tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41609517987425158302024-03-05T04:10:22.907-05:00Wrecking Ball BlogHuman Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.comBlogger377125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-1676416182776182022018-05-28T22:27:00.003-04:002018-05-29T00:52:02.215-04:00The Cut<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It starts a as a bet. All the bands in town have long hair stuck in limbo between the late eighties and whatever is next. They flip their mullets using hairspray by the canful like they are the new guitarist for Poison. I'm watching them take smoke breaks on Tennessee Street when it hits me they look like they were punched out of the same factory in South Dakota. I imagine them marching in step while saying "Yabba dabba doo" over and over, feeling cool, but looking like everyone else. I'm no better rocking some asymmetrical, mullet, squib, hybrid not knowing if I am a lost skater or John Cougar. I can't shake the feeling the next day at work, so in between selling car stereos, I call all of the boys in the band. I leave them messages knowing they are at the music store, the garage, or painting houses. They all get the challenge shortly after six.<br />
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"Cut your hair off if you want to stay in this band. Who ever shows up with their old bullshit helmet head, pays the whole bands tab for this week at Bullwinkle's or you're fired. Meet at Johnny's at eight so we can ride in together."<br />
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Ya it's dumb, but no one wants to be the goat, so we all secretly make arrangements with whoever cuts our hair. I call McBeth (the nickname we call the woman that cuts my hair, because of her Shakespearean flare for drama). It's last minute but I know she will fit me in. She has wanted to fuck me for years (so she says) and I don't know if the flirting is a tactic to get bigger tips or if she has real interest. I act like I'm not attracted to her and she pretends it makes her crazy. I show up at her house where she has been cutting hair off the books for years. It's cash only but she is a very good stylist. She usually has beer and weed (I don't smoke) but it adds to the allure. I can trust her, because she knows what I want. She knows my hair will be in front of three hundred people tonight. Several other band guys and me help her stay in demand as the "go to stylist" of the A list. When I walk in she is playing some bizarre shit on her stereo, Suzy and The Banshees is ending and Sinead O'Connor starts to slither around the room as I get in the chair. The room is dimly lit and you would never know it was day time outside. I feel like I have wandered into the lair of a vampire, but really I have come to expect this kind of ambush and I am neither rattled nor surprised when she enters the room in rib high pleated pants and no top. Her whole act is more suited for an erotic palm reader, or a tarot stripper. We both silently enter into a Mexican standoff, where neither acknowledges her her nudity. She has great skin, small perfect tits and nipples that were obviously pinched for effect right before she entered through the beaded curtain. She takes off the gold chain holding my cross, and asks in a husky lap dance voice, what I want. I fight the urge to giggle. It is the greatest thing in the world to see how cliche the effort to seduce is, when there is no danger of actual sex. She is beautiful, a few years older than me, worldly, with a legendary resume of hedonism, I could only imagine. I am not like other musicians I know. I secretly wish I could to be like them, and I pretend that I am. I want to fuck, snort coke, wake up confused and naked, next to whoever was available last night. I don't know if it is fear, false morality, or the fact that my internal wiring finds very few women with the traits or pheromones, that turn the tumblers of my locks. I have had my heart and spirit broken. I have known love. I am too aware of my bullshit issues. I'm also afraid to dive into my base and darker desires. I am immune to McBeth and women like her. I am in search of some immaculate virginal temptress, like the one I lost. I am trying to grasp sand, or hold smoke. Because I believe once I had the grail, the soul mate, I carry myself with a kind of aloof armor.<br />
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I tell her I want it all off. I tell her, I don't want to look like anyone else that is in a band in this fucking town. A Sisters of Mercy song starts. And she dances a little as I talk. She throws a black cloth over the mirror.<br />
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"Should I just do what I want?"<br />
She says leaning over with her hands on my legs.<br />
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"Just make me look cool, and take those ridiculous pants off."<br />
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I turn the barbers chair with my foot away from her, in a fake and indignant gesture. I hear the fabric buzz against her as she obliges my childish bluff. The next hour is a blur of incense, and spicy wet joint smoke she pulls in and releases, between metallic scissor swipes, and razor cuts. Two years of cliche, fall like feathers to the dark floor around me. She smokes, and sings along with the latest cryptic song on the mixtape. I have overheard multiple guitar players and singers describe this same scenario, but she dances like she has never heard it before. It is the mark of a true pro. She is a fantastic combo of lightly tanned and string line white skin. Her black panties adorned with small roses and lace, are the same she wore for my last haircut. I appreciate her commitment to pageantry, like the priests of my childhood altars, my father's clip on ties, short sleeve white IBM shirts and my mother's apron. I am deep in a contact high from the sweet leaf she exhales into my face. I close my eyes and sit back listening to The Cure, The Cult, Ministry, and all the other bands she collected in a embroidered notebook, after hearing their songs in clubs or on the college station. My hands are clutching the arms of the chair as she inadvertently rubs the lace seam of her undies across my index finger. The red bandanas on her lamps are making strange shapes on her moving walls. I twitch my pinkie against the musk spot behind the veiled fabric that hides the sacred folds, that ten band dudes could draw from memory, like sketch artists at a murder scene. She finishes and walks out wordless for dramatic effect, like a rock star leaving the stage. Like she imagined she would do at the end of a performance if she could sing. She emerges seconds later fully clothed, not amateur enough to follow through with the charade. She pulls the the black cloth off the mirror and I see a person I do not know. My left side part has returned and jagged protuberances stand up at different angles off the right side of my head. I hand her thirty dollars, fifteen for the cut and fifteen for the show. I say;<br />
<br />
"Thanks honey."<br />
I give her a hug as she looks knowingly at my naive face.<br />
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We part and I walk out into the harsh daylight, that I forgot was there. I get in my car, catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror and it is like the emperor's clothes have disappeared. A voice in my head I identify as my father, tells me I look like an idiot. Daylight is the enemy of musicians, delusions and lust. I turn the mirror away from myself and hit the denial button. I drive toward Johnny's house, praying to god my double dare worked, and that I am not the only idiot that cut his hair. A Bauhaus song comes on the college radio station. I convince myself I am a rock star and no one knows it yet. A mean truck roars passed me with a gun in the rear window. Over the music I hear;<br />
<br />
"FAAAAGGGGG!!!!!!"<br />
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It rips passed my open window like a train in the woods. Like so many times before, since I left my home town, I wish I was behind the counter at the surf shop, or paddling out to surf with my friends, or getting home to my Moms spaghetti and meatballs. I wish I was waking up under the stripped covers of my single bed, looking up at my collage of Van Halen, The Police and U2. I drive to Johnny's beating on my steering wheel, half out of anger, half to let people know I am a musician and that this science experiment on my head is not a mistake. I am no more a man now, than I was in sixth grade, arriving for the first day of school.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-10097051627470161842014-09-23T00:17:00.000-04:002014-09-23T00:25:06.894-04:00My Favorite Mistake<div style="text-align: left;">
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My memory of the Flag Loop (out old Centerville Road, over the Georgia line and back) was a happy one. We did the ride at night last winter, when I was in really good shape. It was the only night clay ride I've ever done. Not long after, a plan started to hatch in my brain about connecting it and the Kilearn/Dirt Proctor route, to make it a long solo ride. </div>
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The stars aligned and I slept nine hours Saturday night. I felt like Sunday was a perfect day to take a shot at it. I was up early enough and it was cool and clear out. I started out slow feeling sluggish after my first real week of riding in a while. I got lost looking for the back door (a cut through some private roads, off Bradfordville Rd.) to Proctor. I figured it was about ten miles out to Centerville, but when I got there I had about sixteen. I was so preoccupied with my incorrect mile count, that I forgot to get water at the Bradfordville Country Store, before I headed out on the clay. My plan was to turn around if my odometer read over thirty miles by the time I reached the first turn on Metcaff. I cruised thought the Old Centerville Road clay and looking at houses and plantation gates. I wondered what it would be like to live out there. I hit the pavement at Springhill and quickly realized the climbs were tougher and longer than I remembered. At about twenty eight miles, I came to the stop sign and the left turn onto Metcaff. Another cyclist rolled up to the intersection across the street and we chatted about where we were from and where we were going. He had never ridden the Flag Loop, but he knew the roads and came with me to make sure I got the next turn correct. At the next dirt section we said our goodbyes and I was on my own again. </div>
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About this time, I started to feel a very uneasy stirring in my gut. It's that rumble and cramp, we all recognize from awful previous experiences. I began looking for a place to desecrate. In my preoccupation with impending doom, I missed my left turn and ended up on 319 a few miles south of Thomasville. The one bright spot was, there was a gas station across the road and I was thanking (Deity of choice) that I would be able to evacuate the evil in a civilized manner and also get water. At first I didn't notice all the plastic bags on the gas pumps, or the lack of cars, but when I looked into the dark pad locked carcass of the store, I said "no fucking way!" loudly to no one. My mind and bowels were already in launch mode and I had to find whatever spot I could to exercise the demons, that were coming with or without my consent. I squatted next to an A.C. unit, praying that no one would see me doing something, National Geographic would edit from a Hippo documentary. I always carry paper towels with me (for just such a party) and was thankful I had done one thing right. I walked away from the crime scene as though nothing happened, vowing never to admit guilt for the havoc I had unleashed.</div>
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A quick check of the map revealed I missed my turn by one mile and I headed down Forshalee, thankful that at last, I was headed home. This is a narrow and nearly house free road with a couple good climbs and bombing (thirty mile per hour, plus) downhill's. I was feeling so relieved that I actually got out of the saddle on a couple of the hills and forced myself not to touch the brakes going down. I got to the left on Sunny Hill and drank down my last swallow (which put Kenny Rodgers "The Gambler" on loop, in my internal radio station).</div>
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By the time I got to Old Centerville again I was really thirsty and hungry but I couldn't force down a Cliff Bar with no water. I came to St. Phillips-Primitive Baptist Church of Christ and rolled under the chain at the gate. I found a spicket and turned it on. A slow stream of brown water sputtered out of the pipe and turned eventually to a milky white water and air mixture. After a few minutes it finally became a clear clean (looking) stream. I filled my bottles after a smell and taste test. All seemed well. I decided I would not drink that stuff after suffering my previous intestinal riot, and planned to haul ass (as best I could) to the Bradfordville Store. When I finally got there, all my monkey brain could think of was RC Cola. I went in and bought water and two sodas. I staggered out to the porch and inhaled the first and then the second without a break. I slammed down the bottle on the railing, only then noticing a man and his wife looking at me in equal amounts of disbelief and disgust. I apologized and told them I'd been out of water for about an hour. I filled my bottles with fresh water and felt like a new man (after a couple dinosaur burps).</div>
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When I got back to Proctor, the idea of going back over my tracks seemed dumb, so I headed south to Crump and the Miccosukee Greenway. The idea of not dealing with cars and shaving a couple miles off my ride home seemed sound. By the time I got to the top, and the end of that trail, every root and patch of sand was causing me to spit and curse, and I swore I might never ride it again. I coasted down the sweet paved hill and back up the last climb on Woodgate, to my hood. Sixty three miles (about twenty more than I estimated) and four hours and forty five minutes were in the books. Considering all the missteps and calamity, I felt pretty good.</div>
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There is something about these long solo rides, on new routes, that make them seem bigger than they are. I am always afraid of getting dropped and lost on group rides and I figure this is good therapy for that. It's nice to know you didn't sit in and shut your brain off on another group ride. In the end you did it alone (however slow) and for this old dog, the feeling of accomplishment is very rewarding. I guess you can always do a lot more than you think you can. I need to remember that.</div>
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W.B.Z.N.</div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-38238969663727754162014-09-07T12:48:00.000-04:002014-09-07T12:48:14.593-04:00 Just Take Your Medicine (and don't complain) <br />
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Halfway through my second lap at Tom Brown, I realized I would rather be doing anything than riding my bike. Big Worm and Tiny D had dropped me about ten seconds into their medium pace regimen. They are prepping D for the Tom Brown race next week, and I am here to see them. Worm is aggravated, no one is hearing what he is saying and he's just trying to help. D warms up slower than any completive cyclist of her ilk, but when she flips the switch she can red line as long as she wants. They are invisible in the distance and I am going so slow the roots on the one technical section of Cadillac, almost force me backward. I am completely and utterly unenthused with mountain biking. This activity has become some monotone dirge and I would rather watch game shows than pedal one more minute.<br />
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It was not like that when I started. Some of the trail heads were marked by no trespassing signs and for the first time since I was a skateboarder, I felt that great taste of five finger candy. To steal something was always sweeter than to being invited. This was also true of my favorite surf spot back home; The Power Plant. We you had to go down dirt roads around a gate and then finally down a perilous sand double track in my old VW bug. After navigating that maze then, and only then, could we pick the fruit of that grand emptiness. Dark gray waters awaited with great lefts and rights with no one around for miles. It was a huge oasis from the rat cage that was my home break; North Jetty in Ft. Pierce. At the plant you could catch as many waves a you wanted, and we laughed and yelled paddling as fast as we could, back out to the empty lineup. The dream was short lived as word got out and the gallery brought the bullshit by the truck load. All my favorite skate spots were illegal too. You came to a fence, looked at your friends, threw your gear over the wall, climbed it and reaped the rewards. We skated big pipes, empty pools, new construction roofs, and bone dry fountains at dilapidated hotels. The skate park, lay within minutes of where we were trespassing, but for us the rules, frozen pizza, and Steve Miller on a loop, where too much to bear. <br />
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When I started riding fifteen years ago, it was an adventure for me. Tom Brown was covered in head high grass. The unregulated trails broke off and crossed back over themselves, while others dead ended into old buildings. Cadillac was private property, rooty, brutal, washed out and fantastic. If I saw a cyclist out there, he was always better than me and everyday there were ten obstacles I dreaded. If there was a storm and a tree came down, it laid where it fell and you had to find a way over or around it. Out past the levy, in the no mans land beyond the tracks, lay the bucket loop bordered by thorns, berries, crooked fences and occasional hunters. Weems trails had four wheelers with no helmets, rich high school pricks drinking beer by fires, standing in the trash they never cleared. Beyond them lay the abandoned Fallschase development with burned out carcasses of berm houses and paved roads to no where. <br />
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All my favorite pastimes have an element of fear attached. I was afraid every time I skated a big half pipe, took off on a set wave, or reached for the top button of a girls jeans. That thrill of waiting for a sigh or screaming denial was (and is) the "thing". I was able to keep that demon alive on my cross bike by riding more dirt, on an unsuspended skinny tire beast. For a little while this year, that feeling came back. Even the smallest section of soft sand is a white knuckle death ride. I also found the feeling out on long road rides alone, wondering if I had enough legs to get home. I felt the tingle with every passing car and every turn, down roads I didn't know.<br />
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I have unfettered dreams of cashing in my retirement and becoming a dishwasher in Missouri, hiding in a rural house writing the novel, no one will read. I have to fight my steering wheel anytime I get near I-10 to keep from driving away into new, unauthorized single track. I always remember there are bills to pay, a great wife to kiss, and boys to support on their new trail. After all, I have had every opportunity to take all the shots I've wanted to take, with little or no resistance from anyone in my life. Still, I pace back and forth in my office like a caged cat that once ran wild. I peek through the blinds and wonder what they'd all say if I disappeared again, like I did back in 87'.<br />
