Found At Sea - Montauk

Reciting Poetry

I recite poetry
Reading poetry does not give life
To the words 
Trapped by my dyslexic eyes
Written letters form unspoken syllables
I never hear the magic then
Poetry spoken has a power
Reading I guess does too
I read poetry aloud
To myself
In my room 
Almost noon
Overlooking Bleecker Street
I hear laughter of students
Cars 
Then near nothing
I speak
THe only sound
My words 
To an audience of one
I hear
A whisper off my lips
Or even louder 
The words vibrate in my throat
Like I am plucking the bass strings
Trying to put together a Mingus riff
To say what is in me
About apartness
About love 
About my childhood
About a dream to see my children
So faraway
On the other side of the world
I wish the words were magic
Like the click of Dorothy's heels
Oz gone
Not to Kansas
And me not here
On Bleecker Street
But Sri Racha 
On the Gulf of Siam
With my family
And that is the magic of spoken poetry__

DUST THEN MUD by Peter Nolan Smith

Bangkok was an impossibly hot city in the dry season of 1990. Tall trees thankfully shaded the airless sois. The fetid klongs led to the Chao Phyra River. Weary barges languidly transported rice from up-country. The air-conditioning of Patpong's go-go bars chilled the flesh of the dancers. Outside all farangs wore a sheen of sweat. Always. After a short stay at the Malaysia Hotel, I was ready to head to the mountains north of Chiang Mai. The fabled Golden Triangle.

I had read of Lanna Thai or the Kingdon of a Million Rice Fields in the travel books. Roads became dirt and then buffalo paths in the mountains . Opium was the dominant crop. The tribespeople lived on less than $1 a day and the Thais didn't consider the Lisu, Karens, Hmong, Yao, Lahu, Lisu, Akha, Lua, Khamu, and Thin Thai. Warlords and secret armies governed this wilderness dedicated to cultivation and transport of Fin or opium.

I booked a 2nd Class AC sleeper at Hualamphong Station and vacated the Malaysia Hotel.

I killed the six hours to the evening train at Kenny's Bar on Soi Duplei. Fon tried to convince me to blow off my departure. We had been friendly for several days. I promised to see her on my return to Bangkok.

"If I here. I here. Chok-dee.” We all needed good luck.

A Tuk-Tuk brought me to Bangkok's main station, Krung Thep Aphiwat. The train pulled out at dusk on time. 6:40 pm. and slowly snaked through the trackside ghettoes into the central plains. Sunset along with the black of night.

Dinner in the sleeping cars was strictly for farangs or foreigners. There was another option and I walked to the train’s rear car. A full Thai kitchen with tables and chairs. No farangs. I sat next to an open window. The wind warm.

I drank 80-proof Mekong Whiskey with off-duty cops in the dining car. They stripped off their shirts, Their skin glowed with sweat. Mine too. Buckets of ice chilled our drinks and the ice cubes slightly diluted the powerful liquor, but not enough, and I crashed in my A/C berth around midnight.

TThe next morning I woke with the dawn. Sleeping past that hour was discouraged by the staff. They kicked everyone out of the beds and gathered the sheets, blankets, and pillow cases. Breakfast was served by a surly porter. I headed for the dining car, where I poured the last of the Mekong into a cup of watery instant coffee. Kai Jiaoo or scambled eggs on rice was than the cold fried eggs with small hot dogs served in the sleeping cars..

The train pulled into the Chinag Mai station on time. 6:40. A tuk-tuk conveyed me over the Ping River to the Top North Guesthouse. On the narrow sois young children of all ages wore various school uniforms according to their grade. Sidewalk stalls fed the young and old in the Ancient City.

The Top North had been suggested by a police officer on the train. The hotel in the ancient city had a swimming pool. I spent most of midday wallowing in the shallow end. Once the sun dropped behind Doi Suthep, I wandered along narrow roads to ancient temples and beer bars near the old Silk Road city's brick fortifications and moat. Close by the East Gate, a farang bookshop rented dirt bikes.

