Beaver Falls

The sky was brilliantly blue on the roof of Pelican Pete’s boat house that summer as we watched the Albacores on the lake float across the water. The whole thing looked like some kind of painting, I mean it didn’t seem real out there that afternoon, but then things rarely did. Cosmo’s Bar was busier than usual, but I suppose everyone wanted to get in and have just one more drink before it closed its doors for good. It was the talk of the town, I mean Cosmo’s had been there for as long as anyone of us could remember and it was about to be torn down to make way for a casino that the town council was sure would bring the rich and famous to Beaver Falls. Of all of the strange things that were next to impossible to describe, progress was among the strangest. It came out of nowhere really, drifting across the night air on the back of astral angels or something, specifically designed to improve the quality of life for a few at the expense of the many. It was hauntingly intoxicating, and there was something hypnotic about it really, I mean an economic boon to the region would keep the locals brain deep in tequila and opium by bringing in travelers from the far reaches of space and time, eager to see what all of the fuss was about. Every day we watched the progress from our perch on the roof of Pelican Pete’s boat house as they paraded across the promenade that encircled the lake front, completely captivated by the sound of the waves crashing into the shore. There were big plans afoot to make the town of Beaver Falls the playground of the elite. We had been sitting on the roof of that boat house soaking up the calm and clarity that we thought might have drifted in with the sound of change, but it was more than likely brought on by the opium and tequila.

For most of us, Cosmo’s was a large part of our adolescent memories. We’d all taken a turn sitting in the corner booth and drinking underage, or walking into the backroom with one of the barmaids who offered to help us transition into manhood. We hoped that its impending demise was nothing more than just another hallucination. That would be simple enough to deal with, I mean at least it wasn’t those damn flying monkeys again, but we’d been going up to Beaver Falls for long weekends and short holidays since we were old enough to drive. and we inevitably found ourselves wasted on the roof of Pelican Pete’s boat house trying to figure out what happened to our dreams. I suppose its all just a matter of luck really, I mean luck and timing. All we can really do is cross our fingers, close our eyes and hope for the best. Somewhere in all of that clarity though, we lost the hope we brought with us the first time we came to Beaver Falls. It was hard to explain really, but the drone of our own existence had been wearing away our hope and dreams ever since it burrowed into our psyche. It was easy to get accustomed to though, I mean it just sort of appeared and hung there in the background, much like the hum of cicadas in the heat of the summer. “Is that sound coming from the hydro wires?” Tate once asked.

“Its the cicadas.” Farberman answered. “That’s their song.” I hated that noise, I mean that constant singular, monotonous hum could erode a man’s hope and dreams all by itself and leave them with nothing to believe in. Pelican Pete knew it, and he made sure that we understood that we could only listen for short periods of time, and even then we made sure that we were all messed up on tequila or opium or both, just to make sure that it couldn’t burrow any deeper into our heads. Without hope all we could really do was sit quietly and watch them prepare to tear down Cosmo’s. It just didn’t seem like there was anything we could do that would make a difference, I mean it was all about money, and you really can’t interfere in things like that. It always seemed ironic that progress wasn’t progressive at all, I mean it just never seemed to get us any closer to being better people, and if that wasn’t the point of it then, I suppose I had absolutely no use for it at all. I don’t suppose anybody did really, although the ones with the money seemed quite pleased with everything. There was just nothing for the rest of us.  There was never really supposed to be, I mean that’s just the way it was.

There were protests going on all the time, but I was never really clear what they were protesting against. Pelican Phil didn’t think the protesters knew either, and I suppose he was probably right., I mean nobody out there really seemed to know much about anything. Great strides were made in getting a man to the moon, I mean hell, I watched the damn thing unfold for the first time in the summer of 1969. Then there were the Mars Rover landings which explored whether there could have been or could ever be life on the red planet, although I was never really sure why they needed to scour the galaxy when we had a perfectly good planet right here. All we needed to do really, was feed the hungry,  house the homeless, and end war, pestilence, famine and climate change and we’d have a pretty decent place to call home. The financial gain though was just too great for those who already had it all to pass up. The mentality was typically human, I mean if you ruin something you say you care about,  you’d just go out and find another one. It seemed that they were trying to hedge their bets in the event that the earth became uninhabitable, and they wanted control in the new world. I would have preferred to take my chances down here with everyone else who was sitting up on the roof of Pelican Pete’s boat house. We saw it all differently, I mean we were sure that Elon Musk and Bill Gates were responsible for most of the evil in the world, and what wasn’t theirs more than likely belonged to Gene Simmons or Taylor Swift. It all went away just as quickly as it had arrived, I mean once it was revealed that General Brassbottom had secured the entire area for Roger Ramjet and The American Eagle Squadron’s training camp, the entire project was shelved. It seems that none of the suits wanted to engage NBC in some kind of prolonged litigation that they were unlikely to win. The fear of the network was one hell of a deterrent for the corporate clowns. The good news though, was that Cosmo’s was staying, and the assholes in three piece suits were going. The town council was devastated by the loss of what might have been, but for the rest of us, well we still had the roof of Pelican Pete’s boat house, with enough tequila and opium to ensure that the American Eagle Squadron would fly on forever.

