Luthuanian Spirits

 The Spirits are everywhere.

The Ghosts.

I began researching my family history, starting with the 22 hand written pages my grandmother gave me. 

I was amazed at the Irish side.
They were the famous people. Hotel owners, and Hollywood big shots. Writers, and activists. They married other famous people. Some immortalized in more print and photographs than I can sort through. Detailed histories and newspaper columns that chronicle some of the faintest minutia. 

“Mrs. McHenry returned home today after a week-end at their cabin in Santa Cruz”

And then there are others who are hardly mentioned, even by their own wives and children.  Ancestors are long dead, and now only live in a few dwindling memories.

The Lithuanians.

As Dan Bern wrote, in his song “Lithuania” (and I am paraphrasing)
“The Black and white two dimensional ghosts…These are my ghosts…uncles and aunts, grandparents… none of whom I have ever met… my only link to them was my dad, who knew them, and he knew me, and now he’s gone too”

 Mine is the same story. My dad never really talked about his dad, and neither did his mother.
No one did
22 pages of Irish history. 

And the only mention of the Lithuanian side is a few sentences about my grand father…

 “I married him in April, 1938”
“He worked at Hendy’s in Sunnyvale
“He enjoyed being a grandfather”
“He died suddenly of a heart attack”

 I met my Lithuanian grandfather, great-grand parents, aunts, uncles and cousins through a few lonely documents. Census reports, marriage and birth reports, obituaries, a couple arrest reports, and about a half dozen photographs.

 These are my ghosts.
Their absence haunts me.

I don’t have them.

but,
I have their Spirits

Krupnikas,

 Baron (Baronas) Family Recipe

(This makes two 750 ml bottles)

There is a little planning involved, because you will need two sterile bottles to put the Krupnikas in. You will already have the one that the everclear came in, but you will need another the same size (750 ml) that has been washed and sterilized.

 

8 whole cloves

3 cinnamon sticks

10 cardamom pods, cracked

1/2 whole nutmeg, cracked

5 allspice berries

1/2 tsp fennel seed

1/2 tsp caraway seed

1/2 tsp Chinese five spice

8 thin slices fresh ginger

The peel of 1 orange

The peel of 1/2 a lemon

1 vanilla bean, split and scraped

1 lb honey

4 cups water

750ml 190 proof grain alcohol, like everclear

 
First, in a large pot bring the honey and water to a simmer.
Skim off any foam that surfaces. Prepare orange and lemon peel by scraping away as much of the pith (white part) as you can
Add in all the spices and peels (everything except Everclear) to the pot. Measure it with a wooden spoon by puting the spoon in the pot and seeing how "deep" it is.
Simmer uncovered for 30 minutes.

check the depth with the wooden spoon and add water to bring it back up. return to a boil, but then turn off heat.
Now THIS IS IMPORTANT! Move well away from any heat or flame!
Add the Everclear to the still-hot mixture, stir to combine, and then strain the mixture. i have found coffee filters work well for this.

Pour into sterile bottles, set aside and allow to "age" for at least two weeks (or up to a year).

 While Krupnikas is ready to drink just two weeks after you make it, the drink mellows and becomes even better six months to a year later. You can still drink it well beyond that time - there's no expiration date on the drink.

Hellhouse tales #6. Random is as Random does.

 So, you should know that were not troublemakers.

Well, we were involved in trouble from time to time, but not in the sense that we ever set out to hurt anyone. Well, obviously other than ourselves. Well, and of course, willing accomplices. But we did enjoy from time to time making the lives of others just a little more surreal. Weather intentionally, or as an effect of our regular comings and goings. Sometimes people just happened into our path, and were swept up in the madness. I remember at one of our street sales, while we were trying to raise enough to pay the rent, Dave was trying to buy things from people passing by. 

"Hey! how much for your shoes?"

"Dave, we don't need thier shoes"

"But look at 'em, I could could turn those around for double what ever we pay for them"

"Dave, We need rent, we don't need thier shoes"

(to the passerby) "Common, how much for your shoes?"

Klutch chimes in:  "How about a dance? How much would you pay to cut a rug with this handsome gent?"

I suppose I should mention, as a part of full disclosure, that was usually after consuming a box of wine. "The silver bag" we called it

It was a sort of tradition during street sales that, although, as I said, we were trying to raise rent money, sometimes the first profits went to buying some drink. The preferred drink of the street sale was a box of wine. However, we would tear away the cardboard to reveal the mylar bag, which we would throw to each other like a drunken football. When the wine was gone, the bag could be inflated, forming an awesome pillow to pass out on.

Sometimes I wonder. Did someone buy that house, and if so, did they happen upon our old storage area...

"What the hell is all this crap? Whats with all these wine bags? ... Hey, bet I could get a couple bucks for those shoes..."

