CHAPTER 36 A Little More To The Left
Collectively, some sociologist must have searched out all the borderline criminals they could find for this Economic Development Program. We could all have gone either way, and some already had.
The crews were run with clockwork precision for the first week or two,then spring moved into early summer and things got hot. Several guys dropped out, people stopped coming to the park and the work got much easier cleaning up after them. Our crew became highly tuned though and we began to find unusual things in the park. Gila Monsters, very old beer cans (one with beer still in it). Food, sometimes. Once on a day that I was sick with the flu, the crew found the body of a dead girl. Murdered. Unquestionably. This motley crew began to find or create fun, in almost everything we did. Grown men at play. Our truck was a 1 1/2 ton beige pickup with a steel sun shroud on the back. Our driver Al, was a young redneck who loved to chew sunflower seeds. One morning we found a child's BB gun at one of the ramadas. Further down the road, we found a muffler sleeve from a motorcycle that fit over the barrel of the BB gun perfectly. It took on the looks of a serious weapon. I and a friend stood on the tailgate of the truck with our helmets in full view, as we often did to catch the breeze. It was our habit to ride thus, leaning on the steel shroud. That's how we spotted loose garbage in the desert. We began to notice cars zooming out of the park when they came in sight of us. It appeared as if there were a dangerous criminal or animal loose in the park, with us in desperate pursuit. Hilarious, it made our work easier.
I made music a major part of our day. I created a musical lunch box. I built in a battery powered radio and then covered the thing with camouflage cloth. It was our connection to the outside world, and kept us working in rhythm when there was work to be done.
The Bicentennial Holy Day came - The Fourth of July, 1976. Roberto, my Mexican boss and "Red" one of the crew members, showed up at my door. It was time to party and celebrate our nation's 200th birthday. Red, who had a date, and in defiance of my faded bell bottoms, reached down and ripped them right up the side. I didn't hit him, so he ripped up the other side as well. I looked like a prostitute in a split skirt, wearing my most patriotic shirt. We all broke out laughing and hit the bars. By the time we reached 59th Avenue, we were blasted beyond recognition or salvation. Since Red had a girl, Roberto - my boss and I, paired off and commenced to shake things up. We laughed, we roared, we baptized one another with beer on the outside and Mescal and Tequila on the inside. In short, we became Amigos. Muchachos. Compadres. One of the musicians interrupted his singing to gawk in awe. "I can't believe this." he whispered into the microphone. The whole room hooted with laughter. I don't remember how many barmaids we kissed, but we left before the cops came. God Blessed our little part of the U.S.A. that night. Happy Birthday, America.
We returned to work as though nothing at all had happened. Finally, it grew too hot to work at all and the entire experiment deteriorated into a floating poker game. After a few weeks of that, I gave up. I was wasting time. Worse, I was bored. Worse yet, a mexican kid was snitching on all of us and I, the notorious "Huggy Bear" (the nickname I had picked up) was the worst offender of all. I decided to let him have my job and the fate that went with it.
During the next several months I "coasted", taking occasional jobs through Manpower. Most were mundane warehouse and delivery jobs, some were challenging. One was a very real challenge that I and two other men were invited to decline. They wouldn't even call us "chicken". There was a railroad car at a siding that was half-full of 75-pound bags of cat litter. Some stupid jerk had chosen to not put them on forklift palettes. They were all stacked one on the other and had to be unloaded by hand, to be placed on palettes and moved later by forklift. We were given a straight offer; "If you can move these onto palettes, we'll pay you for a whole day regardless of how long it takes you." It was easily 300 bags. At 75 pounds each and with three men doing the work, it meant each one of us would be lifting and moving 7,500 pounds. That is almost two full tons each. It was 10 AM. The temperature was over 102 degrees and climbing rapidly. We three strangers needed the work, and made a pact to finish or die. It took us just over an hour and a half, in a steady, even dance with only one break for water and rest. When we finished, it was 112 degrees.
By the winter and spring of 1977 I was hearing some fine radio, that I could really appreciate. The station was KBBC-FM in Phoenix, literally just up the street from me a couple of miles on Central. NORTH Central. I applied for a job and got one. The sound was hip rock, not at all hard, very listenable and smooth. I enjoyed it immensely and became good friends with the receptionist as well as a female announcer. The receptionist is the only black girlfriend I ever had and she was more than casually sexy. We never got sexually involved, though we rode the motorcycle out to the river several times. Funny, she had a thing about stealing stuff. She just had to have something either as a memento, or as a compulsion. I lost quite a few little things like an antique Zippo cigarette lighter and later a bathrobe, to her.
