Aloha from Hawaii.
I am on the island of O'ahu in the city of Honolulu, Waikiki beach district.
I am once again working as a bouncer for a local night club.
I have come to a good format for the book. It will include expanded and more detailed accounts already posted here, others not yet shared and accounts regarding death and loss from my own experiences. The book is in progress. I have secured a publisher and would like to make copies available free of charge (notwithstanding shipping, of course) to my faithful readers. I will develop this more as things progress and announce how it will be executed when the time comes.
Thank you to everyone who has followed my writing.
In the meanwhilst, I will be providing this site in German, French and Japanese and will have the updated links available soon.
Mahalo.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Thursday, December 9, 2010
July 2nd, 2006 - Part II.
The sun stretches out in slender, meandering patches across the hardwood floor, interrupted by shadows of kitchen furniture and the cross-marks of window panes. I forget, if only for a moment, about the pain in my head and the twisting in my stomach. I do not sit down. "Okay," I say. The left side of my face is warm and greasy from the plastic phone pressed against it. There is a sigh and what sounds like a choked sob on the other end of the long-distance conversation. "I don't know how to tell you this, kid," my father says. There is a seemingly forever kind of pause. I do not breathe. He continues. "Last night...last night Kyle shot himself." The sensation that follows is total and complete. It reaches across all dimensions of my being from my perception of myself, to my physical self, to my spiritual self, to my mental self. They begin to tear. The ripping of the fabric of my reality sounds like a white-noise scream. Shock and awe. My infrastructure is immediately destroyed. Tanks roll over the on-fire citizens flooding the streets to flee their burning houses. Faceless, nameless death squadrons rape and murder every woman and child. The men are all beaten, stomped, clubbed, shot, burned to death...their charred remains devoured by foot soldiers and thin, black wolf dogs. Concrete is reduced to rubble and shattering glass embeds itself in the eyes and fleshy parts of the people. There is much screaming. There is much lamenting. People beat their chests and gnash their teeth. Everyone is drinking each other's blood. There is a great flash and a deafening roar. The winds blow from the center of the earth outward and in a blinding storm everything is turned to so much ash. And then there is darkness and nothing lives inside the city walls ever again.
I start to cry a little. It is the kind of cry a child cries. The cry of a lost person or animal. The cry of someone so beyond the reaches of help. A quiet choke before a drowning person's lungs suck in that first breath of water. Everything is over.
"I am so sorry," my father says. He begins to cry as well. Our conversation is brief. It is undoubtedly as difficult for him to deliver such news as it is for me to receive it. I know not what to do. I hang up the phone and sit down on the floor. Disbelief. "What happened?" asks my sister. I look at her and tell her. "Oh no, brother," she says. She hugs me and I cry again. After a moment I wipe my eyes and seeing that the phone is still in my hand, I dial the only person I can think of that needs to know about this. I call Kevin and tell him what has happened.
"Kyle shot himself last night."
"Noooooooooo."
I hang up the phone and stare out the window to the street at every car that stops and every car that goes. They are all to or from somewhere. None of them appear to notice what has happened and I do not know how they do not know. Why are they not stricken with grief and cutting their own throats and drowning in their own blood? Why are they not sacrificing their children and hanging themselves from the telephone poles and pressing the accelerators of their vehicles all the way through the floorboards of their cars and smashing into each other in glassy, metallic, bloody sprays of gasoline and nightmares? Why are people not smashing their teeth out of their heads on the curbs of nearby sidewalks and why are they not blacking out their eyes with jagged sticks and broken bottles and why are they not stomping burning dogs to death and with white knuckles and splintering fingernails tearing their own faces off? Why are people not stabbing themselves in the stomachs with samurai swords and reaching into their intestines to pull them out and devour them like blind and ravenous sharks? Why?
I do all of these things and at the same time I swallow a 55-gallon drum of sulphuric acid and swan dive from the Empire State Building into a pool of bayonet-toothed Great White sharks and atomic bombs.
I spend the rest of the day smoking on the deck and staring through the world into the nothingness that has become my life and existence. Catatonic with my eyes open. Nearby the crack and bang of store-bought fireworks snaps me in and out of reality in an instant. The crack bringing me back to the present moment and the bang reminding me of what it may have sounded like when he pulled the trigger that fired the round that tore through the soft tissue of his throat and shattered the bone and tore through the brain matter that sprayed out the back of his head when he made the Ultimate Decision.
ul·ti·mate
b: last in a progression or series.
de·ci·sion
3: promptness and firmness in deciding
ul·ti·mate de·ci·sion
1: the decision to take ones life or the life of another.
The warm summer air and smell of drifting smoke and fresh cut grass blows gently all about me as the evergreens whisper secrets to the rustling maples who tell them only to the dandelion skeletons who carry them forever to somewhere else. Cigarette after cigarette, smoke spirals down and to within and coils upward to without into the darkening evening sky. Long after the street lights come on do I rub out the last smoldering bit of ash in the ash tray.
Jesus Hates It When You Smoke.
I start to cry a little. It is the kind of cry a child cries. The cry of a lost person or animal. The cry of someone so beyond the reaches of help. A quiet choke before a drowning person's lungs suck in that first breath of water. Everything is over.
"I am so sorry," my father says. He begins to cry as well. Our conversation is brief. It is undoubtedly as difficult for him to deliver such news as it is for me to receive it. I know not what to do. I hang up the phone and sit down on the floor. Disbelief. "What happened?" asks my sister. I look at her and tell her. "Oh no, brother," she says. She hugs me and I cry again. After a moment I wipe my eyes and seeing that the phone is still in my hand, I dial the only person I can think of that needs to know about this. I call Kevin and tell him what has happened.
"Kyle shot himself last night."
"Noooooooooo."
I hang up the phone and stare out the window to the street at every car that stops and every car that goes. They are all to or from somewhere. None of them appear to notice what has happened and I do not know how they do not know. Why are they not stricken with grief and cutting their own throats and drowning in their own blood? Why are they not sacrificing their children and hanging themselves from the telephone poles and pressing the accelerators of their vehicles all the way through the floorboards of their cars and smashing into each other in glassy, metallic, bloody sprays of gasoline and nightmares? Why are people not smashing their teeth out of their heads on the curbs of nearby sidewalks and why are they not blacking out their eyes with jagged sticks and broken bottles and why are they not stomping burning dogs to death and with white knuckles and splintering fingernails tearing their own faces off? Why are people not stabbing themselves in the stomachs with samurai swords and reaching into their intestines to pull them out and devour them like blind and ravenous sharks? Why?
I do all of these things and at the same time I swallow a 55-gallon drum of sulphuric acid and swan dive from the Empire State Building into a pool of bayonet-toothed Great White sharks and atomic bombs.
