art never dies
  • Home
  • Active Listening
  • Sound Portal
  • Tom Gallison

Eddie Van Halen

10/30/2020

0 Comments

 
Picture

It was summertime in the late 70’s and I was standing over the massive console stereo cabinet in the family room of our house. The ornately carved, coffin-like wooden box was the center piece of furniture in the large space. It provided storage specially crafted for vinyl records, and it was full of them. Usually there were stacks of records on top as well, newer, or prime selections that we played so often it wasn’t worth the trouble to put them away. The components within consisted of a turntable and radio, with numerous built in speakers of all sizes slotted in to maximize sound, and a long chrome column of knobs to endlessly modify your listening experience. Every other piece of furniture in the room; each chair and table were positioned around it accordingly – so no matter where one sat, they could gaze upon this magnificent creation that was the vehicle for delivering the magic of music. Our television was off in the corner – and though it too held its place, it did not have the grand distinction of the stereo cabinet.

I was fortunate enough to have 3 older sisters who each spent much of their allowances on vinyl records. This provided me an ample gateway into libraries of musical artists that I may not have otherwise ever heard at my age.

On this day, like many others, I carefully placed the needle on the newest addition to the stack that had caught my eye. The album cover lured me in and fired my curiosity: a quadrant of photographs, each displayed a sweat glistened persona on a stage of black, spot lit with a variety of colors. The pants were tight, and their shirts were unbuttoned, and all of them were clearly caught up in the throes of what could only be the final moments of a very exhausting and vigorous live performance. The logo in the center stood out like a hood ornament; a sharp-edged, silvery blue emblem of shining, metallic wings in the shape of the letters VH. ‘Van Halen’ was etched in black on the banner across the mirrored letters. Saying the name out loud felt powerful, like I was wielding a hammer rather than a record. I tilted the vinyl out of its sleeve into my sweaty palms and carefully placed it on the turntable, making certain my fingers did not smudge the grooves of the black disc.

What came next was a bit of a blur. I heard what I imagined was an air-raid siren. A long, droning chorus of car horns, the volume steadily rising. The horns were not honking, not staccato bursts echoing in city streets – these horns were being held down, laid on, stuck and wailing in atonal unison. Something was wrong. And they were getting louder. This was a grave warning, an alarm. But it was already too late, and I felt the hair stand up at the base of my skull where the skin was damp and cool from both the thrill and the fear of this moment that was merely seconds but felt like minutes. The horns peaked like a broken scream and then wound down slow and deliberate, morphing into a warped, sludging halt like hot blood or candle wax solidifying in a pool. All at once the fading horns cut out abruptly, replaced on the downbeat by the pulse of a single string, deep and thick and lighting the way down through the dark path ahead one step at a time. One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…and on the eighth, the sound of a guitar slashed out like a demon’s claws raking my virgin flesh; roused from the black void of thumping bass, called forth by the dry, tribal beat of toms like muffled cannons while a madman howled into the abyss over it all.

I stood in place, propping myself up on the console, hypnotized by the spinning record and the drunkenness with which the music instilled. The guitar notes were razor sharp, and the tone was completely unique to anything I had ever heard before. It seemed as though there was vast space in the room – the ear could discern every instrument in its singularity, but the guitar leapt out with an alien cry every now and again, in a series of savage salvos before retreating into a dusk of subtle chords. Throughout, the singer bellowed his downtrodden tale of a broken home which consisted mostly of guttural wails and howls of anguish than of literary substance. There was, however, mention of the Devil, and that gave the overall message some heft.

It was a blistering opener, and when it was over there would be no sitting down to review liner notes. I was held in sonic rapture –right there, hovering over the stereo; captivated, entranced, still studying the photos on the album cover.

What came next defies prose. It was a solo guitar instrumental – outside of bass and drums interjected at select moments to add accents of exclamation to what is the virtual high-wire act of a sonic circus. One minute and 42 seconds. A pure, uncut, adrenaline thrill ride of virtuosity the likes of which superseded everything that came before it. A clinic of unrivaled tone and technique bled through a singular sieve of spit-fire and distilled down to a vaporous clarity. Notes were dropping like molten liquid steel on a canvas of cold glass. The guitar used as a visceral blade was nothing new, but no one had ever experienced the cut of a rapier quite like this. The sound that came forth was so fast and unexpected it felt like an ambush; multi-faceted and like most well executed, successful assaults, seem to come from every direction all at once. Sound rained down like razor sharp icicles overhead, knifing through the electric fog, a blistering tempest of fury unfurling mercilessly, and in its wake, a savage maelstrom of audible shrapnel, red hot and eviscerating everything in earshot. The layered attack had a velvety softness to it as well – as though a blinding flurry of individual notes were being called forth with a whisper, summoned solely from fleeting fingertips rather than struck into life with the honed edge of a pick.

The volume of the stereo was ample, but not out of ordinary parameters. Still, the sound was visceral, churning my insides, catching me up in it like tangled barbed wire. My face was hot, I felt exposed, somehow invaded and uncertain if I should even be there. What I heard seemed to be intensely personal, a veritable glimpse inside the soul of the performer, a bloodletting. The blur of notes then abruptly shifted, seemed to soar skyward, and fell into a spiraling, droning descent before flaming out above the horizon like a comet, a trail of greenish smoke still reverberating in the air.

That moment seemed to end as fast as it began – and for the first time I realized that I was not alone in the room. I turned to see one of the older neighborhood boys who hung out with my sister. He must have noticed the dazed look on my face – as his visage seemed to mirror mine. We both shared an astounded disbelief at what we had just heard. I quickly turned back to the stereo, picked up the phonograph needle and put it back a groove, to cue up the song again. And when it began, I looked at the boy’s face again – searching for answers. He was older than me. He looked as though he had heard the song before – perhaps multiple times. Maybe he knew something. What was happening here? Was this sound truly coming from a guitar? How? He instinctively read my disposition and offered what I can only assume was his own attempt to grasp the uncertainty of the situation. He said, “I think he has a special switch on the back of his guitar.”

And with that single sentence – the young man summed up the whole consciousness of a generation who were experiencing the magic of Van Halen for the very first time. The sounds we heard could not be attributed to a human. There had to be some technical wizardry going on – a switch of some kind. Hidden, on the back of the guitar.

It was, at the time, the best, most plausible explanation there was. Because we couldn’t see with our own eyes what was happening. And what we were hearing, needed a disclaimer. It simply wasn’t possible to imagine a human being was generating this staggering arcade of sounds from mere fingertips.

We would of course, learn later that it was just a man – albeit an incredibly talented wonder of a human being. There was no special switch on the guitar, and in fact there were less functional switches than on a normal model. The sound, the magic, the distinct tone and the speed with which it was deftly delivered came from Eddie Van Halen.

I don’t for one second imagine the account above is in any way that greatly different from pretty much every music lover alive around the time Van Halen’s debut record was released. I truly believe there a global, collective sigh of astonishment, wonder and amazement. I didn’t play guitar at the time I first heard Eddie play. And afterwards, I had no desire to whatsoever. What was the point? The bar was sky high before Van Halen – now it was in outer space. But the inspiration and the dreams of playing music were most certainly fueled and could not be stifled. And that was because of moments like these, hovering over the console stereo.

