Noblesse Oblige

Phone calls long distance to tell how you’ve been; you forget about the losses, you exaggerate the wins. And when you stop to let ’em know, you’ve got it down; it’s just another town along the road.” – The Road – Jackson Browne 

Mt. Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high; said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called by the Masai “Ngaje Ngai,” the House of God.” Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.

When Ernest Hemingway wrote his short story The Snows of Kilimanjaro in 1938 he imagined the leopards quest for solitude to be like that of the writer or the boxer who goes off alone to commune with his demons and his final redemption. Rejecting the church that backed Franco in Spain, Hemingway came up with his own code of human conduct; a mixture of hedonism and sentimental humanism; likening solitude to “The way we burn the fat off our souls”.

I thought about this as, days earlier, I’d stepped across the threshold of the funeral home for the dead and dying, a holocaust memorial where I’d spent the last three years; extracting myself from a great familial civil war, one from which no man could long endure; and executing the greatest coup de’ gras; disengaged, declared victory and departed the field; surviving my own personal Ides of March betrayal. Lacking any symbiotic mutuality, I left with an ET tu Brute and a Sic semper tyrannis for good measure.

Seeking to make sense of the aborted episode, struck dumb, I recalled Bruce Lee’s quote “only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.” Well, maybe so. Sometimes the only way to be heard is to stop talking. As I made for the exit the sun burst through a sky of watered milk like just maybe somebody up there liked me.

Now collapsing on my recliner, the forced relocation finally over, my pictures up on the walls, drifting satisfied I breath deeply, surround myself with white light, empty my mind – a commando trick – and penetrating the surface tension; sink into REM. I am home; ensconced in solitude, established, settled in a comfortable, safe, secret place with no more visceral tsunami of feelings running over me like dogs chasing pigeons in the park; only the sweet knowledge that postcard pictures of Malcolm, Martin, Mandela, Marley, Obama and Gandhi, back-lit by an inspirational scroll quoting the 14th Dalai Lama, a gift from my Muse, and surrounded by every word the great Bukowski ever wrote, enfold me in a warm, loving embrace.

My new digs cater to the aged and in-firmed, where old men shuffle ahead in six-inch increments, somnambulist-like, looking like slow motion Japanese geisha. This must be the safest place I’ve ever been; feeling akin to what a soldier fresh from the battlefield must feel like sleeping in a middle-American suburban bedroom alongside an infant. The old women carouse in various stages of decline twinkle-eyed; like a room full of speed freaks hanging Christmas tinsel. They seek to make this forty-unit community something of a community. They sponsor pot luck get together; laying out elaborate spreads of food that look exactly like what a white bread Midwestern grandmother would concoct; lots of peasant bread made in old soup cans and a pastiche of yellow, green and purple jello molds. The rules as I’m told by what must have been a former chief of police, now relegated to maintenance man, is a three dollar donation exempts those who fail to bring an offering.

Both sexes are eager to off-load the narrative of their entire lives, with emphasis, and the logic of this escapes me, their myriad ailments; delivered in riveting detail, and the plethora of potions meant to ameliorate them. The wounded elephant in the room that sits groaning between us knows the real score. As my new friend, the empathetic and benevolent Pisces monarch Double G, the Mother Teresa of our happy enclave, a man throwing kindness around like confetti tells me; a local priest admitted to presiding over sixty funerals a month in this tiny burg; and that’s only one priest from one church. The real booming industry here is death and the dying are dying to get into this oasis of push button doors I have lucked into. There is though, a gloom hanging over the lot of my commune mates; the kind of shroud funk that comes from the resignation one experiences when standing at the precipice with only the leap left to maneuver.

Never more than a few city blocks from anything that sustains life; food, medicine, friends and the like I walk two blocks to enter the local diner to find the real northern Wisconsin archetypes. They wear planet-size belly bulging workman’s coveralls stretched tight over prodigious beer bellies; mud-people in camouflage print making all look much the same. They are urban mountain men looking more like drifters that rob gas stations in their off time from their full-time day jobs operating the tilt-a-whirl at the traveling carnival.

