When You Least Expect It Something Happens

A few Fridays nights ago I wandered into the Gulu-Gulu for a beer before heading home. It was after eight pm and the place was packed to the gills. There were two seats at the bar close to the kitchen so I grabbed one and ordered an IPA.

The place was buzzing, my beer was cold and the band was setting up. I opened my MacBook to check on a few things and to tweak a short story I've been writing.

A young lady approached from the left and asked if she could take up space in what may have been the only available seat in the house. I gestured for her to make herself comfortable and went back to work.

She put her Apple on the bar and said to me, "I'm glad I'm not the only geek in the place tonight." Despite my taking minor offense at being called a geek, after all I am the Great Bald One I chose to give the young lady the benefit of the doubt and not treat her to a verbal evisceration.

After a few minutes I noticed that she was looking at the Salem Patch on her screen. I mentioned to her that I had recently discovered this new online newspaper and was impressed with what I had seen. Turns out that Aubry (yes we had done introductions) is the editor.

Conversation ensued. I mentioned I did some writing. She asked what I was working on. I told her.

Next thing I know Aubry is online looking at this blog and checking out some old columns I had written for the Salem Gazette.

"I want you to write for me" she said. "

Aubry followed that with, "I will pay you to write for me."

It took a moment for me to fully digest what she had said.

Needless to say I now write for the Salem Patch through a contract with AOL. The Patch system is their baby. There are those in the newspaper industry who think the Patch is the devil that will kill the print medium. That may or may not be the case.

This Saturday the third installment of my weekly column, "A Voice In Salem" will run. I am also accepting assignments as they are offered and Patch has already run two of those. Beginning this week is a five-part series detailing how different organizations in Salem are assisting families in need over the Christmas season.

Check it out when you can and be sure to let me know what you think by either commenting on the article itself or emailing me.

http://salem.patch.com/

A Busy Turkey day, Done and Done!

Thanksgiving is always my favorite holiday. The Fourth of July is nice and I like Memorial Day but Thanksgiving is the one that gets my attention every year. It would be impossible for me to explain why I like it so much. I just do. Usually I stay busy throughout the day and this year was no different.

WILD TURKEY RUN:

Dragging my self from bed at 6:30AM for what is becoming a true Salem tradition was not a problem at all. In years past I did so to supervise the members of my early morning boot camp as they performed their pre-mashed potato penance by running this 5 mile race.

This year it was me, the BaldOne who would be the penitent. After a breakfast at home I walked down North Street to the YMCA. There I dropped my bag prior to ambling down to the Boys & Girls Club to pick up my race package. Then it was back to the Y to get changed and a quick walk to the starting line at Washington Square North and Winter Street.

The air was cool, but comfortable. At least that was my opinion. Most everyone else thought it was plain cold. The field of runners was large and the mood was actually festive. I said hello to Brandi and Steve Dion, the owners of B & S Fitness. Steve had their son in a carriage and Brandi, well she is due to deliver another child in 3 days. She was ready to run and was quite relaxed. A few of us discussed at which mile marker she would be near when her water broke.

The run itself was pleasant despite my knees protesting every step. I am unable to stride fully without them clicking, therefore I do not stride. My good friend Steve Pinto described my style as a trudge. I guess I'll have to give him that because for the most part that is what I did, albeit a 10 minute mile trudge.

In the last 1/2 mile I stretched my stride out a bit and may have found a middle ground that will allow me to run a bit more and trudge a bit less. We shall see.

The official timer had me at 56:11 but my clock said 53:09. I trust my clock more.

The Frosty Four New Years Day race is next on the agenda despite my knees protests.

SALEM-BEVERLY FOOTBALL:

My Nephew, James and his father accompanied me to Hurd Stadium where we watched the Boys from the right side of the bridge beat the boys from the wrong side of the bridge 12-7.

My preference is to stand in the end zone to watch this game. James did not seem to mind tis which was good for me. I truly do not like sitting in the stands. The end zone is a bit of the game and a bit of old home week all in one. For some reason the attendance was down this year. Why is anybody's guess. It wasn't that cold, the wind wasn't blowing and there was no rain.

We had a prime spot to see Skeffingtons' 22 yard TD run. This was after Salem failed on a 4th and 1 attempt which was nullified by a Beverly penalty.