I experienced the thrill of seeing Van Halen live only once, a story for another day – but it pales in comparison to hearing ‘Runnin’ with the Devil’ and ‘Eruption’ the very first time.

This was a difficult story to write because I didn’t know how on earth, I would ever distill into words the description of the sounds – and to do it well enough to give it the justice it deserves. It seemed to me, at first, to make a comparison by way of metaphor – perhaps to an author whom I admired in literature, would be a much easier task. So I paired Eddie Van Halen with William Faulkner.

Eddie Van Halen is to guitar what William Faulkner is to literature: Incredibly long, stream of consciousness sentences, full of intensely detailed, intricate descriptions that puzzle and challenge the jagged lines of a stormy, restless imagination; at times effusive and bright, always melodic and colored with characters evoking a rich, nearly unspoken archaic language, unleashing ash embers of words/notes whirled about in a dust devil wind, blackened with the aged smoke of experience and filtered through cauterized scars of hardship while often lifted up with a feathery brush of whimsical, impish wit and walled in with the structure of mahogany frame built on a dirt foundation of dense vocabulary, sparse punctuation and deep meaning.
0 Comments

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - Ghosteen

12/30/2019

0 Comments

 
Picture
Nick Cave’s latest record ‘Ghosteen’ is, in my opinion, the best album of the year. Perhaps, the greatest collection of songs this decade. And, arguably the pinnacle of the artists’ long and storied anthology. A sonically dense cloud of swirling drones, stark, desolate, keys and atmospheric synths make up the entirety of the eleven songs. Together, with Cave’s storytelling narrative, lyrical journeys and forays into the imagination, they conjure a hypnotic trance-like state that both lifts and descends into darkness and light, and stages a stinging, bittersweet clinic on the forces of hopeless despair pitted against fierce love. It is, at its core, an expression of the complex fragility of relationships when entangled in a spiral of shared grief. A struggle to cope with excruciating loss, all the while painfully aware of the severed threads on the mortal bonds we have with those that remain. The storm, and its aftermath have wrought a change that requires reckoning by those in its wake. What is present, is the fear of losing all: loss of control and meaning; every thing and every one, that once gave forth bountiful happiness and joy. The fight portends no certain outcome. Rather, it is a day to day dance barefoot through broken glass. These are the seeds of the songs on Ghosteen, and what they reap are as magical, intimate and delicate as a butterfly’s wings, and as ethereal as the spirits of those that no longer reside with us.

I had assumed the subject matter would revolve loosely if not metaphorically around the tragic death of Cave’s 15 year old son in 2015. In addition, it is evident that a prominent theme is the question of weather Cave’s own marriage will ultimately survive the catastrophic event. The songs are as much a tribute to the love he has for his wife as they are a dedication to his fallen boy.

Percussion of any kind is sparse and intermittent at best, minus the menacing plucked bass string loop evident on ‘Hollywood.’ There are few guitars and no dramatic, thunderous drums, but then again these have never been a prominent fixture of Cave’s work. His magic is in his words and the voice that he gives them, often breaking to the point of faltering entirely; raw, unfiltered and without a corrective take, and by virtue of this, able to convey his message more deeply and personally than any other medium.

The power of Ghosteen lies not only in the expressions of sorrow and grief, but the love of life in all its unbridled glory: its tragedy, its consequences and its triumphs. And there is not one among us who cannot relate. As the record closes the song Hollywood echoes a stark reality:

It’s a long way to find peace of mind. I’m just waiting now, for peace to come.

0 Comments

Dream Archive # 333

3/31/2017

0 Comments

 
My wife and I were in a large multi-story loft in a room full of dead people and animals that we we loved who are now gone. It wasn’t heaven, unless heaven is a loft on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. There were also unfamiliar faces and animals as well as people we know that are still with us. I remember a hybrid monkey / cat coming in the window from the fire-escape who had long, crooked fingers like roots that crept up beside me and slowly, very deliberately felt the contours of my face as though it was blind. We became friends.

The dead people were mostly relatives and all looked youthful and healthy as though they were at their prime age in life. My mother was busily zipping around getting things in order. Kristen’s grandmother and grandfather sat in ornately carved wooden chairs next to each other holding hands. Of note was my wife’s very cheery and youthful uncle - looking dapper at perhaps 30 years old. (Who just passed away earlier this year at age 71.)

There were numerous people and cats running amok from room to room in some kind of odd celebratory chaos. I remember wanting to ask my mom a question about Shakespeare but she held up a finger and dashed off. I walked about the place - which had cavernous, high ceilings and massive, castle-like doorways 10 feet high - all trimmed with elaborate wood finishing. Every room was abuzz with conversation. The cacophony of voices made it difficult to discern what it was all about.

Some dirty faced red-headed kid tapped my hand and indicated that he could probably get my car started;  that is, the ’73 Galaxy 500 with side-pipes parked in the alley. The same one I took to the junkyard in high school after the engine blew on the highway. I told him to have at it.

Finally it was time to leave and I descended via the fire escape, a couple of cute girls smiling through open windows as I passed down by their lofts. One asked me if I knew any magic tricks. I responded that I did, and reached into my pocket for a deck of cards, but my wife nudged me to keep moving. I indicated that I would show them some magic on my way back. The younger one laughed and said, ‘Oh, silly! You’re not coming back.’


0 Comments

Meeting Bowie

1/17/2016

0 Comments

 
My first meaningful exposure to David Bowie’s music was in 1975 when at the age of 10, I became transfixed with glee every time Fame played over the car radio or stereo speakers. I had the benefit of having three older sisters who’s love for music provided my budding eyes and ears with easy access to a bountiful selection of records and music magazines (Creem and Circus, anyone?) But it was seeing Bowie perform on Saturday Night Live in 1979 that really knocked me out of my Buster Brown shoes and bell-bottomed, red corduroys. David wore a dress and was accompanied onstage by backup singers in drag (Klaus Nomi and Joey Arias) moving like robots in and out of sync with one another and the music. In the middle of the stage stood a pink, stuffed toy poodle with a mini- television clutched in its teeth, broadcasting the performance in real time. The band played Man who Sold the World, TVC 15 and Boys Keep Swinging. During Boys Keep Swinging, Bowie’s body was superimposed with a marionette, an odd TV trick which, in contrast to his over-sized head and the mimed movements of the puppet, gave the scene a truly creepy feel. The whole thing was incredibly bizarre, surreal and completely enthralling. In the coming weeks and months, I would spend any and all cash that I could muster buying Bowie records, old and new. My indoctrination to his musical genius had begun. Little did I know then, that one day I would have the incredible honor to meet the man...