I can only hope. Those are the questions I must ponder. 

We left our mark, that is certain.

Another passtime was to go to golden gate park and try to get tourists to take pictures with us. Dave was very good at this. It would start with finding a group that was rotating the photographer. Dave would approach very casually and ask: "Hey, do you want me to take the picture so you can all be in it?"

Then after a few snaps, he would say, "Klutch, you get in there. oh, thats beautiful! click, click, click...Tiki, come on, get in!"

People would seem dubious, but would more often than not,  just let it happen. Then we would rotate Dave into the session. But, then came the coup de gras. Dave would get one of them to take pictures of just the three of us. 

Not just one, but as many different poses as we could get before they stopped clicking. 

There was once when we even got another random stranger to snap a few of us with the whole group.

And this was in the days of actual film cameras. They could not simply delete us, We were there for the duration. 

I wonder. Did any of those families put our pictures in thier photo albums?

"Who are these people?"

"I don't know. We met them in San Francisco, they were very persuasive"

The ghost of drunkards past

 I moved to San Francisco in the winter of 1986. I loaded up my Datsun B-210 with all my worldly possessions, drove the 87 miles up highway one, carried the boxes up two flights of stairs, stuck them in my new room, then the next day got on a plane to New York. When I returned, I unpacked and settled in. I lived with my sister and her boyfriend, and their housemate Mark in a top floor Flat on Ashbury Street, just up the corner from Haight. The room I lived in faced out on Ashbury, and I spent many a coffee time leaning out the window of that room, watching the comings and goings of people down on the street, pondering who they were, and where they were going. My brother in-law got me a job as a bike messenger. My days were spent pedaling the city, my nights were spent at clubs and bars when I could afford it, but more often I was in my room. My room was pretty standard. As I said, the windows looked out on the street, there were French doors that separated it from the "living Room" and it had a small walk in closet. When I say small, it was probably only 4 foot by 4 foot. It was a strange little room in that it had a counter and a sink with a big mirror over it, and on the opposite side an area to hang clothes. I guess it was a sort of dressing room, I was never quite sure.  I decided it was my writing room, and put my old royal deluxe typewriter on the counter over the sink. The sink didn't work anyway, so I figured it was a good place to write.  I had wanted to be a writer for some time. I had written several short stories, but to be honest, my writing was atrocious. But I persevered because I had read that Stephen King once said, the best way to become a writer, is to write. So I did. Sometimes late at night, early in the morning, or whenever the mood struck, I would sit in that little room, smoke cigarettes, sip booze, or coffee, or whatever drink was available, and write. 

I wrote plays and dissertations, short stories and poems. Observations, critiques, and reviews. Paper moved from one side to the other, from blank to filled, as cigarette butts formed a pyramid in the ashtray. 

One piece that I considered my magnum opus was a play about a man who was steadily loosing touch with reality. A man who fears he is going insane, because he cannot reconcile the things that he is experiencing with his expectations of logic. He prays for some sort of a sign, and is sent a guardian angle, who looks to everyone else like a regular fellow, but to our protagonist he looks like a demon. Horns, fangs, bat wings, the works. I thought it was good. It was filled with existential questions, and angst. Fear and joy, and ultimately a spiritual awakening. When I thought it was finished, I made the mistake of showing someone. They  read it, literally laughed out loud,  and told me not to quit my day job. 

Shortly after, I took the typewriter out of the closet and stuck it in the basement storage area. Then I took all my writing out to the back yard, stuck it in a small metal waste paper basket, and burned it. 

I didn't shed a tear, I simply watched the words disappear the way you might watch Drano clear a clog, and when it was done, I went about my business. 

It would be six years before I started writing again. 

But I digress.

Lets rewind a bit...

Say, a year or so before that fiery judgement day...

Late one night, or early one morning, depending on how you look at it, I was working on the demon/guardian play. 

I was also drinking.

I suppose "working on it" is slightly incorrect. I had rolled in a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, returned the carriage, but that was as far as I had gotten. I was stuck. I didn't know where to go with the story. I stared at the typewriter keys, my fingers hovering over various letters, but nothing came. 

I took a drag on my cigarette, and my gaze followed the smoke up to the mirror.

I stared into my own eyes.

"You’re the problem,” I said to, well, myself. 

"you... are... the... problem" 

I shook my head, "how am I to get anything done with you staring at me?"

My reflection simply blinked, but didn’t answer. (Which I suppose, was good)

I decided to do something. 

I took the mirror off the wall and put it behind me, leaned against the wall, tucked behind the jackets and suits, where it could no longer judge me, then I sat back at my typewriter.

That was when I saw it. 

