The Caper: Six of Twelve

Crashing Through the N-Box!

It is not clear – nor very important – when the nickname “Mouse” stuck to Monty “Q”. It just seemed natural for a little man who lived off the alcohol scraps of others and rarely had much presence; so they called him Mouse. The would-be heir to the largest heating and cooling company in Northeast Ohio did not mind. He was often and oddly rewarded for his inadequacies when some of the young women, blinded by addiction or boredom, would take him to the parking lot on a bet or a dare; adding to the humiliation by squeaking to their friends as they led him away. Monty was the fool in a fool’s court.

Caesar Grease was a different story. The polar opposite of Mouse, he strutted and spun like a dime store Jagger. His perfectly poof’d hair and his second-skin leather seemed to precede any entrance. As we revisit that time together, the early Seventies, it is impossible to remember the sound of Caesar’s voice. He never seemed to speak above the level of the jukebox, as if all his conversation was pointed, secret and dangerous. Caesar was a caricature by design.

And there was always some small felony in the background of these barroom nights. Whether just selling drugs, underage drinking or grand theft auto – the real crime, not the video game, which no one had heard of then – and Caesar and Mouse were working up the biggest of them all. The target was the Q mansion on South Park Boulevard. It was where Mouse had grown up and from which he was banished. It was guarded, but not as heavily as Caesar thought and the treasure he wanted – he needed – was secret money that Mouse’s father was hiding from the IRS as well as Mouse’s mother. The couple had divorced when Monty was nine, and even though his mom maintained a healthy 25 percent of the business, she was sure her ex was holding out on her. She was right.

Mouse had no idea how much money was in the foot locker in the old boiler room, the space once needed to steam heat the monstrosity. But he knew it was enough for the pilfered hundreds to escape notice of his father. Mouse would grab a handful of cash to buy drugs and friends while still in high school. After letting Caesar stoke the resentment he felt about his family, Mouse had no problem revisiting that footlocker, this time with a friend.

It was a Wednesday night. The “Q’s” were at the opera. Seriously. At the time The Cleveland Opera was a big deal among the wealthy and even more important to the newly moneyed. Monty knew this because when he was in the good graces of the family he was forced into a tuxedo and dragged to The Playhouse, a space the ensemble shared with the Great Lakes Shakespeare Festival. It was a wet night, but the rain had stopped. Monty showed Caesar the path up from the narrow lakes that weaved to the rear of the house. It was one of the few secrets he did keep and often his only solace from the loneliness of being a rich kid with no apparent gifts of his own. The plan was that Monty was to wait by the tree line as Caesar crept into the servant’s entrance. It was a door at the end of a ten-by-twelve foot white frame structure that jutted out from the brick. Mouse called the alcove the nigger box, something his dad made up when they became rich enough to hire domestic help. Caesar was not impressed, nor was he one to creep …anywhere. He strutted up to the door, whipped the tail of his leather jacket and pulled his revolver like a cop serving a warrant on an armed and dangerous suspect. He also ignored Mouse’s instruction about where to find a key and smashed the pane of glass nearest the doorknob with the barrel of the gun.

Mouse wet himself. He was sure that alarms would fire and the home would be surrounded by law enforcement from four different municipalities. Bouncing from tree to tree and mumbling, Mouse was blind with fear. He could not imagine going to jail, being raped every hour, on the hour, and beaten on the half. It was almost enough to stop his heart. Then, Caesar exited the door with a pillowcase sling over his shoulder. Mouse laughed at the sight, envisioning Santa's evil twin doing his thing and taking out the gifts. Caesar smiled at Monty Q and headed into the woods. He flipped him his gun, which Monty nearly dropped. “You ever use one of those?” he asked?

“No, and I don’t want to start now.”

“Too late, you killed your sister.”

“What?” Monty finished evacuating in his jeans.

“She surprised you. You had no choice.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Caesar?” It was then Monty noticed that Caesar was wearing gloves. It was far, far too late. Near the water’s edge, Caesar took Monty’s small fingers in his gloved hand, wrapped them around the butt of the pistol, pressed the weapon to the center of the shocked expression and pulled the trigger. Mouse fell, eyes wide, spalshing into the dirty water. Caesar stuffed about ten thousand dollars in Monty pockets and left with the rest.

The official account was that the disowned member of the Q family tragically turned to armed robbery. He was the only fatality. The sister who was likely among his last thoughts was the only one to cry at his funeral; very much alive. The father had to account for the ten thousand dollars as donations he had raised for various charities. The actual amount was never known. He could not admit to more, though word was Caesar made off with at least half a million dollars.

This was the story Caesar told, just before downing a Jack Daniel's, setting a hundred dollar bill on the bar and strutting off like he had just finished a set with a solo/acoustic version of Sympathy for the Devil - what's puzzling you is the nature of my game. Caesar was never heard from again. Not to this day. But it would probably surprise no one if he not only orchestrated Six of Twelve, but ended up Seven of Twelve as well.

Joe Grease and The Mouse:

6/12=Q

CLEVELAND [November 28, 2005] -- The big, blue “Q” was everywhere; on the vans, panel trucks, billboards, TV and in driveways all over Cleveland and its suburbs. It was the first and last name in heating and cooling. The family seemed to have it all. The Q home was one of the larger mansions on Cleveland Height’s South Park Blvd. This was no lean neighborhood. The very founders of Cleveland and its gelded past still had family homes on this rolling and gated expanse. The famous Van Sweringen Tudor castle could be spotted if one were to make a lucky turn. Loren Mazel, the famous Maestro lived in one of the smaller homes. It is rumored that basketball’s next legend La Bron James bought his mother one of the fifteen-room bungalows and presidents and kings all visited one or more of the influential residents when in town to raise money or get their hearts fixed at The Cleveland Clinic. The heating and cooling family was there, too.