When you are employed at Zabar’s on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, crossing paths with celebrities becomes a commonplace occurrence. Over a decade in the nineties, I brushed elbows with the likes of Paul Simon, Art Garfunkel, James Taylor, Tracey Ullman, Geena Davis, Tony Randall, Robin Williams, Bruce Willis, Cindy Crawford, Tom Hanks, Cindy Lauper, Meg Ryan, Meat Loaf, Mary Lou Henner, Laurence Fishburne, Woody Allen, Tiny Tim, Rupert Holmes, Randy Travis, Jane Pauley, Diane Sawyer, Lauren Bacall, Lauren Hutton, Carol King and more. With a few exceptions, I was perfectly content to have little or no interaction with these individuals, outside of brief observation from a comfortable distance. Once in a while I sought out autographs for friends of mine who were fans. James Taylor graciously wrote a nice note for my friend Alice, never mind that his arm was in a cast from thumb to elbow. Robin Williams delightedly signed a paper bag: ‘Dear Lisa, don’t kill him – he got the autograph,’ after I had indicated that Lisa would indeed kill me if I didn’t ask for it. But for the most part, I didn’t want to bother anybody – so it was a stretch for me to pursue attention or time from these individuals, who most assuredly just wanted to do their shopping and be left alone.
The paramount exception to all of these encounters was when I had the great fortune to meet and talk to David Bowie. It would not have been possible without the efforts of my good friend, Mr. Scott Goldshine, Zabar’s General Manager. Scott and I became fast friends after we realized that we shared common musical interests. He was an uber-fan of all kinds of music, and sought it out with a voracious appetite, buying more CD’s every week that he could ever keep up with listening to. His apartment was literally overflowing with prodigious volumes of discs – so much so that practically all the furniture throughout the place was cleverly outfitted to either display CD’s or serve as cabinets to house them. Scott was also a huge supporter of the band I was in at the time, and as it happened we had recently completed our first CD recording, pressed to disc, packaged and ready for distribution to a waiting world. Scott was always looking for ways to promote us, and via the position he held and the numerous potential contacts that came through the door, he had the means to do so.

The evening I met David Bowie was not unlike any other: I was working in the back food-prep area, cleaning up and getting ready to go home. I heard my name over the intercom – it was Scott, his voice tinged with a devious tone which I had grown accustomed to over the years. I picked up the phone and he instructed me to come to the front of the store with a copy of the new CD. When I arrived there I could tell by the smile on his face that there was something up – and that something was going to be good.
When Zabar’s locks its doors for the day at 7:30pm, the sidewalks of the Upper West Side are normally still bristling with customers, often in full sprint to the entrance before Scott turns the key and waves away those arriving a moment too late. He was particularly vigilant about closing time. When half past seven struck, the double doors of the entrance were shut and bolted no matter who may have been in the process of trying to get through them. Over the years I had seen him close these doors with no exceptions, on surprised and defeated faces, and not reopen them; no excuse, no pleading cries of ‘I only need one thing!’ no tales of how far one may have traveled to get there, no manner of imploring whatsoever changed the fact that once the door was bolted – entrance to the store was prohibited, denied, out of the question, until the next morning. On one occasion I happened to accompany him to the doorway and watched as he shut and locked it in the face of then comedian, Al Franken. Mr. Franken paused, looked at me through the glass and remained standing there - miffed and perplexed. I turned to Scott who was already walking away.
“You just shut the door on Al Franken!” I shouted.
Scott casually waved his hand in the air and replied: “Al Franken, the comedian? So what, he’s not fucking funny.”
I turned back to Al, still standing there, and shrugged my shoulders. Scott had worked at Zabar’s his entire life - since a teenager. He was un-fazed by celebrity.
But on this particular rainy night in Manhattan at 7:30pm as Scott turned the key in the door – he recognized a face approaching through the glass that made him turn the key back, perhaps for the first time ever. It was David Bowie – arm in arm with his stunning wife, Iman. The bolt was thrown as the couple was approaching – and after a momentary pause – Scott reversed the action and allowed the two to enter. He made certain they realized what had just taken place. It was a subtle, but meaningful gesture.
When I reached the front, Scott took the CD from me, then grabbed my arm and led me across the main floor of the store. His head turned from side to side, searching, as he indicated that there was currently someone in the store that he was sure I would be most interested in meeting.
And with that – I recognized and slowly approached David Bowie as he was looking over a vast selection of coffee beans. Iman was off in another part of the store, no doubt in an effort to complete their shopping in the short time allotted to them.
David was wearing an auburn trench-coat, wet from the rain, and a black scarf. His blonde hair fell about his face as he looked our way – and though I’m not at all sure how tall he is, he seemed to tower over the two of us as we stood in front of him.
Scott managed the introduction with a smile.

“Mr. Bowie, as you saw, the store was closed prior to your arrival. I made an exception for you, one which I rarely, if ever make. In lieu of that, I was wondering if you might consider a small favor in return.”
It was a bold play on Scott’s part, but not out of line with his character. The look on Bowie’s face was classic; a mix of unshakable ease, uncertainty and mild amusement.
“Oh, dear,” he said, the unmistakable voice like a velvet lather, filling the space between us. “You’re not going to ask me to sing, are you?”
Scott held out the CD and tilted his head toward me.
“My friend, Joe here is a musician – and I’m certain he would like nothing more than for you have this. Will you listen to it?”
“Well, goodness. That’s easy enough.” David put down his basket of groceries, took the CD and looked it over, front and back, then up at me. I reached out my hand and shook his. We exchanged pleasantries and spoke for a few moments during which I’m certain I effused about his greatness like a schoolgirl. It was all happening so fast, but after those first few foggy moments – I remembered to breathe and thought to myself that an autograph from Mr. Bowie would indeed be one I would treasure.
At the time I was reading a book called ‘All You Need to Know about the Music Business,’ by Donald Passman. Mr. David Bowie waited patiently in the coffee section of the store, while I fetched the book from the back room. I asked if he had any objection to signing my copy. When he read the title he raised his eyebrows, scrutinizing it cover to cover as if unsure whether or not this was something he wanted to grace with his pen. I can’t say I blame him. I was simply looking for something outside of a shopping bag for him to sign. A book I knew would stay in safely tucked away in my possession for years to come. And in some way, it was completely apropos for a man who knew as much as anyone on planet earth about the music business to be signing a book on the subject.
“Who is the author?” he muttered to himself, looking at the cover once more. “Passman eh? Hmmf. Very well then.”
As he put his pen to the page I relished with delight the final moments of being in the presence of a such a tremendous musical persona. We parted in what were mere minutes that seemed like only seconds. I watched him tuck the CD into his jacket pocket and gave him a final salute of gracious thanks for his time. Where the CD ended up beyond that moment in time – I cared not. To me – it left the store in the possession of Mr. David Bowie, certainly something to write home about. And so I did. 

0 Comments

Zabar's 

1/29/2015

0 Comments

 
In November of 1989, after residing in New Jersey for a number of years, I decided that I simply had to live in New York City. I opened up the New York Times classified ads, circled three places hiring and called the first one - which was Zabar's. Oddly enough, whoever answered put me right through to Saul Zabar - whom I spoke with for some time. He told me to come in for an interview. Though I was young and full of confidence - and had plenty of food retail experience, the store's general manager, Harvey, at the time wasn't too keen on hiring me, but Saul was. Harvey was concerned about what they may have to pay me - as I had come from a local union and knew full well what my fair wage should be for the job advertised. After talking with both of them for some time I watched Saul as he turned and for several minutes explained to a disgruntled looking Harvey why it was a good idea to hire me. One of those reasons was that I was from the Midwest, Saul liked that. They finally agreed to have me work for a two-week trial period, after which they would assess how much they could compensate me. I was out of work and had nothing to lose so I took the offer.

