Heaven and Hell

Danse Macabre, A Medieval Woodcut and Their Idea of Horror.

 

 



I never was a big fan of horror flicks. Perhaps as a child I was more so but that can be explained by the fact that kids believe everything and it's easier to scare them. But, taken as a whole, I never really sought them out to watch.

The main reason is that most horror is badly done. I have a hard time believing the idea of the living dead, vampires, ghouls and all those thingies that crawl out of graves. It just doesn't happen in real life. It's creative and can make for a good story, but I'm not frightened by it. What does frighten me is real horror. War, disease, serial murderers...blowing a tire on Thurber's Ave at 70mph. Those things do happen.

I make an exception for one movie though, the original Exorcist.

With any fictional story, the author has to get you to “suspend your 'dis-belief.'” Doing that with horror isn't easy as the transition from reality to unreality is a huge jump. Though I think the Exorcist did it with finesse.

Reagan, the little girl, is first taken to doctors, then psychiatrists and nothing works. There comes a point where the doctors throw up their hands and try a long shot, but still is couched in Western medicine and science. They suspect Reagan “thinks” she is the Devil so an exorcism will seem real to her and perhaps jar her back to normalcy.

This movie scared the piss out of me when I saw it. Being an Irish Catholic 12 year old certainly helped.
 

 

 

 Click to Watch Father Merrin Chase out Demons

 

 

Now that I think on it, the Church has the best horror story of them all. What could be worse than Hell?

Before I had First Communion, I had to attend “released time” as it was called for us public school kids. We'd go every Wednesday to the local Catholic school to be prepped. I can remember Sister Clery telling us the story of the Archangel Michael vs. Archangel Lucifer. She was a vivid story teller. She managed to lay out a battle scene in heaven where the two sides fought with swords, spears and all manner of Medieval weaponry till Lucifer and his followers were defeated then cast out.  When you're eight years old, you tend to be easily enthralled with wild and epic stories.

Today, I still don't seek out horror flicks and I sort of bend towards science for the explanation of everything.

Potassium- argon radioactive dating has more validity than the Priests claiming the Earth is 6,000 years old. Geologists at URI can nail the age of rocks to billions of years ago.  How can a priest argue with the following mathematical formula for radioactive dating? Math is math. If you believe in division, you then MUST believe this:

 

 

But, religion got a hold of me early and getting me to walk down the heavily wooded paths by the Notre Dame cemetery on a dark, humid night, alone, isn't going to happen. I haven't completely shaken off that Irish Catholic upbringing.

Growing Up Ferrel

On occasion, this neighborhood can resemble what it used to be like a thousand years ago, when people talked to one another. Today was a good day for it due to decent weather. I managed to chat it up with a few who saw me outside, cussing my lawn, lawn mower..etc.

I was reminded of what it was like when I was a kid. Back then, Moms all in this neighborhood tossed our asses out of the house so they could get their jobs done. We'd be “underfoot” if we were inside. So, this neighborhood was crawling with us. We'd play hide and seek, tag, kickball. We'd invent fantasies to carry out right out there on the street. Pirates, Indians, and due to the Vietnam War, we'd play “guns.” Bang Bang! Di Di Mao! We created “rifles” by kicking out the fence pickets of those old white picket fences. We'd saw them down, fashion them to look like army weapons. Huh, I just realized we made our own toys at times.

I would run around, in 90 degree weather, sweating like a pig and it was no big deal. But when your seven your cardio system is perfect, you can run around under that blazing sun. I'd get sooo dirty, that I'd have “sweat rings” on my arms and legs. What are sweat rings? Imagine your playing all day, in the dirt, dust, crawl spaces under porches and you get this fine layer of dirt on you. As you sweat, it forms a thin layer of mud on your skin. Now why they formed into one inch rings is beyond me. But, there you have it, I'd be ringed and filthy. I'd fight my Mom about taking a bath. I thought I looked damn cool covered in dirt with small particles of sand in my hair.  Besides, my favorite TV program came on, baths were an annoyance.