The cigarette smoke, years embedded in their mock-military styled nylon covered outer-wear, wafts off them like they haven’t been cleaned since the blizzard of 1973. The toxic mix of body funk and nicotine makes my eyes water and my skin burn. Theses are the three feet-ers; the distance that must be maintained if one is to survive the funk’s potent aroma; as repellent as the odor that floats off a tribal African living in the bush who has never seen a bar of soap. I muse what finance could be generated here via sale of nose and ear hair trimmers and mirrors. That’s not to say this click represents most here; most are the “cleanliness is next to godliness crowd” and are as clean and shiny as a new penny. I imagine the moldy set must have had their sense of smell obliterated in Viet Nam by exposure to Agent Orange.

Big H, my only neighbor, with whom I share an exterior wall in our two-unit townhouse, looks in his forties and as my guide Double G tells me; the only way you get in here not being of retirement age is to be handicapped. Harold is surely that; as roly-poly as a beach ball, Orca fat; even his head seems swelled up. If he ever tripped and started rolling downhill with enough steam, only the bravest Seal Team Six members would manage to muster the courage to stop him. The pale glow of his skin is the color of an uncooked turkey.

It hadn’t been over a minute from introducing myself that he tells me he cannot read. Since he just pulled up in his car (which is by the way parked like mine and every other car here not more than fifty feet from ones front door and on level ground. There are no stairs here in “if I fall I’ll never get up” land.) His admission makes me wonder how he got a driver’s license; especially when he tells me he’s “just figuring out the signs” which I take to mean STOP signs. But moreover I felt like Stallone had just clocked me across the bridge of the nose with a two by four. I quickly reexamine my life and how good I have it. A tsunami of compassion like that first snort of methamphetamine washes over me. I am swallowed by the empathy of the French phrase conferring an obligation on nobility, Noblesse Oblige, nobility obliges; that inferred responsibility of privileged people to act with generosity and nobility toward those less privileged. Anyway we chat. He tells me in halting monosyllables that I always look good; three times. He also likes my car.

A smiling woman knocked on my door last night; real friendly. I quickly calculate whether she’s worthy of the supreme sacrifice and since she wore enough Marilyn Manson style eye makeup, good for a few nights of bad dreams, I’m not sure, which I suppose is a good sign. Turns out until recently her mom, right up until her demise, lived in my apartment and she was rhapsodizing sentimental. I invite her in since its one degree outdoors and colder than a nipple on a witches tit, colder than a bucket of penguin shit, colder than the hairs on a polar bears ass, colder than the frost on my champagne glass. She grills me for info of my background. I divulge Oakland was my recent spot and she has what appears a small orgasm. If I’d have had more than one chair I’d have asked her to sit. Suppose I’ll have to buy one.

It’s twenty-eight below zero in the wind the bored high-gloss weather gal informs me; warning exposed skin is, at this temperature, frostbitten in under ten minutes; I check my zipper. Stepping out the front door, armed with the knowledge uploaded from the Sunday morning talking heads on my TV, the petty, needy, jealous and greedy still inhabit the idiot-sphere; sounding like initiates suffering comically bad ayahuasca experiences. It makes the world outside seem a sort of sanatorium; a low-rent laughing academy, a nut plantation. Excusing myself the harsh narrative with the knowledge that irony needn’t be mutually exclusive with candor I check list my emotional hygiene, being sure to take care of my emotions, my mind, with the same diligence I take care of my body; blocking the neurotic wish to quickly run every emotion through an elaborate machinery of self-conscious self-reflection with the speed of a turbo-charged abacus running ancient Chinese calculations using the same black and white beads since before Confucius arrived. You can have true affection for only a few things in life, and by getting rid of material things, I make sure I won’t waste mine on something that can’t feel my affection.

