The Scum Bag Story
Chapter 1
I play in a regular Friday
golf game at Dobson Ranch, in Mesa Arizona. In fact, we call it the Friday game.
Invariably, after the round, we sit outside and drink beer, tell stories, and
brag or commiserate about the days' events. Usually, after about the third or
fourth pitcher of beer, as tradition has it, someone usually jumps up and
demands, "Come on Bubba, tell us the Scum Bag Story!" There are usually new
players who come and go from the Friday game, and someone always wants me to
tell the Scum Bag Story, just one more time for a newcomer. God help me, I do
love to tell the Scum Bag story.
About twenty years ago, I split up with
my first wife Doris and took off from Hermosa Beach, California and headed up to
Sandpoint, Idaho. I had an old high school buddy up there. About the only thing
I got out of that marriage was a BMW, and a semi-new TV. Doris got the
furniture, the VW rabbit, and a bird named Fred. I'll never forget the day I
left, Doris and I clutching each in a desperate hug, both of us crying like
babies, and saying "Good bye." Jesus, she was a good woman, but I'll get back to
her later.
After years of a confining marriage, I ran wild that summer in
Standpoint. Malcolm, the high school buddy, had a nice house on the lake. It was
easy to get laid back then, before Aids and all the paranoia about sex. About
half way through the summer, I started running low on money, and decided to sell
the BMW. Malcolm and I drove to Spokane in separate cars, where I sold the BMW,
and got a nice resupply of cash. On the way back to Sandpoint, we decided to
stop off in Wallace, Idaho.
Everybody from the Northwest knows about
Wallace. In the old days it used to be a sleepy little mining town, with a very
popular storefront, a nice whorehouse. That summer I had been hearing all these
stories about the Wallace whorehouse. It was about time. We pulled into the
parking lot that afternoon, grinning like dogs eatin' shit, drunk out of our
minds.
Most people have never been to a whorehouse, so I'll give you a
little rundown on how it works. The Madame brings out the girls for a line-up.
That day in Wallace was no different. The girls came out and stood in a line for
our inspection, while the Madame ran down the procedures and prices. The prices
ranged $20, $30, $40, and $50. $20 was for the straight, no frills, blowjob. $30
got you a poke in the whiskers, no kissing of course. $40 was for half-and-half.
But for $50, you could go up the ass. Without hesitation, pointing a finger in
the air for emphasis, I slurred out, "I'll take the fifty." With this drunken
response, three of the girls took a step back, leaving only two left to choose
from. As I recall, one was kinda skinny and a bit skittish. The other gal still
up front was husky with a laid back smile. Being the bargain shopper that
I am, I chose the big one, wanting of course to get full value for my $50. And besides, nobody wants to butt-fuck a bony ass. What
happened next is going to blow your mind.
Please forgive me, but I don't
remember the big one's name. She led me by the hand down a hallway, like a dog
on a leash, to her room where business was conducted. To my surprise and
absolute delight, there was another girl in her room. She was a young
apprentice, who had not appeared in the original line-up. It was her first day
on the job and she was there for pecker check training.
Back in the old
days, before prostitutes made you wear rubbers, the guys had to go through the
pecker check. This was a standard procedure to determine the presence of
gonorrhea and herpes. The husky veteran instructed the young rookie with a
watchful eye. The apprentice seemed quite embarrassed while unzipping my fly and
pulling out my penis. Her unsteady hand began to milk me, while looking for any
telltale discharge, untidy fluids, or open sores. I was beaming with pride,
having passed the original screening and at the same time being instrumental in
the education of a young student embarking upon a new career. This was probably
her first job, right after dropping out of high school. She was truly young and
beautiful, she still had pimples. Over the years, as I look back, I often think
of this young girl. What a shame. I hope she found love and a better
life.
With the increasing awareness off STD's (sexually transmitted
diseases) and the mandatory use of rubbers with whores, I'm afraid that the
pecker check is becoming a lost art. Just another part of our heritage lost
forever, and soon to be forgotten.
So much for twinges of guilt, let me
get back to the Scum Bag Story. After dismissing the trainee, the big veteran
and myself got down to business. I paid the $50 in advance, having passed the
pecker check with flying colors. We were more relaxed now, and after some small
chitchat, we got down to the heart of the matter. She had some magical
lubricating fluid, which she generously applied to my slowly stiffening penis.
However, there was a small problem. As a result of the day's consumption of beer
(20 cans maybe), the husky veteran was having trouble convincing me to attain
the required erectness for anal penetration. The three of four minute hand job
to induce the required bloating had not been foreseen in the original price
negotiation. Time is money. We were not getting off to a smooth
start.
Having finally attained the adequate rigidity, we quickly assumed
the standard dog style position, no kissing or ear nibbling. In the beginning
she sprang forth with the conventional words of encouragement. "Oh, it's so
big," and, "Give it to me hard, you animal." She tried every trick, like
reaching under and massaging my nuts, accompanied by the dutiful moaning. None
the less, I couldn't come. About 15 minutes into this enterprise, she started
becoming quite discouraged and agitated.
I was equally determined to
finish what I had started, endearing myself to her with words like "Just a few
more minutes, please, I'm just about to come, Oh, Ahh." I just kept
plowing.
Finally, out of the blue sky, she twisted her neck around, to
get a better look at her source of demise, and said, "You know, you're a real
Scum Bag!"
I couldn't believe my ears and shot back, "Well excuse me,
I've got a dick in your ass for fifty, and I'm the Scum Bag. Excuse
me!!!"
It is at this time of the story, at the Friday game, that several
of the drunken golfers howl in unison, "Excuse me, I'm the Scumbag, Excuse me,"
while rocking dangerously in cheap plastic lawn chairs. I suppose someday the
Friday golf group will tire of the Scum Bag Story, but that day has not come
yet.
