A drunk tank was in the rear separated by floor to ceiling bars. The sheriff’s office was a closet sized room tacked onto the side of the building. 

It was in the sheriff's office with just Cleetus and myself present, the sheriff worked everything out. It only took maybe ten minutes. He made it clear that he had us by the short hairs. If he wished he could really throw a lot of misery into our lives and screw up the tour.

He stopped asking and began telling us what we were going to do. We were going to pay him to turn a blind eye. After which, we were going to leave his town and never darken its streets again. And we were not going to speak of this to anyone else in the law enforcement world in and around Arizona.

Then he asked me how much money I had in my pocket. The cash they took from Cleetus when he was frisked was just enough to whet his appetite. As he explained, he had to have something to share with "the boys".

The sheriff was holding all the chips and I knew it.  Rather than arguing, I dug out my wallet and pulled out the $1200 that was in the main dollar sleeve. I conveniently skipped the other $1000 I had folded up hard in one of the credit card pockets. As I handed it over, I asked, “So how much did Cleetus give you?

As he counted my cash, he muttered, "Your boy had $1000 on him. You guys sure travel well loaded, I will say that much. $2200 will do just fine. ............ Now, go out to your trucks and drive away. We are done here."  His cat ate the canary smile made me want to punch him.

Cleetus started for the door. I didn't move. "And what about the drugs and the ticket." Is Cleetus free and clear now and in the future?"

The sheriff laughed this time."Son, you really are a pain in my ass. If I say it's over, it's over. You'll just have to trust me. And by the way, the drugs stay here, but he can have his brief case back."

So Cleetus and I continued on to Fresno. Not once did we go over 55MPH.

__________________________________

True story - Dialog added to make it less a report and more a story.  I do remember though puckering hard when I lied to the cop.  I called his bluff and won.  I do not recommend doing that however.  I was lucky.

Tampa, Florida

I originally wrote this in November of 2008.  I have bumped it up to today because, well, I can.  It is my blog.  So there.

What follows is a memory written as accurately as I can with dialog added to keep the tale from getting dry.  Hence the label "fictional truth".  I did not use anyone's real name except Mountain Boy and mine.

____________________________

"Mike, where ya been? We have a real cluster fuck going on here."

"I've been hassling with the boneheads at the hotel and the cops. I guess that vending machine I destroyed last night is a bigger deal than I thought it would be. You know it's gonna cost me $1500 to straighten it out."

"Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. You should have never knocked it over in the first place you idiot. You know how crazed everyone was. And why in Hell did you tell them you did it?"

I looked at Masher. He was dressed in his normal Showco Tee and the same jeans he wore everyday. I always wondered if he had more than one pair of jeans. Or just four or five identical pairs torn and frayed in the same places. His face showed real concern. That was not like him. If anyone kept his cool usually, it was The Masher. I was going to fill him in on the idea of guilt and what it did to some of us. Share my experience learned the hard way that a pre-emptive confession always seemed to result in punishment less severe. But I could tell he was not on the same page anymore. I skipped it and got to the point.

"So, what's up? After the hotel raped me, they got all nicey nice and told me I had a message. A message from you. By the way, that coke machine stole my money."

"Look out at the crowd. They just got word the concert's been canceled. By the governor no less. We need all hands on deck. I think the whackos are going to rush the stage."

I walked onto the stage and gazed out toward the stadium. That high falutin custom built portable security wall set in place to keep back the crazies at outdoor gigs looked like a black wave. One end would lift and then fall. The next section would rise and then fall. So on down the line like a black snake wiggling in front of the stage. The sound of the people in the crowd was an ugly sound. 50,000 fans not happy that they would not see Led Zeppelin this day. Many had become a mob intent on getting revenge. The rest just seemed to hang out as if they had nowhere else to go. A bottle landed near me and exploded into thousand pieces covering my Chuck Taylors with what I hoped was beer or pale wine. Jumping back I tripped on the bull dick cable taped down on the stage floor and fell on my ass.

Still seated, I turned and looked over to Masher. "So why was the concert cancelled?" More objects began to rain onto the stage. Bottles, cans, even someone's hash pipe. I scrambled back out of the way.

"Look up." Masher's eyes drifted skyward and he pointed to the fabric canopy hung over the stage. "We had a screamer of a thunder storm an hour or so ago. The fire Marshall came through and said if we couldn't get rid of the water, the show was done. He was not impressed with the scaffolding fix we came up with. And then he called his guys who then called their guys and now the damn governor is involved. We need to start loading everything up before the crowd breaks through and starts destroying stuff. Get your truck backed in ASAP. And then get back here to help Security keep the crowd back."

