The Next Scabby Chapter

June 4, 1975, I had finished a trip to Nashville, landing at SFO.  After 5 nights of being any man's satisfaction, I was disillusioned with love, men and the construct of my life. But, how was I to know, while suffering in that residual haze of poppers and pain, that the foot tapping under the stall that day belonged to the man I would be devoted to for the next 13 years.... the foot was that of Scabby Johnson.

photo by: free use rights off the internet

Pick A Pic And I Write The Story

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett;s family

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

photo by: KPWillett

My Favorite Poem To Date

photo by: free use rights off the internet

G'WAY an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy --
          Put dat music book away;
What's de use to keep on tryin'?
          Ef you practise twell you're gray,
You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin'
          Lak de ones dat rants and rings
F'om de kitchen to be big woods
          When Malindy sings.

You ain't got de nachel o'gans
          Fu' to make de soun' come right,
You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's
          Fu' to make it sweet an' light.
Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,
          An' I'm tellin' you fu' true,
When hit comes to raal right singin',
          'T ain't no easy thing to do.

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,
          Lookin' at de lines an' dots,
When dey ain't no one kin sence it,
          An' de chune comes in, in spots;
But fu' real melojous music,
          Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings,
Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me
          When Malindy sings.

Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy?
          Blessed soul, tek up de cross!
Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey?
          Well, you don't know whut you los'.
Y' ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin',
          Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,
Heish dey moufs an' hides dey faces
          When Malindy sings.

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin',
          Lay his fiddle on de she'f;
Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle,
          'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.
Folks a-playin' on de banjo
          Draps dey fingahs on de strings--
Bless yo' soul--fu'gits to move em,
          When Malindy sings.

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,
          "Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah
Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices,
          Timid-lak a-drawin' neah;
Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages,"
          Simply to de cross she clings,
An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin'
          When Malindy sings.

Who dat says dat humble praises
          Wif de Master nevah counts?
Heish yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music,
          Ez hit rises up an' mounts--
Floatin' by de hills an' valleys,
          Way above dis buryin' sod,
Ez hit makes its way in glory
          To de very gates of God!

Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music
          Of an edicated band;
An' hit's dearah dan de battle's
          Song o' triumph in de lan'.
It seems holier dan evenin'
          When de solemn chu'ch bell rings,
Ez I sit an' ca'mly listen
          While Malindy sings.

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me!
          Mandy, mek dat chile keep still;
Don't you hyeah de echoes callin'
          F'om de valley to de hill?
Let me listen, I can hyeah it,
          Th'oo de bresh of angels' wings,
Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,"
          Ez Malindy sings.

 ~Paul Laurence Dunbar 

He's my brother, I'm just not sure about the love thing

The lightbulb did not go off until I was eight.  I was dangling from the front porch light at the house on Iowa Street and trying to figure out what I had done to make my bother mad at me.  I hadn't seen him or much less played with him that day, so I was trying to understand why he was so mean to me as he walked by with his friend Jimmy.  I just couldn't figure it out.  My sister, who, only this year, due to a midlife crisis combined with a need to confess all sins, advised me the only reason she ever played with me in our youth was because her options were limited, looked up at me and told me the cold hard truth. "He just doesn't like you."  

After this great revelation I realized I spent a large part of my childhood/teenage years pondering the situation.  I wanted to be his friend. I wanted to do the things he did.  I wanted to not be slow and awkward. But he never gave me a chance.  I, under the influences of the times and working with what information I had provided to me in a small midwestern town in the way of mental health,  came to the conclusion "who could blame him?"  As far as looks, body type, smarts, killer smiles, and athleticism, my brother got the best roll of the DNA dice.  

Ronnie looked like Elvis, acted like Springsteen and always wanted to be Bruce Lee. [comparison: I looked liked Dom Delouse, acted like Dom Delouse and wanted to be anyone other than myself.] He was born 8 pounds and 8 ounces and 22 inches. [comparison: I was 20 inches at birth, weighted 10 pounds and 7 ounces and since have proceeded to gain 100 pounds every decade]  His chores were focused on caring for the 20 horses and ponies we kept.  He would break, ride and train them.  [comparison: My chores were focused on the caring for the 20 horse and ponies we kept... I swept their stalls and carry their water.]