Chapter 2
Back in October, about six months ago, I had gone
down to Papago Park to see if I could walk on by myself and play a round of golf
as a single. As fate would have it, being a Thursday, all of the tee times were
blocked out by the Papago Women's Club, and I did not get to play. I hit some
range balls, practiced chipping and putting, then headed back home to Fountain
Hills, where I live. It was about three in the afternoon. I shall never forget
that day.
There is a singles bar in Scottsdale, near the corner of
Scottsdale Road and Camelback named Eli's. Thinking why not, I stopped in for a
few Budweisers. About half way into the second beer, a truly stunning and
beautiful woman came in and sat down next to me. She had a smile and presence
about herself that took my breath away. I looked around and took a quick
inventory of the patrons, thinking she was there to meet one of the handsome,
Rolex clad millionaires so often found in Eli's.
I cannot recall our
first words spoken to each other, but I do remember that we had a friendly
conversation. She carried on about a high dollar repair job for her Mercedes,
adding that she had been thinking about a new car, perhaps a Lexus. Needless to
say, I did not mention that my Olds was a piece of shit, worth 800 dollars tops.
I offered to buy her a drink, and to my surprise she answered, "Sure, I'll have
a Bud Lite."
As I recall, she seemed a light, social drinker. She had
just one drink, and politely excused herself. She had an important appointment.
Strangely enough, there was some mutual attraction and bonding. Speaking for
myself, it was love at first sight, if such a thing exists. I still have the
cocktail napkin upon which she scribbled her name and phone number. How was I to
know then that my heart was to be broken so, and I would come to examine myself
as never before. The subsequent self-examination, and search for any fine
qualities within myself is a direct result of this chance encounter at Eli's.
Now I know that I am capable of loving and being loved again. Thank you
Darlene.
After a few phone calls, thick with meaningless chitchat and
carefully edited biographies, we agreed to go out on a date. Back in the teenage
years, beautiful young girls had to obtain parental consent to date a new boy
(ugly ones too, for that matter). Unknown to me, Darlene had sought and been
given permission by her 13 year old daughter to go out with me, an
unknown.
It was a Friday, in early November of '96. It took me a good
thirty minutes to find her house. I was not that familiar with north Scottsdale.
Sitting in my car in front of her house, I remember shaking my head and thinking
out loud, "What the fuck am I getting myself into?" I was hoping she was
possibly house sitting or a live in maid. What the fuck, I waltzed up to the
front door and rang the doorbell like Howard Hughes. This place was
mansion.
Tiffany, the 13-year-old daughter, answered the door. The first
words out of her mouth were, "Who are you?" Let me say this one more time. "What
the fuck was I getting into?"
Without going into a lot of detail, I fell
helplessly in love with this very beautiful and charming woman. When together,
we were like teenagers again, not being able to keep our hands to ourselves. I
remember very clearly one time. We were in Radio Shack, and right out of
nowhere, she stopped herself in the middle of a conversation with a sales clerk,
wrapped her arms around me and kissed me. Tiffany, the equally beautiful teenage
daughter, said "Mom, stop it!" We were always sneaking around, just to get those
wonderfully therapeutic hugs and kisses.
It had been many, many years
since I had been with a woman who made me feel so good about myself. I think in
the beginning, she felt the same towards me. Affection is not easily faked.
After a few months, I began to feel that closeness slipping away.
From
the beginning, we had sworn to a pact of honesty. It is very relaxing to not
hold back your thoughts of the moment, and to say exactly what is on your mind,
without that moment of hesitation to editorialize. I was not willing to accept
that she had a similar pact with her daughter Tiffany. I sometimes surprise
myself at my own stupidity.
One day Darlene and I had made love three times
in the afternoon. We had just started to breathe normally, when Tiffany came
home from school, pounding on the locked bedroom door. I'm sure Tiffany felt
betrayed and abandoned. In retrospect I now realize how close Tiffany and
Darlene were. I should have been more sensitive to the family I had invaded, and
not to consumed with my own needs and feelings. I hope the resentment Tiffany
felt toward me was not so damaging to make it more difficult for Darlene to have
a lasting relationship when the right man does come around for
her.
Darlene and I had gone to Rocky Point, Mexico for the most wonderful
two days and nights. There were no phones ringing, no kids running wild
throughout the house, no dogs to feed, just Darlene and myself, very close and
very much in love. When we got back, all hell broke loose. Tiffany was on a
rampage. She was yelling and screaming like crazy. As it turned out, Darlene had
not told Tiffany we were getting away to fuck for two days, but that we were
going to Mexico as part of a group. Girls and boys in separate rooms. Somehow
Tiffany had found out.
I could tell that Darlene was ashamed and hurt
that she had not been honest with her daughter.
This was early in our
relationship, and we had been careful to shield Tiffany from the fact that we
were sleeping together. Now, the hounds were loose. I was shocked and amazed
when Tiffany called her mother a "Slut and Whore." I tried to explain to Tiffany
that what Darlene and myself did was very special and loving, but she did not
want to hear it. I probably should have said nothing, and leave Darlene and
Tiffany alone to work things by themselves. That evening, after I went to work,
they sat down and had a heart to heart. Yes, she was sleeping with me. Yes, we
made love. Most important, Darlene would not lie to her again. They kissed and
made up.
Not only do I surprise myself often with my stupidity; my lack of timing and
sensitivity can be truly astonishing from time to time. One evening, a week or so after the Mexico trip, Darlene and I were
sitting alone in the dining room, just talking and feeling especially close. We
had both had several glasses of wine, and I thought it might be a good time to
disclose something I had been avoiding.
I have had genital herpes for 20
years or so. It's no big deal to me, but maybe once a year or so I get an
outbreak, like a pimple, and I am contagious. If this were to happen, I would
have to avoid intercourse, not wanting to infect Darlene. I felt it would be
better to tell Darlene in advance, rather that to wait until some night in bed
to say, "Oh, by the way, we better not do it for a few days." Anyway, as gently
as possible, I dropped the bomb on her.
