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.

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.

November 1995, Oak Hill neighborhood, St. Louis

After finally getting a job, my day started to assume new routines..

Provided I didn’t walk (no time/inclination that day), I would be gone by 8:40.

*Walk to Arsenal.
*Get on the Grand Boulevard bus by 9:00.
*Get out at the Grand Bridge.
*Descend the steps to the Grand Metrolink stop.
*Get on the train.
*Get off at the Central West End station.
*Walk to work.
*Wait tables.


By 3:30, I was done with work. And the reverse path led me back home again.


I have few friends here, and almost no money. I stay in more than ever before. I write more. I treat myself to a six dollar haircut every two weeks (with a two dollar tip), groceries at Aldi twice a week, and a trip to White Castle once or twice a week. I am close to financial oblivion. But I am taking care of myself.

I have no other choice.

Sometimes a rose is a rose…

St. Louis is a little rougher than previously imagined. People who don’t look alike don’t like each other here in gray St. Louis. The sky is about the only thing that isn’t black and white. Your neighbors can be Italian, Asian, Black, Jewish, Moslem, Hoosier (city Redneck), or Armenian, and you still wouldn’t like them any better. Instead of “hello,” people say, “What are you lookin’ at?”

On foot, people perceive you as a stranger invading their territory, even if they are just passing through also. I am also guilty of that line of thought. People here, many, many people here, are tough. No matter the ethnicity, they’re lookin’ for a fight. So you grow accustomed to being “on the lookout.” One is usually in a defensive posture here in St. Louis. Lots of gang activity in 1995, too.

A few Sundays into my new residence, I had the paper spread out over the futon and the little yellow Elvis TV is on, broadcasting the weekend news. There had been a gang killing in North St. Louis. The banger shot the guy on the porch of his own home, in full view of multiple witnesses. His gang name is “Homicide.”

And yet, his girlfriend declared his innocence. “His name might be ‘Homicide,’ but he ain’t no killah.”

She had no comment about the multiple witnesses’ corroborating descriptions of the murder.

Wow.. Huh.

Lafayette Square, St. Louis, MO, November/December 1995

Johnny and I used to drive to Lafayette Square to buy pot. His dealer lived in an incredibly rehabbed building close to the park. He was crazy. The girlfriend or wife was always in the living room while he ran his business out of the kitchen. She never came into the kitchen, only occasionally looking our direction while we were there. Their boy-child, however, ran wild through the house, and did so noisily, only stopping occasionally to ask daddy what he was doin’ in a manner that suggested he knew what daddy was doin.

The dealer’s demeanor suggested a heavy intake of coke or some other amphetamine derivative. He could not ever sit still. He loved amethyst and snub-nosed handguns, and he liked hearing how cool his toys were to others. He was always pointing his guns and jewelry at us. Anything was an excuse to show them off, accompanied by variations of the same stories for each possession, and of course, more pointing.

His skittish, longhaired Hoosier buddy was always there, too. It didn’t seem like they gave a shit about us being gay, which, given the way those two looked, dressed, and behaved, was surprising. I guess they felt our money spent as easily as the straight potheads did. But they were just too damn jumpy!

Buying weed from Johnny’s dealer became a little.. too much, after awhile. What with the psychic and/or legal heat (Which is not all that uncommon a sensation pertaining to the residences of drug dealers..) surrounding the apartment, the kid running around, the jewels, the guns, their mullet-cuts, the gun pointing, and general discomfort of being in their presence, the process became too…wrenching to even consider. Too, too much. Hey man, I just wanted to get some pot. I don’t know about this other stuff..

I never felt safe until returning home and re-locking the door, already anticipating that first bowl.

Sometime in 1995, while living in St. Louis, I began to feel again..

“..On these long, dark, dusty roads, lookin’ there, no way to go.. I guess I gotta hide away, far away, cause I gotta find a way, to find my way. I gotta hide away, far away, cause I gotta find a way, to find my way.”
-Bubba Sparxxx, “Deliverance.”

The beginnings of stability, after a long period of turbulence,
I am almost in sync with the world (most days, anyway).
But then..
There are days when I’m just not sure of anything.
I feel a bit more(maybe too much), over-analyze a bit more, and, consequently, I don't quite connect..
With what is actually happening.

I walk everywhere. I am a solitary figure wearing sunglasses, a Walkman and big headphones, walking, watching, hoping, cautious on the street, and cautiously beginning the search for myself, and a way out of this present situation. Amongst the falling autumn leaves, I began to explore and mentally map the city.

While walking, I began to do the same within me. I had time to do both simultaneously, traversing on foot, slowly crossing the vast expanses of territory feared on some level, but ultimately respected. I am internally rich, complex, under-rated, and beautiful, like the city in which I now live. I will believe that eventually, even if I don’t now.

Astrological events, November 1995 to August 1997, while living in St. Louis, Missouri

“The only way is up…”
-Coldcut, “The only way is up.”

1. Excerpts from Emazing.com Horoscopes, “Capricorn.”

“Our real blessings often appear to us in the shapes of pains, losses, and disappointments; but let us have patience, and soon we shall see them in their proper figures.” -Joseph Addison

“Capricorn, the planet Pluto symbolizes the transformational part of your personality. Its job is to motivate you to Get-Rid-of-Whatever-is-Obsolete in your life and make room for New Growth. When you refuse to Let Go and Get On with your life, the Pluto part of you will give you Hell. It will do whatever it takes to pry you loose from the past. From November 1995 until January 2008, Pluto will be in the sign of Sagittarius. During this 12-year period, Capricorn, you will experience Pluto’s powerful presence in your Twelfth House of ‘Hidden Aspects of your Self.’ You’re going through a deep, inner Purging Process. During this 12-year period, you will confront those aspects of yourself that you usually keep secret or that you don’t even know about. When your old buried feelings and emotional garbage come to the surface, you’ll be tempted to Escape or Numb yourself. Even though it will often be painful, realize that it is Good for you to go through your cleansing process. Seek out opportunities to get in touch with what’s going on at the Unconscious level of your personality. Capricorn, this 12-year passage of Pluto through your Twelfth House can be a time of great Spiritual and Psychological growth. Don’t be afraid to Look Inside your self.”
-Nolan Myers, August 22, 2001

2. January 1996/Capricorn/Rob Breszny, Details magazine.

“While other signs of the Zodiac will be squirming and whining in the wake of two splashy cosmic events that lie ahead, you Capricorns will most likely be celebrating. The first astrological wake-up call comes courtesy of the melodramatic planet Jupiter, which expands everything it touches. On January 3 it’ll finally exit your house of old business, where it’s been blowing all your problems out of proportion for about a year, and slip into your house of fresh starts, where its big, bright, inflationary effect will prove much more profitable. For example, you’ll quickly be itching and twitching with thousands (okay, hundreds) of brainstorms, a portion of which should be translatable into an increased cash flow. As your bottom line shines with more luster, interesting new folks of all genders will gravitate your way. And all the ancient, worn out ways of doing things-from making love to making a buck-will suddenly seem about as fascinating as your boss’s stories about his teenage sex exploits.

A second cosmic marvel hits town on January 12, when the revolutionary planet Uranus quantum leaps out of Capricorn, where it’s been ensconced for years, keeping you close to the edge. It’s been almost like living next to a power transformer that crackles and hisses around the clock. But no more. While all the signs of the zodiac will feel the rush as Uranus moves into Aquarius, for you it’ll signal a glorious wave of relief and relaxation. Combined with the sweet arousal of Jupiter, this will leave you facing a year of refreshing ease, and probably more fun than you’ve had in eons.”
-Rob Breszny, Details, January 1996.