The Search for Meaninglessness

I miss you allvery much and almost everyone else in the world.

Today I physically spoke with three people. The most important was my liquor store owner, Mr. Lee, but not to worry since most of my solitary existence has been devoted to the study of meaninglessness.

In vino veritas - Pliny the Elder

In magna vino oblivio - Peter Nolan Smith

Of course oblivion has always been easier to achieve than enlightenment.

The only man in the bar.

BLESS ME FATHER by Peter Nolan Smith

My First Holy Communion and Confirmation of Faith to the Catholic Church took place at a church in Maine in 1960. My mother dressed me in white to symbolize the purity of my soul, although she had me wear a red jacket with a black velvet lapel. I had a fight with my best friend Chaney after the rites.

Not really a fight, but I must have said or done something bad, because I remember his crying and my mother telling me to apologize.

Afterwards I confessed this sin confessed to the parish priest.

"I had a fight with my best friend."

"That falls under the THOU SHALT NOT KILL COMMANDMENT." Father Murray had heard worst. "Say one Hail Mary and one Our Father."

"That's all."

"It's not like you killed anyone."

I came out of the confessional and said the two prayers.

"What was your penance?" Chaney asked, as we walked home to Falmouth Foresides.

"One Hail Mary and one Our Father"

"Sounds like you got off light," Chaney said on the church steps.

"I'm sorry." I couldn't say it enough to him.

New England Tel & Tel was transferring my father to Boston at the end of the school year. Next year I would be attending a Catholic school.

"Forget about it." Chaney undid his tie.

I did the same.

We were best friends.

A month after my family moved to the South Shore of Boston Chaney drowned in Sebago Lake.

I stopped believing in God, but couldn't tell that to my parents or nuns without earning the wrath of the believers. At school I studied the Baltimore Catechism and at church I served as an altar boy with a family friend, Ray Howell. Latin was our first foreign language. We went to confession together.

"Bless me father for I have sinned." My sins were always the same.

Disobeying my parents and taking the Lord's name in vain.

The penance was always the same too.

"Five Hail Marys and one Our Father."

"What about you?" I asked Ray.

"I made up things." He was a good boy.

"Why?" I was eleven.

"Because the pastor can't believe that I am not without sin." Ray was ten years old.

"And are you?" My repertoire of swear words was very small.

"I think so."

"Me too." I could not recollect Ray ever breaking a Commandment.

By freshman year in high school I had violated eight of them.

Murder and adultery were out of my league, but one of my transgressions was stealing wine from the sacristy. It was sweet. Two slugs gave a good kick. Ray never drank any.

My last time inside a confessional must have on the other side of 1970, although Ray Howell became a priest out of high school and last summer at a family barbecue in Boston the monsignor asked me, "When was your last confession?"

"Long time ago." My sister and her friends were in the pool.

"You're still a non-believer?" Ray was wearing the black.

"Yes." I was in denim shorts and a Red Sox shirt.

He frowned and filled our glasses of wine.

"Think of all your sins."

"That wouldn't be easy." I had done worst than disobeying my parents and taking the Lord's name in vain in the last court decades.

"Think hard."

"Yes, Father." I watched my younger brother cannonball into the pool. His splash created a tsunami.

I was seven years old again.

"Are you sorry?" Ray was serious.

"Yes, Father." I truly was sorry for most everything, although not cursing at New York Rangers fans or not believing in God.

"Then you are forgiven."

"What about the Hail Marys and Our Fathers?"

"I think we said enough penance in our childhood. Now drink up. In vino veritas."

In wine there was truth and Ray Howell was a priest for my own heathen heart.

"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maximus culpa." The Latin Mass.

I am truly most sorry and I raised my glass. We drank together and he made the Sign of the Cross.

Lightning struck neither of us dead and we clinked glasses.

I hadn't been so blessed in a long time, but then a wordless confession at a BBQ suited me much better than a dark closet in a church.

In wine there was always truth.

The Wonder of Wild Bears

 

As a young boy living across the harbor from Portland, Maine in the 1950s, my favorite book was THE LITTLEST BEAR by Inez Hogan. The Provincetown writer and illustrator elegantly told the story of a bear cub lost on an DownEast island. The small bear grows and grows until he's a powerful creature needing more space and the boy's father transports the big bear to the forests of the Allagash. There were no bears in Falmouth Foresides.

Still I have told countless friend about bears dining at a dump in Standish.

None of my family share my memory, but I recall the black bears politely noshing on refuse.

Bears were a major draw at Clark's Trading Post in North Woodstock, New Hampshire and I pleaded with my father to stop for our family to tour the vacation attraction. We were a large family of eight. He parked by the entrance and I stood staring at the black bear standing on a platform. We never went inside Clark's, although we once drove to the top of Mount Washington, the highest mountain in New England.

Two female grizzly bears from Montana inhabit the old polar bear cages in Manhattan's Central Park Zoo.

Betty and Veronica deserved better range than that old pit. I have seen a Grizzly south of Glacier Park.

"Damn that's a big dog," I said to Ms Carolina.

"Stupid, that t'aint no dog. That's a grizzly bear."

Later that trip along a river in Yellowstone Park, Ms. Carolina asked, "What you doing, fool?"