I also suggested that we go to
her Doctor, and in my presence, have a frank discussion and let the Doctor
explain to her what herpes is all about. Instantly, I could tell that Darlene
was shocked and afraid. Between the wine and the bad news, she was starting to
fall apart. I felt lower that shit, and quite ashamed. What happened next was
the wildest, God damnedest, heartbreaking scene you can ever
imagine.
Darlene had an older daughter, Jennifer. Jennifer lived with her
boyfriend, away from home. That evening Jennifer had come by to visit, and most
likely to solicit funds from Mom. Upon hearing the bad news, Darlene took
Jennifer aside and drunkenly confided with her about the herpes.
Whoops!
That night Tiffany, the 13-year-old, was having a slumber party
with ten or so of her juvenile delinquent girl friends. One of these brats had
eavesdropped on Darlene's disclosure to Jennifer. By the time the story got to
Tiffany, I had given her mother Aids. Tiffany came roaring into the dining room,
with entourage in tow, yelling and screaming. "You asshole, how could you do
this to my mom! I hate you! Get out of the house! Aids!! You killed
her!"
My jaw and heart dropped like a 20-pound sack of shit. In my 50
years, I've never felt so low and ugly. A few seconds later, Darlene came
bopping into the kitchen, wanting to know what all the hell raising was about.
Needless to say, the info I had tried to gently and diplomatically convey had
turned into a monkey fucking a football. It was time for some damage
control.
There I stood in the dining room, wineglass in hand, with dozens
of hateful eyes glaring at my crotch. Without question, what these eyes imagined
was not a pretty sight. Now would have been a good time for some smooth talking
and fancy footwork, but I was speechless and devastated that I had orchestrated
such a hellish scene. Thank God, at least the wine was tasty.
Darlene,
tipsy as she was, had enough common sense and presence of mind to isolate us
alone as a threesome. The other kids were instructed to leave us alone in the
dining room for a conference. I'm positive that the phone lines were jammed
within seconds of their dismissal. Jennifer had huffed home to confide with her
live in boy friend.
Finally alone with Tiffany and Darlene, we had our
first real heart to heart. I tried to explain that I was in love with her
mother, and that I would do nothing to hurt her. "No, I don't have Aids, or
anything like that." I begged her to trust me on this one. How in God's name
could I have fucked up things so badly? Within a few days, things calmed down a
bit and it was back to normal. Deep down inside I knew that Tiffany was not very
happy about sharing her mother with a Scum Bag like me. Little did she
know.
Chapter 3
Wouldn't you know it. A few evenings after the
herpes disclosure fiasco, Darlene became quite ill with a bladder infection. She
was as sick as a dog. She probably should have gone to the hospital emergency
room that evening, but she stubbornly refused. The next day, we went to her
doctor's office for a checkup. Tiffany knew we were going to the doctor's
office, and was going nuts.
This was a good opportunity for me to clear
the air, with her doctor giving a trusted opinion. We had decided to go in
together. I was going to do the talking. Darlene was a bit embarrassed to
discuss certain matters, even with her doctor, one matter in particular. Those
15 minutes or so of waiting in the reception room, while mindlessly thumbing
through magazines, is always a chilling experience. The moment of truth was soon
coming.
Darlene and I were becoming more and more comfortable sexually,
and had done some experimenting. It takes time, but eventually partners find out
what words, foreplay, touches, and positions offer the greatest rewards. We had
become aware and sensitive to each other's needs.
Early on in the
relationship, I had told Darlene the Scum Bag Story. The version I had relayed
to her was not the epic version, but a more condensed and subtle synopsis. It
was before the Mexico trip, when I had told her. She was no different from the
Friday game golfers. I remember her laughing and saying over and over, "Well,
excuse me."
The second night of the Mexico trip Darlene and I were about
to make love again, for the umpteenth time. We had adjusted to our favorite
position. To my complete surprise and delight, she placed the head of my penis
comfortably in the entrance of the $50 dollar hole. "Be easy," was all she said.
Within seconds my boner went from medium to a heavy, twitching throbber. It was
amazing, but she opened up like a gay sailor with a two-day pass. Maybe it was
the tequila.
When we awoke the next morning, I was not sure if it had
been real or just a dream. My suspicions were quickly confirmed when she calmly
suggested that I wash myself properly, before making love again. Later at
breakfast she told me that it had been nice, and thanked me for being gentle.
This activity had been quietly been added to our sexual arsenal.
It
seemed like hours, but finally a nurse appeared in the doctor's reception room
and led us back to an examination room. I explained to the nurse that prior to
any examination, we requested a joint consultation, Darlene, the doctor and
myself.
Comfortably seated in leather chairs, across the desk from the
doctor, I began. I told the doctor about my having had herpes for many years. We
wanted his counseling and guidance.
He explained to us that herpes was a
centuries old malady, and that there were even references to it in the bible. He
assured Darlene that it was certainly not life threatening, but that caution
should be taken if and when "The condition," as he called it reared its head. He
had as patients a married couple. The spouse had not contacted "it" after 5
years of marriage. He did suggest that if we were to stay together for years,
there was a fair chance that Darlene would eventually become infected. If it
were to happen, it was not the end of the world. I could tell that Darlene felt
a great sense of relief.
The next item for discussion was the bladder
infection. The doctor explained to us that this was quite common with new
couples for the female to get bladder infections. He even called it
"Honeymoonitis," trying to put Darlene at ease. He scheduled Darlene for some
tests. If it was indeed a bladder infection, he assured Darlene that medication
would clear it up in a few days. He got up to shake hands and send us on our
way. However, I had another item to discuss, the $50 dollar
question.
