Looking For Closure On the Garden State Parkway (Complete in 2 Parts)

Back in the early-90’s I used to work as an investigator out in south Jersey. Investigator can mean lots of different things, but for this post it means I handled pre-mature death investigations for insurance companies. My mentor Alex and I freelanced together, picking up cases wherever we could, and we never turned anything down.

In New Jersey (and probably most states), if someone dies within two years of taking out a life insurance policy an investigation has to be performed. This is a state requirement as well as the standard practice of insurance companies. And these investigations have to be performed quickly since life insurance polices are sometimes worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Even millions. The companies aren’t allowed to sit on that money, earning interest on it for any longer than required to resolve the claim. They’ve gotta pay out.

But in the case Im going to discuss here, the beneficiary of the policy was the sole survivor of a car crash that killed his whole family. His convertible had been rear-ended by a 26’ foot panel truck on an exit ramp off the Garden State Parkway: forty miles an hour and not even a skid mark. Thats how drunk the Korean truck driver was that hit him. Never even touched the brakes. The impact was so severe that it instantly snapped the neck of our insured’s seven year old boy, while his daughter was ejected into a tree. The wife died in the hospital a night later. Goodbye family.

The beneficiary--the subject of this post, had himself been seriously injured in the same accident and was considered mentally incompetent for several months due to brain injuries he’d sustained. So this was an odd case in that I didn’t perform my interview with him until months had passed, and truth be told, very little was really expected of me.

I have to add one last thing: this was the first case I ever handled involving someone from my own town. I mean, now I work in New York so I always handle cases close to home; but back then I was living in a small shit-hole town way south on the Garden State Parkway near Cape May. So this guy I interviewed was arguably one of my neighbors. But like I said, Alex and I never turned work down.

The summer evening that I pulled up to the guy’s flagstone house for an interview he’d been on the small porch waiting for me. He extended one of his long arms and presented a big meaty paw of a sunburnt hand, which I warmly shook since I’d reviewed the details of the crash in preparation and really felt bad for the guy’s circumstance.

Entering the house, it was obvious that it had remained largely unchanged since before the accident. Touches of pink femininity in the kitchen along with bright photographs of children in the hall now looked odd in what had become a four-bedroom bachelor pad for a middle-aged Caucasian man with brain damage.

“For a long time after the accident it was hard for me to remember anything from one day to the next,” he told me over his shoulder as he led me toward the living room, “so, my doctor didn’t think I should move things around too much until I regained some consistency. I had to re-learn a lot of things I took for granted.”

He led me to the family room where his personal attorney sat waiting, and it was there where we proceeded with the statement. It took a long time cause even at this late juncture the guy was slow at processing my questions. He seemed to have trouble retrieving information from his addled mind and appeared frustrated when he couldn’t communicate as effectively as he’d like. You could see he was still kind of damaged goods mentally, which I noted in my report.

But other aspects of his memory were fine, that’s what was kind of funny, by which I mean strange. Things like his date of birth and his kid’s dates of birth and locating old documents--most of the stuff I really needed from him were no problem to recall. It was the accident that he couldn’t recall; and daily events that still slipped his mind. And sometimes names or faces gave him trouble. And of course sometimes certain words “wouldn’t be there,” when he attempted use them. I guess in retrospect the guy was pretty messed up.

Anyway, I was at his house a long time ‘cause you don’t just jump right into the topic of a man’s dead wife and two kids. You take your time and you let ‘em know that the whole thing sucks; but at the same time you get all your questions asked and answered and answered completely so you don't have to bother them again. Then you get the fuck out of the person’s life forever, which is what I did and what I’ve always done.

Only this time I saw the guy again.

First time was about three or four months after our interview. I was driving home late from Atlantic City, and when I exited off the Garden State I saw our subject walking along the shoulder of the off-ramp, back toward the main road to our town. Sort of an absent look on his face. Absent yet somehow occupied as he trudged along in his sheepskin jacket and wool cap. When I recognized who it was I got really spooked cause this was where his accident had occurred and it was after 3:00 in the morning. And it was really dark outside and had begun to cold at night; so what the hell he was doing out there was anybody’s guess. Course I don’t get involved in other people’s business--especially other people’s devastatingly emotional business, so I left him to his own devices. But his blank face creeped me out the whole drive home.

Then I saw him again a few months later and that time I did pull over ‘cause it was snowing and he was bumbling on that same stretch of off-ramp albeit a little closer to the main road this time: drifting too far out into the roadway as though following his nose instead of his eyes until he caught my eye, causing me to exclaim You’ve gotta be kidding me to myself in the car as I pulled over alongside of the road.

“Don,” I called out the passenger side window as I rolled it down automatically, “You alright?”

He looked at me for several seconds, uncertain as to who I was. A stranger. Family. Perhaps everyone was the same to him now.

“Do I know you?” he asked from beneath his heavy brow, blinking in the flurrying snow as he placed a hesitant hand on the passenger door.

“Yeah,” I said, mustering a bit of apology into my voice, “I’m the investigator who met with you a few months back. Lodo Grdzak. I live here in town. ”

I gave time for my face or name to register but couldn’t say whether it did. So I said.

“Looks like you got caught in a little weather. If you want I can give you a ride home. I just live on the opposite side of H____ Street.”

His expression never changed, and he took no action for a few moments before hesitantly lifting the door handle.

“..Okay, I suppose I would appreciate a ride. ...Weather kind of changed on me there.”

“No problem,” I said reassuringly, “get in.”

So I drove Don home as he sat rigidly in the passenger seat, at attention; too tall in my car’s small compartment with that blank look of his.

“...Don’t wanna be walking these roadways in the snow when its dark,” I said, broaching the subject carefully, “’specially by the parkway there.”

