Everybody Has a Story to Tell

Henry blanks out as he sits in his study staring at the empty page wrapped in the platen of his Olympia typewriter— flashing back to a 5th-grade homework assignment 25 years ago. 

Every evening 10-year-old Henry would do his homework on the kitchen table in the families Queen’s apartment while his nanny washed dishes.

His nanny Nil was a young, white-skinned willowy beauty who was deaf from birth. They communicated by writing notes mostly, but, she could read lips and speak— the way the deaf speak, cacophonous, and monotonal.

Little Henry’s parents were in an open relationship and he rarely saw them. His mother, Helena Lucowski, was a stripper and addict who spent her free time in Harlem at jazz clubs partying with Black musicians and dealers. 

Victor Lucowski his old man, was a womanizer, and traveling salesman who traveled New England in his Cadillac selling Maidenform lingerie to small-town mom and pop shops in backroad country towns.

While doing his homework Henry writes a note to Nil,

I HAVE TO WRITE A STORY FOR CLASS, DUE TOMORROW, HELP ME!

Nil scribbles back,

WRITE ABOUT YOUR PARENTS. 

Henry goes to work, writing a story on Victor and Helena Lucowski.

He finishes the story in 30 minutes, handing it to Nil to look at.

My old lady Helena Lucowski was born in Warsaw, Poland after World War 2. 

She works as a dancer at the Hideaway Club. Men like to look at her, she says she drives them crazy. 

When she isn't working, she drinks whiskey and hangs out with colored guys in Harlem.

Sometimes she comes to the apartment with colored guys and they all act crazy. The colored guys talk loud and rough. She gives them money when they want, but, never has money to pay Nil.

After a few drinks, she changes her clothes and leaves with her colored pals.

Before she goes she hugs me and says I love you, but I hate her and am happy when she goes.

My dad Victor Lucowski was born in Pennsylvania, he drives a big car around New England selling bras and underpants.

He stinks of whiskey all the time like my mother. I hate them both. When he comes home he’s stupid drunk, falling all over Nil trying to kiss and hold her. She hates him too.

The jerk says the same thing over and over. 

Henry, I want you to be something, not a 2-bit hawker like your old man. 

He spends a night and leaves the next day to do the same thing, selling bras and panties to lame family stores in small towns. 

Nil proofreads the story for Henry, laughing out loud, hugging him, and scribbling a note that reads,

I LOVE IT, YOU'RE GOING TO BE A GREAT WRITER SOMEDAY. ARE YOU GOING TO READ IT IN CLASS? He writes back,

YEAH, MAYBE, IF THE TEACHER PICKS ME.

The next morning little Henry dresses for school, wearing the usual, penny loafers, pegged trousers, and an Oxford shirt. 

In the kitchen, he sits at the table and eats. Nil's made waffles, eggs, hot milk, and fresh juice. For them, breakfast was indispensable. 

After breakfast, she holds his hand as they walk 10 blocks to school. Henry carries a cloth briefcase filled with books, pencils, erasers, paper, and most importantly his homework, the story. 

He goes to PS 176, like many schools in New York City, it’s numbered without a proper name, giving you the feeling it’s a gulag.

Nil hugs him tight at the entrance to PS 176 looking at him with loving eyes, not wanting to embarrass him in front of the others by talking deaf speak. 

He walks to his classroom, the halls are cluttered and noisy with chatter. Inside he sits at his desk, waiting as the room fills. 

Before the teacher shows the kids wreak havoc, throwing paper airplanes, and taking the piss out of one another. 

Miss Bagelmiester walks in, she’s shapely, bookish, and dressed conservatively. As she stands in front of her desk she simply clears her throat, the classroom goes silent.  

She's a control freak who doesn't advocate the Socratic method of learning saying to the class,

good morning children, let’s stand, put our hands over our hearts, and say the Pledge of Allegiance. 

The kids stand— thoughtlessly repeating the pledge on auto-pilot. None of them can remember memorize it, they always knew it somehow. Then Miss Bagelmiester says, 

I hope everyone did their homework. I'd like all of you to read your stories in front of the class today. When you’ve finished reading place them on my desk in a neat pile. OK, who wants to start?

Silence engulfs the classroom— Nobody wants to be the first to read. 

Miss Bagelmiester says, 

well, if nobody wants to volunteer, I’ll call on someone, let’s see— Sally Myers,  

Sally’s a good student who’s plain as a broom, she walks to the front of the classroom, standing facing her classmates and holding a sheet of paper with writing on both sides.

