Original published in Ausgang under the grouping Walking.
Have directions, will travel.
My parents owned a Volkswagen Beetle back in 1974. My father, usually wordless, drove. My mother, always riding shotgun, dealt with me repeatedly whispering lyrics to my favorite songs into her left ear as I stood, leaning in from the backseat. At three-years-old, "Sunshine on My Shoulders" made me happy. Parents despite their unconditional love for their children can take only so much of such abuse. So, one afternoon my father pulled the car over to the brim of the road, and both turned to face me. Looking at them with their heads framed between the pleather seats , I realized, "Man, I loved these folks so much! The beginning and end of my little world.” Joy like that puts a song in your heart. But, before I could start, my mother cracked, "Honey, we're gonna let you out of the car here... and you can walk the rest of the way home, okay?" "Mmmm-hmmm," I replied. My father nodded. She continued, "When you get out here, you wanna head three blocks straight ahead... and, then, turn right and go about two more, okay?" "Mmmm-hmmm, " I replied. She popped the door open, hunched over the dash as I squeezed out onto the street. "Okay, we'll see you at home," she waved. My father nodded again, a shiv smile sliced his lower face open. I waved back, and headed off. They watched my little silhouette diminish into the sunset for a few moments. Maybe, they laughed their asses off. Or maybe, they sat silently, wondering why their three-year-old would just abandon ship like that. My heels hadn’t kicked up much dust before “Mommy” & “Dad” edged up beside me and told me to hop-in. I did... and promptly broke into a sultry, smoky version of "Delta Dawn". That event marks the day I became a conscientious walker. I'll blow through a pair of Campus faster than most... with pride.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Ausgang! Four!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Cops.
Inspiration for a Lumpen comic.
In 1987 while visiting some relatives, the NYPD busted myself and this kid from Ithica (never asked his name) for smoking a joint and drinking a couple cans of beer in an alleyway a few blocks from Madison Square/Grand Central. The man in blue worked up a good hassle about us going to jail with all the hookers and junkies, while he earned overtime booking us. We’d have to call our parents, he said. That thought, more than being a 16-years-old girl sitting trashed in bum vomit with some guy I didn’t know, scared the crap out me. The finger-wagging seemed endless, like the sun had set and rose twice over. Then he said, “What the hell are you smiling at?” “Nothing,” I replied. I never realized that the acid I had eaten about 2 hours before kicked in, and I had just beamed up at him the whole time. After a slight pause, he smiled and said, “Don’t smoke your stuff on my beat. And, put your beer in a bag. Have a good night, kids.” We finished our beers as he walked back onto the street. Later, we went to the top of the Empire State.
- Melissa Sullivan
Inspiration for a Lumpen comic.
In 1987 while visiting some relatives, the NYPD busted myself and this kid from Ithica (never asked his name) for smoking a joint and drinking a couple cans of beer in an alleyway a few blocks from Madison Square/Grand Central. The man in blue worked up a good hassle about us going to jail with all the hookers and junkies, while he earned overtime booking us. We’d have to call our parents, he said. That thought, more than being a 16-years-old girl sitting trashed in bum vomit with some guy I didn’t know, scared the crap out me. The finger-wagging seemed endless, like the sun had set and rose twice over. Then he said, “What the hell are you smiling at?” “Nothing,” I replied. I never realized that the acid I had eaten about 2 hours before kicked in, and I had just beamed up at him the whole time. After a slight pause, he smiled and said, “Don’t smoke your stuff on my beat. And, put your beer in a bag. Have a good night, kids.” We finished our beers as he walked back onto the street. Later, we went to the top of the Empire State.
- Melissa Sullivan
Ausgang! Three!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Rooftops.
The abandoned oil tanks on the lakefront fit our purposes perfectly, to smoke a bunch of weed and waste a bunch of time. Our voices echoed metallically off the inside walls of the rusty hull as we played tag in the dark. Only the moonlight spilling in from the porthole door reminded us that we hadn’t been swallowed up like Jonah. On warmer nights, a spiral staircase carried us three-stories up to its domed roof. Looking down, we surveyed all the cottonwoods lined up on the shore, intermittently projecting a dock or two. And, as we arched our backs to hug the metal sheets, we felt the stars push down towards us. If the stars were magnets, the whole tank would serve as a ship cutting through the waves of space. With our heads full of these celestial bodies and pot, no one cared if they plummeted to their deaths. Many kids in my hometown had dropped over the edges of discarded structures over the years. Mostly, those were the heshers climbing the grain elevators. But, we were goths and punks; and no matter how bad we wanted to die... we couldn’t. By the time I graduated, developers razed the tanks, fell the trees, and crumpled up the docks to build condos.