Don stared straight ahead as he nodded his head in agreement, blinking as oncoming headlights passed and we proceeded thru the final traffic light to his house.

“Weather ch..”

“You’re an investigator, right Mr. Grdzak?” he asked suddenly, cutting off my small talk.

“...Thats right,” I answered. “You don’t remember meeting with me and your attorney? We spoke for over two hours.”

“...I remember,” he said, though I wasn’t entirely convinced he was telling the truth. “I met with you and Jack P____, right? About Pam and the kids, right?”

It was oddly sad the way he sought confirmation to his assertions. As though I could have denied their validity and he wouldn’t have had the conviction to vouch for their correctness. As though uncertain.

“..Thats right,” I told him as we pulled into his driveway.

I waited for Don to unfasten his seatbelt and exit but instead he stayed in the car, hunched in the passenger seat of the too small compartment staring thru the windshield at some unknown object.

“...You know, its funny that I bumped into you tonight,” he finally said still staring out the windshield. “’Cause the other day I remembered something related to the accident that I had a question about. I don’t suppose you want to come inside for a minute?”

“Well Don, if you’ve got a question about something like that you need to have your attorney take it up with the company. I ca...”

“No, no” he interjected with a pained expression as he turned toward me for the first time, “its not like that. ..This isn’t about insurance. Its a question I have about the accident itself. An investigator’s question. I’d really value your opinion in regards to something that’s troubling me.”

So we went inside the house, which was still largely as I’d remembered it. Don fixed me a McCallans on the rocks, then walked me back toward the living room where we’d conducted the initial interview. The same family photos still hung on the wall above the couch, all subject’s still oblivious as ever to their fate.

Once I was settled in on the recliner Don produced one of those big envelopes that actually ties shut and proceeded to unravel the string.

“You have kids Mr. Grdzak?” he asked, as I watched him dispense the items on to the low coffee table next to the couch.

I shook my head no as I watched him with curiosity, wondering where this was going and starting to regret that I’d come inside.

*NOTE: Scroll down for Part 2 of 2

Looking For Closure On The Garden State Parkway (Part 2 of 2)

An awkward but brief silence passed before Don handed me a copy of what I recognized to be the troopers report from his accident.

“I assume you’ve seen this,” he said as he handed me the dog-eared copy of documents.

“Yeah, I’m familiar with this.”

“..What’s your opinion of Sgt. ______. ..Think he’s thorough? That he wouldn’t miss anything?”

Don and I locked eyes.

“I really only spoke with him one time so I cant say. He seemed alright. Tell you the truth, none of those guys really give me a lot of respect. Compared to what they do, maybe I don’t deserve it. ..Why?”

Well it has to do with that portrait there over the couch,” he said, directing my attention toward a large family photo on the wall in front of him.

“You know, its funny how the mind works. Or the brain I guess I should say. That picture was probably taken only two or three months before the accident; so from what the doctors say, that’s probably why I have trouble making the connection to the kids. I have memories of them when they were young that are almost plain as day, but when I see them in that portrait there over the couch I have to admit that I don’t feel like I know them. Or knew them. But my long-term memory’s still good. I remember ‘em as kids and know we had lots of good times. Something that helped stimulate that long-term stuff was a small, wallet-size version of this portrait that my sister had given me."

Don located the photo out of the items strewn about the table and handed it to me.

"See how she wrote everybody’s names on it. I’d study that daily in the hospital--and especially at night before I’d go to sleep. Really try to make connections. That was one of my exercises, to write down whatever the images made me think and the memories associated with the names. Cognitive rehab they called it. Anyway, you know that I eventually improved; but when I got home everything was foreign to me. I’d wake up in the morning having to re-learn the layout of the house all over again. And hard as I tried, the more recent family photos like this one here (pointing again at the portrait over the couch) only gave me these vague...feelings as opposed to real memories.

Well, this one night--maybe a week after I’d come home I was sitting in that recliner over there (Don pointed to the chair next to mine) with a glass of wine despite doctor’s orders when something about this portrait over the couch began to strike me as funny. There was something different about it. I’d seen the picture a million times--or thought I had, cause I’d assumed it was the same one my sister had brought to the hospital. They look exactly alike, right? But there was something different about this one over the couch. So then I..."

Don proceeded to recreate what he did, holding the smaller picture up to the larger framed portrait over the couch for comparison.

“See," he said over his shoulder, "they’re different. They’re actually very different. Because when you look at this small one--look, its Ryan, then me, then Pam, then Tracy. Just like I’d practiced and remembered. But now look at this big one here: Its Ryan, then me, then Pam, then Tracy, and then there’s a dog right there.”

I got out my chair and stood next to Don to inspect the two pictures. It was true. The family portrait showed a yellow Lab at the bottom, but the small, wallet-size didn’t.

“..This picture’s cropped.” I told him, tapping the small wallet-sized photo in his hand. “Thats obviously not the full image. Did you talk to your sister about it? ”

“She said she couldn’t write our names on a regular photograph. That it was too glossy and the ink just wiped off, so she had to make a copy of the photo to write the names on it.”

“That sounds plausible. I wouldn’t have thought of that. What’d she say about the dog?”

“She didn’t know.”

“Is that possible?”

“...Maybe. I don’t think we were necessarily that close. She’s been living in Virginia a long time now. She did what she could for me after the accident--she didn’t just ditch me. But I know I didn’t have strong feelings for her when I came out of the coma and my long-term memory’s still pretty intact. Maybe its possible she wouldn’t know. And look here.”

Don hurried out the room with his heavy feet, then trudged back in with a dog leash and collar.

“Look at this.”

“..There’s no tag or license on it?” I asked as I inspected the collar.

“No.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“In the garage.”

“...And was there food or a bowl?”

“No. But I was in the hospital close to four months. The house had been all cleaned by the time I came home.”