We boys played “hard” as it was called then. We'd get cut up, stung, dirty, bloody if in a fight. We'd purposely build ramps to ape Evel Knievel and some of us had fantastic crashes with our bikes. Do you remember what a skinned knee felt like? My God there was nothing more painful! Here's something odd you'll see on NO kid today. As boys then, all of us had callouses on our palms. We used our hands so much during the summer, there'd be areas which calloused right up. It was normal to have them. In fact, it was a badge of honor to be so deformed.

 

 

We Boys Tried this, Using our Murray Banana Seat Bikes

The girls on our street played “girl games” though we both did mix in a lot. The problem was that the girls cried too easily if we were too rough. Except Gail. I've written about Gail before and she could knock the teeth out of your face with a fist as fast as she could straighten out her dress. Gail was a trooper and to be feared if she became angry. The funny thing, Gail was a thin waif and shorter than the boys.

I got into some minor trouble with a girl called Colleen once. The game was “Break the Chain.” We boys lined up, arm in arm and the girls would charge us trying to plow through our defense line. If you break through, points were scored! Colleen came charging at me and Patrick and I wasn't about to let her pass. She struggled and fought and fell across our arms when I lifted her up off the ground, with our interlocked arms, and flipped her right over right onto her back, in the street. Smack!

Ever have the wind knocked out of you? You swear you're going to die. I guess I knocked the wind out of Colleen to the point when she could breathe again, her bawling brought her Mom out.

Of course, we boys were instantly blamed for this. Then again, we were at fault for a lot of things that went wrong on our street.

It wasn't out of malice. It was just that we were NEVER going to let anyone through and body slamming was an acceptable tactic. Colleen's Mom made a huge deal out of this.

“I've told you boys you play TOO hard with the girls...now LOOK at what you've DONE!”

Yep, instant guilt trip. Game over. Time to figure out something else to do.

We had a local dog, a large mutt named Bootsy owned by the Brett family, who was the size of a coffee table. He'd come around, wheezing his old age out and we'd boys love to sit on his back and ride him like a horse. When you're little, you can do this. We'd take turns riding Bootsy till, of course, one of the Moms would see us and lay another guilt trip on us.

Then to make amends, we'd take Bootsy back home to Mrs. Brett's house. But there was an ulterior motive. Mrs Brett had a huge blueberry bush right there by the fence and us boys, after safely depositing Bootsy back home, would take our “pay” in blueberries.

Then we'd wander off to do something else.

By playing outside like we did, we got to know everyone and could trust that things were predictable and safe (most of the time).

Gail's Mom had the built-in pool, so we'd chum up to her to have a dip. Mr. Joke-A-Hozee (I can't remember why we nicknamed him that) was good for sitting on his stone wall and waiting for the ice cream man. Mr Gross (Yes, his real name) was an embittered old coot who had a plum tree in his front yard. If you were quick enough, you could pick a few overly ripe ones and sling them against his roof with a mighty SPLAT! It was like teasing a dangerous junkyard dog. He'd come out swearing to tell our parents and we'd scatter like rabbits, laughing the whole way.

Night time we went to the “Lot.” It was an undeveloped, over grown plot of land where no house was ever built. Here we could find lightning bugs. I was amazed by them. I was so curious as to how they could blink on and off like they did.

Here, out of the intruding eyes of parents, we built small fires, lit off fireworks, played Doctor with certain girls who were far more bold than we boys. Pamela was good for initiating that one. Here we learned about swearing, sex and stories told to us by the older kids that were complete BS. The house at the back of the Lot was rumored to have a ghost in it. Of course, the ghost was a murdered man from a long, long time ago. When your seven, it's best you take the advice and stay away from any house like that! The Lot also had two hundred million mosquitoes for some reason. We'd all come home bit to hell. Scratching mosquito bites (which gives GLORIOUS relief) while watching TV made a nice end to a summer day.

*****

Back then, there was no structured play. Very few of us went to summer camp. We were left alone to our own devices and boy did we invent ways to have fun! My street today doesn't have packs of dirty kids roaming it. The Lot is still there, with it's yearly show of lightning bugs, but no kids go into it. The ice cream truck comes by but no one waits for it.

