As the years pass the memories of my youth become more vivid. Minor details jump out at me now. I don't know if this happens because I am moving swiftly toward the later stages of my life and don't want to give up my youth or maybe I can finally see through the fog of many years of depression. Doesn't matter now.

I've been trying to teach Joey Fields the fine art of texting. Not that he can't do it himself, he is a smart dude, smarter than me for sure. We were in my cave last night and he said that he was going to send his first unaided text. Just for practice. He keyed his phone for a minute and hit send then he smiled that smile that says "you should get this one."

"Look man, a Spanish bird."

Not much of a story here, just an event between three stoned friends from twenty nine years ago.

We had been partaking of substances that are frowned upon these days. The morning was in its early life of that particular day and Joey, Billy Shelton and I were in the den of my house in Indian Hills. Safe and comfortable. Billy was curled and sleeping as only Billy could sleep in those days. Joey and I were discussing the cosmos or the gdp of Singapore or something that only Joey and I could discuss. He is the deepest dude ever. He was then and still is. My cosmic brother.

All at once Billy sits straight up, looks to the ceiling, points and says "look man, a Spanish Bird." He then goes back to his blissful slumber. How could anyone ever forget a moment like that? Even twenty nine years later.

Coke or Pepsi?

Growing up in our subdivision in the 70's was very comfortable. Never, ever, except vacation were our doors locked. My parents never gave me a key to the house nor did I ever see them with one. What did we need keys for anyway? I know for a fact that most of our neighbors never locked their doors either. Almost like the taking of the census, we knew who locked and who didn't. There was no crime in Indian Hills. Or was there? Sure there was. Gardens raided for midnight camp out snacks, wood piles raided for those camp outs (hear me Steve Bobic, sorry man) car windows soaped, bicycles borrowed for late night cruises, drink machines jimmied not for the coins but for the content, toilet paper stretched across the road so the drivers would lock their brakes because they couldn't tell that it was just toilet paper, the inevitable papering of some randomly picked yard, the always hilarious burning bag of doggie poop, the ding and dash at four am, man that pissed off more that a few grouchy men. nocturnal knocks on certain female's bedroom windows. Most of those were upstairs so a few tossed gravel usually did the trick.

The one that really bothered me was the actual theft of property. I loved mischief but stealing did not sit well with my soul.

Oneida Court, second house on the right, Jan's next door neighbors were some of the nicest people that God ever graced His world with and they still are to this day. Plus their daughter, the oldest one was super hot, the youngest was just a little one then. She turned out very nicely too and now lives on the other side of her parent's house. David and Wanda Thomas you are the heart of America and I sincerely apologize for stealing the drinks from your carport. I'm sure you blamed the children for sneaking a coke or pepsi but it Jan and me. Sixteen ounce bottles in those old wooden crates.

If you ever want to meet these people, David and Wanda Thomas, Robin Thomas Stackhouse and Margaret Thomas Cloninger you can find them at almost all Sullivan Central football games. Robin lives away but at a game is where I last saw her.

Sorry David. I want to be like you when I grow up.

Jan interuptus

The first time I ever kissed a girl for real was my ninth grade year at BJHS. That is Blountville Junior High School for you youngsters. No middle school then so freshmen were king or queen. It was second semester and I was fifteen, she was fourteen. I remember that kiss so well. She kissed me because I was like a statue in more ways than one. I stood there like a stooge and she waited for what seemed like two hours before she stood on her tip toes and totally changed my perspective on life. I was just freaking because I couldn't believe that this girl, very pretty, very popular and totally out of my league would even talk to me. Clueless is a good word. The band room near study hall and Mrs. Haney's English class, Miss Reanu's room with the short hallway between the main hallway and the bandroom door. The memory makes me dizzy even now. If I described her in any way all of you BJHS people would know her so no...

My life was changed forever that day. Hey, even though I thought that I was gross, some pretty girls like me. This preamble brings me to my next Jan story. Remember the one where he lost IT. Well he plays a huge part in my losing IT too. I wanted to kick his ass, thus Jan Interuptus.

Fast forward to August of that same year. I neglected to say that the year was 1975. What I told you earlier and what I am about to tell you now are the only real memories of that year except that I popped a bunch of zits and I washed my sheets often. I was fifteen, don't judge me.

To be a blue collar kid I was pretty privileged. I already had a car and a very nice motorcycle. A Triumph 500 Trophy Trail. My dad was a bastard whore who doted on me to make up for it. I refuse to make excuses. He bought me anything I wanted. The cost was that I put up with his abuse. I have a story for later about when I put a stop to the ass beating but for now back to the main stage. What can I say?

