Jonathon snd the Bully

Jonathon and the Bully

I have had the pleasure to not only explain to both of my boys, how to deal with a bully, but to actually be on site when the actual confrontation came to pass. It’s a rare thing, I know.

But what father hasn’t had to do the bully talk? What we tell them and how we approach the subject must have many variations. I’m not passing judgement. Whatever the approach, I hope it worked. Being bullied really sucks.

I had been bullied and beaten many times during my school years. Being the new kid at school was usually enough to get things started. Everybody is in their respective cliques by the time I arrived. All it takes is for one, insecure, lonely and abused young man to decide to spread the pain. And who better to pick on that the kid with no friends?

I tried reasoning with them each time. But it usually begins with a sneering thug blocking your way. You attempt to step around and he moves in front of you again. By now, there’s a crowd forming. He is a border collie and you are a sheep. He herds you without saying a word.

Everyone is amused. He has won. Gotten laughs at your expense.

It can go many different ways but there is only one way to deal with it in the end. You have to stand up for yourself. You can scowl back and challenge his intelligence. Make him look stupid and beat him at his own game. But that isn’t natural and if it is, you may be a bully yourself, so what to do?

My son, Jonathon, didn’t want to go to school for several days. Each morning he was faking sick. “What’s going on at school?” I said. “Someone bothering you?” He told about a boy in his class named, Jimmy, who is mean to him every day and taunts him on the playground and waits for him in the morning to punch him in the arm and take his lunch money. I asked him about Jimmy. How big was he? Was he in the same grade? I found out they were equally matched. It was just a matter of confidence.

“You are afraid of him, I said, because you’ve never had someone be mean to you for no reason. This happens all the time in school. It happened to me too. I finally figured out that unless you think about it in advance and prepare yourself, you will never be able to make him stop.”

“What can I do? I’m afraid of him. He can beat me up.”

“Have you ever been in a fight before? How do you know you can’t fight? You don’t learn how to defend yourself, so you can fight people.

You learn how to defend yourself, so no one will bother you. When you know how to defend yourself, people can see it and sometimes that’s enough.”

I took him downstairs to the basement where I had a heavy bag hanging on a chain.

“Stand in front of the bag.” I said. “The bag is Jimmy. What does Jimmy do to you?”

“Calls me names and pushes me and tries to make me fight.”

“He only does that because he can see your fear. He taunts you to fight him because it makes him look tough and other boys are afraid of him too, so they laugh when he taunts you and that make him happy and he leaves them alone. Can you imagine what he would do if you stood up to him? Pushed him back?”

“He’d kill me.”

“He wouldn’t kill you. He might push you back or punch you, but he wouldn’t kill you. And what do you think he would do if you punched him in the nose?”

“Then he would kill me.”

“OK, I said. The bag is Jimmy. Stand like this, with one foot back a bit.” I demonstrated, and he copied me. “That’s good. Now here’s how you throw a punch. I demonstrated in slow motion, demonstrating how I shifted my weight to my forward foot and rolled my shoulder to put more weight behind the punch. We stood there taking slow motion punches at the bag and gradually increased speed and power until he had a feel for it.

“Now, I said. Where on the bag is Jimmy’s nose?

Jon pointed to the spot on the bag.

“OK, I said. You show up at school and Jimmy is suddenly in front of you. What happens next?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure, you do. Does he just walk up and punch you?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“He says, Hey faggot. And everybody laughs.”

“What would you like to have happen if you could do anything you wanted, and you weren’t afraid?”

“I’d beat his ass.”

“You won’t have to beat his ass. Take your stance in front of the bag and punch Jimmy in the nose.

He delivered a punch. Not a very good one, but he had never thrown a punch in his life and this was something very knew. I worked with him until he could do a fairly convincing attempt.

“Imagine what that would feel like if that were your nose, I said. I don’t think he’s ever been punched in the nose before. I’ll bet he’ll leave you alone and never bother you again. And everyone one will know you punched Jimmy and they will be more respectful too.”

I told him to come down and practice every day when you get home and you are angry because Jimmy picked on you. Stand here and think about how you will stand up to him. That way, when you finally do stand up to him, you’ll know how to do it right.

It was only about a week later. It was a Saturday. I was out front putting gas in the lawnmower when I heard Jonathon calling me from the playground. We lived on a dead-end street and the Playground and school were right there at the end of my street.

I looked toward the playground and there was Jonathon. Jimmy was sitting on Jonathon’s bike, and Jonathon was standing in front, with the wheel between his legs, and his hands holding tight to the handlebars.

I walked over. “What’s going on?”

Jimmy spoke up. “He said I could ride his bike and now he won’t let me.” I looked at Jonathon. “Is that true?” Jonathon pointed to a little girl riding her bike on the blacktop. “See that little girl? Jimmy was riding her bike and she was crying, so I told Jimmy he could ride my bike if he gave her bike back. He took one peddle on my bike and I grabbed the bars. I never said how long you could ride it. Now I want it back.”

“Well, Jimmy.” I said. “Technically, you rode the bike and now he wants his bike back.”

“Well I’m not giving it back and you can’t make me.” He said to Jonathon. Jonathon looked at me for support.

“I can’t tell you what to do Jonathon, but I know what I’d do.”

Jonathon turned to Jimmy. “If you don’t get off of my bike I’m going to beat your ass.”

“No, you won’t.” Jimmy said. “You’re afraid.”

Jonathon looked at me again.

“I know what I’d do.” I said.

He turned and delivered a well-practiced punch straight into Jimmy’s nose. Jimmy’s eyes welled with tears and he dropped the bike.

Jon panicked for a second and started to run behind me. When Jimmy saw Jon’s fear he became emboldened again and started to come after Jon.

I spun Jon around to face Jimmy. “Finish him Jonathon.”

Jonathon started after Jimmy and Jimmy took off running for home.

There was never again a problem with Jimmy or any other bully after that.