Darlene knew what was coming next. She suddenly found something
on the floor to look at. "Doc, from time to time we have engaged in anal sex," I
casually mentioned. "Do you have any additional comments, knowing now what you
do." The doctor was wearing a pair of those reading glasses with the top half
missing. He was writing deliberately on Darlene's medical chart, taking his time
to choose his words carefully. Both the doctor and myself could feel Darlene
squirming in the chair.
All of a sudden, Darlene blurted out, "But we
only did it once, and that was by mistake." Another moment of torturous silence
passed.
The doctor lifted his eyes, without moving his head an inch. We
have all seen that look, with the eyes peering over the reading glasses.
Everyone knows what it betrays. I'd have bet a hundred dollars his thoughts went
something like this. "Sure lady, you only did it once. I'm sure you only did it
once, and it was a mistake. Sure. Uh huh."
When he finally broke the
silence, he told us to be careful. Again, this was not a life-threatening
situation. We thanked him for his extra time. I went back to the reception room
while Darlene was having the tests done. The magazines had not become any more
interesting. About 30 minutes later, Darlene came out and we slowly walked to
the car.
Yes, she had a serious bladder infection. There would be no sex
for a while. The doctor had given her a prescription, and she was going to be
all right. At the car, she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a big kiss.
She held me close and whispered in my ear, "You're making me sick, but I love
you anyway." I wanted to cry. Jesus, I loved this woman, and at the same time
felt quite helpless. I knew right then that I was going to have be more
responsible and less selfish to keep this thing alive. Was I man enough? I had
my doubts.
Chapter 4
It was the summer of '68. I had gone to
Hermosa Beach, California, for the summer break before my senior year at
Oklahoma State University. That summer things happened that changed my life
forever.
My old high school buddy Malcolm and I rented a small studio
apartment about three blocks from the beach. Yes, this is the same Malcolm, more
recently from Sandpoint, Idaho. He and I would make that memorable visit to the
Wallace whorehouse some ten years later, for the "Scum Bag"
admonishment.
Just picture this, two redneck Okies in the land of milk
and honey. We had died and gone to heaven. We smoked weed, drank beer, and
chased pussy. Every night was Saturday night. We wore love beads, roman sandals,
and bellbottoms. If my Dad would have seen us, he would have shit.
The
Olympic Games were set for Mexico City in that unforgettable summer of '68, and
I wanted to be there. We had both been fired or had quit our jobs, I can't
remember which. It was mid August, and we were itching for a last fling, before
heading back to Oklahoma for school. One fine afternoon we set out to hitchhike
to Mexico City. I had about 50 dollars and Malcolm had maybe 20 dollars, our net
worth at the time. I look back now and all of this seems crazy, but a young man
of 21 has big balls, or he has nothing.
Hitchhiking was easy back then.
Those were the hippie days, the days of free love and cheap marijuana. It took
us no more that ten minutes to get a ride. Within hours we were at the border
crossing of Mexicali. We casually walked into Mexico, masquerading as young
bucks looking for cheap beer and pussy.
Once we got into Mexico, it
seemed that the good citizens south of the border were not so thrilled about
picking up a couple of shaggy looking gringos. We got stuck somewhere about 20
miles into Mexico, for what seemed like a long time. About the time we had
decided that was not such a good idea, and were thinking about turning back, our
luck changed. A surfer from Santa Barbara, whose name has long since been
forgotten, driving a beat up Dodge station wagon, pulled over and offered us a
ride.
There is a little dance that hitchhikers and drivers go through at
the first moment of offering. "Where you going?" "Mexico City." "How about
you?"
This takes place initially while the parties are sizing each other
up. Not much information is given up at first. But later on, if everything looks
right, a final destination is agreed upon and all goes well. Back in those days
I used to hitchhike and pick up hitchhikers all the time. Knock on wood, but I
have never had a bad experience.
Only once, while hitchhiking through
Oklahoma City, I got myself into a tight spot. A priest, wearing the black
outfit, stopped to give me a ride. After the aforementioned dance, he wanted to
know if it would be asking too much for him to suck my dick. I promptly told him
too pull over and let me out. Before getting out of the car, I thanked him with
a vicious right hook to the nose. Every time I see a priest sporting a somewhat
crooked nose, I cannot help wondering the circumstance.
The surfer
driving the Dodge station wagon was on his way to Mazatlan. He gave Malcolm and
I a ride all the way there. It turned out to be one of the more memorable nights
in my life.
We took turns driving all through the night. Malcolm had a
harmonica, the surfer had a guitar, and I had brought along a small stash of
weed. I remember that night, almost 30 years ago, very clearly. It rained
through the night. Stoned on good weed, with the windows down and the sound of
the tires on the wet pavement to accompany us, we played and sang Bob Dylan and
Beatles songs until sunrise. By the time we got to Mazatlan we were dead tired,
yet wide-awake. Even today, I still feel a special excitement that happens when
I come upon a new place. "God," I love that feeling.
We hung out on the
beach in Mazatlan for a few days. Malcolm had met some Americans at a campground
and had been offered a ride back to L. A. The surfer from Santa Barbara had gone
his way. I was on my own, completely. To a degree, this was the first time in my
life I had been totally free. I knew nobody and nobody knew me. With a very
limited Spanish vocabulary, I was reduced to using the most basic tools of
communication. Smiles, gestures, posture, and arm motion served as language
those first few days. Soon, I came to realize the Americans were not the only
good people on the planet.
Still determined to be on hand for the '68
Games in Mexico City, within a few days I found myself roadside again, with my
thumb out. A truck driver hauling shrimp pulled over and offered me a ride this
time. The "Dance" was a bit different this time. By now, I had learned a few
words in Spanish, and they served me well. I think he probably offered me the
ride, looking for free labor to help him unload the truck. We made an
intermediate stop in Guadalajara, where I helped out on the docks. All went
well, into the bowels of downtown Mexico City. By this time, with the help of
the truck driver, and a handy, pocket sized English-Spanish dictionary, I was
getting along quite nicely.
