The Promised Land

     Well this has been quite a week so far.  If we read something ‘spiritual’ into the process, which you could say, I do, with this process starting on Sunday and all, Palm Sunday actually, as the stars and moon would have the in the year of our Lord 2012; or to be even more accurate, even maybe exact, this process may be considered to have started the day before; on ‘Lazarus Saturday’, that being the day, in that moment one late afternoon, the good man rose from the dead, at the Lord’s bidding.

It is two years to the day on April 1^st,, that day when I first arrived in the Bronx in 2010 when the only significance I first initially found on that date was I finally getting out of my four and a half month winter stay in a crowded mid-town stinking shelter, and it was April 1^st exactly I remember – April fool’s day – as I entered my new clean apartment on the 7^th floor in the Bronx and looked out the window and stared down to see cherry trees blossoming their puffy white cherry flowers blossoming in the back courtyard in the late morning sun, and it was very pretty and very quiet and very relaxing as I feeling the warm sun on my chest; as my window is facing south; and as my apartment was on the 7^th floor and 7 is a lucky number I was hesitantly deciding that this is a good thing – a very good thing(?), considering with some trepidation I was – you see there is another number involved here see, not that I am superstitious or anything - it is still April 1^st – I am still in April fool’s day, and given all what had happened, and can yet still happen, to me, in this often times I finding cruel world, well…

Finding ‘The Promised Land’ – maybe…maybe this is just a cruel joke so often played on this day.

So here it is 2 years later to the day and a whole lot of experiences, a whole lot of things have happened, as you may have read, in part, about some of them; I was inspired, this may be too mild a word, ‘inspired’ to write – shocked say, or astounded as in seeing a burning bush – although I did see a lot of them, rather sort of – already burnt bushes, or a spirit that once was…or a healthy bush, of sorts, once – I guess…now burnt… Better said, the feeling was more that I was appalled at the ravages of a ghetto life, a different ghetto life than I aspired and brought up in as a youngster; and in this bewildering dismay I was inspired, oddly, to write some stories.

I mean Christ!  Come on – the tenants are throwing garbage out their windows – and feces too!  And they are constantly having to be reminded, told even

“Don’t do that!  It brings rats!”

Among other really obvious reasons I am thinking.

I guess the counselors, the case managers are pandering to their client’s self interest, perhaps, their survival mechanism, if such existed; well they are still alive.

How about the more obvious reasons not to engage in such behavior, as in throwing your shit out the window(!), or maybe the shit was someone else’s(?!) shit, is not exactly ‘good form’ or even ‘reasonable’ behavior say, though up in the Bronx ‘reasonable’ would at times bring on whole new meanings, whole new understandings.

So here it is two years later and what was first categorized to me as ‘transitional’ housing for homeless vets – that is why they pulled me out of the shelter when they, my case manager, finally figured out I was an Honorably Discharged veteran; boy was she excited; types like me are often times hard to find in our city’s shelters, as hard to find as a dirty hound’s tooth you can sometimes get to thinking…

“You are an honorably discharged homeless veteran and we have a housing program for you!” she says to me.

She can be so funny sometimes, Jasmine, and she sure smelled a hell of a lot better than the rest of that stinking shelter.  These case managers in the shelter love a success story – much as even themselves are often mislead – they are nice enough though.

So all of a sudden, within a few weeks I was pulled out of the shelter and I was entering into my own apartment on the 7^th floor with my window gratefully facing south, overlooking the beautiful blossoming cherry trees and I am opening the door with my own key, though I generally hate keys – all the responsibility, and all

“Don’t lose your key!”

You know my house key, the only key I carry and the key the cops are always stealing from me when they frisk me, for no good reason, on the street, in the ghetto, and in their obvious consternation of finding nothing and acting as a frustrated spoiled brat not getting what he wanted and then having to take something(!) – confiscate something(!) – anything! in their grubby hands; yeah, that key.

“Don’t lose your key!”

The key, that only serves to remind me of the nefariousness and the thievery of my neighbors and even the cops every time I enter my key into the metal serrated slot of the lock…

Why else to have a key?

I am not locking anything in – everything in my apartment is pretty much going to stay there – not that I have that much – nothing is walking or flying out of my apartment on its own.  No, anything in there, in my apartment, would need help from someone or something out here for it to get out; I’ve never seen a lap top or a cooking pot fly, yet – at least on its own – but this is really a spiritual story, so anything is possible really and I know I haven’t seen everything yet, though after 2 years in the South Bronx added to the rest of my life…well you can get the idea.

Anyway as my fate or my luck would have it I was correct in my intuition concerning that one number of April fool’s lore luring me, being the butt of this April fool’s prank, I really am the rube soothed and put at ease I was, initially relaxing to be out of that crowded shelter with promises that would never be kept.

I would eventually learn many many months later that my ‘transitional’ housing has now been converted to ‘permanent’ housing, all of a sudden, overnight, if you will.  You see the bureaucrats and/or the politicians in an upcoming election year wanted to reduce the number of homeless veterans; seems a good idea – even laudatory!  But the government being what it is, among other questionable behaviors – Hey, call me cynical if you like but I have seen a lot of shit going down after six decades of life in this arena – my government decides that this apartment I am living in is no longer considered ‘transitional’, it is now ‘permanent’, and I and a whole lot of other veterans like me are no longer homeless – what a good idea!

Well yeah, except we really weren’t, because 2 years after my stay I am still being held to my side of the contract that they had me sign when I first got here: after 2 years (excepting any other transgressions I may commit) I am out – really 18 months is the contract but I had a stay of eviction, or a re-set of my initial contract for an additional 6 months as I having to spend 2 weeks in the hospital after getting really thumped(!) one night in the B train after about 7 months into my tenure here in the south Bronx - hey here is another lucky seven again(!) – and they broke my nose the bastards!

And now that I am considered in ‘permanent’ housing I was taken off that list I had been patiently, expectantly waiting on, for to be given, ‘permanent subsidized’ housing, that line I had been waiting on to get to be first, one day in the future to be finally on the front of that line, finally, it usually taking about 12 months, which is why the transitional housing program was designed for an 18 month ‘transitional’ stay, well now I was no longer on that line – no need to be – I am no longer in ‘transitional’ housing because I am in permanent housing!

So my government had changed the rules mid-stride and I was without the power to protest – talk about unilateral decisions – our government so likes those unilateral opportunities of powerful largesse, so easy and soo uncomplicated; and all with just a stroke of the pen.

So the number of homeless veterans in suddenly, almost miraculously really, reduced – sort of – for a little while, at least, or maybe just long enough, if you want to get really cynical.

So I am now about to be put back out onto the street – homeless again and trudging off to a shelter; at least it will be a warm spring day, though it may be raining, certainly.

And my case manager – my 2 case manages I have(!) – are ringing their hands and saying

“Oh we are so sorry!  What can we do for you?”

Well you can get me the permanent housing you promised me when you pulled me from that shelter 2 years ago.

Well, no, they could not do that.

Yeah well stop asking me what you can do for me.  You wouldn’t mind me thinking you ain’t going to produce, no matter whatever the hell you promising you going to do for me?  Do you?  How about recommending a ’good’ shelter I can go to while I wait for real permanent subsidized housing – again.

Well no they couldn’t do that either; they actually did not know how, had no knowledge, and I am thinking ‘you better learn’ because there are going to be a hell of a lot more of me coming your way after their 18 months are up in your ‘transitional/permanent’ housing or whatever the hell you going to be calling it then.

You know one of the experiences I found rather disconcerting during this two year process is that this experience is supposedly designed to help the homeless veteran re-enter into the society by getting securely situated and thereby becoming secure and having less anxiety, and in this almost artificial womb of security become secure enough, re-directed enough for the veteran to reenter the main stream and engage, since it has been studied and shown that a great deal of homelessness comes from the inability to deal with the vagaries, the cruelties of society, and finally one just gives up; I can relate to such experiences.  I am here, aren’t I? 

So, I figured in this ‘transitional’ housing program, when, back in those days my housing was really‘transitional’ housing, the encouraging, reassuring experience, the program of promising the support network would encourage me, engender me to trust people, and their processes, again, and grow back some of that ‘ol self confidence I once had, regain enough self confidence and self reliance so I would feel brave enough, and confident enough to reengage with society.

It seemed like a good idea.

What, in fact happened, is that I found myself surrounded by the vagaries and the cruelties and the craziness and the promises not kept: basically of what life really is; I cannot begin to tell you, enumerating each discouraging painful detail within this short piece, culminating finally in this last unfulfilled promise!

Am I out on the street again!?

And then I got to thinking, that maybe this process was in fact meted to me with volition, it was planned – except say that thumping I endured on the B train – and that this whole experience was indeed preparing me for, working me to get ready for, the real world; a smooth transition so to speak, rattled enough through this process of casual(?) deceit(?) in order to be really prepared, and not so taken by surprise or naively unsuspecting nor bewildered by the real rattling about to come when I reentering the Hell identified as ‘society’.  It is an approach, certainly, although at the end of this process I am homeless again…

Better prepared?  Maybe…

I have seen this approach, of sorts, work, in the military, say – may be we should try this experience, the process, on new borns too, really mix them up early, to be ready – oh wait; some parents, or stepparents have tried I heard, and some are in jail now, perhaps being so taken up and carried away in the excitement of it all, the excitement of the program.

