"Ernest" by Sharon D. Orrick

I found this in the filing cabinet last year and it was like getting a glimpse into the mind of an 18 year old Sharon. I was amazed at the creativity and detail. I laughed and cried, because I could really hear her voice and feelings coming through this little story. Some of the details of the story were eerily coincidental or perhaps prescient. Since I'm digitizing everything, I wanted to make sure to preserve this too, which is why I cross-posted it on Facebook as well.

From the Cemetery

“Ernest”

Sharon D. Orrick English 4 3/20/92

Ernest F. Hawkins

New Hampshire Private Commissary First Regiment, New Hampshire Infantry

Born: April 22, 1868

Died: March 31, 1967

It was a miserable evening on that December of 1893. The city of Concord, New Hampshire was drenched and only a few people dared to run across the road. Some brave souls whipped and yelled at their teams as they sloshed their way home. Night took its toll on the town and gave way to the storm. House lamps were lighted and store lights were blown out, accept for the only inn in town. It was a night that was for sitting at home in front of the fire or going to bed early.

Down the muddy road came a black figure. As it drew closer to the inn, one could make out the figure of a tall man astride a young, vibrant horse that carried him well. The rain had drenched him to the bone and he shivered as he slid off his horse. The stout, little horse let out a nicker and stood there with his head turned toward his master. The man reached in his pocket and gave the wet horse a carrot. As he brushed past the horse he gave it a little pat and spoke words of kindness.

Slowly the man made his way to the inn. He was tired, lonely and cold. The door creaked as he opened it then closed it behind him. He stood there, savoring the smell of fresh brewed coffee and wood in the fire-place. It smelled like home where he was just a few hours ago. He looked around to see if there was anyone there that he knew. In one of the corners were four guys. He looked over each of them carefully but there wasn't a familiar face. They were obviously having a good time playing poker. In the other corner was a pianist dreamily playing waltzes.

His eyes moved to the center of the room behind the counter where the most beautiful red headed girl stood. With his eyes fixed upon her he took off his slicker and tossed it up on the hook against the wall. As his tall, masculine frame strode over to the counter he took the hat off of his light brown hair and sat down.

"Hello ma'am." he stated in an exhausted tone, "I am Ernest Hawkins, I don't believe I have ever met you before. What might your name be?"

Unpleasantly she snapped, "I'm Sheila Radrick, and if you have to know I am single but I am NOT available. Now, what do you want to eat? I don't have all night, you know.”

Ernest gasped with astonishment at how such rudeness could come out of such a beautiful woman.

"Uh, well, I just wanted a cup of coffee and maybe some hot cake, that is, if you have any."

"Oh, is that all you want?" She said in a little calmer manner.

"Yes ma'am." Earnest sighed, thankful that he didn't have to ask her for anything again.

While Sheila fixed Ernest a nice large meal, he struck up a conversation with the guys playing poker. "Who's the fiery youngun?" Ernest said.

"Oh, don't worry about her," replied the gray haired man, "she's more bark than she is bite. Her daddy died when she was just a little one and he willed the whole place to her. She is so independent that she don't want a man to settle down with. She thinks she's invincible. On top of that she has her father’s German blood and her mama's Irish hair. Don't try to get to friendly with her or she'll bite your head clean off."

"Thanks for the tip," Ernest replied with a relieved tone.

He thought that maybe she had some potential and maybe with some training could learn to love a man. Ernest remembered her father when he and his dad would come to town for supplies and buy him a candy bar. It had been so many years since Ernest had been home that he had no idea what had happened in the city of Concord. He had a lot to catch up with and a lot of old friends to see, if they were still there.

Soon Sheila came back and gently set the big plate of steak and beans in front of the hungry man. Ernest looked up and saw a sparkle in the girl’s eyes and knew that he had already made progress by being kind to her and not terrorizing her like many other men had probably done.

"Here is your meal, kind sir, it’s on the house so don't even try to pay for it." She looked down embarrassed and muttered, "I, I'm sorry for yellin' at ya, I was only protectin' myself. I am so used to guys comin' in here and wantin' to buy something else besides food or liquor. They think I am some kind of whore just because I work in an inn."

Ernest looked deep into her brown eyes with his own light green eyes and softy said, "I understand, and thanks for the gru..., I mean food ma'am."

Sheila went to work cleaning dishes and such. She couldn't help but think that this man might have some potential but after what she just did, maybe not. Could this be true love? She didn't know if she could fall in love. She was too mean and she knew it.

A few days later Ernest was standing near the jail waiting for a friend and he over-heard a cluster of women gossiping. They were giggling about how Sheila had just run off her eighth suitor. Ernest turned and walked the other way. He didn't want to know. He didn't even want a clue because he wanted to start out fresh with her, no rumors and no gossip. The reason he came to Concord in the first place was to get away from the past five years. He didn't have a good past and was running away from what haunted him.

Months passed and what seemed like years to Ernest were only hours to Sheila. She made sure she was on her best behavior and never lashed out on anyone. Soon the town gossips had something else to giggle about. Ernest and Sheila were seeing a lot more of each other. They were the happiest couple in Concord. Soon after a year was over, and Ernest made sure that he could tame her temper, they were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins.

It was a simple wedding but the whole town was there. Shops closed, and people flocked to the inn. The wedding was held on the steps. The exact place where Ernest had stepped up a year ago to meet his future bride.

For the next four years they made their home in Concord and both worked together in the inn. They were so much in love but one day Sheila let her temper go and like all the other times, Ernest cooled her down. But this time was not like the others. Sheila had been sent a telegram and it stated that Ernest must go to war. Sheila burst into tears and went screaming "NO!" around the room. Chairs flew and if any customers had come in at that moment, heads would have rolled. Ernest ran out of the back and grabbed her.

"Sheila, Sheila, what ever is the matter?" He yelled.

"No, your going to die, your going to die!" She screamed frantically.

"Why?"

"Look! Your going to die!"