- Melissa Sullivan
The abandoned oil tanks on the lakefront fit our purposes perfectly, to smoke a bunch of weed and waste a bunch of time. Our voices echoed metallically off the inside walls of the rusty hull as we played tag in the dark. Only the moonlight spilling in from the porthole door reminded us that we hadn’t been swallowed up like Jonah. On warmer nights, a spiral staircase carried us three-stories up to its domed roof. Looking down, we surveyed all the cottonwoods lined up on the shore, intermittently projecting a dock or two. And, as we arched our backs to hug the metal sheets, we felt the stars push down towards us. If the stars were magnets, the whole tank would serve as a ship cutting through the waves of space. With our heads full of these celestial bodies and pot, no one cared if they plummeted to their deaths. Many kids in my hometown had dropped over the edges of discarded structures over the years. Mostly, those were the heshers climbing the grain elevators. But, we were goths and punks; and no matter how bad we wanted to die... we couldn’t. By the time I graduated, developers razed the tanks, fell the trees, and crumpled up the docks to build condos.
- Melissa Sullivan
Ausgang! Two!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Bus Stories.
Back in 1992, I lived in the white trash neighborhood of the bad side of town. I rented a $180 apartment above an old electrician’s store front, officially zoned as office space . The heater’s pilot light never stayed lit; and the orange shag carpet hid a million dead fleas woven into the pile. But, the beer distributor two blocks away delivered for free, the pizza shop across the street baked good pepperoni balls, and the record shop kitty-corner from my front door special ordered LPs for me. So, it wasn’t all bad. I’d stay up throughout the night, contemplating if more insects crawled through the soil of the cemetery visible from my “living room” window or beneath the pavement under the dumpster of the butcher shop up the road. By 8am, these philosophical queries had me a little loopy. A twenty minute ride to my pharmacy technician. job downtown became my depleted dreamscape. I squinted past the Jeri Curl streaks, scanning the never-changing urban decay. Until one day, in a field of patchy sod, a goat bent its neck down to graze. But, then I realized it was only an abandoned shopping cart in the parking lot of a discount/close-out department store.
- Melissa Sullivan
Back in 1992, I lived in the white trash neighborhood of the bad side of town. I rented a $180 apartment above an old electrician’s store front, officially zoned as office space . The heater’s pilot light never stayed lit; and the orange shag carpet hid a million dead fleas woven into the pile. But, the beer distributor two blocks away delivered for free, the pizza shop across the street baked good pepperoni balls, and the record shop kitty-corner from my front door special ordered LPs for me. So, it wasn’t all bad. I’d stay up throughout the night, contemplating if more insects crawled through the soil of the cemetery visible from my “living room” window or beneath the pavement under the dumpster of the butcher shop up the road. By 8am, these philosophical queries had me a little loopy. A twenty minute ride to my pharmacy technician. job downtown became my depleted dreamscape. I squinted past the Jeri Curl streaks, scanning the never-changing urban decay. Until one day, in a field of patchy sod, a goat bent its neck down to graze. But, then I realized it was only an abandoned shopping cart in the parking lot of a discount/close-out department store.
- Melissa Sullivan
Ausgang! One!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Jokes.
New Jokes from Melissa Sullivan.
Joke One:
What's the difference between Ian Curtis and a toaster?
A toaster doesn't hang itself in the basement!
* you can change this one up using any appliance and any famous death, like--
What's the difference between Sonny Bono and a George Forman grill?
A George Forman grill doesn't kill itself by accidently skiing into a tree!
HAHAHAHAHA!
Joke Two:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Oh, don't worry. It's just me, Martin Luther, nailing the 95 Theses of Contention to the door.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
New Jokes from Melissa Sullivan.
Joke One:
What's the difference between Ian Curtis and a toaster?
A toaster doesn't hang itself in the basement!
* you can change this one up using any appliance and any famous death, like--
What's the difference between Sonny Bono and a George Forman grill?
A George Forman grill doesn't kill itself by accidently skiing into a tree!
HAHAHAHAHA!
Joke Two:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Oh, don't worry. It's just me, Martin Luther, nailing the 95 Theses of Contention to the door.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Mistress of the Mayor of Buffalo
Back when I was young, I didn't like kids. In a couple of decades, not much has changed. Except now, I know it is not that I didn't like them as much as I didn't understand them. However, living my life wearing a pair of friendship blinders hasn't left me friendless. Most of my currently closest friends have been in my life for close to twenty years. I can find a few exceptions to this rule, but those exceptions are still within a five plus year range. I'd love to say I don't plan on making any more friends. But, I guess no one plans on making new friends. Once I do, though, I plan on keeping them.
