Swami Hard Salami called me this morning, asked me to meet him super secretly at his property on Montgomery Street before cricket practice. Seems Swami’s been obsessing on the antique bottles that might be buried in the old outhouse shaft I found on the property. Swami tells me I need to keep the matter a super secret from Percy. He wants me to dig out the shaft before Percy has a chance to get to it, take out any artifacts worth money and put back all the stuff that’s not worth anything to be dug up by Percy and his men’s group later as if for the first time. Swami said he’d pay me based on a percentage of what was found, but then I got worried there might not be anything worth anything there, so I asked to get paid by the hour. Now watch, there’ll be something found worth thousands of dollars. Anyhow, it’ll be nice to have some cash of my own. I’ll start the dig sometime this week if things dry out.
Turns out Cricket practice was rained out. I got time to chat with Fauntleroy for a while, waiting for the rain to end in a baseball dugout. I had the brilliant idea to ask him if he was one of them Rastafarians. He said no, he was one of them Secular Humanists. I have to say I was surprised, I told him I didn’t know Jamaica had Secular Humanists. He said sure, they live with magic elves in the mountain caves, Mon.
The more I learn about cricket the more I think it should just be given up for baseball. Wait, but that’s already been done.
They got more than 11 guys at the moment, so it looks like I’m gonna be a bench warmer. At this point I don’t think I give a shit.
And then I get a fucked up call from Cupid Boy after I got home. He says he went down the lane today looking for me at the Winnebago. Did you and your wife have sex back there or something? Because I found condoms strewn on the ground.
Uhm. . .yeah. . . as I recall that was. . .yeah. . . me and Phebe. . .littering.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
4/5/01
Thanks to Phebe half the fucking planet now knows I’m trying to write a novel about her namesake Phebe Reynolds in the Revolutionary War. First it was Percy who found out, and then he must have told Swami Hard Salami. And now even my fucking Probation Officer, Cupid Boy, he fucking knows somehow too.
Good luck, he says. Somehow I doubt you’re gonna become the next Ernest Hemmingway, but anything that preoccupies you from engaging in crime, I’ll have to support it.
I’m thinking Percy must have blabbed it to him. I think Percy feels bad for the guy. Seems like Cupid Boy’s always hanging around Percy’s neighborhood pounding on Cupcake’s door.
I know you’re in there! Why do you do this? Open up!
Percy tells me he takes him inside to quiet things, consoles him with cups of hot tea. What I understand, Percy tried to give the young fucker his honest opinion that he needed to move on, but the guy’s apparently not hearing it. The guy wanted to know if Cupcake’s been at her trailer on my farm anytime.
I think she has a stalker, one of these creep ex-boyfriends. I’m worried about her out alone on your farm on the nature walks she’s been taking there.
Little more than just springtime horniness at play with Cupid Boy, methinks. And people think I’ve lost my mind.
With all these people expecting me now to produce a historical novel about the Revolutionary War I better start working on it. That such activity will also preoccupy me from engaging in crime will surely count as an additional bonus.
Good fucking gracious.
Good luck, he says. Somehow I doubt you’re gonna become the next Ernest Hemmingway, but anything that preoccupies you from engaging in crime, I’ll have to support it.
I’m thinking Percy must have blabbed it to him. I think Percy feels bad for the guy. Seems like Cupid Boy’s always hanging around Percy’s neighborhood pounding on Cupcake’s door.
I know you’re in there! Why do you do this? Open up!
Percy tells me he takes him inside to quiet things, consoles him with cups of hot tea. What I understand, Percy tried to give the young fucker his honest opinion that he needed to move on, but the guy’s apparently not hearing it. The guy wanted to know if Cupcake’s been at her trailer on my farm anytime.
I think she has a stalker, one of these creep ex-boyfriends. I’m worried about her out alone on your farm on the nature walks she’s been taking there.
Little more than just springtime horniness at play with Cupid Boy, methinks. And people think I’ve lost my mind.
With all these people expecting me now to produce a historical novel about the Revolutionary War I better start working on it. That such activity will also preoccupy me from engaging in crime will surely count as an additional bonus.
Good fucking gracious.
4/4/01
Phebe shared with Percy at some point recently that I’m writing a book based on her namesake, Phebe Reynolds. Percy was against the idea of taking liberties with her life story. He said at the very least I should provide some non-fiction historical account of Phebe Reynolds to go along with the fiction so people can see the difference. So he emailed me the chapter Philip H. Smith wrote in Legends of the Shawangunk. I figure I might as well add it in to this mess. Here it is:
Man is largely a creature of circumstances. Whatever may be his natural endowments we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that his character is moulded by his surroundings. The girl that has been reared in luxury and ease, the subject of assiduous care as though she were a tender and volatile plant, will acquire a softness and effeminacy that will lead her to lose self-control upon the slightest occasion. Her less-favored sister, born with like endowments, but who has been brought up amid the hardships and dangers of frontier life, when her fortitude is put to the test, will be found capable of performing acts of heroism that will put many of the lords of creation to shame. Among all the heroines of the border, whose deeds of hardihood and self-denial have been put on record, there will be found not one excelling in the sublimer virtues the subject of this sketch.
Phebe Reynolds was the daughter of Henry Reynolds, and one of a large family of children. They were residing, at the time of the Revolution, in a log cabin in the present town of Monroe, within the region of country infested by the notorious Claudius Smith band of outlaws. One night the gang surrounded Reynolds' cabin with purpose to effect an entrance, but found the windows and doors securely barred and bolted. They next mounted the roof, and two or three essayed to drop down the wide-mouthed chimney; one of the family poured the contents of a feather-bed upon the fire, and the robbers were forced to beat a retreat to escape suffocation.
Some time afterward a second attempt was made with a different result. Benjamin Kelley and Philip Roblin, both of whom were near neighbors of Reynolds, together with several others, went to Reynolds' house one dark night, and knocked for admission, representing themselves to be a detachment of the American army in search of deserters. After hurriedly dressing himself Reynolds opened the door, and then went to the fireplace to procure a light. While his back was turned to his visitors one of them struck him with the fiat side of his sword, and told him to make haste. This at once revealed the character of his guests. He made a rush for the door, but just outside stumbled over a log, and fell headlong. Ere he could recover himself the gang were upon him, and he was dragged back into the house.
When the struggle began, Reynolds called loudly for his son, then a mere lad, to come to his assistance. When the boy came into the room, one of the men seized him, set him down upon the floor, and told him if he moved even so much as to turn his head right or left, he would cut it off. This so terrified the boy that he sat as motionless as if he had been carved in stone. Mrs. Reynolds, accompanied by some of the other children, now came into the apartment; when she saw her husband in the hands of ruffians, she fell upon the floor in convulsions; and it is believed she remained unconscious through most of the ensuing strife.
After binding Reynolds, and wounding him with their knives and swords, they, in the presence of his family, proceeded to hang him on the trammel-pole of his fire-place. Having accomplished this, the members of the gang dispersed through the several rooms and commenced plundering, leaving him, as they supposed, in the throes of death.
At this time Phebe Reynolds was twelve years old, but large and robust for one of her age. She had become inured to the dangers and terrors of border life, and was resolute and fearless, particularly when her blood was up. Taking advantage of their temporary absence, Phebe caught up a knife and hastily cut the rope by which her father was suspended. She also threw the noose from his neck and managed to get him upon a bed.
It was not long before the ruffians discovered what had been done, and again they gathered in the room to murder Reynolds. The girl boldly confronted them with her knife, like a lioness at bay. They commanded her to go away, threatening her with instant death if she refused. She declared she did not wish to live if they murdered her father. They then menaced her with swords and knives; still she stood her ground courageously. Finding them determined to murder her father, she sprang upon the bed, clasped her hands tightly around him, and attempted thus to shield him from their bloody instruments. One of the men then took the rope and cruelly beat the girl; but she did not even moan, or wince, although she was marked from head to foot with broad, angry stripes.
Finding this to be of no avail, the marauders forcibly tore her away, and once more Mr. Reynolds was left hanging to the trammel-pole, while they resumed their work of plundering the house.
Again did the heroic daughter cut the rope, and was leading her father to another room, when his strength gave out, and he sank upon the floor. Again did the wretches discover what had been done, and they attacked him with their knives and swords as he lay upon the floor, and once more the brave daughter threw herself upon him, and endeavored to protect him; receiving on her own person many of the blows that were intended for him. In short, her clothing was saturated with the blood flowing from numerous cuts in her forehead and breast. Finally the robbers threw Mr. Reynolds into an old chest, and, shutting down the lid, they left the place, first destroying his private papers and setting fire to the house. They also rolled a large stone against the door, which opened outward, and told them they would shoot the first one that dared to raise the latch, with the design that the whole family should be burned up with the house.
Phebe now made her way to the chest, and, raising the lid, found her father, stiff and rigid, and apparently dead. With such help as her mother and the lad could give, the body of her father was lifted from the chest, and while this was being done, a low moan escaped his lips. She immediately pried open his teeth with a pewter spoon, and gave him a few drops of water. This seemed to revive him, and she gave him more while she proceeded to staunch the blood that was flowing from his wounds.
While thus occupied her mother was moaning and wandering aimlessly from room to room, and presently she noticed that a bed, a hogshead of flax, and some other inflammable material were on fire. The mother, appalled at this discovery, cried out, “Oh, Phebe, the house is on fire in three places!” “Why don't you put it out?” demanded the daughter. “Oh, I can't,” was the dismayed reply, “if it burns down over our heads!” “Then come and take care of father and let me do it.” The brave girl promptly dashed water on the burning beds, threw a drenched rug over the flax, and went back to her father.
While engaged in dressing his wounds, she told the lad to go out and alarm the neighborhood; but the boy did not dare to leave the house. She then, after doing all she could for the safety and comfort of her father, set out upon the errand herself. Although her person was covered with cuts and wounds, her clothing saturated with her own blood, and she had passed through a scene of terror such as few could have had the fortitude to face, yet she was so cool and collected that she noticed the crowing of cocks in the neighborhood as she passed along the road, and knew that morning was near.
The alarm spread from house to house. A body of men immediately assembled, and shortly after sunrise started in pursuit of the ruffians. The latter were followed into their retreat in the mountains with such energy that they were taken by surprise and four or five of them were killed. One of the killed was Kelley, the leader of the gang, who resided within a mile of Reynolds's house, and had passed for a Whig. He was shot by a young named June, who knew Kelley personally. It appears that June had been informed the robbers were at a certain place playing cards. When he approached their hiding place they heard him coming, and rose to their feet. As they did so, he fired into their midst; the shot mortally wounded Kelley, whose body was afterward found at a sulphur spring to which he had wandered and died. The remains were partially covered up with leaves and brush, and near by was the wedding suit of Henry Reynolds, tied up with a bark string. This suit Mr. Reynolds had preserved over fourteen years; yet he expressed a wish never to wear or see the clothes again since they had been on the back of a Tory. Only two of the ruffians escaped, and they were afterwards arrested in New Jersey. Reynolds would not consent to appear against them, probably on account of his Quaker principles.
While some of the neighbors were pursuing the marauders, others, including the physicians of the town, were attending to the injuries of the family. Reynolds, it was found, had been cut and stabbed in more than thirty places. An ear had been so nearly severed that it hung down on his shoulder. It was replaced as well as circumstances would admit, but the wound healed in such a way as to disfigure him for life. One of his hands was cut so badly that he never afterwards fully recovered its use.
For weeks Reynolds was on the brink of the grave; but he possessed a strong constitution, fortified by a life of temperance and regular habits, and he was once more restored to health. His wounds so completely covered his person that, as he lay bandaged, he more resembled an Egyptian mummy than anything else. His neighbors were very kind to him; they cut his wheat, gathered his hay, and even provided for his family.
When the physicians turned their attention to Phebe, it was found that the wounds on her forehead and breast were of a serious nature, and that her body and limbs were badly bruised and lacerated. Whenever she came within her father's sight, her bruised and bandaged appearance so affected him, that the physicians directed that she should not be allowed to come in his room; and instead of exacting fees for their attendance, the physicians filled Phebe's hands with coin.
Soon after this event Henry Reynolds removed to Sullivan county, where he lived to a good old age, greatly respected by all who knew him. There are people still living in Fallsburg and Neversink who have heard the facts related by Henry Reynolds himself as he exhibited his scars. Phebe became the wife of Jeremiah Drake, of Neversink Flats, and died in November, 1853; her remains repose in the little burial-ground, near those of her husband. Her posterity are among the most highly honored residents of the Neversink valley. One hundred years after the marriage of Henry Reynolds, says Quinlan, it is estimated that his descendants numbered upwards of one thousand.
---Philip H. Smith, 1887
Man is largely a creature of circumstances. Whatever may be his natural endowments we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that his character is moulded by his surroundings. The girl that has been reared in luxury and ease, the subject of assiduous care as though she were a tender and volatile plant, will acquire a softness and effeminacy that will lead her to lose self-control upon the slightest occasion. Her less-favored sister, born with like endowments, but who has been brought up amid the hardships and dangers of frontier life, when her fortitude is put to the test, will be found capable of performing acts of heroism that will put many of the lords of creation to shame. Among all the heroines of the border, whose deeds of hardihood and self-denial have been put on record, there will be found not one excelling in the sublimer virtues the subject of this sketch.
Phebe Reynolds was the daughter of Henry Reynolds, and one of a large family of children. They were residing, at the time of the Revolution, in a log cabin in the present town of Monroe, within the region of country infested by the notorious Claudius Smith band of outlaws. One night the gang surrounded Reynolds' cabin with purpose to effect an entrance, but found the windows and doors securely barred and bolted. They next mounted the roof, and two or three essayed to drop down the wide-mouthed chimney; one of the family poured the contents of a feather-bed upon the fire, and the robbers were forced to beat a retreat to escape suffocation.
Some time afterward a second attempt was made with a different result. Benjamin Kelley and Philip Roblin, both of whom were near neighbors of Reynolds, together with several others, went to Reynolds' house one dark night, and knocked for admission, representing themselves to be a detachment of the American army in search of deserters. After hurriedly dressing himself Reynolds opened the door, and then went to the fireplace to procure a light. While his back was turned to his visitors one of them struck him with the fiat side of his sword, and told him to make haste. This at once revealed the character of his guests. He made a rush for the door, but just outside stumbled over a log, and fell headlong. Ere he could recover himself the gang were upon him, and he was dragged back into the house.
When the struggle began, Reynolds called loudly for his son, then a mere lad, to come to his assistance. When the boy came into the room, one of the men seized him, set him down upon the floor, and told him if he moved even so much as to turn his head right or left, he would cut it off. This so terrified the boy that he sat as motionless as if he had been carved in stone. Mrs. Reynolds, accompanied by some of the other children, now came into the apartment; when she saw her husband in the hands of ruffians, she fell upon the floor in convulsions; and it is believed she remained unconscious through most of the ensuing strife.
After binding Reynolds, and wounding him with their knives and swords, they, in the presence of his family, proceeded to hang him on the trammel-pole of his fire-place. Having accomplished this, the members of the gang dispersed through the several rooms and commenced plundering, leaving him, as they supposed, in the throes of death.
At this time Phebe Reynolds was twelve years old, but large and robust for one of her age. She had become inured to the dangers and terrors of border life, and was resolute and fearless, particularly when her blood was up. Taking advantage of their temporary absence, Phebe caught up a knife and hastily cut the rope by which her father was suspended. She also threw the noose from his neck and managed to get him upon a bed.
It was not long before the ruffians discovered what had been done, and again they gathered in the room to murder Reynolds. The girl boldly confronted them with her knife, like a lioness at bay. They commanded her to go away, threatening her with instant death if she refused. She declared she did not wish to live if they murdered her father. They then menaced her with swords and knives; still she stood her ground courageously. Finding them determined to murder her father, she sprang upon the bed, clasped her hands tightly around him, and attempted thus to shield him from their bloody instruments. One of the men then took the rope and cruelly beat the girl; but she did not even moan, or wince, although she was marked from head to foot with broad, angry stripes.