Slowly Ernest took the paper from her trembling hands and read it. When he finished he looked up slowly. The Spanish American War had arrived and Ernest was enlisted as a private. He had to leave that night. In his quiet manner he picked up the sobbing little woman and held her tight in his muscular arms that were bulging from years of hard labor.

"No, I'm not going to die, Peaches, I'll be back.”

There was silence and they both savored the moment of one last passionate kiss before he had to part. They held each other and cried softly.

"Ernest," Sheila spoke with a shaking voice, "I need to tell you something."

"What?" Ernest looked at her with fear, that there might be something wrong.

"Do you remember two years ago when I went to a doctor because we thought we couldn't have children?"

"Ya. Why?"

"Well..." She stuttered not knowing if she should tell him or not. "We, are going to have a little one in about five months."

Ernest looked at her in astonishment. Dumbfounded he was speechless and held her even tighter. "But, I thought..."

"Wrong." She interrupted him. "Do you remember commenting last night on how you thought I was getting fat from eating all this good food?"

"Ya..." He still couldn't say anything.

"It's the little one, Ernest. We are going to have a little red-head baby running around the inn terrorizing everyone."

Ernest didn't know how to take the good news. He just stood there. That night Ernest packed his bags and they kissed there last goodbyes. While crying on Ernest's shoulder, she asked, "Until death do us part?"

"Yes. He said between sobs, "Until death do us part.”

During that long year, Sheila gave birth to two twin boys. She sent news to Ernest but he never received it. A week before Ernest was to come back home he was shot in the hand and lost three fingers. The hand became infected with gangrene and they almost had to amputate. Ernest was a true fighter and would not stand for anything like that. He knew he had a family at home waiting for him and he didn't want to disappoint his own child with only one hand. He hadn't heard from Sheila and was a bit worried. Reluctantly he did his own surgery on his hand and sewed the three fingers together. He took care of it very well and came back home. During this time, the weaker of the two twin boys died of scarlet fever. Luckily Sheila saved the eldest twin and nursed him back to health.

In the Spring of 1899, Ernest F. Hawkins arrived home. Beat up and skinny, he survived the front lines of the war and came home to his beloved wife but didn't know what had happened. Up the stairs to the inn he climbed. They brought so many memories back and he smiled as he climbed to the top. The door was shut and he heard nothing from inside. Ernest turned around to see if the town was still the same. People were walking about and talking about the weather as usual, but know one noticed him because he was unrecognizable with the beard. He turned to open the door that squeaked that familiar squeak.

"Sheila!" He yelled, "I’m home."

Sheila ran out of the room up stairs and yelled back. "Ernest you’re back! I thought you had left me forever."

"I'm here ain't I? Come down here and give your man a kiss before he leaves again."

"Oh, Ernest!" She screeched. Sheila ran faster down the stairs than she ever had before. Even when her temper had gotten the best of her she ran harder this time. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped short. "Why who are you, you ain't my Ernest. My Ernest is handsome, he doesn't have a beard. He's muscular and has flesh on him." Sheila didn't know what to do with this imposter.

Ernest dropped his bags and walked slowly over to where Sheila stood trembling. He kissed her so passionately it could have turned the world red. Sheila almost fainted as she drew back from his arms. She gathered herself together and ran into the kitchen to bake her man the best meal that he had ever ate.

In the mean time Ernest heard a faint cry from the upstairs. He knew that Sheila must have had a kid but wasn't sure if everything went alright. As Ernest climbed the stairs he knew that he had a little son and the thought hit him. Ernest was actually a father and had another responsibility.

Up in the room he saw a tiny figure squirming in the crib. Sheila had done such a nice job of fixing the room up that he almost didn't recognize it. The baby was so little that it almost fit into one of Ernest's hands. Gently he picked it up and cuddled it.

He guessed it was a boy by where his pants were wet and further inspection proved he was right. He looked around the room for diapers but all he saw was one of Sheila's blouses on the bed. It would work just fine and the baby wouldn't mind. When the duty was done Ernest took the baby and marched down stairs and into the kitchen.

Sheila took one look at them and laughed so hard that she spilled the milk in her hand all over Ernest and pretty soon the whole dinner was on the floor. Ernest didn't care so they sat down and ate it Chinese style. When Sheila had quit laughing she told Ernest that the baby's name was Ernest and she called him Erny for short. That night Ernest F. Hawkins never forgot.

Soon 1914 rolled around and Erny was enlisted into the army. The night before he left, the family sat down and talked. For the first time Ernest told Erny what had happened to his hand and how he fought the doctors not to amputate. Erny was so scared that he didn't want to go but he had to. Ernest knew exactly what he was going through and tried to sooth him but nothing worked. A week later Ernest and Sheila were sent news that Erny's right leg was blown off by a grenade. He was in critical condition but fighting like his father had.

In 1918 the war was over and Erny proudly came home with a purple heart and half a leg. He met a girl and wanted to marry her but she lived in New York. She was the nurse that had taken care of him and they fell in love. They were married in 1923 and had two children, Sheila and Ernest III.

World War 2 came and went but without any of the Hawkins' help. Ernest was growing older and Sheila became sick. In 1955 Sheila A. Hawkins died of heart failure and pneumonia. Ernest was eighty-eight at the time and it weakened his fight to live. By the time he was ninety-nine he was in a home for old people and died of a broken heart. He was lonely and depressed and wanted to join Sheila in the here-after. His wish finally came true on a beautiful spring day, March 31, 1967, only twenty-two days from being one hundred years old.

Profundity: Reality is really...real

You know, I've been coming out with some pretty profound religious thoughts when I'm asleep. This one made me chuckle:

"God does not need to be mocked...at least not all the time."

and on the nature of reality: "Reality is really real."

So much for voices and thoughts entering your mind from other places. Like T.V. stations. And bingo tournaments. Like covens of witches they hover, waithing in the dark. Yes, I said waithing, it is like waiting in a wraith-like state. Like grandpa used to do when he'd crouch down in front of the TV. We thought he was doing a football huddle. But he had actually been leaning forward trying to get his lungs to fall open, so he could breath, you know.

