Rock Surgeon

Hi there, Surgeon -

Well look at you.

45 and waddaya do?

You play GOD and you do it well.

Gettin' us civilians thru living Hell.

Well hey there, Surgeon -

Yer mighty young

Yer pops must be proud to have

Such a son.

Well hey there - wow.

Hey there, now -

Hey there,

Hey, hey, hey.

And hey now, Surgeon -

How must you feel?

Does playing GOD ever get surreal?

Well, either way I thank you, Surgeon.

You and your hands and your knives.

Thank you, Surgeon-bubby.

For saving -

Yes, saving

Our

Lives.

Chapter 32

Chapter  32

It is around 11:00 a.m. on a Monday in February, 1996 (and although I am not certain, I believe it may have been the 12^th) that I first meet my future husband face to face.  Like the rest of the band members (with the exception of the newly unemployed) Chris works a day job, but he happens to have Mondays off.   It’s a surprisingly warm day for February: No jacket required.

I arrive at his address wearing a favorite thread-bare, fawn-colored sweatshirt over grey leggings and suede fringed moccasin boots.  Trademark bandana keeps the hair back, off my forehead.  My dogs are along for moral support, but also because when I’m not gigging or rehearsing I bring ‘em almost everywhere with me, anyhow.   They’re wearing their bandana’s, too.

            Chris lives on the 3^rd floor in a three-story apartment building in Richmond Hill.  With Girlie and Lula flanking me, I ring the bell.  First, a static burst over the intercom and in a few short moments, Chris comes down and stands before us.

            Everyone who meets Chris comments about his height.  He is, after all, 6’ 6”.  But despite the fact that tall men have always appealed to me, when I meet Chris I barely notice his height. 

When he appears at the lobby door: Grayish-blue eyes, thick black eyebrows and a beard to match.  A quick, courteous nod.  His gaze is open, friendly and frankly admiring, as I imagine my own must be.  He looks at me in such a way that it’s like we’re already in the know, in some kind of private club.  Odd, but then its not so odd, either.

            And then, there’s the dogs.  These two gals are notoriously picky and as soon as Chris opens the front door, he innately offers the backs of his hands for them to scent.  They sniff heartily before they both lift their faces up at him:  Two crazy grins, tails wagging vigorously in unison.  Pant, pant, pant.

Me: “Hey.”

Chris: “How’s it goin’.”

A quick, shy-but-firm handshake between us.  That’s one large, warm, sturdy hand, alright.  The dogs are bombarding him now, pushing each other out of the way for petting time with this new, charming stranger.

Me: “You’re good with dogs.”

Chris: “Oh, sure.” He is gently patting their heads, scratching their ears.

Me: “You have dogs?”

Chris: “Ahh…no.”

Me: “Then you’ve HAD dogs.”

Chris: “Ahh…no.”

Me: “Oh.  Well, they sure like you.”

Chris: “Sure, why not?  What’d I ever do to them?” 

This makes me giggle: “That’s true.”

A quiet moment as the dog-petting-fest continues.

Me: “So, here’s the tape.”

Chris (taking the tape): “Okay, great.” 

For some reason, I say:  “So this should all work out.”

Chris: “Sure, why not?”

Sure, sure, sure…why not.  Hmmm.  We gaze at one another for a peculiar moment, and it’s as if I’m seeing myself somehow: I can see myself the way he’s sees me.  It’s an imperfect, untarnished, pure examination.  Not decipherable, this.  Not known to me ever before.  I almost have to shake it off, this heady sensation. 

Me: “Ok - so I’ll see ya at rehearsal, then.   I’ll call to confirm the time.”

Chris: “Okay, great.”  He gives another of those nods:  “Bye, then.”

Me: “Ok, ‘bye, Chris.”  To the dogs: “C’mon, girls, in the car.”

Girlie and Lula linger, looking behind them at Chris (are you coming, too?).  They’re visibly disappointed to be leaving so soon. 

As we pile into my old white Chevy sedan, I look back also. Chris is watching us with a bemused little smile on his face.  He gives me a brief, comical half- salute.  

My breath feels short, a lump in my throat. 

I can hardly wait to see him again.

* * * * * *

If You Leave Me

If you leave me,

 You're finished

If you leave me,

 You're gone

Not a moment to spare

 Or carry on…

   Carry on…

If you vanish,

I'll vanish

And match what you do…

If you leave me,

I'll leave you

And we'll leave We

And we'll leave We

And we'll see

That there's nothing

But Love in our eyes

So then we'll stay

And just stay

Because we

Want

To.

"SHE'LL TELL YOU GO SHIT IN YOUR HAT."

