by Robin Ray
Chapter 18
There have been claims that Georgetown, a neighborhood just south of downtown Seattle, is the oldest community in Seattle. Home to bohemians, artists and the downtrodden, it is beset on all sides by factories and major roadways. There has been a renewed interest in the neglected area as it has been undergoing a renaissance since the early 90’s. Coffee shops, bars, night clubs and recording studios started springing up overnight, helping to create a brand-new enclave popular with the young and the hip. Fast becoming a place to see and be seen, there were also little nooks and crannies where those who chose to remain anonymous can remain that way.
On a residential, tree-lined street on the southeast part of town sat a light blue, nondescript one-story cottage surrounded on all sides by thick nests of evergreen shrubs and birches and maples nearly 20 feet high. In the driveway next to the house was a shiny, jet black Mercedes-Benz convertible with the top rolled up. There was a skinny, multiple-tattooed man about 40 years old reclining in a silk robe in the living room watching TV. In his left hand was the remote; in his right, a half empty glass of bourbon on ice. His loving black-bodied, white-chest Staffordshire bull was sleeping soundly at his feet.
In his nearby bedroom, a floor lamp was on but the shades were drawn, giving the room an otherwise soft and orange-colored hue. The cluttered chest of drawers against a wall overflowed with shirts, socks and other items of clothing. Over on the bedside table were music CD’s, keys, an ashtray, a folded map and a book of Edgar Allen Poe stories encircling several pieces of drug paraphernalia including a spoon, insulin needle and pieces of crumpled foil. A man’s dark blue jacket hung over the bed’s headboard while its owner, popular screenwriter and voice actor Milton Spruce, slept in a haze on the comfortable full sized bed.
A few days later, Spruce hosted a party at his downtown condo for the friends he’d made from the streets. About 15 men and women were in attendance. Even though it was late at night, the stereo was on loud as well as the TV. Lines of coke were being snorted in every room of the spatial two-bedroom unit. Liters of wine, Hennessy and cognac flowed like rivers throughout the suite. Even a hallway closet was occupied by a lusty, love stricken couple. When the police bust in around 1am, only Spruce and a handful of party-goers were left.
He spent three days in jail until he was bailed out by Oliver Weinberg. Haggard and torn, Spruce looked like he’d walked barefoot through a monsoon. There were dark patches beneath his eyes and bruises on his face and neck. Weinberg told him he was threatening to replace him, but Spruce swore he’d learned his lesson and promised to seek help.
During the day, he met faithfully with his staff and contributed wholeheartedly to the show. Newly recharged, he rattled off ideas and scenarios with rapid-fire precision. Then, three months into his recovery, he started disappearing again. First, he’d miss one day, then two, then eventually not show up at all. Luckily, the show’s production continued as Weinberg had forced him to sign a rider stating that, in his absence, all creative decisions would be made by the director.
With the show’s original creator and visionary out of sight, its popularity started to plummet as the writing lacked Spruce’s je ne sais quoi, or as they say in Germany, das gewisse Etwas, that unwritten something which gave the show its magic and oomph. The studio heads began to get nervous. Everything, including pulling the plug, was on the table. One of the writers had an idea to solicit scripts from outside writers. Weinberg, other executives, and their legal team, initially nixed the idea, citing unforeseen issues regarding copyright infringement. When another writer suggested the script-search could actually take the form of a writing contest, Weinberg thought about it and agreed. That fall, he gave the green light for a competition to be advertised in Rolling Stone magazine and directed only to students currently enrolled in college. By the beginning of winter, the contest was a success. Thousands of entries were received with the top five slated to go into production for the next season. For the first time in ages, the crew of Spruce Juice started breathing a little easier.
Snowfall in Seattle is often unlike other northern U.S. cities like Buffalo, Bismarck or Billings. In the midst of winter, one can almost expect there would be no more than a few inches of frost. Mainly, the chief concern was flooding as the temperature sometimes hovered just above freezing in most areas.
