Jaco and Lodo G present:

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

2008-12-20T10:52:00.000-08:00

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. It was really dark outside; and by this time very cold, 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 McCallan's 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)

2008-11-20T05:39:00.000-08:00

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!

Conundrums

2008-09-20T09:48:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-08-20T15:56:00.000-07:00

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.

Confronting Urban Myths Head-On

2008-06-20T06:36:00.000-07:00

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 looked at me sort of strange, I think because she remembered that I’d seen her when she first came out to New York. Like she was measuring herself by my reaction to her now, which kind of spooked me since she was so beautiful yet staring deep into my eyes as she appeared to try and 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 above. Like a kicked hackey-sack against one of the windows that 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.

To Be Number One

2008-05-19T21:02:00.000-07:00

A champion never quits. Not while they’ve got even a chance in hell of winning. So when I hear so many Democrats say "Hillary Clinton should quit the Presidential race and drop out cause she can't win” I know I’m dealing with a defeatist party. Considering the mood of the country today, whoever gets the Democratic nod will likely become the next president. So if you think Hillary’s gonna bail on becoming the first woman president I know you’ve never been a champion. This is her only shot at what was probably the whole reason she stuck with Bill and endured a thousand and one public humiliations, so she’s not gonna just let it go. The woman’s used to winning and even in this contest she’s won every major round.

Though admittedly, she may be damaging Obama in the process. But hey, thats just part of the ride Obama paid for. There’s a difference between being successful and being a champion. Obama’s been very successful up to now but the heart and megalomaniacal drive that’s required to be a champion is something else. This is what the Clintons are teaching him. What the Reverend Wright taught him. That to be a champion, you’ve got to be willing to recognize your moment and then take it from anyone in your way. Even your best friend. Even your pastor. Cause its all about you. As Kanye West put it, “To be number one I’m gonna beat my brother.”

Course an attitude like that isn’t gonna win you many friends, which is why there will always be people that want to tear-down a champion. We’re seeing a lot of this out here in New York with Roger Clemens. It’s Clemens now and soon it’ll be Bonds again. Mediocre sports writers of no significance tearing down a champion and a record beater who’s very exploits provided the subject matter off which they make their livelihoods. “Say it aint so Roger.” “Admit it--you used the juice.” “Just admit it.”

Why? Why admit anything to these footnotes on the page of history? Roger Clemens is Roger Clemens and fifty years from now he’ll still be Roger Clemens. Seven Cy Young awards. Over three hundred wins. Over four thousand strikeouts. Two World Series championships. These sportswriters are just trying to glom on to some of his success, even if they can only do it by tarnishing his glow. I’ve already forgotten their names. But Clemens--that’s a name I’ll remember. Clemens and Bonds both.

What these sportswriters don’t understand (or probably do understand) is that once you’re a champion there’s no going back to being a regular schmuck. At least, not as long as you can help it. Like the childhood star who faces adolescence and perhaps another sixty years of adulthood knowing their biggest accomplishments are already behind them, can you blame the champion for trying to hang on? For continuing to pursue greatness. Its not just pride for a true champion, its a sense of all-consuming purpose that average people just don’t have.

And that’s why a champion’s willing to put everything on the line. Their bodies, their health--even their lives. Like Clemens, who willingly took the risk of a few injections despite knowing the possible consequences. Or Muhammad Ali, who refused to lose to Frazier (or Shavers, or Foreman or Liston or Norton) and who now walks around a shell of his former self. Or the legendary Duk Koo Kim who left it all in the ring. All of these guys were champions.

And yet, its for this very reason--the willingness of the champion to lay it all on the line--that they’re vulnerable. In need of someone who’ll take their best interest to heart. Like the late, great boxing trainer Eddie Futch. Futch trained former heavyweight champion Joe Frazier and admits that he stopped the classic Thrilla in Manilla between Frazier and Muhammad Ali over Frazier’s objection. Frazier was never going to quit that fight. Neither was Ali. Both champions were more than willing to die in the ring. But Futch took it upon himself to stop that fight after the 14th round and if you’ve ever seen video of that classic battle you know that he probably saved Frazier’s life. Maybe Ali’s as well. Think Don King would have done that for Mike Tyson? Please.