My newly energized compassion has found a target rich environment. The loneliness here is palpable; it has a pulse; the emotionally lonely and the existential lonely, like all of us cradle to grave, reminds me of walking into a bar where patrons make love to their shots and beers and the desperation is as thick as the fog on San Francisco Bay. For me this self-imposed monastic period, ensconced in my solitude, is a dharma with which I am all too familiar. Again, Hemingway said it best “ When I’m not going good, I go off where I can be alone and work the fat off my soul the way a fighter goes up into the mountains to work and train and burn the fat out of his body. Being alone and loneliness are two different things. I’ll be alone but I won’t be lonely.”

It’s a tiny town; so small even the bakery closes on Sunday. Whether this is an idiosyncratic notion specific to the owner or due to the hyper-religiosity of this place I do not know but I suspect the latter. The social fabric here is woven for service to the likes of those who surround me now; those as broke as teenagers. So, like in my early pious vagabond-glory days in the Haight Ashbury, when my pockets never jingled, I begin, with the prodding of my chaperon Double G, to clock every free meal within a dollars worth of gas driving distance. Though I haven’t reached that place of poverty just yet, my forced move, the second one in three years, came with a major financial set-back. The free meal practice also brings me back to my youth; when traveling America jungle-style like depression era Woody Guthrie hobos; the mantra “never pass up a free meal” memory echos.

So, last light after a mean workout and a five dollar open swim and hot tub at the local motel, we hit the bingo basement of one of the many churches sponsoring “community supper” once a week; which is to say; a free meal. The food is as good as any mid-priced restaurant in San Francisco and the camaraderie far exceeds any found in such establishments. My two table mates launch into a lengthy mumble-fest of thanks to their personal supreme being. It elevates and mixes with the other five billion cooperating mass hysterics who practice this form of suspension of disbelief. How god, the deity most responsible for the worst ungodly atrocities of man, can catalog these myriad Santa Clause style requests for his attention for beneficence without a staff of millions escapes me and I suppose them as well. I wonder; is heaven just one big sweatshop?

My Thursday grub and tub buddy’s Masters Degree and managerial experience in the nurturing of the unfortunate has hustled up a job prospect for him in the Virgin Islands and he tells me of a spot that might be available for me there as well. Should that magic moment erupt you can, much as I kinda like it here, humped-back and crooked as it is, a low-rent laughing academy populated by retired aluminum-siding and screen door salesmen; where my love life circles the drain and it takes a half-hour just to don my long underwear and sub-zero snow boots; you can color me gone. The memory of James Michener’s novels and the thought of a new life in another sub-tropical environment, with a paying gig no less, defines paradise for me.

Enough said: Time to exit stage left and mate again with the stair-climber at the gym while my Oi-gong master blaster buddy – ever the peripatetic – soliloquies his learned speech on anger; all for my personal delectation.



 “The wind is in from Africa. Last night I couldn’t sleep” – Carey – Joni Mitchell

Negotiating narrow walkways above overly clean streets in Cape Town; a haphazard assortment of traipsing multi-racial folk shadowed by Victorian buildings and Victorian morals, enveloped in fear midst everyday joys of life; are hidden yet visible under a veil of normalcy.

In apartheid Southern Africa the disconnect that set this place apart was palpable. Chaos; the random order free people enjoy, chaos born of freedom to act spontaneously; was missing. Every move people of all colors made seemed choreographed; life on film in a sort of paranoid hell, a Orwellian 1984. Each body cringed imperceptibly like it could be struck at any moment; a collective fear mixed with a collective sorrow, a deep psychic injury, lying outside the sphere of the physical, a mysterious sensitivity generations ingrained.

The tribal elder’s called me Mzungu; Bantu for aimless wanderer. The tribal boys called me Mukiwa; white boy in Africa. I told them of American apartheid, the struggle and triumph and how it had been done; by walking and sitting down, resulting in the civil rights act of 1960. They told me of 1960 in Sharpeville. We had Bull Connors with fire hoses; they had genuine Neo-Nazi’ with live rounds and they were definitely open for business.  