Well, say goodnight to spirits in the night, and to the Big Radio Antenna in the Sky. You must decide, Sinbad.

Part Two, the dependency series

So, much indeed! This boy has been smoking marijuana. How does it affect him? His manual finger dexterity, his facial features, his flaccid, spastic non-functioning penis...oh, go to bed!

 

Death March Revisited (early '90s prophecy)

Life is a death march

Hopi Indian prophecy

Speaks of a Turtle

La Tortuga

God, in His Infinite Wisdom

Has a hard candy shell

And He wins His battles

By boring everyone to death

Day after day

Sunset, sunrise

Winter, summer

High tide, low tide

Open sign, closed sign

And then you die

If you are fortunate

Before your kidneys and guts

And things give out and

Require constant attention

On the death and life of Arnold Buckwitz ('90s)

Grandpa died today, oh wow

Passed out of the death we call life, out of the here and now

From the clammy pale halls of critical row

Where the mighty have fallen and sunken so low

Never to think clear thoughts again

Or converse and commune with the sons of men

Whose task it is now the mourners to call

And gaze with indifference at death’s fearful pall

Too stricken to think of a damn thing to say

And wishing that everyone would just go away

I pick up this pen to wearily tell

The state of my heart, though it send me to hell

When your whole life is cobwebs and ashes and dust

What profiteth a man, if live on he must?

I’ll go to bed now

Forever

Goodnight—Dial tone

Back on the farm in ‘29

We were all three brothers, lads young and fine

Ridin’ horses and killin’ swine

Cause then we didn’t know no better

Years went by and I married a girl

And we had some kids—cause we had to

Moved to California and joined the church

Bought a house and the freeway plowed through our work

Never did much, never did see

Too much of the world, except in my dreams

In a spaceship—all of my own

I guess there ain’t no place I haven’t flown

The wife died and I crawled up inside

Deeper than I’ve ever gone before

Cause I just realized in the blink of an eye

How this life just sucks more and more

And the beat goes on…but we don’t know why

 

 

 

---

 

AB

Andrew Letter 43 - New job at Esplanade Manor, and grandpa gets an oxygen maching

Letters to My Mom, Part III

 

My room is dark. The curtains are drawn, and it is my fiscal 10 o'clock in the morning (about 5 pm, Chico time and 7pm Minneapolis time).

Grandpa is downstairs in his chair and alternately smoking cigarettes and fiddling with his new oxygen-respiration machine. It makes a noise like an alarm clock when it is first turned on and can be heard throughout the house.

Last night while I was at work at my new job at the Esplanade Manor, a board and care facility for mentally disturbed adults, Grandpa had a bit of a hard time catching his breath. Steve found him standing hunched over and turning blue at one o'clock in the morning (nothing too extraordinary about this except for the turning blue part. He's never done that before).

An overnight hospital visit ensued with the upshot being that he must have oxygen nearby at all times. He even has a portable tank he can use while driving. He is not going to stop smoking, however, except while the machine is on. He has asked Steve and I, in his own endearing manner, to be here to cook for him or take him to the diner. Not that I have anything better to do or anything.

Except to work for 40 hours a week, graveyard shift, as an attendant to 36 or 50 crazy people. Their cases range from mild neurosis (like Tim), to full blown schizophrenic psychosis. One lady appears normal except for occasional delusions that she is a Martian. Another very well-behaved older woman is there because she murdered her husband with a shotgun and stabbed her best friend in the back with a fork. Others creep around peering into the office windows, giggling.

On my first night, a tenant threw a chair through the office window two feet from the spot I had been sitting just five minutes earlier. The police did not want to arrest him because of the paperwork but finally took him in after we filled out a citizens arrest form. He returned at 7 am the next morning and was discharged and given the remainder of his medication (about 2 months worth, 70 or so capsules of Elavil) which he proceeded to take all at once with a twelve pack of beer. He then passed out and was taken to hospital where he was in a coma for a week. Other than that it was a quiet night.

So, what are my duties? Cleaning ashtrays, mopping floors, taking out the garbage and vacuuming, all of which takes me an hour and a half per night. The rest of the time is my own to read, play cards, listen to the radio and converse with the other night attendant, Arvada, who has been there 10 years. Naturally, the pay is minimum wage.

I have to go now to drive Grandpa to The Diner. C-ya.

Well, I'm back, and here I should note that Grandpa hasn't lit up a cigarette the whole time since we went to the restaurant. He had another episode when we first got there, and he had to stand crouched in his football stance for about fifteen minutes, and then the waitress brought him some hot water. The whole trip took an excruciating hour and forty-five minutes. Guess we should have taken the portable oxygen tank.

He mentioned something about funeral arrangements and said that he guessed it was the beginning of the end. At least he's coming to grips with the idea of checking out. I hope I go in a more expedient manner. Like bungee jumping without a cord. 

Steve's out with one of his friends, and I am alone in Buckwitz Manor with Mr. Excitement himself. Although I am working, I have still not gotten paid yet and am so far in the hole as far as people feeding me and paying my way that I dare not show up anywhere without some green in my hand. My job is not giving me that instant respectability that I so desire.

On to other subjects of interest. I went to get tested for TB, so I could get this job. You are familiar with the procedure: They talk real nice to you, send in their prettiest nurse, she rubs your arm and tells you look over there ... and Blam! It’s over. She's already injected the protein into your right forearm. Couple days later you come back, they read it, like an astrologer looking at your horrorscoop.

Anyway, the tests were negative, no festering ooze. But simultaneous to this, I began developing a red irritating allergic itching patch about the size of a nickle on the opposite forearm in approximately the same location. It has been a week now, and it just isn't going away.

