All I Could do Was Barf

Writing is like  Rubic Cubes,  you twist your fingers up in knots as your work gets worse and worse.

Relieving myself in the basement bathroom, I came up a cope of

Reader's Digest I found in the crapper amongst a pile of mags on the tiles; the bit was inspirational as are all of the rag's stories. 

So, a mixed breed dog, Shepard, and poodle, is pilfered by a hobo, tied up in a potato sack, and carried to the tracks where the bum hops a freight. 

Well, it’s Reader's fucking Digest so you know the pooch is going to make it home; while the tramp is eating a can of beans in the freight car, fido jumps out an open plug door; journeying 200 miles home, overcoming tribulations; bears, speeding cars, hunger, and such.

I was going to use the magazine as butt wipe, but the story moved me so that I used the reflections section of The Catholic Review instead. 

It’s summer in New York City, circa 78, I’m broke; staying in a men’s hotel, the ones with closet-size rooms and chicken wire ceilings for 8 bucks a day, feeling Bukowski-like, thinking, 

today’s the day I’m gonna get me a job. 

I was on the skids because of weed, nothing dramatic, I got lazy that’s all, smoking weed and laying in the fields of Central Park spending my days parodying bird songs.

I roam the canyons of the Rotten Apple ending up in the Meat Packing District; going directly to a slaughterhouse and asking the guard where the office is. The place smells like cowshit, which isn’t a bad smell on the range, but here it’s an awful, rancid smell.

On the way to the head, I see a fat guy that looks like a boss and I ask,

how bout a job mista? But, please not on the killing floor,

son from the looks of ya, yous ain’t got the skill to kill or butcher a cow, but I’ll give yas a try as a loader, come back tomorrow at 5 AM.

Fortified by a donut and cup of joe, I show at Amour Slaughter House on time, and a boss points the way to the loading ramp with his fat pudgy forefinger. 

I see semis side by side ready to be loaded;

the gig's self-explanatory, carry heavy slabs of frozen beef into the refrigerated rigs and hang them on hooks. 

From a platform at the rear of the ramp, a ripped Black dude balances a frozen slab of beef on my back; I make it as far as the semi and my feet give out and I fall down in pain.

The fat boss picks me up, placing me in an odd position in the back of the company station wagon and I puke.

When we reach Cider Seed Hospital I feel like I'm going to die, they wheel me into the emergency room, and the doctor says, 

get the kid x-rayed and send him to the ward with the other geeks.

The medical folks roar laughing, but I didn’t find it funny.

The x-ray shows Spondylolisthesis, a displacement of the lower vertebrae. 

Now here's the beauty part; I was mega-doped up having slept for 2 days and I wake up to the scent of a sweetly scented hand tapping my forehead, it's the social worker who says,

Mr. Lucowski you qualify for SSDI, 

how much is it? 

It will be in the range of a couple thousand a month, 

I could have dropped a turd in my hospital bed, that's how I felt.

Knowing I’m set for life, I languor in the hospital for a few more days, doped up on morphine, enjoying the attention. 

When I’m discharged, I make a B-line to the Greyhound bus station and buy a ticket to Miami and never look back. 

Martian Mud

Earth's first cellular life arises from vats of warm, slimy mud fed by volcanically heated steam.

Crawling on my belly through mud, lost, feeling weird there's shit's happenin all-over;  yous chasted by clay Martians, masses of em, colored cells run through you at will.  

Adrift in the mud sea of  Jerusalem B.C, sinking and drowning. eyeballing hectors of houses built of hewn blocks, wooden beams surrounded by a golden brick wall; 1000s of em are there today; hash-daubers-hassidic Jews, all of them MOse.

In Thailand, working a roti stand, selling mud cakes until the bulls show. 

Thai cops look over my passport and lock me up.

I Fortuitously meet a  Thai friend, Buckwheat out in the yard who's in for doin his 14 yr old niece. , 

Henry, I swear she looked 20, she raped me.

Hiding from the bulls behind an Indian tree Wheat produces a pochette of cocaine, which we roll in green leaves and eat.

Walkin the line in D.C, you could say it was a cakewalk, feeling as good as a man can feel, wading through hip knee-deep clag; hitchhiking the streets the architecture is still and dying Greeco Roman, I'm not knocking it, the stuff's stiff.

I meet a cabbage-faced gal at in line waiting for a Big Mac.

She grabs my ass as we walk through the golden arches; we get into her old Plymouth, I sit in the bitch seat and her girlfriend's in the back. 

We drink wine coolers and smoke pot, she has speedballs.