Changing The World.

by Fielding Goodfellow

Every now and then, as the scheme of things moves quietly along on its merry way,  a switch turns on in the cosmic consciousness giving rise to yet another infestation of sociopaths with the power to charm, and insanely bad haircuts. The universe shudders at their collective stupidity, as they rise from the primordial ooze to positions of leadership, wandering around in the dark hopelessly looking for the switch to turn on the lights. Long thought to be products of in breeding, these uber morons, created in what was left of a relatively thin gene pool, open up the doors of deceit, secrecy and a septic tank full of other bullshit, while closing all of the windows making it impossible to air out the stench. In the days when I engaged in protests against the corrupt establishment, fueled by assorted pills and potions and bare breasted co-eds, we marched for social justice and human rights, steadfast in our cause to change the world. I had always walked and talked the way of a radical political activist, but as I learned through years and years of psychotherapy, I was only really in it for the nudity.

The pressures of trying to change the world, if only in a small way, were immense. Organizers of protests met in secret, plotting their agenda and creating memorable slogans that would entice the general public to join the cause. There wasn’t enough time to join every one of them, so the process of selecting the cause that mattered most was arduous and painstaking. There were protests for longer library hours, better pay for teaching assistants, and lower food costs on campus, none of which appealed to any of my sensibilities. There were demonstrations for racial equality, and social justice, which tweaked my interest, until I saw the notice for an upcoming event sponsored by Women For Freedom Of Choice. Their mandate, seemingly pro abortion, was in reality nothing more than a woman’s right to wander around topless. I had always been a supporter of topless women, and found my cause.

Surprisingly, these women, protesting the societal norm that women must keep their shorts on, were all wearing shirts at the meeting I attended. Strange really, I mean the pro drug protesters were all getting shit faced at their meetings! I sat quietly in the back of the Cock & Bull Tavern as the apparent leaders of the movement laid out their strategy. The plan was to march to the administration offices, and deliver their message from the courtyard in front. There were speakers, and a band had been arranged. It all sounded wonderfully uplifting, but I was beginning to doubt the groups commitment to the cause. Not one word was mentioned about shirt removal. Regardless, I joined the cause, presumably with the hope and prayers that on the day of the protest, these 20 year old breasts would be allowed to come out and say hello.

When D Day arrived, I waited patiently at the starting place. Small groups of women arrived a few at a time, and began the selection of signs they would carry, and organized themselves in marching groups. Once everyone was there, and the organizers were about to begin the long march to the administration offices, every single woman present removed her top, revealed a collection of breasts, of assorted color, size and shape, that even 40 years later is still clearly etched in my brain. There were tits every where, as far as the eye could see. A veritable sea of tits, that moved and with gentle precision, like waves slowly rolling into to shore, and then rolling out again only to repeat this process over and over again until the end of time. Not to be an outsider, I removed my shirt as well, and off we went to demand the right of women to expose their breasts whenever and where ever the mood struck them. For me, well, I hoped that the mood was going to strike constantly., if only to make a point.

As we moved along past the Ross Building, I found myself staring, well more like ogling the spectacular smorgasbord of silicon free boobs that were dancing all around me. The march itself was difficult, as I had to stop and adjust the erect soldier in my pants who was now standing at attention and desperately trying to salute. There were these 2 girls, beside me as we marched, identical twin sisters, who were seniors, completing thier degress in music. Melanie was a violinist, while Marnie played the cello. The thought of Marnie sitting with that instrument between her open thighs while topless, had me right on the cusp of an emotional orgasm. I told her I would love to hear her play, and she invited me to watch her and Melanie practice their craft later that evening.