 

I lucked out. I grew up unsupervised. We kids of that age all lucked out.

Your Taste in Music SUCKS!

 

How You Remember Him



When I tell people I listen to Frank Zappa they look at me oddly and with some suspicion that I may may be a flake. Anyone listening to that kind of music might be unquestionably degenerate, inferior and possibly wicked. Some of us are, true.

Most people know his of his sophomoric (read as: STUPID) songs like “Don't Eat the Yellow Snow” or “Valley Girls.” Those who have listened to his other stuff look like a dog that has just heard a toucan for the first time and tilt their heads in a questionable manner.

When I first heard it I thought it crap. My brother had been trying to learn the guitar licks off the album and I suffered with it in the background. But like I tell everyone else, it can grow on you.

There are songs that have wonderful concordance. Songs you can easily hum too and enjoy. Donny and Marie's “And They Call it Puppy Love” could be an example of concordance. DIScordant music is something entirely different. On a first hearing it's annoying, unapproachable and weird. An analogy to a racist Asian joke would be, “it sounds like you threw a bunch of forks and spoons down a staircase.”

There are some of Zappa's songs that I still can't get my head around nor be listen to much. They are way too difficult to comprehend.

I finally got some understanding of his more bizarre pieces though. I had recently seen an interview with Frank and how he managed to hear melodies within his music and that weird genre called Concrete Musique. Concrete Musique is organized sound using anything that can create it. You have to be born with one of those Idiot Savant minds to understand it, to see and appreciate the order that IS inside it. Frank claimed he could “hear it” and then spent most of his life writing it.  For you and I, there is no order. We're far too simple-minded to “get it.” These guys were formulating rocket trajectories while we are barely learning to use our fingers to count.

I don't attend many concerts anymore. The music that's out there now, most of it I don't care about. Also, any 70's mainstream band that floats around here charges way too much and I really, really have to love them to fork over the dough to get a ticket. I can thank the Eagles for that one. They had re-formed and went on the “Hell Freezes Over” tour and stopped at Great Woods. The lawn tickets for that show were over $100 and I thought, “To hell with you, Eagles!”

But, I still attend concerts put on by Project/Object. This band is basically Frank Zappa w/o Frank Zappa. His old bandmates are still touring, albeit the smaller venues. Half of those bandmates are gray haired and half the audience attending them are so as well...me included. And out of all the bands that may come by Gilette, Comcast/Great Woods/Tweeter or whatever they call it now, I make an effort to see Project/Object.

Ever listen to NPR? That classical music station? I have, rarely. I call classical music “dancing mouse music.” Why? Because like all kids who grew up on TV cartoons, my first introduction to it were from classical pieces inserted into Bugs Bunny cartoons. The Barber of Seville comes to mind.

Anyway, when Frank died, a few regular stations interrupted their playlists to announce it. NPR spent three to five hours going over everything Frank did in his career. That sort of surprised me that a bunch of stuffy, up-snooted Classical music lovers, like Ron Della Chiesa, whose voice you'd instantly recognized if you had listened to NPR, did speak of Frank for hours on end.

I like some classical, but am no way educated in it to speak of it. But it was a nice surprise to hear those who are, gush over Frank.

 

 

 

And What You Didn't Know

Seeing Squirrels

I ask Jim, who is a quality control manager for Legal Seafoods out of Boston, what's the best quality in a restaurant manager.

My top people don't “see squirrels” he says.

“What?” I say.

He explains it this way. Say your trying to get the attention of a dog, make him look at you, and off in his peripheral vision he “sees a squirrel,” if he chases it or not will determine how focused he really is.

He goes on. “I need a guy that can 'see everything', but knows how to prioritize, act quietly, w/o being overbearing nor throwing the power of his position around. He should know when to step in to solve a situation and more importantly...when not to. Micro-managers are the worst, they ruin their subordinates enthusiasm. I need my waiters, cooks and all the others under him to be invested, not looking at when they can get the hell out of there.”