Above me the canopy erected to keep the hot Florida sun off the pasty faces of the band was filled with water. It looked like a swimming pool's worth of water. And to be fair to the Fire Marshall, I was not impressed with that scaffolding fix either. Water dripped down at a steady pace right where the monitor board would normally be. The monitor board had been yanked as had everything else on the stage. Just the lights, a couple of lonely looking mic stands and speaker stacks remained. Water dripped on a bare stage and pooled under the dead cables that connected nothing anymore.

I had not been hired to be a head breaker. I was a truck driver. I didn't mess with sound. I didn't do lights. I drove trucks. Busting on poor drunken or drugged slobs definitely did not fit into my perception of my job description.

I began to run all this concern by Masher, when Bob, the head engineer on the tour came over and roared, "Get your fuckin truck and back it in. Let's move!"

I beat a hasty retreat. No one argued with Bob. He was lead engineer for a reason.

Outside behind the stadium, I was impressed with the calm compared to the anarchy I had just left. No irate fans, no tense roadies or security guys. All there was to indicate pandemonium inside the stadium was the roar of thousands of voices as if cheering a continuous touchdown or never ending home run. The trouble was inside not out here in the real World. Outside the Sun was shining, cars drove by and seagulls stood on the dumpsters next to a chain link fence near my truck.

Backing up to the gate, I did not have to get out to find someone to open it. It opened as if by remote by two security guys wearing their standard black security Tee shirts. I backed in until Masher popped out in front of the mirror and jerked his hand in a halt kind of way. Before I even had a chance to get out and unlatch my ramp, it had been removed and I saw two roadies running with it towards the rear of my trailer. By the time I had walked back my doors were open, the ramp was down and the first piece of equipment was almost on the trailer.

I stood there considering the tense vibes all around me. My musing lasted but a moment when Dave, the new driver with the biker attitude, walked over and handed me a mic stand. "Let's kick some ass."

I stood holding this mic stand and looked at him. He was enjoying this. I don't know who made me more nervous, the out of control crowd or this maniac waiting with bated breath to lay into someone. But I kept quiet and followed him over to stage left.

Just then the barricade broke. The crowd had finally found a weak spot and quickly threw it to the side. A sea of long haired fans streamed through the opening. They jumped on the stage. Several were more intent on the victory of the breach than paying attention to the defense mounted against them. A few danced in circles with arms raised. Dave laid into the closest one with his mic stand. Caught the poor bastard right in the kidneys. He went down and Dave moved onto engage his next unlucky target.

I looked over to stage right and two security guys were having their way with another fan. It was mayhem. Violent and instant mayhem. All I could do was stand there, mic stand in hand, and watch.

"Where were the cops", I wondered? "And why were our guys so damn violent?" It just did not make sense to me. Any of it. It was then something solid sailed right at me. I turned but not quick enough. I felt the blow but adrenalin had kicked in. I turned back and looked for the source. All I saw were people in various states of grappling violence. Anger came in a flash. Tossing down the mic stand, I ran to Dave's rescue. I pulled two guys off him and kicked another one hard. Dave extricated himself and all he said was, "I had it under control bud." And he was off again rushing another fan who had violated our space.

I threw up my hands in retreat and backed up to where a group of roadies and stage hands had gathered just outside the circle of pandemonium. If I had to guess, I would say we all stood there with the same thing on our minds. How crazy was this? Just look at those guys. They are beating people because they like it. What the fuck?

Wanting nothing more to do with this stupidity, I retreated towards the Green Room. On the way, one of the light roadies popped out of the bathroom and walked by me. "Hey Mike, there's some chick in the men's room giving everyone head. Get in line."

I shook my head and continued to where I knew food and hopefully some quiet place could be found for me to escape this day that had started so wrong for me. Finding the the Green Room I quickly filled a paper plate with leftovers and plopped into one of the over stuffed chairs. All the while the noise outside the door continued unabated.

At some point I noticed it was not as loud as it had been. I figured the worst was over and I left the Green Room's false security. Back behind the stage I saw cops streaming by and people in handcuffs with bloody parts trickling blood being led away. A whiff of Tear Gas lingered. The crowd had been controlled. The security barrier lay in ruins in front of the stage. And the bulging canopy continued it's steady drip drip drip of water. Out in the stadium, riot cops were busy clearing the fans determined to hang out. There was no hitting, just determined lines of uniforms moving everyone towards the exits.