The witch points her claw at the  Washington Monument calling it Big Georgie's cock, offering me a blow job, no shit.

At Mr. Tombs, sitting at the bar I order a Tijuana Mud, a fancy mixed drink.

The crowd in the Tombs is nonexclusive, a motley collection of priests, students, barflies, bohemians, and such. The guy sitting next to me says, 

A man needs a shitload of chaos in himself to create a dancing star, 

I tell the guy, 

I like it, do you write, or do you sit in the bar all day pontificating? 

I take a snort of my drink, cough, and then blow specks of dust in the air; when I wake I'm flying with Angels, it's a glorious feeling, and I never want it to end, then a brute of an Angel broadsides me like a linebacker knocking me to Mars where it's minus 80 degrees Fahrenheit and I fall asleep.

Later, I wake on a sofa of emeralds in the middle of a ring of Martians smiling, and one asks,  

Henry show us your penis, 

I pull it out, it's smaller than average, and the Martians fall down laughing, you tell me why? 

Then one says, 

We don't need cocks to fuck, we sheathe one another in purple rays and have orgasms that last for days, and I say, 

Wow, that's marvelous, anthropoid orgasms only last a few seconds, your culture is snazzy, would you be kind enough to take me home, 

yes, earthling where? 

 323 Conch Ave.

I get into a 2 man craft, and in the time it takes to fry an egg, I'm dropped off at my front door standing there and watching the UFO disappear into the stratosphere. 

Feeling shaky I go to Frank's in Old Town, sit at the bar, and order a boilermaker and when it's served I take a deep pull, over the moon it's not a mug of gumbo, and saying to Frank,

Frank, you would believe where I've traveled over the last 24 hours and I couldn't put it in words anyway.

Yeah sure Henry, sure.

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!

We Three Kings

Some Christmas memories are atypical and have nothing to do with—garlands, cozy fireplaces, ornate cookies, eggnog, the giving of stuff, and mistletoe. 

This is a story about a seasonal memory that has everything to do with the magic of youthful adventure and little to do with Christmas.

Henry and his parents traveled to Acapulco from Mexico City on Christmas eve,1966, staying at The Las Hamacas Hotel, across the street from Acapulco Bay in the central city.

The Lucowski family show at the small-time hotel in a pink Cadillac limousine at 10 AM, checking in and going to the canopied dining area by the pool for a late breakfast. 

The hotel serves a homespun and memorable breakfast— freshly baked hard rolls, Churros or Mexican donuts, sliced avocados, tomatoes and cucumbers, bananas, fresh strawberry papaya, eggs, bacon, and brewed coffee. All of it served in a fun, relaxed manner on tables covered with white linen. 

The Mexican waiters wearing white chaquetas and black pantalones are known for their dark sense of humor— directed at each other and the gringo guest. 

Like, telling a woman with a wig on, 

señora your hair is bonita! 

Or, saying to a kid who isn't eating,

Niño, finish your breakfast or Papá Noel is going to bring you coal for Christmas. 

And, telling an elderly woman who's dining with her husband, 

señora, take it easy on the Red Snapper you're eating, he looks like your husband.

After breakfast, Henry goes across the street to a taco bar on the bay, his parents will go for souvenirs, crap really— bogus machetes that couldn’t cut butter, silver from Taxco that turns green, cheap sombreros wrapped with Shrink Wrap, stuff!

Anyway, Henry's sitting at a taco bar on Acapulco Bay drinking a beer at a small table. He puts a hand full of pesos in a jukebox filled with 45 RPM records, the hippy music of the day— Sopwith Camel, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Hendrix, The Doors, and Jefferson Airplane. 

At 16 he’s an easily tempted, astute lover of everything native— psychedelic music, incense, exotic and erotic literature, who’s constantly reading— Hemingway, Henry Miller, Anis Nin, William Faulkner, William Butler Yeats, Kerouac, and even the Kama Sutra, but still a virgin.    

He notices a young couple approaching, crossing the street, coming from his hotel, they are walking arm in arm. As they pass he leans towards them, asking them to sit down, they oblige.  

Their siblings, Juan and Moon, 16 and 15 respectively, also staying at The Las Hamacas Hotel.

Moon’s fetching, willowy with long chestnut hair, wearing glasses, looking nymph-like, a child who's becoming a woman. Her older brother Juan is cool, lean, tanned, with long sideburns, his hair parted in the middle, a member of the Carte Blanca surf club of Southern California.

After a beer, Juan sees a shadowy figure walking the beach who locals call El Mago, The Magician. 

Juan stands, running to catch up with El Mago, then walking down the shore with him.

