A flower from Beavis – winter 1993/September, 1994

"…And it’s raining, all over the world…Raining, all over the world…Tonight; the longest night."
-Electric Light Orchestra, "Showdown"

We called this one particular hustler Beavis. God love him, he was so handsome, but unfortunately, he wasn’t very intelligent. About as dumb as he was good lookin’. Which was Very. A shame, really.

He was passed between various rich men on the island, or he passed himself, I don’t know. But fairly regularly, someone new was "taking care" of him, helping him out, funding his drug dealings, his circumstances always changing. He was a regular at the One Saloon at the time of my employment there. When I would bartend, he would always come to my bar. He would only come up three or four times because he didn’t drink too much, especially compared to the rest of the crowd.

He always tipped 100%. He would linger at the bar, just a bit, smiling at me, then leave. A couple of times he brought me a single carnation. He had pale blue/green eyes, sexy and direct, coupled with a killer smile. And he’d always smile that hot smile at me as he was asking me if I could hold his gym bag behind the bar, for awhile. "Sure." I’d always say, always smiling back.

The bouncer saw our little exchange one night, dragged me to the back and proceeded to explain that Beavis kept a lot of coke in his gym bag, and, if he were to get busted while it was in my possession, I could and would go down hard, too. Oh….Ohhh…Shit. So I found him, real quick-like, and returned his bag. "I can’t hold your gym bag anymore, dude." He knew I knew.

He stared at me for a moment, a weird, shamed expression lingering on his face, smiled a little, and said, almost soundlessly, "Ok." After this encounter, he still came in, but not nearly as much. He would smile at me as he came in, from a distance, but got drinks from the other bartenders. For a while anyway, he stopped bringing his gym bag.

Some months later, I quit the bar, taking a job as a production assistant, and saw much less of him. Not just him, but everyone from the bar. My new job required me to be there between 8 and 10 a.m. daily, depending on what was happening progress-wise with the magazine. So I stopped going out so much, and staying out so late.

I didn’t see Beavis for a length of time during the summer. Those months were tough for him, I think. ___ heard it through the grapevine that his new daddy, a lawyer, had kicked him out, and that, once again, he was staying with someone new. Then, a few weeks later, the same story applied to the new daddy as well. Later in the summer, Beavis was diagnosed with HIV. And then, in September, he couldn’t find a place to stay.

It rained through late September into October. So long and so hard the storms would rage, drenching everyone and everything, flooding the lower elevations of the island, like warm rain pouring from a faucet. And the sun would still shine through. It seemed to be too bright always for the current conditions. I was fascinated by this phenomenon, because it rarely stormed like that in Missouri. Storms in Missouri were cloudy and gray there, no sun, only rain.

So, during these storms, one stayed put, wherever one might be. Sometimes the cable or the electricity would be out, so I would sit on the front walkway or back deck of the apartment and watch the plants and trees bending with the gusting wind, the whipping mist and rain, wetness spotting my extended arms. Storms were a source of comfort.

During one of these showers in late September, I saw Beavis, from a distance, coming towards me. A little thinner, but instantly recognizable. His head was cocked downward, looking a few feet directly in front of him, choosing his path, silent, steady, and rhythmic, sadness surrounding him. He walked directly below me, on the sidewalk, never looking up. I remained quiet while he passed, watching his pace watching him think. He walked in his boots and jeans and white tee shirt, soaked through, walking towards no destination. I saw him twice more that day, still walking.

I had a friend in Key West that would respond to whatever was traumatizing me at the moment with a heartfelt, yet funny sounding "Poor, poor baby! Will you be all right?" Her tweaked sincerity could right my perspective quickly and always made me smile. Poor, poor baby, I thought, as Beavis continued walking, will you be all right? What’s to become of you?

The rain continued late into the evening, stopping briefly overnight, then resuming until the late morning of the next day.

September 1994

..For three or four days it has rained. High water and flood conditions extend from Key West to Miami. No tourists, rather, very, very few tourists. Hal has been channel surfing for long enough to make me crazy. I have been taking care of him, and his dogs since his surgery. Barring an hour and a half break, it has rained all day; again.

Although I am now living with ___, I’ve been staying with Hal in my old apartment for the last couple of weeks. ___ and I are having some "problems," and Hal needs me to take care of him and any business of which he is unable to attend.

Miami’s Channel Seven ran "The Key West Flood" as its top story, killing any remaining business we might have had. Today the streets were surprisingly busy, briefly anyway, but it was mostly locals taking advantage of the rain break. The collective mood is grim. This storm doesn’t feel over at all.

Time crawls painfully about the apartment, coupled with the rain, limiting my movements, forcing introspection. Can’t do it. Can’t look. So much wrong now.
There is no activity on the street as there is almost no one here. The sky continues to rain and rain. Hal, having recently lost a kidney to cancer, sleeps now, much the way he has since returning home. I am bored and panicked simultaneously.

Introspection waits patiently, while I continue my distractions, still pacing, scared of what I might find within.

Late September, 1994

The two devils were surprised that I could see them, as was I.

I was on an errand for Hal, picking up candy and cigarettes for him, even though it was against doctor’s orders, common sense, and over my own objections, as he’d just lost a kidney to cancer. If he dropped his vices, the doctors gave him two to three years, but if he continued his normal behaviors, the doctors gave him a year, or less. "I will live and die how I fucking want." He’d say. "If I could, I’d die by the pool with a cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other, chocolate on the table, with my pool boy in sight." I couldn’t argue with him. He’d made up his mind.

He would give me a list of carcinogenic, crappy foodstuffs and tabloids to pick up from Ekhard Drug, Fausto’s Food Palace, or the liquor store, and I’d go get them. The list included the healthy Stoli Vodka, if he was out (He drank much less after his kidney, but did not stop.), cigarettes, of course, Whitman Chocolates, anything Hostess or Little Debbie, Ruffles, cocktail onions (He loved Gibsons.), Snickers, "People," "US," or "The Star." All purchases were always along those lines. I figured he didn’t have too much time left anyway, so I would retrieve what he requested.

On this particular day, I biked to Ekhard Drug on Truman, just off Duval. Pedaling, lost in some tangent, I was attentive enough to be safe, but not much more. I looked up as they were biking towards me, everyday life slowing to one-tenth of normal. As we crossed paths, the three of us staring at the other, the shock of recognition etched on my face, surely while they work the surprised faces of unexpected exposure. Somehow, some way, I saw the demons for what they were. A rather unexpected turn of events, as I biked toward my desired destination.

The dominant devil, the Master, whatever he was, was a dark-skinned black man, very muscular, coldly handsome, and adorned with gold jewelry. His Lieutenant was smaller, almost platinum blond, flat topped, pale skin, also wearing too much gold, and pedaling just behind. The look of disbelief must have registered across my face, as it was reflected by them both, coming towards me, then passing slowly, our heads turning toward the other(s), our mutual awareness, evident.
How did I know this? How could I see them for what they were? The awareness, this recognition, was un-wanted and terrifying. I averted my eyes and began pedaling faster while time then sped past its standard chronology, my breathing faster, pulse racing, completely freaked by the encounter. I didn’t look back until I was at the intersection of Duval and Truman. They had turned around and were following me.

Ekhard Drug was not too far away, so I continued on, quickly, and cruised into the parking lot, locked my bike, and walked directly to the entrance. I turned around once again and saw them across the street, staring at me, exchanging words, standing, but still on their bikes, wearing curious expressions on their evil countenances. I turned and went inside, sweating, unsure of my next move, unsure, at that point, why I was even there. I walked the aisles, pores open, wet, as scared as I’ve ever been, grabbing items from Hal’s list, placing them in my basket, forming a plan. I slowed myself down, breathing through my nose, and thought of who I might call, what I might say, to get some tangible help without being restrained or mistaken for a mental patient, of which, I wasn’t sure I shouldn’t be. No one to call. I’m on my own.

I loitered a bit in the store, hoping they’d become bored and leave, or if it were my imagination, my brain would have dissipated them by now. I began to breathe a bit easier, slower, calming and cooling, assuring myself that yes, this was all in my head, and that, whatever it was, wasn’t what I thought it was. By the time I checked out, I was almost calm. I went back outside and there they were, still across the street, waiting for me. Oh..no.. I thought, beginning to shake.
The events passed more quickly again. I became very directed, unlocking my bike, heading through the parking lot, towards them, turning left, then past them, pedaling faster, aware that they began to move behind me. Is this happening? Why is this happening?

I crossed the street, jumped off my bike, opened the gate, groceries on my left arm, and ran down the boardwalk, up the steps, my bike held off my right shoulder, into the apartment, not looking back. Hal was rather taken aback by my entrance, and I was reticent to tell him what happened, but then I did, only interrupting every few moments to say I hoped he didn’t think I was crazy. He then told me about his own encounter with death or a demon, in the form of a taxi driver in New York City. He believed what I had to say, based on that experience from his past.

I saw the devils two more times that week, un-observed, from a distance. If they saw me, they did not acknowledge it. They were always on their bikes, talking to the other from a close distance. Their energy was dark, held close to their person(s), ringed tightly around them.

Something is happening within me. Is this, was this, real?

