The Book 082818

-1-

Here he is again. Same dark suit. Same black turtleneck. Standing in the shadows this time, leaning against the building’s buttress. Still smoking his smelly Gitanes. As always, he is staring at me with that irritating, quizzical look. Always that look. Every time I see him, every time he manages to materialize in front of me, that look. How is he able to do that? Not there; then there. No matter where I find myself, he is there, waiting.

“Who is it this time?” he asks, with that same exasperated tone, as if I were a child puling his sleeve for attention.

“Oh, shit! You again. Don’t you get tired of this? Always showing up, always the same question: ‘Who is it this time?’ Look, why don’t you just disappear? You know, vanish. Poof!”

He taps the ash off his cigarette. “Now, that’s just so ungrateful, you know? In the first place, you created me. I wouldn’t even be here except for your homicidal tendencies. Who is it this time? What poor schmuck finally made it to the top of your list? Anybody I know?” He steps out of the shadows into the circle of pale street-light splashed on the pavement like last night’s vomit.

           “Yeah, you know him and I’m going to kill him. Now. I’ve been following this creep for hours. And I’m exhausted. I need some sleep.”

He laughs. “That’s pretty ironic. You need some sleep. What do you think this is?” He waves his arm in a semi-circle.

What is it? It’s a fucked-up landscape of misshapen, leafless trees, skeletal buildings, dead animals, and a night punctured with high-pitched shrieks and squeals.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I say to him. “I’m gonna walk down this street a few blocks. You wait here, and I promise nothing will happen. Then, I’ll come back, and we can talk. Fair?”

He crushes the Gitane under his heel and lights another one. “So, you want me to trust you? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Yes.”

He stares at me, sizing up what I am saying. He takes a noisy drag off his cigarette and blows out a cloud of black smoke. For a moment I can’t see him. Then, he is standing next to me, too close. “Down the street and back? Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. This one time. Let’s see if I can trust you.”

“You can, honest.” I walk away. He steps back into the shadows of the crumbling building. The last I see of him is the tip of his glowing cigarette, blinking like a warning light.

The street is dark and narrow, a path through a place filled with shifting shapes, hungry shadows. It must be well past midnight, if midnight exists here. On both sides of the street the buildings are gone, replaced by small, oddly shaped houses, houses that tilt, houses with glassy-eyed windows that seem

 to be blinking in the watery light leaking from bent street-lamps. There’s a knife in my hand. It is heavy, like the head of a sledgehammer. The effort it takes to carry it makes my breath uneven and ragged. I keep walking, shifting it from left to right. Then I see him, the one I have been looking for in this god-forsaken landscape. He is walking a half-block ahead of me. He must die. Tonight. Right now.

It takes a few minutes to catch up to him. I move slowly, deliberately, pushing my way through a resistance that feels like waist-deep water. His long, dark overcoat is turned up at the collar, its hem dragging through the trash and garbage littering the ground. He is mumbling, repeating the same sounds over and over. He slows his pace. He stops and turns to face me. His ridiculously long red tie is knotted perfectly around his neck. It is him. I lunge, the knife aimed at the knot. His hand blocks my thrust, twisting the knife, and causing me to stumble. The knife has a new target: me. I have the horrifying realization that once the knife has sliced through my skin and punctured my heart, I will be dead. The man’s hand is still tight around my wrist. His wicked smile burns into my eyes as I drop to the ground. The blood from the wound just to the left of my sternum flows into the gutter, forcing the small creatures hiding there to run, squealing and shrieking. There is no pain, just a gentle pressure. His maniacal, laughing voice shouting, “Lock her up! Lock her up! Lock her up!,” is the last thing I hear.

I force my eyes open. The bed is damp with sweat. Damn! Not again. Apparently, the sonofabitch has taken up residence in my unconscious, coming out a couple of times a week to play hell with my cardiovascular system. The warning signs of approaching physical disaster are there, for sure. I know because I Googled them.  WebMD warns that I might be on the verge of a massive cerebral event and people die of such “events.” 

After months of watching what passes for Presidential Primary “debates,” in truth an ongoing stream of demonstrable political stupidity, the latest Republican gibberish from a collection of the best this dying Party had to offer was responsible for my feelings of personal doom. The candidates were chosen from a list of religious nuts, right-wing extremists, tea party babblers, white supremacists, and one barely coherent sociopath whose ever-expanding narcissism was momentarily sated by seeing his name in huge (usually gold flake) letters high above the tiny people in the street below who were running to and fro, from this place to that, their own names on nothing larger than a bank debit card. But, the huge letters were no longer enough for his voracious ego. He could hear the voices calling his name, telling him it was his time, the perfect time for President Donald J. Trump!

So, yeah, I had reached the absolute break point, a near trance that left me unable to speak in complete sentences when the topic was presidential politics and the grinning, glassy-eyed candidates, chiselers all, who had nothing to offer in their bid to be President of the United States of America except lies, deceptions, and ghost stories that should have gotten them dragged to the gates of the city and stoned to death.

  It was like a cyclical virus that returns again and again to make millions of people sick and cause some to die, this “I wanna be your President and save you from unimaginable evil” Republican Party circle jerk. Every four years they re-appear, sometimes the same ones who may be older and grayer but are still world-class assholes.  A bunch of unqualified white men, (and at least one token businesswoman and a seemingly disoriented black man, both for ballast) who are as incoherent in their reasons for running as Jeffery Dahmer was in trying to explain why he really enjoyed eating people. They gather before journalists who ask questions that are meaningless at best, questions supposedly designed to “test the candidates’ mettle.” But this Republican Primary, this 2016 creep show, unlike any before, had morphed into a dangerous circus filled with insane clowns and loose animals.

I had been trying to recover from the shock of living through eight years of global chaos caused by the warped bastards who orchestrated the George W. Bush Follies, or more correctly, “Adventures In Multiple War Crimes,” and then, after the International Criminal Court for some reason decided not to issue arrest warrants for these killers, came eight years of the Presidency of Professor Cool, Barack Obama. He promised hope and change to a country in desperate need of an exorcism. But, no chance of that happening during his endless and sincere attempts to become the greatest orator since Demosthenes.  The Klan Baggers or Tea Kluxers, or whatever the fuck the degenerates in the Congress called themselves, verbally attacked and slashed President Cool every time he suggested that working together might make for a better outcome than the daily demonstrations of stupidity that is the hallmark of Republican governance.  Demosthenes would have given up and gone home after the first week.

While the political wreckage was building, I had hit the absolute bottom of my tolerance for any more of the bullshit. I had to move or lose whatever hold on reality I had left! Turn off the television! Do something! Get up! Get the fuck up and . . .  what? Lick stamps and fold fund-raising letters?

           Trying to tune out the daily shit-storm of what remains of representative government here in The Greatest Country Ever, or telling myself not to stare in utter shock at the political madness boiling over the edges of the Trump campaign, was impossible. The television stays on. Madness prevails. Why fight it?

I’d been hooked up – as if to a chemo infusion – to either MSNBC or CNN for weeks, months, all of 2016. A terrible admission, but every day staring in disbelief at the television, turning to Politifact to cross-check the more insane statements coming from the neo-Fascist campaign operatives and Republican golems who were forcing political distortions and outright lies into the polarized and hate-filled national conversation. It was an endless loop of incoherent gibberish that, if  listened to long enough, was like being pushed to the edge of a dark, cold, mental abyss . . . filled with clicking scorpions.

 One more minute of seeing his bloated orange face, hair swept up on the sides to meet at the back of his head in that duck’s-ass style all the wannabe Blackboard Jungle-type high-school punks sported in the 1950s, or those weird il Duce poses that surely had been rehearsed in front of a gilt-edged full-length mirror, and I was afraid I’d start trying to figure a way to dose him. No, there was no possibility of walking away from the horror of it all.  I simply couldn’t pull the plug and ignore this Oompa Loompa. I was hooked. Hypnotized. Immobilized. Surely, a massive screaming breakdown was lurking, waiting to strike. And it had my name on it. Or maybe his.

 

 

That’s how close to a total separation from reality I’d gotten with the steady, wall-to-wall video coverage of Donald J. Trump’s insane-clown circus act. Ever since the slow escalator descent from somewhere inaccessible to normal people, and the declaration that he going to run for President of The United States of America I had been transfixed. Is this really happening? Or is it just another unmoored flashback caused by the blotter of orange sunshine I swallowed with a piss-warm bottle of Miller’s at the first Atlanta Pop Festival in 1970?  Orange sunshine?! Orange?? Was it a sign?

And why did he say it that way? “. . . President of the United States of America.” Was it because otherwise we’d think he was running to be President of, what, Turkey? Bolivia? It began immediately: The knee-slapping guffaws that ricocheted coast-to-coast, border-to-border, across the fruited plane that a billionaire, third-rate television reality “star” with the obvious brain power of road-kill thought he had a chance at becoming . . . The Leader Of The Free World?! That’s some funny shit, right?

Of course, all that occurred before the bowel-churning realization began to blast from the TV screen that somehow this country had been sucked through some time/space/reality hell portal right into Sinclair Lewis’ 1935 novel “It Can’t Happen Here,” or worse, Philip Roth’s “The Plot Against America,” or the madness of Orwell’s 1984, a place where insanity was the norm and love of a Blond Big Brother was approaching at warp speed. Despite the warnings in all those freakish novels, he was still attracting incoherent crowds of people who always looked and sounded like they’d just come from a massive rat-killing. You know, a little glassy-eyed, flushed, screaming shit like “Lock Her Up!” or “Build The Wall!” The whole seething mass finding malignant joy and the sort of release that usually comes only during a Baptist Revival tent meeting. Or possibly a public hanging.

 Watching all this, I realized we were sliding into a state of carefully engineered political chaos; that honest-to-god Fascism had arrived in the persona of a 70-year-old world-class grifter and his rigid, dead-eyed family. Worse, the creepy entourage of strange looking and stranger sounding hand-puppets (with one definite exception, the execrable Steve Bannon) who together had actual plans to Make America Permanently Fucked, began to show up. All at once those goofy-ass red baseball hats looked more like a warning than a slogan.

And then . . . seventeen months later . . . holy shit!  No! This slow-walking empty suit, he with the crimson tie so violently red it appeared one of his carotids had been sliced open, was declared President of The United States of America!! Not Turkey! Not Bolivia! The United Fucking States!!! And, there was his family, always lurking, looking like the Beverly Hillbillies meet the Romanovs! Christ!!!

How did this happen? Seriously, how did we get to this round of yet another attempt at Fascism after millions of people were obliterated before it was destroyed the last time it tried to devour the world? How did the US hit a point so low that enough of us – god-fearing Americans all – decided to choose as President a willfully ignorant, un-read, neo-fascist, Klan-applauding, pussy-grabbing, white nationalist, fear-mongering, dictator-wannabe to lead us into a really, truly insane future? A man who had turned mediocrity into not just an art form, but also into a snarling beast? And, most important, was there a path back to reality from this nightmare? How many magic incantations will it take to give us a do-over of the freakishly unreal year of 2016 and shove the first one into a Ministry of Truth memory hole where it will disappear; irretrievable; forever. Where’s Winston Smith when he’s really needed?

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I am the grandson of immigrants from Italy – immigrants, goddam it! – and the reason I’m telling you this will come clear eventually. First, some family history.

           At the turn of the 20th Century more than two million Italians took their first steps in America on Ellis Island, New York. My maternal grandfather – Angelo – was among them. The fear shared by all the new arrivals was the possibility of failing one of the several inspections they had to endure to be accepted into what they believed was an earthly paradise, a place where the streets were littered with gold coins and fountains gurgling with milk and honey were conveniently placed at every intersection.

The inspections were humiliating and even a hint of disease or disability or handicap could be reason enough to send them back to Italy and the conditions they were desperately trying to escape. It was that fear that led the immigrants to rename Ellis Island L’isola dell Lagrime – the island of tears. These fearful, yet hopeful – always hopeful – peasants left their homeland after decades of violence had left the country unable to function. (It still can’t.) That violence, in addition to extreme poverty, near famine and the social chaos that comes with political disintegration impelled them to come to the New World.

Their expectations were simple: a chance to make a life, avoid starvation, not hear horses galloping into the village at night accompanied by clanking swords and hammers being pulled back on Bodeo revolvers, followed quickly by pounding on locked cottage doors and terrified screams.

 Simple, indeed.

A few years after Angelo’s arrival a teenage girl – Laura – who would become his wife, left her village, made her own dangerous trip down the western slopes of the Apennine Mountains to the port city of Civitavecchia and then on to America       

           Time passed. Sunrise. Sunset. The earth kept turning. The marriage of Angelo and Laura eventually was arranged by a marriage broker. They produced five children – two sons, three daughters. The oldest, Silvia, was my mother. Like the immigrant families before them, they worked long hours, saved their money and eventually opened a business of their own – a gas station (once called a “filling station”) and tire store combination in a small northwestern Ohio city of churches, retired farmers and former oil wildcatters. A lot of churches.

           The two sons were drafted into the army early in WWII. One – my uncle Calvino, a Conscientious Objector – was assigned to various field hospitals and morgues in England as punishment for his “cowardice.” The other son, my Uncle Vittorio (“Vic”) was a combat infantryman. When the war ended, Vic returned home a complete psychological and emotional wreck. What he had witnessed and experienced in the vicious fighting in France and Belgium left him in a constant state of intense anxiety. Through her letters, his wife let the family know of the screams that would waken her in the middle in the night as Vic’s nightmares tore at him and dragged him back through the horror in which he had gotten lost, became unhinged. Somehow, he eventually earned a law degree and went to work in the corporate world, never able to recover fully from the brutal and bloody madness he had both witnessed and taken part in.

We nieces and nephews desperately wanted to ask him how many Germans he had wasted. We weren’t allowed. Grandma promised a serious switching with a back-yard pussy-willow branch if any of us even mentioned the war or his part in it. And she knew how to use a switch.

           Among my earliest memories are the arguments and the yelling and the wild shouting matches that were called “discussions” in my grandparents’ home when all the aunts, uncles, and cousins were there for some holiday dinner or family get together, or maybe after a funeral for a paisano Angelo knew from the Old Country. The yelling and finger-pointing always was ignited because of some intra-family belligerence stirred up by one of the five bambini. It got especially hysterical when, invariably, the discussion turned to politics. Angelo was maniacally interested in anything political here or back in Italy, because, at heart he was an anarchist. To this day, when I hear arguing of any sort I get weirdly homesick, especially if I can smell spaghetti sauce cooking at the same time.

At calmer moments, after Angelo had a glass or two of vino I would listen as he, in his hesitant English, would tell me about the evils of Italian Fascism and its chief perpetrator, Benito Mussolini. Angelo had emigrated long before Mussolini’s rise to power but even though he and Laura had worked diligently to become invisible in their new country, he made it clear to the family that being Italian in this small Midwestern city in the early to mid-20th century invited bigotry and fear from the neighbors. Especially after the outbreak of the war. The Axis Powers, after all, included Italy.

           I mention this slice of family history, in part, to explain the latent explosiveness that’s been left in the genes I inherited. I tend to go berserk, sometimes just for the hell of it, sometimes gleefully, always when I see yet another political jack-off get elected who then demonstrates why it really is necessary to turn off “Dancing With The Stars” and start paying attention to what kind of nut-job is running for public office, especially if it’s a Republican and the office is the Presidency.

           My experiences growing up in a predominantly Italian family was heavily weighted by a morbidly depressed Irish father who, after spending years being educated by the Jesuits, gave up his religion entirely. He was declared an apostate Catholic, excommunicated, and as the local parish priest called him, unless he confessed and came back to the Church, toast.

The glimpse into the Italian side of my family does not suggest all famiglie italiane know only two levels of volume when they start talking: icy silence, sometimes in combination with the copyrighted Italian evil eye, or screaming incoherence when trying to out-shout an opponent doesn’t succeed.  Especially if that opponent is one of the women in the clan. If that’s the situation, forget it. Trust me, you cannot out-hysteric mamma o la nonna, capisce? In the end, they win. Always. I‘m  certain there are immigrant Italian familes that are capable of calm, measured discussions and occasional disagreements, peace be upon them. Mine wasn’t one of those, trust me.

 

However, my ability to restrain all that latent Italian-Irish berserk-ness has been stretched to the breaking point since an orange-hued, willfully ignorant, toxic narcissist had decided he was qualified, more so than anyone else in the nation’s history, to be President.   

There is no mystery, no confusion, as to how we arrived at this destructive melding of the absolute worst of American Capitalism and European Fascism. Every time I hear someone whine, “How did this happen? How did Donald Trump get elected president? Is God this pissed off at us? Is the world ending?” I feel compelled to point out we did it to ourselves – which always evokes a blank look or an insistence that I‘m full of shit and possibly an America-hating Communist.

But, we did. With our eyes wide shut.

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Toward the end of the WWII, shortly before President Truman gave the order to annihilate two cities in Japan and the 200-thousand plus civilians who lived in those cities, my mother found a small, one-bedroom apartment in Toledo, Ohio, that had been converted from an attic, and moved us in. Housing during and immediately after the war was nearly non-existent. An available space, even one that was in fact an attic, was a rare find for working people. It was my home for the next 15 years along with – eventually – three siblings and a small dog. Six of us in a space no larger than 300 square feet. The place was so small it felt as though I had to go outside to change my mind. It was a three-story walk-up with terrible ventilation, impossibly hot in the summer, cold and damp in the winter when the only warmth came from a small gas space heater that might have killed us all while we slept if the pilot light went out and gas seeped freely through the apartment, pressure building, until the entire neighborhood would look as though it had been fire bombed by a crazed Kamikaze. These were the thoughts that made going to sleep a real challenge. Especially after Grandma had taught us that horrible little kids’ prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake . . .”  Soon, thousands of kids in Hiroshima and Nagasaki did die before I wake . . .

 

By age 10 I had a paper route, which opened my eyes to the crazed and violent reality of the world’s adults. Early each morning, hours before school started, I went down the outside three flights of stairs to the front porch to fold papers for delivery to my customers. I read the headlines as I folded them and most of what I read scared the hell out of me. A deadly fog in London had suffocated thousands; the number of American dead in the Korean war was mounting and there was talk of once again using nuclear weapons against an Asian enemy; the Mau Mau rebellion in Kenya had started and the killings there were enough to give a ten-year-old white boy the night terrors, especially if he had seen all those Tarzan movies with the screaming natives covered in huge white feathers, shrunken heads tied and bouncing crazily around their waists, running after terrified white women who were trying to sprint through the jungle in bwana dresses and high heels, and, yes I had seen those movies. They helped give form to my growing fear of black people.

On and on, newspaper articles that were dark and filled with terror. And then in the winter of 1953, the scariest man on earth, Joseph Stalin, died. There it was, his photo, on the front page of the Toledo Times. I knew who Stalin was and I knew I was supposed to feel relieved about his death. I couldn’t, though, probably because of that news photo of his embalmed corpse lying in state, flowers stacked around him, and uniformed Communists marching past the funeral bier as if in a trance. It was all too goddam creepy.

And, so it went with my paper route. Every morning another blast of bloody death from somewhere in the world. It was a graduate level course in how violent the world really was. For a now-11-year-old it was difficult to comprehend and not at all like the friendly stories in my monthly copies of Boys Life magazine. How could there be such a difference between the two worlds?

There was craziness at home, too. Not just in my home, where every day raised the possibility of some sort of major trauma, but in the entire country. The times were changing fast. There was a massive post-war migration of black families flowing out of the South, each one searching for a place that was not filled with terror and violence and poverty, the same sort of life my grandparents left Italy to find; the same migration in search of the same sort of life.

Laws were being passed to end the Jim Crow laws in the South, to grant black citizens the right to vote without fear of being lynched for the attempt, to provide equal opportunity where it concerned education, jobs, housing. And, millions of Southern whites, in cities and towns scattered across the Old Confederacy, found all the changes coming so quickly, changes they could not accept.

 

 In Toledo, as much as in any other northern city, the changing complexion of the neighborhoods, and schools, and factories pushed race relations up front and center. It was the topic among the adults who made up my world of school, YMCA, church, and Boy Scouts, and it was a subject laced with fear and anger.  When the commercials came on during the weekend radio broadcasts of the Cleveland Indians, the men sitting in their driveways or on their porches, dressed in wife-beater undershirts and drinking bottle after bottle of cheap Buckeye Beer, would bring up yet again the argument about whether outfielder Larry Doby was as good as the white players. I had no idea what the arguing was about until I saw a picture of Doby. Surprise!

Racism, homophobia, fear of the “other” all that nasty shit that takes such a toll on all of us are all learned responses, of course. My personal introduction to racism popped up when I was in kindergarten, five years old and already aware that a dark-skinned person was not treated the same as a white person. I didn’t know why. That’s just the way the world seemed to be ordered. As we got older, black kids and white kids in the neighborhood played together, usually either football in a vacant lot, or pick-up baseball in a grocery store parking area, trying to ignore the stupid attitudes of the adults, including our parents. But the divisions of race had been deeply buried inside all of us, black kids as well as white kids, at an early age. Our playing together didn’t change the attitude of white superiority, white privilege, that seemed natural and normal. When the game was over and we all went home, it was back to the same racist bullshit.

It was an especially weird feeling for me, all this “white superiority” stuff because the black kids lived in duplexes or actual houses while I lived in an attic. What the fuck? Where was the privilege, much less the superiority, in living in an attic?

The first time I spoke to a dark-skinned man I said what I thought was friendly and proper.

 “Hi, Nigger!” I smiled.  I was almost six years old.

He was washing the windows of the potato chip factory that was next to our house and the small backyard where I was playing. He looked up, stared at me for a moment, but said nothing. I think I still remember the look in his eyes as he stood there absorbing the deep insult from a smiling little shit of a five-year-old white boy.

My mother was hanging laundry out to dry a few feet away and heard what I said.

She called me to her side and whispered that decent white people never use that word. Had I been seven or eight instead of five going on six I would have called bullshit because it was a word spoken casually by most of the white people I knew, even in my own family.

 “It’s a bad word, Michael.”

“But, I’ve heard Daddy use it,” I said.

“Well, he shouldn’t. Now, I want you to go back over to that man and tell him you’re sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because the proper word is “colored,” he is a colored man, not the word you used.”

“Do, I say, ‘I’m sorry ‘colored man’?”

“No! Just say you’re sorry. You don’t have to say ‘colored.’”

 I was getting confused. In my Kindergarten class, we had white Crayons and lots of colored Crayons and the colored ones were all different colors. When we asked for a colored one we had to name the color; red? blue? yellow?

“Do I say I’m sorry brown man? Because he is brown, Mom.”

She dropped the clothes pins into the clothes pin basket and looked down at me with that look Italian mothers use when they are mere seconds from whacking your ass with whatever’s close enough to use as an ass-whacker. I knew that look, even at my tender age.

“No! Just say you’re sorry. Go do it. Now!”

I walked back to the factory window where he was still working, his eyes avoiding me, and said, “I’m sorry I said that, mister. . . um . . . mister . . .” I didn’t have a word for him except “Nigger.” Or “colored.” So, I just stood there.

He looked at me and once again said nothing. Then he picked up the bucket of dirty water, turned his back and walked into the factory’s deep shadows.

 

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           It’s late Summer, 1993. Atlanta, Georgia. I’m sitting at a café table in the studio’s break room. Sitting across from me is a terrorism expert from the Atlanta Police Department, Lieutenant Darius Frazier. He has a serious look on his face and an open note pad on the table in front of him. The cup of coffee I poured for him when he arrived is sitting there getting cold.

Our meeting was arranged after the radio station where I am a program host, WSB-AM, had received its third bomb threat in less than a month. A series of death threats, left on my voice-mail, were more focused and certainly more personal. They detailed how I was to be killed. Station management laughed those off. The attitude was, individual death threats? Meh. Comes with being a liberal broadcaster. A bomb threat against the building!? Holy shit! Call the police!!!! Now!

Ah, corporate America. Ya’ gotta love ‘em.

The threats were coming because of what I was talking about, what I was advocating on my program. And, at the time, all of it was coming because of one metastasizing cancer: The Christian Reconstruction Movement. An active branch of these crazed religionists had opened in Cobb County, the same county that eventually gave the country the  political careers of Newt Gingrich, Bob Barr, and ol’ Lester Maddox, that chicken restaurant owning, crazy-ass axe-handle carrying former governor of Georgia. The axe handle? That was to threaten the black folk who felt they had a legal right to go sit in ol’ Lester’s restaurant and order lunch.

But, I digress,

The Christian Reconstruction Movement, this belligerent and extreme form of church control over all aspects of one’s personal and political life was a mirror image of Fundamentalist Islam’s Sharia law. The founder of this madness was a man named Rousas Rushdoony, who was born in New York City of Armenian parents in 1916. (His family had fled the Armenian Genocide the year before.) His core belief was that we humans are not autonomous rational thinkers, but rather spiritual appendages of a God known for his complete lack of mercy. The new law was to be the law of the Old Testament, brutal, unforgiving, final. Richard Dawkins, the English evolutionary biologist, perfectly described the celestial law-giving maniac behind this ilness, in his book unrelated to Christian Reconstruction, “The God Delusion:”

“Yahweh: The God of the Old Testament is arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction: jealous and proud of it; a petty, unjust, unforgiving control-freak; a vindictive, bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser, a misogynistic, homophobic, racist, infanticidal, genocidal, filicidal, pestilential, megalomaniacal, sadomasochistic, capriciously malevolent bully.”

Can I get an amen?

           So, given my total atheism, and knowing these freaks had a branch office in Cobb County, what did WSB expect from me where it concerned this cult of stupidity? Silence? Yeah, that’s it.

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Cobb County, Georgia, does not have a particularly pleasant past.  An ugly slice of American horror occurred on the city square of the small town of Marietta, the county seat. It was there that Atlanta business owner Leo Frank was lynched in 1915. Published reports tell the story:

Frank was born in Texas but raised in New York. To Southern anti-Semites he was a Yankee, a Jew, and a college graduate, which amounted to the requisite three strikes against him in parts of the early 20th century South; he was too different, too “other” when this story of terror unfolded, even though in nearby Atlanta, Jews had successfully assimilated into that city’s growing population.

 On April 26, 1913, one of the workers at the pencil factory where Frank was superintendent, a 13-year-old girl named Mary Phagan, was strangled and found dead the next morning, her body found in the factory’s basement. Several men, including Frank, were arrested, but eventually it was Frank who was charged with the murder.

Frank was put on trial, convicted, and sentenced to death for Mary Phagan’s killing. The case received national attention and many legal experts agreed the trial was a travesty. His attorneys made a series of unsuccessful appeals; their final appeal to the US Supreme Court failed in April, 1915.  However, after reviewing evidence not available during the trial, Georgia Governor John Slaton commuted Frank’s sentence from death to life in prison. An offshoot of the local KKK, known as The Knights of Mary Phagan, were enraged by the commutation. On August 16, 1915, Frank was “kidnapped” from the prison by a mob of armed Christian white men. He was beaten as they drove him the short distance from the prison to the Marietta town square where he was hanged. After Frank’s lynching, nearly half of Georgia’s Jewish population left the state.

Eventually – decades later – it was determined that Leo Frank was in fact innocent of Mary Phagan’s murder. In 1986 the Georgia Pardons and Parole Board granted him a posthumous pardon.

 

The murder of Mary Phagan and the lynching of Leo Frank is a horrific

 story, one with which every American should be familiar, and an example of the power of religious bigots. It is just one more example of the constancy of white nationalism, the seeming endless life of the KKK, and an example of the contempt felt in the South for Jews as well as blacks.

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           Not only did I focus my program on equal justice under the law, but also that violence was counter-productive; that the dregs of Jim Crow and more modern forms of bigotry still flourished and should be fought; that “red-lining” by banks and insurance companies was just another evil perpetrated against minorities; that the hideous religious bigotry against gays was inexcusable for people who claimed to be Christian – particularly disgusting during the AIDS holocaust that seemed as if it would never end. Scores of Atlanta’s most creative young men were dying, yet the contempt for gays was always fouling the air with its thick stench.

 And then, unexpectedly, the Christian Commissioners of Cobb County (the larger part of a Congressional District represented in Washington for years by Newt Gingrich) decided by majority vote to deny all further county funding for local arts because the money might be used to produce a play or an art exhibit or, in fact, any depiction of, or connection to, gay life in any way other than that of demons stabbing gay folk with pitchforks as they slowly burned in Hell with, of course, Jesus smiling his approval from Heaven. So, in the spirit of “fuck you, Cobb County!” my program became a broadcast platform for gay rights activists, human rights advocates, and a group of liberal rabbis and Unitarian/Universalist ministers who understood the ultimate outcome of this sort of bigoted bullshit. (Think: German theologian Martin Niemoller)

So, how to stop the nightly voices of advocacy for decency, respect and common sense that my guests provided? Simple. Remove from the airways the liberal asshole (that would be me) who was allowing these Sodomite sympathizers to bring about the downfall of Western Civilization with their wanton masturbation, their insertion of rubbery objects in parts of the body that were exit shutes not entrance ramps, and their use of buzzing things that were designed solely to make you come harder and longer. Someone talking about, or worse, doing any of that nasty stuff must be punished. Severely and repeatedly. Except maybe for that buzzing thing . . .

Ah, fundamentalist Christians. Ya’ gotta love ‘em.

 

           The parent company of WSB, Cox Communications, insisted the bomb threat shit had to stop even if it meant I had to change formats and present a more conservative point of view or, god forbid, morph into a centrist. Otherwise, good-bye, Malloy. The death threats? They could continue. (Ha-ha.)  But, the warnings that the building would be reduced to rubble absolutely had to cease.  (One call said, “smoking rubble . . . “) The messages from the homophobes were clear: “Get rid of that pervert lover who’s on at night. And we mean it!”  Cox is a very conservative national media mega-conglomerate – radio stations, television stations, newspapers – and my employment there was an attempt to show the FCC that, “Heavens no! We don’t broadcast just the expected, conservative point of view! Listen to Mike Malloy! He’s a wonderful liberal talk show host who provides our listeners with such a different perspective on current events!! A liberal perspective! Please don’t listen to the challenges to our broadcast license!”

That was nothing less than a huge barrel of PR bullshit. There was no FCC regulation that said broadcast license holders had any obligation whatsoever to provide listeners with more than one point of view on any given political topic. That quaint idea had been deep-sixed by the Reagan Administration in the 1980s, during a time the US once again was smashing any effort by the people in Central America to get their economies and their countries out of the hands of Yankee Imperialists. And, this was after more than a century of failed revolutions and the desperate poverty caused by the direct intervention of the US military. An “equal time” rule would have provided a voice to the revolutionaries and their many advocates in the US and might have given more support to the people who were being slaughtered by their own neo-Fascist governments, the leaders of which had been trained at Ft. Benning, Georgia, in the cynically named, “School Of The Americas.”  The driving force of this inhumanity were the US corporations who liked the fact that the cheap labor and land expropriation in Central America were the closest they were ever going to get to the return of that singular capitalist blessing, slavery. The whole shitty mess was funded by us, the American taxpayer whose tax dollars were then distributed by the corporate hand-maidens in the US Congress to the murderous thugs who one of our president labeled “the moral equivalent of our Founding Fathers.”

The radical idea of giving broadcast time to Leftist Revolutionary trouble-makers was not allowed, certainly not on “The Voice Of The South,” WSB radio. Business is business and it flourishes best when the tiresome rules of democratic self-government and human rights are not in the way.  Corporatism and its ugly step-brother, Fascism, works best when there are no questions asked and obedience is automatic.

 “Wonderful, liberal . .”? Yeah, that was me. But, I certainly didn’t want to be a wonderful dead liberal. So, let us praise the courage of WSB; there was one liberal program on the daily broadcast schedule.  However, after all the threats and visits from the APD and articles that began to appear in the Atlanta Journal/Constitution, it began to register with management that every topic I brought up was controversial; anti-war rhetoric, no nukes, pro-union (in a non-union radio station), anti-US imperialism wherever it was occurring, and on and on. And each time I discussed one of these topics the hate mail would flow “down like a mighty river” . . . of horseshit.

Just for giggles I did occasionally invite conservative screwballs onto the program who would provide the “other” point of view – which was always the same right-wing gibberish about tax cuts, those lazy welfare recipients, the terrible Sandinistas in Nicaragua, the vicious dictator Castro. Oh, and put Jesus back in the schools if you were serious about ending drug use and sex among the teen-agers. And, invariably, AIDS was God’s righteous punishment for the homosexual’s “life-style” and their nasty, evil sex habits.

 

Even though I had been hired only to provide cover for WSB’s broadcast license, and my program tucked away on the late-night schedule so as not to offend the early-to-bed Christians, a miracle occurred: Huuuuuge Arbitron ratings  for my program, an occurrence totally unexpected by the trolls who ran the station’s programming. (Arbitron was and is the only system that tells station managers how many listeners are tuning in at any given time during the broadcast day.) It seemed to come as a surprise to management that the growing population of metro Atlanta included hundreds of thousands of people – natives as well as new arrivals – who wanted to listen to a local talk radio program that provided more than the standard neo-Confederate take on everything from national politics to how the local school boards were to be run and, we mustn’t forget, who decides who we should be allowed to fuck and how that fucking was to be conducted. No buzzing or rubbery things allowed.

And, yet, behold! Here was a night-time program that was drawing more audience than management thought possible. How could this be? Was this an example of the solidifying “new South” or just another trick orchestrated by those maniacal liberals, the ones hiding in the schools, the churches, the grocery stores, under people’s beds, every goddam where?!

 As sad and unnecessary as it was, this was still the painfully ingrown part of the country where “The War of Northern Aggression” was still being fought on all sorts of emotional levels – most notably by the members of Congress who were being sent to Washington with instructions to legislate more God, Guns, and Bibles available to the besieged (white) population struggling against the relentless tide of liberal degeneracy and race mixing! Don’t forget race mixing! And the queers. Oh, and one more thing: Keep the Rebel flag flying! Praise Jesus and give me a tissue cuz talk of the Stars and Bars always brings a tear to my eye and a lump in my throat. Ack!

The rural listeners to the station – those in Atlanta’s surrounding counties and the suburbanites who wouldn’t live in Atlanta proper because there were too many crazed Negroes wandering the streets looking for white people to mercilessly violate – those folks were furious about the attempts to hide or, worse, deny the glory that was the “The Lost Cause.” My attitude about all this whining for the ante-bellum South of Tara and Mammy and Scarlett? Fuck ‘em! Get over it. You committed treason and lost. And, your leaders avoided a firing squad. Grow up.

 

It was no surprise, then, that only one political philosophy, one point of view was considered valid by a huge plurality of my listeners: and that was the white supremacist, Christo-fascist horseshit that was alive and growing like kudzu here in the last hole of the Bible Belt.

Lieutenant Frazier got serious.

“Look, these people are dedicated to their extreme beliefs, the Christian Reconstruction ideas. So far as we know they have not committed any violence, no arson, no murders. Other than the threats, they haven’t done anything that calls for more than the surveillance we keep them constantly under. And regarding those threats, if we can find those responsible we will arrest them. But, you need to understand these types of domestic terrorists. They are capable of all sorts of violence. They claim to be Christian fundamentalists. They are not. That’s their cover story. Claiming to be a church or a religious organization gives them a certain amount of protection under the Constitution and from the IRS. But their claim is bogus. My family is Christian and we don’t conduct ourselves like these people.”

He paused a moment, looking me intently with that cop look that can scare the hell out of you, even when your worst crime is jaywalking. It’s a cop thing.

“Do you own a weapon,” he asked? “Preferably a hand gun?”

“Uh . . .no. I used to, years ago. But, not now.

“Have you ever had firearms training? Like in the military?”

“No.”

He shuffled some papers. “Are you afraid to use a weapon or have one in your home?”

“No.” I was getting images of hordes of Christian Soldiers (like in the hymn) attacking through the backyard, guns blazing, me picking them off one at a time . . . pow! pow! pow! Yeee-haw!!!

“How do you feel about carrying one on your person?”

Hot damn! Carrying a firearm? Like the old West?

“Yeah,” I answered. “I can do that.”

“All right,” Frazier said. “Here’s the drill. We’ll do a background check on you and, if you pass, send you to the police firing range to be trained in how to safely use a weapon . . .”

I grinned, “And how to kill somebody, right?”

For a moment Frazier didn’t answer. He filled in some forms, got my signature, and told me an APD instructor would be in touch. “Hope it doesn’t come to that, okay?” And with that, he left. He never touched his coffee. Must be a cop thing.

I’m still surprised by the depth of contempt and even hatred so many white, Christian Southerners had for so many different groups of their fellow human beings. It was stunning. It seemed they just couldn’t let it go and treat people as their Messiah had instructed them to. But, doing talk radio from a liberal-left perspective five nights a week I quickly learned how close to the surface this bigotry lived and the reality that maybe a group of white supremacists would try to abruptly end my career. (Like they did to Denver Talk Radio host Alan Berg.) Ah, fuck ‘em. From this point on I was armed and dangerous. I was a liberal with both a microphone and a Glock. Invincible.

 

 

 

When I was ready to begin my senior year in High School, and right before the term was to begin, I left home, this time for good. I had done this before; especially since my mother had bailed out of the family attic and her marriage a couple of years earlier. My old man, (pure Irish) poor bastard, suffered from his Catholicism in the worst way: unreconcilable guilt. Catholics invented guilt. And since it was their invention they developed exquisite ways to use it to inflict hideous pain, pain that would follow an apostate Catholic – a sinner, a betrayer as evil as Judas – into Purgatory and on into Hell. There was no escape, without confession. You could stand before the Holy Mother and scream for release, shriek Novenas even unto the tenth day; pray Acts of Contrition until your lips dissolved. All to no avail. Your ass was doomed. At least that’s how my old man (Joe) perceived the fate that was waiting for him simply because he could no longer accept the superstitious bullshit of his religion. But, still the guilt and the fear. It would always be there, like a bubble of acid eating through his stomach. World without end, amen. The combination made him violent, abusive, destructive.

When he was sixteen his parents (Grandparents I never knew) sent him to a Jesuit school in Connecticut for three years to study for the priesthood. His brother, my uncle Jack, was to be a cop. That’s how it works in a conservative Catholic family that produces two sons (Thank you, Holy Mother!). One to be a priest, one to be a cop. However, Joe realized being a priest was just not the direction he wanted to go. The studies were difficult and saturated with hard-core Catholic history. He was an excellent student – math and Vulgate Latin were his strongest subjects. But, seminary students, once they graduated to the priesthood could never have sex – unless, maybe, occasionally with a curious altar boy.

 Joe, however, like most heterosexual teen-age boys wanted sex with girls. There was no chance of that happening given his circumstances for the next seven years cloistered in a seminary. couldn’t have sex, unless it was with one of the staff priests. Among other hopes, Joe wanted sex with women. So, for that compelling reason and others more profound and ambitious, good-bye seminary. The calling to serve God simply was not there. The Jesuits found that unacceptable. He left the seminary, anyway, blessing be damned, and completed his formal education at a secular college where sex was available.

But, having been seduced by a vengeful god in the first place, the time came when the same god ambushed him in the most painful way. It was a violent ambush.

 It happened like this:  He was married to a Catholic woman named Yvonne. They had two children, a boy, Jack, and a girl, Patty. From all indications, Joe was an ideal and conscientious father. He took good care of his family, but Patty was his favorite. One summer day, when she was four years old, Joe took her swimming in the Blanchard River, a shallow waterway that flowed through the middle of Findlay, Ohio, where the family lived. Joe watched her closely as she splashed and waded and slid under the surface near the riverbank. When Patty was sufficiently tired from all the activity, she fell asleep on Joe’s lap and snuggled close for her afternoon nap.

Later that evening, when everyone was ready for bed, Patty complained of severe stomach pain. Joe sat with her as the night wore on and the symptoms worsened. First, projectile vomiting, followed by bloody diarrhea. Then a fever and clammy skin. Yvonne called for the doctor who arrived as quickly as he could. After examining her the doctor gave Joe and Yvonne the unacceptable verdict: Cholera. Joe held her throughout the night. A little past three o’clock the nxt afternoon, she asked, “Daddy, can I have an ice cream?” She then closed her eyes and died.

It was too much for Joe. His grief was overwhelming. And, he knew why Patty had been taken. It had to be the act of his god, a merciless phantom who dealt severely with those who would leave the faith, especially those who had been delivered to be a priest. There was simply no other explanation that made sense to Joe. His inculcation into the blood cult that is Christianity was impossible to refute. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

Eventually, the guilt took over his ability to function at all. And there was more than just his daughter’s death. Hadn’t his mother taken in other families’ stinking laundry to earn money for his schooling? Hadn’t she prayed daily, kneeling in humility before the Holy Mother in the sanctuary of Saint Joseph’s church – the very church whose name he carried? I mean, what the fuck, right? You can’t do shit like that to your dear Catholic Mother and escape the fiery furnace of guilt. Not with the Blessed Virgin weeping and a crowd of Saints watching.

Because of this religious torture the old man sank into an almost comatose state of depression shortly after he fathered his second set of children, of which I was the oldest. His second wife, my mother, told us this story as a way of trying to explain his frequent violence. Almost the only time we kids saw him was when he stumbled from the bedroom shouting that since we had neither been baptized nor confirmed we were as doomed to Hell as he was. Then off came his belt and the beatings commenced. For years. There was no escape. Until, finally, there was.

It became a driving force; to get away from this nightmare life as soon as I was old enough and before one of us was killed, Joe or me.

On a stifling summer afternoon, just after my birthday and two months before school was to begin, I packed a couple of grocery bags with clothing, books, toothbrush and anything else I felt was necessary to immediate survival, said a teary good-bye to my brothers and sister, and fled.  Eventually, one by one, as they grew older, so did they.

Twenty years later, submerged deep in the visual hell of paranoid schizophrenia, Joe died, alone, in a nursing home shouting incoherently at the demons waiting for him. His god finally extracted the payment due.

___________________________________________________

Living alone in a one-room apartment at age seventeen in 1959 had a certain cachet, for sure, even though most of it was not so good. Completing my senior year was a necessity. If I didn’t graduate and go on to college, I’d wind up working in one of the city’s factories producing auto parts for the next 30 years. Fuck that.

Two years earlier, the summer I turned 15, when Joe’s mental anguish made it impossible for him to work, I answered a help wanted ad that promised I could earn a lot of money simply by talking to people, asking them survey questions. An interview would decide if I had the qualifications, the personality, the chutzpah. When I arrived at the interview address, a hotel room in downtown Toledo, the hallway leading to the interview room was wall-to-wall boys, some with a parent in tow, most of us alone, all of us white. We were told to enter five at a time. Once inside we were questioned by two men who smiled a lot. Yes, they said, you boys will be asking survey questions. We were to go door-to-door while the men waited for us at the end of the block. Then on to the next street. And then the next.

The questions were about magazines; the whole thing was about magazines. Survey questions, my ass. We were going to sell subscriptions. Door to door.

In truth, it was a good after school job. A lot of walking, meeting complete strangers and learning how to start and hold a conversation. The goal was to sell magazines, but the experience of learning to take care of oneself was invaluable.

After a couple of years of this, the repetition of it all was becoming excruciatingly boring. And, walking the streets in the deep-freeze that are Ohio winters was a good way to lose a couple of toes to frostbite and gangrene. So, with my best high school friend and co-magazine seller, Jerry Stiles, we decided it was time to split, time for a road trip South where it was warm and the air was filled with the fragrance of orange trees and hibiscus bushes, not the acrid stench of industrial chemicals and the eye-stinging smog that was slowly eating away our lung tissue. We made the decision to leave Toledo one dark sleeting January afternoon while we were slogging through icy black slush after two hours of no one opening their doors to listen to our pitch. We heard the same shout, or something similar, coming from inside each of the warm, snug-looking, cracker-box houses.

“We don’t want any!”

“But, we have a couple of survey questions. It’ll just take a minute! Please?”

“Go the fuck away before I call the cops! Get off my goddam porch!”

“Well, fuck you, too! Asshole.”

 The skies were leaden and low, heavy with piercing needles of soot and black ice crystals. The temperature hovered near whatever was below death by freezing. We stopped at a convenience store and cashed the paychecks we had been handed earlier that afternoon. Together they totaled just under one hundred dollars between us. We were flush.  That last “get the fuck off my porch” was our signal that departure time was upon us. Who needs this belligerent, icy shit, right?

Jerry drove a seriously beat up 1952 Oldsmobile that burned a quart of oil every 100 miles and had a broken hood latch that tended periodically to slam the hood up against the windshield like a huge insane metallic bat once we were going more than 50 miles an hour. And for those few seconds, blinded by the bat hood until we could pull off the highway to tie it down again, we had no idea what over-the-road Peterbilt behemoth might be rushing toward us bringing instant and permanent disfigurement. Or worse. Damn.

Solution? Tie the goddam hood down with a length of deck rope, which meant we had to pry the ice off it and untie the frozen knot every time we needed to add a quart of oil, which was every 100 miles. It was the perfect vehicle to get us to Clearwater, Florida, where Jerry’s great-aunt lived and we would have a place to crash.

 We agreed to meet at my one-room apartment after packing our suitcases (I had one now), leave a note that told whoever found it that we were in the wind for places unknown and adventures unbound. The high school? The classes? The fact of truancy? To hell with all that. Life is short, right? Live free or die, just like the license plate says.

I also tucked a handful of my mother’s “diet pills” – amphetamines, or as we called the cute little colorful capsules, “Christmas Trees” – into my pocket.

Jerry was impatiently honking his horn as I locked the door to my apartment, put the key in my wallet, and without a final look at my “home” trotted down the stairway and climbed into the Olds. It was 10 o’clock at night. The snowstorm that had developed that afternoon was now trying to grow into the blizzard of the century.  We looked at our Texaco road map and figured we would encounter the icy roads that snaked through the mountains of Kentucky just about daybreak.

“You drive, okay?” Jerry said. He slid over as I walked around the front of the car, checking the already frozen knot that was holding down the fly-away hood. I could smell the rancid odor of Old Grandad as we drove off.

“Jesus, man, do you have to drink that rot-gut crap?” Truth was, his drinking irritated the hell out of me. Jerry was an obnoxious drunk, the type that would be the first to throw a punch in a bar fight (We had fake I.D.s) no matter the odds.

“Hey, don’t fucking talk like my mom.” 

“You drink around your mother?”

“Sure.  But she’s too loaded to realize it. Drive on, my man. Wake me up when I can smell salt water.”

I felt like we going to pass through a dangerous foreign country. The South was all those miles between Ohio and Florida. Florida wasn’t part of the South. Florida, a thousand miles away, was where older people from the northern cities like Cleveland or Detroit moved to escape the brutal winters. The actual South, the scary South, was that vast distance between here and there, filled with the KKK and Rebel flags and religious nut-cases and segregation and dirt farmers and dark country roads where all sorts of evil shit transpired and people who talked weird and said stuff that made no sense at all except when they were bragging about their guns.

