My Untamed Life

 

I was born in Chicago on Lake Michigan in 1951; I'm an only son. 

I lived with my mother and never saw my old man much; he was a traveling salesman. 

Our apartment was on Lake Shore Drive, and we had a magnificent view of Lake Michigan. 

My mother had lady friends as guests from time to time, and I remember as a baby crawling on the carpet and sniffing their feet; the smell turned me, and I'd get a we-man erection.

My mother was cultured and would play Rachmonioff on the stereo, and to this day, I like classical music.

On summer days she'd push me in the stroller on  Streeterville Street; I remember the smell of Italian Beef sandwiches and Kosher hot dogs; she'd break off bits and feed it to me. 

Ma never fed me baby food, realizing it had as much food value as ground-up paper. 

At times, we'd go to Maxwell Street, and I remember hearing the sounds of Little Walter or Jimmy Davis, even as a baby, I loved the sound.

In 1956, we moved to a 2 story house off of Howard Street, which bordered Chicago. 

At 5 I would take the city bus to Oakton School every day.

After lunch, we'd lay on woven mats for a nap, unable to sleep because the scent of the girls aroused me; energy in my groin that went nowhere.

On the playground, the girls would through us to the ground and kiss us, we boys enjoyed it more than playing kickball.

One time during the kiss-play I came in my pants, running to the bathroom and washing the goo off.

Often my mother would send me to buy a pint of ice custard on Howard Street; once, I noticed a bum on the pavement outside, so I gave him the ice cream and walked home. 

When I got home empty-handed, my mother asked, 

where's the ice cream, baby? 

I gave it to a dead man. 

Good Henry; he can share it with Jesus and the angels in Heaven, 

mama, can you eat in Heaven? 

Sure doll, the Black Angels make the best ribs in the After Life.

An Armenian family lived on the first floor of our duplex, who'd cook shishkabob and wrapped grape leaves on the grill. 

This seemed like the most alien food to me, and when they handed me a plate, I would thank them and run upstairs and flush it down the thunderbox.

The family had 2 daughters close to my age, Lamar and Hedda, who had dark skin and short-cropped raven hair. I loved them both; they were sweet to boot, angels both. 

By the early 60s, my old man Bob bought a track house in Wilmette, Illinois, which was nothing special, a 3 bedroom single level place. 

In Wilmette, the further toward Lake Michigan, the bigger the house.

We were Catholic, so I was enrolled in St. Joseph Academy on Ridge Street, the town center.

My first teachers were nuns who were as freaky as freaky could be, working on a twisted belief system. But their hearts were in the right place.

The sisters taught creationism, but my pals and I were sure Martians dropped pods on Earth millions of years ago which humanity sprang from.

One day Ricky Sanchez asked Sister Margarita if she believed in Martians and she said,  

Only if they have accepted the Lord, Richie. 

By the 60s I was in 8th grade; doing stunts like leaning back in my chair during and falling backwards

or, 

chewing paper wads and flinging them on the ceiling, 

or, 

bring stray dogs to school.

Eventually I was suspended from junior high, and my father wanted to send me to military school, telling my mother, 

the boy needs discipline, he's a loser and you know it, and she say,

now Bob just take it easy, little Henry has a good heart, he's an artist, not a soldier.  

My mother, Pat, got her way and I was sent to The Prairie Valley School, 20 miles north of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

At the begining of the semester ma drove me to Praire Valley in her 65 yellow Olds following Route 32 along Lake Michigan. 

When we got the Praire Valley, I told her, 

I'll take it from here.

Inside the administration building, I met my advisor, Mr. Finkhorn; he offered me his hand, it was cold and clammy; grinning crocodile-like he says, 

Mr. Lukowski, you're be rooming in The Hive, room 257.

So I schlep my bags to 257 where I say my roommate who was smoking a cigar and reading a comic book, I say, 

I'm Henry, and he says, 

Henry, I'm Bradly, they call me Big Toe, this weekend I'm going to Milwaukee to party wanna join me?

Sure thing Toe.

Toe and I walk to class, room 323 in the scholastic building, and sit at our desks. 

Our teacher Miss Gooseberry, whom the boys were turned on by because she wore thin linen  blouses and balconette bras that exposed her nipples, passes out a list of books the class will be reading during the semester:

The Naked and the Dead, Portnoy's Complaint, Black Like Me, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Superman and Me.

The books excited me so much that I decided right then to avoid math and science courses when I could

Miss Gooseberry instructs us to turn to the introduction of The Naked and the Dead saying,

The Naked and the Dead reflects what we learned from Tolstoy; compassion and values enrich our lives only when compassion is as severe as it is on the battlefield.

I look at Toe who's sitting next to me blatantly reading Hustler Magazine.

After class, Toe and I go to our room and dress for a trip to Milwaukee's East Side, we where lumberman coats, jeans, and Converse All-Stars.

We hitchhike Highway 32 south.

In no time we get a ride from a black dude in an old Caddy, I set in the bitch seat and Toe sits in the back, Toe and I look at each other, dumbfucked; the guy is dressed in Superfly regalia; he offers us cocaine, which we sample, and it's good, Toe buys a 1/4 ounce for $200 and I ask him where he got the money, 

My old man owns Milwaukee Steel Corporation.

We get out on Locust Street and make our way to Downer Avenue going to the Tuxedo Bar, sitting at the counter ordering 2 mugs of Blatz, we were 16, and the bartend could give a flying fuck we were underage.

Toe and I alternated drinking with going to the head and snorting coke.

By midnight we were under the table, leaving and walking east to Bradford Beach and skinny dipping in Lake Michigan in 40* weather.

The next day we wake up in our bunks with a hangover to boot, and neither of us knows how we got back to Prarie School.

After high school Toe worked at his father's steel mill as a rolling machine operator and I taught Modern American Literature at Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri where Winston Churchill made his famous Iron Curtain speech.

Toe and I often meet in Milwaukee and get loaded.

I gotta tell ya, ain't life beautiful!