textales

[textales]

"The Unabomber."

“It was a town, a town without milk.” I made this statement while presenting my milky-white lower leg as if it were a prize-winning cheese curd from some county fair. The saying makes no sense to most people now, but in the mid-1990s it was part of the hugely successful “Got Milk?” campaign by the California Milk Processor’s Board.  

“My legs are the color of chicken before it’s cooked.”

“Eeew, take your milk and your chicken somewhere else,” shrieked Joe. We were just waking up and nobody had coffee yet. It was day two of our great adventure - I had convinced several friends to come to my family’s cabin in the teeny town of Lincoln, Montana for a snowmobiling junket over President’s Day weekend in 1996. This was our unofficial fraternity, all five of us working in the radio business in San Francisco.  Even though we were in our 20s and 30s, we were behaving a bit like rowdy, drunken college kids on winter break.

The town of Lincoln had maybe five bars and we hit every one at least twice. A favorite was the Seven-Up Ranch, a bar-restaurant that had a few motel rooms and also rented-out cross-country skis and snowmobiles. We took a liking to the bartender who’d recently moved from Chicago.  He and his wife were urban ex-pats who, like us I suppose, didn’t quite fit-in here in the middle of nowhere.  The husband was okay with living hundreds of miles from the nearest Starbucks, but the wife made no bones about wanting to move back to the civilization of Chicago.

As Joe and I poked around the pool table, a couple families came through the saloon doors. They were wearing brand-new snow suits. Curious, I glanced outside to see two shiny, brand-spanking new black Chevy Suburbans, each pulling trailers with shiny, brand-spanking new snowmobiles.  As a kid I was always envious of those rich folk who could afford new Polaris and Arctic Cats and Ski Dos. We were regular folk, and our sleds – although well maintained – were always at least a dozen years old.

Impressed with the shiny new sleds and suits, I was of course curious who these people were and how they ended up here. Perhaps they, too, were fellow urban dwellers from real cities, here to explore the winter splendor of Big Sky Country. Maybe they were just like us, but with deeper pockets? My curiosity was killing me.

I asked where they were from – and I got odd answers. One guy I assumed to be the leader told me he and his family were from Bozeman.

“Oh really? My brother graduated from Bozeman High in 1974 – he would have about your age. Did you know Mike McKiernan?” He didn’t answer, turning quickly to the bartender to order.

Unsatisfied with the non-answer, I redirected my interrogation to a woman from their posse while Joe and Val finished the pool game.

“We’re from Helena,” said the mid-30s woman who probably assumed her prompt and curt answer would shut me up.

“Who was your gym teacher?” I ask this question because my cousin was a gym teacher at one of the two high schools in Helena, so there is a 50/50 chance the answer will be Shirley Chesterfield.

Without responding, the woman led her entire tribe to the dining room in an effort, I suppose, to escape me and my line of questioning.

“Well hell.” I felt slighted since most Montanans are friendly and I had failed in my attempts to connect. Oh well, their loss. These people were more like those “pesky Californians” my father complains about. The type of people who sell their starter homes in LA and move to Montana and pay cash for everything, pushing up property taxes and pissing-off the locals.

“Sure, I’ll have another Miller Lite. Thank you.”

It all made sense six weeks later when we were back in California. Val called me from LA to tell me the Unabomber had been captured at his cabin just a few miles from where we had been terrorizing the countryside with our snowmobiles. 

The not-so-friendly crowd in brand-new snowsuits, Suburbans and sleds turned out to be FBI agents. NO WONDER they were so dodgy and didn’t know my brother or my cousin!  I felt vindicated.

Lincoln, Montana was at the epicenter of what at the time was the most expensive investigation in FBI history.  Agents arrested Ted Kaczynski at his cabin, about ten miles down the road from my parents’ place, on April 3, 1996.  Found was bomb-making stuff, lots of hand-written journal pages with damning evidence describing his crimes, and one live bomb.

The town of Lincoln, with a population of 1,000 on a good day, was suddenly a media sensation. Reporters and producers from every network and dozens of media outlets booked every flight and rented every hotel room. Rental cars were sold out, as were RVs.

Hindsight is “20/20” and I realize now how I could have arranged to rent my parents cabin for a pretty penny. A friend living in Denver was a freelance cameraman for ABC News and the network would have easily paid thousands to put-up him and a producer and Barbara Walters for a couple weeks.  They could have admired Red’s art carvings while enjoying a “Uniburger” from the bar down the road.

I’m pretty sure the bartender at the Seven Up Ranch ended up in a couple radio interviews, since Val, Kira and Carolyn were producers for morning shows in LA and San Francisco. That bartender got to return to civilization, even if only virtually, for his fifteen minutes of fame.

And decades later, I was at KGO radio in San Francisco when the Program Director was introducing some of the talk show hosts to the sales staff.  A small world was made smaller when I got to meet Candace DeLong,  an FBI criminal profiler who helped find Kaczynski and at the time hosted a show on our station. She remembered the town, but did not remember the “Uniburger” from the bar down the road.

My mother remembers seeing the Unabomber. “Oh yeah, I remember that guy. I think I saw him at the post office.” I wish she were still around so I could verify, but a nerdy weirdo mountain man really wasn't all that odd in that little town.  A town without milk.

[textales]

"Oh Betty."

Betty was an optimist and persevered no matter what curve ball got thrown her way. 

Her first husband drown in a boating accident at place called - get this - Dead Man’s Basin.

The second marriage ended in divorce, leaving her broke with three kids in government-subsidized housing.

She may have been down-and-out, but she wasn’t dead!  So, one fateful night in the spring of 1965 Betty went down in the boondocks to a rockin’ bar on the river where she would find a young buck eleven years her junior. At 38, she may have been “The Original Cougar.”

The young buck and Betty enjoyed the spacious back seat of his ’59 Cadillac Coupe Deville and nine months later, well, along came kid number four.

Betty and the young buck had a relatively happy marriage until it wasn’t, and the divorce was final on – oddly, Valentine’s Day.

Betty was my mother. I wasn’t proud of how I treated her after the divorce - I had sided with my dad and most certainly didn’t give my mom the respect she deserved. I am grateful, however, that we restored our relationship a couple years after the divorce.

1986 was my sophomore year at the University of Montana.  It was President’s Day Weekend when Betty and a friend from Conrad did a “Thelma and Louise” trip on a whim and showed up in my college town. I worked at a radio station as a DJ and had a full weekend of work-related events including driving a motorhome in the “Winter Star Festival” parade on Saturday.

That weekend my mom stumbled back into my life as if there had been no awkward pause in our relationship. She giggled as she practiced the parade wave from the passenger side of the Winnebago “Mini Winnie” which was painted a hideous attention-getting yellow as we drove down Higgins avenue.

She got to see the Peking Acrobats from backstage at the University Theatre - and afterward we went on a bar crawl in downtown Missoula.

We passed by the Amvets bar when she blurted “I hear music, let’s dance.” Next thing I know were in Missoula’s only gay bar. Of course people knew me. My mother asked point blank: “Are you gay?” to which I answered with “What would make you say that?”  Good lord - of course she knew, mothers always do. But another couple of years passed before we could talk about it honestly.

The point is – be kind to your mama and say what you need to before it’s too late. I am so happy to have restored our relationship before she left the planet, and I am delighted she had a chance to meet my husband all those years ago.

[textales]

"Omaha."

It’s New Year’s Day 1990 and I’m on the horn with a female friend from Omaha I had met on a work trip. It bothers me I don’t remember her name all these years later, but I will never forget the fun I had with her and almost Mr. Gay Nebraska just a few weeks prior.

“I don’t like Dallas. They shoot presidents there.”

“Hang on a second, I’m at the drive-through.”

“Welcome to McDonalds, may I take your order?”

As I waited for my order, I explained to my friend why I moved to Texas.

Nine months earlier I was in Phoenix selling office furniture, and it was oddly fitting that my first big sale was to a telemarketing company. Omaha was the telemarketing capital of the country, and Mardex was a big operation with hundreds of people selling stuff over the phone from a call center in the burbs.

I made three trips to Omaha that year. The first in March was for the installation. July was supposed to be the delivery and install of the second phase, but they failed to make a payment so we canceled the shipment and I flew there to collect a check. The third trip in November was to repossess everything.

When I pulled into the empty parking lot I realized this would be my debut as “Office Furniture Repo-Man.” The place was a complete mess and it looked like everyone left in a hurry. Half-eaten sandwiches, cursors still blinking on monochrome monitors. I stood guard as the lead guy and a crew of hired hands helped load the semi. We were done by noon. Around 3pm, the Douglas County sheriff put chains on the doors, and by 6pm it was all over the TV news. Apparently, one of the things they were selling over the phone from that call center in the burbs were tickets to the German Lottery. Evidently, that is a no-no.

On that first trip I wasn’t sure what to expect with this town. The company travel agent booked me at a Sheraton Inn near the job site. The hotel bar was beige, boring and bland, and I was the only patron at happy hour. The bartender mentioned it had been a Playboy Club in the mid-1980s. Clearly, they hadn’t seen a bunny in years.

I assumed the town was big enough to have a decent gay bar, so I returned to my room and called a dirty bookstore I found in the phonebook. There was no internet those days, and carrying a Damron Guide would most certainly arouse suspicion. I was still in the closet at work, and traveled undercover, in a James Bond sort of way. Contrary to how proud out gay kids of today might feel, I found it thrilling to keep such a secret.

Answering my nervous inquiry, the guy at the dirty bookstore recommended a place called “The Max.” After a quick shower and change into acid-washed jeans so revealing you could guess my religion, I jumped in a rented Pontiac Grand Prix and headed toward downtown.

Difficult to find, the entrance of this joint looked like a side-door to a bank or a random municipal building. This place certainly did not look like a bar, and there were no neon signs or anything obvious. I spotted a small freestanding sign through the window – with plain white plastic letters on a black felt background that read “Private Party.” Where am I? Is this some 1930s Speakeasy? I noticed two bulky security guards in black t-shirts and earpieces with curly-cue cords. The hunky guard gave me the once-over, spoke into his mouthpiece, then waved me in. Wow, this really is like a James Bond movie.

This place impressed me, although given where I came from, the bar wasn’t that high. Truly any place with smoke machines and lasers and strobes was a considerable upgrade from the dark and dingy gay bar in my college town. Phoenix had a couple decent clubs, Preston’s and The Connection come to mind, but this place put them to shame. Who knew a giant multi-bar complex like this existed in the middle of corn country? To this day their website brags about how it is “America's Best Gay Nightclub.” And even though it’s been thirty years since I set foot in the place, I’ll trust the review from the New York Times to still hold true: “The Max is the place to be.”

“Goodlife” from Inner City was blaring as I entered the gargantuan dance floor known as the Arena. Disco balls dangled, strobe lights strobed and laser lights sliced through fog which spewed in giant plumes from a machine behind the DJ booth. Then the smoke cleared to reveal the stunning and sweaty Adonis I later learned had been a contestant for Mr. Gay Nebraska. There he was, with a washboard stomach and bulgy biceps…. all tan and oiled-up and dancing on a pedestal without a care in the world. He sported a nice package in a tasteful Speedo (this is Nebraska for fux sakes) and unlike so many “clunky” go-go boys who can’t dance, he moved with grace. His sparkly smile and deep blue eyes were intoxicating.

I was way too timid to approach him, and honestly, I would be flattering myself to think this model of a grain-fed farm boy would want to roll around in the sheets with me back at my hotel. But hey, a guy can dream, right? Maybe I could coax him back to the Sheraton by telling the story of its history as a Playboy Club. Yeah, that would be enticing, right?

I noticed a woman clinging to his every move and very chit-chatty as she inserted $1 bills into his swimsuit. Hmmm…. maybe I could use her to get to this super-hot 20-something with a washboard stomach? Even if I didn’t score, at least I would make a couple friends for the few days I’d be there. My plan worked, and although I never did get to romp with Mr. Gay Nebraska, I did make friends.

A few years older than me, the woman whose name I can’t remember was so very gregarious and fun. To call her a fag hag would be an insult to many, but not with her. We laughed at how the only guys she meets are gay (of course it could be because she hung out mostly at the Max). She and I and Mr. Nebraska would meet up again several times on my subsequent trips to Omaha that year. We toured the Nebraska Furniture Mart, hung out in the “Old Market” downtown, and she introduced me to her hometown bar “Three Cheers” which I remember being just like the “Cheers” bar on TV.

Meanwhile, back at the drive-through: that was the last time I spoke to the woman from Omaha. I feel awful that I can’t remember her name – but it’s not like we made any attempts to communicate since. And for whatever it’s worth, I can’t remember the name of would-be Mr. Gay Nebraska either.

But I do remember feeling a sense of excitement and anticipation as I waited for my Chicken McNuggets and diet Coke that day.

Something about ordering McDonalds while talking long distance on a car phone in a Lincoln Continental was symbolic. Although I was technically homeless and unemployed, I had a crisp $100 bill burning a hole in my pocket and I was ready to embark on a new year in a new town.

[textales]

“My Hostage”

I have a habit of “interviewing” people – it’s a hangover from my days in talk radio and a skill I like to practice. I like doing this with taxi and rideshare drivers whom I hold hostage in the short drive from here to there. Not unlike “talking the ramp” of a song or filling the time before the top-of-the-hour network news feed, I enjoy the challenge of milking every morsel of info and learning as much as I can before arriving at my destination.

Last night’s trip to the corner bar was interesting. My driver whose name I can’t pronounce is from Syria. He is 38 years old and moved from Damascus just one year and three months ago with his wife and two children. He lives in Sacramento and drives to the Bay every day to work for a popular ridesharing service.

Back in Syria he was a professional chef. He said he couldn’t find a job as a chef here because he couldn’t speak English. He moved here not knowing a single soul – but has since met a friend who is helping him learn the language and our culture. I told him I’m impressed at how well he speaks the language given the short time he’s been here, and asked how he landed in Sacramento. After telling me they escaped through Amman, Jordan (a town I’d at least heard of), we were at my destination and out of time. Although cut short, I was relatively satisfied with the results of my friendly and efficient interview that took place in three minutes and 51 seconds. I thanked him for the ride, gave him a 5-star rating on the app, and walked into the crowded bar.

Once I got a cold PBR in hand I used my iPhone to look-up Syria on Wikipedia. Normally, I don’t think too hard about this stuff – after all, I’m just a simple guy from Montana, in a dive bar drinking a beer. I need new tires for my Chevy and I’m still waiting to see how much (if anything) I’ll get back in income tax money.

“Ah ha,” I said to Ricky on the other side of the bar, “Syria…one of those middle east countries…part of the Trump travel ban.” I told him about my ride with the Syrian and how he wasn’t wearing a turban, nor did he smell like incense from the corner store.

“It really pisses me off when Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity or Donald Trump would like us to believe that people from other countries come to America to suck the government teat and take unfair advantage. These poor bastards are refugees trying to escape horrific conditions we can’t even imagine. This guy is paying taxes, buying gas and groceries, and busts ass driving every day. He wants to be here and is making a contribution to our economy,” I blurted over the loudness of the crowd.

Ricky noted that Syria doesn’t seem like the kind of place I would like. Oh sure, there’s baklava and hummus, but the locals cut heads off us homos because, well, religion. Here in America we aren’t that obvious - in places like Indiana, Pence would prefer we just pray the gay away. If that doesn’t work, they’ll attach electrodes to your scrotum while forcing you to watch straight porn.

“I’ll have another PBR,” I said as the conversation quickly turned back to tires and taxes.

(from March, 2019)

[textales]

“Illicit White Powders.”

“This is the night Larry will try cocaine” he said as he banged on the dashboard of the brand new 1988 Chevy Astro Van.  We were headed to some stripper bar on Northwest Highway in Dallas where he’d score, and Willie was looking forward to introducing me to something he’d been enjoying for some years now.

 “No, it’s not” I said as I slapped the passenger side of the dashboard with equal cadence and enthusiasm.  “I’ve got enough problems with beer…but I will be happy to be your designated drunk driver.”  And with that I avoided a problem that could have brought me down just like countless others in my orbit at the time and to this day.  

 It’s an evil, sickening, insidious drug that makes fun times exponentially more fun while leaving users with an incredibly painful hangover – physically, emotionally and fiscally. And in the case of so many of my friends, it also drove them to a far more potent, cheaper and devastating replacement drug commonly known as “Crystal,” “Meth,” or “Ice.”

Willie and I met in Phoenix in the late 1980s.  He was one of the salespeople based in Dallas, in town for a factory tour and some training.  From the word go he was a total thrill - being with him was an adrenaline rush.  In the first 48 hours of meeting we’d had a minor car crash, flew to Las Vegas and back, got kicked-out of a restaurant for being too rowdy, and chased by a confused mall cop wielding a gun.  

Back then I was a 22-year-old naive kid from Montana looking for some big city excitement, and finding Willie fit the bill.  He was intoxicating in so many ways, and to say he was magnetic would be an understatement.  I remember a rather forward woman in the restaurant that first night stop him to say he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.  Willie took the compliment with the grace of a Hollywood actor or a polished politician. He was tall, fit and stunningly good-looking. He was a blue-collar guy who made it big - driven, with a strong work ethic and fantastic sense of humor. And contrary to what any of his ex-wives or girlfriends might think (even to this day), he and I never had sex nor were we even in the same room naked. Truth told I was never attracted to him in that way.  We were the best of friends and left it at that.

The last time I saw Willie in person was about ten years ago at his giant house north of Dallas. Answering his call for help, my friend Carla and I jumped a flight to DFW and spent an extended weekend at Willie’s.  He was a wounded bird, having gone through a messy divorce with a third wife we’d never met. Willie needed us – he had a history of becoming friends – too close of friends – with his own employees. It seemed these “friends” almost always took advantage of his generosity and were never honest – probably because they were on the payroll.  Carla and I were not among those “hired friends” and Willie knew he could rely on us for honesty and objectivity.  We couldn’t be bought – and he respected us for that.  

We listened attentively as he told stories of the last couple years with the ex-wife. From what little detail he gave me of this woman, I pictured a gold-digging high-maintenance size-zero blonde with big fake cans and an Oklahoma accent.  Even though I never met her, I shall describe her not-so-affectionately as a “Coke Whore.” She’d burnt him good, and he was damaged and medicating.

 The house was a massive McMansion in the northern suburbs not far from the location of the South Fork Ranch from “Dallas” - the TV series of the 1980s. With six bedrooms, five bathrooms and 5,000+ square feet of living space, the house seemed ridiculously massive for just one guy or even a couple.  But that was Willie – he liked living in a giant castle in the ‘burbs. This place had a dry sauna, a workout room with tanning bed, a mini-theatre with cushy leather terraced seating, adjacent to a full bar in a game room complete with a regulation-sized pool table and a couple of pinball machines.  Of course the back yard had a giant swimming pool and hot tub with a gargantuan outdoor kitchen complete with a stainless steel Wolf stove, refrigerator and ice maker. The only thing missing from this place were people – it was a lonely, huge empty house.

 The house was evidence of two decades of hard work and business success.   Other trappings included an array of luxury vehicles – a Cadillac Convertible, a Lincoln Navigator and a Chrysler 300.  And he owned a twin-engine 40+ foot luxury yacht docked at a lake nearby. 

He built his empire by manufacturing products to supply the residential construction boom in Dallas. At the height of it, his company employed over 110 people and had revenue of over $6 million annually. He paid himself a substantial six-figure salary and was known to be quite generous with his employees, paying them well and offering bonuses and other incentives.

But with the recession of 2008 the construction boom came to a screeching halt. And by the time I got to Dallas in March of 2010 the damage had been done. Little did I know that was the beginning of the end.

[textales]

“The Master Crafter.”

“You should come out on our boat…it’s the best waterskiing in the country.”

This was not what I expected to hear at a gay bar in San Francisco. My former boyfriend, a flight attendant for Southwest Airlines in Dallas, was in town for an overnight. We were at The Metro Bar in the Castro when the waiter overheard me while delivering a second round of Miller Lites to our table.  I gave him a second look, realizing he was quite cute and seemed sincere about the invitation, and before I knew it he scribbled his phone number on a bar napkin. 

“You can’t flake,” he said. I didn’t, and that Sunday my roommate Jeffrey and I took a drive the 50 or so miles to the Sacramento River Delta where we would meet Sean at the dock.