And this preparation and self confidence thing, well…it may be overrated.

So one day shy of April 1^st, as I said on Lazarus Saturday, one of my drug addled, drug addicted friends comes finds me and she says she knows of a place

“Here, call this number.”

And she gives me this scrawled number on a soiled scrap of paper and it does make one wonder though one call later I am setting up, assenting to an interview, and the next day – Palm Sunday - as our Savior entering the Holy City, I am entering the holy county of Queens, Hillside exactly, coming down a broad boulevard, and not an apartment building to be seen; must be something in the building codes, or zoning I am figuring, maybe this is a holy city, and there they were, actual palm fronds scattered about on the boulevard and the sidewalks in front of me, perhaps there really is a bit of Don Quixote in me, and while I did not have a donkey at hand I could not help but accept, acknowledge and silently revel in the semblance, in the prophecy of the spirit made manifest, of me, the anointed one arriving and I am accepted into a lovely home and I share this home with two very nice people, and no one is throwing shit out the window(!) – at least not yet, though I am still looking around furtively; I must admit.

Now mind you, my two case managers – two(!) – very straight and very buttoned up and very, very sober – God Bless, I hope to God!- and very trained, at least I guess they are, I hope to God so(!);  So these two case managers of mine could not do shit for me – not a fucking thing.  It took my drug addled friends to recognize my fate, and take my predicament in hand and know of a reasonable, even appropriate solution; thank God I keep drug addicts and whores close; it pays apparently in my line of life, although some would have reservations or even straight forward disagreements of the company I keep (my mother comes to mind), no matter the rather obvious similitude of our almost most holy Mary Magellan during this most holiest of weeks in the Christian calendar.

But as my mother often says

“The proof is in the pudding.”

And yes I am eating pudding now too - big mounds of the stuff I have now around me – stuffing my face, as matter of fact, with large spoonfuls of the delicious sweet confection, I actually am; thank God I am writing this as opposed to actually having to speak this story with my mouth all full.  Oh, did I tell you my new kitchen has a HUGE refrigerator and the big clean 4 burner gas stove even has an oven now – my previous ‘transitional/permanent’, or however slyly they now describing my very recently vacated previous crib, did not – so I am cooking up a storm now – do you know my bathroom has a skylight?  Neat huh! - And I have this great big living room I can invite friends in and no one has to ‘sign in’ and present, to the unreasonably fastidious door monitors, identification(!); even the ones that don’t have any ID can visit me now – if I choose!

They can even sleep over and I don’t need no ones permission!

I‘m the boss here.

And I can see a beautiful full blossoming flowering cherry tree right out of this south facing window here - too.

So I celebrate this April 1^st as not an April fool, at least that is the feeling I am getting these two years later on this Palm Sunday in which I am experiencing my fateful sacred life in this ‘new’ neighborhood.

In this neighborhood there are a whole lot of Indians and southern and northern Asians I am noticing – Gooks generally – in all shapes & sizes & types, good Gooks, and some very pretty Gooks too, and all very well behaved – and quiet too – thank God, even the kids, in the morning especially, we can all have some peace and quiet, and even in the evening as we ride back from work, I am surrounded by sensible reasonable people.

There is even a Phillippine-American Center not ten blocks from my new home; I have never seen one of those Centers in the Bronx; and I saw two nice looking Columbian restaurants on the Avenue here too, though I will have to be diligently saving some of my meager bits of money before crossing that fancy threshold.

I do look ahead with anticipation, with some trepidation even at the possibilities of Friday, for Good Friday, it will be here soon, though given all its biblical despair and portents Black Friday I certainly consider the more appropriate and sometimes alternatively declared name of that disturbingly memorable day, for you can only call that day ‘Good Friday’ if you are sure you know what is going to happen on Sunday, but you and I both know of the vagaries of life and the slim possibilities of everything working out OK, no matter my just in the nick of time luck, yet again this luck of which my some few friends think I have way too much of – just in the nick of time luck, this time around – yet again - maybe I will hide under my new bed that threatening day, and the next day too, hunkering down through ‘Holy Saturday’, that’s when the Holy Church recommends I fast and if I see the opportunity, or perhaps succumbing to the visions, depending upon the resoluteness and severity of my fast, I will descend into hell as He once did and free the captives – and then on Sunday, if I am still alive, and thereby fulfilling the holy prophecy, on Easter morning the Son will surely be risen.

Avenging Angel

I got into a train car this morning and the car is practically empty while the two cars on either side were packed and I wondered why – if it was summer you would figure the AC was out in the car, but it is wintertime.



As soon as I stepped in I knew – you could smell an odor – a familiar odor – one of old bums been pissing and shitting on himself but it wasn’t strong enough to keep me out and anyway my nose was a bit stuffy this morning.



So I sat down – I have plenty of room to spread out and then I could hear the ranting and raving coming from the other end of the subway car – I didn’t have to look up to know it is the ravings of an old black man –



I didn’t look up, being in my normal two seats at the other far off end of the car, and then slowly but slowly the subway car is emptying because I am taking the subway north this morning, against rush hour people traffic to the last stop in the uppermost reaches of the north Bronx so I can be assured a seat for the long ride south into the southernmost reaches of Brooklyn.



So the car, as expected, is slowly emptying stop by stop until there is only me and a young kid sitting across from me, and the old guy raving – another ‘crazy nigger’ – he is stumbling down the length of the subway car towards us two because we were the only ones left on this subway car and he is yelling and banging on the subway car’s walls and the subway car’s windows pulling out his bible from his dirty gym bag that amazingly he had kept in tow and managing to keep with him, and finally he is standing right over on us – more next to me than the young kid sitting across from me at this end of the car and I guess I could have moved – through him(?) - to the other end of the car – and what, abandon this young kid? On his way to school?



I don’t think so.



And I had my pen out because I was marking and writing on some papers and I got to wondering what I would do – what maybe I must do –



Well you can imagine –



I mean he was old, not old enough though to make that interaction easy, maybe as old as me and he was certainly full of energy and with his bible swinging and “smiting” this and “smiting” that and well you can only understand I was a bit concerned being it only me and this young kid now and me not having too much confidence in what the young kid would do if we two adults got into it –



No ‘dis on the kid – I mean he seemed nice enough – maybe; quiet surely.



And I had this Bic pen in my hand and although I was finished using the pen for its say, its intended, more proper design, I was now deciding to keep the ink tip open, not put the cap back on – pointy ink point tip bared, in case, just in case I might find a different use for it, the inky sharp point, might need to explore how useful that point can be in say, performing a tracheotomy – and emergency tracheotomy, of course.



And now we are coming into the last station way up in the Bronx, and he is standing next to me blocking the nearest subway car door that is about to open and he is shouting about he deciding(!), he judging(!) who comes and who goes and I am thinking he is setting up to block my exit through those two about to be opening doors right next to me and I am thinking, do I stand and claim my right to exit through those two doors knowing full well of the ‘mixing’ that most definitely would, most probably would occur and my pen is still bared and in my hand and this is all really much better than morning coffee for a wake up.



I deciding this morning deference the better part of valor;



So I walking past him as he was just a step out of the way of my path as he is leaning on and blocking the subway car door, blocking that path of mine – daring me it seemed, waving his bible and screaming of the judgment he will met and the smiting he will do and I walk past him with the hair on the back of my neck bristling, walking quickly by him to the middle of the car and the young kid follows right behind and the middle doors open and I get out and go across the platform to the waiting D train huffing and wheezing, preparing to go south to the farthest reaches of Brooklyn and the young kid bounds up the stairs out of the station and I am wondering had I just witnessed a reflection of myself, each of us, sitting across from each other - a reflection – 50 years, a half a century hence while a dark avenging Angel of God is swinging the smiting holy sword of the Good Book -?



“When I ruled he world –“



So I walk across the platform and get into the waiting D train which is empty, as expected, and I settle in and I can see outside the train the raving maniac giving loud testimony on the platform and I do not think much of it since I am a believer now – certainly no infidel me(!); since this would-be loud preacher, seemed to be mixing and matching a variety of litanies and liturgy and matins this early morning – impressive his catholicity.



But then he gets into my car – and again it is me and him – though this time it is only me and him, and he enters the car through the same open doors I did and I am really not paying him no mind and I am considering moving down to the end of the car, my usual haunts, and away from him but then I decide – no –



No.



This car will be filling up – that is for sure - so I have no fear of having to single handedly dispatching this errant(?), Angel of God. I would certainly soon have help with that if need be; I am pretty sure I can hold him off long enough for help to arrive.