It wasn’t hard to foresee the fall of South Africa was a matter of time. In the opulence of European style bistros a small boy led an old ragged blind woman by a rope through the maze of café’ tables begging for charity; the white shopkeeper shooed them away none to politely. Knee deep in the sewer sludge of apathy, general ambivalence to suffering on a societal scale, the center could not hold; and when it blew; I was sure the gutters would run red. I saw it, the boy and the blind woman saw it too.

Nelson and I got the same sentence; hard labor. Mine in Salisbury maximum security prison for six months; his on Robbins Island for life. Inmates told me a prison cell I spent some time in had at one time held Nelson Mandela. They passed it with reverence and told me of the vicious way he had been treated there.

During my captivity three executions took place not fifty yards from my cell. The guilty “terrorists” were hanged. For days earlier the condemned were held in a tower above the black section of the prison. Their screams, which permeated the compound, were spoken in Bantu or Shona or Zulu; translated for me as plea’s begging for their mother’s. Beatings and drugging stopped them temporarily each day.

Locked down the day of the hangings, whites and blacks; we listened through the deafening silence of three thousand seventy-two men as an old pick up truck entered the prison, first gear, second gear, third gear. We heard testing of the gallows, screams of the soon dead being dragged to the executioners clutches; silence while the knot was set, slamming of the trap door and nailing shut of the coffin. Then, the executioner, paid fifty dollars for the day’s work, drove out the way he came in; this time he took a body with him. No one spoke before during or after these events.

It is sadly ironic to contemplate that ten years later these same men would be hailed heroes to the great struggle for independence, patriots to the revolution; would be given honored status in the new government for the same deeds they died for in those days.

Before my state sponsored vacation I met Africans who told me freedom fighters infiltrated the country at different places and times. One represented the legs, one the arms, one the hands and so on, and when they all came together as the body at a prearranged place, the bomb would go off.

Sitting in that ganja smoke-filled hotel room I listened to one ancient Africans voice speak metaphorically and chillingly about the body. The newspaper had reported that day electrical transmission towers were blown up and I asked him who he thought had done it. He smoked the herb in high billowy exhales as if his lungs knew no bottom and could blow up like a bullfrog and said, “Love lies dormant inside, unable to be realized and may damage the heart if not set free”. The herb passed around a few more times in silence after that profound observation; his words hung from the ceiling; the room spun.

Had Nelson Mandela given just a nod South Africa would have been Rwanda. When news spread across the wire yesterday that the great elephant was no more; Albert’s words echoed in my ear. “Generations to come, it may be, Einstein said of Gandhi in July 1944, will scarcely believe that such a one as this, ever in flesh and blood; walked upon this earth”. #Nelson Mandela # Mahatma Gandhi #Apartheid #South Africa #Mukiwa #Mzungu # Nazi’s #Zulu



“It is life, I think, to watch the water. A man can learn so many things.” –  Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

Illuminating the enraptured notion that I am, as we all are, but a tiny speck of consciousness in an incredibly expanding, immense and almost eternal universe, 190 billion light years across, was never more prophetically enlightening then when I first saw the majesty that is Victoria Falls. I met her in 1974 where she straddles the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe in southern Africa.

Since the whole of black ruled Africa was then officially in a state of war with apartheid Zimbabwe, named Rhodesia then, and I’d promised myself despite that sanction that I would not travel over 8,000 miles and be denied a Visa into Zambia, which I was, it left me little choice. Enlisting the talents of my native pals fearless guidance; we snuck across the border.

This was no small foolish feat since newspapers, that I read from the safety and privilege of the youth hostel in the capital city of Harare, then Salisbury, in recent days had reported that two young American female hikers had been shot and killed by Zambian border guards as they camped peacefully on the Rhodesian side.

I had by all measure a serviceable view of the Falls from the Rhodesian side; but for reasons, ganja enhanced, that escape me now, the world wonder twice as high and ½ again as wide as Niagara Falls, over which the volume of the Zambezi River crashes, forming the largest sheet of falling water in the world, beckoned with a demand to attempt an adventure in her honor as great as she.