Henry and Moon talk over beers at the cafe, for them, love is in the air.

When Juan returns, he sits down at the small table, the lover’s trance fades as he says, 

look under the table.  

Juan flashes a plastic bag full of golden buds, Acapulco Gold. Henry was familiar with ganja, having read about it in Kerouac’s On the Road, and Henry Miller’s book Big Sur.

At sundown, the trio walks across the street to The Las Hamacas Hotel, going to Juan and Moon’s room. Their mother is staying next door and she respects their privacy. Something, Henry’s parents didn’t see as an innate right of youth.  

They sit on the single beds at the center, facing each other as Juan rolls a joint. Eventually, he lights it, instructing the nascent lovers on the art of taking a pull.

Draw steady, hold the smoke in long enough for it to flow through your veins, heart, and brain. Whatever you do, don’t fish lip the joint. Moon laughs at her brother saying,

fish lip? Where'd you dig that up? 

After smoking awhile, they laugh at nothing, and anything— exaggerated, fun, laughter. 

Finishing the doobie, the trio walks through the patio door to the pool, sitting poolside with their legs dangling in it, tossing fallen flower peddles into the blue water, watching ripplets expand outwards as their chakras open magnifying their senses. 

Henry stands on the poolside, bolting to his hotel room, returning with a paperback copy of Yeat's The Land of the Heart’s Desire, going to the diving board and standing at the end, reciting poetry,

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!  

Juan and Moon stand and applaud.

On Christmas Day they wake at sunrise, giving their parents the run-around, taking a taxi to a beach on the Pie de la Cuesta coast. There's a rundown film location behind the beach where scenes of Johnny Weissmuller's last Tarzan film were shot by RKO in 1948.

The beach is packed with Mexicans who went to Mass on Christmas Eve to honor the Baby Jesus.

Going to the beach on Christmas Day helps the Mexicans to shake off the stifling circumstance of praying for hours in church pews the night before.

You can hear Ranchero music blaring from beachside cantinas, shacks made of bamboo and thatched straw roofs serving, fresh grilled chicken and fish, tortillas, refried beans, rice, beer, tequila, and soft drinks.

Juan, Henry, and Moon walk away from the crowd to an isolated area of the beach with a single cantina. They place a large Las Hamacas bedspread on the sand, strip down to their swimsuits, and drink Pacifico beer.

Juan body surfs while the precocious teens, Henry and Moon, talk about esoterica— 

What is life? 

Is there a God? 

Did Martians create the human race?

The young lovers bond intellectually, physically though, their both virgins.

At sunset, the trio catches a taxi back to The Los Hamacas Hotel and go to their room. The virgin lovers lay in one single bed and Juan passes out on the other. 

At this point, Henry's parents were missing him and suspected something was going on.

Henry and Moon make out on the bed, breathing hard, deep kissing, fumbling, confused, finally getting naked under the sheets— getting closer to first-time coitus.   

Hit and miss, he locates Moon’s pink taco and gently puts the meat to it, getting off in record-breaking time, 30 seconds. She's surprised, shaken some, and she can't recollect feeling anything.

As for Henry, he couldn't have pulled it off if he hadn't read the Kama Sutra.

In that it was their first time, the lovers clean up more than they need to, Moon spends 40 minutes in the shower. 

They walk out the patio door to the pool. Henry’s mother, Linda, is waiting and she corners him. He realizes he missed Christmas dinner with his parents and she reads him the riot act,  

Henry, what were you doing in THAT hotel room with THAT girl? Where have you been for the last two days? Your father and I have been worried sick. You could have left a note at least.

She smacks him around, cross-slapping him European style on both cheeks in front of Moon. 

He's more embarrassed than hurt.

His mother goes on with the sermonizing, she’s juiced on Martinis.

Henry, you missed Mass. It's Christmas Day, a time for families to be together and to pay respect to the Lord. I can smell beer on your breath, and God knows what you've been doing with THAT girl? Go to confession tonight.

Linda opens her purse and pulls out a Rosary, handing it to him, knowing her son is beyond hope and backsliding. He says to her, 

Ma, you drink too much, so forget about sainthood!

Speechless, his mother does an about-face and goes to meet his father somewhere.

In spite of missing Mass, Christmas Dinner, and getting chewed out by his mother, the happenings over the last few days are an awakening for Henry.

Maybe, the magic of new love discovered was paramount to— garlands, cozy fireplaces, ornate cookies, eggnog, the giving of stuff, and mistletoe.  

Juan, Henry, and Moon— We Three Kings, or Two Kings and Queen, win the crapshoot of life, this time around anyway.