Masher found me. "I had Mountain Boy pull your truck out. Are you okay? I saw that shot you took. I don't blame you for leaving. Find the ambulance, they'll fix you up."

"What shot?" I looked at Masher. I had no clue what he was talking about.

"Feel the back of your head Mike." He turned and left.

I reached back and felt my head. A large bump had formed. My hand came away red. I found the ambulance. They cleaned me up and cut me loose.

I sat in my truck numb. I tried to digest and come to grips with what I had just witnessed. What I had just been part of. All I could do was think about that damn roadie coming out of the bathroom and informing me some chick was giving everyone head. And I started to laugh. Deep chuckles that started at my asshole and purged all the anger and fear built up over the last 30 minutes. In all the chaos, hate and discontent, Life still moved in predictable ways. The flow of what was normal, SSDD, always found a way to coexist with any upheaval placed in it's way. No matter what madness existed, people still ate, people still got head. Some parts of Life just happened naturally paying no mind to whatever else was going on. It was then I realized this business of rock n roll was going to be one of the most memorable times of my life.

Conquering Hero

This a piece I wrote for a flash fiction challenge.  I wrote it in memory of a friend who did not die in Vietnam.  He died because of Vietnam.
______________________

His eyes were full of the things he had seen.  His mouth, full of stories better passed over than passed down.  Memories caught in his craw and woke him sweating cold in the dread of his nights and left him staring into his darkness til Dawn’s early light.

Well meaning people wearing blue scrubs and white coats did what they could.  As it was with so many others, it did not work out.  Scarred and broken he was sent back to a homeland that would never be the same.  His innocence pooled bloody on too many foreign plains.  Feeling forgotten, discarded and alone with his demons, he sought solace in barbiturates, whiskey and gin.  He could never forget his role in the pre-meditated chaos of Man killing Man in faraway lands.

One day he gave up, double hit China White, laid down, and he died.  Before his curtain closed, with one final sigh, the untold stories and nightmares at last said goodbye.  Our conquering hero had finally found his peace.
 _________________________________

Image courtesy of this site

Cross Posted at BoZone Too

Thirty Years - 250 Words plus or minus 3

For thirty years he had triumphed, fallen short, cried some and laughed some with her. Jake looked up from the card he was about to sign and tried to remember back when they had first met.

They had not been teenagers caught up in the lust and emotional confusion that permeates that stage of Life. They met in their late twenties. She had already been married once and divorced. And he had finally decided to leave his childhood behind and step up into the world of adults. Desperation did not drive him, he just knew it was time to grow up.

Jake looked out his office window. The sky had started to spit snow. The grey morning and chill coming off the leaky window fit his mood. Thirty years was a lifetime ago. Many times both of them had considered ending it. But somehow they weathered each storm. Jake marveled at her ability to put up with his idiocies, his inability to show true affection. He wondered if she had similar notions about him.

Jake ran through the successes and failures of the last thirty years. Had he met her expectations? Had she lived up to his? Being fair, he decided neither had fulfilled their respective hopes and dreams. But then he remembered both of them had made no promise other than to be there through thick and thin.

Satisfied with where he was at this moment in his life, he hoped she was also. He signed the card and sealed the envelope.
_______________________________________

A thinly veiled personal post disguised as fiction.

Afterthought - Yeah - in case anyone is keeping tabs - this ended up at 253 words.  I just had to mess with it.

The Wasps of October

So it goes.  Some days when I think I have no urge to write, I find myself in front of the computer pouring out nonsense so fast, I can't keep up.  I start typing and ten minutes later, I've got 500 words down on whatever thoughts that managed to escape.

And then there are days like today.  All day long as I worked on the roof, all I could think of was writing a story about my interactions with the wasps of October.  I was sure it would be a grand  tale of  tiny wasps protecting their nest of future generations from the evil human even as their lifespans were winding down.  They would battle valiantly but in the end it would be their last stand.   Evil would prevail.  Good would go down hard.

I would include some comic relief as I described my sorry self in retreat after being tagged a few times.  The battle would erupt spontaneously when the cool morning temps warmed cold blooded bodies up to fighting temperature.  Running down the roof wailing and flailing my arms in a panic, the horde circle me searching for vulernable tissue to jam some venom into.  As I step on the ladder one fearless soldier would heroically sacrifice her life with a well placed shot to the small of my back and I would tumble down, down to the ground.