But here at Roadkill we believe that when you accept someone as your own or agree to mentor them you have a responsibility toward them. Like my adopted dog Spiffy out in Colorado. The dog’s a maniacal ball-fetcher and her beautiful athleticism and perfect intent of purpose in chasing that ball is a sight to behold. She’ll fetch it a hundred times. Two hundred times. Fetch it till she’s panting and limping and walking all stiff. But she’ll still do it. Demand to do it cause she loves it. Bark at you saying “Throw it! Throw it! Throw it!’ as she drops that bright green ball at your feet and pushes it toward you with her nose to induce another toss. But of course I don’t just let her run herself into the ground. I make her take a rest. Lie down in the shade for a few minutes. Take a drink of water. ‘Cause I have a responsibility toward her and love the heck out of her, so I’m not gonna let her hurt herself if I can help it.

Now lets say you own a horse. A thoroughbred. Course thoroughbreds don’t come cheap so we’ll have to assume you’ve got some money. Probably got a lot of things--a car, a boat, a house. You’ve been very successful at whatever you do. Successful perhaps, but not a champion. You don’t have that aura of greatness that you’ve been seeking. So, how can you get it? Well, maybe by that thoroughbred you’ve bought. There’s your ticket. Like the sportswriter or corrupt boxing promoter who cant actually be great so he does the next best thing--gloms on to greatness hoping to at least be associated with it. Course the relationship is based on a need as opposed to love so how healthy it actually is may be open to debate. But that doesn’t stop you from talking-up the love angle in public and perhaps you’ve even convinced yourself of your sincerity.

But after that horse of yours wins her first race and then her second and then her third and you start to feel her getting close to becoming a historic Derby trophy winner--with your name in the record books of championship greatness--maybe you aren’t looking out for her best interest even as much as you’ve convinced yourself to be. Like that politician chasing history or telegenic pastor who can’t even see that they’re bringing everyone down by their own self-interest; or that baseball legend chasing one last championship--maybe you’ve lost perspective a little bit. Lost sight that five major races over the last year or so may not be a good idea for that young horse you supposedly love so much. That being the only female surrounded by nineteen high-strung males might just spook a girl out--a girl who’s already in a highly anxious state in anticipation of hauling ass as fast as possible for a mile-and-a-quarter. That there’s only so much physical stress and psychological strain that an inbred, high-strung, thoroughbred filly can take before she flat-out has a heart attack or a stroke, or simply collapses from exhaustion right there on the track.

And that’s what we believe happened to Eight Belles. We don’t care what the veterinarian says over at Churchill Downs--this horse was a world class athlete. No way she simply mis-stepped after the race and broke both ankles (not one, but both?!). No way. Even the vet on the track admitted he’d never seen an injury like it.

In fact, everyone had something to say about Eight Belles didn’t they? A lot of talk. Like Eight Belles trainer, Larry Jones who said that losing Eight Belles was, “Like losing a member of the family.” Well, were not in a position to comment on the sincerity of Mr. Jones, and we’re not going to kick a man when he’s down. That’d be a cheap shot. But if he and the rest of the racing community are truly committed to their animals they could prove it by adopting a few fairly simple reforms, such as: 1) Limiting the number of races for any given horse to three a year; 2) Adopting track surfaces that are easier on the horse’s bones; 3) Moving the age of Kentucky Derby entrants up from three to four years old; and 4) not allowing lone females to compete against multiple males.

We’d also argue that a horse that doesn’t want to enter the gate shouldn’t be forced to do so; while a horse that needs to be repeatedly whipped to induce speed is probably never going to be champion anyway.