"Following these bear tracks."

"You really have a death wish. Grizzly bears can run 35 miles per hour, which is fastest than the fastest human and you're not even close to that fast. You have to put a tree between you and them. Grizzlies aren't great tree climber."

"Neither am I, but I bet I can outrun you and if a bear is after us, all I have to do is run faster than you."

"Not a chance you're faster than me or a bear."

Ms. Carolina didn't wait for 'ready, set, go'. She beat me back to the car by fifty feet and laughed, "Dead man."

"Not dead yet and ain't no bear going to kill me."

Sadly Ms. Carolina reached eternity in 2011 and today I read about a black bear attacking an Alpaca in an Anchorage Zoo. The Andean beast of burden had no tree to climb, but I do in Brooklyn and I smiled knowing Ms. Carolina would arrive there first.

Free Teddy Bears

For the GOP nothing should be free.

As a radical I differ with them.

There should be free Teddy Bears.

Teddy Bears' Picnic

Dave Van Ronk was a growling folk singer benignly dominating Greenwich Village. He played the East Coast due to a refusal to fly. His mode of travel was buses, trains, or a car driven by a young girlfriend. His bearish body hid a gentle heart which he revealed any time he performed the classic TEDDY BEARS’ PICNIC

The Mayor of Greenwich Village certainly would have enjoyed the audience in the above photo.

TEDDY BEARS PICNIC

If you go down in the woods today You’re sure of a big surprise. If you go down in the woods today You’d better go in disguise.

For ev’ry bear that ever there was Will gather there for certain, because Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

Ev’ry teddy bear who’s been good Is sure of a treat today. There’s lots of marvelous things to eat And wonderful games to play.

Beneath the trees where nobody sees They’ll hide and seek as long as they please That’s the way the teddy bears have their picnic.

Picnic time for teddy bears The little teddy bears are having a lovely time today Watch them, catch them unawares And see them picnic on their holiday.

See them gaily gad about They love to play and shout; They never have any cares;

At six o’clock their mummies and daddies, Will take them home to bed, Because they’re tired little teddy bears.

If you go down in the woods today You’d better not go alone. It’s lovely down in the woods today But safer to stay at home.

For ev’ry bear that ever there was Will gather there for certain, because Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

I couldn’t find Dave Van Ronk's version of this song, but check out TWELVES GATES TO THE CITY

Please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kxAYR_mI8s8

BEAR SEASON by Peter Nolan Smith

Hunting season along the Hudson River opens in mid-October. Bow and arrows only. Guns are allowed in November, so I feel relatively safe walking in the woods, especially wearing a neon-orange hooded sweatshirt. No animal in that color existed north or south of Troy, New York and during the shooting season non-hunters drape their bodies in orange to prevent any hunter from mistaking them for a deer.

“No one has ever been refused a hunting license because they’re color blind,” Floyd told me at the Green Acres Tavern. The drinking establishment on Rte. 29 is brightly lit all hours of the day, since the owner thinks people look more honest under 100-watt light.

“So someone might shoot me even if I’m wearing this.” The orange was hurtful to the eye.

“If drink was involved.” Belvin shrugged his shoulders. The 56 year-old farmer is a crack marksman. The previous weekend he scored 99 out of 100 with a bolt-action .308 Winchester. “People shoot at whatever they see come hunting season. One time I’m sitting here and this down-stater enters the tavern, telling everyone about the spike-horn deer he killed. None of us had ever heard about this species of deer and asked to see his kill. It was a billy goat.”

“That’s nothing. Them folks will shoot anything that moves.” A scrawny UPS driver diverted his attention from the NFL replays. People up here like talking about hunting season. “My uncle’s game warden down in Duchess County. One time he stops a truck on Route 44 and asks the driver what he has on the roof. The driver tells him a spotted deer. It was a St. Bernhard.”

“I lost a cow to a hunter three years ago.” A lady mournfully remembered with a Bud in her hand. “She was a good milker.”

“I’ve never hunted in my life.” My father was vehemently anti-gun, so the majority of my experience with weapons comes from shooting with my Dutch uncle Howie Hermann at the 20th Street Shooting Range in Manhattan. Every Monday night we would meet at the 2nd Avenue Deli and then drive over to shoot pistols; Lugers, Colts, S&W ad infinitum. Howie was real gun-nut. Sweet as pie, but liked his guns.

“Nothing wrong with not hunting.” Another drinker commented from the end of the bar. His voice betrayed his real feeling on the subject. Guns were sacred this far north of New York.

“I know that.” My youth had been spent in Maine. Deer and bear are strapped to cars during hunting season. Their blood dripping over the windows is a badge of manhood in the North. “Never really wanted to kill anything, but I’m not saying it’s not a good thing as long as it’s for eating.”

“Deer meat’s good.” Belvin had a side of deer in his freezer. “Bear not so good.”

“If you get them in the fall, you can grill them up as steaks.” A bearded beer-drinker added from his stool. Everyone here knew everyone. “But they cook up dry real quick.”

“But if you undercook it, you get trichinellosis.” I was the outsider, but was familiar with this problem thanks to reading about the disastrous polar expedition of the Franklin. The crew ate bear and died of trichinellosis.