We looked at each other for a moment in silence as I took a sip of my drink.

“...You think you had a dog?”

“I do. I think its name started with a ‘D.’ Sometimes I feel like I’m about to remember it, but it always escapes me. When I go to bed at night, the next morning,...sometimes I’ll forget about the whole thing until I come into this room and see that picture. Then I see that dog and it gets my mind on it again.”

“..What do the neighbors say?”

“There’s only the Kelly’s across the street, and they looked at me like I was crazy when I asked.”

“Why would they do that?”

Don averted his gaze.

“’Cause they’ve seen you walking ‘round the highway at three in the morning?”

Don’s reaction to that comment made me think of a surprised teenage masturbator. Blindsided. So embarrassed and exploitable that he made me embarrassed.

“..Tell you what Don,” I finally said as I prepared to leave, “I’ll call Sgt. _______ at the Troopers Station and ask him to talk with some of the other officers. Everyone there is gonna remember that night. But you should be calling the local people and the animal shelters. Have you done that?”

Don looked at me, wide-eyed, then scoured the table for a pen that he handed to me.

“Would you write that down?,” he asked. “So that I don’t forget tomorrow when I wake up.”

“..You want me to write down that you should call the animal shelters?”

“Yeah, for in the morning. So that I remember”

So I wrote down Call Animal Shelters about dog (in picture over couch) and together we placed it on his refrigerator with a magnet and what had to be 20 other Post-It notes as he showed me out.

But just as I was leaving he tapped my shoulder and handed me what was still almost a full bottle of McCallans.

“Take this,” he said with a gracious smile, “but you’ve gotta promise to wait till you get home.”


In the end, we never found out anything about Don’s dog and I've never resolved for myself whether it existed or not. None of the troopers I spoke to remembered a dog at the scene; and since there was no food or bowl at the house I kind of have my doubts. I left it to Don to call the shelters and he said they were no help. Fact is, even if there were a dog it had to have been dead anyway. No way it would have lived through that accident. The driver’s side had the only airbag.

But the timing of that family portrait. Don said it’d been taken only three or four months before the accident, so I could see why the dog’s presence was so disturbing.


EPILOGUE

The last time I saw Don was a summer night about two weeks before I finally moved out of that backwater Jersey town. I was driving home from Philadelphia; a little past Vineland, heading toward my exit when I noticed traffic backed up and the whirl of sirens about 1/2-mile ahead. Traffic had been hellacious anyway since Springsteen had played in Atlantic City and there was a classic car show down in Cape May. So it was bumper to bumper for over an hour.

As I inched toward the final light of that infamous off-ramp I gazed down the gradual embankment leading from the shoulder and observed two cops I recognized from town. They were talking to a tall, sandy-blonde man that turned out to be Don. The three men stood in the knee-high grass, with one of the officers obviously doing the talking. I shut-off my A/C and rolled down my window to listen.

“Now listen Mr. ______,” one of the older cops that I knew well was saying. “What’d we tell you last time about roaming round those woods so near the shoulder here? You’re gonna get yourself hit. C’mon, Jason here’ll give you a ride home--but this is the last time. We may have to call your sister to figure out what to do with you if we can’t keep you from the highway.”

The three men clumsily scaled the embankment and the younger officer (Jason) assisted Don to a police car parked on the shoulder. The older officer--the one I knew better--walked past me toward his own car when I stopped him.

“Officer_____” I said respectfully out my driver’s side window.

The big, heavy-set man peered into my car and quickly recognized me.

“Lodo,” he said as we each extended hands. “You should know better than to get stuck in this mess.”

“Yeah, I thought I did. Hey, let me ask you. Was that Don _______ you were just talking to?”

“Yeah,” he answered with a look of concern, “do you know him?”

“A little bit; from work. I did the investigation for his insurance company. And I bump into him from time to time.”

“Sure, sure, I remember. You know, if you’re friends with him...he’s not doing so good. We see him out here at all hours roaming round the woods and popping out on to the shoulder like he’s in his own world. Sniffing around. You’d think this would be the last place he’d want to be. But he keeps coming back here.”

“He’s looking for something,” I said. “He’s never asked you about it?”

“About what? ..You know what he’s looking for down there?”

“..Yeah,” I answered staring down into the grassy embankment until traffic suddenly began to move, “I’m pretty sure I do.”


NOTE: The pictures used herein are meant simply to enhance the story and are not directly related to any of the events described above.

* NOTE: This story and all written material contained herein is copyright protected. All rights reserved. Lodo Grdzak. December 2008.

**NOTE: To anyone who has spent time on this blog, I want to thank you. This may or may not be my last Roadkill post. I will know as of January 20, 2009. If this blog ends, I will start a new one, to be listed on that date. Thanks again!

Heartbreakers

The recent death of my former partner and mentor--Alex inspired me to go back and review some of the old cases we’d worked together back in the early 90’s. The one I’m going to discuss here has no particular relevance to me other than it was one of the first that I’d handled for Alex. But it does involve a dog bite. And death. So thematically, it should be right at home here at Roadkill.

Now obviously dog bites are traumatic for the victim, but its true for the owner as well. Most often the dog either attacks a family member or a neighbor, so the owner is left with the guilt over an injured loved one or possibly a neighbor's lawsuit. Or possibly both, by which I mean that sometimes a dog will attack a visiting relative. Then you've got an injured family member who's suing you for personal injuries. That's gonna make for an interesting Thanksgiving dinner.

And lets not forget the poor dog. On top of the above-mentioned issues there's a good chance you're going to have to put that lovable, furry companion who did nothing but give you unconditional love to sleep. And of course that's a real heartbreaker. I think most of us at one time or another have dreamt of that cozy house with the fire burning in the fireplace and the morning's coffee on the stove and the big back yard with the white picket fence. And if you're like me that big yard's gonna have a four-pawed, floppy-eared, good-natured beast chasing after a green tennis ball. So when the family dog attacks its not just the incident and the injuries and the insurance claim or the lawsuit; its the death of a dream. You just lose some of that good stuff that fuels a lot of other positive motivations.