I liked that phrase, seeing squirrels.

He tells me he started as a dishwasher, bus boy, prep cook, cook, head cook, manager and finally ended up in the Boston office managing and trouble-shooting the chain's restaurants. That's one hell of a career path starting out from sleepy Westerly, RI.

I decide to pick Jim's brain. He's on the forefront of making a living off of people's disposable income. He might have a nice reading on the temperature of the economy from his vantage point. He tells me total sales are going up since the crash. Legal is planning five new openings in the coming year, and that's from profits saved, not borrowing.

Jim adds. “We're happy as a clam if we're making at least seven cents on the dollar. That's what most people don't know, they think restaurants are money mills, they aren't as profitable as some would think. Sure, we'd like to be doing around seventeen cents per dollar but if we're above seven, we're still doing well.”

He tells me they're getting more corporate reservations. “Bribery parties,” I called them. It's where a business will hire Legal to host a party, and they invite all the other business types, politicians and what not for a free lunch.

“We get $20,000 easily for a corporate lunch.” “Our average weekly take on all sites is about $200,000.” Jim proudly tells me.

If what Jim is telling me is true about the uptick in sales, then good, this economy should get off it's ass after the beating it took.

*****

Son of a &$%##! God-&#$_#!

It May be Worth it If I was Some World Class Soccer Player

 

 

 

When younger I used to think Charley horses were the bane of athletic types, certainly not a threat to me, who wasn't coordinated enough to run in a straight line. I'd see football players in my high school, lying on the grid iron in a crippled state and wonder “Is it really that bad...sounds like something minor to me.”   Yes, they are really “that” bad. I can get them so my thighs feel bruised and hurt for two days after.

I think I started having them in my 30's. I'd get them in my thighs, calves and even in my toes, no joke. I'd get all sorts of advice. “You have low magnesium/potassium/calcium! You're dehydrated! You should stretch more!” I've tried all of that advice and there I'd be, on the floor crumpled up like a ball of paper, having another one.

I probably look quite the sight when I'm hit with it, especially when it involves both thighs. I'm on the floor, curled up, gritting my teeth and breathing heavily. You'll also hear a mighty list of cursing words as well. “Jesus FUCKING Christ! God DAMMIT! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” If anyone was around me, I'd be like a wounded wolf, trying to bite you if you come near me or try to help.

“I can handle it! No! NO! GET AWAY FROM ME! (Snap! Snarl!)”

You know why I do that? Or at least you see men doing that? When hit with that kind of pain, I quickly go into a mental state to “manage” it and anyone distracting me only increases the pain. Just let me lie there and seethe, sucking air through my teeth and twist and turn, till it passes. I have my own way of dealing with it mentally and it usually works. It sounds like a I have a Zen meditative approach to it I guess, albeit a weird one. Eventually I'll become more amiable and less likely to shock your sensibilities when you try to help, only to get your hand bitten. So to speak.

I actually hit someone, more of a good brush off I guess, when I was lying on my backyard lawn, all crippled to hell for ten minutes. This girl, who I was dating, rushed to me to help. Did I recognize her as a an ally? A good guy? The cavalry coming over the hill? NOPE.

I said two words, “GO AWAY” and swung my arm into her legs as she came to me. You know what sucked then? There I was, in the throes with my hamstrings all balled up, taught as hell, in pain and now I realize I have to apologize and explain, while in this state...to her. The look on her face was of such pain from being pushed away. Jesus...now I feel bad on top of everything else.

I quickly patched together an explanation of “why.” I just kept saying...”Leave me alone, I'll get through it...Just leave me alone...I'm OK.”

I still had to explain after wards. She was really hurt from being shoved aside when she all she wanted to do was help.

Why am I writing of this now? I just spent the last twenty minutes eating my carpet from having both thighs tighten up on me. Ugh. I knew it was going to be a good one when I dropped. One time, I let go of a pizza I had just ordered, to see it smack the floor and then I lay next to it, swearing and cussing like a sailor, holding the backs of both thighs.