“That’s deadly, ain’t it?” The beer-drinker was scratching his head, as if his fingers might jog lose the brain cells holding that information.

“Same as if you ate uncooked pig.” Belvin was a subsistence farmer. He could eat everything on his land, excepting the tree bark and his wife knew how to make teas from them. “You get nausea, heartburn, dyspepsia, and diarrhea. That’s why the Jews and Muslims don’t eat pork.”

“I’m not so sure that’s the reason. I have a lot of Jewish friends who are bacon Jews. They love pork. I think the real reason their religion prohibits pork is that it tastes so good.” At least to my palate. “I was in Sumatra once. A big island in Indonesia. Full of Muslims. Anyway I go up to the highlands and the people are Christians. Everyone of them. They even sing Christian prayer songs like BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON. We were out in the forests and I asked them as we were cooking wild pig, why they didn’t become Muslims like everyone else. The elder explained that they loved the taste of pork too much to give it up for any god.”

“Not much tastes better than bacon.” The UPS driver smacks his lips.

“What about apple pie?” The woman eyed the dessert tray by the kitchen window. The food at the tavern was home-made.

“Apple pie pretty damn good, but it ain’t meat.” The bearded farmer’s statement granted him a bar of nodding heads.

“The pig that night on Sumatra was good. The hill people ate everything but the oink. Afterwards the headman asked, “You know why we like pig so much?” I shook my head and he answered by saying, “Because it tastes like man.”

“Cannibals.” Belvin’s hand reached for a gun at his waist. The .357 was in the truck.

“Supposedly not anymore, but I didn’t like the way they were looking at me. Sort of like a fat person after eating a salad.”

“What you do?” The UPS driver was on the edge of his seat.

“I thanked them for the dinner and headed home. Thought they were going to bushwhack me on the trail. I locked the door of the hotel and left the next day. Believe I was happy to be back with the Muslims.” They were a little grim about my beer-drinking. “I’ve never heard of any Muslim cannibals.”

“Me neither.” The bartender put a shot of whiskey in front of me.

“What’s that for?”

“You won the biggest bullshit story of the night award.” Belvin scanned the rest of the clientele. They were locals. “No one here can come up with better.”

“But it wasn’t bullshit.” My bone marrow trembled with the remembrance of the ex-cannibals’ faces.

“You should make it a double.” The UPS driver had returned his gaze to the Jets’ highlights. “He even believes his own bullshit.”

“Here’s to bullshit.” I drained the shot and ordered a round for the bar. It wasn’t painful. Buds in the Green Acres are only $2.50 and that’s everyone’s favorite beer. Mine was Labatt’s Blue. It was $3. Belvin drove me home before midnight. We both had long tomorrows ahead of us. He left me off at the end of my friend’s drive.

“That was sure some good story.” Belvin was smiling with the belief that I was the best bullshitter he had heard in some time.

“Thanks.” Sometimes it’s best not to disappoint the masses. I waved goodnight and Belvin disappeared over the crest of the hill. In the light of the moon my sweatshirt glowed orange. I made it home without a single shot coming in my direction. Next month would be another story.

Seven Months of Limbo

 

In 1977 I left Boston for New York.

I stayed until 1982.

Paris was my next stop.

I traveled the world over the next thirty years.

The Yucatan, the Luberon, Asia, Africa, South America.

Now due to the Covid-19 pandemic I am imprisoned in New York without any chance of escape by plane, train, car, foot, or ship like I have been sentenced to minimum-security prison without any parole in sight. I am not alone. Millions of us are locked down by a government without any solution to this crisis. I want to go to Europe. I want to see my children in Thailand. I want to be free.

None of are now.

Prisoners.

When will we see freedom again?

When we all dance together?

One day we will be able to say tomorrow.

Eleven Years After

Two week after 9/11 the wind shifted direction from a westerly to a southerly. The plume of smoke swung north to cloak the streets below Union Square with the BBQ fragrance of the massive funeral pyre. My apartment on East 10th Street filled with particles of dead people, asbestos, cindered paper, pulverized steel and ashes from known and unknown sources. It was time to flee New York and I caught the Fung Wah bus for Boston that afternoon. My younger sister was glad to see me.

"It's good to be here." My sister lived three hundred yards from 128, but the September air of her South Shore neighborhood was a welcome change from charnel house clouds blanketing Manhattan. "Tomorrow we're thinking about going down to the Newport Boast Show." Life was resuming normalcy faster farther from Ground Zero.

"Sounds good." I hadn't been to Newport since the 1969 Jazz Festival. Led Zeppelin had closed out the Sunday line-up of James Brown, Johnny Winter, Willie Bobo, and BB King with HOW MANY MORE TIMES. The weather report for the next day was for clear skies, the same conditions as on 9/11 and ever since I have remarked on cloudless days as 9/11 weather.

American presidents, politicians, media, and citizens had said that 9/11 was a day that changed this country forever, but we still drive SUVs, eat potato chips, and worry about the Oscars more than our troops overseas. Worse the Pentagon and its commanders in the field seemingly have a collective amnesia on the Islamic sensibility, for this month contract workers sifting through burning trash discovered the fire-damaged Korans. The NATO general in charge of the Bagram Prison had ordered their confiscation and destruction on the grounds that prisoners were using them to communicate between cells.