One cold and desolate morning that winter, Spruce’s black Mercedes-Benz was parked on a quiet tree-lined street in South Seattle. All of its windows were frosted over making it impossible to see its interior. Slowly, the right rear door opened. A hand holding a fast food glass protruded out and dumped its clear yellow liquid contents onto the street. Throwing the glass into the nearby shrubs, a disheveled Milton Spruce stepped out of the car carrying a plastic bag of garbage. Looking up the street he saw a garbage can, walked up to it and dropped the bag in. Then he briefly examined his suit. Donned in a perfectly cut European fitted charcoal suit, he tried to flatten its creases with his hands. Then, rolling up his sleeve, he examined his gold and diamond watch, unclasped it, and placed it in his pocket.
Nearly an hour later, he walked out of a pawn shop on Aurora Avenue counting the money in his hands. Now attired in only a pair of jeans, t-shirt and sweater, he drove his car to a gas station, bought $10 worth of gas, and drove down to Georgetown to see his skinny friend with the pit bull. Minutes later, he was standing anxiously on his porch ringing the bell. Seconds later his friend answered.
“Hey, A.J.,” Milton greeted him. “Let me in.”
“You already owe me, man,” A.J. warned him. “No more shorts.”
Spruce reached into his pocket and haphazardly brought out a handful of crumpled bills. His hands, shaking with tremors, were barely able to hold on to the money.
“How much is there?” A.J. asked.
“Thirty,” Spruce answered.
“That’s not enough, man,” his dealer explained. “Spruce, what happened to you? You used to be good for this shit.”
“I’m just having a little bad luck, man. What the fuck? You think everything is peaches and cream?”
A.J. could feel his blood pumping heavier in his veins.
“I ain’t doing you no more favors!” he shouted, snatching the money from Spruce’s hand.
“Then give me that money back!” the animator commanded.
A.J. lifted his sweater and showed Spruce the silver pistol sitting in his waistband.
“Go for it,” he dared him.
“Dammit!” Spruce yelled then turned to walk back to his car. When he got there, he turned towards A.J.
“You know that’s bullshit, right?”
“You make your bed,” A.J. teased him, “you lay in it.”
After Spruce gave him the finger, he started his car and drove away. A few minutes later he got pulled over by the state police on Rte. 99 near the West Seattle Bridge. To his surprise, he’d neglected to renew his car’s insurance and it was immediately impounded. As he walked back to Seattle, the one-two punch of having lost his condo and automobile started playing havoc with his thoughts. Suddenly, running into traffic and lying beneath a train were reasonable alternatives. Visions of the high life and his downfall crashed in his head, careening off the walls of his skull like the Dolby sound in a well-equipped theater. He searched for names in his mental Rolodex to blame, someone he could pin this downfall on. The only name he seemed to come up with was Milton Spruce. This was Milton’s fault. Milton was to blame. Milton held the needle and Milton was his name. This short, annoying tune played over and over in his head like a stuck record, following him all the way to Seattle where he sought refuge on a park bench in Pioneer Square.
As he sat on the bench staring at the 20-foot totem pole in the square, the complex aromas from a pizza shop entered his nostrils. Getting up, he followed the scent to Luigi’s Pizzeria where, gazing through the glass wall, he saw several steaming pies laid out on a counter. Shaking his head, he turned and lo
oked up the block where he saw a telephone booth just outside a clothing store. Walking over to it, he dialed the operator and asked her to place him through to the number he dialed as a collect call. The phone rang. Seconds later a female voice answered.
“Milton would like to place a collect call,” the operator announced. “Do you accept the charges?”
“Oh, Jesus,” the woman on the other end wailed. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“Hold while I connect your call,” the operator said then hanged up.
“Hey, sis,” Milton began, “long time no hear.”
“Forget it, Milt,” she said. “I know what you want. Just put it out your mind right now.”
“Oh, come on,” he pleaded. “I’m dying here.”
“Do you know papa had a heart attack nearly a month ago?”
“No, I didn’t,” he answered. “How is he?”
“He’s fine now, but just like me, he’s tired of your antics.”
“Come on, sis. Didn’t I already apologize for that jewelry?”
“What you don’t understand,” his sister insisted, “is not only did you steal from me, the only sibling you have, but lost the trust of everyone around you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Nobody trusts you, Milt. They’ll all call the police if you come by. I know you didn’t straighten up your act because the producers from CBS called here asking about you not too long ago. You need help for whatever junk you’re on.”