Finding this to be of no avail, the marauders forcibly tore her away, and once more Mr. Reynolds was left hanging to the trammel-pole, while they resumed their work of plundering the house.
Again did the heroic daughter cut the rope, and was leading her father to another room, when his strength gave out, and he sank upon the floor. Again did the wretches discover what had been done, and they attacked him with their knives and swords as he lay upon the floor, and once more the brave daughter threw herself upon him, and endeavored to protect him; receiving on her own person many of the blows that were intended for him. In short, her clothing was saturated with the blood flowing from numerous cuts in her forehead and breast. Finally the robbers threw Mr. Reynolds into an old chest, and, shutting down the lid, they left the place, first destroying his private papers and setting fire to the house. They also rolled a large stone against the door, which opened outward, and told them they would shoot the first one that dared to raise the latch, with the design that the whole family should be burned up with the house.
Phebe now made her way to the chest, and, raising the lid, found her father, stiff and rigid, and apparently dead. With such help as her mother and the lad could give, the body of her father was lifted from the chest, and while this was being done, a low moan escaped his lips. She immediately pried open his teeth with a pewter spoon, and gave him a few drops of water. This seemed to revive him, and she gave him more while she proceeded to staunch the blood that was flowing from his wounds.
While thus occupied her mother was moaning and wandering aimlessly from room to room, and presently she noticed that a bed, a hogshead of flax, and some other inflammable material were on fire. The mother, appalled at this discovery, cried out, “Oh, Phebe, the house is on fire in three places!” “Why don't you put it out?” demanded the daughter. “Oh, I can't,” was the dismayed reply, “if it burns down over our heads!” “Then come and take care of father and let me do it.” The brave girl promptly dashed water on the burning beds, threw a drenched rug over the flax, and went back to her father.
While engaged in dressing his wounds, she told the lad to go out and alarm the neighborhood; but the boy did not dare to leave the house. She then, after doing all she could for the safety and comfort of her father, set out upon the errand herself. Although her person was covered with cuts and wounds, her clothing saturated with her own blood, and she had passed through a scene of terror such as few could have had the fortitude to face, yet she was so cool and collected that she noticed the crowing of cocks in the neighborhood as she passed along the road, and knew that morning was near.
The alarm spread from house to house. A body of men immediately assembled, and shortly after sunrise started in pursuit of the ruffians. The latter were followed into their retreat in the mountains with such energy that they were taken by surprise and four or five of them were killed. One of the killed was Kelley, the leader of the gang, who resided within a mile of Reynolds's house, and had passed for a Whig. He was shot by a young named June, who knew Kelley personally. It appears that June had been informed the robbers were at a certain place playing cards. When he approached their hiding place they heard him coming, and rose to their feet. As they did so, he fired into their midst; the shot mortally wounded Kelley, whose body was afterward found at a sulphur spring to which he had wandered and died. The remains were partially covered up with leaves and brush, and near by was the wedding suit of Henry Reynolds, tied up with a bark string. This suit Mr. Reynolds had preserved over fourteen years; yet he expressed a wish never to wear or see the clothes again since they had been on the back of a Tory. Only two of the ruffians escaped, and they were afterwards arrested in New Jersey. Reynolds would not consent to appear against them, probably on account of his Quaker principles.
While some of the neighbors were pursuing the marauders, others, including the physicians of the town, were attending to the injuries of the family. Reynolds, it was found, had been cut and stabbed in more than thirty places. An ear had been so nearly severed that it hung down on his shoulder. It was replaced as well as circumstances would admit, but the wound healed in such a way as to disfigure him for life. One of his hands was cut so badly that he never afterwards fully recovered its use.
For weeks Reynolds was on the brink of the grave; but he possessed a strong constitution, fortified by a life of temperance and regular habits, and he was once more restored to health. His wounds so completely covered his person that, as he lay bandaged, he more resembled an Egyptian mummy than anything else. His neighbors were very kind to him; they cut his wheat, gathered his hay, and even provided for his family.
When the physicians turned their attention to Phebe, it was found that the wounds on her forehead and breast were of a serious nature, and that her body and limbs were badly bruised and lacerated. Whenever she came within her father's sight, her bruised and bandaged appearance so affected him, that the physicians directed that she should not be allowed to come in his room; and instead of exacting fees for their attendance, the physicians filled Phebe's hands with coin.
Soon after this event Henry Reynolds removed to Sullivan county, where he lived to a good old age, greatly respected by all who knew him. There are people still living in Fallsburg and Neversink who have heard the facts related by Henry Reynolds himself as he exhibited his scars. Phebe became the wife of Jeremiah Drake, of Neversink Flats, and died in November, 1853; her remains repose in the little burial-ground, near those of her husband. Her posterity are among the most highly honored residents of the Neversink valley. One hundred years after the marriage of Henry Reynolds, says Quinlan, it is estimated that his descendants numbered upwards of one thousand.
---Philip H. Smith, 1887
4/3/01
Phebe took the baby up to the prison today. I spent the time at home resting. Had this weird dream I had Probation Officer Barbie again and she asked me on reporting day if I’d shoot her husband for her. That was sure weird, because in the dream I wasn’t exactly objecting. I know there was some dirty talk involved. I’m not exactly sure the words now because Percy woke me up at that point with a phone call, asked how my head felt, said he understood perfectly if I didn’t want to play on the team anymore. Said I didn’t have to worry about disappointing him.
I’m not quiting the team, I say, me and Fauntleroy are a pockidge deal, Mon.
And then an hour later Swami Hard Salami stopped by. Said he wanted to see how I was doing with my concussion . . .also wanted to know whether I had reconsidered his $800,000 offer to buy the farm. Now there’s a concerned doctor for you still willing to do house calls.
I didn’t hit my head that hard! I say.
Fucker.
He said he has work for me tomorrow if I feel up to it. Said he would tutor me a little bit on cricket before practice. I may need to rename him Gandhi or something.
After he leaves I go back to the house for more rest, but then I hear a car drive onto the place and down the lane toward the trailer. I hike back there, spy through the trees and find Cupcake and this young guy I remember from Percy’s neighborhood hanging out at the Winnebago smoking a joint. I had in mind to tell them to get the hell out of there, but I held back for some reason. Looked like they were on the verge of getting it on. I felt like an intruder for some reason.
When Phebe got home I banged her hard.
Maybe I did hit my head that hard.
I’m not quiting the team, I say, me and Fauntleroy are a pockidge deal, Mon.
And then an hour later Swami Hard Salami stopped by. Said he wanted to see how I was doing with my concussion . . .also wanted to know whether I had reconsidered his $800,000 offer to buy the farm. Now there’s a concerned doctor for you still willing to do house calls.
I didn’t hit my head that hard! I say.
Fucker.
He said he has work for me tomorrow if I feel up to it. Said he would tutor me a little bit on cricket before practice. I may need to rename him Gandhi or something.
After he leaves I go back to the house for more rest, but then I hear a car drive onto the place and down the lane toward the trailer. I hike back there, spy through the trees and find Cupcake and this young guy I remember from Percy’s neighborhood hanging out at the Winnebago smoking a joint. I had in mind to tell them to get the hell out of there, but I held back for some reason. Looked like they were on the verge of getting it on. I felt like an intruder for some reason.
When Phebe got home I banged her hard.
Maybe I did hit my head that hard.
4/2/01
I was heading to Newburgh for cricket practice yesterday and I noticed a car following me. Looked just like the one the Mafia guy was driving when he stopped by over the Winter and tried to shake me down for money with threats to Rocky in jail. I got to the park and started exercising with the guys and I noticed the car again in the parking lot near my truck. I noticed the guy looking out towards the team, just kind of stalking me. I was already feeling anxious. I had no idea who most of the guys on the team were. Lots of foreign accents all around. The team then started to do a jog. I was thinking Percy and I must be the only white guys. I know I’m really the only dumpy guy. I know I’m the only one who’s never played cricket before. I was worried as we jogged I was gonna have a heart attack or something I’m so fucking out of shape. Haven’t had a herd of cows to chase around in years. I was looking over at the Mafia guy not looking where I was running and I ran right into a metal pole. Must have been part of a soccer goal post or something. I lost consciousness for a little bit. Someone called an ambulance. Swami Hard Salami followed me over to the emergency room. Phebe showed up before long. I kept telling people I was distracted by the guy who was following me around, the Mafia guy spying on me from the parking lot. Everyone just kept saying the Mafia guy following me was just part of the experience of getting a concussion.
He’s real! The mafia guy is real! He’s been following me around all day!
At the time I was pissed off no one believed what I was saying, but I’m glad now Swami thought I was seeing things because I hit my head, not because I’m a nut. I’m not even sure now what to think.
You must think of your brain in this instance as a pickled cabbage in a jar--- a pickled cabbage that has been hurled most violently, inexorably, from one side of the jar to the other. And so as the cabbage has been---forgive my pun---JARRED most suddenly and bruised, it is not uncommon that hallucinations would occur.
Hallucinations to the cabbage?
Ha! Precisely!
He’s real! The mafia guy is real! He’s been following me around all day!
At the time I was pissed off no one believed what I was saying, but I’m glad now Swami thought I was seeing things because I hit my head, not because I’m a nut. I’m not even sure now what to think.
You must think of your brain in this instance as a pickled cabbage in a jar--- a pickled cabbage that has been hurled most violently, inexorably, from one side of the jar to the other. And so as the cabbage has been---forgive my pun---JARRED most suddenly and bruised, it is not uncommon that hallucinations would occur.
Hallucinations to the cabbage?
Ha! Precisely!
3/31/01
I ended up staying home from cricket practice yesterday. After that kid came around snooping I felt like I had taken a hoof to the abdomen. I called Percy and told him I wasn’t feeling well.
It’s all right Joe, Percy says, I can tell you really don’t want to be on the team. I’ll take you off the roster.
No, no, I reply, feeling again like I have to stay on the team if only to defy Percy’s desire to keep me off, you keep me on the roster. I’ll be there next time.
I just kept thinking how stupid I was staying quiet about Porch Rot filling in that old well on his farm, buying that story of his. I’m wondering now if the guy could have been a freaking serial killer or something. He wasn’t the dumb ass after all---I was. Asshole Redneck Detective, indeed. I’m wondering now if there was more to the story about Mexican Mike. The guy supposedly dies by accident on Porch Rot’s farm and days later Porch Rot is making moves on his woman? Maybe that slip into the shit lagoon wasn’t what it seemed, you know?
And then I keep thinking about my father’s accident, getting caught up in the PTO shaft of the shit spreader. In reality that could have been staged. There could have been motives behind it.
And then the loose bull even. . .sickening to think. . .
And then, maybe not. . .April fools.
It’s all right Joe, Percy says, I can tell you really don’t want to be on the team. I’ll take you off the roster.
No, no, I reply, feeling again like I have to stay on the team if only to defy Percy’s desire to keep me off, you keep me on the roster. I’ll be there next time.
I just kept thinking how stupid I was staying quiet about Porch Rot filling in that old well on his farm, buying that story of his. I’m wondering now if the guy could have been a freaking serial killer or something. He wasn’t the dumb ass after all---I was. Asshole Redneck Detective, indeed. I’m wondering now if there was more to the story about Mexican Mike. The guy supposedly dies by accident on Porch Rot’s farm and days later Porch Rot is making moves on his woman? Maybe that slip into the shit lagoon wasn’t what it seemed, you know?
And then I keep thinking about my father’s accident, getting caught up in the PTO shaft of the shit spreader. In reality that could have been staged. There could have been motives behind it.
And then the loose bull even. . .sickening to think. . .
And then, maybe not. . .April fools.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
03/30/01
I was home babysitting Mookie today. While he was down for a nap I went on the World Wide Web and read up a little more on the game of Cricket. I still have no idea how it's played even after reading for a half-hour. I was feeling a little anxious about practice tonight, then something happened that completely blew me away. This young dude appeared at the door, said he was researching Phil Palfrey's disappearance for a book. He said almost ten years ago he was the drummer in Phil's REM cover band, Spanking Time for Frankenstein. The minute he said this I know the guy was Roy-Roy. I knew about Roy-Roy from my own research on Phil's disappearance. But somehow I didn't want to let on to the guy I knew who he was already or that I had been doing my own work on the mystery. I don't know. Maybe that would be fucking creepy.
I've been reading the stories about the step-father, Hiram jumping from the bridge, and Phil's old girlfriend Bedelia being found murdered in the well, and I thought, you know, what the hell happened to the dude? You know? Then the police came around asking me about Phil and Bedelia when Phil was in the band, I thought, you know, this might be the book!
Why did you refer to Hiram as Phil's step-father? I ask anxiously.
Because Phil always said his biological father was a Thoreau, 'like the writer of Walden'. When I first started looking into things, I thought it was you, but now I understand you're his brother.
I'm not his brother! I stammer like a freak I think that's just insane! Phil is my nephew by marriage, that's all! Well, and a cousin too. . .but, you know. . .
Well the police seem to think you're his brother, from what I can gather.
The police (stroke, heart attack) seem to think what?!!!
I've been reading the stories about the step-father, Hiram jumping from the bridge, and Phil's old girlfriend Bedelia being found murdered in the well, and I thought, you know, what the hell happened to the dude? You know? Then the police came around asking me about Phil and Bedelia when Phil was in the band, I thought, you know, this might be the book!
Why did you refer to Hiram as Phil's step-father? I ask anxiously.
Because Phil always said his biological father was a Thoreau, 'like the writer of Walden'. When I first started looking into things, I thought it was you, but now I understand you're his brother.
I'm not his brother! I stammer like a freak I think that's just insane! Phil is my nephew by marriage, that's all! Well, and a cousin too. . .but, you know. . .
Well the police seem to think you're his brother, from what I can gather.
The police (stroke, heart attack) seem to think what?!!!
03/29/01
I was spying on Phebe trying to spy on me this morning. She was on the computer looking through the files looking for my writing. Then she got up and I could see her going through stuff around the house looking for my disk hidden away no doubt. When she realized I was up she started to ask me about my Phebe Reynold’s story--- maybe she was trying to see if that was really what I’ve been writing all this time. She said I had to have a solid story structure and plot, otherwise it would be a waste of time. She said she reads so many romance novels she’s certain she could help me. She said that I needed at least two guys vying for Phebe’s affection. One would not be enough. I said I had two guys, don’t worry. Phebe said the problem with the Romeo and Juliet angle was that Phebe Reynolds selecting the Loyalist for her secret lover would be taken as an act of treason.
Not if Phebe Reynolds was aware her Loyalist lover was secretly acting as a spy for George Washington though, I say.
Oh. Well now. . .
By the way Phebe, I’ve been meaning to ask, how has your campaign running for the school board been going---running as Phebe Noonan?
Oh. Well now. . .
Not if Phebe Reynolds was aware her Loyalist lover was secretly acting as a spy for George Washington though, I say.
Oh. Well now. . .
By the way Phebe, I’ve been meaning to ask, how has your campaign running for the school board been going---running as Phebe Noonan?
Oh. Well now. . .
03/28/01
Phebe’s pushing hard for me to do something about Cupcake’s trailer. She said as long as it belongs to someone else, she doesn’t want it on the farm.
If someone moved into that thing, she says, and you didn’t get them out right away, they’d have squatter’s rights.
And then Phebe surprises me, floats the idea of buying the thing:
We do have an insurance check coming to cover the loss of the other trailer, she says, and it would be nice to do some traveling someday.
I imagined her going on to say: and it would be nice to a have a place to exile your ass again out back when you get on my last nerve.
As tough as it was to live out there in the Winter, I kinda miss the seclusion. To go back there to camp in the nice weather might be a real treat. Don’t know how keen Cupcake is on selling though. . .