Reaction was swift from the Afghans. The Bagram base was under siege by protestors hurling stones and gas bombs. Rubber bullets struck countless demonstrators. Four Afghanis were killed during the outburst and then two US soldiers were fatally attacked within the secure confines of the Interior Ministry in Kabul. The military commander of the occupation called for the withdrawal of all non-essential foreign personnel throughout the country and apologized for the error by the NATO troops.

Twnety-one years into this conflict and the struggle to win the hearts and minds of the Afghan remains a challenge to the military, but strengthens the truth of the old adage, "Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

FUCK ALL BELIEVERS IN THE NAILED GOD

 

The God/President has decreed that any Public University not financing Nailed God clubs might be shorn of their federal funding like Samson by the Philistines.

I so wish Jesus would come back and take all the God-suckers to heaven.

And leave us in peace.

FIRST ENCOUNTER by Peter Nolan Smith

America was in a deep recession during the summer of 1974 and I had returned to Boston after a two-month hitchhiking trip across the USA to discover that banks and corporations weren’t hiring long-haired college graduates. I finally found work at the Shaba, an Israeli restaurant on Beacon Hill, as the cook.

I had never been to Israel or met any Israelis. My knowledge of Middle East cuisine was zero. The young manager, Ari, taught me how to cook falafel, spread hummus and baba-ganoush on a plate, and toast pita bread. At the end of my training Ali declared that I was head chef. My pay was the minimum wage. I worked sixty hours a week. My take-home pay with overtime was about $130. It was better than nothing.

The two waitresses at the Shaba were from Tel Aviv. Ari came from Jerusalem. The three of them ordered me around like a slave, but I didn’t mind the bullying from the two girls. They were very cute and I thought I might have a chance with one. Sillva was a skinny redhead with freckles two months out of the army and I sometimes caught her looking at me. She always smiled, as our eyes met for a moment.

I was good-looking in a Neanderthal way.

“Are you doing anything after work?” I asked one night, washing up the dishes. My job included that chore.

“I am meeting with friends.” Sillva made it sound like none of them were a boyfriend. “I’d invite you, but Israelis like hanging out with themselves. It comes from not being able to trust anyone.”

“Not trust anyone?” I had been a hippie. We believed in peace and love.

“Israel is surrounded by hostile nations. The Nazis killed Jews and everyone watched. Who should we trust?”

“I understand.” I had dated a Jewish girl in high school. My best friend was a Jew from Long Island. They were nothing like Israelis. I put away the final pot. I was free to go.

“You do?” She took off her apron. Her hipbones jutted above her jeans. Her skin was darkened by the sun. I imagined her in an army uniform for a second.

“Yes, in grammar school I had been beaten by bullies. Everyone watched the show. No one did anything.” The three boys were not the SS, but their punches left no marks. “After that I didn’t trust too many people either.”

“Maybe one night, but not tonight.”

Outside Ari, the other waitress, and Sillva walked toward Charles Street. I was living at home. The last train to Ashmont was at 12. I made it with five minutes to spare. There was no way I would ever get together with Sillva and I resigned myself to being the cook. Life was easy without desire.

The next month I labored from 9 in the morning to 11 at night. I never complained about the hours. I needed the money. The three Israelis drank and laughed together in Hebrew. I was an outsider. Sillva and I never had time alone. Ari and the other girl made sure of that.

The night Nixon resigned from the White House I was frying falafel in the kitchen and upon hearing the news I ran into the street to join in the celebration. Massachusetts was the only state to vote against Nixon in 1972. Car horns blared throughout the city and I turned around to see the two waitresses standing in the doorway. The manager had the night off.

“What?”

“Nixon was a good friend to Israel.” Sillva eyed me with suspicion.

“Every president has been a good friend to Israel.” The USA supplied them with arms.

“Not Eisenhower. He backed Egypt in the seizure of the Sinai Canal.” Sillva stepped aside for me to enter the restaurant.

“Eisenhower was pissed, because the French and English hadn’t warned him about the war and this gave the Soviets a free hand in Hungary.” I had read about this war in several books. Every author concluded it was a mistake.

“Who cares about Hungary? They were Nazis.” Sillva spat out the accusation without any opening for a rebuttal.

“Zsa Zsa Gabor is Hungarian. She’s no Nazi.”

“I thought you were different, but you’re like everyone else. No one cares about Israel.” She was actually close to tears. My attempt to apologize was waved off by her friend.

“You are what you are. Sorry won’t change that.”

“If you say so.” I couldn’t see what I had really done wrong, but saying sorry is what you’re supposed to say to a crying woman.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the night. Orders were placed on the counter in silence. I left without a good-bye and the next morning Ari fired me as soon as I walked into the restaurant.

“We have a new cook coming from Jerusalem.”

It was a lie, but I didn’t need an explanation.

Either you were with the Israelis or you were against them. I stopped by the restaurant several times for my last check. The next week the manager said it would be ready later in the day. He was lying, but Sillva said, “Make him his check. He worked for it.”