Nothing could have prepared me for what lay
ahead. Mexico City was not exactly what I had pictured. This was the nastiest
fuckin' place you can possibly imagine. Believe me when I tell you this. I have
since been all over the world, and seen my fair share of hellholes. Nothing on
Earth can compare with Mexico City in the summer of '68. The smog and stench was
so bad, it made my eyes water like a root canal. Day and night, the blaring
klaxons, screeching of tires, and the ravings of lunatics hammered away at my
ears. "Jesus," didn't they have an insane asylum around somewhere. I remember
thinking aloud, "God help the poor fuckers who have to run the Marathon in this
shit."
It was late August, and the '68 Games were still weeks away. My
heart had been set on being around for the freestyle wrestling competition.
There was a guy from Oklahoma City's John Marshall high school named Wayne Wells
competing in the 160-pound class. He had been one of my idols in high school.
Wells had won the high school state finals in '63 and' 64, and had gone on to
Oklahoma University, where he was a two time national champion. He was one tough
sum' bitch.
For the record, Wells did not win in '68, but took the bronze
medal instead. I remember some controversy about him getting fucked over by a
panel on eastern-block judges. He came back in the '72 Munich Games, where the
Israeli weightlifting team was murdered, and got his revenge. Wells kicked the
shit out of some German named Seeger in the '72 finals. I remember watching the
awards ceremony on television four years later, with Wayne Wells standing tall.
God bless America. God bless Oklahoma. So much for Wayne Wells.
Getting
back to August of '68, two things were becoming painfully obvious to me. One, I
was not hanging around Mexico City for two more weeks to watch Wayne Wells kick
ass. And two, I was probably not making it back to Oklahoma State for my senior
year. Number two bothered me the most. Not that I really cared that much, but
because I knew how disappointed my parents would be. The marijuana, beer, and
wanderlust had taken over my life. There was also a sadness, which had consumed
me. There was something I was running away from. There was something that had
happened in the summer of '67 that would not go away. Something I could not stop
thinking about.
Chapter 5
It had been almost a week, now that I
had been in Mexico. Somewhere between Mexico City and Acapulco, on the bed of a
flatbed truck, I was viciously attacked. This attack did not come from anything
human, rather by a gang of microscopic assassins. We all have heard stories
about Montezuma's revenge, but nothing ever spoken or written can truly describe
the Hell of it. I think the Medical profession calls it something like amoebic
dysentery. In my 50 years, this is the closest I have ever come to what could be
described as a near death experience. Believe me when I tell you, I saw the
lights and heard the horns.
The two Mexicans up front in the cab of the
flatbed were very understanding, and certainly amused. About every ten of
fifteen miles, the driver would pull over and let me take care of business. By
the time they dropped me off at the beach in Acapulco, I was weak and
delirious.
That evening I crashed on the beach, hoping things would be
better the next day. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Things got worse, a
lot worse.
One of the first things I learned to say in Spanish is "Donde
estan los banos," meaning, "Where is the shithouse." As fate would dictate, the
beach area where I landed was a bit upscale. The public bathroom there was not
free. There was a one peso per visit charge, about twelve cents at the time.
There was a matronly looking woman standing guard to collect the peso, and to
dispense hand towels and wipes. We became well acquainted that day.
My
fifty dollars had, by this time, diminished considerably. The one peso tariff to
take a shit every thirty minutes was beginning to be cause for concern. At some
time that first afternoon, I was beginning to feel dehydrated and weaker yet. I
did not think I could make the forty or so yard dash to the "banos" in time.
Please do judge me badly, but sometimes extreme measures are called
for.
Without a care in the world, I casually rolled over on my back,
spread my legs, and let 'er rip, swim trunks and all. I was so sick, I could not
move, and mercifully I fell to sleep.
Later that afternoon I awoke, only
to find I had attracted quite a crowd, not a crowd of people, but of flies. The
other beach patrons had smartly distanced themselves. I gently walked down
to the surf, dove in and cleaned up as best I could. Without question, there is
nothing that stings quite like salt water on a raw asshole. Welcome to
Mexico.
Chapter 6
As you might have guessed, miraculously I lived.
Within a few days I was back in health, and feeling alive. Contrary to my
newfound spirit, my net worth was fast approaching zero. I needed to find a way
to make a few bucks, only it would be pesos this time.
As is the case
with most Mexican tourist destinations, Acapulco had its share of street
vendors, from which one could buy anything from a bucket of oysters, to a Virgin
Mary in silver or gold. While wandering amid this throng of enterprise, I was
stopped dead in my tracks by someone standing ten feet away with his back to me.
As if frozen in time, I stood motionless; staring at a teenage Mexican boy
selling seafood from an ice filled wooden crate. For a few moments, he was my
brother Kenny, who had drowned the previous summer, the summer of '67.
I
have always been blessed with the ability to fit in and make friends, every
where I have gone. Within a few days, I fell into a strange comradeship with the
street vendors of Acapulco. My primary job was to stand back and act stupid,
listening intently to any American tourist's discussions concerning quality and
price of the seafood. If needed, I would intercede and help close a
sale.
The Mexican teenager, with the striking resemblance to my dead
brother, and myself became business partners after a week or so. His name was
Jose, and we made a good team. He had the local knowledge and contacts with the
fishermen. My contribution was limited but valuable, wean the best price from
the American tourists. There were no social security cards or business licenses
required. Resumes and employment applications were not needed. This was
capitalism in the purest sense.
After weeks of prosperity and good
weather, we got nailed by a nasty tropical storm. It rained for two days like a
cow pissin' on a flat rock. My sleeping bag and cache of belongings were swept
out to sea. I had not realized that my hiding place, in an area of dense brush
and tropical overgrowth, was in reality a flash flood wash.