125 cc MTXs and 250cc ATXs.

$10 OR $12 a day.

None of them were new. The studded tires in good shape.

The Aussie owner was yellowed by malaria. Tobie's wife glowered in the kitchen. She clearly didn't trust falangs or westerners.

"He's an American. Not an Israeli." Tobie wagged his nicotine-stained finger at his diminutive wife. A big Singha beer of a table. Not his first of the day.

"All farangs, all men, same. Kee," she said, wrapping herself in a wraith of wrath.

"Kee?" My Thai consisted basically of 'sawadee kap' and 'ek nung kyat beer' plus 'u-nai hong nam'. Hello and more beer were almost as important as 'where's the bathroom', since my stomach was having a hard time adjusting to Thai food.

"Kee means shit. The Thais are the French of the Orient. They think they are better than anyone else and in some ways they aren't wrong. This country had never conquered by the West." Tobie smiled at his wife, happy to be Free of the French, who were still despised in Laos, Cambodia, and Viet-Nam. Thais were happy to be Thais.

The Thais had supported the USA in Vietnam, but only had committed troops to Laos and survived the Communist avalanche to disprove the 'Domino Theory'. No battles had been fought in Lanna Thai for hundreds of years. I preferred mountain paths to battlefield and said to the Aussie, "I was thinking about taking a motorcycle trip."

"The North has great trails." He whipped out a map of the tribal hills skirting the Burma border. "None of the good ones are on a map."

"Mai Hong Son was one of the last market towns on the Silk Route." The broken nail on Jerry's index finger tapped a location to the west of Chiang Mai.

"You could fly there for $15. Driving on a dirt bike can take up to ten hours. It's hard riding and busts your ass. Every corner is a turn into the 15th century, especially in the dry season. The Thais are trying to pave it, but the steep hills devour the road like land sharks. This time of year the road has dust deep as your knees."

"Better than mud."

"Yes and no. What do you want rent?"

"I'll take the 250."

"Good choice."

I gave Tobie my passport as a guarantee and motored around town like Marlon Brando in THE WILD ONES. The bike's short pipes glowed red from the exhaust. The backfires spat out blue flames. I returned to the hotel and dropped into bed early. Ten hours on a bad road could easily become fifteen. Thailand was as famed for bad roads as was the North of Maine.

The next morning I ate a quick “jook’ or rice porridge. The barman at the Top North Guest House looked at the hazy sky and said, "Lon Mak."

And he was right about the heat.

It was already 91F and I drank a 'bon voyage' Singha. It was as cold as the air was hot.

After checking my bag with the hotel, I strapped a small daypack to the bike and set north from the old city. The Trans-Asia Highway was smooth as a baby's bottom.

50 Kilometers out of Chiang Mai was an elephant camp. Tourists rode the massive khangs through the forests. I snapped a few photos and kept on going. It was a long way to Mae Hang Son.

Heavy construction trucks labored up the two-laner. The road washing paved for the future. I weaved through the swatches of plowed road in 2nd gear and climbed into the mountains scarred by the slash-and-burn agriculture of the Hill Tribes. The centuries disappeared with every mile. I made good time to the Mai Hong Song turn-off. The centuries disappeared with every mile.

I made good time to the Mai Hong Song turn-off.

Outside of Pai the ankle-deep dust replaced the pavement. I wrapped a scarf over my mouth and nose. Sunglasses partially protected my eyes, but within a mile, powdery dirt coated my denims and dust caked my teeth and nostrils.

Opium trucks rolled past police barriers without inspection and I promised myself a taste in Mae Hong Song. Chasing the dragon or smoking opium would go good with a cold Singha.

As the sun rose in the hazy sky, the air grew too hot to breathe . The sun was strong enough to make me think that someone was ironing my skin. I drained my water bottle and looked up the word for water in a Thai dictionary. It was ‘nam'. Bottle was 'kuat' and I repeated both and sped by dry rice paddies, hoping to reach a village soon.