My question to you is: Could I have a neurological problem with one of the hemispheres of my brain? All other motor activity is normal. Three or four years ago, I was prescribed Deconomine for similar allergic reactions on my feet, ankles and shins. I never found out what I was allergic to, and after taking the medication regularly for two or three months, it went away, never to return.

The expiration date on the prescription was 1/1/91. Do you think I should try taking them again? That bladder infection hasn't returned, as I have stopped drinking cheap beer.

I'm not in school this semester; I'm taking time to get adjusted to this working schedule. If I can ever come up with a plan of action, this job could be perfect for getting schoolwork done at work. That is, provided no more chairs come through the window.

I think I should like very much to be a writer/director/actor/editor. Or a singer/songwriter/performance artist/comedian. Or a painter/sculpter/hairstylist. Or a guy with a good job in the health care/plumbing/auto/electrical/food transportation industry. As long as I could have a dog.

Well, as for my advertisements in the local classified section, they have proven fruitless. You just can't go looking for it.

There's not much else to report other than that I have been going fishing every week and wearing a helmet when I ride my motorcycle. Please tell me another emergency room story about head injuries. I really miss that. Well, say hi to the rest of the Tribe.

Ciao!

 

P.S. I really like this typewriter! Thanks!

 

 

Andrew Letter 42 - School Daze in Chico

 

Hey again. 

 

Got your letter a couple days ago. I should really mail this stuff I write you, eh?

Well, I’ve been in school a couple of weeks now, and not much has changed. The campus itself is nice, set up on a hill with a nice panorama of the plains. It is about 15-20 miles out of town, so as to be inconveniently located away from all three of the communities it services (Chico, Paradise and Oroville).

There are quite a number of diverse groups on campus, i.e., longhairs, hicks, geeks, freaks – the usual assortment. There are no bells. Everyone just sort of knows when to show up.

Today, there was a DJ playing music in the grassy sort of courtyard in the middle of school. He played everything from country to reggae to rap, with a little bit of classic rock thrown in.

Classes? Oh, yeah. Well. I’m in 3 classes, and I really, truly have no idea what for. They are General Ed requirements, but I really doubt that I will be able to handle the scholastic world for long enough to get a Degree out of it. I just don’t see the application in the job world.

I would like very much to learn some kind of TRADE or own my own Small Business and kind of eek (or is it eke?) out a living, as Steve is doing. I know, don’t tell me – he has a Masters Degree. If I had some sort of direction, I’d feel a lot better about enduring the G.E. B.S.

Chico is a really nice town, and I have yet to tap into many of its diversified activities, although so far I have: gone to 2 concerts in the park, 1 college kegger party, 4 art gallery openings, a couple of nature rides in Bidwell Park and been to McHenry’s Diner about 60 times.

Grandpa’s refrigerator doesn’t work, and he is about as likely to fix it as he is to take up scuba diving. GrandpaWorld is a strange place indeed. Anyway, I have fit my college schedule into the prearranged diner times, and it works ok. Other times, I’ll eat at Steve’s on sort of a barter arrangement. I help out a little, and he provides the refreshments.

Tim and Carol came up for a visit this Labor Day, and they got a look at how the diner and nap schedule works firsthand.

School, along with seeming useless, is expensive. Here’s a list of my school related expenses:

Books -- $121.35 

Tuition -- $101.50

 

Books are:

“Taking Sides – Clashing Views on Controversial Issues in Mass Media and Society” – $11.70

“Volume II American History, The Relevant Issues: A history of the US from 1860 to present” -- $21.35

 “The American Past Part II: A survey of American history since 1865” --$31.35

“Biology: Concepts and Applications” -- $48.00

 “Biology: Laboratory Studies for Biology I” -- $8.95

 

I have paid for all this with money I earned this summer. I am not completely broke, but it’s close enough. I paid off all my credit cards and bought a motorcycle. I have been charging my gasoline expenses on a Texaco card, which the nice folks at Texaco sent me while I still had a job. The motorcycle will keep those expenses kind of low.

So, I am not hurtin’ – yet. I could use some new clothes. In this college town, you can get away with T-shirts and shorts but not T-shirts with holes and spaghetti stains.

Anyway, I like it here. If I could get a few friends my age, a girlfriend and a direction in life – then I’d really be cookin’. Well, gotta go. See ya!

 

Love,

Andrew 

(#1 son)

Grampa and the diner ants (91)

Grampa always goes to the diner. On the rare occasions when he makes conversation, it will go something like this:

"I kinda like this place."

--or--

"One time I was in here and there was a whole line of ants runnin' along this wall. So I'd put a bit of food on the table and they'd run right to it. I used to get a kick out of it, but one time I made a comment to the girl about it, and the next time I came in they was all gone."

--or--

"I kinda like this place."

When entering the diner, he glides determinedly past the "Please Wait to be Seated" sign to a booth near the wall where he once saw the ants. Glide on Grampa.

Grandpa's Schedule (91)

He smokes nearly two packs of cigarettes a day and has a cough that makes diesel rig sound like a kitten. His day goes something like this:

3 am -- wake up, go downstairs, sit in chair in total darkness and smoke cigarettes until dozing off

 5 am -- wake up (in chair) and turn on TV

7:30 - 8:30 am -- (depending on when I come downstairs) turn off TV and say, "Let's go get something to eat," or I might say, "You getting hungry yet?" and the answer is always "yeah." Put on shoes and either drive to diner in separate vehicles or in my car

7:45 - 9:30 -- (depending on my school schedule) eat breakfast at diner (coffee, chicken-fried steak and eggs, hash-browns and toast--of which he will ignore the toast and potatoes). Ask "question of the week" (a question which gets repeated 2 to 3 times a day for a period of 1 to 2 weeks. For example:

"Is Tim still working for Douglas?"

"No, I believe he works at LAX."

"The airport?"

Yeah."

"I wonder what he does."

--or—

"How far is it to that college you go to?"

"About ten miles."

"Is that south of here?"

"Yeah."

"I never seen it."

