An excerpt from my book ‘#1 Son And Other Stories’ Available on Amazon

Going For A Drive

 

Motoring up the 101, he pointed to the north and said, “See that area there? That’s where all the low lives live.” Then pointing towards the beach he said, “That’s where all the winners live kids.”

“What are low lives dad?”

“Scumbags!” he shouted, “columns of human waste, they live in clapboard houses, or if they’re lucky, stucco shit holes with screaming shmucky kids! They work dead-end jobs with fat wives and 30-year mortgages and 5-year car notes, they have pension plans and punch a fucking clock all day, just plain shnorras.”

“What’s a pension daddy?” My sister asked.

“Baby Lorraine it’s when assholes work year after year for twenty or thirty years, and in the end, they only get a little bullshit stipend.”

“What’s a shnorra Daddy?”

“Mikey, it’s men or women who freeload and sponge-like leeches at corporate or government jobs because they have no original thoughts, business sense, or ambitions.

AND EVEN WORSE, they have no panache or hustle. You never want to get caught up in that garbage kid, it’s a dead-end life. A real fucking horror show.”

“OK, Dad.”

He turned up Frank Sinatra and ran his gold rings on the Caddie’s plastic steering wheel. He sang “My Way” as he gunned the red Eldorado up the 101 past Cambria.

My father drove us all over California. We motored from Point Conception to the Mexican border, from San Fernando to San Francisco, Burbank to Barstow and all the nooks and crannies in between. He feeds us Ghirardelli chocolates, Pismo Beach clam chowder; date shakes from Hadley’s, root beer floats from A&W, fried shrimp from Howard Johnson’s, and pea soup from Andersen’s. On many occasions, he would wad up the check and stick it in his pocket, and we’d just walk out. “Let’s play a game kids. It’s called dine and dash.”

L-25.  Ain’t No Jive

8ish PM July 1979

I’m alone. I’m 15 years old. I’m home alone and I’m frying on acid. I dripped two drops (hits) of liquid L-25 into my eyes, from a medicine dropper.

A friend convinced me to drop it in the eyes to get it, “closer to the grey matter.’’

It worked! Everything is so alive. Vibrating & moving! Colors galore!

My father has ridiculous rooms decorated with rare art, Lladros, and Hummels. They’re all moving and marching!

The art, every oil telling a story on canvas. The Ivory Netsuke’s, pointing and laughing at me!

The Louie Couture style wallpaper moving & speaking regal! I’m appreciating what was boring and old just hours ago.

I’m running through all of it, trying to catch air. I’m like a ballet dancer.

Jumping off Chippendale lounge chairs and a Queen Anne style sofa!

I really believe I can fly. This is happening. I’m floating.

Maybe I have to jump off the roof. There is a pool to break my fall.

I forget the house alarm is on and set it off by stepping on a sensor pad in the living room.

I can’t make the bell connection, where is it coming from? I look at myself in a mirror above the mantle; my face is pulled and taffy-like and urgent. The sound, the ringing?

I have an alarm clock. I wake to an alarm clock, am I dreaming?

But it’s not that. I’m not dreaming, I’m on acid and I know that much.

I don’t get it!

I didn’t set the alarm or the clock.

Finally, I get it.

I turn the house alarm off.

The police are there in what seems like seconds.

‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

They are trying the doorknob. I see it moving. Ringing the doorbell. They are persistent to get in. To find out who has trespassed.

I’m scared shitless. I breathe deeply. I’m sweating. It’s grim.

I’m at the pinnacle of the L-25 and it’s going to be wrecked by the men in blue.

I open the door.

One cop who’s melting away backward with a .38 special pointed at me, and another with a shotgun, who appears cartoonish and taffy-like.

I feel like I’m looking at them through a ‘fish eye’ lens. Then the questions come quickly.

Like they’re robots and their speech mechanically operated.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael Marcus.”            

“Where do you live?” the shotgun officer says.

“Here,” I say.

“What’s the address here?” the .38 officer says.

“13691, Tea House Lane,” I say.

“Zip Code?”

“927, oh fuck. I don’t know”

“The phone?”

“714 731-1883,” I say.

“Your father?”

“Carl Marcus,” I say.

“Your mother?”

“Which one?”

That breaks his rhythm, confuses him, and he asks if I’m on medication.

“No,” I say.  “Why?”

“Because your eyes are dilated, son.”

“I’m not well,” I say.  “And if you’re done with the questions, I’d like to go to sleep.”

“One minute, son.”

“Yes,”

“What’s the code word?”

The seconds start passing like hours.  There is a code word but I forgot it…then it comes…

“Vent,” I holler.

“Good night, son.” Why does this guy keep calling me “Son?’

The cops leave.

I go to the backyard with a flashlight and explore my Father’s meticulously manicured Banzai garden. Small people inhabit the banzai village. 

I trip around the house, the garage, rummage through photos, boxes, and drawers.

I find super 8 porno films, “Swedish Erotica” and a hand held projector.

I thread the film through the hand-held viewer.

the images are more tiny through the little peep hole they’re moving and going at it in there a group of tiny naked bodies in a little birdhouse I seem to be holding.

I try to jerk-off, but I feel like I’m going to pull my dick off my body. So I stop.  

Then I take my fathers car for a drive, a 1978 Red Corniche Rolls Royce, I’m cruising Lemon Heights. It’s all twinkly and shiny out.

Everything is moving and swirling by. I’m fully aware that I’m in a $115,000 car.

I will get her home safely, my dad and stepmother are on an antique buying trip in New York.