 And the Southern girls? The white ones? Oh, sweet Jesus. They were all beautiful and all they wanted, every one of them, more than anything else ever, was a chance to fuck a Yankee boy. We knew that to be true. And it made us so happy.

The South, and all its weirdness, awaited.

 

 

___________________________________________________________

 

 

-2-

 

           The weather was getting worse. Blinding snow and pin-point sleet blowing parallel to the ground, reflected in the glare of the oncoming headlights, reduced visibility to 25 yards at best. The wind outside shrieked like a dying banshee. The roads were glass. I was driving. No way in hell I would trust my life with Jerry behind the wheel, drunk or sober, in weather like this. And, anyway, his license had been suspended for some shit last Fall. I had no idea what. I had yet to get a driver’s license and I knew that if the state police stopped us we were fucked. Juvenile delinquents for sure. Probably robbed a gas station and killed people back up the road.

Every few minutes the Olds would lurch to the left as another icy blast, blowing over the dark, dead cornfields tried to push us across the narrow highway’s yellow line. We were on US 25, a two-lane road that had an Interstate highway in its future. A few stretches were already built and open. But US 25 – the Dixie Highway – was the route we would travel for most of the night.

We drove past Findlay, Ohio, and the feeling that I was driving through my family’s tangled history blew over me like the snow and the wind screaming outside the car.

Jerry was asleep in back, passed out from the booze he had been steadily drinking since we left Toledo two hours ago. We had come all of 45 miles. I wanted him to stay up front and talk, keep me awake.  The driving snow and the jerky dance of oncoming headlights was becoming hypnotic.

“C’mon, man,” I said. “Don’t fucking pass out. Tell me about your great-aunt.  What’s her story?”

“What’s her story?”

“Yeah, you know, why’s she in Clearwater? How old is she? Is the house near the beach? Shit like that  . . .”

No use. He lurched over the front seat and pushed the suitcases onto the floor.

“Hey, she’s old. Real old. A couple of blocks from the beach. She’s got a boyfriend, some old man in his 90s. Who gives a shit?”

He fell asleep, his six-foot-two frame bent nearly double in the back seat. Okay, fuck it. If I fall asleep at the wheel it’s his fault.

It was time to swallow one of Sylvia’s dexies. Zoom-zoom.

The radio worked and didn’t smell like rancid whiskey breath, so go ahead, Jerry. Climb your ass in back and leave me alone to slide my way to the ocean. I’ll listen to the goddam radio.

I tuned to CKLW, a Canadian station with a pop format. A doo-wop song was playing, with the tight a capella harmonies that were so familiar to anyone growing up in the 50s. The music made me homesick. Two hours south and I’m homesick. When the attic was still home, I’d get together on the corner after supper with boys from the neighborhood to sing our own doo-wop. We’d figure out the harmonies from the songs we heard on the radio. The black kids would assign each of us our parts because they said the white boys didn’t know shit about singing, much less how to arrange harmonies that didn’t sound like people in their death throes. Maybe because white people didn’t learn to sing in church the way church singing was intended to sound.  Especially not in a Catholic church where everything was dark and dreary and filled with statues of saints who had all been tortured or beheaded or crucified and would not tolerate any cheerful harmonies. Was there no joy in this religion unless somebody’s hands started bleeding? That would be a sure sign from Jesus that he was checking in, making sure the faithful could still be goosed once in awhile. A real jokester, Jesus. So, nobody sang except the choir and the choir was as dreary as the church. Singing made too much noise and the words were in English, not Latin, so where was the mystery? The black kids said white church singing sounded like moaning zombies. 

Singing in a black church – halleluiah! – was way different; foot-stomping, hand-clapping, arm-waving, testifying, swelling organ music, the preacher pimp-stepping across the front of the sanctuary, shouts to Heaven, the men in the amen corner on their feet dancing. In other words they were making what they called “a joyful noise unto the Lord,” while, in the white Catholic churches the moaning zombies were ruining “Eat This Bread,” or “Dust And Ashes,” or a real favorite of the Polish immigrants, “Juz Ad Rona,” dedicated to “Our Lady of Sorrows, Queen of Poland.” Of course she was.

CKLW’s signal caught up with us just as the Skyliners were getting into “Since I Don’t Have You,” a slow-dance favorite because, if you were cool about it, you could brush against your girl’s pointy tits without being accused of copping a feel. Of course, it was the bra that was pointy, not the her breasts, but no matter: a feel is a feel.

The night wore on. The snowstorm eased and gradually I could see the lights of a roadside gas station and the purplish halo of neon surrounding the attached Greyhound bus station. I had to pee and I guessed Jerry did too after all the booze.

“Hey! Wake up! I gotta take a leak. Wake your ass up!”

“We in Florida?”

“Yeah, this is Tampa. Can’t you see the palm trees?  The snow’s just an illusion. Fuck no, we’re not in Florida! And the temperature gauge says we’re about to blow the engine.”

He sat up. “How many miles have we gone?”

“The last sign I could read said Dayton’s about 10 miles, so about 90 miles.”

“And you didn’t put in some oil yet? No shit, we’re going to blow the engine . . . you’re going to blow the engine! Every 50 miles, remember? Oil!””

The thing about Jerry was he could irritate the hell out me very easily, even though he was my best friend. I pulled off the highway into the tiny, lighted parking lot of the bus station roadside diner and combination went inside. A line of passengers was moving slowly out the door and back onto one of the two idling buses. I wondered where they all were going; an old black man, parents with sleeping children in their arms, a couple of sailors, a young white woman carrying a sandwich and a movie fan magazine, all being checked by the driver to make sure the people getting on were the same ones who got off a half hour ago. The sign on the front of the bus said Chicago. I wanted to warn the driver about the storm we had just come through but I figured he already knew.

I went inside while Jerry dug around in the trunk where we’d put a case of cheap oil and a screwdriver and a hammer before we left Toledo. When I came out, he was banging away at the ball of filthy ice that covered the thick knot holding the hood closed. We finally got it open and poured four quarts of oil into the steaming engine. It was Jerry’s turn to take a leak.

“Hey, get a pack of Pall Malls while you’re in there. We’re almost out.”

One at a time, the two buses pulled away from the station leaving behind a cloud of diesel fumes that had a sad middle-of-the-night smell. I remembered that smell from riding the bus from Toledo to Findlay on one of frequent trips Silvia and I made to get away from Joe’s madness. It was a memory that made tears start to well up and I quickly brushed them away. No fucking way I’d let Jerry see me cry.

He came out carrying a pack of rubbers. 

“Three for a quarter, right?” He held them up and I saw the “sold for the prevention of disease only” bullshit on the label.

“Really?” I said. “You plan on getting laid? With a Southern girl? And then have some of those good ol’ Southern boys stomp you to death and feed your broken body to the pigs? C’mon, man, get in the car and let’s go. We’re almost there. Only a thousand miles to go in this shit-bucket you call a car.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he grinned. “I was a Boy Scout, right? ‘Be prepared,’ right?” He waved the pocket-size packet in my face.

“You think they meant be prepared to get laid? Is there a merit badge for pussy?”

“Funny. A man’s gotta take responsibility . . .”

“Don’t say ‘right’ again.”

“Okay. How about ‘fuck you?’ Can I say that again?”

“Jerry, go back to sleep, pal. You’re getting a wee bit irritating and we still have a long way to go . . . right?”

           The hypnotic miles droned on. We passed through the few remaining small Ohio towns north of Cincinnati, and finally the big city itself. Directly ahead, across the Ohio River was the beginning of The South, where people talked a weird language that sounded a little like English.

It was five o’clock in the morning when I drove through Covington. The rumors in Toledo said if you wanted to get laid easily and with no hassle from the cops, Covington, Kentucky, was the place. It was wall-to-wall prostitutes, the biggest open-to-the-skies whorehouse east of the Mississippi. Sure, Toledo and its rumors were two hundred miles back up the road, but that wasn’t the point. The point was how easy it would be to nail some tail if you lived in Covington. I kept looking, but driving through the dark, snow-packed streets there was not a hooker to be seen. Probably because of the snow.

On the edge of downtown Covington, I saw the first sign that made it clear Jerry and I were in a place entirely different from Toledo. A neon sign in front the Dixie Highway Motor Hotel was simple and direct: WHITE ONLY NO COLORED. Holy shit! There it was. “No colored.” The real segregation I knew about, but had never seen in such a public display, was right there. On that sign. Anybody could see it. And, it meant my black friends back in high school couldn’t spend a night in this shitty run-down motor hotel just 200 miles south of Toledo, because they were “colored.” So, where did black people stay when they were travelling? Were the “colored” motels somewhere down a side street, hidden so as not to offend the white people?

Actually, fuck the motels. Another stupid example of the half-assed attitudes that decided who was on the top and who was on the bottom; who had power and who didn’t. Black travelers would just have to sleep wherever they could. I had heard of and read about the real terror that blacks dealt with in the South, the real violence. A couple of years earlier it was the murder of a young black kid, Emmett Till, that shocked the hell out of us. He was from Chicago and had been visiting family in Mississippi. At a local grocery store where he had stopped to buy a bottle of soda he spoke to the white woman who owned the store. She claimed he had gotten “fresh.” A few nights later her husband and another white man went to the relative’s house – where Emmett was staying – and took the 14-year-old away. They beat and mutilated him almost beyond recognition and then shot him and threw his body into the Tallahatchie River. Three days later his bloated corpse was discovered, tangled in weeds and broken tree limbs.

 Till’s body was returned to Chicago. His mother insisted on a public funeral service with an open casket to show the world the brutality of the killing. The funeral, with photos of Till’s battered remains on the front pages of newspapers around the world, exposed the lie her son’s murder laid bare. There for the world to see was not only the horror and barbarism of racism in the U.S., but also the hypocritical bullshit found on the walls of nearly every elementary school in America: “We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

What painful, ugly words that every black person in the U.S. knew was a lie. And the whites eventually saw the lie, too, even if we didn’t admit it. We couldn’t admit it. And, if we did, so what? Who was going to change things?

I woke Jerry, who looked as though he had been dead for about a week.

“Wake up! Get your ass outta bed! You’ll be late for school.”

A muffled “fuck you” was my answer. Always with the “fuck you’s.”

“C’mon, man. Wake up. Let’s get some coffee.”

He sat up and squinted in the glare of the night’s foot of new snow.

“Where are we?”

“In the South, Jer. The honest-to-god South. You should have seen the sign a few blocks back. ‘Whites only’ at one of those cheesy road hotels.”

“No shit? Where are we, Alabama?”

“Kentucky.”

“What time is it?” He reached for a cigarette.

“About five A-M.”

“And we’re only in Kentucky? How slow are you driving?”

“Slow enough to keep us alive, fast enough to outrun your bullshit.”

 The Dexedrine had been percolating for a couple of hours. The buzz had peaked and was starting to level off. Oh, no. We’ll have none of that shit. I wanted some coffee so I could swallow another one. Zoom-zoom.

“Look, man, you wanna drive?”

I was counting on a “no.” Jerry liked to drive with both eyes closed until he heard the frantic honking of a car coming from the opposite direction. It was a game he played, just to see the look of terror on the other driver’s face as they sped past each other.

“No, my license’s suspended, remember? You’re doin’ fine, my man. Just get us there.”

I pulled into a White Tower parking lot. The place was already open and serving breakfast. We went inside after we hacked the ice off the knot holding the hood down, and poured another three quarts of oil into the engine. At the restaurant’s entrance, a small metal sign was attached to the building.  You couldn’t miss it. “Colored Served. Carry Out Only.” Progress, right?

We were back on the road in ten minutes later. I swallowed another Dexie and chased it with coffee that had the faint taste of overcooked hamburgers even though I knew the coffee could never catch it. Zoom zoom.

 

As we got further into Kentucky, the highway’s gentle rises and slopes became steeper, the curves in the road sharper. The snow had stopped several miles back and the Dixie Highway was now two-lane twists and hairpin turns. At least it was dry and, after miles of blinding snow, dark. Very dark. No roadside anything. Just dark shadows of the massive oaks and pine trees that leaned over the road like arms trying to snatch us into the darkness. I drove on towards Lexington. That was our next stop. By then we would have a bit of misty, filtered daylight.

A few miles of the road’s sharp downhill turns and my hands were getting sweaty from the death grip I had on the steering wheel. The tires would vibrate and then squeal when I took the curves too fast. Every few moments Jerry would moan, “You’re going to kill us. Slow down. Oh, god . . . not Kentucky. Don’t let me die in Kentucky. Somebody help me . . . you’re gonna drive us over a cliff . . . help . . .” Oh, for Christ’s sake. I would drop my voice several levels and moan back at him, “Jerry! I am Satan! I am here to take you home. My home! . . . Come with me! Malloy is going to kill you!”

By now the Dexedrine and coffee combo was working its magic. Everything was beautiful, even though I could ‘t see shit. The black sky was beautiful! The shadows were beautiful! The white line in the middle of the road was beautiful! I wanted to sing! I made a mental note to send Silvia a thank you letter for having diet pills in her medicine cabinet. She’s beautiful. Next stop, I’ll write her a nice note of thanks. Put it in a beautiful card and drop it at the post office. 

The road was an endless dark tunnel, the music was pumping, and the Dexies were driving little bolts of warm lightning up and down my arms. Perfect. Down the highway we went, the Olds a warm cocoon that was snug and beginning to smell like a flophouse.

——————————————————————————————

Driving through the alien darkness of Kentucky, I thought about a crazy incident from a couple of months back, November to be exact. It caused a very intense moment at our high school and I couldn’t help but sort through it all once again. I knew I’d remember it my entire life,

It was the end of football season. I was on the team, second string fullback, but only because my best time in those killer 50-yard wind sprints the coach insisted on was 12 seconds. The starting fullback was a big kid named Troy Johnson who could do it in 9 seconds and change. Every game, I sat on the bench feeling guilty as hell because I kept hoping Troy wouldn’t get up after a tackle and coach would call my name. “Malloy! Get yer ass in there and move the ball!” Never happened. It seemed Troy was made of black concrete. The players who tackled him were the ones who had a tough time getting up.

I got into four games that year, but only after we were at least three touchdowns ahead and there was less than two minutes left on the clock. It was a kick-ass team and we wound up second in the city’s high school league. It was a tough league, the players all sons of foundry workers and drop-forge operators and tool and die makers and they all took considerable pride in their sons’ kicking the other teams’ asses for the good ol’ Scott High Bulldogs. But, even though my playing time was limited, I got to wear the team jersey on Fridays, with the big number 42 on the back, which immediately put me above the herd, a warrior who would bring glory to the school and girls to my one-room apartment.

 During the pre-game pep rallies, I would sit in the semi-circle of metal chairs arranged on the field house floor along with my team mates while the student body went ape shit and screamed for total victory that night, if not the other teams’ dismemberment. I loved it. Being on the team and wearing that jersey every Friday made me almost normal to the students who couldn’t understand my living alone. I was different from them. Radically so. They knew it; I knew it. No family, no household chores, no vacation trips, just me alone. And that scared the kids’ parents. I mean, what did I do living alone like that? Who told me to go to bed, to get up, do my homework, make sure I didn’t go all juvenile delinquent? Who fixed my meals? Who did my laundry? And the parents with daughters were particularly concerned. The girls’ prime directive was: “Don’t you dare go near Mike Malloy’s apartment or your grounded for life!” Which, of course, made the girls even more curious and determined to check me out. And they did. Thank you, terrified Moms.

It was tradition at Scott to elect our Homecoming Queen before the last game of the year, the Thanksgiving Day contest against our cross-town rival, Waite High School. For years, the voting was by football players only, but that year it was decided the entire Senior Class would get to choose the Queen. The election was held the week before the big game and the winner was announced over the PA system right before school was dismissed for the day. Her name was Sharon Parker and she was the perfect choice. An honor student, active in all sorts of school activities, and beautiful. She also was the first black girl at Scott High School to be elected Queen.

We were a fully integrated student body as were all the public schools in Toledo. Our school friendships crossed racial differences easily and often. All the sports teams and academic clubs were a mix of black and white. It was considered stupid and trashy to show even a hint of racism, and god have mercy on any white kid who said “nigger,” or any black kid who said, “honky” or “cracker.” You were immediately labeled a total asshole and no one would hang out with you. You ate your lunch alone for weeks until your punishment was considered adequate. And, even then, it was a bit risky to be seen talking with you. Tough rules. But, the administration told us on the first day of the school year that we were there for more than just academics; we were to learn “tolerance.” The idea of “respect” would follow. That was the hope. The school faculty knew the country was changing and the changes were going to be difficult to adjust to. The potential for disruption came from the Supreme Court ruling three years earlier, the decision that said racial segregation in the schools was unconstitutional. The rules we were trying to live by were new and were causing absolute resistance across the country, the North as well as the Southern states. No one was certain how to proceed, but the requirement to obey the law was absolute and the federal government had made it clear it would, if necessary, use the military to enforce the Court’s ruling.

Of course, the rules stopped at the end of the school day when we all left for our segregated neighborhoods. We heard the adults in our homes and churches and grocery stores using the same racial slurs we were told to avoid. The idea of tolerance was a new one for typical white Americans and there were layers of racist bullshit to work through. Who knew what the ultimate outcome would be? Still, it was a noble effort even though no one  knew how this required social engineering eventually would turn out.

The announcement of Sharon’s selection as Homecoming Queen was made on a Friday afternoon just before the final bell. The weekend would provide enough time to let the reality sink in. “A black Homecoming Queen! Holy shit!” the white kids said. “A black Homecoming Queen! Holy shit!” the black kids said. It was a remarkable day, no matter your race.

Monday arrived.

The usual morning ritual included the seniors gathering under the massive oak tree that shaded the full-size stone and metal replica of the Liberty Bell directly in front of the school’s main entrance. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and chatter as we bullshitted each other about all the cool things we did over the weekend, most of it lies. But, not this Monday. When I got to the Bell there was silence. I had heard it all the way across the campus. Students were craning their necks to look up into the tree’s branches. What the hell?

“What’s going on?” I asked the first kid I met. It was Troy, the first-string fullback, the one made of black concrete.

“Are you kidding?”

“No, gimme a clue, okay?”

“Look up in the fucking tree, Malloy.”

Oh, shit. There it was. Forty feet up, swinging back and forth in the morning breeze. A slapped together effigy. A laundry bag full of rags with scraggly arms and legs attached. A rope was around the thing’s neck. The face was painted black. It was wearing what looked like a white dress from the Salvation Army. There was a sign hanging loosely from its mid-section. The sign said, “Homecoming Queen.”

For the first time, I saw a deep division among my classmates. A sort of self-segregation was happening under the tree. The black kids were huddled together in small groups, talking softly and shaking their heads. The white kids seemed to be in a state of total disbelief. Their  quiet exclamations of embarrassment rippled through the knots of obviously shocked 16 and 17-year-olds, too young to understand the scope of what the effigy represented, too unprepared for the ugliness that had now made its presence known in what the kids had considered, with more than a little smugness, an environment free from racial bullshit. “We’re not Mississippi,” was a standard answer when asked how everybody seemed to respect each other at Scott High while, in the South, blacks were still being lynched and beaten. “We’re not like those bigots in Alabama and Georgia! We respect each other. We are not racists!” . . . statements that seemed ridiculous given what was swinging back and forth over our heads.

Before classes began that sad and shocking day, the responsibility of trying to reassure the students that, no, we were not bigoted thugs, belonged to the Principal, a professorial type who seemed always to be zig-zagging through halls, barely avoiding colliding with students changing classes, seemingly on his way to a very important meeting just like Alice’s White Rabbit. He had a prominent nose so, of course, we called him The Beak.

His message was heart-felt and we could hear his voice slightly break a couple of times as it came over each room’s PA speaker. He said the people who had so deeply violated the spirit of community at Scott High School would not be punished but instead would be asked to publicly apologize and to explain why they lofted a raggedy-ass caricature of our Homecoming Queen into the upper limbs of the tree, and what they thought the outcome would be. Or maybe it was just dumb-shit ignorance by boys who would grow up, move to Mississippi, and become Grand Dragons in some dirt-poor little Delta town’s Klan Klavern or White Citizen’s Council where they could act out their white supremacy bullshit without having to explain it.

We didn’t have the word “racist.” It wasn’t part of our vocabulary yet. If you were white and didn’t want to hang out with the black kids you were considered “prejudiced,” not racist. We knew that prejudice could result in people being killed, their homes burned, their churches bombed. But, we knew that madness happened away from Toledo, Ohio. So, why was this gruesome effigy of our Homecoming Queen hanging from a branch in the tallest oak tree on campus?

No one saw it happen, but when classes were dismissed and everyone rushed to the front of the school to look at “it” again, the effigy had been removed. Later that week the boys who had hung it – and, thank god, they weren’t on the football team – made their apologies, suffered their short-lived humiliation, and later, away from The Beak, laughed and made jokes about how their names and what they had done that day would live forever in the school’s history.

The highway signs were ticking off the miles to Lexington. A hundred, eighty-six, seventy. The car twisted and turned through the looming mountains and inky hollows. An occasional semi would roar by, usually when the sheer mountain drop-offs were on my side of the road. The semi’s wake of hurricane force wind would cause the car to shudder and try to kill Jerry and me by crashing through the ridiculous little pretend fence that skirted the edge of the road and into the void that ended 300 feet down. Straight down. Jerry slept through it all, deep in the arms of Morpheus, snoring and farting, and the occasional piteous moan.

The only available light, other than headlights, were bare bulbs hanging from closed auto repair shacks. They cast a vague, muddy light on hand-painted misspelled signs nailed to the sides of the buildings: “Breedlove’s Car Repare,” “Stop And Go Engine Fixing,” “Junk Car Parts.” And then, barely visible as we passed, the more professional look of the threatening religious messages, always framed as a question: “Jesus Saves, Are You Ready?” or “Where Will You Spend Eternity, Heaven Or The Fires Of Hell?” or “Are You Saved? Are You Sure?” or“Are You Ready For The Rapture?” or “Do You Know Jesus? He Knows You And He Sees Everything!” Scary messages that would stare from the roadside gloom like chained Goblins.

Yeah, the glory of religion.

When I was younger, I spent part or most of the summers with my grandparents. They had converted from Catholicism to Protestantism because being Italian in a small Ohio town was risky enough. There was always the suspicion they might be Anarchists, ready to set off the bombs they probably had planted in the town square when the signal came from headquarters somewhere in Sicily. Why add the threat of being Papists, worshippers of graven images, whose priests made weird hand motions and chanted in an occult language not at all like the English Jesus surely spoke. Foreigners only caused trouble. Especially the non-white foreigners, Italians being the perfect example. Silvia, for instance. Once, she told me how embarrassed she felt when one of her classmates asked, “Does your dad carry a knife?” (All Italian men carried knives, ya’ know. Big, sharp ones tucked into their belts, ready to pull out at a moment’s notice to decapitate the nearest real Christian.)

“No,” she answered. “Why do you think my dad carries a knife?”

“Cuz my pop says all Dagoes carry knives!”

“My dad’s not a Dago.”

“Yes, he is!”

“No, he isn’t and that’s a bad word. I’m gonna tell the teacher you said it and you’ll probably be expelled!”

“And you’re one, too.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Are too! Dago!”

At which point Silvia would start crying, feeling the sting of being insulted for her skin color, for being a Dago, for being foreign. In her eighth-grade class photograph she is at once noticeable. She’s standing a few inches away from the other students, her dark skin made darker by the white graduation dress. There she was, the single “colored” girl in the school.

_________________________________________________________________

Silvia’s parents were church-goers. Twice on Sundays and prayer meeting every Wednesday night. During my summer visits the mid-week trips to Calvary Baptist Church gave me a chance to watch people praying with a fervency that I couldn’t help but marvel at. Did they really believe some Sky Spook was listening to them, with their shouting and trembling? Did they really expect the Hairy Thunderer to drop whatever He was doing, wherever He was doing it, maybe in Africa where He was really busy healing all those millions of lepers and then making sure everybody had enough to eat, drop it all and rush halfway around the world to Findlay, Ohio, find the Calvary Baptist Church, and seriously listen to this hysteria? Yeah, they did.

The prayer meetings took place in one of the church’s dusty, hot, upper rooms. I was the only kid there and while the group of adults each took his or her turn, on their knees, their backs to the middle of the prayer circle, hands folded on the wooden seats of the ladder-back chairs, I watched the dust motes floating in the late afternoon sun that filtered into the room through the stained windows. Not stained-glass windows. That was for wealthy congregations like Catholics. No, just stained.

They prayed for everything: Their sick relatives, the recently dead, the soon-to-be dead, the souls lost to alcohol, the non-believers, President Truman, themselves. On and on it went, each one in turn. When it came my grandparents’ turn, there was no loud wailing, no pleading exhortations, no tears. Angelo and Laura made quiet prayers. God forbid, so to speak, they would make a spectacle of themselves, even in this moldy upper room with a circle of their Sunday Morning friends. And, they were quick. No extraneous bullshit like praying for President Truman. Just quickly hit the high spots: relatives, health issues, the drunks, the unsaved and on to the Amen.

I never told Laura I was an atheist, that I knew there was no such thing as god, or haven, or angels, or answered prayers. I knew these things because if there was a god how could he be so fucking cruel? Wars, famines, diseases, hatred, death, all of it could have been stopped with the wave of his heavenly hand. But, no. And, on a lower level, why would god allow Joe to beat us kids and Silvia simply because he was insane? I loved my grandma, for sure, but, god? No way. It was all bullshit and I wanted to tell her that, but I knew she wouldn’t have listened and probably would have taken one of her mulberry-bush switches and whipped the devil out of me. The literal Devil. I hope she was welcomed to her heaven.

 

Finally, Lexington. Daylight had started prying open the sullen skies an hour ago. The snow was piled high at the sides of the street and it was obvious the city had gotten a heavy blast of winter. I had been driving for what seemed like forever and needed a break. Jerry was waking up in the back seat and the noises he was making were a symphony of nasty sounds: farts, belches, yawns, a throat clearing that sounded like he was trying to bring up marbles.

I was looking for a place to get breakfast. “Hey, let’s get something to eat. Maybe a HoJo’s?”

“Works for me,” he answered. “So, where are we?”

“Lexington, Kentucky, my man. You slept through a fun drive coming over those mountains.”

“Yeah? That must have been when I dreamed I was falling into a bottomless hole. I gotta piss.“

So did I. We pulled into a Howard Johnson’s parking lot and went inside. While Jerry made a dash for the john, I ordered coffee and tried to stop my hands from shaking. That’s the thing about Dexedrine; super intense highs, but very twitchy landings.

The waitress gave me a bright red smile as she placed two cups and a pot of coffee on the table of the corner booth I had sunk into. We were her only customers. The place was empty and the smell of frying bacon made me hungry, in spite of the Dexedrine caps I had been swallowing.

“You and your friend look like you’ve come a ways. . .” She was being polite. Both Jerry and I looked like warmed-over death. She could have added, “. . . from a cemetery.”

She had dark hair and deep blue eyes. Short, pixie hair-style, slim body, no question a former high school cheerleader or majorette. A visual blessing after hours of driving through relentless snow and unfamiliar darkness. I wanted her to keep talking in that soft Southern voice.

“Yes, ma’m. We’re travelers. On our way to Clearwater, Florida.” I was trying to be pleasant, keep her attention. “Been driving all night. It was rough, believe me”

“Well, we’ll fix y’all right up. Be back with a menu soon as your friend comes out. Shouldn’t you boys be in school?”

“We’re college students. It’s the semester break. We’re gonna get some sun.”

“College students, off to have fun. Well, I’ll be right back . . .”

Y’all. She said “y’all.”

Jerry came out and slid into the booth. “You order yet? Did you see that waitress?”

“Nope. Waiting for you. I’ve got manners. Of course I saw her. How do you think the coffee got here?”

He had rubbed water through his hair to smooth it down and the result, along with the dark circles under his eyes, made him look like a dead raccoon. When the waitress returned – her name tag said “Connie” – we ordered the breakfast special. Eggs, grits, bacon, sausage, toast, and southern-style potatoes. Neither of us knew what grits were, but they were on the menu with just about every meal combination, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Connie laughed and said they were made from mashed up corn. She pronounced it “mayshed.”

“You boys are Yankees, I reckon?”

Jerry answered immediately. “Yup. We’re from a long way from here, Toledo, Ohio. We’re Yankees all right. Toledo could be part of Michigan, we’re so close. You ever been to Toledo? We make all the glass that’s in this restaurant, probably. That’s what we’re famous for.” I watched his bloodshot eyes as he watched the loose buttons at the top of her tight HoJo tunic. That was Jerry’s M.O.: Talk fast, keep it loose, distract your prey, move in, bingo! Success! You’re gonna get laid!

She half-smiled at Jerry’s verbal torrent.

“Y’all talk fast, too. So, you’re on your way to Florida. I was there once before I got divorced. I love the ocean.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jerry said before she finished saying “ocean.” Which was complete bullshit. Neither of us had ever been near an ocean, much less been in one. He kept going.

“I love walking in the sand, you know, barefoot. How ‘bout you? It’s tickle-y, right?”

“Tickle-y? Well, it’s not tickle-y when you get it into the bottom of your bathing suit. More like gritty.” Yeah, she was playing, too, strumming Jerry like a banjo. “You ever get sand in your bathing suit?”

He stopped scraping grape jelly out of the little packet and onto his toast and looked up at her.

“Oh, yeah, I have. I really have. And you know what?”

Whut . . .?”

“That’s when I take my trunks off and go in the water naked!” Jerry was deep in the game. An expert working his way to a few minutes in the back room.

Connie grinned. “Well, Ah’ll be. Naked, huh? Yeah, I’ve done that. I love to swim nekkid, usually in the river, but Ah’ll bet it feels good in the ocean and all. But I’d be a little afraid somethin’ might come up and bite me. I’d hate for somethin’ to bite me, ‘specially if Ah’m nekkid. But, I cain’t wait for summer. Anything ever bit you?”

Jerry had stopped eating. For a second I thought he’d stopped breathing. Like I had.

“In the ocean?” His voice had gotten very dry. I decided to stay silent, afraid my throat would slam shut if I even tried to talk.

“Or . . . anywhere,” she said with a wicked smile.  “You know . . . a bite’s a bite, right? Little ol’ teeth marks . . ”

Before he could answer, the bell over the entrance rang signaling someone had come in. Goddammit!

“Gotta tend to business, boys. Be back in a minute.” She turned and walked toward the front of the restaurant. A black man had entered and stood waiting at the end of the long, white counter. Connie was half-way there when she stopped and put her hands on her hips.

“What do you want in here?” she said, louder than necessary.

“Yes’um. I wanted to get a cup of coffee cuz it’s awful cold out there, and . . .” Connie interrupted him, “You know you’re not allowed in here. You know that!”

“Yes’um, I do, I really do. But, just a cup of coffee or even hot water will do. In one of those cardboard cups so I don’t get nothin’ dirty.”

Jerry and I stared at this pitiful little drama and the Connie that had emerged.

“James Lewis, you’ve been told not to enter this restaurant. Do you want me to call the police? If you want a cup of hot water, go around in back and wait. I’ve got customers in here.”

“Yes’um. I surely will. Around in back. Yes’um.”

He turned and walked out. We watched as he moved slowly along the side of the building and disappeared. Connie came back to our booth.

“Sorry about that, boys. We’ve old him over and over not to come in and he just won’t listen.”

“Why can’t he come in,” I asked? “He just wanted coffee.”

Connie wiped her hands on the front of her apron and looked at me as if I were the stupidest son-of-a-bitch on earth.

“Why? Well, if we let that one come in, then every nigger in Lexington will say, ‘Let’s go over to that Howard Johnson’s. They serve colored people.’ And then what? We lose our business, that’s what. White folks won’t eat where niggers have used the silverware. So, no, he can’t come in here. None of ‘em can.”

The conversation about swimming naked seemed a long time ago and far away.

She went on. “See, what it is, you boys aren’t from here so you don’t know what our laws are. We have to have it this way. They’ve got nigger restaurants on the south side of town. He could go there if he’s so cold.”

I still couldn’t understand what the big deal was. A black man in Lexington, Kentucky, couldn’t get a cup of coffee on a freezing morning? In a paper cup? Not a real cup, a fucking paper cup?

“Boys, I gotta get to work.” We stood and put our coats on. She laid the check on the table and scooped up our plates and silverware. “Nice talking with y’all. Have a good trip. Wish I was goin’ with you.” Jerry’s head jerked up.

“But . . . gotta stay here and work. Got a kid at home, and no husband. Sorta’ makes things a little more difficult, you know what I mean? And you . . . (she pointed at Jerry), don’t let too much sand get in your swimmin’ britches!”

We dropped three dollars and twenty-five cents on the table and walked out. The twenty-five cents was for Connie.

 

 

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

-3-

 

           I drove slowly down Main Street. Slowly, because I damn sure didn’t want to get pulled over by a Lexington cop. “No license, boys? You are driving through my city with no license?” And then off to jail where we’d be beaten, sodomized, and disappeared so our families could never find us. That’s what happened in Southern jails, especially to Yankee boys who were obviously up to no good whatsoever. We knew this because we had seen the movie, “I Am A Fugitive From A Georgia Chain Gang.” Nothing but really gruesome shit would happen to us if we vanished into a Southern jail.

           Jerry was sitting up front, very uncomfortable from the hard-on he still had from playing verbal grab-ass with Connie.

           “Would you fuck her, Malloy? I would have. Damn, she was sexy, right? And divorced! You know what that means, right?”

           “No. What does it mean?”

           “It means she’s experienced. And once they’re experienced they gotta have sex or they’ll go crazy! Gotta have it! That’s the way women are.”

           “And you think she wanted to do you?”

           “Hey, I could tell. She was looking at me with that gotta have it look.”

           “You’re out of your crawl space, pal. She no more wanted to fuck you than that old man who came in.”

           “That’s bullshit. She wanted me. I could see it all over her face. I’m serious, a divorced woman’s got to get the dick. It’s, like, a rule.”

           “Isn’t your mom divorced?”

           “That’s different, asshole. But, as long as we’re on the subject, have you gotten laid yet, or are you still just jerking off? I bet you’re still a virgin, right? I know what I’m talking about, trust me, about divorced women. They gotta screw or they’ll flip out, maybe commit suicide. For real.”

           Jerry’s “for reals” were always borderline ridiculous. I never could figure out where he got his information. But, it was part of his charm.

            “Thanks for the education, dude. I wouldn’t know shit if you didn’t enlighten me. You ought to teach a class. ‘The Sex Like Of The Divorced Woman, Except My Mother.’ And whether or not I’m getting laid is my business. You think I haven’t had chicks in my apartment? Gimme a fucking break.”

           “Have you? The guys think you’re getting pussy every night. You’re getting quite a rep, my man. So? Are you?”

           “Right, Jer, every night. I fuck ‘em all, the long, the short, and the tall.”

           “I know you’re lying, right?”

           Yeah, I was still a virgin but I’d never admit it to Jerry. All that opportunity to get laid and I hadn’t yet figured out how to convince a girl to come to my room to, you know, help me with my Latin homework. There was a Catholic girls’ school – Notre Dame Academy – across the street from my apartment so it should have been easy, especially Wednesday nights after the little darlings had gone to Confession. The priest would tell them to say the requisite Hail Marys or Our Fathers and once through that bullshit ritual they would be cleared to do all sorts of nasty stuff for another week. Catholicism was great! A free pass every Wednesday.

A block from the school there was a soda fountain with a jukebox that had all the latest rock and roll songs. The girls would hang out there after Confession enjoying a few minutes of teen-age normalcy and a vanilla Coke until their curfew approached. Then the nuns would come out, stand in front of the school’s iron gates, and blow their shrill whistles. Like Pavlov’s dogs the girls would march out of the soda shop, back up the street, through the gates and into the courtyard of the gray, almost medieval-looking cluster of stone buildings, while I stood on the opposite corner with what I hoped was a look of both lust and experience, waiting for a couple of them to run across the street, grab my arms, and demand we go up to my room and have wild sex. If only I had the magic words, especially if they were in Latin.

 

           ________________________________________________________________________

           We were running out of Main Street and about to rejoin the Dixie Highway when we saw him standing on the curb, half hidden in the deep morning shadows. His shoulders were drawn up against the cold, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, a muffler drawn tight around his neck. A small duffel bag and a guitar case leaned against a street sign sticking up out of the snow. As we got closer he un-hunched his shoulders and stuck out his thumb.

           “Wanna pick him up? He looks like he’s freezing his ass off.”

           “What do you think?” Jerry answered. “What if he’s an escaped convict, you know, a murderer. Then what do we do?”

           “A murderer? A prison escapee? With a guitar and a duffel bag? Gimme a fucking break, pal. Do you want to pick him up or not?”

           “Up to you, man. You’re driving.”

           “Yeah, but if he’s a killer he’ll get both of us.”

           “We can put him in the back seat. If he tries to kill one of us, the other one can grab him and knock the shit out of him.”

           “Sounds like a plan, Jer.”

           I pulled to the side of the street, up against a bank of snow that had been pushed to the side by the city’s street department, and opened the door.

           “C’mon in! You’re turning blue!”  Jerry cracked up. That was some funny shit. A colored guy turning blue.

           He climbed over the top of the snow bank and slid down to the open door, duffel and guitar case dragging snow with him.

           “Wow, man. Thank you for stopping! Thought I was gonna freeze to death.” He was checking out his potential ride, looking quickly from the front seat to the back. I know what he was thinking. What if we were murderers, escaped convicts who had stolen this shit-box of a car and were looking for more victims? He decided to risk it all. He pushed his duffel and guitar case into the back seat and climbed in.

           “So, what’s your name, man?” Jerry asked.

           “Chuck. Yours?”

           “Jerry, and the funny looking lad driving is Mike. Where are you heading?”

           “South. All the way to Florida. Can’t stand this snow and wind and shit, y’know? I got a gig in Tampa, a coffee house, The House of Seven Sorrows. I’m a musician.” That explained the guitar case. “How about you two?

           “Same as you, pal. Coming from Ohio, going to Florida. Clearwater to be exact. I don’t think it’s far from Tampa. My great-aunt has a place there. That’s where we’re staying.”

           “Damn! That’s just across the bay from Tampa. This is cool,” Chuck smiled. “One ride all the way. Mind if I smoke?”

           Jerry and I glanced at each other. “Well, maybe we’ll take you all the way. I mean if you don’t get on our nerves,” I said. “Go ahead and smoke. But we have to have an agreement, here. If things get uncomfortable you got to bail, agreed?”

           “Agreed. I won’t get on your nerves, really. I can sleep back here and stay real quiet.”

           “Sure.” All this preliminary checking out the situation was getting tiresome.

           “So, you boys are from Ohio. I was worried some local would pick me up and I’d have to listen to ‘nigger’ this and ‘nigger’ that. Here it is, straight up,” Chuck said, leaning forward and resting his arms on the back of the front seat, “see, I just got out of the hospital back there. In Lexington.”

           Oh, shit. “What was the problem?” Jerry demanded. No way we were going to be cooped up with someone recuperating from god knows what for the rest of the trip, some weird contagion. We still had two days and a night’s travel ahead of us. And then the beach. No time for some bullshit disease screwing everything up.

           Chuck hesitated and took another deep drag on his cigarette. He let the smoke drift slowly from his nostrils. “Man, I sure missed a good smoke. They didn’t allow it in there.”

           “Right, but what were you there for? Were you sick or something?” I let Jerry handle the interrogation.

           “Yeah, well, I guess you could say that,” Chuck slowly answered. “I was in the federal hospital where they send people with a drug, you know, situation, if they don’t send you to prison. The hospital is like a prison, though. No bars on the windows or locked cells, but if you walk away you go to the federal slam and serve your full sentence with five years tacked on for escaping.

           “When the judge sentences you, in New York anyway, where I’m from, if you’re a junkie he offers you a choice. Jail or the hospital.  I took the hospital. Three years, man. A real mind-fuck. The only thing that kept me from losing my shit completely was thinking about getting out and back on the circuit. It was weird, man, you have no idea. They were doing this thing on some of us called “behavior modification” or some shit like that, and that was the scariest part because they said they were changing your thoughts, rearranging your thinking, disconnecting things in your head so you wouldn’t want dope anymore. They said it was a new idea and it was gonna help us. Bullshit, man. We were an experiment, a fucking experiment. Just like they always do to us.”

           He frowned, his face tightening into anger. “Scared the shit outta me, man. I was afraid I’d forget my music, y’know? Maybe forget my name! Motherfuckers . . .”

           Jerry missed Chuck’s mood completely. “A real drug addict. Damn. I bet that was a bitch, right? Malloy is on his way, too.” He jerked his thumb in my direction. “He’s gonna wind up there someday, in that hospital. He steals his mother’s diet pills! Swallows ‘em like Lifesavers. Right, Mikey?”

           “Fuck you. That’s unreal, Chuck. Sounds like something from a movie. Do they do alcoholics, too? Like my buddy Jerry here. He’d inject booze if he could. Right into a vein. Drinking that nasty shit is too slow.”

           Chuck gave a both a quick look, as if he might have made a mistake getting into the car. Maybe it would’ve been better to stay in the cold, wait for the next car to stop. What kind of crazy shit were these two white boys into?

           “Yeah, there’s an alky ward there,” Chuck continued. “Lotta screaming, too. People drying out, coming off heroin, cocaine, you name it. Some of ‘em die right up in there. I’m telling you, the place is a nightmare. But, it was go there or the federal pen. No way I was going back to prison.”

           “Back to prison?”

           “It was no big deal, man. Car theft a few years ago. When you have a monkey riding your ass, you gotta feed it or it will thoroughly beat the fuck out of you. That’s what heroin does. A couple of years and I got out for good behavior. And, then this last time they gave me a choice: hospital or back to the pen. That was an easy choice.”

           So, we had picked up a black ex-con, a former heroin addicted car thief who had had his thoughts “rearranged” during experiments in a federal hospital. Great. Was he really a musician? Was the guitar case empty? Was he insane? Should I ask him to get out, get back on the side of the road? Freeze his ass to death?

           Jerry changed the subject. “So, what kind of music do you play?”

           Chuck smiled, “There’s only one kind, man. The blues.” He moved his duffel bag and guitar around, trying to get comfortable. “You boys mind if I close my eyes for a minute? I was awake all night in the bus station pretending I was waiting for a bus.”

           Jerry turned back around. “Hey, go ahead. Get some Z’s. There’s a pillow back there somewhere.”

           Within minutes, Chuck was slumped against his guitar case, asleep, his drooping head shifting from side to side as the road curved.

           “Why did he have to pretend he was waiting on a bus,” Jerry half-whispered, as if I knew.

           “Dunno, pal. Ask him when he wakes up. Maybe because they don’t want people hanging around unless they’ve got a ticket.”

           “So, what do you think?” he asked. “We gonna take him all the way to Tampa?”

           “Sure, why not? When he wakes up maybe he’ll play some music.”

           Jerry was considering what taking our passenger all the way to Tampa meant. “Shit, there goes my bed, right? If he’s back there the rest of the way. And what if we’re stopped? No drivers’ licenses and a colored guy in the back seat. In the South? Two white guys and a colored guy and a car with Ohio license plates? Damn!”

           “Relax, Jer. What could possibly go wrong?” I swallowed another diet pill and felt the rush of energy. I wanted to drive forever.

 

 

           Early afternoon. The weather had changed. It was warm. The sunlight was dancing in the trees, flashing into my eyes and momentarily blinding me every few hundred yards. The road was clear and dry, the sky was a soft blue, and the air rushing through the open windows smelled like Spring. Beautiful.

           Chuck woke up from his nap, coughing like he was going to bring up a lung.

           “Damn, I’m . . . sorry,” he managed between gasps for air. “Too much . . . fresh air, I guess.”

           “Sounds like TB,” Jerry volunteered. “You got TB?”

           “I doubt it. Been locked in for three years. Just tired.”

           “Too noisy to sleep in the train station last night?” I asked.

           “Naw, it was quiet in there. Hard to sit on those wooden benches all night, though. Couldn’t lie down and no trains until early this morning.” He paused. “Then I had to leave, get out on the street, before people started coming in.”

           “Why’d you have to leave so early? Couldn’t you stay there until it got a little warmer out? You, know, wash up, brush your teeth?”

           “We can’t do that down here, man. There’s rules. They catch us what they call ‘loitering’ and they’ll put us out weeding tobacco for some dirt farmer. And, they’ll keep a Negro doing that for as long as they want. Colored folk can disappear into shit like that. Just like slave times. So, I had to get outta there before someone realized I wasn’t in there waiting for a train.”

           “Couldn’t you just say you were cold? You had to come in to warm up a little?”

           Chuck was looking at me through the rear-view mirror. “You boys don’t know ‘bout any of this stuff, do you. Look, it’s different up north. They can run you off up there by insulting you or threatening to beat your ass, but you can’t be put out on some damn farm. Laws? Shit, man, laws aren’t for us. They’re for white people. And, down here? We gotta keep moving. Always been that way.”

           I tried to imagine feeling what Chuck was telling us. Afraid to nod off in a train station?

What he was saying went way beyond the segregation we learned about in our history and government class.

           We drove on. The miles were rolling by, now that the weather was clear and dry. I couldn’t get over how quickly it had changed. Early this morning, snow and ice. Here it was late afternoon and it felt like a warm spring day. Really warm. We were coming up on another small Tennessee town and when I came around a bend in the road, tucked between two brick bungalows, there was a Dairy Queen.

           “All right! Ice cream! I’m gonna stop. Anybody want one? Jer? How about you, Chuck?”

           I pulled into the gravel parking lot. “You guys go ahead,” Chuck said. “I’ll duck down in the seat so no one can see me. No shit, now, with this Ohio car and you two white boys, well, you don’t want these cracker-ass fools to see me. Might get awkward.”

           So, there it was again. The sort of racism I had only read about. It was scary as hell to realize all three of us might be in serious trouble if Chuck was seen in our car. And, it made me angry.

           But, in that particular moment, fuck it. I wanted an ice cream cone. Jerry and I got out of the car and walked to the order window. Did I want vanilla or chocolate? Chocolate. So, I went to the other window to order, the chocolate window.  Jerry was getting vanilla so he stayed at the vanilla window. There we were, a couple of tired, hungry, road-weary delinquents, on our way to Florida waiting on our ice cream cones. The two middle-age women inside started acting strange. They served Jerry but kept looking at me and whispering to each other. Looking and whispering. I couldn’t figure out why they wouldn’t come over and take my order. All I wanted was a fifteen-cent chocolate ice cream cone. Was there a problem? Jerry walked back to the car and leaned against the hood, licking his vanilla ice cream cone, and watching whatever the fuck was going on. I was getting impatient. “Excuse me,” I said through the closed server window. “Can I get a chocolate cone?” More looking and whispering. And, something new. Sneering. The women were sneering at me, that curled lip look that said you’re an asshole. What the hell was going on? Jerry figured it out.

           “Hey, man, You’re at the wrong window.”

           “What wrong window? I want a chocolate cone, right? This window is for chocolate cones. Look at the goddam sign up there! It says . . . “  Oh, shit. It said “colored.” Not as in chocolate ice cream. As in skin color.