The play was chippy throughout the game with more than a few hits and a few shoves thrown in after the fact. The zebra crew was content to let them have at it and the game seemed under control from start to finish.

ETCETERA, ETCETERA:

A good dinner with family and a few friends while watching the Patriots spank the Lions was the afternoon. We eat at 1PM every ear to accommodate the nurses in the family who work the night shift. Turkey and all the rest of course but the high was...(drum roll please),............brussel sprouts. My sister Donna, the gourmet in the group bought 40 fresh brussel sprouts at Hannaford's. These weren't ordinary sprouts seeing as she hand selected them. Her system involved sending the poor kid at the market out back twice to bring here more to inspect. She is hard core in her vegetable standards.

Dinner done, a Patriot's victory in the bag I participated in some conversation until things began to turn political. At that point I retreated to the kitchen, read some newspapers and took a short nap.

AT 6pm it was time to head downtown, but that folks is another story.

Personal Trainers.....Some are good others are not.

Over the last few weeks while availing myself of a few different fitness facilities I have made it a point of observing and even listening to the interaction between trainers and their clients. I have done this in the past also and am always fascinated by what I see and hear.

Before I get into my conclusions let me say this to you. Before choosing or even shopping for a trainer, know what you want and why you want it. What you want and why is not for the trainer to decide. You alone need to consider how your wants either meet or conflict with your actual needs. A trainer is there to help you meet those needs as realistically and safely as possible. He or she is not there to dictate your needs.

One thing I always look at when observing a trainer in action is how hard is their client working. Are they applying themselves with diligence and purpose or are they moving listlessly from exercise to exercise with no real motivation. If the latter is the case then the trainer is not earning their money. The only conversation occurring should be for the purpose of evaluation.

"How are you feeling?"

"Can you do another repetition?"

"Inhale strong and exhale stronger!"

If the conversation is of casual subjects and not exercise related the client is and the trainer are not serious in their endeavors. This means the the client is fooling himself and the trainer taking money for being a conversationalist instead of being a trainer.

At least half of the "trainers" I observed were of this type. Their clients were barely breaking a sweat in their cardiovascular routines and not being challenged in their resistance exercises. Conversation seemed to be the order of the day with the exercise, usually a dry and repetitive series of machines or weights a seeming a sideline.

These are the trainers to avoid.

Look for the trainer who keeps their client moving quickly from exercise to exercise.

Look for the trainer who leads his client in different and challenging regimens.

Look for the trainer whose clients sweat and look like they were challenged physically after every workout.

Look for the trainer who questions his clients effort and motivation in a positive and productive manner.

Look for the trainer whose clients come off the machines or put down the steel to do old school, kick-ass floor exercises.

Look for trainer whose clients show progression in weight, repetitions and attitude.

When you are finished in the gym you should be tired but refreshed at the same time. Your heart rate should have been up, sweat should be flowing and you should feel like you accomplished something. If your aren't then you aren't working hard enough.

If I see you at the gym I always ask;

"Are you working hard?"

I ask this not as conversation but to remind you that you are there for a reason.

"Work Hard or Go Home!"

A Thanksgiving Run For Me!

Years ago when I was young skinny and had a head full of red hair I was a distance runner. Those of you who did not know me back then may not know this fact. As a Salem High School student I ran on both the cross-country and indoor track teams. I ran some good times mostly as a result of good coaching (the Great Dunsky) and from competition from a great group of runners. We were a powerhouse in the distance events and especially in cross-country. I had the pleasure of training with a who's who of SHS and north shore distance runners; John Hogan, Joe Cooney, Brian Lockard (DIV III all-american at UMass), Matt Thompson, Tommy Hogan, Vince Swiniuch and more than a few others. Dunsky and these guys are the only reason I graduated.

I didn't do much running after high school except for the daily PT run until I was posted to Fort Carson in Colorado. Shortly after arriving there I made the mistake of betting a younger medic that would beat him in the 2-mile run part of the PT test. We were drinking that night so a lot of side bets were also made. Well, to keep it short I was in a lot better running shape than I thought and the kid and I finished in a stride for stride tie in 9:49. Those daily PT runs were better for me than I thought. The Sergeant-Major of the battalion was there and before I knew it I was running in competition for the battalion and the 4th Division. I didn't want to but a Sergeant-Major generally gets what he wants.

