THE CAT FIGHT

On a balmy Saturday evening the summer before I turned fourteen I was hanging out on the main part of downtown Jimson City which  consisted of five blocks.  It was about 9:00 at night and there was a sizable crowd, mostly farmers, in to buy groceries and get hog feed and such like, with a smattering of residents of the town.  (first time I ever said 'and such like')
I was standing on the sidewalk at the alley with some other idlers when two women approached from opposite directions.  They met at the mouth of the alley, placed their purses on the ground and proceeded to go at each other.  Without a word they pulled each others hair and scratched each other.  They fell to the ground and rolled around on the dusty bricks, hitting and tearing each others clothing.  All this in almost slow motion like an intense silent movie.
By this time a large crowd of onlookers had gathered.
As suddenly as it had started and without a word being spoken they broke it off, dusted themselves off, picked up their purses and walked away in opposite directions.
And I could hardly wait until I could see this again, confident in my youth that this went on frequently and possibly even for my entertainment.  In almost fifty years I have never seen anything to approach it.

I sent this story to a girl I graduated high school with.  She wrote back;  "I remember my dad talking about the fight on Main Street.  He said the women fought like cats and dogs!  He said the people who saw it said they would rather fight a man than those women."

THE SHADOW SAYS:  WHO SAID SMALL TOWNS ARE BORING?

METROPOLIS REVISITED

everywhere

in the city

it cost a pretty penny

to maintain

a standard that only a few aeons before

had seemed attainable

acquire squatters rights

in a decent slum

and the first thing you know

here come the homosexuals

with the quick dart and thrust

of their paintbrushes

obsessive butterfly shades

well  yes  it does look better

but.............

and then the trendy

nouveau riche

bourgeoisie

flatulent parvenu

who discard a twentydollar cigar

into the gutter

after three puffs

because they don't know how to smoke it

inflating rents

driving

the price

of a piece of property

                                                up

past all grasp of reason

of the universal man

real estate developers

quick to exploit

as a buzzard hawk

senses carrion

have vanity pieces

written into the local rag

which would sell

its grandmother

for the price of a barrel of ink

the ghost of herr goebbels must chuckle

when the city "relocates"

the homeless interlopers

as god bows to Mammon

they close the place at sundown anyhow

and padlock the tearoom doors

but the paddyrollers will shoot you

if you don't watch out

and you will not pass go

and they will not go to jail

and they can collect $200

"administrative leave"

and blood will out

while our future

is pissed out upon the street

$100 REWARD

LIONEL

RUNAWAY

SCARS ON BACK AND ARMS

AND PSYCHE

METAL RING IN NOSE

LAST SEEN WEARING

BLACK LEATHER JACKET

WITH PENTAGRAM ON BACK

AND AN ATTITUDE

and the congregants

hire their preachers

to wax so highly

in their chapels

of jesus the redeemer

not a social

activist among them

while the people

cheeer the garish colors

of the gladiators

in their temples

along the platte

and they will all go to heaven

in coral gables

and I will search for new slums

each more scarce than the last

i think of the land

i so swiftly left as a youth

and of the arbor with the sweet purple grapes

the gospel according to saint john

chapter eleven

verse thirty five

                                                            daniel wenger

                                                   2/97

 Re posted from Jan. 12, 2012

THE SAD UNTIMELY END OF MAXEY

THIS I REMEMBER

 

Pretty much everyone in town knew Maxey and they all knew he was queer.  That was the word back then, a hurtful word, instead of the present term "Gay".  Personally, I never saw much that was gay about the whole thing.  Anyway, Maxey was born queer, came up queer and it was a given fact, like the landmark gray water tower that had JIMSON CITY painted on the side in big black letters.  

Maxey was a quiet guy who minded his own business.  He was, however, hypervigalent.  His black eyes, which had an intense haunted look, never missed a thing, including me on the day I buried his cousin, Daisy.  I did not speak to him then but we exchanged furtive glances, him suspecting and me not ready to address the terrible possibility.  

He graduated from Jimson City High and like many young men his age was drafted into the army in World War II.  This may not have been the hardship for Maxey then it was for other young men of that period.  When Maxey returned from the war he moved in with his aunt, Hattie Crumbarger.  Hatty was 87 and while alert and able to get around on her own, still needed someone to be with her.  Maxie got a job at the Chrysler plant over at the neighboring city of Indifference and life went on much as before.

