.
Somebody had carved a longer message.
"Had to spend the winter of 1941 here. I came here too late in the Fall and got snowed in. I should have left this place earlier. I am grateful for this cabin. I have plenty of firewood and am keeping warm. I made some snow shoes. I have been catching some game with some snares that I made. It is quiet here. I am leaving here as soon as it thaws. My canoe is in good shape. Eric December 1941"
Just below was another message.
"I made it out of here OK. When I got home they told me that there was a war going on. I joined the Army and spent the war in the Pacific. I came back here to find a little peace and quiet. I spent the winter of 1946 here. Eric"
I walked back to the beach and we headed for the next portage.
Slow Day Street Scene
Been raining. Off and on all day. A little sun. Maybe an hour's worth. It is Friday. Fourth of May. Guy in the next office yells at me. Look out the window. We are on the second floor. Good view of the street. Three lanes. One way going south. Four people near the alley. Between a bank and the library. Plain clothes cop. Assistant city attorney. Man in black. Woman in black. The cop walked across the street. The attorney walked up the alley. A delivery truck parked. Some cars drove by. The sun was bright. The couple in black were just standing. He in an old black suit. He with a white shirt. He with a black fedora. He with white socks. He with black shoes. He with a white unlit cigarette. She with a black t-shirt. Words too small to read. She with black sweat pants. She with white tennis shoes. She with brown hair. She with sunglasses. They were just standing. They were just talking. White cigarette still unlit. Now she bends down. Now she ties his shoes. Now they move on down the sidewalk. Only ten feet they walk. White cigarette still unlit. He limps slightly. She shuffles. They stop at some steps. He ties his shoes this time. Now they are moving again. He limping slightly. She shuffling. Sun not shining. Delivery truck pulling away. More cars going by. You see things. You notice things. You look out the same window. You see the same street. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes the sun shines.
Two Blocks From Here
On that October night he waited. He waited in his car till she and her new lover came home. He had thought of this moment. He had been thinking of this moment. He had been dreaming of this moment. He knew this moment by heart. This is the moment that everything had been leading up to. She was the mother of his baby. This new guy was not a real man. This new guy will piss in his pants when he sees the old boyfriend. He will run when he sees the knife. She will know that he is not a man. She will return to her old boyfriend. This is the dream....the moment he knows by heart. Now he jumps out of his car and yells at them. They turn around and look at him. She yells something. The man of the dreams runs at the man who will piss in his pants. She jumps between them. And the knife of the dreams catches her in her heart. This is the part of the dream that maybe he did not dream or maybe it is that part of the dream that he would always change or maybe it is that part of the dream that went to someone else. But this is that part of the dream that happened two blocks from here.
Billy the Kid Reflecting on How Pat Garrett Can Not Be Trusted
Pat this is getting old. Every time I start getting my life together you have to come along and kill me. I am beginning to think that you are not my friend. I don't really trust you anymore, Pat. See, when you pull that trigger, the gun flashes, and the bullet crawls across this space and my body explodes. I have just enough time to reflect and remember that you do this to me over and over. But somehow, when the universe starts all over, and it’s our turn again, I always forget that you can not be trusted.
Dead Piñata
Dead piñata in a trash can. Was it a donkey? Paper scraps in a trash can. Was it a monkey? Body parts in a trash can. Beaten over and over until it spilled its guts on the ground. Blindfolded candy junkies. Beating it over and over until it spilled its guts on the ground. Little candies in colored wrappers on the ground. Dead piñata has memories of a warm August afternoon.
Have you ever been to that street with the candy shops and piñata workshops? It is in the old part of the city. It is right next to the Park of the Mariachis. There are usually maybe 100 musicians hanging out there. They and their instruments are waiting for someone to drive by and hire them for the night. I drove by there one night. It was late and there were still maybe 10 guys hanging out waiting for a gig. What does it feel like to be the last guy?
Birria in Mexicali
I don't know the address. I can tell you how to get there. Carlos and Michelle will call you at 9 in the morning. They will pick you up in the red car. The red car is playing music. Jazz music. The red car takes a left out of the side street. Then five minutes later a right. The zoo is on the left. Then up the hill.