I ran on a fairly regular basis through the 90's. When I lived in Hampstead NH I even had a summer where I did 30-40 miles a week. My knees began to bother me in my early 40's and I have done no serious running since. Five or six years ago I did run the annual March cross-country 5K at the Salem Green's. With a 3/4 effort I finished in 30 minutes. My knees yelled at me for the next week.

Due to a change in footwear and a stretching routine my knees feel better than they have in years. I have begun to run a slow mile on the treadmill as exploration. No ill effects beyond the normal soreness and stiffness have manifested. I will slowly increase the distance and will loop the inside of the Salem Common once or twice next week.

The reason for all of this? Simple. Come Hell, high water or armageddon itself I am running the Wild Turkey Run on Thanksgiving morning. I've already signed up.

"Damn the torpedo's full speed ahead!"

Searing Anger

I just knocked this out after a day wandering the streets of Salem with my my usual determined purpose. My intent each day is not evil. I do what has to be done and that is all.

SEARING ANGER (or wasted energy if you prefer)

On Andrews there lives a woman

whose anger most certainly breathes.

The flames of annoyance do fuel her

and cause her emotions to seethe.

From a window she spy's something orange

that bring from her embers a spark.

She bolts to confront the transgressor

to bare yellowed fangs and to bark.

The Bald One listens in wonder

from where this vile anger was borne.

It lives in breathtaking splendor

while inviting observers to scorn.

He walks quickly in befuddled amusement

As she sputters and continues to scorch.

Her heat builds fast to enkindle

the anger she wields as a torch.

Where We've Been and Where We Are

The Salem News today stimulates my memory and causes me once again to consider where I am and where I've been over the years.

Similar to an earlier post about a very good friend who has fallen on hard times due to his own foolishness, I muse on another guy I knew when I was young.

In 1973 the public grammar school I attended closed as I completed the 7th grade. I had attended the Hawthorne School since 5th grade. It was located in the old St.Mary's School building where I had endured kindergarten through fourth grade. St. Mary's was the first parochial school in Salem closed by the archdiocese of Boston. The city rented the building as a public school for the next three years. 1974 brought me to the 8th grade in the Phillips School which was just around the corner.

A few of my friends from the Hawthorne came with me to the Phillips. It was a bit of an adjustment for all of us. We were the interlopers and the put upon at the same time. The kids at Phillips were a bit nervous about us (Hawthorne had a rough reputation) and we were unsure what to expect at Phillips.

This guy was one of the first kids I encountered. He heard how I pronounced my name, LA-GO, as opposed to LA-GALT and used the "Leggo of my Eggo" commercial to bust my balls. He would run up to me in the hallway between classes, shout it out to me and then run. I would chase him for a bit and then go to class. This went on for the entire year. He got some sort of rush from the whole thing while I kind of got tired of it. As the year went on I would chase him less and less until I didn't chase him at all. The fact is I had no interest in catching him.

High school came and he and I encountered each other very little. We ran in different circles. The one thing I noticed is he always had very good looking girl friends. He seemed personable and popular.

Fourteen years ago I returned to Salem. Eventually I asked about him. Family members, his brother in particular would change the subject quickly. I later learned he had been arrested twice in child rape charges and in between those incidents jailed twenty years for the rape of a Salem State College (now University) student. He was released a few years ago and according to police records was "homeless" in Cambridge.

It turns out he was not in Cambridge at all. He has been living at his sisters house here in Salem and working as a roofer. Today he is on the front page of the Salem News after being arrested again for rape.

I look at his picture. Hard eyes, tight tense lips, slicked back hair and try to reconcile this appearance with the smiling, personable blond kid who playfully provoked me to a chase 35 years ago. It doesn't fit. It doesn't make sense.

Look at where you are today. Look around at the people you have known for years and where they are. Realize and appreciate that whether it be by design or by circumstance we are what we have become.

A Push Up Challenge at the Salem Y!

Four years ago I began working with the young son of a friend. He was 13 and was looking for a way to build some strength and become a better athlete. He wanted to be able to throw the baseball harder and to jump higher.