At the peak of the rainy season, almost 300,000 gallons of water cascade over these majestic Falls every second. The  treacherous rapids, deadly crocodile, aggressive Hippopotamuses and Zambezi shark (bull shark) infested waters were so dangerous that although the Shona people first arrived in 1100, it wasn’t until the Ngoni, fleeing the wrath of Chaka Zulu, made the first successful crossing during the solar eclipse of November 19, 1835.

That fact was not lost on me while being goaded with chants to show some Yankee balls by crossing in rubber dingy over the mighty Zambezi by my adventurous and law-abiding adverse local companions, and I was just sober enough to remember another fact as well, that this river throughout history was considered so un-crossable that humans on either side evolved differently in language and custom. So with prayers for divine intervention and a brave exterior in service of the pride of my country, and hoping not to join my African brothers in a watery eternity; although catatonic in an inner fight or flee panic; I took the bait.

Where my fascination with water started I no longer remember; had it been my near drowning in the notoriously dangerous Lake Michigan when I lived in its shadow, or the harbor seal with a head the size of a basketball that scared me into sinking flight as it popped its head not three feet from mine at Stinson Beach on a balmy California summers day where I’d decided to go skinny dipping with my courageous friend Big Pauly; who to this day seems fearful of nothing.

Perhaps it was the nonstop 21 day crossing of the Atlantic Ocean in winter in a tiny dilapidated and outdated 21 passenger Greek tramp steamer from New York harbor to Cape Town, where I nearly slipped, in a LSD altered haze, into the dark depths, or maybe it was the cocaine trickery of invincibility that found me snagged in a riptide off the coast of Miami; or maybe finally it was those mad moments bobbing hysterically on the Zambezi which set the hook.

Perhaps it has, as most things do, nothing to do with me particularly. It might spring from the same nature as our collective fascination with fire; the way men compete to be the one to build the camp fire and the way we all stare at it in fascination, germinates from the fact that were it not for this monumental discovery no Homo sapiens would have evolved or existed. Since we could also not exist without water for very long and are all made up of at least 60% of it; it is us and we are it.

Today, nine months into my move from metropolitan Oakland, with its diverse population of 400,000 and nearly every vantage point above a few feet from grade close enough to see the green apple Pacific ocean, to rural Spooner Wisconsin with a homogenous population of 2,682 where I sit tonight spitting distance from where I tickle my Typer on a heroes journey not 25 feet from the shores of Dunn lake, one of nearly 1,000 lakes in a county of just 15,000 people; one lake for every 15 people; my connection to water is now permanent and irrevocable.

In the half-light of this wholesome and flawlessly enchanting evening, gazing upon the always present placid golden pond; the same lake where fifty years ago I swan and boated and fished, I contemplate the difference between its blessing and those other bodies of water I once touched and in my wild moments communing with them nearly visited their eternal nadir.

This brilliantly lit morning brought the boatmen with their women and their children who donned life vests to traverse her voluptuous expanses on pontoon pleasure boats, floating decks 10-0 x 20-0 with outboard motors and canopies and barbeques and fishing rods in a floating revelry that caused endless mathematically perfect concentric ripples on a common axis; making the Loon’s scream a symphony in what appeared a behemoth bathtub about to overflow.

These lake locked mariners flopped like skin on the surface of her undulating body with their sun scrunched eyes seeing nothing but horizon, where fish came to nibble, where water and land and sky kiss each other like lovers; where all were one in god’s mirror underneath the sky, and I, now separated from risky adventures by age and wisdom, became as ever, this spring evenings guest; a grateful spectator.