After my fall of disgrace I would hatch half baked schemes to pay the little bastards back and become a gimpy wounded terrorist, invading their homeland and taking out their hive.  I would use chemical weapons, blunt instruments, and if that failed, I would poke sticks in their eyes.  But still the courageous wasps would send warriors on suicide missions, fighting to the bitter end even as toxic foam encrusted their hive making their  nervous systems lock up hard.  I would dance a little victory jig and cackle as the gallant wasps herked and jerked struggling to take flight again to fight with their last gasp.

Yeah, it was gonna be great. 

But something happened.  I overestimated my physical endurance.  I did not stagger off the roof until the moon came up around 7:15 PM.  I had tuckered out not only my body, but apparently my brain as well.  Which left me number and dumber than usual.

So what do I end up with?  A vague taste of what might have been.  A weak glimmer of what could have been.  Decidedly less than the best I had hoped to offer.

Sigh................................................
________________________________________

The excellent image was poached from The Micropolitan Museum

I Hate Grocery Stores

Five minutes before I close my shop, the phone rings. I dread these last minute phone calls for advice or worse, last minute favors. I am tempted to let the machine pick up. But I am still open for 5 more minutes.

"Good evening, CRUM Cycles."

Most of the time these calls are last minute requests for a tube, information on a ride, etc. But tonight it is the dreaded "wife wants something from the grocery store" call. As soon as I hear her voice, I know my simple commute home to a warm hearth and fuzzy slippers has now become another foraging mission. Sometimes it's but a simple trip to 7/11 for a quart of milk. But tonight's mission is a dangerous excursion to the grocery store. That 40,000 sq foot battleground surrounded by a 10 acre minefield they call a parking lot.

She never asks me to pick up something easy either. It's always something obscure that we do not have at home in the standard bulk containers she favors. A specific type of baking powder, a certain yeast, or odd healthy tidbit bound to taste as bad as it sounds.

Resigned to a dangerous mission, I pump myself up on the way. " I am the hunter in this clan. It is my duty to drop the carcass at her feet. I will not fail." These words still echoing in my mind, I plan my approach. Having done battle here before, the lay of the land is all too familar. A full on frontal assault is out of the question. In order to accomplish my mission and still be home for Jeopardy, I must be elusive and fluid. I plan a flanking maneuver that will safely land me in the side lot where the loading dock is. If there is a spot within 100 yards of the front door, it will be here. Securing my assault vehicle, I reveiw the mission's objectives and realize I have forgotten the list. That itemized set of objectives I will now have to hope I remember. This throws my plan out of whack and with a sinking feeling in my gut I deploy anyway.

Dodging carts and harried women with kids in tow, I weave my way through the entrance and into the too bright foyer. Stopping a second to collect myself, I begin to run the layout through my mind. A cart hits me from behind, knocking me to the side. "Please do not block the entrance", a friendly voice reminds me. I turn and realize that I was lucky. A train of 30 or so empty carts is being rammed into this throng by some kid barely able to peek over the top of the carts. I wonder at how someone so small can be so nonchclant in an enviroment so dangerous. But then I realize they are part of the danger. One of the many traps and hazards known to exist in this no man's land.

I look around for one of the Hubby buckets. Those little baskets with 2 flip metal handles all the husbands use for these last minute supply runs. Big enough to hold a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs and maybe some cold cuts. I grab one and enter the traffic flow into the depths of this beast.

Knowing I only have to actually hit the baking section, I head right to it. Going against the flow of right to left, I encounter and disrupt several cart folks. One wheels around the end of an aisle on 2 wheels and I have to jump out of the way as the little woman glares at me for obviously being a bonehead with no sense of direction. Whew! That was close. I peek around the end of the aisle and take a quick look and then duck back. No, not that one. Again, a quick look to see if it's clear and I jump to the end of the next aisle. A peek assures me this is my aisle. I make sure no carts or bands of lady thugs engrossed in coupon swapping are hanging out or on the move. It is clear, so I head down the aisle looking for something baking related to key in on. So many things to look at, my eyes do not see any of it. Like the picture of a mob scene, picking out one face you recognize is near impossible.

It is on my second pass, that I find the baking section. Now I have to rely on my memory of the quickly written list to pick the right product. Uh, she wanted baking something. Baking powder? Baking Soda? And which type? I can't remember which, but I know there is a big difference. One is for smells in the fridge and the other is for baking. I grab one of each. She had also mentioned yeast. Damn! Must be 10 different kinds. My body language must be broadcasting my distress. I hear a voice behind me say, "What kind of baking are you doing dear?" I turn around to a kindly wrinkled face wrapped in tight blue hair.