High School consisted of him passing his classes with minimal effort, dating a different girl every weekend, and having a large group of friends to hang out with.  He was on the football team, the basketball team, the baseball team and ran track.  He loved track.  He eventually gave up all the other sports to focus on track.  He was, a track star.  Now being a star at any sport in high school in southern Indiana gave you some prestige.  At lease enough so that a star was never ever required to have his fat, goofy, little brother hang out with him.  Ronnie made a point of never inviting me to go anywhere, well, except to the barn to clean out stalls.  Seriously.  That was it.  The only time he talked to me during high school was when he asked if I wanted to make a dollar on Saturdays.  I remember the first time he asked. I was so starve for positive attention from a male figure that the type of work and amount of the pay did not matter.  And when it turned into a weekly event my confidence shot up, my grades improved, and no matter what happened to me at school that week, I could count on my big brother talking to me on Saturday mornings.  I acted aloof and uncaring, but it was, sometimes, the most joy I felt the entire week just having him acknowledge my existence.  Oh, and what was this transformative task, you ask?  I became the washer of the robin egg blue 1969 Chevy Impala.

photo by: free use rights off the internet

This car has a lot of family history.  It was the car in which my brother's future wife would let the pet hamster loose.  It got into the heat ducts.  I suppose one cannot say we could never find the hamster.  We always know where it was.  Years later when the car came into my position, I still knew exactly where hamster was.  The damn thing died in the heat ducts. Sandy poured bottles and bottles of perfume into the heating system to try and improve the smell.  It was the strangest odor.  One that I can still recall 40 years later.  Death and Charlie by Revlon.  Soon after he sold it to me, I ended up damaging the car.  I tore the hell out of the transmission.  Ronnie, not yet knowing how much of liar I was [how could he, we never talked] took the blame for selling me a car that needed so much work. 

Ronnie's [note the feminine spelling... mom's doing] first job was as a carny in a traveling side show with a man my mother knew from high school.  Ronnie was allowed to travel over the weekends with the company.  Every time they were in town I would make sure mom took me along when she would go see her son 'working at his first job.' [Noting the bullshit here:  Mom was not the least bit interested in seeing Ronnie work.  She would spend all of her time looking for the owner.  When she found him {read: after standing in his path until he stumbled on her} they would walk the fair grounds all smiles and giggles.  It was at this point in my life where my country genes were being overtaken and killed by my gay genes and so I refused to acknowledge that my mother could he having an affair with Wide Clyde, the owner of the Westside Carnival Tours].

Elvis Springsteen Lee worked the Jump House.  You know this thing.  Parents now rent jump houses to put in front of their homes for their three year old's birthday party.  Back then it was still a novelty so teenagers would still consider the Jump House for there last ride of the night.  [The Jump House was only one ticket while all of the cool rides were three tickets.  And, it was a better ride than the Tea Cups.]  Any new member of the carnival is put on the Jump House.  No wheels, no machinery, no way to kill some poor teenager who was out drunk for the first time with his friends.  But, Mr. I'm-The-Man-Soon-To-Be-Slipping-It-To-Your-Mother realized that Ronnie was more of an attraction than the jumping.  Ronnie always had a line the nights he worked this ride.  The 12, 13, 14, and 15 year old girls would line up just so Mr. Wonderful could take their ticket.  During his entire tenure, Ronnie always worked the Jump House.

By the time I had figured out my older bother had stolen a large part of the DNA that should have come to me, he was making plans to move out of the family home.  All the dollar car washes, all the lines of teenage girls, all the years of being ignored bubbled up, and I had to do something.  I never received the love and respect I, as a 14 year old gay boy who had yet come out to himself or anyone else, thought I should.  There was only one thing for me to do.  I had to drive him crazy.  

I had recently seen Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte and decided I wanted to drive him so bat shit crazy that I would get to see Ronnie staring through the Impala's back window at the double wide trailer as mom drove him off to the nut house.  As I hugged him goodbye, I would slip a piece of paper letting him know that I was the reason for all of his pain and future misery.  I felt it a fair trade.  I gave up a childhood, he could give up an adulthood. 

I waited until the next weekend.  This way I did not jeopardize a possible ride to school.  Not that he ever gave me a lift, but I was often lead to believe there was always a chance.  I hated the bus.  I liked having the chance.... Saturday came.  I had my plan.  I was ready.  Only problem.  I slept until noon.  Ronnie had left, returned, and was bagging on my door telling me to get the car washed.  Damn my late night walks to catch lightening bugs and gig frogs.  So Sunday it would be.  He and Sandy were going to church.