“Are you turning your back on me?” he asked.
“I love you with all my heart and soul,” she explained, “but your dirty drug antics? No, I can’t have you around my baby or the family.”
“I’m trying, sis. I’m trying. Not only did I lose my condo but my car was impounded today.”
“Maybe that’ll be a wakeup call to you,” she stated. “My goodness. The last time I saw you, you looked like shit on a stick.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’ve gotta go, Milt. Just get some help before it’s too late.”
“That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Brother, I wish I could help you, but this is too much for me. I can’t handle this! I’m not used to it! Do you understand that?”
“Yeah,” he moaned. “I guess. Can you at least lend me ten bucks?”
Just then he heard the phone on the other end go dead.
“Dammit!” he whispered and hanged up.
Several thoughts flew through Spruce’s mind as he returned to the bench. One involved donning a mask and helping himself to whatever existed in the top drawer of Teller No. 2 at the bank down the street. Since he had no mask, and no way of acquiring one, the idea died as quickly as it was created. He then thought he could strong-arm his way across the city. And why not? Several of his lady friends had praised him in the past for his stout muscles, no doubt developed by years of toting those heavy video cameras. But strong-arming people just wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t brought up that way, never mind the fact you never knew who was carrying a gun. Then there’s the possibility of just standing in the street with a tin cup begging for scraps. The idea made Spruce chuckle. It brought back a Shakespearean phrase he’d remembered from his youth as an actor in a school production of Antony and Cleopatra.
“We, ignorant of ourselves,
Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers
Deny us for our good; so find we profit
By losing our prayers.”
It seemed so absurd now to recall those times when the stars were always aligned, food stayed fresh on the table and the water in the showers never ran cold. What would his high school or college friends now think of his lot? Would they extend a helping hand or guffaw like the audience at the Comedy Club? Tormented by the possibility, he started crying like a child caught in a thunderous rainstorm, the veneer of his manhood stripped bare in torturous agony.
Leaving the bench, he walked north through Pioneer Square past dozens of derelicts flitting about casually beneath the gathered gloom, lost and lonely bodies haunted by the gray of the northwestern sky. How odd that one of them would spend the time to ask him for change! Already feeling the sting of poverty, he couldn’t look anyone in the eye, especially those in fast approaching cars as he blindly crossed the streets.
He trudged up the hill on Yesler Way staring with soaked eyes at the cracks in the sidewalk. There were no more places to run and nowhere else to hide. Everything now seemed a blur, a scene scored by the sound of cars whizzing past on I-5 nearly half a block away. Walking up the street that traversed the bridge, he stopped to look at the traffic below - citizens in their own private glass and metal boxes in a rush to get from point A to point B. He hoped his mother would forgive him and his father would understand. As he climbed the railing, he hoped the city would also forgive him for slowing down its ebb and flow. They would know from the tears streaming down his face he had no choice. Then, stretching his arms out wide, he heard the strains of classical music amidst the din of passing cars.
Looking below, he saw a man sitting against an abutment beneath the bridge about 75 to 100 feet away. Huddled over his portable keyboard like Schroeder, he was playing the 3rd movement from Beethoven’s Sonata No. 23 in F minor. Lowering his arms, Spruce listened as the miniature piano, enhanced by the cavernous undercarriage, gave it a sound much larger than its size; the location, no doubt, chosen for this effect. The pianist seemed surreal amidst the backdrop of apartment complexes and the highway as if he were a ghost commanding attention from his invisible listeners. Suddenly, he stopped playing, held the keyboard to his side, knelt down and kissed the ground. He then got back into position and continued playing exactly from the point he’d interrupted himself. Seconds later a group of five males came running up the street towards the pianist. Using their fists and a stick, they began pummeling the poor hapless fellow. Instinctively, he threw his arms up to protect his head. Spruce jumped back onto the sidewalk.
“Hey!” he yelled down at the assaulters. “Stop it!”