Housekeeping. Key West, October 1994

"Work! Clean! Work it like a washing machine!"
-B-52’s, "Housework."

Ah, the ritual of repetition. Or !, if you feel strongly enough. Every day, almost every room, work consisted of the same sequence of events. A knock first, then "Housekeeping!" I’d unlock the door and enter their room with the necessary supplies.

They are all on vacation. They are rich and not so, young and old, hot, sleazy, talky, friendly, gruff, drunk, stoned, yelling, tan, or taking pictures. The hygienic state of their rooms also span a wide array, way wide. But that’s not really important. Annoying at times to be sure, but not central to the experience.

Housekeeping was, for me, about getting the most work done in the shortest amount of time and figuring the optimal systematic routines to accomplish the required tasks. By remembering those procedures, I then become a machine; my body focused on repetitive motions while my mind is free to drift. My mind would open to all forms of abstractions, multiple thoughts, ______, our problems, and possible solutions or alternatives. A form of self hypnosis develops, deep thinking and analysis allowed by mental detachment from physical action, born of doing the same set of motions in the same or almost the same manner, alone, five or six hours a day, every day.

Upon entering a room, I would first…

Turn on the television. I am already gone.
Strip and re-sheet the bed.
Make bed/fluff pillows/adjust comforter.
Place new towels and washcloths on bed.
Clean ceiling fans every other day.
Check for and spot-dust.
Check room for anything that needs straightening, or
Pick up several dozen beer/whiskey/et al bottles.
Put soiled sheets in a pile, out of general traffic.
Proceed to bathroom.
Pour bowl cleaner in toilet.
Moisten sink and apply Ajax.
Moisten tub and apply Ajax.
Pull used towels out of bathroom.
Put in pile with bed sheets.
Return to bathroom.
Scrub toilet bowl, clean toilet and immediate area.
Scrub bathroom tiles, grouting and fixtures.
Scrub sink, and clean surrounding area/fixtures.
Windex and clean all mirrors.
Replace soap as necessary.
Consolidate all trash into one bag.
Clean floor by hand with paper towels.
Trash used paper towels.
Tie trash bag.
Vacuum bedroom.
Gather all supplies, re-tie vacuum cord.
Turn off TV.
Leave.
Drop off laundry to laundry room.
Go to next room.
Begin again.
Repeat 10 more times.
Wash all laundry.
Dry all laundry.
Fold all laundry.
Put all laundry away.
Leave for the day.

And I loved it. The work was hard and I worked hard at it, but most of the time, like I said before, I wasn't even there. So many thoughts to consider then, the manic urgency of my need to know, man, was strong. My world, though, was unstable; taking shots from all directions.

I had no money, I was naïve, barely hangin’ on, but at 9 a.m., I could forget all else. Each day, the same. Blessed release, blessed relief, I was working again. I was alone and thinking alone. For six hours, I had static reality as a platform, a foundation. My structure, my sanctuary, was cleaning toilets and making beds.


I worked with three other women in Housekeeping. Renate was from Lithuania, Christina was from Poland, and the woman who was very nice, but whose name escapes me, was from Maine. The nice woman would sometimes substitute for Renate. We all had the same room assignment every shift. Renate was in early, setting up breakfast for the guests, stocking pastries, making coffee, and breakfast breakdown. Because of her early duties, she had to only clean five rooms.

Christina powered through her thirteen rooms in less time than it took for me to finish my eleven. Whether my mind was present or not, my body worked hard, and fast. But Christina worked harder, and was always faster than me. She was born in Poland and had family in Gdansk. She was the stereotypical physical archetype of a scythe wielding Eastern European harvest woman. She was built to work hard, and did so.

She had another job as a buffet attendant at a restaurant on Duval, working from 4 until 10 or 11 each evening. She and her husband sent every bit of money they could overseas to their family, so they could come to America, also. She showed me pictures of her son and daughter-in-law. Her timid giggles would bubble up and out despite herself, sometimes, at various comments I made. "Oh Lan." She would say, giggling, probably, the same way she did, I imagined, when she was young.

It rained hard in September and October, sometimes, and we would still have to work. The layout of the guesthouse contained no completely covered or enclosed access to all the rooms. On those rainy days, we would walk slowly in the rain, heavy with our supplies, the vacuum covered with a trash bag, in and out of each room, back and forth from the rooms to the laundry room. I would see her from a distance, coming in and out of rooms, carrying supplies, and clinging to thoughts of her family and the day they would all be together again. She never complained: Never. She just went on to the next room. And then I would also return to my chores.

Because, after all, we were at work.

Saturday, November 12, 1994

Just got off work. Hot damned day, no shirt on, my mind awash with disjointed negative thoughts and emotions careening by at 10,000 miles an hour, coursing through my being. When my thoughts travel this fast or in this fashion, mental control is tenuous.

About four years ago, a bunch of us took some powerful psyllocibin cubinza mushrooms that generated a wild ride (for me) on the tip of a stylized 1930’s art-deco pen, zooming along a landscape of steel and rivets, with an unnaturally glowing blue sky, with mountains in the distance that never got any closer. The image itself wasn’t necessarily bad at this point, and when all was quiet, the vision hummed along and was very satisfying. But when there was noise (which occurred frequently, as there were five others tripping with me), the trip was turbulent, me veering from left to right and back again, white knuckled, hurtling along the chemical panorama on this crazy pen, praying for absolute quiet, not only for enjoyment, but for the sake of my sanity. Love and hate took on very real directions, and the whole episode etched itself onto my mind, probably forever. The experience got really bumpy when the rivets sprouted thorns, but this is unimportant now. This time around, everything ended fairly well, considering no one, especially me, freaked out bad enough for the cops to come calling. My thoughts always travel this fast on a pretty regular basis, without the aid of mushrooms.

I called Mom after my first therapy session to tell her that I’d gone. Her somewhat chilly, cautious response was "I hope this isn’t something that goes on for years." Yeah, well, I hope so, too. Therapy is a dirty word to my parent’s generation. But if they could look into my head, they’d want me to go.

Therapy is a step in the right direction. Ana tells me it can be very liberating, venting whatever you feel, saying the unsayable. She’s encouraged me talk to myself when alone, and while this has been helpful, I must be careful where and when I speak freely to myself, and not to get too wrapped up in the overall significance of what I say aloud. After all, to vent is to vent; nothing more, nothing less. Turn the valve yourself. Ease the pressure.

I must slow my thoughts. I must take control of my thinking. I must slow down. I must..

Home

"What is this place?"
"Branson, Missouri. My dad says it’s like Vegas, if it were run by Ned Flanders."
-Exchange between Nelson Muntz and Bart Simpson, from "The Simpsons."

1994, looking back…

I grew up in Branson, Missouri, the Country Music Capital of THE UNIVERSE, as opposed to Nashville, Tennessee, the Country Music Capital of America. Branson is located about 15 miles from the Arkansas border in southwestern Missouri, almost equidistant to and triangulated by Kansas City, St. Louis, and Little Rock, Arkansas. It 40 miles to the north of Harrison, Arkansas, a stronghold of the KKK, and 40 miles to the south of Springfield, the world-wide headquarters of the maniacally evangelical Assemblies of God organization. Because of its central location, Branson is very auto-accessible. It is within a 15-hour’s drive of almost two-thirds of the nation’s population. The upward rise of tourists and popularity to the area has resulted in a frenzy of highway construction in preparation for future driving masses projected to come five to ten to twenty years from now, causing major headaches for the locals and newcomers already there.

Branson came into existence in 1903 as a post office. Built on the shores of what was the White River (Before construction of the Table Rock Dam), Branson’s evolution to its current incarnation caught most everyone by surprise. From nothing, really; nothing, to an end of the millennium wild (mid) west boomtown orgy of bad country music, has-been performers, non-stop buffet food, go-karts, bus gridlock, cranky old people, Southern Baptist moneychangers, and the wholesale rape, pillage, and plunder of the environment by any "investor" willing to plunk down some cash for a little piece of the "Branson Dream," the town’s expansive flux could not have been predicted.

My Grandfather was a realtor in town, who, during the course of his career, bought and sold every lot of land along Highway 76 from downtown to Indian Point Road, past Silver Dollar City, the 1880’s themed amusement park. He never held on to any of these lots, dying in 1981, nine years before this very same land became ground zero for the real estate and construction boom occurring there. Consequentially, our family remained middle class, while those who now owned the land became rich. One tract of land of 76 sold, in September 1992 for 50 thousand dollars and resold the next month for 250 thousand. Ain’t that a bitch? Grandpa never held ‘em -- He just bought and sold ‘em.

Branson is the number one bus-tour destination in America. Hundreds of thousands of senior citizens from all over the country and Canada flock there for a five to seven day blitzkrieg of all you can eat breakfasts, lunches, and dinners tucked neatly between shows at 10 a.m., noon, matinees at 2 or 4 p.m., and an evening show at 7 or 8. Then it’s up at 6 a.m. to do it all over again. Imagine a week of doing nothing but (1) Sitting – on a crowded bus, in a show, at a buffet, (2) Eating – snacks on the crowded bus, popcorn and candy at the show, fried foods and lots of dessert at the buffet, and (3) listening – to John Davidson digress, to Yakoff Smirnoff’s yuk-yuk ultra-nationalist agitation propaganda, to the oh-so-sunny but not quite all there Tour Director, and then imagine you think this is GREAT! Your adrenaline is in constant surge.