Water buffalo wallowed in troughs of mud.

Buffaloes were called 'kwaii' like the movie BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAII.

By noon I estimated the temperature in the high 90s.

There were no towns or villages. Only the road and dust. I twisted the accelerator to the max. The wind offered no relief.

Fifty miles short of Mae Hong Son, I entered a Lisu village. The various tribes lived pre-industrial lives. The young tribal girls sold iced water. I bought three bottles and gave them all candy. They thanked me with a bowed 'wai'.

Two miles farther west I topped a pass. The hot season had scorched the trees brown. Parched leaves huddled at their trunks. Three buses were parked at the bottom of the valley. I slowed  to a stop. Their passengers sheltered under withered trees’ miserly shade. The drivers gathered at the edge of a 10-meter bog. A trickling stream had transformed the red dirt into a thick muck. The Thais looked at me. I looked at them. We studied the seemingly impassable road.

One of the driver smoked a Krueng Tip cigarette.

He pointed to his knees to indicate the depth of the mud.

"Mai bpen rai," I said, which was all-purpose Thai phrase meaning 'no problem'.

I revved up the engine and the Thais shouted out, "Farang Bah."

I thought it was encouragement.

I maxxed out the 250cc engine. 6000 rpm.

A beautiful Lisu girl caught my eye.

I smiled at the twenty year-old and roared 200 meters back up the road for a good running start.

One of the drivers waved his hands to warn that crossing this mire was impossible.

He hadn't seen Evel Knievel leap over Caesar's fountains in Las Vegas and I u-turned the bike spraying a rat tail of damp earth. The Thai men on the roadside rose to their feet. The women stopped eating. The children ran closer to the soggy road. They knew that there was going to be a show. In their minds, all farangs were crazy. I goosed the accelerator and torgued out the bike at 7000 RPMs. I wasn't wearing a helmet.

My only protections were my courage and stupidity.

"Farang bah!" I shouted and raced toward the muck at full speed. The front wheel hydroplaned over the mud and then buried itself up to the fender, catapulting me into the air with outstretched arms like Superman. I was no George Reeves, the Original Man of Steel, and bellyflopped into the puddle.

I rose from the mud covered from head to foot like a troglodyte and the Thais laughed insanely, as the men hauled the stalled bike to the other side of the bog and I promised to buy them beer in Mai Hong Sing.

"Farang bah," shouted the driver.

I shook off the slop like a wet dog. The stranded Thai passengers laughed harder.

"Farang bah. Farang bah."

Later I learned that 'farang bah' meant 'crazy foreigner' and that I was. A farang bah, but I waved to the Lisu girl and she waved back. Seconds later I remounted the bike and punched my fist in the air before speeding away dripping clods of wet earth.

The sun baked the mud to every inch of my body. I loved riding in the mountains. I was free.

Mae Hong Song was a small town and I pulled into a restaurant across from a small temple and ordered beer. I drank several and each one tasted better than the previous one.

The bus rolled into town at sunset. The passengers sat down and joined me. They told the store owners the tale of my failed feat. I bought beers. Everyone laughed and the driver raised his bottle and said, "Chok dii."

Good luck.

"Chaii yo." I was happy not to have been hurt by my failed feat.

The Lisu girl sat at my table. She opened the paper bag and peeled off the insects’ antennae. “Khin.”

She stuck the body in her mouth. Legs and all. I obeyed and did the same. The grasshoppers were crunchy and tasted nutty. A great bar snack. I ordered ice for the beer. Cold Singha beer went well with fried grasshoppers and even better with mud.

The Thais retold my feat to each and every new Thai and let me give the punchline.

"Farang bah."

Each time it earned a big laugh, because even in a remote backwater like Mai Hong Song Thais were used to 'farang bah'.

Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18

Plenty more to come___ Fotos by Peter Nolan Smith

Thai Fried Rat - 2011

“What did you eat for breakfast, fried rat?” Richie Boy asked his Hassidic friend at Smith and Wollensky’s, after Isaak cut loose under the table.

