Solomon Tate’s Lesbian

by Fielding Goodfellow

Tate had no idea how he got there, waking up on Kew Beach, nestled against Jessica with a mouth full of sand. The last thing he remembered was leaving The Roxy Theater, totally messed up on peyote, after being immersed in the tragedy of Michael J. Pollard’s ‘Dirty Little Billy’.  This was certainly not the first time he found himself face down on the ground with no idea of how the fuck he wound up that way.

So, here’s what happened. In the mid 1970s, Tate was living in a second floor walk up that overlooked the park in a trendy, artsy neighborhood  filled with writers, painters, and musicians, where their very existence was celebrated our existence with one party after another, fueled by copious amounts of hallucinogenics and beer amid the constant challenge of keeping the flying lizards and leprechauns at bey. That summer, as Frampton came alive and The Eagles checked into the Hotel California, Jessica Emery settled into this little piece of psychedelic paradise and moved into the apartment directly across the hall from Tate.

The world was scared shitless of homosexuals back then, and the fear that their very presence would turn the universe gay and ultimately bring about the demise of the human race was widespread. It was pretty fucked up just how much time and effort went into stopping the gay scourge then, when there were men in overalls dining on squirrel stew and drinking a gallon or two of corn mash whiskey, and then going out to the barn to bang the shit out of their livestock without anyone raising an eyebrow, or a shotgun. Jennifer was gay, a lesbian  from Beaumont, Texas and was often subjected to ridicule and taunting from some of the community assholes who felt the urge to state the obvious in an attempt to display some sense of superiority based entirely on their sexuality.  “She’s a lesbian.”, was often whispered with scorn and disdain.

Sometime in August Tate and Jessica were sitting on her sofa listening to Spirit, and getting messed up on mushrooms. Jennifer, like everyone else Tate involved himself with, was a writer.  She had a weakness for the absurd, and was quite fond of Ionesco, Kafka, and Beckett. There was a wall in her living room filled with caricatures of Kafka, Oscar Wilde, Salinger, and Vonnegut. She was wonderfully beautiful, and was several years older than Tate. He thought she was the one of the coolest people he knew, and watching her move around the flat that day, braless, in a skin tight t shirt and short shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, he believed  that she was one of the sexiest. All the while Tate had pornography playing in his head. It was in slow motion, always in slow motion. There was something insanely hot about girl on girl sex, well, not something, Tate felt that everything about it was insanely hot, and despite the fact that he was sure he would never be able to take that trip up her thighs to get to the magic kingdom. he was more than a little interested in at least getting a ticket to the show.

The inside of her apartment was as cool as she was, with a wall dedicated entirely to caricatures of writers including Kafka, Oscar Wilde, Salinger and Vonnegut. There were plants growing in every room, and a fish tank hummed loudly atop a large coffee table in the middle of the living room. They ate dinner together, and then  headed down to The Roxy for the Friday night movie marathon  to catch ‘Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory’ , John Waters’ ‘Pink Flamingos’, ‘Dawn Of The Dead’, and ‘Dirty Little Billy’. All the way to the theater Tate wondered what the hell he should talk about. There was a series of random questions, covering topics that ranged from the fall of the Mayan empire to “So, how long have you been a lesbian?”

“Since I was a Freshman in college.” Jessica responded. “Up til then, I always  had boyfriends. But in my freshman year”, she continued, “my boyfriend and I were watching porn and everything became clear. It was an Epiphany. A life altering moment.” Jessica stopped and sighed heavily.  “The first time I saw that pussy up close, I knew I was really into girls. I never really thought much about  dick, but I couldn’t stop thinking about pussy. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate dick or anything like that. I’ve got a bunch of fake ones stashed in a drawer. But just the idea of pussy gets me hot.”

“Me too.”, Tate told her.”

“I’m sure it does.”, Jessica laughed. ” More than anything, at that moment, Tate wanted her. The film in his head began playing again Tate knocks on Jessica’s door and she invites him in. She’s wearing a robe, and as she invites Tate to sit on the couch, she goes to get him a beer from the kitchen. The Beatles are playing in the background, Revolver, side 1, when a completely naked woman comes out of the bedroom. Jessica appears with the beer and without the towel. The two lesbians lead Tate into the bedroom. With each screening, the script became more and more detailed, but that didn’t really matter. What was important here is that there was always a happy ending.