I know, I should have had the two boys come in the house and eat cake and learn to be friends. I know that would work and the bully problem would be solved until another bully came along. At some point, you have to know how to handle yourself. It’s best if your breakthrough moment happens when you are nine, and your best punch is on the level of a rolled-up newspaper. But I’m sixty-seven now and I have a world of experience now that I lacked at the time.

I said earlier that there are many ways a parent might deal with the bully problem and I said whatever you do I hope it works. So…this worked,and no animals were harmed.

U.S. Foreign Policy and the Border Crisis

 John Monto

Just now · 

With all the trouble at the border, I have to wonder why we are demonizing those risking their lives crossing the desert after a month of dangerous travel from as far as Nicaragua and elsewhere. They are leaving a country dominated by a violent drug trade that threatens their very lives, and we never discuss the United States foreign policy that created the mess in the first place. This policy that overthrew countless democratic governments, threw people off their land and gave that land to American Fruit company and other American interests. Our foreign policy created a banana republic dominated by poverty, dictatorship, and corruption. Children are recruited into drug cartels and if they refuse their families are threatened or they are killed or both. Who wouldn't head for the US border under such conditions? Why is this never mentioned when we talk about immigration? Is it because the people who own all media don't want that subject discussed? If our schools were allowed to teach our actual history with all its warts, I know for a fact we wouldn't be demonizing those looking for a better life. We would be more understanding. And perhaps a little ashamed of our past. There's a lot to be ashamed of. But it's way more shameful to pretend it didn't happen, wrap ourselves in the flag, and pretend we are better than everyone else. Especially if they are dark colored.

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Trump in the running for Nobel’s all new racism Medal

  Milton Crossburn, chairman of the Nobel committee, announced today that they would be issuing a new medal in the category of racism. “It’s a new day,” said Crossburn. “ Racism and racist speech has become normalized as part of daily discourse and as it appears, not all racists are created equal.  President Donald J. Trump has raised the bar for everyone. Trump, said Crossburn, inspired the new award and tops the list of candidates for the new medal, which is being designed by Nobel artists and should be available for viewing in about a month.” 

   The new racism award will be presented by former TV comedian, Roseann Barr.  

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  Ivanka Trump, today, launched a new line of Kevlar clothing for school. The new line of protective clothing comes in all sizes and will be made in China.

McDonalds unveils new Trump burger.

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Disabled woman swims English Channel

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Art Book Sales

   I was against the whole art book idea at first. It was Cathie's idea. She met a publisher and showed her my stuff and here we are. The reason I was against it is simple. I like it when someone comes into my studio and shows interest in my art, but when someone wants to buy one, I usually talk them out of it. I tell them it's not done yet or some bull. I don't know why I do that but it's the truth. When someone shows interest, Cathie chases me out of the room and she does the deal. She even raises the price and she still makes the sale.

   I have artist friends who possess not only the skill to make art, but also the marketing skills required to make a living from it. Luckily, I have Cathie for that. My son, Jonathon, started this website for me. He even named it and takes care of keeping it updated. That's the reason it's not very up to date. Actually, it's my fault. He started the site for me and I'm supposed to edit my stories, which by the way are in great need of a good editor, but when it comes to computers, I can take two rocks and use them to make sparks and that's as far as I've gotten with the tech stuff.  When the apocalypse comes and phones and computers are useless, I'll be the guy who can make fire. Till then, I'm like a man from the past. I'm at least fifty years behind.  But the title of this blog, as it says at the top, is Book Sales.  Let me just say that I never expected this book to be purchased by anyone who wasn't related to me or who knows me well enough that they can't avoid buying one. Last night I sold two to someone I just met. It may never happen again but at least I've sold two to people who aren't related to me. My dear brother Bill, took one to an art gallery in Frederick Maryland and I've already been offered a show. So maybe doing this book wasn't such a bad idea after all. I'm working on some new stuff. A different direction all together. I'm just getting started and I hope to have that show in Frederick withing the next six months to a year from now. Hey! I can sell books at my show. Things are looking up.

Barking Dog

I knocked.  “Who is it?” He said from behind the closed door.

There was a moment of panic.   He was dead.

I tore the place apart. I emptied drawers, tore out sofa stuffing,

I felt like I’ve never felt. The possibilities were endless.

I’ve always been productive and focused.

But I managed to work hard and have little to show for it.

Things were different now. It was like I grew up over night. 

It was a deal I couldn’t pass up. And out of nowhere there’s a dead body.

This shit just keeps happening to me.

Messages were everywhere. All but one from a guy named Bukowski.

 I thought a minute. I’d heard the name.

I didn’t mean for this to happen. I had put others in danger.

Don’t hang up, I said. I’ll talk you through it.

I seriously considered suicide.

My head was a fog. My vision blurred.

What were the chances?

Somewhere in the distance

A dog barked

A Useful Lesson from a Usless Existance

    It was the sixties, and everybody was doing drugs. Most of us were doing harmless stuff like smoking shitty Mexican grass that had been cured with sugar. It was like smoking sandpaper and it took a whole joint to get a little buzz and then the headache came. It was crappy pot almost always but it only cost twenty for a lid. We did other stuff like mushrooms and acid which I feel actually had some redeeming social value if used properly. I was a hung up kid with absolutely no confidence in myself until I ate some acid one night. It was a terrifying experience. A bad trip. I have to admit I was scared. I couldn't deal with the shit coming out of my head. The next morning, my best friend, John Turchi, was sitting next to my bed as I woke from my night of terror. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Okay,” I said. While I was saying that, he slipped a piece of window pane in my mouth. “What was that?” I said, and reached into my mouth to find what he had put there. Too late. It had already dissolved. “Acid,” he said. I was immediately pissed off. “Why did you do that?, I said.  “You need to get back on that horse and learn to ride it. Last night you were afraid you wouldn't come down again.  Now you know that was bullshit, that you will come down again, so you have nothing to be afraid of.”  He was right, besides, the stuff was in me. I had no choice but to buck up. This time I didn't let the fear get the better of me. I wasn't afraid of the hallucinations, I knew what was real and what wasn't. I was able to see the possibilities around me that I had never seen before. That's when I began to write and learn music. Acid opened a whole world to me that I'd never seen before. The thing about acid is that once you see the possibilities, you don't need to take acid any more. Once you've seen the light, the light does not go out. Sometimes you need a little reminder and take some more, but acid isn't like heroin. Your cells don't scream for more. It isn't a drug of physical addiction. It's a drug of the mind. It wakes things up, turns things on that were dormant before.