Her story's about her cat Fluffy. She goes on about Fluffy’s diet, how much he sleeps, and where he poops. Then documenting Fluffy’s trip to the veterinarian to be declawed. 

When she's finished a Jewish kid who always reeks of Gelfitle fish raises his hand to ask a question, Sally points at him and he says, 

why'd you declaw Fluffy? Would you like someone to pull your nails out? 

Sally turns red and runs to her desk, putting her head down on it. Miss Bagelmiester tells  Larry the schlemiel,

Larry, please refrain from asking perverse questions.

None of the kids in class know what perverse means, they think it’s a dirty word. Miss Bagelmiester calls on Pedro Pruitt. 

He walks to the front of the class, turns towards his classmates. Pedro’s dressed shabbily, his Dad’s the janitor of PS 176. 

His story documents his old man’s clean up duties at PS 176. The class listens intently as he describes how his dad sweeps the halls with a large dust mop, runs the floor scrubber, empties the trash, and so on. 

Then, Larry the Gefilte fish-eater raises his hand, Pedro calls on him,

Pedro why does your old man smell like whiskey all the time? Pedro holds his ground saying, 

it’s the alcohol in the window cleaner and the junk that goes into the floor scrubber. Miss Bagelmiester says, 

Larry your questions are disrupting the class. 

He was precocious in all the wrong ways, famous at PS 176 for bringing a Playboy to school. 

Sitting at her desk, she looks over the class roster,

Gideon Funknal,

Gideon was the best student in PS 176, his father was an electrical engineer at IBM in Somers. Gideon always buttoned his shirt collar and could use a slide rule. The 5th-grade curriculum bored him and the Queen's Department of  Education planned on transferring him to The Bronx High School of Science after 5th-grade. 

As he walks to the front of the room, someone throws a spit wad at him. To the delight of the class, the chewed bit of paper lands on his shoulder, clinging there as he reads his story which is more like a thesis, entitled, What is Pi? 

The kids in class fidget in place, bored shitless because they don't understand what Gideon's talking about.

Finally, Miss Bagelmiester thanks him, telling him to go back to his desk because he would have pontificated till recess on Pi.

She calls on Betsy Pike, who’s the girl next door, looking like Little Debbie on Little Debbie Cookie packages. Betsy’s popular in class because she’s lily-white and always speaks kindly, seeing the world as a pastoral place. 

 

She walks to the front of the class in her perfectly pressed dress and polished loafers, turns toward them, and begins reading her story. 

It’s a story about an unblemished village with groomed landscapes where the houses look the same and only good things happen. 

Betsys has 2 kids, a boy, and a girl, her house is spotless, she cooks lovely meals, and her husband, Dan, works at city hall.

The kids in class are transfixed and drawn to her story, which they think is a fairy tale. 

When she finishes reading Miss Bagelmiester says, 

that’s wonderful Betsy, thank you. 

As she walks back to her desk, Larry the shmendrick grabs her story, standing up and pretending to wipe his butt with it. 

The class roars with laughter as Miss Bagelmiester makes a b-line to Larry’s the fish eater's desk, grabs him by his ear, pulling him out of the classroom all the way to the principles office on the 1st floor. 

Larry's suspended from PS 176 indefinitely until a meeting with his and Betsy Pikes' parents is scheduled with the principle. 

Miss Bagelmeister then calls on Henry, 

He walks to the front of the class, turns, and begins reading his story. 

The words flow freely out of his mouth, but, Miss Bagelmiester and the class are unnerved— the story's so stark that it rattles them.

When he finishes the room's silent for a few minutes but it feels like a long time, finally Bagelmiester says, 

Henry, can you stay a few minutes after class? Also, I would like to remind everyone that colored shouldn’t be used to refer to Black Americans.

Henry’s embarrassed to be singled out in front of the class and feels he needs to save face saying, 

I could have made up a sappy story like Betsy Pike, but I’m no liar. 

As the bell rings signaling lunch Henry yells at the top of his lungs, 

IT TAKES BALLS TO TELL THE TRUTH, TURDS!

He deserved a— that a boy— from Bagelmiester that day not a reprimand after class— because in life the most revolutionary thing someone can do is tell the truth. 

The world is full of Betsy Pikes, but there are only a few Henry Lucowskis.

Sugarloaf Key & The Indian Test Pattern

When it was time to write in the morning, afternoon, or during the wee hours, Henry itched, which had nothing to do with writing and everything to do with Tramadol. 