I was already a little nervous going out on a boat with some random guy I just met in a bar, and the farther from the highway we drove the more I thought this might be a mistake. We were just on the other side of the Altamont Pass, not far from the location of the last days of 1969 when the biker club known as the Hells Angels were hired as security for a big concert considered to be “The Woodstock of the West.”  A few people died and a lot more ended up in the hospital. Rolling Stone magazine described it as “rock and roll's all-time worst day, December 6th, a day when everything went perfectly wrong.”   Perhaps it was the proximity to the Altamont raceway, but fear of the unknown was creeping into my psyche and I was starting to think this day might turn out like that one did.

We found the marina past a run-down trailer park at the end of a winding dirt road.  The weathered plywood sign was confirmation we were in the right place, but this was definitely NOT the waterskiing nirvana I’d envisioned. Where I come from, waterskiing is done on rivers and lakes in scenic locations pretty enough for post cards. This place was a dry desert with no cacti, flat as a pancake, and split by a sewer ditch with gravel banks. There was a run-down store next to the boat ramp where some kids were playing with the water in the toilet tank. Egads, what a shit hole.

Not knowing exactly where they’d be, I scanned the ramp where rough looking blue-collar guys were launching their aging metal-flake glitter boats with exposed chrome exhaust pipes, and ridiculous looking air intakes that resembled champagne buckets.  These were “penis extension boats,” pulled by lifted 4x4 trucks, driven by tattooed toothless guys trying to compensate for their own anatomical inadequacies.  I know Sean told us to look for “the prettiest boat with red and white stars and stripes”, but I assumed he might have been embellishing a bit. Oh God, I hope his isn’t one of these penis extension boats, and I certainly hope he isn’t compensating for something I was selfishly hoping would be substantial. Nonetheless, I was determined to make the best of this day - I mean the worst day on a boat is still better than the best day working, right?

“Hey guys, over here” he yelled from the dock, having put the boat in the water already.  My anxiety went down immediately upon seeing the brand new Master Craft ski boat and noticing Sean and his people all wearing proper life vests.  It really was “the prettiest boat with red and white stars and stripes on the Delta,” and my confidence in this cute random bar guy was instantly restored, and then he said something that caught us completely off guard:

 “This is my wife, Karen,” he said, introducing a beautiful red-headed bombshell in a size zero bikini.

 As we gathered our swimsuits from his trunk, Jeffrey whispered quietly “He’s married? To a woman?!”

 “Right? I didn’t see that one coming,”

Sean was a contradiction in so many ways.  He was pretty and rugged at the same time. Blond. Blue eyed. Built like a brick shithouse. He played hockey as a kid and worked aboard lobster boats in Maine in college.  He was the ultimate “guy’s guy” in so many ways, yet he was confused and conflicted – or at least confusing to me.  He said he was straight, yet he worked in a gay bar and was married to a woman who was (at least mostly) a lesbian. At one point he mentioned maybe forming “a triple” with one of Karen’s female friends. Although he and I had very frank conversations about sex, and he was completely okay with whatever I talked about, he always found the need to assert his “straightness” by bad-mouthing those “crazy faggot queens” he worked with at the bar.  

Somehow I tolerated this, even encouraged it, but now recognize his bad behavior was the purest form of homophobia. He hated something in himself, and I admit there are times when I question my tolerance of his behavior as a pathology of my own.  Why couldn’t he admit he was bisexual?  At least to me?

“The Delta”

Six rivers drain from the snowy Sierra Nevada mountains, flow to the central valley of northern California, just a few miles from Sacramento, then to the San Francisco Bay and ultimately the Pacific Ocean.  Thousands of miles of waterways provide water for farms in the central valley and fill sinks in Southern California via the 400+ mile long California Aqueduct.  The Delta region is rural, sparsely populated, and home to over 100 marinas and 25 yacht clubs. And just like Sean, it is full of contradictions. On one hand there are modern bars, restaurants and campgrounds, enjoyed by pretty people with money just looking for a good time. Yet parts of the Delta look like they haven’t been touched in 50 years, and the people who live there could use a shower and the services of a dentist.

Even though the scenery and some of the people left a lot to be desired, “The Delta” turned out to be the best place for waterskiing as Sean had promised, and over the next few summers we would spend hundreds of hours boating and skiing on that water.

A few weeks after that inaugural water ski run, having proven myself as a worthy deck hand and party patron, Sean invited me to a BBQ he and Karen were hosting at their home in Sunnyvale.  My friend Stephanie drove us from San Francisco in her dumpy old Mercury Comet. Although I scoffed at leaving “the City” for a party in the burbs, I figured I should stop being such a city-centric snob and open my mind. Besides, my selfish shallow needs would be satisfied, knowing any party of theirs would certainly include lots of fun, good looking people. I was right - most of the guys at the party looked like models, and a few of them were still up from the night before, high on Ecstasy, having spent the morning dancing at The End Up.  

I was new to California, and this party was what I imagined a swinging singles party might be … the only thing missing was a swimming pool.  I met that girl Sean wanted as their Triple.  There may have been things going on in bedrooms and I’m guessing some illicit white powders were involved.  I was content having beer and hanging with the pretty people on the boat which was parked on a trailer in the driveway.   Then something went awry, there was an argument and we had to escape in the Comet.

Next thing I know Sean is getting a divorce and is at risk of losing the boat, since he couldn’t afford it on his own. We came to an unofficial agreement where I’d pay $150 of the $322 monthly payment in trade for using the boat anytime I wanted. Of course, I’d have to pay for gas and we’d have to trade vehicles (he had a Ford Van with a trailer hitch, I drove a 2-door Nissan 300ZX) but the arrangement worked fairly well for the better part of three summers.  I used the boat more than Sean did, since he opted to work most weekends.  We got a lot of use out of that boat - by the end of the 3rd year, we had put 525 hours on the engine.

There was never a shortage of interesting people we’d meet while boating. Sometimes Sean and I would be alone, looking for a third so we could waterski. We’d cruise the docks looking for a lone pony or a couple, and without fail we’d end up in situations that involved Sean arranging for hookups later or with him doing something with someone in a bathroom.  I remember a mid-20s guy who drove a cement truck from Sacramento to Hayward every day. His friend, a smoking hot swimmer in a Speedo who bragged about having just eight percent body fat, spoke with Sean while truck driver guy and I shared a beer at the back of the boat.  “I could tell you’re gay,” as he exhaled a puff from a Marlboro. “My cousin is gay. It’s cool.” A week later, the friend, (the “straight” swimmer) and my friend Dave ended up in the sack.  Dave couldn’t stop talking about banging the swimmer in a Speedo with eight percent body fat.

Over-the-engine-cover-confessions were always fun.  I remember slowing down to hear a bi girl shout “I just miss the penetration,” while Sean and the other passengers casually looked on.  “Wow,” I thought to myself, “this got very personal very quickly.”

Sean’s friends Steve and Irene went on a few of the earlier trips.  It was interesting watching those three interact – a black guy with an English accent from somewhere tropical, she was from Germany. Sean was always so very complimentary of them both, almost gushing with flattering compliments and deferring to their every need.  They met at a night club, and went out on the boat with us a couple times.  There had to be more to that story that I didn’t know.  

And then there was Warren, a friend of Sean’s from the bar who just got released after a six month stint at an in-patient facility for a narcotics addiction.  Watching him dial the telephone was interesting – I’m quite certain whatever he was in for didn’t get solved or fixed in that rehab.

Sean told me he was adopted as a kid by a couple where he grew up in Worcester, Massachusetts.  His dad was a psychiatrist and suspected that Sean might suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I didn’t have any reason to believe otherwise, but I thought it strange that the father could prescribe Ritalin from all the way across the country without actually seeing Sean as a patient - but what did I know.  

In no time Sean started crushing up his pills, putting the powder in a small Carmex container, and snorting it through a pen barrel. He did this carelessly, in front of God and everybody.

“It’s a faster, more efficient delivery” he’d say.  “I don’t like the look of it, and I don’t think you should do that in public,” thinking it would draw unwanted attention. How embarrassing.

Who knows what else he was snorting.

I remember a day when at lunch he told me about when he discovered cocaine. He said once he first found coke he never wanted to do anything else. I wasn’t sure how to react to that information, other than to tell him I wasn’t into it, and that I had another close friend who had real problems with the stuff.  Like my other friend, Sean liked to drink and didn’t like pot.  I took heed of the warning as I could see similarities in our personalities and knew I best stay away from the white powders.

Sean was a swindler, and a smooth one at that. He knew what to say to get what he wanted, and when he wasn’t a crass narcissistic asshole he could be very charming.  He was calmest and at peace on the water. He was a patient teacher, and taught water skiing to rich kids in New England when he was in high school. Watching him ski was like watching art…he was stunningly beautiful, athletic and strong. And he could ski barefoot from a rope.

Sean was kind to the homeless. He would leave them food and always made it a point to engage when seeing someone begging on the street. I remember being oddly impressed with his kindness when he found someone digging through the garbage. He even got a flashlight out of his van to help the guy see what he might be looking for.

I didn’t see it at first, but Karen noticed once when we ran into her unexpectedly. She hadn’t seen him in months. “You look emaciated” she said. “I’ve just been working out,” he said to excuse the weight loss that was so gradual I didn’t notice.

Sean didn’t last long at the Metro.  He claimed one of the bitchy queens accused him of stealing liquor from the supply room and it was his word against the other guy (who happened to be fucking the manager).  Someone had to go so Sean was it.  Now that I look back, it makes sense why we always had the best booze for the boat. Chambord and Cointreau? On a boat? Yep.

After getting fired from the bar, Sean started working odd jobs in construction, helping crews of small companies doing residential work in San Francisco.  He’d spend a couple days at one house, then move on to another, always working with a new guy who knew someone who knew someone.  He started collecting tools, and I was envious of his collection of new DeWalt power tools, including an expensive worm-drive skill saw.  I ogled at the Milwaukee Sawzall as well, and I was impressed at how he was building his own tool chest and learning the trade on-the-job. He was smart and had a knack for figuring things out. But inevitably, he’d get into an argument with the crew lead and would have to get a new gig. “That stupid fuck doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” was a common phrase when Sean would explain why he was moving to the fifth jobsite in a month.

I recall taking note of how many times Sean had moved that year. Nine.  Nine times in a year. There was always an excuse…so and so “was a tool,” “The wife got weird because I wanted to use the kitchen.”  Whatever the excuses, they were frequent and increasingly flimsy.

The Dishwasher.

Sean was full of ideas. One was for a portable workout bench that he said would be ideal for serious weightlifters who needed to be mobile.  I didn’t see the appeal in moving literally tons of weight around from place to place – isn’t that what gyms are for?  But Sean was simultaneously trying his hand as a personal trainer, and such portability made sense for the new mobile fitness business he would run from his white van. This would be ideal for the rich, reclusive fat guys he was trying to help – why go to the gym when it can come to you?  He needed to build a prototype to get the patent, so he rented a garage in someone’s house in a shitty neighborhood near San Francisco General Hospital. He bought a few hundred feet of steel and an arc welder and set-up shop.

One afternoon I dropped in to check on things as he was grinding the end of a tube steel frame with a sparkling new Makita he just bought at Home Depot. “When did you get that, I thought you were broke?” I asked, mesmerized by the shower of hot molten sparks as they landed on the cement floor. “I’ll get that money to you, don’t worry’” he said, predicting my next question. He was always broke, and always asking me for an early advance for my portion of the boat payment. Yet there was never a shortage of new stuff that ended up in that tan KNAACK toolbox - the big metal kind you see in the back of work trucks and on jobsites everywhere.

As Sean was explaining how this piece would be rubberized and this part would be sprayed with powder-coat we heard a knock on the door.  It was a sketchy looking guy pushing a brand new portable Sears dishwasher. “Hey, do you guys know anyone looking for a dishwasher?” asked the very alert man who I’m guessing picked our garage because the door was open part way and he could see we were inside.  “Wow, as a matter of fact, I am,” I uttered while opening the door to see it was clearly brand new, complete with the owner’s manual, a sample size of Cascade dishwasher detergent and the Styrofoam squishies it was shipped with.  

 “Where’d you get this?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. “It fell off the back of the truck,” said the sketchy looking dude as he twitched in nervous anxiety. I figured he probably lifted it when the delivery drivers went knocking. “How much?” I asked. Forty dollars later he loaded it into Sean’s van and I drove it to Val’s house where it would successfully do dishes as long as I lived there.  How absolutely random that I would end up with a dishwasher?  Ask and ye shall git?

The year 1996 became 1997 Sean called me in a panic. He needed my help on a plumbing project and could I please drop everything and come over.  He was house sitting for an old guy in a mansion in Pacific Heights – a house on the hill so big it had an elevator and a servant’s quarters where Sean was staying. As it turns out, the old guy was paying Sean to be his trophy boy, but Sean assured me there was no sex involved.  I didn’t care – hell, whatever it takes for Sean to be stable for a couple of months is fine with me no matter how many wrinkles he has to overlook while getting plowed.  I thought it fitting Sean could be a houseboy for some rich dude, even though by that point Sean was well past his prime and starting to show signs of aging advanced by the drug abuse.

I arrive to see Sean’s shower area completely torn-up, down to the studs, which were wet and deteriorating from years of leaking. He found the source of the leak and wanted to re-pipe the shower and begged me to help him. “You know I hate plumbing,” I scowled. “I love you” he said, promising me all the cold Miller Lite I could stomach and hinting he would make it worth my while.  I caved and conceded, and next thing I know I’m in a scene that belonged in a horror movie. 

I’m standing on the top rung of a ladder, which is already unstable, and we’ve propped it up on top of four upside-down paint buckets to add another couple feet of lift. This is on top of the motor assembly for the elevator.  As Sean held the two pieces of copper pipe together, I used the propane torch to sweat the joint.   As hot water and molten solder dripped on my head, I joked how I was about to be burned and electrocuted right then and there, god’s punishment for sucking dick.  

Sean said he was spending time doing something he liked with someone he loved. I still have a burn mark on my right bicep from that propane torch.

We listened to Frank Sinatra, drank Veuve Clicquot and concluded with cuddling. What a New Year’s Eve that turned out to be.

When the rich old guy returned home in a week he promptly kicked-out Sean for wrecking his guest quarters and for not seeking permission to proceed with the construction.  They guy would have easily hired contractors to fix this.  Although Sean was perfectly capable, it was the “not asking” that was the problem. Or was it just the straw that broke the camel’s back?

Sean was a shoplifter. I learned this at a shopping mall parking lot somewhere on our way to the Delta. He was taking way too long to fetch food and came back with a bunch of new CDs to play on the boat.  “I thought you were buying beer?” I asked. “Let’s go to that gas station instead” as he pulled yet another power tool from his backpack.  “Jesus, you went to Home Depot too?” “Just drive” he exclaimed as I nervously pulled from the parking lot, mortified we’d be busted by some rent-a-cop any minute. “Don’t worry, nobody noticed a thing,” he said as my confidence and admiration of him continued to deteriorate.

Looking back, I can see lots of suspicious activities and denial and pathological behavior that I was blind to at the time.  No wonder he was able to amass so many power tools in such a short time. He would “buy” things for the boat, including a $400 water ski in my favorite color, insisting I pay him immediately upon delivery – even if what he “bought” was unnecessary or unplanned. There were ropes and parts from West Marine and lots of other things he’d want me to reimburse him for, yet somehow the receipts were always in another coat pocket or at his house or got lost or whatever.

Once my suspicion was aroused, once “the jig was up”, there was no going back. Being around him was increasingly nerve-wracking and the fun times were overshadowed by my discomfort watching him self-destruct.  This once beautiful, smart creature with a huge dick was becoming increasingly misogynist, homophobic, hateful and argumentative. He fell deeper and deeper into a river of denial.  I remember once thinking “what part about me being all the way in him made him not gay?”   The denial was deafening.

The Beginning of the End.

The last day we spoke was in a parking lot of a warehouse in Hayward where he was storing the boat and living with some sketchy people I hadn’t met.  We got into an argument over modifications he was making to the boat – modifications that defied logic and made no sense whatsoever to me.

He’d already removed the Bimini top out of spite for a “stupid bitch” of a former girlfriend. It wasn’t enough to remove the top, but he also removed the mounts, leaving open holes where the bolts used to be.  

He’d also made a make-shift cooler by cutting a jagged hole in the floorboard next to the driver’s seat using that Milwaukee Sawzall.  It might have worked if done right, but something about the area having no protection from the exhaust fumes and hot water pipes kept melting the ice.

But the last straw was the auxiliary cigarette lighter for the margarita mixer. I guess because it was too cumbersome to contend with plugging the thing into the dashboard, so Sean decided to put another outlet in the side panel below the bar where we kept the bottles of liquor.  He didn’t see the failure of his logic, wanting to mount a power outlet almost on the floor and with 12-gauge Romex household wire. A power outlet near the floor of a boat?  Water and electricity?  He certainly knew better - Sean was schooled in electrical engineering, had a Mensa level IQ and once worked for General Electric.

After thrashing about in the bottom of the boat in what could best be described as an adult temper tantrum, he apologized, explaining he’d run out of his medicine.  

What ran out was my patience.  I left the scene, wrote him a “dear John” letter, and wrote-off the thousands of dollars I’d spent over the three years, personally intellectualizing it as an “entertainment expense.”  They say a boat is a hole in the water into which you put money.  This was that, and then some.

The last time I saw Sean was an early morning Saturday in downtown San Francisco in 1999. I was with my friend Alex who was buying a piece of luggage at one of those touristy shops that also sells T-shirts and bongs. This was a dangerous part of Market street, like between 5th & 6th streets which at the time was a real shithole.

Sean was wearing sweats and whining to a sketchy-looking dude I suspect was a drug dealer. He seemed weird and almost desperate. I didn’t want him to see me and hid behind a pillar, then he vanished around the corner.

I’m not sure if he’s still alive. I really doubt it.  What I do know: part of me died that day.

Goodbye, Sean.  I love you.

###

[textales]

“Fight for Your Right.”

“Who the fuck are you?” asked the leader of some band we hired to play that night.

Good lord, how could anyone have the audacity to be so disrespectful and rude?  He had to have known this was the office where the check would come from as he was being escorted by the guy who hired them.  

I stood there with my mouth gaping open, stunned like a deer in the headlights, then just like that he and his entourage moved on before I could scare up an answer. 

My work-study job was more fun than most.  While others were stocking shelves at the bookstore or washing dishes at the food service, I worked for ASUM Programming, the entertainment arm of “The Associated Students of the University of Montana.”  A New Yorker named Erik curated concerts. A grad student picked the lectures.  And there were three red-headed sisters – triplets no less – from a windswept town near some Indian reservation. One ran the performing arts program, one picked the movies, and one was the benevolent boss of all of us. 

Working for the student government was an honor and a responsibility that I took very seriously, and figured it would pay off when I had to get a real job after graduation.  Thirty years later I can say I was right – if not for me, at least for many of my co-workers who went on to become big deals.  One girl got a gig at some software company in Seattle and was so successful she retired in her 30s.  Our student body president became a senator.  And that New Yorker responsible for bringing concerts to our college made a fortune when he sold the newspaper he founded to a big media conglomerate. 

I did the advertising – a position that completely went to my head.  Looking back, I was a pain-in-the-ass prima donna, but my intentions were righteous (or at least I thought so).  Although we were in the sticks, I was insistent that our image be every bit as cool as those of giant schools like UCLA or Harvard.  It was my personal mission to showcase how we were so much better than our redneck peers at MSU in Bozeman who offered washed-up has-beens filling dates between county fairs.  As our community’s un-elected curators of cool, we presented performers on the cutting edge.  Oh sure, occasionally we had a show a little past its prime, but we knew how to position it as the best thing to happen since the advent of electricity, and we’d sell out the biggest venues on campus every time.  

I made ridiculous demands of our graphic artists and printers, maxed out every budget and milked my media partners for every last free commercial. I shamelessly coerced radio stations into selling us commercials for pennies on the dollar. I hired the most expensive television production house in the state and ground them down until they agreed to the pittance I was willing to pay.  On broadcast TV, The Cosby Show was the number one hit in prime time (years before any controversy) and I demanded our commercials on the local NBC affiliate play “first in set” when the most people were watching. At $75 bucks a pop, I got our money’s worth and then some.   I was making my mark, dammit, hell bent on proving this was no hokey small town operation!   

