Bag Head stares at an empty piece of paper wrapped in the platen of his dull brown Smith Corona typewriter. He's sweating profusely because the engine of his box fan blew last night.
It's a sizzling summer day in Oneonta, Alabama, population 6357, so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk.
He staples an A+P bag carefully on the wall of the flophouse room. The bags are his friends like Wilson, the face Tom Hanks painted on a deflated soccer ball in the film Castaway to keep him company.
Folks in the small town of Oneonta get the willies when Bag Head walks the city sidewalks with a paper bag on his head.
He wears the bag for protection from the sun’s laser beams, shock value, and to beat boredom in the one-horse southern township.
Sure he's different, but he's no fool, his junior and senior year he was on the Locust Fork High School yearbook staff.
If the bagman was Black, the sheriff would have had him locked up in the Tuscaloosa Mental Facility years ago.
It’s July 1986 in Key West, and like Oneonta, it’s hot as hell.
The tribe, Henry, Lucia, and Summer Wynd don’t have a screw loose like Bag Head, but they’re juicers to boot.
The girls behaved like flappers from the Roaring 20s, rebellious youth with libertine mores.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was the premier diarist of the Jazz Age or the Roaring 20s. A label he occasionally found embarrassing upon sober reflection.
Fitzgerald’s book The Great Gatsby is on the growing list of Great American Novels. As well as being on high school reading lists across America and in Poland too.
F. Scott Fitzgerald could drink Charles Bukowski under the table. Scott carried a hip flask of whiskey with him like a 6 gun wherever he went. Buk drank wine and beer most the time, but, he was discreet.
Hunter S. Thompson was the padrone of literary inebriates, elevating the art of getting loaded to a science.
Hunter’s daily routine was one endless Saturday night out— hot tubs, hookers, guns, Dunhill cigarettes, cocaine, plastic Semtex, Chivas Regal, grapefruits, LSD, more cocaine, and bloody marys.
Towards the end of his life, Hunter was still eating acid daily, like it was vitamins, although his system had become immune to the effect.
Bag Head, on the other hand, is dark side of the moon perverse— living in a paper bag kingdom of his own design.
His latest story, Junkyard, is a far away yarn about an excursion to Jimmy’s Junkyard.
The following is an excerpt from Junkyard.
I got out of bed this morning to go to the junkyard. The Rent’s unpaid, my teeth are rotting, and there’s a loaf of Wonder bread in the cupboard turning green. The ants will eat it before I do.
Wearing a towel I walk down the hall. In the gunky bathroom, the water runs yellow from the faucet. I splash the piss-colored water on my face, arms, groin, and gargle.
After chasing rats, I go to my grubby room and dress— overalls, a Bulldogs’ T, green Doc Martens.
It’s so hot today you'd think the sun was be pissed off at the world. I hate the sun and the world, so I cut 3 holes in a fresh A + P grocery bag and put it on my head for safety reasons.
Walking Acorn Street to Ebonytown I stop in Emma's Soul Kitchen for grits with gravy and a cup of coffee. I sit at the counter and Emma says,
Bag Head, why you got dat bag on? Folks be thinkin you're crazy! I tell Miss Emma,
ma'am, the sun is firing x-rays at me, tryin to burn holes in my head. This here bag shields the rays and keeps me safe.
After grits and gravy, I walk 30 minutes on the shoulder of County Road 15 towards Jimmy's. City folks honk as they drive by, yelling — Bag Head, Bag Head.
Jimmy's sittin at a metal table in front of a wood shack in the junkyard smoking a Hav- a- Tampa. I wave and he says,
how ya doin Bag Man?
Jimmy’s Junk Yard is an acre of metal bits and bobs people have forgotten.
Warn down paths twist through the yard. It’s a museum of used to be memories.
I unlatch the bottom drawer of a rusty desk, there's a paper cigar box inside. I take the box out and open the lid, it's full of thimbles.
Jimmy takes 3 bucks for em.
I walk home to my flophouse room. Inside the hell hole, I take today's paper bag off and staple it on the wall with the others.
At my cinder block and plywood desk, I drill wee holes in the thimble tips with a hand drill and lace them with thin metal chains making necklaces.
It’s a tropical summer morning in Key West, 1987. There's a sweet breeze coming from the Atlantic Ocean.
The tribe, Henry, Lucia, and Summer Wynd, are sitting around a small table on the front porch of their bungalow.
The girls have cooked Swedish pancakes with fresh raspberrys on top, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and spritzed with fresh lemon. Summer Wynd suggests,
todays a beach day, let’s take the Chis and Pedro to Dog Beach.
Henry stays home and writes in his study. He keeps busy taping aluminum foil on the windows of his office to block out the sun and save on electric bills.
He's been corresponding with Bag Head, who's convinced him the sun's xrays kill brain cells.
The girls change after eating, putting on thong swimsuits, oversized T-shirts, straw cowboy hats, and flip flops. Both, have luscious bodies and look like Vegas showgirls.
They collect the Chis and get on the Vespa scooter and head to the beach. Pedro the woodpecker follows airborne.
It’s a 15-minute ride to Dog Beach, where they park the Vespa. They rent beach chairs and large umbrellas. As Lucia and Summer Wynd strip down to their thongs the other beachgoers gawk.
A Jamaican woman lugging a styrofoam cooler strapped on her shoulder walks the beach selling Brown Lemonade— brown sugar cane diluted with lime in shaved ice.
The girls buy 2 cups, Lucia takes a pint of Meyer's Rum from her Gucci bag and spikes the drinks
The Chis nip at one another’s heels as they run in circles in the sand.