I spend the rest of the day smoking on the deck and staring through the world into the nothingness that has become my life and existence. Catatonic with my eyes open. Nearby the crack and bang of store-bought fireworks snaps me in and out of reality in an instant. The crack bringing me back to the present moment and the bang reminding me of what it may have sounded like when he pulled the trigger that fired the round that tore through the soft tissue of his throat and shattered the bone and tore through the brain matter that sprayed out the back of his head when he made the Ultimate Decision.
ul·ti·mate
b: last in a progression or series.
de·ci·sion
3: promptness and firmness in deciding
ul·ti·mate de·ci·sion
1: the decision to take ones life or the life of another.
The warm summer air and smell of drifting smoke and fresh cut grass blows gently all about me as the evergreens whisper secrets to the rustling maples who tell them only to the dandelion skeletons who carry them forever to somewhere else. Cigarette after cigarette, smoke spirals down and to within and coils upward to without into the darkening evening sky. Long after the street lights come on do I rub out the last smoldering bit of ash in the ash tray.
Jesus Hates It When You Smoke.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
July 2nd, 2006 - Part I.
I sit, as I have many times before. Cigarette between my lips, staring into the screen, recalling the past. Walking backward in time.
I wake to the low hum of a window air conditioning unit in my attic room. The sun pours in through the windows. It is 11:00 a.m. and I can tell the day outside is already hot, even in these morning hours. I push the sheets away and lift myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. My head aches, an uneasy feeling washes over me, and though I try to put the feeling out of my head and away from me, it persists. As I stand and stretch, my fingers brush the low vaulted ceiling. I bend down and touch my toes and breathe. The feeling persists.
I carry on about my morning routine of showering, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, eating breakfast and packing my lunch for the day ahead. By 12:00 p.m. I am out of the house, on my bicycle and pedaling toward the train station to catch the train to the north end of town where I will ride my bike two more miles to work. I consider calling in sick.
The train ride is uncomfortable and my head pounds. It is hot and stuffy in the train car, the recirculated air unbreathable. Moments of relief arrive almost too late as the train stops at each station and the automated doors open, letting a rush of thick, warm air in. I consider calling in sick.
At the last station, I take my bike down from the rack and step out of the train car. I step over the frame of my bicycle and begin to pedal toward my job.
A few minutes later the rubber tires of my bicycle coast onto the gravel parking lot of the oil refinery. Tanks loom overhead, forty, fifty, sixty and eighty feet, casting shadows over the gravel and concrete workings. I park my bicycle in front of the office/break room and enter.
It is cool inside and smells of coffee. The cheap kind. The kind that comes in yellow or brown or red plastic buckets with black snap-on lids. The kind that men with tattoos, lifted trucks, sunglasses tanlines and greying ponytails savor as many times throughout the day as they have ex-wives. I pour myself a cup, tear open a package of hot chocolate and stir it in with a straw. I take one drink. It further sours my stomach. I drop the cup into the large grey Roughneck trash can in the corner. It falls in slow motion, the coffee cup a small trash can falling into a giant one.
Marv, the refinery manager, lines out my tasks for the afternoon. Pressure wash the concrete pads around the silos, drain the recirc pool, other things. I nod and "okay" then go up the stairs to the locker room where I don hickory-patterned Cintas coveralls. My head is pounding. I sit down on the bench in the middle of the room. I wonder if it is too late to call in sick.
Outside the sun beats down in an unforgiving way. I wonder if it knows how horrible it makes me feel. I imagine it as some eternally-apologetic abusive parent.
I sweep. I pressure wash the conrete pads. I drain the pool. I check silo temperatures. I crush oil cans and filters. I double over in pain at the can crusher. I have to go home.
I find Marv and tell him I am sorry, and that I must leave. There is no further conversation. His demand for an explanation will be addressed later. For now I walk ten thousand miles across the gravel lot to my bicycle. Jim is riding it. "Marv just fired me, I have to go." Jim gets off my bike. His request for an explanation will be addressed at a later date.
I ride down the cracked concrete back road out to the thoroughfare, across the Expo Center parking lot to the end-of-the-line train station and wait. There are spots in my field of vision. Ink in water. Spreading and dissipating.
The train comes and I repeat my trek to work in reverse order. I arrive at my station and leave with my bicycle, ride back home, all the while my stomach knotting tighter, my head pounding harder, the sun getting hotter. It's been only three hours since I left for work.
I drag my bicycle up the stairs onto the covered deck of our house and lean it against the railing. I open the front door and step inside. The house phone rings. I hear my sister answer. "Yeah, hold on" she says. She appears from the kitchen and hands me the red cordless phone. "It's Dad," she says, "he sounds...". I take the phone and hold it to my head. There is cordless crackle, I cannot tell if it is on my end or his. "Hey," I say. He begins to speak, his voice is high and strained. Something is amiss. "Hey kid," he says, "you need to sit down".
I wake to the low hum of a window air conditioning unit in my attic room. The sun pours in through the windows. It is 11:00 a.m. and I can tell the day outside is already hot, even in these morning hours. I push the sheets away and lift myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. My head aches, an uneasy feeling washes over me, and though I try to put the feeling out of my head and away from me, it persists. As I stand and stretch, my fingers brush the low vaulted ceiling. I bend down and touch my toes and breathe. The feeling persists.
I carry on about my morning routine of showering, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, eating breakfast and packing my lunch for the day ahead. By 12:00 p.m. I am out of the house, on my bicycle and pedaling toward the train station to catch the train to the north end of town where I will ride my bike two more miles to work. I consider calling in sick.
The train ride is uncomfortable and my head pounds. It is hot and stuffy in the train car, the recirculated air unbreathable. Moments of relief arrive almost too late as the train stops at each station and the automated doors open, letting a rush of thick, warm air in. I consider calling in sick.
At the last station, I take my bike down from the rack and step out of the train car. I step over the frame of my bicycle and begin to pedal toward my job.
A few minutes later the rubber tires of my bicycle coast onto the gravel parking lot of the oil refinery. Tanks loom overhead, forty, fifty, sixty and eighty feet, casting shadows over the gravel and concrete workings. I park my bicycle in front of the office/break room and enter.
It is cool inside and smells of coffee. The cheap kind. The kind that comes in yellow or brown or red plastic buckets with black snap-on lids. The kind that men with tattoos, lifted trucks, sunglasses tanlines and greying ponytails savor as many times throughout the day as they have ex-wives. I pour myself a cup, tear open a package of hot chocolate and stir it in with a straw. I take one drink. It further sours my stomach. I drop the cup into the large grey Roughneck trash can in the corner. It falls in slow motion, the coffee cup a small trash can falling into a giant one.
Marv, the refinery manager, lines out my tasks for the afternoon. Pressure wash the concrete pads around the silos, drain the recirc pool, other things. I nod and "okay" then go up the stairs to the locker room where I don hickory-patterned Cintas coveralls. My head is pounding. I sit down on the bench in the middle of the room. I wonder if it is too late to call in sick.