All this excitement can be overwhelming, and sirens sound throughout Branson, alerting the townsfolk that someone couldn’t mainline This Much Fun directly into their system and croaked. Casualties run high on the bus circuit, and as a result, Branson now has an extremely nice hospital, by rural standards. The hospital boasts lots of parking and is in a state of continual expansion, much like the town itself. Close to 6 million people will traipse through Branson this year, and the town is poising/bracing itself to be the logical mid-western hybrid of Orlando, Nashville, and Vegas. This is most visible on Highway 76, or "76 Mountain Country Boulevard," as it is now referred. The vulgar display and placement of lighting, corny advertising billboards, and cheezer hillbilly iconography draw comparisons to a miniature, tacky Vegas by more than a few tourists and locals. A stinging, backhanded compliment, if you ask me.

The recent rise in popularity is close to five years old, set off by a slew of national publicity, including features by "60 Minutes," The Los Angeles Times, Newsweek, The Chicago Tribune, and The Star. Since 1990, the town has been caught up in a serious gold-rush mentality, throwing up shoddily built attractions and lodging wherever possible with little regard to the environment or construction safety standards, as OSHA could probably attest. Traffic delays and roadwork are common, a nightmare of waiting to move, only to wait again, this time only inches or feet closer to your destination. Patience is definitely a virtue on Highways 76 and 65, the two narrowest, longest parking lots in the whole mid-west.

So in September of 1993, I left. I’d had enough of family values, narrow Midwestern mindsets, and thinly veiled greed destroying what had at one time been, albeit cheesy, a cute regional tourist town from April to October, and a pristine Ozark town during the off-season: quiet, unspoiled, and undeniably beautiful. Although there are flashes of its past still lingering among all the changes, that town no longer exists. So I moved to Key West, Florida, having never visited there, not knowing, but with expectations high, of a new life, South Florida style, in this, the first island of the Caribbean.

I had absolutely no fucking idea what I was doing.

Still 1994

I have recurring daydreams. I get out of a truck somewhere in the mountains and look in all directions, no one else around, and no one looking back. I breathe deep and smile to myself. The panorama is incredible, indescribable. There are no distractions. I am in love with my life, my situation, and my progress.

The vision dissipates as quickly as it congealed. I am at work. I work in a guesthouse. Housekeeping. Making the beds, sweeping the floors, and cleaning the toilets of the visitors visiting my new home, the island paradise of Key West.

It’s physical work. I’m wiped out after every shift. But this routine allows me to think. To wander freely mentally is good for my shaky sanity, as events have been a bit schizophrenic for the last year or so, coinciding with my move here.

Eight jobs in 13 months, lots of drugs and alcohol, numerous strange encounters with strange people, always choosing the wrong corridors. Always working, struggling so hard to remain poor. I trust almost no one here, and still I trust too much. I moved to Key West to relax, to find a career, to become comfortable with my homosexuality, to start over.

What has happened is something entirely different.

7 random thoughts of Key West

1. (November 1993) On the first night of her arrival, my roommate _____ got hit in the head by a coconut. We had been drinking in celebration of her arrival on the island, and were walking down a side street. _____was underneath a Palm at exactly the right moment. The coconut came loose and dropped right on her head. Coconut impacts have killed people before, but this incident only left her extremely shaken.

She never liked living in Key West. And from the beginning, the feeling was evidently mutual.

2.(November 1994) My friend Ana, the French girl, and I would sit outside our respective places of work and smoke. "Let’s have a ciggy, shall we?" She’d say. So we’d sit, with nothing else to do but smoke, watching the people walk Duval.

A drunken bearded man in a black dress riding a bicycle approached. When he got in front of us, he decided to stop by putting on his brakes and slowly falling over. Ana and I exchanged looks, neither of us busting out with laughter, but close. The man lay half on the street and sidewalk for awhile, then began to get up, wrestling with the bike and his dress and his intoxication in the fight to right himself vertically. It was a slow process.

His dress appeared to be of cheap satin (Is it called Crinoline?) that swished and crunched loudly as he rolled around the sidewalk. And unlike the drag queens, he didn’t wear makeup. But then, how could he, with that full, full beard he was sporting? I’m not sure he was even aware that we were several feet away the whole time. Seconds turned into minutes turned into pathetic, and we decided to go inside by the time he began to fully stand. We watched some more from inside, as he smoothed his dress down and began walking in the direction from which he’d come, leaving his bike half on the street, half on the sidewalk.

3.My stalker, Simon – October 1993 to May 1994

God love him, this guy was a mess. He was obsessive, kinda creepy, not threatening, really, but he did provide some seriously unintentional comic gems during our stalker/stalkee acquaintance.

The first time we met, I was working at the smaller clothing store by myself one Saturday afternoon/evening. He came in, looked around a few minutes, and then began to ask me questions. No one was in the store, so he questioned further, then began telling me about the minutiae of his excruciating everyday existence. Painful to go through, I’m sure, but painful to listen to, as well.

No one came into the store, so I had no distractions and no course of action but to continue listening. After about 90 minutes, the manager of the other store called and I acted like he wanted me to close the store and go across the street to the other store, for a moment. So I finally got rid of him, for the meantime, for the first time, that day. He then began to show up at either store frequently, and consistently.

After I got fired from the clothing stores, I got a job barbacking and bartending at One Saloon. Simon couldn’t find me, for a while, anyway. He spotted me one night, emptying glass bottles into one of the recycling bins at the front entrance of the bar. I saw him coming, mentally cussed for a moment, turned around, said hello, then went back to work. Afterward, his visits became, once again, frequent and consistent. Sometimes he’d come in, sometimes not, content to speak with me by the garbage cans. Once in a while, my friend the bouncer wouldn’t let him in, just to fuck with his head.

On my nights to bartend, I usually worked the bar by the dance floor. It was a little slower volume-wise, and the other bartenders had seniority, so they’d take the two other, busier bars and leave that station to me. But I was totally fine with arrangement. I loved the music, and could work at a little slower pace than when I’d barback. And I was also first out, which meant I might get five or six hours of sleep that night, as opposed to my normal two and a half to four. My life consisted of nap time, twice daily, and work. Graphic design by day (10:00-5:00), bar staff at night (8:30/9:00-5:00), and in between, sleep.

The bar wouldn’t fill up until 10:30 or 11. Sometimes it was earlier on busy weeks, but at 9 when we opened, there was almost no one there. Few people came in earlier than Simon. The dance floor was fairly small, mirrored, had a continuous rail for drinks and ashtrays, and light and fog effects for the dancers. And it was empty, except for me and Simon, disco music blaring from the speakers as he awkwardly stared and/or mumbled.

The owners took operation of the bar seriously. One of them was the DJ on Mondays and Tuesdays, our busiest nights. On those nights, Simon would stand at the back of the dance floor 20 feet away, and lay out papers against the back wall of the floor, showing me proof that he’d done his homework. He went to school at Florida Keys Community College. He’d leave them out until people started filtering back to the back bar. Then he’d get very frantic, quickly pull the papers together, and rush out the back exit, all in a matter of 15 or 20 seconds. Just like his presence, his aftermath was puzzlement to all involved.

Sometimes, if I was behind the garden bar changing kegs or doing whatever, the bouncer would give me a heads-up that Simon was there by saying his name loudly. I’d stay hidden until he was convinced I wasn’t working that night. He was harmless, like I said, but some nights, I just couldn’t be bothered. It was a game, in a way. I never led this guy on, but I didn’t take his visits too seriously, either.

One night, as I worked at the garden bar, Simon came in, drank three cans of beer, and fell asleep in his seat, face-first on the bar, snoring somewhat softly. He said he’d been drinking earlier, so his passing out was of no surprise. The waiters from our sister establishment, La Trattoria Venezia, would usually sit at my bar after their shift, get very drunk, and leave lots of money. They were also great customers, very pleasant and fun to be around. Sometimes the bar would show gay porn on the televisions around the bar, and we’d make up dialogue to coincide with the action.

But on this one particular night, they were content to drink and laugh, humored at the sight of Simon sleeping and snoring and drooling at the end of the bar. I looked at the French girl, Coco, and said,
"Watch this—SIMON WAKE UP!!" I screamed. He jolted and shook and panicked and ran out the door before he’d even woke up, laughter from the employees following him down Appelrouth Lane.

I didn’t see him for awhile after that. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one he was stalking. ___ said a friend of his found Simon in the gated driveway of his house, asleep on the gravel drive. And he’d follow other guy’s home, too, never threatening, just following or talking. Later, another friend told me he’d seen Simon being restrained then dragged, screaming, from the Red Cross blood drive.

4. November 1993

The cute insane guy would walk the streets all day, every day for awhile, holding a copy of some unexpected classic in paperback, saying very little ever, walking and stopping and staring. I’m not sure if he was homeless or not, as he stayed pretty clean despite the heat. And he was so damn cute! Really strong, handsome good looks, good hair, and (had he not been crazy) beautiful eyes. He wasn’t ill mannered or seemingly all that tortured, just not there.