You will be in the old part of town. Dust returning to dust there. Up another hill. They have a friend who may still work near here. Another left and farther up. Finally the last left. Old block building. Goat stew temple in the dust. Opens at 6 am. Closes at 1 pm. Long tables with benches. Birria and tortillas.
Order the medium bowl of goat stew. Side of tortillas and coffee. Comes to your table in 2 minutes.
Steaming hot. Bowl of colima limes. Bowl of cilantro and onions. Plate of tortillas covered in cloth.
Butter for them. Nice salsa. You will eat it all. You will notice the mural on the wall. The perspective is flawed. The man in the brown hat looks familiar. The girl in the plaza is walking away. Everyone is walking away. You will no longer look at the mural.
Carlos and Michelle will take you home. In the red car with the jazz music. Down the hill. Past the zoo. They will take a different route home. You will get home. Now you will recall the birria. And you will not forget the man in the brown hat.
Always This Same Street
I have driven this street. Many towns. This same street. Always this same street. Always wide. Always long. This same street. Always this same street. Corner gas stations. Body shops. Bars. Restaurants. Beauty parlors. Social clubs. Dollar stores. Dry cleaners. Pawn shops. Drugs. This same street. Always this same street. Always cloudy. Always a Brook Benton tune on the radio. My eyes always looking around. But knowing what is coming. This same street. Always this same street. I always see it three blocks ahead. This same street gently rising up ahead. I can't see what is beyond the rise. This same street. Always this same street. I know I will not go over that hill. Have to turn. Sometimes to the left. Sometimes to the right. Sometimes a u-turn. This same street. Always this same street. I am not afraid of that same hill. That same hill. I am just not ready to go over that same hill. This same street. Always this same street.
Lost Rosary
I knew this guy. He died in a car accident. He had been driving south. South on I-29. They say he lost control. Lost control while passing a semi. He was young. Not even thirty yet. His mother had a little bakery. It was just across the bridge. She had been a teacher down in Mexico. His father had been a cop. Now he helped out at the bakery. They made the usual stuff. Pastries for the hot chocolate. Bread for the tortas. Cakes for the weddings. The highway patrol found their son in a ditch. His hand was clutching his rosary. The rosary usually hung on his rear view mirror. He must have grabbed it at the last moment. The moment before he crashed. I met his wife and baby at the wake. I hugged his mother. I hugged his father. I hugged his brother. His brother told me of the rosary. And how the highway patrolman had seen his brother clutching the rosary. And now the rosary was missing. Was it lost at the crash scene? Was it slowly sinking in to the ground? Was it taken by someone? A momento of the tragedy. Is it hidden in a box somewhere? Does it still resonate with his last thoughts? After the funeral there was a lunch. A lunch at his aunt's house. She is a photographer. She is at all the weddings. She is at all the first communions. And now she buries her nephew. And the lunch was a time to connect. A time to affirm life. A time to remember. I still remember the smells of that house. Chicken mole and warm tortillas. And I
still remember his bright eyes.
Rick and Erica get a Big Brass Bed
It was the fall of 1969 or maybe 1970. It was one or the other. It was not both unless history repeats itself without bothering to let a person know. Well anyway the place was Iowa City. Rick and Erica were in need of a new bed.
Rick use to play in a blues band. Played a Hammond B3. Until it was stolen he said. Someone said he traded it for some dope. I don't really know. Anyway I gave him my harmonica. I could not play it anyway. That became his new instrument of choice. Rick was my roommate. We rented a place on Dubuque Street from a guy from Burlington. The landlord would show up unannounced to inspect the place and would always accuse us of burning incense or cooking cabbage. Both of these acts were strictly prohibited in the lease.
Erica and her friend Pam lived nearby. Erica was from California. Her mother would send her a box of bagels and onion rolls from some Hollywood bakery. They would arrive every Monday morning by special delivery.