There, on the wall where the mirror had been, was a small door about one and a half feet square.  It was outlined in one and a half inch trim that formed a sort of frame, and on the left hand side was a small knob, almost flush with the wall. 

 It was all but painted shut.

My mind raced. What could be in there? What if it were some sort of wall safe? Lost through the years, heaped with gold and jewels. 

Perhaps, but more likely it was some sort of forgotten medicine cabinet.

Sole occupants, a rotting band-aid, discarded razor blade, a degrading aspirin...

I reached up and pulled on the knob. It protested at first, and then popped open with a slight squeak, and a wisp of musty air. To my surprise, there was nothing there. Just a dark hole in the wall.  I climbed up on the counter, and held my Zippo lighter up to the opening. A slight breeze came in and caused the flame to flicker, but in the dim light I could see that the opening went into the air space between my house, and the house next door. The gap was maybe a foot or 16 inches at best. I went and found a flashlight, climbed back up on my makeshift desk and peered into the hole. Directly across the gap was another little framed in square, with a knob on the left hand side. I am not sure what was going through my mind at this point, but for what ever reason, I reached through and grasped the knob and gave it a push. To my great surprise, it gave, and opened into what appeared to be a similar closet/dressing room in the house next door. I could not make out what was in the little closet, but the door was ajar and I could see light, and hear voices.

Now what came next, I really have no explanation for. 

I took a deep breath, leaned through the hole, and then let out a blood-curdling scream into the house across the way.

Then I reached through and shut their little door, shut the door on my side, and although it probably didn't matter, shut off the light in my closet. 

I sat there in the dark. 

I could barely hear it, but there were muffled frantic voices, and what sounded like doors slamming. 

I sat there for a while, pondering. Finally I turned my light back on, and looked at the blank page of my insanity/demon play in the typewriter. 

I lit another cigarette, and began to type:

"I had begun to hear voices. At least I thought I did. They didn't tell me things or give me directions, they were just strange sounds that I could not explain. Although I knew quite well that the mind can create any reality it deems necessary to keep the illusion of sanity, I also knew that the random sounds I would sometimes hear coming from places they could not be coming from, such as say, the closet, had to have some sort of a logical explanation"

 

This Old Hiraeth

  I sat up on the roof with my feet dangling over the edge. I cracked a Mickeys big mouth, and took a long sip, lost in my thoughts. 

My dad used to sit up here some times. in this very spot.

 I was never supposed to be up on the roof as a kid, but sometimes I would sneak up here, and now and then I would find an empty Mickeys bottle tucked up under the eve. 

  I sat and sipped the beer, Looking out,  towards the road, but not really at anything.

I closed my eyes, but the scene was still there. I watched as a family of five drove slowly up what used to be a dirt road in a yellow 1960s Dodge Dart Swinger.

I could almost still see what the house looked like the first time I saw it.

My parents bought the house when I was 7. We moved in on Mothers day, 1971. It was brand new when we bought it, we were the first people to live there, but we had all lived somewhere else before.

I was the youngest of three kids.

My family lived there, I lived there, it was rented out for a short time, then my mom moved back in. After she died, my wife, my kid and I moved in.

But it was nobody’s first house.

No one was born there.

No one was carried over the threshold.

There were no first time buyers.

It was however, my father’s last house. 

He was killed in a motorcycle accident.

Drove away one morning and never came back.

One of the renters had that in common. A falling tree crushed her while she was driving home from work, about a mile down the road 

It was her last house.

My mother took her last breath in the living room.  She had lived many places, but that house was the last.

My family had always owned it. 

My family, my mother, and then me.

The surrounding land holds the bones of at least 5 dogs, some 8 or so cats, a couple of hamsters, a parakeet, and a rat

I always said that once I moved in, I would live there until I took my last breath.

That when I moved out, it would be in a pine box.

But I no longer live there, not for over two years now, and I breath on.

As I write this it is in the process of being sold.

A casualty of divorce.

50 years of memories. 50 years of plans.

50 years of birthdays and holidays, 

50 years of not knowing exactly where I was going, but certain of where I would be.

A 50 year long con.

My Father said it, then my mother, even my sisters.

“This house will be yours someday”

No one argued

Our lives are made of constants, things we believe to be true.

The fibers that make up the thread of our futures.

We may not be able to see the cloth they will become, but we believe that the fibers are real. 

We have to believe, we have to have faith. We have to have constants, or the whole thing falls apart. 

Gravity, the speed of light, E=Mc2.  

Constants, knowns, faith.

That when you put the key in the lock and turn it, the door will open. 

Until it doesn’t.

Until its not your lock, or your door, or your house.

“This house will be yours someday”

It was presented as a truth.

But, 

No one knew they were lying.

It was never mine; I was just allowed to pass through it.