Back around 1978, I was living in a four flat with my mom. It was a vintage dump. It wasn't a fixer-upper. It was a letter-rotter. The landlord had no interest in anything but the rent. Because of my throbbing brain filled with decades of useless memories and data, I remember many things about this place. The hallway was covered in a velveteen wallpaper straight from the 1920's. I once had a nightstand lamp thrown across the room at me by unseen forces, bursting into flames. I had to apologize to the old sagging, clown-faced whore who lived downstairs for telling her and her lap dog to shut up. I spent nights spent making slides of urine to inspect under a low-powered microscope. Hours spent hiding in cupboards, waiting to jump out and scare people walking past. I used to lay in bed and practice not breathing, because nothing would kill you if they thought you were already dead. I figured out my theory of spontaneous combustion and Hell while living there. It goes a little something like this: spontaneous combustion is simply an act of the Devil and since the basement is the closest place in the house to Hell-- you are more likely to spontaneously combust in the basement. I would cry heading down to change the laundry over from the washer to the dryer. There are other things about that place. But, the best thing was Bev. My first best friend.
Bev Rosencrantz lived directly across the hall from me. She was probably about 78years old when we met. I was seven. We shared a wall running along the hallways in our flats. "Pound on the wall if you ever need me to call the police. And, you do the same for me. I'll be listening," Bev would tell me.
I spent every day after school with Bev. I was a latch key kid. Do they even still use that term? If they do, they shouldn't. It's a stupid term. By no means should you ever believe even the most intelligent young child is willing or capable of staying alone in a house for hours on end without incident or fear of incident. What they should be called is we-don't-have-any-other-choice-kids. But, I didn't have to worry about that once Bev and I became friends.
I would run up the stairs, throw my coat in my apartment, and then take my homework over to Bev's. As I did my homework on her marble (no, not marble TOPPED... MARBLE period) coffeetable under the light of a chandelier shaped like of a bunch of grapes, Bev would watch Guilding Light. I would be spread out in my Catholic plaids. And, Bev would be decked out in her rhinestone encrusted, velvet housecoats with a headwrap and black slippers. Bev would offer me peanut britle, and it would always be stale. Bev wouldn't eat, she would just chew on the rhinestone encrusted cigarette holders that she kept next to her chair in an unused standing ashtray.
Bev's apartment was lush. Ebony and teak dining room pieces, constantly set with goldware for six. I once saw inside her bedroom on a trek to the can. And, what would the next two sizes up from a king-sized bed be? Well, that's what she had... with a red velvet, pillowed headboard. And, I was always amazed the crumbling plaster ceilings never gave way under the weight of all the suspended lighting (mostly more chandeliers). And, on and on. Not the typical decor you'd find on a retired school teacher's wage. Yeah, I forgot to mention Bev was a school teacher.
Bev didn't use her kitchen much. Not since someone tried to kill her by setting her refrigerator on fire back in Buffalo. That was decades ago. Back when Bev was the mistress of the mayor of Buffalo. Yup. And, according to Bev, there were plenty of people who would like to have seen her dead. That's why Bev had her windows and the doors eletrified. Yeah, electri-mah-fied. Bev would talk and talk and talk while I did my worksheets.
Another story Bev used to tell quite frequently was about a scientist with snakes forever crawling over his grave. She was a Jew for Jesus before the Jews for Jesus knew they had a choice. She converted to Christianity and had a priest come to her house to give her communion. All so she wouldn't spend eternity covered in snakes.
It's pretty easy to see how Bev and I became close friends. I was a young kid with a wild imagination and an edgy paranoia. And, she was an old lady with one foot in reality and an edgy paranoia. I am surprised we never wound each other up enough to accidentally kill the agents of the Mafia and Satan otherwise known as the postmen.
It might seem kind of sad that I wasn't running in the sun and scabbing my knees in a hearty game of tag. But, I truly enjoyed all my days with Bev. I just wish I knew more about her life than just what she told me. But, don't you know! I can't find a damned thing.
Is it him?
Back around 1978, I was living in a four flat with my mom. It was a vintage dump. It wasn't a fixer-upper. It was a letter-rotter. The landlord had no interest in anything but the rent. Because of my throbbing brain filled with decades of useless memories and data, I remember many things about this place. The hallway was covered in a velveteen wallpaper straight from the 1920's. I once had a nightstand lamp thrown across the room at me by unseen forces, bursting into flames. I had to apologize to the old sagging, clown-faced whore who lived downstairs for telling her and her lap dog to shut up. I spent nights spent making slides of urine to inspect under a low-powered microscope. Hours spent hiding in cupboards, waiting to jump out and scare people walking past. I used to lay in bed and practice not breathing, because nothing would kill you if they thought you were already dead. I figured out my theory of spontaneous combustion and Hell while living there. It goes a little something like this: spontaneous combustion is simply an act of the Devil and since the basement is the closest place in the house to Hell-- you are more likely to spontaneously combust in the basement. I would cry heading down to change the laundry over from the washer to the dryer. There are other things about that place. But, the best thing was Bev. My first best friend.