           I walked over to the proper window. “Can I get a 15-cent chocolate cone, please?” I asked the woman standing nearest the window.  She looked at me like I had just said, “Hi, can I get a piece of ass, please?”

           She grabbed a cone, filled it with chocolate Dairy Queen, opened the window screen and pushed it out. “That’ll be 15-cents,” she snarled. Christ, the other one was probably in back calling the local KKK chief. I could guess what she was saying. “Hey, Lloyd? Yeah, it’s Sara Mae. Lissen, there’s a couple of fellers here looking to start trouble. One of ‘em just tried to order at the colored window. What? No, he’s white. Got Ohio license plates on their car, too. There’s two of ‘em. You might want to come over here and straighten things out. Might be some of those damn freedom riders. No, there’s no bus. They’re in a blue car with a rope tied on the front. One of those thick ropes. Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too. Okay, Lloyd. Hurry up. They look like criminals, for sure.”

           Jerry waved me over to the car. “C’mon. Let’s get the hell out of here. There might be a posse on the way over.”

           We got in the car. Chuck was lying down in the back seat laughing his ass off. “Damn,” he said between spasms, “that’s some funny shit! The chocolate ice cream window!” He was still laughing as I threw the gear shift into low, stomped the accelerator, and spun a barrage of gravel at the two bitches inside their glass ice cream shop.

 

 

           “Hey, Chuck,” Jerry turned half around in the front seat. “Do you have a driver’s license?” It was getting dark and I thought about pulling over and switching places so he could drive and I could try to come down from what was beginning to feel like a Benzedrine overdose. My hands were shaking, my pulse was off the chart, and that powerful “I can do anything” feeling had been replaced with a sense of impending doom.

           “Driver’s license?” Chuck answered. “Not after being locked in for three years, no, I don’t have one. Why?”

           Jerry smiled and took another slug from his remaining half-bottle of Old Grandad. “Well, I was hoping you had one because we don’t. Nope. No driver’s license.” He nodded in my direction, “My buddy here never got one and mine was suspended. Ain’t that some shit? Rippin’ through the South with no driver’s licenses. Yeeee-hawwwww . . .! Drive on, my man!”

           Chuck leaned forward and looked at both of us, first Jerry, then me. “You’re kidding, right? No? Well, you two are taking one hell of a chance. But, no, I don’t have one either.”

           Jerry laughed, “I’m not taking a chance. He is!” He jerked his hand towards me and whiskey spilled all over the front seat.

           “Goddam, man!” I couldn’t help yelling at him. The Dairy Queen episode had freaked me out and my drugged-up paranoia was starting to get worse.  “Now if we get stopped we’re in deep shit, dropping that cheap-ass whiskey all over the place. Smells like a fucking drunk tank in here!”

           Chuck must have felt it was time for some music, something to break the tension that suddenly filled the car. He took his guitar out of the battered case and, after a quick tuning, started to play. “Anything you want to hear?” he asked us.

           “Know any B.B. King?”

           “Oh, yeah,” and he launched into B.B. Boogie. He was good. Had the licks down as close to the way King would do it as anyone I’ve heard since. Then Shake It Up And Go, 3 O’clock Blues, Every Day I Have The Blues. It was our own rolling B.B. King concert. “He’s my man. You dig him, too, right? But, you know what? All this so-called Negro music is getting’ taken by white musicians, white rock and roll, right? Like, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis and all these other white boys are making baskets of money off songs black singers never got paid for. It’s our music, for sure, but who gives a shit. Black folk just don’t get credit. For nothin’ good. Pisses me off, it really does.” He had stopped playing and was staring out the window. “Shit just never stops, man.”    

           I had no idea what he meant. Rock and roll was just that. What connection did it have with what Chuck called “Negro music?” So, I asked him. “What do you mean Negro music and white boys stealing it? How did they steal it?”

           Jerry had passed out and was leaning against the door. His wet, rattling snoring was getting louder. I reached over and shook his shoulder. What if I opened his door and pushed him out? No. Don’t do that. Focus on driving.

           Chuck paused before answering me. Then, “Long story, my man. See, it started with gospel slave songs, the blues did. Slaves made it up to ease the pain. When they were allowed to go to church they’d sing all these songs about the pain and sorrow they had to deal with. And in the churches they found the rhythm, the rockin’ and rollin,’ like this one old song that says, ‘We been rockin’ and rollin’ in your arms , rockin’ and rollin’ in your arms, rockin’ and rollin’ in the arms of Moses.’ That’s how it started. Church singin.’ And before that were the slave ships that rocked and rolled when they were loaded up with Africans. And the ocean swells that caused so many of those brothers and sisters to get sea-sick and then get tossed overboard like garbage by the crews who got tired of hearing their wailing and screaming, got tired of the vomit and shit smell. And, the bodies, there were lots of bodies, can’t forget those. The sharks would circle the ships waiting for more corpses. You wanna guess how many Africans died on their way here to work as slaves?”

           How did we get to this horror story?  The subject was B.B. King! The subject was music! What was Chuck telling me? The drugs I had been swallowing became a pulsing spasm that was making me paranoid and sweaty.  Chuck’s story was going to unleash a scream if I didn’t get a grip. Outside, rushing past in a dark blur of pine trees and caved-in shacks, I thought I saw horses galloping beside us in the darkness. No. It was just the shadows of trees and utility poles.

            “Thrown overboard? In the middle of the ocean?? To drown? Jesus Christ, Chuck. I didn’t know about this, I never heard this before! We weren’t taught about this! This isn’t in our American History textbook. This is insane!” No, it wasn’t insane at all. It was just another cover-up, another attempt to bury a singularly evil part of U.S. history that white Americans had created from an insatiable and untethered lust for money and power. This “Christian” nation had forced a race of people into slavery to get the labor they needed to build their Empire. Slavery was just one obscenity among many. A collection of moral crimes committed so our “Manifest Destiny” could be realized. What a fucking joke.

           The incident at school right before Jerry and I left Toledo rushed back at me, vividly, not yet buried as a memory, made even more intense by the shit being pushed through my system by an ever increasing and angry heartbeat There it was: The effigy hanging in the oak tree, students wandering about under its silent violence, not knowing what to do or say, staring up at the thing, the sign around it’s waist that said, “HOMECOMING QUEEN.”

           Chuck leaned forward and rested his arms and chin on the back of the front seat.

“How many, Chuck? How many people died?” I asked, totally blown away by what he was telling me.

           I was trying to read the expression on his face as he laid out this murderous, violent history that I knew nothing about. What other pieces of the past were waiting for me to discover; bloody realities that would make me want to hide in disgust and shame.

           It was getting dark. It was difficult to see his face in the cracked rear-view mirror but, from his tone of voice, I knew his expression would be blank, empty. There was nothing I could say, no question I could ask that wouldn’t show my ignorance of a holocaust I knew nothing about.

           “Hey, look, man, it’s history, y’know? That shit happened a long time ago,” he said. “You ever smoke reefer? You know, Mary Jane? Weed?” The subject was being changed.

           “Not yet. I’ll do it someday, absolutely. I don’t know where to get it in Toledo.”

           “Wanna try some?”

           “You have marijuana with you? Right now?”

           “I do, indeed,” he answered. “And, no, I didn’t have any when I was a lab rat in that fucking hospital. But, I made friends with a guy who served his time, got out, he lives right there in Lexington, and he brought me a lid the afternoon I was freed. White guy, too. How about that?” he grinned. “I’ll roll one up.”

           He leaned back in the seat, opened his guitar case, and pulled out a large envelope. “Just take me a minute.”

           “Okay, but I’ve taken quite a few diet pills, Dexedrine, in the last day or two. It’s really fucking me up right now. Things are a little out of focus, y’know? Will reefer make it worse?”

           Chuck laughed. “Naw, it’ll take the edge off. Meth is the one that’ll really fuck you up, man. What’s your dose?”

            “Dose?”

           “Yeah, how much are you doing?”

           “I grabbed a handful of my mom’s dirt pills before we left. I took quite a few, I think, but only to make this trip.” I thought I’d feel better if I confessed. “But, man, I’m feeling weird as hell all of a sudden. I see light trails every time I move my head. What the fuck?”

           Chuck leaned forward and held out the joint. “Have you eaten lately?”

           “I don’t think so.” I couldn’t remember. There was an ice cream cone at some point, does that count? “Does an ice cream cone count?” I took the joint.

           Jerry sat up. “You fucked up, Mikey? Wha’s happening? I been telling you for years you’re weird”

            “I haven’t known you for years. Thought you were asleep,” I said.

           “I was, until all this funny dope talk. I told you to take it easy with those caps. You think he’ll have a heart attack, Chuck? That shit causes heart attacks, right?” he said with a big smile. That’s my buddy Jerry. Funny guy. Yeah, well, that’s all I needed to hear. Heart attack? Out here on this dark two-lane? Somewhere in the Tennessee backwoods surrounded by armed hillbillies? I could feel the panic building.

           Chuck was laughing, too. “That is a possibility. Maybe a stroke!”

           “Damn! No offense, Chuck, cuz I don’t know you that well, but, fuck you, okay? You two are making this worse.”

           “Hey, I’ll drive, Mikey,” Jerry offered.

           “In a pig’s ass, you’ll drive. You’ve had too much to drink.” No way in hell I’d be in a car Jerry was driving, drunk or sober. He knew only two speeds: dead stop and speeding bullet.

           “Here,” Chuck said again. “Take this, fire it up, you’ll feel a lot better.”

Jerry pulled out his lighter and held it near my face. The flame obliterated everything except the car’s interior and the white lights dancing at the edge of my peripheral vision . “Here ya’ go, Mikey. I want to see you get high.”

           I sucked in a thick drag of pungent smoke and felt it burn all the way down my throat and into my lungs. Pow! When I stopped coughing, Chuck said, “That happens. First time tokers always sound like they’re gonna bring up a lung. Do it again, this time slower when you inhale. Reefer’s your friend. So, be gentle. Don’t rush it.”

           So, this was marijuana. “Is that it?” I asked Chuck. “So, what’s the big deal?” The joint – Chuck’s word – looked exactly like the bottom of a penny sucker, the white stick you held on to that always gets sticky. Over the next few seconds, I took another two or three puffs. High? Did I get high? Stoned? Hard to tell, except when I said, ‘Is that it?’ my voice came from back seat Mike, the one sitting on top of Chuck’s duffel bag watching front seat Mike drive.

           “How do you feel?” Chuck wanted to know. He paused, then . . . “I probably should have told you, that’s not plain weed. It’s got a little booster in it, something just a few of the patients were given. I found it late at night when I was wandering the halls trying to find an unlocked door, some way to escape. I went into one of labs and found a flask of clear liquid and someone had written on the label, ‘Exp. Only. Extreme Caution. Use only under Dr. Behr’s direct supervision.’ I poured a little into a small bottle I found on one of the shelves and took it back to my room. I was really down that night, tired of all the shit I was dealing with just because I’d been caught selling a couple of grams of “boy” – that’s what we call heroin on the street, cocaine’s called “girl.” I didn’t know what would happen if I took some, but, everything was fucked up so I didn’t really care. Anyway, I swallowed a little and a minute or two later started seeing all sorts of interesting patterns and colors and shit like that. It was so cool. And, I felt happy. No shit. Happy. So, I picked up my guitar and started playing music I seemed to know, but I’d never heard before, right? It was way strange. I should have written everything down but I didn’t have a pencil. I have no idea where that music came from. So, you know, not all reefer is as good as what you’re smoking. Most of it will just make you a bit spacey, hungry, feeling like you’ve got to have a Hershey’s with almonds. What you have there is different. But, it’s cool. Won’t hurt you a bit.”

           Back seat Mike agreed. He could feel his muscles start to uncoil. His head felt weightless. Time to rejoin front seat Mike, though, before the uncoiling went too far and Chuck and Jerry would have two Mikes in the car.

           Click. One Mike.

           “Well, that was strange. This is really . . . I don’t know . . . warm and quiet. Yeah, that’s it. All that constant chatter that goes on in your head, y’know? It’s all stopped.”

           “Well, enjoy,” Chuck offered. “I’m gonna get some sleep. Wake me if it gets weird.”

           Right. Wake him if it gets weird. It already was weird. Back seat Mike, front seat Mike, that was weird. The road was deserted. It must have been past midnight. I hadn’t heard a sound from Jerry for what seemed like hours. Maybe it was hours. His head had fallen back against the window, his mouth open, his arms loose and laying on his thighs. He was snoring. I was trying to decide if I should wake him up, but no, let him sleep. While I was still looking at Jerry the first bear flashed by, outside, sitting by the side of the road, holding a rabbit. I almost missed seeing it. The bear was white, the rabbit was brown and it had extra big ears. There was no reason to question it. The bear wasn’t bothering anything, just staring straight ahead, a slight smile raising the corners of his snout. The rabbit seemed content to sit where it was. Then the second bear flashed by, and the third. Each was holding a rabbit, it’s bear claws wrapped around the rabbit’s midsection. More bears flew by. I tried to count them, but they were going by too quickly. They were literally zipping past me, one after the other? Or was I still driving? Was the car still moving?

           I shouted for Chuck to wake up. I needed someone to tell me if the bears and the rabbits were moving or sitting still. But, the shout was all in my head. There was no sound no matter how loud I thought I was yelling. I glanced down at the speedometer. It read 25 miles per hour. But, how could that be? The black trees alongside the road were distorted, ripping by as fast as the bears and rabbits. We had to be going 80 or 90 miles an hour. No, the speedometer showed 25.

           Things were going seriously  bat-shit crazy. I kept glancing at the speedometer as I pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The Olds seemed to leap ahead. Forty, fifty, sixty miles an hour, faster and faster until the bears were nothing but a white blur, a washed-out contrast to the inky shadows rolling by in the deep darkness.

           I had to stop the car, see if the bears were real, get a grip on whatever the hell was happening. I slowed down. A few hundred feet ahead there was a clearing, a road-side rest area. In the shadows, I could see there was a picnic table and some sort of structure. Perfect.  I pulled in to this tiny oasis and stopped the car. There were no bears. No rabbits. Just deep and profound silence. I turned to wake them up, but Jerry and Chuck were not in the car. They had vanished. No, not vanished. Ridiculous. I must have let them out to take a piss at some point. Did I drive off and leave them? When did I do that? We hadn’t come through a town or passed a truck stop. How did they get out of the car?

           I reached into the glove box for the flashlight and got out of the car. There was no use worrying about where they were. They weren’t here.

           I walked over to the picnic bench, sat down and moved the flashlight’s beam slowly around the rest area. There was trash and debris scattered under the table, bits of bread, chicken bones, a shredded sandal. The silence gave way to night noises coming from the woods, small sounds, chirps, wings beating against the night, tree frogs. The highway I had just turned off was empty. I couldn’t remember seeing or passing any other cars. Maybe I was the first person to use it. Or the last.

           Then, under the forest sounds, I could hear something different, shuffling, low murmuring, dead leaves crunching and small twigs snapping, as if people were moving through the brush. I pushed the flashlight beam into the darkness.

          

 

           _________________________________________________________

 

-4-

 

           Something was moving through the woods. I turned the flashlight toward the sound and saw what appeared to be figures, people, walking in a single file, the shapes broken and fragmented by the shadows in the thick underbrush.  All at once they stopped, frozen in the scattered beam of light, not moving.

            There was silence. The night sounds had stopped. The forest was deep and dark, as if daylight would never return. What the hell?

           Then, a man’s voice from the shadows, deep, slow and hesitant: “Hullo . . .Is . . . you him? Are you de conductor . . . we s’posed to meet? Is you dat man?”

           “What . . .? Who are you?” My voice was dry and weak. I followed the beam of light into a small clearing where the shadows morphed into people. There must have been fifteen of them huddled together, standing silently. They were barefoot and dressed in muddy rags that hung from their dark, skeletal bodies. Their heads were bowed, they were silent, a tableau that was saturated with silent pain and palpable terror. Out of the darkness, a tall man slowly approached me, two or three hesitant steps at a time. He seemed to be the leader. His hands were large and knotted and hung at his sides. His face was half-covered with a white beard, thick with brambles and clumps of dirt, that reached to the middle of his chest. He asked again, slowly, hesitantly.

           “Are you . . . da man we sposed’ to meet? Are you dat conductor?”

 

 

           “Conductor?” I replied. “Like on a train?”

           “Yas’suh, like dat. Dat freedom train. Is you who we s’posed to meet out heah?”

           “I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know what this is all about? Who are you folks?” Fear slid across his face.

             “You ain’t him? Oh, Lawd. Please, now, suh, jest leave us be, let us go on.” His voice had an edge of panic, the words tumbling out now, difficult to understand.  “We have chirren in here. We not lookin’ to be a trouble, sho’ ‘nuff. Aw, please, suh, we got to keep movin’. We got to move on. Got to find dat conductor. Don’ tek us back dere, suh, please.” A muffled cry, cut short, came from the middle of the line. “Dese heah babies dey be tired and hungry. Please, now, suh, jest let us go on.”

           Babies? In this deep forest? “Mister, shouldn’t these kids be home this late at night?” I asked, trying to sound rational, but my chest was tightening, my heart beating faster. I wanted to run back to the car. I started to turn . . .

           The bearded man suddenly dropped to his knees, his hands clasped and raised in front of him, as though he were praying to me. Absolute panic choked his words.

“Please, suh . . . don’ take us back there.”

What the fuck? 

“Please, suh. Mastuh’ Brannon will bile us . . . like he done de others. He will, sho’ ‘nuff. He say any niggahs dat run away gon’ be biled and fed to dem hogs. Please suh!”

           He leaned away from the circle of light as though it would burn him. “Dat torch, suh, please don’ let it harm the chirren. Please don’ burn ‘em. Dey jest babies . . .”

           “It’s just a flashlight, mister,” I said. “It can’t hurt the kids. Or anybody. Torch? This no torch. It’s batteries. That’s what’s making the light.” I was explaining a flashlight?

“What is this? Who are you people? Are you lost? What do you mean someone’s going to ‘bile’ you? I don’t know that word, ‘bile.’” The others stayed silent and unmoving. The only sound was the unhinged conversation between the tall man me, and the night-whispers from the woods.

           The tall man stood and, head down, slowly answered. “That white man,” he looked back into the woods, “whut owns the place back dere, we be his slaves. He’s da one who say he’ll bile us, cook us, like biled yams. And den he feed us to da pigs.” His head dropped to his chest. “Thet’s whut he done to da others, screaming and hollerin’ and bein’ pushed into thet bilin’ pot in back da big house where dey took ‘em after dey cotched dem hidin’ in da’ swamp.” As he described this horror his voice rose and fell, from a whisper to a shout. “Da’ whole fambly, all dem, one after tha’ other, screamin’ and beggin’ and shoutin’ fo’ Jesus and thet white man jus’ pushin’ dem under the bilin’ water, one at a time wid’ a long stick, the chirren fust den dey’s momma and den dey’s daddy and dey’s momma an’ daddy be watchin’ dey’s chirren git cooked like yams and screamin’ such as nevah’ bin heard, an’ den made dem othah’ niggas’ take sticks and lift da’ bodies out da water like biled meat an’ dat smell and put ‘em in da wagon and den ovah to whea’ dey keeps da pigs and da pigs be gittin’ all runnin’ aroun’ and snortin’ cuz dey knew it wuz gittin’ time to eat . . .” He stopped. His breathing was heavy and labored. His hands had curled into fists. Tears rolled down his face. The horror of what he was saying filled the small clearing and made it stink of boiled meat. I stared at him . . . .

           Jesus Fucking Christ! Jesus Bleeding Fucking Christ!

 This must be a horrible nightmare! This old man can’t be real. That’s it, I’m asleep in the car. This is a dream. It has to be a dream. It was not a dream, not at all. The tall man’s words, his description of people being boiled alive, was pure horror, impossible not to see the agony, impossible not to hear the screams. I felt disoriented, nauseous, unable to understand what was happening. I tried again. “Who are you? Are you lost? Why are you out here in the middle of the night?”

           His voice was weak, exhausted. “Suh, I done tole you. I truly did. Tole you jest now, suh. We tryin to git to dat conductor and de railroad, the one dey be talkin’ ‘bout. Iffn we don’ go we gon’ die an’ no one evah know we lived. Please, suh, we got to git to thet railroad, thet one dats in de ground. We don’ mean no trouble, suh, we jest got to go on.”

           Un-fucking real. The whole scene was beyond my comprehension. There were no reference points I could center on, nothing that made sense.

“Look, mister, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I know you need help. Do you want me to try to find a pay phone and call the Sheriff?”

“Oh, Lawd no! NO, suh, don’ hollah fo’ a Sheriff.” Again, he had dropped to his knees, his hands clasped and raised to the night sky. “We come this far an’ nobody done heard us or seen us. Til you did. Now, we hopin’ thet even tho’ you be a white man you gon’ hep us. We jest need git to dat train, suh, and to dat conductor.  An’ we think it’s ovah dis way heah’.” He pointed into the forest. “Please suh, please . . .”

His eyes shone black in the fading beam from the flashlight. “Mister, I’m just traveling through this area. I’m trying to get to Florida. I don’t know about a train except there’s a station back in Lexington and that’s a long way from here. If there’s a train station around here, I have no idea. And, what do you mean it’s ‘in the ground?’”

“Suh, dats whut I knows ‘bout it. In de groun’. Dat’s how niggahs ‘scape. On dat train. We got to find it, suh.”

And then I understood what the tall man was trying to tell me. He was looking for the Underground Railroad. I had read about it in American History class. The slaves’ road to freedom in the 1800s. The route north all the way to Canada, if they made it. But, now? This was now!  There were no slaves. This was 1959 not 1859. So, freedom from what?

He raised his head and a look of fear and panic rippled across his face. “Suh, iffen you not de conductor, does you know him? Kin you tell me wheah’ he might be? We mus’ keep movin’, suh, til we find dat man lessen we git cotched and taken back to de place we dey make us work and beat us and kill us . . .  Lawd . . . please . . . ”

His voice trailed off. He got slowly to his feet. I could see, in the dim circle of light, the pain in every movement, as though his bones had been broken and healed and broken again.

“We gon’ go den, suh, iffen you don’ know nuffin’ ‘bout it. I got to take deese folks on to freedom. I done promised dem I would. Please, suh, let us go now. We don’ mean no harm . . .” He turned to the group of shadowy figures that had stood silent and motionless.

“Y’all come on, now. Dis man ain’t him, ain’t dat conductor. We got to keep walkin’. Y’all come on, dis man ain’t gon’ hurt us, naw he ain’t gon’ hurt us sho’ ‘nuff.”

           As when I had first seen them in the darkness, they formed a single line, the tall man at the front. He turned to me. “Now, please, suh, don’ let dem know we wuz dis way. Make it lak you nevah done seen us, suh. That’s all I be askin’ of you.”

           “Okay. I can do that,” I answered. That sounded so stupid, so nonsensical. But, what else could I say to these shades and this tall man who was leading them? There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. I stood there as they faded into the forest, moving silently, like ghosts. The darkness enveloped them and they were gone.

           It was suddenly silent. No chirping tree frogs, no wind moving the bare tree branches, no night raptors or bats moving through the air, hunting prey. I didn’t feel like moving. I felt as though I shouldn’t move, that standing there motionless was the safest thing I could do. Safe. From what? I didn’t know. But, something had been disturbed by their presence, something essential, something that could reveal answers to questions I hadn’t yet asked. It was there, at the dull edge of my consciousness, slipping away.

          

          

_________________________________________________________

 

-5-

 

There are valid reasons why certain stereotypes exist; they are drawn from models that are constant enough to create the particular stereotype. So it was with small town Southern sheriffs in 1950s America. Big bellied, hair cut short (high around the ears) the thatch on top plastered down with Wildroot Crème Oil, cheek bulging with a fist size lump of Red Man chewing tobacco, a holstered .44 caliber hand gun with a long barrel that added to its intimidation factor, khaki pants held up with a wide brass-buckled belt, open collar white shirt, grossly overweight, a supporter of the local Klavern (“Now, don’t you boys raise too much hell tonight. I sure ‘nuff don’t wanna have to lock you up. Ha-ha-ha. And make sure you don’t set the field on fire when you light up that ol’ cross, ya’ hear?”), a Deacon at the local Free Will Baptist church, a God-fearing Christian, and, absolutely convinced the South would have won The War of Northern Aggression if General Lee hadn’t run out of men at the battle of Appomattox Court House up there in Virginia.

And, there he stood – The Small Town Southern Sheriff – in the glare of his headlights and the clicking red light swinging round and round, throwing a circling blood-red glow from the road to the woods to the road to the woods . . .

“Now, I want y’all to do what I tell you and you won’t be in any more trouble than you are already. ‘Course, that’s probably gonna be a bunch.” He walked up to the driver’s side of the Olds and peered inside. “You the driver, boy?” he asked me, his tobacco breath forcing me to stifle an almost overwhelming urge to gag.

“Yes, sir, I am, sir,” I answered.

He aimed his flashlight inside the car. “And, who we got inside here? Well, looky here! I done found me a nigger! Lordy, this is my lucky night, sho’ ‘nuff. And, we got another white boy in here, too? My, my. I wonder what y’all are doin so far from home. Shoot, I bet it’s sumthin’ ugly.”

He hadn’t asked for my non-existent driver’s license. So far, so good.

“Now, you,” he pointed the beam into my face, “lemme see your license right quick.”

Shit.

“Well, sir, it’s like this . . .” I started to answer.

“They do give out driver’s licenses up in Ohio, right? That’s where y’all are from, ain’t that right? Says so on the plate on the rear of your car. You gonna show me your license, boy? Or are you hopin’ I’m just gonna git tired of askin’ and drive off and that’s the end of it?” He leaned into the road and spit out a mouthful of Red Man juice and coagulated spit.

“I don’t have one, sir.”

“You don’t have one.” Another stream of juice landed

“No, sir. I didn’t get one yet.”

“Well, then, Ohio, that raises a question. Why are you driving through my county late at night with a nigger in yore car and no driver’s license? Can you give me an answer right quick?”

Jerry leaned over the front seat. “Sir, he’s a good driver. Just ‘cause he doesn’t have a license don’t mean a thing.” Jerry was trying to be helpful.

“Boy, sit your ass back in there and shut your mouth, right quick now.” Jerry sat back and shut his mouth. Right quick.

           “Well, looks here like I’m gonna have to take y’all down to the jail. No license, Ohio plate on your car, and two white boys and a nigger sneakin’ through my county at 3:00 o’clock in the morning. Looks like we got a whole bunch of crimes happenin’ here. Now, y’all follow me into town and don’t even think about tryin’ to drive off. That’d be resisting arrest and then we got even more trouble. Understand?”

           “Yes, sir,” was all I could choke out. I felt the urge to gag again even though shit-breath was walking back to his car. He turned off the flashing red light and eased onto the highway in front of us. Then a looping U-turn and off we went to his jail.

           Chuck was the first to say anything. “Hey, let me out and I’ll take off. This fat-fuck sheriff has a thing for colored folk, no question. Just pull over and I’m gone. Seriously. All of a sudden, I’ve been caught in enemy territory and if that ol’ boy ain’t in the Klan I’m not in deep shit, and believe me, I know deep shit when I’m in it.” He was already pulling his duffel and guitar together. “For real, pal, I gotta go!”

           “I can’t Chuck. If I pull over and let you out this whole situation gets a lot worse. Jerry and I will wind up on a chain gang and they might hang your ass when they catch you. And you know they’ll catch you, right?”

           “Man, this is some serious shit. I don’t think you realize how serious.” Chuck was getting agitated.

           Jerry leaned over the front seat. “Hey, they wouldn’t do anything to you, Chuck. There’s two witnesses here.”

           “How long do you think your ‘two witnesses’ will be around to witness anything if these Crackers decide to have a little fun with the nigger? Huh?”

           I had an idea. “Wait. Wait. Chuck did they give you an I.D. card at the drug rehab place? The Federal Hospital?”

           “Yeah. So?”

           “Do you still have it?”

           “What the fuck difference does that make?”

           “Well, I’ve read that when the feds get involved with these local Southern assholes, the good ol’ boys start to act a little rational. The last thing they want is their crappy-ass county overrun with FBI agents. Once those agents start pokin’ around all sorts of criminal shit bubbles to the surface. So, if you still have your ID card with all the government stuff on it, it might be enough to confuse them and they’ll let us go. They might look at it and think you’re some sort of agent. Does it say inmate on it?”

           “You’re crazy, man,” Chuck answered as he dug into the duffel looking for his prison ID card. “Here it is, sweet Jesus. Turn on the dome light.”

           Chuck studied the card. “All right! It doesn’t say inmate at all. Just my name and photo and it was issued by the Federal Government in Washington by God DC!”

           “Then let’s try it. It’s the only possible way out of this, right?” I didn’t really believe it would work, but what were our options?

           “Mikey,” Jerry chimed in, “you’re a genius. He’s a genius, right, Chuck? Hey, you got an extra Kool? I’m out.”

 

 

           The city limits sign said, “Welcome to Horse Creek Crossing home of the 1956 Robert E. Lee High School State Champion Class A Football All-Stars The Mighty Rebels!” Under all that bullshit, “Population 13,000. The Lions’ Club meets Wednesday 10AM Sharp at Lucille’s Stop N Eat. We arrest speeders. Drive slow and you won’t go to jail.”

           Yeah, this was the South for sure.

           We made a couple of turns off Main Street and pulled in behind the Sheriff in the City Hall/County Jail gravel parking lot. Shit breath hoisted himself out of his squad car and waddled over to us.

           “Wal, that was right smart of you boys, not tryin’ to flee.” Another stream of tobacco juice arched into the night. “Now, y’all git out of that car and follow me inside. Leave your stuff in the car. You won’t be needing it for a while.” That last had an ominous sound to it and Chuck poked me in the back as if to say, “See man, I told you!”

           We walked into a brightly lit room that had a desk, a straight-back chair, a couple of filing cabinets, and a wooden bench that must have come from a church. Or maybe a funeral home. Nailed to one of the walls was a bulletin board covered with local announcements; upcoming church socials, garden club meetings, next month’s scheduled Klan rallies, the small-town gatherings that were the glue that held everything together and guaranteed order. On the desk, a oversize wooden plaque with gold embossed letters: Sheriff Roscoe P. Staunton.

Roscoe?

           “Now you boys set over there on that bench. And you,” he pointed to Chuck, “you come with me.”

           “Where you taking me?” Chuck asked. “I’d rather stay here with these guys.” His hands were shaking.

           “Boy, I said come with me. Ain’t gonna hang you. Ha-ha-ha! Yore ass is going into a cell back here. Ain’t gonna take no chance of you runnin’ out the door. I know ‘bout you niggers.”

           Jerry stood up. “Sir, Sheriff, we’ll keep an eye on him. He’s not going anywhere. Honest. But, we’d like to stay together. You know, sitting out here in your friendly office.” Friendly office?

           Sheriff Asshole turned to Jerry. “You better sit yore ass down, son. And, shut up. Yore gonna talk yourself into more trouble than yer already in. Sit!”

           Jerry sat.

           My turn. “Sir, honest, we’d like to stay together here. We’re new in town, actually just passing through, don’t know a soul, and we’re on our way you see his (I pointed to Jerry) great-aunt in Florida.” I was talking too fast.

           Sheriff Asshole took Chuck by the collar and walked him over to Jerry and me. “Just passin’ through, huh? Maybe not. Maybe yore gonna be here for a while. Won’t know that til the judge comes in in the morning.” He looked at the clock over the desk. “’Bout three hours from now. Meantime, you boys shut up and jest sit there. Next time you talk, ‘less I talk to you, you’ll be in back with yore nigger friend. Do you understand?” His eyes had narrowed and a vein in his neck was throbbing.

           “Yes sir,” I said. “For sure we understand, right Jer?”

           “Yeah, I understand. I really do.”

           Sheriff Asshole turned, pushing Chuck ahead of him and the two of them disappeared behind a door that said “Jail.” We listened as their footsteps faded.

           “Jesus Christ!” Jerry whispered. “What are we gonna do?”

           “I don’t know. But, when that fat fuck comes back don’t say anything, okay? We gotta figure out what to do. This is scaring the hell out of me, Jer. I’ve read about people from up North just disappearing down here. They arrest somebody and that’s it. They’re gone!”

           The Sheriff came back and sat down behind the desk. He folded his hands, placed them on his fat gut and leaned back in his chair. From under his desk he pulled out a rusted can that in a different life must have contained tomatoes or beans or maybe okra. Now, it was his spit can. He spit a glob of brown saliva into the can. “Now, where you boys from in Ohio?”

           We blurted out, “Toledo.” Jerry added, “Where they make glass! We’re the glass capital of the world, sir. I bet the glass in the windows here in your office is from Toledo, right Mike?”

           “Oh, yeah, sure. I bet it is.” I wanted Jerry to shut the fuck up.

           But, he didn’t. “Most of the glass goes into new cars, you know windshields and like that. It’s good glass, too. Toledo makes the best glass ever! The best, right Mike?”

           I wanted to punch him.

           “I don’t wanna hear anymore about yore glass, boy. What is your name, both of you?” Brown spit.

           “Mike.”

           “Jerry. And, that’s Chuck you took away . . .”

           Sheriff Asshole leaned forward. “Now, I want the truth. You lie to me and yore mamas will never hear from you again. You hear me?”

           We both nodded. My throat was to dry to speak. Jerry looked like he was waiting for a beating.

           “What are you two Yankees doing in the middle of the night in my county? I asked you once, I better get an answer. Are you two and that nigger back there Communists? Agitators? Y’all down here to register our niggers to vote?”

           Before we could plead our denials, the door that led to the Jail swung open slowly. An old black woman pushing a wash bucket and mop started to enter.

           “Aw, I’m sorry, Sheriff! Honest I am! Din’t know you was talking with folks. I’ll come back later.”

           “Go ahead and come in here, Maylene. This floor looks like hogs been fuckin’ in here. Just clean around these Yankee boys. They just got arrested and none of that concerns you.”

           “Yessuh, Sheriff. All right, then. I’ll just get a bucket of clean water and be right back, Suh. Thank you, Suh.”

           Sheriff Spit turned back to Jerry and me. “Now, here’s how it’s gonna be. Judge Sessions don’t get in here ‘til eight o’clock. That’s when he starts his court.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “And ‘cordin to what it says here that’ll be in three, four hours. You boys can sit right here and wait real quiet like, or I can put you in back with your nigger.”

           Jerry raised his head and looked at the Sheriff. “Sir, no disrespect or anything but I don’t think you should say that about Chuck. Sir.”

           Sheriff Shit Head stood up so quick I thought he’d pass out from his blood pressure dropping. No such luck. His face got real red. “What did you just say, boy?” he bellowed. “Did you just tell me what I can and can’t do in my own jail? Is that what you just did?”

           Jerry turned whiter than usual. “No, sir,” he squeaked. “Not at all, sir. I just thought, you know . . .”

           “Boy, you don’t think when yore a prizner in my jail, you unnerstand? I do the thinkin’ here. Now, one more word outta either of you and you’ll wish Jesus was here to save you.” He paused. “Uh, you boys are Christians, right? Is either one of you a Jew?”

           I wanted to remind him he told us not another word or we’d need Jesus to help us but decided to let it slide. He lifted his tomato can and let loose with another stream of brown spit.

           “Well, are you?”

           “Sir,” I took a chance, ‘you said we had to shut up, remember?”

           “Wal, you answer that. You boys Jews or Christians?”

           I wanted to say we were Hindus, or followers of the Snake God. “Sir, Jerry and I are God-fearing Christians, right Jer?”

           “Right, Mikey. We’re Christians all right, Your Honor. “

           A slow sneer took shape on Sheriff Crucifixion’s face. “Then lemme hear you boys recite John 3:16.”

           “Yes, Sir.” Jerry began, “The Lord is my shepherd . . . “

           “He’s just kidding, Sir. It goes, ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son . . .’ “ and before I could get to the part about not dying, the phone on Sheriff Asshole’s desk rang. Before he answered it, another rivulet of spit splashed into the tomato can.

           “This is the Sheriff . . . oh, hey, . What’s up? He is? He did? Again? Okay, I’ll be there in a minute. Got a couple of prisoners here and we’re having Bible class but I’ll come get him and put his drunk ass in the tank. Hold him ‘til I get there. Naw, jest makin’ these criminals quote me some scripture. On my way.”

Before he walked out of the jail, he made very clear what would happen if we took off. “We’ve got a whole kennel full of hongry bloodhounds out back. They’re sleepin’ now, but if I wake ‘em up they’re ready to hunt down anybody that even thinks about leavin’ without my permission. Really nasty dogs, boys, so y’all just stay right here ‘till I git back. Ya hear?”

           “Yessir,” we both answered, as Sheriff Racist Pig closed the door behind him. We waited until we heard his car take off into the night to capture another law-breaking criminal.

           Jerry said it first. “What the fuck . . .? Is this real or are we in some Twilight Zone bullshit? This is really freaking me out, man. I mean, what if we wind up on a chain gang for the next 10 years?”

           “Yeah,” I answered, “this could turn out pretty awful. Look, we’ve got to find Chuck. He’s probably scared to death.”

           We walked over to the door marked “Jail,” the one Chuck had disappeared through, with Sheriff Ape Shit pushing him down the dark corridor. I opened it wide and shouted, “Chuck! Where are you? Are you in here?” He answered immediately.

           “Yeah! Here! The end of the hallway.”

           We walked down to the cell where Chuck was being held. He was sitting on a metal cot attached to one of the concrete walls.

           Well,” he said, “the I.D. card thing didn’t work. He looked at it and said, ‘Oh, you’re a drug addict, too.’ So, scratch that idea.”

           “Okay,” I answered, “but we’ve got to get out of here. Fast. You know what can happen. Nobody knows we’re here, I’m sure they think we’re trying to register Negroes to vote, no shit we are in danger.”

           We froze. The door at the end of the hall opened. I could feel my guts tighten.

           It was the cleaning woman, Maylene. “Who’s here? I hear y’all talkin’. Who’s up in this jail?”

           Chuck answered her. “Ma’m, it’s just us, the guys who the Sheriff brought in a few minutes ago. We’re just trying to figure out what to do.”

           Maylene came slowly down the hall, still pushing her mop bucket. “Oh, it’s y’all. Well, now, you boys are in trouble with this mean ol’ Sheriff. I heard what he’s been sayin’ to you. He’s just talkin’ to hear himself talk. He already knows what he’s gonna do with y’all. Iffn’ you boys can get away, you better do it before he comes back. He’s a terrible white man. He hates coloreds, and he hates it when he sees a white person even just talkin’ to a colored person.”

           Yeah, well, we sure as hell didn’t need to her that. Now, it was absolutely certain we had to get out of here, the jail and this shitty little Southern hell-hole, Horse Fuck Crossing or whatever it was called before Sheriff Death returned.

           Chuck was looking closely at Maylene. He was staring at what appeared to be a bulge under her faded shirt. Then, I saw it, too. A faint outline of, what? a bag? Her lunch?

           “Ma’m,” Chuck said quietly. “Is that something tied around your waist. Hidden under your shirt?”

           Maylene instinctively moved her hand to cover what Chuck had been staring at. “Now, you just never mind ‘bout that. You boys are in trouble wit’ the Sheriff and I’ve got to get these floors mopped.” She started to push the bucket back towards the hall door.

           “But,” Chuck said, “I’m guessing I know what that is. A bag of roots, maybe? And, other things, maybe things you use to help folks? And, I’m also guessing you’re a Root Lady!”

Maylene stared at Chuck, her eyes growing brighter in the dim cell light. “Boy, how you know ‘bout that? How you know what I am?”

           “I know all about Root Ladies! My grandma told me about you all and I know from my neighborhood in New York. I know what Root Ladies can do.”

           Maylene stared at Chuck. “Now, why you talkin’ like that in front of these white boys? They might tell on me. They might get me in trouble. Shame on you, now.”

           “Ma’m, they already know about Root Ladies. I told them all about it. No one’s gonna tell on you.” Jerry didn’t know what the hell Chuck was talking about. He had slept through Chuck’s tutorial. “But,” he went on, “we need your help to get out of here. Please.”

           “Why you boys in here, anyway? What y’all do? Couldn’t be murder or the Sheriff woulda’ put all y’all in a cell. Maybe worse than murder?” She paused, then slowly looked at each of us in turn. “Y’all here to sign folks up to vote? Is that it? You New Yawk boys down here to sign folks up? Lawd, that sho’nuff is worse than murder to these ol’ Crackers. I don’t know, now, and ‘sides I ain’t got the key to your cell, boy.” She turned to Jerry and me. “You two the ones got to figure this thing out.”

           I took a big chance. “Ma’m, we’ve already figured it out. We need your help.”

           “He’s right, Maylene,” Chuck said. “You can put that Sheriff to sleep soon as he gets back and then we can get Jerry’s car keys and be in Georgia before that fool wakes up. Please. You know what might happen if we don’t get out of here before that judge shows up. For real. Please, Ma’m.”

           Maylene continued to stare at Chuck, as though she was deciding if he was worth saving. Jerry and me? Since we were white I’m sure she didn’t much care or figured we’d be okay regardless of what happened. After all, the Sheriff was white and white folks always stick together. Except for when they don’t.

           Finally, she spoke, quietly. “All right. I’ll hep you. If they kill you boys, we’ll never get to vote.  Now, Sheriff always wants a cup of coffee this time of the morning if he’s here in the jail. I’ll fix it for him and you boys will have your chance. And, I know where he keeps the keys to these here cells so you (she pointed at me) can get this colored boy on out of here and y’all can git.”

           The three of us tried to thank her at the same time. Jerry reached out to hug her, but Maylene gave him a look that said, no, I don’t hug white folks. “He should be back soon, now, so I’ll jest go in back and make his coffee.” She pushed the mop bucket down the hall and disappeared around the corner. 

           Jerry was getting agitated. “Is this gonna work? What’s a Room Lady? Will one of you tell me what’s going on?”

           “Root Lady, Jer,” I answered. “Root. R-O-O-T.”

           “Okay, what’s a R-O-O-T Lady? She gonna poison the Sheriff? Holy shit, man. Murder? We’re gonna be charged with murder? In this jack-shit, backwoods hell-hole? Killing the fucking SHERIFF?! Are you serious??”

           “Man,” Chuck said, “keep your voice down. “There might be somebody here.”

           “Yeah, if there is we’re gonna have to kill him, too. Right? He’s heard the whole plot! Jesus Christ, Mikey! A double murder? We’re fucking doomed!”

           “C’mon, man. Damn! No one’s going to murder the Sheriff. Or anyone else. That cleaning lady, Maylene, knows how to heal people and help ‘em sleep and all kinds of stuff. You slept through Chuck’s story about Root Ladies. It’s real. She’ll put something in his coffee and he’ll just nod off long enough for us to get the hell out of Horse Fuck and cross the county line. Then we’re safe.”

           Just then we heard a car pull into the parking lot and stop. A door opened and closed and we could hear Sheriff Redneck warning someone. “Now, J.D., we’re goin’ into the jail and we’re goin’ real peaceful like and yore gonna sleep it off in one of the cells. No trouble, now, ya’ hear? I don’t wanna have to whomp yore ass with one of my dog chains. Is that clear? Peaceful. And quiet, too.”

           There was no answer, just a sullen grunt from J.D.

           Jerry and I slid back onto the bench and tried to look interested in the wanted posters and announcements on the cork board. The door opened and Sheriff Numb Nuts and a raggedy-assed looking redneck stumbled in. “Now, I tole you. I don’t want no trouble this time,” the Sheriff warned J.D. The guy was a wreck. Covered in mud and what appeared to be shards of broken glass. His hair was matted and god knows what kind of vermin were nesting there. He kept opening and closing his mouth like a fish in the bottom of a rowboat. I could see maybe two teeth still intact, although their yellow coating was a hint they would soon be broken off and spit out like the other 30 must have been.

           “Whar you takin’ me, Sheriff?” J.D. mumbled. “I don’ wanna be ‘round them dogs of yourn. Those bastards are vicious, should be put down, ‘specially thet red devil, whut you call ‘im? Brute. Las’ time I was here he damn near chewed off my arm, thet sumbitch.”

           “Well, J.D. that’s cuz you ran.” He looked at Jerry and me as he said that. “I done tole you, don’t run. Brute’s been trained to keep my prisoners right here where I can watch ‘em. So, this time, stay put. ‘Les you want to give Brute another chance at yer arm.” Sheriff Asswipe thought that last was funny, a real knee-slapper.

           Down the hall they went to the cell-block, such as it was. Three joining cells with nothing in each but a cement bunk. And Chuck. He was in the middle cell. In seconds, we could hear J.D. yell, “I ain’t gonna be next to no nigger, Sheriff! You can put me out with them hounds, but I ain’t gonna get thet close to no nigger!”

           We could hear cell doors clanking open and shut as Chuck was moved to one of the end cells and J.D. put in the other.

           “Goddam,” Jerry whispered. “These people are crazy, I mean totally, Mikey. That drunk redneck says he won’t be in a cell – a goddam jail cell! – if he’s next to a colored guy? Man, we gotta get some distance between us and this bullshit.”

           “Patience, Jer. Maylene’s hoo-do is about to set us free.”

 

_________________________________________________________

 

-6-

After tucking JD into a cell with a promise that if he didn’t behave the hounds chained out back would gleefully tear him to pieces, Sheriff Roscoe came back to the front office where Jerry and I were trying to act interested in the flyers and announcements taped to the walls and tacked to the bulletin board. Anything to avoid more bullshit from the county’s top cop. We had heard enough from Roscoe. He sat down behind his desk and, after pushing a few papers around, leaned forward and bellowed at the closed hall door, “Maylene! Maylene! Git yore black ass in here! Where’s my coffee?”

Footsteps shuffled down the hall, the door opened, and there was Maylene, a stained mug of coffee in her hand. “Yessuh, Sheriff, here I am. Yessuh, and here’s that coffee, right here, just like you always like it – hot and black. Here it is.” She put it on the desk in front of Sheriff Jerkoff. “That’s a girl,” he said, “and, you know whut?” he turned Jerry and me. “That’s how I like my gals, too – hot and black!!! Haw-haw-haw . . .” His laughed was phlegmy and nasty sounding, like his throat was coming apart and sliding into his gullet. “Haw-haw-haw . . . now, thet’s funny, right, Ohio? Like I like my gals!” And then another round of choking laughter. Jerry tried to laugh with him as a show of solidarity but could only manage a gagging sound.

We waited for Sheriff Jokester to take that first gulp of coffee, waiting to see how long it would take this buffoon to slump back in his chair, asleep. “Maylene always makes this way too hot,” he said, indicating the mug with a nod of his head. “But, she sure can make it good, too. Hot and black . . . haw-haw-haw. That’s some funny shit, right Ohio?”

“Oh, yessir, Sheriff,” I answered. “Funny shit. Yes sir! Funny, right, Jerry?”