*****

If firemen ever pull me from a car accident, they'll have to shoot me with a tranquilizer dart. It'll look like Animal Planet as they take down a very pissed off cougar that's wandered into a shopping mall.



Is It Safe?



 

Escaped Nazi Dentist Christian Szell Tortures Dustin Hoffman (Click If You Can Avoid Cringing)

 

 

The above clip is how I view most dentists. There are several reasons why. I ended up in the dentist's chair more than most people over my life.

I was born with soft enamel. A trace back to the previous generations in my family nailed this fact. My current dentist also discovered that several high fevers I had as a young child also wreaked havoc on my teeth. Add to that an awful Coca Cola addiction since I was five and the stage is set for cavity hell.

I used to love ginger ale as a kid. My Mom would give me some on occasion as a treat or as a reward to get me to do something I didn't want to do. My brother, on the other hand, hated it and my Mom would get him Coke. I never tried it until I was five and after I did, my brother and I would nearly fight over it sometimes.

Friday's were shopping days. My Mom would buy a six pack of Coke in the old glass bottles and the rule was, three per boy. I would have one each night till I exhausted my supply on Sunday night. This was great! Weekend TV as a kid was perfect plus soda!

Coke in itself is acidic. The sugar in it was also great for producing acid and in no time I found myself at Dr. Samarra's office in downtown Pawtucket.

I have to feel bad for Dr. Samarra now. I can remember what a hell of a time he had keeping me calm in the chair. Dental science in 1969 isn't what it is today. He tried music, letting me hold toys and tried putting a Bat Man mask on me (specially designed so he could work in my mouth) and nothing worked. I was scared shitless due to everything hurting like hell.

Finally, he brought my Mother in to ask permission to knock my ass out. Back then, they used ether in dentist offices and I got a great dose of it dripped onto a small screen covered in cotton, which was held near my nose. Ether is something else I can tell you. You are fully aware of what's going on but everything takes on a dream-like quality...and you become numb as a board. Dr. Samarra now could work in peace. After the work was done, I can remember being carried down to the car and laid in the backseat, still stoned on ether.

From the age five till about thirteen, I had numerous teeth pulled, cavities filled and various fluoride treatments applied to my teeth. I never got used to walking into any dentist office all those times. At fourteen a newer dentist suggested to my Mom it was time for braces as my teeth were “crowded.” Screw that I thought. Also, it was easy enough to get my Mom to nix that idea due to the cost. I'll live with crowded teeth.

Do you think I avoided Coke after all these bad experiences? No. I still don't to this day. I enjoy it too much. By the way, did you know Coke's recipe still uses coca leaves as an ingredient? I'm sure the DEA monitors the amount. The gov't stopped Coke from dumping ½ grams of straight cocaine into each bottle of soda they sold back in 1910. Hell...am I a lifelong, low-level coke addict?

I've been warned by my current dentist I've had now for over twenty years why my enamel gets beat up as it does, but he finally gave up after learning during his career that his patients are going to do what they want anyway. He told me I reminded him of another patient who had a daily addiction to salt water taffy. That guy has beaten up teeth as well. Whatever floats your boat I guess. I can't point fingers at all. Hell, salt water taffy is wonderful.

A while back, I dated this girl who had two kids around 6-7 years of age. One day, while I was showing the boy how to make a paper airplane (why he didn't know how to do this is beyond me...i guess realplay is verbotten now for kids!) he started to laugh when he tossed it into the air. He had one of those wide open mouthed laughs and I saw all his teeth. Perfect, young, healthy, strong teeth. Gleaming white teeth that haven't seen a dentist's drill at all. I was amazed...and jealous!

I was so taken aback that I mentioned to his Mom, who was with us, about the condition of his teeth. She took it as normal.

“Both of them had sealants put on their teeth.” she says.

Sealants...I wished they had that in 1969. I could've drank Coke made with car battery acid back then and gotten away with it.

*****

When I saw the above clip from the movie the Marathon Man, you can imagine how I reacted. I know I have to get my butt into that dentist chair when I have a true medical problem...but God... I don't feel safe.