“It wasn’t me.” The guilty party protested without forgiveness. “He who smelled it dealt it.”

Everyone at the table was over fifty. The restaurant was elegant. Our waiter treated us like royalty. This afternoon Richie Boy had sold him a diamond. A good deal for him and a nice profit for us. Our conversation should have been less puerile.

“Fast food for lunch.” I sniffed the foul wind. “McDonald’s 100% beef means all the cow, except for the moo. They drop whole cows into a vaporizer. Out comes pink poo for a Big Mac.”

“I like Big Macs.” Richie Boy’s friend was religious. His work schedule failed to allow time a healthy kosher lunch.

“Better fried rats.”

“Don’t tell me that you’ve eaten it?” Richie is a bacon Jew. Little is tref for him, but rat is definitely off his menu.

“On occasion.” Rat, owl, vulture, and crow are four animals Americans will never eat. Only owls will eat crow. I’m sure there are several other animals missing from any menu of the 50 states, such as seagulls, seals, jellyfish, as well as a legion of endangered species, especially whale, which I ate as a child in Boston fish market next to Faneuil Hall.

“Rat?” Richie Boy and his friend were aghast.

“It’s not so bad. The field rats in Thailand live in the rice padies. That is all they eat. They never eat garbage not like you.”

This past January I had been in Thailand. Mem, my son Fenway, and I had spent a week in a Cambodian border town. She brought down several fried rats for her cousin, uncle, and me. The rats or noo yang are fat from rice. Her aunt cooked her several splayed rats to bring back to Sriracha. The cousins back home were dying for some good rat.

It’s a five-hour drive from the Cambodian border to the coast. The rats were on ice. At home, her cousin opened the plastic container. Hooey is the top girl at the city’s best Japanese karaoke bar. She wears Ungaro knock-offs and fake Manolo high heels. A model in any other country in the world. Delicate and thin, she bent over the tub of rats. Her nose twitched with a rapture like a glue-sniffer huffing a tube of Dupont after a year’s sabbatical.

“Noo Yang,” she cooed and her step-father pranced like a trained bear in anticipation of feasting on his two rat carcasses. Needless to say, my enthusiasm was a little more decorous.

“You no want eat.” Mem was upset. Cooking rat takes hours. She had saved me the largest corpse. If I didn’t eat it, she would have been insulted by my refusal. Thais have thin skins and long memories.

“Who says I don’t want to eat rat?” I handed her cousin, Nai, money to buy six large bottles of Leo beer and a plastic bag of Lao Khao. The bootleg rice whiskey was strong enough to take the sting out of a scorpion tail, on which I had dined the previous evening.

Mem happily refried the rat and cut the body into sixths. It still looked like a rat and not Mickey Mouse either. New York rat on a plate.

“Why you not eat?” Mem crossed her arms. Everyone else’s eyes asked the same question.

“Wait for it not to be hot.”

Two minutes later I cracked off a leg. The meat was dark. I took a bite. Not bad, in fact good. Rat does not taste like chicken or pig or beef.

Something entirely different yet familiar.

I finished my serving and had seconds. We threw the bones to the mongrel dogs in the street. They fought over these scraps. Mem was happy and the assembled Thais said, “James not same other farangs. He eat same Thai.”

“That’s not true. There’s no thing I won’t eat. Chicken feet.”

Ting gai.

Bleech.

But the Thais love to suck on the rubber feet.

Even my son.

He’s definitely not 100% farang, but not 100% Thai either.

Fenway was scared of rat. He was his father’s son.

Back in the New York steakhouse, Richie Boy asked, as the waiter delivered our steaks, “So how was the rat?”

“It didn’t taste like chicken.” Or chicken feet.

And neither does the steak at Smith and Wollensky’s.

Good boy.