Like what happened to the poor woman I interviewed out on Long Island. An incident that simply confirmed a loathing that I've had for Akitas since I started as an investigator. Despite their bad reputation, I'll take a Pit Bull over an Akita any day of the week. Take a Pit Bull over lots of breeds--Rottweilers, Chows, Saint Bernards. Its a matter of size and temperament, and how well you can read the dog. A dog should be consistent. Dependable and fun, who's mood and behavior you can gauge with accuracy. That's why Akitas are such shit dogs. They're schizophrenic.

But these Akitas were supposedly bred for temperament. Show dogs. Blue ribbon winners that were being kenneled at our insureds business. They were a huge pair--a male and a female, with the male weighing over 150 pounds.

Of course our insured's son was no lightweight himself. He weighed well over 200 pounds; though it was kind of soft, doughy weight. Not exactly what I'd call fighting weight. But he was big and I suppose thats why his mother felt he could handle the dogs. And he'd grown up around dogs; or at least, thats what she alleged when I took her statement.

I sat with the mother and her attorney at the round, wooden table in the kitchen of the house, which also served as the office for the kennel. On the shelves were all kinds of trophies from dog shows along with related photographs of dogs adorned with ribbons or letters of appreciation from their owners: Best In Show 1986; Best In Show 1990; Best Sporting Breed 1983; Spectator Favorite 1994. That last one was the most recent. The rest were older. Old. The wallpaper in the kitchen was faded and stained. The carpeting worn. The kitchen was clean but smelled of wet dog fur. The mother looked tired as she smoked.

It was the mother who ran the business ever since her husband had become disabled. He’d actually started it, but now she ran it as he spent most of his days sucking on an oxygen tank in his cloth recliner. "Emphysema and a bad back," she told me as she tapped another Marlboro Light 100 from the bottom of the soft package.

So it was all up to her now in regards to making that kennel run. They'd quit breeding dogs long ago and now focused strictly on staying profitable in an attempt to keep the bank away from the house. She'd fired all the staff and had her son help out--the big kid I'd mentioned before. 18 years old. Kind of soft and doughy with bad skin. Maybe graduated from high school. If his mom hadn't needed help he'd probably be flipping burgers at the local fast food or smoking meth behind his old high school. Or both.

But his mom had work for him out back of the house. In the kennels where she boarded dogs for owners on vacation. She had about a dozen large cages kept in an addition built on to the back of the house, which wasn’t much more than a long, narrow corridor with about a dozen cages all lined-up railroad style.

Well they'd been boarding those two Akitas for about a week. Just long enough for that poor, dumb kid in the Metallica T-shirt and the red face-stubble to start getting confident and complacent around those Manson-family dogs. He walked into that windowless corridor first thing on a Wednesday morning--just like he'd been doing for days, prepared to let the male outside to do its business and take a walk. The kid held the leash in his hand and even showed it to the dog so that it knew freedom was just a moment away as he opened the cage door and waited for the male to approach so he could fasten the leash to its collar.

But for some reason the dog wasn't that responsive. Wasn't that excited about a walk or a piss or about anything really. Just sort of stood in the cage in that kind of stupor only animals can achieve until the kid was forced to kneel down and reach inside in an attempt to secure the leash to the dog's collar. And that's when the dog went apeshit.

It wouldn't have been so bad if that hallway wasn't so narrow. Or if the kid had maintained his balance. But he was a big uncoordinated kid who'd been off-balance, leaning into the cage when the dog attacked. He had no leverage to get the beast off of him and his path of retreat down the narrow hallways was blocked by the open cage door.

And Akitas are shit dogs--did I mention that? Once those two wires connect in their primitive brains telling them to attack they're relentless like wolves, instinctually pursuing the face and the neck. This 150 pound homicidal canine threw that 200 pound kid down on his back like a rag doll. Took a chunk out his neck, bit off an ear; practically tore the kid's bicep from the bone. The kid had nowhere to go, wedged between the open cage door behind him and the Akita in front. And the dog was not letting up--couldn't let up now if it wanted to. The huge shoulders and long snout and gnashing teeth lunging forward again and again as the kid tried to fight the thing off; protect himself with his arms over his face as the animal grabbed hold of his forearm, thrashing and twisting; tearing the tendons through punctured skin, stoking the blood lust of the other caged dogs--especially the female Akita, his pal and packmate. Together the two alphas influenced all the caged dogs--raising their anxiety and stoking their primitive nature until they howled in atavistic unison; banging against the doors of their cages, moving the pins that secured the locks as the kid watched from the floor with one eye in terror as he continued to fight for his life and what was left of a normal existence.

"So how'd he finally get the dog off of him?" I asked the mother who's hand was being held by her attorney.

"My husband heard the screams and came in with a shovel," she said with a blank expression that I'd seen so many times before in this profession, "Had to hit the dog over the head a good dozen times before he and my son could corral it back into the cage and lock the pin."

The interview progressed. I needed copies of contracts and records in regards to the kid's injuries. The attorney slid a manilla folder across the table filled with documents and photographs. As I perused the pictures, I had a question about a scar. Wasn't sure if it was from the attack or a previous injury. I removed the photo from the folder and proceeded to hand it toward the mother when she practically leapt from her chair in terror. The attorney reached across the table and grabbed my arm.

"She can't look at those," he told me.

Well, that seemed like a good time to call it a day. I had a lot of information to review and all kinds of coverage issues to consider--none of which bode well for the mother. This was a family on a run of bad luck. On the decline you might say. I gathered my things and loaded my bag when the last of my questions came to mind.