Nothing unusual happened at The Roxy. They sat in the last row, as Tate always did, aisle seat,  did some more peyote and  watched the films. By the time Willy Wonka was over, they were totally messed up and Tate was lost in the world of Dirty Little Billy. He had once said “You can get lost in your own mind, but don’t worry about it. The journey back will surprise the fuck out of you.”, and for Tate, it always did. After the screenings Jessica wanted to watch the sun come up at the beach, so they headed off to Kew Beach with a little time to spare.  They walked along the shore line, chasing the waves and finishing off the peyote.  They took their clothes off, and went into the water, splashing around like a couple of seals in heat. When Jessica ran up the beach, Tate chased her, and tripping on a piece of driftwood knocked himself out cold. He didn’t see the sun come up. When he woke, he found himself and Jessica laying on the beach naked and apparently spooning. He tried to get up, but his arm was trapped under her head,. The movement stirred her awake. “Any idea what the hell went on here?”, he asked her.

“I suppose that you took advantage of me.”, she said.

“No.”, Tate said. “I’m sure I’d remember that.”

“Well, then”, Jessica answered, “Maybe I took advantage of you.”

Really?”, he asked. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember that too.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”, she told him. “Shit like that happens.” But Tate did worry about it. For days he tried desperately to locate that information locked somewhere in his mind, underneath all of the drugs and alcohol, but he couldn’t find a thing. Not even a trace. That movie kept playing in his head, over and over again, as Jessica ran naked along the beach with Tate in pursuit. But that’s where it stopped. There was nothing more. About a week or so later,  Jessica arrived at his door, braless in a skin tight t shirt and short shorts that left nothing to the imagination.  Tate stood at the door following the curves of her body with his eyes. He followed her legs up to her thighs, and lingered there for a moment, and then moved up to the outer gates of the secret garden she seemed to be taunting him with. “Nothing happened at the beach.”, she told him. “I wanted it to, but you got hurt, and so, nothing happened.”  She took him by the hand and led him to her flat. “Have a seat.”, she said. “I’ll get you a beer.”

Tate watched her head into the kitchen, mesmerized by the movement of her hips as she walked. The Beatles were playing in the background, Revolver, side 1. A naked woman emerged from the bedroom, just as Jessica returned with a beer and nothing else. She was totally naked. The two women kissed, and Tate felt the massive hard on that has developed in his pants. It all seemed to be in slow motion. The two lesbians led him into the bedroom, and from what we gather, there was a happy ending for all. This arrangement lasted just over a year, about the time Ramona moved in with Tate, and Jessica found herself in love with Stacey Hollis. Sometime in the late winter, Jessica moved out of her flat, and Tate never heard from her again. But that didn’t really matter anyway. What was important here is that there is always a happy ending.

 

 

 

I Had A Bike…

 

I had a bike. Not just any bike, but a 5 speed, Schwinn Fastback Mach 2. Anyone who had ever ridden a bike back then knew that was the coolest bike ever made. With its banana seat, high, padded back rest, heavy duty springs, dual gear shifters strategically mounted on the top horizontal crossbar, and ape handlebars, it was the wet dream of bicycles. I rode it everywhere. One Saturday afternoon in late May, I rode off to the park to smoke cigarettes in the bushes with Claire Charlebois, the only girl in the neighborhood who knew how to French kiss. I left my bike at the edge of the tree line, leaning up against the backstop of the baseball diamond and dove headfirst into pubescent petting and puckering during which Claire Charlebois almost removed my tonsils with her tongue. On that Saturday afternoon, as Claire showed me her tits for the first time, someone stole my bike. Right out from under my nose. I was pretty sure that the someone was ‘Gorilla’ Garland. The biggest and meanest kid in Rockford Road Public School, he was also the most likely to wind up in juvie one day.

Howie, Sam and I agreed that he was the most likely suspect. The three of us were best friends, bound together in a ritual of sharing each others’ blood that we believed would unite us forever. We were The Three Musketeers, and we set off on a mission to get the Schwinn back. “All for one, and one for all.”, Howie called out.

