CHAPTER 26 Angels 3, Indians 2
It had become abundantly clear that the harassment in Jerome was not going to end and that any meaningful confrontation was not likely. The harrassment took on political tones with our being arrested or at times just myself, by the local cops. I found myself more than once, spending the night in the Prescott county jail.
On my first trip to the jail I had a booking session that left me shaken. There was a feeling to the old office that gave me an extra burst of Deja Vu'. The old sergeant was very cordial, in fact downright friendly. For whatever reason, we were alone together in the room. That is not smart police work when you have a desperate trespasser and former redneck amd obvious hippie on your hands.
Since I was more than a little unhappy about the procedure, my emotions were a little intense. The fingerprinting routine went normally but when we got to the mug shots, that intensity increased and built to a silent rage. I was a political toy, and something in me that was red, white and blue was beginning to object to this kind of treatment. I stood for the first mug shot which was a surprise to both of us. The flash didn't just flash, it kind of inundated the room. It was a big heavy-duty strobe that was intended for years of service. On this occasion however, it was like having the sun pass very close to the earth.
The sergeant kind of staggered as I did what I could, to stand still. The picture was a dud. Overexposed, completely white and no image at all. We tried again. This time the flash behaved normally. This time too, there was no image on the film, save for a vague outline. The third time was a charm, but the image that came out on the film was frightening. With some few similarities (two eyes, two ears, etc.) the picture was that of a large and very angry looking American Indian man.
Ya-Ta-Hey (hello in Navajo and several other tribal languages), dude.
The "hum" had become louder and more intense, reaching a level that was very plain to me. I didn't mention it to anyone except Bonnie. I often thought she must hear it too, but I figured I had made her life strange enough without "hearing things". The sub-audible sound became so intense at times, that it was omnipresent unless there were other sounds to block it out. Sleep was fitful. Thoughtful meditation or
prayer was impossible.
I made friends with little Brad McCulley who lived in the house on the hill, next level up. In a mining town like Jerome that means across the one-lane road, and about thirty feet higher up on the mountainside. Fun. Brad was four and had no one to play with. We were cowboys and indians for each other and I died several times in our playing. Once I died so well under the bed that my little friend ran for help.
Bonnie decided to move back to Phoenix. Bill had moved out of the house with the strange artwork and Bonnie rented it for us to live in. I found out later that she had found it and rented it for Bill and Jenny in the first place. Keeping in mind that the place had been abandoned now at least twice and even though Bill had left it decent, it was a mess - especially outdoors.
In Phoenix, boredom came crashing in on me like a wet cloud on a mountaintop. It seemed to delight in hovering about me, blinding me to all that was interesting. Listening to Bill on the air at KCAC became my major pastime. He knew it, I knew that he knew it, he knew that I knew that he knew. He hammered out some fine radio in those days and I longed to be able to respond, even though I really had nothing to say. The feeling was the same as for a musician who no longer has an instrument, but who just loves to jam.
I decided to try radio somewhere else. That turned out to be Tucson. There was a temporary part-time opening (aren't they all), at the underground rock station there. I somehow locked on to to a Triumph convertible with a bad transmission and headed south - without Bonnie.
Tucson was quite different than I had expected. There was a strong feeling of community there. I decided for the one and only time in my life, to use an alias - an "air name". I was to be known as Shadow. No first name, no last name, no offbeat spelling, just Shadow. The name was a hit. It turned out to be far more popular than I was prepared for. After my first two weeks on the air, people I had never met called me by that nickname, Shadow. It was like a community Welcome Wagon courtesy for someone to call out "Hi Shadow" when I was around. It soon got to the point that I was being favored socially. In the hippie world, that could mean almost anything. For whatever reason, I was being invited to meet and appear before "The Man" who had been listening to me on the radio.... whoever "The Man" might be.
An emmisary of this personage dropped in at the station to ask me to accompany him for that purpose. We took a long drive out to a remote location in the desert and I was invited to sit for "tea" - ganja. After a toke or two, there appeared a tall black man with a fine afro.
It was every bit of Ed Roland and he was every bit as startled as I. Either he WAS "The Man" or was there working for him. At any rate, my unlikely social climbing had reached its apex. Our reunion was cordial, and abruptly over. It was the last time I saw him.