The store never seemed to slow down and though the work was hard - I was surrounded by an amazingly diverse group of co-workers who were helpful and kind and whose lives interested me to no end. There were mostly Russians, Chinese and Dominicans. I listened to their stories and learned from them, and I saw that their work ethics were in fact a lot stronger than mine. Many had recently emigrated from overseas - and to them - this work was as vital and important to them as breathing. You could see in their eyes that their jobs were serious business to them - not to be taken for granted. They all had families to feed, whereas I just wanted to be a rock ’n roll star. 

The 2 weeks went by in a blur and Saul called me into his office. Though Zabar’s was happy to take me on as a permanent employee, he explained that they would likely not be able to pay me what I had been making under union contract at my previous employer. My disappointment was evident. I couldn’t gauge if Saul was simply being a shrewd businessman or if Harvey’s influence had taken hold. Either way, my dreams of living in Manhattan were going to be crushed if I couldn’t get at least a relatively decent wage. I told Saul as much - and he leaned back in his chair and asked if I thought living on the Upper West Side appealed to me at all. I indicated that it didn’t matter where in the greatest city in the world I was - as long as I could call it my home - and I most certainly had no reservations about living on the most charming Upper West Side. Saul picked up the phone and after a brief conversation turned to me and said: “What if I told you that though I can’t pay you what you were making at your previous employer, perhaps I can offer you a studio apartment across the street - and I can adjust the rent so that as long as you are working for me - we can make it affordable for you.” Those were magic words to my ears. The apartment was 2245 Broadway, Apt 2B - on 82nd street in Manhattan. I graciously accepted the offer. I didn’t even need to see the place first. 

In the coming months - Saul took me under his wing, challenging me, teaching me and always giving me newer and more responsibilities. He apprenticed me in the fine and delicate art of buying smoked fish for Zabar’s. We’d drive out to several Brooklyn smokehouses each week, placing orders for thousands of pounds of lox, smoked salmon, whitefish, sable and sturgeon. Eventually the inventory of the entire appetizing department was in my hands. The studio apartment gave way to a proper, albeit modest 1 bedroom apartment. And my pay soon far eclipsed what I had ever before made in my life. 

I was continually intrigued by Saul himself, as he is truly unlike anyone I have ever met. He was often difficult to please, meticulous and demanding and naturally he expected hard work and dedication from his employees. You might expect that a man in his position wouldn’t bother getting his hands dirty with the menial labor that is required to run a store which makes upwards of 60 million per year. But Saul is as much in the trenches and on the front lines as his employees are. He is not afraid to get his hands dirty - indeed he will work elbow to elbow with anyone  - anywhere in the store. When a refrigeration units breaks down - he is the first one on his hands and knees on the floor, in the grime with a flashlight and screwdriver taking apart the console to see what’s wrong. 

Over time, I realized that the store was to Saul Zabar what music was to me. An art, an inspiration, a craft, an adventure to be explored, savored and cherished. It doesn’t matter what form it takes on - our art feeds our souls. The store is Saul’s art. 

To say that I grew up in those years, treasured and learned from those experiences is an understatement. Zabar’s, Saul Zabar himself, the job and the people that I worked with day in and day out were, and remain the pinnacle of all the work experiences I’ve ever had. My co-workers became my lifelong friends - and even after leaving them after many years, we still pick up right where we left off last. The friends I made at Zabar’s would take a bullet for me, there is not a question in my mind about that. I have never come across such devoted, passionate people who care about one another so fiercely and with such determination. It is a family in the strongest sense of the word. I worked with these people, but we also celebrated together, ate and drank together, they invited me into their homes and embraced me as not just a friend, but one of their own family. 

When I add up all these experiences in my mind they fill me with an unending supply of good memories and happiness. I wonder how different my life may have been had I not opened up the New York Times classifieds that day. I am fortunate. I was able to live my dream - work and live in New York City - and work on my music and feed my creativity with the countless stories of the individuals that surrounded me. 

I attended writing school at night for many of those years and I remember sitting at a bar late one evening after class and telling my creative writing professor this same story. I told it rather casually, he seemed interested in my background. When I finished he reached across the table and grabbed my wrist tight in his hand. He said: Joe, let me get this straight: you came from the corn-fields of Iowa to New York in order to pursue your dreams of being a part of the music scene of this city - to be in a band, and you’ve done that. Along the way, you’ve become a smoked fish buyer for the premier gourmet food store in Manhattan, secured a comfortable apartment on the UWS, and you still have time to take creative writing class two nights a week. My god man - most of us struggle to tell a story so rich even in fiction. 

It really is a wonderful life. Thank you Saul Zabar and all my Zabar’s friends and family. 

Zabar's Celebrates 80 Years on Broadway | NBC New Yorkhttp://www.nbcnewyork.com/entertainment/the-scene/287141971.html via @nbcnewyork




0 Comments

F**k the Police - in with the peace officers

1/2/2015

0 Comments

 
F**k the police - in with the Peace Officers
December 4, 2014 at 12:34pm
PublicFriendsFriends except AcquaintancesOnly MeCustomClose FriendsFamilySee all lists...Prairie High SchoolCedar Rapids, Iowa AreaAcquaintancesGo Back

 I wrote this a while back - seems pertinent to post today.

Isn't it time that we re-assess our approach to upholding law and order? What we need are "Peace Officers." IE: cops who can properly assess a situation and diffuse it with the appropriate actions - the least of which should be the use of force - especially as in this case where there is absolutely no need for it. This example took 3 officers away from possibly preventing or assisting elsewhere, where they might really have been needed. And for what? To remove a harmless individual -  doing nothing to interfere with anyone or anything. It's a failure of leadership from the top down.




I don't want to have cops go through sensitivity training. Why are we even giving a gun to someone who needs 'sensitivity training?' I want to hire cops that don't need sensitivity training. We need to stop giving policing jobs to personality types that thrive on being figures of authority - and are inclined to abuse the power that comes with it. If I were a cop - I would call every day that I came home without having to draw my gun or beat someone's head in a victory. I'm afraid that a lot of cops these days prefer it the other way around.




I get it; it's a tough job - in the big city you have to be assertive - tough. You cannot show weakness. You have to take control. This does not mean you have to show callous indifference and apathy to those you are supposed to be protecting and serving. It has turned into an 'It's us against them' mentality when cops hit the streets. The lack of respect officers are shown these days is directly related to exactly this kind of abuse of power and lack of discretion. From the relatively benign scenario of removing someone from a specific location all the way up to unleashing a hail of bullets when likely one bullet would do. We need to empower and urge our police force to exercise the freedom to decide what should be done in a particular situation - with a focus on the least disruptive and most peaceful outcome.




This effort would likely mean paying cops more - to do less enforcing and more policing. The first step should be putting in place personality testing requirements to screen out those individuals that display a tendency towards violent resolution / excessive force. If one has an inferiority complex - they have no business being a cop. (These are probably the only personality types applying for the job these days.) And a serious effort made to hire police directly from the communities that they reside in. They need to be a part of the community and have a vested interest in it - rather than being an outsider looking in.




