Late summer in Branson – 1995

August to October

I worked at a cafeteria style pizza and pasta place run by some friends of mine. I helped and tracked a friend’s progress as he grew a pot crop. I drove drunk. I went to bars and just observed, or, almost wordlessly picked up tricks. I’d go into the woods by myself, smoke pot, and tramp around high. I took many, many pictures.

I went to the lake a lot, too. I called ___ a lot. I stayed away from my parents, and now, again, my home, a lot. Memories crashed over me. And I cried, or was numb, frequently.

When I dissociate, the people, the lights, the signs and sights of Branson become surreal, distorted, and ludicrous. I am equally angry, terrified, confused, and worried. Will this be the extent of my life? I cannot stay here much longer. I must go heal elsewhere, in private. I must leave again soon.

Summer in Branson, 1995.

3567 Giles, St. Louis, October/November 1995

"So long screwy! See ya in St. Louie!"
-Bugs Bunny/Yosemite Sam cartoon

"Cause we don’t know we’re strong enough and chances come too soon."
-The Delgados, "No danger."

What the hell? How’d I get here?

The apartment was one of eight. The building was born 10, 15, 25, or 30 years ago, somewhat anonymous in design. One bedroom, all electric, hardwood floors, picture windows in the bed and living room. White candy strip pastel wallpaper in the kitchen. A great shower. Hot, sweet, strong water pressure, too. Of all the places I’ve lived, it’s still one of my favorites. Consistently good showers are something to be thankful for, because it sucks to be without.

My neighbor across the way, a dog groomer, was and probably still is on psychiatric disability. Bill was crippled with mental and methamphetimine problems. And he kept getting beat up, too. Black eyes, bandaged hands, bruised ribs were his features common to his appearance. One time, some neighbors from across Gravois threw him in front of a moving car because he didn’t have enough money for the crank he’d already done. Bill was the living embodiment of addiction lending itself to associations with some bad people.

The guy below Bill, Harold, was even worse off. Harold was a barely functioning schizophrenic. As one would go through the security door, Harold’s apartment was directly on the left. A lot of times, there would be different shades of commotion from behind his door; other times, nothing.

Sometimes he would go out in a HAAS for Mayor T-shirt, long after the major-long-shot candidate collected three or four percent of the vote. He told a friend of mine that the police/government was sending out signals through the cable outlet in the wall. "There are too many cop shows on TV." He said, staring at her on the front sidewalk, testing her patience and bravery while waiting on my tardy ass.

Sometimes policemen would be at the building, investigating some commotion in which either Bill or Harold might be involved. Ross, the fourth and only stable tenant, was probably the one calling in the complaints against either one. I couldn’t blame him, as he was the one who answered the door at 4 or 5 a.m. when pissed off meth dealers came callin’ for Bill, or having to deal with Harold’s "episodes" from across the hall. I wondered if poor Ross ever wondered what he did to deserve this situation of which he was involved, dealing with these wack-jobs and the craziness surrounding them.

I walked in the building one time as a policeman was questioning Harold. His door was open three-quarters of the way as the officer asked him if anything was going on. He said no; everything was fine. His metal blinds were all bent, the entire living room a chaotic mess, his eyes were wide, and his face was whiter than normal. How nice. My neighbors are insane enough to involve the authorities on a regular basis. I guess this is my new home.

Only weeks earlier, I had lived in Branson. The third weekend of October, I went to St. Louis to check out places to move and possible employment. Summer back in Branson had been difficult, and I was impatient to move away. At that time, my friend Carol was dating one of my friends living in Branson, so she let me stay in her apartment in Maplewood, just south west of St. Louis, for the weekend. I drove up Friday afternoon, went to her place of work, and got her keys. 30 minutes later, I was stoned and had an Imo’s thin-crust cheese pizza on the way. Looking out the window east towards the city from her third floor view, I was happy as a pig in shit.

Well, that really set the tone for the weekend. Later that night, I took a cab to Probe, a gay bar on Choeteau (Show-toe) in South City, got real drunk, and slept in late. That next day, I walked around the neighborhood, checking it out. Then later, like the night before, I went out. This time, I went to Magnolia’s on Vandeventer. And again, I got real drunk, had a great time, and slept in late.

On Sunday, I got a paper and looked at the rentals. I could afford this now. There – I looked. And I officially accomplished nothing all weekend. In the mid-afternoon I left for home, deciding to stop in Creve Coeur to see my cousin and her family.

Because I wasn’t that familiar with St. Louis, I got lost in Maplewood, driving around for 30 minutes, nothing familiar, before finding Highway 40. My transmission had been slipping more and more on my trip up, but I had thought nothing of it; then. Now on 270 North, it was obvious the car had some major problems, revving and slipping hard from first to second, not wanting to speed up, even to 50. I had to be very careful not to miss the exit, as I might not have another chance.