I had been crashing in a frat house on the campus. Temporarily permanent. Needing a place to stay, I put out a call on the air for someone with a house who needed a roomie. A guy named Don responded. He said he had a house with a Harley Davidson part in every room. I could have the back porch if I wouldn't kick around the saddlebags or the dog. That was fine with me. We came to be friends even though we both regarded each other as strange ducks. True to his word, Don had a Harley part in every room. However, he was not a biker in the accepted sense. I was used to the idea of choppers, hair, sweat and loose chicks. His place was as neat as a pin, with Harley parts displayed prominently, as decorator pieces. He was more like a biker "wanna-be", buying and assembling his motorcycle piece by sterile piece. There was none of the usual litter you find in a biker home, not even beer cans. This guy was at least post office material if not military. At a couple of the local biker
parties I came to realize that he was not particularly well accepted. I on the other hand, must have been marked by the handshake of Sonny Barger. I felt at home most everywhere.
As for myself, life became wilder, looser and more fun. I got involved with "Hairy-Tea" (Harry-T), another jock at the radio station. He had friends in town with a leather shop and a couple of boa constrictors. Though we cordially regarded each other as assholes (and we were both quite correct), we got along. We even shared the same wife for a while. His. He didn't seem to mind, she didn't seem to mind and collectively, we set out to make a louder radio noise in Tucson.
It was not to last, however. I was trying to make a break from Bonnie and she didn't seem to see it that way. We spent too much time on the phone arguing about where I should live. After several of those calls and in an angry fit one day, I hung up the phone on the station owners' wife. I was playing "American Woman" by the Guess Who. She had been bugging everyone to play "The Point" by Harry Nillson. Heavy, man.
Needless to say, I was not long on the payroll there. I landed work at another station on the east side of town. I took the night shift and brought my own music, especially The James Gang, Shawn Phillips, The Doors and Derek and the Dominos. I didn't use the Shadow airname. The gig folded.
I had traded the Triumph convertible with the bad transmission for an old Renault sedan with a bad transmission. Neither one had a high gear but I felt the Renault was in better shape, overall.
Since moving away from Jerome that feeling of Deja Vu` had left me. Every so often I would drive out to the desert to smoke a joint and meditate. It was there that I became aware of a spiritual presence that I could not explain. I didn't care for the oppressed feeling that I got in those brief moments, but it was like someone was trying to talk to me. Someone very angry. There was one experience of an evening where the feeling grew to such intensity that I almost passed out. It was like an epileptic seizure. I struggled back to the car and to the house. I wondered if I were much closer to Bonnie than I had imagined.
Sometimes the real action in the desert is in the mornings. One bright and early day I was on my way to the radio station to pick up my paycheck when I was confronted by something that I simply could not explain. As I approached an intersection I noticed cars scattering away in all directions. That tipped me off to something unusual going on. As I approached the corner, I was astounded to see a very large - no, actually he was huge......... an American Indian dressed in a very contemporary sports coat and tie, standing in the intersection trying to direct traffic. Maybe he was a little drunk, maybe he was just a helluva lot angry. Whatever. He was almost seven feet tall, most of 400 pounds and the expression on his face was one of controled rage.
As I approached, he raised his hand and pointed at me to come to a full and complete stop right in front of him. I did. At that moment it occurred to me in very rapid succession, that he might be an Angel of the Lord spiritually placed there by the Holy Trinity, to talk some sense into me. Or perhaps he might be someone else who was trying to talk to me. Someone very angry.. Then again, he might be a drunk, crazy Indian who was about to tear the top of my car off. Conversely, he might be the very reason that the Lord caused me to trade off my convertible - so I wouldn't get my neck broken and head separated from my body that day. I hit the gas. If this guy wanted to be a traffic cop I felt, it should be at a truck stop where he could pick on some 18-wheelers his own size.
Things sort of fizzled out for me in Tucson after that. Don got his motorcycle running and moved into a smaller place. My job fizzled out and the Renault was worth $100 to anyone who wanted it. I still had the little Honda motorcycle and had managed to get it running.