I told James that I could help him with that. Specifically I promised that if he did the exercises as I taught them in a dedicated fashion he would become stronger but more importantly he would become better conditioned. At the end of the game I promised, he would still be able to run as fast and jump as high as he could at the beginning of the game. That alone would give him a huge advantage over stronger, faster opponents. James worked diligently and after four years he has come far. His fastball hops, over 80 MPH and his leg strength is superior. He also wrestles for St. John's Prep Danvers, MA and made some varsity appearances in both sports in his sophomore year of 2009-10.

This is not about all of that.

James decided that this was the year he would challenge and beat me in doing military style push ups. I teach this exercise very strictly and have yet to have a client be unhappy with the results. He challenged me at the beginning of the summer which gave both of us time to prepare. I taught James a palms on the floor version of the classic "Jack LaLanne" push up in order to help him prepare. His Dad kept me apprised of his dedication and progress and began in the last few weeks to drop hints that I was going to get whipped.

Well, not being a fool and also being a gentleman of a certain age (I was born at the end of the "I like Ike era") I took steps to insure that I also would be ready.

Today the day of the challenge arrived. James and his father Peter were waiting for me when I arrived. First we agreed to flip a coin to see who would go first. We also agreed that the basic military rest position would be allowed (ass raised to take the stress from the arms and shoulders but no contact with the ground except for hands and feet). You could assume the rest position as often as desired but only could hold it for a five count. Peter flipped the quarter, James called heads. When the coin hit the floor it rolled for about twelve feet and for a moment we thought it would stay standing on it's edge. When if fell, it was heads. James opted to let me go first. Bastard!

We then warmed up. James did some dips and a couple of pull-ups. I did 20 Jack LaLanne push-ups on my finger tips. That may have psyched him out just a little bit. There was method to my madness.

His Dad did a set first just for kicks. Peter is 54 and had never been a muscle head but keeps himself in good shape. He did 46 but I think could have done 8-10 more.

Down to the floor I went. I had rested my upper body for two full days. I pumped out 40 good strong ones before choosing to rest. Perhaps I should have gone to 50. Hindsight is 20/20. I assumed the rest position and then did 10 more. After that I did increments of five until I got to 60. From 60 to 70 it was three or two until I got to 71. There were a few left, but at 50 years old I worry about injury when fatigue reaches a certain level and decided discretion was the better part of valor.

James was up next. He also did 40 good strong reps before resting. I had to remind him to go good and low a few times but overall they were good solid push ups. He began to slow down after 45 and ended at 56. I think he could have done a few more but I am still in his head a bit.

He did very well for a 16 year old. We don't do the push ups your average high school athlete does. Ours are full range of motion, chest to the floor, elbows straight at the top, ass staying level with the shoulder push-ups. They are not for the week end superstar.

Just for the hell of it we all did a second set after a ten minute rest. Peter did 51, I did 47 and young James went to 52. He got me there. Recovery comes faster at the younger age.

I have no intention of letting him catch me next year, but think his intentions may be different.

Nocturnal Trepidations

Dreams simple and unadorned. We all have them. This was written in 1999 after almost twenty years of the same dream.

I am slowly moving uncontrolled through a dark forbidding space surrounded by numbers that exude malevolence and are too large to be counted, but I attempt to count anyway. The more I count the larger and more the numbers become. The longer the dream the more desperate and helpless I become. When I wake in the dark, alone in the room sweat is great and cold on my body, my mouth dry and sandy and my throat and chest tight as a drum.

NOCTURNAL TREPIDATIONS

The dreams began so long ago,

across a country and an ocean.

I do not know from whence they came

or what put them into motion.

They start out with the counting,

numbers that never cease.

I swim and pitch amongst them

and feel the anger of the beast.

The monster lives within me,

but to others is not there

but in nasty little glimpses

which emerge from latent fear.

My sleep is seldom steady,

as I fight with restless ghosts.

The mother of my silent screams

rules nights as loathsome host.

To wake and lie in horror,

as the night begins to creep

move the numbers ever closer

as the terror makes me weep.

A bottle calls me clearly,

as a place where I can cower.

Old Jack and number seven

give the numbers greater power.

Time is not the answer,

as the numbers still remain.

They linger in the darkness

as a subtle soaking pain.

BaldBil's Scotch & Cigar's Night!!!

