A Walk On A Bridge

On a grey November afternoon I was not in the best of moods. I hid my sadness with smiles and buried my sorrow with alcohol.

Life was hardly worth living.

I hadn't seen my children for over a year. I missed them more and more with each passing day.

Especially little Fenway.

And Angie.

They were growing up without me.

The hurt wouldn't go away. An inner voice spoke a dangerous language. It only had one word.

I looked out my window. Condos along Fulton Avenue blocked my view to the west. Thailand and my family lay on the other side of the world. I hadn't left my room in three days.

My phone rang.

I answered hoping it was a job lead.

Instead it was Shannon, my old basketball friend. We hadn't played in a long time.

My legs were gone.

"You wan to join me for a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. We can have lunch in Chinatown."

"I don't know."

"My treat."

Shannon knew my weakness for a free meal and agreed to meet at the Masonic Temple in Fort Greene.

"Ten minutes." We lived close to each other. Shannon with his wife. Me all alone.

Seeing a friendly face was a good thing.

"So we were walking across the bridge?" I pointed up. The sky was darker than before.

"You scared of a little rain?"

"No." We were both dressed for the weather, although I was wearing sandals instead of boots.

"Then let's go."

"How's work?"

"I don't have any work." I had been laid off from the Plaza store. "No one's buying jewelry."

"Any idea why?"

Millions of dollars of diamonds and gems sat in the window.

"My old profession is dying in the new century, but enough talk of business, let's walk."

The Brooklyn Bridge was thirty minutes from Fort Greene. Shannon and I spoke of the past.

Basketball games, fights, and long-gone loves, then he broached a forbidden subject.

"When are you going to Thailand?"

"No time soon." I was living on food stamps and all my money went to my family. I was lucky to spend $40 a day. "I don't know when I'll get there."

"One day you will."

He knew how much I loved my kids.

Shannon had suggested the name 'Fenway' for my son. I had checked online for Fenway Smith. Surprisingly I found none.

"You know I was walking down Lafayette the other day and ran into a guy with a dog wearing a Red Sox hat. I asked him his dog's name. He said, "Fenway." Now I realized why people don't call their kids 'Fenway'. They call their dogs 'Fenway'.

"Sorry." Shannon was a Yankee fan, but a good friend and I said, "I still like the name."

We had reached the pedestrian pathway and climbed onto the bridge.

Few tourists braved the damp mist. Shannon was a faster walker. I lingered at the railing. The height of the wooden walkway was 132 over the water. A thick obscured the city's inner harbor. Its thick grey matched the color of my heart. The dangerous language repeated the only word in its vocabulary, as the wind strummed the steel cables and the grated roadway hummed with traffic.

I thought of Hart Crane's poem about the wind and struggled to recall The Bridge.

One line stuck in my head.

"Under thy shadow by the piers I waited Only in darkness is thy shadow clear."

Darkness was my only friend.

Hart Crane had jumped or drunken sailors had thrown the gay poet off the bow of Orizaba. He drowned in the Caribbean, confirming his prediction.

"The bottom of the sea is cruel."

The height of the bridge was ruthless and the tide said the word.

"Jump."

Shannon looked at me. He read my eyes and said, "The fog leans one last moment on the sill. Under the mistletoe of dreams, a star — As though to join us at some distant hill — Turns in the waking west and goes to sleep.

Shannon had read Crane too.

The poetry mirrored my soul, but Shannon was too far away to stop me other to say, "Fenway."

I didn't budge.

He said another name.

"Angie."

My mother was an Angie.

She was in after-life, but my daughter was here now.

Thousands of miles away, but there same as Fenway.

Shannon shrugged.

He was not playing fair.

Not with my life on the line.

We were standing underneath City Hall.

Are you okay?"

"Better."

"Just remember you have something to live for?"

"I know."

"Bringing Fenway to Fenway Park".

"I'm sure he'd like that."

"Tough getting swept by the Indians in the playoffs." Shannon really was a Yankee fan, but they hadn't been to the World Series since 2009.

"I really touched by your concern."

"Shall we have a drink at your bar."

"The 169."

I was friends with the afternoon bartender.

"We deserve a beer after that walk."

"It'll be good to be off the bridge."

Because I still had places to go.

We had more than one beer.

The 169 had pretty lights.

And pretty lights kept away the darkness.

For sleep and dreams of jumping off a low bridge into the Charles River.

The Charles

FROM BIAK TO MEDAN on Kindle Amazon

FROM BIAK TO MEDAN covers my travels from Indonesia's Irian Jaya to Sumatra in 1991. A time was before cellphones and ATM. My modes of transport were liners, jets, prop planes, horses, motorbikes, trains and buses. I was a 'mistah', but soon learned enough Bahasa Indonesian to know that 'angin' was dog and 'babi bear' or big pig meant man to cannibals. These are the first of a series of stories from the Ring of Fire, when I was still younger than yesterday.