Two members of the group looked up at him, gave him the finger, and continued their brutal work. The piano man fought desperately to shove them off, but it was no use as they were strong, quick and convincing in their attack. Spruce turned and ran down the other half of the bridge, jumped over the railing to a meadow, then raced down the hill towards the group. Two of the muggers immediately set upon him, showering him with fists and kicks. Ably, he fought back, successfully landing punches to their jaws. Somehow breaking loose, he tried pulling the others off the bloodied man who, he quickly learned, was none other than Commoner. The youths, however, were too strong. Their years of street aggression proved too powerful, their blows too damaging.
While one of the youths used the portable keyboard as a weapon, the others never relented in their attack. The jabs then quickly lessened as two police cars came screeching off I5 towards the melee. Parking their cars by the side of the road, Det. Vert and three other officers leaped out and ran yelling towards the group. Immediately, the brazen youngsters turned and started running away. While the officers gave chase, Vert attended Commoner and Spruce, assessing the extent of their damages.
Epilogue
“Where am I?”
“Shh. Don’t move. You’ll irritate the wounds.”
Commoner fought to open his eyes. How long have they been shut? As the fuzziness of his vision dissipated, he started making sense of the outlines around him – an IV pole, a hospital bed, a sterile sink, a large tinted window overlooking a familiar skyline, and that well-known smell of rubbing alcohol.
“Ugh! My head!” he moaned, touching the bandages around his skull.
“You have to take it easy,” the voice spoke again.
Squinting, he saw the familiar face sitting with the magazine by the wall across the room. It was Det. Vert.
“Am I being arrested?” Commoner asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Vert answered, standing u
p and walking over to the side of the bed. “Glad to see you’re among the living. You were out for days.”
Commoner moaned and noticed that his left arm was in a cast and in a sling. His right arm, though free, was attached to the IV pump and there was a pulse oximeter attached to his right index finger. Several bruises adorned his lower extremities as well.
“I’d say you were lucky we rolled up just in time,” Vert announced. “All those boys got caught right away, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I…I don’t remember,” Commoner stated.
“Really?” Vert asked. “That was just three days ago beneath the Yesler Bridge.” Commoner closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“They say this city’s gonna be the death of me,” he admitted. “I don’t know if that makes me crazy or a fool.”
“Did you know any of those guys?” Vert asked.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I keep to myself. I find I tend to last longer that way.” Det. Vert rubbed his chin. Commoner looked around the room.
“Didn’t I have a piano?” he asked. “You know, one of those portable ones?”
“It was smashed by the gang,” Vert admitted. “The Crime Victim’s Fund will reimburse you for it.”
“Ah, just as well I don’t have one,” Commoner stated. “It was a donation anyway.”
“They wanted you to come down to the station and ID those thugs,” Vert said, “but right now you’re too weak for that so we’ll just let that slide for now. They’re not going anywhere soon anyway. Oh, the fella who helped you? He’s doing fine. Got discharged two days ago. I think he was more bruised than anything else.”
“What fella?” Commoner asked.
“You really don’t remember, huh?” Vert asked.
Just then there was a knock on the entryway to the room. Looking over, Vert and Commoner saw Spruce standing there on two crutches.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Vert announced. “Speaking of the devil. Hey, Spruce.”
“Hey,” Spruce greeted the officer, shaking his hand. “How’s it going?”
“Just bringing my friend here up to speed,” Vert explained motioning to Commoner.
“Your guardian angel’s here, my friend,” the officer told the bedded man. “Count your lucky stars. There aren’t too many of those these days. Well, I’m gonna go now. If you start remembering anything let the folks here know.”
“I will,” Commoner attested.
“You take care,” Vert said to Spruce, patting his shoulder.
After the detective left, Commoner tried to sit up at the side of the bed. His stubborn legs, however, wouldn't obey his commands and lay just where they were, moving just enough to taunt him with derision.
“Don’t overdo it,” Spruce cautioned him.
Commoner took a deep breath and reclined back into bed. Spruce, attired in brand new pants and a sweater, and newly shaved with trimmed hair, still bore the bruises from the three-day old thrashing.
“Do I know you?” Commoner asked him.
“Like the detective said,” Spruce explained, “I helped get those thugs off you down on Yesler. My ankles are sprained and my nerves are shattered, other than that, I’m okay. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Man,” Spruce confessed, “they were really knocking you around under that bridge.”