The Q will stay a monogram for the purposes of this recounting. It is not the violence of Six of Twelve that requires the insulation, but the likely innocence of the name and others with the same name and affiliation who had nothing to do with Monty. That would probably include all those still earning a paycheck or filling trusts with the proceeds from the family business. Monty was not among them. He was cut off, disowned and carried only the famous family name to his discredit. Monty had not been openly welcomed into that mansion or any family home for many years.

He was always welcomed at the bars. It was a point of pride that the three or four locations on the Heights Crawl loved the fallen, the incompetent and the undisciplined. Most held jobs, but it seemed they were always in a red-zone of uncertainty; one screw-up away from the streets. Yet the streets were not so inhospitable, especially in summer. There was always a place to crash, another drink or drug, a sympathetic partner. Even among the needy Monty was a little more deficient, a little closer to the edge. He was small; as if fetal alcohol syndrome were retroactive. Barely casting a shadow, the wisp of sandy hair and nearly inaudible mummer squeezed under a frequent bar patron’s arm to ask for a freebee. Monty drank whatever was available, often downing loosely watched shots or back-washed bottoms from green or amber bottles. He was the closest thing to a rodent on two legs. Yet he was harmless and seen in at least two of the establishments as sort of a pet with common owners: everyone and no one. He was a twelve-year-old with a moustache, and if one really found him annoying all it took was a mention of his famous family name to send Monty slinking back to the shadows.

Caesar was not so dismissive. Here was a hip-length leather wearing (no matter the season), high pompadour sporting greaser who was so proud of the designation that he took the epithet for a last name. Caesar Grease was all anybody every knew of the man, except that he was a fine pool shooter and carried a Smith and Wesson Model 15 revolver somewhere beneath the tail of the aromatic jacket. Caesar seemed to like Monty. It was perhaps his guardianship that kept the little man from being harmed at least once a night and three times on the weekends. They would huddle at the corner of the Alibi Room and whisper important communiqués about underworld crimes and hidden history. Every now and then Monty would pull away, roll his eyes and down one in a line of shots assured by Caesar’s generosity.

One night the pair seemed especially agitated. More accurately Monty seemed agitated. To the casual viewer Caesar was as cool as a frozen pizza, which made those who knew him aware that something was up. It was time. The anger and resentment toward the Big Q was stoked to white-hot hatred in the little Q. Monty owed his estranged family nothing and so what if a little larceny befell them, “serves 'em right, the way they treat me!” Caesar was a one man B&E crew, ready to take off the mansion for the stash of cash hidden from the IRS that he knew was there. Monty told him exactly where to find it and how to defeat the alarms. He knew this because his sister, the only one of the family who stilled cared, provided shelter in the huge structure on many winter nights. Monty kept that secret until Caesar poured it out of him – chased by small glasses of Windsor - some weeks before.

There was no turning back. The only question was whether Monty would come along, just to make sure Caesar got the instructions right. It was a debate privately held inside the criminal mind of Caesar Grease. That was until he came up with the end game. It was perfect!

Next week will be a busy one. Most of us will gear up the holiday season -- first, second, third, overdrive! – and many of us will try to hit those lagging goals for the year. So pace yourself, and for a little guilty pleasure check back here on Tuesday (11/29) for the conclusion of Joe Grease and the Mouse - Six of Twelve Equals "Q"

Building Success, One Person at a Time.

CLEVELAND [November 25, 2005] -- This week the stakes went up! The series of mysteries known collectively as The Radio Murders is getting some serious attention. There is a smoldering buzz that is gaining a little heat among the young editors whose job it is to push a project through to the next level. They are cautious. Sweat wakes them in the night and they feel the potential verbal ferules rough against their backsides with every recommendation.

It is not easy keeping the gates. Ambition is a two-edged weapon, and those who seek entry must compete with those who crave advancement in the slow-moving currents of publishing. Wow them! Floor them! Bowl them over! But never bore them! That is the task and few make it. Few can take it. Those who do are simply asked to do it again, “only this time like you mean it!” People do not throw their $26.95 down for a pricey snooze! They want action, long, hot sex, painful, smelly murder, costly betrayal and retribution – always retribution – let the guilty (the richer the better) meet the most horrible fate! It is that way it’s done. Be different, be daring, but do it this way.

Yet there is something happening in New York and points south. It is not wise to stoke such an infant ember, but where there is heat, there may soon be fire. People are taking notice. Ignoring the audacity of this dilettante creating his own covers – it is just a way to keep the focus – there may actually be a story here! Something that people might want to read, to get involved with, and want more. There just might be a product here.

So for this and many things, on this weekend set aside for reflection, there is gratitude. There is gratitude for the other things happening in a life uncertain. For the nice young lady, Cathy, who took the time to show off the very classy offices of an A-list insurance company. She seemed genuinely impressed and fast tracked the next step.

There is the timely call from an old friend in Radio, Jim Davis who actually thought of this grizzled vet when an opening for a morning talk host came up. This is a remarkable opportunity. Many jobs have been done in that unforgiving business, some done well, but a talk show host was not one of them. It has been a solid practice to pursue a path until faced with an impenetrable obstacle. We will see.

Gratitude overflows for family and friends. Monika bears no resemblance to Pollyanna. She knows of the mistakes made along the way and tries her best to keep her right-brained husband from repeating them. We walked into these woods together; she hoping, expecting that her boisterous guide knew the way. He knew it all right, but he was - and still is - bad with distances. Provisions being what they are, it is good to know how long they must last.

The decidedly ambidextrous-brained Poppy contributes her unique sense of wonder and warning. She is still finding her path, but only strays so far, never losing sight of us.

Barbara is a marvelous muse. She stokes and fires of hope and never, never loses sight of the miracles that surround us. Vykki and her wonderful children Brian and Yahni prove that there is no problem than cannot be solved with love, a lot of patience and a firm belief: I am somebody!