Selamat Datang

Here's a sample OF FROM BIAK TO MEDAN

BERENTI MISTAH

In 1991 I bought a round-the-world ticket for $1399 from Pan Express. The owner set up a magical itinerary.

"New York - LA - Hawaii - Biak - Bali - overland to Jakarta." John was reciting the trip from memory. He sold hundreds of these tickets every year.

"What do you mean 'overland to Jakarta'?" Their advertisement in the NY Times offered a flight between Bali and Jakarta. My foreign ventures had been limited to Europe and Central America up to this point.

"Oh, sir." His Hindi gentility was measured to assuage the traditional occidental temper and John produced an Indonesia brochure extolling the volcanic beauty of Mount Bromo, ruined temple of Borobudur, and ancient palaces of Yogakarta. "Many people prefer to travel overland to see the sights of Java of which there are many. I give you a flight from Jakarta to Padang."

"Padang?"

"Yes, sir, in Sumatra." Another brochure praised the cultural heritage of the Batak, the awe of Lake Toba, and the jungle paradise of the orangutang reserve. "You fly out of Medan to Penang and Malaysia and overland to Bangkok."

"Let me guess." I was falling into step with the program. "Many people do this overland."

"Yes, sir, you see the picture better than most. What are you going to do on the trip?" Hindi are a curious people. John was no exception.

"I'm writing a novel." NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD was a story about a hustler forced into a contract murder of a porno producer by dirty NYPD cops and who avoids violating the 5th Commandment by escaping into the desert with two lesbians filming a movie about the last man on Earth. John didn't need to know the plot. Hindi men were in some ways very curious about sex.

"Oh, sir, I must warn you that many countries in Asia do not like writers. Especially journalists."

"I'm not a journalist." My typing was atrocious and my grammar was even worse.

"Whatever you do, do not tell anyone you are a writer." His head bobbed side to side like a broken bobbing dolls. "Big people and police do not like journalists in Asia."

"I'll keep that in mind."

John was 100% correct about overlanding across Java. I saw the dawn from the rim of a volcano, met the sultan of Yogakarta, drove up to the vertiginous heights of the Dieng Plateau, endured the scorching equatorial sun riding a motorcycle around Lake Toba and watched male orangutang masturbate without shame. The females shunned the jerk-offs. I arrived at the Medan airport with my trip and book at the halfway state.

I queued for the flight to Penang. The police spotted my typewriter. I

"Berenti, mistah.

"Saya." I had learned a little Bahasa in three months.

"Yes, you." A short pineapple-skinned officer pointed my way. The three of them pulled me from the line. The other passengers smiled with relief. I was their sacrificial lamb. The police sat me in their very official office and asked, "Journalis?"

The trio wore grim faces. Torture was their specialty. A single overhead fan wobbled in its socket.

"Tidak journalis. Penulis buca." I claimed the higher status than journalist.

"You write books? About what?" The lead interrogator leaned forward with a metal sap in his hand.

"About the mafia. Porno. Hollywood." I was one smack away from squealing the truth about any crime from Adam upward.

"Hollywood?" The three cops intoned the word with sanctity normally reserved for Allah. Indonesia was 90% Muslim.

"Yes, Hollywood." I followed the lead and told them about how JFK was killed by the CIA. They spoke about the betrayal of Sukarno by the present dictator. A bottle of Johnny Walker Black hit the desk. Red is beneath them. We drank toasts to freedom.

"Beraka." I spoke every language with a Boston accent.

Whiskey in hot weather was a hard slog. It was getting late and I asked the chief officer, "So I missed my flight, how do I get to Penang?"

"You didn't miss your flight. We held the plane. One more drink and tua jalan."

"To whiskey." Without it the Irish would have ruled the world.

The police drove me to the waiting plane. The other passengers were gobsmacked by re-appearance from the belly of the beast and even more so by the power fist salute of the police.

"Beraka."

It was a small world after all.

To purchase for $1.99, please go to the following URL

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00I6LGIVK

Terima Kasih Bayat

FLUTE THING By Peter Nolan Smith

In the Autumn of 1969 I ran for president of the South Shore CYO Deanery. My older brother was the incumbent and my election was close to unanimous. Mid-summer summer I met with the other officers at the CYO headquarters in Weymouth to plan out our event schedule for autumn, winter, and spring. The previous diocese representative had been arrested by the FBI for anti-war activities and the new replaced an anti-war priest, who had been arrested by the FBI for treason and the newly-appointed moderating priest hectored us to focus on retreats and religious events to save our souls.

"We have no problem with that, but we've also discussed the possibility of two concerts. One in the fall and another in the winter to bring Catholic teenagers together for a celebration of youth." My apostasy had blossomed into full-blown atheism, however godlessness was considered a psychotic condition to true believers, so I hid my faithlessness under the guise of a Good Catholic.