My guess was assisted living via rich family. Out of sight, out of mind, fun in the sun, this sort of rationale. He left or disappeared maybe a month and a half later. I wish I could remember the name of that book. It gave me the impression he was really smart, but had crossed the line. I also got the feeling he read that book repeatedly.

5. September and October 1993

The owner of the ChitChat was quite demonstrative of his opinions. The sign outside the restaurant promised a two eggs, grits, and home-fries meal for 99 cents. The place was always busy, although I never met anyone who’d gone twice. The ChitChat was our first breakfast in our new home. The eggs sucked, the cream curdled the second it entered the coffee, and it was there that we realized Ben’s van had been towed, as it was visibly gone from where it had been parked. The waitress said, "Welcome to Key West."

Along with the restaurant, his property included a white stone wall along Duval Street. Whenever the urge his him, he’d spray paint different anecdotes to provoke thought, incite a riot, or some action in between from those reading his diatribes. I took a picture of one that said, "Surgeon General Jocelyn Elders: Tell the American people about "Agent Orange and AIDS serum"…When was it made??? By whom? "Well maybe I can help you" (1) July 7, 1976." After awhile, he’d repaint the wall white, and then later, he’d spray paint something else.


6. September 1993

Ben and I listened to the Smashing Pumpkins’ "Siamese Dream" most of the way from Missouri to Key West and then until he left, three months later. I don’t know how many times we listened to it, but the number was close to 200. And I still don’t know the names of most of the songs and very little of the lyrics. But he really loved that CD.

7. _____ hated to go to the New Moon Saloon, but she would go if I repeatedly asked her. They had great burgers and wings, but they also had the worst service on the island. The bar was sunken, so the sitting patrons and bartenders were at eye level with the other. There were black velvet portraits on the walls of Miles Davis, Carly Simon, Jimi Hendrix, I think, and Sinatra or someone like him. There was always some kind of shit kickin’ rock and roll, boogie or blues, or metal blaring, much more for the bar patrons than the restaurant. And those Sixties or Seventies-era monolith comfort booths really hit the spot after a hard night of drinking.

But the service sucked so bad! On more than one occasion, the waiter or waitress was obviously more wasted than we were, seriously pissing _____ off. Also, there was this funked-out crack-head vibe about the place, as it was only one of a few 24-hour places in Old Town. Lots of weirdness, lots of druggy stares and behavior, from both the staff and clientele, and snippets of conversation that was, in any context, unsettling. Always.

Good wings, though.

1994, in the evening…

1. "In the beginning,
We closed our eyes
Whenever we kissed.
We were surprised
To find so much inside…"
-Wilco, "Pieholden Suite"

2. "And these are the days when our work has come asunder…
And these are the days when we look for something other…"
-U2, "Lemon"

3. "When you’re ripe you’ll bleed out of control."
-Deftones, "Elite"

4."I feel the reason as it’s leaving me no, not again,
It’s quite deceiving as I’m feeling my flesh make me bad…
Does it make me bad? Does it make me bad?"
-Korn, "Make me bad"

I’ll show you, fucker.

Goddamdamdamdamdam. I’m walking quickly to the bar. Drunk, stoned, fucked up. Just fucked. I stopped crying hours earlier. Nothing left there, either.
For the last few months, his continual infidelity taptaptapped on the thick glass of my denial. He thought I didn’t know about the others, as opposed to my full scaled, self-inflicted ignorance of our current situation. He would cheat on me, and I would lie to myself about it.

Then I found the letter, sometime in the morning after he left, from some trick in Fort Lauderdale, where he was headed that weekend. "I can’t wait to have sex with you again…to swim with you, to watch movies with you, to have sex with you…" This heartbreak in a letter dated two weeks earlier. And he had saved it.
Bile and upheaval. Holy shit; it’s all true. All of it. I knew it from the beginning and now was unable to deny the truth any longer. My vision blurred; equilibrium reeled. Glass was everywhere. Then I was on my hands and knees, vomiting in the toilet, absolutely hating him. Hating myself for my denial. I’ll get you for this, ___.

That night.

After drinking a lot of beer and smoking a lot of weed, I went to One Saloon, where I used to work. It was a fairly busy Saturday night, and I walked directly to the back bar. Gregory got me a beer and I gulped down half of it right off. I put the beer down and looked up at the guy five feet away who was staring at me. I stared back. He walked over. I stared at the back door, just off the dance floor. We walked through the dancers and left without talking.

Elapsed time: Approximately two minutes.

Going back to my place wasn’t an option. I wanted revenge, but sex in our apartment would be too much for me: too final. I wanted no continual reminders of the guilt I was preparing to commit. We walked to his hotel. He is a steward with Lufthansa. He is cute. He looks like Max. I try not to say too much because the shit sloshing around my head is not the type of conversation you talk about with a horny trick. A detraction from the fantasy. Shhh… Lance, don’t talk.

He is sharing the room with a female co-worker who decided not to go out that night. She is in the other bed and I tried to be quiet, but not too hard. The fact was I was fucking this guy three or four feet from a sleeping girl in a hotel room I had no business being in, all to get even with my boyfriend’s infidelity through revenge fucking. I’ll show you—I’ll hurt myself.

He laid on his stomach and I fucked him from behind. Over him. Looking down on his back, then to his fists clenching either side of the mattress. His grunts and gasps were involuntary. A little later I left, and threw up a couple of times on the way home.

He came back from Lauderdale or Miami (whatever the lie was this time) the next day. Not sensing anything wrong with me or us, he unpacked his suitcase and left a short while later, "for a bit."

I went to my room. Closing the door, I laid down on my back and watched the ceiling fan. I lost weight the next week because I couldn’t keep anything down.


I guess I showed him.

In the lair of the Europeans, December 1994

"Why don’t you close your eyes and re-invent me?"
-Massive Attack, "Mezzanine"

Sticking close to Ana, my security, not knowing them, unfamiliar, unsure, and yet…

Limbo, the treetop bar, overlooking Duval, close to midnight, on a still warm December night. I am with Ana, of course, and Nathalie, Sharon, and Elan, sometimes Helen and Stephan, and the gay Israeli guy who likes me (and I kinda like him, but I’m still with ___, so no…) are there, too. The trade winds are blowing most pleasantly, and there are some girls dancing in front of the DJ, who is from England (not that that makes him cool or nuthin’) and more than competent…

The bar catered to this fun, young, gorgeous, international crowd that was so nice to look at. But most of the time, I was quiet. Observing them, shy, intimidated by these interesting, rounded, sophisticated young adults, some of them, anyway (sophisticated, that is), their hands extended in friendship to me.
I wear a baseball cap, flannel shirt, smoke Marlboro Reds, and drink Budweiser.

"You are so American." They say. "And yet you are not."

They are curious of me, also.

Bahama Village/Key West, autumn 1994

"Exit Light, enter Night, take my hand…we’re off to Never, Neverland…."
-Metallica, "Enter Sandman"

The house was white inside, and sparsely furnished. A black and white TV was on all day for the dogs to watch, and the ceiling fans spun. Except for me smoking pot and cigarettes, laying on the couch, waiting for work, waiting to turn predatory for the evening’s upcoming hunt, there was no movement, no real motion. The house was surreally, oppressively silent during the day, the wind a cross breeze through the French doors on either side of the living room. The room hummed at a very low, dense, disorienting frequency.

I would sit on the couch most of my waking time, and the couch also doubled as my bed. So there I’d sit, smoking cigarettes and pot, trying to write, thinking really crazy thoughts really fast. I’d stare out the window at the relatively cute compound manager doing light utility work in cut off jeans and no shirt. I yelled at the evil, evil cocker spaniels that were the perfect pets for their evil, evil owner, the thing masquerading as a friend, who wanted me to stay with him out of the ulterior-ness of his heart. But almost no moving around. I fancied myself a vampire, a loner, The Outsider. One who sleeps during the day and hunts relentlessly at night. I had to be still to save energy for crazy thoughts and Night’s approach.

I looked forward to work. I was a cashier in one of the last Key West-funky retail shops on Duval Street. The shop was all airline related and the signature logo of the store was a cool graphic of a DC-3 taking flight over a palm tree, the artwork more striking, of course, than my description. The store sold a lot of t-shirts bearing this logo, and the image struck some universal chord in people, and they’d want to know everything about the store, the logo, the experience of living in Key West, etc… which was all well and good, but…

I wanted to be quiet and cruise guys on the street. Or, if I had to talk, it would be to Nathalie or Ana next door at the jewelry shop. Or I’d let my paranoia about my then boyfriend’s real or imagined actions fuel my justification in advance of what I might be doing later, given the opportunity. I was The Outsider, and Night would open himself to me, saying "Look what there is for you! Men, drugs, alcohol, an endless number of interesting, beautiful acquaintances for whom you can re-invent yourself time and time again, dancing, as late as you care to stay, sex in the bathroom, sex in the alleyways, whatever you want, baby. It’s all for you. And it’s all good -- in a manner of speaking. The cost to you is very little, and we’ll talk about that later. In darkness, everyone will want you. Look around; they do already."