“Yeah, man, that’s funny,” Jerry added, his words dripping perfect Toledo sarcasm. “I mean really funny. ‘Hot and black.’ Wow! You just make that up, your Honor? Just right then? All by yourself, I mean? Like, boom! There it is?”

Sheriff Pissant gave Jerry a long, cold look. “Boy, yer not mockin’ me now, are you? Not getting’ cutesy with me, right?”

“No, sir, I sure am not, no sir,” Jerry answered, quickly glancing at me for some backup. I didn’t have any. Not against this yahoo.

“Well, a damn good thing, boy. I don’t like smart-ass Yankee boys come down here to cause race trouble. We take care of things in this town. Everybody knows their place and sticks to it and that’s why our nigras don’t get no fancy ideas. And, that’s the way it should be. Nice and peaceful.” He reached for the coffee, tipped the cup to his mouth and took a huge swallow.

“Gol’ damn, that’s good! Maylene,” he hollered towards the jail door, “you damn sure know how to make a man a cup of coffee! Hey,” he turned to us, “you boys wanna see an application to join the N-double-A-C-P? Funny as hell. Asts questions like, ‘whut kinda car y’all live in’ . . . and . . . ‘how many of yore pickaninnies was born with a daddy.’” He started digging through some papers in his desk drawer.  “Now, where’d that go . . . damn! . . .“ He began to list to the left, slumping towards the side of the desk. “Maylene! . . . bring me my pills . . . I’m feelin’ funny . . . girl!  . . . where the hell . . .”

And that was it.

Thud.

His bulky ass slid off the swivel-chair and onto the floor. Out. Zonked. Adrift in the arms of Morpheus, a goofy grin on his face that revealed a bunch of rotting teeth.

“Man,” Jerry said, leaning over the desk to see if he was really out. “This cat needs to see a dentist! For real.”

Maylene had been standing behind the door the whole time, watching to see when her pinch of root dust would lay the sucker out. She walked into the room, maybe strutted is a better way to put it, looked at the mound of white man slumped on the floor, and nodded her head in satisfaction. “Sho’ ‘nuf works, thet ol’ swamp weed. Yas indeed.” A big grin worked its way across her ebony face. “Now, lemme git those keys and git yore fren’ out thet cell back there and you boys better git. No tellin’ how long this ol’ white bastard gonna stay down. Works different ev’ry time someone swallers it.”

She reached into one of the desk drawers, came up with a key, and went down the corridor to free Chuck.

Within a half-minute they both came back to the office. We could hear ol’ JD shouting in the cell behind them, “Hey! How ‘bout me? Get me outta hyar, too, y’all. Don’ jest take the nigra! C’mon, y’all!  Fair is fair, dammit! If this hyar is a jailbreak I got to go, too.” When it dawned on him that no, we weren’t taking him too, his tone changed. “Well, I’ll tell you whut. Sheriff’s gonna be mad as hell. I’d hate to be around when he ketches y’all. And he will, too. You’ll see! He’s got them dawgs!”

“There! I told you!” Chuck said. “These root ladies know stuff, they sure do.” He turned to Maylene and gave her a hug. “Thank you, ma’m. Thank you. You may have saved our lives. Mine, anyway.”

Jerry and I enthusiastically agreed. “Yes, ma’m. You have definitely set us free.” Jerry decided to hug her, too, and again got that body language that said, uh, no better not, white boy. Then, surprise! she grabbed Jer and pulled him to her large bosom, just long enough for a deep blush to cover his face. Those were definitely the largest breasts he’d ever come in contact with and it must have made him a bit dizzy. Maylene was the first to release the hug and had to give ol’ Jer a little push to get him to back away.

 “Now, you boys go on.  And stay on the main road cuz they’ll be lookin’ for you on them side roads. ‘Bout ten miles and you’ll cross the county line. Nuthin’ they can do once you cross thet line.”

We opened the office door, ran out into the parking lot, found the Olds exactly where we left it, jumped in, and sped away as though haints were about to catch us and drag us back to Horse Creek Crossing where ropes and hungry hounds were waiting.

“Man, shit, damn, Jesus effin’ Christ!” Jerry was yelling. “Floor this sumbitch and get me out of this fucking nightmare quick, Mikey. Go, go, go!”

Chuck was laughing. “Damn! I could hear that ol’ cracker all the way in the back when he asked if you wanted to join the N-double-A-C-P. Then that slow fade as he slumped to the floor. Now, that’s really some funny shit.”

“You should have seen it, Chuck. His eyes started to roll up in his head and he had that shit-eating grin on his face and for a second I thought maybe Maylene had decided fuck it and went ahead and killed him! ‘Hot and black,’ he said. Gotta wonder how many times Maylene has heard that?”

It’s been a very long time since Jerry and I and our erstwhile traveling companion, Chuck, found ourselves in the clutches of an honest-to-god Southern Sheriff. Even so, there are moments when the memories of that night flood into my thoughts, and I don’t know if I should laugh my ass off or shudder in fear at what might have happened if it hadn’t been for Maylene, the Root Lady.

           We drove on through the opaque Tennessee night, the sky on our left beginning to brighten as dawn approached, a sure sign we’d live to see another sunrise. We passed the county line several miles back and, according to Maylene, were now free. At last!

 

 

It was time for lunch.

At some point during the mad rush from Sheriff Roscoe’s jail we had left the Dixie Highway and were now on US 19. Up ahead, Georgia. And once in Georgia, Florida had to be close, or so I thought.

“No,” Chuck offered, “there’s still about 300 miles just to get to Florida. Then another couple of hundred to Tampa and on to Clearwater.” So, there was plenty of time and considerable distance available to get trapped again in Southern hospitality. Especially in Georgia.

We had decided not to stop for breakfast in Tennessee. No way to know if Sheriff Roscoe might have known a fellow lawman south of Roscoe’s jurisdiction who would have been more than willing to snag a trio of trouble-makers, race-mixers, agitators fleeing in a busted-up Oldsmobile with Ohio tags and no driver’s licenses, two of them white and the third one, an uppity Negro.

A few miles into north Georgia we passed a sign for a barbecue restaurant that said, in huge red and yellow letters, “Just Ahead! The Pig ‘n Chick Barbecue! Best In The South! Y’all Come Stop Awhile. Good Eats.” It was that last part – good eats – that got my attention. Who talks like that? Good eats?

I pulled into the gravel covered and very crowded parking lot and found a  space around back under a towering pine. In the rear-view mirror, I could see Chuck once again slump down out of sight to anyone walking nearby. And, again, the question as to why he had to do that. Wasn’t he an American just like Jerry and me? Didn’t he have the right to walk into a goddam barbecue joint and order a meal? Yes to the first question, no to the second. That was the rule in the South.

“Here’s a couple of bucks,” Chuck said, handing me three dollars. “Just get me whatever that’ll buy. Sandwich, platter, doesn’t matter, pork or chicken. Barbecue is barbecue. And some sweet tea, okay? I’ll stay out here so there’s no trouble.”

Sweet tea? Chuck smiled. “That’s what they call ice tea with sugar in it down here. Just say ‘sweet tea.’ They’ll know what you mean. For god’s sake don’t ask for ice tea with sugar in it. That’s a dead giveaway that you’re a not from the South. It’s ‘sweet tea,’ okay?”

There it was again. Chuck would stay in the car so there’d be no “trouble.” The realization that a black person couldn’t do something as simple as go into a restaurant and have a meal had begun to really piss me off, ever since the black guy in Lexington had to go to the back door to get a cup of coffee. I couldn’t understand how Chuck dealt with it in such a matter-of-fact way. But, that’s what it was: A matter of fact. And, after years of living with laws and rules – and, not just in the South – that had to be followed if a confrontation was to be avoided, Chuck simply acknowledged the reality those rules imposed – at least here in Georgia, or Tennessee, or Kentucky, wherever the Jim Crow rules applied. In the North, it was a different matter altogether. The rules were in place there as well, but the discrimination was much subtler, not so visible, and therefore, in a very real way, more insulting.

The restaurant was packed. A good thing we were ordering to go since there were no available tables or seats. It took a moment to realize nearly everybody was fat, really fat. I don’t know why that got our attention but as soon as it did Jerry had to comment, his voice lowered so we wouldn’t attract attention.

“What is this?” he whispered. “A fat-ass convention? Look at those women in the corner. They look like the Three Tons O’ Fun!”

“Those were males, Jer,” I said referring to the short-lived film career of three overweight comedians, briefly popular in the 1920s whose silent films we watched in our American History class.

“Okay, then they’re three fat-ass women, right? Can you imagine having sex with one of them? God!”

A waitress came over and placed a glass of water and a large basket of napkins on the table. Barbecue is messy. “Howdy, boys,” she smiled. “Y’all are new here, am I right? Ain’t seen y’all before. So, whut ya do is go git in that line ovah there and make your order. Then I’ll bring it to yer table.” She was cute in a Sandra Dee kind of way, short, blond, bouncy. Jerry focused on the bouncy part.

“Well, hi yourself,” he said, giving Sandra Dee his best toothy smile. “Yeah, this is our first time in your restaurant, but, it sure won’t be the last,” he lied, his eyes starting at her eyes and moving slowly down to her black flats. “You sure are cute!”

Oh, shit. Not again. I guess it was part of his charm, but he seemed driven to hit on whatever girl crossed his field of vision. The possibility of more trouble loomed large. I just knew her boyfriend was six-three, had arms as big as my thighs, and worked at the local cotton mill. Probably on his way over now to get some lunch and see his honey, the girl Jerry was grinning at.

“Are you from here?” Jerry asked, not knowing where the hell “here” actually was. But, he was making his move. I just wanted to order and boogie on out.

“Naw, I’m from Mekkin, she answered.

“Mekkin? That’s a funny name, right? Mekkin.”

“You think it’s funny?” Sandra Dee said, her hand on her hip and a look on her face that clearly said, you bein’ a smart-ass, mister? “Well, then where you boys from?” It sounded like a challenge. Before I could change the subject Jerry answered as though he were telling a native girl living in a hunter-gatherer tribe that he was from a place that was civilized, that had indoor plumbing and paved roads.

“Well, Honey, (Honey? Uh-oh) we’re from up North. Toledo. O-Hi-Oh.” He leaned back in his chair and gave Miss Dee the visual once over again. I was starting to see a bad ass-kicking in the parking lot when her huge boyfriend arrived.

“Uh, Jer, I’m sure she has work to do, right, Miss?” I looked up at her trying to end this conversation as quickly as possible. But, ol’ Jer just couldn’t let it go.

“You ever been up North?” he asked, now with a smug look that seemed to say, gal, I’m a travelin’ man. Been all over. I know things. Stuff you’d never guess at in Mekkin.

Damn! “So, you boys are Yankees, right? Yankees. Wal, I’ll be.” She turned to the woman behind the counter and said, in a voice loud enough to get the whole damn place to stop talking and turn to look at these . . . Yankees, “How ‘bout that, Clara Bee? Got us a couple a’ Yankee boys here.”

Jerry looked pleased. He had the attention of the whole damn restaurant. Some of the people were smiling at our (my) embarrassment, some were frowning,

and some were slowly shaking their heads as though we were a couple of piteously deformed high school students gone totally truant.

“Wal,” Sandra Dee said, satisfied her announcement had gotten so much attention, “so, whut you boys want?”

Jerry was about to say something lewd I was sure, so I ordered for both of us. And Chuck. “Um, we’ll have two chicken platters, and a pork sandwich.”

“You want tater tots with that?”

“Tater tots? What’s that?”

“You boys don’t know what a tater tot is? Really? It’s potatoes; little ones, deep fried. Y’all don’t have tater tots in Oh-Hi-Oh? My goodness.”

“Yeah,” I answered, “tater tots sound perfect.”

While all this bantering was entertaining to Jerry, I was ready to go. I wanted to get our order and get the hell away from so much Southern Fried bullshit. And, Chuck was waiting in the car. I sure didn’t want any of the white folks to notice that for fear they might accuse him of car theft. We got our orders and left, but not before Jerry turned to Sandra Dee and said, “Seriously, where are you from?  Where is Mekkin? And how do you spell it?”

She looked at him, her head slightly tilted, an expression on her face that said, you have to be the dumbest white boy ever. “How do I spell Mekkin?

It’s M-A-C-O-N, Mekkin. Okay?”

 

 

            We drove a few miles down the highway, turned onto a dirt road, and, after another mile, found a shady spot with an old tree stump that made a perfect table. The food from the Pig n’ Chik was delicious. It was the first real southern barbecue Jerry and I had ever eaten. In Toledo, barbecue usually meant cook some meat on a grungy backyard grill, cover it in a vinegar-smelling sauce from the A&P, slap it on a plate, and there’s your barbecue. Nasty stuff.

           “One thing about the South, guys,” Chuck offered, “it may be filled with racist assholes but the food is great, even though the recipes were stolen from black folk. That’s what we do,” he added, licking the remains of his pork platter off his fingers. “We cook food that lets us forget the day-to-day bullshit we have to deal with.” I couldn’t help but notice Chuck’s sudden use of the pronoun ‘we’. Up to that point he had referred to blacks as ‘they.’ Maybe he had concluded Jerry and I could be trusted with his race. “I’m sure you boys have heard of ‘soul food,’ right?”

           We hadn’t. But, after a lengthy tutorial from Chuck we started to realize how white people were missing out entirely on food that might not have been the healthiest, but, Chuck insisted, was certainly comforting to the, well, soul.

           All at once, or so it seemed, we were in the North Georgia Mountains, part of the Appalachian range that stretches from Maine to Alabama. The small, mostly abandoned mountain towns we drove through and the sad, isolated cabins scattered through the rural landscape like echoing cries for help, closed off whatever conversation we might have had about what we were seeing. The landscape seemed to demand silence, like what would be expected at a funeral. The look of poverty was overwhelming. Nothing like this existed in Ohio, at least nothing Jerry and I were aware of. Yeah, we had poor people (hell, I was one) but poverty that existed in a city where nearly everyone worked a factory job was less obvious. Rural poverty, especially in these mountains, was not just visible and devastating; it was almost apocalyptic. It stretched for miles. Clusters of run-down shacks, some with broken windows taped over with tar-paper, the occasional crumbling chimney tilting insanely against the side of the building, the front porches sagging under the weight of discarded (collected?) appliances, broken sofas, metal milk cans, rusting bedsprings, car engines, stacks of sodden catalogues, coils of corroded barbed wire, 50-gallon barrels filled to the tops and spilling over with trash, garbage, filth; flies swarming on everything, twisting kudzu  vines creeping up the leaning porch roof supports and crawling along the eaves; all the detritus of overwhelming poverty and neglect. And, in the barren, packed-dirt front yards, always the children, five or six at a time, all appearing to be hungry, malnourished, covered in dirt, with ragged shirts that dragged in the dust when they ran about the yard, screaming incoherently, chasing an emaciated dog, or each other.

           “Jesus Christ!” Jerry mumbled. “This is unreal. How do these people live? What’s the point being alive in a place like this?”

           Every mile or so we would pass an old man or old woman carrying a burlap sack or pulling an old wagon, walking slowly along the berm of the road, bending every few feet to pick something up and drop it into the wagon or stuff it into the sack.

           “They’re collecting trash?” I asked absently. “Why would they collect trash? There’s piles of it on their porches.”

           “That’s not what they’re doing,” Chuck said. “They’re foraging for food. They’re pulling dandelion plants and wild onions and mushrooms, anything that’s edible. It all goes into a cook pot with chopped up squirrel or rabbit. It’s what they must do if they want to eat. I told you about my grandmother. See, before she moved north she lived in Mississippi. When she was a kid they had to do the same thing, what these white folks are doing. Trying to survive. Some things never change, man. A fucking pity, isn’t it. But, this is America and if you can’t make it on your own, no one gives a shit. Way it is, man. For real.”

           The sight of the crushing poverty contrasted, in a painful way, with the beauty of the countryside we were driving through. The Georgia mountains were solid and silent. They had been here forever and would remain here forever. The slopes were covered with the tallest pine trees we had ever seen, stretching up until they disappeared in the low-hanging clouds. Massive Oaks, Beech, Cedar, Weeping Willow, an endless forest that was both inviting and foreboding. We could only imagine the people who lived deep in these hills. But, we understood they probably would not be too welcoming of a couple of white boys and a young black musician. In a car with Ohio license plates.

           The traffic was sparse and the miles slid underneath us effortlessly. It seemed that every few miles we would pass another white, clapboard church. The marquee out front would display a message that was both an exhortation and a warning. “To Enter The Gates Of Heaven You Must Be Saved, Or You Will Burn In Hell Forever.” Behind the church, the cemetery. Grey, leaning gravestones, the inscriptions faded to scratches, out of place and out of time with the newer markers, one of which was next to a mound of freshly dug red clay, tossed out of a yawning trench in preparation for that afternoon’s burial.

           “Can we go a little faster?” Jerry suddenly mumbled, turning away from the window he had been staring out of, and breaking the silence that had seeped inside the Olds.

           “S’matter, pal? Getting’ a little creeped out?” I couldn’t resist the taunt. Truth was, I was the one getting nervous from that feeling of disorientation that can settle around you like a fluttering shroud when you are someplace that is so beyond your experiences, so alien to your senses, that there is the sudden yearning to be home, safe, where things make sense. But, you can’t be there because you are a 17-year-old, running from your life, and now find yourself in the mountains of North Georgia. All you can do is keep going. Keep going.

           Finally, a sign that said “Atlanta – 120 Miles.” Civilization! The big city! Life, laughter, movies, restaurants, away from this poverty-racked landscape where open graves just really fucked up your entire day.

           ___________________________________________________

 

           “So. Chuck. What do you know about Atlanta?” I asked.

           “Not a whole lot. I do know it’s where the Civil War was really lost, when Sherman burned it to the ground. Believe it or not, I had some family way back that lived in Atlanta. I guess they were slaves. Don’t know too much about those old times. I know a lot of black folks are living there now. I’ve heard that Atlanta’s trying to avoid the race stuff that’s all over the South, sit-ins and trying to register to vote. Supposed to be a lot easier here. I guess all the real ugly shit’s going on in Alabama and Mississippi. Oh, and we saw the movie ‘Gone With The Wind’ in New York. Weird shit, man, ol’ Mammy runnin’ around steppin’ and fetchin’ for the white folks. And, that gal Prissy, the one who said, ‘I don’ no nuffin’ ‘bout birffin’ no babies, Miss Scarlett.’” Chuck laughed when he said it. “Some of my friends and I had just finished a gig at the Apollo and decided to go see the midnight showing at one of the theatres in Midtown. Laughed our asses off, man, for real. Especially when they burned that city to the ground. Damn! We cheered and got some shitty looks, believe me.”

“What’s the Apollo?” Jerry asked. “What’s Midtown?”

Chuck smiled. “Black folks’ theatre in Harlem, which is in New York. So’s Midtown. In New York. You know about Harlem?”

“Of course,” Jerry said, trying to let Chuck know he wasn’t completely ignorant even if we were from Toledo. “It’s where all the colored people in New York live, right?”

“Right, Jerry,” Chuck answered, “all the colored people in New York live there. You got it, pal.”

So, we were getting close to Atlanta, a little more than half-way to Tampa and Clearwater. I had been driving the entire way so far and had stopped swallowing the “Christmas Trees” the night before. Too much amphetamine and you get a king-hell headache, which is exactly what I now had. A real temple-pounder and the nausea that comes with it.

We decided Jerry would drive while I got some sleep in the back seat. The last thing I said before closing my eyes was, “Don’t fucking get us in a wreck, okay? I don’t want to die on a road in Georgia.” I think I heard Jer’s demonic laugh.

 

 

It was the same laugh that woke me up. Only, this laugh was hesitant, almost fearful.

“What the fuck . . .?” It was Jerry’s voice. I pulled myself up and immediately fell back onto the seat, smacked down by a wave of nausea. Try again. This time I made it to a barely upright position, dizzy, feeling like a scoop of sand had been poured under my eyelids, my stomach churning.

It was getting dark. The sun was setting and the sticky fragrance of magnolia blossoms flooded the car. That had to be the source of my nausea. “What?” I said to both of them. “What do you mean, ‘what the fuck?’ What’s going on?”

Chuck was slouched down in the front seat, again, an unlit Kool clenched in his teeth. Jerry was driving very slowly, half-turned to his left, staring out his side window. He said it again. “What the fuck?”

“Just keep driving, okay?” Chuck said. “I’m not sure how serious that is, and I don’t want to find out.” He was twisted around in the front seat staring at the same thing Jerry was. “Maybe some jokester put that up, and maybe it was the Klan. Let’s just keep going.” It was obvious Chuck was scared.

I forced myself to sit completely up and looked out the rear window, off to the side of the road where a huge billboard had been constructed. The lettering on the board was obviously hand-painted, crude. The board was built in a V-shape, the point of the V aimed at the road, so it could be read from both directions simultaneously. At the top, the Confederate battle flag, the Stars and Bars, a symbol of racist violence as well defined as the Nazi swastika. But, it was the warning on the sign, the threat in four-foot-high, deep black lettering that was so ominous:

           WARNING TO ALL NEGROES: DO NOT LET THE SUN

      SET WITH YOU STILL IN FORSYTH COUNTY. WE MEAN IT.

I was stunned. I had never seen a display of hate so public, so visible, especially to anyone traveling US 19, a major north-south highway that started in Maine and ended in Florida. The threat was explicit. It was left to the imagination what the threat might involve. A beating? Tossed into the county jail? Lynching?

And then, another sign, welcoming travelers to Cumming, Georgia, “The friendliest small town east of the Mississippi.” The juxtaposition of the two signs was insane. Which was true? If we had known the history of Cumming, the county seat of Forsyth, we might have been able to decide.

          

           As was true in so many small southern towns during the Jim Crow era, it didn’t require much to incite the white residents to a fury of racial violence. So it was in Cumming, Georgia, on a warm, late summer night three years before the release of the film “Birth of a Nation.”

 On Sunday, September 8, 1912, a white woman was raped and murdered, her body discovered by teenagers walking to Sunday night services at the town’s Baptist Church. Rumors insisted she was raped after she was killed. The crime scene was a scene of horror, with the woman’s legs nearly severed from her torso. A black man who lived in the county was immediately charged and indicted for the crime.  Two days later, on Tuesday September 10, 1912, the man was shot, dragged from the Cumming jail and, still alive and screaming his innocence, hanged from the telephone pole at the intersection of Main Street and Tribble Gap Road on the village square. The coroner’s inquest held Wednesday, September 18, 1912, found the cause of death to be a gunshot, even though the locals knew the man had been given appropriate Southern “justice” for black men accused of raping, touching, winking at, or staring at a white woman: lynching.

“Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” I said. “That sign is scaring the hell out of me!”

“Which sign?” Jerry cackled. “The one that says this is the friendliest place ever? Or that big one that says ol’ Chuck here can’t stop and get a cup of coffee?”

“Real funny, asshole,” I said, hoping our travelling companion had been around Jerry long enough – and it didn’t take long at all – to understand Jerry’s often feeble attempts at humor. Chuck sat upright, turned to Jerry, and smiled. At least, in the gathering darkness, I think it was a smile.

Atlanta was just 30 miles down the road.

 

___________________________________________________

 

-7-

 

           The city’s size was impressive, especially after the small towns and mountain villages we had driven through. For Jerry, however, Atlanta was a disappointment.

           “Well, this sure as hell is not what I expected, Mikey,” Jerry said. “It looks like Toledo without the black snow. Where’s the magnolia trees and mint juleps and Southern Belles?”

           Chuck laughed. “It’s all here, man. But, you have to get off the main drag a bit. I have an aunt who lives in Marietta, just a few miles from here. She has a big ol’ magnolia tree in her front yard. As far as mint juleps and Southern Belles, well, that’s not my Aunt Clara’s style. She doesn’t drink.”

           “Damn, Chuck,” Jerry said, looking in the rear-view mirror. “You’ve got relatives all over the South!”

           “Yeah, I do. Aunt Clara moved here so she could go to Spelman College. White colleges in the South wouldn’t admit her. Got her degree in science and went on to become a nurse. But, see, that’s what happened to Negro families, especially right after slavery. The people who could do it moved to the cities. They didn’t want anything to do with working on some white man’s farm. Had enough of that shit, trust me. And, in the cities, black folk were safer than isolated in the country or some ratty little red-neck town. The Night Riders, the Klan, couldn’t come galloping through a city burnin’ folks’ homes down. In the country? Happened all the time. So, yeah, I have an aunt who lives near here.”

           As fascinating as Atlanta might be, it was not our destination. Clearwater was, with a stop in Tampa. So, on we went. Highway 19 had become Highway 41. It was all the same to us. Highway whatever. We just wanted to get to the beach.

           By now, Jerry and I had developed if not a friendship, an awareness of shared experiences with Chuck that seemed more involved than would be expected in the relatively short time since we had picked him up in Lexington. Our time together had been compressed, and because of the red-neck bullshit we had been exposed to, bullshit that was either hysterically funny or potentially lethal, my high school buddy and I were seeing first-hand a small slice of what black folk had to deal with. Travelling with him through the deep South and watching how cautious he had to be – always aware that he could be threatened in a way Jerry and I could not – gave the two of us a brief insight into what he had to endure as a young black man in the South, even though he was only passing through. We hadn’t yet reached the point where we understood it was the same reality Chuck had to deal with in the North as well. The difference? The threat of violence was less obvious above the Mason-Dixon line. Not absent; just less obvious.

           We passed through a few more small towns south of Atlanta, each one preceded by, and then giving way to, fields of exploded cotton bolls, acres of peanuts, miles of soybeans. I assumed Jerry was asleep again in the back seat, but suddenly he shattered the silence with a shriek. “Well, fuck me runnin’! We’re coming to Mekkin! Where that girl’s from, that waitress, right? Mekkin, Jawja. I’ll be damned!” He was pointing to a sign that said “Macon 15 miles.”

           “Man, damn!” Chuck said. “You just scared the hell outta me!”

           “Me, too, asshole,” I added. “Don’t do that, okay?”

           “Yeah,” Jerry said, “but, it’s real. Mekkin. I get it! I wonder how she’d pronounce Marietta?”

           “May-retta,” Chuck said. “Different way of sayin’ shit down here. Makes ‘em all sound ignorant and half-educated. Like, how would you pronounce ‘Ponce de Leon’?”

           “The Fountain of Youth guy? The explorer?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Pon-se day Lee-own.”

           Chuck laughed. “Right. But, there’s a street back in Atlanta, long one, with that name and people there pronounce it ‘Ponce de LEE-on.’” He laughed again. “Rednecks are so damn funny. When they’re not tryin’ lynch you.”

 

 

I had fallen asleep.

A few miles south of Macon I had asked Chuck if he would drive for a while since he was the one with the driver’s license. We had changed seats just before we entered a completed section of the new Interstate Highway system, I-75, and it took me less than a minute to drift into a deep sleep.

Jerry was shaking me. “Wake up, Mikey! Wake up! We’re in Florida! We made it! We’re here!”

My eyes wouldn’t open. My eyelids felt like they were stuck together with library paste, that white stuff that still smells like elementary school.

           “We just passed the sign,” Jerry said, twisting around to get one more look. “There were palm trees around it! Wow! Palm trees!” Jerry was easily impressed. Part of his charm, I guess.

           The next sign we passed said: Tampa 200 miles. “We’re not there yet, man,” Chuck added. “By the way, the oil light’s on. We better pull over. Don’t want to blow your engine.”

           We pulled into the first rest stop we came to. It was entirely different from the roadside “parks” we had passed coming through Kentucky and Georgia. This had indoor toilets, and maps, and picnic benches, and a maintenance man mowing the close-cropped grass. Obviously, Florida wanted to make an impression since every traveler meant money in the state treasury.

The sky was Florida blue. Puffy sub-tropical clouds drifted by. The air smelled of . . . flowers? Bushes? Florida itself? Did Florida have its own distinctive smell? Toledo sure as hell did. In Toledo, it was burning rubber and hot metal and oil refineries and car exhaust. Here it was different. Once you’ve smelled Florida, you never forget the fragrance.

Tampa: 150 miles. We had dumped three more quarts of oil into the engine, our last of the 24 quarts we had started with, and got back on this new highway, the Interstate. There were very few cars on the road and I thought what a waste of money building these super highways. Where would all the traffic come from?  We noticed the highway signs were now in color; reds and yellows and blues, totally different from the dirty grey and black signs in Ohio.

Tampa: 75 miles. “You gonna miss us, Chuck?” Jerry asked. He leaned over the front seat and bummed yet another Kool from Chuck’s seeming endless supply. (“Part of being a blues player, man. Smokin’ cigs, drinkin’ whiskey. It’s all good.”)

“Sure, I’ll miss you two. It’s been an interesting, what? two days? three? Seems like longer than that, doesn’t it? Time just rips by when you’re having fun, and god knows this has been fun.” I couldn’t tell if Chuck was being ironic or sincere. It didn’t matter.

Tampa: 50 miles. We were passing orange groves and cattle ranches. Weird looking cows that we found out later were American breeds that had been crossed with cattle from India the better to tolerate the Florida heat.

Then: Welcome to Tampa! The sign actually had the exclamation point after the word Tampa, as though this was where you’ve been heading for your entire life. In our case, that was almost true. Toledo seemed like a bad dream, a place where you could see the air, smell the water, breathe a mix of drifting industrial shit that contained, what? Who knew? It was a secret. A secret we wouldn’t find out about until much later when people started dying of lung and liver disease. But, for now? Toledo was part of the industrial might of the free world, a piston in the engine of progress, a blessing the rest of the world could only hope to copy.

But, not Tampa. Tampa was clean and bright and silvery blue. We couldn’t imagine how Clearwater could top this. Unless it was Paradise.

We drove through downtown until we came to Lafayette Street. Chuck turned right and we crossed the Hillsborough River. On our right, the domed spires of Tampa University. On our left, The House of Seven Sorrows coffee shop.

Chuck pulled down a side street and parked. He turned to face both Jerry and me. “Well, here we are, fellas. My destination. Where I’ll be playing for the next two weeks.”

“Then where,” I asked?

“Dunno. Maybe Miami, maybe I’ll head for the Keys. I’ve heard Key West is where you go when there’s no place left to go. Sounds to me like a challenge.”

“You’re a pretty cool guy,” Jerry suddenly said. I thought he was going to add “for a colored guy” but, he didn’t.

“You, too, man.”

“Well, Chuck,” I said, “this has been pretty crazy, this trip. We’re glad we met you, right, Jer?”

“For sure.”

           “So, good luck, okay?”

“Same to the two of you,” Chuck said as he opened the door, reached in back for his duffel and his guitar, and stepped into the street. “If you get the chance come on over from your Aunt’s one night and I’ll put you on the guest list.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Jerry said. “That means we get in free, right?”

I came around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. We watched as Chuck walked to the front door of the coffee house. He paused for a moment, shifted his guitar, and waved.

We never did go to the coffee house to hear Chuck play.

_________________________________________________________

-8-

           Fall, 1986. Atlanta.

 By now, I had been a radio talk show host for two years. This was not a career I sought. It found me.

For nearly three years, beginning in 1983, I worked as a writer and occasional producer for CNN television. The idea of a 24-hour news network was considered ridiculous when founder Ted Turner first developed the concept. Part of the ridicule was Turner himself. Granted, he owned a television “superstation,” one that could be picked up via cable across the country, and an outdoor advertising company he inherited when his father died. But Turner’s broadcast experience was limited to televising Atlanta Braves (which he owned) baseball games and syndicated sitcom re-runs. Worse, he was a white Southern male who lived in Georgia, not in the broadcast center of the universe, New York City. What could he possibly know about television news that the experts didn’t? As it turned out, just about everything.

I met him on one of his walks through CNN’s first home, a building built in the style of an antebellum mansion located not far from the city’s center. He had the habit of occasionally strolling through the network’s production and broadcast center – the “bullpen,” – stopping at a writer’s desk or a supervising editor’s work station, to get a quick look at the next hour’s broadcast. He didn’t engage in idle conversation; no polite inquiries about the writer’s spouse or the kids, if there were any. His questions were about the stories we were about to televise across the country and around the world, and why we, the writers and producers, considered them newsworthy. Turner believed – at least at the beginning of CNN – that news broadcasts should, must, be topic driven. To clutter the newscast with personalities, including those of the news-readers (anchors) would be to defeat the purpose of an all-news network, as well as being an insult to people depending on news outlets for needed information. To that end, those of us involved in the early years at CNN truly felt dedicated to getting the truth out. Or maybe it was just fear of pissing off Turner, the man named “The Mouth of the South” by some smart-ass Yankee sports writer

But . . . working at a 24-hour news channel was exhausting as well as, at times, overwhelming. In the beginning there were no repeat newscasts, no re-broadcasts. A 24-hour news channel was just that. Show after show had to be written, edited, and then re-written if there was the slightest hint of a factual error or – god help us – political bias in the copy. We were there to write and produce and broadcast news and no mercy was offered to the employee who didn’t get that from day one. And the god, the unforgiving deity who watched over all of this, ready to lash any of us with a silent and invisible whip, was the God of Time, truly a merciless bastard. If a show was to begin at 8PM or 9PM or midnight or whatever, then that show would begin at 8PM or 9PM or midnight or whatever even if the world outside the CNN studios was engulfed in flames. The. Broadcast. Would. Be. Delivered. The God of Time was not to be denied. Ever. Employees who didn’t understand this were quickly disappeared.

So, there were moments when the tension in the production studio was so thick it seemed to take on form and mass. Working under those conditions could lead to moments of desperation if, during the momentary breaks when running to the john to pee and honk up a line of coke, you found the bathroom stall was already occupied. Coffee and coke. (The powdery kind, not the kind where dozens of people stand on a verdant hillside and sing a song of love for our sisters and brothers.) For some of us that combination delivered the energy needed to be the best damn news writers and producers in the universe! Or so we told ourselves. Cocaine’s amazing that way.

           One night, October 30, 1984, late, after the final newscast, I was tugging on my jacket ready to go to an after-hours Halloween party. Suddenly, all eight of the teletype machines in the bullpen went berserk. Bells ringing, printers clacking, a threatening signal that somewhere a catastrophe was unfolding in real time. Nuclear war? A massive earthquake? A rogue planet had invaded the solar system and was heading straight for Earth?

There were three of us left in the building: A supervising producer, the news anchor who had just finished the 1:30 AM newscast, and me. We all ran to the nearest teletype to see if the Russians had, in fact, launched a couple of hundred nuclear-tipped missiles over the North Pole, and were now heading straight for the heartland. The copy we ripped from the machine said Indira Gandhi had been assassinated. No nukes. No Commie annihilation coming our way. Just your run-of-the-mill assassination of a renowned head of state. Only, this was the leader of the second most populous country on earth. Stabbed to death with short swords wielded by two Sikh nationalists, one of whom was shot dead by security guards, the other, wounded, taken to hospital where he recovered, and was then executed for the gruesome murder.

While the bells kept frantically ringing the producer told our anchor guy to get back on the broadcast set while he turned the cameras on again and I wrote the story as quickly as I could. He also told me to find a Sikh. In Atlanta. At 2:00 AM. And, I did. I knew a man named Khalsa who owned a Sikh grocery store in one of the city’s gentrifying neighborhoods. I woke him with a phone call and asked for comment about Gandhi’s assassination. In his half-awake state I had to tell him several times I meant Indira and not Bapu. 

I got the needed comment, our skeleton staff got the story out to the world beyond India, and an hour later, still twitching from the mad adrenaline rush, an occurrence that had been happening with alarming regularity lately, I realized it was time for me to find a different career, one that was not quite so stroke-inducing.

That different career turned out to be talk radio.

 

 

One of my female friends worked as the office manager at WCNN – a local talk station with absolutely no connection to CNN television whatsoever. The owner of the radio station was a close friend of Turner’s and, to raise the station’s profile in Atlanta, got Ted’s permission to use those magic call letters.

Teresa, the friend, said I should come talk to the station manager, a legend in Atlanta radio, with the unlikely name, Ludlow. He was looking for someone to host a Saturday afternoon show focusing on politics. She knew I was burned out on the insane pressure that saturated CNN.

“You should do this, Mike. It’s ready-made for a political junkie like you. And it’s only two hours a week. How’s that for low pressure?”

“Yeah, but I know nothing about radio, T,” I answered.

“What’s to know? You get on the air and rant. I know your rants. You’d be perfect. You can work out all that frustration, all that repressed masculine rage, right? And, you’ll have the chance to unleash your inner motor-mouth. Is that not perfect?”

Teresa was an Atlanta actor and one of my former housemates. A small group of us – a couple of actors, a photographer, a writer, two musicians, a psychology student, and anyone else who applied when we had an occasional opening – had, a few years earlier, pooled our minimal resources and, selecting one of us to apply for the financing (a guy who had been in the Navy just long enough to qualify for a VA loan) bought a rambling house in an area of the city soon to experience yuppie rehabilitation. We were not the yuppies; we were among the neighborhood’s first artistes, thank you very much, the vanguard of a flood of serious performers who eventually rode a wave of creativity that crested when the film industry realized there was talent in parts of the country other than California or New York.

           “Can you set up a meeting?” I asked Teresa.

           “Already have. Tomorrow at two o’clock. I knew you’d want to do this, so I went ahead and made your appointment. You pissed because I didn’t ask first?” She knew I wasn’t. We had just shared a rather intense summer, Teresa and I, and she knew what I wanted and, more important, what I needed. (I knew the same about her. That happens when you live with someone, right? Even when there’s more than just the two of you sharing the living space.)

“I’ll be there. And, thanks. One more week at CNN and you’ll have to come visit me on Sunday afternoons at Georgia Regional Hospital.”

“I know.”

The interview went well. The day after, I was offered the position. Saturdays, 2PM until 4PM, with the possibility of more hours if I could show Ludlow I knew what I was doing. Only one small catch: For the time being, there was no pay. The station was struggling, trying to compete in a market that was the home to dozens of radio stations including a couple of so-called heritage stations, one of which had been on the air since Jesus was a teenager. Most of Atlanta’s radio advertising dollars went to those two. In other words, WCNN was the perfect place to learn the art and the insanity of political talk; there weren’t that many people listening to the station, so my factual errors and verbal fuck-ups could float off into the ozone with no one noticing. Perfect.

Because of my political point of view, it didn’t take long to realize I was, to quote from a long-ago popular song, “a lonely little petunia in an onion patch.”  During my interview, Ludlow had asked about my politics, which at the time were liberal-left. “Well, I’m a Conservative,” he said, “so we should get along just fine.” That didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but, I let it go.

 Atlanta’s commercial talk-radio stations were saturated with right-wing assholes who were dedicated to keeping in place the ultra-Conservative broadcast rules and customs that were codified before radio was invented. Here they are.

First: In the South, Jesus is Lord! There is no god but God and Jesus is one-third of his name. You’re a sinner and you must be “born again,” in addition to being washed in the blood of the lamb. And, if you don’t accept that? Well, then, your ass will roast in Hell for all eternity while spiders, scorpions, and snakes tear at your flesh and Satan sits smiling down from his throne of grinning skulls, except for those moments when he comes down to piss into one of your eye sockets.

Second: All women are temptresses and must be kept under control or their insane sexual urges will explode, and they will tear through the neighborhood forcing every man they see to have animal sex with them right then and there in the street and if a pregnancy results these licentious bitches will immediately try to destroy the precious little baby peacefully asleep in their wombs, surrounded by the love of Jesus, damn them.

Third: Actual, live children are nasty little shits who very quickly decide that rather than attending Sunday School and learning about Jesus (see above) they’d rather do drugs, fornicate in the back seat of their parents’ car, lie, join gangs, date a colored person, or worse, start questioning the church’s ridiculous superstitions, insane zombie tales, adulterous and incestuous sex, mass murder, wholesale destruction of innocent tribes who got in the way of God’s designated hitters, and all the truly sick bullshit they found in the most violent and pornographic book ever written, the Bible.

Fourth: Beware of the Negroes. They are, um, not like us. Not in the least. They are all Liberals. They steal whenever they have the chance; they will stop whatever they’re doing and start jerking and shaking whenever they hear drums; they sell drugs; they use drugs; their music will lead happy, white, Christian young ladies into dark dens of iniquity where they will be forced to have sex with large black men who have huge penises – much bigger than Dad’s and, therefore, sinful and in violation of nature, and will eventually lose their minds, forced to walk the streets of the city selling their bodies for food and a furnished room somewhere.

Last, and most important: Jesus was a white Conservative Republican who spoke American English. Full stop.

And, these were the least crazy right-wing talk radio glue-heads. The real maniacs would call the station and demand they rid Atlanta’s airwaves of this Communist, gay-loving, liberal (me) who was probably married to a sultry Negro woman who was getting massive monthly welfare checks that she used to buy drugs which were then stashed in the trunk of her shiny, new Cadillac until she sold them to innocent white children from the suburbs.  And, where did this new program host come from anyway? He certainly wasn’t from around here. That “from around here” determinant is very important in the South. In fact, it’s the second most asked question when two people meet for the first time, the first being so, what church do you attend? And, if you are not “churched” you make some shit up, like, “uh . . . First Baptist,” hoping your interrogator is a member of some church other than First Baptist. If he or she isn’t, no problem, because every city, town, village, and country crossroads in the South has a First Baptist. And a First Methodist. And a First Presbyterian. And on through the denominational line-up of the Reformation. Catholics? Shush, now.

So, it was in that environment that I began my talk radio career. And, I was well prepared for the onslaught of religious freaks who I knew would find my presence a sure sign of the advent of the anti-Christ. My Italian Grandparents, in their frantic need to fully assimilate into the New World, had shed their Catholicism and joined a Baptist church in Ohio. Grandma was determined to be the best Christian ever, maybe to ease the guilt of her conversion to Protestantism. Attending church was an absolute requirement for anyone living in or visiting her home. Perhaps because I spent most of my summers with her until I was eleven years old, I became a “project.”

Of her 13 grandchildren, I was the one she would make damn certain was “saved,” that I would avoid the “lake of fire,” that terrifying pit of unspeakable torture and anguish deep in the bowels of Hell that was waiting for all sinners and non-Christians. And, it didn’t matter whether one lived a life free from sin or not. Grandma believed the admonition found in the first book of Paul’s letters to the church at Ephesus: “By grace are you saved, not of works, lest any man should boast.” Granted, that’s a rough translation of that verse, but the meaning was clear: No way you were going to Heaven just for, say, developing a vaccine that saved millions of lives from the suffering and painful death caused by some hideous disease, or bringing an end to famine, or finding a way to end all wars, or anything else that would be considered amazing and wondrous and beautiful and glorious. Hell no. All people, everybody, was a sinner. You couldn’t escape it. You were born a sinner, totally fucked and condemned even as you were drawing in your very first gasping breath. And, all because Eve had decided it was better to know than to be ignorant and had snatched a pomegranate from The Tree of Life, gobbled it down, and suddenly realized she was naked. Such a cosmic crime. Apparently, the worst ever committed.

There was only one way out, one path to salvation – the Christian term for avoiding the Hell Beasts waiting to torture you for eternity. And, that was to be born again. When I was a kid, I tried to imagine what that meant, how that was handled, and I spent many restless and freaked out nights lying in bed, unable to sleep, horrified at the thought of being stuffed back into my mother’s insides and then popped out again. That’s some heavy shit for a kid to worry about.

And, the anxiety only increased exponentially when grandma tried to explain, if that’s the correct word, that, no, it wasn’t a physical birth   she was talking about, it was . . . something else. Something even scarier because she couldn’t really explain the process. Magic? Ghosts? Belief? “You have to learn to have faith,” she would tell me. Faith? What was that and how did I learn it? I was still trying to learn how to ride my bike. However, Grandma’s dedication to my salvation did tuck away in my memory an endless supply of verses, stories, predictions, and threats – all from the Bible. As a result, none of my whacked out Christian callers could out-Bible me.

The topic I got into my first day as a talk show host concerned the deadly discharge from a company that made batteries for cars and trucks. The manufacturing plant sat on the banks of a nearby lake created in the 1930s by the Tennessee Valley Authority. The lake’s original purpose, along with a multi-State series of man-made waterways and dams, was to bring hydro-electric power to Appalachia. When finished, the darkness deep in the mountains – and the sounds of god knows what hungry beast creeping through the underbrush – would not be so scary; radios would bring the outside world to the little settlements found in the hollows and valleys; irrigation would nurture a family garden, so desperately needed during the Great Depression, a time that left death and despair in its wake.  And, of course, that era’s Congressional Republicans fought to prevent the entire idea of such profligate spending. Why bring such luxury as electricity to the backwoods hillbillies who did nothing but laze around their shacks, screw, have ugly babies, and then screw some more? As the Bible says, the poor have always been with us. However, the Right Wing Nuts were defeated, and one more life-giving component of FDR’s New Deal was built.

But that was a long time ago. Now, families from four states used that lake for recreation. They swam there; they picnicked there; they went boating and water skiing; they fished; they had fun. The battery maker didn’t give a shit about any of that. If there were toxic chemicals and heavy metals that had to be disposed, well, isn’t that why lakes and streams and rivers exist? To hide the by-products that were part of the manufacturing process? And, anyway, who would ever know? The discharge would be at night, in the still darkness, the only sound the gentle flow of poison washing into the lake. Fish don’t scream when sulphuric acid is eating holes in their bodies.

Well, fuck no to all that! I, the Caped Crusader of Atlanta talk radio, would get on these environmental criminals like white on rice! And, with that thought bouncing around inside my head, I sat down behind the microphone, ready for battle. There was a potential audience of several million people within the broadcast area of the station. However, most if not all of them, were focused on the Georgia, Arkansas football game in the Liberty Bowl. Who the hell wanted to hear about battery acid? The Bulldogs were beating the Razorbacks! Everything else was either secondary or totally inconsequential. Sundays in Georgia may belong to Jesus, but Autumn Saturdays are owned by the University of Georgia’s football team. Amen and amen.

After my opening 10-minute rant about the obviously evil and soulless capitalists who owned the battery factory and who were without remorse as they polluted and destroyed one of the pristine recreation areas in the Southeast, I opened the phone lines for comments from the listeners. The first call was from what sounded like a sweet old lady who wanted to know if I was “saved.” Her name was Pearl.

“Young man, are you saved? Do you know Jesus?”

“Excuse me . . .?”

“Have you found Jesus?”

“I didn’t know he was lost . . . “

She let that slide.

“You’re new at this radio station, aren’t you.  Are you saved?! Do you know where you’re going to spend eternity?”

“Uh . . . no, but what do you think about dumping battery acid into Lake Lanier?”

“You know, it says in the Bible that when He comes it’ll be in the blinking of an eye.”

“Yes, ma’m, that’s pretty fast.”

“Well, yes, it is, and you won’t have time to repent when the Trumpet of The Lord sounds all around the earth.”

“Okay . . . “I knew I had lost control of the conversation, my first as a talk show host. It was embarrassing.

“Well, young man, what church do you worship at? Where do you go to church?”

“Uh . . .”

“You are churched, aren’t you?”