August 1975. Fall football practice was a week or so away and all I had been doing was worrying about getting my ass kicked on the field. I was running, working out and playing basketball every day. Those guys were coming off the best season in Central history and it still is the best season. Damn, I knew who all the returning guys were. Dickie Bird, Rocky Macaninch, Shannon DePew, Greg Darnell, Bugs Beverly, Marc Wilson. Plus all the competition from Holston and Colonial Heights. Man, I was stressed. I knew about those guys that were my age too. Chuck Stroup, Gabe Bucca, Gary Killebrew. Plus my Blountville brethren. Going to High school and facing that kind of challenge on the field. I wasn't at my most optimistic...until.

Her name was Cheri (pronounced Sherry) Brown from Lilburn, Ga. Mom's friend Judy was visiting that night which was not out of the ordinary. Judy was over at least twice a week. Her husband was a bastard too so Mom and her were kindred spirits. I was out back shooting bball by myself. Sweaty as a whore in church, chewing a big wad of Levi Garrett and totally not prepared for what happened next.

Cheri was fifteen days younger than me and one hundred years advanced in the ways of lust. Mom yells out the door "Allen come in here a minute." "Be right there Mom." I knew that Judy was there but when I walked in to the kitchen with the chew still in my mouth and my tee shirt plastered to my body and I'm sure I had the farts, there she was. "Allen, this is Cheri." "Hi Cheri." "Hi Allen." She didn't know "Porky" and by this time I wasn't. Embarrassed and pissed at Mom for allowing my sweaty appearance to grace this beautiful creature I replied "I'm going to go watch tv." I'm thinking that me and Mom are going to talk about this. Give me some notice, please.

A few minutes later I'm in the den watching Love American Style or Mannix or something and there she is. The chew was gone but I just remember that I had to really stink. Without a word, no preamble, she kissed me. Bye Bye good sense.

"This cannot be happening." For six days it was "I want to have your baby." "I want to be with you forever." My response was always "ok" "sorry about that." "my bad." I'M ONLY FIFTEEN DAMN IT. Please don't leave.

Cheri and I hatched a plan. She was to sleep in her aunt Judy's and uncle Bill's camper with her little cousins and my sister. I was to lay in wait under said camper until all were asleep, which by the way was in the driveway of Aunt Judy and Uncle Bill's house. If I described the location then many of you would know exactly where I am talking about. Have you heard of Greenwood Market? Well, you can see it from there. That is all you get. Dave Kindle Knows.

I needed transport. That is where Jan comes in. "Man, she wants to do it." I'll never forget his response. "It's about time man. She's tough too." Me: "Ok, here is the plan. We take my bike (motorcycle) to the bottom of the hill. I'll walk up and you take the bike and ride around until you see me by the side of the road. It goes without saying that neither of us ever had a license to ride. Bad mistake there. "Probably about 1 am. Ride by every thirty minutes until I get there." Jan: "Cool." I still talk like that. No apologies, I just do.

There I am, lying in the gravel driveway underneath the camper. Little girl voices for two hours. One am. Silence. Finally, my signal from Cheri. Very quietly the door opens, no voices but a hand signal. Time for the unspeakable. I'm a very accomplished sneak. Still to this day I think I would be incredible in the burglary business. She has the "big" room in the small camper. There we are, someplace that I still dream about. Time has no meaning. Well past 2 am, finally, one, two, blue lights. Damn. What the hell. I barely got it wet. Police in the driveway. Fuck, Jan, what did you do? Knock on the camper door. Keith Carr, future high Sheriff of Sullivan County.. "Is Allen Fields in here." "Here I am." "Please step outside." "Is this your motorcycle?" "Yes Sir." "Did you allow this person access to your motorcycle?" "Yes sir." "He doesn't have a license, do you?" "No sir." "Who is in the camper?" "My sister and her friends." "You need to get this bike home without riding it." "Yes sir, we will push it." "Make sure you do." God I loved cops in the seventies.

That August night was kind of chilly, especiaaly riding a motorcycle without a jacket, just a tee shirt and shorts, so Jan had pulled over at the bottom of the hill at Indian Springs School road and Memorial Blvd to warm up. "I was just sittin there man, I was cold, sorry man. Did you get it?" "Yeah man, I got it." "Cool, I'm tired of pushin, let's start this fucker up." "Let's do it but I'm driving." God love him.