As the manager went into the office, I asked Sillva, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You can not hurt an Israeli. We do not get hurt.”

“Sorry.” The word meant nothing.

“Don’t ever say sorry to an Israeli. It’s a sign of weakness.” Sillva’s eyes were cold as those of a dead snake.

“John Wayne said the same thing in THE SEARCHERS.” It was my favorite John Ford Movie.

“Then he must be Israeli too.” She turned away, as if she expected me to become a pillar of salt. Ari came back with the check. I cashed it at the bank. I spent the rest of the day at the Sevens on Charles Street. The bar was a dive. None of its patrons cared about Israel. They were there to drink beer and I was too.

WANTED MAN by Peter Nolan Smith

Staten Island was formed by the melt-off of the Ice Age. The fifth borough doesn’t exist to most New Yorkers, but my doctor lived next to the Tibetan Museum on Lighthouse Hill. Nick and I attended the same college and every year he invited me out to his house for my annual mdedical examination.
Last weekend I rode the subway from Fort Greene to South Ferry. Saturday was a sunny day and the starboard side of the Samuel I. Newhouse was packed with tourist snapping thousands of shots of the Statue of Liberty. I sat on the port-side to survey Red Hook NYCHA projects.
Back in the 90s those forlorn houses had been named the city’s worst neighborhood and my friend Rocco had worked under cover for the NYPD narcotics. He had been off the force for years, but his brother was working as liaison between the Mafia, FBI, and NYPD on Staten Island and I tried the retired detective’s cell on the off chance that he might be on there.
“Where are you?” Rocco was a big fan of my writing. I had almost ruined his career as a movie producer with his seeking support for NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD, my screenplay about pornography in the 90s.
“Where do you think I am?” We were used to answering questions with questions. No one could know our answers.
“You’re not upstate.” Rocco never picked up the phone at home, almost as if he was in the witness protection program. “I’m guessing you’re on Staten Island.”
It was a long shot and I wished that I had bet $100, because Rocco said, “You motherfucker, you have someone tailing me.”
“Nope, just playing the odds.” I believed in planned coincidences. “I’m seeing my doctor at Rose Avenue. Maybe we could meet up later. Are you with your brother?”
“Nah, Johnny’s done thirty. He’s down in Florida collecting his pension. I’m with my old partner, Frankie, you remember him?”
“Sure.” Frankie was the scary half of a duo playing bad cop/bad cop. His partner looked like Dean Martin and got all the girls at the Milk Bar. “Wasn’t he related to someone in____”
“Yes, he was, which was he couldn’t get nowhere in the job, because everyone knew his connections, so after I busted out of the job, he became a union delegate.”
“A dead end for a good cop.”
“You got it.” Rocco and Frankie were basically straight in a time when being crooked was easy.
“We’re at Great Kill Yacht Club. You should come by. I’d like you to talk to him.” Rocco was producing a indie film about crooked cops in Red Hook. FIRST MAN IN wasn’t even close to being semi-autobiographical.
“Is he still on the force?” There was no one near me.
“No, he did his twenty and out, but then opened a couple of bars with ties to his family. They went under and he ate the debt, then he tried a deli and pizza shop. Each one was a failure.”
“I know the feeling.” My jewelry store in the Plaza went bust in 2009. I noticed that the ferry was approaching St. George and the tourists were flooding to the bow. I got up and lingered at the rear of the crowd. “What you want to speak about?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.” I hated secrets almost as much as Rocco hated talking on the phone.
“I’ll call you after my check-up.” I got off the ferry and proceeded through the terminal to the trains. Nine stops later I exited from the train and walked over to Nick’s office. He was waiting in his BMW SUV. It was good to see him. The doctor and I had been friends ever since European History pre-1500 at college.
“Get in.” He popped the locks.
“What about my check-up?” I sat in the car. It smelled brand-new. Nick took care of his things.
“You look great.” He peered over the top of his glasses and pulled away from the curb.
“That was my check-up?” My legs hurt from too much basketball and I had a little hangover.
“I see enough sick people every day to recognize a healthy one.” Nick had been practicing medicine almost thirty years. His name symbolized health care on Staten Island. “You lost ten pounds in Thailand. You stopped drinking hard liquor. My eyes are clear and my skin is in good condition. You look great for a man twice your age.”
“Thanks.” His bill of health backed up what I had heard from the Thai doctors during my summer vacation in Sri Racha. “You mind if we stop by Great Kills Yacht Club.”
“Why there?”
“I have to meet a friend.”
“He connected?” Nick shrugged to say that was the only kind of people who hung out there.
“He’s an ex-cop making a film. He wants to help me with my screenplay BET ON CRAZY.” I had a name actor for the lead. Bill was going to play ‘me’ in the drama about a goy selling diamonds on 47th Street. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all, Rose is cooking dinner. We have an hour.” Nick drove past Hylan Boulevard past the various clusters of strip malls selling nails, sun tans, and pizza. He turned left on Hillside Terrace. “You know where his boat is.”