   We also ate speed and downers and drank a lot of booze and listened to a lot of music and it was a time of discovery. For all they say about the sixties and seventies, the world evolved, progressed during that time. But there were other drugs that weren't so enlightening. Heroin and cocaine were the drugs that caused all the real trouble.

   My friend John Turchi did a tour in Vietnam and came home strung out on heroin. He was shooting the stuff and he has smuggled a good amount of pure Vietnamese heroin back with him in his duffel bag. When he ran out of the good stuff, he started buying local heroin which was about ten or twenty percent as strong. He couldn't get high on domestic stuff and quit. But John was an IV heroin user. He quit heroin, but he still had the thing for needles. Then Mike Collins started selling grams of cocaine.

Cocaine is a much different drug than heroin. A completely different animal. A shot of heroin is cheap. When you first start out you can get very high for five dollars and it lasts six or eight hours and you come down nice and slow. It's deceiving. It sucks you in. Soon, five dollars worth doesn't do the trick any more and it doesn't last as long. Then you find that without it you are sick and the only way to feel better is to do more and more and it gets more and more expensive.  Cocaine is different. It doesn't try to trick you. The first shot is truthful from from the beginning. As soon as it enters the vein, it laughs in your face, ha ha ha, I've got you. The rush of cocaine in the vein is like a thousand orgasms all at once and it lasts just about as long. You need more right away and now you have to double the dose or you won't even feel it. A gram of cocaine costs about a hundred dollars, and you can go through that in about two hours and then you need, NEED-NEED-NEED, more right now. 

   John scored a gram from Mike. It set him off. John had a good job as a bartender. He was making good money. He had some savings. Before the night was through he had gone through all of it. He showed up at Mike's bedroom window throughout the night. Knocking on the glass pleading for more. He handed his stereo through the window piece by piece and left with more cocaine. Then he was back with his camera, then a guitar, then finally he had nothing left. The next day we learned from Mike how crazy John had been the night before, showing up at Mike's window. Mike felt terrible but John was pleading. None of us were shooting the stuff at the time so we didn't understand what John was going through. Then no one could find John for three days. His mother and father called my house several times asking what I knew. I couldn't tell them about the cocaine. When three days had passed we were sitting on Rose Bernstein's front porch. Mike was there, and John's brother Walt, and Lee Smith.

We were discussing what could have happened to John. Then a car pulled up in front of the house.

It was a nice car. Fairly new. An elderly woman was driving. John was sitting next to her. John got out of the car and she drove away. He walked toward the house with a sad and embarrassed smile. He told us the story of his last three days.

   After spending his savings and trading away all of his stuff to Mike for coke, John took off looking for more money or more coke. I don't remember where he got the gun, but somehow he got his hands on a 22 pistol. He hid in the woods along a road that ran through Manor country club. When he saw a Cadillac driving slowly up the road he jumped out in front of it with a paper bag over his head and held up the pistol. He was going to carjack the man and take his money for more coke. The guy saw John, the paper bag, the pistol, and stepped on the gas. He hit John who rolled on the side of the road holding his leg. The guy got out of the car and walked around to John. He was a big guy and he was going to kick John's ass, but John managed to hold onto the gun. He raised it up. Took the guys money and made him toss his keys into the woods. Then John hobbled off. I don't know how he got away, but this was before cell phones and such. He hitched a rid to the local shopping center where he followed a woman with her groceries to her car. He helped her load her groceries and when she got in the car he jumped in next to her and pulled the gun.

“Give me your money.” He said.  The woman just looked at him.  “What's wrong?, she said.

“Don't fuck around,” he said. “Give me your money or I'll shoot you.” 

“Tell me what's wrong,” she said. “You aren't going to shoot any body.”  John started to cry and told her everything.  Finally, she drove John to lake Frank, and waited while John threw the gun into the water, then she dropped him off at Rose's house. There were a few more binges ahead, but John finally became a Jehovah’s Witness, quit hard drugs, but not pot or alcohol, and got married. The marriage didn't last, but John stayed clean. He now lives alone in a trailer on a piece of property he bought in Remington Virginia. He had a couple old horses and a lot of guns. He hunts and fishes and generally lives the life of a hermit, although he did develop an interest in astronomy. He has a telescope, and he even teaches a few astronomy classes. I talk to him by phone about once a year or maybe less.

Mike ended up in New York playing drums for Mick Taylor and later, Otis Rush and finally Chuck Berry. As for me, I had my own adventures with heroin and cocaine which I'll tell you about sometime.

For the most part I find drug stories to be a waste of time. No one learns anything from them, not that I have anything to teach. I saw the harm those things can do to a man and I still got into it. I think I needed to understand first hand what it was all about. There is only one way to know, after all.           

Joy Ride

   I was in ninth grade at Robert E. Peary high school and I was in the lunch room showing off my welts for the ass kicking my father gave me the night before for something I didn't do. That led to one story after another and with every story someone had a scare to go with it. Then my friend Bob Pearce shows up and he says he's got a car if I want to go to the burger joint instead of eating school drool. It had been snowing for about the last hour and there was about two inches on the ground when we went outside.

All together is was me, Bob, Chris Shaffer, and Donny Pearce. “Where did you get a car?,” someone said. “We're gonna take Phil Gazell's car. He's in a double period. He won't be out for two hours, so I'm gonna hot wire his car.” Bob held up a piece of wire with alligator clips on each end, and a pair of pliers. We found Phil's car and it was locked. Sense it was parked right in front of the school, we didn't want to mess with it. We each split up and tried various cars and quickly found one that was unlocked.