 The Program Director’s Prime Directive when he hired me was never, never hang up on a caller. No matter how crazy I might think of what they were saying, hanging up on them was not allowed. Instead, try to win them over to my point of view; be sympathetic, understanding, and always polite. 

“And here are three absolutes to file away as you begin this adventure,” he had added with a mock serious tone to his voice. “One, always be truthful. Two, there will always be a gay man somewhere who wants to have your baby. And, three, I will always be listening.”

Pearl was getting on my nerves, “Well, Pearl, I . . . actually . . . uh . . . well, it’s like this . . .”

“You don’t go to church, do you.” It was a statement, not a question. “Well, then, are you prepared to spend eternity with the Devil? Do you want to burn in the Lake of Fire forever? And, what about your mother? I’m sure she didn’t raise you so you could burn in the Lake of Fire now did she.”

Well, at least Pearl was talking about a lake. Different lake, but we were close to being on the same page. I decided to ease Pearl back to wherever she came from when she decided to call the program.

“Okay, Pearl, you got me. Yes, I belong to a church. It’s the Church of Wicca?”

“Now, where is that? And, what is a Wicca? Is that part of the Southern Baptists?”

“No, ma’m, that church doesn’t believe in a particular god. They love nature, the natural world, you know, trees and forest creatures, and they dance in the light of the moon. Do you like to dance, Pearl?”

Her voice went from patronizing to threatening. “You don’t believe in our Lord Jesus Christ?! You are nature worshippers?!  Young man, you are in serious danger! The Devil is leading you! Darkness is about to envelop you! Your soul will shrivel and die, amen! Get down on your knees now and beg the Lord’s mercy!”

“Uh . . . Pearl, it’s only a few minutes past two in the afternoon. It doesn’t get dark until, what? seven, eight o’clock this time of year.”

I saw my producer pick up the “hot line,” the studio phone that was used only if absolutely necessary, and was the direct link to the Station Manager. He listened for a moment, then hung up and waved to get my attention. He was making a cutting motion across his throat. I could read his lips: Hang up! Hang the fuck up! Get her OFF!

“Hey, Pearl, I gotta go. I do appreciate your call. Take care, okay?”

“You are going straight to Hell, mister . . . “

We went to commercials.

“Well, that’s a first,” my producer said. “Ol’ Ludlow said tell Mike to hang up on this caller. Now.”

Not even one day on the job and I’d caused the station manager to violate the Prime Directive.

 

 

Several months passed. I was learning the mechanics of talk radio while firmly establishing myself as – depending on your political point of view – either the Atlanta radio market’s Liberal maniac who had no business being on the air and should be removed immediately because obviously he was a Communist, or a blessing to the ever expanding base of politically progressive activists in Atlanta who were determined to further the human rights stance of a city that had, for the most part, avoided the ugliness and violence that had rotted the soul of so many Southern cities during the ending of Jim Crow laws and the beginning of the civil rights era. The names of the giants of the Civil Rights Movement will always be linked with Atlanta, starting, of course, with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I had “graduated” from WCNN – and no pay – to the monster station of the Southeast, and a reasonable paycheck, WSB-AM. It was referred to as the “blowtorch” of the South because of the station’s broadcast power, especially at night when the hundreds of daytime-only stations across fifteen states went off the air and a potential radio audience of millions was there for the picking. As far as hosting a talk radio program, I was a quick study. My time at CNN had taught me how to do quick but factual research on just about any topic that was considered “news.” And the relatively brief time I spent in theatre also was an asset, because from theatre I learned that no matter how shitty or insulting a caller might be, no matter how challenging, I was immune; once my radio persona was in place I was safe. Nothing could shake me or throw me off balance. Why, you might ask? I will tell you.

  For three years I had been part of a troupe of radical actors called The Southern Theatre Conspiracy. Such a group. Such fun. We performed some traditional theatre – Shakespeare, Miguel Pinero, Arthur Schnitzer, Sam Shepard – and a few thoroughly outrageous company-developed offerings. My favorite original play was one developed primarily by the troupe’s founder and artistic director, Eddie Lee. The title was “Spare Ribs.” It was a feminist comedy about the creation of Woman as seen through the eyes of the first Man, God, and Satan. I was offered the role of Adam.

It was my first time performing as an honest-to-god actor, with a paying audience, publicity, the roar of the greasepaint (lots of it), the smell of the crowd. There was one catch in my being Adam. Eddie new I was a complete novice. I had joined the company to develop playwriting skills, not acting. Once in, however, the acting appeared to be easier than writing and considerably more fun so, I signed up for Acting 101 and scene study classes taught by his wife who ran our company drama “school.”

My prior stage experience began and ended with a 7th grade production of “Music Man.” To Eddie, that was a bonus. I had no preconceptions of how to use the stage, no earlier training or experience that would have to be overcome for the part I was being offered, the role of Adam. The catch? Adam, as Eddie conceived the play, a one-act that ran just under an hour, would be nude onstage during the entire performance.

Holy shit! In a matter of speaking. Naked. Totally naked. No clothing. No costume. Nothing to hide behind. Except the make-up, the grease paint. A thin veneer to quiet my terror, for certain.

Of course, Adam would be nude. Wasn’t that a key element of this particular creation myth? Adam and Eve frolicked naked in the Garden until Eve took some bad advice – from a snake, no less – and ate some sort of fruit hanging from the Tree of Knowledge. Instantly, she and her male partner were condemned to death. In fact, every living thing was condemned to eventual death.  And, that wasn’t all. Because, this particular god was the sort who was easily pissed and apparently very possessive of his precious little tree. So, not only was death introduced, this vindictive, mentally unstable god decided to curse all women in a singularly nasty way. All of them. Including the billions who were not yet born. Forever and ever. The Heavenly Bully told Eve that henceforth she and her female descendants would give birth in extreme pain and some of them would die in the process. How’s that for celestial insanity? And all because of Eve’s easily understood curiosity. Oh, and the ladies wouldn’t get the right to vote for millennia. And, they’d have to deal with unequal pay for the same work as men, once work and pay had been invented. All for the sin of taking a bite out of a pomegranate? What a load of bullshit, right? But, that load became the foundational creation myth of three religions, all three of which have been trying to destroy each other since they each discovered the other two existed.

But, the play. Adam. Nudity. I knew this was going to be the sort of experience that I’d either get through successfully or crash and burn in the most embarrassing and permanently damaging way. An actor portraying the Biblical first man would look like some sort of coward, a sad amateur, an inauthentic poseur, if he didn’t play Adam naked, so there was no way to compromise. Even a strategically placed leaf was out of the question. I talked it over with my therapist who, herself, had once been active in theatre.

“What are you most concerned about?” she asked during a session devoted to the terror of being nude in front of a crowd of people.

“Being nude in front of a crowd of people,” I answered.

“Perfectly normal unless you’re a nudist,” she said in that endearing way therapists have of agreeing with just about anything the client says. “But, why the concern? You’re an actor. At least right now you’re an actor. So, why let this cause you any anxiety?”

What? Wasn’t that obvious? One of the most upsetting – and common – dreams people share is being in a crowd and suddenly one’s clothes disappear.

“Have you spent any time in your acting classes discussing getting into character?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Well, there you go. You’ve got to become Adam before you walk out onto the stage.”

Oh, of course. Become Adam. Just do it. Then everything will be stress-free and calm, and I’ll have an exciting time being naked on stage for almost an hour. Except, of course, that was bullshit for a novice like me. So, the answer was simple: Talk with some of Atlanta’s experienced male actors. Ask them how to handle nudity onstage. That’s the ticket.

But, surprise! surprise! not a single Atlanta actor, male or female, had ever performed nude – full frontal nudity – on an Atlanta stage. Or anywhere for that matter. I was not in New York City where challenging roles such as being called upon to perform naked were common, certainly more so than here in the buckle of the Bible Belt. It was time to talk once again with my therapist.

Meanwhile, the City Attorney heard of our upcoming performances and sent a letter to Eddie stating that such a horror as a naked person onstage would simply not be tolerated. Not in his city. In fact, if the performance went forward as scheduled Eddie, as the owner of the theatre and I, as the obscene performer, would both be arrested for offending public decency. It was time to bring in some reinforcements. Eddie enlisted the assistance of a local minister – whose church catered primarily to gay men – and a couple of local First Amendment advocates. The preacher assured the City Attorney that the play was Biblical. Weren’t Adam and Eve both naked until The Fall? Did the Attorney want to be accused of discrimination against religion as well as restricting protected speech?

Well, put that way the City Attorney backed off. With one warning: Even a hint of sexual reference or sexuality in general would be dealt with severely. In other words, jail. The message was simple: go ahead and have your naked play but we’ll be watching. And God help all us degenerate actors if undue attention – any attention – was paid to my penis. Which, by the way, was a very harmless and actually endearing appendage.

The next few weeks were spent in rehearsal and since this was a company-developed play the dialogue and blocking were subject to change daily, depending on input from the actors. Since Adam’s lines were minimal I used the rehearsals to “become Adam.” I tried to get into character with all the energy of someone trying to avoid the worst possible thing other than a terminal disease. And, surprise! slowly I was getting there. During rehearsals the other actors – all female (yes, even the God character) – were clothed while I frolicked around the stage naked. Eddie wanted me to become comfortable with the other actors first, then deal with the terror of a live audience. To this day I am grateful that during rehearsals my fellow actors didn’t get into dick jokes and snarky comments about “shrinkage.”

Opening night arrived. We actors were all backstage applying makeup – for me, lots of it – when Eddie came in with word that the City Attorney had an observer in the audience with an arrest warrant, blank where names could be filled in. The scary warrant with its empty spaces reminded us yet again that the theatre would be closed down if there was any bullshit about the true nature of the play. It was either Biblical or pornographic. No middle ground. The cast had a good laugh and started doing obscene gestures and whispering, “Fuck me, Adam! Oh, baby. Do me.” No time. Maybe later. I was applying makeup. Lots of it.

We weren’t arrested. The play was a hit. In the middle of that first performance the official observer left, either because he realized the play was, in fact, not obscene or possibly because he got bored (excited?) seeing my penis. Either way, he split.

The production ran for the scheduled six weeks, four performances a week, and when it ended I knew two things: First, I would never again have that panicky dream of being naked in public, and second, I had developed a dedicated following of gay men who came to see performance after performance, which increased the play’s receipts dramatically, bless their hearts. Thanks, boys.

But, after the close contact of six weeks of performing – and three weeks of daily rehearsals – I realized theatre people were way too crazy for me. Fun, yes. But, too close to emotional derangement. Not that emotional derangement is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, for most actors, it’s a requirement. For me, however, that sort of derangement was a condition I spent my entire life trying to avoid. Why take the chance of a full break with reality that can come when it’s necessary – as it is in theatre – to “become” a different person with a completely different personality and, in some roles, a completely different physical appearance. Too risky if you teeter along the edge of chaos in real life. As my therapist reminded me often during 20-plus years of therapy, “Tread lightly. We all are just one shrieking episode away from total psychological disintegration,” which was excellent advice and a perfectly suitable directive for anyone who wants to make it through this life with the least amount of damage and get on to the next one. Plus, she said all sorts of funny shit like that. 

 

           As far as the right-wing jerk-offs who had discovered my program were concerned, especially the geeks who called the station with their complaints that I was “un-American” and certainly not a Christian, including the people who were fleeing the city for the suburbs to escape the racist and asinine belief of a break-down of “law and order,” my on-air attitude had quickly become one of fuck ‘em.  The rise of Atlanta’s African-American political class and the growing influx of Black people moving to the city, was a further cause of their fear and their insistence on keeping “white” things white, including the radio station most of them had grown up listening to, the one on which I had my program. Suddenly, the political power shoe was being put on the other foot and a lot of whites didn’t want to risk having it planted firmly up their asses. Southern white privilege, which had been the rule for generations, was changing, disappearing, dissolving. And the correct perception that I was an advocate of equality of opportunity as well as justice, was seriously pissing off the city’s “old guard.”

For me, the topics available for discussion – okay, not discussion; topics are not discussed on talk radio – were in abundance. It was the mid-80s, Reagan was President, and every day brought news of yet another crime against humanity generally, or, specifically, crimes against the American people, committed by key members of his administration. The state of flux engulfing not just the U.S, but also the rest of the world, could be overwhelming. Unless you were a radio talk show host. If you were a radio talk show host, the developing global hysteria and the crimes of the Reaganites were fodder for the next show. And the one after that. And, on and on. In that regard, it was a blessed time. Except, of course, for the death and destruction, the lies and the deceptions, and the entire parallel reality of neo-Fascist deception that was slowly being absorbed into the bloodstream of America. To quote Paul Simon, “Time it was, and what a time it was.”   As an example, April 1980, saw the beginning of the Mariel boatlift, the mass migration of tens of thousands of people who wanted to leave Cuba for the U.S. The Cuban leader, Fidel Castro, saw an opportunity to rid his island country of people he considered to be less than enthusiastic for la Revolution that, after five years of guerilla warfare, had rid Cuba of the dictator Fulgencio Batista in 1959.

By October, 1980, the boatlift was ended by mutual agreement between the governments of both Cuba and the U.S. after more than 125,000 Cubans had reached Florida. Among those immigrants – or political refugees – depending on one’s political point of view – were people Castro considered to be criminals, along with hundreds of people allegedly from the country’s mental hospitals. While the clear majority of those coming to the U.S. during the boatlift were assimilated and blended into their new country with very little effort, there were those who found themselves locked up for various reasons in the U.S. Penitentiary in Atlanta. Their chances for release were minimal. Then, in November, 1987, the U.S. government unexpectedly announced an agreement with Cuba that would permit the repatriation – much of it forced – of up to 2,500 Cuban nationals. When the agreement became public, the Cubans being held in Atlanta rioted and seized control of the federal prison. For eleven days the uprising continued. The inmates were desperate. No way in hell did they want to return to Cuba because they knew what awaited them. An American prison was almost considered a vacation spot compared to a lock-up in Cuba. More than a hundred hostages were taken at the Atlanta pen and a part of the prison was burned down.

In the middle of this chaos, I received a call from one of the American human rights attorneys who were voluntarily representing the prisoners. Apparently, my program was listened to and had attracted an audience in the prison because of my stance on human rights – a stance that was in keeping with those of Amnesty International – and because during the stand-off I was broadcasting nightly from a tent across the street from the prison, as were dozens of reporters from national and local media. Not being a journalist and therefore restricted to the neutral position journalism required, I was in complete sympathy with the prisoners and made sure my audience knew that and also knew what was happening from the standpoint of the Cubans. Reports prior to the uprising said the treatment they were getting at the Atlanta Pen was in violation of the rules governing treatment of federal prisoners, and that became a repeated subject of my program. The attorney said the inmates wanted to know if I would interview one of their spokesmen via telephone and broadcast the interview live. Of course I would. In hindsight, I probably should have gotten permission from station management, but in most instances, it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission.

           A cumbersome 1980s mobile phone was smuggled into the prison by one of the attorneys. It was disguised as just part of the stuff a sound technician carried, maybe something to do with recording a prisoner’s statements, which was easy enough to do in 1987 given the phone’s size. Hidden in plain sight, so to speak. It looked like a carrying case designed to carry a supply of batteries.

Once inside, the attorney connected one of the leaders of the uprising with my field producer and the interview began. The detainees’ concern was their being held with no charges against them, an indefinite detention that would be repeated decades later at the U.S. military base at Guantanamo, Cuba, this time with captives from the other side of the globe. Looking back, the irony is inescapable.

The questions and answers were short and to the point. There was no chatter about Cuba or Castro or U.S. policy concerning the island nation. The focus was the human rights of the people who had been imprisoned and how those rights were being violated by the U.S. government every day they continued to be held. It took zero effort to hear the anguish in the words of the man who was talking with me. He also knew there was the possibility of being sent back to Cuba where yet another prison waited.

The conversation ended abruptly when one of the U.S. Marshalls inside the prison realized a live interview was being conducted with – God forbid! – a “journalist” outside the prison, across the street where the scrum of reporters and camera operators had been camped for days waiting for the massive explosion and screams of pain that would announce what the media were waiting for: official violence on a massive scale. The news business demanded blood and death and the sort of voyeuristic horror that comes with the nightly news: If it bleeds, it leads. The media finally got a bit of what it came for.

On November 23, mid-morning, the explosion came. The detainees took employees hostage, locking some of them in rooms next to the prison factory. Fire broke out. Firefighters were not allowed to enter the prison grounds. A warehouse burned to the ground. The guards fled the scene, shooting and killing one of the Cubans. The prisoners’ frenzy increased. Eventually, that day, 90 hostages were taken by the detainees. None was hurt. No one else died. Finally, after days of intense negotiations, the standoff ended, hostages were freed, and an agreement ending the deportations to Cuba had been negotiated. The man nearly solely responsible for a peaceful resolution to what could have been a horrific situation was Atlanta attorney Gary Leshaw whose practice included civil rights litigation. Without his skill as both a negotiator and a human rights advocate, the Cuban prison uprising could have given the media exactly what they were waiting for: destruction and death. But, alas, that did not come. Sigh . . .

 

 

           It was shortly after the prison uprising and my on-site talk radio coverage that station management – from both programming and sales – called me in for what was called a “program realignment” discussion. Yeah, that’s what they called it. To me, it was corporate bullshit. Apparently, my interview and the pro-detainee calls it generated was a bit too “lefty” for WSB’s tighty-whitey sales management whose department generated not only the station’s profit, but also its image.  One doesn’t fuck with the sales department or the station’s traditional on-air style. My audience obviously didn’t agree. In fact, the Arbitron ratings system that every station subscribed to in order to determine the market’s radio broadcast winners and losers – and thus the station’s advertising rates – showed I was steadily increasing the number of listeners who tuned in to my program. Granted, I was in the most undesirable day part – five nights a week, 10PM to 1AM – but, because I was (gasp!) an honest-to-god liberal in a city that was saturated with conservative broadcast bullshit the numbers still increased.

           I sat through the meeting pretending to be interested in and focused on what the suits were saying. It required survival skills I didn’t realize I had. These people owed their professional careers, and their existence, to a system that was not only unfair but also ultimately destructive. It was as though the rule was “If You Can’t Buy It, It Doesn’t Exist” and its corollary, “If You Can’t Sell It, It Has No Right To Exist.” It required no effort to feel pity for their world-view. Pity and outrage. Of course, under a governing framework of capitalism, this rule and its corollary, permeated society. It was, in fact, the Prime Directive – going all the way back to the enlightened white men who decided the structure of America. The documents they wrote that so eloquently laid out the reasons for revolution and how the new country would be constituted (the promises in those documents remain unattained and unattainable) were just that: documents. Sheets of parchment to be placed in a museum. The reality was entirely different from the eloquence. Just ask the continent’s native people and those people of color who were enslaved at the same time “We hold these truths to be self-evident . . .” was being written. Oh, wait. They’re all dead.

           But, I digress. The meeting with the station managers was quickly to the point: I was to ease up on all the social justice bullshit I was putting out nightly over their air. Be more mainstream, I was told; realize that my ideas were a bit of a challenge to the station’s long-time audience. But, I asked, wasn’t that the point? To challenge those ideas? Uh, no. My reason for being there, they patiently explained, was to . . . entertain.

One of Atlanta’s most talented at delivering right-wing political bullshit was one of my radio stable mates, the ridiculously conservative and intellectually weak Neal Boortz. Neal claimed to be a Libertarian, which is nothing less than a right-winger who is trying to hide from the world’s inconvenient truths, and who is willing to ignore Ayn Rand’s blatantly hypocritical use of the social systems she so thoroughly denigrated in the twin bibles of the creepy Libertarian wanna-bes, “Atlas Shrugged” and its equally asinine companion screed, “The Fountainhead.”  All the abuse she heaped on New Deal and Great Society government programs such as Social Security and Medicare, was conveniently forgotten as she was ill and dying, and suddenly found that those programs were beneficial and necessary even to “Libertarians” like her. Surprise, surprise!

No matter the topic at hand, Neal took the side of the neo-Fascist jerk-offs who – even then – were determined to undo and destroy all aspects of the so-called “social safety net” slowly put in place over the previous 60 years. Neal’s attitude toward Social Security? Privatize it, turn it over to Wall Street. Medicare? Nothing but socialized medicine that would cause everyone to get sick and die a hideous death because only the “market” could determine the best care for desperately sick people. Medicaid? Communism, plain and simple. And, dear god! was Neal vehemently opposed to any attempt by the federal government to keep in check, through reasonable regulation, the predatory capitalism that, left alone, guaranteed the U.S would forever be mired in inequality of opportunity, racism, income disparity on a criminal level, unequal jail sentencing guidelines, the wanton destruction of areas of natural beauty by the bastards who wanted to drill and mine and destroy, the denial of equal protection guaranteed by the Constitution, and on and on ad infinitum. In other words, Neal was contemptuous of just about anything designed to make life a bit easier, a little more interesting, sensual, and even possibly fun, i.e., a right-wing lunatic.

           For some reason, maybe the fact we were polar opposites where it concerned anything political (and everything is political), or just Neal’s inherent contempt for everyone not sharing his sour take on life, he and I did not share fun times or an occasional boys’ night out. However, we did have occasion to go water skiing one summer afternoon, courtesy of WSB’s management.

           It was one of those corporate get-togethers so popular in the 80s. The idea being get everyone together, sales, production, technical, advertising, management and the fonts of energy that kept the whole thing going – the on-air talent – and that out of this mélange some sort of magic would occur that would elevate WSB to the realm of broadcast angels. Or some such bullshit.

           The massive pontoon party cruiser, trailing a 21-foot Chris Craft ski boat, was waiting at the dock when we all arrived by chartered bus. After boarding and setting off into the blue beauty of Lake Lanier, the booze began to flow. Some of us, the non-drinkers, clustered at the stern to surreptitiously share a joint of Oaxacan Gold. The party was on.

           After several time-wasting speeches and presentations by the department managers, all of whom were male and all of whom were decked out in ridiculous looking boxy swim trunks, pastel-colored golf shirts, flip-flops and socks, somebody suggested we go water-skiing. Absolutely!

           I ducked into one of the cabins and changed into my black Speedos. I had been wearing Speedos, or its equivalent, since my teen years when I swam competitively for Glass City Aquatic Club in Toledo, Ohio. They were tight, form-hugging, nylon that offered the least resistance in the water, true engineering marvels in the 50s. Apparently, I was the only male on the boat who had ever swum in competition. Either that or everyone else enjoyed wearing floppy, baggy, trunks that came down to the knees and made their legs look like hairy spindles.

           I fastened the ski belt around my waist, grabbed the handle of the tow rope, and jumped into the water. The boat was driven by one of the sales geeks who was half in the bag from several sloe gin fizzes and no lunch, but, not to worry; I was an accomplished swimmer and had a flotation belt snug around my mid-section. Sales geek did an excellent job, smashed or not. Long straight-aways down open water in the massive lake, lazy turns, a few pin-wheels for excitement, a couple of spills, and, after several high-velocity passes around the party boat, back to the pontoon and the crowd of now totally sloshed, stoned and FUBARed employees of the Voice of the South. Except for Neal. Neal was sober as a judge. As I climbed up the pontoon’s ladder and back on deck, Neal, who had been eyeing my mid-section as I struggled to get back aboard, let loose with, “Hey! It’s Speedo Malloy! How was the ride, Speedo? Didja’ get wet? Haw-haw-haw! Speedo! Hurt anything when you went ass-over-elbows out there?”

All his cackling and yelling about my goddam Speedos got the attention of every female on board. Neal was giving them a guided tour of my crotch, which was perfectly okay with me, although the upper management guys, the ones making mental notes of the festivities – which employees were obnoxiously drunk, who was going back to the stern repeatedly and why, who was passed out on the deck chairs – were frowning and mumbling to each other each time Neal let loose with another “Speeeeee-do!” Apparently, the contours and outlines of one’s penis under a wet Speedo was not acceptable corporate behavior. Especially when an obnoxious asshole like Neal kept shrieking, “Speeeedo, Speeeedo!”

All in all, however, it was a very productive afternoon. Over the next few days there were several lunch invitations from the girls in the sales department left on my studio answering machine. The pontoon meeting itself? Didn’t learn shit.

 

 

My audience ratings continued to go up. The subjects I focused on were topics guaranteed to cause serious heartburn in WSB’s executive suite. Gay issues – which was a topic management wished would just go away, even though the AIDS epidemic was slicing through the nation’s creative population like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse let loose – was a subject critical to Atlanta’s large gay community, especially when the Commissioners of one of Atlanta’s suburban counties, Cobb County, decided to pass a resolution condemning what they insisted on calling the “gay life-style,” and then, as an additional slap in the face, if you somehow missed the point of their Christian bigotry, decided to cut off all county arts funding rather than having to make decisions regarding what would and would not (public Bible readings?) offend the delicate sensibilities of their citizens. God forbid some radical queer would produce art that, through some subtle shutter click or brush stroke or spoken word, would bring about the downfall of Christian civilization, starting in Cobb County, Georgia. Adding insult to grievous injury, this was the county where the sick fuck J.B. Stoner -who eventually was convicted of the 1958 bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, and the resulting deaths of four young Black girls who were attending Sunday School – lived and organized his national hate campaigns against anyone who wasn’t a white, male, Klan-sympathizing, Christian, right-wing lunatic. Like him.

After two years of displaying their stupidity for the world to see, the resolution was rescinded not long after the daughter of the Chairman of the County Commission came out as a lesbian which was not just ironic; it was a richly deserved smack-down to the Christian bigots who had tried to make life miserable for yet another community of people who did not meet their Caucasian, hetero-maniac definition of how  proper and acceptable people comported themselves.

Human rights, as well as acceptance as normal by the dominant gender-specific majority, was an issue I gladly adopted as a recurring theme on my program. I, like so many who lived through the 1980s, saw a grim and soul-devouring succession of young, creative men destroyed by the AIDS virus – not a few of them my friends. Attending funerals became so frequent and yet the sadness was never mitigated no matter how many memorial services; they only made the anguish more deeply penetrating. Which explains the anger I suddenly felt driving in to work one night.

I was listening to the program host who was on right before me when he cut away to commercials. This was usually when I’d flip to another station to avoid hearing the same ads I’d be listening to, over and over, for the next three hours. But, before I could change stations I heard the beginning of an ad that turned out to be a Mazda truck commercial. It was quickly obvious the commercial had been designed and produced for the Southern market. A couple of redneck sounding males were talkin’ ‘bout whut kinda’ truck they really liked.

Redneck One: “I work at a big ol’ pulp-wood mill and I need a heavy-duty truck, one that’ll work as hard as I do!”

Redneck Two: “I hear ya’! Me? I spend my days at the gravel pit, bustin’ that granite into pieces small enough so as not to tear up the tires on the cars that drive these country roads. Now, that’s some hard labor, pal!”

Redneck One: “And, the last thing we want or need is some pansy truck when we get off work, right?”

Redneck Two: “Boy, you got that right! Don’t need no pansy truck! Gotta have a tough, he-man Mazda truck!”

What the fuck?! A “pansy” truck? What, pray tell, would be a “pansy” truck? One that wore a blond wig and dressed like a (gasp!) bitch? Like that? Is that a pansy truck? Well, I for sure had my first topic for the show that night. A pansy truck . . .?

Before going to the studio, I went to the Program Director’s office and told him what I wanted to do. The whole pansy truck commercial was too much. Everyone knew what the word “pansy” meant and it had nothing to do with a colorful little flower.

“Greg,” I said, sitting down without being invited to, “that is one fucked up anti-gay commercial. I have to take the ad agency who put that together to the mat. I mean, what fucking genius in New York thought they were connecting to dumb-shit Southern men who would really clue in on not wanting ‘no pansy truck?’ “

“Yeah, I heard that, too,” he answered. “Weird way to sell trucks. You think anyone will notice?”

           “Notice? Notice? I wouldn’t be surprised if several thousand protesters showed up tomorrow morning with signs saying ‘WSB is anti-gay,’ or ‘WSB’ means We’re Such Bigots. Jesus, Greg, we just got over the Cobb County bullshit.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Just point out the stupidity in producing that sort of commercial, where they think their target market in the South is nothing but anti-gay, male rednecks, which, okay, a lot of them are, but, Jesus, Greg, not all of them, right?”

He said go ahead. Big error, Greg.

Now, to take on a marketing company, to challenge the stupidity so often found in commercials (and especially an agency that spends lots of money to advertise on your radio station) as I did that night carries with it the chance someone is going to become very, very upset, someone in a position of power in that agency who might be inclined to retaliate by cancelling accounts, which means a loss of revenue for the station, which means, station management will, in turn, get very, very upset, which means being called into the station manager’s office where the person who sold the ad will scream, “What the fuck were you thinking? Do you realize how much money your little pro-gay shit last night cost me?” because the ad agency just cancelled a contract that meant thousands and thousands of now lost ad dollars and the evaporation of huge commissions for the sales geek who had worked on getting the agency as a client for weeks and had approved the copy for this ad, which means the Program Director who, by the way, had been with the station for less than a month, would suffer the fury of station management for allowing such a deconstructing of an ad that simply denigrated thousands of people who happen to be gay, and the station is in the business to make money and not get all misty-eyed for gay folk who are harassed, taunted, beaten, and even killed here in the Buckle of the Bible Belt, that’s someone else’s job, so now how do we handle this short of firing not just the manager, who was stupid enough to okay this little venture in social engineering, but also the liberal freak who went on the air and came to the defense of people who are gay, fuck their struggle with AIDS!!! And, all of it, management implied, caused by calling a goddam pick-up truck a pansy truck when, in fact, that’s a perfectly legitimate reference for these pushy queers with their gay rights and pride parades and demands they be treated like normal people, what the fuck!

Or something very close to that.

So, I listened to the reprimand while I wondered why the fuck I was working at a radio station that was proud of their anti-everything that wasn’t white, conservative, and passive in the face of ongoing bullshit heaped on minority folk. Why, indeed? A severe character flaw in my DNA? It was time for a break, a real one, one that would separate me from the crazed reality stream I had gotten sucked into. Enter peyote.

______________________________________________

I had five roommates. We shared an antebellum, run-down mansion that soon would be demolished to make way for modern, upscale condos needed for the heavy influx of Yuppies and Buppies who were swarming into Atlanta. But, for now, it was ours, ghosts and all. Three levels, a terraced back yard, massive oaks and tall pine trees that, when the wind blew, whispered the horrors the ancient trees had heard when the house belonged to a slave owner.

We were two actors, a writer, a photographer, and a woman studying at Georgia State to be an urban planner. That was our core population. In addition, at any given time, there would be another roomie or two, usually an Emory student or a would-be painter lost in the attic, maybe a blues musician searching for a gig. A fun group. Every Sunday morning we’d all gather in the rear sun room for a thrown-together brunch; bagels, fruit, smoked salmon, maybe a potato knish (most, not all, of us were Jews), mixed with Darvon, aspirin, and whatever else was the latest cure for severe hangovers, both alcohol and ‘Ludes.

On one of these Sunday get-togethers the photographer – call him Rick – asked if any of us wanted to ingest a few peyote buds. A friend of his had recently returned from the Sonoran Desert with a supply of the little rascals. I said me, me! Pick me! I had never tried peyote but had heard it was a consciousness raising experience not to be missed. Of course, I heard that from a woman who made a very good living selling all sorts of mind-expanding potions and roots, as well as ancient bits and shards of pottery and cooking utensils she had collected during her travels in the Middle East. Even though I believed her and thought she was a very interesting traveler, I never opened myself to the power of peyote. But, I was curious. I had read The Teachings of Don Juan, A Separate Reality, and Journey To Ixtlan, so when Rick made his offer, I saw my chance to go all Carlos Castenada and maybe find my spirit ally. If I had one.

We decided the next Saturday would work, given our erratic schedules. I asked my girl-friend, Katy, who passed on participating in the actual experience, to go along as sort of an anchor in this reality in case I needed rescuing. Katy, bless her heart, agreed. “I’ll just smoke a joint while you guys find your doors of perception,” she said, wickedly. Rick asked a friend of his, Sara, who was studying taxidermy if she wanted the experience. She said yes because that might put her in contact with the spirits of the furry little animal corpses she would slice open to do her taxidermy studies.  And, that was our little group, three of us going off to find the wizard if the wizard dwelt inside a peyote button, and a fourth to get help if we needed rescuing.

Saturday arrived. We all got together at the mansion to watch Rick make the necessary preparations. He brought in a paper bag, opened it, and pulled out several handfuls of gruesome, scary looking chunks of cactus tops. As soon as he opened the bag a very weird smell filled the kitchen and, for reasons I did not understand, I immediately felt like running away. Far away. This was some dangerous shit for an unstable person to encounter. The smell said it all. Into a pot of boiling spring water went the peyote buds. We waited. After 15 minutes or so Rick removed the buds, all swollen and fleshy now, and poured the yellowish water into a glass canister. The buds (they appeared to be twitching slightly) went back into the bag where I’m sure they felt comfortable.

We piled into Katy’s car and headed north out of Atlanta. Forty miles away, in rural Forsyth County, on the banks of the Etowah River, deep into an old-growth forest, Katy’s family had built a cabin in the shape of a geodesic dome. Her father was a well-known psychotherapist and this setting was the one he used for his more agitated patients, the theory being the forest and the gently flowing river, and the peacefulness, taken together, were calming and conducive to reflection and the examination of one’s inner self.

           Eventually, Katy turned off the two-lane highway onto a gravel road that soon gave way to a dusty, reddish clay track, that, in turn disappeared altogether as we got deeper into the woods, until she was driving on a faintly visible trail that led to the dome. There it sat, perfectly blended into the surrounding forest, unpainted, rustic almost to the point of parody. We got out of the car and went inside. The immediate effect was calming, indeed. The walls and ceiling were large, clear triangles of glass, the wood floors and interior stairs that rose to a loft were sweet-smelling cedar, and in the middle of the circular inner space was a stone fireplace surrounded by built-in padded couches. Nestled under the stairway was a small kitchen with a four-burner gas stove next to a metal sink. Cedar cabinets were built into the space above the sink. Outside, was a deck attached to the dome that seemed independently suspended and part of the forest.

           After wandering around for a few minutes taking in the beauty of the place, we gathered on the couches for our peyote tutorial. Rick, having made the trip before, was the tutor.

           “You may experience what seem to be hallucinations,” he began. “However, they are not hallucinations. What you experience will be as real as the conversation we are having now. This new reality can be very intense, both in terms of learning and disorientation. However, there is no reason to fear what you will be part of. There are no monsters, nothing to be afraid of, nothing that will make you lose your mind unless you want to let it go, although, and this is important, that is one of the benefits and healing powers of peyote: you can lose your mind, your old mind, the one corrupted with lies and deceit and bigotry and fear, all that nasty shit collected over a lifetime of self-deception.” I had that feeling again, the one that came over me when Rick was boiling the buds back at the mansion, which, right now, seemed to be somewhere on another planet, far away and long ago. It passed.

           “You will determine the depth of your experience and how much you will learn from it. Just don’t panic at any time; you are safe in the arms of peyote.”

           “What? The arms of peyote?” I asked. “Isn’t that just a tad dramatic, Rick, a bit over the top there?”

           “Just trying to set a comfortable mood, man. It’s all good.” I had lived with Rick for two years and knew he could go all mysterious when he felt it would enhance his photography. Or, obviously, his peyote experience. I felt just a bit foolish for questioning his choice of words. After all, this was a tutorial. Maybe there were “arms of peyote.” What the fuck did I know? Nothing.

           “Katy will be close by if you need assistance in sorting things out, both during and after,” he said, resting his hand on Katy’s arm. “Any questions?”

           I raised my hand, a thoroughly ridiculous move given there were only two of us who might have a question. “Will I die?” We all laughed. At me.

           Rick went to the kitchen and came back with three small drinking glasses, partially filled with the water in which the buds had been boiled. “Let’s drink this first. It will get us started. I added some mint to offset the taste. Then we’ll chew the buttons and swallow them.”

The mint didn’t help very much. The taste was what fetid swamp water smelled like, nasty, brutish and thick. On Rick’s instruction we emptied our glasses. Then, the buttons, limp now, green and yellow, and very fibrous. It was difficult to chew, even harder to swallow. I managed to get four of them down and almost immediately felt a rush of violent nausea and gut pain and a rippling convulsion, as though the peyote was trying to come back up, to escape. Before we left the mansion, after Rick had boiled the peyote, we were each given a paring knife and told to carefully remove the little white pustules of strychnine that lived on top of the cactus. We missed a few, that was now clear.

We walked outside. I noticed a new sensation as the air stirred against my bare arms. Water? Plasma? A feeling I couldn’t name? Yeah, that last one. I could see the air as it undulated around the dome, around Katy, around Rick and Sara as they walked off into the woods becoming smaller and smaller until they disappeared. There was a faint melody being played somewhere, soft with sharp edges, a sound unfamiliar. A lute? A dulcimer? An aulos? A chelys? It didn’t matter. Identities were fluid here. Here?

           I made my way to what appeared to be a pile of small, sun-splashed boulders sitting near a stand of tall oaks. Katy walked off toward the river, climbed part way up a sugar maple, and settled back to watch the rippling flow of the Etowah. Then she morphed into a hawk and flew away, her raptor’s screech echoing through the forest. I settled down into the stone curves and depressions in the boulders. They scooted around a bit to make me comfortable, all the while sighing as though my presence was mildly disturbing. To my left, one of the larger ones opened a deep cleft in its middle and a clear stream of icy water flowed into an earthen cup I hadn’t noticed when I sat. The sun felt warm and I could see the brilliant particles that made up the individual beams streaming down through the trees like tiny pieces of copper foil. I wondered if Katy knew how to fly and if she was having fun. A breeze appeared and danced in front of me, inviting me to join its swirling, twisting motions. I decided to stay where I was and just watch. The breeze became a wind of some force, pushing pine cones and acorns and debris from the forest floor around me and toward the river, and I was able to see each vein of each leaf as they tumbled past in a mad rush to the water. But, the branches of the trees, even the smaller ones, were not moving in this wind; the rush of air was having no effect on the trees at all. For a moment I wondered how that could be. The wind always agitates tree leaves, doesn’t it? Isn’t there some law of physics about that? Inertia? Brisk wind equals moving leaves hanging from the trees. That’s the way it always works. There was no sound, except for a deep, low, almost imperceptible vibration that felt like it was coming from the boulders that had now pushed up around me. I lifted the cup of cold water and drank. Just beyond my peripheral vision I felt slight movement above and to my left, away from the now placid, silent river. Small, inverted pyramids of energy (I guessed) were settling down, down onto and into the trees, their greens and browns and blacks all at once deeper shades of color. The trees were glowing, a halo of light filling the spaces among them until there was no empty space left, just fluid, warm light. It was one of the larger oaks, if not the largest, that spoke first.

           “Why are you so arrogant?” The forest floor vibrated slightly from the deep bass voice that was not angry with its question, just curious.

           “Am I arrogant,” I asked?

           “Yes. All of you are, you twitching, jerking creatures.” The voice continued with a litany of questions. “Why do you move around? Can you not find a place of balance and stay there? Why do you kill us? Why do you slice us into pieces? Why do you burn us into charred stumps?”

           “I don’t do that. I’ve never done that. I wouldn’t do that.” I had to offer a convincing denial. I sensed that if I didn’t, something unpleasant would happen. I could feel a sudden cascade of anxiety flow around me, washing away my initial feelings of wonder and warmth, as if an outer covering was being peeled off me.

           The tree spoke again. “Do you understand when I ask about your arrogance?”

           “No, I really don’t. How have I offended you?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Listen, my best friend when I was a kid playing in my grandma’s orchard was a tree, an apple tree. Its branches were my horse, my sailing ship, my castle. Every summer.”

           “You didn’t offend me. Not you personally. Do you remember the yellow cat?”

           The yellow cat . . .

           Suddenly, “Yes! I do!”

           I hadn’t thought of the yellow cat for decades. The first time I saw it was a in bright flash at the far edge of the orchard. I had been sailing the Indian Ocean, stopping at deserted islands, foraging into the jungles to find something to eat. After walking for a few minutes and not finding anything I thought was edible, I stopped at the edge of a chasm that cut through the undergrowth. It was deep and strewn with volcanic boulders at the bottom. On the other side, about 25 meters away, I saw the yellow cat, smiling at me. It was a big house cat, huge in fact, and its tail dangled over the edge of the chasm.

           “Come to this side,” the yellow cat whispered. “There are things you must know. I can tell you what they are. Come across.”

           “But, I can’t,” I said, tears all at once filling my eyes and starting to flow down my cheeks. “I want to, but I can’t. I might fall into this chasm and there’s no one to help me get back out if I do. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I was crying freely now, the rush of tears becoming a stream that rushed from my face and flowed into the valley that separated us. “I want to, but I can’t. Do you understand that?”

           “There is no valley,” it answered. “Just come down from that tree and walk over here. You’ve done that every day; climb up, climb down. Just walk over here.”

           I couldn’t. I was too afraid. The cat was too big to be real. Then, it smiled. Even then, I knew cats couldn’t smile. I stopped crying. The whole scene was becoming less frightening and simply ridiculous.

           “This is the only time you’ll see me,” it continued. “After this moment, I will fade from your memory and your dreams. So, this, then, is why I am here, why you see me now . . .”

           And, after a while, it stopped talking. The orchard began to slip out of focus. “Wait! What are the things? What do I have to know?” The cat disappeared, leaving a yellow halo where it had been sitting.

           “So, you do remember,” the Voice said.

           “Yes, but so what? That was just a stupid kid thing when I was ten years old. Maybe even a dream. It was nothing.”

           “Really? Nothing?”

           The thick undergrowth nearby began moving, being pushed aside. I felt a sudden fear that I couldn’t contain. I had to run. I had to get away from whatever was moving through the dense kudzu and twisted privet bushes. I pushed against the rocks, lifting myself up, and ran towards the river. Katy had promised she’d be there if I needed help. But, Katy had flown away. I turned around and saw a figure, a person, walking toward me. It was a man wrapped in a blanket, with a rope belt tied around his waist and a hood over his head.

           “Here! I have something for you,” he shouted, his hand outstretched. He stopped walking. “It’s yours. I believe you lost it.”

           I could hear the river behind me, now. It was churning and foaming, the tops of tumbling whitecaps stinging against the back of my neck.

           “Who are you?” I shouted in return. “I haven’t lost anything. What’s in your hand?”

           The river was moaning, surging against its banks.

           “It’s yours, he said. “You don’t remember losing it? It was a long time ago, but surely you remember. Here.”

           “But, honestly, I don’t want whatever you’re holding. I don’t know what you’re holding. Throw it away.”

           “Throw it away? That’s funny. That’s really funny. How can I throw away something that’s not mine?”

           “That’s crazy,” I answered. “Just open your hand and let this wind take it. I don’t want it, whatever it is. Do you understand me?”

           The man continued walking toward me. I couldn’t move. I wanted to run again. I couldn’t.

           “Don’t be so difficult,” he said, still moving toward me. “You need to have this. It’s important. It’s like a kind of protection, sort of.”

           As he talked I had a sense of being tugged, pulled, even though I was still unable to move at all. I could feel a force pulling this way, then pushing that way, then pulling again. I was being pulled apart. I felt the space now opening up between me here and me there. It wasn’t painful. It felt like two different people hugging me, drawing me into an embrace. And, then there were two of me. Crazy. When I lifted my hand, so did I lift my hand. When I nodded my head, so did I nod my head.

           “What is happening? What is this? I don’t like this,” I and I said.

           “See?” the man laughed. “You need the protection. You can’t be you and you. No way.”

           I and I held out my hand. This had to stop. He stepped closer and placed a folded piece of paper in my and my hand. It was old and smelled like a wood fire, and sweat, and something else, something I and I couldn’t name. Grease? Animal grease from a wood fire?

           I closed my eyes and opened them, and I was one again. Just me. No me and me. Off to my left, the yellow cat appeared. “Hey, wait a minute!” I shouted. “You just said I’d never see you again! So, what’s this? I see you again. What a bunch of bullshit, you know? You said I wouldn’t even remember you. What? Five minutes ago?”

           The yellow cat laughed. Laughed. “That was a long time ago when I said that. Years. In the orchard. Remember the orchard?”

           This fucking yellow cat was about to make me crazy. “The orchard,” I shouted, “was when I was a kid. That was, what? Thirty years ago? You don’t make any sense at all. What is your deal, cat? I mean, really. This is nuts.”

           “The piece of paper, do you still have it?” the yellow cat was licking a paw and wiping its cheek.

           “After thirty years??!”

           It was in the right rear pocket of my jeans. I took it out and once again the smell of burning wood floated around me. The paper was folded over several times, deeply creased, and stained with deep brown splotches. I unfolded it slowly, so I wouldn’t tear it or further shred its damp edges.

           The yellow cat spoke: “Hold on a minute. Don’t open it just yet. Let’s talk about this.”

           I stopped trying to open the piece of paper. “Talk? About what?”

           “What’s written down on that paper. What it says.”

           It was trying to slide back into my hip pocket. “You mean talk about how crazy all this is, right? This . . . what is this? This place and you and all this stuff that’s happening.”

           “Do you want to go back to where you were,” the cat winked at me.

           “And, where would that be? Right now, I don’t know where I am and therefore couldn’t tell you where I would go back to? How’s that, cat?”

           “You’re a hard one. This is not difficult to figure out. It’s yours to begin with so I don’t get what the problem is here, I really don’t.”

           “Just let me get back to the rocks I was sitting in, under that huge oak. That’ll be good. Just right back there.”

           “So, where did you go? Did you meet anyone interesting?” the huge oak tree asked. Yeah, that’s how it had to happen. Yellow cat and the man in the blanket and the note – mustn’t forget the note – just -blink – disappeared, gone, not even a squeaky hinge as the door shut behind them. The rocks were still comfy.

           “Where’d I go? That’s funny. Where did I go? Well, your honor, nowhere, I guess. Just stayed here. Lotta shit happened, though. By the way, can you tell the time by looking at the sun or the length of the shadows? I’m trying to guess what time it is and I’m sure you’re not wearing a watch.”

           In the distance, far away, bouncing among the hills, tumbling from branch to branch among the tallest pines, the skreeeeeeeee . . . of a hawk. A red-tailed hawk.

           My back hurt from leaning against the rough texture of the rocks, my right leg a buzzing phantom. The sunlight was being absorbed by the forest’s shadows. I looked up at the tree near the river bank just as the hawk landed on an upper branch, it’s wings straining for balance. Katy was climbing down the tree, smiling, and looking into me more deeply than anyone ever had. I could feel her moving around inside me.

           “So . . . “she said, as she walked over and gave me a hug. “Did you have fun?”

           “Yeah, I think. Maybe not fun in the usual sense, though. More like weird fun, you know, where you’re not really sure it’s fun. Like the first time you see circus clowns and you’re pretty sure you should be laughing like the adults are but what you really feel like doing is screaming as loud as you can and running away as fast as you can, right? Weird.”