Ian, as his parents named him, wasn’t mean by choice. Once upon a time we were friends. I was there when his father, an ex Captain who was discharged from the armed forces for being a fucking mental case, threw him into the lake in an effort to teach him to swim, and left him there to find his own way back to shore. I watched as a bunch of people on a sail boat pulled him out of the water and took him safely to shore. Since then, Ian was terrified of both the water and his father. I guess he was just scared and angry all of the time after that.

“We’re gonna find your bike.”, Sam said as we walked through the neighborhood on our way to Gorilla’s house. “You know he took your bike. He’s the biggest thief around.”

“Ya, but he’s crazy mean.”, Howie said. “I don’t think we should mess around with him.”

“It will be okay.”, I assured him. “Don’t worry about that skuzzball. He’s just an oversized dork. We just need to stick together.”  We headed over to the Garland house with purpose, and there, leaning up against the side of the house, was my bike. As we went to repossess it, Gorilla appeared, bigger than I remembered, blocking our path to the treasured Schwinn Fastback Mach 2. “We want the bike back.”, I told him.

“That’s my bike.”, Gorilla said. ”

“You’re a lying sack of shit.”, Sam shouted at him. “That’s not your bike. You know you stole it. Give it back.”

“You’re gonna make me mad.”, Gorilla replied as he took a few steps towards us. “And if that happens, I’m gonna have to pound you into the ground.”

“Well”, I said,”there’s 3 of us here and I’m not so sure that you can pound all of us.”

“We’ll just have to see.”, Gorilla said as he gave me the patented death stare that had made several 5th graders shit their pants. Former Captain Mr. Garland, was on the driveway washing his Mercury Montcalm when he heard the commotion and came over to us.

“What the hell are you kids up to?”, he asked.

“Nothing, sir.”, Gorilla answered,

“That’s my bike and he won’t give it back.”, I said.

“Where did you get the bike, Ian?”, former Captain Garland asked.

“Its mine,”, Gorilla said.

“I’ve never seen it before.” the former Captain stated. “Where did you get it?”

“Do you think I’m a liar?”, Gorilla asked his father.

“You are a liar.”, Sam shouted.

“No, Ian.”, former Captain Garland replied. “I don’t think you’re a liar. I think you’re a thief. Now, for the last time, where did you get the bike?”

“I found it.”, Gorilla answered. “At the park.”

“Give the boy back his bike, Ian.”, the former Captain ordered. “And then get your sorry ass in the house.”

“You’re a liar and a thief.”, Sam said.

“I’m so gonna pound your face.”, Gorilla told Sam.

“Shut your mouth and get in the damn house before I drag you in there.”, the former Captain told his son.

Gorilla moved and made his way into the house.  I jumped on the bike and  rode off as fast as I could, peddling so hard that I was sure the wheels weren’t even touching the pavement, and not stopping until we reached the safety of my street. “I think the Captain is gonna beat Gorilla’s ass.”, Sam said. “Did you see the look in his eyes?”

I was pretty sure that Sam was right, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Gorilla. No one should have to live like that I mean, all of the shit he had to take from the his old man must have made life unbearable. I headed back to the park with hopes of finding Claire Charlebois still in the bushes waiting for my safe return. I found her, but she didn’t wait for me. She had involved herself in a tongue wrestling match with Blair Garland, Gorilla’s older brother who would be entering high school in the fall.

I lost all interest in Claire Charlebois after that, and stayed away from the bushes at the park. Years later, when we were all adults,  I heard that she had been killed by her boyfriend’s wife in a jealous rage, and left naked on a motel room bed with the word ‘WHORE’ scrawled just above her vagina in bright, red lipstick. The Three Musketeers disbanded sometime in High School, and Howie, Sam and I drifted apart. Howie went on to be a successful corporate lawyer, while Sam wound up an FM radio dj at a small market station in Brandon, Manitoba, and a booster for the Manitoba Moose Hockey Team.  Former Captain Garland spent the last years of his life in a convalescent home following a stroke that left him completely helpless. Gorilla Garland finished High School and went on to The University of New Brunswick on an Athletic Scholarship and wound up being drafted by the Calgary Stampeders. In his second season, he was arrested for the brutal beating of a rodeo clown at the Calgary Stampede, and served several years in prison. I have no idea what happened him after that. The Schwinn was with me for many years, and passed down to my younger brother once I had outgrown it. It rusted and fell into disrepair, and then just sort of disappeared without a trace from right under my nose while I was hoping in and out of the back seat of my 1969 Mustang Mach 1 at the 400 Drive-In with Bonnie Reeser.