We all piled in with Bob taking the drivers seat and immediately ducking below the dash to do his work. “This one can't be done,” he said. “It's got a sealed switch.” Bob was up and out of the car in a flash in another unlocked car before we realized what was happening. We all jumped out of the car to join Bob, but Bob was already entering his third car. “Got it,” he said. “I can do this one.” We all climbed in and Bob had the car running. He turned on the wipers and they struggled to wipe away the heavy snow, then he put it in reverse to back out. “Somebody clean off the back window.” He said.

Donny and I both jumped out at the same time to wipe off the snow when we saw Dr. Dunn, his coat tails flailing in the breeze as the ran across the front lawn of the school in our direction. He was carrying a clipboard. Donny and I jumped back in. “We're busted. Dunn's hauling ass this way.”

“Let's get the fuck out of here,” someone said. All door opened at once. “No.” said Bob. “Shut the doors.”  We did as we were told. “We're just sitting in a friends car getting out of the snow.” 

“But who's car is it?”  “Mike Sword. He won't give a shit.”  “Are you kidding, he hates my gusts. He'll kick my ass.” Then Dr. Dunn was rapping on Bob's window. He rolled it down. Dr. Dunn had snow in his hair and on his shoulders. “I want you boys in my office right now.”  He knelt down and wrote down who was in the car. He didn't need to ask who we were. No one was admitting guilt. We would proclaim our innocents until the die was cast, but we would never make it easy. Except Chris Shaffer.

Chris didn't have a dishonest bone in his body. When everyone else had the natural instinct to run or lie when a police car turned the corner, Chris was always left standing. “Running makes you look guilty. I'll just act like I was walking by minding my own business.”  But we were guilty and if we got away things were peachy. So on more than one occasion, Chris pleaded guilty while everyone else pleaded innocent. Chris always got off by being truthful and acting naive. He looked like the sweet guy who got into the wrong crowd. They always knew who the real guilty parties were, but like I said before, we weren't going to make it easy.

   Dr. Dunn had been watching us from his office window as we approached several cars. When we moved from car to car he grabbed his clipboard and started running. There was glee in his eyes at the thought of catching us in the act. It meant we would be expelled for stealing a car. The only problem was Dr. Dunn couldn’t be sure which cars we had been in. He wrote down three car tag numbers, including the one we were in when we were caught, and called the owners to inspect their cars for damages or things missing. All reports came back in our favor. They even said we had permission to be in the cars. That is everyone except Mike Sword. I was worried more about what he would do that what Dr. Dunn would do. Mike let us off but I knew it was over. He gave me a look that let me know as much. Still, Dr. Dunn suspended all of us for three days. We were given a letter to take home and return signed by our parents. The school also sent a duplicate letter by mail to make sure the parents got the letter. I rushed home after school and intercepted the phone call from Dr. Dunn. My voice was so high I didn't have the confidence to imitate my father so I pretended I was my mother. I could tell Dr. Dunn was on to me, but there was enough uncertainty that he didn't say anything. The next morning I had to leave for the bus, circle around the block, wait until my mother went to work, then,sneak back into the house and wait for the mail. Once I had the other letter, I was home free. My parents would never know I was suspended, and I would not get my ass kicked again.   All in all, a good deal for me. 

The mail wouldn't arrive until four pm. Meantime I was home alone with nothing to do. Then I saw the Trash truck coming up the block. This gave me an idea. My mother was teaching fourth grade at the elementary school across the street from our house. He class room was almost directly across the street facing our garage. I ran to the garage and opened the door. My mother's Lincoln Continental was parked in the garage and the keys were in the ignition. As the trash truck parked between my house and my mother's class room, I backed out the car and pulled along side the big truck. I closed the door with the remote and when the truck moved down the street, I shadowed it until I was out of danger. I drove to Bob's house. 

   Having been suspended for stealing cars, I was now stealing my mothers car and picking up all of my partners in crime from the day before and going on a joy-ride.

   I was fifteen years old at the time and small for my age. I looked more like thirteen.
I could barley see over the steering wheel. I picked up the guys and we headed for DC.

I remember the looks I got when we went into a gas station for gas. I'm still surprised that no one reported us, But, we didn't wreck the car or kill anyone, which is a plus, and we made it home safely. More importantly, I didn't get caught for stealing my mothers car. The letter from school  was in the mailbox when we got home. I also intersepted the phone call from the school principal. I faked my mothers voice because my voice was too high to do my father's.  I was home free.

   The very next week, we repeated the same adventure. This time I got caught and my Dad kicked my ass. But who wants to hear about that?

Robert Currier

    Robert Currier was sixty years old but years of alcohol and Chesterfields had done evil things to his body. and he looked ready for the box. He carriedAlka-seltze packets in his shirt pocket behind his smokes and now he dropped two tablets into a glass of water and waited while they fizzed.

Mike and I were busy stocking shelves and other store maintenance.

We knew Robert as Bob at the auto parts store where we worked together. Bob was the manager. I worked there with Mike Cullens. Mike was the assistant manager. He was paid one dollar and ten cents per hour. I was making ninety cents an hour stocking shelves and mounting tires in our single car garage bay. Ninety cents an hour was terrible pay, and I was always broke. The only way I could make ends meet was to sell marijuana. I kept a grocery bag with lids in it stashed under the cash register. People who wanted to buy grass would come in and ask for a spark plug for a lawn mower. I would take them back to the spark plug section of the store and give them a spark plug, then back to the cash register. They would give me twenty dollars, I would ring up the spark plug, then reach under the counter and grab a small bag, and drop a bag of grass inside with the spark plug, and hand it to the customer with his change. Bob would sit in a folding beach chair next to the counter and doze. One day after I had just made a transaction, Bob opened his eyes as the customer was leaving the store.