Outside the sun beats down in an unforgiving way. I wonder if it knows how horrible it makes me feel. I imagine it as some eternally-apologetic abusive parent.
I sweep. I pressure wash the conrete pads. I drain the pool. I check silo temperatures. I crush oil cans and filters. I double over in pain at the can crusher. I have to go home.
I find Marv and tell him I am sorry, and that I must leave. There is no further conversation. His demand for an explanation will be addressed later. For now I walk ten thousand miles across the gravel lot to my bicycle. Jim is riding it. "Marv just fired me, I have to go." Jim gets off my bike. His request for an explanation will be addressed at a later date.
I ride down the cracked concrete back road out to the thoroughfare, across the Expo Center parking lot to the end-of-the-line train station and wait. There are spots in my field of vision. Ink in water. Spreading and dissipating.
The train comes and I repeat my trek to work in reverse order. I arrive at my station and leave with my bicycle, ride back home, all the while my stomach knotting tighter, my head pounding harder, the sun getting hotter. It's been only three hours since I left for work.
I drag my bicycle up the stairs onto the covered deck of our house and lean it against the railing. I open the front door and step inside. The house phone rings. I hear my sister answer. "Yeah, hold on" she says. She appears from the kitchen and hands me the red cordless phone. "It's Dad," she says, "he sounds...". I take the phone and hold it to my head. There is cordless crackle, I cannot tell if it is on my end or his. "Hey," I say. He begins to speak, his voice is high and strained. Something is amiss. "Hey kid," he says, "you need to sit down".
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Bullets.
The bullet comes so close to my head I can feel it. A slight and sudden breath. A faint smell of burnt something and metal. There is a solid zip-thwack as it is buried deep into the punching bag just behind me and to my right. "Whoa! Chris, you need to fucking relax!" says Little Nick and takes the G-17 from Chris' hand. I am three months past caring. For a gunshot it makes little noise. A short percussive burst. Anyone familiar with Glock armaments knows this sound. Angry, I go out to smoke, leaving Nick and Kit with Chris.
The neighbor in the adjoining duplex is outside on the small raised concrete slab step, also smoking. He doesn't look the least bit surprised. "Is everything ok?" he asks. "Yes", I respond. He nods. I light my cigarette and blow smoke into the sky, above the lights of downtown, into the stars. "Chris drunk again?" the neighbor asks. I am staring straight ahead, but can see in my periphery that he wears no shoes, only jeans and a white wife-beater tank top. "Yes," I respond. "This ain't the first time", he adds.
The night started like so many before it. I arrived downtown an hour before my shift to get a feel for the night, to get my thumb on the pulse of the city. You never know what to expect at night, down here...so you just have to expect everything and get the feel of the night before you get thrown to the wolves.
I sit for a moment in Pioneer Square. The evening air is warm and smells of food carts and drifting cigarette smoke. People walk by laughing, talking. Summer is something else in this town. I walk down Morrison, turn onto 2nd, pass the used book store, the strip club, turn again on Alder, past the Ross Dress-For-Less and turn right onto 5th. At the corner of 5th and Washington I look east toward the river just a few blocks away. I love this sight. Everest College. Kelly's Olympian. And the Greek. My Greek. Our Greek.
Jake and I slap hands in the doorway of Kelly's as I pass by. Some nameless shitty punk band unloads their crap on the sidewalk in front. I dodge a kick drum and weave through a small group of button-shirt morons and head for the door. Emeric is at the club entrance setting up. People are already lined up. I flash a finger at him to catch his attention and walk on, past the large glass front of the building to the entrance.
Chris and Mike are outside smoking Newports like always. I bum one like always. We smoke and laugh like always. Compliment eachother. Discuss nothing. Look at women both awful and beautiful. These two are like brothers to me. I finish my cigarette and before going through the door I lean in to hand-slap/half-hug Mike. He slaps my back. There is an audible "smack". "Oh shit...like that, huh?" he says and laughs. He's referring to a fresh layer of Class IIIA armor under my shirt. There have been a lot of shootings downtown this summer. "My mom worries about me, you know." I say. Mike and Chris laugh. "That's fuckin' awesome" Chris adds. I pull the door open and step through the threshhold into the restaurant area.
Rachel is just inside the door at the hostess stand. She hugs me like she always does. I hug her back like I always do. The restaurant is full of families and couples, the bar is full of people waiting for the club upstairs to open.
It smells of delicious Greek food. The place is alive. I can hear Brett's bozouki upstairs. I say my hellos to the restaurant staff and go upstairs. Up five steps, then nine more and into the Taverna. The lights are low, Ted is leading men in a dance and Brett plays on. Amber and Harry are at the main bar tonight. I look across the taverna and see Cody is at the small bar.
The Greek Show blends into an hour of Brett DJ'ing while Chris, Mike and I transform the taverna into a makeshift dance club. We push tables to the side, stack and carry chairs up a flight of stairs to be stowed. After about thirty minutes the restaurant is gone and the floor begins to move with people. Brett gives up the decks for someone, I can't remember who. Probably DJ George. D-D-D-D-DJ George.
The night drags on. We look at women and comment on their bodies and things we would like to do to them. There are fights. The club closes. We kick everyone out. We kick everyone off the sidewalks. The police kick everyone off the streets.
We stay and drink. And drink. And drink.
We leave at 5 a.m., exiting out the side door. Chris, Nick, Kit and I walk next door to Peterson's 24-Hour Store. Nick, Kit and I stay outside while Chris goes in to buy cigarettes. I keep an eye on things all the time, drunk or sober, rain or shine. We have enemies down in this part of town and it pays to keep a sharp eye. Nick hands me a cigarette out of his box. I am a regular smoker, yet never have cigarettes. The three of us light up and inhale. The end-of-summer air is beginning to chill. Exhale, and smoke in brilliant blue and white coils into the night sky, illuminated by the neon sign overhead. I notice someone run into the store. I look in, a young African American man runs straight at Chris. Chris does not see him. The young African American man draws back to strike. Slow motion. I drop my cigarette. It burns as it falls through eternity to the sidewalk. Before it hits the pavement in a showerburst of fleeting sparks my SuperStars cross the metal threshhold of the market and touch the linoleum tile inside. There is a solid and definite skin-on-skin sound as the young African American man's fist hits Chris in the side of the face.