The office was situated in the student union building known as University Center. The glass walls were covered with posters from past performers – everyone from Alabama to Van Halen had been through that town. I was proud of the bands we presented during my tenure there, including 38 Special, Cheap Trick and Corey Hart.  On that cold winter day, a red and shiny silver poster hung on the front door to promote the music group who had just blessed our office with their presence.   

After cooling-off for a minute I conjured a response to that obnoxious “up and comer” who wanted to know my purpose in the overall scheme of things.  Given the chance, I would have shot back with something snarky like “I’m the reason you sold out your show here in the middle of nowhere, you stupid fuck.”  But by that point the ungrateful bastard and his band were halfway across the snow-covered campus.

“I like Dick’s.”

Once a year, our team would make a trek to Portland to go shopping.  We were looking for “the next big thing” and we’d find it at the convention of the National Association for Campus Activities (NACA) where aspiring music artists, comedians and speakers would present themselves for hire by colleges in the region looking for entertainment options for their respective campus constituencies.  The convention was held at the Jantzen Beach Red Lion, a big fancy hotel on the waterfront. Artists would do short performances for the crowd, then interested buyers would have an opportunity to meet with them and their agents at a conference room where deals were cut on the spot. At the conclusion of each three-day trip we’d come home with a pretty good idea of what the next year’s entertainment line-up would be. 

I was fascinated with Portland – it was a “real city” (at least compared to Missoula) and traveling at the expense of someone else was cool shit for this 21-year-old college kid who at that point could count on one hand the number of times I’d stayed in a hotel or eaten at a restaurant with cloth napkins. 

My first taste of fine dining happened on a NACA trip at a restaurant named the Couch Street Fish House.  Knowing it would cost a fortune I was reluctant, but caved to peer-pressure as I was reminded such opportunities for fancy were nonexistent where we came from.  Trying not to look like a total hick from the sticks I gawked at fish tanks in the lobby where you could pick a lobster or sea critter they’d kill and cook right then - ain’t never seen that before!  Dinner was presented in a coordinated reveal as servers lifted silver domes covering the entrees of all patrons at the table, in unison, at the direction of the lead waiter. There were so many different forks and knives I had to ask which to use for what, and I recall being given a hot towel at some point, along with grapefruit sorbet which was to, according to the sharp-looking waiter in a bow tie, “cleanse the palate between courses.”  Hardly an adventurous eater, I had a simple Sirloin Steak (AKA high-grade hamburger), but rest of the crowd went crazy with escargot, scallops and crab.

Split among us, my portion of the bill was $106.  To put things into perspective, I made $290 a month before taxes, so this was absurdly high for this poor college kid, consuming over half of my take-home for the month.  But I don’t regret it, and to this day that dinner over thirty years ago remains one of the fanciest of my life. 

We went night-clubbing on Front Street at The Satyricon.  This place was buzzing with sketch-looking guys with mohawks, tight leather pants, chain necklaces and tattoos.  And there were women in fishnet stockings looking all slutty with black lipstick and winged eyeliner. A few emo kids and some nerds rounded out the crowd, which contained more diversity than anywhere I’d ever been back home. Oh sure, I’d set foot in The Top Hat and AmVets in Missoula, but never a gritty place like this. I recall a wall of black and white TVs showing nothing but snowy static…a wall of TVs just for decoration?  This is nuts.  It was literally on the edge of railroad tracks, complete with an angry punk rock band, a bouncer with bad teeth and bulging biceps, a coat check hosted by a girl who looked remarkably homeless, and there was a ridiculously high cover charge.   The door person asking if my male co-worker and I were a couple.  Before I could answer, Kevin blurted “yes,” knowing we’d get a discount.  Still deep in the closet, I was mortified at the consequences of having my cover blown.

As college kids are known to do, we drank a lot of beer on those trips. In eco-conscious Oregon, with progressive recycling laws decades ahead of the rest of the country, empty bottles and cans could be redeemed for a refund of five cents each.  On the way out of town, we’d stop at Fred Meyer to return the cases of empties.  We were so proud of ourselves, having consumed so much beer over the weekend that the refund money was enough for beef jerky and bottled water for the nine hour drive back to Missoula.  

In Spokane we stopped for burgers and fries at a drive-in.  Without realizing how dumb it would sound, I proudly blurted “I like Dick’s,” as I stood there in acid-washed jeans and a pink polo shirt.

“He is so gay” the New Yorker exclaimed to the red-headed triplets.  And here I thought I had them all fooled.  

“Fight for Your Right”

Erik must have seen something promising when he hired the group of white rappers at the NACA conference that year.  Yes, we wanted to be “cutting edge” and all, but white rappers?  In Montana?!  I didn’t see it…but what did I know? I was a fan of the fluffy pop I played on the radio, like Exposé, Bananarama and Madonna, which Erik considered the musical equivalent of cotton candy.  

As it turned out, he proved to be a programming genius.  When he signed The Beastie Boys months prior in Portland they were nothing more than an unknown opening act for Run-D.M.C., dismissed by industry pros as three obnoxious white kids from New York trying to sound black. Then they blew up…and it was like ASUM Programming hit the jackpot.   The album “Licensed to Ill” was certified Platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) on February 2, 1987 – just five days after their appearance in Missoula.  This was an unofficial launch of the “License to Ill” tour, which started three weeks later.

Those Beastie Boys were obnoxious alright. And they were pissed, because just before coming to Missoula they were offered a show in Toronto and tried to cancel ours. Erik held their feet to the fire and threatened to file a lawsuit if they bailed on us, so they conceded and came to Montana in the dead of winter to do a gig for pennies of what they might have otherwise made in a bigger city. 

They were nice to Erik at first, but told him once the show was on they’d have to portray the image of the obnoxious rebels their managers were so carefully crafting.  They delivered on their promise to their management and then some. No wonder the lead guy was such a dick to me at the office. 

We suspected they might be rowdy and cause a ruckus early on. Their contract required multiple cases of beer and bottles of whisky, and they wanted their dressing room stocked with a “rainbow assortment” of condoms.  Such demands are not uncommon, and often ridiculous demands are written into the contracts just to make sure someone is actually paying attention to the small print. I’m not sure if we provided the condoms, but we definitely didn’t supply the beer and whiskey since University policy wouldn’t allow.  So they brought their own, and sprayed two cases of warm Budweiser on the crowd as part of their performance. They encouraged the crowd to rip-up the seating in the first few rows of the venue, and they trashed their dressing room, which I suspect got charged-back to the promoter.  

I recall not wanting to see the show….it was rap, after all, and I liked “the musical equivalent of cotton candy.”  But I was curious about what made this group so popular, so I found my way to the University Theatre for the last few minutes of their show that snowy January eve.

I don’t remember much, other than the crowd went absolutely wild and most were certainly fighting for their right to party.  I also recall fighting for my way to the bathroom, where dozens of drunk fellow college kids were using every available piece of porcelain all at once, including the urinal, toilet, sink, floor drain, and even the garbage can.  It was filthy, but efficient.

The Missouri Lounge is located a few blocks from my home in Berkeley, California. I discovered this place after moving into the neighborhood over a dozen years ago.  Sometimes referred to as “unassuming” or “low key,” truth is it’s a total dive.  The bar and apartments above it were built in 1961 by a serviceman who retired to the area after doing his time in the Navy on The USS Missouri.  I just learned the music video for Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” was filmed aboard that battleship.  Now I love even more this bar named after the boat.  

On the walls you’ll find pictures from the early days. Not unlike the black & white pictures I’ve seen of my grandmother playing pool at Reed’s Tavern in Great Falls, these framed photos are evidence of innocent local fun…people wearing paper hats and shooting confetti at a New Year’s party when 1962 rolled in… people not interested in going to the big celebrations across the bay in San Francisco…people looking for something comfortable and close to home.

The bar has seen many generations of customers and countless changes of ownership and décor. My first visit was in 2003, just a couple months after the then new owner had repainted in pretty pastels and neutral tones.  Concert posters from famous folk like Janice Joplin, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones adorned the walls.  And they had a brand new 48” flat screen TV hanging smack dab above the middle of the bar, presumably intended to lure sports fans hoping to see their favorite games in a venue more convenient than those in downtown Oakland or Berkeley.

After a few months the newly remodeled bar wasn’t doing so well, so a consultant was hired to “spruce things up” by “dumbing it down.”   As she told me a dozen years ago, the bar was essentially “too nice” for the neighborhood, so she decided to make it look more like a pool room in someone’s basement. Down came the framed posters from historic concerts at the Fillmore and Cow Palace.  Peach and pastels were covered over with battleship gray and brown paint.  A tired old couch was moved in, and so was an old Zenith console TV that for years doubled as the DJ stand.  The flat screen TV was moved into the corner, and they’d start showing classic horror movies with a Pulp Fiction feel.   Whatever magic she did seemed to work, and the place became a goldmine that it is today.  

Regulars at happy hour include Tim the glazier, Ian who works for the county, and Hans who owns a construction company.  Later at night, once the pool table is covered and moved to the corner, a totally different crowd of college kids and younger neighborhood professionals come in to drink and dance.   There’s a professional sound system and a proper DJ Booth, and the back patio which started out with a portable BBQ from someone’s back yard now features a commercial kitchen with permanent built-in stainless-steel sinks and a granite countertop.   But still, honestly, the place is a total dive, with picnic tables and chain link, where a shot and a beer are cheap, and the bathroom walls are covered in graffiti (even if that graffiti was put there on purpose in the first place). 

“I Played That Song When It Was New.”

One of the Disk Jockeys at the Missouri Lounge is a guy named Pat, who is around my age and plays lots of songs from the 80s. Whether it’s Thompson Twins, Prince or YES, he’s often spinning something that I can say I put on the air when I was a Top 40 DJ in Missoula. 

One random Friday night I noticed Pat wearing a hat from some bar in Whitefish, a small town in Montana, which spawned a conversation about my college days. I learned Pat’s wife is from Missoula, and my world continued to grow smaller as he cued-up “(You Gotta) Fight for your Right (to Party).”  

But as much as I was enjoying the conversation, I had to excuse myself (discount dive-bar beer like Olympia has a way of working its way through quite quickly) and headed toward the bathroom where I stood in line as polite millennial men took their turns one-at-a-time in a bathroom that has both a urinal and a toilet.  “Why can’t these kids be efficient like at that Beastie Boys concert where they were using the sink, the toilet, the floor drain and a garbage can?” I wondered without saying a word out loud. Okay, I understand not peeing in the sink or the floor drain or the garbage can, but they can use the urinal and the regular toilet and cut the time in line in half. “Hurry the fuck up. I gotta pee, besides, I have to get back to my conversation with Pat.”

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity in line, I returned to the DJ Booth where Pat told me the wife’s father founded “The Independent,” a newspaper in Missoula, and his business partner was a guy named Erik. 

Yes, THAT Erik, the same guy from New York who brought the Beastie Boys to Montana for their first concert out west. 

It’s a small world when the Missouri and Montana collide with the Beastie Boys.

[textales]

“Salisbury Steak”

Throughout the 1970s my father would make disparaging remarks about every ethnicity or way of life that wasn’t just like ours.  Blacks, Japs, Greeks, Jews, migrant farm workers – if you were different, you were suspect.  His opinions were dispensed from the comfort of a brown velvety couch while watching Walter Cronkite on a Sylvania 19-inch color GT-Matic purchased from Sears and housed in a genuine imitation walnut veneer cabinet.  

Dinner was frequently a culinary creation courtesy of Banquet or Swanson, served in the same aluminum container it was cooked in, with convenient compartments to keep everything in its place. Each weeknight at precisely six o’clock, once the dinner was in position on the TV tray next to a pack of Salem cigarettes and a freshly brewed cup of coffee, Red would start blurting a running commentary.  The network news stories were the inspiration for his outbursts, and no one was safe from his scorn. The world beyond the borders of Montana was going to shit, and the CBS Evening News was there to prove it. It seemed, at least in his mind, it was always “others” from places like “back east” that were behaving badly.

Things got a little too close for comfort when some of those “others” from far-flung places like “back east” started moving into our neighborhood.  If you were one of those it was Red’s default to give you the cold shoulder…but once he met you personally…well, then you and your people would enjoy conditional acceptance as long as you had a job and “kept your nose clean.”  

My friend Carla was born to a Mexican woman who spoke broken English. They were okay. But her brother, who looked like Cheech from Cheech and Chong and drank hot sauce right from the Tupperware pitcher, well, dad didn’t have kind words for him. “Those god-damned Mexicans….all they do is party party party.” But my dad’s angst toward Peter was because Peter didn’t have a full-time job. That and they had a run-in at one point.  Okay, maybe there was a little prejudice, since Red continued to refer to Peter as a “god-damned Mexican” for decades afterward.  

My father was a lot like Archie Bunker, the crunchy, crotchety, curmudgeony bigot on the CBS TV show All in the Family.  Archie was played by the actor Carroll O’Connor who had ties to Montana.  Was this a coincidence?  I think not.

My dad knew it was wrong when he spoke negatively about “Chinks” or “War Hoops” or “Polacks” or “Wops”, and he didn’t want me to use that kind of language. “Do as I say, not as I do” was a common theme. He’d say “Don’t think you’re better than anyone else” – surprisingly progressive talk for a guy who used every racial slur in the book.

As a young kid I knew there was life beyond the borders of Montana.  Fingering through the pages of Playboy I’d see ads for things you just couldn’t get where we lived. Oh sure, you could buy pet rocks, mood rings and waterbeds in our town, but I knew there was a whole other world I wanted to explore.  Someday I’d travel, and Braniff International had big colorful planes that flew non-stop to places like Acapulco.  I didn’t know why people needed such things, but you could buy gold razor blades and nasal snow ingestors from ads in Penthouse. And not that I’d wear Safari Slacks in sizzling satin, or try charming the ladies with Hennessy, but I’d see ads for these things and wonder about life in places like “back east” that my father kept warning me about.  

If where we lived was so great, why did so many people (my brother and sister, for example) move out of state when they graduated college?  I found his justification for staying put somewhat suspicious. Something about his dismissive attitude about “California” or other mysterious and dangerous people and places just fueled my curiosity. “When I grow up,” I thought to myself, “I want to see what all the fuss is about.”  Sure, my dad could eat Salisbury steak or chicken pot pie almost every day, but I wanted a taste of something different.

Even though we were in what was arguably one of the most culturally starved places on the planet, we thought we had culture, and we certainly didn’t think we were the least bit racist. Yes, we were proud to be Americans. Yes, trucks with gun racks adorned the parking lot at K-Mart, but you didn’t see Confederate Flags or hear of people in white hoods burning crosses.  My public school education included lessons in cultural relativism – we even had “international day” where we learned about other cultures and ate foods more authentic than the International Collection of Swanson TV dinners.  Carla and her mother spent hours making tamales, some Asian kid introduced us to fried rice, and the Native Americans made “Fry Bread.”  

People from beyond the borders of our state, on the other hand, assumed we were as polarized as the Deep South. I worked at KQDI in the mid-1980s when we were changing format of the radio station to 50s and 60s Oldies. The music consultant in New York suggested the Program Director remove The Supremes from the playlist because, “Your audience doesn’t like black people.”  We scoffed at the absurdity of it, but the consultant’s sentiment did shine a light on the reality of racism in our country.  We just didn’t think it was alive in our town, and we certainly didn’t talk about it.  

Great Falls had an Air Force base, which might explain why we had a few more black folk than similarly sized towns in the region. We were very proud of the black Country music superstar Charlie Pride who got his start in Montana. Still, we were hardly a melting pot of diversity: exactly three of the 366 students pictured in my senior high school yearbook were African American.  

Buddy was a half-black kid and one of those three African Americans pictured in my yearbook. In our senior talent show he performed a spectacular dance routine to the tune of “Dancing in the Sheets” from the original version of the movie Footloose.  In high school I was afraid to be seen talking to him – not because he was black, but because I was so deep in the closet and he was so obviously gay.  But the next year, as a freshman in college and hours away from the prying eyes of the gossip-mongers in our hometown, I got the guts to strike up a conversation.  One thing led to another and we ended up in the sack.

If I was going to take a bite from the sampler plate at least this one was safe. He was adopted as a baby by a middle-class white family who lived in a nice part of town, and my dad knew his father who worked at the lumber yard near the house where I grew up. Buddy was smart, attractive, and incredibly passionate. And yes, at least in his case, the stereotype about black guys being big was true - very true.  He taught me things (I was a newbie after all), and he treated me with care and respect. We shared some secrets and he told me about others including mutual male friends with whom he had sex. It was scintillating and exciting and new, but also nerve wracking as I wasn’t quite ready to break down my closet door. I tried to pretend nothing happened between us and soon thereafter he moved to Portland. Whew…that was close. Thankfully, not busted or outed.  But I will forever remember him and that tender moment which was my first intentional, premeditated sexual encounter with a guy – and a black one at that.    

“Rub You the Right Way”

Half a decade later I recall driving up the Dallas North Tollway in the rain, listening to Johnny Gill on K-104. Finally, I was living in a “real” city…one big enough to have a radio station that catered to the “urban” crowd.  By this point Braniff was gone, and although I didn’t have a use for gold razor blades or nasal snow ingestors, I had begun doing some of that living I dreamed about as a young kid.    

For a few months in Dallas I had a hot black boyfriend.  Although he was charming, smart, spoke with a soothing Southern accent and had a stunning body (he played rugby in college!), I remember thinking I just couldn’t take him home to meet the parents.  Even though by this time my dad had mellowed and was so much less of a bigot than his “Archie Bunker” days of the 1970s, I just didn’t want to push the envelope that hard.  Paul got busy with his new gig as a flight attendant for one of the two big airlines headquartered in town, so I had a convenient and graceful way out without having to discuss the real reason I bailed on the relationship.

By the mid-90s I was living in San Francisco, and although I was hardly a culinary- or culture-connoisseur, I had traveled to a dozen more states and moved from comfort food and basic TV dinner fare.  My father had progressed in his journey of exploration and cultural discovery as well, and his TV viewing habits continued to evolve. He always watched 60 Minutes, and by the turn of the century he added PBS and cable channels like Discovery to his menu.  The more he watched, the more he learned.  Education led to tolerance, and his strong opinions about “others” continued to soften.

On a trip from Denver to Great Falls to visit the parents I recall seeing a smart looking black guy in a very nice well-tailored suit. It’s rare to see people of color on those puddle-jumper flights and I was curious what would bring a brother to GTF if it weren’t air force related.  I struck up a conversation and we headed to the bar when the flight got delayed. I wanted to let this guy know that although he was going to one of the whitest places on earth (91% Caucasian per the 2000 census), the locals were generally nice and he shouldn’t worry about any potential racism.  

Why I felt compelled to be such an ambassador remains unclear – oh hell, truth is the guy was cute and I was bored.  After a few beers and all the possible sports references I could muster, I decided to “come out” pre-emptively. I wanted to spare him the embarrassment of saying something wrong or derogatory about gays (shame on me for prejudging him). I couldn’t believe where we went so quickly:

“I can understand you being gay, but I can’t understand how you wouldn’t still want pussy.”

This was a first - a black bisexual sympathizer?  There must certainly be a checkbox on some form for that.

Although my dad was highly opinionated and seemingly xenophobic, he would remind me that we should treat all people equally.  I think it was from him that I developed my distaste for class distinctions.

For example, first class sections and lines at airports make me nuts. Oh sure, I can appreciate being able to board early and the free booze and extra leg room, but I get peeved when I see people in the first class section turning their nose up at the “regular” customers who didn’t want or weren’t able to pay for the upgrade.  The snobbery is irksome, and I find myself thinking those same words my father would say when I was a kid: “Don’t think you’re better than anyone else.”

I remember my first international flight, from DFW to Zurich. The lead flight attendant was a tall and strikingly pretty black man with a lovely British accent.  I was impressed with him until he got on the loudspeaker to chew-out the coach passengers for not making way for the first class passengers coming down the spiral staircase.  He made it clear in no uncertain terms that they were to get off the plane first. His condescending tone made we want to puke.  This was not the 747 experience I’d imagined from those magazine ads from the 1970s, that’s for sure.

Ten minutes later, as my fellow coach-class peasants and I were finally deplaning, he started speaking to me in German.  I was stunned like a deer in the headlights…I blurted out “English?” not really knowing how to react.  How about that….he pre-judged me as being a German national based on my looks and skin color (and maybe he noticed my ethnic-looking last name on the manifest).   I experienced what could be labeled as racial profiling or prejudice or whatever, and I was pissed that this snobby queen who made me feel inferior had checked the wrong box on the tarmac in Switzerland.