On the cusp of our weddin' anniversary,

For some reason I had an ole memory…

Of…

When I FIRST got married,

In '88…

He was a nice fella, just not meant ta be…

But I'll never forget

The reception: My Ole' Pops

Was yelling this statement

With gusto, to a friend…

This friend who had said:

"Your daughter's a beauty."

And Pop yelled: "BETTER YET!...

SHE'LL TELL YOU WHEN

TO GO SHIT

IN YOUR

HAT!"

IT'S A BARNUM & BAILEY WORLD...

You know, I believe I may just have to be somewhat insane to go into a tiny health food store located in a run-down little section of Queens and start haggling about prices with the Sri Chinmoy Cultist who stands, sanctimoniously pissy, behind the counter.   But I guess I was at a low-ebb that day…

I have Chris and Herman in the car with me.  The plan is to drop Chris off at the train station so he can get to work.  But I've driven past this little shop a bunch of times and always meant to stop in, so today ends up being The Big Day.

First of all, since it's technically a NEW LOCATION, Herman the Incredibly Anxious and Neurotic Wonder Hound starts pounding full force on his window in the back seat as soon as I park and get out of the car.  It doesn't matter that Chris is in the car with him.  MAMA IS GOING SOMEWHERE STRANGE AND UNKNOWN, so Herm (in his typical fashion) screeching and moaning, continually hurls his full weight against the car window and door, like he's trying to escape from a gas chamber.  He has behaved this way from the time he was 8 weeks old.  Of course, THEN he was a mere 20 lbs.  Now he's almost 6 years old and weighs closer to 120…

Chris: "I'm gonna take him out and walk him around while you're in the store."

Me: "Oh, Christ.  He's gonna fucking freak, he's gonna wanna barge into that store with me.  Just please stay here in the car with him until I get back…I'll only be 2 minutes…"

But my dear husband is already walking around to my side of the car to release our boy Herm from his self-perceived Eternally Mommy-less Prison. 

NOBODY EVER LISTENS TO ME.

The street we're parked on is impossibly narrow for 2-way traffic, and cars are careening perilously close as Chris negotiates the tugging, grunting, salivating Herm away from certain death and onto the sidewalk.  Complicated by the fact that the dog has recently had leg surgery and he's lugging around a huge cast to boot.   Already I'm sick to my stomach from all this.  Plus it's weirdly HOT and muggy for a day in early March, for chrissake. 

I stand there in front of the stupid health food store, watching Chris and Herman wrestle around for the upper hand/paw. 

Chris (clearly distraught): "WELL?  Are you GOING IN or NOT?"

Me: "That was the plan.  But what the hell are YOU TWO doing?"

Chris: "NEVER YOU MIND WHAT WE'RE DOING.  WE'RE FINE.  GO IN THE GODDAMN STORE ALREADY.  I HAVE TO GET TO WORK, YOU KNOW."

Jesus.  I go into the store, leaving man and beast out on the sidewalk to grapple and scrape.

                                                                        * * * * * * *

As soon as I enter the store, I sense it's a mistake and yet I persevere.  A woman enters right behind me, she's practically climbing up my ass and she has a gigantic parrot on her shoulder.  Nice looking creature, the parrot, aside from the fact that it's screaming bloody murder.

The store is so cramped, it's a horrible layout honestly, and I'm just trying to put a little distance between myself and this banshee of a bird.  The woman accompanying the parrot is a little skinny nut-job and she's wearing huge Yoko sunglasses and the exact same colors as the parrot:  Bright yellow t-shirt, fire-engine red jacket over it, neon green bandana tied around her head.  Honestly, how much frigging attention do you NEED, lady, to get you thru this life?

Parrot Broad starts yelling around to nobody in particular.  With those shades on, you can't tell who the hell she might be addressing. 

Parrot Broad: "YES, SKITTLES!  I KNOW YOU WANT YOUR SEEDS!"  She whips her head around like Stevie Wonder: "HE KNOWS THERE ARE SEEDS HERE!  SKITTLES LOVES HIS SEEDS!"

She's got that much right, there are bins of seeds all along the entranceway of the store and it's sending Skittles into some kind of frenzy.   And I'm such an ass - I always feel guilty, like I have to help matters along and respond to every lunatic that starts in. 

I go: "Skittles is a good name for him…with his colors…"

Parrot Broad:  "THAT'S RIGHT!   AND DO YOU NOTICE THAT I AM WEARING THE SAME COLORS???  THE EXACT  SAME  COLORS  AS MY SKITTLES???"

Me: "Ummm, yes.  I did notice that…"

Indeed, I also notice that Skittles and the Broad have unnervingly similar screech  - I mean speech - patterns.  But I don't bother to point this out.

