It Was the Best of Times; It Was the Worst of Times

So – here we go with another story from my life.  This one’s quite different from its predecessor; and it pre-dates it by two years. 

Years ago – and I do mean years - I was homeless for a little while. Wow – such a simple statement; it hardly covers the bleak reality.  I wrote a piece about it some months back, so I won’t go into the details here, suffice it to say it was the worst time in my life; so bad that I still measure everything against it.  My then husband had abandoned me on a highway with a burning car.  I had no money, no support; I was totally on my own, with 15K worth of marital bills to sort out, and several pets that I was responsible for.  The stress triggered a miscarriage, and I debated the politics of suicide daily.  I managed to find a way out – but it was hard.  Past hard.  The smell of the shelter, the screams and moans of the crazies – I was terrified, alone, hungry – lets just say I was grateful when I finally got a job.  It wasn’t a great job; but it provided a paycheck – and that meant an apartment.

I was the night manager of a Stop-N-Go.  No gas - just soda, beer, magazines and munchies, hot coffee and video-games; all available 24 hours a day.  I snagged a crib right across the street, in a slightly worn building, occupied by the on their way ups, and the on their way downs.  I wasn’t sure which I was - I only know I was thrilled to be able to sleep someplace safe.  The manager demanded a bribe for the apartment – said there were others that wanted it as well.  Housing was in short supply, and I couldn’t go back to the shelter, so I ponied up the $200 – not a small amount in 1981.  I had no furniture, just an oversized bean-bag chair and an old wire spool I had rescued from the trash for a table.  I slept on the floor – no money for a bed.

I liked working the night shift – it was quiet, for the most part; so I had lots of time to read.  I also had my regulars – people who stopped in - on their way to or from work, usually.  Old and young, skate-boarders and junkies – you know - the usual late night crowd.  One guy really stood out – a biker – tall, long dark hair, no teeth – lots of chains; a shirt that read, ‘Kill ‘em All, Let God Sort ‘em Out’.  He’d come in for coffee – tense, wary; expecting rejection.  I guess for some he would be pretty scary looking.  Not so for me.  You see, I have this ability to see inside a person - see their soul, if you like.  I really don’t know how else to describe it without accompanying metaphysics, lengthy stories about my family and how this ‘talent’ has been passed down through many generations – mostly through the female line; but I am seldom wrong, and have grown to trust these feelings.  So I knew this guy was all right – despite appearances to the contrary, his soul was as bright and clean as a child’s. 

We got to talking; over time developed a deep friendship.  Mark – his name was Mark.  I really depended on him, you know.  Life had dealt us both some low blows.  So you could say, in a way, we rescued each other.  Mark had done two tours in Vietnam, and it had really screwed with his head.  Terrible things had happened to him; really terrible – he had been gang-raped by members of his own crew.  He was the youngest, and they brutalized him.  When I saw the pictures out of Abu Ghraib, I thought of Mark.  He survived, but a major part of him was destroyed.  I understood all about that – how it felt to be abandoned and betrayed.  Trust didn’t come easy to either of us at that point.  Funny thing – we had actually met years before – right after he had been drafted.  He had seen me on stage – one of my favorite roles, actually; one in which I had been nominated for a local award – and we had talked at the after party.  Evidently I was nice to him back then as well (not many were to a Marine in uniform), so he remembered me – when all I had was a vague memory of some baldish guy who didn’t say much.

Mark ran with the Hells Angels - as an enforcer.  I won’t get into everything that entailed – suffice it to say, there was violence involved.  Some of it rather showy.  One story he told me really took the cake.  Evidently some rival biker had raped one of the women attached to his particular club.  She had survived the attack, but was badly beaten.  Mark and the woman’s husband had taken the guy to an abandoned building, stripped him naked, nailed his testicles to a post, handed the man some broken glass, set the building on fire and left.  Yes, the rapist got away; but he wouldn’t be assaulting any more women anytime soon.  Pretty out there shit, I know; and perhaps I should have been shocked, and judged him harshly – but Mark had a code he followed, a strictly defined sense of right and wrong, and I believed him when he said he had never killed outside of the war.

Mark would sit with me, at night.  He appointed himself bodyguard.  I wasn’t about to bitch – this was a busy spot, and all kinds would show up. Lot’s of guys would try and follow me home as well, but seeing Mark always sent them packing.  I learned a lot of new and fascinating things that summer – how to fire a gun on the move without taking aim and hit my target dead on; how to handle a 10 inch buck knife, both hands, switching from right to left (I’m left-handed) in order to trip up any attacker; how to sit proudly on the back of a chopper – with only a chrome-plated sissy bar for balance.  Mark thought it important I learn these things, so I did.  I also helped him chop his bike - an on-going project that was lots of fun; mostly ‘cause we’d spend more time talking than breaking down the engine and messing with the frame.  I managed to help him as well.  Whenever a helicopter passed low overhead, he would lose it – I mean really lose it - head for cover and pull out a gun.  I would go up to him, gently remove the damn thing, wrap my arms around him and sing till the moment passed.  Yes, I suppose it was a dangerous thing to do, but I knew he wouldn’t shoot me.  I trusted that man with my life.  Sometimes, you just gotta go on faith.