“Yeah,” Commoner nodded. “Bad luck follows me like a shadow.”
“Do you recognize me yet?” Spruce asked.
Commoner studied the stranger’s face then shook his head.
“My memory’s been shot for years,” he admitted. “I hate it. Things I should remember are like blank slates in my skull. Drives me nuts.”
“I’m Milton Spruce from Spruce Juice. Remember me now? I used to be the cameraman for Eyewitness News here in Seattle.”
Commoner squinted at the stranger. “I do,” the ex-airman finally said. “Thanks for helping me, man.”
“Au contraire,” Spruce reckoned, “thank you. You saved me. I was gonna off myself that day. Wrote myself out the book and everything, but last night I threw back a few, pumped up my nerves and called up my producer. Guess what? I got my old job back.”
“Good for you.”
“Ain’t it?” Spruce agreed. “Now I’m gonna stay at his place till I get back on my feet. Listen, man - there’s no need for you, or anyone in this city, to be homeless. I spoke to the TV network. They pressured your mayor who is now committed to opening better shelters and increasing housing and education for the homeless right here in town. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Not bad,” Commoner concurred.
“Tell you what,” Spruce suggested, “as soon as the funds start rolling in, I’m gonna set you up with a nice pad and a job myself. How’s that sound?”
Commoner eyed his visitor curiously. He was old enough to know that promises were like crackers – easy to make and easy to be broken.
“I mean,” Spruce added, “it’s only fair, right? After all, I did use your likeness for one of the characters. Oh, I almost forgot…”
Reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket, he produced a deck of cards.
“…trading cards from the show.”
Commoner took the smooth, crisp cards and leafed through them, finally stopping on one with his image. Surprisingly, the artists got every detail correct. The duffle bag was appropriately colored and the earflap hat seemed perfect.
“Pretty close, huh?” Spruce asked. “I’d say they got it right.”
“Okay,” Commoner finally agreed. “If you want to get me a place, I’ll take your word for it, I guess.”
“Oh,” Spruce asked, “you don’t believe me, huh?”
Turning, he walked out of the room. Seconds later he returned awkwardly carrying a brand new portable keyboard in its box.
“Now you believe me?” he asked leaning it against a wall.
“You didn’t have to,” Commoner acknowledged. “Thanks.”
“It’s the least I could do after those bastards broke the other one.”
“You know what I really want?” Commoner joked. “I want a nice pad in Beaux Arts or Mercer Island so I can sit out on the porch and stare at the millionaires all day.”
“Ah,” Spruce said, lightly punching his arm, “you like to kid. I’m a writer, not the CEO of IBM. You just keep dreaming. You never know. Anyway, I’ve gotta go now but I’ll keep in touch. You can keep those cards. That’s a present. Try to stay out of trouble, huh?” Commoner saluted him.
“Will do.”
After Spruce left, Commoner’s condition suddenly took a turn for the worse. By nightfall, his temperature had risen to 104 degrees and his lethargy increased. Lying with a cold towel over his forehead, he could barely move. The nurse entered and added an antibiotic to his IV bag. As she left the room she was met outside by a visitor. At first, she told the visitor he was too ill to see anyone, but then the visitor pleaded, the nurse stepped aside. Carny, carrying a bouquet of flowers, entered the room slowly.
“Commoner,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
Receiving no answer, she placed the flower on the sink next to an artillery of bouquets and walked over to the bedside. She stared as Commoner, too weak to move, kept his eyes closed. The pallor of his face filled her with dread. Walking around to the other side, she held his hand.
“Hey, you silly toad,” she whispered. “I saw on the news that you were in the hospital. Guess you have a name with the TV station, huh? You should be proud. I heard that because of you the mayor is stepping up plans to do more for the homeless. They’re letting people who live in their cars stay in church lots and extending medical care to people without insurance. Some of the big companies are gonna foot the bill. Cool, huh? You know what, Commoner? Lots of people are rooting for you right now. How sweet is that? You give them hope.”
The weakened journeyman groaned lightly but barely moved.
“Would you believe me and my petty b
oyfriend had a fight that night when you came over? Crazy, huh? You know, I’ve tried to forget about you because I thought it would make my life easier. Why is it so hard to push aside the ones you love?”
