Jackie-O's Part II

You may recall from previous stories that Padre is filled with colorful people and colorful addictions. How I came to be surrounded by such charming spirits (if by charming you mean strung out derelicts and frightening) was a combination of lack of funds and....that was it really. I guess there's no combination for it at all.

In any case, the day after Crack-head Mickey came over and tried to rob me of my Apple Jacks, the Landlord changed the locks on his apartment. As it were, it wasn't even his apartment. He was staying there because his girlfriend--a gal that my landlord said (and I quote)-- " had been put to bed wet a couple of times, if you know what I mean". **Chuckle chuckle** in response. Although deep down inside....No.? I don't know what that means. Was she known for getting drunk and falling into the bay? Perhaps, like me, she had an affinity for the beach and passed out there frequently--only to have the tide come and get her wet. I'm not sure. But she was my true neighbor and her crackhead boyfriend was house sitting while she was on vacation in Seattle.

When the landlord locked the door on Mickey, he started sleeping in the apartment complex laundromat (that is to say, in a garage with a washer, dryer in it).

Two weeks past and not a stir from the apartment next door. At 2:30a.m. I woke up to a pounding next door. It went on for 5 minutes. Silence...but not lasting silence. A calm before the storm silence. CRASH!!! Hooray, I was correct! A storm was brewing! Not only was I entertained by the breaking and entering taking place next door via the broken sharded kitchen window...I was also in fear of my life, thinking I would be next.

After calling the police and the landlord, we found out that it was the maiden who owned the place (own = rent). She had just gotten back from Seattle. Instead of going straight home and unpacking, when she arrived, she headed to the local watering hole, got drunk, and came home to a locked apartment and soon found out her keys no longer worked. Logically, she broke the window to get inside so she could sleep (but I didn't check to see if she was wet).

She was evicted the next day, but her boyfriend continued to sleep in the garage.

Boat Show

In those days, Coffeyville Kansas was a small town that didn't ask for much. Aside from a demolition derby here, and a reenactment of our towns' folk killing bank robbers there, we didn't have much for entertainment.
So the perplexing question my father must have asked himself daily..."How do I entertain these 5 kids of mine?"
VIOLA!!!
BOAT SHOW. YES!

What better way to bond with the family, than to load into an aerostar, drive 1.5 hours, to look at boats inside a convention center. (There is no water inside this convention center. The boats just sat there lifelessly).

I was four. In my lust for boats at that age, I must have gotten really excited by all the boats...or shall I say, mom and dad must have gotten really excited by all the boats, because the only true memory I have of that boat show is being carried by a man in a cowboy hat to the lost and found children (apparently cowboys don't like children wondering around boat shows unattended).

I was put in a play pen with other kids whose parents too, had been caught up in the hype of a still boat on concrete. Later I was reunited with my family.

The next day I was given a friendship bracelet from my mom...It looked like any standard velcro, wristband, bracelet of the decade...except this bracelet was extra special. For this bracelet had a curly chord (like that of a telephone) which connected to moms wrist. At four years old, I had never been so embarrassed.

I looked so uncool playing in my front yard with (literally) a leash tied to my mom's arm.

The leash came in handy later though when we all played house. Naturally, I was the dog.
In today's society, neighbors might frown on children running around in the front yard, while tied to a tree.

But in those days, they smiled and waved as I barked when they went by.

Jackie-O's

It was really humid. In those days (post-Ludlow, in the apartment, across from the Marina), I'd wash my face three times daily to prevent unwanted white-heads. They still came. I never cried about it. I rarely cry about zits (much to the surprise of my family. And quite the opposite of any reaction that occurs when testing my doomed fate of seeing any picture put forth by the creators of "Magic Eye", the book. Those things can suck my balls--see "Note Found on Floor" post.)

After a day of cruising for fat chicks (not really), I returned home slightly defeated and sweaty. Upon the arrival to my apartment stood a man built with a 12 pack and a mountain of chest hair for which you could donate for love.

"I'm from Seattle," he said, but dare I say, he had shifty eyes?