At the courtyard, the chants of catchy slogans began in earnest, with ‘Look At This, They’re Just Tits’, ‘Free The Breasts’, and ‘My Tits, My Decision”. I was in total agreement, I mean breasts should be set free, and I truly believed that if a woman wanted to show me her tits, she has the God given right to do so. What idiot would deny that very basic human right? Not me. Most importantly though, I did look at them, and they were indeed just tits. Nothing more. Just wonderfully, perfect tits. Hundreds of them. And being fucked up on peyote and a shot or two of Tequila, they were everywhere, smiling at their new found freedom, gloriously free, and I noticed that they all seemed to move in perfect unison, synchronized if you will. A crowd had gathered around the protest, which seemed to make the demonstration appear much larger that it actually was, but it was evident that the predominantly male observers, and perhaps a few lesbians as well, were, much like me, only there for the tits.

I walked with Melanie & Marnie back to the dorm room they shared to enjoy the rehearsal. They were still topless, and remained that way all the to their room. I offered them some peyote and they eagerly accepted. Melanie stood with her violin perched on her left shoulder, as Marnie sat in a chair, legs spread to permit the giant instrument space, while the neck of the cello ran up her torso and settled quite peacefully directly between her boobs. They played something I had never heard before, and then followed it up with a rousing rendition of ELO’s ‘Showdown’. It was brilliant. I spent the rest of the evening with them, listening to and talking about music, getting messed up and enjoying each others’ company. They were amazing, astonishingly beautiful, complete with short skirts, knee high boots, absolutely no inhibitions, and even less of a gag reflex. I visited with them often, up until their graduation, and we continued to free our minds, and their boobs whenever we had the opportunity.

I gave up my social protesting, I mean it seemed to me that I didn’t give a shit about much, other than women, music and drugs. Many years later however, I fell into the cruelty to animal protesting, and have been a supporter of this movement since. It is worth noting, that the majority of the people involved in my local group are women and so, I will be suggesting that at our next demonstration, purely in order to garner significant attention, we should all march topless. It is currently being taken under advisement.

 

It Was Tuesday, But It Wasn’t Belgium

by Solomon Tate

Sandy met me at Ben Gurion Airport. She was a family friend I had known most of my life. We grew up together, although she was a few years older, doing all of that family crap that family friends did back then. There were barbecues, picnics, and outings to an array of local attractions filled with animals, and non stop photographs that many years later were passed around, with that ‘weren’t they cute?’ precursor. There were drive ins and there were family vacations. It was on one such vacation that Sandy and I became close in the lane way behind the Red & White store in Jackson’s Point. We were young, we were foolish, and we were horny little shits. And now,  years later, I was staying in her Tel Aviv apartment, as she showed me around her adopted country. It was weeks of incredible scenery, centuries old artifacts, beaches, booze, banging and blow jobs.

I have no idea how I got there, but  that was nothing new. The mixing of Canadian whiskey and percocet usually had that kind of effect on me. Rivaled only by tequilla and peyote, there were many times that I had absolutely no idea how I got where I was. And now, I was in Tel Aviv, backpack at my side, passport in my jacket, and a pocket full of U.S. dollar traveler’s checks. There was an American weirdo in black tights and a cape who had been wandering through the airport, thinking he was some sort of super hero. I was certain that he was a paranoid schizophrenic who had been off his chlorpromazine for several days. He was apparently a regular at the airport, and as security whisked him away, he left without incident,  promising  that he would return to save us all from the evil doers hiding in the shadows.

Sandy was marginally fabulous,  with her 5 foot long legs crammed into a pair of skin tight jeans that, if I had to guess, were painted on. I wasn’t the only one who thought so. There always seemed to be testosterone saturated men gawking in amazement, with mouths opened and tongues hanging out like dogs in the summer heat, transfixed by what was not left to the imagination. She was insanely hot, usually drawing as big a crowd as nude jello wrestling. She worked for a tour company, leading visitors through the  historical and religious treasures, and once I was settled in the apartment, we began our journey.

We ventured to Bograshov Street, where she took me for what she claimed was the best falafel in town. To be fair, it was pretty damn good. We headed off to the beach, with Sandy leading the way, and me lagging behind, stopping to look at almost every bikinied body in my path. My eyes were darting back and forth, totally immersed in the tanned, beauty that lay before me like a beach blanket buffet. Sandy located a spot on the beach to lay down. She put down her towel and bag, and removed her street clothes, revealing that body that I had the pleasure of visiting years before. I had a brief conversation with my penis, asking it to keep sleeping, at least for the time being. Sandy went for a swim in the blue waters of The Mediterranean, and when she came out of the water, it was like watching Honey Ryder emerging from the sea in Dr. No. Ironically, I was silently praying that this would be a yes, as my penis had suddenly betrayed me,  having woken up and was now standing at attention. “Well, I hope that’s for me.”, Sandy said as she arrived at our spot on the beach.