Pedro the woodpecker eventually shows, enjoying himself mimicking seagulls as they hover and dip-fish close to shore. But, Pedro can’t swim or float, so he pulls out of the dives at the last minute.
Back at the bungalow, Henry’s in his study as Dave Spleen his editor calls. He picks up the handset or his phone and answers, Dave says,
hey babe, howzit? Your stories in HEADBANGER Magazine are unabated, you’re bringing readers to our rag regularly. The gals at the copy desk and in the advertising department call you steady Henry. He laughs and jokingly says,
you mean the girls in the office want some of this beefsteak? Dave chuckles,
I doubt it, they’re referring to writing output and readership level, not what you got between your legs, which ain't much from what I hear. Henry chuckles and mentions Bag Head,
Dave, I’ve been corresponding with a kid in Alabama whose pen name is Bag Head. He doesn’t go anywhere without a paper bag on his head. I told him to mail you a few stories, you'll get them any day. Bag Head's work is desolate and oddly engaging. Dave says in a rush,
I’m open to new talent, gotta go, gotta deadline to meet.
At 2 in the afternoon, the girls are still at Dog Beach with the Chis and Pedro the woodpecker, sucking down rum mixed with sugar cane juice and showing off their bodies.
Henry's bored stupid at home, craving a dark cave-like atmosphere where he can drink and look at naked women.
Cranking up his 73 Malibu wagon, he drives north on Highway 1 out of the Key West, puffing grass as he passes over the long sea bridge to the next island, Boca Chica Key.
He rolls down the driver's side window, breathing in the saline breeze coming inland from Jewfish Bay.
Looking seawards at the Atlantic Ocean he listens to Wagner’s Faust on the radio and mulls over his existence, cottoning— life’s an extravaganza, it's your choice. As Lao Tzu said in 400 BC,
Be content with what you have— rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.
Lao Tzu's poetic musings were ahead of their time, 2400 years ahead.
As Henry reaches Boca Chica Key, he drives the back roads of The Naval Air Station. Knowing, where there are sailors, there's a strip joint.
He pulls into a lot and parks in front of a club. It's a single level, black cinder block building called Zombie Bop.
Getting out of his Malibu wagon, he walks to the front door, a biker wearing Outlaw colors says,
20 buck cover!
Inside, it’s dark and cave-like, tits and ass are coming at you from every angle. It was what he was looking for.
Vixens are working 3 poles, all of them at different stages of striping. A female DJ spins American thrash metal riffs, the big 4 of the genre—Anthrax, Megadeth, Metallica, and Slayer.
He orders a beer, sitting alone at a table. A buxom younger woman who's Goth with— black hair, white skin, black nail polish, in a sequined black bikini sits with him asking,
what’s your name sweety? I’m Crystal, I need a drink! He says,
OK, I’m Henry,
she orders a Vodka Spinner, but it looks like cranberry juice.
The lady DJ does a 100-degree turn, spinning old school Reggae— Toots and the Maytals, Sly and Robbie, King Tubby, and Wailing Sounds.
The strippers move snake-like and sinuously on their poles to the Jamaican sound.
Crystal bends towards Henry at the table, putting her hand on his thigh and asking,
How bout a lap dance doll? 100 dollars, I’ll squeeze the paste outta your tube!
It was hard to resist the moment. Rationally, it was unjustified to spend 100 dollars to get off half-ass when you had 2 gorgeous women at home who would do anything you asked.
Sexually, a lap dance had an added dimension— a nasty and sinful quality which tantalized and pulled at you, all though you might feel lowdown when you finished.
Henry says OK and gives Crystal a 100 dollar bill. She takes him to an isolated area of Zombie Bop.
Crystal gets on his lap as he sits down, facing him and taking off her top. Her chest wobbles as she slides back and forth rubbing his crotch with her groin sensually.
His zobb is poking out above the waistline of his shorts pants, she chuckles but wants him to finish.
Finally, he let's go, Cyrstal grabs a tissue, wiping her face and chest, then walking to the lady's room.
She comes back and sits with Henry who's at the bar, he says to her,
I'll come back to see you soon, I loved it, you're very special Crystal.
This empty chatter was fill in the blanks talk.
She nods her head as he speaks, she was hungry though, wanting him to leave so she could order take out from KFC.
The half-ass sex was no religious experience.
After leaving Zombie Bop, driving south on Highway 1 to Key West, Henry feels culpable, dumb, and remorseful for going there.
Was he affected by the quilt which accompanied sin? Did he feel sinful?
Yes, he felt delightfully sinful, at the same time, being an atheist freed him from guilt feelings.
For Henry, choosing to be an atheist was like flying 1st class on Virgin Airlines instead of taking a school bus.
Finally, he let's go, Cyrstal grabs a tissue, wiping her face and chest, then walking to the lady's room.
She comes back and sits with Henry who's at the bar, he says to her,
I'll come back to see you soon, I loved it, you're very special Crystal.
This empty chatter was fill in the blanks talk.
She nods her head as he speaks, she was hungry though, wanting him to leave so she could order take out from KFC.
The half-ass sex was no religious experience.
After leaving Zombie Bop, driving south on Highway 1 to Key West, Henry feels culpable, dumb, and remorseful for going there.
Was he affected by the quilt which accompanied sin? Did he feel sinful?
Yes, he felt delightfully sinful, at the same time, being an atheist freed him from guilt feelings.
For Henry, choosing to be an atheist was like flying 1st class on Virgin Airlines instead of taking a school bus.