9:30 -- 2:00 pm -- return home from diner, sit in chair, turn on TV (viewing random programming and switching channels at random intervals), smoke cigarettes until dozing off

2 pm -- check mail, make lunch trip to diner (I seldom go to lunch and so this trip is sometimes postponed until the evening run) return home, watch TV, smoke

4:30 - 6:10 pm -- evening diner run, repeat "question of week"

7 pm - 10 pm -- chair, TV, smoke

10pm - 3 am -- climb stairs, sleep

The only variable to this is on weekends or times when I don't call or come home in time for the evening diner run. On these occasions he will drive over to Steve's shop, usually in the middle of Steve's nap or when Steve has friends over. Everybody is really pretty cool about it. I call him Grampa, Steve calls him Dad, and everyone else calls him Arnold or Mr. Buckwitz. He'll just sit there on the couch Steve has, watch TV and smoke until it becomes time to eat.

He will lead the diner brigade unless Steve makes an issue of eating at someplace different. When he does usually he winds up paying for dinner, with Grandpa contributing a token amount. And Grandpa never tips. Once Steve had just got done paying for dinner and had just put the tip on the table when Grandpa scooped it up and put it in his wallet. He thought he had change coming to him.

But it is not all routine. Once, out of the blue, he made a statement that made me look at him differently from then on. It was this: "Ninety-five percent of the time when I dream, I am in my own flying saucer, flying out over different parts of the world."

Fly on Grampa.

Fake News (1991, before fake news started getting trendy and annoying)

LIVE TO MOST OF THE TRI-COUNTY AREA (EXCEPT GRIDLEY) THE CHICO NEWS REPORT AT FIVE. TODAY'S TOP STORY IS ONE OF POLICE CORRUPTION AND BRUTALITY ON INTERSTATE 99.

MOTORIST DURHAM P. O'REILLY (WHO HAD NOT BEEN DRINKING) WAS PULLED OVER AND STRIP-SEARCHED BY AN OVER-ZEALOUS OFFICER McCULLOUGH C. CHAINSAW.

THE PORKIN' FUZZ OFFICER BELIEVED THAT THERE WERE DRUGS STASHED IN THE 54 YEAR OLD TRUCKER'S COLON, BUT THE CAVITY SEARCH REVEALED ONLY SEVERAL MINOR COMPANY HYGIENE VIOLATIONS.

THE LONG DISTANCE POTATO HAULER WAS NOT CITED FOR THE SEVERAL WARTS WITH HAIR LENGTH EXCEEDING ONE INCH OR FOR DIRTY JOCKEY SHORTS BUT HE WAS SEVERELY SUNBURNED AFTER THE NINETY MINUTE SEARCH. HE WAS ALSO MISSING SOME CHANGE FROM HIS RIGHT FRONT POCKET FOR WHICH HE IS SUING THE BUTTE COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPT. FOR 14 MILLION DOLLARS.

 CHANNEL 12 NEWS GROVER DUDSMORE REPORTING.

HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN SAWING YOUR LIMBS OFF ON A CIRCULAR SAW, WHEN YOU EXPERIENCE LIGHT-HEADEDNESS OR SHORTNESS OF BREATH DUE TO BLOOD LOSS?

WELL, ONE NORTH COUNTY WOMAN IS TAKING HER COMPLAINT ALL THE WAY UP TO THE SUPREME COURT. SHE IS SUING SEARS FOR SELLING TABLE SAWS WITHOUT PROPER WARNING LABELS. ACCORDING TO MRS. WORSTNIGHTMARE THE SAWS SHOULD CARRY THE WARNING: "DO NOT USE TO TRIM HAIR OR TOENAILS--MAY CAUSE DEATH."

WE WISH HER THE BEST IN HER SUIT, WHICH IS HER TWELFTH TO DATE.

KHSL TV NEWS AT 5

Drug Raid ('90s Grandpa era)

POLICE OFFICER! OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR THIS IS THE POLICE. This is a special forces task unit of the DEA, a branch of the federal government dedicated to fighting the Presidents "War on Drugs". Open the door. You have been found to be in violation. Stop having fun. Do what you're told. You have ten seconds. Do what you're told. You have seven seconds. Place your hands on your head. Feet apart. Four seconds. Three two one...shoot him. He tried to escape. No he was trying to attack the officer. The officer of the law. The police officer....

Vio-lation (1991 rap song)

YOU are an addict and the faster you realize it....the faster... the faster...the faster...

uh, uhh, uuuhhh-nkkk! kkk! kk-

kept alive by the sound of music, pulsating, racing, I'm always spacing, quietly gracing, never retracing.

My steps. I have no regrets, I never forget and I take what I get. Forget the rest. Get dressed. Get out on your Quest.

Your own self don't sit on shelf. Ya got a problem? Well go ____  yourself.

Uh, uuhh, uuhhh-nk!

YOU are in direct violation! You are indirect. In vio-vio, vio-lation. A child's sensation, annihilation of negation and just the right amount of free procreation.

That's nice. I got no vice. I'm on ice. I play my life like the roll of the dice.

No direction--no retrospection. I'm just tryin' to spread a little affection. No need to mention, I'm not tryin' to attract any attention. That's your convention.

I'm not volunteering. I just want a fair hearing. You can't control the car if you just let go the steering. The crowd is cheering or is it jeering? No difference to me cause I ain't the one appearing.

You are in vio-violation. You-you you are inviolate of the code. You have no helmet on your cat. You could go to jail for that.

Jail for that.

Jail for that.

Jail for that.

Another Nutjob Personal Ad Rough Draft

Whoa! Hi there. I'm Andrew, I'd love to meet you and avoid trying to describe myself. I'm a first time ad placer; I've never done anything like this before in my life. I am interested in meeting a girl for friendship, fun and romance. 

Well, where would I take you, and what kinds of things would we do? Call me and find out. 303-6961. 