So I’d cut a deal with Night out of misdirected loneliness, searching for answers in places where my questions were irrelevant. And then, work would be over. It was time to go out. Night had control of my ever-darkening heart.

But already, I’m going too fast.

Bike

Biking up Southard towards Duval,
Cyclists slowly climbing the incline,
All assuming similar rhythms
With the others,
The sky,
The silence of 4 p.m.

I passed two boys on bikes.
"You know how to get to yer house from here?"
"Shuh."
"Yer goin’ the wrong way."

When I stayed in Bahama Village, I’d bike home at night, through the burnt smell of freebase clouds that lingered,
Past the crackcrackcrack dealers
Who chanted at me without end,
Until they figured out I lived there.
Then I became invisible to them as their eyes scanned the street.

When he and I had.. problems, I would ride the island.
I remember passing Smathers Beach so many times,
Wondering what was happening..
Why were we dying, drifting, cooler..silent..
How would anything ever be right again?
The sun’s heat never distracted, rather, the pressure compounded.

I’d get on my bike and she’d get on her moped
At 3 a.m. after dancing and drinking for hours,
Her French glamour overwhelming,
The way she sways,
The loose familiarity, her knowledge of rhythm,
As the bass bomb drops,
And she dances beautifully,
With her silver backpack purse over her shoulder,
Her friendship, my singular comfort.

Smiling, we bid the other goodnight, and in a moment,
She speeds off towards home.

I go in the opposite direction,
Very slowly,
Accepting the calm that Night and my bike offer,
My eyes sweeping the streets in time with my pedaling.

December in 1994, approx. 6:45 in the evening

"I know what you’re doin’, yeah…"
-Dionne Farris, "I Know"

Just another 10 minutes or so… Then he will be here, and at least I’ll know where he is for the time being…shhhh!

Sitting on the back deck, sitting staring at the leaves and branches and flowers, touched by intermittent gusts of wind, wondering. I must not be giving him what he needs, so he goes elsewhere. All the time—he’s never home now. I’m failing. He’s failing me and I’m the one failing. And falling.

Shhh! You’re fine. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong. Nothing.

It’s a beautiful early winter’s day as I wait. 75, 76 degrees, close to that outside. Sitting there, staring, failing, falling, in denial, waiting for him.
He thinks I’m unaware. I don’t know what else he thinks. He is very hidden. But I know what I know. And I know something’s wrong. I know he still cheats—I know it. He keeps it well hidden from the self he shows me, and he tries with me; but I know.

He’s coming up the steps. Shh!! Put on your face. Everything is fine. Accept nothing. Deny it all. Hang on. Keep trying. Now smile; the doorknob is turning.

You still want him, don’t you? You know he’ll change, don’t you?

December 1994

For the fourth time since I’ve been in Key West, I am, again, unemployed. I don’t get it. I had a great job and now it’s gone. My boss couldn’t afford to pay me and let me go after I’d quit yet another job to work there full time.

I’m confused as to why this employment instability surrounds me, but I am still determined. For the time being, I am all right. I have a plane ticket home and will find something when I get back. This too, shall pass. I can’t forget that.
I have heard others say something to the effect of: "If the island doesn’t want you, it’ll chew you up and spit you out." Does the island not want me? Is this what is happening?

Another damn Christmas Eve in Key West, 1994

I got a black rose from a homeless guy on Christmas Eve. Totally flipped me out. He offered the rose for money, and when I declined, swiftly put it in my hand and let go, never breaking eye contact. "It’s yours. Merry Christmas." He said, his face expressionless. This homeless guy with a cold, blank stare, surrounded by a karmic dust cloud thicker than Pig Pen of the Peanuts comic strip, hands me a black fuckin’ rose on Christmas Eve, won’t take it back, and bids me a Merry Christmas in a tone used more for issuing warnings or omens than holiday cheer. So, consequently, I had a bad feeling about the rest of the night.

1994, or maybe 1995

Thoughts seem to slosh around like water around my head. I could write pages and pages from these bursts, but the ideas are time-lapse photography flowers that seem to sprout, bloom, and die before I can write even one sentence.
These thoughts are beautiful, profound, and delicate. Everything is happening so fast.


This is the best I can do right now.


Goodnight. I’ll be right here; thinking.

key west

January 1995

"Oh I’m, never gonna be the same again…I’ve seen the way it’s got to end…sweet dream; sweet dream…"
-Electric Light Orchestra, "Strange Magic."

As bad as the last sixteen months have been, the worst, I feel, is over. Conflicts are becoming scarce, resolutions easier to find. I’m working the front desk at the Casa Marina now, a so called "luxury resort" on the island, and the daily routine is comforting and stabilizing, and I can write sometimes. I haven’t completed a logical sequence of thoughts on paper in awhile, and I might not finish this entry, but that’s all right. It’s coming. Slowly, but it’s coming.

The emptiness of Key West is becoming more apparent. During the last year or so, the swirl of shitty situations and circumstances seemed to be a trial by fire to what end I’m still not sure. Many conflicts happening all at once. I think I was crazy for a little bit, and considered going home. But all of that has ended. Not much to worry about these days. Nosir. Instead, it’s been replaced by something a bit more…numb.

It’s kindofa faint, windy, whistly, ringing in my ears. A mild discontent with a point of origin undefined in my bones. It grows daily and situational-ly. I feel all jumbled up while appearing well adjusted. When my mind wanders, it veers into a barren plain that represents my options here. Not necessarily an ugly place, in fact, very striking in its uniqueness. A dry, empty, panoramic expanse radiating nothing but the dull glow of the status quo: terrifyingly, punishing-ly…beautiful.

My mind’s fish-eye lens sees the sun beating down on this hulking, desolate land mass representing the veldt of my future here in Key West, the wind whipping down on the dead grass, dust swirling in the air around me. Wherever I turn, the same. But I have a stable paycheck and a stable boyfriend. So everything is ok.

Sure it is.

Two homeless people on Duval

"Say a prayer for me, in a world of human wreckage…"
-Sponge, "loaded"


They congregate at different street corners, on sidewalks, in alleys, at the beach, in boxes. They have no where else to go.

1. The man stood at the corner of Duval and Angela, with his long gray beard and his military-issue clothes and his back-pack and some kind of conic yarn hat on his head, eating from a can, never speaking. Every once in a while, he would do a goose-step type march in place to stretch out his legs, but usually one could find him there, standing and watching. At night, he would sleep on the bench where the trolleys loaded, just off the street from the corner and in the light for protection from the drunks who might get their kicks by fucking with him. He would sleep on his back with his arms folded, looking quite dead. And, for the most part, the drunks, along with everyone else, left him alone.

Some of the shopkeepers would give him food and canned goods. He was never bothersome, and even the police kept an eye out for him. He would disappear for a couple of days, sometimes appearing on the other side of the island, maybe eating from a can, then later re-appearing on his corner picking up where he’d left off.

Rumor had it he’d jumped from a Russian freighter and somehow ended up in Key West, not knowing the language, not knowing anyone. He must have left people behind, a wife, family, or friends. It was hard to look him in the eyes. He would meet curious, sympathetic, or taunting gazes with the same defiant glare.

2. For awhile, the Bearded Lady was a fixture on Duval Street, also. About 5’5" in red spike heels, maybe 90 pounds, sandy blond hair, and always in the same red dress. She reminded me of one of my junior high school teachers, which amused me, but bothered me more. Her behavior seemed to point to schizophrenia. She walked a fine line at all times. She had some serious, threatening, irrational impulses. She moved continually, walking alone through crowds of people, muttering and grimacing.

She would sometimes stop oncoming people and shouting incoherently and aggressively at them, and then move on. She always skipped me, though, as someone to attack. One time, she accosted everyone that passed, but left me alone, even looking away as we crossed. I never understood why she spared me, but I was thankful, nonetheless.

I saw her for the first time on the 800 block of Duval, in front of a restaurant claiming to be "The Best in Key West" (Along with every other damn business on the island…), but never had any patrons, nor did I meet anyone who’d actually eaten there. I had just smoked a joint and was heading into Bahama Village to pick up some friends for a game of pool. Looking down stoned at the sidewalk, I almost ran into her. She was facing the restaurant, furiously turning the pages of a Gideon Bible from right to left, looking for something.

She became aware of my presence. She whipped her head around, staring at me with a look of pure madness. I had interrupted something very, very heavy. So, after that length of a pause, I kept going, trying to remain calm, not wanting to spook her any more. It must have worked, as she resumed turning. The sounds of rustling pages were heard until I rounded the corner. Her search was incomplete; the key passage still not found.

She would show up on the Gulf side of town, wandering around, babbling and screaming, accosting and fighting, and getting thrown out of shops. She went after one cashier with a knife. Some acquaintances dubbed her the "Bearded Lady" ("Freaky as a Bearded Lady!"), and the name stuck. She was all over the place, for a while anyway. Her freaky, menacing behavior standing out as strange, even by Key West’s standards. Then she was gone.