“So does he.”, I told her.

“Damn, Tate”, she said. “I see you’ve still got your mind in the gutter.”

“It seems to be the only place I’m truly comfortable.”, I informed her as I watched beads of sweat roll down into her cleavage, while little kids roamed the beach selling popsicles out of boxes, and soldiers with weapons locked and loaded wandered around just about everywhere. It was often unsettling, but it was the way of life.

Sandy took me across the country, from Haifa to Eilat, from The Dead Sea to Ashkelon. We saw the Western Wall and Masada, visited Rosh HaNikra and Ein Gedi, and stood atop Mount Zion. The country was insanely beautiful, and I was particularly fond of the Old City of Jerusalem, Jaffa  and of course, Sandy’s Queen size bed, and couch, and kitchen table. I was comfortable there, and seemed to be at ease. The thought of remaining, of not returning home was bouncing around my head on a regular basis.

One night we went to see a movie, ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest’. Interestingly enough, the film was shown with Hebrew subtitles, while the patrons in the theatre spoke during the entire film, leaving me, with my limited Hebrew to try and make out what the hell was going on. Following the movie, Sandy and I went to meet some of her friends at a cafe in Jerusalem. It was a good night, and I am pretty sure Sandy got drunk. As she was the one driving, and I was somewhat shitfaced, we were forced to spend the night in Jerusalem. We got a room in The King David Hotel, and were woken by an explosion that seemed not so far away. In the morning, Police and soldiers were all over the streets, and barricades were up blocking passage past the blast site. It seemed that our little cafe from the night before stood no more. Gone. Just like that. In the blink of an eye, what was once a building, was now merely rubble. Luckily no one was hurt, but I was a little scared. Alright, I was quite scared. My decision was made. While I was deeply moved just being there, I didn’t think I could live like that. Sandy told me that you get used to it after a while and that it just becomes part of life there. You don’t think about it, and you don’t worry about it. You just go about your life. That was all well and good, but this Canadian guy, who had finally grown accustomed to raccoons rummaging through the garbage cans at night, and the pigeons that attacked without fear, found it just a bit too overwhelming to come home one day and find my apartment had been blown into several neighboring communities. I just couldn’t do it. Several years later My wife and I and our children, inquired about making Aliyah, but were informed by the Israeli government that due to my daughter’s physical disabilities she would not be able to receive health coverage. My wife was worried about the kids going into the army at age 18. I told her I thought it would do some of them some good, but in the end, we stayed put.

I haven’t seen Sandy since then, about 40 years ago, and I couldn’t even be certain that she was still alive and well. We corresponded for a while, but as happens with old friends and lovers, you just lose touch. Time passes, people move, and I suppose, most of all, you just don’t care enough to look for them. I do miss her, I mean, I had known forever.

While I waited at the airport for my flight out of Tel Aviv the caped crime fighter emerged from the bathroom. As he raced through the terminal looking for a crime to fight, he was chased by security who again caught him, and escorted him into a room. My thoughts were that he was taken to a plane bound for the U.S., strapped in, sedated and sent about his way. Either that, or he was admitted to a psychiatric facility for observation and assessment. Either way, he didn’t come out of that room while I was waiting for my flight. I have not returned to Israel since that time many, many years ago and to be honest, with my advancing age, I think I have become afraid to fly. Well, its not flying that scares me, but rather being blown up in mid air or crashing into the ocean is what I wish to avoid. My grandfather, in his infinite wisdom had once told me that while he was unable to ever go to Israel, he did spend his winters in Florida, and it was pretty damn close to the same thing. And now I am currently considering a slow, leisurely drive down to Fort Lauderdale.

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering Charlie Garrick

by Solomon Tate

“I guess it hasn’t really been that bad.”, Garrick said to Dr. Perlmuter, the cardigan clad Psychotherapist who bore a striking resemblance to Tim Curry. “I mean there have been many potholes, and a whole lot of wrong turns, but it’s really been pretty good.”

“So why are you here?”, the doctor asked.

“Well, out there may be okay”, Garrick answered. “But the shit in my head freaks me out.”