Ron Turcotte--who rode the legendary Secretariat in the Belmont Stakes says that when he recognized Secretariat was winning that race by a ridiculous twenty lengths he let up on his horse, only to be amazed that Secretariat continued to run even harder toward the finish. For better or worse, that’s the heart of a champion. Always reaching for the high-rung. Striving to be the trophy winner. Putting it all on the line, to be number one.

Supersonic Roadkill

2008-04-20T07:12:00.000-07:00

When I visited St. Petersburg close to two years ago, I stopped at a local gift shop for a cup of coffee. At that time I had never heard of Laika, or Albina, or Tsyganka; so when I saw a bizarre painting against the wall of two dogs with intelligent eyes toward the sky and a space capsule soaring majestically overhead I had to comment to the proprietor, “That’s kind of funny with the dogs looking off into space like that.” But the proprietor didn’t laugh at all. She was very proud as she explained in broken English that the painting was “a dedication to Laika, Tsyganka and the dogs that gave their lives for the Russian space program.”

Turns out that unlike most Americans, the Russians are really into their space program. They don’t have a lot of money so they can only invest so much into it; but they follow the program and the stories of Albina, Tsyganka and Laika are part of their culture. I don’t know if America has any genuine animal heroes in our nation’s cultural lore, but I know there were many hero dogs on September 11th here in New York and many that serve in the military. Anyway, this past April 11th (two Fridays ago), the Russians reportedly unveiled a small monument to Laika near a military research facility in Moscow.

According to internet sources, the Russians used a total of nine (9) dogs to test space suits in pressurized capsules. Albina and Tsyganka were the first two living beings to complete a “sub-orbital mission,” and returned to Earth safely; but Laika died within hours of her orbital launch in Sputnik II.

Laika had been a stray from the Moscow streets who was reportedly a mix of Siberian Husky and/or Samoyed. Scientists decided to use a stray since they figured it’d be more adaptable than a dog with a stable background. For the twenty days leading up to Laika’s mission, she was kept in progressively smaller and smaller cages to prepare her for her quarters in the capsule.

Despite technical problems a few days prior to the launch, Sputnik II eventually blasted off on November 3, 1957. Laika was inside, supported by a harness that allowed her access to food and water. There appears to be some debate as to whether Laika ran out of air or died from overheating, but within a few hours of being blasted into space she had died (her death had been expected by the mission directors prior to launch).

While this post should not be interpreted as an endorsement or condemnation of the Russians actions toward Laika, it was a quote by one of the leading scientists on the Sputnik team--Oleg Gazenko that inspired this month’s post. Dr. Gazenko allegedly stated, “The more time passes, the more I am sorry about it. We did not learn enough from the mission to justify the death of the dog.”

Considering Dr. Gazenko’s accomplishments (at least as listed on the internet) I really respected the kind of contemplation demonstrated by his comments. And that’s all we ask for here at Roadkill, just a little consideration. Let's face it, shit's gonna happen on the road and some things can't be avoided; but some things can be avoided if you just cool out a little bit and slow the fuck down. At the end of the day, you might actually feel bad about that dog you hit. Or that cat you turned into hamburger. That’s why we've dedicated this month’s post to the legendary Laika. The dog who wasn’t just, “the only living passenger ever to have been launched into space without the intention of retrieval,”; but was arguably the first supersonic roadkill.

Back Where It All Began

2008-03-19T21:08:00.000-07:00

We were on the two-lane roadway, which I'm sure by now is at least a four-lane highway out near Auburn Hills, which was nothing but a backwater back then--long before The Pistons or The Palace or the inexorable human sprawl that seeped its way into the countryside like lime into the water table. Two high school kids just starting to really feel their oats, still a question mark on the page of history; nothing yet decided, staring out the window of a pickup listening to Jeff Beck or Jimi Hendrix or some guitar jam--always a guitar in those days--when suddenly “What’s that out the window?” The classic Roadkill question. “Oh man! A fox must have got hit.” “No--no! That wasn’t a fox, that was squirrel.” “Really, are you sure? That looked like a fox.” “Turn round, I’ll show you.”