It’s winter 1987, Northerners living above the Mason Dixon line are suffering through the worst winter in decades— it has been snowing for days.

After the snowstorm the indomitable Northerners dig for a day and a night, creating a series of snow trenches like the dirt trenches on France’s Maginot Line during the 1st World War. 

The tribe, Henry, Lucia, Summer Wynd, the Chihuahuas Che y Mia, and Pedro the woodpecker didn’t want anything to do with winter. Lucia had spent most of her life in Cuba and she couldn't bear the cold. After experiencing her 1st New England snowstorm she pleaded with Henry for 2 days to buy tickets to Florida until he caved in.

The tiny pups Che y Mia are pampered by Lucia and Summer Wynd like they're babies. Chihuahuas are one of the most popular canine breeds in America and their owners commonly refer to them as babies. 

This, a far cry from the treatment Chihuahuas received at the hands of the ancient Aztec Indians, who bred the small-scale dogs as though they were  4 legged chickens, roasting them on open stone pits to eat with beans and squash as they celebrated beheadings during blood festivals. 

While picnicking in Northern Florida’s Osceola Forest during a car trip to Tallahassee Henry and Lucia were sitting at a picnic table eating take away KFC and drinking beer.

Out of nowhere, Pedro the woodpecker, who was a baby then, drops onto the table and begins pecking on a biscuit. Lucia falls for him saying,

darling, I love the baby bird, his mother is going to smell our scent and kick him out of the nest. I’m taking him home. Henry isn’t convinced,

if we bring him home he’ll peck holes in our wooden furniture. Maybe the little guy would rather stay in the forest and live with other woodpeckers.  

If he follows us to the station wagon it means I’m his mother. 

As the couple walks towards their car the baby bird flies from the picnic table and lands on Lucia’s shoulder, perching there. Then, riding back to the tribe's Key West bungalow where he has lived ever since.

Personality exists across the entire animal world. Pedro was difficult at times, wanting his food served in particular ways— saltless sunflower seeds with the husks on or diced watermelon served with seeds intact. If his priorities weren’t followed, he’d march begrudgingly around the tribe's bungalow, stomping his feet up and down. 

Dave Spleen, editor of Headbanger Magazine in New York  calls Henry in Key West saying,

your last story America the Colossus flatlined with the public and staff alike. I'll read you a few bits from the sorrowful letters we received, 

...Lucowski needs to hang it up, ASAP!

...the story is crap if the guy needs to talk shit, tell him to go to a bar or a shrink. 

My 5-year-old writes better than Lucowski... 

...his story doesn't resemble writing.

 Get the point, Henry? Gotta go, gotta deadline to meet.

The big nothing reception America the Colossus received concerned and saddened Henry. Was the story lame? Was he finished as a writer? Where New Yorkers fed up with his work? Or could you chalk it up to—

you win some and you lose some. 

His mother Pauline, God bless her soul, would advise him,

Henry, clean up your room before you go out, if you don’t it will show on you and people will look at you funny.

Begging the questions,

Do you think feeling woeful while writing shows in your work? 

Or is sadness a muse leading you to deeper and more poignant thoughts? 

Chopin wrote his best music while he was heartbroken after his lover George Sand left him for a woman.

Being sad is different from feeling flat, sadness is an emotion. The flat affect is a failure of the brain to produce enough dopamine, causing a person to feel half alive. If your brain ceases to produce dopamine you become a zombie.

Hollywood Zombies are like Energizer Bunnies, they keep going, going, going. Real-life zombies are very different— they’re comatose, lazy couch potatoes who lay on their sofas staring blankly at whatever is on TV, anticipating the end of the broadcasting day, when the illustration of the Indian-head test pattern comes on screen. 

It's unclear why the Indian-head test pattern is broadcasted in the wee hours. Only the network techs know and they aren't telling why.

It’s a mistake to sell Zombies short because their minds are as uncluttered as a Zen master— they’ve transcended the human habit of habitual thinking. 

The Indian-head test pattern is a zombie God, who, like them, is soulless and empty inside— the late-night graphic is a symbol to zombies everywhere of their struggle in a world dominated by humans who set the norms. 

Contrary to what the film The Night of the Living Dead implies— zombies aren’t human flesh-eaters, they’re fueled by a life force similar to the Holy Spirit known as Satan’s tea or the Devil's gasoline. 

Henry hadn’t descended into the trap of zombie hood yet, but his body and mind were dreadfully out of sync. 