This coming Thursday, August 5th is the date for the 4th Annual BaldBil Scotch & Cigar's Night. It will be hosted by my good friend Clayton Green. Clayton is a member of the Salem YMCA Board of Directors and is gracious enough to allow me to use his expansive back yard for this event. We will have a fine selection of blended and single-malt Scotch whiskies for guests to sample provided by Quality Liquors of Salem and Kappy's of Peabody. Mike Allen of the Red Lion Smoke Shop on Washington Street in Salem is providing the cigars. Mike will also speak briefly on his choice of cigars and will answer any questions you may have. He has traveled to the source on a few occasions and and has an extensive body of knowledge on the subject. Last year he explained why some cigars are somewhat square in shape. Clayton will prepare some caribbean cuisine. He makes a great hot sauce that is both spicy and full of flavor.

Of the two YMCA fundraisers that I hold each year this is my favorite. You are guaranteed to meet a great and interesting group of local characters and raconteurs.

The Salem YMCA provides many opportunities for the kid's of our fair city to participate in educational and productive activities which assist them in their attempts to become good honest members of society. I have had the pleasure and privilege to see and experience this first hand. Their is no cause closer to my heart than this one. Their services range from pre-school and day care to teen programs. We all at one time or another in our lives have been a part of the problem, this is a small chance for you and I to be a part of the solution.

I look forward to seeing old friends and to meeting some new friends at this event as we sit and socialize with Clayton for a great and worthwhile cause.

See you there!

What's In A Name

One day quite a while back I walked into the Lobster Shanty in Salem. I had become somewhat of a regular there. Most days after work you could find me there drinking a couple of beers or having some dinner. The Shanty was a different place back then. It and Salem have changed a lot. Some of the changes are for the better and some are not.

This particular fall day I discovered that they had $2 squares for Monday Night Football. Bobby Gauthier, the bartender ( he now works at the 99 on Bridge St.) gave me the grid. Looking at it closely I noticed that there were already a few Bill's of various types with their names in the boxes.

There was Bill Kelly, who owned the place, Bill Stone, an everyday scotch and milk (yes that's right scotch and MILK) drinker, Cowboy Bill, a wandering Kentucky rebel and of course the well known Billy-Willy. I couldn't just put "Bil" in the square. That would be boring. Thinking quickly I wrote "BaldBil" in three squares and gave Bobby my $6. He took the money, looked at the grid and laughed.

"BaldBil! You're stuck with it now!"

And I was. Little did I know at the time that it would become my name over all others.

As a kid I had always wanted a nickname. I grew up with a kid called Chunky, one we called Dooba and another one known as Hacky. No nickname ever stuck to me though. One kid used to call me "Bade" for some reason, but it never caught on. My red hair inspired no colorful monickers despite my father being known as the 'Red Dog" and my Uncle being referred to as "Little Red". I was Billy and that was that.

The Air Force provided me with my first nickname. In the barracks in Japan one night while watching some garbage on the AFN (Armed Forces Network) the boys noticed an actor by the name of Lance Legault. He was always a bad guy and often times would end up being beat up or killed. With a deep baritone and hawkish looks he fit the bad guy roles well. At that very moment I became known as "Lance." It did not end there.

We were Security Policemen. After a few incidents both on and off duty some of the guys began to call me "Gonads." That was a reference to a couple of different times where I did some crazy things. I was also told it was a result of a someone commenting on something a little more personal. There is not a lot of privacy in the military. The two names soon morphed in "Lance LeGonads." To this day if hear "Hey Lance" or Hi ya Gonads" I will know it is someone I knew in Japan speaking to me.

The Army was a different story. I was older, an NCO and was pretty much all business. Any names I may have acquired were uttered out of earshot.

Spending seven years in Lawrence, MA proved to a unique and life altering experience. As I look back it is a wonder that I wasn't killed. There were a few moments where it could have and perhaps should have happened. I worked as a machinist and on the side as a bouncer at some local clubs. Did the door and floor at the Claddagh for a while and also at the Loft and Ladle. They were both on Essex St at the time. I also worked at two different Spanish clubs. The Associacion Civica and Los Tartoros. Both places were a mix of Dominicans and Puerto Ricans. These guys called me "Toro Pequeno" for Little Bull and also "El Calvo". The latter is what inspired my using BaldBil on the Shanty football squares.