I doubt it happened overnight…but I’m pretty sure Red stopped barking out obscenities and racial slurs from the couch by time he replaced the Sylvania with a new 20” Magnavox with Touch-Tune remote control.  His taste for fine food may not have progressed much (it’s not like he started eating escargot or sushi - let’s not get crazy here) but he did open his menu choices beyond a steady diet of heart-stopping Midwestern fare smothered in gravy.

Red wanted safety and security for his family, and had a well-developed comfort zone with a strong border – even if only a wall in his mind. In those early years, he knew in his heart it wasn’t right when he’d spew those words from the couch.  He was just trying to keep things in order, and the vulnerability and fear came out as verbal assaults.  He may have been dismissive of my curiosity for other places and things, but it was because he wanted to make sure I stuck around, at least until I finished college – and I totally respect that.  

I am glad I explored some of those places “back east” that my father warned me about - I wanted to see what all the fuss was over.  I’ve been trying to find out for years now and will probably continue on this quest until I’m too old and broke to do it anymore.  Can’t say I like Hennessey, but at least I tried it.  I know for sure I won’t be wearing Safari Slacks in sizzling satin EVER.  I mean really, brown polyester pants with bell bottoms?  WHAT were they thinking?!

It’s hard for me to put the label on him as it sounds so harsh.  But by the most classic definition, my father was once an obscenity-spewing, highly opinionated close-minded racist.   I can’t blame him, he grew up in the 1950s and 60s.  He had no classes in “cultural relativism,” and I doubt they ever had an “international day” at his school.  

But if my father, who once used every racial slur in the book, can learn and change, anyone can.  By diversifying his exposure to new and different people, cultures and ways of life, even if only by watching the Discovery Channel or reading National Geographic or Penthouse, his curiosity quenching most certainly led to more understanding and tolerance.

For many of us, we just want a sense of order. Whether its borders, fences, check-boxes on forms, or compartments like those on a TV dinner from the 1970s, we just want to put things in their place.  But sometimes things aren’t so cut-and-dry, and check-boxes and compartments don’t work.  

And even though my father has progressed light years from that curmudgeon who smoked and yelled at the TV, Salisbury steak is still one of his favorites.

###

[textales]

“You Don’t Say”

It was absurdly hot that Friday morning and by 8am the summer sun was baking the rock-hard dirt. You could almost taste the oil and diesel fuel fumes filling the air as Kenworth and White Freightliner rigs idled outside, waiting for their drivers to return.

“That’s a conventional cab,” I said with the know-it-all tone of a precocious five year old. Just that week I was told how to tell the difference between the styles of semi-trucks that haul around everything from food to furniture in trailers as big as the one my aunt lived in.  

My mother and her sister were having their weekly coffee klatch where they’d catch-up on “girl talk” and family gossip. They picked Bair’s truck stop, at my mother’s suggestion, because she heard they had a good chicken fried steak – and she thought it would be more interesting than Sambo’s.  

My mother was a bit of a curious one, and this place offered a little grit and the promise of people more colorful than those who frequented the boring restaurants on tenth avenue south.  They’d just ordered when I noticed a trucker coming in to sit at the counter.  He had to have been every bit of six foot three and well over three hundred pounds.

“Wow, you’re a big nigger,” I blurted with matter-of-fact certainty.  I was merely pointing out the obvious. I was smart and knew everything since I had just learned how to tell the difference between a conventional cab and a cab-over.

He stood there stunned and silent, not sure how to react to this toe-headed five-year-old who clearly had not been taught how to behave in public.  The din of the diner continued as my mother grabbed my arm to pull me from harm’s way.

“I’m sorry, he must have heard that from his father.”

My aunt Ruby, realizing her sister’s comments hardly helped, tried to diffuse the situation by offering to buy the guy’s breakfast.  My mother made me say I’m sorry (although I didn’t understand why) and the driver uttered a word or two I can’t remember.  He politely refused the free breakfast, got back into his Mack and headed out of town.  If my mother was looking for a little grit and some color she got what she wanted and then some.  This was a learning moment for all of us.

In 1970 you could still see cigarette ads on television. Casey Kasem’s “American Top 40” had just debuted on the radio, and the first 747 made its maiden flight from New York to London. In Montana the Anaconda Company was alive and well, with thriving operations in Butte and Great Falls. Presumably many of the rigs coming through Bair’s truck stop were hauling goods to supply this industrial giant which provided thousands of jobs and fed countless local families.  

Did this dude pulling a load of steel from Pittsburgh know he’d encounter a five year old who’d call him a nigger?   When he took the gig he knew he’d be driving through some of the whitest places on the planet, but he was going through Montana where the people are supposed to be nice.  No, he wasn’t amused, but he didn’t react as he could have. And what was he supposed to do – punch a five year old?  It’s not like he hadn’t heard the word before.

I used the “N” word as a short-cut to describe a person with dark skin.  I borrowed it from my dad – it was his word, and one he used often. Even so, he would NOT have appreciated my reckless use of it that day at the truck stop.  He might have used the slur to describe the guy behind his back, or when referring to “those” people in general, but given the opportunity to meet the driver - who drove a truck for a living just like his dad did - he’d realize they have more in common than the difference between their skin colors might suggest. Had he met him, my dad would have referred to the driver more politely as “colored” or “a negro.”  

I learned that day it was best to not use the “N” word ever again, given all the commotion it caused.  

Fast-forward: Casey Kasem’s “American Top 40” was still on the radio, but cigarette ads were gone from TV.  The 747 had become the most popular jumbo jet in the world, with over 1,400 of the big birds in service. The Anaconda Company, however, hadn’t fared so well – by the early 1980s the company had closed up shop.  The “Big Stack” in Great Falls was gone and the Berkeley Pit in Butte had become the largest EPA “Superfund” site in the country.  

I’m not sure exactly when, but my father finally stopped using the “N” word with reckless abandon.  Maybe it was the influence of cable television or the social pressures of political correctness, or the fact that he had a gay son, but my dad became more understanding and less critical of other cultures and lifestyles.

Things got put into perspective and I was reminded how the apple doesn’t fall far – after all, we are, for the most part, products of our parents.

In 2001, I brought my Puerto Rican boyfriend to Great Falls to meet the family and to announce we’d be living together as a couple in San Francisco.  My dad was nervous about this proclamation, unsure how his mother might handle it since she was known for being fairly “old school” and rather set in her ways. 

“You don’t say,” she said as she struggled to keep the conversation going that sunny September Saturday.

In her effort to relate and subtly show approval of our plans, as we drank iced tea on the deck of Aunt Kathy’s trailer, she shared her one and only experience with the Bay Area.

A few years back, she and grandpa had come to visit their friends Dolly and Roy who “worked in Walnut Crick and lived in Conn-chord.”  Picture Ma and Pa Kettle in a dusty white 1964 Plymouth Fury II with a push-button transmission. It was well past its prime, with more than a little “car cancer” – the rust damage caused by salt used on snow-covered highways to make driving doable in cold country.  

They were pulling an ultra-modern, brand-spanking-new fiberglass egg-shaped trailer. The Scamp was a curious little camper, and the contrast between the old car and the shiny new trailer made for interesting conversations with fellow travelers at gas stations along the 1,200+ mile trek from Montana to California.

Even though Grandpa was an experienced trucker, his instinctual navigational skills might have been a bit rusty – he had been retired for several years, after all. And most of the routes in his heyday were throughout Montana, the Dakotas and the Pacific Northwest, so it was understandable how he lost his way in the giant freeway interchange known as the MacArthur Maze. 

I always knew him to be a stubborn, chain-smoking curmudgeon, and I can hear him saying “I don’t need no goddamned stupid map,” minutes before caving to the nervous pleas of his wife. They pulled over somewhere in west Oakland. These are the whitest people ever, lost in what was then one of the blackest neighborhoods on earth.

Grandma continued her story as Aunt Kathy refilled our iced tea, and I started to understand how my father learned to use the “N-word” without ever giving it a second thought.  

“We met the nicest nigger family who helped us get back on the freeway.”

I about choked on the ice cube in my tea, and after picking-up my jaw from the floor, I contemplated how I might prevent her from ever again using this word we weren’t supposed to say anymore. The last time I uttered that word so carelessly was 1970. And now, after decades of civil rights progress, she just blurts it out!   

I turned to my dad who gave me a look that said “Don’t look at me, I didn’t say it.”

Everyone waited for my reaction since I was the reason we were all on that deck in the first place. It’s not like this was the UN and we were negotiating a peace treaty, I was just introducing the new boyfriend to the family and discussing our plans.  But goddammit, this is embarrassing.  Sure, she’s my grandma and I should give her a break for having limited experience or exposure to diversity, but what kind of rednecks are we?

In that few seconds of dead-air that seemed like an eternity, I figured any attempts to change this woman would go nowhere.  She’s eighty-something for criminy sakes…plus, given the fact that she was oddly complimentary in her tone, what would be the point?

I looked around, took a big breath, patted the dog on the head, and bit my tongue.

“You don’t say.”  

###

[textales]

“Clyde the Snake Charmer”

“Get over here now…you’ll never see anything like this again!” she exclaimed with the nervous energy of someone making a call to 9-1-1.  It was a bit of an understatement to say Carla’s sister was dramatic, but this time her energy level was justified.  Her husband was about to kill and skin thirteen live rattlesnakes in their backyard and Mary did not want us to miss the show.

Clyde was a real-life “Marlboro Man”, the fictional character seen on billboards and in magazine ads pimping cigarettes for Phillip Morris. A true Montana cowboy, Clyde was the epitome of a rugged “man’s man”.  He wore cowboy boots and a Stetson hat, drove a Chevy truck, owned tons of guns and chewed Copenhagen.  He ran a taxidermy shop where hunters would take their prize prey to be stuffed and mounted as trophies.  

Clyde scared the shit out of me….I heard him speak no more than a paragraph of words over the entire time I knew him, and when he did speak words were uttered in grunts.  He was not the kind of guy you’d want to fuck with – he most certainly knew his way around a hunting knife and I’m pretty sure he could stop a freight train just by looking at it.

Clyde and Mary lived in a cute craftsman-style home on Central Avenue in Great Falls.  Hardly out in the wilderness, it was in the back yard of that cute little house where we witnessed the slaughter of the slithering snakes.  If the neighbors knew what was happening they would have freaked out, but since they couldn’t see through six foot high cedar they didn’t have a clue.  

Clyde had done some horse-trading with the guy who caught the critters – he would kill and skin them, keeping the skins to make belts and hatbands, and the hunter guy would get the meat. Why anyone would want to eat Rattlesnake is beyond me – I imagine it would be tough and sinewy and gamey. But tough Montana cowboys dig this shit as it makes for good storytelling around the campfire, so I get it.  

Carla and I made it to Mary’s about the time Clyde pulled into the yard in his new 1978 Chevy Cheyenne pickup.  In the back was the box of snakes. Made of plywood, it was about two foot square and maybe six inches high, with a hinged lid and a handle.  

I was surprised such a small box could contain so many snakes, but what did I know…the only snakes I’d seen were on TV on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Now here in front of me are thirteen venomous monsters squished into this container that could pop-open at any moment.

Clyde put on leather work gloves and carefully moved the box from the back of the truck onto the lawn. Mary, Carla and I watched through the kitchen window above the safety of the sink, and you could have heard a pin drop as we waited for Clyde to open the lid.  “Can you hear them in there? They are rattling.” Of course Carla and I were too cool to be phased by Mary’s reaction.  We had that rebellious, teenage facade to maintain even though we were secretly scared shitless.

I had no idea what to expect…how would he do this?  As much as I’d like to ask, I didn’t dare say a thing – it was best to keep shut and observe.

We watched in anxious anticipation as the box just sat there on the grass. Shouldn’t we be freaking out?  There are more than a dozen deadly creatures in there just waiting to strike. You could hear the hissing, and I could only imagine they had to have been really pissed since they had been locked-up in that container, having traveled hundreds of miles in the dark in the back of a bumpy pickup truck. This was a first, I found myself empathizing with a snake.  

Clyde pulled a six foot long wooden pole from the back of the pickup.  It had an eye-hook at the end where a leather rope was attached.  Soon enough we’d see how this was to unfold as the suspense continued to swell.

After what seemed like an eternity, Clyde made his move and the slaying ensued.  

He carefully opened the lid just enough for the first curious snake to stick its neck out…yep, that is a rattle snake all right….just like I’d seen on TV…sticking out its tongue and rattling and being all slithery.   

Right then Clyde stomped on the lid, squishing the snake in place.  He used the wooden pole to capture the snake’s head in a loop formed with the rope at the end of the pole.  Then he pulled the thing a little farther out of the box and stabbed it a couple inches from the head with a hunting knife.  Of course it’s still writhing and slithering and doing the things that snakes do, and somehow Clyde wrangled it out of the box without letting the others out and hung it on a piece of plywood propped up against the side of the truck. Then in one fell swoop he stabbed it again, making an incision the length of the body, gutting it like a fish as the entrails plopped into a bucket on the ground. 

Carla, Mary and I gasped in unison and stood with our mouths open for at least a minute. “Oh my god did you see that?”  This was so much more exciting that watching Marlon Perkins narrate as some guy killed a snake on TV – this was the real thing, live and in-person in Mary’s back yard!

Clyde removed the skin and hung it on another piece of plywood, and then placed the snake meat into a bucket of water.  It was a 5 gallon bucket, the plastic kind used for paint.  Who knew a bucket once full of Kelly-Moore Acoustic White would be used to contain snake for someone’s soup?

It was eerie how the snake meat kept moving and swirling in the paint bucket full of water. Even though there were no guts and it had no head, the pinkish meat kept moving just like it did when it was a live snake.  But after a few minutes the movement subsided and I moved my attention back to Clyde in the middle of the yard.  Having seen the slaughter of one poisonous creature by a man who is quite literally a snake slayer, it was time to see a second.  

After a quick cigarette break, Clyde lifted the lid with the stick and waited for the next curious victim to stick its neck out.  When more than one emerged, he used the pole to poke them both back in the box, and tried again until he had just one snake in the strike zone.  Bam!  He slammed the lid down, trapping the meandering reptile who would stick out its tongue for the last time in a Great Falls back yard.  Clyde plunged his KA-BAR into the neck of the beast and hung it on the plywood where it would be gutted and skinned in less than ninety seconds.

Now’s where I really got the heebie-jeebies.  The first snake was still in the paint bucket and had finally stopped moving.  Then Clyde dropped-in number two. Now they are both twisting and turning, as if the electricity in the body of the new snake activated the older one.

This went on for the remainder of the afternoon and in a couple hours there were thirteen snake carcasses writhing in the paint bucket.  They looked like worms in a way, and it was really unnerving.

I never did see the final products of the snake skins, nor do I know if the meat made its way to someone’ soup.  For all I know, the skins made their way to market and were worn by Jane Fonda and Robert Redford, and the snake soup served to President Jimmy Carter.  But none of them got to see what I did on that otherwise serene Saturday in Montana.

[textales]

“Confessions of a Former Bully”

I guess if you have to learn that a friend committed suicide it’s better to hear about it from another human in a phone call versus a voicemail or text message. 

My heart sunk when Carla called to tell me. I knew he’d been disconnected and distant and was deep into the drug scene, but I didn’t expect this.  As I stood there trying not to bawl my eyes out, I couldn’t help but wonder if I contributed in any way to his decision to wrap-up in a sleeping bag and take himself out using his dad’s hunting rifle.

This was a first – I’d never experienced a friend’s suicide before.  I wish I could say it was the last.

Andy and I met in seventh grade.  Although our lockers were next to each other, we hadn’t really talked much over the school year - so I was surprised when he called that first week in June to invite me over.  He enticed me with the prospect of riding dirt bikes in the open field behind his house, and although I was shy and nervous about it all, my mom encouraged me to make a new friend for the summer.  At 12 or 13 or whatever, we were at that awkward age when our parents still needed to drive us everywhere – Betty would give me a ride to his house and Norma would take me home.  This is what would now be called a “play date,” not quite arranged but certainly approved by our parents.  Oh the innocence.  

He and I had a lot in common.  We both came from blue-collar households (his dad was a truck driver, mine worked in construction) and our moms were a bit older than those of most of our friends. Although we didn’t know the meaning of the term at the time, we were both “menopause babies” and the youngest kids in our families. By the time we came along our mothers were done having kids, and oh so happy to trade-off parenting and dealing with their rowdy and rebellious teenage boys.

“Come around to the back…the gate is open,” yelled Norma as she maneuvered the Hoover over high green shag in the living room of the 1960s-era ranch-style house built on the last row of residential, across the street from the big shopping mall.

It was warm that early summer morning when I met Andy in the back yard. Taller and more muscular than I was, he looked just like a jock standing there in shorts, brand new tennis shoes and athletic socks up to his knees.  He wore a “crop-top” cut-off football jersey that left his belly button exposed.  “How’s it goin’?” he asked in a voice at least an octave lower than mine.  His blond hair glistened and his blue eyes looked right at me as I found myself suddenly sporting wood.  “What the hell is that?” I thought as I adjusted myself without getting noticed. Awkward!  That was certainly NOT something I expected.

The Cars and Cars

Although our worlds were similar, it was fun discovering the differences and the trappings that came with.  Norma did standard-issue mom things like cooking and watching daytime TV.  His sister Kathy, who worked at the public library, was always reading a book on the couch.  She wore heavy make-up with lots of blue eye shadow that made her look deep and mysterious. But those girls were outnumbered, and contrary to what they’d want us to think, the men ruled this roost.  With cars and guns and tools and all kinds of other “guy” stuff, this place oozed testosterone. Even though it was 1979 and the second wave of feminism was in full swing, 1959 was alive and well in that house.

Andy’s brother, Bill, lived in the basement where posters from Molly Hatchet and Van Halen hung on the wall next to a bed that never got made. He was big, muscular and old – like 19.  Most days he slept-in until 6pm when he’d have four hamburgers for “breakfast,” dutifully prepared by Norma who complained over the sizzling sounds at the grill about how Bill should go to college or get a real job.  I never understood what he did if anything for work - maybe he was a professional skier?  Rossignol and K2 were names I remember, along with Audio Technica and the kick-ass stereo that put ours to shame.  Bill owned a Honda Elsinore motorcycle he was rebuilding and showed-off the piston in which he’d drilled an extra hole to allow for better oil flow. It was at their house where I learned the meaning of the word “viscosity.” Bill and his friends did things in that basement - big brother things. They talked about black diamonds and the Red Barn and hunting and racing motorcycles…very fascinating for this timid kid from the other side of town. Talk about “Guys’ guys.” Grrr.

They had a hunting dog. “Tick” was a blue tick healer, and he could fit my whole head in his mouth. It was odd being used as a chew toy as we sat in front of the TV watching The Rockford Files on a Friday night, but the dog liked it so what the hell.

Throughout eighth grade Andy and I did lots of butch “guy” things with his dad…like the trip to someone’s mountain cabin outside of Neihart where we drove the old-school three-wheeled ATVs (the type later outlawed because they would tip-over so easily).  Another weekend we went bird hunting with “Tick” whose utility became immediately evident. Even though I was too chicken shit to shoot anything, it was cool to do cool guy stuff with my best friend and his posse of men’s men.  It felt good to be part of a group and not alone.

One of my favorite memories started as a simple yard clean-up.  Norma asked us to clean the garden before the freeze that would be coming any day, so we loaded the green cart from Gambles and headed across the alley to the field where we rode motorcycles.  We took turns pitching the perished produce, hitting the mostly solid apples and cherry tomatoes with a baseball bat.  Of course this turned into a full-fledged food fight and fruit flinging, and in no time we were completely drenched in rotten apple and tomato juices. When we returned to the house a pissed-off Norma demanded we hose-off on the back patio before letting us in to take showers.  I borrowed a pair of Andy’s Levi’s and an old T-shirt and Norma called my mother, seemingly annoyed but with a grin on her face nonetheless. 

“Flirtin’ With Disaster”

They say hind sight is 20/20…and now four decades later I clearly see that I fell in love with my best friend that summer.  I can still smell the scent of Andy’s hair (he used Agree shampoo) and remember a lunch at a place called Bert & Ernie’s. As we ate our “Monster” sandwiches, as beams of sun peeked through the skylight, I caught a glimmer of his shiny, blond curls and remember thinking how pretty he was. But wait, we are just two dorky kids having lunch - two young teenagers sizing-up each other to determine who was more cool.  I didn’t know I was gay at the time - hell, I could hardly grasp the concept of sex. The only thing I knew about it was what I’d read from the back pages of Penthouse – but there I was getting aroused again.  Thank god we were already at the table! What the hell?  