Camptown Ladies

 

 

I spent the entire summer trying to get Marlene Gorman to leave me alone. She followed me everywhere, and I really had no interest in her whatsoever. She seemed nice enough, but there were the braces, glasses, the weird, chop shop haircut, and acne, all which seemed appropriate accessories for her scrawny, pasty skinned body, and I was, at 14 years old, an incredibly shallow kid. But Marlene was simply a pain in the ass, always buzzing around like a mosquito that you just seem to catch, but you know you want it gone.

I was spending my time with Suzie Pressman, the owner of long, dark hair, a tantalizing smile, and deep blue eyes. I suppose her insanely large breasts also had something to do with my burgeoning passion for her. We spent all of our time together, sneaking out of the camp and wandering off into the adjoining Government Fish Hatchery where we entertained ourselves with drugs, nudity, and a cruise to Muff Island. or to the nearby town.

Every evening, Suzie would come by my cabin, and wait for me to come out, pretending that we would be attending the camp;s programed social activity of the night. Suzie and I prefered to engage in activities of our own design, and would disappear into the night armed with just a joint, a blanket, and the dream of taking home a gold medal in the sexolympics. The trick, as always, was to elude the ever present stalking of Marlene Gorman.

The camp was packed on visitors’ day, with hundreds and hundreds of parents arriving to spend a few hours with the kids they sent away for the summer. My parents arrived in the first wave, and with Suzie busy with her family, Marlene took the opportunity to hover around me and my parents. My mother brought gifts of food, and as we sat down to eat, Marlene began pacing in a circle around us. “Do you think if we tossed a piece of chicken over there”, I asked, “she’d run to chase it?”

“It depends on how well trained she is.”, the old man answered. “But there’s always a chance that she’d just go get it and bring it right back.”

“Stop it!”,my mother demanded. “That’s a girl, not a dog. You two should be ashamed of yourselves.” To be honest, I felt absolutely no shame, and I doubted the old man did either.

“That girl”, I tried to explain, ” has been following me all over the place. Everywhere I go, she’s there. Its like having another shadow. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Its because she likes you.”, my mother replied. “There is never a reason for being mean or hurtful to her. Never.”

Dr. B., the camp director and well known sociopath announced that Visitors’ Day was over, and requested that all families depart from the camp grounds. I said goodbye to my parents, and as I turned to leave, the old man slipped $20 into my hands, “Do something nice with your girl.”, he said.

“What girl?”, I asked.

“The one over there under the tree.”, he said, using his head to gesture over at Suzie and her parents as they were saying goodbye.

“How do you know?”, I asked.

“She keeps looking over at you, and to be honest, that’s who I’d be chasing around here.”, he replied as he walked off to catch up to my mother and head home. I think that was the first and last time I ever truly felt close to the old man.

There was this small, but wonderfully seductive waterfall about a 20 minute walk out of the camp grounds which was forbidden for campers to attend. Everything was forbidden, as Dr. B. reminded us on a daily basis with his announcements over the P.A. system, but most of us at this camp, just didn’t give a shit. Suzie and I frequented the forbidden falls regularly, settling in the small pool of cascading water, undressing each other and then banging like bunnies. We headed there after visitors’ day had ended, and after smoking a joint, began the spiritual rite of waterfall sex. The sound of something stirring in the bushes behind us was of little concern at first as we writhed in passion to the sound of Blues Image’s ‘Ride Captain Ride’ playing on the portable radio we always took along. “Is there an animal there?”, Suzie asked.

“No.”, I told her. “Its probably just Marlene.”

:I’m gonna kill her.”, Suzie said, as she grabbed a rock from the side of the pool and threw it into the bushes.  I put my shorts on and walked over to where the noises had come from. I could see Marlene scurrying through the bushes away from us, like a rat in a maze. “Can’t that bitch find a guy of her own?”, Suzie asked. I didn’t want to say it, but I was almost certain that she couldn’t. Not with the braces, the acne, and the ‘Scout Finch’ haircut.