"Concerts? That's a good idea." Father Glavine rubbed his chin and dead skin flaked from his face. "You mean like a choral performance?"

"No, rock concerts." My inner sanctum and parish priest backed this plan,

"There will be no rock concerts on my watch." Father Glavine slammed his palm on the table. None of us flinched in our chairs. It was 1969 and we were seventeen. Few of us believd in heaven adn even less believed in hell.

"Our council has voted on these concerts We have contacted the Pilgrims. They're the most popular band on the Shore." Their heavy-set sax player blew a great flute on their cover of The Blues Project's FLUTE THING. "St. Agatha's has agreed to host the event. It's near the expressway, so we can get a good crowd. Their hall holds 800 people. We can sell tickets at $3, making the deanery a profit of $1000 after paying for the band, the hall, and the police."

"You've thought this all out without saying a word to me."

"This is our CYO and the Y stands for youth." I refused to be bullied by the white-haired cleric, and Blake, the treasurer, sold the deal by saying, "The deanery's treasury is running on vapors. We need money."

"Money. That's all anyone thinks about in this country." Father Glavine dismissively waved his hand, eying our treasurer with expectation of a special session in the confessinal.

"It helps the world go round." I wasn't letting Father Glavine alone with Blake. "Plus we have already signed contracts with the band and St. Agatha's."

"Have your concert, but any troubles and you're out."

"Fine."

We had won our battle and scheduled the concert the first Friday of October.

My fellow officers and I blanketed the South Shore with posters. My girlfriend got a DJ to promote the show on the radio. Kyla was the cutest girl south of the Neponset River.

Father Glavine continued to berate our efforts, but we sold over 600 advance tickets, which at $3 more than covered our costs.

"This show is going to be a success." Blake had dreams about having the next show at the Surf Nantasket with a major act like The Who. It was nice to have dreams.

"Work hard and good things happen." I took everyone to the Villa Rosa in Wollaston. Pizza was $2 a pie. I paid the bill from the ticket sales.

The night of the concert we arrived early. A crowd was already at the doors. None of them looked like they belonged to the CYO.

"How many kids you expecting?" the heavy-set town cop asked surveying the long-haired rockers. I knew Officer Farren from his daughter. She was on the cheerleading squad with my girlfriend.

"800. Maybe a thousand." It was a guess.

"There's only two of us." He looked over to his steel-eyed partner. The two of them nodded in agreement. "Any problems and I'm calling the riot squad."

"This town has a riot squad?" Blake was bemused by this threat.

"No, but we could get one together in a hurry." Officer Farren had brothers in the Quincy Police. The town line was less than a mile away.

"Seriously?"

"AS driving a car into a wall. This is supposed to be an easy gig."

"They'll be no trouble." My hometown was a suburb of Boston, not Altamont.

"Make sure or it's your ass not mine."

He stood on the steps with his arms crossed over his sturdy chest. His partner twirled his billyclub. They were showmen too.

Father Glavine arrived with two other priests with sinister faces.

"I wonder who they are."

"Probably experts at keeping a space for the Holy Spirit between boys and girls dancing." Kyla smiled at my side. "They might be outnumbered by Satan's brides tonight."

"Let's hope for the best."

And we did better than best.

Ticket sales were twice our expectations, although the fire department threatened to shut down the show. Officer Farren quieted that storm with a $100 in twenties. Beer drinking was kept outside by the cops. They knew how to handle a crowd.

The Pilgrims performed for two sets between which the DJ spun records spanning the history of rock and soul. Kids danced in the crowded auditorium without any trouble and our parish priest drank the beers confiscated by the police. A small disturbance broke out in the hallway between a gang from Southie and some bikers from Wollaston. I stopped it myself by telling the warring factions that the cops were on the way. Officer Farren congratulated my quick thinking.

"Always better to talk than fight."

"I agreed." Kyla hated my fighting.

For the last show the Pilgrims preform two encores. Lenny Baker's sax on HAUNTED CASTLE left the audience in a Halloween mood, although for this evening everyone was happy with the treats instead of tricks.

The lights cleared the hall. The hundreds of teenagers vacated the parking lot without incident. I paid the band and the cops, sticking $100 in my pocket to take care of future expenses such as taking our staff out to the Villa Rosa for pizza.

"So that went well," I said to Father Glavine, who was struggling to leave with the two drunk priests.

"Well? I saw scores of kids kissing in the corners. They told me to go away. None of them cared about God. Only rock and roll and sex. And those girls dressed more like Mary Magdalene than The Virgin Mary."

"She was a whore." Father Glavine wagged a finger at me. "The Cardinal will hear of this."

"Cardinal Cushing?" He read the Holy Rosary on the radio every night at 6.