So what the hell. If you were any older of course you’d have better things to do, but back in those Stanley Clarke school days it was like, “Alright lets turn around.” And you go back and you look and you’re like “Ah, man that’s a squirrel alright. Told you so.

“But maybe that’s a fox.”

“Oh no! come on man. Thats a squirrel and you know it.”

And of course you do know it but you’re not going to concede the point just yet because this conversation’s about it being a squirrel and its about everything but the squirrel. The argument just an excuse or a coat hook on which to hang a shared experience; a topic to return to during the lulls while you’re fishing or swimming; joking about eating squirrel for dinner or tossing frisbee fox; ‘cause there’s so much life infusing you in those strong early years that a roadkill is nothing but a trifle or a joke; nothing really tangible cause your seventeen or eighteen and you’re gonna live forever and a day and a roadkill was just an amusement in a world made for you and you alone.

So it wasn’t about whether you’d seen a fox or a squirrel but about the bond of camaraderie, the argument itself eventually morphing into a kind of ritual, repeating itself every fishing trip in the same way they sing the national anthem before a ball game--a way of saying This is our tribe and this is our common experience. This is who we are.

‘Cause when you’re eighteen and you’ve grown up near Detroit you can’t be soft. You’re not going to say, “I love these fishing trips." Or "You’re my best friend,"or anything that can be construed as gay or pusillanimous. So instead you make bets on who’ll catch the biggest fish or who can hold their hit of weed the longest; or argue about roadkills--talk about everything and anything but the importance of your friendship.

Because you don’t think you need to say it. You don’t realize at that young age that one day this two lane road is going to be a four-lane highway; or one day they’re actually going to break ground on that construction project called The Palace; or that one day the people that are close to you will grow old and change, or that you’ll change and perhaps without accomplishing a lot of those big things you were going to do. You haven’t yet gone through those experiences that develop the empathy and humanity to recognize that the insignificant squirrel that you’d seen flattened into a frisbee that first trip out to Metamora just lost the one and only life it was ever going to get and that in the overall big scheme of things maybe your life isn’t anymore important than his.

But you can’t see or feel any of that yet, cause your still back where it all began.

The Superbowl and Roadkill and How they Relate

2008-02-20T15:48:00.001-08:00

When Jaco told me he wanted to shut this blog down I wasn’t upset so much as curious. We’d only started the blog as a way to keep in touch since he’s down in San Antonio and I’m up here in New York. Its proven to be an easy way to initiate some socialization and creates the opportunity to keep in touch; like talking about the weather or the Superbowl. Truth be told, as a writer the theme of Roadkill is a challenge in terms of making other associations, so I had doubts as to my abilities to hold up my writing end of the blog from the get-go (I write the Roadkill posts while Jaco takes the photos).

But returning to my surprise about Jaco’s wanting to shut down--we’d just spoken a few days before and he’d been really excited about several pics he’d taken and about the blog in general; so I couldn’t help but wonder what caused his change of attitude.

We'd first talked about it a few Sunday's back--in fact, it was the morning of the Superbowl.

“Jaco, what’s up?”

“Oh, hey Lodo. ..Uh, nothin’ much.”

“Okay. I thought maybe you’d be sending me some of those pics you talked about. What happened?”

“Oh, yeah. ...Listen, Lodo, I’ve been thinking. ..Maybe we shouldn’t do the blog anymore.”

Again, I was surprised, but not particularly hurt.

“How come you don’t want to do the blog?” I asked.

“...I don’t know,” he said sounding like he really was a long way off in Texas. “I guess it was this deer that I saw this morning. It just kind of bummed me out. You know Lodo, you’ll see the pictures, but for me it was real. This doe must have just been hit and it was practically looking up at me. I took a few pics--couldn’t have been there more than thirty seconds, and when I turned round there were all these turkey buzzards lining up waiting for me to move. Fucking clean-up crew’s already moving in and I’m not even sure this poor things entirely dead. But I’ll tell you, those buzzards are getting really cocky out here since they’re growing fat on all the roadkill."