What's in a name? Whatever you want I suppose.

Front Street Coffee Shop

This was written on a warm day in March.

Front Street Coffee Shop

Sitting at Front Street Coffee

sipping tea and reading papers.

People come and then they go

while I sip, read and watch.

Lawyers, bankers young and old

order coffee espresso and bagels.

Kids on bikes and skateboards

in a search for that caffeine blast.

Behind the counter is Colleen

small and Irish in every way.

Sweet and blonde, slight and sexy

a passion for music in her blood.

Some days Amber is on the pour

taller with subtle curves sultry eyes

Her clothing unique and personal

reflect a free and soaring spirit.

Men and women enter and leave

a constant flow of the Salem essence.

Sipping tea and reading papers

sitting at Front Street Coffee.

GRANITE MEMORIES

This is new this year. In truth it is still a work in progress. I recently moved and there is a large cemetery close by. I have taken some walks and runs around it. The other night I woke up at 3am and couldn't get back to sleep so I climbed the fence and took a walk in the dark. An interesting experience.

GRANITE MEMORIES

Small rolling hills and narrow roads,

shrubs, shade tress and flower beds

 lead visitors to their destinations

in front of a carved piece of stoic granite.

They sit amongst many other stones,

cold and hard with letters chiseled

as short and enduring testament

of person passed and deeds of life.

Towards each stone a path does wind

to a symbol placed by living for dead

where the shrubs and trees live and breath

from shared soil beneath carved granite.

Shrubs do flower and trees grow tall,

as the stone stays cold and damp

sharing sun and shade and rain and cold

as life lords a perpetual cycle over death.

Visitors muse and reflect in silent pose,

under the trees and beside the shrubs

standing over memories preserved in granite

serving only those who live and remember.

Small rolling hills and narrow roads,

shrubs shade trees and flower beds

all lead visitors to their destinations

in front of a carved piece of cherished memory.

A little something I put together some time back. You can decide for yourself how much of it is real or not.

A NIGHTS WORK ON WEST STREET

The night was cold and the sky was dark and clear. My breath rose visibly into the night sky. Walking slowly on West Street wearing a cammo jacket, blue jeans and a new pair of corcoran jump boots I felt like there was business to be conducted. In a shoulder holster I carried a Llama .22 caliber semi-automatic pistol with a full clip of stingers and one in the chamber. The safety was off. A Beretta .380 rested snugly in the small of my back. It too was ready to go. In my left sleeve, in a quick -release holster I had made myself was my favorite weapon, a Fairbairn commando dagger.

I was approaching a large park with a ball field. My eyes scanned both sides of the street as I approached the access road that led to the main gate. I had adjusted to the available light, the street lamps were not very good and a few did not work at all. Two characters sat on some steps a few blocks down. They were exactly where I expected them to be. Seemingly aware of me they remained on the steps. Feigning ignorance of their presence I turned onto the access road and strode with purpose to the gate by the backstop. This road was the only quick way out from the back of the park. I stopped to lace a boot when I got close to the gate. With a furtive glance back I verified that my two friends had taken the bait. They were following me in to the park. Like true miscreants, they had intent but no plan. Of that I was sure. My heart rate increased but only for a moment. A few slow deep breaths did the trick. Focusing on the task at hand I entered the park and walked to a bench alongside the third base line. A building behind the bench that created a night shadow. West Street was 350 feet away. Whatever transpired here would be seen by no one. I sat at the far end of the metal bench and waited for their approach.

The minutes passed slowly. I sat with my head down,my hands between my knees. They had stopped at the backstop to discuss things. I had them confused. A white guy, on foot, on West Street at three in the morning. Gringos were always in cars after dark. They would come in from Andover or southern New Hampshire looking for drugs or a blow job. Leaving the car was out of the question. Three or four streets connected West to Broadway which would bring them out of the city in minutes. My two friends chattered loud enough for me to hear smattering of Spanish and English. They began towards me still unsure of the situation. Now I was reeling them in. From the corner of my eye I saw them pass a bottle between each other. Their need for liquid courage only made my job easier. Thank goodness for stupidity. It often made things much easier. I dropped my head further and focused on listening to their footfalls. I relaxed as the moment neared and prepared for what was to come. My right hand quickly touched the sleeve that contained the fairbairn.