Bev Rosencrantz lived directly across the hall from me. She was probably about 78years old when we met. I was seven. We shared a wall running along the hallways in our flats. "Pound on the wall if you ever need me to call the police. And, you do the same for me. I'll be listening," Bev would tell me.
I spent every day after school with Bev. I was a latch key kid. Do they even still use that term? If they do, they shouldn't. It's a stupid term. By no means should you ever believe even the most intelligent young child is willing or capable of staying alone in a house for hours on end without incident or fear of incident. What they should be called is we-don't-have-any-other-choice-kids. But, I didn't have to worry about that once Bev and I became friends.
I would run up the stairs, throw my coat in my apartment, and then take my homework over to Bev's. As I did my homework on her marble (no, not marble TOPPED... MARBLE period) coffeetable under the light of a chandelier shaped like of a bunch of grapes, Bev would watch Guilding Light. I would be spread out in my Catholic plaids. And, Bev would be decked out in her rhinestone encrusted, velvet housecoats with a headwrap and black slippers. Bev would offer me peanut britle, and it would always be stale. Bev wouldn't eat, she would just chew on the rhinestone encrusted cigarette holders that she kept next to her chair in an unused standing ashtray.
Bev's apartment was lush. Ebony and teak dining room pieces, constantly set with goldware for six. I once saw inside her bedroom on a trek to the can. And, what would the next two sizes up from a king-sized bed be? Well, that's what she had... with a red velvet, pillowed headboard. And, I was always amazed the crumbling plaster ceilings never gave way under the weight of all the suspended lighting (mostly more chandeliers). And, on and on. Not the typical decor you'd find on a retired school teacher's wage. Yeah, I forgot to mention Bev was a school teacher.
Bev didn't use her kitchen much. Not since someone tried to kill her by setting her refrigerator on fire back in Buffalo. That was decades ago. Back when Bev was the mistress of the mayor of Buffalo. Yup. And, according to Bev, there were plenty of people who would like to have seen her dead. That's why Bev had her windows and the doors eletrified. Yeah, electri-mah-fied. Bev would talk and talk and talk while I did my worksheets.
Another story Bev used to tell quite frequently was about a scientist with snakes forever crawling over his grave. She was a Jew for Jesus before the Jews for Jesus knew they had a choice. She converted to Christianity and had a priest come to her house to give her communion. All so she wouldn't spend eternity covered in snakes.
It's pretty easy to see how Bev and I became close friends. I was a young kid with a wild imagination and an edgy paranoia. And, she was an old lady with one foot in reality and an edgy paranoia. I am surprised we never wound each other up enough to accidentally kill the agents of the Mafia and Satan otherwise known as the postmen.
It might seem kind of sad that I wasn't running in the sun and scabbing my knees in a hearty game of tag. But, I truly enjoyed all my days with Bev. I just wish I knew more about her life than just what she told me. But, don't you know! I can't find a damned thing.
Is it him?
RIP Petey
Petey was a good, hard working, generous man with about 48 grandchildren. He was one of my favorite people during my purgatory at a local tavern.
"Petey, whatchya been up to?"
"This and that... now and then. (Followed by muttering and mumbles.)"
Petey had great picnics where the ribs and the card dealing never stopped. At one of these picnics, one of Petey's young third-forth-fifth cousins, known for knocking up gullable white chicks (apparently, he doesn't believe in equally opportunity impregnanting) and then beating them senseless, tried to start a riot by loudly announcing, "She doesn't like black people." I paused, patted him on the knee, and said, "No, I just don't like you." You see, I loved Petey!
As if we didn't know, years of Black Velvets with a Bud Light chasers finally wrecked his liver. I guess they scheduled him to die by this past Christmas, but Petey did things in his own time.
I'm glad I just found out, because I am not one for funerals. I tend to stare-- at the corpse and the mourners. I am taken by their sense of seperationtheir seperation, not so much their loss.
There was only one Petey. Meaning, I will NEVER meet anyone that could even slightly reminded me of him and our conversations of about decent soul music. I am proud to have been considered one of Petey's Angels-- although there were just tow of us (Kristy Korea and me) and he was no Bosley. It worked for me.
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