“Oh man, I said. “..Well, I can see how that could bum you out a little bit.”

“..Yeah. And you know, I’ve driven with some of these hickey-doo’s out here and I know sometimes they’re not even trying to avoid the deer or the pigs on the road. Like its a sport or something to hit the poor buggers. I don’t like it. This Roadkill idea was funny back in high school, but now its different. I’m seeing too much of it out here with all the construction they’re doing.”

And again, I didn’t argue with him. What was there to argue about? I sensed that perhaps there was more going on than just the deer and the buzzards; but of course I didn’t get into it. In fact, I could be on a sinking ship with only minutes to take action, but if it would bum everybody out I probably wouldn’t say a thing until we were all treading water. Its just the way I am.

But Jaco’s just the opposite. He has a total inability (or perhaps unwillingness) to hide his emotions. Whereas I’ll gnash my teeth in silence over a perceived slight or mean-spirited comment, Jaco’s countenance will immediately devolve into a Cro-Magnon scowl if you rub him the wrong way, or instantly break into a warm wide smile should you manage to amuse him. Sometimes you’ll get both reactions in the same three minute conversation. He has a fluidity to his moods and is one of those guys who wears his emotions on his sleeve.

So if the blog was bumming him out there was nothing left to do but shut it down since once a bad mood is set in motion it tends to bleed into all other aspects of a person’s mindset.

But later that night, after the Superbowl Jaco called me back. He obviously had a buzz on, but hey--so did three-quarters of America. It was Superbowl Sunday. And since Jaco never works Mondays, I think its fair to say he’d had a few beers.

We made some small talk about the game: the outstanding catch by that kid Tyree; Eli Manning’s amazing scramble out of the grasp; the wild scene out here in New York. All the things the blog was supposed to do the game did instead. Got us talking about the old Lions and then about Detroit and about his kid AJ; and then back to the game again until Jaco not only began to lighten-up but became a sort-of vessel for an overflowing goodwill that seemed to infuse his whole spirit. Suddenly everything was bathed in a light of positivity and even football was imbibed with meaning.

“I’ll tell you Lodo, I like that kid Eli Mannin’,” Jaco said slurring his words just a bit. “ He didn’t make a lot of noise when they were losing like that Shockey or turn on his coach like Tiki Barber did. He just seems like a nice kid. I like those New York Giants--they’re good. They’re good people Lodo."

I had to laugh at that last line. As much as I like my NY Giants, I don’t know if Im prepared to go on record that they’re “good people.” But I think I understand where he was coming from. To his credit, my friend Jaco’s not a complicated guy. And since I know he’s reading this, let me tell you Jaco that I bet your world champion San Antonio Spurs are good people too. Probably the best.

So anyway, what about the blog? I like to think the old girl may have one more month in her after all. Let me know what you think.

I Ain't Superstitious

2008-01-20T09:34:00.000-08:00

When I’d scheduled my appointment for 4:30 I’d forgotten that the skies get dark so early now. And I know I didn’t anticipate it being twenty degrees. First real cold day of the year and I had to get off at the wrong train stop; trudging through the Bronx in the wind and the dark like I’m asking to be mugged. Like Im one of those masochists who gets off on being abused or getting his ass kicked. God damn train. God damn weather. God damn. God damn. God damn.

I can’t tell if the nearly empty streets are a good or bad thing. Am I lucky that I won’t encounter large groups of young people?--or does this just assure that there’ll be no witnesses to what someone’s likely to do. The few people I pass on the sidewalk are so bundled up with hats, coats, and gloves that they’re exposed humanity is reduced to a pair of darting eyes looking out from behind veils of woolen scarves. They remind me of the Arab women I saw in Morocco peering out from the alleyways.

I finally get to the right address but there’s a guy on a ladder blocking the entrance.

“You the building super?” I ask him.