Finally they came near. My head remained down but I could see all I needed to see. The distant lights caused them to cast long thin shadows. They came close enough for me to smell the sweat of their long day on the steps. It was a foul pungent mix of evil intent and nervous tension. The taller one stopped right in front of me. He wore a short heavy coat and a dark Yankees cap with a straight brim. The other guy, shorter and stocky had on a pea coat but no hat. He looked to be the more nervous of the two. As I looked them over I offered a smile. It was meant as a warning. Looking directly at the taller one I held the smile and said nothing. He then stepped to my right a bit and then sat on the bench just a few inches from me. I could not have written a better script than what I now was experiencing.

He looked down at me and asked in a belligerent street tone; "What you want man, why you here in the park?" he then took a seat on the bench. "Well" I replied; "I'm here to see you two."

The one on the bench turned to speak as soon as he sat down. As he did I quickly raised my right elbow up to my shoulder while keeping my hand close to my body, palm in, fingers curled in and loose. With a powerful sidewards strike I smashed his left ear and temple. He fell back ind out and whatever sense he possessed evaporated. Rising and rotating to my left I followed through with my forearm right into the face and head of his partner. He had no time to react and absorbed the strike completely. As he fell forward I arrested my forward motion, grabbed both of his shoulders and drove his face into the frozen ground. Straddling his back I

banged his head into the dirt two more times. Staying on him I looked left to his buddy. he lay behind the bench with one leg still resting on the seat. He moaned lowly but did not move.

Standing up I looked around and listened intently. A car drove slowly on West Street, probably looking for my two new found associates. I heard only a dog barking in the distance. The dull illumination of the streetlights provided a surreal background. I lowered myself to one knee, pulled out the knife and grabbed the second shit head by the hair. After driving his head into the ground one more time I turned his head to the left and used the Fairbairn to slice off his earlobe. He did not make a sound but his partner continued his low moaning. He had managed to crawl a small distance but was in condition to do much else.

Waking slowly to the back of the park I jumped the fence onto the railroad tracks that ran behind it. As I went down the tracks the dogs barking became louder and closer. There was a salvage yard next door to the park and the dog was there. I approached the fence and tossed the earlobe into the yard.

Memories of a Boy

We all grow up with friends. On Derby Street in Salem in the 1970's I ran with a group of fellow knuckleheads. There was a core of six or seven with some scattered hanger-on types. We started drinking at a young age and discovered marijuana about the same time. As life progressed we lost touch with each other except for the odd occasion.

One of the gang was Frank. There was a Franky too, but this is about Frank. He was always the biggest and strongest among us. By the time he was thirteen he was shaving and at fifteen he could buy us beer and booze with his older brothers ID.

Frank was also the dumbest. In high school he couldn't get any playing time on the football team despite his size and strength. He kept breaking his fingers on the blocking sleds. Sophomore year was it for his education.

I went into military service in 1979 and lost touch with him. Returning to Salem on occasion in the 1980's I would see him working the door or tending bar at Major's, a popular watering hole.

He was doing OK and at 6' - 4" and 230 well distributed pounds was doing really well with the Salem State girls. There was a song at back then sung by Julie Brown titled "I Like Them Big and Stupid", it was a perfect fit for him. As the 80's progressed so did his drinking and substance abuse.

He felt like he was invincible of course. We all did.

One day he got a knock the door. When he answered an old girlfriend stood there with a seven year old boy that looked just like him. Off they went to Worcester, where she lived and worked to live happily ever after. Well not quite. His drinking and drugging continued despite his new found career in pizza delivery.

I don't know that he ever spiraled out of control. Perhaps he was never in control. The marriage struggled. I suppose he worked at being a Dad, but he probably never had the skills and self control he needed. He came to Salem one Thanksgiving and was so far gone that he lost control of his bowels in a crowded social club. It was horrible.

The wife tossed him and after a while took him back.

A few years ago he was watching a nine - year old girl for some friends. The police arrested him for sexual abuse. Apparently he bathed her and things happened. He spent six months or so in jail and then the charges were dropped.