I’d imagine she’s dead. Too many negatives on South Florida’s streets for a disoriented schizophrenic to overcome. Too much mean and evil. Maybe not, though. Maybe she’s out there, in a horrifying universe, using the wrong parts of her brain to survive, tortured by the multitudes of demons she encounters daily. Or maybe she got help and is better. I don’t know.

Maybe before… She was someone’s friend. She was a success. She was married. She was happily single. Red has always been her favorite color.

Before she lost… Maybe she could feel it coming. "Something is wrong with the way that I’m thinking" is something she might have thought, before. Now "before" is maybe not even a memory anymore. Her family has accepted the loss and moved on. Or maybe, they long for her return. Her mother still looks at her picture every single day.

She walked quickly, out of step with the others, looking back periodically to make sure "they" weren’t following. Her red heels clicked rhythmically on the hot pavement. The vibration of agitation and confusion trailed in her wake. I watched her pass, her head bouncing along, the sound of her clicking heels, her physical body eventually dissolving among the other bodies passing on Duval, and thought of the inevitability of her demise.

Late February 1995, Key West

..The difference between this and my other dreams was the intensity and clarity and documentary like detachment of the format in which the dream was presented. Startling, shockingly close visuals of genocidal carnage paired with live news coverage by all the major channels, along with blow-by-blow coverage and analysis. In one section of the dream, anyway. There were three distinct phases, and the first two combined within the second.

The first section dealt with a war, where the refugees, casualties, and children were mostly of Asian descent, but not all. The place was a complex of buildings made of concrete that looked to be official, or a place of trade, somewhere people assembled. The overall structure was gray and massive, and was cut in half by a concrete, tiered canal as large as the length of the two largest buildings. These two buildings architecturally mirrored the other in style and placement.

Refugees were arriving and attempting to leave simultaneously, a widespread panic in bloom. The attacking army faced no resistance and seemed to enjoy the slaughter slightly more than the announcer describing the atrocities. Dead bodies were everywhere, and the attackers were systematic in their twofold offensive: Immobilization through the destruction of the physical infrastructure, and a unilateral genocide of the opposition. Simple.

Helicopters and Jets scream around shooting. People are running aimlessly. Bridges are blowing up. And slowly, a sense that a herding to the center of the complex has begun.

The bridges that crossed the canal in many places are now destroyed, and the groups of people lining each side are getting bigger and more frenzied because there is no where to go and the attackers are moving in and the only option left is to jump into the canal and become an easier target and this happens as the cries rise up and the shots and explosions and anguish become one sound and the next thing I know, I’m someone else, it’s some other time, but it’s the same place. Wow… The geography is the same, but now it’s a resort. I’m a waiter there. I have this person’s memories and their motivation. I must have come on vacation to check out the scene and ran out of money.

Whatever this was now, it was a hot destination, tourists and palms lining the immaculately landscaped canal. The mood was heady, with money, liquor, and tips changing hands frequently. Waiting tables was easy, and my persona seemed to enjoy it, but I was also observing, from a distance. I watched ghosts of the fallen children tipping the drinks, tripping the persona, my waiter unaware of anything but clumsiness on my own behalf.

The dead carry such longing with them. Theirs is the remorse of memory from the violent end of their physical lives, melancholy from the meaninglessness of their deaths, and anger from the irony of locality. None of these wrongs will right themselves anytime soon. The living mock the dead by dancing on blood soaked concrete, oblivious to the events of the not too distant past. The low moans of discontent from the dead are drowned out by the music, and otherwise ignored by the living. Their thoughts are dominated by concerns of fun and revelry above all else. The dead take their comfort knowing, though,
that this too, shall pass.

There exists a segment unclear and therefore lost, so there is no context for what was present when I became lucid within the selfsame dream. The questions and conversation of the British couple in whose car I am the backseat passenger interrupt the ringing silence in my ears only occasionally. The man has commissioned me to conduct interviews with and write a book about his wife. They have picked me up from somewhere and I am thoroughly immersed in the quiet and assured negotiation of the hills and curves, and of the acoustic insulation of the car, which was luxury and had leather seats, which, when I moved, also broke the silence.

Here it comes.

"…Listen; it’s getting closer…"
-Hope, "Tree Frog"

"The only way out is down…the only way out is down…"
-Everything But the Girl, "Five fathoms (SNK)"

The bill collectors keep calling, and writing. I’ve had no money to send them. It’s too hard here. It’s too hot. I can barely make rent.

____ is disappearing, gradually. We rarely talk and make no attempt to sleep in the same bed. I am beyond the situation. I think on it now as a third party. What’s to be done? How can I help me? Well, how?

For the most part, I’m numb constantly. I go out; he goes out. Sometimes we see each other. Sometimes not. I don’t want to feel anything.
But if I don’t feel numb, it’s real easy to get that way. Hell, I live in Key West. I can stay numb all I want.

I’ve got friends. Friends to go out with. Friends to dance with. To drink with. To slide with. Yeah, I’ve got plenty of friends.

My friends are good people. The really are. They just handle their problems with drugs more often than the average (or above average in consumption) individual. Good people can have bad drug problems. Sad, but true. It seems obvious to me now, but there was a time when I did not realize that contradictions like this exist with great frequency.

And we all slide together. Night after night of late nights, drunken and ultimately forgotten come-ons, cigarettes smoked one after the other, joints and alcohol, cocaine (for them), sexual encounters here and there, the awful cycle of repetition…sometimes beautiful or hot or tragic…it’s all worthless, really. The truths you seek could dance right by, you could look right at them, and still you’d never see.

I am with a friend at the Copa, two or three weeks before I left, before I even know I’m leaving. We are smoking and drinking, stoned from earlier, he’s also tweaking, as we talk rather distractedly at the other. Is this all there is? Boredom and thoughts of "how long can this life last?" run opposite to the beat and the drunken European cadences of my friend. My life here must end. If I stay, I will die. I look into his eyes, the beautiful friend on a faster track to self-destruction than myself, and a decision forms. A vague finality really, that I will leave the island soon. When is soon? Soon will be long enough, I suppose.

A month, six months (maybe six would be too long)…the end here will come. I know this will happen. His eyes resonate sadness and desperation and questioning and realization. I’m filled with my own sadness about our nonverbal exchange, our self-destruction, our ways, knowing I’ll die, knowing he’ll die, if we stay here. I hope he figured it out.

Nothing works here anymore. I hope the end comes soon. I can’t keep trying. Sometimes I can’t get out of bed. It becomes more than I can bear. My friend says something I don’t quite hear and tries to smile. I try to smile back.
I get another beer, light a cigarette, excuse myself, and walk around the perimeter of the bar, still looking for an answer, any answer, in the faces of strangers, looking at the scenery in the darkness for how many more times.

Standby; while thinking revs and guns…

…Maybe I’m grasping, but it doesn’t feel that way. This wonderful shroud of semi-manic euphoria that’s wrapped itself around me, unfettered of self loathing, full of gonzo thought and behavior, feels good; feels right. I feel like I’m going to explode with good feelings, creativity, love and success. Every good day is new and thrilling, and bad days (as, of course, there are still "bad days") are much easier to tolerate.

For the first time in a long time, my impatience for knowledge of long-term future events is tempered with innate assurances that the immediate days will be some that I’ll savor for many years to come.

Uh-huh.

I feel great and powerful! I am great and powerful!

Planes

"Dear, I fear, we’re facing a problem…"
-The Cardigans, "Lovefool."


The plane takes off, as all planes do. It is rising and rising and then circles around to assume its correct flight pattern. We are above the city, the houses and the freeways and the cars becoming smaller, the rough edges of the city smoothing themselves out in perfect correlation with the increasing altitude. Headline News is on the monitor. Most of the people are watching Chuck Roberts deliver the news about Bosnia rather than listening to what the pilot is babbling about, because you can never understand what they’re saying anyway. The really cute Steward is wearing a perfect smile exposing flawless bleached teeth and is passing out cola and nuts when the engine falls off and we plummet towards earth.

The feeling is similar to a roller coaster; climbing and climbing to the top of that first drop, the assured forward motion to the crest, and then thump! The brakes are released. And then thump! We lose the engine. The plane crests, suspended, time stretching to a point of delicious insanity. What will happen next?

Everything erupts simultaneously. As the plane noses downward, shaking and shuddering, the doomed occupants scream helplessly. Then the plane crests again, then again, replaying that horrible moment when forward motion is replaced with downward descent. I am rigid in my seat, trying to imagine I’m watching this catastrophe from the ground. Can’t. Let’s see…an object already falling at 32 feet per second, times a couple thousand feet, times, um, 200(?), 900(?) miles an hour, equals horribly dead, really soon.

Nothing works. The crest, that moment, overrides any other thought. We are hurtling towards the ground, towards the city, towards the freeway, and objects are coming back into proportion and we hit the ground, and objects are coming back into proportion and we hit the ground and I wake up, sweating. The apartment is quiet.

It’s 4 a.m., ____ still hasn’t come home, and I can’t go back to sleep. For two weeks straight, I’ve dreamt of planes.

Fragments I can remember from dreams about plane crashes.

1. The airport is crowded. Soundless. It is fluorescent white. People’s heads bobbed and arc-ed languidly in time with the others during the course of their individual walking destinations.