Irish Grandmothers Can't Cook

I had two grandmothers, imagine that! Hilda (who dares name their daughter that now?) was forgetful, but nice enough. The other, Mary, was sharp as a tack and just as amiable. I guess grandchildren can't help but elicit kindness from grandmothers.

 

I would visit each one, every Sunday, down at the Fogarty Manor. Fogarty Manor was a 15 story building full of efficiency apartments for the elderly. Thanks to President Johnson and his Great Society movement, both my grands didn't have to live with us. Phew!

 

I didn't talk much to Hilda, as she seemed not to know anything nor was interested in much else beyond the high rise she lived in.  Except...to ask me, every week, what grade I was in. “Third, Grandma!” I'd say, rolling my eyes. She had though, the biggest bowl of candy available to anyone who came in. I feasted on that much to the determent to my teeth. I spent most of the time looking out her window while my Dad went over her checkbooks, bills and what not. They'd chat about people I never knew from my Dad's old neighborhood. She had those silvered, cat shaped, fake diamond encrusted glasses. Old ladies then thought this was fashionable! After visiting her, it was on to see the other, Mary.

 

Mary's apartment was down the hall and always full of kids and relatives. She had a lot to talk about though. I'd hear stories of her thatched roof house with chickens, cows and mud back when she was a child in Athlone, Ireland. Athlone, Ireland is like living in Nebraska in the US, it's in the middle of nowhere. I'd hear her stories about the local IRA contingents and tales of shiftless Irish husbands who blew their money on booze. Hint: Her husband was a drinker, so she had first hand knowledge.

 

One day, when my brother and I were teens, my Mom comes into our room to tell us we've been invited again to Sunday dinner at Mary's. My brother and I kept nixing the idea to our own Mom once we heard it.

 

“Oh..Do we HAVE to? We see her every Sunday anyway...why can't we just visit AFTER lunch like we always do?”

 

My Mom nearly begged us to do it as it would mean a lot to Mary. We caved in just to shut our own Mom up.

After she left, my brother and I stared at one another. Finally he said, “You know how this will go, don't you?”

“Yeah...we have to eat her food...otherwise we'll look like jerks if we don't.”

 

So, the Sunday comes and off we go.

 

Mary's apartment was furnished with the cheapest furniture available. It's not a criticism. She was Irish immigrant who barely could read, worked low-skilled factory jobs all her life and managed to sock away some meager savings. So, it wasn't Ethan Allan solid cherry, inlaid with mahogany wood furniture for her.

 

Her main table, the dinner table, was about as stout as a cheezy card table from 1968. On it was nice plastic, red and white flannel pattern table “cloth” with settings in place. When we arrived, she had just finished cooking the entire meal for us so we didn't have to wait long at all. Good timing Grandma!

 

She had cooked steak, mashed potatoes and canned corn. Yum!

 

I looked at the steak she had put on my plate. I don't think she understood what rare nor medium-rare ever meant. I saw a fully cooked to death, cremated and ready for scattering bad cut of meat. OK, I'm being hyperbolic here but that steak was waaay overdone.

 

I pick up my fork and knife and start to cut a hunk off it. I had to really drive the fork down into it and start sawing away with my knife. As I was doing this, the entire wobbly table started to shake back and forth. The drinks on the table were in danger of sloshing over their rims if I didn't ease off the sawing motion.

 

My brother shot a knowing look at me and rolled his eyes.

 

I popped the steak into my mouth and bit down...with a crunch. Steak isn't supposed to go “crunch!”

 

My brother and I were good grandchildren. We bolted that horse meat down with gulps of Kilkenny beer which she always kept in her fridge. I think my brother and I finished the whole meal in seven minutes. Sometimes you have to walk into the fire and the shortest distance is a straight line, so we scarfed that steak down as fast as possible.

 

“Do you boys want more?” Mary asks

 

My brother, answered for both of us...rather quickly, “NO!...No, we'll have the pie after you two have caught up!”

