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.