There is another advantage here though – you know me – always in survival mode down here in the city’s hell; I mean you have to be, and always in the comfort mode, or at least always in the searching for comfort mode or at least what you can make of it down here in these dusky cellars of the city, with him ranting and raving and banging the walls and slamming open and slamming closed those narrow slits of an awning type window that I had forgotten you could open and close – who knew? – who remembers? And his stench, though by this time I had become inured, I was used to his stench as often happens with the human nose no matter how sensitive the nose can be – at first - so I could no longer smell his stench unless he had bathed himself in those few moments he was out of my sight as I crossed the platform – you know miracles and such must happen, no matter all the smiting – I mean Hell! You need a few miracles if you are to believe.



SO whether he had found and cleansed and washed himself with the holiest of waters during those fewest of moments on that subway platform I pretty sure, very sure he would be keeping the middle of this car free of passengers, for a while, and as we making the first few stops heading south that is indeed what happened.



I must admit I am always getting a kick from watching the newly arriving, newly entering passengers going about their normal subway routine, normal subway sitting business or at least searching for sitting business not realizing they are really entering the Jaws of Hell; for even God is silent sometimes – you know those Biblical phrases about ‘I can’t hear you God!’ – Job 30 comes to mind.



And so the people get in and sit close to us two and not noticing perhaps the stink – as I said, maybe he was washed and miraculously made clean in some few moments – and then the dark Angel speaks – roars actually and the newly arrived newly seated passengers perk up to the reality in front of them, to the reality made manifest; and the passengers express surprise at first, as often the case when witnessing the ‘mysterious strange ways of God’; Amos and Deuteronomy quickly come to mind.



And then you can see the expression of surprise at first, in their faces and maybe just the slightest tinge of fear, these are NYC subway natives after all, and then the calculation – for you see at this moment they are having to calculate: calculate if they are to move. Should they get up, off this seat and move to a safer radius, a safer distance to all those far off other seats, those far off seats that are all taken now and so you can see the calculations clicking in their collective face, in their head, in their twitching bodies: comfort or safety; standing for ten stops or risking the roaring tumultuous four horsemen of The Apocalypse being possibly brought, let loose by this dark Angel? - (Revelation).



Well as the subway jerks and jostles further south now entering the upper reaches of Manhattan, even that choice of their moving farther off is allusive as the car so crowded and packed now the newly arriving passengers having no choice but to sit and stand closer and closer, closer still, than they would surely wish, to the avenging Angel and the miraculous word of God and now I am starting to grin - smile actually – because I had always known, hoped for sure, that by deciding to stay put way up there in the northern reaches of the Bronx when I first entered this then empty subway car alone, and not moving when he entered and sitting near to me, not only would this space be free of people for a while but also as the car became crowded with people a show, a revelation would be delivered unto me (Mathew 11) and indeed such a show was delivered; God did not disappoint.



A long while ago an idea had come to me, had revealed itself to me as to why there is a difference between the probability of seeing two big black men get into it in a crowded subway car as opposed to two black women mixing it up. And I have this theory, the theory being that if two big black men get into it, this is really going to be a really heavy place, there would be no choice, between the weight of their bodies and the size of their fists and the raging quantity of their testosterone – we all know where this is going or at least very, very possibly can be going; I don’t see that mix up that often, with good reason, whereas with a woman, or two women, the level of violence and deadly physicality is usually on a different level. The rage may be the same, or maybe even higher, but the possibility of deadly or at least ruinous physical injury is lower, often times quite a bit lower; in my experience.



And this theory was exemplified here in this subway car this morning.



First, way up in the Bronx as we starting our way south, this man got on and sat down near us, across from us two, he not having a clue as to what would ensue and then the old dark Angel jumps up and crosses the aisle and slams open that narrow thin opening of that window, and he does this right behind this guy who is sitting on one of the seats that faces forward.



And when the dark raving Angel slammed open and slammed shut that window and slammed open and stuck his Bible out that open slit waving it into the dark tunnel of Hell his elbow hit the back of the sitting guy’s head(!).



And I am thinking, Oh Boy – here comes the show.



But no – no – the guy just seemed to ignore the hit from that Angle’s elbow and kept on reading his newspaper, it must have been a really interesting story(?!), and I am figuring the man is thinking it is just an accident; people are knocking against each other in these subway cars all the time – though I have seen some fights ensue on that issue, especially between women, as in ‘Do unto others…’ (Luke 6).



And then it happened again, for this dark Angel it seeming to me he likes to test his congregation and now the Angel’s elbow taps again(!), accidently(?), the back of the guy’s head as the Angel is slamming open and closed that narrow window and ranting and raving and smiting and now the guy notices and turns around and looks up at the ‘crazy nigger’ and you can see in the guy’s face he is calculating – and then he makes the decision and gets up and moves further down the car, for there were still some seats left then.



A few stops later a black woman with a baby tightly wrapped in a blanket gets on and another black woman follows and the two take seats across from us, the two do not know each other, they are sitting apart and leaving the middle seat, of the three seats, empty and not acknowledging each other. And as any good Angel would, this Angel is noticing the baby and began teaching the ways and more importantly the judgment and the wrath of God, rather loudly actually, as all good Angles should, you know the wages of sin and all, even to a youngster – especially to a youngster – youngsters should be amply warned, especially in these neighborhoods, and he is really getting into his exhortation and pointing at the mother and child and the judgment of the Lord and the smiting!, and the mother is clearly surprised at all his unruly attention, no matter his intent, and that the mother is recoiling in understandable fear and concern and holding her baby tighter and –



And then the woman sitting next to the mother and child takes up the cause – this is the first person to speak out in what may be described as rather unspeakable license being taken by this dark Angel; and this woman is now warning this avenging Angel:



“Do not speak to that baby!”



This woman, another Angel(?), she apparently not having any fear of this exchange of ideas - and faith(?) - she now pursuing;



“Do not talk to that baby! And you are getting off at the next stop – at 145th Street or I will be pepper spraying you – you say another word!”



And she is pulling out a small aerosol spray canister out of her pocketbook seeming raring to use it too and the dark avenging Angel does quiet a bit, but you see this is not over and we are pulling into the 145th Street station now and he is getting up off his seat but instead of moving toward the opening doors he moves closer to the woman, to a seat recently vacated by an exiting passenger, and that is that and she gets up and not inches from his face sprays the Hell out of that canister – is there a law against this?



And sprays Hell into his face.



Well that certainly quiets him, except for some groaning and his eyes are really tearing and now all these new passengers are entering the subway car and whatever stench was in that car, mainly from the avenging Angel is now being displaced, replaced by the very ‘fragrant’ stinging pepper spray, and everyone entering trying to wave the smell away from their noses, which of course is impossible as the whole car being filled with the smell, and their perhaps innocent eyes, tearing too, and the wave of people coming into the car from behind negates any effort of trying to back out of the car and the doors close abruptly and we are trundling towards the next stop, twenty blocks to go and the avenging Angel is trying to continue his exhortations in between his whimpering and coughing and crying and I have to give the guy credit and all – his persistence is truly amazing and that black woman is hovering, waiting, just waiting to let loose, to spew again the judgment of Jehovah (Joel, Qur’an 88:26)) but the dark Angel is staying low, just low enough, cowing just enough that she is not adequately enticed to persist in another spraying and what I love about these subway cars is the new passengers entering have not a clue of what has just been happening though they are trapped and forced to endure the aftermath, the ugly remnants, for another twenty blocks jostling against each other teary eyed, this is an Express after all.



At 125th Street the avenging Angel stumbles off, I would have liked to have said ‘flew’ off, but really those wings had been clipped, though once off the car he seeming to get some of his bearings back, maybe it the fresher air and we could hear him proselytizing again as we pulling out of the station trundling downtown, further into the belly of the beast, Sodom and Gomorrah coming (Genesis).

Turkey Mountain

Back in the day me and my parents were really into church; my two sisters too; well the youngest was about 1 then and I am not too sure how into church she was but she went every Sunday too and didn’t cry too much – I think one time if I remember correctly she even managed, her little small hand, to give an offering into the silver velvet lined ‘Giving’ plate that passes along the pews every Sunday morning; I was there.

I was an acolyte by then – a whole ten years old up there on the alter nervously helping the priest – a huge bear of a man in red and purple gold trimmed vestments exuding authority and sometimes meting justice – if need be in his knave and to his knaves.

I yearned to carry that huge silver cross in front of the procession of priests and choir singing beautifully and sort of loudly yet always in tune up and down the aisles that started and ended every Sunday morning service but I wasn’t big enough – yet; I would have to grow some.

As I said my parents were really very active in the church; they knew other adults who very active in this church too – a great cathedral of a church standing always, so far, sitting on Main Street with a famous historical storied career.

There was this couple, they did not have any children, so when we went over to their house there was no one to play with, other than my two sisters – uck!

The man, Mr. Weir, he very active helping children who in need, of help – young adults really, ‘troubled’ teenagers as the term going in those days. He has some offices in an office building in Jamaica in those days and the ‘troubled’ teens then and the ‘troubled’ teens now only differ in the caliber of weapons carried – which I figure must be pretty much true no matter what century or epoch one chooses; I have no choice as a child here, I in this one then.

Anyway this organization that Mr. Weir in charge of had a camp up in the mountains north of NYC and he would bring ‘troubled’ teens there to get out of the mean city and breathe some fresh country air.