“My Best Friend’s Girl”

All the cool kids were doing it, so not to be left out I got myself a girlfriend. Launa was the new girl from Helena who moved several weeks after school started that fall. She and her mother were escaping a bad situation, and although they lived in government-subsidized housing, she was pretty enough and laughed at my jokes.  As junior high school kids we hardly did any “dating” per se – we may have shared one awkward kiss in the hallway – but technically, I had myself a girlfriend, at least for a minute. Once again, it felt good to fit in.

I wasn’t the best boyfriend. In fact, I am quite certain I completely ignored Launa which might explain why the next thing I knew she and Andy were a thing. My best friend had “stolen” my girlfriend?!  How dare he! But in retrospect, with that “hindsight being 20/20” and all, I realize I couldn’t care less about her - he was the one I was in love with, even though I didn’t recognize it at the time.  

Well harrumph….this is an outrage, and I’ll have none of it. I threw a temper tantrum that ballooned into a situation that I regret to this day.

“Don’t Do Me Like That”

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sought revenge on Andy for stealing my girlfriend. So I wrote a petition to insist that he be removed from our school, with the recommendation that he go to the other nearby junior high known as “East.” That will show him…he’s going to pay for this injustice, and my reputation will be restored. I won’t be ignored!  

I convinced 56 fellow students to sign that petition.  In getting the signatures, I realized how easy it was to persuade people to do something they otherwise didn’t care about – all I had to do was sell them with my enthusiasm. The cheerleaders and jocks who didn’t give two shits about me were now paying attention. This petition had become a powerful tool. I was a total fucking bully, and I became drunk with power - the power of mob rule.  

Only one kid on my target list didn’t sign the petition. I was irritated that Matt said no. In fact, I was really pissed off.  What didn’t he get?  I can hear still myself: “Andy is a total asshole and stole my girlfriend.  Just ask any of the 56 people who signed this petition…he’s a nobody, and he needs to go. I’m the popular one and he’s not, so just sign this goddamned thing so we can get him out of here.”

Since I was too gutless to deliver the petition myself, I convinced the principal’s son to do the deed. I watched as Brad handed the envelope to Andy who had to have known it was coming.  I can’t say I was proud of myself, but I did feel vindicated and somehow slightly justified, although I wasn’t sure what would actually happen. Andy took the envelope and I lost sight of him in the crowded hallway between classes.  I have no idea if he read the petition before the bell rang, but I can only imagine it had to have hurt. Right then I felt remorse for being such a total asshole.  I was hurt.  I loved the fucker, and sure did pick a weird way to show it.

“Refugee”

For the next year and a half we avoided each other completely.  Andy hung out with two other kids who seemed similarly outcast. They clung together like three peas in a pod, and I secretly envied their close friendship.  Sure, I had lots of friends, but none particularly close, and I probably seemed like a crybaby, regularly whining to anyone who would listen about how my former best friend had stolen my girlfriend.  I was miserable, and started to question my sexuality – I was completely conflicted and tried to avoid thinking how I just might be “one of those people.”

I lost track of Launa – I think she moved back to Helena soon thereafter. I have no idea if she was affected by my assholery.  

“Hit Me with Your Best Shot”

Early in our sophomore year someone figured that this quarrel would be quashed by having an old-school fist fight.  So one particularly dark night we had that fight in my friend Mark’s back yard. He lived across the street from our high school - a fitting venue for such a duel since the cross-town football rivalry was going on at the same time.

Andy pulled up in his VW Beetle with a couple friends who’d cheer him on, and I had Mark and Reed in my corner.   Although I’d been in only two other fights in my whole life, I was confident I would be triumphant. This would be the brawl of the century and I was going to win.  

In no time our feud was finished.  I have no idea where I got the gumption, but I whacked Andy in the face with my knee. It was dirty and wrong, and I felt bad the second I did it.  Thankfully nobody got seriously hurt. Andy and crew crawled back into the VW and my crowd celebrated my “victory” with a six-pack of Lowenbrau.  A part of my soul died that night.

“The Second Time Around”

It was divine intervention when we ended up in the same health class the next semester. After weeks of trying not to look at or talk to each other, we finally caved to courtesy since we were forced to interact when grading each other’s tests.  In no time we became friends again, and it was as if nothing ever happened – although I was no longer in love with him.  On the weekends, Andy, Mike and I would cruise around in the Beetle, looking for parties where we’d drink cheap keg beer from red plastic cups and Andy would smoke pot from a pipe he hid underneath the seat.

“I Know There’s Something Going On”

By our senior year we had drifted apart.  I was dealing with my own drama, working most weekends, planning for college, and getting good grades while trying to bury my confusion in the closet.  My capacity for empathy was limited.

Who knows what Andy was up to… he hung out with a different crowd – a rougher, grittier crowd.  He became what us “good” kids labeled as a “stoner.”   On occasion I’d see him in the hallway between classes and we’d exchange a nod to acknowledge each other, but we were in completely different worlds – so very far away from that commonality we shared in eighth grade.

Was he on a mission to bury his own demons?  I had no idea. But there was something dark in there - one look into his eyes at the locker and you could see it.  As far as I knew, he wasn’t gay – I got no inkling, actually…and if he had been I would have had no interest in pursuing him anyway.  My eighth grade crush was gone.

Looking back, I can only wonder how much of his angst was caused by me. I can only assume my revengeful actions as an eighth grade kid had to have aggravated his drug use later on. But am I responsible for his suicide? I didn’t pull the trigger.

I have to thank Matt for not signing that petition back in junior high.  He put thought into his refusal, and he clearly had more guts than glory, given his willingness to go against the flow and stand up for what he thought was right.  I respect that, and if I could find him I’d thank him.  I was such a little shitbag.

Although it’s somewhat comforting to know we reconnected and “made up” in high school, I will forever wonder how much of Andy’s suicide could be attributed to my asshole-ish, aggressive bullying that I will regret until the day I die.

[textales]

“Cut Bank Cop”

“Oh god, we’re not stopping?!”  This can’t be happening.  I shook off and zipped up, slammed the restroom door open, grabbed my bag and ran toward the nearest exit. Trying not to whack into the other passengers, I shrieked “I have to get off here!” as the train known as the Empire Builder moved slowly east toward Chicago.  What the hell?  

I’m supposed to get off in Essex, a teeny town of less than 50 people, smack dab in the middle of the Rocky Mountains on the west side of the Continental Divide.  I made the trek from California to surprise my father on his 80th birthday. The party would be at my step-sister’s cabin, just down the hill from the train station, perched on banks of the middle fork of the Flathead, directly across the river from Glacier Park in Montana. 

My step-brother Mark and his wife drove over from Bend, Oregon. The three of us were going to be surprise guests at the party - they’d pick me up from the train and we’d show up at Jane’s place for the big reveal around noon. I couldn’t wait to see the look on my father’s face when we piled out of the car, since for weeks I’d been apologizing for how I couldn’t be there.  Truth is, I wouldn’t miss this for the world – I mean really, it’s not every day a dad turns 80, right?

Our clandestine plan was working perfectly until that moment.  Just an hour earlier, I called Mark from Whitefish to let him know the train was on schedule. “Grab a cup of coffee and hang out on the front deck….we’ll be there soon,” he said.    

As I ran through the dining car I watched the pine trees slowly moving by. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “Where is the next stop? Is it Shelby?  Holy fuck…this can’t be happening. I am a fucking idiot.” I pictured Mark and Andrea waiting at the train station as I’m nowhere to be found, with no way to communicate since cellphone service is nonexistent in this part of the planet.

Trains, Planes and Automobiles

I was so proud of myself for making this happen, finally.  This was Take Two - just one year prior I’d planned the same trip with a nearly identical itinerary, but then to surprise my step-mother on her 80th birthday.  On that trip my sister was the co-conspirator and the only one who knew I was coming – oh, besides my friend Tom who drove from Helena (a four hour trip each way!) to shuttle me around.  But that plan never got off the ground – literally – since the plane never left Oakland.  There was something wrong with the front landing gear, and without parts to fix it or a replacement plane to send (and after making us wait for hours while they tried to sort it out), the airline canceled the flight and refunded our money.  

Since I couldn’t find another flight to get me there in time for the surprise (short of hiring a private jet), I canceled the trip entirely.  It’s not like I was going to Los Angeles – trying to get from the Bay Area to the Glacier Park International Airport is never easy, let alone on the last minute of a Fourth of July weekend. Fast forward to a year later and here I am thinking to myself: “Not again!”

Do the gods just not want me to be here?  It’s one thing to miss a trip due to a mechanical problem completely beyond my control.  But missing the party because I decided to use the bathroom on the train (especially since I knew we were so near the stop) would be downright idiotic. I’d made my way from Oakland to Kalispell by plane, and then caught the train from Whitefish to Essex, and now I’m going to miss my dad’s birthday party because I was listening to “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” while standing there with my dick in my hand?!  

It’s not like I’ve never been on a train.  To the contrary, I take trains all the time and figured I had plenty of time to pee. But it didn’t stop at the station. What gives?

“I have to get off the train!” I screamed, passing by the Forest Ranger tour guide with a headset who just minutes ago was touting the rugged splendor of the American West to attentive tourists in the Sightseer Lounge car.  

Now we’ve stopped…whew…the tour guide guy must have called the driver dude. Seeing desperation in my eyes, one of the uniformed attendants said “Go to the last car and they will let you out.”  His reaction suggested this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

I could hear mutterings of other passengers who were understandably annoyed. “Why have they stopped?” “They stopped twice.”  Blah blah blah. I don’t care if they’re pissed – I am NOT going to miss my dad’s 80th birthday.  

I made my way through the aisles carrying the only piece of luggage I had. It was a messenger bag I borrowed from my big gay husband.  It had “Gladiator” embroidered on the side and was a souvenir from a trade show he’d worked.  It didn’t matter what I’d done or how far I’d travelled or if I missed the train or even if I ended up in jail:  if I lost that bag I might as well not come home.  As instructed I ran to the end car. It was the sleeper car, all dark and quiet with a sign on the door that that said you can’t be here unless you have a ticket. At first the woman running the sleeper car was about to shoo me away. “I’m not sure I can let you out here.”  Then her radio crackled, she mumbled something, grabbed a key and pulled a lever. “Watch yourself” she said as I stepped outside onto the gravel.  It was a maybe three feet off the ground but it wasn’t like I was jumping out of an airplane.  Whew….I was out of there and on solid ground.

Panting and out of breath, I noticed the conductor guy I spoke to in Whitefish. Now he is standing on the cement platform maybe three cars from the sleeper car where I’d just jumped out.

“Didn’t you hear? We called twice,” he said as he pushed a button on a hand-held scanner thing that I assume registered some sort of passenger count.  

“I’m sorry, I thought I had a minute” I said apologetically.  

As it turns out, while I was taking a pee and listening to Dionne Warwick on my iPod, the train had slowed to a crawl as we passed the Izaak Walton Inn, moved another few hundred yards and landed, as planned, at the official platform where it was going to stop anyway.  Had I paid attention and been at the intended exit door when they called I could have gotten off the train sensibly and without all the panic and drama.

I later learned that Essex is a “flag stop”, meaning the train stops there only if someone has pre-arranged to get on or off at that station. The conductor did have me marked to get off there which is why, thankfully, they stopped as scheduled. All of my freaking out was so unnecessary.  

I thanked the conductor guy for managing the situation and apologized for causing a commotion.

Then just like magic, out of nowhere appeared a young dark-haired girl in a red Ford van.

“Do you need a ride?”

Oh, duh, I completely forgot…I’d pre-arranged the hotel shuttle from the Izaak Walton Inn to pick me up.

Good lord…what just happened?  My head was spinning.  But I had that Gladiator bag on my shoulder so I knew all was okay.  Whew.

Meet Me in Montana

The Izaak Walton Inn is a charming, rustic Tudor-style 33-room hotel built in the late 1930s as lodging for railroad workers. Looking a lot like a gingerbread house plucked from Switzerland, it’s listed on the National Register of Historic Places and is situated in what could be some of the most remote wilderness in the continental United States.  Cell phone service is non-existent and there are no phones or TVs in the rooms (although there is a payphone in the lobby and limited Wi-Fi for hotel guests).  For years I’ve wanted to stay in the main lodge or in one of the nearby cabooses which have been converted into mini cabins – and part of the appeal being the freedom from being reachable by cellphone. There’s a cute little bar with a pool table and seating for maybe a dozen or so, and there’s a phenomenal restaurant serving surprisingly sophisticated food for such an outpost.  Not that I’d eat it, but the menu had Trout Almondine with cranberry wild rice and littleneck clams steamed in white wine with garlic.  

With just two Amtrak stops daily (the morning train heading east from Seattle to Chicago, evening going west,) you’re hundreds of miles away from any “real” city and you could almost forget about civilization, except for when the freight trains rumble by. Everything from cows to cars ride on those rails, and the freight trains run almost constantly, even in the dead of winter.    

Mark and Andrea met me ten minutes or so after I checked in….a woman named Marta (imported from one of those northern European white places where people ski) helped me get settled.  

I squished into the back of Andrea’s two-seater and seven minutes later we arrive at the cabin where my dad and stepmother greeted us with the anticipated amount of surprise. Red even cried a little. Bingo! Now that’s the reaction I was hoping for!  

Finally, after all the chaos, I’m here at my destination and I can spend time with my dad and parts of the family I’ve not seen in decades.  Of course I’m still amped up on adrenaline from thinking I’d missed the train stop, so when Mark invited me on a hike to check out the old swimming hole I happily said yes.  Besides, there will be plenty of time to relax when the sun goes down. I’m so looking forward to telling stories around the camp fire.  

It’s almost criminal how little I know about my home state. Even though I was born, raised and lived in the Treasure State until I was 22, I’d been to the Flathead area less than a handful of times.  When asked about Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks I’d reluctantly have to admit I don’t really have much experience in those places.  When I was a kid I avoided those tourist traps.  Oh sure, I knew about moose and grizzly bears and mountain lions and other potentially life-threatening critters that could eat you, but my Montana was less hunting and fishing and more neon and parties.  The only other time I drove on Highway 2 was maybe 15 years ago, so it’s not exactly familiar territory. Now I’m curious – there is still a sense of mystery about this land and so much of it I haven’t yet seen. I’m not expecting to see a grizzly bear, but it wouldn’t kill me to put my feet in the water.

The river was higher than usual because there had been an abnormally high amount of snow over the winter. Even though it was July and the sun was gleaming and it was in the 80s, the water was maybe 33 degrees.  There were groups of people floating on rafts and although it looked fun I thought they were crazy…just a minute or two in that almost freezing water would put anyone into shock. Call me a pansy if you must, but I think I’ll stay on dry land.

As we rounded the curve near the old swimming hole we noticed a yellow kayak on the rocks of the river bank.  Who would go kayaking in this water?  Are they nuts? And where did that come from?

There was no paddle to be found.  And Mark noticed there was no skirt (something I wouldn’t know to look for but he knows what he’s talking about). We yelled to see if the owner was nearby, maybe taking a pee.  “Is anyone out there?  Yo, is this your yellow kayak?”  Silence. Nothing.  

The kayak looked newish. There was no license sticker like you need with a boat, nor was there anything to suggest this thing was owned by a guide or a place that does organized rafting trips.  I figured we should just leave it there. We could come back in an hour.  But Mark was insistent that because there was no paddle and no skirt there had been a situation.

He peeled the cover off and tipped the kayak upside down to drain the water. It was full - clearly it had been completely submerged.  “What’s that?” I asked as he pulled out a bundle that looked like a rolled up raincoat.  “It’s a dry bag” said Mark as he ripped open the Velcro to look inside.

I noticed a cocoon attached to the outside of the dry bag. Clearly, this cocoon or spiders nest or whatever it was - this was proof this kayak and its contents had been here for a while. Mark opened the thing which clearly hadn’t done its duty as a “dry” bag, since the contents inside were all soaking wet.  Inside was a wallet, a set of car keys, and a cell phone. 

Mark checked…the last time the phone had been turned-on was six days ago. The wallet had a Driver’s License and credit cards.  Oh shit…now this is serious. We yelled out again, “Hey….is anyone here?”   Again, silence, except for the sounds of the gentle rapids of this river that was barely above freezing since it’s technically runoff from a glacier.  

Mark and I returned to the cabin with the dry bag and its stuff.  We’d go back later to retrieve the kayak.  Peggy and Jane were prepping for Red’s big birthday party as Mark explained what we’d found on our short hike.

“Don’t touch anything, that is evidence” Peggy stated calmly.

Jane picked up the landline to call Flathead Search and Rescue. She wondered who might be on duty this weekend (everyone knows everyone in these parts) and kept her cool while making the call.

“No, call 9-1-1. This is an emergency” screeched Peggy.

“Oh Mom. It’s not that big of a deal,” said Jane.

“It is if there’s a dead body,” uttered Peggy with all the wisdom of an 80-year-old grandmother.

As I stood there envisioning divers in scuba gear dredging the river bottom, I couldn’t help but think that if there’d been a report of a missing kayaker from six days ago it would have been all over the news by now.  Wouldn’t there have been search parties and helicopters?  I vaguely recall a report of a guy lost in the Bob Marshall Wilderness….it was on the TV news in Kalispell and in the Daily Interlake newspaper and I knew about it through Facebook. But that was months ago…this guy’s phone was hot just six days ago.

Mark paid no attention to his mother’s warning and was still digging through the wallet. Behind the driver’s license was another ID: this guy was a police officer for the small town of Cut Bank, about 75 miles east of where we were.  

A Cop?  Oh my…the plot thickens.

While Jane talked to the dispatcher at Search and Rescue, Mark and I took the Rhino (a 4 wheeler ATV) up river to get the kayak - they’ll certainly want it as evidence.  And now that I know missing guy is a cop my mind starts to run amok with all kinds of conspiracy theories and potential plots and outcomes.  This is thrilling.  And I thought almost missing my stop on the train was a rush.

We returned to the river bank where we left the kayak. Much to our surprise, now it’s gone. What the hell?  Mark yelled out, thinking kayak guy might be close. Again, nothing but the sounds of the rapids.  

Had Cut Bank Cop busted someone who really wanted him gone?  Did he or an accomplice plant this as evidence, hoping someone like us would stumble upon it and call the authorities?  After several months or years would someone be collecting the insurance money and he’d surface in Mexico or Belize?  If we were to believe the cell phone we found in the dry bag, he had literally been up the creek without a paddle for six days.

With no kayak in tow Mark and I took the Rhino back to the cabin.  I was anxious to hear what the Search and Rescue people had to say. Would they be sending a team with scuba divers and cadaver dogs?  Why don’t I hear helicopters yet?”

Meanwhile, not to be bothered by any of this commotion, Red was sitting on the front deck, leisurely whittling away at a piece of wood he was carving for one of the grandkids.  “Hey look,” he said, calmly glancing toward the river as a guy in a yellow kayak, with a paddle, made his way down the river.  Remembering dude’s name from his driver’s license and Cop ID, Mark yelled out “Hey, are you (so and so)?”

“Yes…..oh wow, is that mine? Did you find that floating in the river?” he asked, referring to the dry bag Mark had in his hands.  “We found it in the kayak and noticed there wasn’t a paddle or a skirt and were afraid of the worst.”

Cut Bank Cop, so very happy to have his wallet, keys and cell phone back, explained that he and his wife were up river when she lost control of her vessel, flipped over and managed to get herself to the shore.  Watching it all happen, almost in slow-motion, he beached his kayak and walked up to meet his wife who was clearly now done with this river ride experiment. Fuck this…she’s going back to the car. She left in a huff, headed to wherever they’d left the car, a place called Payola.  Oh, and now, well, she’s technically missing and so is her kayak. But dude wasn’t the least bit worried.  “She’s got a gun” he said.  “She’ll be fine.”  

I can’t help but think about the document I sign every year that says I won’t take money under the table for playing someone’s record – but this is different Payola and not even spelled the same way.