English: Black bear

English: Black bear (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Awake on another Golden Pond Sunday; the Library, my newest discovery, and the Coffee House are closed; but the gym is open 24/7 so I set my sights toward that outcome. The ice on the lake and the snow on the land begin to yield to the second 70 degree beautiful day in seven months; I down my Cream-O-Wheat with raisins and butter and honey and a cinnamon bagel drenched in cream cheese, almond butter and organic blueberry preserves, gulp my giant homemade cappuccino and down a ice-cold glass of well water in the only surviving beer glass from my grandfathers bar in Little Italy; it’s a good 100 years old and must hold 24 ounces; the iconic beer glass that used to sell back then, full of beer, for 5 cents.


The birds and the bees and the squirrels and the trees are bursting spring as I drive along the deserted country road towards town thinking what the weightlifters at the gym were commiserating about yesterday; worried that the swarms of deer that have come a strolling are dangerous; warning that they’ll run right into the side of your car at high speed, or if you hit one head on, come crashing through your windshield and crush you flat as a pancake. But just now, on this early daybreak, I daydream a romanticized narrative for the poetic vision of the smoke billowing from the country home chimneys as it ties the roofs to the dark violet sky in an unbroken symmetry like connective tissue; a little slice of Norman Rockwell paradise.


Just then a wild turkey or grouse, some huge bird, slams right into my driver’s side window; six inches from my face. BAM; like a shotgun blast; it bounces off and splits to the side of the dusty road. I stop and  get out to check the damage to the winged kamikaze as the stunned bird runs away looking like the Roadrunner of cartoon fame; Beep, Beep!


On a whim I ventured a little farther into the wilderness and just keep going; wanting to let the local wild menagerie know I’m here to stay and friendly. As I make my way into their world I think had my window been open the collision might have snapped my neck like a toothpick; lucky again. Damn near turned me into carrion for coyotes, and later; food for worms.


Ten minutes in I stop and lean motionless against an Evergreen watching a white-tailed Hawk soaring a mile above me, surveying  for mice and whatnot he glides effortlessly. He hasn’t seen me yet, until I move a bit and instantly he maneuvers stealthy and evasive; Hawk-eyes. There, off to my left, not 25 yards ahead, emerges from their unseen den, four American black bear cubs, each the size of a loaf of bread and no more than five pounds apiece; they are all of ten weeks old. I freeze and take it in.


Some might feel the desire to approach at this point but the story I heard about the video of a guy on Safari in Africa getting out of the Land Rover to try to pet a Lion that then went right for his crotch and ate him whole without a burp zips past  my minds-eye. It takes all my courage not to retreat. I know somewhere very close is a big version of these babies. Mom must be resting after a long winter; conserving her strength. Now in the silence I hear a low grunting; it sends them scurrying back to the hidden den.


I was still buzzing from that encounter the next day when getting the mail out by the main road, my neighbor stops in his pickup truck to ask me if I knew when the snowstorm delayed garbage pickup was rescheduled for; said he didn’t want to put it out early because he has seen a bear roaming his property; (just down the road from mine). “He’s a big sucker” he said; “half the size of your car, with a head this big” he said as he created a circle with both arms that looked to be the size of two basketballs.


I’m fond of saying I would prefer a death match with a bear to meeting an ignominious end and I would; while I harbor the thought that wrestling with a carnivore farther up the food chain than myself might one day be a glorious romantic finale; my inner logical voice whispers, not today.


I’ll Never Forget What’s Her Name

“If you’re traveling to the North Country Fair; where the winds hit heavy on the borderline; remember me to one who lives there; for she once was; a true love of mine.”Girl from the North CountryBob Dylan

She’d come by the Commune’ selling Kush she hawked for her dealer on the side.  Smoking hot, tiny and tight and Midwestern lovely with an air that spoke she came from good stock; a daddy’s little rich girl getting her kicks playing bad on the dirty side of the field; had that wild but pure charisma thing going in spades; a real heart breaker.

I never spoke to her much; Maverick did the deals with her and she’d hang for a while afterwards and toke up a bowl with us. She always gave me the eye and like most of them saw the power and indifference and probably relished the challenge; wanted it to be sure; maybe she thought it would rub off on her or maybe she just wanted to get inside of it. I was used to the whimsical possessive vibe; a common occurrence for innocent flower children in that era.