So I guess there was a cricket practice today. I didn’t know about it because Percy never made me aware. The fucker. I guess Fauntleroy put his arthritic foot down again, told Percy again that, Joseph and I, we are a Pockidge deal, Mon. Percy called me just before and listed some websites where I could study how cricket is played. He said I had to take it seriously to avoid being cut from the team. I did a little poking around on the internet but it looked like some crazy ass shit that didn’t make sense.
Swami Hard Salami called too. He’s all psyched up to get back into cricket. He was happy to hear I was on the team, said he has some jobs for me when I’m out that way. Goodie. Said his offer of $800,000 for the farm was still good if I ever reconsider.
No!
Phebe just looked over my shoulder before. I wasn’t aware at first.
That doesn’t look like a story about the Revolutionary War, she says.
I’d prove you wrong, but that would disrupt the creative process, I say.
I’m such an asshole.
I really have to be careful not to leave a way for her to sneak and read this shit.
If someone moved into that thing, she says, and you didn’t get them out right away, they’d have squatter’s rights.
And then Phebe surprises me, floats the idea of buying the thing:
We do have an insurance check coming to cover the loss of the other trailer, she says, and it would be nice to do some traveling someday.
I imagined her going on to say: and it would be nice to a have a place to exile your ass again out back when you get on my last nerve.
As tough as it was to live out there in the Winter, I kinda miss the seclusion. To go back there to camp in the nice weather might be a real treat. Don’t know how keen Cupcake is on selling though. . .
So I guess there was a cricket practice today. I didn’t know about it because Percy never made me aware. The fucker. I guess Fauntleroy put his arthritic foot down again, told Percy again that, Joseph and I, we are a Pockidge deal, Mon. Percy called me just before and listed some websites where I could study how cricket is played. He said I had to take it seriously to avoid being cut from the team. I did a little poking around on the internet but it looked like some crazy ass shit that didn’t make sense.
Swami Hard Salami called too. He’s all psyched up to get back into cricket. He was happy to hear I was on the team, said he has some jobs for me when I’m out that way. Goodie. Said his offer of $800,000 for the farm was still good if I ever reconsider.
No!
Phebe just looked over my shoulder before. I wasn’t aware at first.
That doesn’t look like a story about the Revolutionary War, she says.
I’d prove you wrong, but that would disrupt the creative process, I say.
I’m such an asshole.
I really have to be careful not to leave a way for her to sneak and read this shit.
03/27/01
Back to watching the baby today. Phebe’s back at work. She’s plenty pissed at me for taking off yesterday, and then showing up later with Cupcake and her junky Winnebago to drag down the lane and dump off at the edge of Purgatory Swamp.
I find it real interesting, Phebe says, here you got all this talk of selling the place, and yet you let that girl dump a trailer on the place, junking up the place more than it already is.
I’ve been thinking a lot today about my lousy detective work. All this time Porch Rot had me believing it was Phil that was buried in the well. He did such a good job convincing me to stay quiet about it. And here the whole time he was covering up for the girl’s death--- whether it was Porch Rot or Phil who was responsible, I guess we may never know. I was thinking maybe Porch Rot wasn’t quite the dumb fucker I thought he was. He sure pulled off a good acting job. Who knew he had it in him? I’m still not sure which theory I favor more, the one that proposes that Phil Palfrey was the one who dumped the body, or the one that proposes that Porch Rot did. Then you have all these various scenarios related to the cause of death. Phil’s the only person left who might be able to shed light on things but I guess you really can’t assume he’s still alive.
I suppose at some point the forensics will come back from the girl’s remains and maybe they’ll know a little more about how she died.
Today would be a good day to get going on my Phebe Reynolds story, but I just spent the whole time the baby was down for a nap running Phil Palfrey’s name in a search engine. I guess maybe I’m like old Percy, using too much of my left brain.
I’m pretty sure the only reason the police went looking into that well was Stash Skimington tipping them off. No one has confirmed shit with me though but I can only think the tip came from Stash reading my shit that time.
I just keep thinking about what would have happened if I had followed through with trying to dig up Phil from the well to relocate him. I’d probably be facing life in prison. Good thing the frost was still in the ground. One time when Winter proved fortunate I guess.
I find it real interesting, Phebe says, here you got all this talk of selling the place, and yet you let that girl dump a trailer on the place, junking up the place more than it already is.
I’ve been thinking a lot today about my lousy detective work. All this time Porch Rot had me believing it was Phil that was buried in the well. He did such a good job convincing me to stay quiet about it. And here the whole time he was covering up for the girl’s death--- whether it was Porch Rot or Phil who was responsible, I guess we may never know. I was thinking maybe Porch Rot wasn’t quite the dumb fucker I thought he was. He sure pulled off a good acting job. Who knew he had it in him? I’m still not sure which theory I favor more, the one that proposes that Phil Palfrey was the one who dumped the body, or the one that proposes that Porch Rot did. Then you have all these various scenarios related to the cause of death. Phil’s the only person left who might be able to shed light on things but I guess you really can’t assume he’s still alive.
I suppose at some point the forensics will come back from the girl’s remains and maybe they’ll know a little more about how she died.
Today would be a good day to get going on my Phebe Reynolds story, but I just spent the whole time the baby was down for a nap running Phil Palfrey’s name in a search engine. I guess maybe I’m like old Percy, using too much of my left brain.
I’m pretty sure the only reason the police went looking into that well was Stash Skimington tipping them off. No one has confirmed shit with me though but I can only think the tip came from Stash reading my shit that time.
I just keep thinking about what would have happened if I had followed through with trying to dig up Phil from the well to relocate him. I’d probably be facing life in prison. Good thing the frost was still in the ground. One time when Winter proved fortunate I guess.
03/26/01
Phebe and I had a big blowout argument after the call from the coroner. I still don’t know why it was so important for her to share the family dirt the way that she did. She said people already know the family dirt anyway. I said that just wasn’t true. She said I live in denial about most everything. It’s like it’s some kind of kick to her to share with the world how fucked up we are. She’s the fucking reason people know the dirt! I slept on the couch. Left the house early. I was supposed to report to probation but made a wrong turn like that guy in the Bruce Springsteen song and just kept goin’. Went to fucking Albany. Sat in the parking lot of the State Police Academy waited to see if I could see anything of my daughter. Thought better of the whole thing though when I started attracting attention of all those cops coming in and out of the place all the time. So I head home on the Thruway and who do I find stranded between the Kingston and New Paltz exits but Cupid Boy and Cupcake and the Fuckmobile Winnebago that Cupcake needed to get moved. Dumb ass that I am, I pull over in the breakdown lane. Nothing was done to fix the fucking radiator that I could tell. The thing drained out and overheated. Winnebago was now hitched to a big tow rig. I apologized to Cupid Boy for missing reporting. He said as I could see he was playing hooky too.
How bout you let us keep this parked at your farm, he says.
Now I got the Fuckmobile parked out back next to the burned up trailer. What the fuck am I going to say to the guy? No?
How bout you let us keep this parked at your farm, he says.
Now I got the Fuckmobile parked out back next to the burned up trailer. What the fuck am I going to say to the guy? No?
Saturday, October 15, 2011
03/24/01
I guess I’m crazy. Phebe was home from work today to be with the baby. First thing in the morning there’s this call. Phebe says it’s Dr. Hardik. She thinks the call is for an appointment. Swami says he’ll pay me a hundred dollars if I show up with my truck in Newburgh to dispense refuse posthaste. So I spent most of the day throwing out the contents of one of Swami’s vacated apartments. Lots of broken furniture full of roaches. This surly dude climbed into the bed of my truck at one point and began slicing open a soiled mattress until he found a plastic bag of what I’m guessing was crack cocaine stashed inside. He got what he wanted I guess. Left me alone. I was plenty scared though, thought I’d shit my pants. On the way to the dump I drove along the river, noticed police activity along the river bank.
Looking out across Newburgh Bay I got to thinking a little about the Phebe Reynolds story I’m supposed to writing. I was thinking how impressive it was for the Continental Army to float a great chain across the Hudson on logs the way they did at that spot. That wouldn’t be so easy to do today either even with our technology. Suppose you could have the chain links float on top a line of soiled mattresses cleaned out of Dr. Hardik’s vacated apartments spanning clear across to Beacon.
Later I heard on the radio the body of an unidentified male was pulled from the river. Maybe they found Porch Rot.
Looking out across Newburgh Bay I got to thinking a little about the Phebe Reynolds story I’m supposed to writing. I was thinking how impressive it was for the Continental Army to float a great chain across the Hudson on logs the way they did at that spot. That wouldn’t be so easy to do today either even with our technology. Suppose you could have the chain links float on top a line of soiled mattresses cleaned out of Dr. Hardik’s vacated apartments spanning clear across to Beacon.
Later I heard on the radio the body of an unidentified male was pulled from the river. Maybe they found Porch Rot.
03/23/01
I asked Swami yesterday how Cornelius was doing. He said he didn’t know. I guess Cornelius cussed him out and walked off the job some time recently.
So much for Cornelius being rewarded by Swami for his steadfast service with his own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden.
Maybe you would like to take over his position, Swami says to me to my astonishment.
I don’t know why, but my reply of ‘no’ came after some hesitation. Phebe’s got me housebound with the care of the baby most days. I practically have to beg for pocket money from her. Somehow the thought of a job--- my own way of making money apart from hauling scrap metal to Middletown--- seemed attractive at that moment even while knowing the job involved servitude to an asshole slumlord. All I ask is to have some time outside of the house once in a while and some money of my own in my pocket. Is that too much to ask, Phebe?
I’m becoming Betty Fucking Crocker.
I’ve been letting Phebe handle all the communication with Rocky’s lawyer. I haven’t really been able to face it. I just have these depressing thoughts that Rocky will either be killed in prison or I’ll be dead before he ever gets out---that we’ll never walk together again in freedom. Not to say we ever got along very well before that we took walks together, but you know what I mean. There’s no happy outcome that I can see. From what I can gather from Phebe it looks like they’re working on a plea deal for Rocky to admit to manslaughter with a certain number of years added on to his sentence.
The idea of me possibly being Mookie’s main father-figure growing up seems way too screwed up to me.
So much for Cornelius being rewarded by Swami for his steadfast service with his own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden.
Maybe you would like to take over his position, Swami says to me to my astonishment.
I don’t know why, but my reply of ‘no’ came after some hesitation. Phebe’s got me housebound with the care of the baby most days. I practically have to beg for pocket money from her. Somehow the thought of a job--- my own way of making money apart from hauling scrap metal to Middletown--- seemed attractive at that moment even while knowing the job involved servitude to an asshole slumlord. All I ask is to have some time outside of the house once in a while and some money of my own in my pocket. Is that too much to ask, Phebe?
I’m becoming Betty Fucking Crocker.
I’ve been letting Phebe handle all the communication with Rocky’s lawyer. I haven’t really been able to face it. I just have these depressing thoughts that Rocky will either be killed in prison or I’ll be dead before he ever gets out---that we’ll never walk together again in freedom. Not to say we ever got along very well before that we took walks together, but you know what I mean. There’s no happy outcome that I can see. From what I can gather from Phebe it looks like they’re working on a plea deal for Rocky to admit to manslaughter with a certain number of years added on to his sentence.
The idea of me possibly being Mookie’s main father-figure growing up seems way too screwed up to me.
03/22/01
Percy drove me and the baby back to Newburgh today to see Betty and Fauntleroy. Percy was happy to talk over a practice schedule with Fauntleroy for the cricket team. At one point Fauntleroy asked me what position I was going to play on the team. I said as far as I was aware I wasn’t on the team.
And then Fauntleroy says to Percy: No, no, Mon! Me and Joseph are a pockidge! I will only play on the team if Joseph plays. We are a pockidge deal, Mon!
I told Fauntleroy I didn’t know a thing about the game. He told me not to worry, that he would be the captain and he would let me know what to do.
Percy is like: But I thought I would be the captain. . .
No Mon.
Apparently Betty’s daughter got out of jail somehow. I asked Betty where she was. She says with half her face slackened: The hell if I know!
I managed to get seen by Swami Hard Salami while I was out that way.
Percy tried to complain to Swami about Fauntleroy taking over as captain of the team.
Of course he should be captain, Swami says with blunt cruelty, your breadth of experience in cricket is quite miniscule and inconsequential while Fauntleroy’s is very, very substantial. There is literally no comparison!
Swami asked me if I was still having delusions that my farm property was worth 5 million dollars. He wrote me out a new script for anti-depressants. At least now on paper I’m back in compliance with my probation terms. Don’t delude yourself into thinking I’ll actually be taking those damn pills though.
And then Fauntleroy says to Percy: No, no, Mon! Me and Joseph are a pockidge! I will only play on the team if Joseph plays. We are a pockidge deal, Mon!
I told Fauntleroy I didn’t know a thing about the game. He told me not to worry, that he would be the captain and he would let me know what to do.
Percy is like: But I thought I would be the captain. . .
No Mon.
Apparently Betty’s daughter got out of jail somehow. I asked Betty where she was. She says with half her face slackened: The hell if I know!
I managed to get seen by Swami Hard Salami while I was out that way.
Percy tried to complain to Swami about Fauntleroy taking over as captain of the team.
Of course he should be captain, Swami says with blunt cruelty, your breadth of experience in cricket is quite miniscule and inconsequential while Fauntleroy’s is very, very substantial. There is literally no comparison!
Swami asked me if I was still having delusions that my farm property was worth 5 million dollars. He wrote me out a new script for anti-depressants. At least now on paper I’m back in compliance with my probation terms. Don’t delude yourself into thinking I’ll actually be taking those damn pills though.
03/21/01
Before I even had a chance to call Dr. Hardik this morning to reschedule an appointment with him I found him standing at my door. It was first thing in the morning. Percy brought him over.
The tract is in dire need, Swami Hard Salami says, so desolate! But development would not be impossible! I would imagine all this land would perk well on these elevated areas, although those lower areas may not. Your street could be cut in right about here. Or here through where the house is. It is so lamentable you have such unrealistic ideas about price! I could have $800,000 in your pocket for this place, posthaste. I am very serious about that. You should seriously consider! $800,000 is a very reasonable and appropriate sum! Very reasonable and appropriate!
Percy’s wasn’t expecting all this real estate business. His only interest was in getting me take him and Swami to see Fauntleroy to recruit Fauntleroy for the cricket team. I guess Percy wasn’t aware that Swami had promised to stop by the farm to see it when the weather got better. My main interest in the whole thing was getting something in writing from Swami to give to Cupid Boy that said I didn’t need to be on medication anymore, but Swami quickly seized upon my request as leverage in his deal making.
If you are telling me this clapped out dairy is worth 5 million dollars in this current state than most certainly you are delusional and in need of administration of medication. Conversely, if you told me you would accept $850,000 for the property--- which I would say is a very reasonable and appropriate offer---then one may feel comfortable enough with the progress of the depressive episode to recommend the end of the medication regime.
Well, that didn’t get anywhere. Apparently I’m still profoundly delusional.
Fauntleroy said yes to playing on the team. He looked in pretty rough shape though. When he stood up, sounded like a dozen bones cracking at once.
Betty’s looking in pretty rough shape too. They were disappointed I didn’t bring the baby over. Baby stayed with Phebe. I’ll have to go back soon. Betty said her daughter’s in jail in Goshen right now. She asked if I had any money to get her out. I told her no. She looked at me like she didn’t believe me.
The tract is in dire need, Swami Hard Salami says, so desolate! But development would not be impossible! I would imagine all this land would perk well on these elevated areas, although those lower areas may not. Your street could be cut in right about here. Or here through where the house is. It is so lamentable you have such unrealistic ideas about price! I could have $800,000 in your pocket for this place, posthaste. I am very serious about that. You should seriously consider! $800,000 is a very reasonable and appropriate sum! Very reasonable and appropriate!