I grab the back of his jacket at each shoulder seam and as I pull downward and twist with my hips to the right, quickly kick the back of his right and then left knee and drag him to the ground where I stomp one time on his face. The Drill Instructor played by R.L. Ermy in "Full Metal Jacket" is screaming in my head. "WHY ARE YOU NOT STOMPING HIS GUTS OUT!?" In a north-south mount I choke him as hard as I can. It is not my intention to kill him, but I probably will. Chris is on the ground, he has hit his head and is unconscious. Another man, the young African American man's associate, has entered the store to save his friend. I look up and see him as he pulls a black-handled folding knife out of his pocket. It is the cheap kind you can find at some convenience stores on the north side. I let go of his friend, and turning my attention toward him, stand up and punch him as hard as I can in the throat. He makes a half-gurgle half-yell sound and drops the knife. We both dive for it. It is spinning on the floor, balanced on its hinge pin. Our hands reach for it, but his reaches it first. He rolls over on his back and scoots away with his feet while I get back onto mine. He is leaning over Chris now, the knife is raised in the air no more than two feet away from Chris' face. The knife is coming down, the blade is pointed straight at Chris' throat. I kick as fast as I can and hit the second young African American man under the chin, snapping his head back. The store clerk jumps over the counter. The knife is again sliding across the floor. I jump for it, it lands just out of my reach. I turn to see the store clerk coming at me, he does a head-down tackle dive move, the kind of move that can less a man some teeth, and grabs me around my waist. Nick is in the store now, he is on the store clerk's back. I am driving both of my thumbs into the store clerk's throat, just below his Adam's apple. His eyes look like they are going to explode. Nick punches him what seems like 1,000 times in the side of the face. Chris is getting up, his eyes are already dark. He is dazed. The first African American man is on his knees, getting up. Now the second, reaching again for the knife. Chris steps on his hand, Nick and I throw the clerk back to his counter and we all end up on opposite sides of the store. The two African American men run out the door. I apologize to the store clerk. "I'm sorry. Is there anything we can do?" I look around at the store. Magazine racks are knocked over. Shrink-wrapped flat cases of soda are broken and spilled all over the floor. There are candy bars of many varieties, packaged peanuts, Auto Traders and bent metal racks all over the front of the store. "JUST GET THE FUCK OUT AND I WON'T CALL THE POLICE" the store clerk shouts. The thre of us run out the door, grabbing Kit by the arm on the way across the street to the parking garage where we get into Chris' car.
Chris drives back to his duplex apartment on the east side, all the while swearing to kill the two from the store fight.
We arrive at Chris' duplex.
Inside he punches holes in the wall while I stand in the middle of his living room watching him. Kit is bothered. Nick and I are used to these things. There are bottle caps pressed into the ceiling which spell out the word "Solamente". We are all alcoholics and crazy drunks.
Chris flips over a couch cushion and reaches for something. I can't see what it is, as his back is to me. He turns, not knowing I'm standing where I'm standing and points a gun at the punching bag nearby.
The bullet comes so close to my head I can feel it. A slight and sudden breath. A faint smell of burnt something and metal. There is a solid zip-thwack as it is buried deep into the punching bag just behind me and to my right. For a gunshot it makes little noise. A short percussive burst. Anyone familiar with Glock armaments knows this sound. Angry, I go out to smoke.
The neighbor in the adjoining duplex is outside on the small raised concrete slab step, also smoking. He doesn't look the least bit surprised. "Is everything ok?" he asks. "Yes", I respond. He nods. I light my cigarette and blow smoke into the sky, above the lights of downtown, into the stars. "Chris drunk again?" the neighbor asks. I am staring straight ahead, but can see in my periphery that he wears no shoes, only jeans and a white wife-beater tank top. "Yes," I respond. "This ain't the first time", he adds.
The night started like so many before it. I arrived downtown an hour before my shift to get a feel for the night, to get my thumb on the pulse of the city. You never know what to expect at night, down here...so you just have to expect everything and get the feel of the night before you get thrown to the wolves.
I sit for a moment in Pioneer Square. The evening air is warm and smells of food carts and drifting cigarette smoke. People walk by laughing, talking. Summer is something else in this town. I walk down Morrison, turn onto 2nd, pass the used book store, the strip club, turn again on Alder, past the Ross Dress-For-Less and turn right onto 5th. At the corner of 5th and Washington I look east toward the river just a few blocks away. I love this sight. Everest College. Kelly's Olympian. And the Greek. My Greek. Our Greek.
Jake and I slap hands in the doorway of Kelly's as I pass by. Some nameless shitty punk band unloads their crap on the sidewalk in front. I dodge a kick drum and weave through a small group of button-shirt morons and head for the door. Emeric is at the club entrance setting up. People are already lined up. I flash a finger at him to catch his attention and walk on, past the large glass front of the building to the entrance.
Chris and Mike are outside smoking Newports like always. I bum one like always. We smoke and laugh like always. Compliment eachother. Discuss nothing. Look at women both awful and beautiful. These two are like brothers to me. I finish my cigarette and before going through the door I lean in to hand-slap/half-hug Mike. He slaps my back. There is an audible "smack". "Oh shit...like that, huh?" he says and laughs. He's referring to a fresh layer of Class IIIA armor under my shirt. There have been a lot of shootings downtown this summer. "My mom worries about me, you know." I say. Mike and Chris laugh. "That's fuckin' awesome" Chris adds. I pull the door open and step through the threshhold into the restaurant area.
Rachel is just inside the door at the hostess stand. She hugs me like she always does. I hug her back like I always do. The restaurant is full of families and couples, the bar is full of people waiting for the club upstairs to open.
It smells of delicious Greek food. The place is alive. I can hear Brett's bozouki upstairs. I say my hellos to the restaurant staff and go upstairs. Up five steps, then nine more and into the Taverna. The lights are low, Ted is leading men in a dance and Brett plays on. Amber and Harry are at the main bar tonight. I look across the taverna and see Cody is at the small bar.
The Greek Show blends into an hour of Brett DJ'ing while Chris, Mike and I transform the taverna into a makeshift dance club. We push tables to the side, stack and carry chairs up a flight of stairs to be stowed. After about thirty minutes the restaurant is gone and the floor begins to move with people. Brett gives up the decks for someone, I can't remember who. Probably DJ George. D-D-D-D-DJ George.
The night drags on. We look at women and comment on their bodies and things we would like to do to them. There are fights. The club closes. We kick everyone out. We kick everyone off the sidewalks. The police kick everyone off the streets.
We stay and drink. And drink. And drink.
We leave at 5 a.m., exiting out the side door. Chris, Nick, Kit and I walk next door to Peterson's 24-Hour Store. Nick, Kit and I stay outside while Chris goes in to buy cigarettes. I keep an eye on things all the time, drunk or sober, rain or shine. We have enemies down in this part of town and it pays to keep a sharp eye. Nick hands me a cigarette out of his box. I am a regular smoker, yet never have cigarettes. The three of us light up and inhale. The end-of-summer air is beginning to chill. Exhale, and smoke in brilliant blue and white coils into the night sky, illuminated by the neon sign overhead. I notice someone run into the store. I look in, a young African American man runs straight at Chris. Chris does not see him. The young African American man draws back to strike. Slow motion. I drop my cigarette. It burns as it falls through eternity to the sidewalk. Before it hits the pavement in a showerburst of fleeting sparks my SuperStars cross the metal threshhold of the market and touch the linoleum tile inside. There is a solid and definite skin-on-skin sound as the young African American man's fist hits Chris in the side of the face.