He throws on a pair of cut-offs and a T, gets on the tribe’s Vespa scooter, making a b-line to the Key West Public library, parking, and going inside. 

There’s a lady librarian standing behind the front desk wearing clear-framed classes who’s as pretty as a picture. She looks like Joan Baez or Rita Coolidge, her Navajo white hair is braided Indian style, like Henry’s hair. He starts a conversation by saying, 

you look wise, I guess you read a lot, I’m feeling outta sync can you help me? 

I’m a librarian, not a psychologist, let’s look over some back issues of Psychology Today on microfilm.

Henry follows behind her, she's wearing a long dark patterned dress, he eyeballs her shapely figure as it shuffles inside her dress. Her body emits the alluring smell of patchouli oil which arouses him

They reach an area that has 3 microfilm readers on separate desks. The machines are thick and awkward in appearance, surrounded on 3 sides by fabricated metal hoods that shield florescent light from blocking the reader's view.

Then as they pull 2 chairs together in front of a microfilm reader, sitting close, their thighs touch. Henry asks, 

what’s your name? 

MRS.!…. Linda Lightfoot! 

Oh, I get it, you're married and not looking.

Yes, that’s right, call me Linda.

Linda accesses the microfilm collection rolling through past issues of Psychology Today. 

He feels the warmness of her body as their legs touch, she gives off the singular warmth of an older woman. He thinks about bending and kneeling under the desk, lifting her dress, spreading her legs with both hands, then, putting his head up her dress to her crouch and tonging her.

Henry struggles to keep the head of his cock from peeking out of his cut off shorts, nonchalantly holding it in place by pressing both legs together.

He thinks about baseball, Yogi Berra, and the Yankees, trying to cool off. Linda’s unaware of the fire he feels in his body as she dutifully pours over past issues of Psychology Today in the microfilm viewer. He says, 

Oh, I’m Henry, 

Yes, I know, your wife Lucia and I get our hair done on Thursdays at Nikki’s Salon, she’s so gorgeous and really funny, you're lucky Henry.

Linda knowing Lucia is a slap in the face. He hopes Linda hasn’t picked up on his desire for her.  She says gleefully, 

oh, I’ve found something— Zen Meditation, Sync Your Body and Mind. I hope it helps. I have a stack of books to file.

As she stands she says, 

My husband Stanley and I are barbecuing this weekend, why don’t you and Lucia join us?

That’d be nice Linda, what does your husband do? 

he’s the sheriff of Monroe County.

As Linda goes back to work, pushing a wooden cart through lined rows filing books, Henry hustles out of the library, humiliated, conscious stricken, feeling like a dirty dog, forgetting why he came to the library. 

When he shows at the bungalow Lucia and Summer Wynd, the couples lover, are in the kitchen making dinner— fried grouper with a cornmeal batter, blacked eye peas, artichokes, yellow rice, and Pillsbury biscuits. 

He gives both girls a hug and says, 

let me make the biscuits? Lucia agrees, instructing him,

OK, get a metal tray out of the bottom drawer of the cupboard, grease it with Crisco or butter, then crack open the biscuit container and carefully pull apart the dough, placing the biscuits on the tray in rows. Watch them close, and don’t burn them, Henry!   

The girls didn’t like him hanging around the kitchen, he was all hands and would burn everything.

Once, late one night, Summer Wynd went to the kitchen for milk and cookies. She sees Henry trying to cook a pizza in a skillet on top of the stove and says to him, 

let me help you, dear.

She turns off the gas burner, preheats the oven, puts the pizza on a tray, opening the oven door, and placing it inside, staying and talking with him until the pizza’s finished, knowing he would burn it, otherwise.

Back in the kitchen with Lucia, he does as he’s told to a point. Instead of carefully separating the Pillsbury biscuit dough by hand, he slices the dough with a kitchen knife cookie thin, placing the wafer-thin wedges on the oiled tray and putting it in the oven. The dough is on fire 8 minutes later.

Lucia and Summer Wynd are drinking wine and chatting off in a corner, ignoring Henry.  Hearing the smoke alarm the girls run to the kitchen and turn off the oven. Summer Wynd tells him,

 

Henry, get out of the kitchen and let us do the cooking, go to your office and begin outlining the next Great American Novel.

In the kitchen— he was deaf, dumb, and blind. He was a dumb-smart in life.

Last week, after many years as a columnist for HEADBANGER Magazine in New York, including a 2-year sojourn as the editor of The Gringo Times in Havana, Henry’s blue sky self-confidence was leveled.