Percy’s wasn’t expecting all this real estate business. His only interest was in getting me take him and Swami to see Fauntleroy to recruit Fauntleroy for the cricket team. I guess Percy wasn’t aware that Swami had promised to stop by the farm to see it when the weather got better. My main interest in the whole thing was getting something in writing from Swami to give to Cupid Boy that said I didn’t need to be on medication anymore, but Swami quickly seized upon my request as leverage in his deal making.
If you are telling me this clapped out dairy is worth 5 million dollars in this current state than most certainly you are delusional and in need of administration of medication. Conversely, if you told me you would accept $850,000 for the property--- which I would say is a very reasonable and appropriate offer---then one may feel comfortable enough with the progress of the depressive episode to recommend the end of the medication regime.
Well, that didn’t get anywhere. Apparently I’m still profoundly delusional.
Fauntleroy said yes to playing on the team. He looked in pretty rough shape though. When he stood up, sounded like a dozen bones cracking at once.
Betty’s looking in pretty rough shape too. They were disappointed I didn’t bring the baby over. Baby stayed with Phebe. I’ll have to go back soon. Betty said her daughter’s in jail in Goshen right now. She asked if I had any money to get her out. I told her no. She looked at me like she didn’t believe me.
Monday, September 5, 2011
03/20/01
Told Phebe I was going to head out to visit Percy for a while, but what I was really setting out to do was talk to his neighbor there, Cupcake, try to let her know I really didn’t want to get stuck at this point fixing her Winnebago---that I didn't want to hear any complaining about it neither through her boyfriend, my probation officer. But Cupcake wasn’t home. Percy said she hasn’t been seen in the last 2 days. I guess Cupid Boy has been stopping by at all hours day and night knocking on the girl’s door.
I think one of the times he stopped by she had another guy in there with her, but they acted like no one was home and just let the poor guy keep knocking. It was so annoying!
So anyway, my whole mission in going over there was to unburden myself of an obligation someone thought I made to them, and what does Percy do? He brings up his damn Mythopoetic Men’s Group/ Get Revenge On My Old Boyfriend Cricket Team.
Didn’t you say you’d help me get your relative Fauntleroy to play on my cricket team this summer?
No!
Really Joseph, after all that I’ve done for you! Opening my home to you in the dead of Winter when you had no where else to go!
Makes me almost want to go back to taking the meds Swami Hard Salami says I need to stay on.
Shit! I think I was supposed to have an appointment with him today too!
I tried to write some on the Phebe Reynolds novel so I could have something to show for myself, but all my fucked up brain kept thinking about was how an airplane wing creates lift by forcing air to travel a longer distance over the top of the wing than the bottom. That was from a book I read in Percy’s library when I was living there.
How do trust a fucking airplane to stay in the air relying on such a stupid principle, I ask?
Yeah, fucked up brain alright. . .
I think one of the times he stopped by she had another guy in there with her, but they acted like no one was home and just let the poor guy keep knocking. It was so annoying!
So anyway, my whole mission in going over there was to unburden myself of an obligation someone thought I made to them, and what does Percy do? He brings up his damn Mythopoetic Men’s Group/ Get Revenge On My Old Boyfriend Cricket Team.
Didn’t you say you’d help me get your relative Fauntleroy to play on my cricket team this summer?
No!
Really Joseph, after all that I’ve done for you! Opening my home to you in the dead of Winter when you had no where else to go!
Makes me almost want to go back to taking the meds Swami Hard Salami says I need to stay on.
Shit! I think I was supposed to have an appointment with him today too!
I tried to write some on the Phebe Reynolds novel so I could have something to show for myself, but all my fucked up brain kept thinking about was how an airplane wing creates lift by forcing air to travel a longer distance over the top of the wing than the bottom. That was from a book I read in Percy’s library when I was living there.
How do trust a fucking airplane to stay in the air relying on such a stupid principle, I ask?
Yeah, fucked up brain alright. . .
Sunday, September 4, 2011
03/19/01
Cupid Boy got on my ass today about not reporting my change of address to him. Fuck head.
I didn’t change my address, I say, I went home. I’m back at my legal address. You know where to find me!
And then he lets me know he’s unhappy about me promising to fix his girlfriend’s Winnebago and then not following through.
Do you realize she has only to the end of the month to get it off the lot or else it could be sold at auction?
So what, I think to myself, you gonna make fixing Cupcake’s fuckmobile a term and condition of my probation?
You really should make an effort to live up to your promises, he says.
Fuck head.
Did some serious daydreaming before. Tried to imagine life around here during the Revolutionary War. Thought maybe I could get somewhere with the story I’m supposed to be writing about Phebe’s namesake Phebe Reynolds. But it didn’t work. My mind slipped back further in time---way back further--- to the retreat of the glaciers. To when the mastodon were still roaming around here, being hunted by Paleolithic man. There is only one mastodon left anywhere. A tribe tries to protect it as a sacred being but it proves impractical to guard. Fearing it will inevitably be lost to a rival tribe, it is sacrificed and consumed. The last of the mighty mastodon.
Not sure that would steam up Phebe’s panties though.
I didn’t change my address, I say, I went home. I’m back at my legal address. You know where to find me!
And then he lets me know he’s unhappy about me promising to fix his girlfriend’s Winnebago and then not following through.
Do you realize she has only to the end of the month to get it off the lot or else it could be sold at auction?
So what, I think to myself, you gonna make fixing Cupcake’s fuckmobile a term and condition of my probation?
You really should make an effort to live up to your promises, he says.
Fuck head.
Did some serious daydreaming before. Tried to imagine life around here during the Revolutionary War. Thought maybe I could get somewhere with the story I’m supposed to be writing about Phebe’s namesake Phebe Reynolds. But it didn’t work. My mind slipped back further in time---way back further--- to the retreat of the glaciers. To when the mastodon were still roaming around here, being hunted by Paleolithic man. There is only one mastodon left anywhere. A tribe tries to protect it as a sacred being but it proves impractical to guard. Fearing it will inevitably be lost to a rival tribe, it is sacrificed and consumed. The last of the mighty mastodon.
Not sure that would steam up Phebe’s panties though.
03/18/01
Phebe didn’t bring up the subject this morning of me falling asleep on the couch. I’m sure she was wondering why I didn’t stay with her, but she wasn‘t pressing me to say. She just tried to flatter me with a bunch of compliments. Said she noticed I lost a lot of weight, that all those months in the cold trailer eating oatmeal seemed to do some good. She also said she was impressed with my knowledge of the Revolutionary War used in my novel. Yeah, if only the novel existed. In reality it was all information I had heard from Percy, but how was she going to know that.
Yeah, the Iron Act was a big factor in the Revolutionary War, I regurgitated. I thought for sure Phebe would be bored out of her mind, but she was listening intently. I think it was enacted in 1750. The British had depleted much of their forests by then and relied on their colonies to supply pig iron to make finished metal products in England. Pig Iron is sort of the raw unfinished iron that comes out of the ore when you heat it up. You need a whole lot of wood energy to produce it. The finished metal products come from pounding and shaping the pig iron in a forge. The British wouldn’t allow that pounding and shaping process to take place here, you see, because they had factories all set up in England they wanted to keep supplied. They also wanted to profit from selling the finished goods back to the colonists and tax it as an import item. But the temptation was great for an iron mine owner here in this area to take some of the pig iron they were producing and take the next step in manufacturing in defiance of the law. Over in Bellvale the British destroyed a forge, and when the war broke out, most of the people in the neighborhood joined the rebellion as they had remembered what happened to their forge. It made the difference in keeping the iron mining region in the hands of the Continental Army. The people might have stayed loyal otherwise.
That’s good, Phebe said, but I hope you don’t sound like a professor like that in the novel.
Yeah, the Iron Act was a big factor in the Revolutionary War, I regurgitated. I thought for sure Phebe would be bored out of her mind, but she was listening intently. I think it was enacted in 1750. The British had depleted much of their forests by then and relied on their colonies to supply pig iron to make finished metal products in England. Pig Iron is sort of the raw unfinished iron that comes out of the ore when you heat it up. You need a whole lot of wood energy to produce it. The finished metal products come from pounding and shaping the pig iron in a forge. The British wouldn’t allow that pounding and shaping process to take place here, you see, because they had factories all set up in England they wanted to keep supplied. They also wanted to profit from selling the finished goods back to the colonists and tax it as an import item. But the temptation was great for an iron mine owner here in this area to take some of the pig iron they were producing and take the next step in manufacturing in defiance of the law. Over in Bellvale the British destroyed a forge, and when the war broke out, most of the people in the neighborhood joined the rebellion as they had remembered what happened to their forge. It made the difference in keeping the iron mining region in the hands of the Continental Army. The people might have stayed loyal otherwise.
That’s good, Phebe said, but I hope you don’t sound like a professor like that in the novel.
03/17/01
I decided to go over to Stash Skimington’s house this morning, try again to have a man-to-man talk with him. This time he was home, but he wouldn’t open the door for me.
I’m under advisement not to speak with you, he says. I understand you’ve been spreading rumors around town that I was involved in your trailer fire. It’s just not true!
Why the hell are you calling my wife late at night? I ask without receiving a reply. Why the hell are you under advisement from someone if you haven’t done nothing?
When I got back home, Phebe said we needed to go to Newburgh with the baby to visit Betty. Turns out Betty had a stroke. They’re not sure whether she’ll ever be well enough to care for Mookie again. She’s paralyzed on her right side. Doesn’t look like the custody case now will be much of a fight at all.
Phebe broke out a bottle of wine tonight after the baby was put down for bed. Said St. Patrick’s Day shouldn’t pass without a little celebration. She was in an amorous mood for sure. She kept asking me to read from my novel I was writing. Apparently the story was a turn on for her.
For a moment a word picture formed in my head---Phebe Reynolds stood at the arched entry of her father’s iron forge while the morning fog lifted from the surrounding Ramapo Mountains---and then just as quickly vanished.
Maybe another night, I say, my voice trailing off, I’m in the middle of revision work.
And then I came out here to Phebe’s computer, leaving her alone in her room, and wrote this down.
Yeah, I’m one for romance story writing for sure.
I’m under advisement not to speak with you, he says. I understand you’ve been spreading rumors around town that I was involved in your trailer fire. It’s just not true!
Why the hell are you calling my wife late at night? I ask without receiving a reply. Why the hell are you under advisement from someone if you haven’t done nothing?
When I got back home, Phebe said we needed to go to Newburgh with the baby to visit Betty. Turns out Betty had a stroke. They’re not sure whether she’ll ever be well enough to care for Mookie again. She’s paralyzed on her right side. Doesn’t look like the custody case now will be much of a fight at all.
Phebe broke out a bottle of wine tonight after the baby was put down for bed. Said St. Patrick’s Day shouldn’t pass without a little celebration. She was in an amorous mood for sure. She kept asking me to read from my novel I was writing. Apparently the story was a turn on for her.
For a moment a word picture formed in my head---Phebe Reynolds stood at the arched entry of her father’s iron forge while the morning fog lifted from the surrounding Ramapo Mountains---and then just as quickly vanished.
Maybe another night, I say, my voice trailing off, I’m in the middle of revision work.
And then I came out here to Phebe’s computer, leaving her alone in her room, and wrote this down.
Yeah, I’m one for romance story writing for sure.
03/16/01
Phebe kept spying on me when I was writing yesterday on her computer. She kept coming in the room, looking over my shoulder at the computer screen.
Whatcha doin‘? She asks.
Oh. . . nothing. . . really, I reply.
A little bird told me you’ve been spending all Winter on the computer writing about everybody, she says.
A little bird? I’m not writing about everybody, I lie, I’m writing a novel.
A novel? really? May I read it?
No. . . you can‘t.
Why not?
Because. . . it’s not finished. . .it’s. . .in a. . .rough draft.
Well, why did I see my name on the screen?
Because the story is about your namesake, Phebe Reynolds.
Really? Historical fiction?
Yessiree!
What happens?
Oh. . .uhm. . .well. . .see. . .I take a lot of poetic license. . . It’s kinda like a Romeo and Juliet story.
Romeo and Juliet story? Really? I like that.
Phebe Reynolds in my story belongs to a family who had their Iron Forge destroyed by the British for not complying with the Iron Act. A rival forge owner with a handsome son turned them in---
And when the war breaks out Phebe’s family sides with the Patriots while the family of the rival forge owner remains loyal to the crown? Phebe asks.
That’s exactly right, my dear. Exactly right. That’s the premise I came up with. I’m still hammering out the finer details: Phebe Reynolds gaining intelligence from her secret lover to smuggle the forged links needed to create the great chain that spanned the Hudson past Claudius Smith’s men in Sterling Forest, so on and so forth.
You have to finish that so I can read it! She says excitedly, leaving me to my work. Maybe you’ll be the next Nicholas Sparks!
Okie dokie.
Little bird? Maybe that’s like a Freudian slip or something, description of Stash Skimington’s anatomy.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
03/15/01
Still no knock at the door from the police yet. Probably just a matter of time.
There’s a story in today’s paper questioning Porch Rot’s possible role in my trailer fire and his disappearance afterwards. The story raises the same questions I’ve been dealing with regarding whether Porch Rot really did himself in or just faked his death. I guess you have to wonder the same thing about Clean Phil now too. I still keep having the thought that the woman buried in the well is that anorexic girl who used to be Phil’s girlfriend--- the poet girl who kept coming around the place looking for him who then went missing. Maybe Porch Rot took her interest coming around to mean something it wasn‘t, tried to make a pass at her, something happened, and then he panicked. Or maybe she found Clean Phil out in the world, something happened that she died in his company, and then he arrived back home with her body to bury her. Porch Rot assisted in the deed, and then advised Phil to remain in hiding. Well, who the hell knows?
Phebe had the day off and insisted on going up to the prison to see Rocky with the baby. I thought I’d be OK, but I always get all kinds of anxiety going into that place. I think if I ever got sentenced to a place like that I’d probably drop dead in minutes. Rocky was pretty happy to see everyone. He said Cornelius had visited him last week. That was surprising. I guess he told Rocky despite everything that’s happened with him breaking it off with Maddy that he still thinks of Rocky as his brother-in-law. Rocky told me he thinks Cornelius made up his mind to forgo becoming a woman. He came into the prison without the Cornelia garb at least. I guess Cornelius told Rocky he wasn’t too happy slum-lording for Dr. Hardik. He said it was hard to feel like a lady dragging poor folks belongings out to the curb in drag. He said it was always easier to get rent money in burly Texan male-mode anyhow. He asked Rocky if he thought there was any room on the farm for him to return, maybe try to start up things again. Rocky told him to come see us.
Rocky said he had heard about the trailer fire and before I could even get a word out of my mouth, Phebe says, your father thinks me and Stash Skimington are having an affair, and that Stash tried to kill him to take over everything. He’s a lunatic! Rocky looked pretty astonished.
Your mother and I are going to work real hard to provide a home for your son, I manage to say. Don’t worry any troubles we might be having. We‘ll get through. We’re family.
Rocky still looked pretty astonished. Phebe looked pretty astonished at that point too.
And just then Mookie shit his diaper really loudly. It was perfect.
There’s a story in today’s paper questioning Porch Rot’s possible role in my trailer fire and his disappearance afterwards. The story raises the same questions I’ve been dealing with regarding whether Porch Rot really did himself in or just faked his death. I guess you have to wonder the same thing about Clean Phil now too. I still keep having the thought that the woman buried in the well is that anorexic girl who used to be Phil’s girlfriend--- the poet girl who kept coming around the place looking for him who then went missing. Maybe Porch Rot took her interest coming around to mean something it wasn‘t, tried to make a pass at her, something happened, and then he panicked. Or maybe she found Clean Phil out in the world, something happened that she died in his company, and then he arrived back home with her body to bury her. Porch Rot assisted in the deed, and then advised Phil to remain in hiding. Well, who the hell knows?
