Part 2- An introduction
Read this first....
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This is where it began but like the vagabonds that made up it's being, it moved constantly. When I knew where it was, I followed it. I was a part of it. It was a part of me. Like a viral dream it still lingers in my essence holding me back, keeping me from becoming one with the masses, from becoming just like everyone else.
__________________________________________________________
This is where it began but like the vagabonds that made up it's being, it moved constantly. When I knew where it was, I followed it. I was a part of it. It was a part of me. Like a viral dream it still lingers in my essence holding me back, keeping me from becoming one with the masses, from becoming just like everyone else.
It's been said to me that women like men whom they think they can change. They like the image of the rebel. Perhaps that was what drove a couple of girls I knew into the house. They were dating the two brothers that lived there and the next time I went over the house gleamed.
In the kitchen, the porcelain obelisks were gone. The stain in the bathtub was tediously scrubbed out of existence. George, however maintained his dubious habits. As did the two brothers. The stereo was stolen by the heroin junkies next door and the living room still showed signs of excess.
Eventually the older of the two brothers grabbed a few belongings and raced his GTO across the country until the engine fell out. To keep up with the bills and rent roommates were acquired and abused. This is where I met 'Jeff'.
This is the time the party's began. Debaucherous events, with no regard for the law. Just the kind of place a deliquent like myself could revel in. In the blur of faces that washes over me there was one that my mind picks out when I think of those days. His name was Tyrone. He has the dubious pleasure of being the first black, or ethnic person I had met who listened to the same heavy music I did.
"Listen to that!" he had demanded, "Listen to that! Noone does double bass like Slayer! NOBODY!!"
I had no idea of the validity behind his remark, but I liked his vehemence. I watched in fascination as he flailed about the living room. Arms and legs swinging, looking for resistance. Oddly, nobody wanted to be that resistance, with the exception of George the pitbull. Punching a full-grown pitbull is never a good idea. Preventing this from occurring became an activity for the evening. The problem was that George liked this game.
The next and last time I would see Tyrone would be years down the road, several incarnations of the house later. We were moving him like a large piece of furniture into my car so we could get him home with as few broken parts as possible. This was not an easy task as he was made out of granite. The amount and variety of chemicals needed to transform him into a blithering golem must have been astounding. I propped him up while I turned to open the car door. The impact when he fell sent shockwaves through the neighborhood, waking up children, pissing off dogs. An hour later we managed to pull him from the Tyrone shaped crater and squeezed him into the car where he promptly engaged in battle with large imaginary spiders.
He was just one of the faces in a cloud of many. Probably the first to solidify in my mind. The rest would come later. Many of whom you will meet. The parties became a weekly event. I went once or twice. It was a good time. And then, everyone went to jail.
This is the time the party's began. Debaucherous events, with no regard for the law. Just the kind of place a deliquent like myself could revel in. In the blur of faces that washes over me there was one that my mind picks out when I think of those days. His name was Tyrone. He has the dubious pleasure of being the first black, or ethnic person I had met who listened to the same heavy music I did.
"Listen to that!" he had demanded, "Listen to that! Noone does double bass like Slayer! NOBODY!!"
I had no idea of the validity behind his remark, but I liked his vehemence. I watched in fascination as he flailed about the living room. Arms and legs swinging, looking for resistance. Oddly, nobody wanted to be that resistance, with the exception of George the pitbull. Punching a full-grown pitbull is never a good idea. Preventing this from occurring became an activity for the evening. The problem was that George liked this game.
The next and last time I would see Tyrone would be years down the road, several incarnations of the house later. We were moving him like a large piece of furniture into my car so we could get him home with as few broken parts as possible. This was not an easy task as he was made out of granite. The amount and variety of chemicals needed to transform him into a blithering golem must have been astounding. I propped him up while I turned to open the car door. The impact when he fell sent shockwaves through the neighborhood, waking up children, pissing off dogs. An hour later we managed to pull him from the Tyrone shaped crater and squeezed him into the car where he promptly engaged in battle with large imaginary spiders.
He was just one of the faces in a cloud of many. Probably the first to solidify in my mind. The rest would come later. Many of whom you will meet. The parties became a weekly event. I went once or twice. It was a good time. And then, everyone went to jail.
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