7:50 From Montauk

Sunday night
Richie, my friend, drops me at the Montauk train station
To catch the 6:23 to Penn Station
Richie drives off to a party
THe parking lot empty
No passengers on the long platform
A long train on the far tracks
Only me
Something not right
What__
Track work on the Montauk line
The 6:23 cancelled
Next train 7:50
The train on the far track
Not going anywhere until 7:50
A long wait
Ninety minutes__
Choices
A taxi back to town
Find a warm refuge
The Shagwonk, the loud drunk bar
Or
A five-minute walk in the opposite direction
to stand on the Long Island Sound
To see through the creep of dusk to darkness
The sun already out of sight
Gold against the western sky
Next comes the night__
I pick option # 2
The only option
On a cool autumn evening without a wind__
I call Raoul in the city
"I'll be late."
My roommate says, "That sucks."

Yes, it does but there is no wind
And I have
Warm clothing, gloves, a hat
Cool not cold
Winter almost two months away__
A short walk to the Dureyea Restaurant
Busy in the summer
Closed for the rest of this year
Till the distant Spring
Windows shuttered doors too
Not a soul in sight tonight
No one human
Only me__
Not lonely
Not alone
Geese bleat on the dock
Some more shapeless shadows float on the water
>More geese__
Soon night
A half moon high in the Southern sky
No stars yet__
My fingertips cold
More than another hour's wait for the train
Its engine throbs from the rail yard
Five minutes away afoot
One blast of the horn
I think it's leaving
No panic
Train not going anywhere Me neither yet
Not until 7:50__
Occasionally a car passes by Dureyea
I
Invisible to the driver and the passengers
Maybe one might see me and ask, "Why?"
Because I missed my train
Not the end of the world
I wouldn't miss that for anything__
But it won't happen tonight
I have a train to catch__

DRUNK DRIVING HOUR 1973

My college tuition in 1973 was $2000 for the year. My other expense was for an unheated bedroom in a coldwater apartment in Brighton’s Bug Village. $55 a month. I hacked a cab for Boston Taxi to pay tuition and living expenses. The company garage was next to the old Boston Arena. If a driver booked more than $100 a night, the percentage split jumped from 45/55 to 50/50, driver/company.

My classmate Hank Watson and I were the company’s top earners. The two of us started the evening shift after our last class at 4. We drove everywhere. Roxbury, Southie, Beacon Hill. We drove everyone. Nuns, college girls, drunks. Our paths rarely crossed during our travels. Hank and I regularly rendezvoused at 1:30am to catch last call at the 2 O’Clock Lounge in the Combat Zone The headliners finished the night to the three-piece band; drum, organ, an sax playing funky bump and grind music. A 7 oz. pony Bud costs $1. More expensive than the Hi-Hat Lounge in Allston.

Tuesday night was the best. The 3-piece band played our requests. We tipped them with our tips. IN DA GADDA DA VIDA was priceless on a stand-up Hammond organ. The girls got paid a commission pushing drinks to the suckers, but not to us. We were hippies. Not suckers.

That evening we stayed after hours. Five minutes to finish tequilas with two dancers. Claudia was 19. Blonde. Marilyn Monroe could have been the mother who abandoned her to the nuns. Once she hit 18, she had run away from the Church’s Home for Wayward Girls. Claudia lived in Jamaica Plains. Hank was driving his favorite, Shaleen, to Roxbury. My first class, RADICAL ECONOMICS, with Barry Bluestone was scheduled for 9am. The strippers said nothing about economics and spoke about the life; the touchy suburban husbands, drunken sailors from the Charleston Navy Yard, infatuated college boys. I learned more from them than my Philosophy 101 class. None of their tales were metaphysical. Most of the dancers were from the inner city.

My favorite was Claudia. 18. Blonde. Marilyn Monroe could have been the mother who abandoned her to the nuns. Claudia lived in Jamaica Plains. Hank was driving his favorite, Shaleen, to Roxbury. My first class, RADICAL ECONOMICS with Barry Bluestone, was scheduled for 9am.

Six hours away. It was time to leave.

“If you want to go, then we have to go now.”