I realize this is utopia-like pipe dream - but we've got to get a handle on this. I'm sick of former high-school bullies walking around with guns and nightsticks - and looking for any opportunity to use them. They start out on the street and before long they are promoted to leadership positions and hiring more bullies just like them. These are not the type of individuals who should be charged with keeping the peace. 

0 Comments

Look, it's beautiful! Let's kill it. 

11/6/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
Regarding the story of the extremely rare albino deer recently shot dead by an 11 year old kid in Michigan: I don’t think it’s any mystery that I have an acute distaste of humanity’s mistreatment, abuse and exploitation of animals. A story like this one seems to, on the surface, make that case for me. Humans thrive on killing beautiful, magical creatures right along with the rest of them that aren't as beautiful. It doesn’t matter how rare a beast it may be - 1 in 20k or 100k. This number, the rarity of course, does not give hunters' pause - it gives them a more appealing and desirable target. What a trophy that will make hanging in the living room, right? (For the record, though rare, if you believe killing an albino deer is uncommon, just google images of albino deer and count the dead ones.)

But I continually question why is it okay to teach our children that there is no value in an animal’s life - aside from the need to kill or exploit it for our own personal gain or satisfaction. The slaughter of elephants, lions, whales and other majestic wonders of nature takes place regularly - and a great number of people seem to show genuine distaste for this sort of thing.

And that there is a degree of outrage in these cases would be commendable - a spark of optimism on an otherwise bleak and hopeless wasteland of humanity’s lust for complete annihilation of everything that moves. I say it **would** be commendable - if meat eaters themselves weren't a high percentage of those outraged by these events. If this story, a kid killing a rare deer, or a cheerleader bagging a lion and other similar stories like these disgusts and dismays you - keep in mind that there are over 150 BILLION - (billion with a B) animals slaughtered for food **every year.**

So what is on your plate? If you eat meat, milk and cheese - you are a consumer and hearty supporter of this slaughter - which includes the torture, abuse, mistreatment and suffering of billions of innocent animals annually. I’m not suggesting that one couldn’t or shouldn’t be genuinely outraged by the killing of a rare deer and still eat meat. Humans are chronic speciesists. But this in of itself is something to think about. What’s that old cliché about walking the walk? 
If you really love animals - then do so.




0 Comments

Acoustic Set Lists - May

5/30/2014

0 Comments

 
May 2, 2014
Without the Sin
Tough Enough
Winton Flyer
Heaven Tonight
Buffalo Hurricane
 
May 9, 2014
Casy
Dusty Old Towne
Opaque
 
May 16, 2014
Flamingo Johnny
Unfurl My Soul
Celebration

0 Comments

Acoustic Set Lists - April

5/1/2014

0 Comments

 
April 4, 2014
Trailside Blues
Moonshiner
Old 218
Heaven Tonight


April 11, 2014
Peacemaker
Without the Sin
Winton Flyer
Trailside Blues


April 18, 2014
Three Days
Will to Win
First Step’s a Start
Aimless Charlie


April 25, 2014
Angel at the Door
Curtain Falls
Celebration
Peacemaker

0 Comments

Elizabeth, NJ - February 1989

3/21/2014

0 Comments

 

I wanted to kill Glenn Gallee with my bare hands. A blunt instrument would do, or my bare hands. But snuffing the life out of Glenn was going to be difficult as long as I was sitting in the backseat of a police car. My only hope was that perhaps they’d put us in the same holding tank once we were officially arrested and thrown in the slammer.

The fact that I was in Elizabeth, New Jersey on a Saturday night about to be arrested was all Glenn’s fault. Never mind that I was facing a DUI, leaving the scene of an accident and further abuse from Jersey’s finest; but because of Glenn – the lives of myself and 3 others narrowly escaped serious injury and perhaps death.

It was February of 1989. I had recently parted ways with a long-time girlfriend and was anxious to re-join society again, to escape the stifling atmosphere of what was essentially a co-dependent relationship. It started out as an after work gathering between Bob E., Glenn, Shelly and myself. The four of us worked as deli-clerks in King’s supermarket - Garwood, New Jersey. We had agreed to meet at Kings, split up into two cars, park and go bar-hopping through the streets of downtown Elizabeth. The plan was for Shelly to take her car home at the end of the night – as she resided in a nearby Elizabeth neighborhood – Bob and I would ride back to Kings parking lot with Glenn, who was happily zipping around in his brand new Mazda RX-7. As there would be drinking involved – and I was (incredibly) enough at that time of my life very much a non-drinker – my only stipulation of the evening was that I would not be getting behind the wheel at any point. I resided close enough to Kings to walk home from there. Bob felt the same. Shelly opted to take her chances after a night at the bar because she lived close-by – and Glenn – well Glenn was another story.

At 23 years of age – one is normally well-accustomed to the taste of alcohol. I had thus far avoided it for the most part – as it held no special charm to entice me into its clutches. Music was my vice and excessive drinking was not only a distraction from my creativity, but I observed that friends of mine who engaged in it acted foolishly to an extent that it became difficult to be around them. Indeed, the lead singer of the band I was in was always throwing back a few beers to ‘loosen up,’ and he often became drunkenly annoying towards the end of the night – whether it was a gig or rehearsal. His behavior made me look upon those who drank with such fervor in distaste. 

However – my new found freedom and desire to seek out adventures soon led me to relax my intolerance for drunken stupidity. Indeed, is there a better time to get drunk and act stupid as when one severs a long-term relationship? I think not.

It didn’t take long to get to that point. In hindsight we
started out stupid – then got drunk – which emboldened us into greater depths of stupidity later. Bob, Glenn, Shelly and I weren’t sitting at a table 10 minutes before ordering a round of ‘Dr.Peppers.’ The variety of this particular concoction: a shot of amaretto dropped into a full mug of beer. Chug accordingly until glass is empty. (No sipping!) I imagine there is a chance that you’ll knock a tooth out, but of you are lucky the shot glass sticks to the bottom of the mug and the two varieties of alcohol merge into fizzy brew not far removed from the aforementioned Coke product. Ah yes – right out of the gate we were on our way to intoxicated oblivion! The first few DP’s went down so well we decided to have a few more before heading off to another bar across the street.

It is safe to say that I have no recollection whatsoever of how much time had actually passed between the first bar we hit to when the four of us were suddenly playing pool at another. It certainly felt like much later – though it could have been merely an hour or so. All I can gather through the fuzziness of an inebriated haze was that I was leaning heavily onto a pool stick for support while contemplating whether my team was solids or stripes. I snapped out of this lackadaisical contemplation when I realized that I couldn’t feel the back of my neck.

It was alarming enough to me that I left the game without so much as a word and strode up to the bar using the pool stick to steady myself, all the while feeling the numbness spread throughout my arms and legs. As I broke out into a cold sweat I recall my vision taking on the effect of looking out a small melted oval of a frost-covered window. Everything was framed by an icy film of opaque glass. My leather jacket felt heavy and cumbersome – and as I took a seat the well-seasoned bartender was quick to notice the lack of a drink in my hand. She was a middle-aged blonde, with a tanning-bed complexion that oozed nicotine as though it pervaded directly from her pores.