I grab the back of his jacket at each shoulder seam and as I pull downward and twist with my hips to the right, quickly kick the back of his right and then left knee and drag him to the ground where I stomp one time on his face. The Drill Instructor played by R.L. Ermy in "Full Metal Jacket" is screaming in my head. "WHY ARE YOU NOT STOMPING HIS GUTS OUT!?" In a north-south mount I choke him as hard as I can. It is not my intention to kill him, but I probably will. Chris is on the ground, he has hit his head and is unconscious. Another man, the young African American man's associate, has entered the store to save his friend. I look up and see him as he pulls a black-handled folding knife out of his pocket. It is the cheap kind you can find at some convenience stores on the north side. I let go of his friend, and turning my attention toward him, stand up and punch him as hard as I can in the throat. He makes a half-gurgle half-yell sound and drops the knife. We both dive for it. It is spinning on the floor, balanced on its hinge pin. Our hands reach for it, but his reaches it first. He rolls over on his back and scoots away with his feet while I get back onto mine. He is leaning over Chris now, the knife is raised in the air no more than two feet away from Chris' face. The knife is coming down, the blade is pointed straight at Chris' throat. I kick as fast as I can and hit the second young African American man under the chin, snapping his head back. The store clerk jumps over the counter. The knife is again sliding across the floor. I jump for it, it lands just out of my reach. I turn to see the store clerk coming at me, he does a head-down tackle dive move, the kind of move that can less a man some teeth, and grabs me around my waist. Nick is in the store now, he is on the store clerk's back. I am driving both of my thumbs into the store clerk's throat, just below his Adam's apple. His eyes look like they are going to explode. Nick punches him what seems like 1,000 times in the side of the face. Chris is getting up, his eyes are already dark. He is dazed. The first African American man is on his knees, getting up. Now the second, reaching again for the knife. Chris steps on his hand, Nick and I throw the clerk back to his counter and we all end up on opposite sides of the store. The two African American men run out the door. I apologize to the store clerk. "I'm sorry. Is there anything we can do?" I look around at the store. Magazine racks are knocked over. Shrink-wrapped flat cases of soda are broken and spilled all over the floor. There are candy bars of many varieties, packaged peanuts, Auto Traders and bent metal racks all over the front of the store. "JUST GET THE FUCK OUT AND I WON'T CALL THE POLICE" the store clerk shouts. The thre of us run out the door, grabbing Kit by the arm on the way across the street to the parking garage where we get into Chris' car.
Chris drives back to his duplex apartment on the east side, all the while swearing to kill the two from the store fight.
We arrive at Chris' duplex.
Inside he punches holes in the wall while I stand in the middle of his living room watching him. Kit is bothered. Nick and I are used to these things. There are bottle caps pressed into the ceiling which spell out the word "Solamente". We are all alcoholics and crazy drunks.
Chris flips over a couch cushion and reaches for something. I can't see what it is, as his back is to me. He turns, not knowing I'm standing where I'm standing and points a gun at the punching bag nearby.
The bullet comes so close to my head I can feel it. A slight and sudden breath. A faint smell of burnt something and metal. There is a solid zip-thwack as it is buried deep into the punching bag just behind me and to my right. For a gunshot it makes little noise. A short percussive burst. Anyone familiar with Glock armaments knows this sound. Angry, I go out to smoke.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Around The World. (Play It).
In the end it was no longer the city I fell in love with some ten years ago. The majority of the past decade has been spent in Portland, OR, alternately working as a firefighter in the summer and a bouncer in the winter and spring.
The city looks largely the same as it did all those years ago. But, if you know it like I do, you know that the similarities end there.
This notion became apparent to me just two days ago. I was on a bus downtown to meet with my attorney. The bus was crowded, as it was midday and below freezing. I stepped off the bus, not exactly sure of which stop I was at and was suddenly caught in many memories.
I stood in front of the Oregon Pacific building, located at 418 SW Washington. This is the former home of the Greek Cusina restaurant, Greek Taverna bar and the Minoan Banquet Room, which was actually Oregon's largest night club, operating on three levels.
The last time I had been here was nearly one year prior, New Year's Eve 2009. I had come down to have a drink at Kelly's Olympian and see what the business was at my former employer The Greek. Arriving at Kelly's the bar back and sometimes door guy Jake says "Hey, did you hear the Greek's closing?" This had been the word on everyone's lips for years, as the owner was constantly at odds with the city to protect his business against unscrupulous and unethical use of city authorities. I noticed however, that by the entrance of the club, many of my past coworkers were gathered by the door. I decided to go over and check out the situation.
I stepped up to the door, a place I'd been approximately 2,440 times before. Kyle, Theo, Chris, Big Jay, Spice, Harrison, Mayne, Newman and Rachel stood under the single light of the club's unfinished marquee. Rachel had an especially sad look on her face, her eyes hidden by the shadows cast from the light ahead. She looked at me and exhaled a lung full of smoke, something I'd seen her do before...during better times. "What's going on, guys?" I asked. Solemn looks all around. Talk took place. In the end it was all true. The city had enough humiliation at the hands of the Greek's savvy owner and had imposed several liens against the property which the owner solidly refused to pay. This created a legal grounds for the city to close the club. This was the last night it was to be open. I was devastated. I had spent almost every day of the last three years on this block, in this building, keeping an eye on everything like it was my own. This family had to go their ways now.
A rush of cold brought me back to my senses. I had been standing across the street staring at the empty building for nearly twenty minutes in below freezing wind. Its windows were covered with brown butcher paper. The lights were still on after being vacant for nearly a year. It wasn't fair. "We won't!" had been spray painted in one of the upstairs windows in purple and yellow, our old colors. Prosperity and royalty were no more.
I crossed the street and stood in the same spot I had been standing the New Year's before when I got the news. The same spot I smoked my nightly cigarettes while I examined the line for would be toughs and possible troublemakers for years before. The same spot Jay shoved a tough guy into the street lamp and knocked cold. The same spot Mike and I once pocketed over $700 in tips on a Thanksgiving night. The same spot I thought I killed a guy that put his hands on his girlfriend. The same spot Chris and Mike and I squared off against a Vietnamese gang. The same spot Chris had a .38 pointed at his face and told the guy on the other end to fuck himself. The same spot Rachel, Harry, David, Jessica(s), Amber, Marcus, everyone smoked. It was over.
I took a step back, remembering the fight in the convenience store around the corner, remembering every homeless person that remembered me, remembering macing a gangbanger before he got a chance to shoot me, remembering the man that was gunned down on New Year's Eve 2006 that I watched die right across the street. Remembering how Chris and I would tell all the girls we were twins. Remembering how Rudy could not pronounce the word "shorts" to save his life. It always came out like "chorts". Remembering the night Chris almost blew my head off on accident. Remembering shooting guns on drives home. Remembering being the baddest motherfuckers around.