 

Driving home, we asked our Mom, “C'mon...admit it..she can't cook!” My Mom agreed but said it made our grandmother happy anyway. I think we had to do this ONCE a year, and that was too much!

 

Looking back on those two grandmothers, I have to say, for their faults, they were kind people though.

 

 

 

Sorry, but that sprig of rosemary ain't going to save this!

Regular People, Saints & Scum I Grew Up With

 

Click and Meet Pablo Escobar

(El Magico: One who makes something from nothing, self made man)

No, I never met him. My only connection to him on that distribution chain was street level during the mid 80's in parking lot in Slater Park called the One Way. I've spoken of the One Way before. To refresh your mind, it was an open air pharmacy that ran for about ten months before the cops shut it down. All that managed to do was move it to Pascale's Lot about 300 yards north-east of home plate at McCoy stadium. Look from home plate to the right fielder and past that...right there. That one lasted nearly just as long too.

I live in a very compact yet diverse area. I'm all of half mile from the expansive quiet woods, lakes and rivers in Massachusetts and I'm about two miles from the shacks in Central Falls. In the early 80's, Central Fall's population experienced a huge influx of illegal Colombians. There were 9,000 of them, mostly from Bogota and Medellin. Why Central Falls? It's always been the first stop for immigrants coming to Rhode Island. We Irish used to be forced to live there in the 1800's. The factories (Corning Glass, Koch Jewelry, etc) brought the Colombians in as cheap labor.

The FBI eventually called Central Falls the Cocaine Capital of New England. A kilo of it landing in Central Falls went for $10,000. By the time it made it to Boston, the price would have jumped to $20,600. The Colombian dealers in CF weren't dumb enough to flash around nor live large. They were happy enough to live in their three-decker tenements, though their income was in the six figure range. Also, law enforcement was way behind the ball when this started. The trade was allowed to grow and improve as nothing was molesting it.


I never wanted to hang out in CF. I was way too Irish and white. But, there was Stanley's Burgers on Dexter street. Stanley's had the best "grease burger" recipe around here and cheap too.  In 1984, I used to work in Walpole, MA and would get home around 11:30 at night. So some nights I'd get off exit 30 on Rt 95 south to get my greasy snack.  I can remember one night, as I was walking past a parking lot full of Colombians, they started chanting, "Yoo hoo! Federale! We seeeeee you...Federale!"  Any lily white Irish guy with blondish hair walking on Dexter St around midnight,could be, might be...mistaken for some sort of narc/law enforcement to these paranoid guys.

 

At the One Way on Saturday nights, there were about 50-100 of us teens and young twenty-somethings there, hanging out, getting drunk, high...chasing girls. I never judged what was going on. When you see so much of something, like open air drug dealing, you see nothing wrong with it. There wasn't just two or three dealers, but maybe twenty. They were offering everything under the sun like an organic farmer's market. But, to be truthful, we didn't know of anyone yet addicted, shot or in jail either. This was in it's infancy and in a perverse way, innocent.

In Pawtucket, there were three main dealers, two of whom I'll never speak a word. All three could be found at the One Way. But one Jimmy St Jacques (Read up on this Piece of Work) was one I can talk of. He's dead has a coffin nail now. All three were younger than me at the time. I do have to admit I did have this reservation about the young dealers at the One Way, they were all richer than us. We'd see sixteen year olds driving the new IROCz's that came out of then. Along with their ridiculously hot girlfriends.

In 1983, us boys wanted this car!
 

I'm going to digress but so what, I can. This will explain how money can be an aphrodisiac.

When I was in second grade, a new kid came to our school. He was frightening. He had been a burn victim. A few years earlier, he had been caught in a gas station fire in North Kingston which nearly killed every one in the family car. He survived. Unfortunately, he looked like a melted candle, with sparse outcrops of blonde hair on his head shooting up like cowlicks and two-knuckled stubby fingers. At seven years old, I found this very disconcerting. I never got to know him. I'd see him in the hallways, playground and in the higher schools, hanging out here and there. Then for the longest time I never saw him.