Anyway, he’s cool as a cucumber. Shouldn’t he be at least a little worried?  His wife is stumbling through the wilderness in a place where grizzly bears eat people.  Just earlier this year some bicyclist ranger dude ran across a bear and met his demise on a trail less than a mile from about right here. Would she make it to Payola? Jesus…this is getting crazy.  If he isn’t going to worry about her, well, I will. 

After thanking us profusely for fetching his wallet and phone, Cut Bank Cop went with Jane to get his pickup truck a few miles up the road while Mark and I went looking for the wife’s missing red kayak.  

As we were bombing down the road in the Rhino we ran across a neighbor who mentioned he found a woman walking around, all soaking wet and pissed off.  She wanted a ride to Payola.  Whew, okay, she’s not bear food and she’s not dead.    

A couple minutes later, after Mark and I observed a red kayak ditched at a neighbor’s private beach, I noticed a pickup truck approaching with # 38 on the license plate.  “That’s a 38-Special,” I thought to myself.  In Montana a 38 on your license plate means the vehicle is registered in Glacier County – the same county where Cut Bank is located.  Sure enough, the driver is Cut Bank Cop, out looking for his wife’s missing red kayak that Mark and I spotted at just that moment.  

“As luck would have it, we found your other kayak too!” Mark uttered.  He then helped load it in the bed of the “38 Special” as Cut Bank Cop kept thanking us for saving his ship.

“I can get another wife…but the kayak, can’t lose that.”  

He was so very grateful and offered us a reward for finding his missing stuff. 

“Absolutely not,” said Mark.  “We are Montanans, after all, and we look out for each other.” We said our goodbyes and returned in the Rhino to the cabin.

As I glanced at the Gladiator bag sitting on the deck, next to my dad who was still carving the wood thing for the grandkid, I took stock of the day.  No missed trains, no dead bodies, no grizzly bears gnawing on wayward kayakers.  

Okay, enough adrenaline rush for the day. Finally, it’s time for that beer and a chat with the old man around the campfire.  After all, this is what I came here for in the first place.

[textales]

“A Curious Cat”

The Egyptians had a thing for cats. They even had a religion where they worshiped the feline gods. And If any one of those elusive feline gods had been even remotely as bewitching as my childhood cat I totally understand why.

She was a Seal Point Siamese…with deep blue eyes and a shimmering coat with blonde and brown fur, and even a strand or two of blue and silver mixed in. She was unlike any “normal” cat you’d see loitering in back yards or on front porches – this cat was downright exotic and stuck-out like a fine French restaurant in a trailer park. Great Falls was a simple “all American” blue-collar town, best suited for plain cats like Morris, the fat orange thing from the TV commercials for 9 Lives. Weird cats belonged in places like Missoula or Seattle with hippies and tie-dye and lesbians. She was clearly an outsider and a total anomaly. She might have been imported from Egypt or the land of Siam - wherever that was.

We lived on the right side of the tracks….but only by a few feet.  As a matter of fact, old railroad tracks remained in our back alley, abandoned since the 1950s when trucks replaced rail cars for local delivery of freight. We were on the last street where the old residential area met the industrial zone, with a giant three-story warehouse and tire repair shop on one end of the block, and a family-owned lumber yard across the alley. Our teeny home was built in 1916 when Great Falls was a thriving metropolis.  I’m guessing it was originally occupied by workers from the copper smelter or one of the many hydroelectric dams that were built in the era. Another set of tracks, about a half-mile away between our street and the Missouri River, carried the Burlington Northern freight trains which rumbled by a couple times a day.

Sometime in the mid-1970s my dad remodeled and we got all fancy with expensive Masonite paneling and a velvety couch and love-seat combo purchased from the House of Furniture for $499. We had multi-level shag carpeting and recessed lighting on dimmers, and the cottage-cheese ceiling had shiny silver sparkling bits.  

Ours may have been one of the nicer homes on the block - but just barely. I’m pretty sure the only reason it looked as good as it did was because my dad was always trying to out-do his sister who lived across the river in a double-wide. Hers was a very nice, color-coordinated double-wide, with full skirting and tip-outs. But according to my father it was still a “goddamned trailer.”      

My dad worked at a glass shop a block away. There was a vacant gravel lot between the shop and that three-story tire store/warehouse, and two tiny old houses between the warehouse and our place. His commute was better than that of a modern day “telecommuter” – his 30-second walk provided a little exercise and just enough separation between work and home to give him a decent “work-life” balance.

The glass shop was essentially our “second garage.”  We spent tons of time there when we needed to do big projects that required more space and the big air compressor. I have fond memories of that place. We painted our old Ford pickup in that shop…twice.  We did multiple overhauls on multiple engines for motorcycles, snowmobiles and lawnmowers, and we rebuilt at least one transmission in that space - all on nights and weekends after my dad had spent a solid 40 hours working. Who knew a glass shop would be such a good place for honing cylinders and grinding valves?  

I was in that shop with my dad and friends Lloyd and Wes the day Elvis died. And it was there where my dad and I had a big one sentence talk about “the birds and the bees” after my teacher sent me home with a note to advise the class had viewed the sex education film that day.  “Well, if you need to know anything about any of that shit, you just let me know.”  Thanks, Dad. 6th grade was so awkward.

Nobody seems to remember exactly when, but a Siamese cat showed up at the shop and didn’t want to leave. She didn’t need a new pane of glass for her cathouse - she was lost. My father took a liking to this adorable thing and offered up a little food and some attention.  

An exotic animal like this must certainly be someone’s pet. Perhaps it crawled from the back of a station wagon when its human came to get a makeup mirror fixed?  “Someone will come to get her” my dad explained as he poured Friskies into a makeshift serving dish fashioned from a decorative glass block.

After a couple days and no reports of a missing cat, Red decided he’d take this thing home. It would be easy to retrieve her should the owners come looking, and it couldn’t live at the shop anymore because the manager was allergic.

I was maybe five or six years old and hardly qualified to name a pet, but for whatever reason my parents gave me the opportunity so I decided her name should be Susie.  Where that came from I have no idea…it’s not like Susie was the name of a famous movie star, super model or even a family friend. In retrospect, and knowing her personality, that name was way too plain and simple for this enigmatic feline who had few characteristics typical of a domestic house cat. Susie was my spirit animal, and honestly I think she belonged in a circus.

She was a curious cat. Susie didn’t like milk, refused to eat Tuna, and loved the vacuum cleaner.  At least once a week my dad would spend an hour grooming her with the old Filter Queen, a beige-colored canister unit the size of a modern day shop vac. She’d come running the second it was brought out of the closet and would lie down in front of him, letting him suck her tail into the tube before extending her legs spread-eagle style waiting for the suction to take away whatever excess hair she would otherwise shed onto the carpet.  

Susie didn’t use a litter box. She’d hang by the back door and would announce with a polite meow when it was time for her to do her business.  Even if it was ten below zero she’d go outside.  The smell of her fur when returning from the frozen outdoors was something I wish I could bottle – I know I’d make millions on that magic scent.

We had a clothes hamper at the bottom of the stairs where she’d hide until we walked by. Then like a Jack-in-the-Box she’d pounce and start gnawing on your Achilles tendon. You’d think we’d have gotten used to it but it was always somehow a surprise.

My father would tease Susie by wagging a finger until she exploded and jumped from the floor into his arms.  She’d purr like the engine of a freshly rebuilt Mercury Cougar until she decided she was done with it, then without warning those beautiful blue eyes turned into fire, the fangs came out and she swiped with a vengeance.  Felines are so fickle.  

Canine Kryptonite.

Susie was like one of the guys. Far from being feminine, she wanted nothing to do with girlie things and could outfox and outrun any of the dogs in the neighborhood. She was far more masculine than Lloyd’s dog, Velvet, who played with rocks. She was far fiercer than Grandma’s Chihuahua, Cubby, and she had bigger balls than Aunt Kathy’s French gay male poodle, Shante.   

Neighbor Doug had a police dog, a German shepherd that looked like Rin Tin Tin. Susie scared the shit out of him – he knew to steer clear when she was on patrol.  

Susie and our cock-a-poo Peanuts loved to watch my dad and I work in the garage. They had a favorite spot on a 4-foot-high wooden ladder. The dog would sit on the top rung while Susie hung out on the tray intended for the paint can. Peanuts usually slept. Susie, on the other hand, paid close attention.  She was probably taking notes on how to operate the equipment and would be preparing a report for her alien overlords on the mother ship.

My brother and his wife were school teachers in the far-away lands of the Tri-Cities in Washington state. Just like the Egyptians, my brother’s wife had a thing for cats.

I recall one trip when they came thru town with a bizarre hairless cat like Mr. Bigglesworth from the Austin Powers movie. This cat and Susie had a lot in common (both being exotic and suitable for the circus) and Gloria fawned over Susie.  I can only imagine how pissed-off she had to have been, having spent thousands on exotic cats imported from breeders.  And we got ours for free because she was essentially a homeless drifter, rescued at the glass shop.

“Turn Me Loose, Set Me Free…Somewhere in the Middle of Montana.”

It made little difference where we were going, but on the weekends we just had to get out of town. In the summers we’d pack-up the pickup, hook on the travel trailer and head to a campsite somewhere. Whether a forest service campground or a gravel parking lot in a town 20 miles away it didn’t really matter - my dad just had to escape. Maybe something about the glass shop and our house being so close together didn’t provide the separation from home and work that he had hoped for? Hell, I don’t know…

Susie and my dog knew the routine: they’d wait patiently near the back door at 5:15 PM every Friday after work as we prepared to embark on another adventure. Peanuts knew instantly where he would sit in the cab of the truck between my mother and I on the bench seat. Susie usually jumped up onto the dashboard where she could sun herself and enjoy the view.

Susie was a swimmer - not to be left on the sidelines when the guys went fishing, she would jump in the water, “cat paddling” to the rubber raft floating out in the lake.  A cat that swims? Yes. And she would jump in the bathtub every so often.  This cat was crazy.

Once on a trip to Canada with my Aunt Ruby we met an Australian woman who really took a liking to Susie. When we went to leave the cat was nowhere to be found and my dad was convinced that the Australian chick had stolen her. She insisted she hadn’t, and joined our search party.  After an hour of panic and calling her name we’d almost given up. All the while she was in the tree directly above us, sprawled out with her legs hanging over the tree limbs. Immediately upon hearing the truck start she started meowing. Twenty-seven seconds later she returned to the dashboard and international peace was restored.

“Too many motors.”

My mom had reached a breaking point. “We have too many motors,” she exclaimed, slamming down the glass of “Chillable Red” she just filled from the box.  She then took a drag from a Newport menthol and promptly called the Tribune to place an ad in the classifieds.  We’d be having a big garage sale that weekend, to offload some excess items with engines that included at least one lawnmower, a go-kart, and the Honda 50 mini-bike I’d outgrown.  

Other goodies for sale included a collection of my mother’s hand-made doilies - you know those round frilly things that go underneath lamps or get used as an emergency potholder just once until you burn the shit out of your hands?  And we’d be offing a ceramic cookie jar, a creation of “Kathy’s Busy Bee Ceramics,” the studio for which was in a trailer next to the one my Aunt Kathy lived in across the river. This cookie jar was in the shape of a Christmas tree.  I hated that effing thing, especially when it sat on the counter well after the season was over.  I thought, but didn’t dare say out loud: “It’s not Christmas in July for Christ’s sake – so let’s get rid of this goddamn thing.”

The Garage Sale attracted all kinds of bargain shoppers including one family who arrived in a 1971 Plymouth Satellite Sebring station wagon plucked right from a Brady Bunch episode, complete with wood grain paneling, driven by a woman with a black bouffant hairdo and looking a lot like the country singer Loretta Lynn.

Susie got bored hanging out on the paint tray on the ladder and decided she’d explore the mysterious world of the Plymouth. It was warm, with strange smells and plush carpeting.  Its humans were different, and there were “stink sticks” (incense) from the Import Depot. A leftover wrapper from Burger Master smelled interesting, but after wondering “Where’s the Beef” she quickly went to sleep in the Sebring.  Nobody took notice and Susie went for a ride for a while, cruising the Garage Sale Circuit all over town.  

Of course she woke-up and started howling. She was not for sale. The kids wanted to keep her, but she wanted nothing to do with them now. She was agitated, and wanted to get back to her native habitat where she could guard the roost - even if it had too many motors. Those motors belonged to her and she needed to watch over them.

They had to back-track, returning to all the garage sales in reverse order until they found us. “Is this your cat?” asked the Loretta Lynn look-alike.  Susie was returned annoyed and unharmed.  Like a wayward teenager busted drinking at a party and retrieved by her parents, she was reluctant to show any emotion and quietly leapt from the tailgate of the Plymouth and returned to the paint tray on the ladder in the garage.

“Houston Means that I’m One Day Closer to You.”

In my junior year of high school I took my first trip on an airplane to see my sister who lived in the northern suburbs of Houston.  It was around Christmas of 1982 and I’d finally go inside a real building taller than ten stories.  I’d go to NASA where astronauts would say they had a problem if there were one, and I’d shop at a fancy shopping mall with an ice rink inside. Everything was fascinating and I tried not to stare, but I’m sure I made a quite a spectacle and an embarrassment of myself.

When I left Montana there was snow on the ground and it was maybe in the 10s. Since I was in the blistering hot warmth of Texas, I could get a little tan before returning to the frozen tundra up north. The neighbors had to wonder WTF as they looked through the shutters at some albino kid wearing shorts and laying out on the side lawn in the middle of winter.  It was maybe in the low 60s the day I tried to tan.

At the mall with the ice rink I remember looking for stuff you just couldn’t get in Montana.  I was kind of bummed I couldn’t find the platform tennis shoes like those worn by Stewart Copeland of the Police, but I did buy a cool, slightly “off color” dark-comedy cartoon book from one of the novelty stores there. I’m not sure what motivated me to buy it other than wanting at least one souvenir from Texas, and the book was easy enough.

Later that night I called home to check-in.  I was having a great time, and I told the parents I’d see them in a week. This town was fascinating and it was fantastic to be in a “real city” with 8-lane freeways and tall buildings and radio stations that played more than classic rock or country.  

“Your cat’s been moping around, so we’re going to take her to the vet.”  This message didn’t really alarm me.  Susie was getting old, but she was bullet proof. 

When I got back to Great Falls a week later I was greeted at the door by Peanuts but no Susie. “She was sick so we had to put her down” said my father as he fought back the tears. “She had feline leukemia” my mother said.

It was a bit of a shock, but really….Susie was no spring chicken (I think she was at least ten years old at that point) and it’s not like it was devastating.  Cats die. We all die.  And it’s not like I hadn’t thought about it.

Oh, and what was the name of that book I bought at the shopping mall with the ice rink?

“101 Uses for a Dead Cat.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have bought the book?

[textales]

“Prison Zone”

Linda watched attentively as the driver carefully hitched the Porche 911 Targa to the tow truck.  “Well, it finally happened,” she said with a condescending tone only a receptionist can pull off without seeming like a total bitch.  “They’ve been calling every day for two weeks….and he just kept avoiding them. I’m surprised it took this long.”  The car belonged to the bank, and they wanted it back since they hadn’t received a payment in months.  Until that day it was driven by the president of the company I worked for in Phoenix.  

We were in the business of making cubicles. Yes, those fabric-covered divider panels and file drawers and other parts and pieces, designed by straight engineers whose imaginations ran wild when naming colors. Exciting favorites included “Warm Brown Value One” and “Inner Tone.” I feel slightly responsible for contributing to the demoralization of America’s white collar workforce and for that I am sorry.  

The company was owned by a Korean guy by way of Portland with some mysterious unnamed foreign investors.  I remember when a bunch of geeky engineers in white shirts and skinny ties came with their calipers and clipboards and pocket protectors.  They would be making “knock off” parts and pieces at a factory in China and we’d be selling them to other manufacturers and office furniture assemblers across the United States.  

I was the Director of Marketing, a big title that came with a little paycheck but the promise of so much more in the future.  Part of the glamour of the job included writing a monthly newsletter that went to clients, vendors and anyone else unfortunate enough to be on the mailing list.  I remember writing a story about how we’d broken into the prison industries business with the prospect of selling millions of components that would be used to make cubicles, assembled by guys in orange jumpsuits.  The headline read “(Company Execs) Go to Prison” and I chuckled at its appropriateness.  

We’d been running in the red for months and the company was completely broke.  A lot of people had quit or been laid off, but a few of us suckers were hanging onto the promise that a big infusion of cash was imminent and we’d be thriving within 90 days. I bought the bullshit for months (plus I didn’t have another job). As long as my paychecks were clearing I’d stick it out.  

In a last ditch effort to find a market for our inferior brand of extruded plastic and aluminum widgets, we looked to the prison industries.  We’d go on a traveling road show, taking samples of our cheap crap to buyers who’d issue giant purchase orders that would save our company.  

The boss and I flew to Oklahoma City where we met one of our sales guys who drove a U-Haul from Phoenix, loaded with panels and parts we’d show to purchasing agents in three states.  I was picked for this gig not just because I was willing, but also because the boss thought I might appeal to some of the prisoners because “they don’t get much to look at in the pen and outsiders are interesting.”  Is that why he wanted me to wear tight jeans, cowboy boots and a pink polo that was one size too small?  Was he whoring me out?  Truth is, I didn’t mind. It was flattering, however HR- and politically incorrect.

“The skies were Grey Value Two as they entered Gotham City,” I joked as we pulled up to the guard shack at the Oklahoma Correctional Facility.  It was a dismal, dreary rainy day and I remember thinking “I wonder what he’s in for?” as a young good-looking prisoner opened the chain link gate with razor barb at the top.  This was a minimum security place where incarcerated guys made stuff like “offender clothing” (aka inmate coats and jumpsuits) as well as office furniture that was sold to municipalities and the state. Until this project came along I thought prisoners made only license plates.  Who knew they’d branched into other stuff? 

Although my sick fantasies of being whistled-at by prisoners never did materialize, I learned things on that trip. The longest, most boring drive on the planet has to be the Kansas turnpike.  I remember thinking “Please let there be a cow or SOMETHING to look at besides this god-awful flat land and grey skies.” Outside of Kansas City I had a steak that hung over the edges of the plate by an inch or two - and that was the “petite”?  Jesus, no wonder people in this part of the country are so fat. I also remember seeing the biggest snowflakes ever just outside of a Fedex office in Jefferson City, Missouri. Snow? Oh, yeah, I remember snow - it was December and I wasn’t in Phoenix.  

After three days of thrilling demonstrations and telling lies about our company’s financial stability it was time to head home.  On the way to the St Louis airport we stopped at a Wendy’s where a disgruntled white trash girl was patrolling the self-service food bar. She was obsessing as she cleaned continuously with combative, militant aggression.  Those goddamned pesky customers kept spilling stuff onto the counter and breathing on the sneeze guard.  The second someone dripped a drop of salad dressing or dropped a baby corn outside of its container she was on it. Nobody was going to mess up that salad bar.  Not on her watch.       

The road show didn’t bring the orders as we’d hoped and after another couple of underwhelming months things really went downhill.  I knew shit was bad when the entire finance department left. We couldn’t make copies because the copier needed toner and there was no more in the supply cabinet.  We started contemplating whether or not maxi pads from the women’s bathroom would suffice as emergency coffee filters.  No coffee?  Fuck this place. 

We were down to a skeleton crew. Murphy was the ops guy and a dedicated loyal worker, busting ass till the very end. He called from down the hall in a bit of a panic to tell me Dale and one of the warehouse guys were stranded somewhere between Tucson and the Mexican border. The delivery truck, already on its last legs, had a transmission problem. They knew before they left the lot it was risky, but figured they could make it one last trip.  Wrong.  On their way back from the delivery it started whining loudly.  Thankfully, they were able to limp it along to a roadside restaurant before it gave a final high-pitched sigh and died.  They barely made it….the restaurant owner was about to turn the key when they asked to use the phone. We’d meet in the parking lot where they’d leave the truck for someone to deal with later.  Had it been financed like the company Porche the bank would send a tow truck. 

We were all in the same boat - just trying to keep the company afloat until we’d be rescued by a life raft of cash.  I was grateful they picked up a check after the successful installation of the cubicles - we needed it to make payroll on Friday. Since Murph had “Dart Night” I volunteered to drive down and save these poor bastards. Unlike the prisoners in Oklahoma who didn’t give me the time of day, I’d command the attention and respect of Dale and the warehouse guy. They might not whistle at me, but they’d certainly buy me a beer for becoming their knight in shining armor. 