Mary Collins relies on reflection mostly now. In her eyes are more than ninety years of struggle and hope, winners and losers, countless children helped and some lost to the deep city. But she does not give up. Tired though she may be, “there is a reason,” she says, “why I’m still here.” There is, there truly is.

There are my friends in letters, Robin and Stephen, M.J. and Joyce, Ric and even the perfect editor Barbara Ellis who in twenty-five minutes turned a hopeless amateur into a writer with some good direction. Regardless of the outcome, the craft is better than before that well spent time.

And my hard working agents, Ron and Mary Lee, for believing me out of the heaviest doubts.

Most of all, thank you. There is no way of knowing, really, how many get to this point in the stories and observations that pop up here three times a week. Some send comments and some quietly add the thoughts to their day. When those editors mentioned earlier step up and make The Radio Murders come to life, really come to life, you above all will be remembered. Know now, please, that I am humbled and very grateful.

Not What We Expected, But No Surprise

CLEVELAND [November 22, 2005] -- When we last left the bar, the See Saw Café, it was getting late and Jimmy was in need of a ride. Armed and enigmatic, if not dangerous, Jimmy was the ageless black man at the end of the bar. Ageless because he was from an era that seemed stuck in stereotypes. Jimmy could be a pimp or a numbers runner or a hustler in black market dentures. It did not matter. His shiny suits and copper-colored hair – poisoned by years of cheap straightening processes - his prison battered face and his easy smile all gave him away as a living reminder of what bars like the See Saw were all about. Like a wooden Indian in the tobacco shop, Jimmy represented the drinking underground, the function of the saloon: to serve just beneath the eyes, and often right under the nose of the authorities to conduct the sins of men.

The See Saw Café was in many ways anathema to the times. Alcohol was shunned by the Counter-Culture in favor of marijuana and anything else that would get a young person hard time. Yet in the freaky ground-zero in Cleveland in the late 60’s and early 70’s, drinking at The Saw was cool for some. Lacks ID policies for girls and a wide variety of mostly handsome – if not simply interesting looking – and certainly willing young men kept the draw for more years than the bar deserved. As time went on and the Love and Peace whole began to stratify into subsets, the neighborhood seemed to break into three groups: those who would not be caught dead in The Saw; those who understood the function of the place and enjoyed the challenge; and those permanently banned from the establishment. But Jimmy never changed. He was the lambent presence, barely touching the new drunks as they changed partners and played Lynard Skynard and Rolling Stones on the Jukebox.

On this night, the one that resulted in Five of Twelve, Jimmy ventured from his post near the refrigeration unit at the edge of the bar. Jimmy needed a ride to “take care of a little bid’ness,” Roni was too happy to give Jimmy a ride. Born Veronica, Roni was the first of the regulars bold enough to have slept with Jimmy. It was she who spread the word that Jimmy was not only incapable of losing his erection; he was a gentle lover who made her forget about “being screwed by Uncle Ben’s ugly twin,” her words. That he had a deft touch and a “say when,” attitude almost impossible to find among the self-centered boys of the Saw. She was never sure if Jimmy reached climax on that surreal night. It did not matter, she boasted about setting a new personal best to anyone who would hear it. At 26, Roni held a job at the local paint and wallpaper store and was responsible enough to afford her own apartment in the neighborhood. Dad still paid for her car, and she was careful about when she drove it or who she let travel with her.

The pair was gone less than an hour. It was the talk of the bar if only because part of the décor was disturbed by Jimmy's absence. But there was plenty of speculation about Roni becoming addicted to the sex and dangerously devoted to the mysterious hustler. Most did not know Roni. She might take the ride once or twice more, but her only devotion was to Roni. It was part of her charm.

Another part of her charm was her white skin against below-the-shoulder black hair. Working all day, practiced alcoholic all night, she only saw the sun in the parking lot of the paint store. This night, when she returned from the errand, she was even paler; ghastly white with eyes as big as blooming peonies. Something was very wrong. Jimmy came in behind her and even the gently closing door sent her three feet into the air. Roni ran to the bar and pushed aside an acquaintance enough to down his double Bacardi. Jimmy was out of uniform, the jacket missing and the shiny dress shirt was ruined by dark stains. “What the hell happened to you guys?” Bill called from behind the bar.

“Nothin’. Give me a drink.” Jimmy seemed to lose his solid stance. Even the perpetual protrusion in his pants was gone, something he seemed to appreciate as he took a seat on the bar stool he usually used to hide the condition. He drank and watched the front door, waiting. Roni could not look at him. Anytime eyes met - any eyes - hers would dart back to the bar with a mumbled, “hit me again.”

The uniformed Cleveland Heights Police entered the side door first. Jimmy nodded toward Bill to fill his glass, one last time. Which he did. Roni slinked to a booth and squeezed in with strangers. Two plain clothes cops entered the front door and moved quickly to the end of the bar. “Don’t do anything stupid, Jimmy.” The balding, middle-aged detective commanded. Jimmy was a lot of things, but until this night he never appeared to be stupid. “Let’s go. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“I ain’t got no girlfriend. It was just me.” Jimmy stood and turned for the uniformed men to lock his hands behind him.

"Don’t say anything, Jimmy. Nothing, you got me?” The taller, graying detective said, sneaking a shot from the bar.

“Gots nothing to say.”

Jimmy was taken to jail and charged with the murder of his ex-wife. She was shot through the back of the head while standing at her sink in an East Cleveland apartment. Jimmy came up behind her and pulled the trigger of his .38. Blood and brains got on his suit jacket. Turns out she had sold his daughter for drugs; at least that was the story. The child was seven years old.

Roni took a long time to recover. She was the first in a steady line of former See Saw patrons to go into Alcoholics Anonymous. It made sense. What happened that night, what she saw, would ruin anybody’s drinking.