When the summer ended, I said goodbye to Suzie and, despite the fact that she lived 5 hours away from me, we promised to keep in touch. We really didn’t. There were a few letters and even fewer phone calls for a month or so, and then nothing. I suppose that’s just how it is. Time passes, memories fade, and life moves forward. Years later, when I was attending University, I went out to one of the on campus bars where I was introduced to an insanely beautiful woman. She was tall and incredibly hot. She introduced herself as Margot, and we sat around for hours talking. At some point in the night I asked her out. She said no. “You just don’t remember. do you?”, she asked.

“Remember what?”, I inquired.

“Me.”, she said. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Trust me, if we had met before, I’d remember you.”, I suggested.

“Oh, we’ve met before.”, she insisted. “Five years ago at Camp Ramah. I’m Marlene Gorman.”

“Oh hell.”, I blurted out. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I know.”, she replied as she stood. “And if you weren’t such an asshole to me, all of this could be yours right now.” I sat in silence as she walked away, realizing that my mother was right. Hell, I had been cruel and hurtful, and I was ashamed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1973

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

Politics is a dangerous game, full of treachery and deceit as it hovers around smoky, back rooms, peddling itself like a crack whore for a few dollars to be made in a nefarious deal sealed with a handshake and the wink of an eye. Hiding behind closed doors with unsavory and unscrupulous bed fellows, surrounded by broken promises and Philistine fetishes, the skeletons in the closet sooner or later scream with delight. The campaign for senior class president of 1972/73 was no exception.

Arnold Pritchard was a pot head who had served as junior class president of 1971/72 following an election won by acclamation. His  platform of doing nothing ushered in a junior year of psychedelic serenity, which appeared to be exactly what the student body had been pinning for. Sandy Lynde, the blow job queen of Guy Lombardo High, had thrown her insanely short, pleated skirt into the ring kneeling firmly on the promise of an open mouth policy, offering up her student body that had been responsible for fueling wet dreams since her freshman year. There are always difficult decisions to make in electing officials, and the choice between Arnold’s policy of governance from eight miles high, and Sandy’s open wide and say ah approach, had the class divided.

As a writer for the school paper, I was assigned to cover the political wranglings of this heated campaign and interview the candidates. I was completely removed from the events that were unfolding, tripping through high school with a mind accosted by peyote and the occasional Percocet, but I caught up with Arnold in the  second floor stairwell on the north side of the school. There was a cloud of smoke that hung in the air like a London fog, as Arnold passed me a joint that had been circulating around the small group of regulars. He stated that he was looking forward to another mellow year, and referred to his vision of leadership as  nothing is everything. As the peyote, Percocet and pot joined forces on the battlefield in my head, I suggested that it all seemed very Taoist, although I was certain that Arnold had no idea what the hell I was talking about. It didn’t really matter though, I mean, the entire senior class would be led astray by a trail of dropped cheese doodles if he was elected. As I was leaving, Arnold placed a dime bag of pot in my hand and reminded me to vote Pritchard.

I met up with Sandy at her campaign headquarters, behind the bleachers at the football field. “I see you’ve come back.”, she said as soon as I was within earshot. “It’s been a long time.” It had been two years. Two years ago, at the very same spot, I  was on the receiving end of a Sandy Lynde special which despite being only moderately special, was still quite enjoyable.

“This time I just came to talk about the election.”, I told her.

“That’s a shame.”, she said. “I always kind of liked you.”

“Really?”, I replied. “Well so far I think I’ll be voting for Arnold.”

“Ya, I know he’s got the drugs.”, she said lifting her t shirt high enough to expose her tits. “But I bet he doesn’t have these.” I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure that she was right. Sandy had nothing much to say about the campaign or the election. She had no real platform, and was relying on her campaign slogan, ‘wouldn’t you like to have a president who sucks’, to garner enough votes to win her the presidency. Much like her bleacher blow jobs, Sandy’s campaign, while certainly adequate enough, lacked substance.