There was one other regular I developed a close relationship with.  I’d originally noticed him playing video games.  He was tall, slim – very sexy with long blond hair.  Generous features – when he smiled, his lower lip would curl slightly.  I really liked that lower lip.  Gorgeous – drop dead, fuck me now gorgeous.  Man – am I ever a sucker for that rock god look!  He smelled of tobacco and marijuana, and always wore shades.  Too cool for the room by far.  All it took was one simple touch.  To say we fell head over heels would be an understatement.  The attraction was instant, combustible, and so strong I can still remember its heat today.  Kevin – he was the best birthday present I ever had.  Bastard lied to me though – and I should have caught it; God knows I was guilty of the same thing in my teens – reading older than I was. I assumed he was my age, you see.  25.  Hell, he told me he was 23 and I believed him.  By the time I learned the truth, the point, as they say, was moot.  He was finally legal, and we were too far in lust and love to throw a blanket on it.  I must say though, I still smile at Joan Jets ‘I love Rock ‘N’ Roll’.

So now I had two bodyguards – sometimes together, more often than not one at a time.  They liked each other, which was great.  No competition, really – Mark and I were friends – being lovers was never an issue.  Kevin, on the other hand was an obsession – I actually remember slapping another woman’s hands away because she had sidled up to him.  Very unusual behavior for me – before or since.  Anyway – because of both men’s interest, I was safe as houses - and that proved to be a very good thing.  I owe each of these men my life.  Literally.  Though time, distance and a lot of water under the bridge separate me from the current realities of their daily lives; should either ever call, I would be there in a heartbeat, for any reason.  You see, something was happening in our area at that time – a series of murders – bold, brutal strangulations.  The perpetrator didn’t care if it was broad daylight – his delight in the suffering of his victims was heinous.  The crimes became famous – constantly on the news.  Whoever he was, he was killing every week - singles, multiples; the entire area was terrified.

Where I lived was approximately 60 miles away from this predator’s prime hunting ground.  With distance came some detachment.  Most people in my vicinity followed the story on the news, but didn’t feel actually threatened.  He had never moved out of his kill zone, you see.  All the murders were safely somewhere else.  Of course, people speculated if it was the return of another notorious killer from more than a decade past, but other than that didn’t really think of it.  Life went on.  Eventually, to the relief of the police, one of the victims survived.  After that person was well enough to talk, a sketch was made of the suspect, and widely circulated.  It was on every news program – whole specials were devoted to ‘have you seen this man?’  You know what I mean – you get so you know that face almost as well as your own.  Of course, this was still all happening way off in another county.  So you’d file the sketch away under ‘if I’m ever up that way I’ll look.’  It’s not something you regularly thought of.

About that same time (several weeks before, in fact) and of much more importance to me - I began to be stalked.  This man would come into the store, stand by the rack with the porno mags, pick one up to read and stare straight at me.  He gave me the shivers.  I looked at him, you see, and saw that he had no soul.  I mean it – usually people are surrounded by a halo of light (I know – sounds odd - it’s just something I have always been able to see).  No real color – just bright light.  It surrounds all living things, as a matter of fact – like a kind of energy.  This can become more pronounced if the person I’m looking at is very dynamic, or if I’m in the midst of a migraine.  Don’t know why – it just is.  I’ve been able to see this all of my life.  Hell - I was in my teens before I realized not everyone was gifted with this odd ability.  Well this guy – no light.  None.  Just a vast dark hole.  And when he looked at me, his eyes were big and black and empty; like a shark or a doll – no emotion, no feeling; for all intents and purposes, the man could have been blind.  He wore a feed cap, like a trucker – but I never saw a car.

And so ends part one.  I'll post the conclusion next week. 

Comments

[Neil Shakespeare]

You got me hangin' here, kid.

[Debby]

I'm glad you found love/lust with your rock god, but Mark would definitely been my cup of tea!! Been with my share of enforcers and club presidents along the way in my wicked life.

You got me hanging on to this one though hon. I know exactly what you mean by that aura - you should either be taking him out or running for the hills!! Hurry with the next installment - don't think I can hold my breath much longer here!!!!!!

[oldwhitelady]

Your writing is very gripping. It sounds like a very scary time. You've certainly had your share of tribulations. Luckily, you have the strength to get past the problems that have passed through your past. I am certainly waiting, on pins and needles, to read the rest of the memories you are sharing.

[Night Bird]

I am sure glad you are here to write about this. Awaiting the conclusion!

[blogenfreude]

blogenfreude = hanging too ... let us know when Chapter next goes up...

[SB_Gypsy]

ooooh, dang! just left it hanging there, like the remains of that poor rapist's sack. lol

Be back for the finale. Hope you publish these as a baby boomers' "All Things Bright and Beautiful" anecdotal review.

[Alicia Morgan]

Wow. Your story reminds me of me in my late teens/early 20s. I'm on tenterhooks, like everybody else...

[Jim Houghton]

Help, I can't find the next chapter!

[The Fat Lady Sings]

Here you go, Jim:

It Was The Best of Times.....Part Two

Other stories of my life are filed under 'Memory' if you're interested. A number of them (along with this) have been nominated for Koufax Awards.