“Dear,” he said. He often called me dear. “Dear? You wouldn't by any chance be selling drugs from the store would you?”  I looked at him. I had been doing just that for more than a year, but I knew what Bob wanted to hear.  “Why, no Bob. That would be wrong.” I said. “Okay,” he said. “I was just checking.” It was never mentioned again. Bob knew we were working for next to nothing but he was powerless to do anything about it. To help us make ends meet, whenever someone bought tires, he would always ask if they wanted the tires balanced. It was one dollar per tire to have them balanced, and bob would let us keep the balancing money.  Four dollars for balancing a set of tires was half a days pay. Not a small deal.

   We had a bathroom in the garage bay for employees only. It was nothing but a tiny room with a toilet and a filthy sink. The toilet was filthy too. Someone had painted the toilet gold. They had painted everything. Even the inside of the bowl right up to the waterline was painted gold. One afternoon, Bob was in the toilet taking a dump when Mike took an old bicycle inner-tubeand tiedit to a support steal support column and then tied the other end of the tube to the door knob of the bathroom. When Bob was finished crapping, he tried the door which opened inward. It wouldn't budge.

“Very funny you schmucks.” he said through the door. Mike and I were laughing as Bob yanked on the door. “Okay, guys. Let me outta here.”  Mike grabbed a can of starting ether and began spraying it under the door. “Hey!” Bob yelled. “Cut the shit, all ready.” Then Mike flipped open his zippo. Bob heard the familiar sound of the Zippo lighter opening, and the sound of the flint wheel sparking.  “No!”  Bob yelled a split second be for the flame lit the ether. There was an explosion inside the bathroom that was powerful enough to flush the toilet.  I looked at Mike horrified. Mike began to frantically untie the inner-tube as I pushed the door open to find Bob standing on the other side, hair smoking, eyes and face red.  “Next person that uses starting fluid is fired.” Was all he said.

   Bob would often fall asleep in his beach chair. One day as he slept in his short sleeve white dress shirt, I taped a battery tester to Bob's arm. The battery tester looked a lot like a junkie's eye dropper syringe. I taped to Bob's arm just inside the elbow. It looked like a syringe hanging out of Bob's arm.

He looked just like a junky on the nod. A woman came in and saw Bod sleeping with the thing hanging out of his arm and panicked. “Is the old man all right?” she said in a frightened voice. “Oh, he's fine,” I told her. “He always takes a nap after he had his medicine.” The lady left the store with a very distressed look on her face as we all laughed. Our laughter woke Bob who notice the thing hanging out of his arm. “Holy shit, you guys. You tryin to get me fired.”  

   Bob had a very gravely voice. If you didn't know him it was sometimes difficult to understand him. He took advantage of this. One summer, as people would enter the store, Bob would greet them with,

“Cock today.”  After a quizzical look, the customer would usually say something along the line of,

“Yeah, it's hot all right.”  One day a black woman came in the store. “Cock today.” Bob said. To which the woman responded, “There's not any today, but there's going to be plenty tonight.”

   Mike and I had been saving our money for a trip to California, but after six months I had only save about three hundred dollars. Mike was a little ahead of me at five hundred. It wasn't enough to make it to the west coast and we knew it, but we also knew that if we didn't go, we never would. We had made the commitment to each other that we would leave on September first, and that was what we were going to do. We were talking up our trip in the parts store one day when a customer overheard us.

“You guys can't go to California with that kind of money. You'll starve or end up in jail as a vagrant.

How much money do you have saved?”  We told him.  “You'll never make in California without money. What you want to do is go to Jamaica. A round trip ticket from Miami is only seventy two dollars. Once you land in Montigo Bay, you take a cab to Negril. Look for a place called perseverance.

It's run by Jules and Dolly Jackson. You can get a room there for a dollar a night.”  It sounded pretty good. I'd always wanted to go to Jamaica. Mike liked the idea too.

   There was a service called Aacon Auto transport. People who moved to another city and needed a car delivered called Aacon. We called them and asked if there were any cars going to Miami. We paid fifty dollars and Aacon gave us a car to deliver. We made a fifty dollar deposit, and we were told we would get that back from the owner when we delivered the car. A pretty good deal.  Bob was sorry to see us go. We had become very close to Bob during our time together. What Bob didn't know was that Mike had stolen an eight track tape machine, we sold auto sound systems as well as auto parts, an he installed it in the car we were to drive to Miami. He had also stolen a number of eight track tapes for the trip.

When we were leaving for Miami we went by the store to say goodbye to Bob. He was very emotional.

We said our good byes and got in the car which was parked right in front of the store. Before we could leave Bob came running out of the store to say one more good bye. He was leaning in the window talking to us when he notice the tape player and all the tapes in the car. “Holy shit, you guys. Why don't you take the whole fucking store with you.”  Mike looked at Bob. “I'm so sorry Bob. It's just that these assholes don't pay us anything. We didn't mean anything against you though.”   Bob agreed. “Wait a minute,” Bob said, and ran back into the store. He came running out a moment later with a stack of tapes. He tossed them in the window.  “Fuck these guys,” he said. “Have a nice trip and call me if you get in trouble down there.” He drove off. “He really loves us,” Mike said. “I feel bad about taking all that stuff, but he really loves us.” We rode along until we hit ninety five south towards Miami.

We drove straight through. It took us twenty two hours to get to Miami. We Dropped off the car and got our fifty back, then checked in to a cheap room for the night. I was concerned about how little money I had. Less than a hundred fifty. The ticket to Jamaica cost seventy two. When we got to MontigoBay we had to go through customs. They wanted to know where we were going, how much money we were carrying, when we were coming back. We told them we were staying three weeks which was how long the ticket was good for, but we has so little money they gave us visa for one week. “Don't worry about it,” Mike said. “We can easily hide from immigration. All they do if they find us is bring us to the airport and put us on a plane back home.” We found a couple girls who were also headed to Negril. We shared a cab. It was about fifty split four ways. Still a lot of money if all you have is seventy-five.

When we arrived in Negril, there was nothing there. Just a single two lane road with a house here and there and jungle everywhere. There was a sign hanging on a chain between two palm trees that read,

“Perseverance” hanging over a dirt road. We walked on down the road to a cement house.