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In the end, I am a good dog and I know where my bowl is. I ride the rides and take the easy route around the logs. I dutifully get out of the saddle on the ten foot wide oyster shell horse path. I run the fence obsessively and howl at real and imagined threats beyond my borders, like I am actually defending some sacred ground. More than anything, I fear that sound in the distance is just a branch in the wind, scraping the fence, and all the barbarians beyond my gates, have died.<br />
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W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-68360184838407521152014-07-22T23:22:00.000-04:002014-07-22T23:22:09.543-04:00MilesMy blood is running past the lungs and into the heart and then the brain. Dirty and clean and oxygenated and pulsed to the limit of the old man that owns it. Past the breaks that tried to kill him and it. Past the houses of the new rich and old southern money. Past the gates I trespass, climbing the hills, up to tasteless monuments of perceived success. Past the people who work harder than me and wonder what it would be like to sweat for fun, instead of need. Past the gates I am poor, down the south streets I am rich. If you ride far enough you see all things.<br />
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I am standing, pushing harder than I should, alone on the bike, the place where there is nothing but wind and breathing. The memories flood back and there are still no solutions. No matter how hard I think about the past gaffs and missteps, there is only one more hill to climb and ten more miles before I turn for home. There is a point where I am purified. Where the silence lives and beyond it, peace and absolution. If I just push a little more, it waits for me. <br />
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The clock is running in my pocket. Someone will feel like he is better than me tonight, but he knows nothing of my scars. No one knows all my stories. The stories of the times I counted waves and forced myself past the white water. The times I fought to get to class with out a bloody lip. The times I didn't defend the girls on the bus, from the older boys at the top of the food chain. They don't know the moment it all went wrong . I do.<br />
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I am rushing for the green light at the top of the hill. I am watching the car that may not stop in time. I am thinking of Dave and his son. I don't want to be another cautionary tale. I have already done that. I don't like the attention or the questions or the looks of pity and fear of contagion. I like the look of frustration. When you realize the poor bastard just beat you. When you are forced to re access. Its okay if I loose. I am the guy that shouldn't be here.<br />
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So I am running. I am riding farther than I want to. I am alone in the wind. I am unafraid of getting lost. Because I have made it home from worse than this little ride.<br />
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W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-27171522168272116112014-06-17T23:42:00.000-04:002014-06-17T23:50:20.965-04:00Somewhere In The New Past<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">THE FOLLOWING IS A FIRST PERSON ACCOUNT OF MY TRIP TO LIGONIER PA. THE WRITER IS A TWISTED SOUL (PEDRO) WHO SEES THROUGH APRICOT GOGGLES. HE IS THE GONZO WRITER RESIDENT OF THAT TOWN, A CYCLIST AND A LIBRARIAN OF OBSCURE MUSIC TRIVIA. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK..... USE YOUR DECODER RINGS KIDDIES. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">the
irish-floridian brothers were ostensibly in town to help their cousin George
pack his worldly belongings (including wife, kids, cats) for their move to
Colorado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you were to ask Davey’s
guitar, she’d say that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything they do
is for the music</i>…Were you to pose the same question to his younger brother
Terry, the enfant terrible of a sextet of Clark dudes, he’d pull you into a
swirling vortex of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">explication</b>,
positing sound dynamics, voodoo, and marihuanical standard
deviations.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">After 20 hours of
Ameri-roading from Tallahassee, the brothers made it to cousin John’s hacienda
in the hollow here in the wilds of Pennsyltucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John is better known in these parts as Ratzo,
Rat, The Ambassador of Boulder (AoB), but his most accurate appellation is<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The Mayor of Unsavory Characters”. It is
this phalanx of philosopher-madfolk with whom we would cavort for two evenings
of music, intoxicants, and confabulation.</span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">On <span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT32_com_zimbra_date">Thursday</span> afternoon, Rat,
el terrible, and I (Pedro) suited up for a mountain bike ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terry’s more of a cross-country/road wheeler
while we are of the Genus/species Houndus <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rockus</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the kid rode like Pegasus, flew atop tombstones like Icarus, Christ
almighty he rode like a serpentining ellipsis…And we didn’t take it easy on him,
either, subjecting him to the treacherous Blood n’ Guts trail, the unrelenting
Wolf Rocks loop, and the bone-jarring Wraparound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back at the car, we traded musical parries,
the enfant preferring his southern soulers, me offering Torontonians…we toasted
the good life and tried to let the other raconteur finish his story (this is a
particular failing of mine)…</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">on <span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT33_com_zimbra_date">Friday</span>, we met again,
not on the trails, but on the ramp to a moving van.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The brothers, having drunk and sung their
souls silly the night prior, evinced bedragglement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve been at it for hours and the truck is
62.5% full, but the packing of finery will be left to the felines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They make a quick exit (was it something I
said? halitosis? spectral castigators?) and Jorge makes a trip to the bank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m left in the kitchen, alone save for my
music files, and it feels like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m</i>
moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last time our family moved was
august ’98, a new record for me…16 years in the same house, same town, same
socio-scene…George returns. We load some of my shakily-packaged boxes &
reduce storage capacity by perhaps 5.8% and wrestle with a glass top display
case, an artifact from his former alliance w/Rat in the goldsmythe
thing…</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Later that evening
Davey, el terrible, and the Rat sit atop picnic tables under the pavilion behind
the Runaway (home to the unsavory lads)…Bridey & I have made the short trip
up from town <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– she caught a few Davey
O’Clark songs the night before and has bravely opted to be on the scene, though
she hasn’t been up here since her teens, when it was called Larry’s Lair and Rat
and Flip used to serve her coterie of lovely lasses before their
time…</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">The crowd swells
to a dozen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bridey politely declines
when offered pipe, then joint, then pipe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Never a toker, she opines, “I do like the smell.” Eventually, even
stoners get the hint. David O’Clark sports a smile that warms the evening air as
happy musicianodos split their time between the fire circle and the pavilion. I
remain devoted to the man, listening carefully to his keen choices, occasionally
closing my eyes to accentuate the aural. I dutifully detail a list of songs on
my phone, and offer them here for your perusal:</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"><u><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";">Song</span></u><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 6;">
</span><u>Composer</u></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Does She Mention
My Name? (i)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Lightfoot,
Gordon</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Past the Point of
Rescue<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;">
</span>Hanly, Mick </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Blue Eyes Crying
in the Rain<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>Rose,
Fred</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Pancho and
Lefty<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;">
</span>Van Zandt, Townes</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">I Was Only
Joking<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;">
</span>Grainger, Gary & Stewart, Rod</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Colorado<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;">
</span>Roberts, Rick (Flying Burrito Bros.)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Landslide<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;">
</span>Nicks, Stevie</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Everything That
Glitters (Is Not Gold)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seals,
Dan</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Back Home in
Derry<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;">
</span>Sands, Bobby (R.I.P.)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Wreck of the
Edmund Fitzgerald<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;">
</span>Lightfoot, Gordon</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Missing You<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;">
</span>Moore, Christy</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Natives </span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Grace<span style="mso-tab-count: 6;">
</span>Ronan</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Here Comes the
<span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT34_com_zimbra_date">Sun</span><span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>Harrison,
George</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: center 3.0in;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Don’t Close Your
Eyes<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Whitley, Keith</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Did She Mention My
Name? (ii)<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Lightfoot,
Gordon</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Sweet Baby
James<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;">
</span>Taylor, James</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Teach Your
Children<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;">
</span>Nash, Graham</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">When You Say
Nothing at All<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;">
</span>Overstreet, Paul & Schlitz, Don</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">San Francisco Bay
Blues<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;">
</span>Fuller, Jesse</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Wayfaring
Stranger<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;">
</span>Trad.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Danny Boy<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;">
</span>Weatherley, Fred E.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Amazing Grace<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Newton, John</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Old Man<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;">
</span><u>Young, Neil Trilogy</u>:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">On the Way
Home</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">The Needle and the
Damage Done</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Toby’s Holler<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;">
</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Travelin’ Man<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;">
</span>Fuller, Jerry</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">The Stevie Nicks
cover is delicious, for he has found a way to match his baritone to the
loveliness of the melody.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally, I
favour the Peter Green days when Fleetwood Mac rumbled and roared, so it’s a
revelation and I find new respect for the song. The Rod Stewart number has a
similar appeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t hear it very
often in these days of satellite radio, Pandora, Spotify, 180 gram vinyl, and
24/7 access to all the music ever digitized…It’s a remarkable song, and
O’Clarkie’s penchant for inhabiting a tune shines on, crazily…the night air is
beatified, and we wake to discover was just a faerie tale…</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT35_com_zimbra_date">Saturday</span>, I get a text
message: (WE ARE AT RUNAWAY...DAVEY IS PLAYING..GIT YER ASS DOWN HERE!)</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">I’ve just returned
from a hellacious-by-design ride with el otro amigo – Rosco…he had to miss <span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT36_com_zimbra_date">Friday</span>’s fun as his boy
was graduating from hs…we pounded thru some rock gardens on our way up and
bombed down at speeds we don’t normally attain, but ‘twas a glorious Saturnalia
in June…</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">I decide I can
make an appearance at The Runaway, but after a couple of songs a local Grimm
feller pulls a custom dulcimer resonator from a velvet sheath – and I know I
can’t leave…</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">the afternoon
becomes a seisun – and I’m transported to Waterford, Ireland, or Galway, or any
of those places where music grows in the spring…Davey trots out some from the
night before, the tunes now more alive with an audience of happy hoisters, mild
tobacco smoke replaces <span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT37_com_zimbra_date">Friday</span>’s humo…</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Vince, an acoustic
bluesman, gives us “Keep on Truckin’”, as though he had made a pact with Jorma
to possess the Hot Tuna mojo…Grimm man digs in on “Pancho & Lefty” and the
whole bar howls, “all the federales say they coulda had him any day” and “pancho
needs your prayers it’s true but say a few for lefty, too” and, for an hour,
maybe 90 minutes, we’ve got heaven on earth, dark pub on a sunny day with the
neighboring woods’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>resplendence buoying
our interdependence…but perhaps the music is the <span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT38_com_zimbra_date">sun</span> and we’re the flora,
photosynthesizing the heat of the guitar strings and the light of the patrons’
eyes…</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Traveling south on
Rt. 81 in Virginia, the irish-floridian’s car engine quits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>el terrible enfant steers it onto the nearest
pull-off as semis shake the Volkswagen. Bang, bang goes something in the
trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The elder sibling intones, “I’ll
handle this, el hermano diminutivo,” and Terradude pops the trunk. “Oh, Jaysus,
she’s done it again,” moans the troubadour. The Martin has popped the lid to its
case, the tuning keys releasing their strings so they’re able to slither out and
pry the clasps open. “I’m gonna have to play her,” Davey announces solemnly as
he re-strings her, praying for the patience of a luthier. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">He’s all played
out. Played out on playin’. Played out on singin’. Played out on
collaboratin’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Played out on
drinkin’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Played out on drivin’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, never, never, are these two
siblo-conspirators played out on music.</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">The first notes
remind him of a dream he had sleeping at Casa Linda on their <span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT39_com_zimbra_date">last night</span> in the
valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hey, listen to this. I dreamt this song,
chords and lyrics.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He strums
plaintively and sings;</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">I’m tired</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">tired of
Tallahassee</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">tired of the
city</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">wanna live
up</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">on a mountain
slope</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">where everyone </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">grows
uber-dope</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">the fauna are
fair</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">and the
people</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">never
despair</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">up
among</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">the
conifers</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">and black
bears</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">where the
wind</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">whispers
secrets</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">only the
cognoscenti</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">can
hear</span></span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">“You put fucking
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cognoscenti</i> in a song!,” critiques
Terry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, I didn’t. She did,” says
Davey and he points to his old friend.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">They get out and
find a deer trail that leads to a large boulder by a stream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back among the ferns and philodendron,
Terra-brother starts to feel the strain of the road slip into the
ether…</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Davey O’Clark