I finished my Mickeys, and tucked the empty beer bottle up under the eve.

Then I climbed down off the roof, got in my car and left.

It turns out there is one truth.

To miss-quote Flannery O’Conner:

Where I come from is gone,

And where I thought I was going to, 

Was never there.

 

 

 

One Eyed King of the Court of Mysteries

My Friend Maggie came to visit one fine Tuesday afternoon.
Well, if were are going to be honest, she came to visit the Thursday before, we all left for the week-end on a gig, we came back Monday evening, and began the Visit on Tuesday.
We got up too early, as I misunderstood the instructions about what time my Kid had to be at school. So I made some strong Coffee, and we chatted about this and that until it was time to take the kid in.
One of those things was "so, what do you want to do or see?"
"it's your town" she said.
We decided to go to the abalone church. It wasn't a church anymore, it was semi abandoned, and now lay mostly in ruins.
It was originally built by a pair of brothers. Controversial contractors who were known for their eccentricities. Aside from the main house, there were out buildings and spires, grand arches and walls, all covered in abalone shells. They called it, "The court of mysteries". It was their house at first, and later, was bought by a local church who adorned all the spires with Coptic crosses. after they left, it sat abandoned.
When I was in my twenties, it was one of many drinking spots for the under age set, and unfortunately suffered from vandalism. I had not been there in many years, but it seemed like a good place to check out.
We pulled the car up in front and got out. Even in its sorry state, it was a thing of beauty.
We had intended on taking some publicity picture there, but as we walked up to the chain link fence across the entrance, there were a few problems. One, several no trespassing signs, which normally wouldn't be much of a deterrent, but then there was #2, a man sitting on the "porch" of the house, keeping his eye on us as we walked up.
We kept a polite distance, busying ourselves with taking pictures of the archway and some of the spires. Then the man got up and walked down the gravel path to the  entry arch.
I knew what was coming. the private property speech. So we took a few steps back towards the road and got ready to leave.
He walked up the the arch a few feet from us. "Hey" he said.
he was wearing a stained tee-shirt and shorts, and flip flops, even though it was winter. But there was something else...
"I know,  sorry," I stared "we'll go..."
He interrupted me. "if you godown to the end there,  to where the fence ends, just down by the corner of the property, you can come inside. Probably get some better pictures"
I did not expect that.
"Thanks" I said, and gave him a nod.
We went in and took some pictures.
He explained that he was the caretaker, and as long as we just wanted to take some pictures, it was OK with him.
There was something not quite right.
He looked a little odd.
Maybe got started on the Thunderbird early, I thought.
We went inside the grounds and took a lot of pictures. He acted as a sort of tour guide, giving us tidbits of trivia as we went from structure to structure.
Then as we were about finished, he asked "do you want to see something cool?"
"Sure" we said, almost in unison.
"Follow me" he said, and led us over to the main house.
That was when I heard the narrators voice: "They then followed the stranger into the abandoned building..."
my daydream was interrupted by a voice. "Look at this"the voice said.
it was the caretaker. "you notice anything?" he asked.
He was pointing at a star made of abalone on the wall near the front door.
I shrugged.
"Five pieces" he said, mater of factly.
He was right. The star was made of five pieces of abalone shell.
I shrugged again.
He went on. "Every other deliberate pattern here has seven pieces. all of them. but not this one..." He tapped the star with his finger. "Why?" he asked.
I shrugged again. It did't mean anything to me, but, for him it seemed to be a thing.
He answered his own question. "No one knows." he said, "but I'll tell you, these guys did nothing by accident. it means something..." He turned towards me, and locked me in his gaze.
That was when I saw it.
By god, he had only one eye.
The other socket was occupied by a murky off color orb that did not follow his gaze, but rather remained fixed on a point only it knew.
"It means something, and I am going to figure it out" he said.
He walked over to a big weathered overstuffed recliner that faced out on the property.
"I am the king of the court of mysteries!" he said. He then fell backwards into the chair, his arms stretched wide. "And this is my kingdom!"
His smile was that of a man whose contentment was a dream to most.
I gave him a slight bow.
"your majesty"

Crazy Door

“Is it open?”
It was CJ asking.
He was wild eyed, and partly slumped on his bar stool,
“Is the door open?” he asked.
It was open all right.
It was morning, and it was evening, in Vegas. 
We arrived in Vegas on a Wednesday afternoon.
The morning started off rough, The night before we worked on a bottle of of Laphroig and a 12 pack at Aaron's place before heading to the Big Foot Lodge, a rustic Cabin themed bar a few blocks away. A national Forest where the trees are swizzle sticks, and the streams run deep with beer and high proof cider. Later we went back to Aaron's place and watched “Fear and Loathing”.  I say watched, but it was mostly trying to focus well enough to grab the bottle of Jameson we were swigging from. Last thing I remember was cutting into a grapefruit and then, waking up in my clothes. So I dozed in my seat until Barstow where we stopped for lunch.
If you have never been to Barstow, here is the deal:
Barstow is a shit hole. 
   If you live in Barstow, my apologies.
   I am sorry you live in a shit hole. 
   It was hot. 