“I think they’ll be easy to find.” Rocco liked to see any approaching danger. I figured that it ran in the family. We pulled into the parking lot and I scanned the boats in the slip, then spotted Rocco and his brother supervising the storage of a SeaBreeze 25. The white hull was gleamed in the late summer sun.
“That’s them.”
“I thought as much.” Nick parked his car and we strolled over to the two ex-cops.
“Love to see yah.” Rocco shook my hand and I turned to Frankie. He was as handsome as ever, although the lines in his face aged him a little more than his years. At least he wasn’t balding like his partner. I introduced them both to Nick.
“I know you. In fact I knew your father. He was my doctor as a kid.”
“His father was a good man.” He always had a good word for me as did late Nick’s mother. I loved her bacon and eggs.
Frankie reached into a cooler and pulled out four Tecates. We spoke about Staten Island, their years working the Red Hook houses, and our connections to each other. We went back decades. Nick and Rocco wandered off to look at the boats and I stood with Frankie. He had something to say and started with a confession.
“You know me, I’m not a bad man.” He was posing a question.
“None of us are, but we do what we have to do to get by.” I had never killed anyone and Rocco had never spoken about any shootings resulting in a death.
“Yeah, well, I got into financial trouble a couple a years ago. I have three kids and an ex-wife. I needed to get straight and one night I met a guy I knew from the job. He was retired too. I had heard something about him, but couldn’t remember what. For some reason I thought that he was a little like me, but he starts talking about cocaine. I don’t know nothing for it. Maybe a few lines once and awhile.”
“It isn’t a sin.” I stopped, because coke wasn’t cocaine anymore.
“Anyway he tells me that he has a connection from Florida with pure stuff. He’ll front me a couple of ounces and I can sell it to my friends. I knew he was talking about my family. Shit, I wasn’t going to sell the shit to strangers. So I ask around and make a contact. We sell ounces and then a kilo. I get back on my feet and I’m almost ready to pull out of the deal, when this fucking scumbag turns out to be undercover for the DEA. They want me to rat on my family.”
“But you can’t.”
“No, I can’t, so they take me into custody until I make bail for a million dollars.”
“Who’d you shoot?”
“No one. Fucking G-man prosecutor thought he was Rudy fucking Giuliani and I was his case to ride into politics. They have me every which way; wires, tapes, every fucking thing. I felt like John DeLorean. I would have never gotten involved unless they suckered me into it.”
“I understand.” The good are good only because they are too weak to be bad.
“I’m looking at major time and I was wondering what you thought about doing a runner somewhere.”
“And Rocco told you about Thailand.” My old home Pattaya had been a refuge for fugitives. “You have any money?”
He mentioned a number. It almost had enough zeroes.
“If you live quiet that’s good for five years, but most farangs live fast in Thailand.”
“I’m looking to disappear.” A million dollars was a good incentive against flight, but time for cops was hard time in prison.
“You have a passport?” The Feds normally confiscate it on arrest.
“I got one,” he said it in a way that I knew it wasn’t his.
“And you can leave and never come back.”
“All I got waiting is a cell.” His kids were grown. People were going to be looking for him, but he was good-looking and Thais like good-looking people.
“At my age that’s going to be my retirement plan.”
“This isn’t funny.” Frankie wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
“Okay, I’ll tell you what to do.” I laid out a plan for him. The route was direct. I knew a village in the western forests. The headman was a friend. He had a nice sister. Vee had one eye, but spoke English. No one else in the village did. Frankie might last there a couple of months before the peasant food and the quiet of the rice paddies drove him into Bangkok. I wrote down the information with my left hand. My script was almost as unreadable as NIck’s handwriting on his prescription.
“And these people will take care of me?” We exchanged phone numbers.
“For a price.” I lived there some of the year. The tranquility was brutal, but I had my children and second wife. She loved me. I had no idea why. It had only been a month since I left her and I missed Mam.
“No one does nothing for free.” Frankie eyed Nick and Rocco coming back to us.
“I’m doing this for you.” I was waiting for him to ask me to be his guide. We had no history.
“Thanks.” It was a simple thing to say, when you were trying to disappear as a wanted man.
“It’s just a couple of phone calls. You have to do the rest.” He had been a fool, but all that bullshit about not doing the crime, if you can’t do the time is exactly bullshit.
We shook hands and I told Rocco that I’d see him soon. If Frank took my advice, i would see him in the western forests come the new year.
Back in the car Nick asked, “What was that about?”
“You really want to know?” I was getting hungry and his wife was a good cook.
“No.” Nick had his own troubles.
“Good.” And I had mine.
We were good friends. We knew that we didn’t need to know everything anymore and that was a good thing on Staten Island.