Somewhere along the campaign trail things got ugly. In the dark and dirty underbelly of politics, it is inevitable that slander and libel become a necessary evil. Tales are told and rumors are spread with little, if any thought of the consequences, as the pundits follow closely behind with mouths wide open like fucking  Pez dispensers, encouraging this odious repartee and hoping  for an equally offensive retort. And so it was in 1973 at Guy Lombardo High a rumor spread faster than a California wild fire, involving Sandy Lynde, an English teacher, and a trip to an abortion clinic in Buffalo, New York, which completely overshadowed the story of Arnold Pritchard’s drug induced mental breakdown and subsequent vacation at the Queen Street Mental Health Center. As happens in all political campaigns, the three week campaign for senior class president was now a hotbed of sin, seduction and insanity. With careers, reputations, and victory hanging in the balance, a stop was put on the campaign and the election was suspended by the school administration until a viable solution could be reached. During the ensuing investigation into the allegations of teacher-student relations which revealed nothing, it was determined that in order to stop the circus of crap that was enveloping the student body , a co-presidency was deemed to be the only decision that could be made. The candidates agreed, and the news was revealed to the senior class. Sadly the gossipers and rumor mongers refused to accept the compromise and protested outside the  administration office demanding their right to vote. Unconstitutional or not, as the simpletons claimed, I was confounded by their failure to recognize the perfect union of sex and drugs. It all ended with the protesters getting up from their failed sit in, after most of them were rendered harmless by Arnold’s seemingly unlimited supply of dime bags.

Out behind the bleachers at the football field, Sandy was holding court with three or four junior co-eds, who were hanging on every word she said, which somehow seemed odd as I imagined that her words were almost always indiscernible as her mouth was otherwise occupied. “Thanks for all of your help.”, she told me. “I really appreciate everything you did.”

“I really didn’t do anything.”, I replied. “I just wrote about what was going on. But I’m glad it all worked out.”

“Me too.”, she said. “I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it.”, I said.

“Well.”, she turned to look at her entourage, “We all want to thank you. How would you like to be today’s practice volunteer for the young ladies?”

“Right here?”, I asked.

“Here and now.”, she answered. My pants were down before she finished that sentence, and by the time they hit the ground, the trainees and their coach were all on their knees in front of my now fully erect manhood. It was 1973, and amid all of the rock and roll hoochie koo that had been going on, I developed a balls deep appreciation for politics.

The Case Of Franklin Gillick, Jr.

 

The courtroom was dead silent. Franklin Gillick, Jr. sat with his head buried in his hands. He glanced over at the somberly, stoic faces of the jury, and realized that there was little hope of exoneration. He would, more than likely, be found guilty as charged. And he was guilty, caught red handed, so to speak. Witness after witness testified that they had seen him in the red and black lumberjack shirt he always seemed to wear, playing the drums in a Polka band at The Logger’s Tavern that Saturday night in June of 1989. And yet, he couldn’t remember a thing about that night.

Gillick was a creature of habit. He lived alone in a small, one room cabin on the edge of the woods, just outside of Ullswater. He enjoyed the solitude, and had embraced the self imposed isolation in order to focus on his work as a forensic taxidermist. Every Saturday night however, without exception, he headed into town for a few beers at The Logger’s Tavern, and if he was drunk enough, he would sit in for a set or two playing the drums in the Doctor Debauchery & Professor Phukett Psychedelic Psound Band. He was actually a fairly good drummer, but his inability to handle alcohol, and his passion for flannel had catapulted him into what the media had named the crime of the century. In a strange set of circumstances in which all of the celestial bodies managed to align themselves in perfect synchronicity, Gillick had become nothing more than a pawn in a game of cat and mouse with the universe.

Franklin Gillick, Jr. was a friend of mine. We grew up together doing all of that Tom Sawyer crap. When we were 11 or 12 years old, Franklin and his family moved up north, and we lost touch with each other. Thirty five years later, I  was now hearing about him on the nightly news, charged and standing trial for the brutal murder of a young woman.

Reports indicated that on that fateful night Gillick got into his ten year old red Ford F150 and headed toward Ullswater on his way to The Logger’s Tavern at about 7:30. He stopped at Farrell’s General Store where he picked up supplies for his taxidermy work that included a set of precision knives, some heavy duty thread, and some cotton wadding. Hank Farrell, when questioned by police stated that Gillick seemed a “little off” that night and left without paying, telling Farrell to put it on his account, which was quite unusual. Gillick continued on his way to the tavern, and stopped to pick up a young woman who was hitchhiking along Highway 141 on her way to Diamond’s Golf & Vacation Resort. Gillick told police in his statement that the woman was hurt, and was bleeding. He helped stop the bleeding and then he dropped the young woman off at the junction of Highway 141 and Old Parry Sound Road, a few minutes walk from the resort. According to the staff working at the resort that night, the young woman, who worked as a housekeeper at the resort, never arrived. About an hour or so later, some counsellors from a nearby summer camp on their way back from a day off, spotted the body of the young woman in a ditch at the side of Highway 141 just past Old Parry Sound Road. They contacted the police, and reported that they had seen an older red Ford F150 driving west along the highway shortly before they discovered the body.