Not like, “hey, it sure is warm” hot, but more like a thick wet  fucking wool blanket of crappy. Thompson called it bat country, and although I wasn’t seeing any at the moment, my head was certainly swooping around like a blind rodent, perhaps just exercising, getting used to what was to come.
    As we continued our trek across the desert, Aaron amused us with a dramatic reading. Today's selection, Thompson's "The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved". It predates Fear and Loathing, and is a little less extreme, but it helps set the mood. Vegas appears on the horizon, and now, just as every time we cross this desert, I look out into the sand and scrub, and can’t help but wonder how many bodies are out there? How much of the grit is bone dust? Gambling debts unpaid, mob deals gone bad. Drug dealers, drug addicts, hookers, all in the eternal sleep. I always think that If you could scream “Last Call!” loud enough, and the ghosts all stood up, my guess is it would look like an army.
    We roll into Vegas and set about getting our hotel sorted. I decide to sign in as “Raoul Duke”, it seems to make sense. We dump our suitcases and head off for the Thomas and Mack center, where the international Drum and Bagpipe tattoo will be held. This was one of the reasons we were here,  To participate in a grand spectacle, touted by an ex-congressman to be a “uniquely inspiring event” The place is a cavern, seating for 18,000 people. Hundreds of pipers and drummers roam to an fro, talking, farting, practicing, all of them appear uniquely inspired to get this shit done with and start drinking.
      I turn to Aaron, “By Saturday night, this place could well be a Bellaggio of vomit” 
Aaron looks around, considering the sheer potential, and chuckles “I think you may be right”   
We finish our duties, grab a bite to eat and then set off for Frankie's.  
Frankie's Baby!
A couple times a year, Frankie's is our home away from home in the neon hell of Vegas.
      Frankie's is a Tiki bar tucked away off the strip and far from the clutter. A fantastic oasis of strong  tropical drinks and sixties strippers on the wide screen.  A place where it would take a hell of a lot to get tossed out .  A place filled with bamboo, thatch, tikis, and a sense of ease. We were OK there. We were us. The Bartender is a friend of ours, and many of the rounds were on the house. We took advantage of that fact. I have a vague memory of explaining to Jim the intensity that sometimes accompanies the perfect buzz, the sharpness, the sense of possibility, the undeniable truth that yes, we can fucking do that! But he just stared with a goofy and slightly confused looking grin. I remember snapping my fingers at him and saying “stay with me, goddamnit, this is important”  

But the next day he insisted that I was just  laughing and muttering gibberish as I  zoomed in and out of his focal plain like a weird foreign film through a fish eye lens.  But I think it was more the effect that the Kahiki Kai's had on him, because frankly, I knew what I was talking about, and although now i have no idea what it was, goddamn it, it was important.
Eventually we knew it was time to go back to the hotel, as morning would come early, and it would be a long day. Show in the morning, set up in the afternoon, tear down, set up again, and show at night.
 But our friend Jay had a plan. He said he knew of a place where you could get the perfect nightcap.
A Bacon martini.
I recoiled with delight, “Yes!” I shouted, “YES!”
So with a promise that we would just grab one, and then go back to the hotel, CJ, and I poured ourselves into Jays truck and headed across town to “The Double Down”, a punk rock dive bar famous for the previously mentioned meat cocktail.
    It was indeed a dive, but an odd Vegas  dive. A place that had been calculatedly thrashed. Signs advertising drink specials adorned the walls, most done in sharpie or el marko on cardboard.
   One advertised that if you puke, you clean. Another offered puke insurance for $20. And yet another was for the “graveyard trifecta” , a Schlitz, “ass juice” and a twinkie for $5.  A wall mural advised patrons to “shut up and drink”.  it was good advice, and we took it. We sidled up to the bar and Jay ordered a couple bacon martinis and three plastic cups of  the “ass juice”. an aptly named beverage, as it was nasty looking, and tasting stuff. My guess was mix of Jaggermister and redbull. Comparatively, the bacon Martini was pleasant. Jay decided we needed one more stop, so we drained the drinks and went around the corner to “Buffalos” a place with a noticeable, and quite intentional, lack of females. After posing for several photos with the door men, and other random patrons, We took seats at the bar and ordered. I sized up the bartender. "Rum and Coke," I shouted, "and keep them coming until I say stop..." a word I had no intention of uttering. The big screen TV assaulted us with bubble gum pop, lip-synced by an army of girls who all seemed to resemble Brittany spears.
    At this point, I didn’t much care where we were.
   I was in a mood.
We knocked back a few of the rum and cokes.  The scene was sharpening. Canted slightly sideways perhaps, but everything was becoming very clear. Probably the red bull kicking in. We found ourselves politely deflecting advances by men intrigued by our Kilts.  A smooth young man put his arm lightly on my shoulder.
“whatca drinkin?” he asked.
He seemed overly friendly. 