Jan: A Discogrophy I

Oh if the night could speak. Jan and my history of mischievous behavior began early. Let me preface this by saying that early in my life I was a follower. When Jan or one of the older guys suggested some extra curricular event I didn't want to do it, really I didn't. I wasn't easily influenced but the prospect of blackmail or being called a pussy usually did the trick. God, I hope Mom never reads this. This is not a story but a list of historical events that will set the stage for later stories. A "I remember one time me and Jan went to..." type of thing. Sort of out of character for my writing style.

When ever my dad bought something cool like a riding lawn mower or my first motorcycle Howard, Jan's dad would buy the exact thing. We had the same Sears 16 hp lawnmowers and identical Suzuki 50 motorcycles. Our dads were neither friends nor foes so I never understood why this happened. Our dads did work at Mason - Dixon as did about one fourth of the subdivision. Most were Eastman people back then.

When Jan mowed his lawn it became a public spectacle. My Mom Barbara and Jolene Hilton, even me would watch. Like I said, our mowers were identical and for those of you who know mowers there was none faster than the Sears 16 hp. In fourth gear high range those things were like a go cart. I would slowly, carefully, methodically mow our grass knowing that if I missed a strip or scratched the machine then my ass would be proverbial grass. Not Jan, third gear high range, one hand on the wheel one hand holding on to his baseball cap, full speed ahead man. A half acre in thirty minutes.

When our dads would be working, Mason - Dixon was a trucking outfit and they were gone quite a bit, we would race down Oneida Court starting at the circle in front of J.W. Strickler's house. First we would start in neutral and coast down the hill for the first leg of the race. I usually won this part because I was heavier but when gravity had its say and we had to gear up it was no contest.

Jan lost his virginity at twelve. This one I will not go into. She was fifteen. I didn't believe him (of course he told me, we were 12 and 13 and male). To prove it he said "I'm going back tonight at ten o'clock. If you sit outside the window I will look out and then close the curtain when we are about to do it. I'll be damned if he didn't casually look out the window and then draw the curtain. That was all the proof that I needed.

Jan was also a big part of my deflowering. That my friends is a story unto itself but for a later date.

Jan: From the memory of Cydne Abernathy

Hey, I read some of your blog. It is fabulous. Oh Jan. What a guy. I loved him. I remember one day at Central I walked by his locker and he was covered in white paint. I said, "Jan, what happened?" and he said, "I fell off a scaffold and the paint can spilled on me." I asked if he was ok and he said, "cydne, I have paint all over me." I said, "no I mean are you hurt?" and he said, "No, I'm fine. I landed on my head." So very Jan.

Have a good day!

Roger That!

I moved into the subdivision (Indian Hills) in March of 1969. Middle of the third grade. By that time Jan's mother Jean and father Howard were separated soon to be divorced. Being a truck driver, Howard was gone for days at a time and Jean was just gone, period. Supervision at Jan's house was left up to Jerry the hippie and Big Sister Donna who had her own agenda. Like most twenty one year old women, looking after her nine year old brother was not on top of the agenda list. Donna worked at Hill's department store and dated a classic greaser, hellraiser, alcoholic, and future muderor named Roger Baily.

Roger wore leather everything. He squeaked when he walked. Pompador hair and liquor breath were his greatest traits. He also owned or worked at a body shop and was a master mechanic. We always knew when Roger was around. If he was close you could smell him, but the sound of squeaking leather gave him away from a good distance.

Jan and I were not exactly afraid of Roger but we were always on alert. Sometimes we would hear him smack Donna, and when we were in the basement near the garage door we for sure could hear him give her the old leather saddle ride. Squeaking, moaning, pounding, sounded like the roof was falling in. Of course we thought it was funny but we never ventured upstairs to the fridge until half an hour after the last sound. We knew Roger and Donna would be sitting on the bar stools and Roger would give us a beer. I think now that we envied Roger. He drove a hot rod, a mid sixties chevelle, was getting laid, wore leather and gave us beer with the disclaimer that if we told he would kill us. Little did we know that he was dead serious.

Donna drove a 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner. Daddy must have helped her buy it considering she worked at Hill's, but that Roadrunner parked in Jan's driveway meant that Jan would have a real meal and not a can of Chef Boy Ardee. Donna was always cool but was caught in the same web that Jan was always struggling against. She was only twenty one but was practically Jan's mother. She always called Jan "Pee Wee". "Pee Wee, I'm going to Roger's tonight, beans and cornbread in the oven". A great family structure, Dad gone, Mom flown, Big Brother on acid, Big Sis trying, in a terrifying relationship. I loved staying at that house.