That Sunday morning I heard him leave.  I snuck into his room. My angst, dislike, and years of resentment all boiled up to this one moment.  It had to be good, yet it had to be subtle.  And what, you may ask, did chose to be my great act of insanity driving revenge.... I made his bed.  It was the subtlest act I could take.  All I had to do was simply flip the corner over and smooth out the pillow.  Ronnie would walk in and would not be able to remember if he did or did not make his bed.  My plan of genius was sprung.  I waited. And, waited.  And, waited.  It wasn't until the next Friday when I was going to bed far too early in hopes of getting up when he left the next morning, that my sister said, ever so casually, "I don't know why you are going to bed so early, Ronnie knows you have been in his room and what you are trying to do."

I gave up.  I was defeated.  My master plan of evil domination had failed.  Within the next week, mom and Ronnie had a fight.  I have no idea what it was about.  Nor do I know if it was their first or last.  All I know is that Ronnie planned to move into Grandma's house the next weekend.  Mom tells this story, I truly only have a fragmented memory of it: Ronnie was picking on me, razzing me about something, that last week with him still at home.  Mom says that she could see it in my eyes. I was simply done.  I had had enough.  She says she had never seen that look in my eyes before.  I was calm, and I was collected, but it was obvious I was not in a mood to be messed with.  Ronnie, however, just kept on going.  The story goes, I simply stood up, walked over to him and punched him in the jaw.  He fell through the entry way partition and damaged the wall.  I walked out the door.  He quietly picked himself up, brushed himself off and neither of us have ever discussed broken walls or unmade beds.

The Great Tulip Raids

It was pretty easy to love her then.  It was still fun to get drunk.  It was still fun to get high.  She didn't bitch that often and I could hit it when I wanted.  It was during this time that the first raid occurred.

When she started cheating on her husband with me [and under no circumstance are you to believe I was the first man, nor the only gender] we were both lost and looking for a way to survive.  She needed less of a threatening influence in her life and I needed more of one.  We'd strike out after work, looking for a bar to drink in, a restaurant to eat in and a place to fuck.  Simple as that.  It was more excitement than I had ever had and it was less of a stressful life for her.  See, her husband was a real piece, may he rest in peace. But his stories will be told in latter blogs.  This one is about the tulips.

I guess the reason we liked that part of town was due in part to so few cars traveled by at two in the morning.  And, it was the first place I fucked her on a bulldozer.  Every time we'd drive by, I would open my mouth to say, "you remember that night...?" but she would beat me to the punch, and as I was sucking air, before I could get the words out, she would simply say, "Yes, Kirk, I remember."  So one spring night we were coming home from a binge that included Amanda's Riverboat Resturant, The Deerhead, and The Executive Inn. We were under the Lloyd Expressway, I sucked air, she said her script, and that was when I notice the tulips.

Southern Indiana is not the most beautiful place in the world, and, Evansville is not the most horticulturally progressive.  But for some reason, the city fathers saw fit to plant tulips in the autumn at the base of the expressway exits.  This lead to massive tulip beds that bloomed in the spring.  On that morning of noting the tulips and having already had a day full of work, a belly full of Jack and burgers and sex on top of the city's university's sign, what the hell else was there to do, but steal tulips?


The plan was simple, she would drive [she always drove when we were drunk/high.  Not that she was a better driver but she always got out of being arrested when she was pulled over---again, another blog], I would hop out at the light, she would do a loop back onto then off of the express way.  I would gather the floral loot.  We'd load the car.  Sounds simple.  But, incase you have forgotten.... we were both in a state of drunkenness.  She in her state, took the wrong exit, leaving me to be found later covered in mud and pastel petals.  I in my state, pulled up on the stems instead of trying to break them off, leaving me to be found later covered in mud and pastel petals.

                                                             photo by: free use rights off the internet
By the time she did find the right exit, e.g. the one scarred with mud-hole filled flower beds, I had passed out in the grass.  Knowing I was there, somewhere, she blew the horn.  Later, she would recount the story saying she found me when I "prairie dogged up from my tuliped-stealth position."  I threw the flowers into the back seat of the car [yes, I was the one who cleaned the backseat while suffering the hangover]. The next morning the kids woke up to find tulips cut and in vases over the mantel, in the kitchen, in the dinning room and in our bedroom.  The kids never asked about the flowers.  I guess they either didn't care, or they knew stolen tulips weren't our worst problem.