Something shifted.
I swiveled abruptly on my bar stool, with eyes wide and gritted teeth “Adrenochrome!” I shouted, hoisting my glass, “Fresh squeezed pineal gland” 
His smile faltered. The corner of his mouth twitched.
I laughed, but it came out as a stuttering hiss through my clenched teeth
“What?” he asked.
He looked confused, scared, and began backing away slowly.
My lips curled inward.
“GODDAMNED RAW FUCKING ADRENAL!”, I yelled at him.
I turned to CJ. “I’m going up!”
“Is it open” he asked, “Is the door open?”
The door he was referring to was the crazy door, and It was indeed open. 
“I’m going up!” I repeated, and then climbed my stool to the bar, arms in the air,  gyrating to to some blond in a mini kilt singing “Param Pam Pam” 

I don't remember much after that, at least until we got back to the hotel

The crazy door is a funny thing.
   Most people can’t see it when they’re sober. Even if they do, It’s there with a sign that says “Do not open”. And you obey the sign, because it must be there for a reason. But after enough drinks the sign is gone, and the knocking starts. Some times you open it up, see who's out there, and invite a few in. Usually a beautiful hostess, who knows where there is a party, just up around the next drink. “Come play” she says, and she does look like she knows a good time. Sometimes it is far less eloquent. sometimes you kick that fucker open  and barge on through without looking, and party with whoever, or whatever, is on the other side.
But it is a tricky thing. The more you open it, the easier it opens.
The longer it is open, the harder it is to close.
   Thompson was well acquainted with the crazy door. Eventually his was kicked in too many times, and would never close again. A shattered frame on bent hinges. That may have been what finally did him in.
Like I said, It’s tricky.
   Some people think theycan do it, think they can somehow stay in control of the door, but they are wrong.  Going crazy for entertainment is an animal all to itself. It cannot be tamed, it can not be made to do tricks in the hope that someone will toss a coin.
No, most times the way it works is you grab hold and ride it until it throws you to the ground, or eats you.
sometimes both.
   Then there is the rare occasion that it just just swerves toward the curb and tells you to get the fuck off it’s bus. Tonight was such a night. In this case, the bus was Jays truck. A good thing too. We had work in the morning, and now that was only a few hours off. I had to catch some sleep before it all started up again.  

Back at the hotel,  CJ was in a sorry state.
 “What are you going to do?” he asked. he looked like he could barely focus, slowly weaving back and forth as if on the deck of some unseen ship.
“Im going to try and get some fucking sleep. You should do the same”
“I ...I was thinking about going to the casino, you wanna...”
“No” I said, opening my room door and stepping inside.
“I’m kinda hungry. You want to get something to eat?” He asked. 

He looked sad, pleading.

I grabbed a bag of pretzels from the dresser and threw them, pegging him in the Face.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I said, and shut the door. 

He was still out there muttering, but I didn’t care.
I fumbled my way into bed and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the crazy.
     In the beginning the door will close by itself, usually when you pass out.
But if it's not closed long enough, after a while, it just stops closing. Why bother? they just put up a velvet rope, and the crazy lines up. And that's ok, because they look like a fine bunch, at least through the thick bottom of a rocks glass. So at the end of the night you wave them off and tune out as much as possible, and hope that some sleep comes before the daylight
    But, when that daylight comes, they look different.
Your hostess is still there, but now she's bloated, rotten, roughly sewn leather teddy bear with a mummified eels head. “Come play” she hisses, sending out a fine mist that reeks of whisky, sweat and bad breath. A smell you know well because you spent the night with it. tossing and turning in it, marinating, unable to go completely to sleep because of the constant gibbering of the denizens behind the rope. Paranoia begins top creep in as well. sending out wispy tentacles like a fog machine filled with cheap bacon flavored vodka.
I concentrate on the hum of the air conditioner, and a few fitful hours of sleep later was at the breakfast buffet, and then back in the van.
   CJ was MIA.
   We called his cellphone several times, but he didn’t answer. Finally I went up to his room and pounded on the door. Nothing. I pounded again, and gave it a few kicks, but again, nothing. I was going to start screaming under the door, but maid service was a couple rooms away, and starting to take notice, and the last thing we needed was the cops. I called the front desk and had them ring his room. I could hear the phone ringing through the door. The clerk came back on, “sir, no one is picking up, would...”
I hung up.
“I think he’s dead” I said as I climbed into the van. lucky for him, and us, that mornings gig was more of a dress rehearsal, a warm up performance for local school kids, so CJ going missing was more of an annoyance than tragedy. But if he was dead, that was certainly going to put a twist on the weekend.  We speculated on what could have become of him. One thought was that he went back to the casino and got in over his head. Maybe bet too big, couldn’t pay, and was now part of the ghost army of the desert. Another thought was that he found some early morning companionship, got rolled and was now  naked and probably dead in a dumpster somewhere. Or a dozen other scenarios, all of which ended up with him dead, because we could think of no other reason to miss the gig.
There was another option which we had not considered, and it turned out to be the case.
    He had just slept in.
    Doozing peacefully, dead only to the world, his alarm, the phone calls, pounding on his door . As I learned later, about six minutes before they were slated to go on, he woke up, saw the time, and called Aaron. From what I understand it went something like this:
Aaron: “Yeah?”
CJ: “dude, I’m sorry, I...”
Aaron: “FIVE MINUTES.” (click)

