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.

                                                * * * * * *

A SOLO CUP, SOME MOONLIGHT and THOU - Pt. 4

WE'RE IN THE JAILHOUSE NOW…

We get packed into the back of a squad car, me and Stash and the other couple, Jeanette and Richie.   

Mr. Nasty-Ass Copper and his Rookie Bitch get situated up front.

I mutter to no one in particular:  "So I guess this is the prom limo?"

This makes everyone snicker, including the cops.  But then Nasty-Ass of course has to interject:

"Hey, so what does it take to shut you up, Millie?   What do we gotta stick in your mouth?"

Yuck.  We all get quiet in the back.  Copper looks over at the rookie next to him, tries to engage him.   Rookie snorts nervously - not quite a laugh.  I actually feel bad for the rookie right now.   

After a minute or two of silence,  Cute Richie mutters: "Just our luck, we get fucking Hamburger." This makes my ears perk up.   I've heard of this cop before:   Fucking HAMBURGER - he's Park Folklore.   Known for his unreasonable and sadistic  tendencies.    Ah-HA!   Now it all made sense.   This was him.    Hamburger.    A true scum-bag.   Yes, indeed this was Him.

I can't say I was thrilled to know that I was now an official Hamburger Victim, but somehow I still felt weirdly honored to have suddenly, unwittingly earned this badge.  Whatever happened now was sand in the wind.  But whether or not I survived, I had - at the very least - endured for a bit of time.

Stashley starts in:  "I have 2 doobies on me and my lithium… "

Me (hissing): "You know what you gotta do, Stash?  You gotta shut the fuck up."

Stash: "…I'm not throwing them away, I tell you that…this shit is like…and I can't go home without at least the lithium…and I don't even have a 'scrip…if I need…and…fuck this shit.  I'm just gonna throw the joints on the floor…I'm gonna toss the doobies now…"

Me: "You better shut the fuck up Stanley ('STANLEY'!!!  I guess things are getting serious…) .  This fucking cop is totally nuts.  You gotta stop it NOW.   Just SHUT UP."

And while he's still parking our squad car,  Hamburger turns around in his seat and grins at us, goes: "Stupid ass punks."

TO BE CONTINUED….

* * * * * * *

A SOLO CUP, SOME MOONLIGHT and THOU - Pt. 3

ROUND-UP  AT  THE  KEGGER  CORRAL~!!!

I tell you, I sensed a pattern long ago.  And within that pattern is a distinct run of bad luck whenever I get around a cop.   According to what they told us in grammar school: "Remember kids - The Policeman is Your Friend!"   But for whatever reason, and speaking purely from my own experiences, C-O-P may as well be spelt T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

So, little recap:  THE MAN (a/k/a: Storm Troopers) have raided the golf course and cuffed us together in pairs, and Stashley - our resident 40-something-year-old, self-proclaimed Bi-Polar, Paranoid Schizophrenic, is my assigned cuff-partner. 

* * * * * *

Me: "Oh, COME ON.   Why do I get cuffed to HIM?"

My copper answers, all friendly-like:  "What?  We saved him just for you, Marathon Millie."

Me: "Hey, that's clever.  I like that."

Cop:  "Oh yeah?  Who ast you?  Just shut your mouth."  Hmmm.   Sweet  guy.

Turns out there's only two of us females being busted out of the whole gang, me and one of the older chicks.  I look over at her, ridiculously envious that she's cuffed to one of the cute, (not to mention sane) guys.  All the rest of the girls have managed to avoid this debacle.   I'll say one thing - that was some mammoth (and timely) group urination mosey! 

THE MEN commence herding procedures to get us all back toward the hole in the fence, where the cop jalopies await.   

Meanwhile, the boom-box treats us all to some WHO.   ("I don't mind…Other guys dancin' with mah guh-uh-uh-urll…")   O, the irony….

Cop to one of the rookies: "AND TURN THAT GODDDAMN THING OFF…"

I swing my head over to the radio and notice my sandals nearby… "Wait!  Wait!  At least lemme get my sandals!"

Cop: "Jeez…What?  Where are they?"

Me: "Right there by the radio….WAIT!  So is my guitar!" 

"You’re a real problem child, aren't ya Millie?"  The copper smirks, kicks my Doctor Scholl Sandals over to me.  (I guess I should be grateful…)

I struggle to slip my sandals on, all the while tugging against Stashley who is quick becoming a quivering, ineffectual lump of abject terror. 

Me:  "Wait a minute, please…just wait a sec… I can't leave my guitar here, man!"

Cop: "No?  Yeah,  you can."

I panic.   The thing is like my kid.  I commence to bellowing over to the pee-grove area:

Me: "HEY, ANNIE!   LYNETTE!   ONE OF YA!  PLEASE TAKE CARE OF MY GUITAR!"

Cop (all excited): "Ahhhh!  What's this?  We got some more like you over there in the bushes, Millie?"

Oh, shit.  Me: "NO!  NO!  There's NOBODY OVER THERE!" 

For some reason he doesn't believe me.  He signals over to the same rookie, who along with a second MAN commence to hoof it over to the pee-grove with their flashlights.   I hold my breath, watching the beams and the spooky shadows in the trees, silently begging for forgiveness from the other girls who - thankfully - the cops don't find.  They have evacuated these bushes for greener, more distant pastures.   Smart move.   They'll give me cheerful hell for nearly busting them later, but they're good gals and they do end up taking care of my guitar until I am released from prison.  Which… as I was saying…

Stashley starts blowing a gasket almost immediately after we're cuffed together.   First of all, he's not very coordinated to begin with and this handcuff thing has him thrown for a real loop.  Plus, my skin is crawling just being his cuff-mate, (shudder)  so I'm trying my best not to make any actual CONTACT with him as we negotiate the slippery golf course hills as an aberrant and discombobulated two-headed creature.   

Stash (Under his breath but gradually increasing in volume): "Shit… shit… shit… shit… shit… shit … shit…"  Each shit gets crazier-sounding and there's spittle coming out the corners of his mouth.

Me: "Stash, dude - you gotta try to hold it together, for god's sake. "

Stash: "THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING…HOLY MOTHER OF…FUCKING HELL….THIS CAN'T BE…YAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH……!"

Me: "Dammit, Stash - WATCH OUT!  FUCK!"

Stashley slips, stumbles, almost regains his footing but then - whoaaaa - forget it, he's goin' DOWN…tumbling down a slippery slope.    And who's cuffed to him again?

I absolutely refuse to tumble as one with this guy.   Against all odds, I never go down - instead galloping NEXT to the floundering Stashley, keeping up in convulsively synchronistic tandem with the progress of his collapse, wrenching my cuffed wrist and shoulder socket horribly.  But as GOD IS MY WITNESS - I AM NOT GOIN' DOWN LIKE THAT, MAN.   Dignity at all costs, or whatever is left of it!

Stash winds up in a sorry heap at the bottom of a muddy drop, and I end up down on one knee beside him. 

Me: "Get up, man.  You are breaking my fucking arm, Stashley."

I am reminded of a terrible circus act I once witnessed:   A young woman trying to cajole a tired, defeated bear into getting up into a standing position.  The bear wants no part of it, but ultimately lumbers dejectedly to his hind legs.

Somehow we make it thru the hole in the golf course fence and we are all piled into squad cars. 

And then, lights flashing and sirens blaring,  with full MAN-style fanfare and all the trimmings - it's on to the 102nd Precinct over in Richmond Hill with the whole motley crew of us…

TO BE CONTINUED…

* * * * * *