“Well, we’ll have to pick it up right there next time.”, he said matter of factly, “I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

The good doctor was right. They were out of time. Two hours and seventeen minutes later Garrick stepped in front of a train at the St. Patrick subway station, ending the life of a good man.

Charlie Garrick was 54 years old. He spent 30 years as a reporter for a group of small, community newspapers. He had written a book, but came to the realization that he could say everything he needed to say in 2 or 3 sentences. ‘The Decline of Modern Culture’, which he wrote in 1998, consisted of 250 pages, of which 249 pages were left blank. On the 2nd page Charlie wrote “The tyrannical web of deceit that has circumvented the universe has been left to run amok, unattended for far too long. Stop the fucking lying”. He was right about it,I mean  he really didn’t need more than 2 or 3 sentences to say what he needed to say. ‘Stop the fucking lying.’, pretty much said it all.

Charlie Garrick was my friend. We served two tours of duty together in rehab, during which neither one of us could muster the courage to achieve any measure of success. During our conversations, usually held over a couple of pitchers of beer and numerous tequila shots, he spoke lovingly about his children, and passionately about Taoism. Charlie believed that life just is. Nothing more needs to be done. If we could all accept our lives, commune with nature, and seek and want nothing, all of the world’s problems would cease to exist. I don’t really understand much of it myself, but he was certain it was right. “Be like a river.”, he said. “All it ever is is a river. It flows, and nothing more. And in doing nothing but being a river, it carves through solid rock, creating valleys, and massive canyons. Pretty impressive for doing nothing.”

We sat at The Brunswick House one afternoon, many years ago contemplating life’s purpose, as 2 incredibly naive young men were prone to do. I was a psychology major, infatuated with opportunities to delve into the psyche’s of troubled souls, and help them change to live more fulfilling and positive lives. Garrick, reluctantly chose his major in his 3rd year. He opted for a combined major in history & English. He stated that since man was destined to repeat the past, someone should know what the hell had really happened, and be able to write about the dangers of repetition.

Although  customary in these instances, Charlie left no note, leaving the usual culprits to ask why. All that they could do was to ponder circumstance and speculate in an attempt to rationalize what had transpired. I’m not sure if even Charlie knew why. More important and  certainly more relevant is  how  no one noticed the anguish and desperation that was consuming Charlie. He had friends, and family and it just didn’t make any sense. It never did. Something was eating away at him, from the inside out, and it had probably been going on for years and years.

I hadn’t spoken to Charlie in a few years, and I suppose that should have been some sort of warning that things weren’t right. But we always assume the best, I suppose. People get busy, and their lives twist and turn like a river, taking them where ever the river leads. It wasn’t unusual for Charlie to disappear, but he was pretty consistent in letting us know that he was okay. There was always some kind of smoke signal, a letter or a telegram, and more recently, a text message or an email, simply stating ‘All is well. Glad you’re not here’. But there had been nothing over the last few years.

Charlie had once told me about the time he headed north and spent 2 weeks alone in the wilderness. He said that when one removes himself from the human race, even if only for a short time, it becomes evident that you never really belonged, and no longer wish to be a member. Isolation was liberating, and in isolation, he was able to truly know himself, and to become himself.

But even in his reluctance to be a part of humanity, Charlie Garrick was always there for me, and scores of others. When my wife became ill, Charlie was there, and when my first daughter was born with a disability that required her to undergo 11 surgeries in 7 years, Charlie sat with me at that hospital every single time. He was a loving and caring man who always seemed to put others before himself. Sadly, most people didn’t notice as Charlie acted within the realm of silence and anonymity. He hated the recognition and notoriety that often went hand in hand with doing the right thing so much, that he had refused to attend 3 separate award events in his honor. Few people knew that he sat on several committees that dealt with social issues, or that he taught a creative writing course for marginalized youth in the city core. And that’s how he wanted it. He did what he did, like a river, doing nothing more that just being, and he carved a life of good deeds, touching so many.

And now that he’s gone, I regret for not being a better friend. I regret that I was not there for him when he needed someone. I feel guilt that I didn’t take the time to find out what the hell was going on so that I could at least try to help. I will miss him. I will miss the way he argued with the server at Szechuan Palace that Peking Duck is really only a chicken that swims and flies. I will miss the way  beer came streaming out of his nose like a fountain when he laughed. Most of all, though, I will miss his friendship. I will miss the commitment and dedication he devoted to being my friend. I will miss Charlie Garrick.