   The place was owned and operated by Jules and Dolly Jackson. Jules was a local preacher with a love of rum. He was drunk most of the time. Dolly was his wife. She and Jules had nine kids and everyone, all nine kids and grandma too lived in a single room bamboo hut on stilts. The room had carpets hanging from the the rafters which served as room dividers. There was a large four bedroom house that Jules had build out of concrete. The only bathroom was in the cement house. There was no electricity in the house. Everyone was given a kerosene lantern to light there room. We were told it was two dollars a night for a room in the house, or one dollar a night for a bamboo hut with a hammock. We took the grass hut for one dollar. There were just openings in the wall where the door and windows should have been. No security at all. Still, we had nothing to steal. We both had a small back pack with a three or four tee shirts and a couple pairs of pants. I was wearing a pair of world war II combat boots with no socks, but that was okay because we went bare foot most of the time except when we were hiking.

   After we paid twenty dollars each for our bamboo hut in advance, I paid another twenty for meals in advance. They charged one dollar for one plate of food at dinner time. So now I had one meal a day, and my room covered for there weeks. I still had thirty bucks left to live on. “Where's the beach?”

“Just follow the path across the main road and stay on the path. It's not very far to the water.”  We walked barefoot down the path. When he got to the road, there was a Jamaican boy, about fifteen years old riding a bike.  “Hey mon,” he said. “You want to buy some Ganja?”  “Hell yes.”  “Soon come.” he said. We followed the boy down the road a piece and into the jungle. He took us to a clearing where hehad stashed a big grocery bag full of Ganja inside a hollow log. He had some of those long bags that you buy baguettes in. We watched as he tore the bags into pieces to use as cigarette papers and rolled three big spleefs. A spleef is an ice cream cone shaped joint. One spleef could make about five regular joints; five fat ones.  We were used to sharing a joint but not today. He gave us each one of those giant things and we sat there smoking. It was very good weed, or maybe we had just smoked five times what we normally smoked.  “Okay,” said the boy, “You buy.”  I looked at the giant bag of buds. I usually bought it by the ounce. I held up my hands together making a bowl shape. “I want this much.”

“No. You buy it all.”  “I can't buy all of that,” I said. Just this much.”   “No. You buy it all.”   

“How much?” Mike asked.  “Twenty dollar.”  There must have been two pounds in the bag. “Twentydollar?” I said in disbelief. The boy thought I was complaining that it was too expensive. “Okay. Two.”

I looked at Mike. “Did he just say two dollars for all of that?” The boy lifted the bag and handed it to Mike. “You give me two dollar.”  Mike and I both gave him a dollar. We stashed the Ganja back at our hut and started again for the beach.

   Along the path there were trees of every kind. Some with beautiful orange flower. Some with limes or lemons or mangoes or bread fruit. Then we saw the beach and the clear blue ocean. We were in paradise. There was a beautiful blonde girl, about twenty, wearing a bikini bottom and no top. She was standing up to her knees sta in the water. When she say us she came over to say hello. She was also staying in perseverance. She showed us around. There was a little bar near by where we went for beers. I only had forty buck left, but Red Stripe beer was only twenty five cents a bottle. They also sold a local delicacy called “Meat poddies.”  It was doe stuffed with meat, and then it was fired. They were ten cents a piece. Thirty five cents for lunch an a beer. Suddenly I didn't feel so poor. 

   We found out that there were about a dozen white people in Negril. A few from Germany, a few English blokes, and the rest from the US. Everyone else was Jamaican. Very poor but if you had to be poor, Jamaica was the place. We swam in the blue ocean and smoked the ganja and baked in the sun.

In the morning, I would pick leaves from the lime tree and boil them to make lime tea. Also the blue mountain coffee at ten cents a cup was the best.

   The shower for the people who lived in the huts was just a concrete pad with a pipe sticking out of it with a shower head on the end of it. It was surrounded by bushes for privacy.  I striped down and began washing off the salt water when a the beautiful girl from the beach stepped naked and began showering with me. I was very embarrassed because the water was ice cold and my dick and balls had retracted all the way into my abdomen. I rinsed off quickly and reached for my towel. I was quite inexperienced with women at that point. My few conquests were disappointing and I was very shy as a result.  Mike on the other hand was an old hand with the ladies and had a steady girlfriend by the second day.

Getting Tough

    Being tough was more a state of mind that an actual fact. I was small for my age until I was in eleventh grade, when I finally shot up six inches. Up til then, I was picked on a lot. Usually, I was the new kid, so I was tested to see what I was made of. I never backed down from a fight, but rarely did I win. There were times when I had the upper hand and felt confident I had it made, when one or more friends of my opponent would get involved; tripping me or sucker punching me. That usually turned the tables and I lost. The worst part was the jeers the next day. “You got your ass kicked, Monto.”

Or, “You pussy. You ran away like a girl.”  It's true. I did run from a fight. It was my second fight in two days. I was walking to the designated area to meet my opponent who was standing amid a crowd of supporters. As I approached, fearing the worst not because I was afraid of the guy I had to fight, but because he had a lot of friends and I had none. When someone yelled, “Get Him,” I turned and ran with a half dozen boys chasing me. I got away, but the whole next day all I heard was what a coward I was for running. So, being tough was a state of mind for me. Just facing it every day required a certain defiant attitude and I developed one out of necessity.

    Being always outsized and out numbered was demoralizing and humiliating, but not defeating. I soon figured out that if you strike first, with enough force to incapacitate your opponent quickly, the rest of the group loses there nerve. My older brother bought a heavy bag and hung it from the joists in my basement ceiling. I spent many hours alone with that bag. I imagined a scene that I had been a part of all too many times. I was facing off with a much larger opponent, who was extremely over confident, one, because he knew me and no one had ever seen me win a fight, and two, because I had never punched anyone first. It had always been defensive. I usually tried to talk my way out of fights because I knew I would be outnumbered. Alone in my basement, I worked on punching the bag with four punch combinations.  I practiced stepping into the blows so that my full weight would be behind each blow. My thought was, If I strike the guy standing before me with four punches to the face before he can raise his hands in defense, it doesn't matter how big he is. And even if he kicks my ass afterward, he will look like he had been in a fight. That alone would be a victory. So after years of always losing, I had finally had enough. But this strategy was not mean to make me a good fighter. I have never learned to fight properly. But when being confronted by someone who is determined to kick my ass, I still assume the passive posture; hand at my sides, looking my opponent in the face. I inquire about the nature of his grievance and suggest that it's really not worth fighting about. I don't apologize or anything. Inevitably the guy will push me or slap me or make some insulting bullying jab to try and provoke me.  