"I dunno. I wrote down what she wanted and,"

"Forgot the list," she finished for me with a twinkle in her eye. She continues, " Do you know what she is baking?"

Instead of putting on the gruff exterior, I immediately cave to her obvious superior knowledge regarding things baked. She has the uniform, the years of wrinkles acquired in a lifetime of bake sales, church socials, and keeping many rugrats happy with baked goodies from her oven. And from the look on her face, I am sure she has had a dummy or two like me in her life before.

"I forgot. But I assume it is something sweet. My kid is coming home from college this weekend and my wife always does some baking when that happens."

She gently grabs the box of baking soda out of my basket and puts it back. "You won't need this".

Then she reaches for some yeast and says this is her favorite. Always a dependable rise when she uses it. I throw it in the basket. "To be safe, since you say it is something sweet, pick up some of this." She grabs some baking sugar and gently places it in my basket.

I am trying to form words of gratitude, but she just smiles, turns back to her cart and throws her shoulder into it to continue on her own mission. "Thanks", I manage. She gives me a smile over her shoulder and continues on her way.

Standing there, relieved this part of the trip seems successful, I try to visualize that damn list I left on the counter next to the register at the shop. Hmm. Was there anything else on it? I figure a quick run through most of the aisles might be wise. Some can good or bright package could jog my memory. As I carefully peak out of the end of an aisle to see if the coast is clear, my eyes settle on this humoungous bag of Beef Jerky. Not the puny sized tease you see at 7-11, but a bag that would surely hurt you if you attempted to consume it in one sitting. My mouth waters and I am under it's spell. I grab it and run.

I hurry through several more aisles and then decide that, since I cannot remember anything else, there must not be anything else. I head to the front of the store to check out. As I approach the cashiers, I count the items in the basket. Way under 11 items. I confidently stroll towards the express check out. Just before I get there, I am rudely brushed aside by that crazed woman who almost took me out earlier. Busting in front of me, she starts unloading a cart of 1000 items on the express belt. I stand there amazed and awestruck. First of all, her attack was flawless, she swooped in like a running back finding the crease. Second, the cashier doesn't even blink an eye. She just starts scanning everything like nothing unusual is happening.

"Uh, Maam", I begin, "shouldn't you be using another cashier?"

Both the evil woman and the cashier look up and 4 eyes bore into me. I refrain from further comment and quietly wait for my chance to pay for my paltry 3 or 4 items. As the woman stuggles to get her overloaded cart moving, the cashier says, "See ya at home 'bout 9:30, okay Mom?"

I smile at the unfairness of Life as the woman rings me up. She asks me what's so funny, I just keep smiling.  As I leave the safety of the check out aisle, I am leveled by a fully loaded cart hurrying to the parking lot. Not just a brush by or a riccochet, but a full tilt, high impact knockdown. The affair with the cashier had caused me to let my guard down. And now I was down, crushed beneath the wirecaged monster and in severe pain. " You oughta look where you're going, son." I look up. Smiling down is that kind ole lady who helped me in aisle 8 with my baking problem. Through the pain all I could do was smile too.

The Boardwalk

The following is a fiction piece I wrote in response to the weekly "I Dare You" challenge over to JM Prescott, a writer's blog somewhere out there in the electronic hinterlands.  Ms Prescott is on vacation, taking a sabbatical, or just catching her breath.  Aussie Paul is baby sitting her blog this week.  He came up with the challenge - "Passages".  Write something in under 750 words about some kind of passage.  What follows is what I came up with.

The Boardwalk

The truck slammed into the loading dock at Thrasher's Fries with a bang. "Here ya go fellas, Ocean City."

Porko and Phil grinned. They had really lucked out. One ride from the Beltway all the way to OC was as good as it got. All they had to do now was help the driver unload 40,000 pounds of potatoes.

Three hours later Phil finally located the fifty pound bag of Idaho's finest they had been looking for. Of course it was the last one in the truck. Staggering some Phil muscled that last bag out to the pallet sitting on the dock. Porko was busy trying to figure how many fifty pound bags it took to total 40,000 pounds.

"Let's see.........10 bags is ...uh .... 500 pounds..... 20 bags would....................."

"Jesus Porko, you are such a dumass. 800 bags you bonehead. And since you are lazy to boot, that would mean you carried maybe 200. I carried the rest."

Porko sat on the last skid of potatoes and lit a cigarette. He tipped his head back and blew a large plume into the air. "Yeah, I'm a lazy bastard. Good thing I brought you along." He grinned at Phil.

