CONTENTS
The Emperor's New Clothes
Peachland in Winter
Mister Minnesota
The Dream House
Dallas (Captain America)
Amsterdam (Fat City)
Have You Seen the Buddha?
Vampires (Blackout)
Recovery
A Shining Light
Peachland
In Winter
There
was a pond behind my house, and beyond that another pond and a large
field and creek. In winter, the ponds would freeze and everything
would turn white. In a few months (that coming spring) Roger and
Johnny O would name the field Peachland (after the cover art from the
album “Eat a Peach” by the Allman Brothers). As long as I can
remember I loved Christmas vacations and this one was turning out to
be the best yet. Dressed in my father’s old Air Force overcoat, I
trudged through the snow. I pulled out a corn cob pipe and filled the
bowl from a dime bag of marijuana (mind you, this was nineteen
seventy one; I’m sure prices have changed).
I
lit the bowl and took a puff. My eyes turned upward and I began to
ascend into the clouds (in that Air Force overcoat, I was a pilot
alright). This is what I had been looking for, I thought, total
bliss. But I could not just stay up there in the clouds, I had
a mission. I had bought a gold locket for my girlfriend, Laura, as a
Christmas gift. Inside the locket, I placed a picture of myself from
my Canadian fishing trip, one that I had cut out from a group
photo—all that remained was a kind of head shot, and really all
that could be seen was my hair shining in the sun.
Laura
had an identical twin, Lisa. In the beginning, I could not tell them
apart. But that soon changed. To me, they were just sisters—as
different as sisters can be. Not that they weren’t close, there was
a bond between them. But their personalities were their own. They
shared the same interests and history but there was a difference in
vision and attitude and there certainly was a difference in how I
felt about them (I had no romantic feelings for Lisa and she had none
for me).
The
twins would often accompany me on my paper route. My customers did
not consider that I was a long haired stoner, opening their doors and
invading their space. They thought I was a girl (my sister, Anne,
often collected for me). I would correct them when they would call
out to a spouse: “the paper girl is here.” During this time, I
grew as tall as my mother (five foot four) and then to my father's
height (five foot seven). Soon I would tower over both of them and I
would no longer be mistaken for a girl no matter how long my hair
was.
I
first noticed Laura the spring before when I saw her and Lisa out
smoking cigarettes in Peachland. They waved at me, I shouted back but
nothing came of it. Later we hooked up and made out at a party at
Boone's farm. (I call it that after the two bottles of cheap wine I
drank before I arrived. Still it really was a farm.) Johnny and
Roger's band played that night. Roger asked if I wanted to play
Johnny's cherry Gibson ES335. I tried to play but I was too drunk.
(Roger insisted that I was a good player). But Johnny was not
impressed.
Laura
and Lisa lived close by, just across the field and up the block, ten
minutes by foot. (Later, after the break up, it was if Laura lived on
another planet, she seemed so far away. That distance, that feeling
of emptiness, lingered in my soul for a long time.)
After
I arrived at Laura’s house, I pulled the gift box from my pocket
and gave it to Laura as Lisa and her mother looked on, smiling,
touched.
“But
I haven’t got you anything.” Laura said.
“That’s
alright,” I said.
“I
will get you something.”
She
did get me something, a watch, but the gift I wanted, I already had,
Laura. Such an intelligent and tender girl, a true paradox, wild yet
innocent, and like Roger sadly prolific in her use of drugs,
including LSD.
Many
years later, while looking through an old high school yearbook, I saw
a photo of Laura wearing the locket over her sweater (I had never
noticed the locket before; actually it was my sister's yearbook, so I
may not have seen the photo before). The photo was taken a few years
after I gave Laura the locket. Laura was smiling (the same beautiful
brunette that I'd known). In my mind, I considered her wearing the
locket as a sign, as a kind of message, a message that she still
thought well of me, that I would see the photo years later and know
she stilled cared (probably wishful thinking on my part). But I
wonder, was my photo from the Canadian fishing trip still in the
locket? Or had she thrown it away? I don’t know, I’ll probably
never know.
*
* * * *
On
the last day of my Christmas break, late in the evening, the doorbell
rang. Upstairs in my bedroom, I could hear a man’s voice. “Do you
have a sixteen year old son with long blonde hair?”
I
was fourteen, but I fit the description.
“Billy
come down here,” my mother called out to me.
I
stood at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, my heart beating
rapidly, dreading making those final steps down into the foyer. I
took a breath (as if I was going underwater) and descended.
“You
son has been dealing drugs in the neighborhood. He sold some
marijuana to my daughter.”
The
man who stood in the foyer was Kurt W’s dad. I had been over at
Kurt’s house earlier smoking dope with him and his nineteen year
old sister. She offered to roll some joints. She obviously had kept
some for herself. I hadn’t sold her anything. Actually, I had
gotten the grass from an older friend of Kurt’s. And this is what I
should have said. I should have just gone with the truth. But I
panicked. I did not want to admit to any part of it. I did not want
my parents to know I was smoking grass.