           “Well, I had the most wonderful flying dreams while you all were exploring all your little nooks and crannies. It was so nice sitting in that tree, stoned and relaxed, feeling the breeze, and then just drifting off to sleep. Perfect.”

           “Are the others back, yet?”

           They were. Even as I asked the question. Rick and Sara came walking out of the shadows and into the dimming circle of sunlight where Katy and I stood waiting.

           “So . . .?” I wanted to hear their story. “What happened?” Both burst out laughing. “We . . . uh . . . met some people . . .” More laughing.

           “That funny, huh?” I said, feeling left out of the fun.

           Sara: “I wouldn’t know where to start. It wasn’t funny, that was a nervous, thank-god-we’re-back laugh. No, not funny . . .”

           Rick: “You know about golems, right?”

           Me:    “Sure. You Jews came up with it. A little monster, made of mud and dust, stuff like that, lifeless. Like banshees and jinis. Same kind of crazy shit, different religions.”

           Rick: “Yeah, well, we walked into a whole goddam village of them.”

           Sara: “They went ape-shit! Screaming, jumping around, trying to touch us. Reaching out with those long fingers. Really weird.”

           Rick: “We finally got that they wanted us to follow them, away from their caves and into the forest. Uh-huh, fuck that!”

           Sara: “So, we took off the other way. What we saw . . . Rick? You try. I still can’t find the words . . . but, it was beautiful.”

           Rick: “The first thing I did was reach into my back-pack for my camera. Not there. I guess it’s in the cabin. The colors, though. That’s what was so spectacular.”

           Sara: “More than that. More than spectacular.”

           Rick: “You remember that long sequence in Space Odyssey where Keir Dullea is ripping through time and those incredible colors and shapes were blowing by him? Like that.”

           Me: “Wish I would’ve been there . . . I was busy talking with a cat and a tree and some weird dude in a blanket.”

           Beyond those snap-shot descriptions, there wasn’t much more to tell each other that would have made objective sense. It was all about perception and consciousness and interior landscape and being flooded with everything that is so, moment to moment, effectively blocked. A doorway, an entrance, a path that leads as far into awareness as one can tolerate, which, when you consider our lost ability to “see”, isn’t very far at all.

 

           ________________________________________________

           January, 1987

 

           The idea of a massive civil rights march into Forsyth County, Georgia, came about because a handful of beer-drinking, rebel flag waving rednecks a week earlier had thrown stones and bottles and screamed “nigger lover” at a small group of activists who had organized a ”walk for brotherhood,” an action prompted by the all-white county’s long and violent history of racism.

A number of Atlanta preachers, both Blacks and whites, civil rights leaders, and a number of folk who were simply tired of dealing with the embers of Jim Crow that still flared up to burn and humiliate, decided to let the good, white, citizens of Forsyth County understand that their darker brothers and sisters were simply acting on all the civil rights legislation that had been passed into law during the past quarter century. In other words, just trying to be law-abiding citizens of Georgia.

 Of course, the rednecks didn’t see it that way at all. These trouble-makers were breaking the law, not upholding it, which meant the small number of activists who marched along a paved road that wound through the countryside, starting from a boarded-up strip mall and ending at the county courthouse in Cumming, Georgia, a distance of less than five miles, was seen as a threat to the county’s perceived peace and tranquility that far from being peaceful and tranquil, hid what one could expect in semi-rural Georgia: The caustic effects of religious quackery, domestic violence, alcoholism and drug addiction, county cops who used whatever terror tactics got the results they were seeking when they made an arrest, child abuse, gun deaths, hatred of Blacks, and racist contempt for seasonal farm workers from Mexico and Central America.

To the county residents, however, violence and drug addiction and religious (lunacy) insanity were not the problems. Rather, it was an ever-lengthening list of societal changes forced on them from the (outside/normal) world not centered in Forsyth County, that was eating holes in the order of things, order that had been established a century ago and backed by laws written to maintain the political and social and enforcement power of the whites, no matter the violence, no matter the (batshit crazy religious snake-handlers,) nuttery, no matter the addiction, no matter what.

           What the rednecks didn’t realize, had no way of knowing, was the changes that were being delivered to their doorstep came thanks to urban sprawl. Those changes were immutable. Atlanta, once a day’s ride away by wagon or mule, was expanding at an exponential rate, devouring what once was farm land, woods, hills and streams – pastoral beauty not appreciated by the Klan-loving residents – and turning it all into shopping centers, subdivisions, office parks, schools, mega-churches, manufacturing plants, and, finally, a six-lane divided highway, the final insult, the sine qua non of urban sprawl.

           The rednecks tried to say “no” to the approaching changes they had no realistic hope of stopping, especially where it concerned the new realities of race relations, the only way they knew how: Their own angry demonstrations, complete with Cross of St. Andrew flags (the battle flags of the Confederacy), white, pointy-headed Klan costumes, army fatigues, beer, muscle shirts, motorcycles, baseball bats, shouts of “Nigger” and, for the whites marching for justice, “Nigger-lover.”

           The participants of the first march – forced to turn back towards Atlanta under a barrage of rocks, bottles, clubs and death threats – had no idea their small demonstration would lead to the largest civil rights action since “Bloody Sunday” at the Pettus bridge in Selma, Alabama, in 1965. However, the actions taken by the Forsyth County locals in response to this peaceful attempt to push through yet another racist barrier led to the January 1987, march that brought thousands to the small Georgia town of Cumming, Forsyth’s county seat.

           Forsyth County, Georgia, was settled by Cherokee First Nations tribes beginning in the mid-1700s. Even early in its history, the area was the site of bloody violence. After two years of a war of attrition caused by disputes over hunting land, the Cherokee defeated their rivals, the Creek nation, and forced them south, away from the lush mountain territory. For the next 75 years the Cherokee coexisted with the white settlers who were inexorably moving onto land the native people considered to be theirs, given to them by the Great Spirit. The peace, such as it was, ended with the 1828 discovery of gold in north Georgia. In 1833 the city of Cumming was formed and within two years a “treaty” was signed that said the Cherokee must leave. This “Treaty of New Echota” led to the forced migration that resulted in the deaths of thousands along what came to define yet another in the endless horrors perpetrated by immigrant whites against native people, the “Trail of Tears.”  Employing terror tactics, including the utter destruction of native villages, the whites forced the Cherokee to march from Georgia to the “Indian Territory” west of the Mississippi River, to settle on land completely foreign to the mountain-dwelling natives (add more detail about suffering of Cherokee).

At the same time, the California gold rush in 1849 put an end to any interest in mining in Cumming and the small city sank into an economic depression that turned modest prosperity into desperate poverty. Newly built railroads that were spreading across the South from the Atlanta transportation hub bypassed Cumming altogether. Because of its new isolation, the city (devolved into) sank into being one more (another) bleak, poverty-drenched Southern mountain town, cut off from commerce and any further development. Ironically, it was this isolation that spared the city when General William T. Sherman made his infamous “march to the sea” near the end of the Civil War. Just 40 miles south, however, Sherman laid waste to Atlanta and burned it to the ground.

(Maybe it was fate that the city would become yet another vicious segregated island of racial hatred in the South).  A half-century later, racial violence of a different kind erupted in Cumming.  In 1912, Georgia Governor Joseph Brown ordered the state militia to Cumming to prevent anarchy after several reported rapes of white women allegedly by Black men. (The State militia, under orders of Gov. Joseph Brown, became the de-facto police force, judge, jury, and executioner). One of those men, Rob Edwards (give background on who he was if you’re naming him specifically, or just say “a Black man”), was shot and wounded by Klansmen, dragged from the Cumming city jail, and hanged from a telephone pole on the town square. Worried the terror would spread, the governor declared martial law, but, according to published reports at the time, the effort did little to stop a month-long barrage of Klan-led attacks against Black citizens. This rampage of hideous violence finally led to the virtual (unofficial) banishment of all Black residents.  as The city became a whites-only enclave with no Black population at all.  (This section needs more description, maybe some narrative dialogue?)

 

 

It soon became apparent that the second civil rights march (what was the first?) into Forsyth County was going to be yet another milestone in the long struggle for equal protection – as well as equal rights – under the law. Word of the planned demonstration was spreading across the country. National, as well as local, news organizations were descending on the county and were not disappointed in looking for obvious signs of racial discrimination flourishing half-an-hour north of the much-touted capital of The New South, Atlanta. The locals were all too willing to offer clownish caricatures of white supremacy still flourishing in pockets of the deep South, assisted by Klan members and their sympathizers (name specific groups: skinheads, neo-Nazis, whatever, give the organizational names) coming for the fun from Alabama, South Carolina, and, of course, Mississippi. Daily demonstrations of white idiocy were conducted on the grounds of the county courthouse. Confederate battle flags (floated over the army of angry white men) were held aloft by a growing army of shouting whites who seemed intent on convincing the congealing press that they were as ignorant as they were loud. Regalia-draped Klansmen and their sheeted wives and girlfriends paraded around in circles for hours, shouting “nigger!” and “go back to New York!” at anyone they didn’t recognize.

And, while the clown show in Cumming continued daily, a real army of National Guardsmen and law-enforcement officers were given orders to deploy to Forsyth County, Georgia.

 

 

 

The morning of the march, January 25th, arrived chilly, misty, and tense with the expectation of potential conflict. In what Georgia’s then-governor described as “the greatest show of force the state has ever marshalled” military, state troopers from three states, and local law enforcement officers had bivouacked in the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall two miles south of the county courthouse. Their mission was to maintain order, which meant ignore the vile language and threats from the assembled locals while keeping the racist types separate from the civil rights marchers, and immediately to arrest those who showed the slightest refusal to obey the commands of the police.

 Slowly, the number of marchers increased. Chartered buses (from where?) unloaded hundreds of people; cars and vans jockeyed for parking space, and the crowd grew larger and larger still, until estimates put the number at 20-thousand. (add some reference to the number of displaced Cherokee, or something colorful to indicate the sheer mass of numbers for that tiny town – the Waffle House ran out of bacon, something) The number of counter-demonstrators also increased which led to more racist taunts, more shouts of “fuck you, nigger-lovers!” from the hooded Klan types and their strange family members; kids with rotting teeth, grannies who appeared to be strung out from too much meth, (big-haired) bottle-blonde wives , good ol’ boys with their bloated beer bellies bulging over the tops of their faux army fatigues (and hunting regalia), all gathered along this two-lane black-top to curse and scream empty threats at the thousands of people who ignored their endlessly repeated bullshit and slowly began forming up for the march toward the county courthouse.

The entire staging area was flooded with the noise made by the huge crowd. The roaring diesel engines of the National Guard troop carriers filled the air with eye-stinging fumes. Above, the thwip-thwip-thwip of police helicopters gave the feeling of being in a combat medical evacuation zone. The shouted orders from military non-coms could be heard above the ever-increasing din of thousands of voices. By the hundreds, the Guardsmen formed parallel lines of troops on either side of the road, a clear warning to the yelling, jeering counter-demonstrators that even the hint of violence directed towards to marchers would not be tolerated and would be met with military force.

Pre-selected parade marshals began directing the growing mass of marchers towards the two-lane blacktop that led to the heart of Cumming. Slowly, the huge crowd began to form up into a slowly moving mass of multi-hued humanity. Then, a long pause while the marchers waited for the arrival of Coretta Scott King, Dr. Martin Luther King’s widow whose chartered bus had just pulled into the mall parking lot after the short ride from Atlanta. A march of this scope, this size, with this objective, could only be led by Mrs. King, the wife of the assassinated civil rights icon. With her husband she had taken part in so many actions against racism and poverty, hunger and discrimination; today would be yet another in an endless succession of protests against the cruelty of institutionalized racism. With her arrival and after being led through the crowd to the front of the massive gathering, the march began.

 

I was armed with the latest in audio recorder technology, thanks to one of the engineers at WSB. My plan was simple: I would march with the demonstrators (I was one myself) and, along the way, interview not only a few of the marchers, but also the crazy people lining the country road: the shouting white power types, the Klan goofs, the Rebel re-loads with their anachronistic Confederate battle flags. I had taken a position about a third of the way back from the leaders of the march, along with Angela, one of the (a wispy woman of 5 feet, something descriptive) women from the station’s news department who was there as an official reporter for WSB. “Stay close, please,” she said, as we stepped off with the rest of the now clapping, singing, chanting crowd. I could barely hear her even though we were shoulder to shoulder. “Crowds like this make me nervous,” she added. “I’m afraid there might be a stampede and I’ll get trampled.”

The mist and fog had disappeared in the warm morning sunlight and the heat from the crowd had taken the chill out of the air. As we walked, Angela jotted down in her reporter’s note pad bits of conversation from the people around us. “Are you going to do a feature piece on all this?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s my assignment this weekend. Of course, I was coming to this march anyway. I was too young to take part in any of the civil rights stuff in the 60s and 70s. I read about it, though. So, when I heard about this march I knew I had to be here. I called my mom and told her, and she said be careful, you’re in Georgia! My news director, Tim Kavanaugh, I’m sure you know him, said, ‘well, if you’re gonna be there anyway, might as well give us a report.’”

“Are you getting paid?”

She smiled, “Actually, I am. How about that?  And it’s Saturday!”

We talked as we marched on. I was having a difficult time getting the rednecks along the road to say anything to me, unless it was “fuck you, race traitor” or “go on back to Atlanta,” or shit like that. Very unfriendly, but their reaction to all the national attention the march was bringing to their otherwise insulated lives had to be upsetting. Too fucking bad.

“So how did you wind up at WSB?” I asked Angela. “Are you a native Atlantan?”

“No. I grew up in Detroit. Went to Michigan State, got a couple of degrees and then decided to move here to the Black Mecca of America: the big A.”

“A ‘couple of degrees?’”

“Well, you know, Black girl over-achiever and all that. That’s what we have to do.”

“In what? Your degrees?”

“A Bachelor’s in journalism and a Master’s in psychology. I still want to be a therapist. This radio gig is just for the money and the experience. What better way to get up close to the crazy than working in radio news?”

“Good point.”

“So, maybe in a year or so I’ll apply to Emory or Georgia State and try for my Ph.D. I could do clinical work now, but I want that word ‘doctor’ in front of my name. It means a lot. Especially to my family. My dad was a factory worker for forty years. He just retired two years ago from GM. He had to drop out of high school when he was sixteen and go to work. His dad, my grandpa, died from diabetes when he was forty. So, my dad had to work. He had seven brothers and sisters and my mom needed the help. When he was nineteen he went into the factory and stayed there. It paid well, especially for a Black man, so he worked days and nights and overtime when it was available, and he saved his money . . .” She abruptly stopped talking.

“What? Why’d you stop? What’s the rest?” The march had slowed to a shuffle.

“Good Lord. Now you know more about me than Kavanaugh does, more than WSB!” She laughed. “See, normally we don’t get all personal with white people about our business, our lives. Just tell ‘em the bare facts. Fill in the required lines in the applications, so to speak. Stay quiet. Keep it all close. Hey, why do you think the march stopped?”

We both tried to see around the long line in front of us. Impossible. The mass of humanity seemed to go on forever. People around us began asking the same questions. Why are we stopped? What’s going on? Is there trouble further ahead? Then, slowly, the march started moving again.

“Just a traffic back-up,” someone said. “People traffic. No trouble. We’re okay.” (need more description of what it was like marching with that many people)

“I think I understand why Black folk avoid giving out too much personal info,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going.

She turned to look at me. “Yeah? You think you understand? Really? So, tell me: Why are we so cautious with white folks?” It wasn’t a challenge. It was clear she honestly doubted a white person could or wanted to understand anything about Blacks. The gulf between the two races was too wide, too deep. The mutual misunderstandings and suspicions and fears had become part of American culture, ingrained, and making any attempt at sorting it all out nearly impossible. The whites had always had the power, had always abused that power, had always had the privilege and the advantage of race, so much so and for so long it simply did not register with white people that this was the major cause of the fear and the resentment felt by Blacks. It just didn’t compute. The racist tropes and ugly comments that made up the average white person’s opinion of Blacks dug the gulf deeper, made the anger and resentment easier to tap into. And, it was there constantly. White privilege, white standards of beauty, success, achievement, security, endless reminders of white exceptionalism.

“Well,” I began, “I grew up in an integrated neighborhood. I had Black friends and white friends. We played together, went to school together, and in high school we even tried a bit of interracial dating. I played football and probably half my teammates were Black. I had a paper route from the time I was ten until I was fourteen and most of my customers were Black. Seriously, I do believe I understand all the crap Black people have had to endure. The history of it all, anyway. I know about slavery and the Middle Passage and lynching and Jim Crow laws and the struggle for civil rights. So, for sure that means I get it, I know what makes Blacks keep their stories to themselves.””

She said nothing for a moment. “Well?” I asked. “What do you think?” She looked at me and there was a momentary hesitation in her step. I thought she was going to stop walking and congratulate me for knowing so much about Black folk, so much more than the average white person.

“Okay,” she finally said. “Question. Have you ever seen one of those Black women waiting for a bus in a white neighborhood? And, she’s got two or three shopping bags sitting on the curb next to her and maybe it’s raining, and she’s got an umbrella but it’s not a big one, so her bags are getting wet? And, she’s wearing what looks like ratty old flat shoes or, worse yet, bedroom slippers and you can see her swollen ankles and feet are soaked. Ever seen that?”

“Sure. I’ve seen those women. And, I always feel sorry for them. They’re stuck waiting to transfer to the bus that takes them home, out of the white neighborhoods. But, they’re working, right? Trying to make their lives better, aren’t they?”

“There’s more to it than that. That woman isn’t as old as she appears. In fact, she’s probably got a couple of young kids at home waiting for her, kids who’ve been home alone since school got out four hours ago and the school bus dropped them off a couple of blocks from their apartment. She looks old because she’s always worried. Waiting for that bus she’s worried if her kids made it home safely. She’s worried about what to prepare for supper, if there’s anything in the pantry. She’s worried because the oldest girl had a fever that morning and said her chest hurt and she’s worried she doesn’t have the money to get her to a doctor.

“She’s worried about the rent and the utility bills and she wishes she had a car, so it wouldn’t take two hours to get to work in the morning and two hours to get home at night. But, she knows a car is something she’ll never own. So, she stands there in the rain, her umbrella covering her head and shoulders, but her legs and shoes are getting soaked. And, what do you suppose is in those shopping bags?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “They always seem to be filled with something. And they look heavy.”

“More than likely those bags are full of clothing and household stuff her employer, the suburban white lady, no longer wants. So, in a gesture of charity and compassion she gives all those worn out shoes and faded blouses and sweaters with holes in them and maybe a few old towels and washcloths, and two or three sheets, not a matching set but sheets nonetheless, and torn pillow cases to go with the sheets.”

Angela’s voice was becoming tighter as she spoke.

“Oh, and food. There’s probably some food in those bags, too. Maybe the remains of a left-over baked ham that’s been sitting in the white lady’s refrigerator for a week or two, back behind some opaque Tupperware bowls and the lady finds it and thinks, ‘I bet our Pearl would appreciate this ham. . .’ and maybe some greasy, rigid fried chicken that she puts in the bag along with the ham. And, she does this because Pearl has been working for her family for three years and it’s the Christian thing to do, help the poor and the sick and the homeless, even though Pearl has an apartment. And, now, standing in the rain, the ham is getting wet even though it’s wrapped in plastic wrap and Pearl can smell the nasty, greasy chicken and, yes, she loves fried chicken, but the smell of wet, fried chicken is making her nauseous.”

We had reached the half-way point. Cumming was a little over a mile away. The road-side crowds of white hecklers were getting larger. A few empty beer cans were tossed into the slowly moving crowd, so far missing their targets, causing the marchers to duck their heads, hunch their shoulders. The taunts were becoming more and more raw, obscene, belligerent. “Go home and fuck your black mama! Your old man’s a pimp! . . . . Get the fuck off our road! . . . . White power! White power! Fuckin’ niggers!. . .  Martin Luther Coon’s dead, you black assholes! You wanna be too?. . . . Let’s shoot these niggers!”

Angela continued.

“I’m trying to say you have no idea what Black folk think, what we feel, how we get from day to day. I’m not trying to be sarcastic or patronizing or a smart-aleck, it’s just that it’s impossible for you to know what we experience. You’re white. You got a pass when you were born.”

“A pass?” That stung. A pass. I grew up in an attic with a violent father and a mother who had to leave when I was fourteen. But, I had to know what she meant.

“Okay, so how can whites ever get to the point where we do understand what you deal with?”

“You can’t. Unless . . .” She paused and looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t translate. Then . . . “Okay, my earnest radio co-worker. You want to understand and that’s good. I appreciate that. Here’s what you do: Go to work for a middle class Black family. That’s right a Black family. Take care of their kids while yours must fend for themselves until you get home at night. Cook this Black family’s meals, watch their kids refuse food you would feed your kids in a second if you could afford to buy it, and your children would be glad to get it, surprised that it wasn’t the same fast-food garbage that so many times showed up on the kitchen table, supper, when you came home late, tired, too tired to help them with their school-work, too tired to hear about their day, and in a bad mood. “

I was getting lost in the concept; go to work for a Black family? Now, how in the hell could I do that?

“Clean this family’s house,” she continued.  “Mop out their toilets. If they have old people living with them, a crippled-up Grandma or nearly-senile Grandpa, take care of them, too. Wash out their nasty bed pans every morning, first thing after you arrive, right after you’ve gulped down your egg McMuffin on the bus. Lift their spindly legs and wash their butts, stained and crusty from the feces that seeped out during the night. Try not to gag. Listen to them curse you. Change their sheets and put them back in bed where they’ll stay until you arrive next morning to do it all again.”

Angela obviously was trying to make her point without becoming angry as she talked. It wasn’t working.

“Make yourself deaf, dumb, and blind as they have their fights and arguments or when they use racial slurs to condemn those ignorant, uneducated whites who just moved in two blocks over. Who do they think they are, moving into such a peaceful, clean, Black neighborhood? What’s next? Drug dealing on the corner? Gangs? Whores walking the streets so the kids can see? Why don’t they stay in their ghettoes where they belong? It’s not our fault whites are so damned lazy and shiftless, you hear them say, and you stay silent for fear you’ll scream at them and the anger will boil out of you in a white-hot rage, and you carry that anger with you all the time, no matter what you are doing it’s there, churning and twisting until you develop malignant blood pressure, or diabetes, or you go psychotic and kill your own family! But, you stay silent.”

At this point I wanted to stop her, tell her I understood what she was pointing out as an example of white unconsciousness. But, I couldn’t. She continued as we shuffled along, ignoring the insults from the clumps of people staring at us as we walked slowly by.

“And, do this for years. Day in and day out while you learn everything there is to learn about Blacks and their prejudices and their secrets and how much they fear and despise you, and all the things you must do to show the proper deference, because Black rage could erupt at any moment and you could be killed. Study hard, because this is information you must have if you are to survive. And, don’t forget to stand aside when you and a Black person approach the same door at the grocery store at the same time, a grocery store you rode two buses to get to and the Black woman drove three blocks in her SUV. Do that until it becomes second nature, like breathing. Because if you push ahead of that Black woman, if you don’t let her enter before you do, you’ll get that ‘look’ that says, ‘how dare you, whitey, how dare you enter ahead of me. Know your place.’ All of that in just a look. And, maybe, she’ll say the ‘C’ word under her breath, just loud enough so only you hear it.”

“’C’ word?”

“Cracker. “

“And watch the news where the guy says maybe a grocery store is going to open soon in your decimated neighborhood because a local college professor has identified where you live as a ‘food desert.’ A food desert! Like you really don’t live in America, you live in . . . where? A white Somalia? A Caucasian Bangladesh? And this constant emotional pain just keeps up and keeps up until you want to die from the shame and the hurt and the awful realization that because you’re white you are condemned to be invisible unless you commit a crime or make a fuss about the horrors you live with. Then you become visible. And a target.”

For all the attention I was paying to the march at this point, we might as well have been standing still in the middle of this rural two-lane road. Angela’s words, her monologue, was registering for sure. I didn’t know that much about her before we came to this demonstration. Just the little bit you pick up when you and your co-workers are in an intense environment like broadcast news so often is. You can form quick bonds of solidarity, especially in a profession that is targeted by right wing lunatics who refuse to believe anything they cannot measure with their basic five senses. So, I did the unexpected: I just kept silent and listened.

“And, get used to the idea that your home, your apartment, or your rented house, is falling apart and is going to stay that way. The plumbing works sporadically and the company that manages the apartment complex for some foreign investors, or the hateful Black man who owns your house, won’t keep things working and the roaches and rats away and the black mold off the bathroom floor. But, you must deal with it all and get back to work next morning for that Black family who doesn’t have a clue about what you endure day after day.”

I looked at her again, expecting to see anger and pain spread across her face. Instead, she was half-smiling, a sardonic lift to the corners of her mouth. “Jesus, Angela, I never went that deeply into it, I mean I never thought . . . “

“And that’s my point; sadly, white people never think about this stuff. They can’t. It’s outside anything they ever have or ever will experience. That’s another reason these fools yelling ‘nigger’ and ‘nigger lover’ at us are so contemptible. They live nasty, empty little lives but believe because they’re white they have an unchallenged claim to racial superiority, to a higher level in the pecking order than Blacks. So, they carry their shameful battle flags and wear their pointy white hoods and demand they be recognized as better than Blacks, even if they only went as far as tenth grade and have travelled no further from their homes than forty miles down the highway to Atlanta and the Black woman leading this march attended Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, and the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. But, the high-school drop-outs cursing her this morning believe they are her superiors, that she is nothing but an ignorant creature not far removed from the jungles of Africa.”

Her voice had softened, muted by an undertone of sadness. We both looked to the right where a raggedy white man was waving his Stars and Bars as though he was signaling for someone to rescue him from some approaching terror. He leaned back and let loose with what he must have thought was an intimidating Rebel yell so fierce it would cause the marchers to scatter and flee in panic. With his mouth wide open we could see his rotted and missing teeth right about the time his “Yeeeeeee . . .” segued into “. . . Hawwwwwwww.” The people around him were gleefully pumping their fists in the air, like they would if the local High School football team had just scored a touchdown.

“And,” Angela went on, “there’s always the question of ‘why.’ Why do so many whites in this country see Blacks so negatively? What is that? What did we do to cause such fear and suspicion and contempt? We didn’t ask to be brought here. We had no choice. We were slaves. What choice does a slave have? What did we do when we got here? We worked. We built fortunes for whites with our forced labor. We were critical in the rise of the US from being a frontier civilization to becoming the world’s strongest economic power. So, maybe it’s guilt. Maybe every time a white American looks at a Black American he senses, if he doesn’t actually see it, he senses the truth that so much of what this country became and so much of how whites have benefitted from that, came as a result of that transfer of forced labor into material wealth and white family fortunes, wealth that went to whites, not us. Remember that ’40-acres and a mule’ we were promised? Maybe that guilt has sunk to a cellular level where it can never be removed, never be understood, and never, never accepted. Maybe that’s it, my curious white marching buddy.”

_________________________________________________

In the distance we could hear the dissonant sound of trumpets blaring and snare drums being beaten with no thought given to actual rhythm or music. The blasting sound was coming from a crowd of counter-demonstrators who were trying to drown out the speeches that were about to begin. The front of the march was in the town square, the leaders standing on the steps of Forsyth County Courthouse. Spread around them, spilling out from the courthouse grounds and into the streets was the vanguard of the massive crowd of demonstrators whose numbers stretched back to the strip mall where the march had begun. Only those now in the town square would hear the messages of determination from the civil rights leaders who had been saying the same words, giving the same speeches, enduring the same insults and beatings and jailings and dog attacks for decades, forever.

But, hearing the speeches was not the point of the march. Who in this crowd of 20-thousand had not heard the words over and over again? The point was to show a small slice of the solidarity that existed among so many millions of Americans. To show the common belief in justice and equal respect; equal opportunity, and equal protection under the law. Someday, perhaps, the bigotry and racism and fear would end. Someday, maybe, a sense of justice and respect would awaken in the whites and the terrible disrespect they had shown to their dark-skinned brothers and sisters also would end. As Dr. King had cried out over the National Mall in Washington, D.C. on August 28, 1963, “I still have a dream, a dream deeply rooted in the American dream – one day this nation will rise up to its creed, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal,’ I have a dream . . .

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.”

Some day that dream might be realized. But, August 28, 1963, was not that day. And, on January 25, 1987 – twenty-four years later and here in Forsyth County, Georgia, – it still was not that day.

 

___________________________________________________

-9-

 

           Angela’s disorienting lecture of how I might get a true sense of being Black in America, and how Blacks understood whites to a far greater degree than whites would ever understand Blacks, stuck with me for days after the Forsyth County march. It reminded me of the book “Black Like Me” written by white journalist John Griffin and published in the early 1960s. After a regimen of exposure to ultraviolet light, skin dyes, and oral medication provided by a New Orleans shoe shiner, Griffin eventually looked in the mirror and saw a Black man looking back. What he experienced hitchhiking in the Deep South after he became “Black” is shocking. While he expected to meet the racism he knew existed, he was not prepared for the depth of the hatred and insults directed at him in Mississippi and Alabama. The whites treated him as if he were sub-human, a creature exempt from common decency.

While Angela’s thought experiment had given me a sense of what Blacks had to deal with in a culture founded on racism and genocide, it was not even close to Griffin’s direct encounter with the pain and contempt forced on Black Americans daily, hourly, always. Slowly, what she told me began to fade. Within days of the march it had begun to morph into simply a story of the hardships faced by African-Americans, as though they, like other immigrant ethnic groups had come to America looking for that new life, had to go through a process of assimilation in order to adapt to their new country, which was bullshit thinking and I knew it. Assimilation? They had tried for three centuries without success. They were not allowed to assimilate. They were consigned to an existence that seemed a parody of life lived by whites, but in a grotesque way that usually ended in frustration and shame and often, with horrific regularity, violence and death.

I had been trying to weave into my nightly program the reality of what African-Americans were faced with day after day, year after year, but it wasn’t having the effect I was hoping for. I began sounding like a white professor giving a lecture to a sociology class on the evils of racism, a class of privileged white students, led by a privileged white professor, who would complete the course, get their grade, eventually graduate, and move effortlessly into the rhythms of white American privilege, never missing a beat and convinced they understood racism because of a one-semester class on race relations. They honestly believed they would never be a part of racist America while, in fact, their daily lives had been programmed to perpetuate the same attitudes and actions they claimed to have left behind in Professor Whoever’s sociology class.

Management, in its subtle way, reminded me I was an entertainer, not a professor, and that it was time to get off the race topic and on to what my Program Director called “contemporary topics.” The irony, or stupidity, of what he said was totally lost on him.

So, onward to contemporary topics. Like the gay-bashing that was occurring while Atlanta’s gay community was being devastated by the AIDS epidemic. Or the Israeli/Palestinian crisis that had suddenly morphed into the first intifada. These were my suggestions, of course, since my PD didn’t have a clue about either topic except for the reports in the Atlanta newspapers which offered little more than casualty figures; the number of dead among Atlanta’s creative community, the “fact” that it was gay sex that unleashed this death wave; the intransigence of the Palestinian Arabs who were unwilling to cooperate in their own annihilation; the brutality of the Israel Defense Forces who had no hesitation in using live ammunition against elementary school students who insisted on throwing rocks at IDF Armed Personnel Carriers. The IDF was charged with ending the disorder that was becoming a full-blown insurrection, by any means necessary. One of those “means” was labeled “might, power, and beatings,” which included “breaking Palestinian bones.” Images of Israeli soldiers beating and shooting Palestinian teenagers were televised around the world and resulted in the IDF’s adoption of rubber bullets, mis-named because they were regular rounds with a rubber coating. They could still kill, just not as frequently.  And, that was the objective: injure, wound, maim, cause unbearable pain. Only the death toll would make it onto the night’s news. Broken legs, arms, collar bones, who cared? The victims were only Palestinians who, in addition to the violence, had to endure the insults: “Your mother the whore.” “Your son belongs in the ground.” “Your family eats the dung of goats.” Violence by the IDF was considered “protecting our borders.” Rock throwing by Palestinian ten-year-olds was “terrorism.”

 

 

I was fully aware that Cobb County, one of the five counties that made up metro Atlanta (now, it’s 14 counties) was, and always had been, a locus of violent Southern racism and bigotry. It also was a center of ugly Christian hate, hate that was directed not only toward the usual suspects, i.e., gays, immigrants, Jews, and people of color, but also anyone who did not share the toxic religious bullshit that was the motivation behind it all. One of the more insane religious cults that had burrowed its way into the area was Christian Reconstructionism, a fundamentalist movement invented by a true sociopath named Rousas Rushdoony, the son of Armenian immigrants whose ancestors had for hundreds of years lived in a remote area near the Biblical Mount Ararat. The family claimed that each generation going back 1600 years had produced a Christian priest or mystic. Rousas was the most recent.

The cult was centered in California and it was in Los Angeles in 1965 that Rushdoony founded an organization called the Chalcedon Foundation the sole purpose of which was to return humanity to a pre-Enlightenment, medieval view of a “God-centered” world. Science be damned; reason be damned; logic be damned; Rushdoony’s world view was far more perverted and corrupt than any of the political “isms” competing for the human body and mind. And, all at once, I found I was a target of these freaks because of what I was talking about – okay, advocating – on my program.

I had long ago concluded that religion was much worse than Marx’s dictum, “Religion . . . is the opium of the masses.” Opium is an addictive narcotic that will not only put you to sleep, but also, used incautiously, will kill you. Religion, however, will destroy your mind, make you insane, fill your head with visions of demons and angels locked in mortal combat, eat away your self-confidence, self-respect, and self-worth, all to be replaced by a sense of horror as to what will happen when you die if you don’t completely accept the dictates of the demon-haunted world to which religion will introduce you. Religion is fear. Religion teaches one who to hate, who to destroy, who is condemned, who is beyond redemption.

Among those beyond redemption, especially in the bullshit temples of Christian Reconstruction? Gay folk, of course.

And a whole assemblage of targets beyond gays, to be sure, but gays? They were to be fried in the hottest bowels of Hell. Now, is that fucked up or what?

Of course, religion has been used as the excuse for the slaughter on innocent mean, women and children since the entire obscene enterprise entered into existence. Consider, among countless examples, the burning of “witches,” the Inquisition, the various Crusades, the genocide of Native People where Christianity arrived with the intent to subjugate, enslave, and destroy cultures older than Christianity itself. The list of religious mass murder and cultural destruction is endless and ongoing.

And, here I was, less than 25 miles from the Southeast’s headquarters for the murderous sewage known as Christian Reconstruction.

 

____________________________________________________

 

The death threats began shortly after I started focusing on the AIDS epidemic in general, and the vicious attitude toward gays in particular, an attitude that increased in intensity as the plague devastated ever larger populations of gay men. And, it was quickly determined where the threats were coming from: Cobb County. Since, the Christian Reconstruction headquarters for the Southeast was located there, it was easy to conclude that the cult was responsible.

Gay men are a particular target of nearly all denominations of the Christian belief system; oddly, lesbians, not so much, although there’s a simple explanation: the voyeuristic male thrill – whether the man is Christian or not – in watching women have sex together. It’s an obsession that dwells in the id of most men. And, it can reach crazy extremes, as in if two women are seen leaving a coffee shop together they must be on their way to the nearest motel for an afternoon of hot girl-sex before going home to prepare dinner for hubby and the kids.

After clearing my decision with station management, I contacted the Atlanta Police Department to report the threats. At first, their response was practically zero. “We’re familiar with your program, Mr. Malloy, and given the nature of your topics it’s not surprising that you’d get that sort of reaction. This is Georgia, right? The buckle of the Bible Belt, right? So, you might want to just ignore those phone messages and mark it up to some religious type who’s having a bad reaction to what you’re saying. However, if it continues, give us a call back and we’ll check it out. The detective you’ll want to talk to if that happens is Lt. Frazier, Darius Frazier. You might want to write that down.”

The threats continued. I’ll admit the nut-balls making the threats were certainly creative in describing the violence they were planning to deliver to me, my eight-year-old son, my family back in Ohio, and anyone who happened to be in my immediate vicinity when the Wrath Of God came roaring down from heaven in a roiling, ear-drum bursting wall of fire. Wow! Great imagery. Of course, my attitude was fuck ‘em. Their entire story was ridiculous bullshit to begin with, and fear of a horde of religious assholes simply was not going to cause me to feel any anxiety or sense of danger. At least, not at first.

But, then, the threats got more graphic: the station would be bombed! WSB would collapse in a shuddering pile of smoking rubble! The death toll would be enormous! God would prevail!! And, all this simply because I was advocating for equal justice, equal protection, for people who happened to be gay? In Atlanta? The Gay Mecca of the South? In 1987? And, I was well aware there is nothing on earth more capable of destruction than the violence inherent in religion, especially the Christian religion. History is waist-deep in the river of blood caused by Christian violence. Jesus? Forget Jesus. The Christians have. Their religion has devolved once again into the form most recognizable by non-Christians: a weapon, a threat, extreme violence, contempt for the earth, anti-woman, a desire for global destruction that will please their god and return his son to what’s left of humanity. This is some sick shit, no question.

After the second bomb threat and the second evacuation of the station, the Atlanta Police Department decided it was time to take it all seriously. But, as is the case with cowards, after a report in the local press, the bomb threats stopped. Not, however, the promise to deal with me in the same manner the Denver radio talk show host, Alan Berg, had ben dealt with by the Christian White Supremacists in Colorado: assassination as he arrived home after work one night. Of course, my attitude was bring it on assholes, which was probably not the bet response to religious sewer dwellers out to eliminate one more pagan voice who saw their religious bullshit as true religious bullshit and, get this, the dude was talking about it on a (gasp!) 50-thousand-watt radio station that reached half the country!

So, for the next few weeks the Atlanta cops had a patrol car waiting at the station’s employee exit each night at 1-AM to escort me to my pickup truck which was parked not more than 50 yards away. But, who knew what evil might be lurking somewhere in the shadows of those 50 yards? It was beginning to feel like some sort of insane melodrama. Will Mike get shot tonight? Tomorrow night? I was over all of it, and I have to admit it was starting to creep me out to the max.

I needed a break.

____________________________________________

 

A fixture on one of the residential side streets in mid-town Atlanta was a small café called The Grove. It had opened sometime in the 60s and had become a gathering place for a segment of the city’s community that fascinated me, but about which I was mostly ignorant: The Wiccans. I had gotten into the habit of stopping in late at night, after midnight, for a cup of honey-flavored orange tea and the pastry de la nuit. The place was lit by a circle of candles on each of the seven tables. There were several tall pillar candles placed on the counter behind which the owner – Lady Galadriel – prepared and served the specialties of the house. In a corner there was a small fireplace that, in the winter, added a comforting warmth, a welcoming glow that could be seen from the street outside through a large scratched and opaque window. In a room that adjoined the main chamber – also lit by an abundance of flickering candles –  her partner, Tinker, designed and made pieces of silver jewelry; finger rings, neck chains, ear rings, bracelets, and Wiccan medallions that were museum quality. Occasionally, I would sit on a stool near his work space and watch him create his exquisite charms. He worked in silence and it was understood (I don’t remember how I knew this) that entering his space meant no talking, no conversation, nothing but silence perforated by the slight silvery sounds coming from the miniature tools he used. If he knew you, he would smile and whisper, “merry meet and blessed be” as you settled yourself to watch his artistry.

One night, I noticed a flyer sitting on one of the tables, apparently left there by an earlier customer. I picked it up and in the muted light read the announcement of an upcoming Wiccan convention scheduled for later in the summer. The convention was one in a series of periodic gathering of the practitioners of Wicca from around the nation, this one to be held in the North Georgia mountains. The invitation was clear in who could attend: Wiccans only. And maybe a writer, I thought? In addition to my radio gig, I also freelanced for several Atlanta alternative publications, social justice weeklies and an occasional piece for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s Sunday supplement.

Quietly, I asked Tinker if he knew who I could contact to get permission to attend the convention. “You come in here a lot, right?” he asked. The only noise, other than our brief conversation, was the slight hissing of the Bunsen burner he was using to soften a small mass of silver.

“I do,” I answered. “Love the tea and the Lady’s cheesecake. And the quiet. It’s soul refreshing.”

Without looking up from his work, he scribbled on a piece of paper and slid it towards me.

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy. And, blessed be.”

The next day I called the number on the slip of paper Tinker had given me. The person’s name was Bronwen.

To suggest Bronwen was hesitant to talk to me, reluctant even to admit her name, would be an understatement. Wiccans in the South are considered witches in the old-world sense of sorceresses, spell casters, evil women like Shakespeare’s three witches who open Macbeth:

When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain

When the hurly-burly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won. . .

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:

Hover through the fog and filthy air.

Like that.

However, once I mentioned Tinker, and after a few phone pleasantries on my part and pointed questions about my interest on her part, and my swearing on all things Wiccan that I was not a media spy, not looking for a tabloid-style expose of witches and spells, she said she would talk with the others in her Circle and let me know later in the day. Before she ended the conversation with an almost cheery “blessed be,” she said there would be no photographs allowed. And, certainly not any of the ritual nude dancing Wiccans use to celebrate Beltane or Litha or Eostar, or any one of the holy days that celebrate the seasons, the moon, and the mother of all things, the Earth.

Sure enough, that evening she called back.

“Why do you want to come to this convention? Tell me again. What is your intent?”

I answered her honestly. “To learn.”

“To learn . . . what? How to cast spells? How to do magick?”

“Well, no. I want to learn about your beliefs, about Wicca, about your history. I know a bit about the persecution Wiccans suffered through the centuries, but there is so much I don’t know.”

“Are there not books, hundreds of books, written about us? Can you not go to the library and find all you want to know?”

“Yes, there are,” I answered. “But they are all written from a certain perspective, even the books written by Wiccans. That’s not what I want.” This interview – if that’s what it was -was not going well. There was no way I could just come out and say I wanted to know their secrets. I wanted to see things the way they saw things. And, there was that dancing naked in the woods, too. And the focus on feminine energy, feminine power, and the fact that whatever that power was, it made me uncomfortable. That’s what I wanted to understand, the power. But, I was hesitant to come right out and say what I really wanted from Wicca.

I tried again. “Look, it’s more than just learning; I want to feel Wiccan energy, absorb what I might see, come away from your gathering with, well, an understanding, something I don’t have now.”

Bingo! I had hit on exactly the right words: Experience, learning, and the big one, understanding. Or, dancing naked in the woods. That might have been the Big One.

So, I was in, and in addition to feeling good about being accepted, I also had a fleeting frisson of uncertainty; what door had I just opened? What would be waiting when I walked through? Maybe nothing. Maybe just antici-pointment.

 

 

The gathering was to be held deep inside the Chattahoochee National Forest and bordering on a slope of the Great Smoky Mountains. The area is called Unicoi, a Cherokee word that means “white.” It refers to the low-lying clouds and the thick fog that can envelop the area. The surrounding natural beauty is spectacular, especially during Autumn when the oaks, red maples, sugar maples, hickory, and beech trees all explode in a palette of intense red, yellow, burgundy, lavender, and orange, a cascade of color that stops you in your tracks no matter how many times you’ve seen it.

Registration and check-in at the Unicoi Lodge was scheduled for early evening Friday. After settling in, a welcoming ceremony would be led, according to the schedule, by a Lord and Lady. Then a casual meet-and-greet that would give the participants a chance to re-connect or meet for the first time. The schedule Saturday was packed with workshops, the proper use of herbs, lectures, discussions, and elements of Wiccan rituals designed to instruct the newest members of the different covens. Sunday would be more of the same, with time set aside for walks through the mountains, meditation, and classes in how to conduct rituals. Sunday night included a Waning Moon Ritual to be held a mile from the event’s central location, up a trail and through the forest, to a site where logs had been stacked within a fire circle in anticipation of the celebration. After the ritual, a proper Wiccan feast. Monday was departure day after one last get-together under the trees.

As I studied the packet of information the check-in person had given me (a square envelope with two tiny stars in the upper left-hand corner), a round, purple disc slipped out and fell to the floor. It was about the size of the lid on a large Mason jar and on the back a clip-pin had been fixed.

“Hey, don’t lose that,” one of the men pushing a luggage cart said as he walked by. “That’s your protection. You have to pin it to your robe or whatever you’ll be wearing while we’re all together here.”

“Protection? From what? Ghosts? Banshees?” Oops. Wrong choice of words. My first fuck-up.

He stopped pushing the cart and looked at me. “No, not banshees. From each other. Hey, you must be new. Where you from?”

“Atlanta. Local guy. So, what do you mean ‘from each other?’

“Are you with one of the Atlanta covens?”

“Actually, no. I’m here to write about the convention. You know, an observer.” Second oops. He looked at me with pointed curiosity and a shadow of suspicion.

So, I went through the questions again, his questions, basically the same ones Bronwen had asked, until my new acquaintance was satisfied I wasn’t there to write something trite or demeaning. “That’s what usually happens when someone writes about us,” he said. His name was Cadmun. He said it was an Anglo-Saxon name meaning “warrior” and he was the High Priest of a coven in Montana. His counterpart, the coven’s High Priestess, also was his wife.

           Wife? I had no idea witches could, or would, get married. That meant that Lady Glaladriel and Tinker back at The Grove in Atlanta probably were married, too. This was starting to feel like a “Leave it to Beaver” episode from the 50s.

           “My wife, Lady Glenys, that’s her over there talking to the woman with the crazy hair, she started our coven before I met her,” he said, chatting as though he’d known me for years. “In fact, we met at one of her Circles. I was there to learn how to trance and we talked for a while and pow! That Wicca Magick kicked in and, eventually, we got married.”

           “So, the term ‘Lady’ means the woman is the leader of the coven?” I asked.

           “Co-leader. There’s also the male ‘Lord’ of the group. We believe in a true gender-equal culture. So, I’m a witch, too. Not a wizard, not a warlock; a witch.”

           “Interesting for sure, uh, Cadmun. But, the purple disc. You said it’s for protection. From what, exactly? I’m not sure what do you mean by ‘each other.’ And, what about these two stars in the corner?” I held out the packet so he could see them.

           “Well, I’m not sure about the stars. I’ll find out for you. But, wearing the disc lets each witch know everyone is here in peace, no one is looking for a power contest, no one is presenting a challenge.  If the disc were red, it would mean the one wearing it was looking for some sort of confrontation. Witches will do that just for sport. Some people play bridge; we get into these pointless power struggles. Like, who has the best magick, who knows the most occult incantations. It’s all sort of silly, but it can cause grudges and that’s not a good thing for witches. A witch grudge can lead to all sorts of dangerous stuff, believe me. So, the purple disc will let others know you’re not a threat. And, if there are any unconscious challenges thrown toward you by accident, the disc will absorb that dark energy and dissipate it. In other words, wear the disc and you’re safe.”

Yeah, there was that last part just in case I had the idea the purple discs were just ornamental. “So, I’ll see you then at the opening ceremony tonight?” Cadmun was definitely a friendly witch. “Yeah, see you then,” I answered.