It was empty. I walked to the windows in front and stood on my toes to see over the butcher papered window. Everything was gone but the lights were still on. Probably the ghosts. Probably the ghosts kept them on because they liked it better that way, they liked it when people were around. They liked us.
Everyone has gone their ways. I don't know what became of Amber, Cody or Marcus. I haven't seen Kevin Price in at least a year. I still talk to Mike. He's still doing his thing here, holding it down. Chris moved away and opened a dispensary. Harry moved back to Arcata. I don't know where Jay went, or where Harrison went, or where David, Jessica, Theo, Sean, Josh, Stan, Lexy, Dara, Rachel, Maria, Ted, John, or anyone else went. I don't see anyone anymore. No Emon. No Newman. No Jamie. Nobody.
It was freezing and I started to cry a little bit, missing everything that we all went through together. It was the most fun we had ever had being completely miserable. We had eachother.
The city just wasn't the same anymore. I couldn't walk a block without having five conversations with five different people I knew before. And now it was gone and over.
I walked the rest of the way to my attorney's office in the below freezing wind with nothing but a pair of jeans, some dress shoes and a suit jacket on. Also a shirt. I finished my business with him.
In 5 hours and 11 minutes I board flight 877 to Honolulu International Airport. This marks the end of Chapter 1.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
A Place Where The Wind Blows Forever.
I've returned home. In all truth, I've been home for some time. I returned nearly two months ago, leaving the city and setting out for the small ocean-side town where I spent the first eighteen years of my life. When I arrived everything was new. Everything was old. Everything was just the same as it always had been and I realize now after two months of thought on the topic that there's never anyone to blame but yourself. You can't fault where you are for how you are.
It was still summer when I arrived and the seasons have notably changed from warmth and wind to cold and wind and rain. The sky is gray most all of the time and though the days get darker earlier now each day seems longer than the last. The wind blows steadily and it rains frequently, sometimes six times a day. I remember it being said by a geography teacher during my grade school years that our area received more rainfall in one day than did the Nevada desert in an entire year.
My father was able to get me a job with him at a local plumbing business doing work like digging holes and burying pipes. I once heard that there are no shortage of holes to be dug. By that logic I suppose there are no shortage of holes to be buried.
It has been two months--two separate months. One of hard work every day and, conversely, one of relaxation and recreation. I took up cooking with my significant other. We've begun to learn Japanese. I spend a lot of time watching old samurai movies, more specifically, the works of Akira Kurosawa. My favorites being Yojimbo and Sanjuro. There is something about the black and white that captures so much more than color ever could. I pursued my love of music by joining a local ukulele club which meets every Wednesday at the local senior center. It has been a most comfortable existence. But something is stirring. Much like the windswept trees which face the ocean in our town, things within me do not lie long undisturbed.
Today is Thursday. I spent most of today cleaning my quarters, washing laundry and selecting items for donation to the second hand store. I have trimmed my personal belongings down to just one duffel bag, one backpack and an ukulele.
On Saturday my significant other and I will rent a car and travel back to Portland where she will board a plane to Hawaii and I will spend the next few weeks with my mother and sister and stepfather, awaiting a settlement check from a car accident eight months ago and a "participation mandatory" Candomble procession. Following this I will buy a one way ticket to HNL and fly to Hawaii to meet thousands of years of indigenous history and my significant other.
There is more to say.
It was still summer when I arrived and the seasons have notably changed from warmth and wind to cold and wind and rain. The sky is gray most all of the time and though the days get darker earlier now each day seems longer than the last. The wind blows steadily and it rains frequently, sometimes six times a day. I remember it being said by a geography teacher during my grade school years that our area received more rainfall in one day than did the Nevada desert in an entire year.
My father was able to get me a job with him at a local plumbing business doing work like digging holes and burying pipes. I once heard that there are no shortage of holes to be dug. By that logic I suppose there are no shortage of holes to be buried.
It has been two months--two separate months. One of hard work every day and, conversely, one of relaxation and recreation. I took up cooking with my significant other. We've begun to learn Japanese. I spend a lot of time watching old samurai movies, more specifically, the works of Akira Kurosawa. My favorites being Yojimbo and Sanjuro. There is something about the black and white that captures so much more than color ever could. I pursued my love of music by joining a local ukulele club which meets every Wednesday at the local senior center. It has been a most comfortable existence. But something is stirring. Much like the windswept trees which face the ocean in our town, things within me do not lie long undisturbed.
Today is Thursday. I spent most of today cleaning my quarters, washing laundry and selecting items for donation to the second hand store. I have trimmed my personal belongings down to just one duffel bag, one backpack and an ukulele.
On Saturday my significant other and I will rent a car and travel back to Portland where she will board a plane to Hawaii and I will spend the next few weeks with my mother and sister and stepfather, awaiting a settlement check from a car accident eight months ago and a "participation mandatory" Candomble procession. Following this I will buy a one way ticket to HNL and fly to Hawaii to meet thousands of years of indigenous history and my significant other.
There is more to say.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The money didn't matter to us. It came and it went. When we had money, it didn't last. There were too many clubs and bottles and strippers and new clothes and limo rides and too much cocaine and weed and ecstasy for what money we had to last very long. We partied too fuckin' hard. But mostly, we were broke. Who fuckin' cared? Not us. We didn't do it for the money. We did it because we loved to do it. We did it because we loved each other and we loved our block that we swore to protect no matter what and no matter who. And when there was a shooting or a stabbing or a fight and the police came they talked to us. They showed respect for us like we showed respect for them. We were doing the same job, only we were all criminals. Ha, so were they I guess.
Fights were a staple in the club. The real thrill was the adrenaline. You could hand pick the best looking girl out of the whole pile and the feeling didn't come close to the feeling you got when without warning everything just blew up.
I remember my first night at work. It was a Friday night in the summer of 2007. It was early June. I just landed the position at the club and was on for the first time in a new spot. About two hours after I clocked in there was some kind of argument all the way across the floor on the other side of the club. Before Chris and I could get over there it erupted into a full on brawl. The kind of shit most people only ever see in movies or in wars. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but a couple of guys were tearing their shirts off and coming at me and Chris. One of 'em I smacked pretty hard in the face and he went down. The other one did some sort of football tackle on me. The kind of move that gets your neck broken or your face all kneed up in a fight. A stupid move. I let him push me backward into the wall with his head under my arm and he ended up smashing his face into the marble wall tile. Just then I looked up to see what the hell was going on and there were people running everywhere and girls screaming and there's Chris shoving some guy into an elevator. He turns around to keep a third guy off me and right then from across the hall comes this pint glass out of thin air and smashes Chris right in the teeth. I threw the guy I was dealing with down the back steps and ran over to Chris. He's got blood all pouring out of his mouth and he looks up at me and goddamn if his fuckin' front teeth aren't smashed out. Son of a bitch. Welcome to Oregon's biggest night club.