Well, since my parents were as friendly with the Weir’s as they were and I seemed like such a nice boy, that’s what people used to tell me back in the day, my mother arranged for me to go with Mr. Weir & his crew of ‘troubled teens’ up into Turkey Mountain.

Maybe I wasn’t such a ‘good’ boy and my memory is cloudy on that part?

I was all excited and such to take this trip but really my mother had not a clue – how troubled those teens can be.

I had met a few before in Mr. Weir’s offices in Jamaica; but that was in the office – once you get out into the woods up into the mountains, and that clean country air, ‘troubled’ takes on a whole new meaning, a whole different dimension – has a whole different feel to it, whatever; nature in all her glory.

Of course I just learning then, learning all about this exciting world I came about living in – hell – I had just practically gotten here, just turning 10 a few months before – so I wasn’t even officially a teenager yet. Those other ‘troubled’ kids had a few years on me, kind of important years actually – eight to nine years; I think for one ‘trouble’ teen even more years on me; eight to nine years to be exact I figuring other than that one; maybe one or two years more.

You could say I going to be their ‘mascot’ during this week up in the mountains, in the woods on Turkey Mountain, and yes you could say that, I guess, depending on what you do or how you play with sometimes or how you maybe even treat your ‘mascot’ – you ever had one.

So bright and early one Saturday morning my father driving me to the CYO offices in Jamaica, those are the letters short for the organization, I forget now what those three letters mean but we even had T-shirts - mine was a bit big, a little big for me; I guess I would grow into that shirt I lucky enough.

So my father drove me in our big dark blue MERCURY coupe I think it was, a coupe. It was a beast of a car really and the crooks always stealing the car in Corona where we lived –‘troubled’ teens? They stole that car so much, so many times my father put in a hidden cut off switch to foil them and ward them crooks off; I knew where that little brown toggle switch is – not that I would tell anybody or you; he good with electrical stuff and electronics and that switch; I know where it is, seeming to work, the Mercury pretty much always there after then sitting quietly by the curb every morning when we waking up and he coming downstairs; it there, the Mercury there that Saturday morning for us two.

So he dropping me off at the offices in Jamaica, actually if I remember correctly he even parking the car and walking me upstairs, actually I think we took an elevator, I can’t really remember, I was pretty young then, and he shaking Mr. Weir’s hand and my father handed me over to Mr. Weir and from then on I pretty much on my own.

Now you have to understand what a GOOD kid means – I mean not exactly innocent; I had been growing up –spent 10 years on the sidewalks and streets of Corona and had a few scars to show for it but I was about to go into a whole other dimension – another universe? Maybe; you never know; you know what doctors and other peoples say about adolescence and hormones? puberty and later on – well I hadn’t yet reached that stage yet; I getting there.

So this adventure all starts innocently enough. We all gather in these small offices; there we were about sixteen of us, we all got T-shirts too and we putting them on – taking off our shirts and I am looking around and thinking some of these guys are pretty big – especially that one big black guy – you know when you are as small as me then – Hey! Do not get me wrong – I no runt! But come on, as I said I was only 10; and we putting on our new CYO T-shirt; I forget how the girls did it, put their new T-shirt on; you would think I would remember that, I mean some things are really really worth remembering – maybe I was stunned. Oh yeah there were 4 ‘troubled’ teenage girls with us too. Did I tell you?

As I said, my T-shirt was a little bit big on me and we took our ‘luggage’, bags and old packs really, no light blue plastic Tourister luggage here amongst us, and we went downstairs to the street where a ‘stake’ truck awaited us.

Now a stake truck was, and still is I think; I had always thought a stake truck carried, well, steaks! Makes sense – right? I guess not.

This stake truck and many others like it is essentially a flat bed open back truck; this one must have been about sixteen feet long – hey another teenager! What makes a stake truck is these trucks have these stakes, wooden 2 x 4’s really fitted upright, vertically, fitted into slots along the side of the back of the truck and the slots would hold the 2 x 4’s erect and then some rope, some bristly yellow thick thistle rope in this case threaded and tied in between through and through the upright stakes to create a kind of open wall – be great for carrying hay say – or apparently ‘troubled’ teens and me.

The dirty truck also had a tail gate that closed up so the bales of hay or one or two of us wouldn’t slide out the back – we’ll get to that later.

As I saying, this back in the day; there would be no way you would ever see one of these contraptions on the highway today, but I finding the whole set up very very exciting – I would say extremely exciting but I did not have a clue that early summer Saturday morning, so we will have to save that word, that description ‘extremely’ for further into my experience on Turkey Mountain – no we didn’t kill anybody – nobody; not for lack of trying – we killed a lot of things up there though; some of those guys are pretty good at that I would find.

So off we go on the back of that open truck through the Jamaica streets then over the bridge then faster; we traveling upstate now for sure.

If I tell you if I tell; I tell you, if you haven’t ridden riding in an open back stake truck over the bridge and up the highway with the other ‘troubled’ teens huddling in the back and the river wind whipping, and you probably haven’t, quite an experience – and the experience keeping everyone in the back of that wide open flatbed truck pretty much enthralled or scared for their life.

What happens finally is you acclimate, accommodate; your body is getting used to the experience and your mind can start to wander to other things, other thoughts, the wandering the wondering does happen, other than the ones concerning ‘Am I going to get out of here ALIVE?!’ or ‘OH my GOD I am going to DIE!’ yeah and so your mind can wander to other things, other positions; and for a bunch of ‘troubled’ teens packed in an open back stake truck for a few hours, it a long ride in those days, the mind can wander to places where…- you get the idea – right? Do you;

I did tell you, right? There are girls with us too? Hey, unbelievable – right? ‘Troubled’ teenage girls – 4 girls to be exact; you gotta love the olden days – right?

So young as I was then I can already sense, or kind of sense, there is some jostling for position – we are not even in the woods yet and I can sense the energy ‘cause I have to as young a kid as I am survival in this jungle; survival is everything and there are already packed in the back of this flat bed open sixteen foot truck people, persons actually already acting as animals.

Well apparently one animal don’t like this other animal’s position – visa-vie the teenage girls – so he attacks the guy’s luggage – well bag actually – threatening to throw the simple small bag off the truck! – and if that don’t work – him too!

He is indeed dangling the bag over the side of the truck and and I figuring one good bump and that bag is gone – and then who the hell knows what would happen.

Well action I always learning quickly re-arranging the positions on that flat bed truck and there some cursing and a slight tussle, you have to be a little careful back there; the hell with the luggage, one of us could go over the side! But I starting to get the distinct impression a few of those teenagers might not care; I holding my sack of clothes tighter to my little body hoping to melt into a corner. There were no shadows nor no darkness to hide nor melting into in the back of that wide open stake truck and the strong sun now high and bright. It wasn’t that I scared – hell I can see they barely noticing me, except for one guy, he kind of friendly – no these guys are more, way more, concerned with each other & those girls which suiting me just fine; this seeming going to be one hell of an adventure.

Well after a while we getting off the highway and onto this two lane country road and the back of the truck got quiet, in a way – way more quiet than screaming down the highway with the wind whipping, holding on for dear life hoping you didn’t slide out the back – be thrown out – and if that truck ever got in an accident – forget about it.

No, now on this country road it beautiful and quiet hushed and the truck driving slower now and the tall trees arching over us and the road too, quiet, even her branches and new green leaves, for the beginning of summer, her delicate green leaves covering us all in a dappling shade and we all calming down, no choice, we amazed at the feeling coming over us covering us; the sight; looking up; around.

Even the worst of us, because we, I starting to get the drift of that too – come on, I am young, not stupid; it is sort of as automatic or maybe even instinct – you have to have, to stay alive, hopefully without too many bruises nor scars.

I had been to enough camps – I mean good camps , age appropriate good church camps with counselors – or even Boy Scout camps (I can tell you some stories there on those ‘camp outs’, oh God) where making friends is the norm of the day. Here in this group, I, in a sense, out of my element, out of my league so I having to be more careful of my calculations. Listen to me – I actually sounding as I knew way back then what I doing!
back then;

Finally we turn off the country road onto a rutted narrow dirt road, a narrow path really – we are heading up a mountain, Turkey Mountain I pretty sure; that what my father told me I going.

The trees and her leaves overhanging us are thicker and greener and closer now off that asphalt country road.

Looking out through the side off the truck through the thistle yellow rope twisted between I can see a half built retaining wall, a work in progress it seems, of black tarred and creosoted railroad ties having been mounted one atop an other to keep the mountain and the trees and some of nature at bay and this narrow rutted dirt road the truck driving up, clear.

It is quiet now around the big black railroad ties and no one is working; the ties are in piles silently a waiting for us, for us to arrive and work with them; will be our week’s project and what a project that project was; those big tarred creosoted railroad ties are heavy, way heavy.

It took about 10 minutes to get up the hill the truck grinding and moaning up the bump rutted dirt path and so bumpy we all sitting on our luggage – our bags and sacks – a cold hard steel floor is - well a cold hard steel floor is just that, cold and hard and uncomfortable and in ways unforgettable as well as those bumps are – painful, if you not sitting on your change of clothes.