It must have been slow night – because she parked herself in front of me and lit a cigarette as though she had time to file her fake fingernails. There was no hurry to order – but I felt a need at this point to quickly introduce something into my system to offset the effects I was feeling. I opted for another Coke product – this time I settled for a plain old undiluted 7-Up on the rocks. Ah. It seemed to do the trick. It wasn’t long before I was in a convoluted conversation with the smoky barkeep that I don’t remember much of – except that she was admiring the length of my own blond locks so much so that she ran her fingers through it. I was sufficiently blasted enough to let her continue even after she creepily crooned in my ear that her son’s hair was the same color but not nearly as soft and silky as mine.

This uncomfortable moment was mercifully cut short by the abrupt appearance of Shelly who huskily demanded to know why I left the game. She yanked the pool stick out of my hand so fast that she nearly pulled me and the barstool over. I started to mutter a response though it was clear she was not interested in the answer, but in leaving immediately. Born and raised in the heart of Elizabeth and the outskirts of Newark, Shelly was not blessed with societal niceties. Her disposition was similar to the surroundings she grew up in; dark, foreboding, hardened and frequently dangerous. All of which contributed to her being especially fun to hang around – as long as she considered you a friend and ally, though that alliance could waver at a moment’s notice.

Shelly tossed the stick aside, grabbed my hand and we headed towards the door, Glenn and Bob close behind. “I’ll punch that bitch right in the cunt,” she blithely muttered as we exited. Though there was clearly no reason for this venomous outburst, she had brandished an odd sort of possessiveness over me ever since the alcohol kicked in. I was bemused by it – even in my drunken state of mind. She was flirting with me, Elizabeth-style.

I had assumed that we were all headed to another local bar that we could walk to – but we had somehow ended up in the parking lot – Bob and Glenn getting into the Mazda as Shelly and I stood next to her mid-seventies powder-blue Buick. I immediately protested the idea that we were all getting behind the wheel – but Shelly assured me that the bar we were headed to was ‘just down the street.’ Unsatisfied with this response, I turned to Glenn and Bob for support, but they were already ducking into the Mazda. When I turned around Shelly firmly planted the keys to her car in my hands and strode over to the passenger side of her vehicle.  “You’re not as fucked up as I am,” she stated. And so – reluctantly I got into the Buick, adjusted the mirrors and prepared for the ride of my life.


Though it was my first time drunk – and about to be my first time driving drunk – I admit to a sort of giddiness at the risky prospect of being behind the wheel and out on the open road in this condition. I was perceptive enough to recognize that it was going to be challenging – and therefore began taking steps to ensure my attention was on the task at hand. As we drove through the center of Elizabeth all seemed to be perfectly in order with regards to my duty to keep the car between the lines. There were a number of stoplights and because the traffic was slow in general, there were no difficulties encountered, though I came to the conclusion relatively quickly that Shelly was full of shit. This bar was not simply ‘down the street’ but on the other side of town. I realized this as we turned onto a busy stretch of highway. To add to this night of ‘firsts’ was the fact that I was not at all familiar with the direction we were heading. Navigating the roads in this part of the world is difficult enough even when you know your surroundings – I was helplessly naïve to these busy streets. There was no point in arguing about it now – both hands were on the wheel and bent on getting us to our destination in one piece. I don’t believe I spoke even one word – such was the level of my concentration. And I don’t even remember Shelly giving me directions – though she must have – and I was relieved when we turned off the highway and proceeded down a few deserted side streets. I felt our destination must be close – and at any rate the traffic had diminished to just us; the Buick followed closely by Glenn’s Mazda. No other vehicles were in the vicinity.

It was at this point I looked into the rear-view mirror and noticed the Mazda’s headlights suddenly dash out of sight. This was followed by the strained roar of high RPM’s approaching loudly from the passing lane. In a moment of bravado, Glenn had decided to impress us all with the kind of daredevil street-racing antics that usually end up with vehicles wrapped around telephone poles. I was perfectly fine with this – only because I was determined to play no part in it. I retained my moderate speed and even crept over slightly to the right to give him plenty of room to pass.

I expected to see his car shoot past us like a rocket – taillights aglow in a streaking blur of horsepower. But that did not happen and the second that I felt a twinge of anxiety about it was the moment that Glenn’s Mazda slammed into the rear quarter-panel of the Buick. Apparently Glenn had decided that perhaps it was not the smartest play on his part to demonstrate high-speed shenanigans when utterly inebriated. Unfortunately his decision to fall in line behind us was foiled as he found the ass end of the Buick was between him and the right lane. The speed of the Mazda sent the Buick into a tail spin – we literally jackknifed 90 degrees to the left and found ourselves skidding sideways down the center of street – the nose of the Mazda locked in the wheel-well. In that split-second I remember thinking how upset I was that Glenn was ruining the careful display of drunk driving I had performed up to this point.

People often describe the sound of metal collapsing when they talk about car crashes they’ve experienced. I think the most prevalent sound I remember was the nauseating moan of the tires skipping and scraping horizontally across the concrete in a direction that they were never created to traverse. The steering wheel was useless at this point, revolving violently, the laws of physics now prevailing over my feeble death grip upon it. Time however, had gone into slow-motion – and as I waited helplessly for inertia to bring the car to a stop I noticed lines of neon in the dark of night far below us. We had spun out of control on an access bridge high over the New Jersey Turnpike, hundreds of cars and trucks speedily passing under it, just over the railing 100 or so feet down. This gave new life towards my efforts to gain control over the steering wheel.

Glenn’s Mazda finally discharged itself from the rear of the Buick but the laws of motion were not through with us just yet. Fortunately the bridge was designed to handle the possibility of there being idiot drunk drivers hurtling out of control high above the nation’s busiest freeway. The car ramped up a large curb, crossed the sidewalk and struck the guard rail fencing - deflecting off of it like a pinball. The safety rail effectively, albeit violently changed our direction – spitting us back out into the roadway. It was perhaps karma that the same set of principles were at play on the other side of the road as we met Glenn’s Mazda head on – his vehicle having ricocheted off the opposite guard rail as well. 

Upon meeting the nose of the Buick, the hood of the Mazda folded up like foil. I could see Glenn’s panicked face, mouth open in disbelief as he stared through the windshield at the sheen of crumpled remains – the Buick’s hood ornament a fitting exclamation point – unaltered and towering victoriously over the hissing mass of twisted metal before it. The thrill ride had finally come to an end and it was awaking from a hazy dream as time shifted back to full speed. Leaning into the car door to get out I realized that I was no longer sitting in the seat – my rear end had shifted onto the center counsel – literally butting up to the stick shift so hard that it had cut a hole into the side my jeans.

I heard Bob ask calmly if everyone was all right – as each of us simultaneously circled the two vehicles, trying to take in the spectacle and digest the scene. Indeed, even with no seat belts on - we were all intact and unharmed all the violent jousting aside. The two cars ceremoniously sat each facing the other on opposite sides of the center line - pools of radiator fluid comingled and ran like rivulets across the asphalt and down the street.