My announcer friend went by the name of Belle Starr (Jewish humor being what it is), and I found myself fascinated by her naive approach to life. Nonetheless we stayed friends and she introduced me to a few others during the course of the next several months. She also introduced me to several books of Kliban cartoons, immensely perceptive artwork that I cherish to this day.
Across town and for reasons that will never be clear to me, KDKB fired Bill Compton, right after the time I started at KBBC. I felt as though KBBC and Bill might be negotiating. I found out later that they were, indeed. Myself and another former KDKB announcer and mutual friend there Dennis McBroom, would have stepped aside to make room for him, if needed. That was not to be. William Edward Compton III, probably the most influential friend in my adult life, died on the day of the Summer Solstice, June 21st, 1977. "Little Willie Sunshine" was killed in a car wreck, on the longest day of the year.
I couldn't help but think about the time at the Scottsdale house when he had told me that if he had a choice, he would go in a fast car. He and his lady Kathy Radina had tried to dodge a bicyclist in their BMW and wound up head first at the bottom of a 30-foot drop in a dry irrigation canal. Kathy was badly banged up and unconscious for a considerable time.
Dennis and I both played commemorative music for our friend and breaking format, spoke openly of our friendships with Bill on the air. Flatly, the wind was taken out of the sails of our work on KBBC. I knew I would have to leave. I would never sound the same there again. The boss verified my feelings a week later. I interrupted his prepared and awkward "We're going to have to let you go" comments with a wave of my hand. I was unenthusiastic and blunt. `I know', I said.
I was simply stunned. I stayed that way for a couple of weeks. The event had been so unexpected that it removed itself from the concept of being inevitable. My own death is inevitable. So is yours. Bill was a great friend and truly, an icon. Icons are not supposed to die unexpectedly. Without dwelling morosely on Bill's and my own mutual interest in occult sciences, I will mention that I meditated at length at the dining table in my house on South Central. In one session on a flat sheet of paper in a script that was not my own - but from a pen that was held in my right hand, were written the words; "Greater Love". I folded the paper and sent it to The Lady, Jean Compton, Bill's mother.
The crews were run with clockwork precision for the first week or two,then spring moved into early summer and things got hot. Several guys dropped out, people stopped coming to the park and the work got much easier cleaning up after them. Our crew became highly tuned though and we began to find unusual things in the park. Gila Monsters, very old beer cans (one with beer still in it). Food, sometimes. Once on a day that I was sick with the flu, the crew found the body of a dead girl. Murdered. Unquestionably. This motley crew began to find or create fun, in almost everything we did. Grown men at play. Our truck was a 1 1/2 ton beige pickup with a steel sun shroud on the back. Our driver Al, was a young redneck who loved to chew sunflower seeds. One morning we found a child's BB gun at one of the ramadas. Further down the road, we found a muffler sleeve from a motorcycle that fit over the barrel of the BB gun perfectly. It took on the looks of a serious weapon. I and a friend stood on the tailgate of the truck with our helmets in full view, as we often did to catch the breeze. It was our habit to ride thus, leaning on the steel shroud. That's how we spotted loose garbage in the desert. We began to notice cars zooming out of the park when they came in sight of us. It appeared as if there were a dangerous criminal or animal loose in the park, with us in desperate pursuit. Hilarious, it made our work easier.
I made music a major part of our day. I created a musical lunch box. I built in a battery powered radio and then covered the thing with camouflage cloth. It was our connection to the outside world, and kept us working in rhythm when there was work to be done.
The Bicentennial Holy Day came - The Fourth of July, 1976. Roberto, my Mexican boss and "Red" one of the crew members, showed up at my door. It was time to party and celebrate our nation's 200th birthday. Red, who had a date, and in defiance of my faded bell bottoms, reached down and ripped them right up the side. I didn't hit him, so he ripped up the other side as well. I looked like a prostitute in a split skirt, wearing my most patriotic shirt. We all broke out laughing and hit the bars. By the time we reached 59th Avenue, we were blasted beyond recognition or salvation. Since Red had a girl, Roberto - my boss and I, paired off and commenced to shake things up. We laughed, we roared, we baptized one another with beer on the outside and Mescal and Tequila on the inside. In short, we became Amigos. Muchachos. Compadres. One of the musicians interrupted his singing to gawk in awe. "I can't believe this." he whispered into the microphone. The whole room hooted with laughter. I don't remember how many barmaids we kissed, but we left before the cops came. God Blessed our little part of the U.S.A. that night. Happy Birthday, America.