"Oh so you smoke Pot," I said, clearly stereotyping every shifty eyed, soul who ever donned the title, "Seattle-ian.--or Seattle-ite". In my naivete, I naturally assumed everyone from Seattle smoked pot...............................a curve ball:

"Crack actually..." as he rubbed the back of his head with a coy look in both his eyes--as if he'd just done something ornery.
"I had to quit it though, cause it made me crazy and I kept telling my dealer I was going to rob him. So I don't do that anymore. **creepy chuckle chuckle**"

In my life, I've been fortunate enough not to participate in the taking of Crack-Cocaine. You may call it good luck. There was a time in my life however, that I watched "Death to Smoochy" nearly every night for an entire week! And this I cannot explain. But on a said night (day 3 I believe) a violence came forth from a pounding on my door.

Shifty eyes. He had the look of a mad-man and spoke like a wild park ranger whose favorite bear was no longer stealing pic-nic baskets, but rather stealing small kids and eating them.

I invited him in. Not because I'm "nice" per say...it'd be more accurate to state that sometimes I do dumb things.

Turns out that earlier this day, the googly-eyed maniac had been walking down the street, gently minding his own business, when two homosexuals called him a faggot. ...and he said, "I ain't no faggot!!!!"

(I'm not sure what to call what he did next...I'll call it "air-bonging"...much like any awesome person plays, "air guitar", apparently when a crack-head is justifying the reason why he smoked crack, he may include a pretend hit of a crack-pipe...from a homosexual). He proceeded to "Air-Bong" a crack hit. Sitting on my love seat (next to me), he inhaled deeply and forcefully. A broken smile became a cemented image on his face as he held his breath, still smiling brightly with his teeth clenched tightly. It was a harmonious moment in time when all seemed right with the world...but not really.

When he let out his breath he casually told me he was there to rob me. Not having anything of value, I asked him what he planned to rob me of.

"Well I was just walking by and I saw your Jackie-O's"

"You mean my Apple Jacks? Well I can't have that. I'm calling the cops. Please leave."

The Son of Ludlow

I was laying in bed, trying to fall asleep in the place I now called home. The home of Ludlow. On this special evening, his son, Lenny, (an alcoholic man of about 40) had traveled down from Corpus Christi.

"I've gotta tell you Chreese, what you deeed, it took a lot of baaaalllls man...moving to a place where you don't know anyone, living in a tent...."

I didn't know what to say. I guess that's one way to look at it. Another way might be to say I was incredibly young and immature.

As I laid down to rest that night, I found myself, laying in the same room as Lenny, listening to his disgusting tales of life. The bedroom was big and had two full sized beds on the opposite ends of the room. He told me about his experience on the island, taking ecstasy and smoking drugs.

When I woke the next morning Ludlow, the frail, old, Mexican man was standing beside my bed and clapped to wake me up.
CLAP!
"My Friend! You WANT SOMETHING TO EAT, NO!?!"

When I came back from the shower, Lenny had gotten into my clothes and was wearing my tattered jeans, and a pearl snap shirt, both of which belonged to me.

"Lenny!!!??? Why are you wearing my clothes?"

"Oh sorry man....COMMUNITY CLOSET!" And he said this, as if it made perfect sense. As if I were somehow lesser of a man for not knowing what this meant. The day went on. I went to the beach, Lenny went to Mexico for a "business" meeting. He came back thrashed. His dad cried and sobbed that night in my arms about how much he missed his wife (who'd passed). What am I supposed to say? "Hang in there...keep your chin up...I know how you feel...". I said nothing.

Lenny was passed out in the giant bedroom from his business drinking. At midnight he rose, stumbled out into the living room and proceeded for the front door.

"Going back to Corpus" he slurred, (which is a 4 hour drive).

"Before you leave, can I have my clothes back?"

And he pulled the shirt off his back...pulled the jeans off his legs and left them in a heap on the floor, and left.

I watched him stumble to his truck. I was slightly confused by the absurdity that was Lenny. His truck Vrrroooommed, and he sped off. Sped off in nothing more than a cowboy hat, and tighty whiteys.

Note found on floor last year

I
Hate Mr.
Noel.

he can suck
my
balls.

The day/night my tent broke

I realize now how long posts rarely get read.

One night I was sleeping in my home on the beach (which was a tent--see "arrival on the isle" for details).

A whopper of a squall came across the water and blew my home down...with me in it.

The next day I interviewed for a job at the Sheraton (I didn't get it cause I kept staring off into space from lack of sleep).

It was the longest night of my life.

5 days later I was living with a 70 year old Mexican man named Ludlow.

One year later