Youtube: word word dance

http://youtu.be/dN1bsbOchSw

http://youtu.be/jOv47njeLHQ

http://youtu.be/Aw1ASVJGiK8

Mathematical Me

        My Actions

I =   __________

                                                                             Time

Video: Roma

video by: KPWillett

Borrowed Words: Cray

I know this guy.
I met him thur a friend of a friend.
We kinda hit it off.
Well, not the way you are thinking right now.
Our lives are so different.
Our feelings are so similar.
He, chronologically, is decades my junior.
He has shown I am light years his sage inferior.


Chanting : Part 1

Burning this edifice,
Intensifying pain with smoke,
Due to pleasures; guilty pleasures.

A rose
Stripped at the pedals, living
De-leafed,
Due to pleasures, guilty pleasures.

Angels fallen,
Kissing human skin,
rubbing teenage fabric,
Due to pleasures; guilty pleasures.

Corridors in hotels traveled,
Feet treading every ounce of carpet,
Turning knobs to satisfy,
Pleasures; guilty pleasures.

~ Cray

In the Introduction of his first book, Intro to Cray's Life, the author writes:

          "Cray is an amazing young man, however, he is a created character that is in reality Elton William Cody.  Cray is a model of what Elton wants to be in the future.  Cray is kind of like those thoughts you get after you make a mistake, you know, the ones that tell you what you could have done better...."

At 18 I wasn't advanced enough to know that there was an opportunity to have healing thoughts after an error in judgement and action.  Much less was I capable of processing enough information that would allow me to have created a role model for my needs.  Elton is wise and gifted and ready to take on the world.  I enjoy his energy and hopefulness and his desire to be a better man.  I respect his battles.  I admire his courage.  I'd really like to be Cray when I grow up.  I really hope Elton remains my friend while I am growing up.

A Coming of Age Story

It was 1968.  The Summer of Love.  San Francisco was crowded, dirty, and all things were measured in the extremes.  I was packing up my dreams and striking out on my own when fate in the form of a flat tire stopped me.

It was stupid and wasteful to take a cab to the bus station as I was headed out of town with only $87 to their name.  It was an expense that could have been avoided if I had not had that last shot with that last friend in that last bar on that last night in town.  But not wanting to miss the 9:17 for Portland, I had to hurry.  Portland held no special interest to me, and why I could not have picked any other bus that day was simply based on the fact that I had been told all of my life that east of Berkeley was the Midwest and south of San Jose was the Confederacy.  Portland seemed the logical choice.

At Mission and 10th the driver swerved to miss the guy pissing in the street.  That is when he hit the curb and bent the wheel.  The curses did not fully escape the cabbie's lips for half a block. The air did not fully escape the tire for two blocks.  My hope did not fully escape my chest until I saw, as grandpa would have put it, the dog running out the yard [read: Greyhound bus driving out of the terminal and down the street].

photo by: free use rights off the internet

Hungover, unhappy, hungry, and undeterred I went to the bus station determined to wait it out for the next bus to Portland.  And, to get a sandwich and a cup of coffee.  I met him at the coffee shop, or, should I say, I saw him at the coffee shop.  We would not meet until three days and 15 cups of coffee later.  But that first day, that first glance, that first flash of his smile had me hooked.  It was the Summer of Love, and love is what I felt for the man working the counter at the Greyhound Cafe.  His name was Scabby Johnson.

A Previous Life

It was 1946, winter in San Francisco, which meant you only needed a 5 cent cup of coffee and a good attitude to stay warm.  The war was over. I was out of the service. I was finally free to run anywhere my imagination and fast talk could take me. I was staying in the Mission at a boarding house ran by a kindly old lady and her husband.  Well, kindly until you didn't pay your rent on Friday. I didn't consider going home.  I hadn't consider laying roots in The City by The Bay. But I did keep finding myself giving Mrs. Williams that 6 dollars on Friday afternoons.

My days consisted of roaming the streets looking for a good place to read and a diner with a good bowl of vegetable soup. I would tell people I was also looking for women who didn't get mad when you whistled at them. I always found the soup, but I never found my whistle.  Seems I had something else on my mind.

photo by: free use rights off the internet

Its hard when you come to realize things about yourself that your mama would not like.  Its hard when you know your daddy would be disappointed.  They might still love you, but they would keep secretes. There would be no boastfully talk about you when they went to Wendell Brothers on Saturdays or at the church meetings on Sundays.

What I had realized and what I had to keep from mama, daddy and Mrs Williams, was that I had spent my enlisted time fighting the enemy in the South Pacific and loving the captan I had fought under. He lived in San Francisco.  He was a line cook at The Tennessean.  They made a great vegetable soup there.  His name was Scabby Johnson.