I go home and furiously drink a six pack of Heineken.

Then I sleep. I think I slept, or I hallucinated that I slept.

I woke up and felt like an overgrown putty product, yanked and pulled through this reality’s wormhole. 

Little Mikey Maniac

Early on I remember being very bored.

I loved playing with matches. I torched the backyard. Nobody knew it was me. I was a good liar. That was the first of many incidents with flame. Garages, beds, vacant lots, my fingers.  

Stealing was wonderful too.  The shrink said it was to get attention. I disagree. The feeling I got from stealing and burning things was a feeling of power.  I imagine it was the same feeling a stockbroker gets from greenmail or inside trading.  Probably the same feeling a woman gets who marries for money and has young cocky studs on the side.  The same feeling a dictator gets when…well, you get the picture.  

Power is relative from age 5, right to the grave.  

I stole a socket set from a neighbor, Steve.  I pretended I was a mechanic. I lay under the bed for hours, running wires in the box spring, tightening nuts and bolts. Loosening and re-tightening nuts and bolts.  I was so bored and lied constantly.  

My uncle PJ was staying with us.  He had come out of the service.  I don’t recall if he saw any action or not.  Nor was I even old enough to be interested; in war or peace or women or money or masturbation or drugs, gambling, or tobacco and alcohol.  

I just really enjoyed stealing and burning things…  

oh yeah, back to my uncle.  He would sleep in the spare room upstairs.  I remember mom, dad, and sis being gone, Uncle PJ was asleep, I had run of the house. Wow, that still excites me having the run of anywhere. Anyway, I had a G.I. Joe talking doll.  I used to pull the string and hold it up to my uncle’s ear while he slept.

“Up the hill, men”, the doll squeaked.

“A-Ten-Hut!!!”  This command seemed really loud.  My uncle would jump outta bed, grab the doll.

“Hey, what the hell?  I’m trying to sleep!”

I would look at him. Laugh. And walk away.

He smoked a lot of pot at that time. Once I found his pot and fed it to our Doberman pinscher, Heidi.  That really pissed him off. Mom and dad weren’t happy either.  

But the dog seemed fine.  I loved that dog. The first dog I’d ever seen, played with, lived with. Good old’ Heidi. Once I tried to put together a slot car set I had received for Christmas.  

I was told not to touch it.  I didn’t listen. I never listened.  What they knew was slowly killing them–and I was next in line.  

So I attempted to set up the slot car set.  It didn’t work out. The dog chewed up pieces of track. Then she snatched one of the cars and ran.  That’s when I panicked.  There were only two cars.  “Heidi!  Heidi!”  She didn’t listen, nobody listened, not even the dogs. She chewed up the slot cars chassis.  My uncle was plenty mad when he got up.  He put the track together and even the chewed up car worked. He wasn’t too bad, my uncle PJ. But I was on my way to being a nightmare, for all of them.

REST IN PEACE PJ.

Oil Based

Yo! Gimme’ big hit of that oil-based shit!

That sweet crude that rips apart my brain, sends me on another plane!

Dig deep in that sack for a big oily head banging blast!

Man, it’s good in all countries, shit’s going fast!

Where else can I find an oily trip?

Who else can I blast?

Who’s giving me lip?

Who gives a mad fuck ‘bout that Nuclear trip.

I need to see murder for that oily shit!

I fix fiend, and frack for that liquid crack!

Clock my dollars often so I can get another sack.

I don’t care who lied, cried, or died, inject me with oil and keep me satisfied.

Climate change, warming sphere I don’t give a fuck!

Another drone strike sounds like your bad luck!

I need mine now, I ain’t playing with you!

Gimme my fuel, or I’ll fucking blast you!

 

Fourscore And A Little More

Fantastic Scams™

Bait And Switch®

Meteoric Rise©

Easy Money™

You’d be a fool not to fall for a this! Don’t miss the boat! The trains leaving the station! You’ll be living a lifelong vacation! Work from home! Make $8000.00 monthly posting ads for Sir E-Bay & Lady Google!

Jack off or diddle your cunt, while you watch the latest version of Alan Funt!

Excuse the candor and rancor But let’s get to the pointless meaning of what I’m screaming. The easy money is for easy wallets, with disposable Dead Presidents past and present. Otherwise, You’re the pheasant for a ‘Cheney like’ hunter, you’ll be put out to pasture in a dead field of wheatgrass, just what do I mean?

They’ll wax that ass, then put you in the Unseen Museum… Where a thousand dead souls spend recess doing the dance of a thousand recessions, coupled with a line dance featuring the legacy and the lord of this dance the one and only, Sir Ronnie Ray Gun – cutting a rug and a budget with a trickle-down break dancing routine that will have you squirming in your (once upon a time) Wrangler Jeans.

…Meanwhile, Tommy Two times at the outdoor bar repeating, “You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”

If that isn’t enough, Well I don’t mean to get gruff, but you can high tail it (or Low ride) back to Toonerville, Tommy! And take that Pitbull with ya’- He’s bad for business! Seems he ate all the gunpowder and blood sausage. And he makes whitey uptighty. He’s not fixed and his balls collide with the consciousness of dimly lit buffoons. And you there, yes you, where you from, Rangoon? Or another place?

I can’t place the face, but we don’t allow that click-click language in this here saloon so hit the bricks and tell your story walking or face La Migra, who are suffering from maximum migraines brought on by the same paranoia of the simple solipsistic suckas that sing and dance to the drum of Sir Donnie’s Republican Tantrum.

Getting Through It All