We returned to work as though nothing at all had happened. Finally, it grew too hot to work at all and the entire experiment deteriorated into a floating poker game. After a few weeks of that, I gave up. I was wasting time. Worse, I was bored. Worse yet, a mexican kid was snitching on all of us and I, the notorious "Huggy Bear" (the nickname I had picked up) was the worst offender of all. I decided to let him have my job and the fate that went with it.
During the next several months I "coasted", taking occasional jobs through Manpower. Most were mundane warehouse and delivery jobs, some were challenging. One was a very real challenge that I and two other men were invited to decline. They wouldn't even call us "chicken". There was a railroad car at a siding that was half-full of 75-pound bags of cat litter. Some stupid jerk had chosen to not put them on forklift palettes. They were all stacked one on the other and had to be unloaded by hand, to be placed on palettes and moved later by forklift. We were given a straight offer; "If you can move these onto palettes, we'll pay you for a whole day regardless of how long it takes you." It was easily 300 bags. At 75 pounds each and with three men doing the work, it meant each one of us would be lifting and moving 7,500 pounds. That is almost two full tons each. It was 10 AM. The temperature was over 102 degrees and climbing rapidly. We three strangers needed the work, and made a pact to finish or die. It took us just over an hour and a half, in a steady, even dance with only one break for water and rest. When we finished, it was 112 degrees.
By the winter and spring of 1977 I was hearing some fine radio, that I could really appreciate. The station was KBBC-FM in Phoenix, literally just up the street from me a couple of miles on Central. NORTH Central. I applied for a job and got one. The sound was hip rock, not at all hard, very listenable and smooth. I enjoyed it immensely and became good friends with the receptionist as well as a female announcer. The receptionist is the only black girlfriend I ever had and she was more than casually sexy. We never got sexually involved, though we rode the motorcycle out to the river several times. Funny, she had a thing about stealing stuff. She just had to have something either as a memento, or as a compulsion. I lost quite a few little things like an antique Zippo cigarette lighter and later a bathrobe, to her.
My announcer friend went by the name of Belle Starr (Jewish humor being what it is), and I found myself fascinated by her naive approach to life. Nonetheless we stayed friends and she introduced me to a few others during the course of the next several months. She also introduced me to several books of Kliban cartoons, immensely perceptive artwork that I cherish to this day.
Across town and for reasons that will never be clear to me, KDKB fired Bill Compton, right after the time I started at KBBC. I felt as though KBBC and Bill might be negotiating. I found out later that they were, indeed. Myself and another former KDKB announcer and mutual friend there Dennis McBroom, would have stepped aside to make room for him, if needed. That was not to be. William Edward Compton III, probably the most influential friend in my adult life, died on the day of the Summer Solstice, June 21st, 1977. "Little Willie Sunshine" was killed in a car wreck, on the longest day of the year.
I couldn't help but think about the time at the Scottsdale house when he had told me that if he had a choice, he would go in a fast car. He and his lady Kathy Radina had tried to dodge a bicyclist in their BMW and wound up head first at the bottom of a 30-foot drop in a dry irrigation canal. Kathy was badly banged up and unconscious for a considerable time.
Dennis and I both played commemorative music for our friend and breaking format, spoke openly of our friendships with Bill on the air. Flatly, the wind was taken out of the sails of our work on KBBC. I knew I would have to leave. I would never sound the same there again. The boss verified my feelings a week later. I interrupted his prepared and awkward "We're going to have to let you go" comments with a wave of my hand. I was unenthusiastic and blunt. `I know', I said.
I was simply stunned. I stayed that way for a couple of weeks. The event had been so unexpected that it removed itself from the concept of being inevitable. My own death is inevitable. So is yours. Bill was a great friend and truly, an icon. Icons are not supposed to die unexpectedly. Without dwelling morosely on Bill's and my own mutual interest in occult sciences, I will mention that I meditated at length at the dining table in my house on South Central. In one session on a flat sheet of paper in a script that was not my own - but from a pen that was held in my right hand, were written the words; "Greater Love". I folded the paper and sent it to The Lady, Jean Compton, Bill's mother.
posted by freespeak@gmail.com at 4:41 AM
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