The driver came through the dock doors with his pallet jack. "Last one guys." He jacked up the pallet and swung it around. "Give me a few minutes and I'll be back with fries and some pop. Thrasher's are the best there is you know. You guys did a great job. I'll make it back to B-more by dark." He yanked hard on the pallet jack and disappeared through the doors.

~*~

"You know the kid working the skinning machine at Thrashers told me he and his buddy usually get $40 each to help unload. We got $15. What a rip off."

Sitting on the boardwalk at Ninth Street with his bare feet in the sand, Phil looked at Porko and shook his head.

"The man gave us a ride. He paid us, fed us, and you complain? You aren’t just lazy, you're a whiner to boot."

"But $15 each? Slave wages. The sooner I find a rich woman ........."

"Can it Porko. You are so full of shit."

"Yeah well........at least I'm not still a cherry like you."

"Screwin your sister don't count."

Porko shoved Phil off the boardwalk onto the soft sand.

"You take that back. It was her buddy I nailed. You know that."

Phil was not smiling. His virginity hung heavy on his mind. Jeez, he was 17 and still seducing his hand. Phil stopped thinking about it. He was resigned to the notion of dying at age 80 unlaid and grumpy.

"You fellows want some weed?"

Porko jumped. "What the Hell man? Don't sneak up on us like that."

Still on the sand, Phil strained to see over the edge of the boardwalk. A scruffy hippy wearing blue tinted granny glasses was standing behind Porko. Phil hopped up on the boardwalk

"Uh, sure man, we’re always looking for weed. How much and what kind?" .

"Hold it Phil. We don't know this guy. He could be a narc."

"Porko, shut up. So what if he's a narc. It's just weed."

The hippy grimaced. “Man, if I was a narc would I be selling weed?

Porko considered this. “Uh, I guess not man. Whatja got?”

“ Nickel bags of Mersh or Sinse. Mersh is $10, $15 for the Sinse.”

Phil and Porko huddled. Pockets were checked. Mumbled words exchanged.

“Look fellas, I ain’t got all day. You want some weed or not?”

Phil turned. “ Two nickels of Sinse.” He reached in his pocket.

“Jesus guy, not here. Let’s take it over there.” The hippy nodded towards a narrow alley separating a couple of souvenir shops.

~*~

“Where the Hell did you get $50?” Porko studied Phil’s face.

“The truck driver gave it to me.”

“He gave you $50? What the Hell man? He gave me….”

Phil smiled. “Yeah, he gave you $15. Told me you weren’t worth even that much. But who cares anyway? We have weed, we’re baked and we can still eat tonight. This trip to OC without the parents is working out just great.”

Phil passed the joint to Porko and laid back on the sand. A wave broke over his legs. Who cared if school started in a couple of weeks? Who cared what happened tomorrow? Tonight he was free and stoned. Life did not get any better than this.

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Later........................................................

Bowie and the Whacko Redhead

March 28, 2026

And another update of perhaps my favorite RocknRoll tale. I figured since I began adding tunes with every post several years ago, the least I could do was add a tune or two by the band I spotlight in the post.

And while I was at it, I would look for some glitches, blatant errors, bad grammar or sad punctuation. No matter how many times I re-read shit I have written, I find another something that breaks my rules, their rules, someone's rules.

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I have been messing with this story off and on since my first rendition published in my blog on 3/27/2010. It's over 2500 words long.

The events are true. The people were/are real. The dialog I created  to juice up the story and enhance the overall experience of those few days as I remembered  them.

Hence the tag, "Fictional Truth".

Anyway.............

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I did not appreciate how close to the edge I was flying back in 1978 when I was driving Rock n' Roll bands from one end of the continent to the other. I had been on the road pretty much non-stop for two years. The mind numbing miles built up. One hall began to look like another. I often had to check my itinerary the morning of a stage call to remind me what town I was in.

My time behind the wheel became a blur of interstate super slabs interrupted by nightmarish back ins to backstage loading docks run by surly stagehands. Good sleep was a rare luxury. Food, while plentiful, was always the same leftovers found in Green Rooms across the nation or the classic gut busting fare served in truck stops.

I was on the David Bowie tour in the spring of 1978. We were on the last leg, the whirlwind leg. The bunched up series of shows on the East Coast meant travel distances dropped but the strategies to make it safely in and out of a city grew ever more complicated. The East was where I had learned the ropes of driving. I was back in my element. I could get 6 or 7 trucks to Madison Square Garden without much hassle as long as everyone stuck together. I could back into holes many drivers from west of the Big Muddy considered impossible. In other words, When I came East, I could be a star.