Phebe had the day off and insisted on going up to the prison to see Rocky with the baby. I thought I’d be OK, but I always get all kinds of anxiety going into that place. I think if I ever got sentenced to a place like that I’d probably drop dead in minutes. Rocky was pretty happy to see everyone. He said Cornelius had visited him last week. That was surprising. I guess he told Rocky despite everything that’s happened with him breaking it off with Maddy that he still thinks of Rocky as his brother-in-law. Rocky told me he thinks Cornelius made up his mind to forgo becoming a woman. He came into the prison without the Cornelia garb at least. I guess Cornelius told Rocky he wasn’t too happy slum-lording for Dr. Hardik. He said it was hard to feel like a lady dragging poor folks belongings out to the curb in drag. He said it was always easier to get rent money in burly Texan male-mode anyhow. He asked Rocky if he thought there was any room on the farm for him to return, maybe try to start up things again. Rocky told him to come see us.
Rocky said he had heard about the trailer fire and before I could even get a word out of my mouth, Phebe says, your father thinks me and Stash Skimington are having an affair, and that Stash tried to kill him to take over everything. He’s a lunatic! Rocky looked pretty astonished.
Your mother and I are going to work real hard to provide a home for your son, I manage to say. Don’t worry any troubles we might be having. We‘ll get through. We’re family.
Rocky still looked pretty astonished. Phebe looked pretty astonished at that point too.
And just then Mookie shit his diaper really loudly. It was perfect.
03/14/01
So I don’t know what Stash is up to. Maybe he’s pissed off that I’m back home with Phebe and he’s looking to make some trouble. I have to wonder whether the way Phebe responded to him for calling here late at night set him off or something. I think he must have reported the secret I knew from Porch Rot about the burial in the old well. I drove by Porch Rot’s farm yesterday and saw a bunch of police cars there. Later I drove by again and saw them excavating near the old well. In today’s paper they reported the police received an anonymous tip and the body of a woman was taken out of the ground from the old well. That’s certainly different than what Porch Rot said about Phil being put there after being found hanging in the barn. I wonder if the woman is Phil’s old girlfriend who went missing after she came around the farm asking about Phil. In any case, I guess what all this means is that mystery of what happened to Phil is still unsolved. And I thought I finally had that all settled. That Porch Rot was one crazy fucker. Or maybe I should say he is one crazy fucker. I’m not sure which to say at this point. He might be on the lam at this point. I guess that’s another mystery that still needs to be figured out. Anyway, I’ve been hanging around home taking care of Mookie for most of two days now without any knock on the door like I anticipated. I figured Stash was going to make sure I was put on the hot seat for knowing the secret about this, but so far no one has bothered me. It weird. It’s like I almost wish they’d arrive so I could get it over with. But no, the door remains silent. Everything is very, very silent. That is, until Mookie starts crying again. I told him today he shits more than a Holstein, but then I felt bad for saying that because it could be taken as racially insensitive.
03/12/01
So when Phebe got off work Saturday I called Percy and asked him to pick me up, but Phebe had a fit.
You need to go with me Monday morning to court to file for custody of Mookie. I told you before, you need to make a good show of it. You’re staying here with me from now on.
So I’ve spent two nights at home. Actually slept in the same bed as Phebe. Thought I was finally over my fear of her clubbing me to death with a lamp in the middle of the night when she gets this call at like 12:30am last night. It’s been bothering me.
Phebe says to the caller plenty annoyed, yeah, I know I left a note to call me. I didn’t mean in the middle of the night! I can’t talk now.
So we went over to the court to file for custody this morning, made a good show of it--- acted like model grandparents and everything. After we were done there Phebe took me out shopping for new stuff. Then we went to Percy’s to get my bag with this disk in it.
So now I have to get used to living somewhere new all over again.
You need to go with me Monday morning to court to file for custody of Mookie. I told you before, you need to make a good show of it. You’re staying here with me from now on.
So I’ve spent two nights at home. Actually slept in the same bed as Phebe. Thought I was finally over my fear of her clubbing me to death with a lamp in the middle of the night when she gets this call at like 12:30am last night. It’s been bothering me.
Phebe says to the caller plenty annoyed, yeah, I know I left a note to call me. I didn’t mean in the middle of the night! I can’t talk now.
So we went over to the court to file for custody this morning, made a good show of it--- acted like model grandparents and everything. After we were done there Phebe took me out shopping for new stuff. Then we went to Percy’s to get my bag with this disk in it.
So now I have to get used to living somewhere new all over again.
Monday, July 11, 2011
03/10/01
Started the day preparing to go to the Catskills to work on Cupcake’s broke-down Winnebago, but I get this call from Phebe. She said Betty was in the hospital again with another diabetes attack and I had to find a way to pick up Mookie from Newburgh and bring him back to the farm. Percy was gone already from the house so I end up asking Cupcake to change her plans for the day. So Cupcake and I head into Newburgh in her car to pick up the baby from Fauntleroy. We get the baby in the car, start back Goshen way, and we get pulled over by the police. Cupcake’s all nervous like I’ve never seen before. She gets a ticket for rolling through a stop sign.
After the police car is gone I hear her say, that was close!
I ask, what was close?
She says, oh, nothing.
We get to the farm and I’m thinking it would be best if Cupcake just drops us off. But she sort of invites herself inside, starts walking around all over the house going through all of Phebe’s shit. I’m thinking I gotta get this girl out of here. If Phebe shows up right now we’ll have disaster. We put the baby down to sleep after a feeding and Cupcake asks to check my bandages. Then she starts giving me a massage on the living room sofa. At some point her hands make their way over my ass. I had to put a stop to it and ask her to leave. She doesn’t seem too happy.
You’re not going to thank me for helping to pick up your grandson? She says as she makes her way out.
Thank you but this is just not the time or place, I say.
Time or place for what? She says. What are you talking about?
You know, I say.
No, I don’t know, she says. What?
Good fucking gracious.
After the police car is gone I hear her say, that was close!
I ask, what was close?
She says, oh, nothing.
We get to the farm and I’m thinking it would be best if Cupcake just drops us off. But she sort of invites herself inside, starts walking around all over the house going through all of Phebe’s shit. I’m thinking I gotta get this girl out of here. If Phebe shows up right now we’ll have disaster. We put the baby down to sleep after a feeding and Cupcake asks to check my bandages. Then she starts giving me a massage on the living room sofa. At some point her hands make their way over my ass. I had to put a stop to it and ask her to leave. She doesn’t seem too happy.
You’re not going to thank me for helping to pick up your grandson? She says as she makes her way out.
Thank you but this is just not the time or place, I say.
Time or place for what? She says. What are you talking about?
You know, I say.
No, I don’t know, she says. What?
Good fucking gracious.
Monday, July 4, 2011
03/09/01
So I’m at Porch Rot’s farm. Not a soul around. I find a shovel and start chiseling my way through the frost layer. Just keep digging away, removing the soil that had been used by Hiram to fill in the old well years ago. In time I’m down so deep I can’t even throw the dirt out anymore. I have to find a ladder and a bucket to carry the dirt up in. I just keep digging down deeper and deeper. No sign of Clean Phil’s remains though. Next thing I know I feel dirt raining down on my head. I look up and there’s Stash Skimington looking down on me from the rim of the well up above.
I hear you think I might have been involved in your trailer being set on fire, he says.
Well what would you think if you were in my shoes? I ask.
Stash says: I would be saying to myself ‘if this guy was behind the fire he would have had a bullet in my head already and had me half-buried too.’
Suddenly the ladder is pulled out of the well before I have the chance to grab it. I look up and the sun is shining down the well making it hard for me to see. I see what looks to be a pistol in Stash’s hand. I’m no sure what’s happening. And then, BLAM!
Somehow the bullet misses. I start climbing out of the well as dirt continues to rain down on me. I’m clinging to the rocks lining the shaft as I slowly inch my way to the top. I’m worried the whole time there’ll be another blast. But there is no blast. There’s no sign of Stash up top either. I start to wonder if this was all just a hallucination. I wonder if this was all part of a dream. . . And right then I wake up.
So I find myself going to Stash’s house again to try again to talk things over with him. But he’s still away. The note he left for Phebe was still at his door starting to yellow. This time I found a message in Phebe’s handwriting just below his handwriting. It said: Please call me.
I hear you think I might have been involved in your trailer being set on fire, he says.
Well what would you think if you were in my shoes? I ask.
Stash says: I would be saying to myself ‘if this guy was behind the fire he would have had a bullet in my head already and had me half-buried too.’
Suddenly the ladder is pulled out of the well before I have the chance to grab it. I look up and the sun is shining down the well making it hard for me to see. I see what looks to be a pistol in Stash’s hand. I’m no sure what’s happening. And then, BLAM!
Somehow the bullet misses. I start climbing out of the well as dirt continues to rain down on me. I’m clinging to the rocks lining the shaft as I slowly inch my way to the top. I’m worried the whole time there’ll be another blast. But there is no blast. There’s no sign of Stash up top either. I start to wonder if this was all just a hallucination. I wonder if this was all part of a dream. . . And right then I wake up.
So I find myself going to Stash’s house again to try again to talk things over with him. But he’s still away. The note he left for Phebe was still at his door starting to yellow. This time I found a message in Phebe’s handwriting just below his handwriting. It said: Please call me.
Monday, June 27, 2011
03/08/01
I worked up the nerve this morning to ask Percy about his former roommate Gary. He said he had a falling out with him after Gary cut him from his cricket team. I told Percy I would give someone thanks for that, but apparently he was in no mood to deal with my humor. Yeah, hit a real nerve there.
I spent months learning that frickin game for that lame brain! Percy protests, once the warmer weather hits I’m going to get Dr. Hardik and your relative Fauntleroy and their cricket-playing friends together with my own team and I’m going to crush that lame brain!
Lame brain. It was also weird hearing Percy characterize Fauntleroy as my relative. I had to think about it until I could see it that way. Funny, I’m also starting to see how Percy’s Mythopoetic Men’s Group may be code for: Percy’s diabolical plan for revenge on Gary, the Lame Brain.
Percy then asks me if I had any money to help out with groceries. I stammered for a few seconds said I’d get him some money by the end of the day. Next thing I know Phebe’s on the phone saying she’s been cleared by the police, hounding me to come home. And then Cupcake’s at the door asking me to go back to the mountains with her to work on her Winnebago. Suddenly I start to wonder whether I might be better off like the man known as the Wandering Leatherman who lived across the river in the 1800‘s. According to Percy’s book they say he was a Frenchman who had his heart broken badly, became a hermit, hardly spoke, was always on the move. He was so named because he wore a stiff, homemade suit of leather year round. He traveled a 365 mile circuitous route between the Hudson and Connecticut Rivers throughout the year so he was never much of a burden to anyone for long as he relied on begging for survival. He showed up like clockwork at the same towns on the same day each year. If he was treated badly somewhere, he changed his route and would not return there, found a new rock shelter at another spot.
So I went to the farm, got my overalls from the barn---spared any more of Percy’s borrowed clothes from getting ruined---took a couple of loads of scrap metal to Middletown in the truck. All the money went into Percy’s hands or into the gas tank.
Now Cupcake is offering now to pay me $500 to get her camper running again. It won’t be an easy task getting that thing on the road, but I think I’m gonna have to take the job simply for the money.
Percy let Phebe in while I was asleep just before . She woke me up and said she needed to change my bandages. She was plenty miffed, said if you keep letting that little vixen next door doctor you, you’ll end up with gangrene.
I said, maybe I’ll have gangrene as my goal for St. Patrick’s Day.
I spent months learning that frickin game for that lame brain! Percy protests, once the warmer weather hits I’m going to get Dr. Hardik and your relative Fauntleroy and their cricket-playing friends together with my own team and I’m going to crush that lame brain!
Lame brain. It was also weird hearing Percy characterize Fauntleroy as my relative. I had to think about it until I could see it that way. Funny, I’m also starting to see how Percy’s Mythopoetic Men’s Group may be code for: Percy’s diabolical plan for revenge on Gary, the Lame Brain.
Percy then asks me if I had any money to help out with groceries. I stammered for a few seconds said I’d get him some money by the end of the day. Next thing I know Phebe’s on the phone saying she’s been cleared by the police, hounding me to come home. And then Cupcake’s at the door asking me to go back to the mountains with her to work on her Winnebago. Suddenly I start to wonder whether I might be better off like the man known as the Wandering Leatherman who lived across the river in the 1800‘s. According to Percy’s book they say he was a Frenchman who had his heart broken badly, became a hermit, hardly spoke, was always on the move. He was so named because he wore a stiff, homemade suit of leather year round. He traveled a 365 mile circuitous route between the Hudson and Connecticut Rivers throughout the year so he was never much of a burden to anyone for long as he relied on begging for survival. He showed up like clockwork at the same towns on the same day each year. If he was treated badly somewhere, he changed his route and would not return there, found a new rock shelter at another spot.
So I went to the farm, got my overalls from the barn---spared any more of Percy’s borrowed clothes from getting ruined---took a couple of loads of scrap metal to Middletown in the truck. All the money went into Percy’s hands or into the gas tank.
Now Cupcake is offering now to pay me $500 to get her camper running again. It won’t be an easy task getting that thing on the road, but I think I’m gonna have to take the job simply for the money.
Percy let Phebe in while I was asleep just before . She woke me up and said she needed to change my bandages. She was plenty miffed, said if you keep letting that little vixen next door doctor you, you’ll end up with gangrene.
I said, maybe I’ll have gangrene as my goal for St. Patrick’s Day.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
03/07/01
Started the day explaining to Cupcake what happened to me that led to me living there with Percy. When she saw that my bandages on my burns had gone more than a day without being changed she insisted on helping me. She said she noticed I was moving funny the first time she met me but wasn’t figuring it to be from being burned. I just thought it was from you being old, she says. I told her while she worked doctoring me the basic account on things. When she heard about the dog being missing, she insisted on going over to the farm right away with me to look for him. Before I know it I’m in her car riding to the farm. Then we’re hiking together all over the place. Me and Cupcake on a search and rescue mission.
I just think to myself, I sure hope Phebe’s at work. She sees me walking around the farm with this girl, who knows what she’ll think?
Then I think, who cares?
I show Cupcake the burnt out trailer and she says, Dude, I don’t know how you got out of there!
Then she tells me she has an old Winnebago she inherited that needs to be removed from her uncle’s property up in the Catskills. If you let me keep it here, I’d let you use it to live in until your insurance comes through.
I don’t know what compelled me to say this, but I say to Cupcake with a wink, I don’t know about that idea, Sweetheart---if I ever got inside your Winnebago, I may never want to leave.
Just then Phebe showed up, killing the whole buzz. She sure looked pissed. She didn’t give Cupcake an ounce of consideration.
This is Percy’s neighbor, I say, she came to help me look for the dog.
Tommy didn’t call you? Phebe asks, cold as ice. The dog is dead.
Well now the buzz is really gone. I’m looking all kinds of hot to Cupcake now with quivering lips and tears streaking down my cheeks.
Talked a bit with Tommy‘s son. He showed Cupcake and I where he buried the dog. I looked over and Cupcake has got tears streaking down her face and a quivering lip too. We started back to the duplex when Cupcake proposed taking a drive up to Phoenicia just then to look at the Winnebago.
You don’t have to agree to anything, but maybe you can tell me if it’s road-worthy. I have to get that thing ready to move somewhere.
So we drive up to Phoencia to look the Winnebago over. She spends at least a half hour of the ride discussing in precise detail the varied nasty looks Phebe shot her and each of their meaning. You know, I really think she could be a murderer, she says. At one point at the camp Cupcake pops a squat and takes a piss. I’m not more that 15 feet away looking over the Winnebago’s radiator, which apparently leaks pretty good too.
I thought of that bed inside the Winnebago and then I thought how much an old fool I’d seem to Cupcake to mention it.