And everyone quiet, again, still, we can hear the birds now; seems to be a lot of them then.

The truck finally pulls into a clearing – I can see three buildings in the middle of the woods on the side of Turkey Mountain; we are talking rustic here, rustic as like back in the day.

There is the ‘Administration’ building, a small one room shack off to one side, the truck stopping pretty much right in front of that wood shack, then there is a somewhat larger wood shingled building that I would find out somewhat later the kitchen and also in there the ‘Dining’ room – ‘mess hall’ probably here a more accurate description – you know rough wooden tables, four, and side by side accompanying wooden benches hewn from trunks of trees probably cut down shaved up here on Turkey Mountain; enough to seat sixteen or so and then off to the other side of that clearing, a bit apart, always a bit from these two buildings, the toilets, not that anyone would use them that week, well the girls would then everyone would use them and gather around peeking in through the cracks and the holes, and the showers; I think there were only two shower heads, I am pretty sure I am correct if my memory serves me – communal anyway, that is for sure. As I recall you standing on wood pallets to keep your bare feet out of the forming mud though that would be the least of my problems in that shower stall later in the week.

So Mr. Weir gets out of the front of the truck out of the driver’s seat and we piling out of the back of the truck as ordered; some of us really weren’t sure the ride over or do not want to believe time to be getting out, given the environs we brought to.

I had always been treated by Mr. Weir as something special, I had become used to that treating that is the only way I really know him, every time my parents taking me over to his and his wife’s house in Flushing. Well I got the distinct impression here in this clearing that holiday is over, wasn’t going to happen here in these woods on the side of Turkey Mountain; I now part of this crew, and here for really the first time in my life I feeling I really feeling I needing a friend.

I really don’t like feeling so ‘needy’ so much.

So after some preliminary gabbly-gook – who can remember so twitched I was then that moment no matter birds chirping and the clean fresh country air – I didn’t mind so much thinking a few hours back my maybe dirty Corona air; I really do like that air; seems far away now.

I was scared out of my wits because now Mr. Weir assigning sleeping arrangements, and here is how that going down.

Back in the woods further up the mountain, far away from these three buildings and “Help!” as far as I concerned were the Quonset huts scattered about in the forest far apart from each other in the woods up there on the mountain side.

I don’t know, maybe those huts left over from the War and all that military training going with peoples going to war, especially men in those days; for I definitely getting the feeling for survival.

Now these Quonset huts on that side of Turkey Mountain are basically curved sheets of corrugated metal painted grey on the outside, the weather side – I think zinc oxidized now that I know better these many years later though, obviously I not thinking that then; I having way more immediate concerns this sunny late afternoon than mid-century industrial manufacturing processes.

The corrugated metal sheets arching wide enough, I think remembering correctly they two by two connected on each their edge to creating an arching wide enough across wide enough to create about an eight foot space wide and high enough one could walk in – I certainly can walk upright that late afternoon – some other guys having to duck and there burlap on each end of the hut providing the final shelter keeping out the wind & the rain – forget about the mosquitoes or even robbers, though one could consider mosquitoes robbers, robbing you or your blood sucking uninvited – maybe that is why we hate them pesky insects so much. Thank God there ain’t any ticks, to speak of, in those days.

Well Mr. Weir in his infinite wisdom assigning me to a Quonset hut with three of the guys, the ‘troubled’ teens; I had already sized up who to stay away from and who of the bunch, and I sighed, a sigh of relief, though I may have been a bit premature on that account.

Also Mr. Weir, in his infinite wisdom, I mean given the choice of wisdom in that clearing this late afternoon on the side of Turkey Mountain in this camp, he the man.

I am surprised, thinking back now, he wasn’t wearing a side arm; would be making sense for a whole lot of reasons even no matter the former military setting on the side of that mountain in the woods far away from home.

Anyway in his infinite wisdom he assigned the 4 teenage ‘troubled’ girls in their own Quonset hut far away from the rest of us but come on - how far away can you stash them – the other side of the mountain? Talk about a beaten path later in the week and others hiding in ambush – unbelievable really what teenagers – ‘troubled’ teenagers can find themselves, get themselves into.

And you would think they would be tired as hell after working all day in the hot summer sun hauling and drilling and pounding those huge very heavy creosoted and tarred railroad ties – man those kids, those teenagers alas, were way stronger than me and then having to pound those big nails those stakes really made of maybe ¾ inch thick wide metal crusty rusty rebar pounding those really long uncooperative metal stakes into the railroad ties to connect them and hold them fast to each other and I am pounding the head, the tip the bending flattening edge of that rebar stake with a sledge hammer so heavy by the end of the day I barely lift, barely lift my arms – I couldn’t lift it! That sledge hammer.

You would think after day after day of all that effort all our sweat straining sweating so hard we sweating all they would want to do those boys would be to eat and sleep, but no, no, alas, no – there all sorts of energy still seething for all sorts of shenanigans.

First off you have to kill something; I don’t know how these kids – these are city kids - did this; well I know how one did it. I watched him grab a raccoon - a raccoon with his bare hands! Maybe the raccoon never saw one as us before? Surprise can be everything. I learned that later that raccoons are dangerous with their teeth and everything many also carrying rabies even but my ‘friend’, he was sort of my ‘friend’ by then – hey it doesn’t take long: your enemy is my enemy. He grabbing the damn thing by its bushy tail and flung, flinging and flinging swinging the raccoon around and around by its bushy tail seeming to take some pleasure in this roller coaster of a ride finally bashing its head into the trunk of a nearby tree – and that was that; the ride is over apparently - for the raccoon.

Grabbing the raccoon by the tail made sense I would later find; you know one thing about ‘troubled’ teens, they grab what they want; very little in the way on impulse control – why bother – especially in the woods.

It making sense for one; for one it worked and made sense because that is what my ‘friend’ wanted; the bushy tail he wanted and he grabbed that bushy tail; got it fast.

Other tail would be, being grabbed later in the week.

We took the tail and the rest of the dead raccoon, its head oozing blood down to the kitchen and he got a knife, a big knife he pulled out of a kitchen drawer, thinking back now that we can waltz into the kitchen and grab a knife, a big sharp knife is a bit, sort of unbelievable - but hey – as I saying: ‘back in the day’.

Anyway he grabs a big sharp knife and cuts the raccoon’s tail off right there in the kitchen on the clean counter I am sure one of those ‘troubled’ teenage girls had cleaned – who else? You have to teach what’s ‘mine’ mine – right? He cut off the big bushy tail because that is what he wanted; the rest of the raccoon went out the back; tossed out. I am sure someone or something in that forest on the side of Turkey Mountain in that forest made good use of what left; that what nature all about – right?

He spent the rest of the week, amongst other pursuits, curing and carefully skinning the fur and the skin holding the fur, carefully cutting with a knife, a smaller even maybe a sharper knife scraping and pulling carefully slowly the furry skin down and away from the raccoon’s tail, the project taking hours and hours so careful he is; the raccoon’s tail seemingly made of a thick whitish cartilage; I was surprised.

I had never known how a raccoon’s tail came to be even though I had been wearing one for years a top my head the tail dangling behind me from a Davy Crockett ‘coon tail cap. I mean maybe my raccoon tail wasn’t real – maybe it was back in those days, but over this week this one I watching being recreated certainly was – is real as hell. I would sit there watching him carefully work that fur and skin, mesmerized I was as I sit there in the setting sun watching him carefully slowly working that fur and skin as he slowly stripping it away from the central part of the raccoon’s tail. It a big tail because it a big raccoon, or had been, the big bushy tail is still with us.

I still can not believe he grabbing the animal by its tail – surprised the hell out of the raccoon too! The animal turning its sharp teeth bared about to bite this interloper – not quite quick enough the raccoon is as its skull is bashed and cracked against the trunk of an unfeeling tree; we ain’t cutting her, that tree down this trip; a carving on her trunk a signature, mine, left still?

I do not know how they all got a hold of these powerfully dangerous metal things, never found out but there was one Quonset hut bristling with BB guns – BB rifles to be exact - and a few pellets too found there way screaming silently through that clean fresh country air smacking into the side of Turkey Mountain and some softer skin too.

Unfortunately this hut sat high above the rest of us huts so those in that hut had a clear shot at anything below any of us who would dare move about out from under the cover of our metal Quonset hut; those guns would sometimes ping the curved roof off our shelter once in a while perhaps out of boredom for no targets wanting, or maybe just reminding us all down below who King.

Any movement below them; you had to go to the bathroom? Be careful, your ass or your head be full of BBs in a moment; buck shot they only wished they had; their aim pretty good or maybe the barrel of that rifle; and no, that brass probably wouldn’t kill you ‘less hit you just right, hey take your chances using that bathroom down there, I dare you, and the those little metal burrs hurting like hell! Trying to get down to the kitchen to eat damn BBs flying by you hearing them nipping green leaves right on your shoulder thudding into a tree truck so close then OW! Mother Fucker! I really didn’t know that word then though I wish I did; appropriate. Damn welt in the back of my neck, where the hell did they get them?! They sure as hell didn’t bring those rifles up in the truck – I am pretty sure; it way too early back in those days that you have BB/Pellet rifles you can break down and hide in your pack and rebuild in a Quonset hut on the side of Turkey Mountain – no way; pretty sure though I was only 10 then, barely.