We had three towns left. Providence, Boston, and we finished with two shows at Madison Square Garden in New York City. It was in Providence the comedy of errors began for me.

A small crowd of groupies and sycophants were hanging out in the lobby of the Howard Johnsons when I stumbled through the carousel door to check in. How these fans seemed to know where to go always puzzled me. But they were always around.

Whacko Redhead was parked on one of the over stuff chairs near the front desk. Her tapping feet barely made it to the floor. I only noticed her because her red hair was a couple of feet long and looked like it had not seen the business side of a comb or brush in years. On her head was a Red Sox cap. Our eyes met. Mine stopped at her face. Her stare went right through me. Kinda scared me if you want to know the truth. I smiled weakly and continued to stumble my way to the front desk. I checked in, got my key and directions to my room.

Maybe two minutes after throwing my shit on the bed and collapsing next to it, someone knocked on the door. Not happy in the slightest, I dragged my sorry butt off that bed and opened the door.

"You're with the Bowie Tour aren't you?"

There, in all of her maybe 5 foot grandeur stood Whacko Redhead. Her feet apart like an umpire and her hands on her hips. She pushed past me and came into my room.

"Call me Red...... "So what do I have to do to get backstage?" She plopped on my bed.

By this point in my Rock n Roll career, I had grown tired of the groupie scene. The easy sex for backstage passes had gone stale for me. Add in the fact that I was dead on my feet and my mood was not all that agreeable.

"I don't do backstage passes anymore. I'm tired. I need some sleep. Please leave." And I continued to hold the door open.

Red did not get up off the bed. Instead she began to tap her feet again like in the lobby. "Well then", she started, "I am sure one of you drivers is horny enough to cough up a pass. Who should I see?"

Her direct manner and her piercing blue eyes cut through me hard. I began to chuckle. "Well, Spanky is perpetually horny. He's always ready for some head."

"Which one's Spanky? Not the 400 pound whale with the whiny voice and scraggly beard?"

"That would be Spanky."

"Uh, no thanks. I picked you. So, what's it gonna take?"

"Darlin, all I want is some sleep. Even if I had the urge, I don't think the engine has the fuel." But I closed the door and walked back into the room.

That was my first mistake.

At age 26, we guys always have the urge and the fuel even if we don't think we do. And this is something all the women know. An hour later Red and I were saving the planet by taking a shower together. That sleep I thought I needed, traded in on easy sex for a backstage pass.

I lost track of the tiny red cyclone during the show that night. She made an impression on the crew, but oddly not a bad impression. Came time for load out, there she was, sitting on one of the speakers waiting to be loaded on my truck. When they grabbed that speaker, she hopped off and walked over to me at the back door of the trailer.

She reached around my waist with one hand and pulled my head down with the other. After planting a screamer of a kiss on me, she backed up. "Well, I guess that's it then. You are off to Boston now."

"Yeah, I guess so."

And then I made my second mistake.

"How'd you like to go to Boston with me?"

I don't think I had even finished talking and she had the passenger door of the truck open and was scrambling up the looped footsteps. By the time I had climbed in behind the wheel, she had a doob lit and was passing it over the dog house to me.

The Old Boston Garden was, in the worst conditions, no more than a two hour drive from Providence. Once there, I figured I would finally get that sleep I needed. It was possible my head could be on a pillow by 2 AM and with stage call not until 8 AM, I might get 4 hours of solid shuteye.

Red had other plans. On the way out of Providence she insisted I stop at her apartment so she could grab some clean clothes and maybe gussy up some. Since finding Boston Garden should be no problem for the other drivers and the fact they had over 8 hours to find it, I split off with a call on the CB radio. I pulled into her apartment complex around midnight. I didn't pull out until 6:30 AM the next morning. And again like so many times before, I made stage call with only minutes to spare. Buford, the head engineer on that tour was not impressed. Damn women.

I got my trailer unloaded and then headed to the Holiday Inn in Somerville, north of Boston. After a quick romp in the sack with Red, I headed for the shower and left her parked on chair thumbing through the itinerary for the tour. As I toweled myself off, there was a knock at the door. I wrapped the towel around my waist and opened the door expecting one of the crew or a hotel employee. There standing in all their Parental intimidation glory were Mom and Dad. I had forgotten that I had invited them down from Maine to see the Bowie show and hang with all the cool people backstage.

I didn't move. I didn't say a word. I just looked at them. In the meantime, my dad's eyes had gotten bigger. My mom's eyes had become slits. I turned around and sitting there in a hotel room chair buck naked was Whacko Redhead. Her eyes had grown big also. She jumped up and quickly began to gather her clothes.