"So, how many dogs do you have boarded here now?" I asked.

"We're closed now Mr. Grdzak," she responded with that same blank expression, "those two dogs put us right out of business."

I nodded with empathy.

"...And what happened to the dogs? Does the owner have them now?'

The mother laughed with disdain as she snubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and lit another in almost the same motion.

"Those dogs were put to sleep that same afternoon. Animal Control didn't even wait for the owners to get home. That's why they're suing us."

"Who's suing you--the owners?"

"Yeah, for their dogs. They want compensation for them. Guess we haven't paid enough," she said with disgust as her attorney gently rubbed her shoulders.

"Those dogs were really valuable?" I asked so I could advise my client.

The woman looked at me like I was dense. Or like I was insignificant. Her mind was somewhere else. Her gaze momentarily shifted from my face toward the shelf on the wall where all the ribbons hung. Where she'd posted all those old letters from appreciative owners along with the now discolored photographs that had faded over the years. Photos that had once been a source of pride and accomplishment, but that now only reaped the shame of failure along with guilt and heartbreak.

"They were champions," she said as she snubbed out the last of her cigarette and walked away from the table.



* NOTE: None of the photographs or depictions used above relate in any way to the case discussed. Hope to see y'all next month!

Conundrums

This month’s theme is conundrums. You know, things you can’t figure out and that only become more confusing as you put thought into them. There’s a lot of ‘em in the world.

Like Amy Winehouse. There are times when she’ll descend from genius to rubbish in the phrasing of a single line (i.e. her bizarre interpretation of There is No Greater Love on YouTube). And sometimes its all just rubbish. Do I like her? ...Welll, I can like her. And I’m definitely rooting for her--I think her Billie Holliday meets Keith Richards style is original. Original and interesting. But is it good? Let’s just say that I haven’t spent any money on her yet.





My favorite T-shirt’s a bit of a conundrum. I like the way the colors burst-out like a sunbeam from the tank and morph it into something almost psychedelic. Kind of converts a weapon of destruction into a message of flower power. At least in my mind. But when my little niece visited from Denver she simply looked at me and asked, “Why does your shirt have a tank on it?” She definitely interpreted the design as an aggressive statement; and when I sought my sister’s opinion she said it reminded her of the WWII Japanese flag. Hmmmm, that’s not what I thought I was projecting.


The Peace Fountain at St. John’s The Divine is a conundrum of sorts. It’s actually entitled The Triumph of Good Over Evil and represents the Archangel Michael’s decapitation of Lucifer. It has a double-helix base thats supposed to represent the structure of DNA and depicts Lucifer’s decapitated torso and striated musculature in such detail--with such fundamentalist, Mel Gibson-esque relish, that its gotta be genius.

Except that the statue’s center is dominated by this pie-faced moon that’s of a style completely out of context with the surrounding scene. Its really odd, as though the image is an after-thought; particularly when you see it in person. It threatens to make the statue almost laughable, but as a whole the fountain’s too great to be dismissed. It’s borderline transcendent. A masterpiece of creation,..with a touch of Down’s Syndrome.


Speaking of great creations, I love my new hat. Its not really new--its an old, vintage hat from Russia. Its just new for me. Actually its not even new for me ‘cause my friend Kathy got it for me last year, but the thought of wearing it is new.

Only problem is that everytime I put it on I feel a little weird ‘cause it’s fur. Sable to be exact. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never worn fur. Not that I consider fur evil, and not that I don’t eat meat. And not that I don’t wear leather and not that I don’t enjoy fishing. And I do wear a hat on my bald-ass head like, all the time and this one’s so perfect for my style and well crafted--a real piece of art as well as just beautiful, luxurious fur. I’ve never appreciated a sable more in my life. In fact, I don’t even think I knew what sable was before I got this thing. And it was a gift for crying out loud so its almost wrong not to wear it. And the thing’s already dead so to throw it out is just a bigger waste of the poor bugger’s life, no? So c’mon, I’m gonna wear this thing and get excited about it.

Only it doesn’t feel like me when I put it on. Sure its cool and styley and reminds me of my trip to Russia; but its still a dead animal skin. What am I, a frontiersman? I live in New York for God’s sake. The City. Its 2008. I look like an anachronism in this thing. Or some kind of social climber. Maybe if I’d killed the sable myself it’d feel more appropriate. But to wear a skin that someone else killed--its kind of like hanging a mounted trophy fish you didn’t catch. Kind of lame.

And I’ll tell you something else. This hat’s old. Vintage. It was probably sewn 40 years ago. Yet a lot of people wouldn’t know that to look at it. They might actually think I bought it new. As though the animal had given its life specifically for my purchase and amusement. And I don’t like that cause its not true. I have no culpability in regards to the origins of this hat.

Unless you consider that by wearing it I’m sort of encouraging--or at least publicly condoning a kind of nonchalance toward the life of my fellow creatures. I wouldn’t condone a kid's burning of ants or a Vice President's shooting of birds out a cage for amusement; and I think its..maybe a little callous to mill and harvest sables when my urban habitat provides about ten million other options to help keep me warm.



Still, its a cool hat; and I don’t just like it, I appreciate it. Thanks Kathy!

Till next month.




* NOTE: We here at Roadkill would like to post a special dedication to David Foster Wallace who wrote (among other things) Consider the Lobster; which would have been the perfect Roadkill post if only someone here had been blessed with pure genius. We lost a great one in Wallace.

Law--American Style!

I should preface this by stating that everyone even remotely associated with Roadkill either owns or has owned a Labrador Retriever or Lab-mix. I should also add that this writer (I don’t speak for Jaco in any way, shape, or form), but this writer smokes weed everyday. So as they say in the action movies, this month’s post is personal.