Parrot Broad: "IF I WAS 25 YEARS YOUNGER, I WOULD NEVER HAVE HAD THE COURAGE OR THE NERVE TO WEAR THESE COLORS!  OR TO HAVE MY OWN PARROT!   BUT THESE DAYS, I DO WHATEVER I WANT, WHENEVER I WANT.  AND NOBODY TELLS ME WHAT TO DO."

Yes, but I bet they DO tell you that you're a deranged lunatic.  ß This is what I FEEL like saying, but once again I just nod politely and edge further away from Skittles and Ma Seed-Vittles.  Throughout, I'm naggingly worried about Herman and Chris tussling around outside. 

This shopping spree was doomed from the get-go.  I can't even concentrate.  Like I said, the layout in here is horrible.  Not attractive, does nothing for me.  Plus the store smells musty.  I find myself staring at a moldy bucket of organic strawberries and an equally unappealing, obviously old head of cauliflower.  Fuck this store!

But then I start feeling guilty again - like I SHOULD buy SOMEthing -  so I ask the dude behind the counter:  "Do you carry Ezekial Sprouted Bread?" 

He gazes at me beatifically:  A very affected serenity.  I dunno, these cult guys.   To each his own, but I never buy their shtick.   Serene my ass - contempt is never far beneath. 

Dude: "Yes, we do."

Me: "What do you charge for it here?"

Dude: "What?"  Ahh! There's that contempt!  That took no time at all.  I really have a knack…

Me: "How much do you charge for a loaf?" 

Dude: "I believe we charge $6.00 for a loaf of the Ezekial."

Me: "Six bucks?  I can get it for $4.00 at Trader Joe's!"

Dude: "What are you DOING in here?  We're a SMALL STORE."

Me: "You know what?  I don't know what the hell I'm doing in here.  Because you're also a FILTHY store.  Later, dude."

And I walk out.  Really successful health food store outing. 

I don't know where Bird Bitch went in the meantime, but she's nowhere in sight.  Neither are Chris and Herm.  I look up and down the street, walk to the corner.  They are utterly missing.   Where in hell did they go with this freaking dog dragging a giant cast around??? 

I head over in the direction of our car, figure it's my best bet to wait for them there, plus get some A/C action.  But just as I'm approaching, I see a somewhat familiar figure making his way up the sidewalk coming directly toward me.  It's… DOKANDA.

Oh, God…not DOKANDA. I throw myself into a little Krishna gift-shop doorway.  (All the shops are in cahoots on this particular block.)   I wait until Dokanda disappears from view.  It's hard to tell if he spotted or recognized me, he'd been walking with a couple of buddies.  But it hardly matters now - one successful Dokanda Avoidance under my belt, that's all that matters.

I lunge for the car just in time to see Chris and Herm coming around the bend, Herm still with the grunting, lunging and drooling act going full throttle.  Chris, ditto with the pulling and cursing routine.  We all get into the car at the same time.

Me: "Did you see him?  Did you see DOKANDA?"

Chris: "Yup."

Me: "Did HE see YOU???"

Chris: "NOPE.  Thank God."

Me: "Jeeez, that was close…."

To be Continued……

Poem for an April Moon

Musical language,

Coloring, coloring,

Tinting and stoking and simmering,

Too.

Musical life,

Testing, testing,

Tempting and scorching then cooling,

Too.

Musical love,

Finding and finding,

Losing and finding

Holding and hoping

And working it working it -

Love is that

Elusive

Riff

Found and Finally,

Kept.

A SOLO CUP, SOME MOONLIGHT and THOU - Pt. 5 - Finale

We left off with the lot of us misspent youths being shuttled,  via multiple squad cars,  from our golf course keg party down to the police station…

And ya know something - I must be slipping a little to not have remembered until just now that Stashley probably got his nickname due to his frigging gigantic moustache!  For cryin' out loud!  Yes of course - that large, black, quivering  caterpillar on his upper lip.    It HAD to have been at least a factor, in addition to and aside from his every-present stash of cigs and weed.  Right?  I just felt the need to mention this…

But anyhow, we pull up at the 102nd Precinct and file in to the stationhouse in cuffed pairs.  There are just so many of us marched into this one dank room.  Not many chairs, we're all standing around.   I remember the walls were painted a sickly teal, just really a hideous shade.  As we are ushered in, my mescaline-mouth spouts:  "IT'S PEPTO-BISMOL GREEN IN HERE!"    Officer Hamburger shoots me a warning look, shakes his head.   I quickly go: "SORRY."    Sorry?  Jeez, I sound like a damn idiot.  My voice sounds so fucking loud to me, like outlandishly loud, and I start to really struggle not to bust out laughing.   That's all I need. 

Hamburger: "What now, Millie?  YOU NEED SOMETHING?"