The Collector/The Collectors

John Fowles died this week. Most who actually made it to their Friday, 9am literature class are familiar with the British novelist. Certainly many know his debut novel “The Collector,” celebrated as a break from the convention of mid-twentieth century story telling. In a time when writers were testing the limits of gravity, and many making a good living at it, Mr. Fowles managed to fly. He did so by ignoring the barbs fired from his home and venturing over to the breezy-minded Americans for admiration and support. Mr. Fowles had a distinguished life in letters and one can only hope he died with few regrets. But he was a writer, so that wish probably went unfulfilled.

When a regular human being sets out to impose his thoughts upon the world with stories in print there is a nasty little doubt around which all the larger, more important doubts revolve: this has been done before. Hearing that there is nothing new under the sun, or that no one can tell your story is of short comfort when it comes to the time, energy and personal gamble it takes to complete 350 pages of imaginary life. It is amazing just how much this work takes from the craftsman. Some primative societies believe that a photograph robs the soul. In their ignorance they may have stumbled upon a plausible consequence of man’s attempt at creation. It is not the photograph, it is the pouring of the novel that drains that ethereal entity. The stories are like children, sent off to school with expectations of achievement and recognition. But there are a thousand other such faces in tens of thousands of classrooms and few rise above the miserable plane of average.

Mr. Fowles' work is cited here because the one member in a family of six novels that has received some small recognition is titled “The Collectors.” There was a search for similar titles when the story was conceived and for some reason Mr. Fowles book was overlooked. Not that the similarity would have changed anything. These are very different stories. Mr. Fowles is a first-person account that deftly pulls the reader behind twisted eyes and into a horrifying reality. “The Collectors” is the third in a series of mysteries that are about as durable as a tuna sandwich. No pretence here, the books are intended to erase a lonely night, a long flight or hasten the tanning process. They will sound good in audio form and would support a decent screenplay. They are funny, exciting and filled with real people who speak and act just like anybody else would in similar situations. There are heroes, but only because they have to be. There are villains, but only because they need something. And there is love, but like real love there is nothing simple about it. The books are intended to entertain, nothing more, nothing less.

Yet one cannot work in the same nonexistent world for months without exposing some truth about the man – in this case – hovering over the keys. Racism, the death penalty, the underground industries of the deep city, Radio and all its iniquities, the power of women and the flaws in men, all these beliefs blossom in spite of any effort to conceal them. It is said that one cannot write a book without revealing the truth about the author.

The clear truth about this author is that all he wants to do is write. The phone call may never come. The chance to let the public decide may be out of reach, or perhaps stuck in committee. There may be other things that must be done in order to survive. It is a sad message received after so much hope. "Is the work just not good enough?" a question asked in indelible pain.

But the winner always wins and the loser quits the race. Things happen that secure one more day. A good comment from out of the blue, a possibility shored up, these are the signs that it was all worthwhile. It is impossible to know how close (or how far) from the next list any of the six might be. Mr. Fowles struggled as do a thousand other writers owing to just enough readers just enough to pay the bills. Even the top-listers had doubts, detractors and moments like these. So lay on, Macduff, and damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!' If you will forgive the threadbare sentiment, this writer will cry hold, not for one more day.

Five of Twelve: Saw II, Jimmy Needs a Ride

The See Saw was the sight for many ugly nights, and more than a few lost in the fog. One can assume that the latter were the good times.

It was a neighborhood bar whose local folks were drawn from across three counties. Like long-distance moths to an especially iridescent end, they came to see what the Saw was all about. The best description is that the See Saw was a funnel for addiction; all kinds of addiction. First and foremost alcohol. There was not a patron in the place, no matter how young or old who was not a qualified alcoholic. A close second was drugs, then sex. The women who reluctantly entered the dented side door from the glass-strewn parking lot were looking for one thing: casual and exotic encounters. I didn’t matter with whom, really, just that it was different, dangerous and took her to that plane of “soft floors and electric air.” That was how one young woman described her orgasms. It is a phrase that holds up against the years about as well as the movie Easy Rider, but it is difficult to forget.

The See Saw had its share of yellow tape across the door and beneath the fold headlines. Over the years there were three homicides inside the premises and at least three more in or near the parking lot. Five of Twelve was one of those events with a predicate in the bar, and a conclusion far enough away to insolate Bill and his wife - the bar's unlikely proprietors - from another threat of having their liquor license pulled.

Jimmy was a fixture at the bar. He normally stood just beyond the inside corner, what would be a service bar for other establishments. There was no table service at The Saw. Wearing a shinny maroon suit and a perpetual smile, he seemed to like almost every one. Jimmy was too old to be a freak, too traditional to be a rebel, and even at midnight too sober to fit the profile. Jimmy was old school, a player without an obvious game. He had a wife and kids, so they say, but there was never a night when, from eight to 1am, he was not planted in the same spot, drinking rum and coke and commenting on everything in his 60’s style Ebonics. Some thought he was running book for Bill; that was why he stayed close to the bar; that Bill would pass bets to him from the house phone and he would place the bets the next day. To this day his real business remains a mystery.

It was after a year, or maybe two, when a See Saw patron got to know Jimmy enough to ask why he stood at the same place at the bar. He talked in cryptic terms about a condition that made it uncomfortable to sit. “I’m always hard.” He said with a smile. Jimmy always smiled. A gold ringed front tooth and tobacco stained incisors made the expression less friendly and more of a mask.

“That’s a good problem, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, but not all the time.” Once the condition was known, it was difficult to look at Jimmy without seeing the symptom of his malady pressing against sharkskin slacks. Word got around and those young women looking for real adventure tried to approach him. It was not simple, even after many drinks. Jimmy was easily twenty years older that the average age of the crowd, and many of the girls were not ready for the leap from the usual rainbow of hippy boys to a real middle-aged black guy.