That bed inside sure looks like a comfortable place for an old guy to take a nap , I manage somehow to say.
Oh my God! Cupcake exclaims as she looks at her watch, My date! I forgot all about the date Percy set up!
They say there’s no fool like an old fool. Surely indeed.
So we rush back on the Thruway. Cupcake’s a half-hour late when we arrive. Cupid Boy is standing outside her door looking all kinds of bewildered. Cupcake introduces me to him assuming we’re strangers. He plays along. Nice to meet you, he says.
Don‘t I know you from somewhere? I ask.
No, he replies nervously, no, I don’t believe you do.
I just think to myself, I sure hope Phebe’s at work. She sees me walking around the farm with this girl, who knows what she’ll think?
Then I think, who cares?
I show Cupcake the burnt out trailer and she says, Dude, I don’t know how you got out of there!
Then she tells me she has an old Winnebago she inherited that needs to be removed from her uncle’s property up in the Catskills. If you let me keep it here, I’d let you use it to live in until your insurance comes through.
I don’t know what compelled me to say this, but I say to Cupcake with a wink, I don’t know about that idea, Sweetheart---if I ever got inside your Winnebago, I may never want to leave.
Just then Phebe showed up, killing the whole buzz. She sure looked pissed. She didn’t give Cupcake an ounce of consideration.
This is Percy’s neighbor, I say, she came to help me look for the dog.
Tommy didn’t call you? Phebe asks, cold as ice. The dog is dead.
Well now the buzz is really gone. I’m looking all kinds of hot to Cupcake now with quivering lips and tears streaking down my cheeks.
Talked a bit with Tommy‘s son. He showed Cupcake and I where he buried the dog. I looked over and Cupcake has got tears streaking down her face and a quivering lip too. We started back to the duplex when Cupcake proposed taking a drive up to Phoenicia just then to look at the Winnebago.
You don’t have to agree to anything, but maybe you can tell me if it’s road-worthy. I have to get that thing ready to move somewhere.
So we drive up to Phoencia to look the Winnebago over. She spends at least a half hour of the ride discussing in precise detail the varied nasty looks Phebe shot her and each of their meaning. You know, I really think she could be a murderer, she says. At one point at the camp Cupcake pops a squat and takes a piss. I’m not more that 15 feet away looking over the Winnebago’s radiator, which apparently leaks pretty good too.
I thought of that bed inside the Winnebago and then I thought how much an old fool I’d seem to Cupcake to mention it.
That bed inside sure looks like a comfortable place for an old guy to take a nap , I manage somehow to say.
Oh my God! Cupcake exclaims as she looks at her watch, My date! I forgot all about the date Percy set up!
They say there’s no fool like an old fool. Surely indeed.
So we rush back on the Thruway. Cupcake’s a half-hour late when we arrive. Cupid Boy is standing outside her door looking all kinds of bewildered. Cupcake introduces me to him assuming we’re strangers. He plays along. Nice to meet you, he says.
Don‘t I know you from somewhere? I ask.
No, he replies nervously, no, I don’t believe you do.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
03/06/01
I was reading one of Percy’s books on Walt Whitman in the middle of the night trying to take my mind off the note left for Phebe on Stash Skimington‘s door. I became inspired, I guess. Got this poem inside my head. I jotted it down:
A MAN’S POEM
A poem won’t do if a poem don’t rhyme
like a clock won’t do if it can’t keep time
markin’ every hour with a ringin’ or a chime
You might just forget it if it ain’t the easiest thing to say
and poems are awfully funny with nothin’ funny much to say
Momma’ll be up all night, worried her son is gay
Man ain’t made to sit with flowery things to knit
Still, Cowboys anguish too, they just can’t write for shit.
I wasn’t done writing my poem a minute when my probation officer, Cupid Boy shows up at the door. I think he was hoping to catch me in the act of cooking up crack cocaine on Percy‘s kitchen stove. He said he heard about my fire, knew I had been burned, and wanted to stop by the new place, see if I needed anything. I felt like saying some privacy and a few more hours sleep.
Percy is asleep up until that point, but he gets up and moving in a hurry, wants to serve the fucker breakfast. Starts chatting it up with Cupid Boy while he cooks a little something for the fucker, wants to know where he’s from, where he grew up and all that. It’s then I realize I knew the kid’s parents---they both grew up on farms out in Minisink country.
Your people were farmers! I say exuberantly, mortifying the shit out of him.
You mean, stockmen? He corrects me.
Then he zings me with this: Well, you two seem to be settled in well here---like an old couple or something.
That’s what the girl next door thinks too, I say, fake-laughing.
Yeah, I think you’d like her, Percy says to the kid, Linda’s very pretty, and has such a wonderful personality.
Great, watch it turn out I play a role in matchmaking Cupid Boy and Cupcake, I say to myself.
Spoke to the investigators later on. They seem settled at this point on Hiram Palfrey being the person responsible for the fire. They also seemed inclined to believe he did himself in afterward by jumping off the bridge. They said if they recover Hiram’s body in the Hudson the case may be put to rest at that point.
What about Stash Skimington being the culprit? I ask.
We’ve talked to him. We’ll likely talk to him again. But right now he’s not our main suspect. You have to keep in mind Joe: not everyone out to screw your wife is gonna be out to kill you too.
Good fucking gracious.
A MAN’S POEM
A poem won’t do if a poem don’t rhyme
like a clock won’t do if it can’t keep time
markin’ every hour with a ringin’ or a chime
You might just forget it if it ain’t the easiest thing to say
and poems are awfully funny with nothin’ funny much to say
Momma’ll be up all night, worried her son is gay
Man ain’t made to sit with flowery things to knit
Still, Cowboys anguish too, they just can’t write for shit.
I wasn’t done writing my poem a minute when my probation officer, Cupid Boy shows up at the door. I think he was hoping to catch me in the act of cooking up crack cocaine on Percy‘s kitchen stove. He said he heard about my fire, knew I had been burned, and wanted to stop by the new place, see if I needed anything. I felt like saying some privacy and a few more hours sleep.
Percy is asleep up until that point, but he gets up and moving in a hurry, wants to serve the fucker breakfast. Starts chatting it up with Cupid Boy while he cooks a little something for the fucker, wants to know where he’s from, where he grew up and all that. It’s then I realize I knew the kid’s parents---they both grew up on farms out in Minisink country.
Your people were farmers! I say exuberantly, mortifying the shit out of him.
You mean, stockmen? He corrects me.
Then he zings me with this: Well, you two seem to be settled in well here---like an old couple or something.
That’s what the girl next door thinks too, I say, fake-laughing.
Yeah, I think you’d like her, Percy says to the kid, Linda’s very pretty, and has such a wonderful personality.
Great, watch it turn out I play a role in matchmaking Cupid Boy and Cupcake, I say to myself.
Spoke to the investigators later on. They seem settled at this point on Hiram Palfrey being the person responsible for the fire. They also seemed inclined to believe he did himself in afterward by jumping off the bridge. They said if they recover Hiram’s body in the Hudson the case may be put to rest at that point.
What about Stash Skimington being the culprit? I ask.
We’ve talked to him. We’ll likely talk to him again. But right now he’s not our main suspect. You have to keep in mind Joe: not everyone out to screw your wife is gonna be out to kill you too.
Good fucking gracious.
Monday, June 6, 2011
03/05/01
Phebe stopped by late last night after work and checked over my burns and changed the bandages. She didn’t really say anything about having me return home. We didn’t really talk about anything really.
I didn’t sleep much at all, got up and read a few books in Percy’s library. He’s got a whole bunch on the artists of the Hudson River School from the 1800‘s. Another book that caught my eye was this mangled book explaining String Theory that Percy’s friend Gary gave to him. I know this because there’s an inscription inside the cover from him:
Percy, I almost died rescuing this book from the center lane of the parkway after the day in Asbury Park. I wish I could say I think of you every time I read this book, but I‘ve only looked at it once. I don’t get this shit! Which is funny, isn’t it, because that’s what you’re always saying about me!
Gary.
Linda, the pretty college student next door---Cupcake, I have to call her--- says to me as I was heading out from Percy’s this morning: if you see dock workers and construction workers coming in and out of my place throughout the day, it’s not what it looks like. I’m not running a bordello. I have a certificate in Reiki massage therapy. It pays the bills right now. Just stay quiet about it, OK, or they’ll kill me with the zoning ordinances.
So I say to Cupcake, you know, I’m an old farmer with a creaky old back, maybe I ought to get some of that Reiki message therapy too.
So what does she say to that? Get it from Percy. I taught him everything I know. Gary preferred Percy’s messages to mine after awhile.
I bet he did, I say.
I didn’t get the sense Linda had much time to talk just then, so I held back from explaining to her that Percy was just a relative I was forced to stay with because my dwelling place was mysteriously firebombed, and it wasn’t certain if the wife had anything to do with it--- that I really wasn’t gay!
Too late for first impressions. Still, I’ll have to have that talk soon.
After I checked over the farm without finding the dog again, I decided to go right to Stash Skimington’s place and talk to him man to man. I figured if he had anything at all to do with what happened with the fire I could get some sense of it from the way he behaved towards me. I also wanted to see what he had to say about reading the shit I been writing when he went into my trailer that time. I wanted to see if he would acknowledge telling people around town what Hiram said to me about Phil Palfrey being buried in the old well. But he wasn’t home. There was a note on the door though:
Phebe, I had to leave town for a few days. We’ll talk when I get back.
I didn’t sleep much at all, got up and read a few books in Percy’s library. He’s got a whole bunch on the artists of the Hudson River School from the 1800‘s. Another book that caught my eye was this mangled book explaining String Theory that Percy’s friend Gary gave to him. I know this because there’s an inscription inside the cover from him:
Percy, I almost died rescuing this book from the center lane of the parkway after the day in Asbury Park. I wish I could say I think of you every time I read this book, but I‘ve only looked at it once. I don’t get this shit! Which is funny, isn’t it, because that’s what you’re always saying about me!
Gary.
Linda, the pretty college student next door---Cupcake, I have to call her--- says to me as I was heading out from Percy’s this morning: if you see dock workers and construction workers coming in and out of my place throughout the day, it’s not what it looks like. I’m not running a bordello. I have a certificate in Reiki massage therapy. It pays the bills right now. Just stay quiet about it, OK, or they’ll kill me with the zoning ordinances.
So I say to Cupcake, you know, I’m an old farmer with a creaky old back, maybe I ought to get some of that Reiki message therapy too.
So what does she say to that? Get it from Percy. I taught him everything I know. Gary preferred Percy’s messages to mine after awhile.
I bet he did, I say.
I didn’t get the sense Linda had much time to talk just then, so I held back from explaining to her that Percy was just a relative I was forced to stay with because my dwelling place was mysteriously firebombed, and it wasn’t certain if the wife had anything to do with it--- that I really wasn’t gay!
Too late for first impressions. Still, I’ll have to have that talk soon.
After I checked over the farm without finding the dog again, I decided to go right to Stash Skimington’s place and talk to him man to man. I figured if he had anything at all to do with what happened with the fire I could get some sense of it from the way he behaved towards me. I also wanted to see what he had to say about reading the shit I been writing when he went into my trailer that time. I wanted to see if he would acknowledge telling people around town what Hiram said to me about Phil Palfrey being buried in the old well. But he wasn’t home. There was a note on the door though:
Phebe, I had to leave town for a few days. We’ll talk when I get back.
Monday, May 30, 2011
03/04/01
I headed out to the farm for a while early this morning looking for the dog again. No luck at all. I started to wander out into Purgatory Swamp, but started to sink in to the mud and got scared that I might get stuck and perish in the cold, so I gave up the search and fled. I’m not sure he’s still with us.
Came back to Percy’s, tracked mud into the house. He sure loved that. He said he didn’t know what happened to me and called the police.
Percy said Phebe called. He made a note for me on a sticky pad: Phebe called at 7, says she not behind the plot to kill you. She can change your bandages if you’d like.
Police came by, ended up talking to me about Porch Rot. I get the sense they regard Hiram at the chief suspect in the arson, especially since he disappeared right afterward.
I’m just trying to figure out why the man would want you dead, the investigator says, something seems missing from the picture.
We’ll he’s jealous, I say as my heart starts to palpitate, I’ve got it all still, and he’s lost everything. That’s why he wants me dead.
Because you have it all? The investigator asks dubiously.
Well, because I still have the farm, he’s jealous, is what I’m trying to say.
I’ve been anxious as can be since then. Claustrophobic too, being cooped up inside all day. Plenty of books here, but I haven’t been in the frame of mind to read. You step outside around here and instantly you have to deal with people. This pretty college student who lives next door made the comment, so if you’re here now with Percy, what’s the deal with Gary then?
Gary who? I ask.
Oh, never mind! she says like she let slip out some terrible secret There I go again!
I didn’t want to read too much into things, but then I noticed Percy’s got potpourri all over the damn house! And scented candles!
So I think to myself, Percy----my brother-in-law, my late sister’s husband, the man I’m cohabiting with--- is gay????
And then I think more on it and say to myself, but you kinda already knew that, didn’t you? Like for a long time now?
Percy’s says It’s all right to browse through my books but please just remember to put them back where you found them. . .and by the way it would be great if you put the toilet seat down after you’re done peeing. . .and by the way it would be great if you made sure the rim got wiped down too. . .you know, before you put the seat down again. . .
What that picture of Percy, Clara and Andy Warhol from 1975 is doing hanging sideways in his kitchen, I have no idea. . .And I can’t bring myself to ask. . . Good thing it’s not like that one of Warhol and John Lennon with their hands on each other’s peckers with Yoko sitting right beside them. Now something like that would not be good to hang sideways in the kitchen at all.
Finally I found a videotape of Spalding Gray’s Swimming to Cambodia. Enjoyed watching that over and over again to kill time. Pretty amazing really that a whole movie could be made with a guy just sitting there with a glass of water, pulling story after story out of his ass on camera.
I was just going to stupidly write: Maybe that’s what I should do some day---tell the story of everything that’s happened to me.
Came back to Percy’s, tracked mud into the house. He sure loved that. He said he didn’t know what happened to me and called the police.
Percy said Phebe called. He made a note for me on a sticky pad: Phebe called at 7, says she not behind the plot to kill you. She can change your bandages if you’d like.
Police came by, ended up talking to me about Porch Rot. I get the sense they regard Hiram at the chief suspect in the arson, especially since he disappeared right afterward.
I’m just trying to figure out why the man would want you dead, the investigator says, something seems missing from the picture.
We’ll he’s jealous, I say as my heart starts to palpitate, I’ve got it all still, and he’s lost everything. That’s why he wants me dead.
Because you have it all? The investigator asks dubiously.
Well, because I still have the farm, he’s jealous, is what I’m trying to say.
I’ve been anxious as can be since then. Claustrophobic too, being cooped up inside all day. Plenty of books here, but I haven’t been in the frame of mind to read. You step outside around here and instantly you have to deal with people. This pretty college student who lives next door made the comment, so if you’re here now with Percy, what’s the deal with Gary then?
Gary who? I ask.
Oh, never mind! she says like she let slip out some terrible secret There I go again!
I didn’t want to read too much into things, but then I noticed Percy’s got potpourri all over the damn house! And scented candles!
So I think to myself, Percy----my brother-in-law, my late sister’s husband, the man I’m cohabiting with--- is gay????
And then I think more on it and say to myself, but you kinda already knew that, didn’t you? Like for a long time now?
Percy’s says It’s all right to browse through my books but please just remember to put them back where you found them. . .and by the way it would be great if you put the toilet seat down after you’re done peeing. . .and by the way it would be great if you made sure the rim got wiped down too. . .you know, before you put the seat down again. . .
What that picture of Percy, Clara and Andy Warhol from 1975 is doing hanging sideways in his kitchen, I have no idea. . .And I can’t bring myself to ask. . . Good thing it’s not like that one of Warhol and John Lennon with their hands on each other’s peckers with Yoko sitting right beside them. Now something like that would not be good to hang sideways in the kitchen at all.