With that said, let me ask you a question: How many American adults would you estimate died this past year due to smoking weed? Strictly smoking weed. Ten? One hundred? One thousand? Ten thousand? You have to admit that ten thousand would be a lot of people.

How about forty-two thousand people--would that be a lot? Forty-two thousand deaths? That’s not how many died from weed, but its how many died in auto fatalities this past year. And that’s just the fatalities. Of course despite the above-listed statistic (as well as the environmental degradation, the breakdown in community they cause, and the hundreds of thousands people killed in the wars for the oil to fuel them) the idea of making car ownership illegal is laughable.

Yet possessing weed is illegal. Why?! I don’t think smoking weed has ever killed anyone. Not one person. I suppose if you’re smoking weed and boozing and smoking cigarettes you might develop some health issues. But if your only vice is weed, I think you’ve still got a healthy lifestyle. Weed on its own isn’t dangerous and you can go tell your mom and the kids I said so.

You know what’s dangerous? Drug laws. Drug and vice laws. Laws against things that people enjoy, want, and will definitely pursue. Vice laws not only create black markets but also the mafias that supply them. Crime syndicates. And in poor countries these mafias can become as powerful as the governmental institutions. Powerful enough to infest and influence the police department, the mayor’s office, the Army. Cause there’s so much money to be made and such a heroic effort that would be required to overthrow it that you’d have to be some kind of a moron-idiot not to give way to what in reality is just the will of the people and make some money for yourself.

The problem for society is that this scenario results in government within government. Turns your country into Russia or Mexico or I suspect Iraq; where there’s dual tracks of authority operating out in the open. Who’s really in charge becomes an open question that needs to be re-established on a daily basis. Vice laws mean violence (Oh, and lots of vice too).

And this scenario isn’t just in places like Mexico. It’s in places like Berwyn Heights, Maryland. I don’t know what the hell’s going on down there, but this story about the assassination of the mayor’s dogs sure makes the Prince George County Police Department and the FBI look like a bunch of gang thugs. No offense, but if you burst into my house on a no-knock raid; shoot my two Labs, then make me sit handcuffed on my couch in my underwear while I watch my dog bleed its life out on the rug, you’d better have a better excuse than to suspect I was dealing $3.6 million dollars worth of weed. Christ, if you were absolutely certain I’d dealt $3.6 billion dollars worth of weed it still wouldn’t be worth it!

No-knock raids for weed?! No-knocks result in gun fire. No-knocks mean violence. They’re to be used when there’s a hostage situation. Or to prevent a rape or murder attempt. But weed? Let’s drop the nonsense and call a spade a spade, by which I mean that the most dangerous thing in Berwyn Heights Maryland isn't weed but its corrupt cowboy police force that unapologetically assassinated two dogs owned by the town’s highest elected official. How much jail time do you think those assholes will get for that? How much would you and I get for that?




In fact, without sounding too much like Bob Dylan, how many people will have to die in botched drug raids before we drop these moronic vice laws? Not because we condone drug use but because we despise violence. Despise corruption in law enforcement and in our elected officials and refuse to live by rules designed for what the stupidest elements of society might do as opposed to what the rest of us would do. Or might want to do.

The law allows me to own and posses a gun. The law allows me to own and drive a car. The law allows me to watch whatever kind of movies I want. But I can’t own or smoke weed? You’ve gotta be kidding me. And how 'bout the most important law of all?--Thou shalt not kill. Here in America, our government throws that law out the window everyday of the week.

Newly Unemployed in Chinatown (Seems Like Old Times)

I have the kind of personality that starts to sense claustrophobia real fast. Its a trait that works against me in regards to forming meaningful personal relationships and especially in employment. I have no patience for humoring people’s faults or working on my own, so people get sick of my attitude in a hurry. A real hurry. Thats why I don’t think I’ve ever held down the same job for more than 2 years.

Though don’t go saying I’m incompetent. Im very good at what I do--that’s why I can hang on for 2 years. Thing is, I kind of suffer from the same ailment as the old coach of my Detroit Pistons Larry Brown. After two years with me--even if I’ve won you a championship, you don’t ever want to see me again. Ever.

But say what you will about me, I’m still in it to have some fun. Life I mean. I haven’t just thrown in the towel in that department,which is more than I can say for a lot of the guys I’ve worked for. Guys saddled with debt or some heavy responsibility who, perhaps in a moment of defeatism, sold out for peanuts and then got comfortable with it. Then got lazy. Then scared. Then just got old.

I’ve had lots of supervisors of the type Im talking about. I remember one in particular--Neal. I worked for him out in New Jersey for what was about a thirty-man operation. I had three supervisors there, but he was the main guy I answered to.

Anyway, this guy Neal was so defeated by a pending divorce and his two kids and the bureaucracy of our business (which simply highlighted all his self-perceived failings) that he sort of lost his will. It was really sad to see this descent into passivity until it started to manifest itself in petty micro-management behaviors. Once that happened my life became more difficult and I stopped feeling sad for him.

The last day I’d worked for the guy was a Friday a few years back. I’d just finished a late lunch, wandering the fish markets of Chinatown with no intention of heading back to the office since I was already upset with the company. They hadn’t yet paid my expenses for the previous month (which were close to $500.00); and they’d been over two weeks late with the last check. This was a trend that I definitely didn’t like and they knew how I felt.

So I was already a little pissed when I got the cellphone call from Neal at about four o' clock that a tractor-trailer had turned over near the George Washington Bridge and that I was to drive up there and check it out.

Excuse me? I mean, I didn’t say that out loud, but that’s what I thought. These guys owed me over $500.00 for going on three weeks, and its 4:00 in the afternoon on a Friday in New York in the middle of summer with all the shore traffic heading out the city and you want me to just drive up to the George Washington Bridge? Are you kidding? It would’ve taken me over two hours just to get up there. So I said to Neal,

“Neal, let me call the police and find out who’s in charge. I’ll introduce myself over the phone, let’ em know who I am. Its stupid to just drive up there and blind-side them.”