looks up, smiles, and begins to strum: “I’m tired…”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "American Typewriter";"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">PEDRO....</span></span></div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-33482552187898074612014-03-10T14:00:00.000-04:002014-03-10T15:56:12.337-04:00Mistral Wind<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyv8M2MawvLabN4jLHUpb2IT5s7NJfA9OeJwYRn7PGMetjd313afmYsckb-ki21ScBhYF9Xa3Ywkkq10zkOJI7u2IaOLs67nNF5N7ZNvb1AYBNSudUMCaQUHl1H2sB6vvFNDVUEhJ3Nq04/s1600/sesearchersu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_20410="null" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyv8M2MawvLabN4jLHUpb2IT5s7NJfA9OeJwYRn7PGMetjd313afmYsckb-ki21ScBhYF9Xa3Ywkkq10zkOJI7u2IaOLs67nNF5N7ZNvb1AYBNSudUMCaQUHl1H2sB6vvFNDVUEhJ3Nq04/s1600/sesearchersu.jpg" height="240" tta="true" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The week started well with an easy but fun ride with Big Worm and Mighty Mite. A lazy stroll with some minor efforts and a couple hard uncontested climbs. I am like a precocious child to Worm and Mite. They watch me go up climbs and they think; "Isn't he cute? Look at him breathing all heavy." MM is one of the fastest women in the state and could destroy me at will. They were saving their legs for a possible Chaires fest on road bikes. They felt no temptation to swat gnats. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The next two days were awful. MTB rides with no power in the tank. Those kinds of rides where you just make yourself do it, because not riding would be worse. Labor and discipline. There is no happy to be found on days like these, only questions and doubt. There is a candle forever burning, in the window at home. You always feel better than you would have if you baulked.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Saturday was beautiful. I opted not to ride with the crew because I had no faith in my legs. Lil WB (seems funny calling him that since he's four inches taller than me and in college) said he'd ride with me if we went easy and on the road. I had two goals: keep the pace fun and keep him out of the wind. We took a straight route down to St. Marks Trail with only one real climb. He was talking and we were laughing like the old days. He's been so busy with school and music that we usually only exchange grunts, as one leaves and the other arrives. We were about five miles from the coast when he popped a spoke and dished his rear wheel, into the frame. I offset the skewer enough to where it would turn and we back tracked to Natural Bridge Road, where his Mom picked him up. He made faces at me as they drove off and I laughed so hard I started coughing. </div>
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I thought I might as well head up Old Plank to Chaires and get a real ride in. I figured it was fourteen miles. I had already gone twenty eight, but our pace had been so slow I felt fine. Anyone who has ridden that route is probably already laughing. It was twenty six miles of head wind to Chaires. By the time I got there, I was feeling every inch of the forty eight miles and three hours in the saddle. I knew I had twelve miles (most of it tough climbs) back to the house. I decided to settle in and ride at whatever pace felt good. I felt like a cyclist for the first time (that week) when I got home. Success. I had about a hundred twenty miles in for the week. The Sunday weather forecast looked good.</div>
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I got up late again and headed out to look at the new trail section the MTB club cut in, and the new bridge over the tracks, out by the levy. I rode slowly and looked around a lot. I stopped to enjoy views. I smiled at people (lots of them!) on the trail. All was right and good in my head, a rarity to be sure. That was two weeks ago.</div>
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The following week had two gigs, cold pissing rain, and no rides. The kicker was a fever laced head cold that arrived Friday. Last night I had LSD dreams about a vacation that never happened. The kids were young and we were at some resort with a spectacular view. People were eating seafood by the shore. Then I noticed the entree's were fighting back. A man had a angry crab in his beard. Big blue crabs were crawling up my legs and shirt. I woke up brushing them off my chest at seven A.M. Just in time to hear the alarm. Time to go to work.</div>
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Oh, how funny life is. Mine at least is filled with equal parts joy and regret. My hours are spent in wonder or questioning every word I have ever said, and all the choices that got us here. Here where the view is good, but the crabs are coming.....and they are always angry.</div>
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W.B.Z.N. </div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-73292361249814067862014-02-17T01:45:00.005-05:002014-02-18T12:15:34.235-05:00Down To Earth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have played this room million times, or I should say, others just like it. They have a secret factory in South Dakota where they are made and shipped out to tertiary markets around the U.S. They are produced to placate the masses so they can survive and get through the week. The fifth tier contenders come here to drink, play music, and work the bar, trying to erase the big dreams and faces of the ones that got away. The stage is a ten by twelve feet, and is twelve inches high. It was built with all the available technology any ten year old would have, to build a tree fort. It looks like a raft floating on a acid stained concrete sea, among the flotsam of mismatched tables and chairs. There is a small dance floor in front of it. I know it's a dance floor because there are no mismatched chairs and tables there. "Yes" I think to myself in silence, I have played this place a million times, like a reoccurring dream riddle from a video game I can't escape. I never seem to get passed this level of the game for long. I can't defeat the dragon at the gates of the tour bus and limo level. I hear the sad trombone from a seventies game show play the "Whaw, whaw, what wahaaaaaw" as my avatar returns to a different version of this little bar. Somewhere in here, I am supposed to unlock the code of ascension. The good news is; it's relatively quiet. After a brief chat with the owner, we decide to load in. The Shackle backs up the van and we start to ferret in the gear like zombies. As I pull open the door, the sound hits me like a wind from a fucked up hurricane. A loud D rated local bands demo is playing impossibly loud. There is one waitress, the manager and us. This a common phenomenon, all bars must play loud music when mops are being used or bands are setting up or tearing down. It is law.<br />
<br />
Last night we played the Tara Plantation of Atlanta's live music scene; Smiths Olde Bar. It was once a must stop for many music icons. It has great sound, lights, technical staff and a authentic vibe you can taste like a popsicle. The walls are covered with stickers and you can hear the ghosts of all the great bands, as you hang back stage. In it's hay day it was your passport to credibility in the south. Now the maiden still has good bones, but her dress is faded and her face shows the wrinkles of one who knows she's is no longer the southern debutante at the ball. Still, you cannot deny the honor you feel in her presence. This place has everything a good bar should have. It seems so simple but like love, it cannot be forced into existence, it just happens. Venues like her are struck by lightning. Legends and myths rise from these temples, like smoke from camp fires. Smith's has been dubbed the C.B.G.B's of the south for very good reason and like me she is hanging onto the denial, that dedication and love will be rewarded, but we both know it's not enough. The most one can do is look around during the glory days and try to remember the stories. The stories we recant after too many beers. Last night we played like the veterans we are, to a thirty percent capacity crowd that wasn't there to see us. The sound was great. We grooved like demons and sang like angels. We were met with applause and accolades and we were promised another date, in the hallowed main room upstairs. As we loaded out our gear, it began to rain. We carried our cases down the wet fire escape to our van. We drove home drinking the beers we took from our dressing room. The rain and cold air hit the van hard from the side like an omen, but I ignored it. These basking moments are few and even though they be drenched in idealism, they must be chewed slowly. You must savor the juice and it let run slowly down the back of your throat. They are rare birds in this game.<br />
<br />
The Shackle is pissed about his mix position. It's in a closet/dressing room. Like me, he has come to the realization that this gig is something we never thought we'd do again. The Shackle works at high levels in the sound world. He has mixed stadiums and huge shows all over the nation. He thought his closet mixing days were over. He is perpetually positive and professional in the face of all kinds of indignities, but even he is showing doubt. He is an even share member of our team and a veteran from the days of limos and buses when I was the singer's manager. The Shackle was the front of house sound man I hired to take care of my boys, for a grand a week. We had deep pockets and an account full of record company money. I laugh at his contempt, because nothing will cheer you up like seeing the shared misery of a friend next to you in the quicksand.<br />
<br />
We play our two and a half sets. There is about fifty people at the peak and we end with about twenty. Our singer and guitar player are pretty lubed up on Miller Lite and at the end it gets a little sloppy. The minute we finish playing, the local band demo begins to play again louder than hell through a speaker, three feet from my head. We force feed our gear and cables into cases. The bass player passes on load out and drives home separate with his girlfriend. We drag his name through the shit, as we throw cases in the van. I get paid after hearing a positive review from the manager. I know we will be back. We take perfect back roads, through the timeless rural landscape, towards Monticello and eventually Tallahassee. We make way too much noise unloading at three thirty A.M. in my quiet little neighborhood. <br />
<br />
The next day dawns beautiful at noon. I make breakfast for Neil and I and he leaves to install cabinets on a Sunday with his Dad. I pull on Lycra, pump up my tires, and head out to cleanse my lungs of smoke, and my head from the gigs. I am trying to sweat off the clown paint, from my two nights at the circus. The sky is clear, the air is crisp and cool, as I meander around the east side paths for three hours and twenty eight miles. It is obvious, to me and everything in the woods, another spring is coming. My sins of pride and grandeur are washed away and I am reborn. Tomorrow I will rise like Lazarus, and go to work, like the whole caper never happened. I will cycle my lights out in my office and recharge them for that evenings night ride. Soon the time will change and all my rides will be in sun. The visions of the night will fade and another season will decay. There will be other rides in the woods, and gigs like this weekend. I will string them together, like beads on a rosary, hoping for redemption wherever I can find it.<br />
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W.B.Z.N.</div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-66796650202222277872014-01-11T21:24:00.001-05:002014-01-11T22:31:43.387-05:00Jungleland<br />
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She looks how I imagine a buffalo might look with a shaved face and glasses. She has a nasty expression and she is tapping her spoon 3.6 feet from my right ear. The waiter approaches and she grabs his arm, despite the steaming entrees he's holding for table six. <br />
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"NO ICE!"<br />
<br />
She barks tapping the spoon on her cup. There are three cubes floating in the glass, as he confirms her command. She releases his arm and table six gets their food. Another man in arms reach of my left ear, is nervously crinkling fortune cookies, while he waits for a take out order. He is performing a symphony of sighs and tisks, in between nanosecond time checks.<br />
<br />
I begin writing a book in my head about a serial killer, who's victims are Cretans that ruin his dining experiences. She is victim one, found in her yard posed like Al Jolson on one knee, hands out stretched "Mammy" style. Her eyes were tooth picked open, she had three egg roles in her mouth and was found in the early stages of rigor. The police department is stumped. <br />
<br />
Even as I surmise, that I am projecting my anger, I cannot stop planning the death of Mr. Cookie. I just awoke from a trauma nap twenty minutes ago. The kind of tormented sleep, only a soul shaking defeat can deliver. Dark fever dreams full of symbols and icons from my greatest hits album. I sip one of the best iced teas in town, as I begin interrogating myself internally about the days events. I am trying to piece together the wreckage into a recognizable form. This will be analyzed for the forth time today; once on the shortcut out of lunch, once on the drive home, and once in retelling to my wife. I now will perform it in a duet, with my abusive inner dialogue....by far my favorite version.<br />
<br />
Was it the Mexican food the night before, with the eight pounds of chips, ten different salsa samples and two beers?<br />
Was it the room with the wet carpet, mold lab and suspect bed spread? <br />
Was it the lack of focus on diet and riding the last two weeks?<br />
Was it the elevated hyper-state I could not stabilize, for the last two days?<br />
<br />
Oh why must I choose? They are all so good. It's like deciding which child should die, and I'm no Meryl Streep. I decide to let them all live on repeat, in my festering subconscious. <br />
<br />
(Earlier today, at the Tour de Felasco 50 mile Eco ride)<br />
I am having some issues with a mild cough. I take two hits from the inhaler on the car ride from the hotel and a couple more as I unload gear. I'm starting to notice that I'm really not improving, but my Olympic level denial is working overtime, so I ignore it. A few miles in on the first climb, even at the VERY slow pace we are maintaining, so two stragglers can catch us, I am not feeling spry. <br />
<br />
About ten miles in, at the base of some of the tougher rooty climbs, I begin coughing for real. I tell some riders behind me to come around, while I try to pace through, and regulate my breathing. The next set of climbs has some traffic on it, I can't ride the pace I want and the main event takes the stage. <br />
<br />
"LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, ARE YOU READY? PLEASE WELCOME TO THE STAGE...<br />
ASTHMAAA ATTTACK! ACK ACK!"<br />
<br />
The lights dim, the white noise erupts and I cannot turn one more pedal. My group is gone, I am off my bike and my head is balanced inside my helmet, on my saddle. Rider after rider asks if I am alright, by far my favorite thing about attacks; the question and answer round. I recover and relapse and manage to get moving again when I see my friend Zak, waiting beside the trail. He knows the look, he's a lifetime member of the lung club, and falls in behind me. There are blurry montages of roots and riders and a brutal climb, where Chris was fixing Chad's chain at the top. Zak passes the baton to Chad, and he nurses me through the next ten miles, to the second sag stop. I assure Chad I am OK and tell him to go, which he reluctantly does. I am thankful for my friends, but in my humiliated state, I am good company for no one. I get short cut info from a worried looking volunteer, who asks me three times to get in the "Yellow Truck of Shame". I crawl five miles to the lunch stop, and then take the green arrowed "Route of Tears" back to my car. <br />
<br />
I am finishing up my solo dinner. Bison head is neck deep in a feeding orgy, showing no signs of pleasure or nourishment. She taps her glass to let the waiter know he is once again derelict in his duties. I finish my meal, which was the only good thing that has happened today. Tea to go. Check and tip. I slip into the wet reflective stream of lights and faceless cars.<br />
<br />
I pull into my garage. The house is empty. Springsteen's "Jungleland" comes on, so I shut the car off and sip tea to a song you might hear on the radio, once or twice in a lifetime. Bruce knows the pain of a real death waltz, and what it's like to reach for a moment, and wind up wounded. Suddenly it's all just water colors, on a wall in my head, set to a tune by The Boss. <br />
<br />
It's hard to be thankful at times like these, but we never tell the stories of the perfect rides. These are the days you put in your quiver, for the ride that used to be tough, but doesn't seem that bad now. A shit day on a mountain bike, is still better than what ninety percent of the world is doing with their time.<br />
<br />
See you next year Felasco..... you Motherfucker.<br />
<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N. Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-82098011091357299192013-12-30T16:43:00.001-05:002014-01-03T13:23:16.795-05:00Futile<div style="text-align: left;">
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Two nights prior, I played music with a Grammy winner and a mutli platinum producer. I also played with my long time bass player. No one outside this city knows him, but he could play with anyone. The music is deceptively difficult. Little subtleties that hardly anyone would notice, but they all add levels of texture, that would otherwise diminish the songs. I should be over the moon, but really, I just want it to be over. I live in mortal fear of missing the next syncopated claymore. All ends well. I actually play the only tasteful drum feature of my life. A raised eye brow from the Grammy winner, a knowing smile from the bass man, and a nod of acknowledgement from the Maestro....better than applause or money. Still, all I can think about is getting to the bar.<br />
<br />
"Irish handcuffs please. Thanks. Again. Thanks."<br />
<br />
Finally, a breath taken at room temperature and not from the open door of a furnace. </div>
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Saturday; four hours sleep, lunch with my girl, nap, stationary trainer torture, movie, bed. </div>
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Sunday: Tuning drums for a session with the Maestro. All the while twitching like a worm on a hook. The bike is on the car. Munson is surely prefect, gripping, damp clay and white under belly. I escape two hours later than promised. Something with the files and the pre-amps, and a ringing noise in the snare I couldn't eliminate, while maintaining the pitch the Maestro wanted. </div>
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Scramble out of clothes, forget glasses, triple check the car doors. Hammer into paper cup way to fast, way to anxious, and way too pissed off. A thought occurs that, the current meth like state of mind, could lead to a few PR's on Strava. I am full cry in the big ring, railing a corner when I see him. Jeans, flat pedals, no lid, holding his phone attached to his ear buds. Off I go into the thicket to the left of the trail. Thank god it is full of thorns. He says; "Duuude". I ride away from him. Two corners later I run into a couple of riders I know, faces full of teeth, having the ride of a life time. They force me over a berm and yell my name as they blaze by. Instant Karma. Not stoked. I am less than a half mile into the ride. </div>
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I finish the lap and it is getting colder by the minute, but also dark and the lot at the trail head is nearly empty. I try to hit the reset button. This time there will be no traffic. I will hammer out a clockwise lap in total solitude. I can feel my center coming back. The sky is an airbrushed license plate from 1985. I cross the power line to a long set of curving climbs. Still in the big ring, still have legs. Just before coming down the to cross the power line for the last leg of the lap, I see him. His bike is upside down and he is looking at his front wheel like he found a piece of alien technology. He has no tire irons. To my surprise, I don't either. I get the stiff tire off with a screwdriver from my multi tool. I put his tube in and its bad too. I try for ten more minutes to get the tire off, so I can put my spare tube in, but it will not budge. He mumbles something about how he could have walked to the car by now. I hand him his wheel, and ride off.</div>
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"Some days you can't do good." <br />
He says. I wish him luck.</div>
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I fumble back to the car, in the dark, with no lights. It's the first time in years that the ride was not the cure. It was like running on a trampoline. </div>
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Tour de Felasco looms on the horizon. I should be over the moon, but really I just want it to be over. </div>