Glenn took up a position at the apex of the scene and spread his arms out – palms skyward and looked at me quizzically. “What happened?” I ignored him. He had the audacity to repeat the question again, a puzzled glare in his eyes as he turned to survey the damage. In my mind there wasn’t a single thread of credibility to anything that could possibly come out of his mouth other than his complete declaration of responsibility for this accident. Because of his inability to come to terms with this, Glenn’s words, his reaction – none of it meant anything to me or stirred in me any impulse to respond. Instead – I decided to get back into the car and get the hell out of there.

The Buick did not look the worse for wear all things considered. As I turned the key in the ignition the radio blared to life and I wondered how I had heard any sound outside of its shrill timbre – if that were the volume Shelly had set it to. I didn’t even remember the radio being
on, but then again I didn’t recall hearing the sound of Shelly’s voice at any time while we were in the car either – the dream was getting foggier by the minute. The starter of the Buick turned over a few times but despite its relatively intact body – the collision had severed enough of the engine’s main arteries as to render it dead. Bob appeared at the car door and implored me to get out –– we were after all, in the middle of an active roadway. I reluctantly obeyed and strolled over to the safety of the sidewalk.

Shelly was wringing her hands and stupidly smiling in drunken disbelief – for once at a loss to provide any colorful commentary. Bob – in his black leather jacket and slightly greased back hair coolly lit a cigarette and French inhaled it as though he were readying himself for the next Stray Cats album cover shoot. Glenn remained in the road just off the curb of the sidewalk, arms now akimbo and knees bowed out in an almost comical pose. I filed the image to my memory for later amusement – and glared at him. He was speaking again but since I had no inclination to listen his voice was just a drone that seemed to be repeating the same thing over and over again. I was also concerned that if I heard what he was saying that it may inspire me to smash him in the face – and I was already in enough trouble. It turned out that I wasn’t far off the mark – when I finally tuned him in I heard his nasal plea to pitch a fictional story of the events that led to the crash. “What are we going to tell them when they get here?
We have to have a story ready! Let’s say that you saw something in the road and hit your brakes.”

Admittedly my mind struggled to grasp the incredulousness of this statement. The individual responsible for the accident was attempting to put the blame squarely on someone else besides them. They say that in times of stress people will do or say anything – and since I don’t talk to Glenn anymore I can’t really say if this statement was brought on by fear, alcohol, stupidity, anxiety, or a mixture of all four. Worse, was this just an existing element that resided within Glenn’s personality; to deflect obvious wrongdoing on his part to anyone but himself? We were
all guilty of bad judgment – putting at risk the lives of innocent bystanders out for a walk, other drivers and their passengers. There are any number of possible scenarios that could have rendered this scene an absolute catastrophe – we were extremely fortunate that there were only our own damaged vehicles – and that none of us sustained any serious injury. And yet Glenn was still attempting to squirm out of his role as the catalyst to the wreck. Notwithstanding my own stupidity of agreeing to drive in my condition, it seemed unfair that I should suffer the same consequences as someone who was not only willfully driving drunk but taking risks behind the wheel that would be considered dangerous even if one were sober. This seemed to trigger a self-preservation mode of my own. That is to say, no one was injured, no one even needed attended to – what remained could all be taken care of tomorrow, when I was no longer drunk.

Indeed, I had heard of this type of evasive action long before when my Grandfather’s Oldsmobile was side-swiped as it sat parked on the street outside his home. The driver responsible for the damage simply continued on his way – only stopping by the next afternoon to square things up and exchange insurance information. His story was that it was too late to bother with waking my Grandfather up at 2am when the incident occurred. My Grandfather concluded he was likely on his way home from the bar and drunk at that. But since the man’s sobriety the night before was merely speculation– the only action that remained was to let the insurance companies take over and fight it out. Credit was due, after all the guilty party had returned to the scene to take responsibility. That he was at fault was a given – but the ensuing penalty would be a pittance compared to what it would have been had he stopped or been stopped at the scene and it was determined that he was under the influence. Never did this story resonate more with me than it did at that moment. It was just a matter of getting away. In an instant my mind was made up. There wasn’t much time to spare. Amazingly to this point no police or other cars had yet reached the scene. The location of the accident was just remote enough that there were no witnesses or spectators gathering. It was time to run.


Traveling by foot in Elizabeth at night was a dangerous proposition – even more so to not have any idea where one was or where they were going. The bridge we had crashed on led to an industrial area of town – all warehouses with loading docks and barbed-wire chain-link fencing to keep out the riff-raff. On the opposite side, the florescent glow of a gas station lit up the fringe of a residential neighborhood just beyond it. Without saying a word, I began a brisk walk towards the station. Everyone else could go to hell – if I had to duck into backyards and down side-streets to avoid the cops so be it. My goal was to get home and get sober. Minus a conviction of driving under the influence, I would willingly return the next day to accept responsibility for my part in the accident. I was keenly aware leaving the scene of an accident was a very serious crime in itself – but in my mind this carried far less weight than the penalty of being convicted of a DUI. The ramifications of the latter in this case seemed far worse – since no one at the scene was in immediate danger or in need of assistance.

I had not gone very far when Bob ran up alongside of me – struggling to keep up with my rapid pace. There was some distance to go yet – and no time to lose. It was all I could do to not break into a downright sprint but my pride would not allow this. I was also somewhat restricted in that my heavily studded and chained leather jacket would have made running difficult if not extremely awkward. I didn’t care that Bob was there, he was welcome to join me – if the rest of them had any sense they would scatter too. Bob’s first nearly out of breath words were to assure me that none of this was my fault. Bob, after all, had been Glenn’s passenger – so he was firsthand witness to the idiocy that overtook Glenn behind the wheel just moments before. “He was dicking around! He said ‘Watch this’ and the next thing I knew he had slammed into you.”

It was good to hear that I had assessed Glenn’s actions leading up to the crash accurately – he was showing off. But the comfort of knowing whose fault it was would not matter when we were all in jail – which we were most assuredly going to be if we didn’t get the hell out of here. If Bob’s motivation was to get me to turn around and return to the scene, he seemed un-phased that it had not worked. The gas station and the neighborhoods beyond were not far off – and Bob stayed right by my side. As we came down off of the overpass and began to cross the street adjoining it, a police car passed in front of us. The car did not hesitate – nor did it seem in any hurry to get to a particular location – it was simply patrolling. Without breaking our stride we continued onward towards our goal – away from the scene of the mayhem. Surely the cops would happen upon the wrecked vehicles in the distance behind us – but hopefully by then Bob and I would be ducking through the maze of back yards and alleyways that make up Elizabeth’s residential townships. I held no reservation that evading the police at this point was going to be imminently more challenging if not impossible. I didn’t have enough of a head start – and to be sure, I wasn’t convinced Bob was going ultimately going to go along with my plan. At last we stepped off the sidewalk into the asphalt parking lot of the gas station. Only 50 feet more and we’d be in the alleyway. I didn’t have the nerve to look back, too afraid of what I might see. Were the cops now at the scene and surveying the wreckage? What crazy story were Glenn and Shelly going to tell the police? Were they in pursuit of me? It turned out that I would have plenty of time to talk to them myself – they were indeed in hot pursuit of two white males in black-leather jackets – fleeing the scene of an accident.