I stare at him: "Huh?"  And then it takes me a second to realize that I actually said that statement out loud: "That's all I need."  I thought I had just said it in my head.  So of course, now I DO start to laugh.  I am a tripping mess here down at Cop Central, god help me.

So in an attempt to make myself appear somewhat coherent, I say:  "I - umm - I…I need to take a whiz!" 

Hamburger's attention is diverted, as Stash seems ready to collapse.   He's still muttering to himself about lithium and doobies - which incidentally and amazingly, given all the fuss he's kicking up about it, the cops never even frisk him for!  

In fact, they don't frisk any of us.   Here I am, prepared for god-knows-what-all from this legendary Hamburger cop especially, but as soon as we get to the stationhouse things get real anticlimactic in a hurry.    They un-cuffed us pretty much right away.   I immediately put some distance between myself and my date, Stashley, crossing over to the other side of the room.

Me: "Sayonara, Stash.   Parting is such sweet sorrow."   Buzzing from the mescaline, I am feeling pretty optimistic about being un-cuffed.   There's one woman cop here, and right after I get freed from Stash, she wordlessly guides me by my elbow  and we go into a restroom together, where she stands across the room from my stall and states flatly: "LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN, HONEY."   

It turns out I don't even have to pee.  I pretend to be peeing, but of course there's no sound.  She's just looking at me weirdly as I stand up and zip my jeans.  She doesn't say anything, tho'.  I  wash my hands and then we head back to the big party room. 

First thing I see when we go back in is Jeanette, the other captured girl, holding a telephone receiver to her ear.  It's not a wall phone, but a desk phone.  She looks exasperated, is looking up at Hamburger, saying: "What can I tell you?  There's nobody home.  They must have gone out."

I look at over at my friend John questioningly: "What's going on?" 

John: "Hamburger's making us call our parents."

Me: "WHAT?  WHAT DO YOU MEAN MAKING US CALL OUR PARENTS?"

Hamburger: "You heard 'im.  Every one of you is gonna call your parents.   If they don't come here and collect ya, yer locked up for the night."

Me: "JESUS CHRIST!  BUT MY PARENTS ARE IN FLORIDA!"  (A lie)

Hamburger: "Then you can call 'em COLLECT."

Me: "WAIT!  They're in HUNGARY!"  Hungary?  

I decide to shut up and wait my turn.   Can't fight City Hall.  I'm dead meat, my mother is gonna have a fit.  O, well.   Won't be the first time and I can pretty much vouch it ain't gonna be the last.

One of the younger cops says to Stashley:  "You like to run with a fast crowd, huh Grampa?"

And I just can't help blurting out: "Yeah, you gonna make Stashley call HIS mother, too?"

The whole room erupts in hysterics:  Us kids, all the cops, Officer Hamburger, even Stashley.   It's a stellar moment of unrivaled levity, indeed it is…

But it doesn't get me off the hook.   I still have to phone The Folks.

Mom answers, groggy: "Hello?" 

Me: "Hi, Ma…I'm at the police station."

Mom: "WHAT?  WHO IS THIS?"  (Again, I am her only daughter.  I still get this all the time.)

Me: "It's Lynn, Ma.  I'm at the police station with Jeanette."

Mom: "Jeanette who?   You're supposed to be sleeping over at Camille's house! WHY ARE YOU AT THE POLICE STATION?"

Me: "We were at a party and the police came..."

Mom: "WHAT?  WHAT?  YOUR FATHER IS GOING TO BE SO UPSET….WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO TELL HIM…WHAT DID YOU DO….OH MY GOD, LYNN, OH MY GOD - ALWAYS  SOMETHING  WITH YOU…ALWAYS  SOMETHING…."

I actually end up handing the phone to one of the cops: "Officer, can you do me a favor and talk to my mother?   She listens to men better than she listens to me."

Absolutely insane.   At any rate,  the cop does make some headway with Ma, and he smooths her over pretty nicely. 

Ended up that a bunch of us who tried calling home got either a busy signal or a parentally absentee household.  These cops actually had no intention of locking us up overnight.  After the last phone call is made, they just turn us all loose on the street and we trek back to our neck of the woods together,  one huge pack of Queens vagabonds. 

About two-thirds of the way home, just as we get to Woodhaven Blvd. and Jamaica Avenue, two cop cars pull up, sirens blaring, their megaphones bellowing at us to FREEZE.

We explain to them that we've just been released from the precinct on our own recognizances. 

Copper: "Yooz the golf course kids?"

Me: "Yeah, that's us.  The  Golf  Course  Kids."

They tell us to get going then -  to "get our asses off the streets."

Gee, and here that's all we was ever tryin' to do in the first place. 

Officer.

                                                * * * * * *