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W.B.Z.N. </div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-64054843359165257262013-11-11T00:07:00.000-05:002013-11-11T00:41:29.034-05:00Wild Horses<br />
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<br />
It's 5:30, I wake up to the alarm in complete state of forget. It is a haze I stay in for less than two seconds. I rise quietly, grab my phone and head out of the room. The dining room table is covered with a grid work of bike clothing, food and accoutrement's for the Spaghetti Dirt Epic; 62 miles of clay and paved roads. I am ready. I know it. I have done the completely undramatic work. I am surprised by how confident I feel. Fear still walks with me though, and it knows better than anyone all my secrets; How badly I tend to handle mechanical failures, how panicked I change tires, how childlike I become during asthma attacks. It whispers to me at moments like these when I feel good about myself:<br />
<br />
"What if you have an issue? What if you have a migraine or asthma attack? What if you get too excited and blow to pieces in the early chaos of the start? What if everyone sees you bent over and retching for breath?"<br />
<br />
I have a new answer for all those questions: "Fuck it, I'll ride alone. That's how I got here." Because riding alone was what I have feared most, that's what I have been doing. Long rides on the road, learning to navigate, intentionally getting lost, and making it back, which in many ways describes my life in a perfect little nutshell. I just want to be good enough to ride with my friends. I don't want to beat anyone, or prove anything, I just want to be part of story, instead of hearing the recount.<br />
<br />
The start is the typical mock opera of knuckleheads. Mountain bikers moving to the front and causing all kinds of expansions and contractions in the school moving upstream. Twice I have to speak up to people fighting for Big Worms wheel (which is the most valued piece of group ride real estate in cycling). They want me to give it up and that is not an option. <br />
<br />
We turn onto the first section of dirt, the one that Ricky Silk called; "kinda sandy and soft". He said it with raised eyebrows like it was a secret. The underscored subtlety was not lost on me. Once he described Oak Mountains Blood Rock section as "kinda technical". When a guy that can ride anything says something like that, its noteworthy. We hit the sand, I am on Worms wheel, about twenty five people from the front. It's Braveheart on bikes. People and bicycles are performing a dance that would make sub atomic particles blush with envy. The yelling starts behind me as things begin to go wrong. I follow Worm into and ankle deep section of fine brown sugar. Worm shoots far left into a hard part of a little ditch and powers though. I put a foot down and Fred Flintstone for dear life. In the process, I stop roughly fifteen riders behind me. Fifty yards away I see Worm out of the saddle on the first dirt climb, no sign of looking back, no sign of stopping. I am on the edge, breathing like a whipped plow horse, and start running in the brown talcum, with all I have. It is like a bad slow motion dream. I jump on and attack the hill, knowing that if this keeps up I will not stay with the group. I crest the hill and make the catch. We settle back into a hard pace with a little more organization and no talking. There is only heaving breath and the wheel in front of us. As I realize I am going to have to give up and go off the back, Worm tells me, we need to start riding smart and let the leaders go.<br />
<br />
I am saved. <br />
<br />
We settle into a rhythm, and the drama resides. Worm and Storman are pacing us and I recover. We chat about the melee, and laugh about how Cliffy couldn't resist going with the leaders after swearing he was going to "take it easy, have fun and ride with us" (so generous of him). We see a lone rider ahead going the wrong way. The sight of the bright yellow vest, and barbaric beard, sets all laughing. Cliffy comes into view talking to himself as we fly by. He turns and catches us with out any effort we can detect and now the ride is shaping up like we planned. We make lunch, and roll out with a few more strays heading into the second leg for home. I know now, I am going to be alright. I even do a little work at the front (a first in my career on this type of ride, where I hide from the wind for fear of death or getting dropped). Back in the first dirt section after lunch, I am again defeated in the powder and this time I take Jim Smart out. We fight our way through and I pull as back to the group, pissed and exhausted. *I really need sand skills on the cross bike.<br />
<br />
Nearing the end of this ride (as all endurance events) when the pack smells the barn, the alliances break and the stronger gently move ahead. The talking devolves to grunts and communication via expression. Future TMBA President, Mike Yaun, stays just off the front of Worm and I and the others are specs in the wavy distance. We are almost home. The three big dirt climbs, come and go, with Worm and I cursing our way over the tops. Back on pavement, we pick off some low hanging fruit from the forty mile ride. I help on the climbs and Worm turns the pistons on the descents and flat tarmac. <br />
<br />
We arrive in three hours forty five minutes, a time Worm and I both agreed would be a great number for the day. Beers are opened, spaghetti is eaten and for the first time in four years I am hearing stories about a tough ride, I was actually on. It all seems fine and completely mundane. The best mundane I have ever experienced. A mundane I remember from old days before the storm, before I chose to let anger steal my life. A mundane I hope to keep as long as I am able.<br />
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<br />
W.B.Z.N.<br />
<br />
*Photo Brian Pierce (my nominee for "rider of the day")<br />
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Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-29027842921639586572013-09-26T12:42:00.000-04:002013-09-26T12:48:49.251-04:00Time Flies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hate getting ready to ride. I grumble and hope for rain and dig out clothes and cuss when there are no clean water bottles. I hate my old pump and I am out of tubes. My gloves smell like a dead body. Somehow I mange to throw a leg over.</div>
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There is no way in or out of my hood with out a climb. It is a bitch at the beginning of a ride. Crawling up to the Thomasville Road light where the cars always pinch off the curb on the right turn. People come over the hill there at warp factor seven, running from the jobs they hate, rushing home to the television. I am a pissed off cyclist but at least I am not them. I hop up on the curb and then back down at the front of the right turn line. Stink eye from the lady with too much hairspray. I spot a little opening in traffic and in a supreme act of faith, drop onto Thomasville road and hammer towards Hermitage. I catch the light and lean into the great right corner with no traffic. You can hold all your speed going wide and stay around twenty five miles per hour, to the base of the hill. The missing twelve pounds in my jersey are the difference between now and the last time up this hill. I got dropped by my son here in a wheezing stagger, two months ago. </div>
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Over I-10 and into the safety of Kilearn Estates. Drink water. Trying to ignore the smell of food I can't eat. The A.J. decent is next. A van follows me into the the first sweeping left a little too close. I drop him. The scary corner is more blind than ever with fallen trees blocking the vision of potential cars coming up the hill. The climb up to Shamrock isn't bad. Drink water. I have a line from a song I can't stop repeating in my head: "but after a while, you realize, time flies...." </div>
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At the top I see a cyclist go by. I am still half way up the climb. I speed up involuntarily. By the time I get to the stop sign he is a half mile away. He doesn't know it, but we are racing now. He is a fake rabbit on a stick. By the church I am closer to him. He looks over his shoulder, as he starts the fast section. I get out of the saddle. On the fast climb, he is fifty yards away. By the bricks I am on top of him gasping, but I don't come around. I don't have to. It has been a very long time since anything like this has happened. I turn right on Bayshore and disappear. </div>
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A couple climbs and a I am dropping into Hermitage. No traffic. Forty two miles per hour at the base of the descent, I sit up and ease onto the sidewalk and back up the last hill to home. </div>
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The dog is happy to see me. I smell dinner. I want to write. I want to sing. I never thought I could feel this way again. Nothing in the future is written. </div>
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W.B.Z.N. </div>
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Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-12105828683894537882013-08-23T10:27:00.000-04:002013-08-23T10:27:49.595-04:00Don't Crack Up<div style="text-align: left;">
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You ride too much. You quit riding. You come back but don't commit. You start playing music again. You turn fifty and question every decision since the summer of 79. You remember who your friends are and that they will not wait forever. You write a story (you are not sure why or what it meant). It takes a year, and runs off the folks that like to read about how shitty you ride bikes. You are blessed but you struggle. </div>
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The calm returns one day on a solo ride, to the coast and back. It is a ride born from anger. You are angry with yourself, for not being able to ride with your people. A dusty switch flips and a rusty machine churns in the wind, on the burning lanes of Capital Circle. You are out of water, food and grinning, at the ride you didn't think you could finish.</div>
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You remember that you ride bikes. It's not what you do, it's who you are and not doing it makes you an unbearable, bi polar, fuck face. You start riding more and have a couple small victories: Complete a group ride with the crew. Finish a Chaires ride (thanks to luck and a friend that pulled your carcass home). You get invited to a ride that you normally would have been on the "no call list' for. It starts to come back a little. You get the shit kicked out of you at Munson for the uncountable kabillionth time. It's not supposed to be easy.</div>
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The cross bike is aptly named, it is the crucible of truth and the revelatory place where the spirit was waiting. It is the cave where the visions come. The trip you hated that you can't wait to make again. It's "the fucking bike" you are going to ride back to the fold. </div>
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I cannot promise I won't start some convoluted story here again (if the ghosts start talking, I must write) but for now, I am back on the bike, and blah blah blogging about it.</div>
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Tell your friends.</div>
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W.B.Z.N.</div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-73531088774482217792013-08-14T10:17:00.000-04:002013-08-14T10:22:34.609-04:00Tired of Being AloneNineteen.<br />
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<br />
The Reverend Al Green was singing as Roscoe diced up the vegetables. Onions usually gave him heart burn, but tonight he was not concerned. He shelled the shrimp and set them off to the side. The rice was almost ready, and he did a little side step dance as he moved away from the stove. He put the veggies in the pan and poured the olive oil into the mix in a high exaggerated stroke. A loud sizzling noise erupted from the pan, and Roscoe yelled; "Thank You!" His head was bobbing back and forth as he pointed to an imaginary crowd and sang into the bottle. He spun on his heals and dragged his left foot back to his right and held his hands out like he was stopping traffic. He took the honey and orange juice, and did his patented "chugga choo choo" shuffle over to the pan. He poured in some honey with his left hand and then the orange juice with his right.<br />
<br />
"I am so in love with you, whatever you want to do, is alright with me..." Came out of the speakers.<br />
<br />
"Sing It Al!" Roscoe shouted as he tossed some fresh garlic into the pan. He did a little James Brown foot work and as he jiggled the saute pan.<br />
<br />
"Oh Baby leeeettttttts, lets stay together!" Roscoe sang with the music. He slowed down his pace a little and slid over to the counter. He swayed as he pulled the cork from a bottle of wine and let it breath on the counter. <br />
<br />
Gretna crossed St. Augustine and clicked her walking stick with every left step she took. She made her way through a spot she cut out of the old fence and walked down the ancient clay double track. She thought about the happy days she spent out west in her youth, and for the first time considered retracing some of those steps. She was getting in shape for the first time since her twenties. She had lost nearly sixty pounds and had even given up her morning cigarette. She showed her age but she was an attractive woman. A hawk flew by her and landed on a tree sounding out to another across the field. A distant reply came back and the hawk surveyed the field as if he was the lord and master of all he saw. Gretna watched him and didn't move. The bird showed no sign that he feared anything and even in total stillness was more alive than anyone Gretna knew.<br />
<br />
Kerry found an application to Nursing School on the passenger seat of the old Toyota her mother and her shared. She assumed Roscoe was making subtle suggestions after a talk they had. She tapped her finger nails on the counter and then typed in the address to the website. Springsteen's song; "Be True" came on Pandora. As the sax solo played, she began filling in the spaces on the lines of the application.<br />
<br />
Roscoe finished washing and drying the dishes, and gently returned them to the cabinets. He closed the doors slowly and wiped down the black walnut with the dish towel. He threw the towel over his shoulder and looked out at the sun setting behind the tree line. He grabbed three envelopes addressed to Kerry, Gretna and his lawyer. He walked over to the desk and set the envelopes out separately putting the bus keys on top of the one marked; "Gretna". He looked at himself in the mirror, and straightened his tie. He folded the broken money clip Lilly bought him into a bandanna and placed it in his pocket. He surveyed the house, the yard, and his shop. Everything was as neat as a pin.<br />
<br />
The orange morphine pills were curious to him. They looked like candy and they said "M" on one side and "60" on the other. He ground them all into a bowl stopping briefly to get the stereo remote and turn it up a little. When he finished making the powder, he poured it all into a wine glass and dragged his finger around the bowl to get all the dust out. He licked his finger and winced at the bitterness. He washed the bowl and placed it back in the cupboard. He placed two thick towels folded in half, on the seat of his recliner and began to pour the wine. He lit two candles and shut out all the lights. Roscoe took a deep breath and sat down. The powder danced in a swirl and he watched the dust spin in the candle light. He drank it in slow sips as the warmth swept over him like a breeze. He took the last sip from the glass and wiped his mouth on a white linen napkin.<br />
<br />
Roscoe, blinked slowly and labored to open his eyes. He could smell rose water in the room as he focused to see Lilly standing there in the kitchen. He couldn't move or speak. She had a patient look on her face he had seen countless times throughout their life together. She was wearing a flowered dress and the patterns of the fabric swayed in soft light of the candles. She smiled at Roscoe as he looked into her eyes. He clutched the white napkin a little harder and the fabric wrinkled in his grip. He started to feel his eyes close and he felt Lilly's hands on his shoulders. He was so tired. As the candles flickered, Roscoe's hand opened softly and the napkin fell to the floor, like a leaf.<br />
<br />
The End<br />
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W.B.Z.N. </div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-80254957873969652562013-08-09T13:11:00.000-04:002013-08-13T21:18:37.988-04:00My GirlEIGHTEEN <br />
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Roscoe got in the old bus, put the key in the ignition and slid his hands over the creamy white steering wheel. He had never driven a bus before. When he turned the key, the motor sprang to life and idled like a sewing machine. He felt an instant recognition between the bus and other V.W.'s he had owned. The connective thread of their linage felt so familiar, that apprehension left him with an exhale. The Wolfsburg crest on the wheel, and the low back seats all felt like home. He gently put it in gear and nudged it down the drive with a little gas. The bubbly sound of the motor and the smell of new paint, rubber and vinyl, made him smile as he looked around the inside of the bus.<br />
<br />
It was unusually cool and he drove with his elbow out the window. He took at look at the sun rising behind him, in the small chrome rear view mirror. He rolled slowly into the small gravel lot by Chaires Cross Roads and parked the bus in the shade. He reached across to get a small bouquet of flowers and let her run as he got out. The bus was sat purring and glistening in the sun. He could smell the paint burning off the new muffler, and it reminded him of how V.W.'s smelled when they were new. He smiled as he walked around her. She was everything he'd hoped she'd be. The fresh white interior was perfect. He gently glided his fingers along the new chrome trim as he walked down the length of her. Above the left tail light was a tiny Lilly hand painted by a local pinstripe artist. He squatted and admired his reflection and the flower. It was a good day. He walked over to a weathered wooden cross and straightened it up as he gently pushed it back down into the earth. He pulled the grass and weeds away from it and set the flowers down. <br />
<br />
When Gretna heard the bus pulling in, it triggered a flood of memories. The sound of the motor and the tires on gravel surprised her. When she first saw the old bus in it's original colors, she felt like a time machine had arrived to pick her up. Roscoe, in his knowing way, stopped in front of her and smiled, letting her take it in. He knew she had traveled a long way with this bus, and he assumed everyone grew attached to their cars as he did. She walked around it in wonder. She touched it, opening and closing it's doors as though she was seeing on old friend. Roscoe was so pleased with her reaction, he broke into a stuttered laugh, as the expressions of joy met her face, for the first time since he had met her.<br />
<br />
"It is just a dream! I don't know how you did it but it is perfect. Roscoe, how on earth did you do this? It's just a dream!"<br />
<br />
"I'm going to see Kerry, you want to go for a ride?"<br />
<br />