One night, this car pulls in to the One Way with guess who, our burn victim friend. When he stepped out of his car, people shook his hand and slapped his back like he was royalty. You could see the deferential treatment he received. Then, this dewy, dripping hot girl gets out of the car next. She reminded me of Miss Stephanie from the 80s sitcom Newhart. I had asked a friend how the hell can a guy disfigured like that get such hot jailbait? I was told because he's rich. His riches came from investing in the pot trade. So, there was a life's lesson for me. No matter how ugly, screwed up or what-have-you, some girls will overlook this. If your seventeen and driving that year's Bronco and have cash coming out your young ears.

 

 

 

Miss Stephanie!

Now back to Mr Jacques. He lived the old 30's gangster motto: “Live Fast, Die Young and Leave a Good Looking Corpse.” I'd see him on occasion at the One Way, holding court like a monarch. I later heard he was a nutjob as he took his car down onto the flatlands by the pond and ran over the Canadian geese that return each year to that spot. He was brought up on charges for that one and pretty much got off.

Other times I'd be sitting at a red light waiting to cross Newport Ave. Newport Ave in Pawtucket is flat, wide and straight for about two miles. I was sitting there, waiting for the light to change when I hear the very loud sound of a motorcycle revving up, switching through it's gears till finally a guy hunched over on it, would fly by the intersection at 100mph. You barely could make him out. Yet, there was no need to. The only one crazy enough around here to do that was St Jacques.

“Live by the sword, die by the sword” the Bible says. Well, St Jacques died by his sword. He had, we found out later, orchestrated three murders in our area. He was getting rid of informants and those who talked too frequently and loud. As with any crime, the trail isn't always clean and others out there have enough information to let the Feds piece together a case. St Jacques decided he wasn't going to live in a Fed pen for the rest of his life and took his own.

I was in my late teens then, sooo long, long ago. The One Way and Pascale's lot are now what they once were, parking lots. The drug trade is run by Caribbeans now, still out of Central Falls. I'm sure they've had to upgrade their craft to avoid the DEA since they've caught up to the game.

Jesus, the things that go on in life!



 

There Goes Another Moment...

Click Away....

Damn, it's nearly been a year since I was laid off. That sure went fast. It's been nearly thirty-one years since I graduated high school and that went even faster! As a kid, weeks took forever to finish. Months seemed like eons.

A while back, I was kvetching (I love that word and if in the mood, I can kvetch with the best) to my eighty year old neighbor. I took the liberty of bitching that as I got older, time went faster. There I was , complaining to someone who was eighty. I knew his inner reaction: “What the hell does this kid have to bitch about? He's thirty years younger than me!” Hey, if someone has an ear to lend, I'll use it!

He then tells me, “Ronnie, just you wait! It goes even faster at my age!”

Faster? How the hell can it go faster? It's flying along now. I'll have to take his word for it as others his age have noticed the same thing.

However at this moment in time, tonight, I feel satisfied. Not ecstatic nor down, just plain satisfied. Why? It's a beautiful night out now. The temps are still in the 60's, it's dry and all of my windows are open. Those summer sounds drift in more and more now. If McCoy had a game tonight, I could hear the announcements as they echo out of the ballpark. If the air is just right, I can hear the crack of the bat. If it were a Saturday night around 1AM, I'd hear all the bikers at Tommy's Lounge fire up and roar down Industrial Highway .

Earlier today I finally noticed the trees are fluffing out fast. I need to mow the lawn as the grass is coming back and the sound of uncoordinated bees thumping into my window screens has returned. The weird thing is that I noticed this all. Usually, me, and many of you, just sort of drift through our days on automatic. This awareness won't last, things come and go in cycles, but it was nice mini-vacation to notice it anyway.

Time will pass tonight to around four AM, when I'll wake up due to the chattering of the robins, who start their day around that time. It can reach a cacophony nearer five AM. Would you believe I like that sound? I do. I don't mind lying there, listening to the sounds of spring, I'll fall back asleep in due time. There's no loss.

So let time pass. It always has.