Finally I found a videotape of Spalding Gray’s Swimming to Cambodia. Enjoyed watching that over and over again to kill time. Pretty amazing really that a whole movie could be made with a guy just sitting there with a glass of water, pulling story after story out of his ass on camera.
I was just going to stupidly write: Maybe that’s what I should do some day---tell the story of everything that’s happened to me.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
03/03/01
How someone managed to incinerate my trailer without waking me, much less the dog, I just don’t know. Wouldn’t you know the first night in days that I sleep soundly, that’s the night I get attacked by a fucking firebug. Police won’t let Tommy New Yawka off the hook as yet, but I know it was only because of him that I lived. He was just getting home from the firehouse. It was in the middle of the night. He saw the fireball erupt, was right on the scene doing his rescue business immediately. He said he saw a man running off just as he arrived at the trailer. The pole the man used to drop a soda bottle full of gasoline down the woodstove pipe was left behind. It was one of those poles used for picking apples high on the tree. The police wanted to say Tommy was only saying all that about a man running off to make himself out to be a hero---that he was trying to make up for shooting the neighbor’s dog--- but I don‘t doubt what Tommy said to be the truth. Who that man was that Tommy saw in the darkness is anyone’s guess. I’m thinking there are at least 5 or 6 different men who might want me dead these days, not that I‘m bragging. It’s no easy mystery to solve for sure.
Dog was scared. Ran off. Hasn’t been seen since. I don’t blame him for once. He might have got burned worse than I did.
Like I said, the cops seemed most interested in Tommy at first, but then when they learned Phebe and I’ve been separated, they seemed to lock on to the theory maybe Phebe put someone up to try to take me out. When they heard about Phebe’s history with Stash Skimington---I guess I just couldn‘t help myself opening my mouth about that fucker--- that’s all they wanted to know about for awhile---Stash. Then they talked about the punk kid up the road. Then, of course, they hashed over Rocky’s testimony against the Umbria crime family, the attempt on Rocky’s life in jail.
Well, maybe it could be a mob hit.
And then--- I couldn’t believe it---there was this question: If I’m not mistaken you have a daughter you’re estranged from attending the state police academy right now, isn’t that right?
At some point last night after I got out of the hospital---after I spent all day getting burn treatments and talking to the police--- I got back to look for the dog with the police escorting me. I also managed to check the tool shed, found the computer disk and the Cumberland spearhead safe in their hiding spots, spared damage somehow from the heat of the nearby fire. I managed to slip them both into my coat without the cops seeing anything.
I’ve been staying at Percy’s duplex in Maybrook since then. No one seems to have any worries that Percy would torch my ass. He’s got that harmless kind of insanity everyone seems to love. No one tried to talk me out of taking up his offer for shelter like they did when Phebe and Tommy both offered.
I sure do appreciate Percy now. If I was home in bed with Phebe right now I might be scared to fall asleep for fear she’d crack my skull open with the nearby lamp.
I never brought up Hiram Palfrey’s name to police for some reason. Not sure why. Not til today anyway. That’s because so happens Porch Rot’s truck was found in Newburgh near the bridge. He’s missing. They think maybe he jumped into the Hudson or staged things to make it seem that way. Fucker.
Dog was scared. Ran off. Hasn’t been seen since. I don’t blame him for once. He might have got burned worse than I did.
Like I said, the cops seemed most interested in Tommy at first, but then when they learned Phebe and I’ve been separated, they seemed to lock on to the theory maybe Phebe put someone up to try to take me out. When they heard about Phebe’s history with Stash Skimington---I guess I just couldn‘t help myself opening my mouth about that fucker--- that’s all they wanted to know about for awhile---Stash. Then they talked about the punk kid up the road. Then, of course, they hashed over Rocky’s testimony against the Umbria crime family, the attempt on Rocky’s life in jail.
Well, maybe it could be a mob hit.
And then--- I couldn’t believe it---there was this question: If I’m not mistaken you have a daughter you’re estranged from attending the state police academy right now, isn’t that right?
At some point last night after I got out of the hospital---after I spent all day getting burn treatments and talking to the police--- I got back to look for the dog with the police escorting me. I also managed to check the tool shed, found the computer disk and the Cumberland spearhead safe in their hiding spots, spared damage somehow from the heat of the nearby fire. I managed to slip them both into my coat without the cops seeing anything.
I’ve been staying at Percy’s duplex in Maybrook since then. No one seems to have any worries that Percy would torch my ass. He’s got that harmless kind of insanity everyone seems to love. No one tried to talk me out of taking up his offer for shelter like they did when Phebe and Tommy both offered.
I sure do appreciate Percy now. If I was home in bed with Phebe right now I might be scared to fall asleep for fear she’d crack my skull open with the nearby lamp.
I never brought up Hiram Palfrey’s name to police for some reason. Not sure why. Not til today anyway. That’s because so happens Porch Rot’s truck was found in Newburgh near the bridge. He’s missing. They think maybe he jumped into the Hudson or staged things to make it seem that way. Fucker.
Monday, May 16, 2011
03/01/01
I guess great minds really do think alike. . .
I didn’t even have to bring up the idea about digging up Phil’s body with Porch Rot. Found Hiram this morning out in his yard at the spot of the filled well. The El Camino that had been covering the spot had been hauled off earlier in the week like just about everything else on the place. Hiram was trying to bust through the frost in the ground with a shovel and a pick ax. He tried to deny he was digging up Phil, said he had to bury a calf that was too sick to truck off the place with the rest of the stock.
I say: C’mon Hiram, I know what you said about Phil being buried here. I know what you’re doing. You don’t have to tell me any story about burying a calf.
He says: Yeah, you did such a fine job keeping that piece of information to yourself too, didn‘t you?
I say: What yah saying, Hiram? I never told no one what yah told me.
He says: The heck you didn’t! Why the heck is it getting around the neighborhood that I buried Phil in the well after I found him hanging in the barn? That’s exactly the same gosh darn story I told you! The exact same gosh darn story! I didn’t give out that story to no one but you!
I never had Porch Rot so enraged at me before. The guy was red in the face pissed. Of course I was plenty pissed too at gosh darn Stash Skimington. I’m swearing under my breath the whole time recalling the time Stash let himself into the trailer and read through all my shit on the computer. Fucker not only invaded my privacy, he’s fucking spreading around my secrets around town!
I asked Hiram if he wanted to get any machinery in. He told me to mind my own business. I don’t know why I had to say it just then--- it wasn’t like I was trying to be hurtful--- but I tried to justify my interest in the matter. I reminded Hiram that Phil was family.
Yeah, your wife’s family, Hiram says.
No, my father’s family, I reply quickly.
Just then Hiram threw his shovel at me and stormed off towards his house. I barely got out of the way of the god damn thing. Could have gashed open my scalp.
I tapped the shovel a couple of times on the frozen ground in frustration. A different, warmer day I’d might be in business. Not today.
I got the hell out of there. Frozen, fucked-up place.
I didn’t even have to bring up the idea about digging up Phil’s body with Porch Rot. Found Hiram this morning out in his yard at the spot of the filled well. The El Camino that had been covering the spot had been hauled off earlier in the week like just about everything else on the place. Hiram was trying to bust through the frost in the ground with a shovel and a pick ax. He tried to deny he was digging up Phil, said he had to bury a calf that was too sick to truck off the place with the rest of the stock.
I say: C’mon Hiram, I know what you said about Phil being buried here. I know what you’re doing. You don’t have to tell me any story about burying a calf.
He says: Yeah, you did such a fine job keeping that piece of information to yourself too, didn‘t you?
I say: What yah saying, Hiram? I never told no one what yah told me.
He says: The heck you didn’t! Why the heck is it getting around the neighborhood that I buried Phil in the well after I found him hanging in the barn? That’s exactly the same gosh darn story I told you! The exact same gosh darn story! I didn’t give out that story to no one but you!
I never had Porch Rot so enraged at me before. The guy was red in the face pissed. Of course I was plenty pissed too at gosh darn Stash Skimington. I’m swearing under my breath the whole time recalling the time Stash let himself into the trailer and read through all my shit on the computer. Fucker not only invaded my privacy, he’s fucking spreading around my secrets around town!
I asked Hiram if he wanted to get any machinery in. He told me to mind my own business. I don’t know why I had to say it just then--- it wasn’t like I was trying to be hurtful--- but I tried to justify my interest in the matter. I reminded Hiram that Phil was family.
Yeah, your wife’s family, Hiram says.
No, my father’s family, I reply quickly.
Just then Hiram threw his shovel at me and stormed off towards his house. I barely got out of the way of the god damn thing. Could have gashed open my scalp.
I tapped the shovel a couple of times on the frozen ground in frustration. A different, warmer day I’d might be in business. Not today.
I got the hell out of there. Frozen, fucked-up place.
Monday, May 9, 2011
02/28/01
I didn’t sleep at all last night. Kept thinking about Rocky rotting in jail. Kept thinking about myself maybe ending up there too. Kept thinking about that dog with it’s leg shot off. Kept thinking how much of an embarrassment I’ve become to Maddy. She’ll be lucky to have any police career at all if we get ourselves in any more legal trouble. Was imagining all night Phebe and Stash Skimington sitting in the Walden Diner telling each other funny stories about me while they wolfed down strawberry pancakes and played footsy under the table. Yeah, I had a whole lot of different crazy things running through my head. They all seemed to repeat over and over again in a loop like an 8-track tape. Actually started to wonder if Phebe was right with her thought to seek custody of Mookie. Not to say we did such a spectacular job raising Rocky, but which family really gives Mookie his best chance at success in life? I don’t think there’s really any comparison. Not that Betty and Fauntleroy are bad people, but Betty’s health keeps failing, and when was the last time anything good happened on Lander Street in the City of Newburgh? Actually started to think maybe that’s what Phebe and I need--- a purpose again---something to devote ourselves to again, like raising a child together. But then maybe the burdens of parenting in later years would just end up making things worse between us. Another worry that keeps creeping into my mind is what’s going to happen to Hiram Palfrey’s farm now that it‘s on the verge of being seized. Had this thought I needed to talk to Porch Rot about getting his son Phil’s body dug out of the well and giving him a proper resting place before it‘s too late. I keep thinking once Hiram’s farm is flipped to developers and the dozers start ripping the ground apart, that filled-in well won’t be much of a resting place at all. I think Phil needs to come out of that spot one way or another. I just need to work up the nerve to go talk to Hiram, tell him he should do something before it’s too late. Or let me do something even. Hell, I’ll dig him out at this point. I don’t care. I live for trouble.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
02/27/01
Well, I didn’t make it in to see Cupid Boy until late in the day. I had to call him and tell him I was being detained by police. Here’s how I would write my part of the transcript from their visit to the farm:
I found the dog injured right over there. . .
No, I’m not exactly sure what happened to him. . .
Yeah, I guess the injury could have been from a gunshot. . .
Hell, no! I didn’t shoot it!
Yes, you’re right, I don’t have livestock to protect anymore.
Yes, you’re right, there’s no reason for me to shoot a dog.
Aside from my own, yeah, I love dogs.
Of course that’s sarcasm.
You don’t have to tell me convicted felons can’t have guns. I know that!
I’m telling you, I don’t know exactly what happened to him!
Whattah yah mean: ‘what does that mean when you say exactly?’
I’m not trying to be disrespectful. Where you gettin that from?
I can’t ask a police officer a question?
That’s not being disrespectful. That’s exercising my civic---
No, I don’t think that would be a good idea to go down to the station.
No, I haven’t been drinking this morning.
No, I haven’t been doing that either.
Look, I haven’t done anything wrong here! I found an injured dog and brought it to it’s owner---
I know I was 1,000 feet from the residence. I was saving someone’s pet that was bleeding to death! You want to send me to jail for that, you go ahead. I’ll take my chances with the jury.
How is that having an attitude problem?
I don’t know for certain who shot it, OK. I certainly didn’t shoot it. Because I don’t own guns anymore. Impossible!
What do you mean when I use words like ‘impossible’ you get even more suspicious?
Why would I try to save a dog I was shooting for sport? That theory is asinine.
It was about then that Tommy New Yawka strolled over from the Colonial and confessed to taking an overly-hasty, out-of-season shot at what he thought was a coyote. The cops didn’t want to believe him though. They tried to say Tommy was just taking the fall for me as a good neighbor because Tommy knew I might face jail.
Both Tommy and I gave sworn statements as to what happened. I’m not sure what will happen next. We were told the matter was still under investigation. Maybe it’ll be me who gets arrested. Maybe it’ll be Tommy. Maybe it’ll be both of us. Cupid Boy says a violation of probation could be filed based on my admission that I neared too close to that punk kid’s house, the one that I caught spray painting graffiti on my silo that I beat the shit out of.
Damn I really hate the fucking suburbs!
I found the dog injured right over there. . .
No, I’m not exactly sure what happened to him. . .
Yeah, I guess the injury could have been from a gunshot. . .
Hell, no! I didn’t shoot it!
Yes, you’re right, I don’t have livestock to protect anymore.
Yes, you’re right, there’s no reason for me to shoot a dog.
Aside from my own, yeah, I love dogs.
Of course that’s sarcasm.
You don’t have to tell me convicted felons can’t have guns. I know that!
I’m telling you, I don’t know exactly what happened to him!
Whattah yah mean: ‘what does that mean when you say exactly?’
I’m not trying to be disrespectful. Where you gettin that from?
I can’t ask a police officer a question?
That’s not being disrespectful. That’s exercising my civic---
No, I don’t think that would be a good idea to go down to the station.
No, I haven’t been drinking this morning.
No, I haven’t been doing that either.
Look, I haven’t done anything wrong here! I found an injured dog and brought it to it’s owner---
I know I was 1,000 feet from the residence. I was saving someone’s pet that was bleeding to death! You want to send me to jail for that, you go ahead. I’ll take my chances with the jury.
How is that having an attitude problem?
I don’t know for certain who shot it, OK. I certainly didn’t shoot it. Because I don’t own guns anymore. Impossible!
What do you mean when I use words like ‘impossible’ you get even more suspicious?
Why would I try to save a dog I was shooting for sport? That theory is asinine.
It was about then that Tommy New Yawka strolled over from the Colonial and confessed to taking an overly-hasty, out-of-season shot at what he thought was a coyote. The cops didn’t want to believe him though. They tried to say Tommy was just taking the fall for me as a good neighbor because Tommy knew I might face jail.
Both Tommy and I gave sworn statements as to what happened. I’m not sure what will happen next. We were told the matter was still under investigation. Maybe it’ll be me who gets arrested. Maybe it’ll be Tommy. Maybe it’ll be both of us. Cupid Boy says a violation of probation could be filed based on my admission that I neared too close to that punk kid’s house, the one that I caught spray painting graffiti on my silo that I beat the shit out of.
Damn I really hate the fucking suburbs!
Monday, April 25, 2011
02/26/01
I was getting ready to report to probation this morning when I heard a gun shot at Tommy New Yawka’s house. I went right over there to see what was going on. Tommy said he clipped a coyote. He said his oldest son spotted it in the yard and he had all he could do to run to get the gun, load it, and squeeze off a round. I found the blood trail. It was running down on my place toward Purgatory Swamp. Tommy followed close behind clutching the 30-30. Liam---he’s about 11--- was following close behind him, excited as all can be. Turns out the coyote had a collar on. It was one of those Alaskan sled dogs people have nowadays, looks a lot like a wolf, but certainly much too big to be a coyote. I don’t know what Tommy was thinking, if he was at all. You don’t want to think of Tommy as a City Idiot, but there’s nothing else you can say in this situation. The dog’s front left leg was shot off. Tommy asks me if I’d put the dog out of its misery for him. I say I didn’t think the wound was fatal. I say he could be taken to the vet to be patched up. Liam was pretty distraught when he realized this was someone‘s pet. Tommy was looking all pale. The dog stopped resisting me after I talked to it for a few minutes. I used some old baling twine I had in my barn coat to put on a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. The owners address was on a tag on the collar, in the same neighborhood as that kid I‘m supposed to stay away from, where my beagle was porking that fluff dog the other week. I put the sled dog in the back of my truck and took it home. The guy who owned it looked like he wanted to shoot one of my legs off.