Ever since that night, we were all thick as thieves. Me, Chris and Mike.
Fights were a staple in the club. The real thrill was the adrenaline. You could hand pick the best looking girl out of the whole pile and the feeling didn't come close to the feeling you got when without warning everything just blew up.
I remember my first night at work. It was a Friday night in the summer of 2007. It was early June. I just landed the position at the club and was on for the first time in a new spot. About two hours after I clocked in there was some kind of argument all the way across the floor on the other side of the club. Before Chris and I could get over there it erupted into a full on brawl. The kind of shit most people only ever see in movies or in wars. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but a couple of guys were tearing their shirts off and coming at me and Chris. One of 'em I smacked pretty hard in the face and he went down. The other one did some sort of football tackle on me. The kind of move that gets your neck broken or your face all kneed up in a fight. A stupid move. I let him push me backward into the wall with his head under my arm and he ended up smashing his face into the marble wall tile. Just then I looked up to see what the hell was going on and there were people running everywhere and girls screaming and there's Chris shoving some guy into an elevator. He turns around to keep a third guy off me and right then from across the hall comes this pint glass out of thin air and smashes Chris right in the teeth. I threw the guy I was dealing with down the back steps and ran over to Chris. He's got blood all pouring out of his mouth and he looks up at me and goddamn if his fuckin' front teeth aren't smashed out. Son of a bitch. Welcome to Oregon's biggest night club.
Ever since that night, we were all thick as thieves. Me, Chris and Mike.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Me. Less Articulate.
Well. I think that's about all she wrote on this topic.
Thanks to everyone for everything. I mean that in the sincerest way.
Thanks to everyone for everything. I mean that in the sincerest way.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Q&A Part III.
Grim writes:
1. Dead people are one thing. What are your views on and how do you deal with the living?
Very good question. As one might imagine, I am not the most tolerant or personable human being on the face of the earth. I hold people to a high standard and anything below that is met with distrust and disgust. I have zero tolerance for any deviation in human characteristic from what I deem to be rational, logical, professional and trustworthy. Which, plays hell constantly because I live in one of the most heavily-saturated human waste areas in the United States: The Pacific Northwest. Let's set the scene. Welcome to the Pacific Northwest. Please, no cars here. And no produce, either, unless it's organic. And please, feel free to have dreadlocks, breast feed in public, steal cultural practices from other people for the sake of your own fashion and style and by all means, roll out of bed, pursue an untrained art career and get drunk all the time! No worries here folks, you can pay your rent with a song! Bills stacking up? No problem! Volunteer two days a month and all your sins are forgiven.
Plainly, I hate it here. It is a hippy la-la land. And to clarify, I don't have anything wrong with hippies. Hippies changed our entire national history...in the 60's and 70's. Now they don't do anything.
If you're not intelligent and you allow your emotions to make your decisions, chances are I hate you and want to stomp your maggot guts out. So how do I deal with it? I just hate everyone all the time. It's a good security blanket. :)
2. Favorite death related movies/music/books?
Nekromantik gets an honorable mention here. It's a disgusting film about a man with my same job, only in Germany. And since it's in Germany, naturally, he absconds with the decedents and takes them home for him and his girlfriend to have sex with. Basically, it's every boy's coming of age tale. Wrong.
STIFF also gets an honorable mention...because it's STIFF. It's one of the best death books ever written.
The Egyptian Book of The Dead...1.5 thumbs up. A little boring.
Music? Death music? Like, death metal? I like death metal because it is exactly what it's supposed to be: over the top, ridiculous, overt messages of death and brutality, fast, edgy, dark. I love it. The lyrical content is absolutely ridiculous and in no way should it be taken seriously. Nile, Devil Driver, Nailbomb, Napalm Death, etc.
3. What did you do/think the first time you ever saw a rotted corpse on the job?
Shmeh. Guess I should take my suit coat off and tuck my tie in. 1, 2, 3, whoops-a-daisy, Carter, there's goes this poor bastard's arm! Alright, let's get out of here so we can go grab a burger somewhere. Officers, if you wouldn't mind, could you please clean up your own vomit? Thanks a million! The end.
4. Did your interest in the dead develop more so after you were hired or was it an interest you've always had that has now started to wane?
Well, the dead are quite uninteresting. They are bothersome and are given to be quite foul and malodorous. My interest in them is nil. However, how they died, now that my friend is something to delve into.
Dead bodies alone, are not that fascinating or scary or whatever you think they might be. They are just what they look like, lifeless skin suitcases. Without the life in them, they're nothing. I think a person needs life and a body to be a human being. Without one of the two they are just meat furniture that needs to be moved before it starts to stink, or starts to rot, or starts to rot any more in any case.
Death has been a theme in my life since I was young. I lost my first friend at age 12 in a drunk driving accident, followed by a string of other deaths including friends being murdered, three ending their own lives, one by the rope, two by the bullet (one of which I cleaned up in my house), 9 by helicopter crash, etc. etc. I think the total is over 20 right now, people I've lost that have been close to me. It's something totally different from what I do though. I never think about the other things when I'm working, and I never think about work when I'm thinking about the other things. It's not so much a dissociation as it is a superior separation of the two, logically. They have nothing to do with each other, and there is nothing gained by comparing them to one another.
5. Do you creep people out when you enter the room? Is your morbid fascination with death a deterrent to most people you meet? How do you handle situations like this?
Let's clear the air (no pun intended). I have no morbid fascination with death. I am interested in the actual physiological happenings that are the cause of death, but I don't dwell on it. I just present the facts as I have witnessed them in my experience.
I wouldn't say I creep people out. Most of the time when I go somewhere, nobody knows that's what I do for a living. That is of course, outside of work. More than anything I think my demeanor is intimidating. When I enter a facility somewhere, the nurse's desk always knows why I am there. I am the only towering person wearing an all black suit in the vicinity. Usually they just point to the morgue when I walk in. It really works like that. I had one woman tell me "I know why you're here." I didn't even have to say anything to her. She just directed me to the morgue, I nodded, and off I went about my/our business.
But as far as being creepy? No. Intimidating, yes. But it's always been that way.
6. Anything "paranormal" ever happen to you on the job?
Of course not, silly. Don't you know that science can explain everything?
There was this one instance.
I was in the basement of a very old funeral home (dating back to the early 1900's). The place reeks of haunt. While in the basement I am checking a body into the cooler and notice something moving around in my periphery. Something like an upright human walking by every time I turn my head. I got a little...nervy. "What do you need?" I asked. There was no reply, of course. So I go back to what I'm doing, and just as I'm turning my head I see this figure float by again. Well, now I'm really thinking I would like to be out of this basement as soon as possible. So I finish my case, ditch my gloves and leave. I'm getting ready to turn the basement light off and leave when I notice the figure again...and my eye feels strange, so I rub it.