Gretna didn't lock the door to her house. She didn't get her purse or her keys, she just stepped into the bus in a haze, and bounced involuntarily, in her seat. Out on old St. Augustine Road, all the colors seemed brighter to her. The fences, farms and the old growth of the road, all looked new. It was a bright day and the sun shot though sections of the trees, making striped shadows on the road before them. Roscoe turned the ivory nob on the radio and "My Girl" came through the little speaker in the dash. Gretna tapped her leg and looked out the window completely lost in a nostalgic trance. Roscoe watched how uninhibited she had become, and smiled at her innocent expression. They sailed down the old road in the bus, having sensations neither had felt in years.<br />
<br />
They parked the car on an old loading ramp across from Cabo's restaurant and it seemed as though the entire Friday afternoon lunch crowd was transfixed at the sight of it. A few people came out and looked at it, each with a story about a bus or an old bug they had owned. Gretna just stood back and watched them walk around it. She simply could not take her eyes off of the the resurrected bus.<br />
<br />
Inside Kerry brought out a plate of food to him. He was eating chips slowly and peering through the blinds. He was smiling slightly and he thanked her as she put the food down.<br />
<br />
"It was you wasn't it?" She asked out of nowhere.<br />
<br />
"I"m sorry?" He said, not understanding.<br />
<br />
"It was you that left that medicine here for me. You come here every Friday and sit by yourself." She said leaning on the corner of the table. He looked up at her and waited. He never knew how people would react. She had always seemed tragic to him, but today she was secure and full of purpose, unafraid and brave in her movements.<br />
<br />
"Well, I'll pick up your check today, Mr. Friday lunch special."<br />
<br />
She spun and walked away and he was relieved. He continued to watch the man and lady by the bus and he recognized him. He'd seen him driving that old 56 bug to Cabo's. They came inside and he watched as Kerry sat them in the booth next to him and he leaned over as they settled in.<br />
<br />
"66 thirteen window?" He asked Roscoe.<br />
<br />
"You got it. It's my first drive since I restored her." Roscoe answered.<br />
<br />
"I had a 71 bay window but I always wanted a late sixties split. Well, you did a great job, she looks like she just rolled off the showroom floor."<br />
<br />
"This is Gretna, she was the owner of the bus before me, that's her daughter over there." Roscoe motioned towards Kerry and she walked over to them.<br />
<br />
"Weren't you at the hospital when we were there?" Roscoe asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes sir, I had to get a sonogram of my heart. I had some health issues back in August 2010. Every so often they like to poke at me to keep me thankful." He said and laughed at his own joke.<br />
<br />
"What day in August?" Roscoe asked<br />
<br />
"August twenty first, worst day of my life." He said, and his face showed the weight of it. He wished he hadn't said it. He wished he could not bring it up in conversation so much. He wished he could just let it go, but he couldn't it was part of who he was now. It had changed him forever, and the reminders seemed to find him all the time.<br />
<br />
"That's the day I fell and broke my legs." Gretna said.<br />
<br />
"It's my wedding anniversary and the day I lost my wife." Roscoe said with a solemn tone.<br />
<br />
"It's my birthday and the day my husband died." Kerry added.<br />
<br />
They all sat there looking at each other until finally he laughed and said; <br />
<br />
"This kind of strange coincidental stuff has been happening to me lately. I spose there is a meaning in there somewhere. Now that Y'all freaked me out, I probably won't leave the house on the twenty first!"<br />
<br />
They all laughed a little as the Friday lunch special guy got up, said his goodbyes, and walked out to his car. He paused to peek in to the bus, and headed back to work.<br />
<br />
"Roscoe, I am glad you fixed it up. It's like you got all the bad memories off of it. Mama, I get off in a minute you want to ride home with me?" Kerry asked and Gretna nodded. Roscoe stood up, hugged Gretna and Kerry and made his way out to the bus. He started her up and waved as he drove off.<br />
<br />
When Roscoe pulled up to the doctors office, his heart felt light. He had forgotten what happiness felt like and he had a satisfaction he had finished something for once. He had the feeling that had eluded him for years, like finally, all his work was done. He giggled as he watched the nurses stand and point at the old bus and even Doctor Reynolds stood, looked out the window and gave Roscoe a thumbs up. He came into the waiting room and the nurse was waiting in the open door with his chart.<br />
<br />
"C'mon back Mr. Roscoe, we are ready for you."<br />
<br />
He sat down on a chair next to an examining table and heard the familiar knock before the doctor entered.<br />
<br />
"Well, ya finished another project I see. You are something else Mr. Roscoe." The Doctor turned and looked at Roscoe, with reverence and affection. He tapped his fingers on the counter and tried to compose himself.<br />
<br />
"Well old friend I have your films." The doctor brought the images of Roscoe's brain up on the computer and highlighted the one with a spider like growth on the left side.<br />
<br />
Roscoe, turned his hat in his hands but he felt no sadness. He felt like he was going on a long trip after the war. Like he did with Lilly in Germany, like the hard part was over. His faith was returning to him and he thought of Lilly for the first time since she had died, without sadness.<br />
<br />
"Well here is the tumor. It's much bigger than before, like we knew it would be. You will probably start to notice some symptoms and a slow loss of faculties. Your speech may begin to slur over the next weeks. Are you feeling any discomfort?"<br />
<br />
Roscoe shook his head and looked out the window. The colors seemed so bright out there. He was aware of every leaf and bird and the sun was so strong. He made little mental notes of how vivid his vision was, like he was seeing for the first time. <br />
<br />
"No, I am fine" Roscoe said, still in a quiet awe of how calm and relaxed he was.<br />
<br />
"I have some Morphine here and instructions for the nurse. Have you made arrangements with hospice?" The Doctor asked?<br />
<br />
"Yes, yes, I have everything I need. I want to thank you for taking care of me this last four years Doc."<br />
<br />
Roscoe left the office and headed for home. He was happy to be back in the bus and he took the long route out to Moccasin Gap. He drove along and sang along with the radio. Today had been a great day. He made his way through his gates and back onto the gravel drive. He parked the bus sideways by the front window so he could see her while he made dinner, listened to music, and shuffled in a little dance around the kitchen floor. He wouldn't be alone much longer.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
W.B.Z.N.</div>
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-43825533157833870232013-06-14T09:49:00.001-04:002013-06-14T10:15:24.933-04:00Never See It Comingseventeen<br />
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<br />
Floyd's Music Store, May 3, 2003: The young opening band for socialburn just finished their set. They are elated. They high five each other, in front of a sold out crowd. They start wave to their friends and family. A loud, rude voice comes from behind: <br />
<br />
"Hey what the fuck are you guys doing? Get your shit off the stage!"<br />
<br />
The young guys scatter like recruits in boot camp. They are grabbing hand fulls of cables and guitars and pushing gear off the stage as fast as they can move. I look over at Neil Alday (the socialburn singer that I manage) who is laughing so hard, no sound is coming out of him. <br />
<br />
Tallahassee, April 18, 2013: I am rolling an old road cases off of the red and blue rubber mats of my garage. This area was for bikes and a work stand for the last fourteen years. Since the day I gave up playing music full time. Since the days I stopped managing bands. This was the sanctuary where the arsenal was kept. The weapons that kept all my demons at bay. The desire to play music and sing was beaten back with sweat, bikes and tools. This shop was kept spotless, the vigil was never forsaken, the watchman never slept and the past was a distant dream. <br />
<br />
Now the space was full of road cases. Cases that had been flown around the world, and dragged into every rock bar in Tallahassee. The old blue drum set inside was beaten and chipped. The cobalt piano finish was pale compared to the day they were new 1988. But they are cleaned, lubed and wearing fresh drum heads. A horn beeps from the van out front. I smile and roll the bass drum case down the driveway.<br />
<br />
One year ago this week I had taken my first ride after breaking my right collarbone. A year and a half before that, I had heart surgery. One month before that, I'd had a stroke. I had trouble talking. I couldn't write my own name for a week. I thought I would end up on disability. Slowly it all came back, but no matter how hard I tried, I never felt right on the bike. I felt funny around my friends too. It wasn't anything they did or said, but my world had changed and nothing was the same color anymore. Some part of me never came back from the hospital. August twenty first, and that tiny blood clot changed me forever. The Bike Chain Crew were all different too. Life had caught us all unaware. The difference was, they could still ride. I still rode too, when I could, but it wasn't the same. I had to accept the fact that cycling was not the central thing in my life. I look at my BC jersey, hanging on the bike stand, as I load the last case and shut the garage door. <br />
<br />
The light guy tells me to wait for the fog. I hear the intro music start. First the sound of flipping through radio stations, a few seconds of a socialburn song, then "You'll Have Time" by William Shatner starts to play with the opening lyric: "Live life like you're gonna die...cause your gonna!"<br />
<br />
"Amen Brother!"<br />
<br />
I say under my breath and walk out a little ahead of the rest of the band, to put in my in-ear monitors. I start playing the drum intro to "Save Me" the first song of our set. Eight hundred people stare up as we go from song to song. The applause increases after ever tune, and slowly the crowd warms up. I see the silhouette of Neil, my old friend. I watched him play for huge crowds from the side of the stage as his manager and now I am playing with him. Life is strange. I never saw any of this coming. I count off the last song and look over to see the drummer and bass player from Blackberry Smoke watching. Their arms are folded and they look tired and unimpressed. The drummer is tapping his foot. We finish the song. I give some drum sticks to a few people that ask for them. Blackberry Smoke's stage manager is screaming at us to get our gear off the stage. I start laughing.<br />
<br />
"Calm down Sparky."<br />
<br />
I say to the twenty something manager.<br />
<br />
"This ain't our first rodeo."<br />
<br />
I move him out of the way with my left hand and walk by with some cymbal stands.<br />
<br />
The gear is all cased and in the van. I am drinking a beer outside the back stage door, soaked in sweat. I look up and see Charlie Starr from Blackberry Smoke.<br />
<br />
"Y'all have a good time? The crowd treat you right?"<br />
<br />
"Hell ya man. Thanks for letting us play the show. We are huge fans."<br />
<br />
I stop talking because I know the drill. The singer was just being nice. Headliners hate talking before they walk on stage. They want to be left alone. I tell him to have a good show and walk over to our van, sitting in the shadow of a forty five foot Prevost Touring Coach. I change my shirt next to a dumpster and climb in the front seat.<br />
<br />
"Well Eddy?"<br />
<br />
I say to my old friend and sound man.<br />
<br />
"Sometimes you are on the bus and sometimes you are in the van."<br />
<br />
Eddy turns and laughs out a cloud of cigar smoke.<br />
<br />
"Ain't that the fucking truth!"<br />
<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.<br />
<br />Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-21788578928403586962013-05-14T10:27:00.003-04:002013-05-14T11:06:47.096-04:00Ain't No Sunshinesixteen<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
"Tell me about your wife..." <br />
<br />
Gretna asked, having no idea what the question would bring up. It hung there in the bright afternoon and she noticed immediately that the easy posture of Roscoe had changed. It was like the bones in his face were struggling with the muscles, like they might pull from the skin all together.<br />
<br />
People don't die like they do in the movies. They don't leave this earth with a perfect last statement. There is no angelic moment of clarity. There is only confused looks, lack of breath and a desperate gasping in fear and disbelief. Roscoe had seen people die in the years he spent in the Nam. He had seen a few more stateside, when he found himself at roadside accidents that seemed to find him like a curse. He wished he could drive by, but the medic in him made him stop, and made him help. It was a sore spot between he and Lilly. She hated stopping for stranded motorists and she detested how her life was disrupted by Roscoe's crusade. She had been a nurse in the war and when she came home she vowed to never have blood on her hands again. She never worked as a nurse again, and she never went back to school like she had dreamed as a girl. She wanted to live a quiet life, without the screams of young men echoing in her head. But Roscoe couldn't pass by anyone in need. He would forget whatever was going on in their life. The day would been spent getting parts for broken cars, ferrying people around that they didn't know, and on a few occasions, giving C.P.R. or keeping pressure on a wound. <br />
<br />
"She was my angel."<br />
<br />
Roscoe said as he looked out the window.<br />
<br />
"You know all my life I always wondered about men that complained about their wives. Men that couldn't wait to get to a bar. These guys that say their wives gained weight, or nagged. I never tired of looking at my Lilly. Our lives weren't perfect and Lord, she used to get mad at me, but I never tired of looking at her. I never fought back when she got angry. Maybe I was just simple minded. Maybe I should have fought but, whenever she got upset, I just couldn't ignore how child like she became. I never forgot how much I loved her. I never forgot the good times. I couldn't get angry. Even when she was mad as the devil, I was still happy to be near her. We used to go hours without talking, we would sit and read or make dinner, we were always together. We would put on music and when a song came on that we loved, we would dance a little, you know? Just for a minute or two. No matter what was going on in our lives, she would look up at me and I'd remember those great days in Europe, driving around with nothing but a day and a map in front of us. She wore rose water perfume. I loved the way she smelled."<br />
<br />
It was a beautiful day outside and Roscoe clinched his eyes together as hard as he could. The trauma always lurked right below the surface of his skin, just out of sight. Working on old things and making them run, held it all at bay. He would work himself into a walking coma and at the end of the day he'd eat, have a glass of wine and drift off to a place where he could still take Lilly for a turn around the dance floor. He would wake in a fog and move into another day.<br />
<br />
"It was August twenty first, nineteen eighty five."<br />
<br />
Roscoe gripped his hat like a rope and his hands twisted the fabric into a crumpled knot as he spoke.<br />
<br />
"There was a lady standing next to her car on highway twenty seven. It was drizzling like it does ever summer day around three or four in the afternoon. We were on our way to a restaurant, it was our anniversary. She wore a special dress with flowers on it. I can remember it waving in the breeze, as we drove with the windows down. She held the dress in place with her hands and pushed the material down between her knees. She saw the car before I did and her face showed she was mad before I stopped. When I pulled over she asked me to just keep going, but the lady looked so lost and her hood was up. It was starting to rain harder and I told Lilly it would just be a minute. She slapped her purse against her legs when I got out. Her car was half in the slow lane and I told her to get in while I pushed it out of the way. I was preoccupied with trying to get her situated when I heard the tires sliding on the pavement. It was a weird sound like a fingernail on canvas, and then I heard the crash."<br />
<br />
Roscoe pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. His head was down and his other hand held onto the hat for dear life. Gretna wished she had never asked, she wished she could pour them a drink, she wished she could get away. She stared spell bound at the man she hardly knew, lost in a story he didn't want to tell. He was powerless to stop it from running over the levy, and it spilled out of him like a violent wall of water that nothing could hold back.<br />
<br />
"She looked fine, there was just a little goose egg on her head. When I got to her she was so confused and she looked up at me like she didn't understand what happened. The man in the truck that hit her was yelling at me and for a spilt second I thought we would be fine, she tried to say something, but the life ran out of her and she stopped breathing. I got her out and started C.P.R. I could hear her ribs breaking as I pushed on her chest. I gave her breaths and and pushed and checked her pulse. It went on forever until the fireman pulled me off her. I fell down there in the gravel next to the road. There wasn't any room for me in the ambulance. I could see them working on her. I prayed to God there on the side of the road. The last thing I can remember was seeing her dress move in the wind as they closed the doors. Those little flowers, white and purple, the radio was still playing. All she wanted was a nice dinner. She was all dressed up."<br />
<br />
Roscoe let the tension leave his hands and he wiped his eyes. His chest rose and fell slowly as he returned to his world as it was now. He sighed and stared off to nowhere.<br />
<br />
"August twenty first was the day we married, the happiest day of my life. The insurance company settled out of court and I got more money that I ever dreamed of getting, enough to live on forever. That's the joke God played on me. I didn't have to work anymore, but it was all I could do to stay alive. I had to keep living. So everyday I get up, I try to fix something, I try to make it up to my Lilly. It ain't ever enough. The grass grows back, the dishes get dirty, the house gets painted and Lilly's still gone."<br />
<br />
He hit his hat against his leg and a small cloud of red dust drifted away from him in the breeze.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry Gretna. I know you didn't.....I have to go."<br />
<br />
Roscoe pulled open the screen door, walked through it and let it slam. His big feet dug into the gravel as he strode away to his car. She heard the old V.W. start up and he drove away, without waving.<br />
<br />
Gretna plopped onto a stool and let out a deep breath. She pushed the cold coffee away from her, hit the counter with her hand and shook her head. It was such a nice day, a few minutes ago.<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-7907105372238540002013-05-10T09:16:00.000-04:002013-08-08T15:44:18.691-04:00Diamonds and RustFifteen<br />
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<br />
It was the scraping sound that Gretna noticed first and then the birds. Sounds you miss when in hospital. She smelled coffee on the stove and noticed chairs askew at the kitchen island. The house was a marvel. In the dungeon of bitterness she had built, she never dreamed that light could return to this house. The sun was beaming through the trees across St. Augustine road and she thought of the old days when she walked the old dirt paths. She wandered those fields with Kerry when hope of his return still hung in the air like a kite. She poured coffee and walked painfully to the porch supporting herself on furniture as she moved, to see the source of the sounds, coming from outside.<br />