I found the room I was assigned to and unpacked. A window near the bed looked out into a dark pine forest that surely was the home of faeries, sprites, and all sorts of wee folk, some of whom, I guessed had sharp teeth, and maybe didn’t particularly care for humans, witches or otherwise. I made a quick mental note: Don’t go walking in the Unicoi Forest after dark. Alone.

Not that I would, of course.

 

 

           The welcoming ceremony was to be held in the Lodge’s central gathering spot: A large circular room with a massive fire pit built in to the floor in the room’s center. Suspended above the pit, a huge stacked rock chimney, shaped like a pyramid, that inhaled the smoke and exhaled it through a ceramic pipe embedded in the ceiling. Surrounding the pit were concentric circles of padded folding chairs. No matter where one sat, the view of the fire pit and the speaker, if there was one, was unobstructed. Placed near the pit was a large round wooden table with an odd collection of items that immediately got my attention. In the table’s center, a pentagram had been first carved and then burned into the wood. On each side of the pentagram stood a statue, on one side a male (the God), on the other, the female (Goddess). There was a small stone bowl holding salt next to an identical bowl holding water. A censer held several sticks of unlit incense. Lying parallel to each other were an elaborately designed double-edged dagger and an oak wand. I had no idea what each item represented, if anything, but found the whole tableau curious and a bit Medieval.

           The ceremony was not going to start for another thirty minutes so I stepped outside into the Autumn night to look at the stars. They were especially bright and filled the sky and the dark spaces among the tops of the pine trees with a soft light that seemed to whisper, “Here it comes! Hold on to your ass! You’ve made a turn that brought you here! Get ready!” What the fuck?!

I was beginning to realize I just might be in a tad over my head. Something palpable was happening around me. The air was moving against my bare arms, almost like the slow flow of a stream. It seemed to gently push me alongside the Lodge to the rear of the building, towards the black pine forest. As I turned the corner I caught flashes of white just inside the edge of the forest, ephemeral light that moved among the trees, moving left, then right, around and around. I walked closer. Oh, my god, it was three young women! They were dancing around a decaying tree stump on which sat lighted candles, their bodies bending and swaying to a melodic humming that rose and fell as they circled. I stood in the darkness watching, fascinated. I knew what they were: Witches. What else could they be given there was a witch’s convention about to begin no more than 100 yards from where they were dancing.

As they danced, they slowly let the robes they were wearing – the flashes of white I had seen – slide from their bodies, until they were naked. The dance gained intensity, now, with their arms rising and falling, their heads thrown back as if in some sort of ecstasy. The humming was coming from them and now it got louder, insistent. As they turned and twisted in front of me one took my hand and pulled me into their circle. She whispered, “Remove your clothing. Remove your identity. Remove the weight. Make yourself free. Dance with us.”

And, I did. My clothing dropped to the ground as each piece came off; jacket, shirt, jeans, underwear, shoes, socks, free!

The forest floor was soft and loamy and sensual against my bare soles. Two of the dancers each took one of my hands and pulled me closer. I had an intense feeling of flight, that I was levitating, flying through the night, my naked guides leading me through the pines, taking me to the tops of the nearby mountains, diving crazily back to the ground, swinging up again, accelerating, the air rushing past in a cool torrent, almost visible.

And then, it stopped. I was again on the ground, clothed, breathing rapidly, as the three women walked away into the darkness in their white tunics, reminding me the welcoming ceremony was about to begin and perhaps it was time we all went inside. So mote it be.

            The room was about half-filled with conference attendees, most of whom were relatively young and mostly female. The conversations were animated and filled with “merry meet!” and “blessed be!” as one more familiar face was seen and greeted. I didn’t feel like questioning what had just happened outside in the night. Why bother? Just accept it and be grateful. My three dancing companions moved across the room to join friends. I stood there for a moment trying to decide if I should follow and sit with them or find a seat where I was standing.  And then . . . Chloe. I was enveloped in an invisible cloud of Chole.

The perfume. It was momentarily overwhelming. I knew it was Chloe because once that fragrance hits you, you’ll never forget it, which is what happened to me years before this night in the mountains. It is incredibly seductive. It hits brain receptors that collapse on impact. For a moment I felt immobilized. Pleasantly rooted to the spot. Why try to move? No reason for it. And, then I saw a woman sitting alone near the center of the circle of chairs. She was looking directly at me, slightly smiling, deep green eyes that I couldn’t turn away from. She made a slight wave with the hand she had lying across the back of the chair next to her, a barely discernable motion inviting me to come sit next to her. It couldn’t have been clearer to me if she would have shouted. I made my way through the chairs toward her, realizing I was following the scent of Chloe. It was hers. The closer to her I got, the more powerful the fragrance. I slid into the chair next to her.

“Hi, or ‘merry meet,’ take your pick,” she said, half-smiling. “My name is Anita. Yours?”

Yeah. My name. I knew what it was, but for a moment I couldn’t say it. The green eyes had me in total lock-down. And her black hair, deep black, blue black. And her crimson lips. Fiery. Slightly open. And her black denim jeans. And the deep green pull-over that perfectly matched her eyes. Oh, my goodness.

“Mike . . . my name is Mike. Hi.” Lame.

“Hi. Come here often?” She asked. Perfect. No other way to say ‘hello’ at a Wicca convention. I laughed.

“I like that. ‘Come here often . .  ‘Actually, no. First time. How about you?” Still lame.

“Yes. The same. A friend said I should do this, said there’s nothing like getting together with a bunch of witches to purge your mind, re-order your aura, align your chi, balance your check-book.”

Once again, she made me laugh. “You are funny. I love it!”

Her smile deepened. “Where do you call home?” she asked.

“Atlanta.”

“Really! Me, too,” she said. “I live near Emory Medical Center.”

“I’m staying in the Druid Hills neighborhood,” I said, lightly skimming the irony. “Great city, Atlanta.” Jesus Christ! This banal bullshit had to stop. I tried again. “So, you’re a witch . . . ? I mean Wiccan? Okay, obviously you are, or you wouldn’t be here, right?” Where was this shit coming from? I couldn’t seem to rise above the level of my own gibberish.

She leaned toward me. The Chloe was intoxicating, disorienting. “How could you guess?” she whispered.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch,” I asked, at once realizing that’s what Dorothy asked Glinda. What’s next? Munchkins dropping from the ceiling with their falsetto weirdness?

           She laughed. “That’s open to interpretation. But, I’m here I guess you’d say, to hone my skills. These gatherings have a way of re-charging the psychic batteries. So, tonight I’m an observer.”

“Surprise! So am I!” More trite bullshit. Could I never stop?

The room grew suddenly silent. We both turned toward the fire pit. Left-over whispers floated to the rafters and fell, fluttering around us like dying moths. Someone touched a gong, the sound soft and light.

  The room fell silent. The welcoming ceremony was beginning. The lights dimmed, almost out. The fire in the pit flared and crackled. Two people appeared from opposite sides of the room and approached the table, a man and a woman, both wearing flowing robes that folded around them, his the color of partially burnt acorns, hers a royal purple that glowed in the firelight. They stood silently, breathing deeply, an unspoken invitation for the audience to join them in this meditation. The minutes passed. Five, ten, fifteen. The room itself was breathing. The woman stepped forward and placed several lighted sticks of incense into the censer.

“I cleanse and consecrate thee,” she began, “burning incense, as representing the element of Air. May your essence bless us and bring your clarity to our circle. So mote it be.

She moved the bowl of salt to the center of the table. “I cleanse and consecrate thee, bowl of salt, as representing the element of Earth. May your essence bless us and bring your stability to our circle. So mote it be.

The man stepped forward and placed a lighted candle near the center of the table and said, “I cleanse and consecrate thee, candle flame, as representing of the element of Fire. May your essence bless us and bring your passion to our circle. So mote it be.

He lifted the bowl of water and placed it near the center of the table. “I cleanse and consecrate thee, bowl of water, as representing the element of Water. May your essence bless us and bring intuition to our circle. So mote it be.

I turned slightly to look at Anita, to see how she was taking all these welcoming ceremony incantations. Her eyes were half-closed, the long lashes thick and dark. Her head was slightly bowed. Her cheekbones etched a curve that I wanted to touch. Her hair dropped behind her shoulders. Her breathing was deep and slow, and each inhale and exhale lifted and lowered her breasts under the forest green sweater. An incredible, indescribable rush of desire flowed into me so intense I thought I might faint, pass out, fall on my ass, and then try to explain that, no, nothing’s the matter, really, I just had my soul jolted. Happens all the time. Sorry.

But, I couldn’t move. Not even to faint.

The Lord and Lady continued the opening ritual with their chants and mumbles. I wanted to listen, to understand what they were saying so I could write it all down later. But, as they went on, I lost them completely and, instead, tried to center the thoughts flying around inside my mind like bats, diving, rising, twisting. No luck. Whatever control I had was inoperative. This was not exactly fun. I tried to tell myself, to think the words, that none of this was real, just the intensity of the moment, the “setting,” and what I thought was happening, the “set.” The words only echoed inside my mind. And then:

Raising the wand, the woman began casting or closing the circle she had bound around us.

“Lady of the Moon, of the fertile Earth and rolling seas,

You who are the Maiden, with strong heart and youthful spirit,

You who are the Mother, with able body and nurturing spirit,

You who are the Crone, with wise mind and compassionate spirit,

You who are birth, life, love and death,

You who are north, south, east and west,

The boundary and the center, within us and without us,

Descend upon my circle, I pray, to witness these rites in your honor.

Then the Lord raised the dagger:

“Lord of the Sun, of the sky and the wild,

You who are the Consort, with amorous heart and lusty spirit,

You who are the Hunter, with robust body and cunning spirit,

You who are the Father, with thoughtful mind and guiding spirit,

You who are the birth, life, love, and death,

You who are the north, south, east and west,

The boundary and the center, within us and without us,

Descend upon my circle, I pray, to witness these rites in your honor.”

A chorus of “so mote it be” filled the room and we knew we were under the protection of both the Lord and the Lady, the Goddess and the God.

It certainly was more intense than a Wednesday night Baptist prayer meeting.

 

The room was once again filled with conversations and greetings. Off to one side a table had been set for the welcoming feast. In the background, New Age-y harpsichord music added a definite medieval cast to the affair as the now-consecrated witches partook of the various dishes and bowls of foods and desserts. As for drinks, there was a choice: An endless supply of wine or jugs of “honey-wine,” that ancient libation, mead.

Anita and I were still seated.

“Care to join the feast?” I asked, hoping the answer would be no. The feeling that had pushed through me like a tsunami had begun to subside.

“Actually, no. But, a walk would be wonderful. The night is so cool and clear. Shall we?” Asking me to walk with her was totally unnecessary. Not going with her – anywhere at all – was not an option.

We walked outside into an open meadow, into the faded glow from the waning moon, the ever-present forest a clotted darkness encircling everything.

“Any place in particular?” I asked, “or just into the night?”

 “When I got here this afternoon, I saw a children’s playground, over there I think.” She pointed across the field.  “There was a jungle gym with a platform across the top. Let’s go there. We can lie back and watch the meteors coming from Orion. And, I happen to have a joint of the best cannabis in Atlanta. You know, it’s good for the heart.”

Yes. Oh, hell yes.

We shared her joint. She was right. It was the best cannabis in Atlanta, or anywhere. Ever.

I followed her lead and stretched out on the plywood platform, but it became impossible for me to watch the meteor shower because there was no meteor shower. There was no Wicca gathering. There was no Lodge. There was nothing but this woman lying on her back beside me on the top of a kids’ jungle gym in the middle of the Georgia mountains. I turned to look at her, to study her face. I felt compelled to do that. Why? I had no idea, but I had a question: What the fuck is happening?

I knew I was high, the reefer had certainly done its job, but moving from one moment to the next was becoming extremely difficult. There was more at work here than cannabis sativa. Everything was happening at the same time, or so it seemed. In the middle of it all I got the sense of being cut loose, untethered from that feeling of always being anchored, always held down, always tied by an unseen rope or an invisible whip to the permanent now. But, that was gone, excised. Was it Anita’s presence that had set me loose? Was it her use of the Craft? I suddenly remembered lyrics from a Fifth Dimension song in the 60s: Would you like to fly in my beautiful balloon? Way up in the sky in my beautiful balloon? A very small slice of consciousness was trying to remind me that when something was cut loose it had the tendency to float away and disappear. So, the untethered feeling had its downside.

“How’s this? Is this good?” she asked. I couldn’t answer. She had turned and curled into me, resting an arm across my chest, her fingers sliding around to the back of my neck. “Is this comfortable for you?” she whispered. Comfortable? Yeah, let’s use that word. It would be inappropriate to say, actually no, it’s way past comfortable and approaching mind-fucking. Comfortable would have to do. Given the circumstances, I didn’t want to say anything even remotely stupid.

We stayed on the platform for hours, I think. Hard to tell. But, it felt like timeless time, lying beside each other, breathing the same night air, hearing the same night creatures. Bliss. And, yes, I was feeling a mind-blowing sexual arousal that she must have been feeling also. But, all I could do was be aware of it; I couldn’t respond to it. What would happen if I did? I mean, this woman was a witch. I had never been intimate with a witch. Too scary. Think about it. If the sex was unsatisfactory, then what? Would she change me into some sort of ugly creature? A frog? A Republican? The possibility was too much even to consider.

The night went on and on. I’ve tried to recall exactly what happened. When did we leave the jungle-gym? Did we walk into the woods? What happened in that deeper darkness? Did I really hear the sounds I think I remember hearing, sounds that were coming from brilliant light that flashed from tree to tree, a freakish symphony of sighing and moaning and shrieking? Was I terrified? Did I scream? I must have screamed. How long was I adrift in the forest with her? Did we talk? Did she have sex with me? Did she seduce me? And then erase all of it from my mind? I still don’t know, can’t recall.

The sounds and the lights and the rush of the ride through the forest, the impossibility of it all, began to fade. As it all receded, the echoes grew faint and then stopped altogether.

A feeling of complete peace overtook me. I felt myself drifting down, down, down. I was falling into a bed. My bed. In the room I had taken in the Lodge. Sleep rolled over me. Muted colors and rounded shapes lulled me deeper and deeper into the comfort of dreams.

 

 

The sun was flooding my room. I turned my face deeper into the pillow to escape the light. I wanted nothing, not the sun, not morning hunger, not the urge to get up to piss, nothing to disturb the profound sense of balance I was feeling. Balance? The word was meaningless.

There was a hesitant knock at the door. I hadn’t ordered a wake-up call or room service. Again, a gentle knock. I rolled over on my back.

“Yeah . . .? What . . .? Who is it? I don’t want the cleaning crew. Please come back later.”

“I just wanted to say good-bye before I leave . . .” It was her.

Bed to door, two seconds.

“Hi,” I said, completely confused, trying to wake up, trying to process the good-bye. She set her back-pack on the hall floor and came into the room. The door whispered shut behind her.

“You’re leaving? But, the conference just started. Last night. Why are you leaving?” The words were coming out way to fast, way to plaintive. “You’re really leaving?”

“Yes. Believe me, if this hadn’t come up I wouldn’t go. Not after last night. (WHAM!) My plan was to be here until Monday. But, a situation in Atlanta absolutely requires my being there.”

“Is it serious? Must you go?”

 “It’s one of my patients. She had a serious set-back last night and is back in the ICU. They’ve been monitoring her, but I’m her physician and I’ve got to get to the hospital as quickly as I can.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Yes, a surgeon. Cardiology. My patient had a transplant last week. She was recovering nicely. Then this. My colleague called the lodge and left a message for me during the night. He thinks it’s an infection. That’s the urgency.”

I didn’t know what to say. This was way beyond me. This was life and death. But, so was last night. Sort of. Maybe, maybe not.

“But, you’re a witch? And a surgeon, too?”

           “Yes. It’s unusual, I know. To be both a witch and a physician. Not many of us left.”

Unusual? Yes. Unusual to the point of being a punch line.  And from now on I knew I would question every doctor with whom I might have an appointment. “Uh, no offense, but are you a witch?”

“Okay, I understand,” I said. “Yeah, I do understand. You’re a doctor. You have to go.”

 “I hate leaving like this. Do you have something I can write on? I’ll give you my phone number.”

I grabbed a note pad that had the Lodge’s name embossed across the top and handed it to her. I wasn’t even fully awake yet. This was all happening too fast.

“Here,” she said, as she handed me a page from the note pad with a carefully written phone number. She leaned in to me. A good-bye hug. I’ve done it so many times with so many people. This hug was way different.

“Uh . . . look . . . I . . .” I tried to come up with something timeless, like Rick saying good-bye to Ilsa on the tarmac of the Casablanca airport, Captain Renault lurking nearby in the fog. Something like, “We’ll always have Paris.” Or, “I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world . . .” Of course, that would have made no sense at all. There were only two of us, not three, and we were in north Georgia, the Unicoi forest. Paris was four thousand miles away. “I really want to see you again,” was the best I could come up with.

“Call me,” she said.

She backed out of the room, her eyes locked with mine. The door shut, and I could hear her quickly walk away, through the Lodge’s ornate, carved doors, into the parking lot, and then silence.

 

 

Breakfast was available, but I decided to pass. No appetite.  I was trying to sort out the events of last night, but it was difficult. Nothing that happened fit any model of reality I was familiar with and the entire night was fading, disappearing. Focus on the workshops, I told myself, and they were about to begin. I had signed up for two – as an observer only. The first was Wicca and Health. No, seriously. There are all sorts of ancient healing techniques that have been forgotten, lost in time, replaced by the pharmaceutical industry and its poisonous chemicals. But the Olde Knowledge, the practices handed down from generation to generation of witches, the wisdom that got them condemned and tortured and burned alive for “defying God,” was still in the old books and still available. All the herbs, potions, tinctures, and methods of preparing each healing agent was the subject of the workshop that was about to begin. I started walking across the meadow to the meeting room where the class would be conducted. It was a short distance, maybe fifty yards, but halfway across I felt a resistance with each step I took, as though I was moving through ankle-deep water. The feeling increased as I got closer to the jungle-gym, that now in the daylight with its metal tubes and vertical pipes, looked like a launch pad and, now that I considered it, it probably was. Last night’s point of departure. Okay, what. Just ignore this? Simply walk slower? 

Maybe I had stumbled into a zone of dropped energy, some sort of psychic mud-puddle, possibly caused by a crowd of passing witches. In the context of everything that had happened in the past 18 hours, that was a real possibility. But, then, what had happened in the past 18 hours. I had no fucking idea. It was like looking into a kaleidoscope; lights, colors, pieces of reality floating merrily by, but nothing coherent, nothing recognizable.

The Wicca and Health workshop started. The woman facilitating began by letting us know, “Witches do not smoke cigarettes. Witches do not get drunk. Witches do exercise. Witches do surround themselves with positive energy.” And so on. Her lecture was not all that different from any healthy living seminar. After listening for a few minutes, I stated to drift off. I tried to stay alert. I wanted to hear about the magic of herbs and fungi and woodsy things, but, I was tired, sleepy, exhausted really. And, I was beginning to feel drained, as if I was losing something vital. Like a stopcock had been left open and something was flowing out of me, away from me. I couldn’t identify what it was. I didn’t have the vocabulary. I decided to skip the rest of the workshop and go back to the Lodge for a quick nap. By the time I got to my room I was exhausted. Something was wrong. The feeling of being emptied – that’s the only way I know to put it – was not letting up. So, I did what the average person would do: I started to panic. I needed help. I couldn’t call 9-1-1. What would I say? I’m at a witches’ convention and I have this weird feeling that I’m being emptied? Yeah, that would work. I left the room and walked to the main conference area. Surely, someone would be there who could help me figure out what the hell was happening. And, make it stop.

The woman who co-led the opening ceremony was sitting in the common area busy with a stack of papers. Last night’s folding chairs had been collapsed and moved to the side of the room, replaced with several long tables piled with books, Wicca magazines, charms, brochures, healing guides, candles, incense, and a seeming endless supply of dried herbs neatly packaged in sealed plastic bags, a Wiccan bodega.  She looked up as I approached.

“Hi. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I need a bit of help.” I tried to keep it casual, but those little fingers of panic were drumming in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Oh, my,” she said, looking at me with an expression of genuine concern. “You’re leaking all over the place. I saw it when you started across the room.”

Leaking?

“Uh, what do you mean? I’m new here (new here?) and I’m feeling weak, like something is flowing out of me. Not sure what to do.” I then told her why I had come to this conference and that I was not a Wiccan. “So, can you help me? Did someone not see my purple badge and decide to cast a spell?”

She laughed. “No, no, no. This is a peaceful group. And we don’t cast spells like that. Never have. But, what I see is your aura is wide open and your chi, your energy, is flooding out of you, so something powerful happened to you. You wandered into something, for sure. Yes, I can help you. Don’t panic. It’s temporary and easy to fix. Here, sit.” She pushed a chair toward me. I sat. She asked my name and told me hers: Locasta.

“Not sure what you mean. My aura?”

“Yes,” she answered. Without asking, she reached out and took both my hands in hers. Immediately, the panicky feeling began to ease. “It’s an energy field, a force field around each of us. If you know how to see it, it’s there, about six inches outside our physical bodies. It acts as a shield of sorts. It protects us from the massive amounts of negativity that floods the planet. And that negativity is a killer. But, it appears your aura is wide open in several places and you look a bit like, well, a high-pressure hose with a bunch of holes in it.” She chuckled when she said that. “Your energy, my dear, is shooting all over the room. Now, I want you to close your eyes and empty your mind. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.”

It was easier than I thought. All the interior chatter, that endless stream of noise and images that moves like a swollen river every waking moment, started to get faint, drifting away from me.

“That’s good,” she said. “Now, focus on your breathing. Deep and peaceful. Deep and peaceful.”

And, it was. I could hear only her voice and I began to feel a letting go so complete it was as though my cells were relaxing, which struck me as hysterically funny. I started laughing.

“Good!” she said. “That’s good. Laughter’s always good. How are you feeling now?”

“Not so panicky.” Deep breath.

“Good! Your aura is beginning to close”

Deep breath.

“And, it’s changing color, thank the Goddess! A crimson aura is not good. When you walked in here you looked like you were walking in a blast furnace. It’s getting back to blue-green, now, which is where you want it, where it should be.”

Deep breath.

She let go of my hands.

“Did you have some sort of disturbing thing happen to you recently? Dear Goddess, something left you full of holes.”

“Yeah, well, it was intense . . .”

She chuckled again. “So, what happened?”

One more deep breath. I started to tell her about last night. I tried to find the words that would fully explain the impact Anita had on me, the hallucinogenic aspect of it all. She listened intently as I talked, staring at me as though she was surprised I was sitting there.

“Oh, my,” she interrupted. “That was you with Anita?”

“Yes, and it was . . .”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” she again interrupted, “I’m surprised you’re still here. I truly am. She must have decided to let you go free after she got whatever it was she wanted.”

 “What do you mean, ‘Let me go free?’ If I had wanted to, I could have walked away from her and I would have if I thought she was too weird. She wasn’t. And, I don’t think she took anything from me.”

Again, she took my hands in hers, closing her fingers tightly, as if she was afraid I might float away.

“Well, maybe she didn’t. But, you’re not aware of who you were with last night. You have no idea, do you?”

I felt a slight twitch in my now almost-closed “aura,” as if it was trying to open again.

“Anita,” Locasta said softly, as if telling a secret, “as you call her, is a sorceress. Her Wiccan name is Circe. She has been around for a long time, and she has developed a power that seems to be boundless. To be honest, most witches are a bit afraid of her. She has quite the temperament. But, we do respect her knowledge and I’m sure some of us envy it. Occasionally, she’ll show up at one of the conferences, we assume to simply participate and have fun, and perhaps meet privately with any of us who might want to learn from her. Most often, no one does. Our little paradox is that some of the knowledge contained in the Craft requires a great deal of study and spiritual balance before it can be shared. Most witches don’t try to reach that level, not anymore. That level of knowledge so often seems to bring conflict.”

“But, Circe chose to rise to that level?”

“She did. And those of us who have talked with her get the feeling that she may wish she could rid herself of what she has learned.”

“Why? I thought deep knowledge was an important part of Wicca, of the Craft.”

“And, it surely is,” Locasta said, “but, so much of that knowledge was necessary back in the dark times, the Dark Ages. The survival of a few of us depended on that knowledge, especially given how many of us were burned, drowned, hunted down by Mastiffs and torn to pieces.” As she talked, she continued to shuffle her papers, occasionally marking a section with yellow high-lighter. She didn’t seem disturbed in the least in telling me that her forebears had been burned, drowned, and disemboweled.

“But, now, it’s risky to get into all that strange wisdom. The knowledge is useless, it can’t be applied given the dissonance that seems to be everywhere you look. It could only be used for destruction. A cleansing destruction perhaps, but destruction nonetheless.”

I got what she was saying about how fucked up everything seemed to be. After all, I was a radio talk show host. It was my business to pick apart all the ugly shit that was so toxic, so destructive to even the idea, the thought, of peace or justice. Those seemed to be concepts that no longer applied.

           Locasta laid the hi-lighter on the table, stood up and walked around behind me. “We’re almost finished,” she said. “One last bit and you’re good as new.” Reaching around, she placed one hand on my forehead and the other in the center of my chest. She repeated a few words that sounded like Ly O Lay Ale Loya, Ly O Lay Ale Loya, Ly O Lay Ale Loya and then slowly let her hands drop to her sides. And, that was that.

           “All better?” she asked. “Everything closed and secure?”

           It was. “Thank you so much, Locasta. A few minutes ago, I felt like I was going to explode. You fixed me.”

           “Happy to do it. Now, go and sin no more.” We both laughed.

I went back to my room and started tossing things into my duffel bag. There was no reason to stay any longer. That day’s workshops were ending and I damn sure was not going to participate in the evening’s Waning Moon Festival, whatever that was. Not after my experience with Anita. At this point, I realized I was in territory I had no business being in. Maybe back in Atlanta getting together with Anita would be manageable, less surreal. I looked at the piece of paper on which she had written her phone number. It was blank. Nothing there. Of course. What did I expect?

As I pulled out of the Lodge parking lot I started laughing.

_____________________________________________________________

 

 

 

-10-

The pressure from the religious kooks who didn’t like my on-air point of view about their bullshit was becoming more than just an irritation. The warnings left on my voice-mail were coming almost daily; the usual death threats, promises to burn down my house, imprecatory prayers that would consign my immortal soul to immortal horror, the sort of pain and suffering that can only be conjured in the fevered brains of religious True Believers. All that nonsense about “God’s love” and “Peace on Earth” and salvation and redemption and forgiveness was washed away in a flood of ugliness that is always the subtext of religion. After all, the secondary function of organized religion is to teach us who to hate, who to condemn, who to find utterly unworthy of life itself; the primary being to assuage our terrifying fear of death, and all of it the product of deranged minds.

           After the latest threat to blow up the radio station, management decided it was time to notify the police, yet again. This time my call was directed to the homicide division and after explaining why I was calling, yet again, I was put in touch with an Atlanta Police Department terrorism expert, a Lt. Frazier. We decided to meet at the station for what the Lieutenant said was a “necessary chat.” Apparently, two calls regarding a bomb threat was sufficient to get some advice as to what to do, how to protect myself. Frazier was interested in what I had to tell him without showing the usual skepticism that accompanies phoned-in threats promising to turn someone into red mist and bone fragments. Domestic terrorism has always been on the radar of law enforcement, especially in the South given the region’s history of lynchings, bombings, race hatred, and all the other violence that comes with the idiotic dreamscape of mint juleps, the heavy fragrance of magnolia trees, Uncle Remus patiently ‘splainin’ things to the blue-eyed, blond children who sit at his feet in the yard while Momma and Daddy, sipping their Jack Black, keep close watch from the veranda, as “Just As I Am” comes floating over the scene from a near-by Baptist church as Wednesday night prayer meeting comes to a close. None of that shit is true, trust me. Except the Jack Black. That’s true. And the singing.

           It’s the mid-80s and the white supremacists and religious psychos, together with whacked-out groups calling themselves, “Sons of Confederate Veterans,” and “The League of the South,” and the newly minted militia gangs made up of big-bellied, ugly as hell middle-age white men determined to protect racial “purity,” along with that ol’ stand-by here in Dixie, the Ku Klux Klan, are experiencing a renaissance of sorts, a sudden understanding that the so-called “white race” is heading toward minority status as a result of demographics and the die-off of red-necks who just don’t believe a diet of peanut-butter and bacon omelets  and mayonnaise-saturated stewed tomato and pork-chop sandwiches on white bread so you have to lift and eat quick lest it fall through the crust, are really, really bad for your cardio system. Taken together, this collection of knuckle-draggers provides local law enforcement with lots to do. There’s always some pick-up truck-load of screaming, beer-drinking, Confederate flag waving morons, most of whom had just learned to walk upright that morning, begging to be visited by the cops because they believe part of their manhood includes walking into a Target with an AR-15 casually draped over a shoulder.

           So, Lt. Frazier and I had a serious heart-to-heart, or about as close to that as you can come with a terrorism expert. The bottom line? I was to get a Georgia concealed-carry permit and arm myself, after a course in how to use a .38 cal. handgun and all the gun safety stuff that comes with suddenly being weaponized. And, I did.

__________________________________________________________

          

There’s a really weird thing about doing talk radio from a liberal/left perspective and it’s this: The right-wing nuts who tune in “to see what the other side’s doing,” believe liberals are aliens sent here from somewhere far away to disrupt the natural order of things and therefore must to be stopped. And, the wing-nuts’ political and religious points-of-view never vary, no matter what part of the country they live in. Abortion? Verboten. And, not because of their insistence that being anti-abortion is being “pro-life.” No, that’s just the marketing part. That’s the midway barker shouting for the rubes to step inside to see the creature that is half-lizard, half-man, the only one in captivity! The truth is this: The right-wing, evangelical, religious fascist, authoritarian, sub-culture in this “Christian” nation cannot allow women – the fountainhead of all grief and lamentations because they are the ones who introduced the human species to DEATH – to assert authority of any type or to any degree over men. Paul in his letters to the early Church in Corinth, insisted that women were to remain silent during services. The leaders (chosen by G-d) were men only. No singing, no audible prayer, no preaching, nothing. Just sit there and shut the fuck up, ladies. You had your chance six thousand years ago and you blew it, big time. And, G-d punishing you with painful childbirth is silly now, what with epidurals and Percocet and Fentanyl and propofol. And, those sedatives, just like birth control pills, allow women to do what men have done since forever: have as much sexual freedom as a gal can handle, which drives the fundamentalist males who follow any one of the Abrahamic religions abso-fucking-lutely crazy. According to “scripture,” women are to be subordinate to men; men are the leaders, both in the family and in the  nation, even though the fellas have shown an incredible lack of ability to do either without causing war, famine, death, disaster, and eventually, one presumes, annihilation.

Politically, it’s even worse. When you consider the lies, deceptions, posturings, and all the sundry horseshit male candidates use to convince the perpetually stupid to vote them, you have to wonder how the human species made it this far up the tree of evolution without becoming extinct.

Thus, it was that these right-wing crazies decided my brand of political talk was not only affecting the ladies in an unacceptable way, but also might be working its way into the still malleable thinking processes of the kids. And, the crazies knew that exposing the youth of America – certainly Atlanta – to progressive ideas would lead to all sorts of undesirable shit. Like, drug use, and atheism, and wild, monkey-sex with god knows who when Mom and Dad weren’t paying attention, and shoplifting, and deciding religious nuttery was not needed in their young life plans. In other words, the young people of Atlanta were being exposed to Lefty, Communist, godless, anarchy. And, the good, patriotic Christians whose responsibility it was to protect the young from predators was not going to allow that to continue. After all, by god, there is no First Amendment protection of speech anywhere in the Bible.

 

 

  I was called into the Program Director’s office for yet another bullshit session on a) why did I persist in the liberal crap, and b) what was WSB going to do with me? The answer to (b) had already been decided.

I knew there was trouble afoot when I walked into Greg’s office and there sat not just Greg, but also the HR woman, the General Manager, and the station’s attorney.

           Greg went first: “So, Mike, how’s it going?” How’s it going? What the fuck sort of question was this? Actually, not bad and Greg knew it. I had great Arbitron numbers, and an expanding audience which was a major problem for the station, not to mention a huge embarrassment. The ratings numbers’ upward trend was coming from audience demographics not considered to be the most desirable, the audience the station wanted, and the sales department was afraid to mention to potential advertisers: Young people, students, non-whites, former radicals; a population that was slowly becoming a huge chunk of the Atlanta market and one that most radio advertisers wanted nothing to do with. The sought-after audience in Atlanta was white, Conservative, Christian and mostly male, the theory being that while it was women who made the family spending decisions, the husbands maintained veto power. That’s what the Bible says is the way God ordered it, according to the fundamentalist pastors who teach the faithful about fear, obedience, subservience, and all the other bloody lies that have been the core of the Abrahamic religions since, well, Abraham.

Then, “You don’t seem very happy here at WSB, lately. The police are coming by on a regular basis, we’re getting all sorts of threats. Management are getting questions when they go to church . . .”

           “Uh, Greg, those are not my problems. In fact, I’m real goddam happy being here at the Voice of the South! I can’t stop the wing-nuts from getting all frothed up because I threaten their bullshit.” But, I knew the jig was just about up. “I’m having a total ball being the voice of the anti-Christ every night. Why, is someone complaining?”

           The HR lady piped up, her face slightly flushed: “Mike, I have a check here for you in the amount of 10-thousand  dollars . . .”

           “Oh, my, you’re paying me a bonus? Why, that’s swell!!”

           Then the General Manager weighed in: “All kidding aside, Mike, we’re going to sign with Dr. Laura and she does her syndicated show exactly when you’re on the air. The money is severance pay. So . . .”

           “Dr. Laura??!! Are you fucking kidding me? The woman is a physiologist who wants people to think she’s a therapist! She’s a fraud, folks.”

           The attorney finally opened up: “Now, hold on, Mike. She’s as professional as you are. She’s credentialed, unlike you, and I don’t think it’s a good idea calling her a fraud. Certainly not in front of witnesses.”

Witnesses? My soon-to-be-former co-workers were now witnesses?! And, I got the zinger about credentials. Asshole.

           My turn: “Okay, you all are sounding like a firing squad that’s trying to pretend you’re loaded with blanks. So, what’s the bottom line here, gang? Do I get a last cigarette? A blindfold?”

           HR lady: “Now, Mike, it’s not like that at all. Times are changing, and the political climate is drifting to the right. We just want you to be in an environment where you’re happy, where your particular message will resonate.”

           Resonate? What the fuck was my “message” doing if not “resonating?” Wasn’t that why this bullshit meeting was taking place to begin with? I was probably the most resonating talk show host in the South, only on all the wrong points-of-view according to these clowns who were about to broom me.

           “So, what we have here,” HR lady continued, “is a solution to all our problems; yours, the station’s and our core listeners.” Honest to god I thought she was going to say what we have here is a failure to communicate. The only failure involved WSB’s cowardice. They were loaded with right-wing talkers who spewed half-truths, misstatements, deceptions, and full-on lies. The Rush Limbaugh model had swallowed talk radio, coast to coast and border to border, across the fruited plane, just as the bloated idiot claimed. I wanted to hear HR lady’s “solution.”

           “We want to give you this check as severance pay and provide you with a sterling recommendation signed by the president of the company. You know, WSB is known nation-wide and that kind of recommendation will go a long way in helping you find another position in another radio station.”

           What she was leaving out, of course, was the absolute lack of any commercial radio station in the Atlanta market that presented any political talk other than the right-wing bullshit that was sinking the entire country into a sea of right-wing insanity. Insane clowns like Neal Boortz and Rush Limbaugh were safe. Lefties? The few of us that existed? Good-bye, motherfucker, and thanks for all the fish. So, if continuing in the business of resisting the rising flood of American fascism was in my future, it would not be in Atlanta.

           “You’re serious, right Greg?” I said to the Program Director and my soon-to-be ex-boss. “Laura Fucking Schlesinger? I will admit she’s unique. A so-called therapist who advocates emotional brutality. Jesus, is that the best you can do?” Oops. This time the “F” word snapped their heads around. “We don’t think crass language is called for in this discussion, Mike. And there is a lady present,” Greg said, nodding in the direction of the HR lady who rolled her eyes at the old-fashioned albeit fake chivalry.

The HR lady the check on Greg’s desk and said, “I’ve got some paper work to attend to, so if you gentlemen will excuse me . . .” And, out the door she went. Greg got on the office intercom and asked Security to report to his office. I was going to get and honest-to-god escort off the property. The company attorney said he had a luncheon meeting and scurried away, the GM looked at me, shook his head, and started to say something. He immediately stopped himself after one syllable that sounded like something was stuck in his throat. He followed the attorney down the hall.

           “Here’s your severance check,” Greg said as he handed me the envelope the HR lady had left. I took it and followed the GM and the attorney out the door. Waiting for me was one of the rent-a-cops the station had salted through the property to scare off any homeless person who might want to sit in the shade of one of the huge oaks that sheltered WSB’s vast front lawn, a stretch of green that sloped down to traffic-choked Peachtree Street. Of course, a homeless person on this manicured lawn was not going to happen. The sight of a warped grocery cart loaded with some wretched person’s entire life framed by the ante-bellum-style station as a backdrop, was not a scene station management wanted as daily rush hour traffic crept by.

           The rent-a-cop, Jesse, was surprised to see who he had to escort off the property. “You, man? You? The only liberal on the station? What the fuck happened? They catch you with the manager’s wife? Damn! Who we going to listen to now? Those threats you were getting must have gotten to the bosses, right? Shit, man, what you gonna do?”

           “I have no idea, Jesse. I’ll just get the word out that I’m looking for a new gig, I guess. Maybe put a ‘situation wanted’ ad in Broadcast Magazine. Something will turn up.” Yeah, for sure.

 

___________________________________________________________

 

-11-

About fifteen miles east of Atlanta, a mountain of granite looms over the surrounding countryside. It is 1600 feet tall and a mile and a half wide. A path around the base is five miles from start to finish. On the northern face of the mountain is a massive carving of three men who, In the mid-19th century, committed treason against the United States – the three leaders of the Confederacy: Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis. The carving was begun by the sculptor Gutzon Borglum, the same man who carved the iconic figures staring into nothingness on Mt. Rushmore.

Borglum was a nativist who was approached in 1915 by the one of the leaders of United Daughters of the Confederacy – Helen Plane. The ladies wanted a monument that would commemorate the heroes of the attempt to destroy the United States, an effort that left 700-thousand Americans dead and tens of thousands more who were maimed and starved and tortured. Of course these traitors deserved a monument, preferably in Hell. Stone Mountain would serve as a substitute.

When he accepted the project, Borglum agreed to include a KKK altar at the top of the mountain. The request from Ms. Plane came with a note that read, almost incoherently, “I feel it is due to the KKK that saved us from Negro domination and carpetbag rule and that it be memorialized on Stone Mountain.” The same year Borglum agreed to the project, the Klan was re-born on the top of the mountain with all the pageantry for which the Klan had become famous: White men roaming around in their pointy-headed sheets, their bat-like eyes peering through holes as they watched dozens of flaming crosses – a symbol of their beloved heavenly Savior – burning hate into the night. Speeches made by craven, semi-literate creatures whose insides were being slowly eaten alive by the poison of hatred that had already liquified and destroyed their dark souls. Taken together, it was the sort of weird, insane terror designed to instill panic in the Black population.  To the white citizens of the Jim Crow South it was all glorious, a celebration of the way things were when their world made sense, when Black folk could be owned, beaten, raped, skinned, boiled, all because the psychotic God of the white folks had ordained this to be the fate of the dark-skinned African natives whose greatest misfortune was being born.

Borglum, at some point, must have realized what he had become a part of.  He abruptly abandoned the project in 1925, fled Georgia, and went to work on Mt. Rushmore. It was reported that for the rest of his life he was unable to sleep on white sheets.

The state of Georgia bought the mountain in 1958 as a tribute to the hundreds of thousands of Southerners who died defending the “Lost Cause”: slavery. The racist, murderous carving was finished in 1972. Stone Mountain Park itself was opened to the public on April 14, 1965, 100 years to the day after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, a claw in the eye to all those race-mixing, mongrelizing, Yankees who so openly defied God’s law.

           I had climbed this strange mountain numerous times, usually timing the climb so I’d reach the summit as the sun set behind the Atlanta skyline to the west. The silence on the mountain at dusk was profound. Red-tailed hawks swooped silently through the fading light, eventually disappearing into the pine forests that covered the lower elevations. Mist from the valley below slowly crept up the rocky incline trying in vain to reach the summit. Ghosts moved brazenly around the mountain sliding in and out of the forest, dancing over the rocks and boulders, leaving a momentary trail of shimmering ectoplasm that faded as quickly as it appeared. Altogether, it was a visual symphony of night mysteries and haunting visitors.

This had become my place to think, to feel as though I was literally above the issues and problems that insisted on attention, that demanded to be solved, that were, possibly, making me crazy, like having to waste time dodging the religious nut-balls who would have been very comfortable conducting another Inquisition, because, as I’m sure they would agree, another one was long overdue.

           After the long climb to the top, I fired up a joint and leaned back into one of the concave granite boulders that were scattered about. I needed a plan, something that would get me away from thinking about the Christian madness and the political fascism that was beginning to engulf the country. Finally, I fell asleep, lulled into peaceful oblivion by the deep darkness and the whispery breezes chasing the ghosts around the contours of the mountain. The tapping of raindrops woke me up. I glanced at my watch as I moved to the near-by shelter of a tight grove of stunted pine trees. Three o’clock in the morning. The park gates had been closed and locked four hours ago. I hoped the park police would assume my car was left in the parking lot at the bottom of the mountain due to some sort of mechanical trouble and would be retrieved when the sun came up and the park re-opened. The rain now had me wide awake. No more sleep tonight. I found a spot in the grove that provided a cover that would keep me dry. The rain continued, increasing in intensity bringing a sense of sadness and loss that started to settle over me. It was the mountain. I remembered a couple of lines from a poem written by a friend years ago: “You’re closer now, closer, just one step above, mountains for thinking and valleys for love . . .” I had to focus on something pleasant while the rain splattered around me, something that might take me to one of those valleys . . .

 

 

I moved to Atlanta in 1975. The city was in a transition from medium-size Southern city to what it was going to become over the next four decades: A massive megalopolis with a population approaching six million with millions more expected eventually. But, in 1975 it was still possible to use Atlanta’s rational size to fulfill whatever dream had been growing in one’s imagination. City planner? The opportunities were endless. Politics? If you had the guts for a fight against the right-wing crazies. Theater? Companies were sprouting around the city like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Art? Everything was art. Dance? New York South. Writing? The roster of Atlanta-based novelists was expanding exponentially. Southern rock ‘n roll? The city bled rock ‘n roll. Ditto jazz, blues, and music that defied description. And, if you fell in love, even just for the moment, the moment would prove to be sensual, erotic, the smooth texture of skin against skin, breath dissolving into breath, sex that pushed to the outer limit of comprehension, a soul connection that would last forever. At least until the next sensual, erotic, endless, etc., etc., came along, as it certainly would.

           The time was perfect for a rock concert. A big one; city-size, but one Atlanta would remember. I decided to do it.

The first order of business was to construct a production company. I had met several interesting people shortly after I arrived in this core of the “New South.” Jack, who was on his way to becoming a film and stage actor; Tom, his brother, who knew how to baffle people with bullshit and in the process separate them from wads of cash; Mike, who would eventually earn his PhD. in biochemistry but for the time being was our necessary dope connection; Katy, an artist who worked in soft sculptures as well as being a budding photo-journalist; Don, who had money but was generally a total fuck-up; And, finally, Cat and Ira, owners of a talent agency that represented a growing stable of talented Southern Rock musicians. They also accepted the role of the gig’s bookkeepers. And, that was it. The company. We decided to call ourselves, “The Atlanta Rock Conspiracy.” And, since everything must have a name, I christened the concert, “Revival.” The name had such a Southern vibe. Traveling tent meetings. Salvation. Wednesday night prayer meetings. And, like that.

Next, we needed a date and a venue. I decided on April 20, about four months from our first organizational meeting. I chose that date because my search through an encyclopedia found nothing significant occurred on that date in recent history. I didn’t want to overlap with a holiday of some sort. It was only later, after contracts had been signed and the date agreed by all the parties involved, that I discovered April 20 did, in fact, have a certain significance: It was Adolph Hitler’s birthday. Fuck.

For the venue we focused on a decaying, outdoor, granite, bowl-shaped structure in one of the city’s upscale neighborhoods, Chastain Amphitheater. It had opened in 1944, but with WWII still tearing the world to pieces there was no promotion of events. Eight years later, the city of Atlanta took ownership and began offering free concerts by the Atlanta Pops Orchestra. And, then, it died a second time. Once again, it sat empty, forlorn, waiting for the right circumstance to bring it to life for a third time. Enter “The Atlanta Rock Conspiracy.”

The city’s Parks and Recreation Department was eager to get something, anything, of a musical nature into Chastain. Sort of a “prime the pump” hope. If the ARC could produce a successful concert, other production companies surely would be interested. The city charged us one dollar rent and the deal was made.

Then came the talent. We started at the top: Allman Brothers Band, nope. Marshall Tucker Band, nope. Richie Havens, nope. Ah, but our ace in the hole was the agency owned by Cat and Ira! They had the talent! Just not the Allman Brothers or Marshall Tucker or Richie Havens. They had local talent, which meant excellent bands that just hadn’t been discovered yet by the right record label A&R (Artists and Repertoire) person.

Word of our concert production company had gotten out and was the subject of much speculation: Who are these people, this ARC? Where did they come from? What’s their experience? Of course, that added to the enigmatic nature of our little band of Conspirators. We held no press briefings, gave no interviews to the various radio stations, released no updates as to the talent signed, had no known business address (my Midtown apartment), no published phone number, no anything. I mean, what the fuck? We were the Atlanta Rock Conspiracy!

After we secured the venue, we got busy putting together everything necessary to the inner workings of a rock concert: tickets, security, emergency medical techs, concessions, stage hands including the set-up/take-down crew needed to move the bands on and off stage as quickly as possible, lighting and a lighting technician, sound equipment and a sound engineer, mics, on and on, a seeming endless lit of components needed to pull this rock and roll concert together.

And money.

We needed a steady cash flow and something in reserve. Our start-up money, five hundred dollars, came from Don the Fuck-Up. Through the clandestine network we were slowly building (we were, after all, the Atlanta Rock Conspiracy) we managed to secure a few thousand more from a couple of rich, white, Atlanta boys who were determined to piss off their Conservative, church-going parents by giving money to these undesirables who were going to produce – god help us – a debauched rock concert. Outside, for God’s sake! With drugs! And naked people running around under the influence of LSD and all sorts of other demon-inspired filth! And, there was the promise of more cash as needed, which turned out to be bullshit as the boys were sent away to military school as soon as Mummy and Father learned what they had done. The boys had to be made unavailable to Mummy and Father’s business and social acquaintances, post haste. Can you imagine the scandal? It would be worse than getting one of the neighbor girls preggers. Mummy could always secure a Mexican abortion and Father could pick up the tab, plus give the kids a week on the beach at Cozumel when the ugliness had been all taken care of and made to go away. I mean, think of the boy’s future! With a baby? A curtain-climber? No Yale like Father? No Whiffenpoofs? No tables down at Mory’s? To the place where Louie dwells? In a pig’s ass!! But, of course the problem was not one of the neighbor girls. The problem was rock n’ roll.