We would meet at the agreed upon place near mile marker whatever on I-19. They’d be easy to spot, with their blue and white pinstriped uniforms, hanging out with the dead white van.  I drove a ten-year-old piece of shit beige Nissan Sentra - wait, it was Tan Value One….this car was one of a handful of my “thousand dollar throw-away cars” that I’d end up giving back to the dirtbag dealer on Van Buren where I got it.  

As I pulled up to meet Dale and the warehouse guy at the intersection of Hell and Nowhere I noticed the temperature light come on precisely the same time as steam started to spew from under the hood.  Oh goddammit the effen thing was overheating!  The red light said “HOT”. No shit?!  Had the temperature gauge worked I would have been able to avoid the problem, but it didn’t and I couldn’t, so now we have two tits-up vehicles and we’re in the middle of the desert and it’s getting dark. This was 1992 and nobody had a cell phone or a radio and the restaurant is locked up and there’s no payphone outside.  Well fuck.

Always the optimist, Dale said there was another restaurant just down the road, back toward Nogales.  “It’s right around the corner,” he said, so we agreed we’d push the car with the flashers on and me running along side to steer.  It was flat ground and I was in the best shape of my life, so what the hell.  We can do this. 

Four and a half miles later we arrived at the restaurant, completely out of breath and drenched in sweat. Yes, you read right: FOUR AND A HALF MOTHER FUCKING MILES. Now it’s dark and we were lucky to make it to this place since it was closing in minutes.  You could have heard a pin drop as we stood there panting in front of three stunned locals who looked at us as if we each had three heads.  “We are the Three Musketeers of Tucson and we mean no harm. We didn’t come for your women and children, we just need water and a phone.” 

The only person I knew who would come to our aid was my friend Bill in Tempe, who, coincidentally, was a prison guard.  He brought a tow rope and used his Toyota truck to pull me and my broken Nissan all the way back to Phoenix in the fog. Like Harrison Ford, he swooped in to save the day. He was our knight in shining armor. 

I was trying to figure out why nobody stopped to help us. At least a couple cars had passed as we were pushing the car down the road. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Then I realized what had happened.  Not to support racial profiling, but I was with a black guy and a Mexican dude who had blue and white striped uniforms.  There were signs on the highway that read: PRISON AREA - DO NOT PICK UP HITCH HIKERS. 

Oh. Duh. That explains why we weren’t showered with offers of help. 

[textales]

“The Kid is Hot Tonight.”

One of my best friends in Junior High was a girl named Sam. Her mom was the first female Top-40 Disk Jockey in Montana, and the reason I got into the radio business.  

Back then AM still ruled the air – even if it was in mono and all crackly.  The FM band was obscure - saved for nerdy technocrats who smoked pipe tobacco and hung out at the library…or worse, Radio Shack!   Even though it was in stereo and superior in sound quality, FM was not yet as popular as AM. Most FM stations ran in automation, playing boring lectures from some college, or “beautiful music” suitable for any elevator.  AM was fun and live and fantastically phenomenal.  The kind of radio that came standard in every car, AM was the real deal.  And Wendi Carpenter rocked afternoon drive on 1450 KQDI, entertaining countless central Montana listeners hungry for anything other than country.    

Most days after school, Sam and I would stop at “the station” while her mother was on the air, to scoop-up free records and kill a little time hanging out with the other DJs.

“Early Adopters”

Record labels sent music to radio DJs everywhere.  Even stations in places like Montana were great for launching new artists…and hungry programmers looking to make their mark would take the suggestions of record reps by adding new songs to the playlist.  If the new song sold more than 500,000 units, those “early adopter” radio DJs would get their name and the station call-letters engraved on a plaque with a gold record, mounted in a fancy frame to hang as a brag piece.  

One breezy afternoon in the early eighties, Sam and I were hanging out at KQDI when the Music Director told us “This band will never go anywhere,” and carelessly flipped a 12” vinyl record at me.  I wasn’t sure if he was joking – but who cares if he was, it was cool to have a first pressing of a record with a stamp that said: “Promotional Use Only – Not for Resale.”

Little did we know in just a few months that Loverboy would become a big deal, and soon I’d be making a trip with my neighbor to see them play live.

“Working for the Weekend”

As neighbors go, Don was the coolest guy on the block.  Not only did he have two of the greatest classic cars ever built (a red and black Chevy Chevelle AND a pretty blue Shelby Mustang 350 GT), but he was also a huge music fan with the biggest record collection and the nicest stereo on the North Side.  His wife Judy was stunningly pretty and they were a model couple, making all the right choices like buying a home and saving for retirement starting in their early 20s.  

Don was a bit of a purist when it came to music.  He had strong opinions about music videos that played on the new cable channel called MTV…he found most of them fake and cheesy - he just wanted to see the musicians play. He also preferred vinyl LP records to the synthetic sounds of the new Compact Disks which were just barely making their way onto the scene.  

I didn’t expect Don to give a shit about Loverboy – they were hardly a “real” rock band like Foreigner or Boston or Journey – so I was surprised when he invited me to go see them when they came to a college town nearby.  

Because I was just 17 we had to promise my dad that Don would make sure I’d behave.  Oh sure, I assumed Don would sneak a beer or two my way (and there’d be no need to bother my father with that detail!) but I was stopped like a deer in the headlights when he asked if I would mind if he smoked a joint.

At that moment I learned that he and Judy smoked pot.  It didn’t bother me that he might want to imbibe in what has been considered essential for almost any concert-goer since the 1960s.  What bothered me was the fact that I hadn’t even thought about it.  

By no means did I think less of them for this – hell, lots of people smoke pot – I just felt like a fool for being so incredibly naïve for not even considering it.

Now that I look back, I wonder if there were other secrets.  What else didn’t I know?  

“The Feedlot” served gargantuan sub-style sandwiches using whole loaves of bread.  I worked there for a stint between radio gigs.  As high-school jobs go, this was so much better than actually having to make the stuff - I just delivered it using one of two company cars….a 1978 Chevy Chevette or a brand-new 1981 Mercury Lynx.  I got paid to drive around?  How cool was that?!

The manager thought it was cute that some of the regular customers would specifically request me as their delivery person – they wanted “the cute blond one” and she obliged.  

Two big burly truck-driver guys who lived on Bootlegger Trail were particularly fond of me. I can’t remember their names, but they were always having parties and seemed so very happy and friendly. They’d invite me to stick around for a beer or a Coke.  I would routinely turn them down - I had to get back to the Feedlot.  I was on the clock after all, and my employer should get full value for the $3.35 an hour she was paying me.  

Although they were “old” and lived in a trailer, (they were maybe in their twenties, it was a double-wide with full skirting and a tip-out), they were clean and smelled good and were always so very nice.  They paid by check (everywhere still took checks back then), and they tipped well – very well, in fact. The tip for a five minute drive to deliver a sandwich in a paper bag was more than I made in an hour on minimum wage.  My goodness, they were generous.

I remember their checks were so weird – not the blue or yellow “safety paper” most people got for free with their account at Northwestern Bank – theirs were “personalized” – printed with the Strawberry Shortcake cartoon character.  

Strawberry Shortcake?  WTH?   That seemed kind of strange.  And I remember how they would say “Bye” with an unusual inflection.   It made no sense at the time because I didn’t realize they were dropping heavy hints and hitting on me. Hmmm…maybe they knew I was gay – I know I sure didn’t.  And what else didn’t I know?

Hindsight is 20/20…and looking back I realize there were so many other times that I was so very oblivious. Like when I would surprise guys who were “entertaining” in their rooms at the all-male barracks on Malmstrom Air Force Base. This was a decade before “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” made being gay in the armed forces passable.  

“Oh, duh, THAT’s what they were doing!”  NO WONDER it took them so long to answer the door.  You’d think they’d be expecting me – although the wait-time on a sandwich is hardly that of a pizza.  Maybe they wanted to be interrupted? 

Huh. What else didn’t I know?

Naiveté has its place, mostly to serve and protect the innocent.  Although I usually got A’s and I considered myself fairly witty and articulate, I was completely naïve.  I was guilty of being “wholesome,” and my selective attention wasn’t at all finely tuned.  Or, on the other hand, my selective attention WAS finely tuned, with a filter added to keep out the unsavory thoughts I was consciously trying to avoid.  

In the early 1980s a new disease called AIDS was killing everyone in its path. However devastating, this “gay plague” was an epidemic confined to places far away, where homosexuals congregated in bars and bath houses and did unspeakable things in the dark.  Although gay men in big cities were dropping like flies, Montana was safe.  We didn’t have “those people,” and those places where unthinkable things occurred didn’t exist in Big Sky Country.

I got why people were scared shitless, and a majority equated being gay and having AIDS as an automatic given.  Misconceptions, myths and hysteria were rampant.  Victims were treated like lepers. Some feared you could get AIDS simply by being close to someone or kissing or hugging them.  

Most who had this opinion were essentially just naïve and innocent.  But the gleefully, willfully ignorant were the most troubling - often expressing their fear as “god’s wrath.”  Not surprisingly, many in this crowd also refused to believe Liberace was gay – go figure.

Hall & Oates sang: “Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid” and Ronald Reagan took the hint. The President said absolutely nothing about AIDS until 1987, near the end of his second term and years after his friend Rock Hudson had died from the disease.  At that point in the U.S., over 36,000 people were diagnosed with AIDS and over 26,000 people had died from it.  Montana was barely a bleep on the radar and it was still easy enough for the general public (and even the medical community) to avoid the issue for years.  “Not in my backyard” was a common sentiment.

Throughout most of the 80s and 90s nobody in Montana knew anyone with HIV or AIDS and if they did they wouldn’t tell you for fear of being shunned from their church or social group…or worse, being fired from their job or attacked by the gleefully, willfully ignorant.  Even doctors were dumb – my stepmother had a nurse friend who worked for a MD who threatened to fire her because her son had AIDS.  

For the longest time I was able to say “not a single person in my friends and family circle has been affected by AIDS.”  This was remarkable given that I had moved to a “real city” and was an open member of the very community in crisis hit hardest by the epidemic.

But hardly better than the gleefully, willfully ignorant, I had a self-righteous, cavalier attitude and figured I knew all I needed to know.  I wore my “garbage bags” and knew to never get in a situation of risk.  “I’ll just keep myself safe and sanitized and won’t have to learn anything about this unsavory thing.”  Even though I gave money to various AIDS and HIV charities, I separated myself from “those people” and wore a protective coating to prevent me from getting too close.  I still had tons of fun, knowing the rubber sheath would keep me safe, but I wouldn’t let love in or out…not in any way.  Figuratively or literally…emotionally or physically.  “Not in my backyard.”  

My personal “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” approach on HIV and AIDS worked until 1990 when my roommate Robert tested positive, and I was forced to pull my head out of the sand.  I was not going to let myself become a victim of fear and ignorance, so I told myself I best learn about this shit and what to do about it.  I loved Robert and wanted to do everything I could to keep him alive.  My self-righteous stance had softened.

What else didn’t I know?  I discovered having an open mind and open dialog gave me the courage to reach out to people I’d been shutting out, including my high-school best friend Ross. My buddy, Buddy, with whom I had a one night encounter in college, had come out of the closet and announced his status, and others I knew were starting to surface.  Although I was no longer able to say “Nobody in my life is affected by AIDS,” I was happy to kill that willful ignorance that was getting in my way of loving people.  I let curiosity have a place at the table, right next to security. I started asking more questions. Not that I became obsessed, I just wanted to stop being scared to death.  I refused to let hate and fear win over love and understanding.

It was a sad story two decades later when I learned that Don and Judy both died from AIDS. I heard he got it by a blood transfusion and unknowingly infected his wife.  They died at home, both frail shadows of their once vibrant selves.  Many friends and family volunteered with home hospice, trying to make the torture tolerable.  They left behind two teenage kids…I can only imagine the emotional torture they had to endure with not one but both parents dying, made worse by bullying school kids mocking and making fun.

Somehow it was supposed to make it more palatable that the source of the infection was not self-induced but completely beyond their control.  “Good lord, it’s not like they got this by having sex or doing drugs!”  They were innocent and deserved no shame or blame.

Yet there was a shroud of secrecy.  Nobody was supposed to know.  If Don got AIDS from a blood transfusion beyond anyone’s control, why all the shame and silent treatment?  What else didn’t I know?  And why do I care?  Am I as bad as those so called Christians who want so badly to assign blame and often end-up showering the victim in shame?  I can hear them now: “You reap what you sow.“ “Play with fire and get burned.”  Blah blah blah.  

It was easy for me to have such a callous curiosity from a big city thousands of miles away.  My job or reputation wasn’t at stake and my life wasn’t under the sharp scrutiny of the terrified in a small town where even just talking about sex was taboo.

Don wasn’t naïve and clueless, was he?  Even though he was straight and a “guy’s guy,” I had no difficulty imagining a “what if” scenario.   WHAT IF he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time?  WHAT IF at a concert in Seattle or Calgary he smoked a little too much pot and drank too much?  Maybe he stumbled into the wrong crowd who took advantage of his innocence, or worse, if he was coerced into something he didn’t want to do and by then it was too late?   WHAT IF that was me instead of Don?  

I only recently learned that in his dying days Don sequestered himself to a room in his garage in a self-induced quarantine.  I wish I had been around to ask why….was it to protect himself from the outside world or it from him?  And I’d like to think I would have had the guts to face my own fear and spend time with him talking about classic cars and music.  But as much as I want to figure it out, I’ll have to be satisfied with a “You’ll never know” when asking “What else didn’t I know?”

It happened almost overnight: FM became the preferred band for radio listeners. The sound quality was infinitely better and in stereo, after all.  And by the ‘90s every car had an FM radio that came standard from the factory at no additional cost.   Program directors started putting more time and attention to programming their FM stations, and the AM signals were the ones left for automation and a disintegrating audience share.  

In the next decade medical science had revolutionized treatment making HIV something people live with by taking just a pill a day. And now Prep offers what is essentially a vaccine against HIV.  

It would be great if we could restore humans like we restore cars.  It would be great to have some of those classics back in our lives.  And it’s so unfortunate that so many who passed were essentially victims of bad timing – I’m fairly certain they’d still be alive if they got their HIV in this current era.  

Ross, Robert, Buddy, Don and Judy.  It didn’t matter how they got AIDS and died….they were all victims.  Unfortunately, none of them got a gold record to hang on their wall for being “early adopters.”      

What else didn’t I know? Too much to write…but one thing I did eventually figure out: whether the injection was by needle or by penis, knowing how it happened didn’t make the pain and suffering any easier for anyone.    

[textales]

“Louisiana Crackdown.”

“You can say no.” Those were the first four words from Sabrina when she got me on the horn.  I knew it must have been important because she called me on the mobile phone (a “transportable” in a black nylon bag) just seconds after paging me. This one-two punch usually meant it was either to book me for a paying gig, or it was some sort of emergency requiring me to drive (which I was clearly unfit to do at that point).   It was Sunday on a three day weekend and she was interrupting my poolside drinking and fashion show session.   

My roommate Robert and I were house-sitting for a friend at a big house with a giant pool and private tennis court.  He and a couple of his gorge friends were showing-off their new Speedos and I really wasn’t in the mood to work at that moment. At 25, like most of my contemporaries, my priorities were parties and getting laid.  

But Sabrina sounded desperate.  She’d committed to a big job without checking with me, knowing she could handle it herself if she had to. But with Tom away in Iraq and the kids starting school the next week, a three-day out-of-town gig was the last thing she needed.   

“Oh Sabrina…are you kidding me?  I would LOVE to do a TV Show in New Orleans,” and with that I told the Speedo boys the show was over since I’d have to be up at the butt crack of dawn to load the gear for the first flight out.  Love Field would have been so much more convenient, but something about Southwest and the likelihood of getting stung with excess baggage fees made American Airlines via DFW the more sensible option. I carried thirteen cases of crap essential for the job, so baggage and its handling were always a big concern.  

Call me clairvoyant, but I knew this would be a good gig from the get-go when loading my gear onto the curbside conveyor.  Sabrina’s tried and true “peel” method of bribing the skycaps proved effective once again….and this time I skated-by with $40 instead of the customary hundred.  Yippie…more beer money for New Orleans!   

“What the hell?  Are those caskets?” 

“Since this town is basically under water, the graves are above ground.”   

The instant answer suggested I wasn’t the first to ask him this as we made our way from MSY to my hotel in the French Quarter.   

It was nice being greeted at the airport by the Executive Producer. A crew loaded my gear into a van and took it directly to the TV station. This was a first; usually I rent my own van and haul around my own damn Anvil cases.    

What gives?  Was it southern hospitality, or was it because I was willing to jump a plane from Dallas with barely an overnight notice? Or did this royal treatment come because I had a great reputation for putting talent at ease (I came highly recommended, having worked high profile productions for Xerox, Dr. Pepper and 7-Eleven).   It didn’t matter … it was great being perceived as a bigger deal than I was used to - not as some expendable roadie.  

He was imported from Los Angeles to make a TV show to prove that law enforcement and local government were doing something to address the crack epidemic that was devastating New Orleans.  He’d be responsible for saving more than a few crack babies and he’d be the reason why hundreds of residents would call-in to narc on their neighbors for dealing.   

“Don’t worry, you’re safe with me,” he uttered as he opened the glove box of his rented Chrysler Le Baron convertible to grab a pack of Camels. I couldn’t help but notice the silver handgun inside.  I had no idea what type of gun it was, other than it was a pistol that looked a whole lot bigger than my dad’s .22….it was like the guns I’d seen on TV cop shows.    

He noticed I noticed. “I probably won’t need it, but … just in case. Nobody knows me now, but by Thursday there will be a price for my head so I will have one of my guys take you back to the airport.” This was exciting shit for a simple white kid from Montana.      

For years I’d heard stories about the ‘heathen haven’ of New Orleans with its whores and fortune tellers and voodoo dolls and black magic.  I knew about Mardi Gras and what girls did to get beads thrown their way. There was something sensationally sinister about this place – they spoke French for fucks sakes! – and there were tons of black folk.    

Having grown up in Montana I hadn’t had much exposure to African-American culture.  Most of the black kids I knew ended up there because of Malmstrom Air Force Base.  They were just like me – fairly conservative and really quite lily.  But I knew there were “different” types of black people in the world…the kind I saw in videos on MTV or read about in the articles of Penthouse I’d sneak from my Dad’s private stash.    

I also knew about guns and crime and drug taking and although I didn’t necessarily want to partake, I had a curiosity about it all that wouldn’t be easily quenched. Not unlike kids that chase an ambulance down the street to see what happened, I found it thrilling to live vicariously through others.  Almost like doing the “crime” without the time, I wanted to watch without participating. Not that I’m a pervy voyeur…I’m just curious in a “National Geographic/Discovery Channel” sort of way. Was it the reporter in me, or was I just a “wholesome heathen” simply seeking the truth? 

I couldn’t wait to hit the streets to see for myself what the fuss was all about. After a bit of business chit-chat with the Executive Producer at the hotel bar, I was finally free to explore. I slammed a shave & shower, splashed a dash of Drakkar Noir, and I was good to go.  New Orleans, show me some of that Southern Decadence! 

It’s not like I was fresh off the farm.  I’d been doing this gig for a while now, and felt relatively confident in my ability to maneuver in strange places.  I’d been dropped in at least a dozen cities from Austin to Chicago….but this town….this town was gritty.  I arrived to a total mess with garbage and empty red plastic cups and beads and shit strewn everywhere all over the streets.  It was late in day three of a three day weekend, so the streets, like many of the people walking them, were a little strung out.  The smells were rich and the humidity high.  I couldn’t have been more energized – this was scintillating.  

I was happy this place wasn’t like Atlanta. I remember being put off by the black people I’d met there – they were too sappy and way too nice and way too accommodating. I wasn’t used to being called “sir.”  After all, I am just a poor white kid from Montana. “I’m just like you,” I thought to myself.  “There’s no need to go out of your way for me, I can get my own door. Please, after you.” 

New Orleans was so very different.  Those courtesies were left at the hotel lobby and I couldn’t have been more content with that.   

As I looked for the nearest rainbow flag I was approached by a twitchy sketchy dude insisting my cowboy boots needed shining.  “No thanks,” I said with confidence.  I thought “he just tried to rip me off.  I JUST had these things done in the hotel. See…I ain’t no stupid.”   