One night Jimmy strayed from his post and walked up to a shooter just as he was finishing a killer game of nine-ball. He waited until the yellow striped sphere dropped into the side pocket before asking the question: “Ain’t chu gotta ride?”

“Sure, Jimmy, what’s up?”

“I need to go see somebody. Won’t take long.” Jimmy was very convincing, but there was a quarter on the faux-pine table and a sucker riding it with a bet of free drinks all night.

“Can’t you drive? I’ll lend you the car.” It was a '65 Biscayne with bald tires and a serious oil leak. But it got around and could seat eight with a little implied intimacy.

“That’s okay, I’ll get a ride.” With that, Jimmy surveyed the gathering, tactfully ignoring the below-the-waist stares generated by his appearance in the open. With a few whispers Jimmy secured the ride he needed. No one noticed the other bulge in his cranberry suit, the one at his waist on the right side, just beneath the flared tail of his jacket.

---

This is November, and you can take the boy out of the media, but you can’t take the media out of the boy. Right now the television networks are putting on their best shows and tossing up their best promotions. Radio stations are conducting their biggest cash giveaways and intensifying the half-dozen other ways they gain audience. November is Sweeps Month! So forgive the little showman that still toils away somewhere inside:

Five of Twelve…to be continued.

Four of Twelve: One Night at The Saw

“My brother used to pee in the wastebasket,” she said just before tipping the green bottle to her lips. Her eyes seemed to reflect that same emerald tint, perhaps with a wash of blue, slitting and lowering to catch his reaction. Indirect and colorful bar light seemed to paint her hair in soft pastels.

“Why’d he do that?” her new friend asked. It was her first time at the bar, the See Saw, and she seemed oblivious to the danger, the smell or the general milieu of the cut-throat roadhouse. But it was not a roadhouse, it was a throwback in a neighborhood that edged against the times. Like The Haight, The Village or a hundred other places where free love and nominal dope was unconditionally dispensed, where the war was universally condemned and the government was a step below vermin, Coventry thrived. It was a draw for confident young men and young women who fought boredom all the way from their comfortable suburbs. They leapt from their VW’s, making out with the first bearded freak on the street. There were days when it seemed to happen exactly as advertised.

“He was crazy, still is.” She coughed on the Rolling Rock, making her bar mate wonder just how young she really was. “Sorry, not used to drinking from the bottle.”

“You want a glass?”

“I want to give you head.”

“Now?”

“Can’t. My brother’s tending bar. It would be the last good time you ever had.”

With that exchange the curtain rose on Four of Twelve. Cautious eyes darted to the Scaramouch-like small man who was moving quickly, almost too quickly filling orders and making sure the bar was spotless.

“What’s he, a speed freak?”

“I guess. He never sleeps. And when he does he gets up and walks to the wastebasket, pulls it out and lets it go. My dad uses a razor strap on him when that happens.”

“How often does it happen?”

“God, once is enough. But he only sleeps maybe three nights a week.”

“You okay, Cin…I mean Debbie?” The blur of a bar man slipped past the owner, Bill, and gave his sister’s companion a seriously threatening look. It was clear that the ID she used to buy the beer, even to get into the joint, was fake and her real name was Cindy. It probably belonged to her sister.

“Movin and Groovin. How about another Rock?” Bill watched the exchange. He had been watching his new hire all night, not yet convinced that he could leave the young man alone with his property.

“Sure. You…” He waited for a name.

“Chuck, and yeah, why not.”

“That’s my sister you know.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Keep it friendly…Chazz. That’s all I’m sayin’”

“Chuck. The name is Chuck.” He was twitchy and seemed as though he was serving less of a good time and more antagonism. This was not the See Saw that became a magnet for those living dangerously. Then it was a famous neutral zone for rival motorcycle gangs – Hell’s Angels and The Outlaws – until the fragile peace exploded in a running gun battle in 1967. That was when the old owner was forced to sell and the new owners, a nice couple from the neighborhood, were surprised by the new clientele: young, sexy, interracial, drinkers, tokers, poppers and generally non-violent. The worst they had to contend with was underage drinking, sex in the bathrooms and arguments over the pool table or juke box. There was a great juke box at The See Saw.

Cindy’s brother seemed to calm down as the night moved into that half-atmosphere stage where everyone is feeling just fine. The girls were flirting, the boys were feely and the music seemed a perfect sound track for something. Bill headed home, leaving his new bartender to close. Cindy had grown bored with the cautious beer and rum drinker. Chuck was sure that she was jail bait, and with a squirrelly big brother just a few feet from Bill’s softball bat -- or worse, his .38, there were plenty of other willing playmates; safer playmates.

Weightless now, the bar took on a misty, tilted appearance. It was the first sign of going into a alcohol blackout. But the oblivion never came. The music was still going , but the voices had stopped, the movement -- some dancing, some wildly gesturing accompanying a story – slowed to a stare. There was a point on the horizon that drew us all in: behind the bar, just ahead of the copper-stained mirror, rows of liquor bottles and cheesy promotions. There Cindy’s brother was holding the .38 in both hands at eye level and shouting at the top of his lungs. The words were a crash of nonsense, like a foreign language that needed no translation. “Get off her!” Chuck looked down at his crotch, remembering the offer of a few hours before, but Cindy was not there, thank God! Where she was was in the front sights of Bill’s revolver and looking around the bare bottomed back of Tony. They had settled in a booth, one obscured by the crowd. Tony, not being shy or especially human, had taken Cindy for her word (here we must assume that she was inclusive in her desires) and was going at it, his white ass in contrast with the black leather vest and his thick, dark hood of hair. Her legs wrapped him, the right calf up on the booth table and panties still dangling at her left ankle.“I said get off her! Now!”