At some point we outgrew my apartment and needed an honest-to-god office space, one that was rent free. To our rescue (This kept happening; when we hit brick walls someone would show up and solve whatever unsolvable problem was staring us in the face.) came three guys who, together, owned a small music club – The Bistro – in one of the many run-down, drug-infested, hippie-blasted neighborhoods near the city’s center: Hugh, Michael, and Jimmy. Hugh was the business guy, Jimmy the musician, and Michael the hairdresser. Each of them thought the idea of a Rock Conspiracy was so fucking cool it dripped icicles. As a bonus, Jimmy was part of a well-known Southern gospel recording family, one of the sons from that group of crazed evangelicals who had gone completely off the rails and abandoned the whole Jesus scam and all that went with it, including the repetitious, bullshit cacophony that passed for “gospel music.” Drugs and rock n’ roll became his new twin Messiahs. Jimmy, the trio’s senior partner, had slow eyes and a slow way of talking which meant you had to be patient and wait quietly when he was saying something, anything, even the fucking weather prediction for that particular day. He was an absolute hoot. Hugh was more ethereal and New Age-y, which was fine with the ARC so long as he continued to help feed money to the constantly hungry little creature the ARC was becoming, bless its heart. Michael? He was with Hugh.

We had determined at the beginning not to devolve into a mercenary, greedy, loud-mouth, dream-destroying concert production company. There were enough of those about and we wanted the world – at least the world of Atlanta – to know we were truly a rock music counter-culture entity. A Rock Conspiracy.

The concert business had changed dramatically since Woodstock. No longer peace, love and music, it had morphed into a ravenous hydra that wanted human sacrifice along with the rock n’ roll. So many extremely talented musicians disappeared into the maw of the big, nationwide production/recording companies never to be heard from again. We – the ARC – were to be the Dragon Slayers! The little company that would return the music to the people! Power to the people! Hooray for the people! People rule! People power! Down with the tyranny of Corporate Rock and Roll! And, like that.

The most visible evidence of that commitment was found in our ticket price. While the Monster Companies were charging as much as fifteen dollars per ticket to see The Who and an opening act, we set our price at two dollars in advance, three at the gate. And that was for an all day concert! Ten hours of glorious Rock, Folk, and Blues, along with a light show designed to separate the audience from whatever shreds of reality they might still be immersed in after eight hours of daylight. When night fell, the colors of the mind would be set free. I mean, what the fuck, right?

As we got closer to the concert date, we realized we needed to hook up with some sort of Atlanta non-profit to further imprint the righteousness of our mission. We decided on two “counter culture” media outlets: the relatively new alternative radio station, WRFG (Radio Free Georgia), and the decade old Voice Of The Radical South, the ultra-Left weekly tabloid, The Great Speckled Bird, named, not ironically, after an old Southern hymn the words of which were based on the Biblical Book of Jeremiah, chapter 12, verse 9: “Mine heritage is unto me as a speckled bird; the birds round about are against her; come ye, assemble all the beasts of the field, come to devour.”

Once we connected the ARC to these two voices of Atlanta’s radical underground our identity was secure, and our name would live forever.

___________________________________-

 

April 20 was approaching faster than we anticipated. The Day was almost upon us. By now we had our bands booked and they were quite an eclectic collection of musicians: The Reverend Pearlie Brown – gritty blues and trenchant gospel from a very old singer who had been there at the Creation; The Last Great Jive-Ass Jug Band – hootchie-cootchie music reminiscent of frontier whorehouse bands; Marshgrass – electric mountain blues infused with calming rhythms from the Scottish Highlands ; Rock Mountain –Airplane and Dead-inspired  jam band; EQT – the South’s premier lets-get-drunk-and-fuck bar band; Flood – lost in Pink Floyd, never to return to Earth; Carrie Nation – think Allman Brothers without Dickie Betts; Darryl Rhoades and The Ha-Ha-Vishnu Orchestra – try to imagine a snowy summer day with bats flying around carrying tiny hand grenades they occasionally dropped and you might get close to understanding the Ha-Ha-Vishnu Orchestra; Warm – awwwwww . . . . make-out music with entwined, naked bodies while the parents are off playing Double Canasta; Rita Godfrey – sultry jazz and blues vocalist whose singing made every Lesbian in Atlanta want to have her child.

           Yes, indeed. Eclectic.

           The required psychedelic light show was to be produced by the Kaleidoscopic Light Co., whose owner, The Wizard, was known as a magician who, in the mid- 1970s, did impossible things with light shows. And, if a given audience wasn’t all that thrilled with his display of light-magic or wasn’t paying that much attention, he would launch a barrage of pyrotechnics that would definitely get them to focus. He was a goddam genius.

For security, we enlisted one of the cults that had formed around the seeming endless number of Hindu or Tibetan or East Asian hucksters who had set up shop in the US after realizing that Yuppie Americans had a hunger for religion that was less bloody and restrictive than Christianity, and would be willing to spend whatever it took to get close to a Westernized Nirvana that skipped past the scary stuff that came with LSD or psilocybin. The gang we settled on was The Divine Light Mission, because they were willing to work free and had a way of calming a drunk or stoned concertgoer by simply staring at them. And chanting stuff. Good people.

Our first aid contingent was under the control of a local nurse who wanted some experience in crisis medicine. What better place to get that experience than a rock festival where there was always the possibility of massive head injuries when stoned out rock-and-rollers might try to launch off the nearest promontory because they suddenly knew they could fly!

And then we hit the wall. At one of the final meetings with the City of Atlanta bureaucrats, the head of the Parks Department called us to his office and said he saw on one of the posters we had distributed that the concert was to go on from Noon until 10 o’clock.

“That’s just impossible,” he said. “Can’t happen. We have strict rules about Chastain. Four-hour music events only. Four hours, no more.” And, he said it with glee. He had been one of the bureaucrats who had opposed our gig from the beginning. “A concert like that will result in drugs and sex and violence, all out in the open and causing the neighbors great embarrassment, not to mention lawsuits.” He had been overruled in his original objection to our concert by the Mayor, although it was the Mayor’s staff, all young people, who convinced His Honor that a massive rock concert in the middle of the city was an excellent idea.

But, we hadn’t anticipated this. No one had. This rule had not been mentioned in the original meetings with the city administrators. And now, this official was almost twitching with delight when he informed us all our work was for nothing. Bullshit. We were the Atlanta Rock Conspiracy and we would not be defeated. Never!

I tried threats. “If the concert doesn’t go on for the ten hours we advertised we might have thousands of people in the streets rioting. I know the city doesn’t want that, right?”

“Not my problem, boys,” he replied. “My job is to enforce the rules. And, the rules say four hours. Take it or leave it. And, I hope you’re not threatening me with violence! I would be very upset if you are. Very upset.”

Take it or leave it? Obviously, he didn’t know who he was fucking with.

After the meeting with this bureaucratic spoiler, we had a second meeting with the Mayor’s young staffers. Rob, one of the people in the Bureau of Cultural Affairs, had the solution.

“Simple, really. The rules also say if the City co-sponsors an event at Chastain, the time restriction doesn’t apply. You can go the full ten hours. We’ll get the Mayor to sign off on this and you guys are all set.” So, now not only were we legitimate, we were by God official! The concert was to be a co-production of the City of Atlanta and The Atlanta Rock Conspiracy!!

See what I mean? Brick wall? Solution. Never failed. We were amazed. Slow-talking Jimmy said it was because, “We. . .    are . . . a . . .righteous . . . group. We . . . are . . . filled . . . with . . . love . . .  and . . . the . . . spirit . . . of. . . brotherhood . . . in . . . a . . . world . . . torn . . .asunder . . . by . . . greed . . . and . . .  other . . . vicious . . . shit. . . like. . . war.”

True, that.

Then, as though we were snake bit and all going to die, we got more upsetting news. We were broke. Tapped out.

Victory? Meet Defeat.

“We’re down to $75 and change,” Ira informed us. “And, we still have bands to pay, not to mention printing costs, insurance, radio ads, and money for the four off-duty cops who insist on being here just in case there’s a riot. And they charge time-and-a-half what the city pays them.”

Damn. Stuck. And the concert date was two weeks away.

Hugh said he had a crazy idea. He called a meeting. “Look, I know a guy who is part of the so-called ‘Gainesville Dealers Association,’ you know, that group in Florida who dropped a bag of money in front of Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami so that little kid could get his brain tumor operation? The one whose parents were pleading for help to save their kid’s life? Thousands of dollars, all cash, and a pointed note in the bag with the money that condemned a system that would let a child die because his parents were too poor to afford an operation. Remember that?”

We did. It was a super act of compassion by a bunch of drug dealers who wanted everyone to know there was righteousness to be had in selling weed. They also had made several other contributions to causes that seemed hopeless for lack of money.

“Yeah, but, c’mon, man, this is a rock concert,” Jack said, stating the obvious. “Not a kid’s life-and-death operation. Big difference, pal.”

“I’m not suggesting charity, guys. I think they’ll lend us the money. We’d have to pay it back. Hopefully, out of gate receipts. But, that’ll give us the cash flow we need right now. What do y’all say?”

We all said, hell yes. Give it a try, Hugh. What’s to lose? He went down the club’s dark, musty hallway to Jimmy’s office and made the call.

 

 

           The GDA said yes, they would give us the money we needed to complete the concert. Give it to us, not lend it. No pay-back required. It was that simple. They said their decision was based in part on the fact we were charging only two dollars per ticket, that music did belong to the people who wrote and performed it and the people who listened, not asshole promoters and greed-head record companies. A little over the top with the anti-establishment attitude, but, so what? They had cash. We needed cash. They asked one thing in return: At some point during the concert we were to make an announcement from the stage on their behalf, not to praise their charitable work, but to further suggest there was something severely fucked up about a nation that would spend billions of dollars on weapons of death and destruction, and let millions of its own citizens, especially children, go without proper nutrition, housing, decent public schools, and medical care. There was no question they and we were singing from the same hymnal.

That was a Sunday. On Tuesday we were to meet their representative at Jimmy’s house in the suburbs. Tuesday turned out to be a warm April day, the sort of day that makes visitors to Atlanta want to stay forever: Blue skies and the perfume of thousands of blooming dogwoods, azaleas, and countless numbers of flowering plants that turned Spring in Atlanta into a sensual cascade of color and exotic fragrances.

We Conspirators were sitting on the back deck drinking coffee and having a morning joint when a shiny, stunningly black Mercedes sedan turned off the street into the driveway and drove slowly toward the back of the house where we were waiting. “They’re here,” Hugh half-whispered, unable to take his eyes off the Benz. The car was so beautiful, for a moment I thought Hugh was going to tear up. “Oh, my God,” he said, a slight tremor to his voice. “It’s a Staff Car. It’s a goddam 1940 Staff Car.”  Hugh, we discovered, worshipped the Mercedes brand. He went pale, like he was about to faint. “It’s a Nazi High Command Staff Car. Hitler rode around in one of these! Hitler!

The car stopped and for a moment no one moved; not us, not the three people in the Mercedes. No one spoke. Near total silence. The birds continued to sing their territorial songs in the trees surrounding Jimmy’s substantial back-yard; fat carpenter bees buzzed around the deck, looking for a place to start drilling; in the distance, a Piper Cub stuttered across the sky. It was a moment.

Finally, reverently, Hugh and Jimmy stepped off the deck and walked over to the car. The driver stepped out and nodded to both. He was wearing black jeans, and a pale blue Miami Dolphins tee-shirt. It was easy to see he had muscles in places where most people don’t even have places. His sunglasses were designer and very, very dark. He handed Hugh a brown paper bag, the top folded over several times and a thick rubber band keeping it all in place. The driver gave Hugh and Jimmy a friendly smile and waved to the rest of us sitting on the deck. We waved back, looking, I’m sure, like a circle of psychiatric patients out for an airing on visitors’ day.

Finally, the car’s doors opened, and the two passengers got out. I immediately thought the names Gunsel and Destroyer would fit these guys perfectly. All five then came up on the deck and, after a moment of scraping chairs, and shifting bodies, we all found seats around the metal patio table.

“Well, hello, everybody,” the driver said. “My name is Carter and these gentlemen (he motioned to the other two) are my associates, Blue, and Frazier.” The rest of the introductions were made involving lots of cross-table hand-shaking. It got a bit confusing, fingers getting caught on fingers, hands bumping.  Someone brought fresh coffee and butter croissants from the kitchen. Hugh passed the paper bag around the circle, and each of us Conspirators took a look inside.

“Well . . . that . . .  is . . . certainly . . . an . . . impressive . . . bag . . . of . . . money,” Jimmy said. “Are . . . those . . . all . . . hundreds? Oh . . . wait . . . I . . . see . . . some . . . fifties . . .too.”

“Jimmy, there’s ten thousand in there, “ Carter said, “and I’m certain this honest crew,” – his eyes swept the circle – “will put it to good use.” We all nodded vigorously, still not quite believing this was happening. He took a sip of his coffee and slid his reflective sunglasses onto the top of his head. His eyes were deep green and totally bloodshot. It was like looking at a stoplight stuck on stop and go at the same time.

“We heard about what you – what do you call yourselves? A conspiracy? – what you all were doing up here in Atlanta. Takes courage to try this in the middle of a city. I mean, yeah, Max Yasgur’s farm was one thing, lots of room, no traffic, but, right in the middle of Atlanta? That’s really cool. We also admire the fact that you’re sharing the profits with two anti-establishment organizations. And, obviously, since profit couldn’t be a motive, not at two bucks a ticket, we figured you people were either insane or righteous. We settled on righteous.”

“See . . . that’s . . . what . . . I . . . said . . . too . . . the righteous . . . part,” Jimmy chimed in, slowly, like funeral chimes in a Krishna temple.

Carter continued. “We put the Gainesville Dealers’ Association together for similar reasons. We wanted to provide positive energy and financial assistance when and where we could. You know, that whole Hippie mind-set. We were accumulating so much cash, bales of it,” – a couple of us quietly coughed at the word ‘bales’ – “and, obviously we couldn’t bank it, so we decided to spread the wealth, so to speak. Half of all the profit we made went to projects we thought would benefit as many people as possible, or to families who were in desperate situations that only money could solve.”

“Half?” Hugh asked.

“Yes. The other half we’re using to buy an island in the Caribbean where we’re all going to retire when we turn thirty. Provided we don’t wind up spending our lives in federal prison or getting killed by the Mexican pot cartel. The Mexicans don’t like the competition and they damn sure don’t like our attitude. Anyway, that’s the plan.” The conversations droned on. Carter was a talker and a good story teller. Blue and Frazier, not so much.

Finally, the meeting was ending. Handshakes all around again, promises to show up at the concert, incognito, of course, if they could.

“One last thing we’re curious about,” Carter said as he was settling himself behind the wheel of the gleaming Staff Car. “How have you gotten this far

with this project of yours? I would think the City of Atlanta wouldn’t be happy to see this come off. Rock and roll and crowds of freaks and drugs and traffic tie-ups. How’d you do it?”

“Well,” I answered, “we made the City our co-sponsors. All the ads now say it’s a co-production of the City and the Atlanta Rock Conspiracy. We had some help on the inside, in the Mayor’s office.”

Carter started laughing. “Are you going to add our name now, too? Make it a co-production of the City of Atlanta and an association of Florida-based pot dealers? That’s what it actually is, right? What a fucking knee-slapper! Atlanta and an association of drug dealers! Working together to bring rock and roll to the people! Jesus, let’s hope they don’t discover who they’re working with until your gig is over! Good luck, guys!” And, off they went, Carter’s laughter ricocheting off the trees that lined Jimmy’s driveway as they drove away.

 

 

 

Our stage crew – the roadies, if we had been on the road – was run by one Mr. Dog, a wiry Southern boy who said he loved his Copenhagen snuff almost as much as he loved Jesus. Mr. Dog had worked for just about every Southern rock band touring in the early 70s and he knew his business. His job was to get the bands onstage as quickly as humanly possible, let them do their sound checks, (“Test, test! One, two, one two. Can I get a little more volume on the number two amp? Check. Check. One, two . . .) and into their set. Once finished, after the band’s encore and the applause was dying, Mr. Dog and his crew had no more than ten minutes to get that band offstage, without damaging any of their equipment or instruments, and move the next band onstage and set up the same as the previous band. It was a marvel to watch. I’m sure Mr. Dog knew nothing about “motion efficiency,” but he could have written a training manual on the subject. His five-man crew all looked like their pictures were on wanted posters in various Post Offices across the South. But, like Mr. Dog, they were fast, efficient, and only paused to drink another beer or honk up another line of coke, which was how we paid them. Michael had an excellent coke connection and made sure Mr. Dog’s crew was well taken care of.

Concert day arrived. Sunday, April 20, 1975. The Conspiracy met in one of the amphitheater’s back-stage dressing rooms for a final meeting and a round of self-congratulation for what we had accomplished. Anything could happen, of course, during the concert that might result in a monumental fuck-up, but we had faith and we were, as Jimmy kept reminding us, “righteous.” Michael brought out a small paper bag, about the size of a lunch bag, and dumped the contents onto one of the dressing tables. A mound of white powder dotted with chunks of pale pink rocks tumbled onto the table. We all stopped whatever we were doing and stared. Holy Mother of God! Peruvian Pink! Right there in front of us! Jack was so overcome he nearly fainted. In a show of absolute brotherhood (we had declared Katy an honorary man, to which she had said “get fucking real, boys”) gathered around the table and, altogether, bent over, placed our Krystal hamburger joint straws into the mound and honked. It was bliss. However, just then the dressing room door opened and in stepped Sgt. Luther Doolittle, the head of the police detail the city insisted we have on hand during the concert. The good sergeant had reached a reasonable agreement with us in the early stages of our planning. He would restrain his posse from making any reefer arrests inside the amphitheater unless he saw blatant dealing. We all knew people would be smoking weed like crazy and, since the venue held seven thousand people, it would be impossible to arrest everybody. So, in the interest of peace, love, and harmony, no arrests. However, that didn’t include the drug tableau Sgt. Doolittle had just walked in on. Everything stopped, frozen, including time, which is a weird warp in the universe when you’ve just sucked up a line of Peruvian Pink.

He hesitated, looked at the circle of rock and roll freaks bent over the table, looked at the table, paused a very long second, and then said, “Have a good concert, boys.” He then turned around and walked out the door. God bless you, Sgt. Doolittle, wherever you are. So, in addition to the jangly, rapid heartbeat that occurs when coke is inhaled, we had the added thrill of an adrenaline jolt, a twofer.

Mr. Dog came to the door and said it was time to open the amphitheater gates. The crowd lined up outside was growing and the opening act was still two hours away. We told Mr. Dog to go ahead and open them. The ticket sellers and ticket takers got into their places just inside the two gates we had unchained. We had a third volunteer standing at each gate with a hand-held counter, whose job it was to let us know how many people eventually came in. Very quickly the combined numbers reached 500; then 1,000; then 1,500; then 3,000, 4,000, 5,000, 8,000. Two hours until showtime and the amphitheater was packed. Every seat was taken. People were sitting in the aisles, on the grassy banks inside the venue. And, now, it appeared thousands more were gathering in the park outside, and the streets surrounding the park until, eventually, we heard a news flash on one of the rock stations that said to avoid the area of Chastain Park and the streets in that area because something had happened – a bomb? a plane crash? a huge fire? a Klan rally? – that was causing a massive traffic jam with gridlock miles away from the park and nobody seemed to know what the fuck was happening on this otherwise quiet Sunday in this Buckle of the Bible Belt.

Then the “thwip-thwip-thwip” of the police helicopters overhead, getting louder as they approached the air-space over Chastain. It was madness. The arc of Atlanta’s history was bending towards our rock and roll concert. Who knew it would be this much fun? This crazy? We were so happy with it all we didn’t know whether to shit or go blind!

We followed the Woodstock model and declared the event was now a free concert. All the gates were unchained and opened. But, it made no difference. The place was packed, jammed, flooded with rock and rollers, hippies, people of all ages, colors, and stages of high expectation – emphasis on high. It was glorious. Mr. Dog materialized and shouted in my ear, “We gotta start the music, dude! This is gettin’ outta hand!”

And, so we did. An hour earlier than our agreement with the city stated, but, what? They were going to complain? Way too late for that.

Marshgrass opened it up with electric mountain music – a ten-person ensemble of wild banjos, electric violins, a dobro, acoustic and electric guitars, amplified harmonicas – that turned the crowd into a massive, stomping, clapping, audience who knew this was going to be an excellent day. And, it was. From the first act on, through the Southern rock of Carrie Nation and EQT; the wild theatrics of the Jive Ass Jug Band; the Dead influenced Rock Mountain; the yeasty, Bread-like Warm;  the roots music mystery of Rev. Pearly Brown, born before the beginning of the first world war; Darryl Rhoades and the Ha-Ha Vishnu Orchestra convincing half the audience ( the half that was really high) it was 1967 not 1975, and we were all in the Haight, not Atlanta; Flood’s Dark Side of the Moon-ish mind-freeing psychedelic riffs; and finally to Rita Godfrey’s bluesy set that brought the concert to a close at midnight, it was all perfectly executed. No problems, no sound fuck-ups, the light show was spectacular and got several concert-goers, already tripped out, right to the edge of sanity. We gave them valium to calm them down and let them know that, no, that was not God approaching on a galloping, silver horse, its nostrils snorting fire and angels. It was a street-light outside the amphitheater. And, incredibly, there was only one arrest the entire day. One. And, that was a woman beating up her boyfriend for not sharing a strip of blotter acid she had brought to the concert to ensure a proper lift-off. He had swallowed the whole thing. We heard she was released later that afternoon after it became apparent the boyfriend was too fucked up to press charges.

 

It was 2AM. The bands had packed up and were gone. The massive screens on which The Wizard had projected a light show that had people shouting, “Dave! What are you doing, Dave! I can feel it, Dave! Stop, Dave!” had been taken down and packed away. Flood’s sound system, that had provided all the gig’s performers with crystal-clear thunder, had been loaded onto a Ryder truck and driven off into the night. A crew from the city’s Department of Public Works was cleaning up the debris left by thousands of concert-goers. And, we, The Atlanta Rock Conspiracy, were momentarily at a place where utter exhaustion, various degrees of drug hangovers, relief that the event was over, and pure happiness of a sort I’ve seldom known since, all intersected at this falling-down amphitheater that we and thousands of rock fans had flooded with pure energy for ten hours. It was a good, no, it was an awesome feeling.

 

 

 The next morning, we got together at the Bistro for a post-mortem on what we had successfully produced and where we were going next with the Conspiracy. The immediate consensus was to strike again, to do another concert that would establish the ARC as a radical production company that could work successfully and independently of the major concert promoters not just in Atlanta, but, the entire Southeast. The discussion droned on for hours and, as I listened, it began to come clear that something had changed since last night, a dramatic change that was trying to take the ARC to an entirely different level. It was head-spinning. The discussion turned to serious talk about booking major acts: David Bowie, Led Zepplin, Santana. Crazy talk. Total bullshit. What was happening? Where did our radical little organization, the Atlanta Rock Conspiracy, suddenly disappear to? And, why, the mad conversation continued, stop with groups like the Zepplin? How about a Beatles reunion? Someone eventually would pull it together! It would be historic! they were saying. We could do it! they insisted. We are righteous! they repeated over and over. And, a venue for such an historic moment? Atlanta Braves Stadium! Of course! It could hold 60 thousand people, maybe 70 thousand if we added extra seating on the field! Yes! Fuck yes! We are invincible! We are the Atlanta Rock Conspiracy!!

I had to leave. The discussion had gone completely off the rails. Ego and greed were loose in the Bistro.

I drove to my apartment where it all had begun. My head was spinning. Tears were sliding down my cheeks. I went back and forth between complete shock that my co-Conspirators had become delusional, and anger that the group had lost their fucking minds. All of them at the same time! I sat there for hours, aware the day was slowly dissolving, which was exactly how I was feeling: like I was floating away. The phone rang. It was Katy. “Hey,” she said, “what are you doing?”

“Sitting here.”

“I have something to tell you. It’s not good.”

“Go ahead.”

“The board just voted you out.”

“What board?”

“The ARC board.”

“For fuck’s sake, Katy, we don’t have a board. Remember? The whole idea was to stay away from the corporate bullshit. There is no board. You know that.”

“Okay, look, I’m sorry this is happening. I voted to keep you on. But the rest of the guys decided they wanted to take a different path. You heard what they were talking about before you walked out.”

“So, they decided to just fucking take what I put together?”

“I hate to tell you, but, yes. Michael showed up with a folder full of stock certificates he had printed up. The ARC is going public.”

Stock certificates? What the fuck!? “Katy, you have to be kidding me. Going public? Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Do you want me to come over? Talk about it?”

“No. This is insane. I can’t believe they did this. Tell you what, Katy. If you go back to the meeting, tell my former “righteous” partners I said I hope they all die in a fucking plane crash. What a bunch of shit.”

“Jesus, Mike. You know you don’t mean that. I know you’re angry, but you can’t wish them all dead! That’s crazy! Please get a grip.”

We talked for a few more minutes, Katy trying to calm me, make me see none of this was all that important. She reminded me there were people starving in Bangladesh, for God’s sake. Right.

We finally hung up. I got in the car and drove towards Stone Mountain, replaying the last three months – and yesterday’s gig – over and over in my head. I had to go someplace where I could think. I was still shaking from Katy’s call.

The drive to the Mountain was just long enough for me to calm down a bit. I knew I’d better take a Zen-like attitude about the whole thing or keel over with a heart attack, but what the fuck did I know about simply noticing something – like putting together a rock concert, for example – without judging anything that had happened? Isn’t that what Buddhists did? No judgement. About anything. Just acceptance.

By the time I got to the park’s gate I realized overthinking all this bullshit was ridiculous. What is, is. As Siddhartha Gautama said, “We are shaped by our thoughts: we become what we think.” There’s definitely a warning there . . .

It had been one hell of an experience. I couldn’t help smiling when I thought about how we pulled the whole thing together, especially the financing. The City of Atlanta, to this day, has no idea who one of their partners was for that one glorious day of rock and roll all those years ago: the Gainesville Dealers Association. Drug dealers and the capitol of The New South, Atlanta, bringing the raucous pleasure of rock and roll to the masses.

And, that was a real knee-slapper.

 

______________________________________________________

 

-12-

 

           The park gates would open at 8 AM, which meant I could get off the mountain and away from this open-air Confederate mausoleum in about an hour. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the climb up Stone Mountain and the incredible view of the surrounding countryside once at the peak. I did. And, frequently. But, falling asleep on this huge granite rupture in Atlanta’s suburban landscape left me stiff and sore and wet from the night’s steady rain, as though that was the price of missing closing time and spending the night where spending the night was not allowed. The park was littered with signs warning overnight camping was allowed in designated campsites only, and the top of the mountain was not one of them. Of course, there was that fucking carving, too. Sleeping that close to images of the traitors responsible for so much death made me shiver; or maybe, it just the rain.

           But, I got what I was seeking. An idea; a possible solution to the ennui that was choking me. I wanted to stay in talk radio, but it sure wasn’t going to happen in Atlanta. My now-shit-canned contract with WSB had contained a “no-compete” clause, a nasty little device radio station managers use to prevent a popular on-air personality in talk, rock, jazz, whatever, from changing stations within a given market. It’s also a way of controlling how much that person might earn. A better offer from a competing station couldn’t be accepted because of that clause. So, since radio work in Atlanta was out of the question for me, it was time to go.

As an added impetus to get the hell out of Dixie, I felt I needed a break from the South and the red-neck bullshit that seemed to underlie everything about this part of the country. For many reasons, some esthetic, some cultural, I had come to love Atlanta, arguably the region’s capitol. But, I’d gotten so sick of seeing Confederate monuments, obelisks, carvings, memorials, and cemeteries throughout the South. Why were they there to begin with? Why wasn’t every commemoration of these American traitors long ago removed from public property? Could statues of Nazi “heroes” be found in the public parks of Germany? Were there granite memorials to the Vichy French in Paris? On the other hand, I was okay with the cemeteries. They could stay. They were cold reminders of the actual cost of the hellish destruction the slave-owing, wealthy, American upper class of the mid-19th century had brought to the ignorant, poor, white workers whose blood had saturated the loamy soil of Virginia; seeped into the red clay of Georgia; soaked the black dirt of Mississippi and the sandy grit of southern Alabama, and all of it in order to keep the slave-owners ascendant.  Blood-soaked. Every square inch of it. And, all this death and destruction represented something good and honorable? There was no honor in the so-called “Lost Cause,” none. The equestrian monuments and heroically posed statues dedicated to Southern generals in their acts of treason, represented lies, illusions, shame-filled attempts to rationalize a century-and-a-half of subjecting other human beings to unspeakable horror, terror, and the denial of their humanity. And that warrants celebration? Only if you are out of your fucking mind.

 

           The Program Director at WLS in Chicago answered a “situation wanted” ad I had placed in a radio industry magazine. He asked for an audition tape and a resume, which I put in the mail the next day. Within a week, he called.

“I liked your tape,” he said, a hint of relief in his voice. PDs were swamped with unrequested audition tapes, more often than not sent by one more small market, right-wing moron who was absolutely convinced – if he could just escape his afternoon drive gig in Broken Elbow, Oklahoma – he was destined to be the next Rush Limbaugh. That is, as soon as Limbaugh choked to death on his own bile while screaming to his audience that the “Liberals” were vermin, scum, the worst of the worst, and they were destroying everything, and the only thing that would stop them would be their disappearance from the face of the earth, one way or another. Or maybe his demise would be caused by his massive opioid habit.

El Rushbo’s pill popping was getting out of hand. No longer able to find a willing doctor in South Florida who would write, honest, doc, just one more prescription, the Dean of The Institute of Advanced Conservative Studies turned to his housekeeper. He sent her into the streets to find dealers who would provide her with handfuls of Oxycontin she could deliver to the Dean and thus keep her job cleaning his bathrooms and scrubbing his floors. It was a workable arrangement for a while. She got ‘em, he swallowed ‘em. Until he was arrested for “doctor shopping.” By then he had driven himself deaf from drug use, he was gobbling Oxy’s at the rate of 2,000 in six months and told the court it was all because of his “back pain.”

This, of course, was the Conservative icon who had raged against drug users in general and mocked Bill Clinton who stupidly had said he smoked reefer when he was younger but didn’t inhale. All Limbaugh had to do was complete a rehab program and promise never, never to do those nasty drugs again, and he was home free. The charges would be dismissed, and all would be forgiven and forgotten, although this law and order phony had made the case on his radio show that drug crimes deserve punishment. Another ironic point Limbaugh made was that statistics showed Blacks go to prison more often than whites for the same drug offense, which, to Mr. Conservative meant “too many whites are getting away with drug use.” And, all this was said righteously and unctuously while he was getting away with drug use.

“I liked your tape because you obviously know what you’re talking about,” the PD continued. “And, you take a liberal stance on issues. That’s unusual. I’ve got boxes of audio tapes stacked in my office from creepy, weird sounding characters who are absolutely convinced they deserve a slot on WLS. Funny stuff. So, since I liked your tape, I’d like to hear more. Can you come to Chicago for an interview?”

“I’m halfway there.”

________________________________________

 

           Carl Sandburg nailed it. “Chicago” is Chicago.

I spent the next three years working in the country’s third largest market for a station owned and operated by the ABC radio network, which was, in turn, owned by the Disney Corp. I knew from day one this would be a short-lived affair. Me? With Disney? The nation’s preeminent “family” focused entertainment behemoth? The thought of this relationship coming to anything other than a bad end was easily dismissed.

The city itself was a perpetual reservoir of the best of American culture from theater to architecture, design to couture, visual art to authors, poets, and musicians to the point of being pleasantly overwhelming.

It also was a deep pool of racial violence and gang murders unabated since Capone. The week I arrived a Black teenager was beaten to death by a mob of whites armed with baseball bats and tire irons because he inadvertently wandered into the Bridgeport neighborhood, an enclave of Irish and Italian families that could easily have been transplanted to the most racist corner of Dixie. The violence of the attack on this kid was stupefying. It was the same level of sadism as anything found in the stereotyped South and it was a horrific reminder that racism in America was not bound within a specific region of the country. There were all sorts of targets for the madness of white racism and Christian bigotry: African-Americans; Native Americans; Latinos; homosexual men and women; recent immigrants who had yet to assimilate into a culture that looked on the new arrivals with suspicion often followed by violence; Muslims; Jews; atheists; the list was, and is, endless.

My first week at WLS was a get-to-know-you process with a new audience, one not all that different from what I had left behind in Atlanta. I took a call the first or second night from a guy who wanted to know – right now! – my position on guns and the Second Amendment. There was no way, apparently, I could get away from these assholes.

“I’m armed and dangerous,” I said to the caller. That seemed to satisfy him.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not one of these gun-grabbing liberals that are trying to take away the only protection we’ve got anymore.”

I couldn’t help myself: “Protection from what? What are you afraid of? Is there someone out to get you? Mafia looking for you?

“You know who’s causing all the trouble in this city. They won’t stay in their own areas and they come over here looking to rob and rape and steal anything they can get their hands on. By god, if they come to my house I’ll shoot first and ask questions after they’re dead and they can’t answer! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” That was some funny shit to this caller – asking questions after they’re dead. Yuk-yuk.

The next night a cop called in from his patrol car, he said. That was a first.

“So, I heard you say last night you own a gun, is that right?”

“That’s correct, officer. I do. It’s a 9mm Glock with a 15+1 capacity. Learned to shoot it at a police practice range in Atlanta.”

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but you’re in violation of the law here in Chicago. You better get rid of it.”

“But, I have a permit to carry it.”

“Not here in Chicago, you don’t.”

“Get rid of it? Do you know how much it cost? Several hundred dollars.”

“Then break it down and put the parts away. You can’t legally own a gun in Chicagoland.” Irony. It was inescapable.

My shift at WLS was from 10PM until 1AM, the same as Atlanta. I liked working at night, especially in talk radio. An entirely different sort of person tuned in at night: Insomniacs, college student, retirees, over-the-road truckers, conspiracy nuts, radical right-wingers, sex workers ending another miserable night walking Michigan Avenue, the city’s “Magnificent Mile,” and the occasional schizophrenic who wanted to let me know (and anyone listening across 30 States and parts of Canada) about the flood of spindly aliens moving into a deep ravine behind his house. Or the guy one night who insisted his dog was breaking into pieces and he didn’t know who to call and could I please, please help. After a few disjointed bits of semi-hysterical conversation, it became apparent to me his dog was having puppies but explaining that to him was impossible. “No! He’s not having puppies! He’s a boy! Boys don’t have puppies, you stupid! He’s breaking into pieces!” The night was filled with madness and I absolutely wanted my share of it.

The crazy in Chicago was so different from the crazy in the South. Southerners, Black and white, kept the relatives who were deep in a different reality away from the general population and referred to them as “funny.”

“Auntie Clarice is sorta funny, you know what I’m saying?” was all that was necessary to let a visitor know Aunt Clarice was out of her fucking mind and might pick up a carving knife at any moment, with any provocation, and start stabbing things. “Funny” had an entirely different meaning in the South when applied to the relatives.

 Southern families made sure Uncle Crazy stayed in the attic. He had a nice, cozy corner with a comfortable mattress and a radio (his magic “talking box”) where he could chat with his night visitors – the ones who lived in the closet – any time he wanted to, if he kept them from screaming, which some of them were inclined to do. Auntie Odd could roam the house as she wanted if someone was home, and she didn’t try to unlock the front door or any of the windows to let in the people who were making faces at her outside on the lawn. Dementia was handled differently, of course. It was much quieter and orderly, and that was especially important when it was time for Wednesday night prayer services at church. Speaking in “tongues” is one thing, and entirely appropriate for religious nuts, but allowing slowly disappearing Grandma to offer her version of this fundamentalist bullshit? No way. The risks far outweighed the benefits of having the angels talk through Grandma.

Northern crazy, on the other hand, was demonstrative. Loud. Insistent. And so much of it took place on the street, occasionally near a pay phone where a call could be made to my program to tell me about disintegrating dogs. After a few months of this shit, I realized I had to respond in a way that wasn’t overtly mocking. That’s when I came up with “Pocket Puppies.” On the air one night I made up a ridiculous story about a discovery in Australia. Using genetic manipulation, it was now possible to produce little dogs no larger than a six-pack of Post-Its. And, they didn‘t bark. They made little beeping sounds, like a dump-truck backing up. I thought listeners might hesitate for a moment and then realize it was all bullshit. Surprise! People started calling in and asking my producer where they could get their own Pocket Puppy. I had to pause whatever topic I had moved on to and explain I was just kidding. Pocket puppies didn’t exist. Even after I made that clear, callers still wanted one and got pissed off when I finally convinced them it was all a joke.

Just for shits and giggles, I decided to do it again a few nights later, fuck with their minds. Only this time a little more believable, a little closer to what the city of Chicago might really try to do since issuing parking tickets or towing away a hapless driver’s car parked at an expired meter in the heart of downtown, or in a space where the language on the parking signs was indecipherable, seemed to be the prime directive of the police department.  I waited until a Friday night’s program. The city’s revenue department would be closed for the weekend giving listeners two days to freak out, and by Monday, there would be an avalanche of calls to various municipal offices wanting to know who’s fucked-up idea this was. On the designated Friday night, I waited until near the end of the program and, with five minutes left, I said the city was about to come up with a new revenue-raising scheme: walking permits were to be issued and one would be necessary if residents wanted to walk in downtown Chicago. The sticker cost would start at $15 a year and would increase depending on the weight of the buyer. Up to 150 pounds, $15; 150 to 200 pounds, $25; over 250 pounds, $50. Kids under 12 would get a free sticker. If your first sticker cost $25 and you lost weight you could request a review and get a less costly permit. And vice-versa, of course. And, I added, there was the additional benefit of an incentive to lose a bit of weight. I said I had noticed an abundance of overweight people in this “hog butcher for the World” city and I believed this could be my way of helping them get healthy, my way of being a good citizen in Chicagoland. The sticker had to be displayed when walking the city’s streets; a briefcase would do, or a hip pocket, a jacket lapel, somewhere easily visible from the street so a cop in a cruising police car could see it. The first offense of not having sticker would be a $25 fine. The second offense would increase the fine to $100. Third offense? The illegal pedestrian would be barred from walking in a forty-block square in the middle of Chicago – unless it was to keep a doctor’s appointment – for a year. My producer played the show’s closing theme and I said good night.

Well, much to my delight, all hell broke loose Saturday morning. There were a few people working at City Hall and they were inundated with calls, all of which followed a general theme: “Are you people crazy? Has Daley lost his mind? Walking permits??! No fucking way!” And, like that. All day Saturday.

Early Monday morning, around 7:00 AM, the Program Director called me at home. He sounded a bit concerned.

“How quick can you get down here? We need to talk.”

“Well, I just woke up, boss. Gimme an hour?”

“Make it less than that.” Click.

I had the feeling he was pissed off about something. He was a fairly intense person (he said it was because of his time in Vietnam) so I knew it could be anything. While I showered and dressed I tried to think what I might have done to get him angry. I couldn’t come up with anything.

I got off the el, walked into ABC’s broadcast building, took the elevator to the eighth floor, down the hall and into his office. He kept his eyes on whatever he was doing, writing shit, checking off numbers, until he finally motioned to the chairs facing his desk and said, “Sit down.” Not good. No hello or how was your weekend or anybody die recently in your family? Nothing but, ‘sit down.’

After a couple of very quiet minuets and a lot of writing he looked up.

“So, what the hell did you say on the air Friday night?”

“About what? I covered a bunch of topics. Which one?”

“The one where you apparently said the city was going to issue walking permits! Walking permits?! Are you crazy? People fucking believed you! This is Chicago, for Chrissake! People know that kind of shit is possible! No, probable! Daley’s office called here an hour ago, 6:00 AM for fuck’s sake, really, really pissed off at the station! Do you know how many calls they got Saturday? How many messages were left Sunday? How many calls they got starting at 5:00 AM today?”

“Well, no. How many?”

“How many . . .?!”

“Yeah, you said did I know how many calls? So, I’m just answering you. How many? I’m really curious.”

“For christsake, man, the actual number’s immaterial! It doesn’t matter! The mayor’s office called here, and they were furious! Daley doesn’t like the kind of attention your little comedy bit got him. He’s dealing with that whole Dad thing, trying to live up to his old man’s reputation and your making people think he’s going to issue walking stickers doesn’t help. Jesus, where did you come up with that? Why’d you come up with that?”

“Just made it up. I thought people would get a laugh out of it.”

“Okay, well, tonight you’re gonna un-make it up. And, don’t do this kind of shit again, seriously. You’re on the air in a city that has a long history with radio. People here tend to believe what they hear. They don’t know you from Adam’s house-cat, but they give you a lot of credibility simply because you are on the radio. You say walking stickers are going to be required and people believe you.” He went on and on about the responsibilities of a broadcaster and the reputation of a “heritage” station like WLS and then into corporate responsibility and the fragility of a station’s broadcast license if the right-wing nut cases decided to file FCC challenges to a station’s license renewal. After twenty minutes of this management 101 gibberishq I wanted to ram pencils into my ears so I couldn’t hear any more of this bullshit. Finally, mercifully, he ran out of ways to give me more hell and stopped. After a bit of respectful silence, I told him I got what he was saying and apologized for freaking out city hall. And him. But, the message I really got was too many assholes in Chicago who can’t take a joke. And, anyway, how could people appreciate parody when the President of the United States was discovered getting blowjobs from a White House intern and then committing perjury thinking, crazily, that he could hide it all. The truth is, reality, especially political reality, has a tendency to shred parody.

_________________________________

 

I took the urban commuter train – the el – home from WLS late one night – early morning, 3 AM – after going to a co-worker’s birthday party at a downtown pub with some of the station staff. I walked from my stop through the deserted streets of the neighborhood, Rogers Park. Years before, it had been a predominantly working-class Jewish neighborhood; now, it was the home turf of violent Jamaican drug gangs, or so I had been warned, which left me a little jumpy. Chicago is known as a city of gun violence without parallel and I didn’t want to walk into a spray of bullets on their way from an AK-47 to a rival drug dealer’s torso. To avoid even the possibility of that happening, I turned off the main drag and into the alley that would take me to the the rear of my four-unit apartment building. I opened the gate, walked in to the yard and sensed movement in the shadows near the garage, which was barely big enough to provide one precious parking space per apartment. I stopped walking and looked towards the movement. A person was standing in the darkest part of the shadows. Oh, shit. I’m gonna be killed.

“Yo! You in the corner. Why are you in my yard?” I said, my voice trembly, which was a weak-ass question to ask when I was only moments away from dying, one more Chicago corpse.

“Aw, man, ain’t doin’ shit. Just walkin’ through off Sheridan, just cuttin’ through your yard. No big deal, man.” He stepped into the hazy light from the bare light fixture on the corner of the garage. “No trouble, man, just cuttin’ through. You live here?” he asked, as if we were about to become big time friends and he wanted to get a fix on where our relationship had its beginning.

“Yeah, I live here, and you don’t, right?” I answered his question with a question of my own, sounding a lot ballsier than I intended.

“Chill, man. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.” He started to move past me toward the still open back gate. “See? I’m outta here already. Everything’s cool.”

More ballsy: “Yeah, well, make sure you get the fuck gone. I’ll call the police if you don’t.”

Enough ballsy. I walked quickly toward the back door of my apartment and, once inside, decided to call the police just in case my visitor decided to come back after all.

“What does he look like?” I gave a description to the precinct officer who answered the phone. “Is he still there?” I said I’d look out the kitchen window and the officer said he’d send a car by just in case he was still lurking around.

The backyard was deserted when I looked outside, but the gate to the alley was standing open. I walked out to close it and saw the garage door inside the yard was slightly open also. I pushed it all the way open and looked inside. The dome light in my car was on and there sat my visitor, rifling through the glove box, a joint burning in the ashtray as though he was taking a reefer break and decided as long as he was in the car, why not see if there was anything worth keeping. To complete the relaxed scenario, he was humming a disjointed tune and low-talking to himself. Before he looked up and saw me I heard him mumbling about that “stupid cracker mutha’fucker, actin’ like he’s gonna call the PO-lice. Shee-it, man, I coulda’ dropped his ofay ass in a second but I decided to let him live and he’s all ‘I’ll call the PO-lice.’ Shoulda’ capped the mutha’fucker. If I had a piece I woulda’. I gotta get me a snub.” And, then he looked up. “Yo, man, goddam! You gotta stop sneakin ‘ up on a dude. You scarin’ me with that creepin’ around shit.”

“What the fuck you doing in my car?” I pushed my hip against the car door to keep him in until the cops got there.

“Just takin’ a break, man. That’s all. No big deal. Ain’t no place to sit that’s comfortable in the street, man. Those bus benches are hard, hurt my ass, and with all those drug dealers runnin’ around shootin’ each other and shit, you know, dude could get hurt out there. You ain’t got shit in here to steal, anyway. Except this nasty, dried out pack of Wrigley’s gum. You know, this shit is made in Chicago, right here. Did you know that? That’s where they get Wrigley Field. From the gum. All right, man, I’ll get out your goddam car.”

“I don’t fucking believe this. You’re still here after I said I was going to call the cops? Are you crazy? Do you want to go to jail?”

“Aw, man, jail ain’t no big deal. Don’t scare me not even a little.”

He stepped out on the driver’s side and I realized the pressure I had been putting on the passenger’s side was more or less pointless. He side-scooted around the front of the car, obviously trying to get to the door. “You want a hit?” He held out the joint he’d been smoking. “It’s some primo shit, man. One thing about these murderin’ Jamaican mutha’fuckers. They got the best reef in the world, you know what I’m sayin’? I can get you a lid, too, if you got some cash on you.”

Just then, a voice from the front of the apartment building: “Mr. Malloy? Sir? Are you back there? Chicago police here. Hello?”

Reefer-man made it clear he was going out the back gate. “Well, ain’t this a bitch! You did call the Po-lice. I thought you was bullshittin’, man.”

“I said I would. You’re the dumb-ass who didn’t believe me.”

“Yeah, but white folks always be lyin’ and shit. I thought you was just tryin’ to scare me off.”

“Well, surprise! Those cops out front are real.”

“Mr. Malloy! Chicago police.”

“Aw, man, tell ‘em I’m gone. I didn’t take nuthin’ outta your car. Here, I’ll give you the rest of this joint.” He pushed it into my hand. “Tell ‘em I’m gone, man. For real. Do a dude a favor.”