Gillick arrived at The Logger’s Tavern and sat in his usual seat at his usual table and ordered a Pabst. “Looks like blood all over your hands.”, the barmaid said. “Are you alright?”.

Gillick looked at his hands. “I’m fine.”, he replied, as he stood to go wash his hands.  “Damn hitchhiker I picked up was bleeding all over the truck.”

As the Psychedelic Psound Band took to the stage, and Gillick took his place behind the drum kit, the police had determined that foul play was involved in the death of the young woman found at the side of Highway 141. The discovery of a cut throat, and a blood soaked precision knife located nearby, set off the search for a killer. Detective Sgt. Rollie Whitman of the Ontario Provincial Police detachment in Bracebridge, was assigned to lead the investigation. All they had to go on so far was the precision knife, and an older model, red Ford F150 which witness had seen driving near the scene when the body was discovered. All of the stores in the vicinity were canvassed, and Hank Farrell reported that he had sold a set of the knives recently. The older model, red Ford F150 was going to be a little more difficult, as Gillick had never registered it. But they had Gillick’s name, and when they arrived at of the cabin fortune smiled on them, as the truck they were looking for was parked in front. There were blood stains on the passenger seat and arm rest. There was blood soaked cotton wading on the passenger side floor, and the precision knife set, which the police found in the cabin was missing one knife.

When questioned by the police, Gillick stated repeatedly that he couldn’t remember anything about that night. He acknowledged purchasing the knives and cotton wadding, and he remembers being at The Logger’s Tavern, but that was all. In his defence, he had been drinking and he was sure that Doctor Debauchery had slipped him a yellow jacket. The forensics on the blood in his truck and the knife found at the crime scene were identified as those belonging to the young woman who was found dead in the ditch on the side of Highway 141. Gillick was arrested, charged with first degree murder and held in custody, without bail. With the help of some friends, Gillick retained the services of the preeminent Criminal Attorney in the country, G. Lawrence Roberts lll. Roberts was 26 and 1 in his career,. In his book, ‘Top Dog In A Courtroom Of Pussies’, he attributes the one loss to a paranoid schizophrenic judge whose advances at a Christmas party he had rejected.

Gillick had always professed his innocence, but as the trial unfolded he began doubting himself. For the first time in his life, he thought that he may have been capable of killing that young woman. The Crown presented its case on the grounds that Gillick was driving around looking for some unsuspecting woman and, after picking the hitchhiker up, had made advances toward her. When she rejected those advances, he killed her. A cold blooded attack fuelled by anger and self loathing.

As the court room filled with media, friends, and inquisitive locals, the jury was set to deliver its verdict. Gillick was shaking. While he had been preparing for the worst for weeks, he was terrified of it actually occurring. Gillick stood beside his lawyer as the foreman read out the verdict. “Guilty as charged.”, was all Gillick heard. Guilty as charged. Those words kept playing over and over again in his head as he stood there as if he had been frozen in that moment.

He was sentenced to life in prison, with no eligibility for parole for 25 years. His appeals were repeatedly denied, and Gillick resigned himself to serving out his sentence in peace. In a letter to his sister, he spoke of finding God, which in turn brought him peace and acceptance. After serving 25 years, Gillick met  with the Parole Board, and was granted his freedom. Nine days before he was scheduled to be released, Franklin Gillick, Jr., was stabbed to death in the exercise yard of Collins Bay Correctional Facility.

After the trial, there was no further mention of Franklin Gillick, Jr. There was no mention of his death in prison, or of new evidence which seemed to prove that he was wrongfully convicted. DNA evidence uncovered that the fibres and hair found on the young woman’s person were not Gillick’s, but belonged to a much younger man. The police believe that the camp counselor returning from his day off, was the killer. The young woman was first attacked before Gillick picked her up, and was bleeding in his truck from minor wounds. After he dropped her off, the counsellor attacked her again, this time slitting her throat. It was all circumstantial evidence that convicted Gillick, and cost him his life, and no one seemed to give a damn. Absolutely no one.