It was a classic buzz-killer. Cindy screamed and slipped from beneath him with precision. Tony stood, his jeans at mid-thigh (no underwear), a glistening erection still in tact and a look of utter confusion on his face. That’s when the roof caved in and the bomb went off, at least that was the decibel level remembered. Three shots, two hitting Tony in the neck and shoulder, and one striking the dingy paneling behind him. The crowd moved as one organism and collected at the brass footrest beneath the bar. Cindy, still smelling of sex and fear, was dangerously close, but the distinctive sound of a heavy metal object struck the top of the bar and her brother began sobbing; howling. Tony was dead in an instant. The Cleveland Heights Police were there almost as fast.

This could qualify as Four and Five of Twelve, but without really knowing the shooter, one place in this dark parade is quite enough. Cindy’s brother was released a few years ago. He served the entire 25-year sentence. The See Saw is now part of a multi-level parking structure.

It’s The Little Things

Granted, it was late, but the notion to try the new pizza place was no less compelling. It was an on-the-way thought: an idea that pops into a consumer’s mind when moving from point A to point B. Not wishing to move the car and find another parking space, the short walk from the video store to the supermarket seemed reasonable. The new pizza place was somewhere in between. On the first pass it was surprising to note that the restaurant was still open and the bored counter person was roaming behind recessed trays of toppings and salad items, idly wiping the brightly lit faux stone. Along the way a minor debate ensued: try the pizza place or go home and heat up something. By the time the circle was nearly complete the “buy the pizza” forces were winning. Then the little thing happened. There, in the same vantage point from the walkway through the all-glass front, was the night manager smiling and handing change to a customer. The counter girl was sitting on the counter not two feet from the exchange. Now, this was cause for pause. Retailers go out of their way to discourage moms of toddlers from letting their little bundle settle butt first on the counter, so why should anyone find a tired employee in the same posture appealing? Perhaps the manager tacitly allowing the unsanitary behavior swayed the internal argument. Perhaps not. It’s the little things and this pizza restaurant will go untried.

---

There are two stores that on the surface seem almost identical. Bed, Bath & Beyond is perhaps the more famous, but Linens 'n Things can be found in many of the same power-strips that line American suburbia. A visit to the former is fairly uniformed: walk in, spot a half-dozen things you had no idea you were going to buy, and when reminded of the item you did come in for, ask someone in the familiar blue apron. Without hesitation the staff member will walk you to your desires. Without exception! You cannot talk him or her out of it. Not with a with a passive, “I’ll find it, just point me in the right direction,” or “Oh! I remember now…” It won't work. You have a personal shopper as long as there is even a molecule of void in your consumer dreams. The same experience at Linens 'n Things is almost as guaranteed that you will not be walked to the item. And the direction you receive will likely be vague or just wrong. Bed, Bath & Beyond is thriving. Linens 'n Things has just been bought at a considerable loss. The Wall Street Journal stated in the announcement: The housewares retailer has struggled recently. Is there any wonder? Little things.

---

The wireless company, any wireless company can make life wonderful or miserable. But it is usually the big things that aggravate customers. It is the little things that ultimately drive someone to the next company in line. Monika is not one to use all the bells and whistles on her cell phone, so when the voice-mail ring pierced the afternoon there was more than a little curiosity. She had not activated the voicemail, but that did not stop the ceaseless and annoying bleat. We were on our way to Florida, driving the Tennessee leg of I-75. This had to stop, but we could not turn her phone off because it was the only lifeline for elderly parents. Try to clear a voice mail when you have never set up a password. You can try any of the usual combinations, birthdays, the phone number itself, the account number. Nothing. This was before Nationwide Calling Plans and each attempt rang up a $0.75 roaming charge! By the time we finally called the company’s technical support, $15 in roaming fees had accrued. Under the circumstances this should have been credited, but no. The young lady on the other end protected that 15 bucks like it was her first born and dismissed any possibility of having it reversed. So be it. As soon as it was convenient it was on to the next wireless company. In canceling the contract, the reason was made crystal clear. This time a wiser and more senior representative waved the charge and apologized with thick sincerity for the misunderstanding.

Too late, but not too little; it is, and will always be the little things.

Three of Twelve-Just Eat the Damn Pizza!

CLEVELAND [November 9, 2005] -- The Central Kentucky college campus took on a whole new appearance. This was the first visit without dad and his requisite bombast. This was his school, and his fraternity house, and there was never any doubt which entity played a close second to his family and his church. Many road trips over the blue-green dells and horse farms led us to this place. It was like none other. Even the ubiquitous fences, posts and rails darkened by age, seemed just as alive as the rows of trees that lined the pikes, their canopies shading the gentle grade. That’s what the fast moving two-lane roads were called, pikes: Midway Pike, Lexington Pike, Ironworks Pike, Georgetown Pike, finally Frankfort Pike.

Frankfort is the capital of Kentucky. Remember that, it will win a round of bar bets, along with Carson City, Harrisburg and Montpelier and Augusta; you can match the states at your leisure. Frankfort is also the home of Kentucky State University, not to be confused with the University of Kentucky centered in Lexington. Kentucky State began as a trade school for Negroes. It was a way to solve a problem for a state that had many deeply rooted moral conflicts. This was especially true for horse country. Tobacco farms checkered the rich land opposite broad stretches of playpens for some of the most beautiful creatures on earth: the Noble Equine. It is impossible to watch a healthy horse at work or play without marveling at his physical perfection. And most on these farms were the finest in the world. Still are! So the slaves of eighteenth and nineteenth century Kentucky fell into three categories of skilled labor: domestic, tobacco curer and horse caretakers including farriers. The latter being the most skilled and the best treated.