He felt broadsided sitting in front of his typewriter unable to write, drinking vodka, listening to sad symphonies, and lamenting life.

Feeling on the cusp of zombie-hood, he goes to the living room, lays on the sofa, and turns on the TV, unaware of what he’s watching, staring blankly at the square tube all night until he nodes out at 3 PM as the Indian Test Pattern comes on.

He wakes on the sofa at 10 AM, the TV is on the fritz, he looks vacantly at the static noise for another 20 minutes.

Lucia and Summer Wynd walk into the living room on their way out of the door, Lucia says, 

you look, awful dear, go see Doctor Alvarez sweetie, we’re going to Dog Beach. 

The girls hug him and walk out the door,  starting the Vespa scooter and riding it to the beach.

It’s a magical day in Key West, the sky's laced with pink cumulous clouds, and its 70 degrees.

Henry showers, oils, and braids his hair and hurriedly dresses in cut-offs, a tank top, and rubber slippers.

He goes to the kitchen, icing down a  Coleman cooler and filling it with Rolling Rock beer. Then opening a cupboard drawer and pulling out a baggy with a number of rolled joints and a dozen hits of chocolate mescaline inside.

He places a folding lounge chair and the Coleman cooler in the bed of his V8 Chevy Malibu. Then getting in at the driver's side and starting the engine, hearing a low purr. 

As he drives out of Key West on Highway 1 north, he lights a joint, switching the radio to WBGO Miami, all jazz, Sonny Red, Blue Mitchell, and Zoot Sims are waxing soulfully playing Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered. 

The words bewitched, bothered, and bewildered summed up Henry's situation, he'll go to Sugarloaf key to detox his soul of demons.

After driving for 25 minutes he turns off Highway 1 parking on a dirt road at Sugarloaf Key. A ghostly key known for its Calusa Indian shell mounds. 

The Casula aboriginal tribe lived on coastal areas in Southern Florida waterways 600 years ago. Unlike other Florida Indian tribes, they didn’t farm, instead, fishing for large fish offshore in dugout canoes, using woven nets and shell spears made from conchs, crabs, clams, lobsters, and oysters shells.

The Calusa discarded shells in huge heaps. Also using the shells for tools, utensils, jewelry, and ornaments for their shrines.

Henry takes the cooler and the folding chair out of the bed of his wagon, then pulling the cooler with the folding chair on top down a trail until he finds a Calusa Indian mound. 

The mound is as high as a 1 story house, sitting back some from the shore of Bow Channel. He places his folding chair on top of the mound, using his Coleman cooler as a table. The mound of crustacean shells is decomposed and bleached white from sitting in the sun for 600 years.

Opening the cooler he pulls out a can of Rolling Rock beer and sucks it down, then placing 3 tabs of mescaline under his tongue allowing them to evaporate. He lights a joint with his Zippo lighter that has a skull and bones on it, taking a deep drag. 

As he comes on to the mescaline the shell mound begins billowing wave-like, then it inflates like an oversized balloon surrounding Henry, holding him in place.

After distending for 10 minutes, the preternatural dirigible ruptures. Henry sees the material matter around him in a purely energetic state, looking like it's covered with chalky dust.

Testing the alternate environment he stands and walks in and out of a couple of large trees, then walking into Bow Channel for 500 meters and turning back as though the bay was fluff, not buoyant sea. 

The White Light encounter is intoxicating, He feels born anew. He has shed the unwanted clutter of body and mind that was pulling him down.

3 hours later he’s coming down, he smokes a joint and drinks a few beers to make the landing easier.

He walks the same trail back to his car, loading the cooler and folding chair into the bed of his wagon. It’s 3 PM as he drives south on Highway 1 to Key West, dialing the radio to Miami’s all jazz station, Bill Evan’s Peace Piece is playing. He opens the car windows to let the breeze off of Jewfish Basin in, the scent wraps around him like a blanket of Vitamin Sea.

Back in Key West he parks the station wagon inside the bungalow’s wooden garage, feeling free and clear after the detoxing psychedelic trip.

The girls are at Dog Beach doing what they do, wearing skimpy bikinis, showing off their statuesque bodies, and getting loaded as they eyeball the surf and Dog Beach lifeguard, Dirk.

Back in the house, Henry's in his office thumbing through a book of quotes, looking for one that nails the highs and lows of the past week down.  

You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.  Friedrich Nietzsche