 So CJ hauled ass, and made it literally with only seconds to spare.
We played the gig, and then got the hell out of there.
After set-up at the next gig, CJ and I commandeered Keith's rental car and went on a supply run, just a few essentials we were running low on.
The cashier checked out our bounty. Four twelve packs of beer, a dozen grapefruit, and a bag of pretzels, and then gave us an expressionless stare over her glasses, but made no remarks. 
Vegas baby!
Back at the hotel, CJ gave the keys back to Keith.
“You didn’t wreck it did you?”
“No,” CJ replied, “but Tiki puked in the trunk”
“Sorry, “ I said, ”but CJ was driving all crazy, and I couldn’t get the lid open fast enough”
“Why the hell were you in the trunk?”
“I wanted a beer, and there’s the whole open container thing”
“Bullshit!” Keith said, but his eyes narrowed, “but you didn’t, really, right?”
I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, and as we headed off with our spoils, Keith headed out to check his car.
  Our room had developed a rich patina. Weapons, beer and whisky bottles covered most surfaces, clothing and grapefruit peels littered the floor. The sink was filled with ice and beer, with cases in reserve underneath. I grabbed a Grapefruit  from a bag on the night stand and made quick work with a switchblade, hacking it into sixths and handing it out
 “No quarter given” I say,  tearing into the dripping fruit .
We knew where were are going, but discussed other possible destinations anyway. Maybe more as an excuse to hang out, pound a few beers and a shot or two before heading to Frankies.  Jim poured himself an ambitious amount of Jameson in a hotel plastic cup, and set himself up on the dresser. Pretty soon he was on the floor, with an empty cup and a big grin. We decide it was well time to head for Frankies, but Jim begs off and whacks himself into a spin on the door frame then Ping-Pongs  down the hall, apparently feeling the full effect of a half a cup of good Irish Whisky.
“Amateur”  Aaron mutters, putting on his fez and leather jacket  “Let’s go”
       At Frankies we grab a  table, and then migrate to one of the Hut / booths and settle in. We make a spectacle of ourselves and soon the next table over joins us. Our feeble promise to not stay out too late is crushed beneath the growing pile of swizzle sticks, and again, morning comes too early. 

      The hangover is manageable, but something else is going on. There are dark shapes in the corners, and enemies are everywhere... 

     Weird clouds of paranoia induced shadows that flutter just outside my vision. People walk by oblivious to the growing under current, but I know it’s there.

 Holy shit, did that guy have a tail? What the hell... 

   I try and look  nonchalant, but I can feel the eyes.
  The eyes, boring into me like whisky seeking ticks...
    CJ notices my twitchy behavior and asks, “What's going on?”
“They’re gonna fuck us”  I tell him, he shakes his head... "shhh..."

I lower my voice. 

“They’re gonna fuck us and leave us in the desert”
He looks around, and then asks, “Who is?”
“I don’t know” I tell him, it’s almost a whisper. 

You never know who might be listening. 

“I gotta get my head on straight, or this thing is gonna go to hell real quick”
“You're right, “ he says, “We need some booze”
Aaron shows up and I brief him on the situation. He agrees we need to get something going, get our minds in order. We have a couple bottles of high-end single malt, but that seems a bit chewy at the moment. We decide to see if we can scam a couple of drink tickets from the organizer of the event, but she does us one better in the form of  all access passes to the VIP tent.  Breakfast buffet, full bar... I grab a tall cup of coffee, and fix it up long pour of Jameson.  I chug it down and repeat the process.The shadows retreat and soon enough the world begins to look almost right again.
The rest of day went by pretty easy, what with the free booze and food.