Yo Da Man

“Hey you know something people
I’m not black
But there’s a whole lots a times
I wish I could say I’m not white.”
I have lived by these words from the Mothers of Invention’s FREAK OUT LP, which I stole that record from Zayre discount store in 1969. I was working at the same store. I took the LP as a goof along with Wes Montgomery’s DAY IN THE LIFE. My crime was witnessed by the skinny assistant manager. Mitch didn’t like me. The girl at the cosmetic counter was sweet on me. Sookie and I made out at the store’s Xmas party. She liked outlaws and boosting that album felt like a crime until Mitch called my father.
“Pay for the music.”
I obeyed my father. Charges were dropped by the store. Mitch fired me. Sookie and I had a thing. Those were good times.
Occasionally I play TROUBLE EVERYDAY to hear those infamous words. “But there’s a whole lots a times I wish I could say I’m not white.”
I cheered the Panthers, the SLA, Tommie Smith’s clinched fist. I’ve danced in Harlem. I played basketball on West 4th Street. I smoked crack with dealers on Avenue C. I was no whitey, but my non-whitey status was only in my mind for blacks saw me for who I was.
An ofay honkie wanting to pass.
It took a long time to realize that I was not alone in wanting to burn my race card.
Whites wanting to be black and blacks wanting to be white and that goes for the poor wanting to be rich.
Few rich want to be poor, because as Karl Marx said, “Money’s properties are my – the possessor’s – properties and essential powers. Thus, what I am and am capable of is by no means determined by my individuality. I am ugly, but I can buy for myself the most beautiful of women. Therefore I am not ugly, for the effect of ugliness – its deterrent power – is nullified by money. I, according to my individual characteristics, am lame, but money furnishes me with twenty-four feet. Therefore I am not lame. I am bad, dishonest, unscrupulous, stupid; but money is honored, and hence its possessor. Money is the supreme good, therefore its possessor is good. Money, besides, saves me the trouble of being dishonest: I am therefore presumed honest. I am brainless, but money is the real brain of all things and how then should its possessor be brainless? Besides, he can buy clever people for himself, and is he who has power over the clever not more clever than the clever? Do not I, who thanks to money am capable of all that the human heart longs for, possess all human capacities? Does not my money, therefore, transform all my incapacities into their contrary?”
You da man, Karl.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it can rent it and if the OJ trial proved anything, it was that even a black man can buy justice in America if he has enough money.
Let’s all go fishing.
Ice Ice baby.

BETTER DEAD THAN ALIVE

Back in September of 2007 I was coming home from visiting Mint in Jomtien Beach. Our affair had lasted almost a year and showed no signs of losing steam. She had her place and I had mine. We rarely slept together. Mint said it was because I was in love with my ex-wife. I told her no.

"Then why you no sleep with me?" Mint was 21 and loving. My ex-wife hadn't touched me in years.

"I don't know."

"You only want me for sex."

"No, not only sex." Mint was beautiful. Just seeing her naked body acted like a natural Viagra.

"Then you have other lady." Mint was jealous.

"No, only you." Pattaya was an easy place to satisfy a man's libido. Mint offered me something else, but I wasn't willing to ask what at this point. I bid her good-night and headed back to Sai 3.

I normally avoided the main roads of Pattaya. Too many cars. Too many angry farang and Thai drivers. The traffic over the hull was slow-moving and I decided to overtake an SUV on my Yamaha Neuvo. The road was clear except for a single bike. I was pulling into my lane when this bike swerved to the right. His bike clipped my handle bar and the front tire wobbled to wrench the handlebars out of my grip. I wasn't going fast, but tumbled to the pavement in a heap. Luckily there was no oncoming cars or trucks and I rose to my feet thinking, "That wasn't so bad."

The other motorcyclist had fled the scene of the accident.

A common occurrence in Pattaya.

I glanced down at my right arm. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. It was blood red. I lifted the sleeve up my arm. Red was gushing from a jagged wound six inches long. I could see bone. I tested my hand. Everything was working and there was little pain.

A motorcycle taxi driver stopped to help lift up my bike. He said that I should go to the hospital. I agreed and took a small beach towel from the boot of my scooter. I wrapped it around my arm and drove to the Buffalo Bar. Uwan, who rented cars, was sitting on one of his trucks. The balding Isaan native looked at the bloody towel and said, "U-bat hyt."

"Yes, an accident."

"And other driver?"

I told him a 30 words or less version of the accident complete with a visual reenactment of the other motorcyclist fleeing the scene at full speed. U-wan laughed, as I unwrapped the towel. The fat Thai smiled with a grimace upon seeing the nasty slice on my arm. The blood was still flowing, although less than before.

"Na-gliat."

I could see muscle. He was right. It was ugly.

"Where to?" Uwan asked, wrapping another towel around my arm.

"Pattaya-Bangkok?" The Sukhumvit hospital was the first choice of most farangs.

"Paeng." Very expensive for Thais.

"Where go?"

"Banglamung mai paeng."

"Okay." Not expensive sounded good to me.

Uwan drove his truck to Banglamung Hospital. He wasn't in a hurry. Uwan was sure that I wasn't dying too.

Upon arrival the young nurses escorted me into the emergency ward. Saturday night had yet to begin. A doctor examined the gash.

"No tendons are cut. That's good."

An hour later I was out the door. The bill was 1150 baht. Uwan helped me to the car, as the usual weekend mayhem flowed into the hospital. Saturday was going to be a busy night. I stopped at the Buffalo for two beers with Pook. She's 18 and a lesbian. Uwan said, "She make good nurse."

I agreed but went home alone to lick my wounds and quiet a suspicion. Before leaving for home, I asked Uwan, "You think my ex-wife might have had someone crash into me for my insurance policy?"

It was worth a million baht.