Smiles in anticipation. Commercial Jet. Speedy take-off. Wheels squeal at initial motion.

Steep ascent; sharp bank, tearing metal. Screaming, incoherence, plummeting, falling objects, gripping my arm rests. Fire before impact, then impact.

2. Clear, cloudless, sunny, cold day. Flying comfortably. Mountain range. Catastrophic Mechanical Failure.

Window seat. Oddly calm. Mountains become larger and closer. Different angles. The snow was important.

3. From the ground, observing. The plane is too heavy; it is obvious. Struggling on take off, slow to ascend, then failure. The plane belly flops on to another plane of equal size.

Massive fire ball. Gasping from a distance. Then running; all of us. No cries upon arrival; just burning. I knew someone on the plane who was now lost.

4. Unsafe plane. Foreign land. Close to landing. Wobbling. Chants and whispers in an unknown language. Will this suspense end? After the crash, I realize I am unharmed.

Flying and falling and falling. March 31, 1995

"You can force it but it will not come. You can taste it but it will not form. You can crush it but it’s always there. You can crush it but it’s always near, chasing you home, saying everything is broken…everyone is broken…"
-Radiohead, "Planet Telex."

Holy shit, I’ll be back in Missouri today. Soon. To stay. I haven’t even touched down from the last leg of my Key West to Miami, Miami to Dallas, Dallas to Springfield flight yet, but I’m pretty sure this was a mistake.

The last straw of life in Key West came, not surprisingly, by my own hand, reacting once again to some perceived or real injustice at the hands of who I called my boyfriend, but, by the end, the guy who said I was his roommate. One week has passed and events happened so quickly that I’m still not sure of the exact moment when everything died. I’m sure it’s better that way, anyway. He said something, I figured something out, and after he left for work, the dam burst. I remember thinking I would die if I stayed, my heart flopping around in despair within the confines of my chest.

So…I chose the most logical course of action I could think of at the time: Plan to leave. Quickly. I called UPS for boxes and shipping information, the travel agency for tickets, and Mom and Dad for money to get home ("Honey, can you stop crying? I can’t understand you…"). I wish I could remember more, but that’s what happens when you’re a huge pothead with a serious denial trip. Maybe someday, it’ll all come back.

I can feel myself getting all crazy-eyed here on the plane. I have to go to my friend Angie's wedding tomorrow. How’s that for timing? Mom and Dad are supposed to pick me up at the airport. I hope they don’t bring my sister. I can’t deal with her and our growing distance and all the implications of my own bullshit and how it’ll effect my parents right now. I’m starting to get mad at things that only happened in my head and some things that happened months ago. This plane ride will never end, will it? My mind is working really fast and I feel like I’m gonna cry when I see my parents. What have I done to myself? I can already sense their worry. Why am I so fucking weak? ___ ____ ___ ____ ____…please help me. But he’s not here.

I’m gonna fall out of the sky and land back in the same pit I left, only this time it’ll be worse. Jesus, I’ve got to straighten up. Got to go to the wedding. Must be able to converse with my friends without losing it. Got to find a job. Must live with my parents. I have to get some money. I have to face the same old ghosts.

Oh man; I have got to get some pot.

Uh-huh…

"I accidentally touched my head and noticed that I had been bleeding, for how long I didn’t know. What was this, I thought, that struck me?? What kind of weapons have they got?? The softest bullet ever shot…"
-The Flaming Lips, "The spark that bled."

"I saw you; and him, walking in the rain. You were holding hands, and I’ll never be the same."
-Oran "Juice" Jones, "The Rain."

The cook. Or chef. Whatever he was. The waiter. The redhead with the goatee and flat top. The guy from New York.

All those old boyfriends who "just happened" to be visiting the island, although I wasn’t allowed to see or meet any of them. The conch. The DJ. The guy that worked the front desk at the motel who got so pissed whenever I answered the phone.

The guy who ___never wore underwear for, when they went for "walks," underneath shorts that required them. The guys from his past. Guys in his present. The guy from the boat. The guy he went to "watch TV" with, from Ohio.

And let’s not, shall we, forget the guy from Boston.

I think he thought I believed him. I did at first. I wanted to so badly.

Each discovered disappointment ripped into the last, tearing the soft matter of my brain and heart. Oh, God; the blood.

Soon

"Out of the island, into the highway; past the places where you might have turned…"
-Vertical Horizon, "Everything you want."

A major part of growing up is learning to accept the fact that when something is gone, it’s gone. Job, old love, period of time, etc.

It’s over. Now move on.

The other part of the equation is learning to accept and embrace the circumstances and blessings of your present situation. Here you can stay. Because, after all, this is where you are.

And this is where you belong.

I guess now I belong in Branson – again.

Branson, April 1995, #1

Gnaw gnaw gnaw numb numb numb black nothing nothing
Can’t today – maybe never.
Nothing – No Thing.
I can’t.
Can’t.
Not anything.
I still live, though, for some reason.
Turn.
Change.
Close.
Something.
Please!

This will get better?

Branson, April 1995, #2

The first few weeks’ back swirled around with beer and pot. Seeing people I didn’t want to see again (and those I did, of course). Going back to my old job. Living with my parents. 29 and gay, broke and broken, boomerangin’ back to Momma and Daddy from Key West, now completely different.

They are visibly concerned about my current state of behavior. And I don’t posses the will or desire to allay their fears. I drive around the hills surrounding Branson much more than I did before leaving. The stereo is always loud to drown out the silence ringing just behind my ears whenever I’m awake. I always obey the speed limit while on autopilot.

I think about what I can while driving.

I usually wait to cry until I’m driving, too.

!!

What drives me on drives me down.
What doesn’t kill might strengthen,
but in the end,
those things will,
in fact,
do me in.

Green to amber to red –
don’t think of not running it –
kick out the jams, damn it!
Godspeed please –
One light ahead –
a pinprick.

The air-eating, life-sucking cataclysm always just behind me,
already vaporizing the last bit of tire track,
while my vehicle roars,
driving on,
creating more,
just ahead of the beast.

If survival is possible (it is, isn’t it?), then I must,
just,
do it..

go NOW!

It couldn’ta happened to a nicer buncha people…

Society is accelerating so fast that it is becoming humanly impossible to keep up with current events, politics, trends, new language fragmentation, technological advancements, much less familial and social obligations. These are workings and connections that civilize civilization. Diversity of experience, the chance to relax, breathe deep, and drink in all that is ours.

This faster pace makes it difficult for the average person to be humanely and societally well rounded, involuntarily forcing all to choose their own slice of reality. Fragmentation leads to collective isolation and objectification of others, stretching the spectrum of acceptable moral behavior to progressively inhuman standards.

Behold us, the new barbarians.

Congratulations!

Congratulations!

Your devolution is progressing nicely.

Please continue same actions and/or responses, completing your descent into another behavioral sub-category.

Don’t forget your Road Rage!

Computer culture’s effect on the first wave, computer-immersed generation – 1995 (one positive, one negative thought).

pos

This generation begins assimilation and application of computer literacy, technological aptitude, and sophistication concerning medium almost from time of birth. Implications and positive theoretical advancements within discipline during the next 20 years unknowable due to generational familiarity with operation and influenced thought systems. No matter what anyone says, we really don’t know what Billy and Suzy are thinking or doing with their PCs or how they’ll use that knowledge down the road, or how their enhanced aptitude will effect society. We can’t know that yet.
And it could be…amazing.

neg

Production of desensitized waves of adults with skewed life, value, or violence priorities. Application of computer related sensibilities to worldview and corresponding behavior. Hyper-violent applications in games or on the Internet detract from life worth. History can be revised virtually unchecked. Other humans viewed as objects. Aggression viewed as viable problem-solving solution. Possible root cause for generational fracture within American culture.
Implications could be very serious.

Waiting, late evening, April 1995

Societal and historical revisionism through the influence of the new media is reality. Forgotten history is doomed to repeat itself. The media forgets for us. Tabloid media in all its forms reminds us not of the important events of the last decade(s) and those lessons learned, rather sensational non-events that divert the public’s attention from valid issues and concerns.

Talk shows pander to the lowest common denominator of behavior with desensitizing topics designed to simultaneously titillate, provoke and jade the Proletariat. Jerry Springer, have no fear. Your name is etched in history. You’re infamous. One of many accelerators of our decline. Forever known as poison.

"So, what do you think?"
"About what?"
"What I just read you, dumb ass."
"It’s pretty serious…" he was smiling, almost ready to giggle.
"And…"
"Well, what are you gonna do with this?"
"I don’t know. It’s just a thought I wrote down. Do you like it?"
"Yeah. It’s good…I don’t know why you wrote it, though."

I was at the office of my friend, into the late hours, stoned, waiting for him to finish up. I haven’t been home even two weeks now and I’m back into the same routines, feeling as hopeless as ever, bingeing more, and growing more distant from my family. I’m mad at myself, my circumstance, and the world around me, acutely aware that it’s spinning out of control and there’s not a damn thing to be done about it. But that’s not what he’s wanting to hear.

"I don’t know. Springer pisses me off, I guess."