Ok, so I'm 5'9", 160, blond, green eyes, John Lennon fashion eyewear, favor Classic and Underground Rock, laid-back, neo-sixties type outlook on life, like simple pleasures. Like walking hand in hand down a shady lane, or hiking to a secluded picnic spot, bringing along the choicest of party supplies. I play guitar. I like to dine out, but I wouldn't mind cooking for the right woman. I can follow a recipe. 

Aw, shucks - - this is just not fair. Please call me, 303-6961. Let's go out, let's get wild, let's get naked (just kidding...sort of).
 
Let's meet, become acquainted and spend some time together. See how it goes. What could go wrong?

----
 
I'm a nice guy. Ask my mother. No, heh, don't do that. Ask my roommate. If he ever comes home. Well, I gotta go. But hey, all I am saying... is give me a chance...all together now.

----
 
Oh, by the way I am the rugged burly outdoor type, perfectly capable of growing a ZZ top beard, though I choose to be clean shaven most of the time. Also, I live in a tiny cluttered apartment. But I'd move out for the right woman, providing her house was large enough.
 

TV is bad (1991 unfinished mini-rant)

Television is a drug. We come home, tune in, turn on and drop off. We are too dependent on the bright-flashy images to develop thoughts or ideas of our own. So we accept the pre-fab, FCC-approved TV life. Along with guiding our mores toward the "norm" and our purchases toward the correct brand of underarm protection, this drug of docility perpetuates societal status quoism.

Little Shy Horses (91)

Little Shy Horses

Step so gingerly.

They don't strut their stuff like other horses do.

Their nostrils never flair.

Snorting's not their style

But they're just waiting for their chance to be wild.

They unpretentiously let their mane fall to one side as

They quietly drink, first making sure they are completely unobserved.

They yearn to frolic, to scrape and scuff the earth, to run

Like thunder across the open plain.

But the gate, which will remain forever shut, keep

Shy little horses, imprisoned behind longing, misty

Shy Little Eyes.

5-19-90 Phantom Dog Leap (The night I decided to crash Andrea Enthal's studio at KPFK)

5/19/90

Heh, heh... I guess ol' Hoody was pretty buzzed when that one came around. Yep, as near as I can see, which is pretty darn near, let me tell you. Yeah, an ol' Hoody's pretty buzzed right now, so take a phantom dog leap into the wild night air. Once it becomes night, that is. Drinkin' a San Miguel. Smellin' clean, cause I just took a shower. It is going to take a phantom dog leap tonight, as a matter of fact. No one needs a phantom dog leap more than I do. Goes without saying. Come on... Yeah.... go on, now... aw haw... do it...

if i don't slip in the shower pretty soon, i guess i'll die.

5/19/90

HON -- ling long, a long a lingy ling...

DON -- long ling, a ling a lingy lang...

HELLO -- hello. Hello, again low again, lee again...

SH---boom, SH-boom (life could be a dream,)

La,da-da-da-da, da da da, da-da-da...boom, SH--boom

(if I could take you up to paradise up above,) SH--boom

(if you would tell me I'm the only one that you love,)

Life could be a dream sweet heart!

5/23/90

hele helee heellleeee!

hele helee Ailleeee!

heellleeee! helee heellleeee!

helee heellleeee! hele heleeeee!

5/18/90

Takin' it as it comes. That describes me perfectly, right now. I am just caught up in whatever's going on and takin' what life dishes out on the side. If there are desserts and treats, that is fine. I take what I can get. But gettin' don't come cheaply any more. Just to kick back takes a lot of effort, what with all the prescription remedies sold over the counter. Ha!

 

'90s Nutjob Personal Ad Response (unsubmitted, of course)

He greeted her, arms open wide with a smile that contained a promise. He casually strolled on over to where she was standing and planted one right on the kisser. He wrote her a meaningful little note and she respected him. I hope.

Thar be no words for how bawdy it would be, a midnight journey, jess you an' me, we'll kiss beneath the old oak tree...hold that thought this is getting out of hand. Hey so like, what's up? Who are ya? And, like, whadda ya do?

Hey, "My name is Andrew. Call me what you want. I've gone by Drew, Drewski, Hoody..

O.K.. I really dig the simple things in life, the basics, I suppose, the things that it takes having a friend or companion to share it with to make it complete. I love nature, the outdoors, camping, fishing, motorcycle and bike riding, hip-hop dancing with frenzied rock badgers, opening cans of soup, playing guitar, movies, parades, social happenings, dental hygiene awareness rallies... all the same stuff you like.

And together, wow, like we could merge our individual viewpoints and mingle in a oneness of togetherness in our mutual understanding(s). Not unless you wanted to. So, what else will be required to divulge in order to meet you and begin our wonderful relationship?

I'm seventy plus years old, a gay Vietnam Vet aids victim, an alcoholic and addicted to crack. I have a criminal record and am legally insane. I like to get all those things out in the open before I get to how I look, in case you want to reject me, so I won't have to go through it twice.

I am a dwarf, three and one half feet tall. I am bald and fifty pounds overweight, oh and I have huge canker sores, more like lesions really, big festering and oozing scabs and ... the smell, well, we needn't get to talking about the hideous aroma of filth which exudes from my pores. What's there not to like?

I am also a quadriplegic and I have a catheter bag which... O.K. now I've gone off. I'm a regular guy, indescribable, 25- yrs old, 5'9", SWM, 155, Med build, bleached blond EZ rider hairdo, green eyes, I wear John Lennon glasses, have a sort of sixties outlook, like classic rock, alternative and underground, seventies and pop music, whatever. I can groove.

But, all joking aside, and everything, like do ya wanna go out? I'm too weird for you, huh? I knew I shouldn't have brought up the… well, never mind. So, why don't we give it a try, love? I'm a really nice guy who no matter what would never hurt you. I'm safe, not one of "those" guys. Well, sure I'm a gutsy outdoorsman, burly as a bear, but underneath, I'm the sensitive, gentle, caring type. So what could go wrong? Please contact me.