My father had
given me that sleeping bag years before, and it hurt to lose it. My business
partner, Jose, somehow found humor in my loss. We eventually sat in the rain
laughing our asses off. We still had good jobs.
That evening Jose asked
me to come and stay with his family. He lived in a very poor hillside section of
Acapulco, about a mile walk from the beach. His bedroom was a rusted out station
wagon, sitting on cinder blocks. The spare room for myself was an old tan
four-door Plymouth with the back seat removed conveniently, allowing legroom to
stretch out comfortably into the trunk area. The accommodations were dry and
comfy.
I found out later that Jose had no family in the traditional blood
sense. He was an orphan, and had been taken in at a very young age by a generous
and caring couple. He called them "Tia" and Tio," which translates as aunt and
uncle. They were in their sixties, extremely poor and simple. Their home
consisted of a dirt floor, some pieces of discarded plywood for walls, and a
roof of woven palm fronds. There was no electricity, only a wood burning stove
and a picture of Jesus. Aside from the grinding poverty, there was a warmth and
feeling of welcome very seldom seen. To this day, I still have a fondness for
rice and beans.
The next morning, I was awakened by the gentle sound of a
softer rain on the old Plymouth. The storm was passing. It was Sunday, a busy
day for Jose and myself. Sales were brisk, and we made about five dollars
apiece.
The walk back to Jose's house gave me a feeling of pride and
accomplishment that evening. About a block from home, a young teenage girl
appeared to meet Jose. She had a wonderful smile and breeziness, that of a young
woman in love. Jose had said very little about her, except that he wanted to get
married. My spirit was lifted to see this, a young teenage couple starting out
on what could be a lifelong journey.
That evening I was asked to
accompany Jose and his fiancé to Sunday night Mass. I had not set foot in a
church since my brother's funeral. Things, which had been said at Kenny's
funeral, were still vivid, and I was reluctant to go. Having only swim wear and
T-shirts as a wardrobe, I was offered a clean and pressed shirt and slacks from
Jose's uncle. It would be unthinkable to refuse, so off we went to
Mass.
I had only been inside a Catholic Church one time in my life. That
had been as a twelve-year-old in Tulsa, only then to rob and vandalize. This
however was quite different. Jose, his fiancé, and myself found ourselves a pew
near the back of the crowded chapel. It was a very sobering and introspective
experience. Not understanding the words spoken by the priest, I could only
imagine the message. "To forgive."
While kneeling, with head bowed for
the final prayer of the service, I quietly began to sob uncontrollably. The
tears were streaming down my face. Jose's fiancé, whose name is long forgotten,
gently took my hand in hers' and gave me the strength to withstand this
onslaught of emotion.
When the service ended, I rushed outside and ran
into an adjoining cemetery I had made note of earlier. I yelled at the first
headstone I came to. "Why did you drown in that fucking lake, you little fucker.
God Damn you."
Then I finally did what I could never do before. I forgave
Kenny. I laid down on the cool grass, put my arms around the headstone,and told
him it was it was going to be all right. Since Kenny had died in the summer of
'67, I had not been able to understand what I felt. Now it was obvious, I was
angry. How dare him die like that? He had been everybody's favorite, the best
athlete, the talk of the town, the chosen one.
Jose and his fiancé
quietly walked over to where I would notice them, and waited for me to gather
myself. The walk back to his house was a strange, solemn parade. Surely they had
doubts about my sanity. Who knows?
Later that evening, after walking his
fiancé home, Jose came up to me and wanted to know what had happened. I said "Mi
Hermano," the Spanish word for brother, and made the sign of the cross I had
seen in church earlier that evening. I did not know the word for "dead," so I
touched my forehead, chest, then across the shoulders. Jose bowed his head and
did the same. He knew.
The next morning I explained to Jose that it was
time for me to go back home, to the USA. We shook hands, and I turned to leave.
It was a mile or so walk to the main road out of town, and to the north. I had
been hitch hiking for a few minutes when I saw Jose running towards me. "Un
momento, un momento," he yelled out. Please wait.
He came running up to
me. Out of breath, and handed me some fried cakes in a paper bag, for the
journey home. My Spanish was very limited, but I easily understood his question.
Would I like to have a new brother?
"Yes," I answered, "I would be his
brother." We shook hands one last time, and that was that. I have never been the
huggy, kissy type, especially with another man, but I regret not giving this kid
a big hug. He had helped in giving me some understanding about myself, and about life that
no one else had been able to.
That was some thirty years ago, and I have
often wondered what happened to Jose and his fiancé. My guess is that they are
happily married and well respected.
The summer of '68 came to an end, and
I did not return to Oklahoma State for my senior year. Hermosa Beach, California
would be home for the next fifteen years.
Chapter 7
Darlene had
planned a big dinner for Christmas day. She had assembled quite a list of
guests. Her oldest daughter Jennifer, and Jennifer's boyfriend Billy, of course
would be there. The live-in housekeeper, a tall and wiry black woman with a very
questionable past would be serving and trying to dominate the gathering as well.
Tiffany, the thirteen-year-old daughter, would have several of her juvenile
delinquent entourage in tow. I had imagined that all would go smooth and easy.
Boy, was I in for a fuckin' surprise.
Everything started off just fine.
As usual Darlene had spent an hour in front of the mirror getting buffed out. I
wish I had a dollar for every hour she has spent in front of a mirror or in a
beauty operator's chair. As the guests started arriving, Darlene wasted no time
getting into the spiked eggnog. She had warned me that sometimes her family
gatherings went sour. She was not bull shitting.
We spent a good hour or
so opening presents. Everybody carried on and on about how nice this was and how
it was just what they had wanted. What is funny is that nobody really liked any
body there. Tiffany hated me for fucking her mother. The housekeeper hated me. I
hated the housekeeper. Darlene hated Billy, and sometimes she hated Jennifer.
