Mister Minnesota

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

Mister Minnesota

“One two three four five six seven all good children go to Heaven” (Lennon/McCartney)

As I wandered about between the stacks of record albums, clouds of incense hung heavy from one end of the shop to the other (as it did in all head shops from San Francisco to New York at that time). The owner of this new shop on Medicine Lake Road, a guy in his late twenties, glanced at me—with shoulder length brown hair and a kind face, he looked like Jesus, or at least as Jesus has been so often depicted in portraits. So I'll call him Jesus. Later I  learned that Jesus was a body builder (he had once held the title of Mister Minnesota and went on to place in the Mister Universe finals). In a sweater and jeans, Jesus hid his sculpted physique. He was somewhat small with a thin waist but his shoulders were broad. “Who do you like? What bands do you like?” he asked.

“Leslie West, Mountain, Jack Bruce, Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix,” I replied.

“We have some of that.” Jesus came over and pulled out an album from the stacks. “Here's one by West, Bruce and Laing.”

“Yeah, I have that one. I love it.” I looked over at the Hammond organ across the room and asked, “Is there a band that plays here?”

“I'm putting together a band. I play keyboards,” Jesus answered.

“I play bass.”

“We need a bass player. What are you doing tonight? Do you think you could bring your equipment up here and try out some songs with us?

“Sure. What time?”

“Eight.”

I was quite excited about the invitation. I had become obsessed with playing bass guitar after Roger and Johnny O had asked me to join their band and replace Roger on bass. Up until then, they had one guitarist, Johnny O. The old band played a lot of Grand Funk. The new band would be different. The Allman Brothers were then in vogue. Johnny O would play slide guitar and Roger would play rhythm and lead guitar. It was a challenge for me, not only to learn how to play bass, but to play Berry Oakley's bass parts. I was overwhelmed. I did not even own a bass, I used Roger's bass. Roger convinced me to sell my beloved Silvertone twin twelve amp (an amp that would later be made famous by Jack White) and use the money to buy a bass and amp. But it was too late. Roger went back to playing bass and I was out. I did have a lot of fun and found several new girlfriends while playing with those guys. After that, I played in several more bands and began to get a feel for playing bass. Sometimes all that a bass offers is support for the other musicians, but not always. Sometimes a bass player can become a kind of conductor and guide the band through the various musical changes. Paul McCartney is a master of this type of playing. After I learned how to play bass, I never listened to music in the same way again, playing bass gave me a depth of understanding to what was going on in any given song.

I had a Vox teardrop bass and a Vox Royal Guardsman amp and a speaker cabinet with two fifteen inch bass speakers and soon set up my gear at the head shop. The guitar player and his girlfriend were from Lake Minnetonka (a cute couple of kids about my age).

Jesus was obsessed with one song in particular, "You Never Give Me Your Money" by the Beatles. More exactly he was obsessed with the final refrain of the song,“One two three four five six seven all good children go to Heaven.” He said he wanted to plaster the words all over his shop.

We rehearsed for several nights and then something happened that shook me up. Jesus said he had to run some errands and asked if we would we like to come along. We all piled in his car. We smoked some dope and then Jesus started in about the people in the other cars. “Do you see that guy over there in that car?” Jesus pointed over at the driver in the other lane. “I could take him out with my forty-five. One two three four five six seven all good children go to Heaven.”

Is he just stoned or a psycho? I asked myself. I wasn't sure, but after I got a glimpse of the pistol that he carried, I wasn't going to wait to find out. After we got back to the shop, I gathered up my equipment and called my dad and never returned. Later, I heard the feds raided the place and found a large stash of gold in the back room (at the time it was illegal to possess gold). While I would continue to play in bands in high school, I would never again take playing music seriously. I had found a new muse, a different calling, and the road I would soon take would both change and save my life.

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Snow drifted out of the darkness, illumined by street lights and nothing else; the border of reality blurred, its edges defaced. Blizzards did not faze me. At the center of all that snow, there was a kind of peace, a stillness, even a kind of warmth.  Actually clear nights are often much colder than snowy ones. I spotted a figure, an apparition, in the haze, coming toward me. It was Debbie. I called out to her.

“Laurel said she saw you from her window, so I came,” she said breathlessly

The park was closed because of the snowstorm. That did not stop me. I came most every night to see Debbie. Debbie would skate and I would watch (my skates no longer fit). Mostly we talked. We would sit off to the side of the skating rink on a bench beneath a tree. We would hold hands, it was so innocent, so tender. (Debbie did not do drugs. There were no endless make out sessions.) I met Debbie at a house party in the fall (where I played bass with a band). Debbie had long blonde hair and was adorable, the All American girl. Debbie was a year younger than me and was still at the junior high (in the ninth grade). I was in high school, so we did not see each other during the day. Debbie listened to everything I had to say, my dreams, my fantasies, no matter how absurd or strange.  I told her about the horror novel I was working on. It was derivative of Poe. The protagonist had a black cat (of course) and shared his plans of mayhem with his pet.

I had become obsessed with late night movies, Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Peter Lorre. In one of my favorites, Lorre plays an innocent immigrant who is horribly disfigured after a bomb explodes beneath a car (his wife is killed). Lorre transforms from a kind, loving soul to a vengeful monster. That movie was so good, so moving. Basil Rathbone, in the Sherlock Holmes features, was another favorite. I wanted to make sure I saw every one. After that, I read the stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who shares a birthday with me, May 22).

Later that spring, Debbie and I broke up. It wasn't her choice. It was mine. Why? She was perfect. I have seen pictures of her recently on facebook and she is as beautiful as ever (in her fifties she still looks like a young girl). I am so grateful to Debbie—that she listened, that she heard me, that she was there beside me, when I decided to become a writer. Thank you, Debbie.

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