Love, Andrew. Bye!

ANDREW PAUL GOLDING

9817 Imperial. Hwy # 27, Downey, Ca 90242

213 803 6961 (anytime--serious or silly)

Biker Personal (1990-ish)

Hello, my name is Hoody and I like Harleys. 

Big, cop-bike Harleys, choppers, hogs -- the whole lot of 'em. I love 'em all. I am currently planning an invasion of the 48 Continental United States with my buddy and roommate, Brian. We plan to save up enough money to purchase said motorcycles from a police auction, with enough money to get to New Orleans. This we refer to as the pilgrimage. After the money runs out we plan to work our way from town to town washing dishes, digging ditches, picking corn, slopping pigs, playing guitars on street-corners and in bars. We will take in as much of the local color as possible along the way and make as many friends as we can, sowing the seeds of hemp and happiness wherever we go.

So much for the future.

Right now I am looking for a woman, or should I say "a nice girl" who will be my friend to the end and upon whom I can feast my eyes as well as my hands. When I am old(er) I plan to settle down, marry and have children, not necessarily in that order. Hell, if my damsel wants to come along, I'll strap the wench to the back and take 'er with. We won't be stayin' at no Hiltons or Holiday Inns, though, and we will be bathing nude in mountain streams (whenever possible). This whole trip will be a mile-stone in my life and could take up to a year (or more). So, sure, I'd want my woman to come with. Or else I might meet her on the road, in some "Gas Food" stop outside of bum-fuck Alabama. I just don't know. But, hey, in the mean time I am going to need as the silly old song says "Somebody to Love."  Jefferson Airplane, not Queen.

So, here I am, my name is Hoody. Did you get that? Not Andrew, as my parents named me (after a Russian film student named Andrew Yablonski). Not Drew, as my uncle Steve calls me or Andy as just about every employer and supervisory asshole figure in my life has called me—but Hoody. Don't ask why. It doesn't matter.

So, do you want to?

Let's Party!

More tasteless stoned, drunken personal ad ramblings (this is why you're single, dude)

Hey, you sweet little thing. I'm Andrew. And I like a big ass-kickin' woman. No shit. I really dig a broad with balls. And a hairy ass. Yeah, right. Sow-ree. I hope youz ain't disgusted by now. 

Ow righty, hey, lemme ask you a quessshun. What's yer name? I think you are- so beautiful. Look, no! Look me in the eyes! Yes, yess, yes. 

The police found a marijuana garden in the Malibu Hills. It took them two days to find it. No one was arrested, but they said it had an elaborate system of irrigation. What do the police plan to do with all that marijuana? Burn it.
 
"Downwind, we hope," said Jerry Dunphy. 

Yeah, right. I hope I made my point. So what sort of irrigation system do you have?
 
I am Andrew. I said it before. I am a man. I reside in Downey. I stand approximately five foot nine inches tall. I weigh in at a sturdy one hundred and fifty seven pounds, subject to change with lifestyle. But I love to eat like a pig. So who don't? 

I also like to drink like a fish. I have blond hair and sparkling green eyes. Except when they're glassy, or red, or closed, yah, yah, yah. I sport the Easy Rider, neo-biker sixties look, with a California transient musician twist. Yah, yah, yah. 

So what have I left out? I am not a bum. I will treat you right. I will be as Frank as Anne. Or a Hoffy Hot Dog. They both plump when you cook them. 

Hey?! Who's writing this monologue? You're killin' me. Ok, sorry bout that. The script was taken over by the Gremlins. 

So, back to my ass-kickin' woman. She's gotta be tough. When we go out and get into fights with strangers in bars, I'd like a woman who can hold her own. Maybe help me out.
 
Yah. So I like romantic things like nature and moonlight. Or rocks. I go crazy over rocks. Oh, man. And slightly desert canyon passes that go through to small one-diner-towns called Bodfish, population who knows what (those horny country shits).

I love motorcycle ridin' and makin' out under a shady tree, on the top of a hill, with a view of Ernest Borgnine's backyard. We could run down into his meadow and go for cow rides. I know it is not as romantic as horse riding, however, Ernest only has cows.
 
Oh, we could go chicken or pig riding if you like, but I don't see the point. They usually die after you crush them to death. Ok, so that's cruel. We all make mistakes. 

Hey, babe, I love you. You're the greatest.
 
 

Another lame personal ad response (1990)

Huh... Well, less see...Hi! Whoa!! You sexy thing!

Come to find out, I can't even describe myself at all. At all. Does that make me indescribable? In so many words, yes.

So who am I tryin' to fool. I am 70+ years old, I have herpes 10 and have tested HIV positive. So, who's judging?

No, come to think of it I am 25 years old and financially secure (not no big fancy yuppie CEO bank account come lately). I do the 40 hr. week rat trap but for the time being my income is more than adequate and my needs are all met. So what?

So, I am not a bum. Nor am I a junkie. Nor a cigarette smoker. Distaste. I do smoke a pipe, but only with mari-juana in it, and usually with friends.

I don't drink at all. I should, I am getting pretty dehydrated, some leaves are curling up. No that's not true, that would make me a plant. Ok, so I drink a little. Maybe on the weekends, if I am going out with friends. Or after a particularly long day, or with dinner.

Ok, so I drink like a fish. No, I really don't care for the stuff that much, and I could live entirely without it if the right woman were to come along, to make me forget about life's hardships.

What do I like to do? OK, but not necessarily in order of preference: play guitar, sing, converse, make love, ride motorcycles, ride bicycles, write, draw or create artistically, um...dine exotically, cook exotically, visit exotic places, meet exotic people, movies, live music, read, fish.

Ah, whudda you like to do? Art galleries, museums and observatories--yes, but they are dreadful alone. You would have to be my companion or these things will be empty. Mere observances. Things done to while away the midnight hours, all alone.