"C’mon, let’s smoke a fatty and get the fuck out of here."

Finally, a plan. We ended up driving to the lake, gettin' more stoned, talkin’ about Jesus and how the world was goin’ to Hell in a handbag.

Manic – May 1995

Mania means never having to say "coincidence." Honing and applying the perspective of analytical-interconnectedness to your daily regimen rules out the possibility of that phenomenon. Everything is linked. There is no coincidence. On a good day, this modus operandi can be full of positivity and FUN! On bad days, though, thoughts morph to shit and paranoia tempts. But that’s all part of the deal…

Manic Depression, with all of its faces, is a thinking disease. Dis-ease. The overwhelming power of the brain can result in a wide array of bizarre, yet related behavior in the afflicted, from crying jags and isolation, to feelings of invulnerability and a heightened sense of perception through analysis of body language and verbal selection, to alienation and hostility towards others. Manics are always thinking. About who knows what (probably something convoluted and grandiose), but make no mistake, their thoughts are somewhere out there, careening along on some freakout tangent or other, travelling so fast they can’t tell anyone how they might have gotten from point A to point X. But the thought line is there. And the process is so complex and involved that, to articulate every machination is, at times, impossible to relay with much or any clarity.

Lithium helps, kind of. I took it for about three months, and there were positive aspects to the salt isotope, like I didn’t feel crazy, which was nice. But the downside was that there were no highs. That was the trade-off for the removal of the low end of my thoughts. The peaks on both ends were eliminated. Everything felt like the color gray, and was 1.75 degrees off-kilter from normal. Almost happiness. Almost.

I was working at the Front Desk of the Casa Marina in Key West when I started my first and only cycle of Lithium. My quack of a psychologist (whom I only went to three times before fully realizing how full of shit she was) told me that confusion might be a side effect to be aware of before the Lithium reached an effective saturation in my blood stream. It took a little under three weeks for the drug to start working, and there were times when I would look at the reservation computer and not know where to start, or not know the name of the person next to me, just for a second sometimes, sometimes longer. The confusion added to the everyday stress of the job, making it almost too much to bear without crying or unusual or inappropriate behavior.

I can’t fully articulate these perceptions; they’re too subjective for words. But everything was off. And the back of my brain felt like it was squeezing itself. A sensation I really didn’t like. So the whole grand Lithium experiment was a trade off of remedies, side effects, and restrictions, with the negative finally outweighing the positive. So Lithium got pushed by the wayside with little fanfare.

It is very easy to destroy the self-image of people who think too much.

The Land Man. May 1995, Branson

"Today’s Tom Sawyer, he’s a mean, mean man…"
-Rush, "Tom Sawyer."

Back from Key West, waiting tables again, unhappy and unstable, I was desperately in need of a career change. My friends were of some help, but the humiliation of failing to succeed at anything in Florida was my own burden, and I really didn’t carry it well. The same drudgery I had left took on sharper pain, coupled with the memories of freedom I had tasted and abused. I had worked at an Australian-themed restaurant for three and a half years before moving, telling everyone I knew I’d never do that again. Then, a year and a half later, here I was; again. 1995 was not a real fun period.

One Sunday morning in early May, I was looking through the want ads, when I came across a bona fide opportunity. The ad said a new advertising agency was opening up in Branson and they needed ten dedicated individuals to be trained, then train others for a career in advertising and marketing. I called immediately, thinking to leave a message for someone on Monday. My future boss Jim answered on the second ring.

I had mentally practiced a message and wasn’t prepared for a conversation, but was also pleasantly surprised that I’d gotten a response without trying too hard. I wanted to know more about what employment there would require. He said the agency was based out of Chicago, and that he was one of the Principals overseeing the start-up operation, but not much more. Would I like to schedule an interview? Yes, that’d be great. We set a time and he gave me directions. Tomorrow, my life would change in ways I couldn’t yet know.

The next morning at 9:50, I pulled up to the house. I had not expected to see a house, but the address matched. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. Situated almost on top of Mount Branson, the front yard overlooked a panoramic view of the old part of downtown.

I knocked on the door. I was greeted by a man who bore more than passing resemblance to "Mr. Burns" of The Simpsons. After a brief introduction, he had me sit down and get comfortable. He then began to tell me an anecdote about a restaurant promoting a special so popular they couldn’t keep up with demand. The problem was the pans in which the entrees were prepared were too large to fit in the steam table on the line. The transference and extra waste were the weak links to the situation. "How would you fix it?" He asked.

"I’d get smaller pans that fit the steam table." He smiled and said, "That’s marketing. Getting the message or the product to the people it’s intended to reach. But it’s also about the processes involved, too."

He had been making pretty direct eye contact throughout the conversation, then did a double take, smiling at first, then direct, intense, and expressionless. When no confusion registered in my eyes and expression, when he understood I understood, he smiled. I was sharp, articulate, and not easily intimidated. That day, I became his right hand man. I became "Waylon Smithers."

The first week or so, he would talk for hours and I’d take notes. Then he would give me exercises to perform, like culling phone numbers from every boat dealership throughout the region, using multiple directories. Then I called these dealers for their proper mailing address. All this information (Phone numbers, addresses, and contacts) was then entered into a database. The process was then repeated, this time with Recreational Vehicle dealers. Then with farm equipment, followed by realtors with large tracts of land in the immediate area.

He was methodical in gathering and assimilating the information he required. It was fascinating to watch, to participate, and to grow continually more aware of the processes involved building the database. As the pool of information grew and locked together, the implications of the "Bigger Picture," as seen through his eyes, began to form for me, also. Branson was ready to usher in its second wave of economic development: Conventions, Trade Shows, and Expositions. And this man wanted to be in the middle of it all when the money started flyin’ around. To him, it was simply a matter of numbers and proper preparation.

Branson hosts between four and six million tourists a year. Some visit every year, some every two years, and some only come once, etc. Eventually, randomly, the numbers will synchronize so that, rather than four to six million, ten to twelve million people will descend on Branson during the same season. His intent was to prepare for this statistical explosion and usher in this second-wave economy, thus becoming "King of the Trade Shows." Huge, but for the moment, I am still working on commission, and no money has changed hands yet.

I quit waiting tables to work more than full time at the Agency. I had $800 in savings. I figured that, when I ran out of money, I’d either quit, or I would already be making money. I ran out of money in less than two and a half months.

There were four others working for him. All of us worked very hard, logging the long hours required, for nothing at all. Strict commission was definitely his game. He "spun" long distance service between Sprint, MCI, and AT&T. He had graphic artists prepare renderings, fully intending not to pay them. He had me serve a subpoena once (Boy, were the recipients surprised!). This was the problem: People sensed that he was not trustworthy.

He was from The City. He was slick. He looked like Mr. Burns. He was intelligent and intimidating, when he so chose. People’s distrust of him didn’t bother him in the slightest. "Keep knocking on doors, Lance, and eventually someone will let you in." I was also his "face," or Advance Man, reeling in prospects via letter, phone, or in person.

During this time of two and a half months, he had four tenants, two women and two men, stay in the spare bedroom of the Agency/house, one at a time. Their average occupancy was about two weeks. The women were both in their early 20’s. Initially, he talked with them in warm tones, ignoring the interruptions to our progress. After awhile, he became cross with them, then ignored them completely, then evicted them. A new tenant would then move in. The men were of marked lower intelligence and rather creepy in demeanor. He had little to do with the men and would become cross with them if one should venture into the living room during work.

He had visits from associates from Chicago. They arrived in BMW’s and Mercedes, parking next to his 1970 GMC pick up truck. They came to discuss future development for the area surrounding Branson. It was a fascination. These obvious heavy hitters coming to speak with their brilliant, eccentric peer/mentor, in the middle of his living room, some low rent boarder wandering in and out, surrounded by his "employees," his people, all working for free. They visited six, maybe seven times.

Not only was I observing I was also a key player -- his heir apparent. I trusted him, but not entirely. I was in too deep to quit and in denial about our collective chances for success. By the end of my time there, I’d begun to feel panicky and react with panic, like I did in Florida.

He had health problems, like the beginnings of kidney failure/bad back/emphaseyma, and was constantly in pain. A few days before I quit coming entirely, he began to pull out two of the front bottom row of his teeth, wiggling, then extracting them, in front of us. During this episode I thought "It’s happening again…What is happening here? Is this real?"

The very end came one day in a meeting with some people with property near a major road in town. The lot could easily hold 100 RV’s. The people were willing to do business, but he kept adding stipulations, violating his own first rule of business: Don’t Get Greedy. But he did get greedy, and the people balked. So no contract was signed, no money changed hands, and no money was made.

I had run out of money. I freaked out. I completely lost my shit on him, screaming, "You’re breaking my heart! Why are you doing this? Why won’t you help me?" Whatever trust I had in him was broken, reminding me, in the process, parallels to my recent trust disappointments in Key West. The denial, the humiliation, the pain of the recent past…I wasn’t yelling at Jim in the present. I was yelling at ___, in the past, over circumstances that could no longer change.

I ran out the door, sobbing, still screaming at them. I didn’t go back, ever. I couldn’t face making such a big mistake after making such a big mistake. The implications were too much for me.