On a warm evening in the spring of 1966 the heavy smell of honeysuckle must have gotten to Maxey.  Now in his early 50's he drove to Capitol City and found a companion for the evening.  Maxey brought him back to Aunt Hattie's brick bungalow in Jimson City.  Sometime in the early morning hours, he and his new friend started arguing.  Some said over money, an unexpected request or charge by the visitor.  The altercation became quite vocal and loud enough for someone to call the local Marshall.  It certainly wasn't Aunt Hattie who retired at 8 o'clock and was deaf as a post anyhow.

At any rate, two of the town's cop's responded to two different calls.  They were Leroy and Buster Branch, first cousins.  They both arrived separately, and rounding a corner of the house from opposite directions, drew on each other and by the grace of God did not shoot each other.

As I got the story the trick was escorted to the county line, put out of the sheriff's car and was told not to either come back or look back.  He eagerly complied.  Maxey, however was arrested and taken to the office of the High Sheriff of Bindweed County, Angus McQuade.  I never learned what charges were filed against Maxey, if any.  I don't think it was illegal, even then, to be queer in Indiana.  Texas, probably.  There he was apparently grilled strenuously and forcefully (some say bullied) by the sheriff and his staff  until he suddenly slumped in his chair, the  victim of a massive stroke.  He was rushed by ambulance to the VA hospital in Capitol City

I got the call from the Veterans Administration three days later to come down and pick up Maxey's body and the American flag under which he had served.  He was buried next to his parents in the IOOF cemetery in a plain silver colored casket, the bright red stripes of the flag intensified by the warm spring sun.  The members of the American Legion post served as pallbearers and honor guard complete with firing squad and a kid from the Jimson City High School Band playing taps.  That always got to me.

Angus McQuade was elected to three more terms as High Sheriff of Bindweed County.  To my knowledge no charges were ever filed against him.

And Maxey,  an honorably discharged queer veteran of the United States Army  who had served throughout World War II, cannot speak from the grave.

You will not find Justice in Bindweed County, Indiana!

 

 

 

 

 

NEEDING

To spend another evening

With an ungrateful

                                                Cat

I think not

To go back and get what you want

                No

                                Need

Denying the denial that you have need

For anyone

So beautiful

And unexpectedly vulnerable

Making the situation all the more delightful

                Caffeine

                Nicotine

                Prayer

Barely masking inherent lust

Cautious

Establishing trust

Searching for the dishonesty

Having been burned

Winning points for being gentle with el gato

I watch for small things

Small feelings of liking over shared food

When blessed fate propels you into my kitchen

And my long unshared bed

                II

     Ambivalent heart

                Pounding

As to break the very ribs that bind and protect

And jump free as its own entity

Run away frightened heart

An alien in an alien land

Dark hair on a golden body

So beautiful

Eager desperate embrace

Needing to hold and to be held

Cursing the damned guilt for ever having

Such a need

Why guilt for needing to be loved

And I

Who reconciled long ago

But remember before

The first scab of healing had begun

Respect the boundaries

Even as they close before me

And sometimes

Question the future

Of gentlemanly behavior

As I scratch through the litterbox of my life

I wonder

Did you run away

                                           for: l t

THE WIDDER MULDOON

LOVE IS BLIND BUT THE NEIGHBORS AREN'T.

     It was the summer of Woodstock.  Of free sex and 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds'.  It was the summer he buried Big Mike Muldoon.

     He was vaguely aware of an unarticulated restlesness.  Approaching his 29th birthday he found himself stuck in a cultural backwater. He had acheived all his goals early in life and now found himself the proprieter of a small storefront mortuary in an even smaller neighborhood.  It was generating enough business to feed his family, but not his ambitions.

     His marriage was degenerating into a loveless union of convenience, held together by the children and financial needs.  His wife, whom he privately thought of as 'Our Lady of Perpetual resentment', was angry and unhappy with herself and as a result, insecure to the point of paranoia.  She repeatedly accused him of infidelity when he had been faithful, at least physically, for their entire marriage.  He did not know how to help her.

     Big Mike Muldoon was a foreman in the rock quarry owned by his Uncle until the day the summer before when a huge chunk of limestone being loaded onto a flatcar broke loose, pinning Mike against the side of the hoist engine.

     After he was freed and rushed to the hospital in Capitol City, he underwent emergency surgery followed by weeks of physical therapy.  In the end Big Mike was paralyzed and would never walk again.  His wife Sarah, tended him for a year but his health slowly declined until he died in midsummer.

     Since they were both the same age and moved in the same social circles he was familiar with both Mike and Sarah.  He was called on to attend to the funeral of Mike as he had been at the passing of Sarah's father four years before. 