Like, what am I looking for in a woman? Hell, you tell me and we'll both know. The ideal woman does not exist because perfect people do not exist. But the right woman must have more than her share of good qualities. Qualities mainly of the soul. Kindness, compassion, caring, honesty, intelligence, warmth...just the kinds of things that everybody likes in others.

But if you'd like to know blond or red-head, slender or full-figured, tall or petite--hey, come on over and we'll see. You must be loveable. That is all that matters. To me.

So, I'll get all the Fat Circus freak women and all the abnormally shaped head women, and the ones with club feet and crossed eyes. No. I's sorry. Do I sound malevolent? I's jess foolin'.

Do I sound like a bullshitter? I am not. I don't even like to exaggerate, so I may seem pessimistic. I am not. I am an optimistic realist who acts like a sarcastic pessimist, but I am never cynical. Things really do matter.

So call me. Or write. I can hardly wait.

Love, Andrew

Answering Machine Message (Downey 1990)

Hi, this is Andrew

I’m not at home –or maybe I went fishing

However, leave a message and all that stuff.

If you’re calling about the ad in the Recycler—you have reached the right place.

Um, influences? Hard to say.

Flipper, Hendrix, Sex Pistols, Old Skull, Old TSOL and other hardcore

The music I’m interested in could be anywhere from noise to classical. Well, if I ever get it together. Tell me what you’re interested in and maybe we can jam.

(Take Two)

Hi there, this is Andrew

Too busy to come to the phone, or maybe I went fishing

If you’re calling about the ad in the Recycler, you have reached the Dorkazoid Guitarist.

If you are interested in an eclectic blend of trash, including noise, punk, garage rock, underground rock, metal, hardcore, psychedelic, alternative, progressive, fusion—I don’t know what all this means I’m just making it up. Just be funky and creative and who knows.

Flipper, Hendrix, Germs, Jefferson Airplane, Old Skull, Old TSOL, Clawhammer, Sacred Denial

Trying to write porn while high (Downey, CA 1990)

We fought like pigs in an uproar all day long until it was night. Then we fucked like dogs on a summer night. I wanted to stick a carrot up her butt so bad it made me whimper. I did not come. She had a face that'd make a Ford pickup look like first place in a basket weaving contest. Oh, the shame of it all. To me she was nothing. I could have stuck my dick inside a tube dowel.

Parts is parts.

She flung open her dress to reveal a wooden leg. She was in a piss-poor mood to boot. I could have killed her, but instead I kissed her--with force. I then opened the palm of her hand and gazed into a nebula which revealed another world. One in which humans can see 333 percent better and perceive kHz -.110 to 50,000 just like dogs. Special glands enable us to float above the ground, with only minimal concern.

So once again, I wade and wander to the store, amid stacks of newspapers, and Campbell Soup cans.

ID 01P TITLE web feet SIZE  975

Caress

Yen

MATE

GROAN

LONG

LUST

On the subject of Paul, Timmy and buggars

Timmy never learned. Whatever the case or instance of his ignorance anyone chooses to discuss, Timmy is always going to come out smelling like a transmission. I used to hear it said that Timmy smelled like lots of pork after it's been killed in the sun. And Paul, his brother, known also as “the whale," smelled like some underwear that's been lying in a corner. There is more to it all than that but you must remember that water flows quickly, oil and honey more slowly and shit more slowly than the two of them.

Buggars are the eighth wonder of the world. The first seven pale beside the majestic green olive camouflage bits of olfactory byproducts. Once I knew a man who picked his nose in the window
of a famous restaurant in downtown Hollywood owned by an Iranian Jew named Raji. The man would always ask for this particular window to sit by and would always order coffee and say that he would be ready to order in a little while but that his stomach had to settle, oblivious to the unconcern of the waiter. Then, when the waiter had his back turned he'd pick a big green one and fling it up against the window. I must have witnessed this scene daily from the bus stop outside the window. One time I rode the bus twice in one day, and both times when the bus stopped outside that restaurant I could see the man, evilly leering at the window about to hurl his mucous missile at the glass.

More ramblings on the subject of Paul and Dorsey Fallen

 long forgotten love affairs, buggers hanging out of the na -

Jesse wore his suitcase like a diving bell; he had cut a hole in the bottom so his little head could see inside the small world of clothing and personal hygiene devices. 

Paul was a beautiful baby, very fat and hairy, but that was good, the doctors and specialists all agreed. “A wonderful mongoloid you have there, Mrs. Fallen.” Well, that was encouraging. Timmy had been such a disappointment. Betty had wanted a girl, and Dorsey wanted about four or six hefty men, so there would be someone sure to carry the casket at Betty's funeral. Those are important considerations for a man in the back woods of Kentucky with a four hundred pound wife.

 

Paul didn't know of these plans for a family pall-bearing unit. It would be many years and a whole lot of beers later before Dorsey Fallen would spill his guts to his third son, Paul one day

Then he said to him, "Oh, shut up my man of little cock."

Paul and Dorsey, new typewriter, buggars

Whenever someone asks about the use of gerbils or “the @&

wonders

Long after the first of the Snephites deserted the planet of Dostiv 13, we all had gotten used to the occasional blat of raining down buggars in ;the night.

BuggARS

Buggars in the night or "As the Twinkle toe communist cocksucker got his start.”

Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey woulsd

Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey would always say, but he was good. Best damn retarded kid a man ever had. Dorsey had quite a few things to say about Paul that weren't so kind or generous but Paul never took any of these things to heart. Paul, as myself, does not have any pubic hairs inside of his thighs; he a victim of brutal rape, myself a bizarre shaving accident. No matter, it is unimportant. First, we must ask our

This is a very nice typewriter, although it is somewhat impersonal For instance, if you'll notice, there is no period gracing the end of my last sentence. Yes, MY last sentence. Ok, so it's not the last one anymore, it's a couple back. But on a clear day, when there are no cops or ambulances or people dying in the room next door, you can really get a sense of peace. Not lasting or anything, but you'll never notice if you don't think about it.