<br />
Roscoe was working a soft block sander on the curves of the old bus. The inside was gutted and transported back to his house piece by piece. The motor, rear end and transmission were nearly done. There was nothing left but to sand and massage the body. Roscoe lost himself bringing the old bus back to the smooth curvaceous beauty she was when she left Stuttgart back in 66. She was sea foam green with a white seats and matching door panels. Roscoe checked the numbers on her and found her whole story, just like him she had a long journey. He stood upright and stretched his aching back looking for low spots in the panel he had sanded. <br />
<br />
Gretna lit her one and only cigarette for the day. She allowed herself one, and only one when the boys were not around. Life with no vice is no life at all, and so she hid a pack and kept one little secret connection to her former self. She looked at the new railing and porch, and briefly thought of her fall back to grace. She was eating right, not drinking and her family was around her again. She went to physical therapy twice a week and met with a nutritionist once a month. She was thirty five pounds lighter and able to walk a little everyday. She had awakened from a spell. Fifteen years of bitter torment at her own hand had ended with a fall in dog shit. The dog looked like a show winner, after that Roscoe man nursed it back to health. Rooney sat wagging, waiting for an invitation to be petted. It was as if he had forgiven her, but still remembered the fire she used to spew at him. Dogs move forward, and Gretna had too. Being broken into pieces had afforded her the opportunity to be put back together again.<br />
<br />
Roscoe was finally down past the body line, below the windows. All the corners were repaired, sanded and the floor was finished and primed. The fender wells were tough, but now nothing stood between this bus being done and Roscoe except the vast expanse of sheet metal below the windows. It was mostly flat and easy going from here. Then the she would go to the body shop for paint rubber and windows. Roscoe heard Gretna calling from the porch and wondered how this would play out. They really hadn't spoken in the hospital, and he worried about what she might say. Kerry had told him a lot about the woman and most was not good. He clapped his hands together and a cloud of maroon dust expanded in front of him.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Roscoe? Roscoe?"<br />
<br />
Gretna called out to the garage and finally he appeared into the sun light. He patted his overalls shaking loose what ever dust that still hung to him and wandered out toward the porch.<br />
<br />
"Thank you for the swing. And all of this."<br />
<br />
She motioned around her and up into the air at all the improvements he had done around the house and property.<br />
<br />
"Would you like a cup of coffee?"<br />
<br />
He nodded and walked slowly to her. He used to get a lot more done when there was nobody around. Now he'd have to get to know her, and the solitude of working on the bus would be harder to find. But is was only a few more days and then the trailer would come. Once it was painted, it would be brought back to his house and he could put her right, in the silence of his shop. Just the Reverend Al Green, Curtis Mayfield and Marvin Gaye, and Roscoe doing work. Roscoe liked it that way. <br />
<br />
"I guess I have you to thank for amazing transformation around here, are you working on that old bus?"<br />
<br />
Gretna poured the coffee while Roscoe rotated his hat in his hand in the doorway.<br />
<br />
"Come in and sit down. Cream and sugar?"<br />
<br />
Roscoe nodded yes and sat in the chair by the counter.<br />
<br />
"How'd she pay for all this? I know Kerry doesn't have any money."<br />
<br />
"Well, some of the wood came from the part that fell down, and there was some lumber out there in the garage. I had some things around my house, shingles and some paint. I never throw anything away that's useful. Kerry got some insurance money for some of it and I guess the money I paid her for the bus covered everything on the inside. She never told you about any of this?"<br />
<br />
"No, I guess she wanted it to be a surprise, and she didn't want to argue about it. Well now, you have seen me half naked and I hardly know anything about you!"<br />
<br />
Roscoe howled and laughed at her directness. He hadn't laughed in a long time and had a little trouble stopping. The vision of her and the comedy of errors when he found her was a fresh memory. It was all funny now that she had recovered. <br />
<br />
"Well I am sorry about that, it was a windy day and I am afraid that dress wasn't made for rough weather. I hope you are not embarrassed. I used to be a medic in the army and it's all just the human body to me. I must say I have seen some people that were tore up pretty good, but I don't think I ever saw someone covered in dog mess before!"<br />
<br />
And he began to laugh again and this time Gretna joined him. She shook her head and looked out toward the yard.<br />
<br />
"I must have been some sight all sprawled out like a turkey waiting to get stuffed! Dear Lord what an awful thing that was."<br />
<br />
They began to talk and filled in the blanks in each others stories. They told the simple stories people tell when they meet. The easy stories that don't hurt. The stories that require little effort to bring up. They eased into the cold waters of their histories, each knowing the other had deep scars and long journeys that led to this little moment in a kitchen. A red bird landed on the new rail Roscoe built to replace the one Gretna fell through. It lit there for a moment outside the open window and twitched its head from side to side. They noticed the bird in unison and smiled as is flew off in a dart. <br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-62233581346120891512013-04-26T13:19:00.000-04:002013-04-26T13:34:35.972-04:00For The Love Of YouFOURTEEN<br />
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<br />
Kerry fussed with little picture frames on the table. She looked at herself in the mirror and rolled her lips together so the color was even. She lit two candles and opened a window. She had put an Isley Brothers record on the turntable. It was the last record she could remember her mother playing before they gave up on her father coming home. Since then the music stopped, the light couldn't penetrate the curtains and laughter left this room never to return. The walls were decorated with photos from Gretna's past, intermingled with photos of Kerry, her children and one photo in the back of the father of her boys.<br />
<br />
"A house with no fathers." She said to herself.<br />
<br />
The walls had been painted a mint green and Roscoe helped her put new fabric on the old couch. She liked the old kitchen counters and they cleaned up nice. Despite the burnt circle in the center (Kerry called the tattoo) it was still in good shape and the old maple had a deep honey color. The cabinets looked better after Roscoe put new hinges and hardware on them and they worked fine. She was afraid to make too many changes for fear of overwhelming Gretna. She made all her decorating decisions based on memories of happier times and how it looked in her mind. Kerry paid for the gravel drive and most of the material's with the money Roscoe gave her for that old Bus. She gave up her rented house and moved here with the boys. Her mother was going to need help and Kerry held out her last scrap of hope that this was the one chance had at being a family. The grass was starting to come in and the tress and bushes were all trimmed back and manicured. The front of the house stood proud and painted against all the heartache it had held behind the walls inside. The walls of wood and plaster sealed in trauma that never aged, healed or lost its energy to torment the holder of the memories.<br />
<br />
She wished Roscoe was there but he had decided to be absent for Gretna's first day. How could anyone do so much good and not want to see the moment when the gratitude came? He was always there working on this or that in the morning and he hummed old songs while he worked. Every three days or so he would ask Kerry if he was in the way, or if she minded him coming the next day. Kerry would laugh and tell him she hoped he would. They made little decisions based on paint they found or the old wheel barrel they turned into a planter. Even the old mangy dog had recovered at the hands of Roscoe. He sat for his first bath without struggle and looked up as Roscoe sang to him and poured water from an old cup. He trusted Roscoe and followed him around the property, always staying within petting distance of his savior.<br />
<br />
Kerry took a Lexipro pill from the bottle she found on a table at Cabo's. She was in dire need the day she found prescription bottle, with the name scratched off. She thought it was that guy that ate alone all the time. The band guy that never said anything except what he wanted to eat. He always seemed to be watching people in the place, or surfing on the TVs. He wrote in a blue note book and tipped well. He always came early and usually left in a half hour. The same guy from the hospital. He was funny sometimes too, but mostly he just sat and ate. She found a note by the bottle:<br />
<br />
"I heard you say you needed these. I do not take them anymore. I hope they help."<br />
<br />
The note was written neatly on a napkin in all capital letters. There were fifty pills in the bottle enough to last her for almost three months. The label had the presciption number scratched off but the dosage and drug name were still there, as if to put her at ease they were safe. <br />
<br />
"For The Love Of You" came on the stereo, and Kerry fell back into the old couch. Why couldn't she ever get over anything? She still missed him after all these years. She still felt the cold chill run down her stomach when she saw her boys watching other kids with their Dads. She had moments of pause where the burden left her, but then a song, smell, or distant memory would hit her and the great weight returned again. She danced with him in her mind, in that little house, before he left, before the plane went down, before the light went out inside her. There was a part of her that never wanted the sadness to abate. The aching was the shadow of her old love and she didn't want to let go of the dark outline of what she once had. It was the last silhouette of him, and she held vigil in private silence. It was a haven and a prison she retreated to, as a way to hang onto the last of him. She wondered if it was killing her in little pieces, and if she might fade away entirely.<br />
<br />
She heard the gravel crunching under the tires, and saw the van from the hospital. She lifted the needle and moved it back to the beginning. She scanned the room, and hung the dish towel over the sink. She was moving forward, and she hoped maybe Gretna would too.<br />
<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-65395835213257544922012-11-27T10:04:00.002-05:002012-11-27T12:50:30.079-05:00Souvenirs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihl-dJERa8a8BAH54ZanlMefwUNBoym3rI2chi4yTPU74RHFFTbHGv8WXgw5S7VDXL0D1HAVlPkXI9I_oJpx1MAC2iMwGjxA7msNni1UTdoaUi_ZWxmsD_O74Fwja48jJ1JEg1q176Ah1u/s1600/lake+Lilly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihl-dJERa8a8BAH54ZanlMefwUNBoym3rI2chi4yTPU74RHFFTbHGv8WXgw5S7VDXL0D1HAVlPkXI9I_oJpx1MAC2iMwGjxA7msNni1UTdoaUi_ZWxmsD_O74Fwja48jJ1JEg1q176Ah1u/s320/lake+Lilly.jpg" tea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
Twelve <br />
<br />
Roscoe moved up in line to the bank teller, and he rattled the withdrawal slip in his hand. The teller did not regard him until she saw his name on the paper. Her posture changed from the tired Monday morning employee to the snapped attention of a soldier. Roscoe slid the slip to her and tapped her hand gently.<br />
<br />
"I have no need for a manager, it is just a small transaction."<br />
<br />
He smiled at her and she looked back at him with the face of a subordinate that had to follow protocol. <br />
<br />
"If you have to go get him, it's okay."<br />
<br />
The teller waddled off and got the manager. Roscoe watched them talk behind the glass walls. He wondered what these people did in those offices. Suddenly the whole bank was a buzz with the news that he was there. He had not been there in so long that he wondered if any of them had ever seen him in the flesh. Surely he had been the subject of a meeting or two. They were always trying to set him up appointments with investment bankers and financial planners. That made him laugh, if they were so smart with money, why did they need to mess around with his?<br />
<br />
"Hello Mr...." <br />
<br />
Roscoe interrupted the manager and smiled disarmingly. <br />
<br />
"Please, don't make a fuss. I just need to make a withdrawal. I don't want all this attention. You are doing a fine job, I am happy with the bank."<br />
<br />
He looked down into his hat unable to stop the flow of emotion. He didn't deserve this attention. He hated that feeling of tears forming. He was so familiar with their arrival and yet every time they came he was surprised and nervous. He hated being treated like a man that was important. He was rich quite literally by accident, the one that took his Lilly from him. He felt a single tear break away and run down his face.<br />
<br />
"Would it be possible for you to put into that file of mine, that I do NOT want to meet the manger every time I make a transaction? I just want to withdraw a few dollars. You have my withdrawal slip. Here is my license. Please, (his hand was shaking as he held out his license) just let me come and go like anyone else."<br />
<br />
The manager was now flustered and Roscoe felt the inevitable twinge of guilt. He hated any confrontation. He hated to be singled out. He loved more than anything to not be noticed at all, to live within his thoughts and to pass the time. He only enjoyed talking to people that knew nothing of him. To be mistaken as just another man was his life's greatest ambition, but there would be none of that today.<br />
<br />
Roscoe hit the stack of bills sideways on the counter with a crack and turned to leave. As he walked to the door he tried to force the bills into his money clip and it broke in two. The money cascaded out of his hands and fell like leaves to the floor. He knelt down and began grasping at the bills and the broken pieces of the his favorite souvenir. He looked at the hand painted mountain scene from Germany and the piece of the broken gold clip. He let out a stifled groan as he stuffed the wreckage of the bills and broken pieces of clip into his pocket. He shuffled out of the bank in an embarrassed rush, lost his balance on the curb and fell to the ground. He caught himself on one knee and his right hand. He slowly rose again and staggered toward the car. He started his car and reached for the ivory gear shift knob. He paused and looked at the picture on the money clip again. The tears fell out of his eyes now and rolled off the wool of his coat. The tellers and the manager watched from he window of the bank and Roscoe felt like an animal in a zoo. He was an oddity and had been since the moment his Lilly left this earth. He was a living ghost that his God had condemned to wander among the living. He could not die and to live was a Herculean struggle. He tried everyday to keep moving, to help people, and to build things, because Lilly would be mad with him for giving up. He knew living alone was the price he paid for his sins. He tried to put the pieces of the clip together in a desperate exercise of denial, hoping some miracle would mend the one keepsake he cherished above all others. He gently put the pieces into his breast pocket and eased out of his space until he heard the honk of a horn. He was startled and scared and just wanted to get away. The angry driver yelled something as he eased his old bug out into the impossible traffic on North Monroe Street. He back tracked through the neighborhoods to Miccosukee Road. Passing under I-10 far from town, he finally started to feel at peace. He and this old car were not meant for these hurried times. They were built for slow country roads and trips with out time limits. <br />
<br />
He pulled through his gate and got out to lock it. It was already cold and the seasons first hard freeze was rolling in with the setting sun. He locked the gate and looked out over the grass towards the tree line. God, she loved the sunsets. Lilly would have made him wait till the sun was down. She would have made him shut the car off and look. She would have held his hand and looked at the sky and he would have watched her instead. He loved the way she captured special moments. She never let him forget the beauty of this life. She taught him how to notice things and how to slow down. She left him with a gift he could never forget and now every sunset or flower or first cold wind of the season, was a melody that sang her name. She was everywhere he looked and he could not spend one moment of life without thoughts of her and what she would say about everything in his sight. Sometimes he would hear a distant noise in the house and for a split second (before he remembered she was gone) he would get a respite of relief. Other times, when he was watching TV or laying in bed, he would smell the faint hint rose water. He would close his eyes and not move. The aroma of her perfume would waft over him, slowly fading back into the coldness of being alone. It was in these solitary mirages, that he felt her gently leading him forward, like a light on the horizon. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
It took a long time to get the fire going and by the time he had heated the stew and made it to his chair, he was tired. He poured a tall glass of wine and sat down in his chair to watch the flames and eat. He had one of those music stations playing from the satellite dish. He finished eating and sat there drinking for a long time. Percy Sledge came out of the speakers and he was transported back to the day she gave him the money clip. They were in Germany in a small hotel by Lake Konigsee. The money clip had Watzmann Mountain painted on it. It had been a month since he bought that little car and they had been meandering from one town to the next. Someone would tell them that they had to see a village or a mountain and off they would go to find it. <br />
<br />
Lilly climbed into the car and clasped her hands together which was a clue for Roscoe to pick a hand. He tapped her right one and she giggled and turned it over to reveal the gift. <br />
<br />
"Now you will never forget our visit here or last night!"<br />
<br />
He put his hand on her leg and slid up her skirt. The pattern of her stockings rippled under his fingers and he moved the fabric just high enough to see the beginning of her underwear. She looked around and then back at Roscoe. She put her hand on top of his and she watched his face as he looked down. He adored every inch of her and she loved to see the wonder in his eyes when he looked at her. She leaned in and kissed him. He held her face and then let his hand drift down to her coat. He slid an index finger in between the fabric and moved it away so he could see inside her shirt. He was addicted to her and helpless. He was unable to be aware of anything except the thought of her skin and her body. It was if they had just made love seconds ago and the memory of being tangled together possessed him. He could not think of anything else but the hidden parts of her. It was as if he knew a secret about her and the person she was when she was naked. He wanted to trigger the other woman that lived inside her. He needed nothing, not sleep, food or air. He only needed to be inside her again and enough light from the fire to reveal the magic of her. He strained to remember every curve and texture of her. She moved in closer to him and breathed in his ear. She held his hand tighter and neither one of them wanted to move, ever again. They wanted to stay in this blind haze of love forever. <br />