     It was the afternoon of visitation.  Everyone had departed except Sarah.  She stopped at the door on the way out and engaged the Undertaker in a frank conversation.  She had had a year to accept the fact that she was goinng to lose her husband and to even mourn his passing.  She indicated to him that she had not experienced the intimacy of a man for a long time.  That she missed and even needed it and that she was ready and would even welcome it.

    Sarah Muldoon was zaftig.  Short, pleasingly plump.  Buxom with black hair and Irish good looks.  He had no idea of how vulnerable he had become.  He was not used to being propositioned and was usually obtuse when it happened.  Here was this desirable earth mother throwing herself at him with her dead husband lying in a casket in the next room.  The absolute absurdity of the situation did not strike him.  He had been accused of this very thing for so many years that he thought "What the Hell, why not take it".

     A few days later he visited Sarah in her railroad flat above Greenberg's Delicatessen.  

     He left an hour later, leaving Sarah in a better frame of mind than when he arrived.

     Walking back to his own home, he experienced a sense of shame and guilt over his actions.  Facing his family, he realized he had betrayed a sacred trust.  Once a person has crossed that line it is easier to cross it again and again. 

True Story.  The names and place names have been changed to protect the guilty. 

 

WIVES, EX WIVES, FRIENDS AND ONE NIGHT STANDS

The time has come for the shadow to morph again.  I need to stop and consider in what direction I want to take this thing.  I started out thinking perhaps I could record a few stories and anecdotes of things I had seen and done.  Not everything I have done, because some of the things I have done are not admirable.  I do, however, have to own my own shit.

The response to what I have put on this blog has been satisfying and rewarding.  As I gained steam I went into political and social consciousness.  I have an inherent hatred of injustice and I find too much of it in the human condition.

The past two or three years have found me with some personal

struggles which have weakened me to a degree.  My spirit is not quenched but I need to conserve energies in order to regain my strength.  My eyesight is diminishing to the point that it is affecting my quality of life. I am facing the possibility of more eye surgery.  I always thought the two worse things that could happen to me would be to lose a child or to go blind.  The Cosmic Jester has decreed.

    

I have been under some pressure by some of my readers to yield to their more prurient interest and write about my lovers.  I thought originally that I could get away with writing about other peoples lovers.  But apparently not.  I shall write more on that subject in the future.  In the meantime, if you must know------- I lost my virginity in a whorehouse in Nuevo Laredo.  She said her name was Helen.  I was 19.  She was 45.

Writing about lovers suddenly seems sort of personal.  It’s not nice to kiss and tell although I suppose I am a bit of a libertine.  I pulled the name for this blog out of my, um, ear.  It depends on the definition of ‘lover’.  Wives, ex wives, friends and paramours just doesn’t cut it.  I have had many and varied partners.  The word ‘partner’ sticks in my craw.  It sounds like we have staked out a gold claim up in the mountains.

I shall continue to write as much as I can as long as I can.  I am now 72 winters.  I have outlived many of my friends and most of my enemies.  I have periods of crippling depression.  I have had one too many lovers.

Hear me my chiefs!  I am tired.  My heart is sick and sad.  From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.

                                                                                      Chief Joseph

BETTE DAVIS EYES

 

          There was a time when the girls were five or six years old and we lived in the house on Lamar Street.  They did a little chorus line song and dance shtick, something copied from TV.  It was the cutest thing I had ever seen, then or since.  I quickly projected that they were beautiful and talented.  That they would go on to become big name entertainers, play to huge throngs of people and have their name in lights.  They would grow to adulthood together and be close like that all their lives.  They would support each other into old age long after their parents were gone.

It didn’t work that way at all.  They are both gone from me now.  I have, in essence, lost both of them.  One is living out of state and estranged from me.  The other took her own life twenty eight years ago today, April 22, 1985.  I would never be able to give her away as a bride should she choose to marry.  Never knowing the man she married and maybe even liking him.  Never holding her children---my grandchildren.

I remember long ago making funeral arrangements for a woman of great age.  Her children asked that I list by name among the survivors, a child who had died forty years before.  The newspaper didn’t want to print it until I insisted.  They took the attitude that the family should “Get over it”.  I understand much more now than when I was a younger man.

For years I lived with a constant, burning, all consuming rage.  Gone now except for searing nanoseconds of vignettes.  Images that come suddenly in the day or in the nights.  I don’t talk about it except in therapy but it never goes away.  Children should bury their parents.  Parents should not have to bury their children.