As the moral flame grew brighter – through a fifty year period of horrific and little known terror wars – these men and women found themselves free and working jobs handed down for generations. Some had the foresight to try and bring the less educated along and the solution was small buildings devoted to increasing the skills of a terribly underserved population. It was not until later that general enlightenment filled these stone structures and wide dormitories. It was not until much later that these institutions saw the birth of a new class of African-American men and women who had the confidence a good education can give, and began changing their communities all over the young nation. Places like Kentucky State were stepping stones to real equality. Why that has yet to come to fruition is a discussion for another time.

Back to this special visit. It was not the parents who made this happen; it was the older sister who had been enrolled in the school for just over a year. Her kid brothers were there to see her and her fiancé, who was already a member of the family.

This was a night to party like it was 1969! For good reason, it was. The first stop was to the campus pizza joint. Everybody hit the place at least once a day, so it seemed. As the wide-eyed teenagers sat with their already seasoned brother/brother-in-law, a frightfully thin man approached the table. He spotted us staring as he aimed his last slice toward his non-stop mouth, lowered it and offered the conversation to us. The words are remembered something like this: “Ju-bat, je, je, can’t gotta be so real, hell, naw, je, betbee-eta be caine a down on the be bona bona wan! (wild laugh). When he laughed his rotting teeth became evident and the bubble of his personal filth inescapable. In his hand was a box and the sausage pizza found its way back there between attempts at biting into it. There the cold mess slid from corner to corner with his spasms. He had on a narrow brimmed hat that was clearly too small, thick lenses inside heavy tortoise-shelled frames and his kinky beard spotted his face in a sort of gray-black hair mask that would make later identification almost impossible.

“Cokehead.” The worldly sophomore whispered with a dismissive dive into his pizza. The younger brother filed that away and began observing the traits. “Jai been sho bokin’ bon fo way mo tim that I gots, (an another attempt was made to take a bite of the slice, but the following wisdom was too important, so he put the cold wedge back and kept talking) …so look here, gonna feen my piz and get alon, now, you boys, bett watch now, better watch now.” With that he exposed cragged white lines of wounds uniformly following the veins of his black arm. Some of the tiny drillings appeared to be months old, some still bled. Someone seen only by the man with the box summoned him with- judging by his expression – some vital need for his input and he stumbled away keeping up the endless monologue.

That was Pizza Coke Man’s last night near the campus of Kentucky State, and on earth. He was found dead the next morning not three lots down from the restaurant where we met. He was stabbed to death by another vagrant. His glasses were gone and the only thing in his possession was an empty pizza box, or so it was reported. One wonders if he ever had a chance to eat that precious slice, or if he just would not give it up to knife wielding robber.

Giving Blood for Two

CLEVELAND [November 7, 2005] -- Monika is on a very exclusive list. It is perhaps the most vital collection of big-hearted souls in existence and she is so modest about it that were you to ask her, she would dismiss that act as nothing special. She saves lives every 56 days. Her O negative blood has flowed to the rate of half a gallon a year for the last ten years, and with less regularity for ten years before that. By the Red Cross calculations she has helped save 135 lives. If they counted her periodic donations for the ten years previous, her count would increase by half.

The only reason she does it is because they ask her to; she makes the time and rolls up her sleeve. She is also reminded by her husband that she is giving blood for two.

Would it surprise any visitor to this space – or any space created by chiselers of the imagination – that our blood is not good enough? That speeding years and dark corners unresisted left resident changes in these bodily fluids rendering them useless to all but the equally changed owner. It was a shock when the pay-for-services blood bank rejected the first (and last) pint, withholding the twenty dollars and an evening of high spirits. The twenty-one year old was devastated. If memory serves, he got drunk just the same and probably engaged in more bare-mattress sex with a barely legal but very willing runaway.

Living future stories can be hazardous to a young man’s health.

Now another detriment of past associations has reared its itchy, red bulge in the forearm. It was once an accepted fact among doctors who treated inner-city youth that the traditional tuberculosis test frequently showed positive, even if there was minimal exposure. The more modern PPD tests are still only partially reliable if there was ever a positive reaction. This would mean very little to this old kid of the streets of Cleveland’s black neighborhoods and widely integrated suburbs, but for the last nine weeks a constant cough and various respiratory complaints have plagued most progress, not to mention interrupted nights sleep. It is pure misery.

This weekend the medical professionals will poke and prod once more and try to determine exactly what is kicking a big man’s ass. This will be their fourth try. The third offering, pneumonia, proved correct. But that was in mid-September.

So forgive the short, overly personal A Personal Note, but if this is not TB – and God please let it not be - then this is the last weekend for healing. We have people to see and heath insurance to sell!

Otherwise, it’s good to know a ready supply of O negative is just one pillow to the right.

Two of Twelve: Bill Tries to Help

CLEVELAND [November 4, 2005]-- Suburban now; families proudly migrated – Migration 2.5 - in from neighborhoods like Glenville, Mt. Pleasant, Fairfax, Fairhill, Woodland and even the border suburb of East Cleveland, while others watched and counted the trucks, the kids and the property values. It was the morning of a bloody year of assassinations, 1968, and gold stars began replacing the blue ones that were nearly ubiquitous in living room windows.

Dying was becoming a national preoccupation. Dying for a cause was a noble pursuit, yet the war that was taking young men by the thousands was perceived as increasingly less noble and the deaths less tolerable. In fact, dying in protest of that war was just a few years from becoming a national headline: Dateline -- Kent, Ohio May 4, 1970 -- a college town not forty miles down the road.

This is not about the Four Dead in Oh-Hi-Oh, this is about the Second of Twelve. But to understand the gravity of the event, it is good to remember the times.