I stood there saying nothing. What was there to say?

Mom finally spoke. "Well Mike, are you going to invite us in?"

"Uh, yeah, come on in." I stepped out of the way just as Red made a beeline for the bathroom with her clothes clutched so to cover her naughty bits.

Mom and Dad come into the room. Mom's eyes were still slits. Dad was grinning from ear to ear. He said, "So all those stories are true huh?" Mom shot him a hard look of disgust and then began to scan the room for a safe place to sit.

I heard the shower kick in. Good, Red was cleaning up. I turned to my parents, “Folks, make yourselves comfortable. I'm going to get dressed. Be out in a moment." Mom and Dad just looked at me. They still had not sat and that grin on Dad's face was beginning to unnerve me.

Once I was dressed I came out of the bathroom and was relieved that Mom and Dad had figured out where to sit. It seemed to take the edge off the situation that had started so badly. I began. "So this is kinda awkward......"

Mom immediately interrupts. "Awkward? Christ on a crutch Mike, you invited us down. You know how hard it is to get your father to go anywhere, and when we finally get here, you are shacked up with some whore."

"Mom, she's not a whore. They are called Groupies. And besides..........." I can't finish. Mom was not listening. She had made her decision.

Dad piped up and said, "Well I for one am glad we came. She seems a delightful young lady."

Mom turned and stared at my father. "Delightful? Why do you say that? Because she was naked?"

"Why yes dear. Because she was naked. All young ladies are delightful when unclothed."

I can tell my parents were getting primed for one of their daily spats. It always started the same way. One baits, the other bites. I spoke up. “Okay that’s it. Stop right now. Let’s head to the Garden. I’ll leave Angie here. She won’t mind.”

My mom could not resist a parting shot as we moved towards the door. In a loud voice she warned, “Don’t leave any valuables here Mike; they might not be here when you get back.”

Red popped her head out of the bathroom door and stuck her tongue out. Dad smiled at her and said, “Nice to have met you.” Mom tugged on his arm, glared at Red and we left.

Thankfully, the following hours at the Garden were so special for my parents and myself, the incident at the motel became but a footnote to one of the most bizarre days I had while driving Rock n Roll.

Since it was near the end of the tour, David Bowie had a catered high end meal set up for the crew. Chefs with big hats cooking while waiters wearing white waist coats served food that was absolutely some of the best I have ever eaten. Mom and Dad got to sit down with us. As it happened, David Bowie sat at our table and talked with my parents. He chose our table because their elderly presence was so out of character for this business. My dad was able to hang out at the Sound board while Buford ran his sound check. Both of them ended with respect for the other. They were both geeks. Dad asked questions that Buford had to strain to answer. Geeks just love that kind of shit.

It turned into a good day. If I had had a plan to begin with, I could not have come up with a better series of events to completely impart just how insane the Rock n Roll business was. My parents begged off when I suggested staying for the concert. The meal, meeting David Bowie, the sound check and of course Whacko Redhead was excitement enough for one day. They drove me back to the motel. As I got out, they both insisted they had a wonderful and if nothing else, an interesting time. They drove home to Maine.

I still had to deal with Red though. She had been cooling her heels at the motel for 5 or 6 hours. Even though she could have robbed me blind during our previous two days together, my mom’s warning skittered through my mind as I walked to the room. What is it about moms and their ability to weasel their way into our minds? It must have something to do with that bonding during pregnancy. After all, they have nine months to implant whatever insidious control device they want.

With this floating around my mind, I opened the door of the motel room. The mess I left was straight now and a fully clothed Whacko Redhead laid passed out peacefully on top of the bed covers. The king size bed wrapped around her like an acre of pasture wraps around a cow. Her red hair seemed under control now. Her eyes closed, she was the perfect picture of calm. I crawled on the bed beside her and was asleep the second my head hit the pillow.

(Original - 3/27/10) (This one - 7/24/2022)

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I have been trying to pick a favorite Bowie tune.It's a tough decision. Any tune I pick will leave me wondering if that tune was really my favorite when I hear another Bowie song I did not pick.Fuck it. Here, ......... Looking for a virtual dart to throw in a virtual dart board with more than a few Bowie songs listed in no specific order.   He tosses the dart......... The fans hold their breaths, hoping he picks their favorite. A drum rolls off in the distance, a wolf bays at the moon. ............... The dart finds its target....... Here is ............ "The Jean Genie", from Bowie's 1973 album "Aladdin Sane".