<br />
"There are no more rooms here and we have four hours of mountain roads in between us and Austria. Why do you torture me? Please Roscoe, you have to stop. You are making me crazy, we have to drive. Please baby. You know its too bad we don't have one of those vans. We could pull over anywhere we wanted, draw the curtains and put out the fire. But you bought this bug and it is ALL your fault."<br />
Lilly teased him and giggled, but she never pushed him away.<br />
<br />
He leaned away and looked at her again, suddenly aware they were in a small gravel parking lot. They laughed and held onto each other. No one had ever wanted him like she did. He never knew he could make a woman feel the way he made her feel. He never felt like he was trying anything with her. She wanted his hands on her, like he was the answer to all her dreams. He felt pure and safe for the first time in his life. He looked out the window and then back at the money clip. He put his cash in there and realized he would remember this moment, and how he loved her for the rest of his life. He started the car and headed up the long Bavarian road out of the valley. He could smell the rose water and hear the gravel crumbling under the tires.<br />
<br />
The fire crackled as Roscoe's hand let go of the wine glass and he gave in to sleep. The TV tray swayed slightly under the weight of his arm. The last few red drops eased out and rolled over the clip and the three thousand dollars. It stained the bills and the painted mountain scene, finally forming a puddle by his wrist.<br />
<br />
"Lilly."<br />
<br />
Roscoe mumbled in a whisper.<br />
<br />
"I love you Lilly.......Lilly...." <br />
<br />
Roscoe drifted off to sleep. He was in Germany. It was a beautiful day for a drive to Austria with his Lilly.<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-64905151103205208782012-11-14T13:17:00.001-05:002012-11-27T10:08:00.749-05:00The Beacon<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UQ25Dedmc1py1YP0NwDALlEbwJuUwiB4O8D6Ie1NzaDvUhlHoAvOvWLYYCmRM25WttLEFGRbT-MRitxXQLW2N0c5VumBLwfwaoNYPpz6Kx2ZyIK6B52TrTXcLOTztdBkbFWuUJ-yubVw/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UQ25Dedmc1py1YP0NwDALlEbwJuUwiB4O8D6Ie1NzaDvUhlHoAvOvWLYYCmRM25WttLEFGRbT-MRitxXQLW2N0c5VumBLwfwaoNYPpz6Kx2ZyIK6B52TrTXcLOTztdBkbFWuUJ-yubVw/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
Eleven<br />
<br />
The overcast sky hides the cold, miles behind its curtain. He is late again. He stayed up deep into the night making notes, and clocking song tempos. He stays in his lane and watches the frantic behavior among the flow, that actually care they are late. They can't keep their cars in their lane, they can't decide to take the short cut. They spin their heads, brake erratically and transmit their bad energy from car to car slowly infecting the traffic.<br />
<br />
A few lifetimes ago, this was surf season. The dark skies marked the return of the fall swells, the south running mackerel, the Blacktips that chased them, and stiff north east winds. With a leg up on the dash, he would steer the horizontal wheel of his V.W. bus one handed. He twisted down Indian River Drive past the second rate aristocracy of Ft. Pierce. The (old money) Spanish style houses watched the river, smelled the putrid low tide, and tried to convince themselves they were still royals. Each iron gated mansion, hid empty servants houses and the owners dark dreams to fill them with someone to lord over. He rarely looked at the houses instead trying to read the river for clues of the wind and tide. He would surf before work at North Jetty Surf Shop, hanging T-shirts and selling beach clothes to rich northern ladies. All he ever thought about was getting out, and escaping that town. It was proof that even when he was young he was never content. It was not a symptom of age and loss, it was a congenital flaw he carried from birth, like the hole in the atrium of his heart. <br />
<br />
He rolls into the parking lot and scores a space up front. It was twenty five years ago, when he left in the middle of the night and came to Tallahassee. He enrolled in T.C.C. met a guitar player, formed a band and dropped out after two semesters. It was all just a blur of gigs, bands, jobs, marriage and kids. He opens the door to his office, just like he had every day for fifteen years. Dark grey cement block walls and a computer await in the converted storage closet. From this desk he has edited hundreds of legal seminars. This job has been base camp to all that was good in this life. A family, health coverage, a steady check and a two hundred dollar Christmas bonus each year. This little closet office with two windows, allowed him to manage bands, ride bikes, and to show up an hour late once in a while. He wondered if he would ever leave this place. He wondered if some part of him was in this room forever like some residual ghost, stuck in an endless loop on security footage. He drinks hot tea with sugar and no milk, it is awful. He looks through tiny slits in the Venusian blinds. Leaves break loose of their moorings and acorns bounce off of cars like ping pong balls.<br />
<br />
It was all bearable now that he had a gig. He could push the rock up hill again. The carrot (however impossible) was on the stick. The new bands first gig went well and the songs were good. They would be in the studio with a producer again. He would be playing drums and singing. He would not be coaching hungover, tattooed, punks. He would be in the booth, playing for the first time in twelve years. He would be safe in the place where he knew how to behave. Hope is the light that feeds the soul, and he hadn't felt like this in years. If it was all a delusion, and came crashing down like rain, he would take it. There is always time for regret and tears, but hope was a jewel in the maze. He wanted to bathe in it, to roll it around in his mouth, he wanted to remember every second. He wanted to move slowly and paint the cave walls in his mind with these feelings he never thought he'd have again. <br />
<br />
Two months ago it was all a conversation about something that might happen. Now there were 18 songs, a producer, and a reserved studio. It all seemed funny, but he dared not analyze it for fear of loosing the beacon. He focused and took a moment to remember the hope of having a chance. He counted down the minutes to lunch and a trip to Cabo's.<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.<br />
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-44573019539990830932012-10-15T13:30:00.001-04:002012-10-16T22:10:28.707-04:00Pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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*Ten*<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gretna woke up At 1:05 pm. She looked at the over cast sky and wondered for the first time in ages what it would be like to be out in the air. She was on the sixth floor and the cars scurried about completely unaware she was watching. Physical therapy had been hard that day but the good news was, she would be going home soon. Who would have thought that she would look forward to being on crutches? A tiny bird landed on the window sill and darted it's head back and forth. It's back and feathers were gray and it had a burnt orange breast. She gasped and held her breath, surprised by the sight of it. She watched him there for a while and he flitted off again. The mundane things she took for granted seemed like magic. She had been on the other side of a dark window long enough.<br />
<br />
There was a photo album, some flowers and a card on the rolling tray next to her bed. It had a denim cover with little cloth flowers sewn into it. She let her hands drift over the book. She opened the first pages and saw the desert pictures from their last day together. She was wearing leather Indian boots that came up to her knee and a mini skirt she had made out of an old pair of jeans. She had on a small jacket she found in a Salvation Army store. One button at the bottom was fastened and the jacket puckered just a little to betray the skin beneath. Her chiffon scarf hovered in the air pulling away from her in taught waves. Her hair blew over her face and into her mouth and she was looking at Joey with awe and love oblivious to the camera. The shutter snapped and she was suspended there in the wind at sunset. He made her feel so pretty. She had confidence back then. How could she loose something as simple as a feeling, or a posture? She lost those things, along with her faith and the belief that he would come home. There was always one more day between calls, letters and checks. The time stretched out between them and she lost hope that things could ever be what she had hoped. She could never shake the feeling that she was his girl. Some part of her believed he would just appear on her doorstep, and they would remember they had a love that could weather anything. She played the scenario out a million times in her mind. He was the mirage she followed into sleep every night.<br />
<br />
She used to carry a small camera and she took pictures when he wasn't looking. She took a picture of him waving from a train station in Flagstaff. He had been offered a job by someone they met at a campground. She would drive back to Tallahassee and he would send money. She took a picture of him there, waving and smiling with a single leather bag slung over his shoulder. His hand was on the heart of his jean jacket. She remembered every patch she sewed on that jacket. She remembered every time she rested her head against that coat. The Jackson Brown eight track was playing in the deck he put in the glove box of her V.W. bus. As she took the picture "My Opening Farewell" played. She never thought for a minute she would never see him again. She was so deeply in love, it never occurred to her that things could slip away so easily. She didn't know that everything in the world hung by tender threads. At that moment everything was fine. She watched him go through the big wooden doors. She pulled out of the station and headed down interstate forty. It was the beginning of her new life. In seven months she would have a baby. <br />
<br />
"Hello miss Gretna." The nurse walked in carrying her chart and the Doctor followed.<br />
<br />
"Well we are going to have to kick you out of here next week. All we have to do is take out the rods and screews. You still have a long road back to being your old self, but it looks good."<br />
<br />
"Your old self." It hung there in the air like some challenge from the doctor. She hadn't had a drink or a cigarette in weeks. She had lost twenty pounds. Her color had changed, her thinking had changed and she only coughed a little in the mornings. She had spoken with a dietitian. She remembered being a vegetarian when she was young. She remembered music she used to like. She remembered what it felt like to not to be dying one minute at a time. It was funny how physical pain made her forget the fears she'd been hiding from. She even dreamed again while she slept. It had been years since that happened. Gretna's eyes welled up and she turned away to recover. There were the pictures she took of Kerry. She was such a beautiful little girl. The last pictures in the album were new photos of her house. The new porch, the cleaned living room and kitchen looked like something from an impossible dream. There were plants in the yard and that damn stray dog was on the porch looking healthy and clean. The last picture was of the black man that found her the day she was hurt. He was leaning on a saw horse in overalls. He had a handkerchief in the other hand. He was smiling. The caption below it read:<br />
<br />
"Mr. Roscoe has been working on your house Momma. He is an angel. The house will be ready for you next week."<br />
<br />
Gretna put the album down where she could see it. She left it open on the pictures of the house. She felt that feeling you get after Christmas. That feeling of being excited about having something new, that you had always wanted. She pulled the nicotine patch off her arm, and fell off into a deep sleep.<br />
<br />
She was driving that old bus in the desert. She felt young again, it was a crisp early day. Jackson Brown was singing to her again about Arizona. It was just past sun up and there was no one on the road but her.<br />
<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-79638825090779491312012-09-30T11:48:00.000-04:002012-10-19T12:18:24.377-04:00 Walls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-lKq_J1lIsOpbSnjRDKKubgX5cFas7e6m5VjtjY-f_JkLXEOSld7VVKDuw851vxj-rPA5JE0M-4_bWubst33gZJg9EX22pivyOjR0dQ-gfQIIz-ofNaj_Dty7MiCmRkQUznPU6zYq2jR/s1600/gretnas" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-lKq_J1lIsOpbSnjRDKKubgX5cFas7e6m5VjtjY-f_JkLXEOSld7VVKDuw851vxj-rPA5JE0M-4_bWubst33gZJg9EX22pivyOjR0dQ-gfQIIz-ofNaj_Dty7MiCmRkQUznPU6zYq2jR/s320/gretnas" width="320" /></a>*nine*</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
The cab dropped Kerry off at her mothers house. She had all her mothers spare keys. She would need the car for the trips to the hospital and to her new job. She riffled though her purse and remembered she was out of pills. Her thoughts raced and she pulled some crinkled bills out to pay. She looked at the meter, it was nine dollars and twenty five cents. Now she was out of pills and she had seventy five cents to her name. She gathered her things and stepped out into the cool morning at her mothers house. She felt the dread reflex before she remembered that her mother was in the hospital. She glanced at the front door and then turned back to the street to see the cab pulling away. She was at the wrong house. Nothing was making sense. This was the only house on the street. She read the address, turned back to the house and then realized she was in the correct place.<br />
<br />
The yard had been raked and it looked as thought the ground had been seeded for grass and watered recently. There was a new porch and roof with a wheel chair ramp. The swing was the only familiar sight she recognized but even that had been rebuilt, painted and it hung from a new chain. Someone had been working on the house and for a moment Kerry felt comfortable there. The green paint on the porch stairs and deck reminded her of when she was little. The house was out in the middle of nowhere then. She knew these woods and the woods across St. Augustine like the back of her hand. They moved there when she was three or four. Her mother would tell her stories about her father and the adventures he went on as a photographer. Her mother told her he'd never had a home and now that they had this house he would come home to see his little girl. She kept a box of gifts from Morocco, Turkey, Spain, France and a million other places he traveled. She'd never seen him but all that would change because they had the house now. He used to send money home, but when she was about five he stopped. The birthday cards stopped coming too and slowly her mother became a shadow of the happy woman she remembered. In every life there is a golden chapter but when they come early and fade, it can break a soul to pieces. It was the one thing Kerry and her mother shared; a tragic love story that ended too soon, leaving a canyon between them and happiness. Kerry found comfort in her children, but her mother only saw the face of a love she lost. Kerry was a constant reminder of all that Gretna couldn't have.<br />
<br />
The drunken outbursts started slowly with her yelling that Kerry was just like him. Then the flood of tearful apologies, ice cream, new dresses and a brief period of calm before the pattern repeated. The frequency increased and soon the good times never returned. Kerry left home after high school. Gretna turned her hate inward and started the long retreat into the dark. She worked at the state and measured her days by lunches and cigarette breaks. The lunches, cigarettes and days spun away like a calender in the wind. The beauty Gretna once had was beaten out of her. Still, when Kerry looked at her she could see her mother in there. Her eyes would betray the love she felt for Kerry, when she wasn't being critical. There was a spark in that mean woman's eyes and her majestic bones hung just behind a smoked curtain of skin. She was over weight and usually dressed like a homeless woman, but she had an elegance that could not be erased. She was one of those woman that could not hide her genetic gifts even in the darkest state of sadness and neglect. She was a few bad habits, fifty pounds and a miracle away from being a beautiful woman again. The heartbroken don't want to look pretty, they want to wear the defeat like a cloak. They want to live in the pain so they never forget. They remain in a vigilant state, bathed in their hurt, so no one can make them believe again. One of the things that made Kerry move forward in the face of all her own disasters, was the resolve not to give up and become the vacant facade her mother was. She made the oath when she left this damn house during a screaming hurricane her mother was waging. She walked the length of St. Augustine Road alone, stepping into the clay ditches to avoid cars speeding out of the night. She never came back until Charlie died. She had hoped to find some mercy remaining in her mothers hardened shell. The mercy never came and Kerry stopped looking for it. From that moment on, she managed her mother in doses, like spoonfuls of bitter medicine.<br />
<br />
Maybe it was the hope she saw in the new roof, porch and paint. Maybe she needed to justify taking the car. Maybe it was knowing the boys were with Becky and her kids. Whatever the reason it gave Kerry strength to enter the cavern of her mothers house for the first time in years. There was a large pile of mail on the porch. The mail was mostly co-pay bills for the hospital stay and assorted junk mail. Kerry was baffled at the house and who could have done all the work. <br />
<br />
She turned the key and crossed the threshold. She let out a breath of resolve and made her way into the wreckage. She walked down the hall to what was once her bedroom. It was preserved like some dusty diorama. Nothing had moved since the day she left. She sat on the bed that was her only hiding place. She had flash memories of her mother and step father screaming and glass breaking suddenly in her sleep. When she was in high school, music was her savior. She would slide her headphones on and try to float away into the textures of her tapes and records. Eventually even that was not enough to keep the monsters at bay. She remembered waking up to the smell of bad breath, whiskey and hands under her covers. She couldn't escape and she couldn't fight. He was the sweet talking devil that would whisper twisted sentences that somehow made all the horrors of his hands, breath and mouth justified. He twisted logic and the love Kerry needed from missing parents, into a sick game of submission. Like all evil it started slowly and escalated into a deranged normalcy she couldn't escape. She wanted to be special and she wanted to hurt her mother. He had a demonic talent for knowing just how far to push her and how often to space his nighttime visits. He acclimated her to their filthy deceit in small doses and then let her recover. Every night she prayed to her father, God and her passed out mother to save her, but people only get saved in movies. In real life you have to save yourself, because everyone is drowning, even those that don't know it. Somewhere under the dust, the comforter, and the flowered sheets, was the dark brown stain that marked the end of her childhood. On a table in the corner, was a box of gifts, cards and letters from a father that never came home. Kerry closed the door.<br />