He returned to Salem because he had no where else to go and people in Worcester were threatening him. His mother took him into her subsidized housing. After some time the wife again took him back to Worcester. Frank then had a massive heart attack. While in the hospital his kidneys and liver began to fail. he was put on transplant lists but the prognosis was grim and he was not expected to survive very long. Being to dumb to know any better he recovered and walked out of the hospital while the doctors scratched their heads.

Three months ago while going into a 7-11 he was panhandled by some beggar. Frank told him to go fuck himself. On the way out that guy and maybe two or three others beat him into a coma. That is where he is now, in a coma.

What to think of all of this? Do I think of the man who lived his life for selfish short term pleasure and drove grown men from a room by shitting his pants in public, and possibly sexual abused a child? Or do I think of the kid I grew up with?

In my mind right now, I see a young, lean tan, athletic kid in cut-off denim shorts smiling hugely as he jumps off the pier at Derby's Wharf while we all sit and laugh in the sun. The water splashes up over us and we all get up to jump in after him.

We know, we just know in our youthful, blissful ignorance that we will always be there, young and beautiful.

This is us, this is now, this is forever.

Reaching

This little creation is from 1983. It is not as dark as a lot of my stuff. I haven't really posted any of the deep and scary ones . Maybe at some later date I will do that.

Reaching

In your life the road you take

isn't always better than the one you forsake.

In your mind you make your move

while the opposite your soul behooves.

In your heart the ache is real

it strives to be to reach and feel.

What should you be you cannot know

unless your mind grows with your soul.

UNTITLED POEM 1981

This was written while in Japan. I was all of 21 years old and still trying to figure out where my mind was at and where it was going. My nights were beginning to be dominated by long dark dreams. This is dedicated to to Loreta Perol Legault.

In front of the barracks under a tree,

I sit in silence and feel the wet tears

streaming down my cheeks.

They speak to me of unknown thoughts

and anonymous feelings, that fester long

in my suppressed emotional existence.

The darkness of night endures and conceals

from others view, the seething agonies

that use the minds shadows to hide.

in the distance, out of my minds eye

a light of hope and joy radiates,

but I cannot see through my tears.

This was written in 2002 a few years after I was extracted from Lawrence and had recovered enough from the most dangerous days of my life. How and why I wasn't killed in that town I will never know. I certainly did things that would have deserved a violent end but it wasn't in the cards.

A GRADUAL WALK

Lawrence is gritty and real

pretense has no place,

facades all fail to stand

in a city of primal needs.

Work brought me there

a good good job and a good wage.

I knew who I was

but not what I was to be.

The streets were there of course

they always had been,

at first I didn't notice

the subtle way they called.

Each morning I drove Broadway

to greet the day and its events.

Nights found me driving

on a northward journey home.

As time moved on it's schedule

I found the streets in my eye.

Dirty and nasty as they were

the attraction would not be denied.

From the loading dock could I see

all there was that interested.

Young girls displaying their wares

and plying their trade.

The call slowly came to notice

as the light of the street

began to glow more brightly

in the recesses of my mind.

Slowly my resistance waned

and I began the gradual walk

into the warm and total embrace

of a life I had never known.

Here is what I presume to be a poem. I wrote this in 1982 while working as a USAF Security Police (now Security Forces) crew chief in the missile field of Montana. We were responsible for 10 Minuteman III ICBM's located under the prairie around the town of Conrad. Working out of a Launch Control Facility (LCF) designated Papa-Zero we would spend three days responding to maintenance calls, exercise alerts and actual alarm activations. Our team at various times included SSgt Bell, Sgt Reed, SrA Sellner, A1C Morales, A1C Greene, Amn Standish, SrA McRae and a few others. I was never comfortable guarding those missiles, the whole concept of MAD (mutually assured destruction bothered me).

DEATH OUR MOTHER

Here we are the boys in green

our aims are high our goals are clean.

The bombs we guard sit in the Earth

to death our Mother will give birth.

We sit and wait for her to come

the clock is slow beats as a drum.

When she does her spirit will sing

of the death we her children can bring.

In the ground the legends sit

the time will come their keys will fit.

At that time from the lair they'll rise

death, her son will dance for your eyes.

Now is the time our hell has come due

our sky has lost it's comforting blue.

The worst is not over now is the time

for the specter of death and its terrible mime.

When it is over will man really learn

that playing with fire will result in a burn?

Will he continue to play the game of the damned

so death can again envelop the land?