   It was a Saturday afternoon and I was riding around with John Turchi and Bob Dugans. All of us in the front seat of my sixty eight Ford Galaxy. As I turned into our housing development, there was a station wagon at the stop sign waiting to pull out. A couple construction workers were just leaving for the day. As I made the turn, someone yelled from the station wagon, “Fuck you fagot.”   I stopped and looked back. The driver, a big bearded fellow, was smiling at me. “Pardon me?” I said.  “I said, Fuck you fagot.”  I turned and looked at John and Bob. They both shrugged. I knew that Bob would be worthless in a fight, but I knew John would step up if thing got bad. The two guys in the wagon were bigger and older than we were, but I just felt like I'd taken enough. And for once, the odds were on my side.

“Well, fuck you too, and suck my dick,” I said right back.  He backed his car to the side ofthe road and got out. He swung his arm to wave me over. I backed up and pulled over to the side of the road on my side, but before I could get out he was standing by my door. I put the car in reverse and gunned it backwards, jammed it in park and jumped out before he could react. If I hadn't done that move he would have slammed my door on my face while I was getting out and worked me over with the door. I had seen it done before and it was not something I wanted to experience.

   We faced off in the street. I was standing with my back to my car door. A good spot to be in.

“Look,” I said, “You said fuck you and I said fuck you back. The way I see it we're even.”

The asshole, and I knew nothing about this guy, but I knew he was an asshole, had a superior sneer on his face that really pissed me off. His pretty teeth were showing white through his heavy black beard. He punched me in the chest, not hard, more of a push punch meant to challenge and humiliate. I fell back against my car door, brought my foot up into his balls, and just like I had practiced, delivered four straight jabs directly into his nose and mouth. Then I jumped clear of the car and readied myself to deliver another combo if needed. He had his hands up in a fighting stance but his mouth was bleeding badly, his eyes were glazed. He staggered forward and took a wild swing that I easily dodged. I reached inside the car and grabbed can of beer from a six pack on the seat and handed it to him. “You rinse you mouth out with this man. You need to get some stitches.” I said. He reached out and punched me in the mouth. Not very hard.  A last defiant jab. He still had that cocky grin as though he wouldn't allow himself to be humbled. I wasn't trying to humble him though. It was the first time I had really successfully defended myself and once again, I wasn't really in a fight. In a fight, the guy would have kicked my asshole clean through my belly button. No. This was me making sure there was no fight. I had mixed feelings about it. I knew I only did what I had to do and no more, but I was horrified by the damage I had done. I have been in many fights sense that first one and most of them were exactly like the first one. I tried to talk my way out of each one, but the moment I was touched, it was all over.

    The reason I tell about this fighting business is not because I mean to impress anyone with my skills. I'm just a guy who figured out how to defend himself and stop taking crap. It was very liberating after getting my ass kicked on a regular basis by my old man and any number of punks at school.

The lesson I learned from this is that when threatened, act decisively, and don't hold back. Surprise and force together are a powerful weapon, but it takes commitment.   

Robbery In Italy

My grandfather, whom I am named after, came over from Italy around 1909. He only had a third grade education, but at age sixteen in 1909 he was a man. He traveled from Italy on a steamer ship and arrived in Ellis Island. His name was chopped in half. A common practice among immigration workers of the time. They gave him a choice. They cut Montolioni in half. You can be Monto, or lioni. At age sixteen John Monto was a man living in America. Soon to be a man working in the coal mines of West Virginia. By the time I got to know Pop, as he was known among family and friends alike, he had already retired. He was an old man nursing asthma and black lung. But I had heard the stories from people far and wide who knew Pop, and it just so happened that Pop was a fellow that a great many things of interest happened too. You’ll have to be the judge. I have tried to tell fictional stories all of my life but I’ve never thought of the kind of stuff that happened to Pop.

    Pop walked the streets of Montesorino Italy like a stranger even though he had grown up there. Three short years away and he felt like he no longer fit in. He longed to back in his home in the United States. But he had a few days until his ship was scheduled to sail, so he was trying to make the best of it.

He headed to the tiny bakery that he loved as a boy. There he would have coffee and bread for breakfast. Just like old times. It was still early and few people were out. The air had an early autumn chill. Pop walked with his hands in his pockets and his collar turn up for warmth. It was hard for him to take seeing his old hometown for the first time after living in America. Only after seeing the many advances that people take for granted in America, while here, many people in the town don’t even have indoor plumbing. He felt like he had gone back in time, and in a sense, he had.

   The bakery sat all alone on a tiny corner lot. The same family had run the bakery all of his life. He bought his bread and coffee and went to the town square to sit in the sun. “Hey, Giovanni.”  Came a voice.  Pop looked around to see who was calling out. Too men standing in a small alley between two homes were looking a Pop.

“Hey Giovonni.” Called one of the men again. Then one of the men waved pop over. He looked at the men but could not recognize either of them. He stood and walked over to them to see what they wanted. “Hey Giovanni.” He said again as pop approached.  “Do I know you?”  “I don’t think so.” Came the reply.  “Then how do you know my name?”

“It’s Italy. Everybody’s name is Giovanni.  “You trying to be funny?”

“Am I trying to be funny? “ Pop glared at him. “What is it you want?”

The fellow pulled revolver out of his pocket and pointed it at pop.