Claudia was glad for the ride. Taxi drivers often drove down dead-end streets for sex. She trusted me. I had the twenty-year-old sit in the front. Any weight on the back seat triggered the meter. The Combat Zone to Forest Hills was A $4 fare. Claudia was a good tipper. The money was better in my pocket than the greedy owner. Claudia talked about her childhood. Nuns. Beatings. Priests. Wandering hands. I came from the South Shore suburbs. Bullying, predatory priests, isolation. I mentioned none of it. I was having trouble staying on the road. Tired, not the tequila. Claudia asked at her address, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” My head was strapped to the end of a helicopter prop.

” Drive safe.”

”Will do.”

I headed back to the garage, ignoring the radio dispatcher's calls to drivers. Any fares in Dudley Station were stuck in Dudley Station, until the train opened at 6am. I stepped on the gas. Columbus Street was naked of traffic. My Checker cab had some tiger. I hit 50. Too fast to avoid a Mustang burning the stop sign at Centre Street.

I t-boned the Ford at the doors. My car snaptailed across the intersection at 1000 rpm. The car came to a stop against a curb. The steering wheel in my hands. The windshield shattered from the impact of my head. I dropped the steering wheel and touched my forehead.

No blood.

No missing parts.

The Mustang had been t-boned at the doors. A young black man lay sprawled across the front seat. door. I walked over to the wreck. Steam vented from the engine. People exited from the nearby projects. Blood leaking from the man’s ear was not a good sign. The crowd had some things to say.

“That look like my Uncle Milton.”

“That white boy killed Milton.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” I leaned over Milton. He looked young to be an uncle. Milton wore a red silk suit. Wilson Pickett style. I clocked him as a musician. “Can you hear me?”

“White boy, you done kill me.” Crimson bubbled from his lips.

The crowd grew in size. Almost thirty people. It was a little after 2. No one in their pajamas. An older man held a gun by his side. I eyed him, as if I were not white. He didn’t buy the lie. Mob. Riot. Headlines. I stood alone. A Boston cab drove between us. Hank was behind the wheel. Shaleen stepped out of the back in pink hot pants slendor.

“Leave the white boy alone. He’s good people.”

A bad ending to this night was further detoured by the whoop of a police car’s siren. The crowd backed away from the smashed Mustang. Shaleen had done her job. Hank drove away in a hurry. This was none of his concern.

“Get in the car.” The officer behind the wheel ordered with urgency. I obeyed his command. The patrol car pulled out, as an ambulance pulled into the intersection followed by another Boston Police car.

“I think I killed that man.”

“Not at all. We’ll write it up in your favor. You’re from Boston, right?”

He could tell from my accent.

The driver dismissed Milton as someone from another race with a derogative racial slur. They were Irish. Same as me, only I was 50%. I was supposed to feel the same way. I didn’t. The police dropped me at the taxi garage off Mass Avenue. I had to file a report. Who, where, when. I picked the glass from my hair. Two days later I was fired. Milton had survived the crash and sued Checker Taxi for damages. A week later, Boston Taxi in the Fenway hired me. No questions asked. Crashes and accidents were all part of the job.

Hank joined me. I stayed away from the Two O’Clock Lounge. Not on purpose. Just for good luck. I drove afternoons around Brighton Square. Irish working-class people. A little better off than Southie. Short rides. Good tips. My spot was the corner of Washington and Market Street. One afternoon a drunk sat in the back. His weight activated the meter. He lay down, as if to sleep. I asked, “Where to?”

" Nowhere. I want someplace to sit. Just turn on the meter.” He threw $5 at me.

”This isn’t a hotel. You have to get out.”

”I don’t have to do anything.”

I threw back the $5 and shut off the Checker cab. I opened the back door and dragged out the drunk. He swung a punch and flopped against the taxi. People watched the altercation from the sidewalk. He tugged at a revolver in his waistband. One quick punch. Hard to his jaw. He dropped to the street. I grabbed the gun from his hand and drove off. I threw the pistol in the Charles River. Guns were never my thing. That night, when I returned to the garage, I expected the dispatcher to ask about the incident. Nothing. No one had called the police. The Irish knew how to hold their sand about things of their business. I hoped it was all over. Nothing really is.