I found the exit and drove straight to the house. The car struggled up to the end of the drive and would go no more. The repairman said he could fix the transmission for 1100 dollars. Just a little more than I had in my savings. I had to make a decision: Do I stay here with no car, or do I get it fixed and go home broke? I decided to stay. So, the car died, and I had it-towed two days later. It would be four more years before I’d get another, but of course, I didn’t know that then.

My cousin and her husband weren’t thrilled at the prospect of me being stuck with them, I’m sure, but helped me nonetheless. Their kids were thrilled, though, at the prospect of a TV-like, live in older (2nd) cousin who could be counted on to play with them at the drop of a hat. I couldn’t find an apartment the first couple of days, but I wasn’t trying all that hard, preferring instead to loaf, play with the kids, or talk with my cousin. One night, while lying in bed, I heard one of my cousin’s children ask why I just couldn’t stay with them. "Because if we give Lance everything he wants, he’ll never learn how to do things for himself," my cousin replied. My cousin spoke the truth. I swallowed hard and tried not to cry, but I knew she was right. I found an apartment the next day.

West of Grand, north of Gravois (Grav-oy), my new neighborhood was named Oak Hill, and was, according to the neighborhood paper, the most racially diverse area in all of St. Louis. It was also much tougher at night than it looked during the day. I took this particular apartment because there was no credit check (My credit = shit.), no extra month deposit, I could move in immediately, and the landlord seemed very nice…and gay. Ok, now I have a place to live.

My cousin’s husband David helped me transport my newly purchased futon and move my two suitcases to the apartment. They also gave me a jelly cabinet, a smallish wooden buffet that served as my catchall for trinkets, excess change, scraps of paper, and the like. So after one trip, I was moved in. David asked if I’d be all right, and I told him that yeah, I’d be fine, so he left. Then I was alone, and rather excited and scared about future prospects. I put the futon in the middle of the bedroom, put some clothes on the closet shelves (I didn’t have hangars, yet), and then I was done.

There was a Taco Bell directly across the street, and sometimes for entertainment, I’d watch customers shout their orders without turning their music down, then get mad that the drive-through cashier couldn’t hear it, and would ask if they could repeat, please. "A Bur-ri-to! Bur-ri-to! Damn!"
There was a White Castle two blocks away. Three or four blocks west on Gravois, there was a K-Mart in a crappy shopping center, with a Payless, a $1.00 store, and a Sally Beauty Supply. A few blocks to the south, there was a Family Dollar, an AMVETS thrift store, a Burger King, and an Aldi, a downscale grocery store more adept at taking food stamps than real money. I could buy 29 and 33 cent canned vegetables, but I had to bag them myself. My broke-ass decided that was a fair trade, and I shopped there frequently. My friend Carol gave me a radio and TV to use. The TV was a rounded yellow square futuristic looking 13-inch thing with a yellow remote with a picture of Elvis on it.

Although I had settled in easily enough to the apartment, I couldn’t find a job. For three weeks, nothing. My resume wasn’t strong enough for an advertising agency to even call for a face to face interview. I’d had too many jobs in too short of a period. I had strikes. So I started to apply at restaurants. And I couldn’t get hired there, either. My money was running out.

With each passing day, I grew more nervous. I went out every day, but no one was hiring, or they wouldn’t hire me. I didn’t get it. I’d never had this much of a problem finding work. I work hard. I show up on time. Why couldn’t I even get the chance to prove myself? Nights were even worse. Nothing to do but think about my lack of a job. My situation was becoming serious.

At the end of three weeks, Carol picked me up on a Sunday, and we went job hunting. I was freaked out and near tears. "Your ass is gettin’ a job; today!" She said, with finality. We went to the Central West End, parked, and began to walk. I went into Culpepper’s, a bar/restaurant at Euclid and Maryland. Are you hiring? I asked the bartender. He laughed and said the "new" waitress had been there three years, and after her another had only been there seven. So no, they weren’t hiring. But he did say that Balaban’s was almost always hiring, and to try there. Thanks, thank you very much. So I went to Balaban’s and got hired on the spot. "Come back on Wednesday at 10; you’ll start out on lunch." My new boss, Jimmy, told me.

Carol was right. I got a job that day. And things automatically looked better. St. Louis might not be so bad, after all.

The following two days, after assurance of employment, were mine to explore the surrounding neighborhoods. Almost everything, old or new, was brick. Some of the buildings were very detailed in their facades. Old buildings, beautiful and interesting, were everywhere. I was excited despite myself. I think about ___ every day. I hate him, sometimes. Most of the time, though, I think about what might have been and am sad. Those two days, I felt neither, which made for two good days in itself. Now I live, and work, in St. Louis. With winter’s approach, a new beginning; again.