One thing was for sure, just about everyone present hated me, except for
Darlene.
We went around the circle, with everyone taking turns opening
one present at a time. "Oh, open this one next," we all guided one another, so
that the most cherished and gaudiest would be saved for the last round. What a
crock of shit.
By now Darlene had instructed the housekeeper to whip up
another batch of eggnog. She would need it before the day was
over.
Gradually, we all made our way into the formal dining room. All the
best shit was on the table. It was a formal service for ten. It was very nice,
all gold plated knives and forks. I said grace, a quick and simple "Thank you
Jesus." I did not elaborate.
I had been selected to carve the turkey, a
big mistake. To begin with, the housekeeper had overcooked the shit out of it.
The stuffing was dry and the meat was tough. I did the best I could under the
circumstances. The turkey meat did not cut well at all. I ended up tearing off
big hunks and flopping them on the serving platter. I kept banging into other
stuff and causing everyone's wine and water to spill. The turkey should have
been carved beforehand, and certainly in the kitchen. One of Tiffany's entourage
spilled kool-aid on the white carpet, and Darlene let out a shriek. It was only
beginning to heat up.
About half way through dinner I noticed something
that made me unique at this gathering. I was the only one holding my fork like a
pool cue. Everyone else was holding his or her fork with the thumb on top, like
you are taught at finishing school. Even the black housekeeper had her thumb up
top. God bless Mom and Dad; but they had neglected stressing some of the finer
habits to myself, my brothers, and my sister. It was while musing over the
merits of fork position, that the shit began to hit the fan.
A month
earlier Darlene had bought Jennifer and Billy a new Chevy compact. I'm sure it
was the cheapest thing on the lot. Anyway, they had parked it in the driveway,
and the windows were down when the automatic sprinkler system went off. Out of
nowhere, Jennifer started yelling at the top of her voice at Darlene and
Billy.
Darlene was a bitch for not telling her that the sprinkler system
was going to ruin her new car seats, and Billy had better hurry his ass and roll
up the windows. Billy ran outside and rolled up the windows. Then Billy hustled
back in looking like a drowned rat, and seated himself.
Except for the
sound of Billy slashing away at the turkey and dressing with an open mouth, the
silence was unbearable. Billy was a converted redneck from Texas, and he could
shovel the food down, if the time was short. I was greatly amused to see that I
was not the only one holding the fork with the pool cue method any longer. Billy
had shifted into high gear, with his face only inches from his plate. He knew
Christmas dinner was just about over. This was not his first rodeo.
In an
attempt to re-introduce the Christmas spirit, I casually suggested, "Come on
everyone, it's Christmas. Let's all enjoy this."
Jennifer jumped up and
yelled at me. "Stay out of this, you mother fucker. This is between me and my
mother." The cranberry sauce and dressing was flying out of her mouth. Thank God
I was at the other end of the table.
Meanwhile, I thought Billy was going
to choke to death, attempting to get down a few more big pieces of turkey. I
guess Jennifer didn't cook for shit.
Needless to say, Christmas dinner
was over. Darlene and Jennifer took it outside for another round. Meanwhile,
Billy was hustling the presents into the little Chevy. The sprinkler system was
still firing away. Each time he opened the car door to dump a load of presents,
the seats and carpet got soaked again, adding fuel to fire. The things said
between Darlene and Jennifer were nasty and hateful.
Poor Billy knew what
was coming next. He was busting his ass to get the new computer system into the
little Chevy, but time was not on his side.
In short order, Jennifer
roared, "I don't want the Goddamn presents. Take the fuckin' things
back."
Billy's heart sank. He had really wanted that new computer system.
I felt bad for the kid.
The only presents Jennifer and Billy carted off
that day were the ones they had brought. The little Chevy steamed out the
driveway and down the street. The windshield wipers slashed away at the hated
sprinkler water. And that was that.
After things quieted down, Darlene
explained to me that this was commonplace for holiday gatherings. Not only had
this happened before with her daughter Jennifer, but with other family members
as well. She did not speak with her own brother. They communicated via lawyers
and accountants.
Later that evening, while watching a cable movie, I
began wondering how long it would be before Darlene would someday yell at me, as
she had her own daughter. The honeymoon would soon be over. I had moved into her
house only weeks before.
Chapter 8
Author's note: I hate to keep
jumping back and forth from present to past, well knowing that it is difficult
for the reader to keep focus. Please forgive me for the transitions, but I feel
that it is necessary to go back once more. Back to the summer of '67.
I
was in Southern California for the summer of 67', the summer Kenny drowned. I
was working the night shift in a machine shop when I got the emergency call. It
was Dusty, my older brother. He was calling to give me the news. When I took the
call, Dusty asked a simple question. "Mike, are you sitting down?"
Dusty
did not kid around or bullshit much back then, so I knew it was bad. The first
thing that flashed through my mind was, "Mom and Dad got hurt in a car wreck."
When he told me it was Kenny, I was stunned.
I had a million questions.
"Where did it happen? Who was with him? When is the funeral?"
Dusty told
me that Kenny's body was still on the bottom of Lake Keystone, and had not been
recovered. The Lake Patrol would resume dragging again at sunrise.
This
filled me with false hope. Perhaps he made it to shore. He would come wandering
home in a few days. My heart goes out to the parents of missing children. One
never gives up hope until the body is found.
Late that night, I was on
the first plane back to Tulsa. I would have to wait another year before moving
to California for good. Since my sophomore year in High School, I had left Tulsa
for summer jobs. Twice I had worked the wheat harvest. Something was always
telling me to get away, to flee the nest. Now that I am older, I understand more
about that.