I stumbled into a corner bar called “Good Friends”. This place was warm and welcoming and there were Gargoyles.  What’s not to like about Gargoyles?  As I asked the bartender what cheap beer he had on tap I couldn’t help but notice a smoking hot dark-haired dude having some sort of fancy something. “What’s that?” I asked with the innocence of a bumpkin. “It’s a Hurricane,” said the absolutely striking patron who looked like he just walked off a Hollywood movie set.  “Hi, I’m Larry from Dallas,” and with that began a meaningful relationship that would last at least as long as the three day TV gig I was about to do. 

Braden was a 29-year-old dark-haired stunner with a British accent and abs you could use to scrub laundry.  Somehow he ended up in my room on the 33rd floor of the Sheraton on Canal street. I’m not exactly sure what happened the night before, other than my learning those Hurricanes weren’t just weather events but were also drinks served by smooth Southern slingers of sin.  

It was quite an ego boost getting all that attention - I was “fresh meat” after all. Why else were people noticing me?  Perhaps having my equipment shuttled for me by someone else’s roadies and hob-knobbing with the Executive Producer had gone to my head? Plus I was not-so-subtle in mentioning to the bartender, and anyone else within earshot, that I was in from Dallas to work a couple of days on a big TV show.   

But how or why didn’t matter…I scored with a guy who looked like a model and smelled really, really good.  

That didn’t take long - I’d been in town for all of six hours and lucked out on my first foray into the gay district of “The Big Easy.”  (Isn’t it all gay?  It’s New Orleans, for crimmany sakes!)  Although I was casually dating a flight attendant back in Dallas, we weren’t at all serious. I was on the prowl and I was going to make the most of this trip no matter what.  

“It’s the longest bridge in the world,” he said while nonchalantly exhaling the smoke from a Benson & Hedges Gold 100.  OF COURSE he smokes, he’s British!  We gazed at Lake Pontchartrain while I fumbled with the coffee maker, awestruck that this beefcake with a chiseled jawbone and terrific teeth knew how to form meaningful sentences.   

It was unprecedented. The New Orleans affiliates of all major television networks would turn their respective stations into one, pre-empting all of their regularly scheduled programming to make way for a show called “Louisiana Crackdown.”  The three hour special would be simulcast on a dozen cable channels as well, making it practically impossible for anyone channel-surfing that night to NOT notice something big was going on.  The evening news anchors from the local affiliates of ABC, CBS, FOX and NBC would set aside their rivalries for a few rehearsals and one big blockbuster night when the show would shock viewers with stories of how crack cocaine and its consumers were killing the community.   

The show was shot, no pun intended, at the studios of the PBS affiliate - neutral ground in what was otherwise a ratings turf-war among fighting factions that would rather slit the throats of their competition than sit across from them at a news desk on camera. Surprisingly, cat fights and sarcastic remarks were kept to a dull roar…this was a good cause, after all, the talent and their respective producers and handlers would “bury the hatchet” in the name of safety and security for the citizens of the community the FCC had granted them license to serve.  

The purpose of the show was to increase awareness, raise money, encourage people to narc on their neighbors, turn in their guns, seek rehabilitation and otherwise confess their sins as they related to illicit drug use.  Reporters did pre-recorded segments on everything from “Symptoms of Drug Abuse in Teens” to “Where to Seek Help for your Addiction.” There was a bank of telephones just like I’d seen on the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon.  But here volunteers would take not just donations but the names and locations of suspected drug dealers and their nefarious activities – info which would be given to the police who’d dispatch a patrol car right then and there.   

My job was to run the teleprompter.   Unlike a lot of other people behind the scenes like camera guys or lighting or sound techs, I got to work closely with the talent, often making suggestions on how they might re-word their scripts or even add or remove content critical to the conveyance of the message. 

Working production gigs like these you get to know people over the course of multiple days of rehearsals and the show …you learn to cherish the quick, short relationships that disappear as fast as they start.   

I might as well try meeting up with Braden again - he was so friggin’ hot - so why not go for round two? After dinner I stumbled into Good Friends again (why NOT return to the scene of the crime?) and sure enough, there he was by the Gargoyles, slurping a hurricane, smoking a Benson and Hedges and talking up the bartender.  And once again, shock of all shocks, we ended up on the 33rd floor of the Sheraton.  

The next morning was interesting…. magically overnight he lost his British accent.  In our morning after coffee confessional he said although he lived in London for the past ten years he was not FROM there.  He was from the affluent burbs of Houston, and clearly now I recognize the accent was fake.  

Oh my…what else didn’t I know?  He said he’d done some modeling (which I still totally believed) but otherwise he remained a mystery.  No wonder my instincts told me to sleep with one eye open and to keep my cash buried deep in a shoe in my locked luggage. 

I was explaining what I’d learned about crack and coke in yesterday’s rehearsal.  He felt compelled to tell me about how he and his former partner, a rich older guy (whom I suspect was his sugar daddy) had tried heroin in a controlled setting, administered by a doctor who released the juice in the IV to both of them at the same time (something about a butterfly valve or bandage)? 

All this drug talk is making me feel so naïve and innocent…all I had ever done was beer, aside from trying a whiff of pot in high school. I’m sure there was more I didn’t know. Now I am totally fascinated with this guy and must continue the interview.  We exchanged numbers and I agreed to fly him to Dallas to be my date for a divorce party in two weeks.   

Meanwhile, back in TV Land…..

The main anchor of Louisiana Crackdown was Warren Bell of WVUE channel 8.  He told his own tale - drugs almost destroyed his career.  He was the first black prime-time TV anchor in New Orleans and recited a story he told EBONY magazine about days in the early 1980s when he’d go home between the 6 o’clock and ten o’clock newscasts to freebase cocaine.   I’d never met anyone in person who’d done that before.  Talk about satisfying my “National Geographic/Discovery Channel" curiosity.   

There were guns…lots of guns.  Multiple pistols, rifles and even machine guns were placed on a table for a camera close-up, each one being described so the viewing audience would know how to explain what they were looking at when reporting said guns to the authorities. Warren seemed to have an above-average interest in the guns, “I’ve got one just like this,” he told me privately off camera.  Even respectable white-collar news anchors have their own guns? Wow. This is a real city. 

Show night was quite a spectacle – the parking lot and surrounding grounds of the studio looked like a crime scene.  There were multiple trucks with Satellite dishes sending and receiving signals to the outside world.  There were cops on horses and at least a dozen patrol cars ready to move when the calls came in to send the next set of officers to catch dealers in the act.  

There was a bomb threat at one point (doing a show like this must have certainly pissed off more than one cartel).  But, as we say in the business, “the show must go on” – and it did.  Nobody in the viewing audience watching from the comfort of their living rooms had a clue. 

And just like that it’s eleven o’clock…the most successful show I’d done to date happened without a hitch. Now it’s time to strike the set and get my gear loaded for the roadies to take back to the airport in the morning.   

The show was over – literally.  It was kind of anti-climactic after all that excitement. I was disappointed I wasn’t going to see Braden again until Dallas and I called it a night, settling for a beer by myself at the hotel bar.  Boo.  

The next morning the roadies took me and my 13 Anvil cases back to the airport as promised. 

After clearing security I noticed a crudely made sign made on a paper plate and written in crayon: “Louisiana Rice & Beans:  $3.95”.  To this day that remains the world’s best airport food I’ve ever had EVER! 

Looking back – over 25 years ago now – it’s fun to remember this hurricane. The storm came out of nowhere, a whirlwind of delicious excitement.  Then just as quick as it came – poof, it was gone.  

All I got out of it were some fantastic memories and a plastic ID card that said yes. To be precise, it said: 

“Guest Staff – WYES”.  

I’m sure glad I said yes to Sabrina that day when she interrupted the poolside fashion show.

#WYES #Louisiana Crackdown #Warren Bell

[textales]

“Country Code 33.”

It was well below zero that early morning in December when I got the call.  “Go to a pay phone and call me back at this number,” he said. This way, we’d be able to talk for free instead of paying some ridiculously high long-distance charges. Even though AT&T had just broken up, spawning a surge of competition among American long-distance phone companies fighting for pennies from customers like me, this was an international call that would cost unknown dozens of dollars. I was a broke college student after all – plus I wouldn’t even know how to call someone in another country without specific instructions.   

“Can’t I call you later? It’s like five in the morning,” I whined.  He insisted we needed to do this right then, since he was at a pay phone in Paris and would be going out to dinner soon somewhere near the Eifel tower.  I conceded, and after bundling up with a scarf and winter parka I managed to drag my sleepy hungover ass the five blocks to the closest available payphone. It was across the street from Jesse Hall, a dormitory on campus at the University of Montana in Missoula.  We talked for a good 45 minutes or so until my boogers froze and I couldn’t take the cold anymore.  

Ross was the first person to introduce me to the concept of a “comfort zone,” and he was always challenging me to go just one notch beyond mine.  He loved doing stuff like this – and it was so efficient that in this one call he could stroke his ego by: waking me up in the middle-of-the-damn night, sending me to a payphone, and forcing me to go that one notch beyond my “comfort zone” while simultaneously and not-so-subtly bragging about being in France. 

Being bold and impressing people was so very Ross.  And clearly he made an impression on me with this phone call, since I’m still thinking about it over thirty years later.  Oh Ross, you fucker.

“Cruel to be Kind”

I first met Ross in 7th grade in the cafeteria of Paris Gibson Junior High School. He was carrying a lunch tray – the plastic kind with compartments to keep the Salisbury steak separate from the mashed potato mixture, served by old ladies with floppy upper arms.  He seemed a bit lost, looking for a space at the table – any table – that would take him.   There’d been a storm, and he was a wayward ship looking for the first available port. Somehow I could see the desperation in his eyes, so I moved over a couple inches to indicate that I was making way for his lost soul seeking refuge.  

Ross intimidated me.  He was stunningly pretty with deep blue eyes and Scandinavian skin that could tan in the dark.  His blond hair had shimmer and would glisten with the slightest hint of sunshine.  According to locker room folklore, he was very well endowed down under….extremely, actually – which is probably why the jocks left him alone: they secretly wanted to be like him.  And he was witty and articulate and came from a prominent family known by all the right people.  He was different enough to attract the attention of bullies, but thankfully they picked on lower-profile kids not likely to make a stink.    

He was mysterious and magical and loud and enticing.  I knew from the get-go that being around him would draw attention, but I wanted to live quietly and “under the radar” so I kept my distance for years.  I didn’t recognize I was gay at that young age in junior high – I was just a clueless teenager desperately wanting to hide.  But later in high school, as I started to question my sexuality, I feared there would be guilt by association with this social standout who, at six foot one, was also physically striking.  Ross was a big deal swimmer – an Olympic hopeful.  He spent one high school summer swimming in the same pool used by Greg Louganis.  Ross had lived in Southern California?!  How cool is that?   I hadn’t even been to Butte.

I was nervous when he cornered me once to inquire about my report card. He was envious because I got straight A’s that quarter and he didn’t.  What he didn’t know is how those straight A’s came at a high cost: I had walled-off myself emotionally from even my closest friends, and buried myself in the books to keep the toxic thoughts of homosexuality from overcoming my conscience.  At that moment at my locker, fearing just being seen talking to him might be as much as admitting I was gay, I blurted “I gotta get out of here,” and ran to my next class before the bell rang.  Whew, that was close.

I was always polite but standoffish – I didn’t dare let him get too close. Ross never gave up…every so often he would reach out…he just wanted a buddy to hang out with.  He had the purest of intentions – he was light. Even in broad daylight, I was dark.  

By our senior year I was lonely as fuck.  Sure, I seemed like I had my poop in a group. I was an aspiring DJ on the big country radio station and had lots of friends, but honestly I was a ship lost at sea, and I figured Ross was – pardon the pun – in the same boat. I spoke on the air in the middle of the night…a one-way transmission, constantly wondering if anyone was listening.  All the while, Ross was right there in front of my eyes in the flesh and for real and listening and communicating….why couldn’t I take what was given instead of constantly looking for something or someone else in the ionosphere?

“Let’s Hear it For the Boy”

I remember a Saturday in March of my senior year in high school when Ross and Dan Pugh showed up at seven in the morning to invite me for breakfast with the promise of flying kites afterwards.  “Kites?! That’s so nerdy and faggy, no thanks,” I thought to myself.  But Ross was insistent, and my father thought it was good for me to get out of the house. My parents had separated two weeks prior and my dad and I had just moved into a small rental house near the big trailer park – the fancy one with a swimming pool.  Ross was the first person to visit me in this new situation and I really didn’t have a choice in the matter – damn he was persuasive – we were going to 4Bs for breakfast and that was that.

Accepting his invitation for breakfast meant I would meet Ross at my emotional barrier – a wall erected to contain my homophobia. It was every bit as strong as cast iron, yet delicate enough to be cracked with the slightest tap of the right tool.  

Oh Ross was a tool alright.  We was funny and sarcastic and worldly and completely worthy of my awe and respect.  He was always bold, never ordinary.  I loved living vicariously through him, although there were times when I just wanted to duck and hide.  Like when we were buying a sundae on a Sunday at the new Dairy Queen on Tenth Avenue South.  

Ross: “Stormy…is that really your name?”

Stormy: “Yes, are you really that rude?”  

Wow.  That one cut like a knife and sterilized at the same time.  He found his match that day.  I wanted to melt.

After years of flirting and courtship I finally let my guard down. Fuck it.  We are graduating in a few months.  What do I have to lose?  This guy has been trying to be my friend forever – since Junior High for criminy sakes. He really is cool and beautiful and I’m done giving a damn about whatever people think.

“What’s Love Got to Do with It”

We spent every spare moment together in those few months before graduation.  There were many sleepovers at his house when we’d stay up late talking about music and dreams and numerology. He loved Eurythmics and Tears for Fears. We talked about architecture and our visions for what kind of homes we would have after making our respective first million each in the next couple years.  

I loved his house and staying there.  It was such an architectural jewel – uber-modern yet warm.  I was so impressed with his story about how the architect interviewed him and the rest of the family before it was designed and built.  I remember it had a commercial toilet in the guest bathroom…an odd thing to remember I suppose, but a distinctive detail that stuck in my mind. I also recall how his parents made their bed together - I was impressed by that, and it is a habit I continue with my partner to this day.  

The parent’s bedroom had no doors and no privacy as it was an open loft that floated above the living room. Having no privacy meant there would be no hocus-pocus or hanky-panky at our sleepovers.  Lead me not into temptation? 

Actually, there wasn’t much temptation….our relationship wasn’t the least bit sexual.  Hell, I’d buried my sexuality so far underground I was practically sexless.  I was never really attracted to Ross because I wouldn’t let myself be.   This was what today would be labeled a “Bromance,” and truth told, it’s a good thing we never had sex – I would have fallen in love with him and things would have gotten sappy and complicated. It was best we just kept this as “just friends.”

“Missing You”

Once the pomp and circumstance of graduation was over, we moved to our respective college towns and communication became spotty at best.  Oh sure, I’d get an occasional note or phone call and I would hear through mutual friends about how he was doing and where he’d been, but at times I felt like he was giving me the same cold shoulder I’d given him all those years. Was this payback for when I was trying to keep my distance?   I knew not put pressure on him nor to rely on him for maintaining our relationship…we were going in different directions and I got that.

To say he lived with flair and liked to brag about it was a bit of an understatement. He was always doing something glamorous and fabulous. Whether it was seeing the Olympics in Los Angeles or writing words in the sand on the beaches of Nevis in the Caribbean, Ross was a magical mythical traveling unicorn.   His travel stories were awesome. He made the best of everything and every experience was epic and incredible. Hell, he made Moscow, Idaho sound exotic.

It seemed so easy for him to travel.  He had been all over Europe. I worked. I was envious of his portability. He gave me shit about my boat anchor cars. He had freedom and a passport.  I had a job and a car payment. 

“Emotions”

There had been a years-long gap since we’d written or talked to each other. I heard from a mutual friend who said Ross had not only HIV but full blown AIDS. I was trying to remember the timing of it all so I dug up some old journals – here are some notes:  

2/6/85: Visit Ross in Moscow, ID

12/16/86:  Ross called from France.

10/1/87: Ross called from New York last night.  Seems a bit lost - it’s a big town. I love him and kinda wish we could do sex just once but know it would be disastrous.

8/28/88: Ross is in Glacier Park will be back in New York soon - he’s getting rather serious with some guy.

10/4/88: (Mutual friend) says Ross is thinking of me and that he came out to his parents and introduced his boyfriend to them. My God! I can’t wait to hear from him.

12/4/88: We talked for an hour and a half tonight - he did tell (his parents) he broke up with his boyfriend of one year, wants to move back on campus.

4/2/91: Ross has AIDS.

Oh my.  Reviewing that journal was a bit jarring….I guess I had suppressed a lot of memories from that time. Funny how the mind works.    

“The Promise of a New Day”

Around Labor Day of 1991 I was headed to Maui to work on a project for the Dr. Pepper Company. I had nothing to lose and time on my hands so I wrote a letter to Ross during the eight hour plane ride from DFW to Honolulu. I remember explaining how my roommate had been recently diagnosed with HIV and how I’d spent dozens of hours in lines at Parkland Hospital in Dallas, interpreting for Robert who was deaf and in a subsidized program to help fight his infection.  

I babbled on to Ross about how I missed our friendship that blossomed during the spring of our senior year and how I felt like he’d stopped communicating with me because he feared I couldn’t handle the truth.  In the last paragraph of that thirteen-page handwritten letter I finally got the guts to ask: “So, do you have AIDS?”

When I got back to town a week later there was a simple 4”x 6” white card waiting in my mailbox.  It had a New York postmark on one side, and on the other, in handwriting I immediately recognized, was just one word: “Yes.”    

Finally, the silence was broken.  

Next thing we’re on the phone and in two minutes caught up on three years. We no longer had the luxury of time…Ross was on the clock and we knew we needed to be efficient. We agreed he would escape from New York for a visit to see me in the Southwest…sometime soon.

“End of the Road”

The last time I saw Ross was around Thanksgiving of 1992.  As an expert traveler and one who knew how to do things on the cheap, he found a frequent flyer voucher for America West Airlines and caught a flight from New York to Phoenix. I met him at Sky Harbor – there he was looking like Mr. Clean with a shiny shaven head and carrying just a gym bag.  He didn’t look sick at all.  

He swam in my pool, met my boyfriend, and we talked about architecture and love and life, just like we did as high school kids in those months just before graduation.  But this time, we were brutally honest.  Even though we had all our clothes on, we were finally naked.

This trip was like a farewell tour. A mutual friend from Great Falls who had moved to Phoenix met us for lunch in Scottsdale. She brought a handsome young guy friend of hers who looked like a Greek god…he was tall and pretty enough to be a model, and he and Ross had an instant connection just like Margaret thought they would.  As I looked at these two new friends interacting I couldn’t help but feel a bit of validation. That’s the type of person Ross should be with - someone exotic, not a regular guy like me.  I knew my place and felt like I got verification that our status as “just friends” was just right.  Ross went back to New York and I said goodbye for the last time.

“I Will Always Love You”

We knew the timer was ticking.  And sure enough, in four months I got the call from a mutual friend who told me Ross had passed.  I was so grateful to have reconnected with him, and I wanted to pay my respects by attending one of the two services that would be held.  Since New York was a big unknown, I figured I would go to the funeral in our hometown.  There was one big problem: money.  Because I had just moved from Phoenix to San Francisco I was absolutely broke.

It was a sign from above when I got a commission payment weeks earlier than expected, and three days before the funeral I was able to fork-out over $1,500 for a last-minute flight from SFO to GTF on Delta Airlines.  I remember going to the ticket office in downtown San Francisco, and because the dollar amount was so huge I had to pay with a cashier’s check.  

I made the trek to Montana for the Great Falls funeral.  You couldn’t fit one more human in that church – hundreds of people were in the house to pay respects for this kid whose life was stolen at the young age of 26. Ross would have been impressed by the massive turnout.

He had a fascination with numbers and numerology. We talked about that in those late night chats.  

He died March 13th, 1993.  I’m not really sure if it happened at 3:33 in the morning, but it would be just like Ross to have timed it that way, for dramatic effect.   His favorite number was three. The international calling code for France is 33…well, that’s just a coincidence. Or is it?

I know one thing…. had I insisted on sleeping-in that windy morning on the third month of 1984 I would not have experienced what developed into a “best friendship” that ultimately changed my entire outlook on life.  Thanks, Ross. I miss you man.

#loveyouRoss