“I want your money, Giovanni.” Pop froze. “Go thru his pockets.” The gunman said to his partner.  He approached pop and gently started to reach into pop’s pants pocket. What happened next took place in an instant. While the man attempted to lift pop’s wallet, Pop struck out and drove a fist into the man’s throat. The man with the gun fired instantly at pop. The bullet hit pop in the center of his breast bone about six inches below his Adams apple. The gunman could only fire one shot before pop had snatched the gun from his hand and tossed it away in one motion. I asked pop why he didn’t shoot the guy while he had the gun.  He just shrugged his shoulders.    It was then that he saw the blood spouting from his chest and he knew he had been shot, he thought, mortally. Remember, that all of this is happening in an instant. From the moment that Pop struck the first robber in the throat and the second robber shot him, and pop snatched the gun and tossed it away, no more that a few seconds had passed. Pop was still in the momentum of the moment when he realized he had been shot, and his survival instinct took over. Once he had made the decision to resist, the battle was on, an Pop was programmed to fight to the finish.  Most people upon being shot in the chest at close range would simply fall down and die. Seeing one’s own blood pouring from one’s own chest must be a powerful sight. I could see myself falling to the ground and shouting, “I’ve been shot. Somebody help me.”  This is where the story gets unbelievable. Pop didn’t fall to the ground. The fight program was more powerful than the panic program. Pop knocked the gunman to the ground, picked up a rock, and beat the man about the head until the town’s people pulled him off.

Town’s people carried him into a nearby home. A doctor was sent for. The doctor looked at the wound. He packed it with gauze. The bullet had passed clean thru and come out his back.  “I don’t know said the doctor. I think you’re not going to make it.”  “How about the other guy doc? How’s he doing?”

“He’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know if he’ll live either.” Pop lay in bed after the doctor had left and came to the conclusion that if he were going to die, he was going to make sure the other guy was gone first. He quietly left the bed and stepped outside. In the shed, pop found and ax. He entered the home where the other man had been taken to find the man had already passed.

Pop had to be carried back to bed and took many weeks to recover. But he did recover. I would bring friends home from school when I was a kid.  “Tell them the story Pop.”  Pop would tell the story. It was too fantastic even for them. How could anyone survive such a wound and still fight? Then Pop would unbutton his shirt. There was a round white scar in Pop’s breast-plate, just six inches below the Adam’s apple. Pop would grab one of the boys by the hand and make him touch the scar. There was no bone left behind the scar. Pop would push the finger into the scar and there would be no resistance. The boy would yank his hand back in disgust. With this story, all of Pop’s stories gained great credibility. My friends and I would listen time and again as Pop told stories more fantastic than the last. Even though I had heard them I listened again and again and watched the faces of my friends as they head the stories for the first time.

Ending nowhere

Never born

Silence the who

Swallow the moon

And tweak the shocks

Batten down the hatches

In later phases we’ll address

The need to make sense

If that need should arise

I surmise that by sunrise

Over home fries we’ll think

Of something

So hang in there

Home slice

Working for Peanuts

    When I was just twenty five, I counted forty jobs that I'd held. Many lasted a week or less, but enough for a paycheck. I've always liked money, just not enough to sell my soul to get it. I don't begrudge those who hold jobs for years, build careers, buy houses, save for retirement. I envy them.

But it doesn't work for me. I once held a job for three years with not a single raise. It was a bartenders job. After two years I asked the boss for a raise. “I've got another kid on the way, I said. How about a little bump in pay.”  You know what that bastard told me? “Bartenders steal enough that they don't need a raise.” I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was accusing me of stealing, and giving me permission at the same time. Not a smart move, but he was the rich business man and he seemed to have no problem letting people work for peanuts so I figured it was every man for himself, even though I'd never taken a dime up until then. Even under those circumstances I have to admit stealing money, and with permission no less, was against my nature. I've always preferred things on the up an up. But I had another kid on the way and was having a hard time making ends meet. I was fair about it. I figured I was worth another twenty a day, so that's what I aimed for.  If someone came in for a cup of coffee, I put the money in my tip jar instead of the til. Just coffee. It gave me the bump I was looking for and I didn't feel like a crook.  If I were smart I would have gone for broke until he fired me which he did anyway about a year later.

   The bar jobs were the best paying. I once got promoted to manager at one bar. The hours doubled and the pay was much less. I finally told the guy I need a couple of bar shifts to make ends meet. It's funny how a promotion, with more hours and more responsibility can lead to a smaller paycheck. I gotta say, I've learned that honesty and integrity, while noble, are not profitable. The way I figure it, the more zeros in a guys bank account-the more bodies he's got buried. Few people can make it rich without fucking somebody somewhere.

   I finally gave up on working around 1985 and decided to make paintings. I knew nothing about painting, but that's what I wanted to do. I admired the artists I knew. They were the best people I'd ever met. The artists seem to know what's important and what's bullshit. I think that's why the ruling elite always find a way to cut arts programs in schools. It makes the rabble too hard to control if they get to smart. I hoped it would make me smart too. I began making paintings one day. I didn't know what      I was doing. I used house paint. I painted on wood. It was strange art, but people liked it. Then myfriend, Alan, gave me some oil paint and a few lessons and I took it from there. I finally went to art school which was a great experience but totally not worth it financially. I'll still paying it off. Luckily I married a beautiful woman who thought people should only do what makes them happy. “I love what I do, she said, and it makes enough money for both of us.” So I started painting. As long as I was making paintings she had no trouble supporting me and my two boys. Now about the unselfish part. Cathie isn't an artist herself, but she is the most unselfish person I've ever met. When I was having trouble painting; no ideas. She never held it against me. I tried writing cartoons for a while, then just writing short stories. Never selling anything, but as long as I was making the effort, she was satisfied. Don't get me wrong, Cathie wasn't making enough money for us to be on easy street.  But our relationship was good when I wasn't working. When I had a job, I was gone most of the time and I could never make enough money to lift us up. When I wasn't working, I cooked and cleaned and made her laugh, and she loves having my art hanging around the house. It was a good trade. Twenty seven years later it's still great.