Well one night Rick and Erica broke their bed. I only vaguely recall the details but let's just say that due to the combined gravitational pull of Rick and Erica the bed collapsed. So they needed a new bed. Rick and Erica went to some second hand stores to look for the right one. They looked at several beds at several different stores. They found a nice big brass bed at a place about a mile away from the apartment. Now, none of us owned a pick-up truck or even a car. I take that back. Eddie had a VW bug. The second hand store wanted to charge $10 to deliver the bed. Rick was a real tight ass and figured that the money was better spent on several cases of Bud.
So the only thing to do was push it down the street. It was a big brass bed and it had rollers. About twenty of us showed up to move the bed. It was your typical group of freaks. After taking the bed out of the store we reassembled it. Then Erica and her friend Pam made the bed. They put sheets, pillows and a big bed spread on it. I don't recall if they were a matched set. Rick and Erica climbed into the bed. Eddie had brought a case of Bud which he put under the covers. Rick and Erica each cracked open a Bud. We then pushed the big brass bed on rollers down the street.
I remember that it did not corner that well. Some of the freaks pushing the big brass bed on rollers were not much help. A few tried to hitch rides on the bed but Rick kicked them off. A couple of times the big brass bed on rollers got stuck in small potholes in the street. It took some extra muscle to get them out.
So about half way there a cop drives by. We explained what was going on. He escorted us the rest of the way with his light flashing. Did not even give us a ticket for failure to get a parade permit.
Well that was a long time ago. Rick died about fifteen years ago out in Denver. When he wasn't running some scam or other he was a professional sports gambler. Erica moved back to California and does not have to have her bagels and onion rolls delivered by special delivery anymore.
Thirty Bucks A Month
It was a hot day in August. It was 1969. I had just started looking for a place to live in Iowa City. I would be attending the University of Iowa. I had decided to transfer there a few months before.
The day before my friend Eddie had given me a ride to Iowa City in his car. We spent the night in his dorm room.
I was looking forward to getting my own place and Eddie was going to help me. He knew the town well. We picked up the Daily Iowan and looked at the classifieds. We circled a half dozen possible places.
We took off in his car to check out the locations. The first 4 had already been rented. Registration was in 3 days and the unrented places were filling up fast.
We knocked on the door of the next place. Old house. Wooden door with lace in the window. Finally an elderly woman came to the door. She said that she usually did not rent to males. I must have looked harmless so she said that she might make an exception. She asked us to come in. To the right of the front door was a parlor that opened with sliding wooden doors. The doors opened to a room that looked like it had been frozen in time. It had been frozen circa 1920. She said that she locked the front door at 7pm and that I could not have a key. I would not be allowed any visitors. No smoking. No alcohol. No pets. I told her thanks and that we would get back to her. She warned me not to wait too long.
OK. On to the last place. The owner had some connection to the film school at the U. Later he told me that he made documentaries for church anniversaries in order to get a little extra money. He was always surrounded by hot looking babes. There were rumors about him that he also made some skin flicks to improve his cash flow.
Anyway, he had a room. $30 deposit. $30 a month. No lease. He said follow me. We did. Thru the side door by the alley. Down into the basement. Past the old furnace. He unlocks the door to the room he wants to rent me. We walk in. 10 feet by 20 feet. One very small window that opens to the alley. More of a vent really. I tell him I will take it. Always wanted to live in a cave. He said one more thing. "This room violates the building code. The inspector is my friend and will let me know if they are going to do a surprise inspection. If that happens I will move your stuff out quickly and put them over by the furnace. OK?" I said no problem and gave him 30 bucks for the deposit and 30 bucks for the first month. He gave me the key.
Eddie and I unload my stuff from his car. I had a small black metal trunk, an old army duffle bag and a top opening leather bag. This kind of bag was once favored by traveling bible salesmen and river boat gamblers from Cincinnati. I unrolled my green Boy Scout sleeping bag on the small bed. Put my clothes in the chest of drawers. I carefully unpacked my 3 foot tall statue of Saint Francis and put him on top of the chest of drawers. We taped some posters of Hendrix and Joplin to the walls. Now it looked like home. There was no kitchen. Later I would buy a hotplate. The bathroom was on the other side of the furnace. Several months later in this room I would write my seminal poem "Cherry Pits on a Pink Paper Plate". I would also go on to record the audio collage known as "Burnt Toast" in this basement apartment.