Several afternoons later, I was sitting on the porch with Beer Barrel. His heavy head on my shoes. Asleep while I translated a German lesson on Bertolt Brecht's MOTHER COURAGE. A black 1973 Dodge Coronet slowly pulled up Malbert Road. It stopped before the ‘eyesore of Brighton’. Two men got out of the ubiquitous vehicle. Well-known for use by undercover police throughout America. I didn’t know them. They didn’t look like cops. Once maybe. Not now. One of them said my name. I got up to run. I figured this was about the Brighton Center assault. The younger of the two men said, “No reason to run. We are from a law firm representing Milton Lipsom in the case against Checker Cab.”

“What do you want with me?”

Beer barrel growled. I hushed him. He lay back down without taking his gaze off the two men. He was a good dog. None of us owned him. At least no one living there ever said Beer Barrel was theirs.

“The law firm wants to tell your side of that accident. They will pay you $100.”

“Is Milton okay?”

“He’s fine. Just a few stitches to the inside of his mouth.

“$100?”

He held up an envelope.

“Can I give you this?”

“Just put it on the porch and then step back.”

“Sure thing, we’re not here to give you any trouble.”

He put the envelope on the porch. It held five $20 bills. Almost three days of work.

“There’s a paper in there with the court date. You will be on the stand for a few minutes.”

The court date was in another three weeks. I wanted to ask where they had found me. I hadn’t been in hiding and the dispatchers at Yellow Cab knew my addesss.

“And if I don’t show?”

“You don’t get the other $100. Up to you.”

The two men got in the 1973 Dodge Coronet. They u-turned. I went back to Brecht and Beer Barrel fell asleep. He was good at that trick.

Three weeks later, I showed up at the Suffolk County Courthouse at Pemberton Square. I wore a suit jacket, a white shirt, and jeans. Judges like clean-cut. I hadn’t cut my hair. I wasn’t guilty of anything. I checked the docket. The hearing was posted for the second floor. The corridor was quiet. Almost as if it were a national holiday. I looked at the paper. This was the right place, then I spotted Milton Lipsum on a bench farther down the hall. I walked up to him and sat down. He was dressed Soul Train slick in a dark blue suit. He smiled and said, “I know you.”

“Yeah, sorry about the crash.”

“Don’t be. Neither of us is dead and I might get some money out of this. I don’t know how, but the lawyers saw I have a good case.”

“And you remember what happened?’

“I do now. Where is the judge?” He stood up to try the courtroom door. Locked.

“What about the lawyers?”

“Haven’t seen them either. This is the right place. The right time. We are supposed to be here. I guess we can wait a little.”

Milton told me about his band. They played at the Sugar Shack downtown at 110 Boylston Street and the 123 Lounge in Roxbury. I recounted seeing James Brown at the 1970 Newport Jazz Festival. We both explained our evening of the crash.

“We lucky to be alive.”

“I thought the same. No more drinking and driving for me.”

“We have been here for over forty-five minutes. No one is coming. So we might as well go. You want to get a drink.”

“Sure. What about the Two O’Clock Lounge. It’s close by. ew can walk there,”

“He shut his eyes, as if he were trying to divine a better place. Opening his eyes, he said, “Sounds good to me. As long as it’s not the Hillbilly Ranch.”

We went. Claudia was happy to see me. I introduced Shaleen. She was happy to be that Milton was alive. We drank and I left him at the bar. I never saw him again. I’ve never drove drunk again. Only as a passenger.

I hope the same for Milton.

We were survivors.

For that night and beyond.

BOOK MART le Combat one 1971

I studied XXX in the Bookmart. Mostly the books. The desk clerks never wanted browsers handling the magazines. THE ITCH by Steven Hammer. I read page 83 hundreds of times. Had my own copy.