"Yes, and he won't be happy. Rock and roll has corrupted the souls of teenagers for too long and boys and girls staying in cheap mountain motels is the Devil's formula for damnation."

"Cheap mountain hotels?"

He really was fucked up.

"We're in no danger from Satan"

"You may not worried about their souls, but you have disgraced the Church."

"Sorry you feel that way." I almost called him a hypocrite, but Kyla came to my rescue. She was wearing a band-ad of a mini-skirt. He took one look at her and said, "You're Mary Magdalene."

"And you're a dirty old man." Kyla stood her ground and Father Glavine fled down the steps muttering about sin.

"He's not very happy."

"No, you can 't please everyone." Kyla held my hand. We were in love as only teenagers can be in love.

"No, and I'm not looking to please everyone either." We were on the brink of hell. I pushed my soul over the edge with a kiss and walked out the door with my crew.

The pizza at Villa Rosa was on me, but after midnight only a young girl's kiss tasted better than a slice.

And lasted long too.

To hear FLUTE THING by The Blues Project, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rlmK1IFAc8

Standing Rock Protests

The Dakota Access Pipeline was proposed by Energy Transfer Partners to transport fracked oil from the Bakken Oil Fields in North Dakota 1,134 miles through South Dakota and Iowa to oil tanks in Illinois.

The oil tank farm is innear Patoka, Illinois, which has approximately 633 inhabitants.

Patoka presently receives oil from the Chicago, Keystone, and Capline pipelines and sends the unrefined crude to various refineries in the Midwest.

The company detoured the pipeline around Bismarck, North Dakota at the request of the state government in order to avoid any spills in the municipal water system drained from the Missouri River.

The rerouted pipeline veered south through ranch lands to cut across at tribal Sioux reservation at Standing Dakota. The population of the reservation is slightly over 8000 tribal members. The council had granted the oil company right of access, however his year on April 1 an elderly grandmother and her grandchildren set up a protest camp blocking the pipeline.

The governor had escalated the stand-off by hiring mercenary out-of-state police.

Hundreds have been arrested by the oil police.

Many have been injured by tear gas and rubber bullets.

The protestors aren't going anywhere, even as the temperatures drop below freezing.

This is a battle for the planet.

Win or lose we have to fight.

Non-violently until the cops try and kill the protestors,

And that will happen.

Killing is in their blood.

In the end the pipeline will provide 30 full-time jobs after the end of the construction.

The oil is for profits.

For rich people like they didn't have enough.

Money versus nature.

It's time to stop them from winning. Hit Marathon in their pocketbook,

It's a start.

And the Sioux are in this for the long run.

Facebook Ban on No Thanks Day

In 2013 I wrote the following on my Facebook page.

"My people arrived on the Mayflower. Howlands. We're still here. Where are the Wampanoags? On Nantucket protesting Thanksgiving. Happy Turkey Day."

An hour later the message and comments were removed by someone.

I am unable to use my home page and Facebook posted this.

Account Temporarily Unavailable.

Your account is currently unavailable due to a site issue. We expect this to be resolved shortly. Please try again in a few minutes.

Banned for Turkey Day.

I'm so unproud of America.

The Dream Is Never Over

After spending a lovely night in Houston, JFK and his wife boarded the presidential jet for a short hop to Dallas. The crowds lining the route applauded the president and his hostess, Mrs. Connolly, commented that Dallas loved him and the president replied, "That's very obvious."

A second later a single bullet and then another struck JFK.

November 22, 1963 was a bad day, however a video shows that he had a good time in Texas.

The love was real and real now too.

Johnny Boy we miss you.

To view the lovely night in Houston, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQlw-U8l6YY

Inspiring Muse

The winter sun dropped to the west of Greenpoint.

The tenement bricks glowed red under a cold spring sky.

I climbed the stairs to a small studio showing small paintings of Walter Robinson.

I nodded to Lisa and the artist. They seemed very much in love.

Really.

Walter's painting were not self-portraits, but studies of New York transvestities.

I asked Lisa if she was the muse.

Tony Viramontes had painted her portrait in Paris.

"You really think I look like a transvestite."

"You were androgenous at a younger age."

You're the tenth person to ask me, if I'm Walter's muse."

And I thought I was being original.

"Dream on, you ladyboy killer."

She laughed, because no one was really original anymore. Not with 6 billion people on this Earth, however Walter's paintings transported to another era.

The Other Side in Boston.

1975.

Geraldine.

She was a star.

Same as Lisa.

Walter's wife had a good laugh.

She thanked me for coming and waved good-bye.

I headed outside.

To home.

Fort Greene was only a G-train ride away.

Not far away at all.

Unlike the Other Side in 1975.

Those girls were original.

Every day of the week.

Fotos by Bobby Busnach and Peter Nolan Smith