Bob and I were halfway across the open lot of pumps when we heard the dull thump of a car bottom out – bouncing from the street across up into parking lot of the gas station a little too fast. A police car roared to a sliding stop in front of us.  I let out a surrendering sigh of resignation as two cops jumped out –furiously shouting at us to halt; nightsticks blazing overhead. My gambit was up – there was no point in resisting from here on out. It was time to face the music. The police naturally suspected that since Bob and I were already on the run - perhaps we might continue our flight even when approached - and they were ready to beat us down to the ground before they let that happen. In fact – they were likely looking forward to it.

I saw a nightstick silhouetted against florescent lights anxious to come down on my head – but I made it clear that I wasn’t going anywhere so the stick stayed at the ready. My hands were at my sides as I stood ready to accept the pummeling I thought for certain was coming. The dark-haired cop in front of me advanced – fiercely reciting a string of obscenities. “Where the
fuck do you think you’re going?” he said. I think I may have meekly muttered something about a looking for a payphone – an obvious lie. “You fucking walked right by us back there! You saw us, you could have flagged us down!” I could not argue with the logic. My true intentions could not have been more transparent – I deserved to be struck down for the weak excuse.

Looking back – I don’t blame the cops for their violent response. We were a couple of punks high-tailing it from the scene of a two demolished vehicles. They could not have known that we were all friends, or that Bob was in one car and I the other. Bob and I seemed to be brothers in arms – both of us sporting long hair and matching leather jackets. From their perspective – we were likely the impetus of the accident, maybe even with the intent to do harm to Shelly and Glenn – both of whom dutifully stayed back at the crash site. The police may have suspected one of the cars was stolen, and we were running because of that, possibly in possession of drugs or guns or both. Perhaps this was all the result of a deal gone bad, or maybe we were wanted by the law already, or had long and illustrious rap sheets. This was, after all, Elizabeth, New Jersey – and any number of sordid scenarios took place on any given night or day of the week. Every cop in the precinct would have suspected the very worst case when happening upon a situation like the one we were in.

‘What the
fuck is this?’ the cop shouted. With his free hand and a quick flick of his wrist the cop reached forward, yanked out my black coral earring and tossed it over his shoulder. He lowered the nightstick to rest under my chin and pinned me against the patrol car. “Got anything in your pockets…a knife? What am I going to find in here?” His hand sought out the inside pocket of my jacket and found 3 condoms, a pack of Doublemint gum and a can of Binaca. Replacing these, he spun me around and pressed me flat against the vehicle – in the classic ‘spread ‘em position; palms out, legs wide. I felt the nightstick against the inside of each knee as he indicated he wasn’t satisfied with the distance between them. I noticed Bob was getting similar, possibly rougher treatment on the opposite side of the same vehicle; his face held fast to the roof of the car as though the cop was looking to make an imprint of his head.  Poor Bob was just a passenger – a witness guilty of no wrongdoing whatsoever and even so was paying the price of being treated like a renegade by virtue of being associated with me. I felt worse for him at that moment than I did for myself.

After a few more rough pats up and down my legs the cop assigned to me was satisfied that there was nothing of a dubious nature in my possession. He noticed the hole in my jeans the gearshift had torn through and
almost tenderly pointed out that I was bleeding. The back doors of the patrol car then opened and Bob and I slumped in, defeated. They drove us back to the scene but did not let us out of the car. I noticed Glenn and Shelly were also in the back of a separate patrol car. Our licenses were handed over, and the interrogation began. “What happened here? Were you racing? You were racing weren’t you?” Drunk as I still was, I told the story exactly as it happened – slurring I’m sure, and then repeated it verbatim at their request. The cops got out of the car and were gone several minutes. I gave myself a few shots of Binaca – thinking it may help disguise the smell of alcohol – or at least throw off the Breathalyzer test that was sure to come any moment. Bob pointed out that Binaca actually contained trace amounts of alcohol. All I could think about was killing Glenn and in clenching my fists together while imagining the possible scenarios – I realized that the cops hadn’t bothered to handcuff us.

When they returned the same cop asked me to tell them what happened again and so I repeated the same story word for word. I didn’t immediately realize that they were comparing my story to Glenn’s. This happened one more time until finally they were satisfied. “God, you guys
stink,” said the dark-haired cop. Clearly the Binaca had done nothing to diminish the smell of alcohol. We sat in the vehicle for what seemed like an hour – but it was probably not more than 30 minutes. A tow-truck arrived with flashing orange lights and began to hook up the mangled vehicles straddling the center-line.

By this time, a number of other patrol cars had arrived at the scene and there seemed to be several police officers standing in the street conversing. Our fate was soon to be decided upon. I waited with a heavy heart, Bob giving me tips on how to throw off the Breathalyzer. “Put a penny under your tongue, I hear that works! The copper does something,” was one of his suggestions. But I had no penny – just condoms, gum, and minty, alcohol-infused breath freshener. All seemed hopeless.

When my door opened and I was told to get out, I had prepared for things to get worse – but they did not. Bob and I were directed toward an officer who seemed to be higher-ranking – simply by the way he carried himself. Authority emanated from him. As we approached, he held out our licenses and wryly smiled. Bob had not been behind the wheel of either car – so for him to retain his license was no surprise – but as I held my license between my fingers I felt a rush of exhilaration and amazement. “I have a couple of punk sons just like you guys,” he said proudly. “You’ll learn.” I paused – I’m sure my mouth was open in disbelief. He waved his arm, dismissing us. “Now get the hell out of here – you’re going to have to find your own way home.”  

I was stunned into numb inner-delight clasping my driver’s license tight as we slowly walked towards the sidewalk where Glenn and Shelly met us. We all headed back towards the gas station and that payphone I had lied about looking for earlier. I still wasn’t talking to Glenn, but he scarcely mattered to me anymore – disaster had been averted on all fronts. No one was hurt, no one was arrested, and no one lost their licenses. I can only surmise that the police were able to piece together the facts – and once they realized we were all friends and that the damages were limited to our vehicles – they decided to let it go. Were their shifts at an end? Were there other, more pressing matters to attend to? To this day it intrigues me that they found reasons amongst themselves to simply let it be. And I would have thought the last thing that would get me out of trouble would be one officer’s association of myself and Bob having some resemblance to his sons.

At the gas station, Shelly called a friend to give us all a ride. Though I looked for it on my hands and knees, I never did retrieve that coral earring. That was probably for the best.

A consummate storyteller, I couldn’t wait to recite this particular tale of adventure to a captive audience. At the time I was between apartments – living with my Mother, so naturally she was the first person I confided in. As I wove the tale in front of her the next day – she shook her head in dismay. When I finished – she said flatly: “There are some stories that children should never share with their Mother. That was one of them.” 

0 Comments
<<Previous

    Author

    Time, I absolve myself of your vow to vanquish me.

    Archives

    October 2020
    December 2019
    March 2017
    January 2016
    January 2015
    November 2014
    May 2014
    March 2014
    November 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012

    Categories

    All
    Art
    Holiday Posts
    Lists
    Literature
    Music
    News
    Poetry
    Politics
    Quotes
    Thought
    Tom Gallison

    RSS Feed

Picture
at the edge of everything. 
Powered by Bosami
  • Home
  • Active Listening
  • Sound Portal
  • Tom Gallison