It was just a piece of cobweb hanging off my eyelash.
I've never seen anything strange happen. The feelings I get though, are heavy and of much concern. My partner Collins agrees and has this to say on the subject. "Don't think it's not real. They are feelings that are thousands of years old, and they are there to protect you".
That sums it up.
7. Do you ever see yourself writing a book/memoir on your experiences (or on anything else for that matter, fiction or otherwise)?
Oh absolutely. As far as fiction goes, not so much. With reality this strange, who needs fiction? The Stephen King books that used to scare me are clearly now just primers for people who have strange jobs. *Hearty laughter*
Another successful(?) Q&A. I hope that's what you wanted to hear/read.
P.S. if you don't live in the PNW, don't ever visit here. It's stupid.
1. Dead people are one thing. What are your views on and how do you deal with the living?
Very good question. As one might imagine, I am not the most tolerant or personable human being on the face of the earth. I hold people to a high standard and anything below that is met with distrust and disgust. I have zero tolerance for any deviation in human characteristic from what I deem to be rational, logical, professional and trustworthy. Which, plays hell constantly because I live in one of the most heavily-saturated human waste areas in the United States: The Pacific Northwest. Let's set the scene. Welcome to the Pacific Northwest. Please, no cars here. And no produce, either, unless it's organic. And please, feel free to have dreadlocks, breast feed in public, steal cultural practices from other people for the sake of your own fashion and style and by all means, roll out of bed, pursue an untrained art career and get drunk all the time! No worries here folks, you can pay your rent with a song! Bills stacking up? No problem! Volunteer two days a month and all your sins are forgiven.
Plainly, I hate it here. It is a hippy la-la land. And to clarify, I don't have anything wrong with hippies. Hippies changed our entire national history...in the 60's and 70's. Now they don't do anything.
If you're not intelligent and you allow your emotions to make your decisions, chances are I hate you and want to stomp your maggot guts out. So how do I deal with it? I just hate everyone all the time. It's a good security blanket. :)
2. Favorite death related movies/music/books?
Nekromantik gets an honorable mention here. It's a disgusting film about a man with my same job, only in Germany. And since it's in Germany, naturally, he absconds with the decedents and takes them home for him and his girlfriend to have sex with. Basically, it's every boy's coming of age tale. Wrong.
STIFF also gets an honorable mention...because it's STIFF. It's one of the best death books ever written.
The Egyptian Book of The Dead...1.5 thumbs up. A little boring.
Music? Death music? Like, death metal? I like death metal because it is exactly what it's supposed to be: over the top, ridiculous, overt messages of death and brutality, fast, edgy, dark. I love it. The lyrical content is absolutely ridiculous and in no way should it be taken seriously. Nile, Devil Driver, Nailbomb, Napalm Death, etc.
3. What did you do/think the first time you ever saw a rotted corpse on the job?
Shmeh. Guess I should take my suit coat off and tuck my tie in. 1, 2, 3, whoops-a-daisy, Carter, there's goes this poor bastard's arm! Alright, let's get out of here so we can go grab a burger somewhere. Officers, if you wouldn't mind, could you please clean up your own vomit? Thanks a million! The end.
4. Did your interest in the dead develop more so after you were hired or was it an interest you've always had that has now started to wane?
Well, the dead are quite uninteresting. They are bothersome and are given to be quite foul and malodorous. My interest in them is nil. However, how they died, now that my friend is something to delve into.
Dead bodies alone, are not that fascinating or scary or whatever you think they might be. They are just what they look like, lifeless skin suitcases. Without the life in them, they're nothing. I think a person needs life and a body to be a human being. Without one of the two they are just meat furniture that needs to be moved before it starts to stink, or starts to rot, or starts to rot any more in any case.
Death has been a theme in my life since I was young. I lost my first friend at age 12 in a drunk driving accident, followed by a string of other deaths including friends being murdered, three ending their own lives, one by the rope, two by the bullet (one of which I cleaned up in my house), 9 by helicopter crash, etc. etc. I think the total is over 20 right now, people I've lost that have been close to me. It's something totally different from what I do though. I never think about the other things when I'm working, and I never think about work when I'm thinking about the other things. It's not so much a dissociation as it is a superior separation of the two, logically. They have nothing to do with each other, and there is nothing gained by comparing them to one another.
5. Do you creep people out when you enter the room? Is your morbid fascination with death a deterrent to most people you meet? How do you handle situations like this?
Let's clear the air (no pun intended). I have no morbid fascination with death. I am interested in the actual physiological happenings that are the cause of death, but I don't dwell on it. I just present the facts as I have witnessed them in my experience.
I wouldn't say I creep people out. Most of the time when I go somewhere, nobody knows that's what I do for a living. That is of course, outside of work. More than anything I think my demeanor is intimidating. When I enter a facility somewhere, the nurse's desk always knows why I am there. I am the only towering person wearing an all black suit in the vicinity. Usually they just point to the morgue when I walk in. It really works like that. I had one woman tell me "I know why you're here." I didn't even have to say anything to her. She just directed me to the morgue, I nodded, and off I went about my/our business.
But as far as being creepy? No. Intimidating, yes. But it's always been that way.
6. Anything "paranormal" ever happen to you on the job?
Of course not, silly. Don't you know that science can explain everything?
There was this one instance.
I was in the basement of a very old funeral home (dating back to the early 1900's). The place reeks of haunt. While in the basement I am checking a body into the cooler and notice something moving around in my periphery. Something like an upright human walking by every time I turn my head. I got a little...nervy. "What do you need?" I asked. There was no reply, of course. So I go back to what I'm doing, and just as I'm turning my head I see this figure float by again. Well, now I'm really thinking I would like to be out of this basement as soon as possible. So I finish my case, ditch my gloves and leave. I'm getting ready to turn the basement light off and leave when I notice the figure again...and my eye feels strange, so I rub it.
It was just a piece of cobweb hanging off my eyelash.
I've never seen anything strange happen. The feelings I get though, are heavy and of much concern. My partner Collins agrees and has this to say on the subject. "Don't think it's not real. They are feelings that are thousands of years old, and they are there to protect you".
That sums it up.
7. Do you ever see yourself writing a book/memoir on your experiences (or on anything else for that matter, fiction or otherwise)?
Oh absolutely. As far as fiction goes, not so much. With reality this strange, who needs fiction? The Stephen King books that used to scare me are clearly now just primers for people who have strange jobs. *Hearty laughter*
Another successful(?) Q&A. I hope that's what you wanted to hear/read.
P.S. if you don't live in the PNW, don't ever visit here. It's stupid.
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