"No, if she wanted you dead, someone hit you with pick-up. Dead for sure."

"That's what I thought too.?" My ex-wife might not love me, but I was the father of our daughter.

I must be getting old, if I thought someone would want to kill me for a million baht.

I called Mint and asked her if I could come over to see her.

"You stay night."

"Yes." I would explain about the crash later.

"Please hurry, I want drink beer."

I got back on my bike and drove back to Jomtien.

This time on the back roads.

After all a million baht is $30,000. A lot of money anywhere in the world.

40 Meter Mad Dash - Marangu, Tanzania - 2019 Kili Initiative Team # 22

Tanzania was greener than Kenya.
The country has been ruled by socialists for decades.
The people looked the same, but I was the only M'zoongoo in sight.
I was blind to many things and blessed by an accepting ignorance.

None of the 2019 Kili Initiative Team were native to this country.
We were Kenyans and Americans.
We had come here to open our minds on the Maasai Plains and prepare our bodies to climb Mount Kilimanjaro.

The Top of Africa.

The trees of Marangu blocked any view of the Great Mountain of Caravans.

We passed through the town. The market was busy. Bars operated on the right. Music blared from everywhere.

People were everywhere and Ma'we said, "You would never know it, but Marangu has a population of 30,000."
"That's the size of my old hometown." Milton, Massachusetts had many trees too, but not as green as those in Marangu. "It used to have no bars."
"No bars?" Such a thought was sacrilege to Ma'we, although he was an upstanding member of his church.
"A dry town from the Prohibition to the year 2000."
"We will visit town later," Ma'we said, respecting my research of beers around the world.

Five minutes laster we turned into the Marangu Hotel.

The courtyard was tidy and I was the first person off the bus. I ran to the WC. Travel was not good for my stomach and lower tract. I came out and the team were heading to their respective cabins. I received keys from the reception. Larry was outside standing next to a cut-out of Kobe Bryant.

"Kobe is my man."
"He beat my Celtics in 2010." I blamed the loss more on my friend AP coming into Frank's Lounge at the 4th Quarter and asking what was the score.
"His name means something in Swahili."
"I'll find out," I replied although I doubted turtle was in my phrasebook.

Two ladies led me to my cottage.

I tipped the girls carrying my bags and laid on the bed.

I hadn't been on a mattress in ten days.
It felt incredibly good and I searched for 'Kobe' in my phrasebook. I smiled and dropped into in ZZZ land within seconds.

I woke to the ringing of my cell phone. Tim Challen was calling from Geneva.
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Better," I lied without shame.
"I'm at the airport, waiting for my flight. I'll be there tomorrow to make sure you aren't dying."
"Hopefully I'll be alive, otherwise feed me to the lions. There is no honor in being devoured by hyenas.."
"It won't come to that, but lease stay away from any strange foods, especially goat stew."

"I won't even listen to any Rolling Stones' songs from GOAT'S HEAD SOUP. I'm looking forward to seeing you."
That was the truth. We were longtime friends.

I bathed in a hot shower and dressed in clean clothes, then wandered across the lawn to where Jackman, Ubah, and a young American boy were kicked a football. Soccer wasn't my game and I walked to the bar. The door was shut until noon. It was

I was pleased to see the name.
PETE'S BAR.
I had rarely been a Pete, but was happy to think that later on I would be drinking there.

Jackman came over to ask, "You want to kick with us?"
"Football is not really my game. I'm more into basketball."
"That is because he is a slow M'zee," shouted Fast Steve from the distance.
"I am not slow, you Kobe."
Jackman and Ubah laughed heartily and the young white boy asked, "What's so funny?"
"Kobe is turtle in Swahili."
"I am not turtle, M'zee."
"Then let's have a race. 40 meters." I handed my phone to Larry, who looked hurt.
"Kobe's no turtle."

"You don't have to tell me. He killed us in 2010." I added nothing. I was no fan of Kobe. He had submarined Kendricks Perkins, tearing out his ACLs, plus he had snitched on Shaq. I turned to Fast Steve. You, me, and everyone else."
"You really think you can beat me."
"I bet $3 young M'zoongoo will beat you." $3 was the price of a Guinness at Pete's Bar. I took out my money. "Let's go, Kobe."
The Vegas odds on my winning this race were 1000 to 1, except we were in Marangu and not Vegas.

We lined up for the race. The football was the finish line.

Larry called out, "ready, set, go."
The five of us leapt from the line.
Me less fast than the young'uns.

I feel behind with ease. My sixty-six year old legs was deaf to my fifteen year-old heart.

Jackman won the gold. Ubah took the silver. Youngblood grabbed the bronze.
Something was wrong with Fast Steve.

He pulled up lame.

I was fourth.

Jackman and I celebrated our victories.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yvXj1OsvZ30&feature=youtu.be
Larry showed me the VDO.
The thrill of victory.

Fast Steve said it was fixed and challenged me to a Maasai warrior survival contest.
"Two days with nothing in the plains."
"Not a problem, but I got to go."
I had goat entail stew on my mind.
"Now you move fast," shouted out Ubah.
"Faster than anyone. Faster than a kiss on the wind."
And the wind blew hard on the saddle of Kilimanjaro.