I found myself with $90.00 in cash and having to take Bonnie - and Phoenix - more seriously. There are crossroads in life where any direction you go is going to be a hard road. This was going to be one of those.
On my first trip to the jail I had a booking session that left me shaken. There was a feeling to the old office that gave me an extra burst of Deja Vu'. The old sergeant was very cordial, in fact downright friendly. For whatever reason, we were alone together in the room. That is not smart police work when you have a desperate trespasser and former redneck amd obvious hippie on your hands.
Since I was more than a little unhappy about the procedure, my emotions were a little intense. The fingerprinting routine went normally but when we got to the mug shots, that intensity increased and built to a silent rage. I was a political toy, and something in me that was red, white and blue was beginning to object to this kind of treatment. I stood for the first mug shot which was a surprise to both of us. The flash didn't just flash, it kind of inundated the room. It was a big heavy-duty strobe that was intended for years of service. On this occasion however, it was like having the sun pass very close to the earth.
The sergeant kind of staggered as I did what I could, to stand still. The picture was a dud. Overexposed, completely white and no image at all. We tried again. This time the flash behaved normally. This time too, there was no image on the film, save for a vague outline. The third time was a charm, but the image that came out on the film was frightening. With some few similarities (two eyes, two ears, etc.) the picture was that of a large and very angry looking American Indian man.
Ya-Ta-Hey (hello in Navajo and several other tribal languages), dude.
The "hum" had become louder and more intense, reaching a level that was very plain to me. I didn't mention it to anyone except Bonnie. I often thought she must hear it too, but I figured I had made her life strange enough without "hearing things". The sub-audible sound became so intense at times, that it was omnipresent unless there were other sounds to block it out. Sleep was fitful. Thoughtful meditation or
prayer was impossible.
I made friends with little Brad McCulley who lived in the house on the hill, next level up. In a mining town like Jerome that means across the one-lane road, and about thirty feet higher up on the mountainside. Fun. Brad was four and had no one to play with. We were cowboys and indians for each other and I died several times in our playing. Once I died so well under the bed that my little friend ran for help.
Bonnie decided to move back to Phoenix. Bill had moved out of the house with the strange artwork and Bonnie rented it for us to live in. I found out later that she had found it and rented it for Bill and Jenny in the first place. Keeping in mind that the place had been abandoned now at least twice and even though Bill had left it decent, it was a mess - especially outdoors.
In Phoenix, boredom came crashing in on me like a wet cloud on a mountaintop. It seemed to delight in hovering about me, blinding me to all that was interesting. Listening to Bill on the air at KCAC became my major pastime. He knew it, I knew that he knew it, he knew that I knew that he knew. He hammered out some fine radio in those days and I longed to be able to respond, even though I really had nothing to say. The feeling was the same as for a musician who no longer has an instrument, but who just loves to jam.
I decided to try radio somewhere else. That turned out to be Tucson. There was a temporary part-time opening (aren't they all), at the underground rock station there. I somehow locked on to to a Triumph convertible with a bad transmission and headed south - without Bonnie.
Tucson was quite different than I had expected. There was a strong feeling of community there. I decided for the one and only time in my life, to use an alias - an "air name". I was to be known as Shadow. No first name, no last name, no offbeat spelling, just Shadow. The name was a hit. It turned out to be far more popular than I was prepared for. After my first two weeks on the air, people I had never met called me by that nickname, Shadow. It was like a community Welcome Wagon courtesy for someone to call out "Hi Shadow" when I was around. It soon got to the point that I was being favored socially. In the hippie world, that could mean almost anything. For whatever reason, I was being invited to meet and appear before "The Man" who had been listening to me on the radio.... whoever "The Man" might be.
An emmisary of this personage dropped in at the station to ask me to accompany him for that purpose. We took a long drive out to a remote location in the desert and I was invited to sit for "tea" - ganja. After a toke or two, there appeared a tall black man with a fine afro.
It was every bit of Ed Roland and he was every bit as startled as I. Either he WAS "The Man" or was there working for him. At any rate, my unlikely social climbing had reached its apex. Our reunion was cordial, and abruptly over. It was the last time I saw him.