<br />
She walked slowly back to the living room. She ripped open the shades and felt the anger she was avoiding. Streaks of light entered the room and the dust floated in the rays, like miniature planes in a dog fight. She stared out the window and saw her mothers old V.W. It broke down shortly after her mother gave it to her. It was a veiled apology Gretna didn't have strength to make, but one she couldn't avoid. Kerry remembered the night her Mother found him touching her, the lights of the police cars, and the accusing stare of a mother, unprepared for another tragedy. She burned everything he owned and screamed at the fire while Kerry watched from that room. In that moment of destruction, she knew she could never sleep there again.<br />
<br />
Someday she was going to get rid of that bus. It had been cleaned, like it was coming back to life. Like it had shaken off the vines. Like it was looking at her for the first time. She would not forgive that metal machine. She hated it because it had room to lay down. She hated it because it could be parked in fields away from town. She hated it because he was gone and it was here.<br />
<br />
She would start with dishes and fight her way out. She wanted to smell soap and to feel clean. She hit the play button on her phone. Counting Crows "Anna Begins" rolled out of the speaker. She opened the window and put her hands in the water, to wash away the dust.<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-16617783684929168712012-09-20T13:25:00.003-04:002012-09-20T17:12:09.517-04:00Roscoe's Gates<div style="border: currentColor;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzqYBmirWSMwVX0owh5yoXQjwIQ206t49a-hn0xMRjUHhxPv8l2NqWhrPam5u1Iz5ODmjS-N4ZKrm5Ox7WJZAc-mxVYaLWTA8egrZA3L3eQ7T-6nGmaagQ-EvMp2_nbRTW5norrZU6myE/s1600/ROSCOES+GATE" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzqYBmirWSMwVX0owh5yoXQjwIQ206t49a-hn0xMRjUHhxPv8l2NqWhrPam5u1Iz5ODmjS-N4ZKrm5Ox7WJZAc-mxVYaLWTA8egrZA3L3eQ7T-6nGmaagQ-EvMp2_nbRTW5norrZU6myE/s320/ROSCOES+GATE" width="255" /></a>*eight* </div>
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<br /></div>
Roscoe turned onto Cap Tram Road and eased through the gears. He put his arm out the window and leered down the narrow road looking for logging trucks. The reflection of the trees in the olive paint drifted over his hood like an old home movie. The sun was just below the tree line and the dim yellow lights reached out from the front of his car, like tear drops in the twilight. He eased off the shoulder and pulled up his emergency brake. He got out and unlocked the metal gate that matched ten others on this road. Those gates had nothing behind them but land with ancient double track, that never saw use outside hunting season. He pulled in the V.W. and locked the gate behind him. He could hear the grass dragging on the pan under his car until he reached the tree line and the hidden automatic gate. He idled while the gate swung open to let him on the paved one lane drive. He cleared the trees and rolled onto the gravel in front of his house. The sliding garage door opened and he slowly pulled in. He glanced over at the Bungartz tractor, it needed new plugs and a distributor. The old BMW motorcycle needed to be started and run for a while. He wondered why he bought it. It was adapted with a thirty six horse V.W. motor and the look of it, and knowing he could work on it, convinced him to buy it. After one wobbly trip down the drive, he pushed it back and never rode it again. The old tractor had a VW motor too. It was a temperamental beast and required constant attention. He loved the original orange sheet metal and yellow wheels, that were both aged with a fine patina. He looked around the old garage. Everything was neat as a pin. The finish on the tongue and groove was up to date and all the tools were clean and organized. He loaded some drop cloths, paint trays and bushes into the back of the car. He rooted around in a corner and found several packages of shingles. He stacked them on a towel in the front seat. Walking to the house, he stopped to look out upon the back ten acres. Those were his fields, and the last he would ever know. It was getting dark sooner these days, but he had more affection for this seasons sky. The sun was losing its grip and the indigo was beginning to show the first stars. It was almost fall.<br />
<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.<br />
<br />
Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-321839092053034952012-09-11T21:18:00.000-04:002012-09-11T21:25:37.249-04:00Waking Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJj04IMZFMkeIO3-tco5QiyoffBd09JY4X7t9IY6pVoH5oRpOhfFrwkZQfxfbs4WHmfmATK4T_RMFpPiOk1Mxif0Hwk0sTOnmpisxgMPo564hoxpTqYk-osg5DK73Roi2r1pWNnJ6onK_j/s1600/gretna+71" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJj04IMZFMkeIO3-tco5QiyoffBd09JY4X7t9IY6pVoH5oRpOhfFrwkZQfxfbs4WHmfmATK4T_RMFpPiOk1Mxif0Hwk0sTOnmpisxgMPo564hoxpTqYk-osg5DK73Roi2r1pWNnJ6onK_j/s320/gretna+71" width="251" /></a></div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br /></div>
seven<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She is running through a field and Joey's chasing her. They are in a sheep pasture up above the place he surfed in Santa Barbara. She could see the the little dots of surfers out on the point. It was one of those breezy perfect days you learn to ignore in California. He is taking pictures of her but she's feeling playful and uncooperative. She's running, trying to make him chase her. Just when he thought she was going to pose, she runs again. She's laughing so hard she can't breath and finally leans over to catch up with her heart. The amber grass shares hues of her caramel skin and gold hair. She continues to play and run from him and just when it looked like he might give up and loose his patience, she pulls her hand knitted shirt over her head and throws it away. She looks over her shoulder. He takes her picture and falls for her, in the blink of a shutter. She's been holding that flower all morning, spinning it in her fingers and day dreaming. They were on the beach and decided drive up the hill while the tide switched. He captured her there, and all of who she was that day. She was caught like a firefly in his lens in front of those green Santa Barbara hills that matched the color of her bikini. She falls onto a blanket and watches him walk out of the sun. He takes his camera from his neck and sets it on the edge of the quilt. She stops laughing and looks up at him. She pulls her arms away from her chest, glances down at her bare breasts and then back up at him. It's the fall of 1971. It is the best season of her life. She is nineteen.<br />
<br />
"Gretna, wake up honey. The surgery is over, c'mon honey, open your eyes. I have some water for you. Everything is fine, try to open your eyes."<br />
<br />
Roscoe had pulled all the wood from the fallen porch and stacked it near the garage. He spent a few days pulling nails and separating the trash from the the good. He was done with the ramp and other than a few nails and screws, was able to finish the entire thing with what he salvaged. When the roof cascaded off of the house into a pile of intertwined lumber, it took with it the steps and an old chain swing. He figured she would need a ramp to get into the house. Those steps were as useless as the porch and he presumed they were both built by the same lazy hands. This whole house seemed ill supported and in need of work. For now she could be wheeled up and that made him feel better. He saw some paint cans, whose drippings matched the porch deck color and tomorrow he'd look to see if it could be stirred and used. For today he was done and he loaded his tools into his old bug and strapped the wooden step ladder to the luggage rack on top. He wiped his hands with a towel and admired his work. He loved to do things right and to help. Today he had done both. He reached into the passenger side and grabbed a bowl and some kibble. As he filled it, the dog came from the woods and wagged his way toward him. He sat it down next the water bowl and smiled.<br />
<br />
"See ya tomorrow."<br />
<br />
She is watching the boys come down the walk. No matter what was going on in her life, she loved seeing those kids come home from school. She wanted to be like one of those women, at the Timber Lane Hopkins Eatery. They played tennis when the kids were at school and complained about bad caterers over lunch. They had the strained faces of women who didn't dare gain an ounce, for fear of being replaced. Kerry wished she could just be a stay at home Mom. She was starting a new job next week and this was her last few days of freedom before the stress came back. The boys were pulling at each others back packs and laughing. They both had sticks in their hands and a sword fight could break out any second. She caught a reflection of herself smiling in the window. It felt good. Those boys were never a burden. They were the thing she did right. She couldn't wait to hear what happened that day. The rain had finally stopped and the first wisp of fall hung just outside the last grasp of summer. It was a good day.<br />
<br />
He loaded his drums into his car after eating lunch. His youngest son was playing a jazz groove on the drums in his room. He marveled at how good he was. His oldest was on his way to his life guard job and looked every bit of the college freshman he had become. He said goodbye in passing and he watched young man drive off. He had done some things well. He did have moments of pride, in between all the anger and regret. It was in the air. All good things happened for him in the fall. When he lived by the coast it marked the start of the surf season. When he came to Tallahassee, it was the return of students and packed gigs. On bikes it was the magic time of cool temps and night rides with his crew. Spring was the first verse, summer was the dark bridge and September marked the first notes of the chorus. He was rehearsing tonight, feeling good for the first time in weeks and he stopped to recognize a rare moment of content. For now that was all he needed, little shot at something good. <br />
<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N. Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4160951798742515830.post-48487788672195240452012-09-04T10:08:00.001-04:002012-09-05T01:30:13.241-04:00Cardio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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part six:<br />
To read from the start, please scroll down to: <br />
"The Ache"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Well your heart and liver functions are all okay and The blood work looks good as well. Now this is the part you are not going to like."<br />
<br />
Dr. Chanter handed him a piece of paper. He new what it was before he took it. It was a lab work prescription. He had already given them blood and urine and other things that came out of him that he would like to repress forever. The sympathetic look on his G.P.'s face was not enough to cause alarm, and it really didn't register at first. After all this doctor had been through it all with him going all the way back to 1993. He was a singer back then and got sore throats, strep, pleurisy and countless other bugs and viruses playing in bars and drinking with the other professional night lifers. Back then the doctor would urge him to take better care of himself and he would listen politely and then ask if he could drink with the current course of antibiotics. He fancied himself a suffering artist, and took pride in singing through countless illnesses. Then his guitar player recorded a band in his living room that got a record deal and sold millions of albums. The band broke up, his brother turned the place they played into an upscale wine and cigar bar. Later, after seeing some guys on mountain bikes cross Park Avenue, he sold some music gear and bought a bicycle. Since then the Doc's and his relationship changed from viruses to bones. Sore joints, broken collar bones, neck, and elbow surgery had become the new center of their relationship. Two years ago he had a stroke and heart surgery due to shitty genetic cards. The Doc was over protective. He was a rare bird in the medical industry. He really cared and explained everything in great detail. He would call him and make sure he was okay. He would make appointments for him when there were no spaces available. <br />
<br />
"Now I know you hate the hospital, but I want you to go get an echo test. I don't like this fatigue issue you are having. It's probably nothing but with your history it makes sense to rule everything out."<br />
<br />
The Doc turned his head to one side in that sympathetic gesture showing him the Doc didn't buy his tough guy act. He put his hand on his shoulder and leaned in for affect. The Doc knew he would do what he asked because he trusted him, with his life. <br />
<br />
"I don't think God wants me to ride bikes any more."<br />
<br />
He said with frustration.<br />
<br />
"Well maybe he's not happy with how you're treating this body he gave you."<br />
<br />
The Doc said as he tapped on his computer tablet. <br />
<br />
"Well he could have been little more generous, when he gave me this scrap heap. I have a some harsh words for that guy...."<br />
<br />
"Well lets not rush you off to talk with him anytime soon. Lets deal with the things we can control and you can ponder your place in the universe while you get better. Okay, so Jenny made an appointment for you, you can head over now and be out in time for lunch." <br />
<br />
"Okay so here is the x-ray, She has a broken left hip, broken right femur, and two fractures in her left ankle. She sprained her wrist and has a small dislocation in her shoulder. There is additional bruising around the left knee which leads me to believe there is some tearing in there, but nothing to worry about now. We are keeping her stable for now until the swelling in her thighs recedes. Then we can repair the broken bones, and set her ankle. It's a lot to take in, I know. I think we can do all the surgeries in one shot, provided we don't come across anything we didn't expect. We are going to wheel her up to sonogram to check out her heart and then she will be cleared for surgery. Do you have any questions?" <br />
<br />
"No. Thank you Doctor. "<br />
<br />
Kerry turned and looked at her Mother laying in a pain killer sleep. She looked normal enough but even asleep you could see the bitterness on her face. God she was an angry woman. She expressed her worry and love in strange ways, usually by being over critical and by pointing out mistakes. If Kerry did something well, it was met with an accusing look. What she hated most of all was how tough she was on the boys. Kerry felt guilty that some part of her was relieved that her mother was unconscious. At least she couldn't talk and that was a small victory Kerry was happy to celebrate. A nurse came in the room, and spoke to Kerry as she looked down at her mother.<br />
<br />
"They'll take her down to cardio in a few minutes. My Name is Rose, if you need anything."<br />
<br />
Kerry walked out into the hall to find Roscoe waiting.<br />
<br />
"Rose is a pretty name don't you think? A lot of great woman are named after flowers. I wish I was named after a flower. I would have liked that. I would have liked anything other than who I am. My name means nothing. Everybody always says they just want to be themselves, but I think I'd like to be someone else, for a change."<br />
<br />
"My wife's name was Lilly, and my daughters name is Jasmine. So I guess I do. They are two of the most wonderful women I have ever known, but I am not sure it was their names that made them that way. Some people just rise above better than others. Some people get a little more than their share of hard times. My father used to say that everybody cries ten gallons of tears in their life. Some a little at a time and others all at once. He used to say the real trick is to figure out when to stop crying."<br />
<br />
Roscoe looked out the window and thought about his Lilly. The rain was breaking up and the sun was coming through. The grand beams hit little areas of the town and from the fifth floor he watched the light move in scattered spots and the blue open sky to the west, behind the front. <br />
<br />
"Time to blow out the candles I guess."<br />
<br />
Roscoe whispered in a sigh, under his breath.<br />
<br />
"Candles how did you know it was my birthday?"<br />
<br />
Kerry's face crunched up as she looked at Roscoe in awe. <br />
<br />
"I am surrounded by fortune tellers. I ran into one at the flea market just the other day. Seriously, how'd you know it was my birthday?"<br />
<br />
"It's a lucky coincidence I guess. I was thinking about rain and the power going out and lighting candles. I guess I was thinking out loud. Well Miss Kerry you seem to be okay, I won't bother you anymore. Good luck with....."<br />
<br />
Kerry grabbed his arm and startled him a little.<br />
<br />
"If you could stay a little....I don't have anyone. It's a hard day for me today. It's my birthday and...."<br />
<br />
"I know it IS a hard day. I understand that. Seems to be going around. I'll stay with you a little longer till they get your Mama settled. Oh....They are taking her down the hall. C'mon now, lets go with her. You going to be alright."<br />
<br />
Roscoe grabbed her hand and patted it, and then put it in the crick of his elbow like an usher at a wedding. She held on and felt comforted for the first time in years. They rode the elevator down to the third floor and Gretna was snoring. Every so often she stopped abruptly and caused the attendant, Kerry and Roscoe to all look at her suddenly. Then she would breath again for a few seconds and stop again. They would look down at her out of reflex and the cycle continued. Had someone been there to observe them, they would have resembled people watching a tennis match.<br />
<br />
"Is that normal?"<br />
<br />
Roscoe asked.<br />
<br />
Gretna was snoring even louder now and added a slight whistle to the arsenal of sound effects she was making. <br />
<br />
"She's like all three Stooges at once."<br />
<br />
Roscoe said as he looked at her in amazement.<br />
<br />
The orderly began to chuckle, Kerry blurted out laughing and finally Roscoe started in so hard that his chest was moving up and down. Gretna began to stir a little and looked as though she might wake up. Roscoe threw up his hands like a conductor stopping an orchestra. They all held their breath for a second as they looked at Gretna. They waited for her to breath again as the sound of a high pitched, tortured, sound came from under the covers. It went on longer than one would expect and sounded like a thick canvas was being torn apart. They all stopped laughing for a minute till the sound raised in pitch and puncuated. They erupted with laughter again as the elevator doors slid open. A nurse turned and looked sternly at them all from the front desk of the Cardiac floor. The orderly wheeled Gretna out.<br />
<br />
"Good Lord, that's awful!"<br />
<br />
Roscoe was waving his hat and Kerry made a face as they scrambled off the elevator. Kerry and Roscoe found a seat in the hall, out side the sonogram room. A man was sitting there and he moved to the end chair so Roscoe and Kerry could sit next to each other. Kerry Pulled out her phone and the Pandora station started where she had paused it earlier. The last few bars of "Mr. Jones" came out of the tiny speaker. The song faded and "Josephine" by The Wallflowers started to play. <br />
<br />
"Ah, too bad. I love that song. I played it for years"<br />
<br />
The man said, sitting Kerry.<br />
<br />
"Played it for years?"<br />
<br />
Kerry asked.<br />
<br />
"Ya I was in a band in the nineties. We were the house band at The Cab Stand. We played this song every night for years. Those were good times. Did you ever go there?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
W.B.Z.N.Human Wrecking Ballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15799205524837378335noreply@blogger.com0