Carny, wiping away the newly formed tears in her eyes, reached for a facial tissue off the overbed table. Drying her tears, she placed her face closer to Commoner.
“I hope you can hear me,” she continued. “You look so weak. I’ve tried to say this before but you were always so distant. I love you, Commoner. I don’t know why, but there can be nothing else to call the way I feel about you. Maybe I should’ve told you sooner. I don’t know if it would’ve made any difference, but there would’ve been less sleepless nights for me.” She stood back and looked at his face.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?”
Leaning down, she planted a long and meaningful kiss on his lips.
“And you’re a good kisser, too,” she whispered, smiling.
Straightening up, she walked over to the door and turned to face him.
“We’ll keep in touch, one way or another, huh?” she asked.
Then, blowing a kiss his way, she exited the room.
The motor in the IV machine kept whirring as the hum of the incandescent light added to the din in the room. Commoner, lying still with arms folded, slowly opened his eyes, gazed at the door and smiled.
“You silly toad,” he whispered.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Wouldn’t it be sweet if writing novels was as easy as, say, cleaning dog poop off your shoe? I really think that, in each of us, there’s a story just waiting to be told. How some people like Stephen King could come up with as many stories as he does is a mystery to me, though. Over 50 novels in one’s lifetime? Doesn’t it take, like, a year to write a novel? That would mean he’s written one every year for the past 50 years. It seems a bit extreme to me, but brother Stephen may be “one of those.” Shh. You know what I’m talking about, right? Prolific people who, come hell or high water, complete whatever tasks they’ve set their mind on accomplishing, jobs and relationships be damned. Of course, I’m talking about autistic folks, the social misfits who shun office parties like the plague but are often the ones why certain businesses thrive in the first place.
The myth of autists being super achievers is, by the way, a myth. Some are, like Einstein, Da Vinci, Turing, Tesla, Mozart, Beethoven, Gates, Zuckerberg and Jobs, but the majority are simple, ordinary, everyday folks who can’t keep a job or a mate to save their lives. Commoner the Vagabond is one of those over/under achievers – he excels at playing the piano but, otherwise, his personal life is a wreck. Several autism concerns are in place to help those afflicted with this ailment. To be truthful, some folks on the spectrum don’t look at their condition as being an ailment at all, but rather, a gift. Sure, they may not have developed as normally as their peers, but what they’ve gained in insight as, say, molecular physicists, more than makes up for the fact they’re headed to the grave as virgins.
My opinions about Asperger’s Syndrome are solely my own. Some aspies may come along and disagree with my portrayal of it in this book, and that’s okay. There’s a saying: if you’ve met one aspie, you’ve met one aspie. We’re all different. (Yeah, I’m on the spectrum. I was diagnosed over four years ago by a licensed clinical psychologist in Seattle, Washington who specializes in the treatment of those in the club). I think I should make it clear that all aspies are have such different behaviours that Aspie A will not resemble Aspie B in a lot of areas. Some folks on the spectrum, for instance, insist on wearing the same thing every day (Steven Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg, etc), while some insist on eating the same meals every day (Adam, my old friend Harry Doginsky). A few of us can, within seconds, tell you the day your birthday fell on. I’m not gifted like that. Many of us aren’t. I can’t stare at a city skyline for a few minutes then go home and draw that same skyline in detail. Anyway, that’s a gift for the superhuman aspies, the autistic savants of which there are only 50 or so in the world.
Lower functioning autists are well taken care of by agencies such as the Developmental Disabilities Administration. I want to thank those people for helping out my needier brothers and sisters. Not that us high functioning aspies aren’t needy. We are, but just in a different way. We don’t need help crossing the street but it sure would be nice to have certain accommodations in place at our jobs. No, I’m not talking about jacuzzis and masseuses, although that would be nice, but less nose, less stress, less lights, less parties…that would be appreciated. I mean, do I hafta say it? Quiet! I’m working here! I’m working here!
OTHER BOOKS by ROBIN RAY
Tears of a Clown
Stranded in Paradise
You Can’t Sleep Here: A Clown’s Guide to Surviving Homelessness
Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven
Wetland: A Love Story