What? are those rifles buried in plastic in the mountain dirt waiting for each new crew to arrive? I mean that is one long high retaining wall we building in the hot summer sun; certainly that wall not being built in a day.

I guess they all responsible for bringing in their own ammunition, on the truck –easy enough, obviously. I could do with a bit less ammunition but I having no say no voice on the side of this mountain.

And you know that Quonset hut high on the mountain bristling with rifles contained, housed, the baddest, most ‘troubling’ of the teens, of the crew, perched there in the highest Quonset hut on the mountain with a wide, wide range of everything below, bristling with rifles and no lack of compunction to use them. At least I ain’t sleeping with them – Thank GOD. Although maybe it be better to be on the other side of the rifle; I maybe would have had a lot less welts on my body; or would they have thrown my small body out through that rough burlap screen and shot me close up. Can’t tell; don’t know, for sure; careful what you wish for.

Oh yeah, in case you are wondering why I ain’t complaining to Mr. Weir, really, not an option – you crazy? I have to live with these mother fuckers for a whole week or what he going to do send me home in a cab? No way. I would have been dead before the cab showed up – trust me – and ruin their fun? Yeah right; I am young – I ain’t that stupid – we are in the woods and Mr. Weir always holed up in his ‘Administration’ shack curiously keeping out of sight after a day’s work and dining and the mayhem proceeds on the side of Turkey Mountain.

Well, I had the opportunity to find out whether bunking with those 4 crazies with the rifles bristling further up the mountain would have been a better cut for me.

One evening my ‘friend’ decides we are going up the mountain to the ‘crazies’ Quonset hut for a little card playing and socializing and you know, hang out; I don’t think this is a good idea but I would be alone then, the other two of our bunkies, I do not know where those other two lit off to and the woods are darkening now. It the middle of the week by then and you know how boring sometimes life can be on the side of a mountain in the middle of no where but I still ain’t feeling it yet – no matter – so I said OK; I didn’t want to stay here alone so we head out up the mountain aiming towards, stumbling on the half ass path, aiming towards a dim light – we having a kerosene lantern to light the huts in those days.

So we pull, he pulls aside – no way me leading – he pulls aside the rough burlap curtain and we go inside me following him – the 4 are there rifles always at the ready – ready for BEAR – yeah I bet. These guys are nuts, I can smell the scent in that hut and we get to playing cards in the glow of the kerosene lantern and then they get to roughhousing and Damn! These guys in a small space are so big knocking over the small wood table the kerosene lamp goes flying almost setting the whole place on fire then all of a sudden the big black boy – the ‘troubled’ teenager the big black ‘troubled’ teenager jumps me; he jumps on me while others are taking care of the tipped kerosene lantern and now in the moving shadows and some slight light as they are relighting the lantern he has jumped me and I am on my back and his big black strong legs are on me pinning my little legs and his strong arms are holding my two little arms up above me pinned on the wooden floor and I will never forget his sneering face and then he only needs one of his big black hands to continue to pin my two small little arms on the rough wooden floor above my head, with his other hand he pulls out his big black dick and proceeds trying to stuff that big black dick into my mouth.

The others gather ‘round now the lantern is fixed holding the golden glow close, they finding the whole scene amusing it seems; memorizing. They seen it before? Maybe? Probably?

I ain’t having it. I ain’t strong enough to stop him but my jaw strong enough.

I am surprised, being pushed down, thrown down onto the wood slats in that close shadowy glowing Quonset hut in the middle of a lonely forest on the side of Turkey Mountain – I did not see it coming, no way now trying to escape way too late for that.

They all are gathering ‘round – to see, to witness a young kid getting fucked?

I still squirming not giving up hope pushing my cheeks from side to side my mouth stubbornly closed – Fuck him!

They all crowding over hovering, the cards long scattered about me and he picks one up flicking the black Jack in a taunting, in my squirming face; I will ever never forget his noxious evil lopsided grin and perhaps I was young and still am having some innocence I know then hope eternal and some way I getting out of this; don’t know how.

He starts to work my cheeks with his big black strong hand. The strange excited faces crowding around me lit by that golden kerosene lamp anticipating the next; my cheeks struggling moving side to side my small arms pinned above my head his knees pressing hard on my small legs, his whole body – come on man I weigh then maybe 80 lbs – maybe one hundred? He easy one hundred and eighty or maybe even more; there ain’t no way out of here but it ain’t happening; not to me; no, not tonight. I don’t know how or why – there is no way this big black guy is going to stuff his big black dick into my mouth – and it is BIG! – boy!

Big enough so much I have seen in my short life – no way!. Jerking my cheeks side to side pursing my lips my mouth tight closed he still trying to work them open; he tried, he trying very hard to stuff his big black dick into my mouth through my tightly closed lips my clenched jaws, he could have knocked me out but then what fun that be? – maybe I should have let the dick in, chomped down on it hard and cut it off just as a raccoon tail I remembering a few days earlier - I didn’t do it – pushed enough, maybe; I way too young then; didn’t have to and I didn’t cry neither – no way – fuck him he ain’t getting to me.

Then one of those others, and my ‘friend’ took mercy or pity, I cannot say and really I would easily have chosen either at that moment pulled the black guy off saying

“Leave him alone; he just a kid.”

Maybe because I not crying – maybe ‘cause he was my ‘friend’? Maybe ‘cause he a ‘troubled’ teenager trying on this mountain in the country to do right; I don’t know though I did get out from under that big black and his big black dick; this one, me, about to be a (troubled?) teenager in tact.

And with all the excitement expended as air out of a big blue balloon we left that night scurrying away, actually slowly we walking down the hill lost in thoughts, we saying nothing to each other, I had lost at cards that night yet I got away with my life and some pride no matter how small I was in those years, we slowly walking back down the hill to our hut catching a few BBs in our butts our asses – Fuck them – I caught one in the back of my neck too in the darkness of the forest and I got into our hut and I pulled the rough grey military blanket over me over my head – fuck the mosquitoes, I had way bigger things, issues, on my mind.

The thing about this rural upstate camp, the experiences I having there is a free for all a mayhem through and through though I did not know that then, still learning I was, though now I can, the memory to come – if events working just right or another way, you know all those guys had a hundred pounds on me easy, on me as Mr. Weir sleeping and ate and whatever a few hundred yards away from me, in that ‘Administration’ hut; a good kid so everyone telling me, surrounded by big ‘troubled’ teenagers on Turkey Mountain in the dark quiet forest. Yeah, I seen a thing or two, even more, that week on Turkey Mountain.

‘Mascot’(?), that has to be a fantasy in my thinking gaming for survival, that makeshift fantasy that fantasy in my mind, maybe then as a superficial super-dooper wish for survival in the middle of the woods. ‘Mascot’ I would be and no, I wasn’t a pawn – a target of opportunity for ‘troubled’ teenage bodies so strong they are and there minds – and more than a few BBs and stronger more hurting pellets in my butt but thank God the caliber no bigger and then the week is finished, the carrying big heavy creosoted tar laden railroad ties carrying one by one so heavy drilling through, the drill being powered by a gas/diesel generator on that narrow dirt road quieting the sound of the chirping singing birds, drilling through and through that tough tarred creosoted wood and pounding that stiff thick metal knarly rebar through what I considered to be too small a drilled hole, so much pounding it took to drive that stiff rebar nail that knarly stake through connecting one black tarred tie to another but Mr. Weir insisted, the only wisdom here in this camp I believed; I wonder those bonding railroad ties still there still standing or rather laying across next to each other keeping nature and the mountain and the forest at bay; keeping this ruddy track clear; still there? After all these years; still there here on Turkey Mountain?

And then we come to the end of the week and we getting an award, of sorts. We apparently did right though given my week’s experience – really what do I know?

We all loaded into the back of that open flat bed truck on that evening and Mr. Weir brought us all to town; I did not even know there is a town around and as a reward he driving us to town to a local bowling alley in this small upstate town, and trust me these country people not really ready for us – I could tell and I only ten then. I do not know where my ‘friends’ got the stuff but they getting drunk. I saw in the back of the truck they all passing around a cup and a bottle and a container or two, they not offering none to me – good thing probably and I wasn’t asking – even the 4 girls drinking from the cup; even the two sisters I watching carefully –I seen drunk before – I ain’t that stupid; I am growing, that is for sure.

And we unloaded in front of the bowling alley, some stumbling off already – maybe a head start? The tail gate wasn’t even down yet; Mr. Weir had barely stopped the truck they bounding out and over; oh well here we go.

And now we are in this small town’s bowling alley and it is the best time, the most memorable time I have ever, ever had in a bowling alley – ever for ever; I am pretty sure about that.