What happened to him? Did he get hit on the road? The guy asks.
It wasn’t me! I can only bring myself to say.
Meanwhile I’m late for probation. A gun that belongs to me was used to shoot a dog. I have blood all over me and the truck. I’m well within a thousand feet of that punk kid’s house, violating the order of protection. I’m thinking to myself I either have to tell Cupid Boy the whole story, or I have to say nothing at all.
That was no easy decision to make, believe me.
What happened to him? Did he get hit on the road? The guy asks.
It wasn’t me! I can only bring myself to say.
Meanwhile I’m late for probation. A gun that belongs to me was used to shoot a dog. I have blood all over me and the truck. I’m well within a thousand feet of that punk kid’s house, violating the order of protection. I’m thinking to myself I either have to tell Cupid Boy the whole story, or I have to say nothing at all.
That was no easy decision to make, believe me.
Monday, April 18, 2011
02/25/01
Percy and I found Swami Hard Salami yesterday surveying the grounds of his latest real estate purchase in Newburgh, this Victorian mansion on Montgomery Street overlooking the Hudson. Swami’s hoping to put in 4 apartments. With Hill Country Cornelia’s carpentry help of course. Place looks pretty stately from a distance, but once you get up close you can see the ravages of time. I told Cornelia she can come back and farm for me anytime, joked I wouldn’t work her anywhere near as hard Swami has been working her. Cornelia acknowledged she sure missed being on the land, said she sure wished she had a place to grow a garden.
Swami hears all this talk and gets nervous, his fancy talk mode kicks in. He says to Cornelia, there’s enough yard here, I will let you grow a garden here if you’d like. I assure you, you will be rewarded for your steadfast service with your own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden!
So we all stroll alongside Swami across the side yard as he continues to placate Cornelia with visions of her own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden and I noticed this slightly sunken-in place in the yard, the area of a few square feet.
That’s where the shitter was, I say, bet you there’s a bunch old bottles from the 1800’s down there worth a pretty penny.
I don’t know why Swami was so confused but he says: So you’re saying, they put these bottles worth money into the shit?
I had to spell it out to Swami I was talking about bottles that were worth next to nothing when they were thrown away---I’ve heard it said the ones found in old outhouse shafts are usually liquor bottles husbands tried to keep from their wives knowledge--- but would now be worth a lot to collectors because they‘ve become so rare. I explained because outhouse bottles were buried in wet shit they usually remain intact and well preserved. Now it would just be a matter of digging down and getting them out.
Percy is all ecstatic. I‘m not sure how the digging through ancient human feces part fails to temper his enthusiasm, but he exclaims: digging out this outhouse shaft for old bottles would be the perfect activity for the Mythopoetic men’s group! Wouldn’t you say, Doctor?
I guess maybe that’s the lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden being talked about ---the shithouse shaft. Let’s have at it, men!
Anyway, Phebe tells me today if she goes through with hiring an attorney to fight for custody of Mookie, I better plan to move back into the house and make a good show of it. God forbid the judge ever finds out we don’t always get along so well.
Rocky’s attorney has got us worried about prospects now. He says the fact that Rocky admits to stomping his attacker’s head and neck after the guy had been knocked down won‘t bode well for him. I told Phebe if anything, we should be worried about a new attorney for Rocky before we start worrying about going to trial in a custody case, but of course she says she couldn‘t disagree with me more.
If I talk to a new attorney, it won’t be about your son or grandson, believe me, she says.
Home sweet fucking trailer.
Swami hears all this talk and gets nervous, his fancy talk mode kicks in. He says to Cornelia, there’s enough yard here, I will let you grow a garden here if you’d like. I assure you, you will be rewarded for your steadfast service with your own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden!
So we all stroll alongside Swami across the side yard as he continues to placate Cornelia with visions of her own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden and I noticed this slightly sunken-in place in the yard, the area of a few square feet.
That’s where the shitter was, I say, bet you there’s a bunch old bottles from the 1800’s down there worth a pretty penny.
I don’t know why Swami was so confused but he says: So you’re saying, they put these bottles worth money into the shit?
I had to spell it out to Swami I was talking about bottles that were worth next to nothing when they were thrown away---I’ve heard it said the ones found in old outhouse shafts are usually liquor bottles husbands tried to keep from their wives knowledge--- but would now be worth a lot to collectors because they‘ve become so rare. I explained because outhouse bottles were buried in wet shit they usually remain intact and well preserved. Now it would just be a matter of digging down and getting them out.
Percy is all ecstatic. I‘m not sure how the digging through ancient human feces part fails to temper his enthusiasm, but he exclaims: digging out this outhouse shaft for old bottles would be the perfect activity for the Mythopoetic men’s group! Wouldn’t you say, Doctor?
I guess maybe that’s the lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden being talked about ---the shithouse shaft. Let’s have at it, men!
Anyway, Phebe tells me today if she goes through with hiring an attorney to fight for custody of Mookie, I better plan to move back into the house and make a good show of it. God forbid the judge ever finds out we don’t always get along so well.
Rocky’s attorney has got us worried about prospects now. He says the fact that Rocky admits to stomping his attacker’s head and neck after the guy had been knocked down won‘t bode well for him. I told Phebe if anything, we should be worried about a new attorney for Rocky before we start worrying about going to trial in a custody case, but of course she says she couldn‘t disagree with me more.
If I talk to a new attorney, it won’t be about your son or grandson, believe me, she says.
Home sweet fucking trailer.
Monday, April 11, 2011
02/24/01
Phebe complained Betty was calling too much wanting to see the baby. She told me I ought to take Mookie out to see her today. She said maybe Betty would stop pestering us if she had a visit with the baby. So I called up Percy and he agreed to take a ride over to Newburgh with me and Mookie. Percy said he wanted to go out to Newburgh anyway, see if Swami Hard Salami might change some of his dosages. Got to see Hill Country Cornelia as it turned out. Betty was back on her feet and looked plenty alert and energetic. I couldn’t see what would stop her from taking the baby back. So I just gave Mookie back to her. Phebe was enraged later when she found out what I did. This was not at all what she had in mind. She couldn’t believe I would think to do what I did. The lady looked all better to me. I’m still not sure what Phebe’s point is.
I’m back living in the trailer after that scene.
So much for the good life in the manor house. It was fun while it lasted.
Good fucking gracious.
I’m back living in the trailer after that scene.
So much for the good life in the manor house. It was fun while it lasted.
Good fucking gracious.
02/23/01
Phebe got to go in with the lawyer to see Rocky for a few minutes. I had to stay with the baby. I wrote Rocky a letter, told him to hang in there. Turns out the guy Rocky killed has no history of violence. He was in on burglary charges too. I’m thinking this might make it harder for Rocky to argue self-defense than if the guy had a known history of violent crime. Apparently Rocky told the lawyer about me forewarning him about getting jumped in jail. The lawyer later called me and asked me more about it.
Phebe flipped out when she heard about the whole thing.
What, your son’s life isn’t worth a thousand dollars? She says. Why didn’t you talk to me about getting the money? Now we have to worry about Rocky spending the rest of his life in jail---being known as a murderer.
If you paid that guy once, there would never be an end to it, I reply. He’d be back every month for more. And he wouldn’t stop until he had every last penny of ours.
There’s no arguing with her.
Phebe flipped out when she heard about the whole thing.
What, your son’s life isn’t worth a thousand dollars? She says. Why didn’t you talk to me about getting the money? Now we have to worry about Rocky spending the rest of his life in jail---being known as a murderer.
If you paid that guy once, there would never be an end to it, I reply. He’d be back every month for more. And he wouldn’t stop until he had every last penny of ours.
There’s no arguing with her.
Monday, April 4, 2011
02/22/01
Phebe asked me to go to Newburgh with her to bring the baby back to his grandmother, but apparently Betty’s not recovered well enough from her diabetes attack to care of the baby again. She grew lightheaded and fainted with Mookie in her arms. Luckily we we’re right there to catch her. She wasn’t too keen on having the baby go away again but Fauntleroy reassured her it was for the best--- that it was obvious she needed more time to get strong. So Phebe and I brought the baby back home again. It was kind of an awkward thing. I was going to head back to the trailer when Phebe says:
Where do you think you’re going?
I say, I’m going back to the trailer, that’s where.
She says, Oh, no you don’t! You’re gonna stay and help take care of this baby. I’ve already taken off as much work as I can. You’re gonna have to stay here and watch the baby while I go to work.
Where am I gonna sleep? I ask
In the fucking bed! Where else? she says
Don’t ask me what happened next. If the baby wasn’t sound asleep it would have never happened that way. But me and Phebe just started going at it on the aforementioned fucking bed. I had had some good wood sported too. And then the phone fucking rings. The voice of Rocky’s lawyer comes on the answering machine with terrible news. That was the end of that.
Rocky got jumped in jail. Guy snuck up from behind and tried to club him in the head but Rocky sensed something. He had a second to react and the guy missed. Rocky turned the tables and fractured the guy’s skull, then stomped his throat and neck. The guy lived for a couple hours afterward. Rocky’s attorney is trying to argue self-defense. Might have Rocky testify at Grand Jury. We’ll see how far that goes. They have him in solitary now.
With any luck we’ll get this knocked down to manslaughter, the attorney says.
Where do you think you’re going?
I say, I’m going back to the trailer, that’s where.
She says, Oh, no you don’t! You’re gonna stay and help take care of this baby. I’ve already taken off as much work as I can. You’re gonna have to stay here and watch the baby while I go to work.
Where am I gonna sleep? I ask
In the fucking bed! Where else? she says
Don’t ask me what happened next. If the baby wasn’t sound asleep it would have never happened that way. But me and Phebe just started going at it on the aforementioned fucking bed. I had had some good wood sported too. And then the phone fucking rings. The voice of Rocky’s lawyer comes on the answering machine with terrible news. That was the end of that.
Rocky got jumped in jail. Guy snuck up from behind and tried to club him in the head but Rocky sensed something. He had a second to react and the guy missed. Rocky turned the tables and fractured the guy’s skull, then stomped his throat and neck. The guy lived for a couple hours afterward. Rocky’s attorney is trying to argue self-defense. Might have Rocky testify at Grand Jury. We’ll see how far that goes. They have him in solitary now.
With any luck we’ll get this knocked down to manslaughter, the attorney says.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
02/21/01
I haven’t been sleeping very well---spent last night awake, tossing and turning all night long. I was so fucking delirious I thought for a moment I saw a ghost outside the trailer. It was a figure of a man lurking behind a tree. I made it out in the faint moonlight. The figure was sort of there one moment and then it just disappeared. Then there was that glowing thing in the trees that came and went in an instant . Maybe it was a barn owl. Maybe it was natural phenomena, who the fuck knows. Caused by gases coming off Purgatory swamp---will-o-the-wisp. The dog wasn‘t happy with me at the window half the night. He was fucking yapping every time the creepy feeling came back and I opened the curtain once more to look outside. Make sure everything was OK but find no reassurance at all.
I saw a ghost-light once years ago. Jack-o-lantern they call them. It was when I was all beaten down with chemo treatments, so who knows if that had something to do with it. I know my mind wasn’t right then. Maybe it was all a hallucination. You see a ball of light come out of a swamp like that and float around, you’re left wondering whether you’ve lost your mind. But they say these things are seen coming out of swamps all around the world--- that it’s a natural phenomena caused by some kind of ignition of flammable gases from rotting material. The burning gas appears like a floating orb of light. There’s been accounts of these orbs following people around, but they say that phenomena might have scientific explanations also. Could be static electricity caused by tension between plates within the Earth.
In Ireland, the will-o-the-wisp is attributed to Jack the Drunk, who made a deal to sell his soul to the Devil in order to pay his pub tab. But then old Jack was caught trying to trick the Devil and was left to wander the Earth for all eternity carrying an ember from the fires of Hell with him inside a hollowed-out turnip. That’s where the Jack-o-lantern came from. It’s been said my Irish ancestor, Barney Noonan saw the will-o-the-wisp come off Purgatory Swamp too when he lived here in the 1800’s. My father always believed this place was haunted by Barney Noonan, that he wanders the night looking for his lost Hamiltonian trotting horse---the one he claimed was stolen from him by the Confederates during the Civil War.
Some cultures believe will-o-the-wisp appear over the locations where there’s buried treasure. If that’s the case, maybe there’s more of that treasure down there yet from old Claudius Smith.
I don’t understand that Percy. He wants to debunk my father’s dowsing abilities, but when I told him about the hallucination of the Indian I had back when I was sick, he said it must have been a vision quest---an effort by an Indian spirit to communicate with me and guide me. He’s got all kinds of strange New Age notions in his mind. I should be the one debunking that asshole. Instead he’s got it switched around for once. I’m the biggest skeptic in the world when it comes to all this paranormal stuff, that’s why it’s so weird for me that I would react so defensively to Percy’s theory that Dowser Boy was all a scam. In some ways I can follow along with what Percy’s suggesting perfectly. That is, until it gets down to the matter of it going against what my father believed about himself. Then it hurts for some reason. He was such a bitter, rotten man. I guess when I thought of him as once being a child with special abilities, it somehow took away some of the harshness I felt about him.
I better find a lock to put on the tool shed out back.
I saw a ghost-light once years ago. Jack-o-lantern they call them. It was when I was all beaten down with chemo treatments, so who knows if that had something to do with it. I know my mind wasn’t right then. Maybe it was all a hallucination. You see a ball of light come out of a swamp like that and float around, you’re left wondering whether you’ve lost your mind. But they say these things are seen coming out of swamps all around the world--- that it’s a natural phenomena caused by some kind of ignition of flammable gases from rotting material. The burning gas appears like a floating orb of light. There’s been accounts of these orbs following people around, but they say that phenomena might have scientific explanations also. Could be static electricity caused by tension between plates within the Earth.
In Ireland, the will-o-the-wisp is attributed to Jack the Drunk, who made a deal to sell his soul to the Devil in order to pay his pub tab. But then old Jack was caught trying to trick the Devil and was left to wander the Earth for all eternity carrying an ember from the fires of Hell with him inside a hollowed-out turnip. That’s where the Jack-o-lantern came from. It’s been said my Irish ancestor, Barney Noonan saw the will-o-the-wisp come off Purgatory Swamp too when he lived here in the 1800’s. My father always believed this place was haunted by Barney Noonan, that he wanders the night looking for his lost Hamiltonian trotting horse---the one he claimed was stolen from him by the Confederates during the Civil War.
Some cultures believe will-o-the-wisp appear over the locations where there’s buried treasure. If that’s the case, maybe there’s more of that treasure down there yet from old Claudius Smith.
I don’t understand that Percy. He wants to debunk my father’s dowsing abilities, but when I told him about the hallucination of the Indian I had back when I was sick, he said it must have been a vision quest---an effort by an Indian spirit to communicate with me and guide me. He’s got all kinds of strange New Age notions in his mind. I should be the one debunking that asshole. Instead he’s got it switched around for once. I’m the biggest skeptic in the world when it comes to all this paranormal stuff, that’s why it’s so weird for me that I would react so defensively to Percy’s theory that Dowser Boy was all a scam. In some ways I can follow along with what Percy’s suggesting perfectly. That is, until it gets down to the matter of it going against what my father believed about himself. Then it hurts for some reason. He was such a bitter, rotten man. I guess when I thought of him as once being a child with special abilities, it somehow took away some of the harshness I felt about him.
I better find a lock to put on the tool shed out back.
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