By
this time, my dad had joined in the conversation and it was decided
that my dad and I would go over to Kurt’s house and talk it all
out.
When
we arrived, Kurt was sitting in a chair in the living room with a
look of stern disdain on his face. His sister was in her bedroom,
crying.
Mrs.
W joined in the conversation. “She was walking around the house,
smoking that stuff like it was a cigarette. She was in the hospital
just two months ago for treatment.”
The
questioning went on. I continued to deny any involvement. I realized
that the drug dealer that Mr. W was looking for was Kurt’s friend
(Kurt knew this too). Kurt said nothing (he wasn’t going to rat out
his friend and he hoped I wouldn’t either). I suppose if I had told
the truth about where the marijuana came from, it might have been bad
for me. Through all of this, my dad stood by me (he was ten months
sober and was now used to hearing and openly discussing situations
involving alcohol and drug abuse at his recovery meetings).
Finally,
my dad said “maybe we should get the police involved.”
“No,
we shouldn’t do that.” Mrs. W shot back.
My
dad’s statement about the police deescalated the situation. Soon
after, we went home.
Back
at home, my mother had made some discoveries of her own. “I found
bits of marijuana in the pocket of your coat. All of your coats are
full of the stuff. Your brother said he saw you smoking pot with your
friends when you were babysitting.”
My
brother was four, almost five, and while I did smoke dope with the
twins at the house (when no one was around), I never did it in plain
sight. Apparently baby brother had been spying on me.
“He
said he came down the stairs when you thought he was asleep and saw
you.”
“No,
not true.”
“Don’t
deny it. How would he know about that?”
“Maybe
he saw it on TV.”
My
mother’s anger (which I had seen for so many years when my dad was
drinking) would soon turn into worry and then sorrow. The marijuana
ride I had been on that Christmas had come to end. That bubble had
popped. It was back to earth for me.
*
* * * *
For
years, I had been my mother’s support group, her confidant, the one
she turned to when my dad was out drinking. When my mother was seven
months pregnant with my baby brother, my dad (on a drunken bender
with his boss) flew to Las Vegas. My mother was inconsolable, but I
tried to comfort her. I was nine. Now I was the one causing all the
worry. I was the one wearing the black hat. As magical as my foray,
my escape, into that marijuana haze was, I wanted to keep it secret.
I did not want to cause my mother any more pain then she had already
experienced in her life. At twelve, her family moved from southern
Minnesota to California (staying in shanty camps similar to those
depicted by John Steinbeck or in the songs of Woody Guthrie). Often,
my mother’s father would be off chasing a job (or drinking) and
leave the family behind. Finally he gave up in his futile attempts to
support the family and never came back. My uncle, mother and
grandmother moved back to Minnesota. My mother never saw her father
again.
I
much preferred being my mother’s confidante than the one causing
all the trouble. Back in the old days, I was glad she confided in me
rather than keeping her feelings secret and pretending there was
nothing wrong. We faced the problem together, that gave me some
comfort. As my dad’s drinking grew increasingly worse, my mother
and I became obsessed with finding a solution. I suggested we film my
dad’s insane behavior, his utter change in personality (so that he
could see what we saw). But nothing worked. Our mission failed.
On
January 24, 1971, Bill Wilson (co-founder of AA) died. On February
14, 1971, AA groups around the world celebrated his life and mourned
his death. Three days later, on February 17, 1971 my dad found
permanent sobriety. I believe Bill was there. Thank you, Saint Bill
for your intercession.
*
* * * *
After
the breakup with Laura, I would often see a rusted out old Dodge
sedan waiting for her in the junior high parking lot. I caught a
glimpse of the driver a few times (and had heard rumors that he was
in his thirties but no one said too much to me about it). I no longer
spoke with Laura so I did not what was going on with her (we had
shared a locker—since the one assigned to me was on the far end of
the school—but after the breakup I began using my old locker once
again). Only years later did I realize who the guy was in the Dodge
sedan. He had been a chaperone at one of the school dances (where
rock bands would play). Laura and I had found a dark corner in the
school gym to make out (actually we were dry fucking). The chaperone approached us and asked her, “Why are you with this guy?” At
the time, I simply took it as a warning that we were going too far in
our very public make out session. I realize now the guy had much more
sinister motives. He had targeted Laura (a young girl with seemingly
no sexual inhibitions) and wanted her for himself.
A
month later, on a Friday night (with Laura’s parents out of town),
I went to Laura’s house. There were kids everywhere—there was a
party going on—but no Laura. I waited for over an hour, still no
Laura. Despondent, I went home. Finally, I called her. I sheepishly
asked if she wanted to break up. She was crying. Between her sobs,
she said “Yes.”
*
* * * *
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