Where those boys – the girls? – got the alcohol I cannot say – who knows? After a week I figure (now as an older man) they had time to brew some hooch, in a week and the kitchen; I wasn’t thinking that then for my eyes are wide open as they throwing the big black and red bowling balls up high down the alley the balls bouncing off coming down hard onto the slick waxed alley and then taking another bounce bouncing off the metal gate coming down protecting trying to protect the pins – the funniest thing I had ever ever seen the big black and red balls bouncing down the alley bouncing off the dropping metal gate the funniest I had ever seen; my cheeks filling my eyes pouring tears in abandoning laughter so hard I am laughing, so much excitement so much unencumbering laughter maybe letting out a week of experiences and life in a small upstate town’s bowling alley, crying in joyousness; oh my God what a time; laughing, laughing uncontrollably - even giggling sometimes even still today thinking of; such a time of laughing those far away days...

We some how got out of that bowling alley without the local cops swarming; now I am thinking, I cannot say – I figure Mr. Weir; maybe that why my mother liking him so; he dead now – pretty sure.

The next morning we are again in the back of that steel metal flat bed truck; we are going home.

I have to say, no matter or perhaps because of the adventures I was not happy leaving Turkey Mountain; not happy to go; who knew then?

I do not know what or who went on that night, after the bowling alley adventure the episode after Mr. Weir bringing us all in the back of the truck back to Turkey Mountain. We coming back to the mountain late and I was young then and I slept unmolested – I hope! – I think?

One can only imagine young ‘troubled’ teenagers and 4 teen girls drunk after a week in the forest about to separate, who knows and who can tell anymore; I fell out sleeping in my bed – fuck the mosquitoes again – so much other stuff going on to be concerned by a few small bites, me dreaming of stuff I cannot no longer remember, though I wish I could remember; imagine.

The day before my ‘friend’, who had saved me from that night of questionable recreation in that hut of bristling rifles, having finally finished with the raccoon tail and it became a bushy handsome piece; I almost about to ask ‘can I have it?’ I knew better much as I would have liked to wear the tail a top my head so long in this week I watching the careful preparation; I did not ask.

After that other night of questionable card playing and recreational rough housing a top the hill, the next evening he insisting time to take a shower and I admit by that day, that evening I a bit sticky and dirty I am sure after so many days working with those ties; so from our Quonset hut on the hill he leads me down in the falling golden sunset with our small towels jauntily thrown on our shoulders down into the clearing to take a shower; my first. I really didn’t trust the place – I have a feeling and we went in, inside and now we are standing on wooden pallets, my small bare feet and we are naked and the wooden pallets keeping our feet clean from the mud always occurring when water pouring down and we standing under the two shower nozzle heads, placed too close together you ask me; so the two of us standing side to side the shower spewing warm water, thank God, on my chest, turning around, now on my back we standing very close together; the two nozzles made it that way – no choice; for my young thinking one, someone, anyone could have spread the two nozzles a bit more apart when they building this place.

Anyway there we are and he telling me I have spots of tar on my back needing to be cleaned off and I am sure he is right so many days I been working down there with those tarry ties and he washes wipes my back clean washing and cleaning a place I cannot reach and he washing me and it does feel good – no BBs thudding into my young body and no mosquitoes here curiously, maybe the showering water chasing the critters away and then he reaching around telling me he has to clean something else, my dick, my little penis he is sure needs some attention some cleaning too and I don’t think so even some even, a - so young I am, growing quickly as a weed I am and he is bigger than me and he is my ’friend’ in this far off odd country of rustic place and so I have to be careful, real careful I figuring – least I think I do – you understand – do you? Ever been there, a young child naked in a shower with a ‘troubled’ bigger teenager trying to get clean?

I am not sure about him and he backs off sensing my anxiousness – I ain’t crying or nothing and he backs off from pulling my dick and decides – I can see the reluctances in his face – he backs off and is now instructing me how to beat off – masturbate you want the medical term; odd, wonder, wonder really how a young child learns about, in the curious ways of sex in the mountains – the most curious of ways he jerking off in the shower; showing me he says.

I did take a good shower that evening clean and he and me walking back up to our hut – not holding hands or anything – Please!

I will never forget that shower; obviously, wondering still what happening to him so many years ago saving me in that scary Quonset hut way up on the mountain; saving me - for him? I don’t know…really taking a chance in that scary Quonset hut to move in, much as I know now he taking a chance the other night to save me from that crazy place – saving me – not my life exactly; they could have moved on him next; now older I know that; my ‘friend’ taking a chance saving me that night in that crazy place.

There was this other evening, we had worked all day – from early morning and these 4 girls – beautiful girls really; 4 troubled teenage girls, though what do I know? They fed us, me and our ‘chain gang’ as we were having fun no matter the hard work and brought down to us cool drinks always lifting our spirits – what else girls supposed to do?

Well after dinner some evenings I would sneak down to that kitchen – I would try not to arouse the rifles bristling always, always seemingly a top the hill ready always ready and make my way down to the kitchen – after we all ate in the early evening and the birds singing a different tune and the mist settling in with trees is calming and light bending golden ‘round the mountain and in some ways if it is if this is possible in some ways relaxing to a tired young boy’s body after so many hours of hauling and drilling and pounding I feeling this spent and still I am alive.

I making my way down to the kitchen quietly and with careful cover – I know at least two of those women in the kitchen working and cleaning up – I can keep count! Only ten then and I can keep count of those two women – only one I care about; why this happens I cannot say – even today. I am sure however much as I try to loose the yoke of one, that feeling haunting me so much, so much I trying to change – it ain’t happening, even today I cannot lose the woman much as I might try.

So I come to the kitchen silently and a bit, very surreptitiously – I going under the brush and in no way invited as I peer into through the window I seeing one of the guys kissing one of the sisters and yeah he got here before me; I had no chance anyway – I know that but it don’t matter; I liked the other sister, the younger sister better – not younger because it made a difference; both these two sisters separated by barely a year – not that I had a chance – but for that moment she left alone that teenage girl as her sister kissing this guy and now this slightly older sister doing something else; something way more than kissing now on that rough wooden table on her back she is her legs spreading wide open and I couldn’t help but imagine I can do this too, to her, her sister, that is the one I liked – loved, wanted so badly, so young, so early for those early rushes of feelings; how do I get into these rushes of feelings – this fix? I about to crash through the window and grab she who I desired, wanted real bad – I almost going to do it too! With her! Then a slug banged into my neck and that slug felt bad and really hard – “Fuck!” and I looking, turning ‘round scraping my neck silently cursing, I think it bleeding; Damn!; turning ’round to my left seeing the asshole carrying the rifle – in the light! In the fading golden sun light of an early evening day the sun curling down she is covering again and finally leaving again the mountain and the cold misty trees – over his shoulder slinging the gun he is grinning, I see him passing by the corner of the building out of sight; that slug hurt so bad so close he shot me I figuring sucking the blood off my fingers, now I seeing him through that almost about to be broken window he coming into the kitchen and I know I caught, he caught me looking, shooting a slug in back my neck close up, I caught that slug hard and I said fuck it – who gets the best still looking for a little while, while her young beautiful cheek coyly turning away from me and then towards his entrance as a little colorful small bird chirping smiling; discovered I was…love on the mountain; who gets the luck and the girl; the guy with rifle does; he walking in; taking my girl; I saw that! What good do me that evening though I could not, ever, not even today, get that pretty young ‘troubled’ teenage girl out my mind – impossible; watching her coyly smiling turning he coming.

Not fair.

The next morning we all got up, all of us still alive and carrying our motley dirty bags – other than the 4 pretty girls; their luggage is neat and clean; we boys are the messy smelly monsters up there on the mountain. We all climbing into the back of that flatbed truck taking us all back into the city; we know where we going and no rifles here on the truck, probably buried again in plastic, certainly hidden, again; surely we leaving Turkey Mountain behind and far away and I can tell all of us really do not want to leave; no home sickness here.

To me, even now I can cry of leaving Turkey Mountain away; I never did nor found even a dead turkey on Turkey Mountain – such is life.

My father picked me up in Jamaica right on time or did Mr. Weir bring me home to 97th Street? I cannot remember these so scattered thoughts so many years ago, young thoughts gone now forever; forever?

I got home, you can be sure of that; that morning, neither Mr. Weir nor my parents having my coming home alive any other way and I can understand, me having that position in life right then.

Mr. Weir carrying my little body home maybe – way back in those days; I got home in one piece no matter the blisters on my little hands, no matter the bites the welts and bruises – to what? My body my brain – my thinking – one hell of a week and I am growing up though not thinking that way then; so many years ago, so many years ago now...

The next morning, for some reason noticing, watching me, pretty twitchy I am; he is watching me as some fathers do; especially one who actually loves the kid. It is a Saturday morning and I go to the metal fire proof door they had recently installed, our front door in this apartment and I about to turn the brass knob and go out and he says to me

“Where you going?”

He asks nicely, casually, come on man he is from South Carolina if nothing else he is caring and always, always, almost always, polite and always caring.

I says to him, my father “I am going out.”

A southern gentleman, trust me, makes all the difference.

“Where you going?” he asks again, digging in as a father maybe ought to.