“Yeah, are you the insurance guy?,” he answers in a Spanish accent.

“Thats me--the insurance guy.”

The super climbs down off his ladder and gives me his filthy hand to shake. Like a moron I accept it, which just adds to my sour mood. This guy had already cancelled two previous appointments--days where the weather was nice--so I blame a good part of my misery on him.

The super invites me inside the building so I step around the ladder and proceed toward the doorway.

“Oh, you’re superstitious I see,” the guy says to me.

“Superstitious? Why do you say that?”

“Cause of how you stepped round that ladder. You know better than to walk under, no?”

“I didn’t really think of it,” I tell him truthfully. “It just sort of worked out that way.”

“You can admit it if you’re superstitious,” he says as he gathers up the last of his hand tools and approaches the front door, “I get that way too sometimes. Like last Friday--the 13th. I don’t do no work on that day. That day is bad luck.”

“..Last Friday wasn’t the 13th.”

“It wasn’t?” he asks as if genuinely surprised, “Well, I didn’t work anyway--just to be safe, right?” Then the guy slaps me on the back and descends into a giggle fit that lasts a good half-minute. “Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!--thats funny, right?”

Fucking guy. Nothing worse than someone who laughs at his own bad jokes. And Im not in the mood for any nonsense: the cold’s still in my bones where it adds to my bitterness over the previously cancelled appointments. And I’ve got a good half-hour's walk back to the train station in the dark, which will probably be even more dangerous than the walk over, and thats after I get done here. And to top it all off this building’s a complete shit-hole that already stinks of piss and cabbage and we haven’t even gone inside yet.

The guy opens the front door and immediately something unknown scampers out, running right over my shoe and out toward the street.

“Oh fuck me!” I yell completely inappropriately, “Was that a rat? My God it was huge!”

The super begins to laugh uncontrollably and for the first time I can smell the liquor on his breath.

“...Oh man!” he says through his laughter as he wipes a tear from his eye and leans against the doorjamb for support. “ You should have seen your face mister. That wasn’t a rat--that was un gato.”

“What?..a cat? is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, yes. Un gato. A black one too, so thats bad luck. Its bad for one of those to cross your path. ..But you’re not superstitious so I guess it don’t matter. Your face was funny though, hee hee hee.”

Fucking guy. Glad I can amuse this simpleton is what I think as we proceed inside and I take his statement.

“Did this woman ever complain about her ceiling” I ask the guy.

“Oh no, never--she’s a slut and a crazy lady. She’s on crack.”

“Okay,” I respond, “but regardless of that--you never made any repairs to her ceiling?”

“Oh no, never. She’s a slut and a liar--she just wants money. I always make repairs right away, whenever someone complain I get right on it.”

I finish with the super but then I have to canvass the building. Talk to the tenants to see what they know about their neighbor who’s ceiling allegedly fell on her head. And they all tell me the same thing--the super’s a bum. He’s a drunk and never repairs anything. Everyone’s made complaints about their ceiling or their hot water or the garbage in the hallway, or the cockroach infestation and he doesn’t do anything but get drunk and jerk-off to Telemundo. That lady in 3-E? Yeah, she complained to the super all the time about her ceiling but he never did anything until after the ambulance came. Then he fixed the ceiling while she was in the hospital so everything would look normal.

They all say the same thing, which normally doesn’t mean much, but in this case I believe them. I finish taking my photos, gather all my paperwork, and step outside the building to leave, but there’s the super breaking down his ladder.

“So did they tell you about that liar in 3-E?” he asks. “She’s a slut.”

He uses the word as though being a slut should be a class 1 felony. He’s really getting on my nerves but I haven’t decided to get him in trouble with his supervisors yet. That would come in a few moments--but for now, I just want to get out of there.

“I found out a few things,” I tell the guy. ‘Nothing we need to get into now. I’ve just got to get back to the train.”

“Well before you do, I’ve got some good news for you.”