Just three summers before, during the construction of
Keystone Lake Dam, Dusty, Kenny, Gae, and I had driven out to the soon to be
lake for a picnic. Gae was the youngest, and perhaps the most rebellious. The
war that waged over the years between the boys and "the old man" paled in
comparison to the battles fought between our little sister and Dad later
on.
It was a shame, but as kids we always had to get out of the house to
be ourselves when Dad was home. I recall that day fondly. Gae had packed a
picnic basket. It was about a half-hour drive to where "Danger" and "Keep Out"
signs stopped us. Kenny and I got out of the car and promptly rolled the signs
away. Dusty drove the old Renault Dolphine out over a bridge under construction.
One traffic lane had the concrete work finished, but the other lane was yet to
be poured. We had our picnic without a care in the world, oblivious to danger.
Directly beneath us would soon be a huge lake.
Ironically, the unfinished
bridge was about a mile from the place where Kenny would later drown, in a lake
that was not yet there. I do not remember replacing the warning signs after
driving off the bridge, and back to town.
It seems to me that most
people's lives are conveniently divided into two parts. We tend to remember
things that happened before and after some benchmark day. The first part of my
life was filled with dreams of greatness and accomplishment. I am quite sure
that this meridian in my life was the death of Kenny. This was my first real
dose of the ironies in life.
Do not think that I am so naïve to blame my
shortcomings on that day. God knows, more that one person believes me to be an
asshole. There were signs of what was coming much earlier. I fondly recall a
baseball game in Tulsa that took place when I was about twelve years
old.
The Tulsa Oilers were the Double A minor league affiliate of the St.
Louis Cardinals back then. Every year, during the all-star break, the Cardinals
brought a team to Tulsa to play a game against their underling minor leaguers.
It was a big event.
My Father was the manager of a sporting goods store
in downtown Tulsa. He was always getting free tickets to sports events, and had
secured front row seats. Dusty, Kenny and I had brought our baseball gloves,
with hopes of catching a cherished foul ball.
Every time the hot dog
vendor came around, Dad would say, "No, wait till we get home." We were dying. I
have no idea what changed his mind, but late in the game, Dad finally gave in
and said, "Okay."
The hot dog vendor had a button on his cap that said,
"25 cents." My Dad was a cheap fucker, and he didn't like it one bit. We ordered
the chilidogs. About that time, one of the Major leaguers hit a home run. We
were like pigs in shit, with chili all over our faces.
It was during all
the cheering and yelling over the home run, that all hell broke loose. Dad and
the hot dog vendor were going toe to toe in the aisle, yelling and screaming at
each other. It seems that the chilidogs were five cents extra, and Dad was not
going to pay the extra 15 cents for the three dogs. We knew what was coming
next, and started gulping down the unmasticated dogs at a furious pace. Chili
was flying everywhere.
Dad and the hot dog vendor were nose to nose by
now. "Well," Dad said to the guy, "You just take the God damned things back." He
had a smart-ass way of saying shit, and could piss-off just about
anybody.
The vendor came back with, "I ain't takin' the fuckin' things
back, they're half gone. You dumb Mother fucker."
With all the excitement
over the home run and the tap dance in the aisle, nobody noticed had that Kenny
was choking to death, and turning blue. At first everybody thought he was just
some child waving his arms; going nuts with excitement. In the feeding frenzy to
get some of the hot dog down before having to give it back, a big piece of chili
greased wiener had stuck in his throat. A man, sitting one row back, grabbed Dad
by the arm trying to get his attention.
Dad wheeled and swung, thinking
he was being attacked from behind. Beer bottles, peanuts, hot dogs, Pepsi,
mustard and chili were all airborne at once. Dad raged further when he saw
someone performing the Heimlich maneuver on Kenny. Thinking Kenny was also being
attacked, Dad flew into that as well. He still did not know that Kenny was near
death. Christ Almighty, Kenny was only seven years old. It was the God damnedest
scene anyone could imagine.
After the smoke had finally cleared and Kenny
had been revived, the Tulsa police ceremoniously escorted all of us out of the
ballpark. The boos and catcalls showered earlier on the umpires paled in
comparison to the ones bestowed now upon my Dad. We did not even get to see the
anticipated post game fireworks display. The drive home was solemn and quiet. We
had to promise Dad that we would not say anything to Mom. He had always demanded
the truth from us, but not always the whole truth.
It had been a
sleepless flight, with a three-hour layover in Dallas. The Captain's landing
announcement had brought me back to reality, back to the business at
hand.
It was mid morning when the DC-9 touched down in Tulsa. The
passenger sitting next to me on the plane had offered me a ride to my parents'
house. He was businessman about my Father's age, and had lost a son in a car
accident a few years before. Exhausted and weary, I gladly
accepted.
Driving south on Yorktown Avenue I could see the cars and
pickups of friends and relatives gathered in front of the house. I asked the
Samaritan driver not to stop, but to go past and let me out a block away. The
wake had begun, and I was not quite ready.
Three houses away, I found a
large oak to stand behind. For thirty minutes, I used this tree to shield myself
from the comings and goings at the gray wooden house where I had grown up. The
grass had grown back in the places worn bare as a child, where Dusty, Kenny, and
I, had played everything from football, to baseball, to kick the
can.
About then, a ten-year-old boy came up behind me and asked, "Mister,
what are you doing in my yard? If you don't get out of here, I'm gonna tell my
Momma," he added.
"My Mom and Dad live there," I answered, pointing to
the gray house. I hoisted my duffel bag over my shoulder, and turned to walk
away.
The young boy said to me as I walked away, "Momma said somebody got
killed there. Did you know him?"
"Yes, I knew him. He was my little
brother." It was all I could say.
The kid lowered his head and quietly
said, "Sorry."
After a few seconds he turned away, to a place in his yard where the grass was worn away, and started beating the shit out of a rock with a plastic baseball bat.
Life goes on.
Any comments to mdemn@hotmail.com appreciated. More
chapters to come.