I had been crashing in a frat house on the campus. Temporarily permanent. Needing a place to stay, I put out a call on the air for someone with a house who needed a roomie. A guy named Don responded. He said he had a house with a Harley Davidson part in every room. I could have the back porch if I wouldn't kick around the saddlebags or the dog. That was fine with me. We came to be friends even though we both regarded each other as strange ducks. True to his word, Don had a Harley part in every room. However, he was not a biker in the accepted sense. I was used to the idea of choppers, hair, sweat and loose chicks. His place was as neat as a pin, with Harley parts displayed prominently, as decorator pieces. He was more like a biker "wanna-be", buying and assembling his motorcycle piece by sterile piece. There was none of the usual litter you find in a biker home, not even beer cans. This guy was at least post office material if not military. At a couple of the local biker
parties I came to realize that he was not particularly well accepted. I on the other hand, must have been marked by the handshake of Sonny Barger. I felt at home most everywhere.
As for myself, life became wilder, looser and more fun. I got involved with "Hairy-Tea" (Harry-T), another jock at the radio station. He had friends in town with a leather shop and a couple of boa constrictors. Though we cordially regarded each other as assholes (and we were both quite correct), we got along. We even shared the same wife for a while. His. He didn't seem to mind, she didn't seem to mind and collectively, we set out to make a louder radio noise in Tucson.
It was not to last, however. I was trying to make a break from Bonnie and she didn't seem to see it that way. We spent too much time on the phone arguing about where I should live. After several of those calls and in an angry fit one day, I hung up the phone on the station owners' wife. I was playing "American Woman" by the Guess Who. She had been bugging everyone to play "The Point" by Harry Nillson. Heavy, man.
Needless to say, I was not long on the payroll there. I landed work at another station on the east side of town. I took the night shift and brought my own music, especially The James Gang, Shawn Phillips, The Doors and Derek and the Dominos. I didn't use the Shadow airname. The gig folded.
I had traded the Triumph convertible with the bad transmission for an old Renault sedan with a bad transmission. Neither one had a high gear but I felt the Renault was in better shape, overall.
Since moving away from Jerome that feeling of Deja Vu` had left me. Every so often I would drive out to the desert to smoke a joint and meditate. It was there that I became aware of a spiritual presence that I could not explain. I didn't care for the oppressed feeling that I got in those brief moments, but it was like someone was trying to talk to me. Someone very angry. There was one experience of an evening where the feeling grew to such intensity that I almost passed out. It was like an epileptic seizure. I struggled back to the car and to the house. I wondered if I were much closer to Bonnie than I had imagined.
Sometimes the real action in the desert is in the mornings. One bright and early day I was on my way to the radio station to pick up my paycheck when I was confronted by something that I simply could not explain. As I approached an intersection I noticed cars scattering away in all directions. That tipped me off to something unusual going on. As I approached the corner, I was astounded to see a very large - no, actually he was huge......... an American Indian dressed in a very contemporary sports coat and tie, standing in the intersection trying to direct traffic. Maybe he was a little drunk, maybe he was just a helluva lot angry. Whatever. He was almost seven feet tall, most of 400 pounds and the expression on his face was one of controled rage.
As I approached, he raised his hand and pointed at me to come to a full and complete stop right in front of him. I did. At that moment it occurred to me in very rapid succession, that he might be an Angel of the Lord spiritually placed there by the Holy Trinity, to talk some sense into me. Or perhaps he might be someone else who was trying to talk to me. Someone very angry.. Then again, he might be a drunk, crazy Indian who was about to tear the top of my car off. Conversely, he might be the very reason that the Lord caused me to trade off my convertible - so I wouldn't get my neck broken and head separated from my body that day. I hit the gas. If this guy wanted to be a traffic cop I felt, it should be at a truck stop where he could pick on some 18-wheelers his own size.
Things sort of fizzled out for me in Tucson after that. Don got his motorcycle running and moved into a smaller place. My job fizzled out and the Renault was worth $100 to anyone who wanted it. I still had the little Honda motorcycle and had managed to get it running.
I found myself with $90.00 in cash and having to take Bonnie - and Phoenix - more seriously. There are crossroads in life where any direction you go is going to be a hard road. This was going to be one of those.
posted by freespeak@gmail.com at 2:18 PM
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