I’m confused as to what he can mean, but then he walks me over to the street and points down toward the concrete, where I observe a dead black cat that's obviously been hit by a car.

“Look at our little friend here,” he says with an air of disdain. “Guess he wont be scaring anymore insurance guys, no?”

Then the guy clasps me on he back and descends into another giggle fit which exposes his toothless mouth. “Ha ha ha ha hee hee hee!” he continues to exclaim as he slaps at his pant leg like a hillbilly and wipes the drunken tears from his eyes. I guess he thinks something’s funny or that we’d somehow bonded, but as I button-up my coat and adjust my hat on my head in preparation for my long walk I decide that I truly despise this guy and that I’m going to include everything I’d been told in my report plus add a few comments of my own.

Of course I don’t tell any of this to the super; but I think he can sense trouble when I turn toward him and say, “Guess you were right about those black cats being bad luck.”

“What you mean?” he asks me, somewhat confused. “Bad luck happened to you inside?”

“Not for me,” I answer taking a step closer and looking directly into his eyes, “for him,” I say with a nod toward the street.

The Machinations of a Boy's Mind

2007-12-20T18:37:00.000-08:00

In fairness to Jaco, he did try to take me to the River Walk, even though it was more than obvious that the trip excited him about as much as driving to the vet to put his favorite dog to sleep. Of course, having never been to San Antonio the River Walk was pretty-much the only thing I’d heard of besides the Spurs basketball team, but it took a whole night of campaigning by Jaco’s wife to convince him to drive me down there. As for myself, I was fairly anxious to see it; but when the traffic got bad and with the weather not particularly good, I didn't push it when Jaco suddenly pulled a 180 and proceeded to drive out to his land on the outskirts of town for a late-morning hike.

I should mention that I hadn’t seen Jaco for fifteen years despite the fact that we were best friends from high school and there were no significant events to drive a wedge between us. Just one of those things where we both had to get out of Detroit by any means necessary and in taking the paths that life provided we kind of lost each other for awhile.

But fifteen years is a long time and I couldn’t help but wonder what this visit was going to entail, especially since San Antonio and New York are about as polar opposite as you can get and still stay in the United States. Adding to my trepidation was the fact that I’d seen other friends from my past who’d changed, or seemed to change so drastically that I’d been left scratching my head trying to determine if in fact they’d really changed or if they’d never been straight with me to begin with. Cause in all honesty, I’d always believed Paul Simon when he sang that “after changes upon changes we stay more or less the same.”

Anyway, Jaco’s revulsion toward the River Walk seemed right in line with my recollection of him, and when he insisted on pulling over to inspect the dead pigs we saw en route to our country hike, I knew the man I was dealing with was still my old friend.

“You see,” he said with indignation to no one in particular, “This is because of all the construction they’re doing. The pigs keep getting hit!”

We got out the pickup--Jaco, his 4 year old boy (AJ), and myself and proceeded toward the first of the two dead pigs.

“Remember when we used to drive up to Metamora and count the roadkill and try to guess what the really flattened animals were?’ Jaco asked me. It was the first time we had gotten nostalgic. Prior to that we had never really talked about the old days. Wasn’t a lot of “Remember when we used to do this," or "Remember that one girl that.” We didn’t need to--we’d just been able to pick-up where we were. We were still genuinely friends. But yeah, I remembered the roadkill and our plans to create a book. A photography book of all the severely flattened roadkills we encountered, with multiple choice questions as to what the animal could be. Seemed like a funny idea, though in this case, the game would have been nonsensical. We were obviously dealing with pigs.

As we stared at the first pig, I couldn't help but be a little frightened. I’d heard pigs grunting throughout the previous night and knew from the TV that they are extremely dangerous if encountered unexpectedly. Not only that, but this thing I saw now looked like it could get up and run at any moment. Didn’t really look too bad, though its position on the road made it obvious that if it could get up it would have done so long ago. Jaco’s boy AJ looked at the pig.

“How come it doesn’t get up?” he asked.