Now it was late afternoon and it was still a hot August afternoon. We were hungry and thirsty. We drove downtown and parked. We went to some basement pizza place. Mostly sorority and fraternity types. We had some beer and left. We walked over to the Hamburg Inn and had some burgers and a few cold ones. Then my friend Eddie said that he had to meet his girlfriend. He asked me if I knew how to find my apartment. I said no problem. He drives off. I find another bar. I have another cold beer. I think I am going to like this town. It is around midnight and I have had a long day. Time to go home and get some rest.
I looked in my pocket for the scrap of paper with my address. I must have lost it. Damn! What's the name of that street? Jefferson? Burlington? Dubuque? Is it north or is it south? Shit! I don't know how to get ahold of Eddie. He lives in a dorm but they all look alike and they are several miles away. I am royally screwed.
What can I do? There is a Dividend gas station up the block. I need to pee. When I come out of the can some guy in a car yells at me to come over to his car. I go over and he says he is going to a big party and asks if I want to go. My momma always said not to take candy from a stranger but she never did say anything about beer. And he had a couple of cases of Hamm’s in the back seat. I had nowhere to go and the night was young. So I got in the car. We introduced ourselves. We shook hands. His palms were sweaty. He was driving off and I was beginning to have second thoughts.
Every time the guy talks to me he leans over to say what he has to say. Just small talk. Where you from? What's your major? I notice that he is older than a regular college kid. Maybe a grad student. Also he is sweating a lot more than he should be. It had been a hot day but the evening was nice. He looked real nervous. Then I asked him when would we get to the party. I noticed that we were now outside of town and heading towards some farm house. He slows the car down and stops. Leans over towards me and puts his sweaty palm on my left knee and says that the party is right here. I pushed him and told him that I was going to kick his ass. Just then I hear a siren and see flashing lights
behind us. It was a Johnson County deputy sheriff. He asks for some I.D. He asks what we are doing out on this road so late at night. He tells us to move along. I get out of the weirdo’s car and ask the deputy for a ride to town. He says ok but that he has to cuff me.
He puts me in the back seat of the Johnson County cruiser. I am sitting on my cuffed hands. Not too damn comfortable but better than my previous ride. The deputy told me that the guy in the car had a bad reputation. He was an excon and the cops were watching him in case he slipped up. He had been some kind of sex offender. He said I was lucky that he was patrolling that road. No shit! I could have been hurt or I could have damaged that guy. The deputy let me off just inside the city limits. I hitched a ride with a hippy back to the Hamburg Inn. I had another burger and a beer. The place had a great jukebox. I listened to Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue", Merle Haggard's "Okie From Muskogee" and Elvis's "In the Ghetto" a bunch of times.
I began to reflect upon the day and realized that I needed some sleep. So I left the Hamburg Inn and walked to the Pentecrest which was a big green space between the Old Capitol and various classroom buildings. Then I spotted a bunch of large bushes next to a building. I crawled under some bushes and curled up in a ball and fell right asleep.
Then I heard some car honking. It was 7 am. I got up and walked to the Dividend gas station. Took a leak and cleaned myself up a little. I asked the guy inside the gas station where I could get some breakfast. He pointed at a place up the street. I had the country pig special. 3 eggs over easy, bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, toast and lots of coffee. Then I walk around for about an hour trying to find my new sleeping room. No luck. So I checked out the stores and bars. I found a bookstore and bought some poetry chapbooks. I think I bought "Some Cows; Poems of Civilization and Domestic Life" by James Koller and "Like I Say" by Philip Whalen. I ate lunch at the Hamburg Inn again. I went to the bars in the evening. I was hoping to run into Eddie. No luck. At about 2 a.m. I found my bushes again and fell asleep.
Factory Town Page 3