A couple of years later Donna broke up with Roger who was getting quite a long rap sheet by that time, dui, pi, assualt, minor but violent. He had also traded cars. Donna's new boyfriend, Phil Kinser, drove a souped up Nova. Donna and Phil married later and had three children. Jerry called them "rugrats". I had never heard that term before.

One night or morning, Jan and I had been somewhere doing something. We were thirteen and twelve, me being older by nine months minus two days. I remember that Phil's car was in the driveway and there was another car parked on the street, neither one of us recognized this car and didn't really think much about it, could have been visiting the neighbors, whatever, so we walked on down the hill, entered the driveway and suddenly both of us froze in our tracks. That noise, we looked at each other, Jan said "what is that", and not quietely. I knew in a second that it was the sound of squeaking leather, Roger's leather. I said "I hear Roger" but we did not see him. We knew there was bad blood between Roger and Phil but what was Roger Baily doing here this time of night? We walked to the carport, still listening and hearing the unmistaken sound of Roger. We were tripping, literally, where was he? All at once, maybe simultaniously, we saw him, there was Roger's leather cowboy boots sticking out from underneath the Nova. Despite our initial noise, Roger was too busy cutting Phil's brakeline that he didn't hear us. If he had...

We walked away silently (we always practiced silent movement in the woods) to the lower den entrance. Jan went upstairs and beat on Donna's bedroom door, interupting whatever they were doing in there. Phil came out, gun drawn, Roger ran to his car and like the pussy he was, screamed down Montezuma Road. Jan and I watched him as he left black marks. I remember saying to Jan "that crazy fucker would have killed us."

A few years later Roger Baily was convicted of first degree murder. I can't remember the circumstances but Jan and I knew this was one bad dude.

Look it up.

Friday, November 16, 2007

just another bottle in the wall

Summer of '79. Many stories here but this one is just another bottle in the wall.

At the end of Beason Well Road, at the intersection of Stone Drive, next to "Ralph's Bar and Grill", was the infamous Marbro Drive In. Specializing in the finest in "B" horror and Cheerleader Titty Movies. My favorite being "I Spit On Your Grave". I also saw "Jaws", "American Graffiti ", and "Saturday Night Fever" there. "Bruce The Chin" movies were prevelant there. Bruce was the master of "B" horror. Most don't know Bruce but if you ever went to the Marbro you saw a Bruce movie.

The "Marbro" was exactly what drive in movies were supposed to be. In the sixties my parents would pop the corn and pick up a six of coke and we would have family night watching Disney Movies. There was a swing set and jungle gym in front of the massive, concrete screen.. A place right out of dreamland for a kid.

By the mid-seventies this had all changed to a place to trip and have sex for $2.50 per person. Of course, the price was too high so we would invent ingenious ways to sneak in. Including dropping a couple of people off at the side of Beason Well Road to walk in from the cow field, two people in the trunk, hunkering down in the back seat of our enormous cars, or covering up in a blanket or sleeping bag. On any night a person could see many trunks opening. like Mexicans crossing the border.

On this particular night, probably June or July, we were in Spike's Batmobile. A 1963 Ford (my friends, including me, drove incredibly uncool cars, and we didn't care). The Batmobile was given to Spike by the late, great G.B. Archer. Totally uncool by standards but totally cool by ours. Eight track tape player with speakers mounted in the rear window, three speed on the tree, wings on the rear like the real Batmobile and drove like a USS ship. Huge auto it was. We smoked and drank and jammed so much in that car...another story entirely.

After all, this is a "Jan" Story.

We always had "yazz" with us, always. "Yazz" is what our click called it. "let's catch a yazoo" means just what you think. Our buzzes and bongs were all named, Tommy Toker, The Killer, Double Trouble, as in "Did you bring Tommy and Yazz".

Any way, we had successfully infiltrated the "Bro", only two of us paying, Jan, Jonsey, I in the trunk, Spike and Big Joe actually paying. We always parked behind the projection booth so they would not see us exit our fortress.

It was still daylight, God I love summer. Joe, Jonsey, and I were sitting on the ground in front of the Batmobile, Spike and Jan were reclining with their backs on the windshield, Jan loading ones and all of us drinking those six ounce Bud ponies. Eight packs of Bud were the shit then.

After each succesfull swilling of the beer we would absently toss it over our shoulder.

Joe finished a beer and tossed it over his shoulder straight into Jan's eyebrow, blood everywhere. You just had to know Jan. No screaming, no yelling, just a simple, "Damn, I'm bleeding."

We spent the rest of the night doing what we do with Jan holding a T-shirt over his eyes with Joey's never ending apology.

Jan's destiny. God, there is so much more

This is another one of those "I will never forget moments"