“I am going to Laurelton.” I says to him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How you going to get there?”

“I’m walking.”

“Yeah?!”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Near Jamaica.”

“Far away.”

“That’s ok; ain’t that far; can’t be.”

“You can’t walk there.”

“Yes I can; I’ll walk.” I say to him.

“Why you going there?” He asks me.

“I want to find this girl.” I say stubbornly.

I like - love my Dad; I don’t mind saying the truth; he been being so good to me so far.

“A girl?”

“Yeah.”

“What girl - ?”

“A girl I met on Turkey Mountain; I want to find her; I’m going.”

“What is her name?”

“None of your business.”

“Laurelton is far away.”

“I don’t care; can’t be too far; I’m walking there.”

“Let me drive you.”

I looking at him wondering – this is my father; my father would never ever fool me, not that I can remember and I considering biting my lip wondering if I should…

“Ok.”

And he opened that fire proof brown painted front metal door for me, my little body walking out into pretty much a cruel world and me and him walking down stepping down the two flights of those apartment building’s stairs and out and we getting into that big dark blue Mercury car now parked and always now sitting safely where my father last left her given his knowledge and skill; and he driving me to Laurelton.

Laurelton is far away; I found out.

Me and my father cruising the streets of Laurelton as I expectantly looking out the big wide front windshield and that big side window too of his big blue Mercury with cushy big blue cushy seats; looking out for her for hours and hours we cruising the streets of Laurelton and after so many hours I starting to cry I finally figuring I might never ever find her never ever see her ever again and as we cruising down another street and Main Street too, again and again and my father says to me

“What do you think; time to go home?” In a casual push – you have to understand, or try to understand his beautiful graciousness; a down south southern graciousness or even perhaps even maybe remembering, even perhaps understanding remembering from a long time ago the ways of a young boy…

And I screamed “NO!” with tears flooding my young 10 year old eyes my body carefully shuddering.

“No!” I sputtered again; “No…” shrugging off my desperation; my young boy’s desperation I did not then want to believe nor even dare understand so many days ago I have come to this place.

And finally I fell asleep my father still cruising those Laurelton streets, my father carefully driving me home, carrying me, my small sleeping body up two flights of stairs home, the setting sun behind us two.

I figure; ‘cause the next morning I waking in my bed and me and we, all of us my two sisters too and my two parents, we went to church.

It a bright sunny morning and maybe soon I be allowed to carry that big silver cross.

You Better Listen

Lone day stuck in a little box; not a soul hearing me; finally getting one to heed - too late for my friend Tom.

Reckoning, dreaming my out of this filthy box, wearing for worse, sneaky too - don’t enjoy being sneaky – maybe, in my nature sometimes when you have to, ‘specially no one listening.

”Get that dress off,” growling, “give you a good wash.”

I think he talking to me.

“How much you giving me?”

I say to him.

“I ain’t doing noth’n for noth’n, this rag suits me fine!”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me naked you freak.”

“I get you a pretty new one.”

“I know you stuck on my birthday suit.”

“It’s your birthday; let’s have a party!”

“Invite all my friends!”

I told him: Invite all my friends!

You listening to me? - YOU – The READER! You better listen to me or you’ll be in trouble! I told him: “INVITE ALL MY FRIENDS – ALL OF ‘EM!” Maybe they’ll get me out of here.

“I giving you a party, nice private party.”

Saying it to me? Can’t tell for sure.

“OOoo can ‘t wait to spank you!”

“You ain’t spanking me.”

I told ‘em!

“OOoo I love your behind, pink little blossoming rose.”

“You looking at my naked picture again – ain’t you – freak!”

Ooo I need another picture; your beautiful birthday suit.”

“No more pictures! Come near me I piss in your face! Piss directly through these bars – in your ugly face.”

“I coming in close, snatch your soul…”

He popping a bright flash – so bright. I can’t see!!

“– I got it!”

“Don’t take my picture! No more!”

“Ooo I gonna kiss you suck your blooming rose.”

“Get away from me you freak!”

“Oh! You pissed my face!”

“I told you! Freak!”

“Ohhh so excited! We partying!”

“I want a big chocolate cake with whipped cream. I want it now!”

I told him; I told him good.

“I’m making a special meat pie for you.”

“I want my cat – where’s my Tom?”

“Tom; here kitty kitty…make a tasty scrumptious mince; been meaning, he getting too fat…”

“Yeah me and Tom will get fat, eat the whole cake – all ourselves!”

I told him good.

“Here pussy pussy…Where’s that damn pussy?”

MEOW, MEOW - ME-!!! CRACK!!!

YOU hear that SCREETCHING MEOW – and that, that CRACK?! He breaking my Tom’s neck? - ?! I’m talking to you READER! Can you see?!

“Is that my Tom, you freak?!”

“Ahhh, poor little pussy…”

“You want pussy…my Tom, come here to my wild smelling box, I’ll show you some pussy. Let me OUT!”

“Such a bad girl! We going to have such fun eating a big meat pie!”

“Yeah, you like it, freak.”

“Where’s my knife? I need my knife.”

He don’t know how I got his stupid knife – and I ain’t telling you neither!

“You want some of this freak?”

BANG, BANG

He banging on my box; he wish!

“I’m going to poke you!”

He’s reaching into my box! HELP!

“Get your hand out of my box!”

“Ohh I got you, you little slut!”

“Hey!...Yeah, yeah you got me; want your knife?”

“Where’s my knife you little bitch - I know you got –“

“You want it?”

“- OW! You stabbed me! You witch! Give me my hand back!”

I sticking his right grasping hand directly into my dirty messy floor, that knife pins his hand good and then - …You hear that gurgling? You – READER!

“OWW – Don’t – please…”

OK, it stops; annoying gurgling. Well, anyways, that’s what happens to you - you don’t listen to me. Now I’m getting out of this filthy little box making me a freak meat pie; you want a piece of this?

The Comode

Looking for his son, stumbling in darkness against a weighty ‘Associated SuperMarkets’ paper bag tripping him on the cracked dirty vinyl tile floor; why he decides to pick it up, opening it, he can’t say; kicking himself now, definitely the old thief in him, more worrisome his drug addict phoenix raising ugly heads, opening colorful luring wings, readying another dangerous often exciting fascinating life, this familiar troublesome environment bringing all out; sense of place haunting him.

The smell wafting in the small room is overwhelming: distorted ammonia.

Leaning over looking down into the toilet filled with shit. How anyone can sit on this cold cracked porcelain rim adding final inches of crap; maybe standing on the edge?; beyond him this late winter afternoon; he doubted the oh so lonely people passing through this place having the balance. Ahh! And What About toilet paper?

The reason this small bathroom don’t smell any worse because it freezing in here. Shit frozen. Freezing in here because freezing outside; New Years Eve in NYC and he looking for his son in an old dilapidated two story wood frame house in South Jamaica; what a way to start New Years.

You can say the house is abandoned; but that wouldn’t be right, ever never without people, coming going, some in the oddest hours, all hours trudging on dirty snow encrusted paths through garbage strewn yard shuffling debris littering hallways squatting in tattered garbage strewn rooms staring at busted punched in sheet rock walls flickering in dying candlelight dazed and apparently some, finding their way in darkness, for surely no one paying for electric here, stumbling their way topping off this commode. You would have to be high, why not just shit on the floor (‘cause it their home?!)? One ill kempt dazed boy somewhere here may be his son.

Oddly someone had placed a city ‘Public Restroom’ sign atop the dirty porcelain toilet tank staring at him. Someone, taking the time, stealing a citysign, bringing the message to this commode. Drug addicts are so funny sometimes; then, maybe, it the last owner , his children of this home; teenage pranks of long ago kids living here; something his son – yeah, I having no time then with them, son & daughters, dutifully yelling at them all!; for stealing.

This is clearly a Public Restroom now, no pretension whatsoever for privacy; His big dark large form leaning unsteadily against the wooden bathroom door gasping in memory, or what left hanging holding on one hinge torn top panel broken through with either fist or – no - remembering, a hammer, his elbow pushing through for balance. Really, who needs doors, modesty never a strong suit now in these digs.

Some slight light to see by; what little grey sunlight this hour weakly drifting through square corner edges of a graffitied wood board covering the cracked window is why he had stumbled upon the supermarket bag in this darkness (New Years gift?), picking the large brown red stenciled paper bag up, opening its mouth, staring into its opening, seem’n to be a pound!

Moving closer to cracks of golden light dribbling in now from a setting sun through this bottom edge of the rough plywood board, opening the bag’s mouth, greenish contents wrapped in clear plastic his condensing breath fogging his view smelling stickingly thick green sweet vegetable; sticking his nose further into the bag as a glue freak; seems good…looking around, furtively. Someone forgotten good shit in his bathroom? Would they remember, furtively thinking would they be coming back? Are they now trudging determinedly, quickly, crunching on snow pushing debris aside determinedly on crusted snow pathways coming into dark hallways; can he get away, get away carrying, grabbing New Years with spoils; his plunder? Hearing voices; knowing for sure other ways out this dark house.