After the show we head back to the hotel. Again we dig into the booze and grapefruit as the troops amass. This time there is no talk of possible destinations. This will be our last night in Vegas and there was no where better to spend it than Frankies. Jim hems and haws, but decides he can’t do it. The night before he had called an ex in his drunken stoupor, said some things without his filter on. He said it was like he was watching himself on the phone but was unable to intervene. I guess it scared him.
Amateur.

The next day is a repeat of the day before, sans the paranoia. probably due to the well used VIP passes. After the show, we load up and head back home through the desert. As the sun is setting I give a salute to the ghost army of the desert, and thank them for not actually taking CJ. 

I can't say for sure, but I am pretty sure at least one of them gave me a skeletal middle finger.

Hellhouse Tales # 7. The Strange case of Rich Bill

Hellhouse Tales # 7. The Strange case of Rich Bill

I remember the first time I met Rich Bill.
We were, as usual, sitting around the kitchen table wishing we had beer. That was one of the two general states at the Hellhouse, drinking beer, or wishing we had beer. This particular afternoon was a transition state, as we were about to go to the liquor store, and were waiting for Dave to get dressed.
There was a voice in the Hall.
"Knock Knock! ... Yo!"  said the voice
"In here" Klutch said.
The voices' owner appeared, holding a six pack of Anchor Steam, our favorite beer.
"Hey," he said, "I brought my bike in to the hall, I just got it and kinda don't want to leave it outside."
"What kinda bike?" I asked.
I was a bike messenger, and a bike mechanic, so these things genuinely interested me.
"Come check it out." he said, setting the beer on the table.
We walked into the hall, and there leaning against the wall was one of the sleekest looking race bikes I had ever seen. I was struck by the thinness of the frame.
"Carbon fiber" he said, running a finger down the center tube, "the rims are aircraft aluminum, most of the hardware is titanium alloy. Pretty sweet!"
I agreed, "Pretty sweet."
We went back into the kitchen and grabbed a couple beers. Dave came in, and Bill handed him a beer, "Hey man" he said.
"Hey," Dave said, "Thanks"
That was, as far as I know, when I first met Rich Bill.
Bill settled into a chair. "So, party tonight?"
We were in fact, going to a party that evening, and assumed that, the party in question, was in fact, the party in question.
It turned out he was going as well, and said he would come back after his ride and go with us.
His name wasn't really Rich Bill, That was just our nick-name for him because he seemed to be rich.
He would come around, usually bring beer, shoot the breeze, and show off some new super expensive gadget he had recently acquired. I say show off, but it was more sharing. He was a geniunely nice guy, and well, he always brought beer.
I started seeing him at all the parties. Usually with some exotic expensive booze, some cool gadget, and tales of adventure.  Once he showed up to play ultimate, and even had his own custom Frisbee. Seemed everybody was friends with rich bill.
 One afternoon, again he came by, brought beer, shot the breeze, and then left, promising to return to accompany us to another Party that evening.
Clutch, Dave and I sat at the kitchen table finishing the beer.
"So, " I asked Dave, "how do you know Rich Bill?"
Dave stared at me, "What do you mean?"
"I mean, originally, is he one of your Colorado buddies?"
Dave looked at me like I was crazy. "I met him through you, he's your friend.."
That made no sense. "He's not my friend. I never saw him before that day he showed up with his new bike. I assumed he was a friend of yours..."
We both looked at clutch, who just shook his head. "I thought you guys knew him..."
We started going through our interactions with him, trying to figure a common thread.
We couldn't find any.
Like I had said, I never saw him before he showed up on his bike. But, he was carrying our favorite beer, asking about a party we were going to. The assumption was that he must be friends with someone we knew, and we each assumed it was each other.
We started making phone calls, but everywhere, it was the same,
"I thought he was a friend of yours..."
Turned out nobody knew Rich Bill.
We began listing the things we knew about him.
It was a short list.
Once you eliminated all the things that we thought we knew, which turned out to be assumptions,
The only thing we could honestly say about Rich Bill was that he seemed to be able to afford, or at least aquire, expensive things., and that he seemed to know, maybe a bit too much about our comings and goings.
I remember I once asked him what he did for a living, and he started giving me a vague non-answer, only to then direct the conversation to something else.
That seems to be the case with the other guys as well.
The only thing we really knew was that we had some questions for him.
We waited for him to show up at the Hellhouse that evening to go with us to the party.
But he didn't show up.
We went to the party, assuming he would be there.
But, again, he never showed up.
In fact, we never saw him again, and to the best of my knowledge, neither did any of our friends.
He vanished as mysteriously as he arrived.
leaving behind only questions,
and empty beer bottles.