“Cause he got killed, “Jaco answered somehow combining the soft tone used for a child with the disgust of a nature lover traversing yet another newly built road.

“He’s hairy,” AJ said with a giggle.

“Yep,” Jaco replied, “That’s a wild pig. Thats why he’s all hairy. So he can stay out all night and not get cold.”

We then walked toward the second pig, which was in far worse shape than the first. This thing was a gory mess, with its entrails stretched out over a good two feet and a very nasty gash across its mid-section. Its neck was twisted backward into a grotesque pretzel and all its organs were blood-red and visible. Not something I’d want my boy to look at, though Jaco walked AJ over without a care in the world.

“What’s all that stuff inside it?” AJ asked his father.

“That’s its insides--its organs,” Jaco responded. “See what happens when you get hit by a car? All your stuff comes out.”

The boy looked at the pig remains with wide eyes and followed the path of the entrails. What his young mind was thinking you couldn’t tell, but I thought I detected a baffled countenance as he attempted to interpret the meaning of what he saw.

“Come on," Jaco finally told the both of us after several seconds, “Lets go hiking.”

So we drove out to the land and proceeded to hike. And you know, Im not used to hanging out with young people--particularly children. I forgot how even the simplest of things can amuse them or frighten them; and how capricious they can be in regards to their moods. One moment AJ and I would be getting along fine and the next he’d suddenly stop talking and turn his back toward me in a huff. But he was a fun kid who was easily amused. When I gave him a big stick to use while walking he accepted it with a sense of responsibility and when we threw big rocks into the low-lying river AJ’s face would light up in hysterical laughter at the loud splash of water. “CRACK-A-BOOM!” I’d yell as the water exploded below and then AJ would immediately throw his rock and repeat as I’d done “CRACK-A-BOOM!”, which he would punctuate with this very cool arm-pulling gesture like we used to do as kids when we’d want a trucker to honk his horn. He would have been more than happy to have thrown rocks in the river all all day. “You see!” Jaco said to me as if we’d been discussing the subject for an hour, “this is the kind-of stuff he needs to do!”

All in all, it was a great hike and I was even able to sneak away to burn a little herb while Jaco was down below exploring the riverbank with AJ. That really heightened my natural experience; but soon we began to hear the loud grunting of a wild pig that seemed to grow more and more aggressive as we proceeded. Maybe it was my buzz that made me paranoid, but I began to get scared and suggested to Jaco that we turn round.

“That’s a donkey,” Jaco told me in a rather dismissive tone, but as we kept walking the louder it became. Again I expressed my fear to Jaco, to which I received a similar reply, “That’s a donkey Lodo, but it does seem to be distressed.”

Almost on cue the animal began to neigh violently again. Perhaps stoked by my concern, AJ suddenly chimed in.

“I’m scared now, I don’t want to be here,” he said with a shiver.

“AJ its fine,” Jaco told him. “its just a donkey thats upset.” Then Jaco looked at me with derision and gave me a smack to the back of the head which forced me to adjust my hat. “Keep it together will ya, you're scaring AJ. Alright, guess I’d better get you two kids out the woods,” he said with a condescending laugh as we proceeded to head back to the truck.

Once situated in the truck it was time to plan our next move. It was still early in the day, but I was satisfied with our accomplishment--I’d seen more trees in two hours than in the whole past year out in New York. Our focus turned toward AJ and keeping him entertained.

“So AJ, what do you want to do?,” Jaco asked from his position behind the steering wheel. “We can go to Sea World or to the River Walk or go home and shoot baskets. What do you think you want to do?”

AJ thought about it for a few moments. His four-year old mind seemed to struggle with the complexities of so many possibilities until suddenly his eyes widened and his faced morphed into a knowing smile. Whatever his decision, he was so happy about it that he couldn’t contain his energy. He bopped up and down in his safety chair and involuntarily kicked his legs into my seat-back as he exclaimed with a hearty giggle he couldn’t keep stifled down.

“Lets go back and look at the dead pigs!