Bill, Ben, their little sister and mom and dad were among a handful of black families who moved to the working-class suburb well before it was a trend. It was never discussed, but the fact that they were very light skinned and all had big, auburn curls might have eased the nervous stomachs of their Shakerwood neighbors. That was the name of the subset within the small city of Warrensville Heights. Today they might be called developments: Eastwood, Clarkwood, Brentwood, Randall Park, Westwood, they all had a unique stamp of types and configurations of homes. But with very few exceptions the families were very much alike. They were Italian, Germans, Jews and Poles, generations within a few decades of arrival or those with little connection to the Old Country. Until the practice of fear marketing in Real Estate sales infected the community, neighbors seemed to get along. Bill was an athlete and a good student; confident and clever. There was a permanent smile that was not only contagious, but had a shelf-life of at least a week. It was a man’s expression; that I-know-something-you-don’t back glow that dots golf courses and poker tables.

Bill was older by at least three years and only hung around his brother’s friends when we were playing football on the strip of grass that divided Warrensville Center Road from the business access lanes. It was a great, muddy and painful tackle game that picked up every Saturday and kept up until the snow was too deep to run. Bill was our quarterback and middle line backer and he was good at both.

That summer, after a year off to work at a bakery and realize that such labor was not for him, Bill enrolled at Kent State. Never one for politics, the college deferment was a timely necessity and a decision made just ahead of the draft. There was serious consideration given to enlisting in the Marines, but Bill and Ben’s mother would have nothing of it, and she was the undisputed authority in that house.

It was Friday night. Bill was coming home from a meeting with the Kent State baseball coach. It seems he was good enough for a partial scholarship and the news put an added spring in his step. Bill was invincible, so when he stopped for gas the scene that unfolded across the street was not confusing or dangerous or even surprising; it was just another moment when Bill thought he could help. It was happening at a Lawson’s, the forerunner of the convenience store in this area, and the woman did not want any part of the man who was accosting her.

Bill marched across the street, his eyes focused and his mouth set, “Hey!” That was all he got out. The small man who, as it turns out, was trying to win back a love long lost raised the revolver and shot once. It was a lucky shot for him, very bad luck for Bill. The .38 caliber bullet sliced through the superior vena cava and Bill fell forward, his legs and muscles losing signal strength as his body shut down. He was dead inside of a minute, though the EMT’s kept trying until he reached the nearest emergency room.

Two of Twelve was an especially harmful loss. Bill was a good guy. His family was never the same after that. And the moment seemed to mark a change in all of us.

The First of Twelve

CLEVELAND [November 2, 2005] -- Andrew was a junior high school bully. He terrorized the lunchroom and none but a handful of large, male teachers dared challenge him. His story might be commonplace now, but in the mid 60’s Andrew was more than an annoying exception to an otherwise stable learning environment; he was a canary in the mine. He was also the first of the Twelve.

In the last contribution to A Personal Note, the essay – described as poignant, convoluted, brilliant and overexposed by caring readers – the topic of a close relationship with deadly violence was raised. It was mentioned then that this observer has come in hot proximity to twelve occasions of knowing the killer or the killed. The challenge was brought that such a number was an exaggeration: reasonable enough. Grow up in the city, nearly any city, be black and sober enough to maintain awareness of your surroundings and you’ll know twice as many mostly men, mostly young men who have become a line item in ViCap, or whose lives ended in a blaze of gunfire.

Andrew was number one, as near as memory will allow.

After stalking the hallways of FDR Jr. High on Cleveland’s east side, Andrew would return home to a violent and unpredictable evening. No homework after dinner. His first task was arousing his mother from a drunken stupor and trying to get some coffee into her. This was important because if she was not at least presentable by the time his steel-worker father came home, the beatings would begin. No one at school could imagine the pain Andrew cloaked in his bow-legged aggression and spit-filled invectives. It was only by tragic accident that this practice became known at all.

Andrew lived in the very last house of an otherwise nice street. His front stoop was in such ill-repair that it nearly collapsed into the cross street, Parkwood Avenue, and the frost-cracked and uneven sidewalk served as a geographical warning for those strolling by. His house was unavoidable if one were to make it two-thirds of the way up the street to a home where kindness, love and responsibility made up almost every evening. This one afternoon the fat target of his frequent rages stayed half a block behind as we slowly put a little distance between us and the school. There was a full expectation that he would notice the other boy on the block – through some bully-radar all such aggressors surely have – and turn to lay a quick beating on the kid, one more before calling it a day. But he did not. As we got closer to his house, his walk became less sure, less of a stride and more of a creep. The boat of an Oldsmobile was in the drive, still blocking the sidewalk with half its nose in the off-kilter garage. Andrew seemed to dread the sight. It was not clear to the rear guard exactly why, but his combination slump and run to the back door was something never before seen on the fourteen-year-old alpha male. Then there was something else: a moment in time when the face of the bully turned to the street. The at once frightened and curious frequent victim - still three houses away and until that moment meant nothing to Andrew - was face to face with a silent plea from his personal T-Rex: Help Me.

That night he became One of Twelve. Barely older than the weapon that brought him down right about the time most of his classmates were sneaking a peek at Johnny’s monologue. Andrew’s father was caught at work the next day. Reported like nothing ever happen; like his wife and son were not sprawled lifeless in the otherwise neat kitchen of their Pasadena Ave. house. She had to keep the kitchen clean, even while serving dinner, or her husband would use a razor strap on her upper thighs. Even if Andrew tried to help all it got him was a massive left fist to the back of the head. That night he got home early, or Andrew got home late, memory only goes so far. Regardless it was too late for all three forgotten souls. Andrew and his mom were buried side by side in a small cemetery. A collection was taken up at school. It was not much. Andrew’s father died inside of a year of his imprisonment.

The eighth grader still swaggers in the haze of a reckless time. It is difficult to know that such a tough boy was filled with such fear. It was easy to remember what happened when the curtain went down and Andrew lost his chance. There was talk at FDR that he would have passed the eighth grade. No need for a third try.