So spineless Neal thought about it for a few seconds ‘cause he was going to have to explain this to our boss and finally got the balls to pull the trigger on a decision.

“...Yeah Lodo, okay. Call State police and then head up there. But hurry up ‘cause I’ve got my boys this weekend and I’m taking them out to Pennsylvania. I need to know someone’s on this.”

Neal and his boys. Those kids were the only things that kept his sorry-ass going.

So I called State Police and explained who I was, but before hopping into my car to sit in traffic for two hours I called Neal and told him,

“Okay Neal, everything’s smoothed over. But listen, before I go up there I’m gonna stop by the office and pick up my expense check. I’m not going up there until I get that.”

There was silence on the end of the line, but then I could hear a discussion going on in the background, which was when I realized I was on speakerphone. Suddenly our boss Jason was on the line,

“Lodo, you’d better get your butt up up there if you know what’s good for you. This is a RUSH assignment--an emergency. We need you up there right now! We can talk about that check next week.”

I could envision Jason’s already rosy cheeks becoming flushed as his anger rose. Bet he's the same color as this red snapper gasping for air I thought, as I inspected the fish. One thing for sure, I wasn’t going to back down on this issue. It was the principle of the thing as much as the money.

“Listen Jason,” I said as I played with a soft-shell crab that tried to pinch my pinkie between its claws, “there’s nothing to ‘talk about.’ I told you last month that I didn’t appreciate waiting on that money. It’s not even income--its money out my pocket. In another week you guys will owe me close to a thousand bucks, and Im not letting that happen.”

But if I wasn’t backing down, neither was Jason.

“I can’t believe this Grdzak! Its after 4:00 on a Friday--there’s no one here to cut you a check! And even if you deposited that check today the money wouldn’t be in your account until Tuesday morning at the earliest. This is an emergency and you wont go up there. As far as Im concerned this is just flat-out insubordination!”

“I’m not refusing,” I responded as I pressed the phone to my head to hear over the haggling merchants. “I just want that check and then I’ll be on my way. I can stop by by right now and pick it up.”

Again I could hear grumbling on their end of the line before Jason said,

“You know what Grdzak, forget it. Neal’s gonna go. I’m tired of your bullshit."

“But..” I could hear Neal meekly protest, “I’m supposed to take my boys to...”

“No Neal, forget it. I need you to go. And Grdzak, you can come in Monday morning, pick up your precious check and I hope I never see you again. Im gonna recommend you be fired you prima-donna.”

“But Jason,” I could hear Neal say. “...I’ve had these plans to take the boys to..”

“Yeah,” Jason interjected, “Well I’m sorry Neal, blame it on Grdzak. Everyone’s gotta drop what they’re doing for him. Guess I know who I can count on when the shit hits the fan.”

I could envision Neal’s stunned, beady eyes rolling round in his head as he recognized there’d be no weekend at Dorney Park with the boys. Jason had him by the short and curlies and he knew it. I’m sure Neal stroked his mustache in that way I d seen him do so many times when he was torn. Debating what to do as he stifled down his free will, just like he always did. C’mon Neal, I thought to myself as I stood there in Chinatown. They’re taking advantage of us. Tell him to fuck off, just one time. It’ll be liberating.

But in retrospect, maybe I was asking too much from the poor guy. I mean, its one thing to go through a divorce. But to be divorced and unemployed, without any health insurance to provide for you or your kids. It was one thing for me to say F-you; but this guy had...entanglements.

So I waited in vain for Neal to stand up for himself until it became sickeningly obvious that it wasn’t going to happen. I could hear the pace of his heavy breathing increase as I rambled round the market until finally I’d had enough. But before I hung up I wanted to make sure my conscience was clear.

“Like I said Jason, just cut me that check I’ll go out there right now.”

“Grdzak, as far as I’m concerned Monday’s your last day.”

“...Its okay Lodo, its not your fault,” I heard Neal say in a choked voice as we all hung up simultaneously.

And so that was that. I turned to walk out the store when I saw a garbage can in the corner. I prepared to throw away my notes when to my surprise, I noticed it was actually full of frogs. Big ones. I looked at them for awhile since it was such an unexpected site. They seemed so calm--almost resigned to their fate despite the fact that it seemed at least a few could jump out if they tried. In fact, I questioned the owner.

“Don’t the frogs jump out the barrel and hop all round the store?” I asked.

“..Naw,” the Chinaman said as he poured crushed ice over some flounder. “That never happen.”

“I wonder why?” I asked. “I thought jumping is what these guys do.”

“..After long time in barrel,” he said with a sardonic smile, “I think maybe they forget they can.”

And with that he retreated to get more ice, with no concern whatsoever that one of his frogs might actually have the gumption to try and escape.

Confronting Urban Myths Head-On

There’s a lot of mythology pertaining to New York City, some of which is based on fact, but a lot of which is pure bullshit. There’s so much media here in the City that you can pretty-much perpetuate any marketing scheme that serves your interest until illusion becomes accepted as truth.

For example, have you heard that New York has the best pizza in the world? Well that’s true, if you go to the right place. But I can assure you that New York also produces some of the worst dog-shit pizza you’ve ever tasted. There are so many pizzerias here that if you don’t know where to go its a complete crapshoot. So on average, our pizza’s no better than Chicago or Philly. In fact, the best pizza I ever had was in La Crosse, Wisconsin at a place called Big Al’s. So please, just say New York’s got really great pizza and leave it at that.