One night she came by to see me and in no time flat off we sped in her rocket ride straight to her parents’ house. The electricity had long built up between us so it wasn’t more than ten minutes after she led me to her bedroom that we crashed into each other.

“You’re such a stud. Most guys I know are wimps. You’ve got charisma and I like your muscles and you’re smart but mostly I like that you’re cocky and you have a cock a girl wants to marry”, she said as we tangled the bed-clothes. I didn’t know if that last gush was a compliment or not but I didn’t ask since when she said it she had her hand down my pants and my little head in a passionate death grip.

She was a talker and after the deed was done held forth some more. “That thing you did to my toes last night made me come a little”, she said. I like that you waited cause’ when you finally (she drew out this word) touched me I came”, she said. She wouldn’t stop romancing me and I didn’t want her to though she was reciting this rock hardening stuff like learned rote from a script; but then she was an aspiring actress and it sounded rehearsed. I joined in and as she melted into me with every compliment I laid them on like hot southern gravy on mashed potatoes. Hours passed and I kept hearing that commercial that plays over and over every time I turn on my TV. “For an erection that lasts more than four hours seek medical help”.


She was my toy and I couldn’t stop playing with her;  an Olympian in the sack and our acrobatics would have gotten a ten from the judges. I now understand why some are driven to video tape their sex-escapades though I keep ours locked in my brain vault. Her body was at once like Masonite yet soft and yielding with those ski sloop breast and high shelf bottom. She had skin like alabaster and long strawberry colored hair; a classic Irish Colleen.

She was young, way too young for me, maybe fifteen years my junior; so much so that when she said “fuck me daddy” I finally managed to form a declarative sentence.  Well, I started to but now she sounded sincere and so good that I just kept mute. My endorphins were firing overtime and I could taste the adrenaline in my mouth even past her tongue which tasted like cherries. She smelled like rain and must have paid a fortune for that underwear which she had stripped down to in the most erotic way. It was an epic communion; but to be fair her bed was firm and lent itself to achieving maximum purchase.

I could hear bird’s chirping and kids playing outside. It must be Sunday morning I thought; we’d been up all night. I could hear her padding around on the hard wood floor fussing to find her sexy little waitress uniform. She ran a bath and lead me to the fragrant steamy bubble bath. She bathed me with a sea sponge and made sure the experience would be memorable; I was catatonic. She pried me out of the tub and dried me off with a huge Turkish bath towel, wrapped me in it and told me to lie down on the cushy couch while she made a breakfast of Belgium waffles with honey and blueberries and the best coffee I ever tasted.

I passed out on the couch and she went to work waiting tables. When she got back I had just gotten up and dressed. She packed a bag and we jumped into her Volkswagen and headed for the Wisconsin border where I had a buddy with a farm-house out in the boonies; wood stove, no heat; outhouse; real rustic. She’d scored some Mexican brown from the bus boys at the restaurant and we pulled over to inhale some. It was my first time and it was trans-formative. I was flying high with angels, truly in heaven. I was so in love lust I had to pull over to the shoulder every ten miles or so just so we could make out which elicited frantic honks from jealous truckers.

Once we got to the farmhouse and got settled we all dropped some acid; then did some more brown. The third day in it hit me like being kicked in the belly by a mule. I staggered outside and dropped face first into the snow writhing in pain. When it passed I went back inside and they all, looking at me in shock, said I had turned pure white. That was some weekend.

We drove back to the commune’ and she left then came back the next day wanting more but I was busy. Just then two euro-trash yuppies pulled up in a convertible sports car and in she hopped and away they went never to be seen again. I think her name was Barbara or Sandra; something with an “a” in it.

After the way she’d slow danced with my soul I’d planned to give her six months. Had she stayed with me she’d have been two years just catching her breath. But by the time she came back, lost and lonely, I was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean; on my way to Africa; half way around the world.

Man she sure could cook.