New York is the only place to live if you’re an artist. I suppose this is true if you’re one of these theater people, but theater’s going the same direction as the fax machine. An old dinosaur that will soon be about as popular as poetry books. Hollywood’s still the movie capital and pretty-much all TV shows are shot in Los Angeles. So considering the outrageous rents here in Manhattan, I’d highly suggest you get your Broadway gig lined-up before you pack your bags and leave Kansas.

Only in New York is a line you hear a lot. I guess this line hearkens back to the old days when Greenwich Village served as the refuge for our nations mixed-race couples and homosexuals; or perhaps back to the 1970’s when the City went bankrupt and became the wild west. There was definitely a time when New York was at the forefront of alternative American culture and all things freaky; but since the Giuliani administration and the Wall Street boom of the Clinton years, the city itself is populated by almost nothing but stockbrokers and trust-fund kids. No one else can afford it. If you want a real freak town you need to go to Portland, Oregon; or San Francisco; or possibly New Orleans, though I haven’t seen it post-Katrina.

Speaking of Wall Street, its been interesting over these last months to watch the market descend and approach crash level. As goes Wall Street so goes New York, so it hasn’t been upbeat as we head into summer. In fact, I recently bumped into an old girlfriend that I hadn’t seen since those still-heady times of three years ago and it was sort of sad.

‘Cause when we first met, Katija was one of those If I can make it there I’ll make it anywhere types who rode into New York to take it by storm like a million others who come out here to become a success or get a record deal; or just be one of the beautiful people. She’d have laughed in your face if you even suggested she could wind up like those losers who leave New York on a plane or bus ride home with their tail between their defeated legs, or sucking off the governor for a month’s rent. No way, not this chick. No way she could fail.

And I can assure you that I’d have never bet against her. Not only did she look like she just stepped out of a Bollywood movie, but she’d graduated with honors from ______ College out in London. When I met her, she was starting at some high-profile position with Bear Stearns or Morgan Stanley (or maybe it was Merril Lynch). Whatever it was, she’d just moved to New York from London that week, and wasn’t shy about revealing her six-figure income and her intention of retiring before she was forty to travel round the world.

Well, like I said, that was a few years back. The fact that she’d only been here a week was why I could score a date. By next weekend she’d already moved onward and upward and truth was I couldn’t blame her. Katija dating me was like Kobe Bryant playing for my company’s intramural basketball team. I wasn’t under any illusions.

And truth is she was a bit of an arrogant bitch. More than bit. Thats why it wasn’t as painful to watch her go. The way she’d described her plans to travel the world were as though it were a done deal that had already been bought and paid for. Just a matter of fate or Merril Lynch working out the logistics. And the disdain she had for me when she realized I knew nothing about the stock market was palpable. She pretty-much dismissed me with a wave of her Brahman hand like I was the help who should have been clearing her dishes.

But man, the touch of that hand was an instant hard-on! And when I saw her two weeks ago it was just like that first time. Bam! Striking, exotic beauty. Stunning femininity. I was actually proud of myself for having dated a woman that fine--even if it was only twice. That girl willingly kissed you, I said to myself with a mental pat on the back.

Of course I recognized her long before she noticed me. But I made sure I got close enough for her to do a double-take; and at that moment of recognition she reluctantly emitted a stifled laugh.

“Hey Katija,” I said without breaking stride. “How are you?”

“Lodo,” she said with her London accent, obviously disappointed at having to deal with my Plebian bloodlines. “That crazy name.”

I don’t think our conversation was particularly memorable; but standing on that street corner I remember thinking that she was down. Sad. Such different energy than when we’d first met three years ago. In fact, I probably couldn’t have approached that girl of three years ago; but now she had a weak energy. And she said she’d just got off the 1 train, which is something I never thought she’d do since she her company had a car service for her to use. But she’d obviously lost that job, though she never admitted it and I never pushed it.

We would have parted ways immediately, but I bought myself some extra time. Got lucky. There were these guys in the bank on the corner staring out at her through its translucent glass windows. Not only could you see them plain as day, but they couldn’t have been more than two or three feet from us--simply on the opposite side of the glass. And they weren’t going anywhere. Just staring and exchanging comments between themselves.

“You’re so hot that those guys are just going to stand there and stare for as long as we talk,” I said.

“Shut up!” she said with a tight laugh.

“No, really. C’mon, stick around for a minute so everyone can see me talking with you. “

So yeah, those guys gave me an sort of an in to get her to stick around. And amazingly Katija didn’t go anywhere. She was a good sport and wanted to test my theory. Perhaps her ego needed the attention right about then.

But like I said, there’s no need to feel too bad for this chick. She’s plenty confident and is gonna go places and see things that I’ll never get to see. Its just that people can say New York is great or London’s great or Paris is great, but until you go yourself and have your experience you don’t know; and whatever Katija thought New York was gonna be obviously it didn’t pan out and “...you know, she was flying back to London in two months...”

She sort of drifted off there, but at least I got to bask in her beauty and stare at our reflection in the polished glass; until it was time to say “Well,..see ya, I guess,” which sounds like the exact kind of moronic thing I’d say in a situation where it was obviously goodbye for life.

Only she was looking at me sort of strange, I think because she remembered that I’d seen her when she’d first come out to New York. Like she was measuring herself by my reaction to her now, which in all honesty kind of spooked me out since she was so beautiful and staring deep into my eyes trying to gauge something only she could see; a pregnant pause that lasted until I suddenly felt a whiff of air or a puff of sand like a small sandbag had dropped from the second floor of the building or someone had kicked their hackey-sack against one of the windows where it plopped down like a soaked tea-bag immediately adjacent to the two of us there on the sidewalk. Katija and I looked to each other in baffled wonderment, then simultaneously crouched down toward the sidewalk to inspect what had fallen.

“Oh no,” I said, turning in her direction, “Its a bird.”

But by the time I’d turned to face her Katija was already walking away, clutching herself as if it were cold outside despite the heat.