Out In The 1960s Be-Bop Corner Boy
Night-Dimmed Elegy For Peter Paul Markin-Take
Four
From The Pen Of Bart Webber
My old
friend and corner boy from the mean, cutthroat, don’t give an inch, never get
ahead, stay in the damn place generation after generation only the shabby
tenements get older and raspier Irish-dominated working-class streets of North
Adamsville, the late lamented, unsung Peter Paul Markin, got as caught up in
what he called the “fresh breeze jailbreak” of the 1960s counter-cultural movement
as any man I knew from that time, except maybe Albie Lewin who I will get back
to in a minute. Since I grew up flush against those very same tenements as him in
a double-decker house instead of Markin’s triple-decker an architectural import
from Dublin via South Boston and Dorchester not seen in other parts of the
country, I need to tell you straight up that cramped lived in space would not
have, in fact has not as far as I know, produced any new generations of “fresh
breeze break-out” artists like Markin (and me but I was only in that mixed up
road for a while, a short while before the breeze died for me but enough of me
this is about Markin’s fresh breeze not my minute), so you can call it a sure
thing that it was the times that got everything Markin touched all fouled up
before he was done, before the bad genes took charge.
Maybe, just
maybe if those 1960s had not had happened, no, that’s not right, if Markin had
not dipped his oar in, had not called the damn thing before most of us even
caught the last of the 1950s Kerouac on the road/Ginsberg howl/Burroughs naked
lunch “beat” breeze he might still be with us, might not have left me and a lot
of other guys high and dry to sing his plainsong. Nay, I am just getting
sentimental, damn forty years sentimental, Markin lived for that big jail-break
moment and probably would be now doing a big nickel or dime somewhere in some
forlorn no window prison so let’s get on with what I want to tell you about,
about a guy from out of the American blue-pink night who “walked with the king”
for a while, and then didn’t.
I mentioned Albie
Lewin might have had Markin beat in the jail break-out department but here is
the difference. Everything that I knew about Albie’s life from when he was just
a rusty kid in high school drove him unconsciously to get caught up in that
1960s splash. His parents had been artists, or poets or maybe his father was an
artist and his mother a poet, they knew the Village scene when that place was
an isolated oasis from the deep knife of the red scare Cold War 1950s that
chilled North Adamsville to the bone. Markin had none of that going for him
just some kind of sixth sense that his dumb ass white young life was going to
be different from anything our town thought was “cool.”
Yeah, so
Albie from New York City, Stuyvesant Town I think he said one time but don’t
quote me on that so let’s just say New York, was a guy I met I met on my own
hitchhike road when under Markin’s imprimatur I took time off from what he
called “squaresville” and fell in with a bunch of people who were travelling in
no particular hurry and with no particular destination the Pacific Coast
California highways in a converted school bus named Aquarius Rising decorated in Day-Glo colors and loaded to the gills
with drugs, music and good vibes (mostly)
under the direction of Captain Crunch, a serious 1960s character who
would have been worth talking to about Markin now, maybe talking about me back
then too before I got off the bus, if the good Captain has survived the hard
drug regimen and, Sally Mae’s, his last girlfriend known to me, blandishments.
Albie seemed
to have known everybody, and most of its ex-patriates, who even touched the
geographic tip of the Village, knew
Allan Ginsberg after he had he turned from “beat” madman Howl poet impresario to whirling dervish of the “hippie” Zen Om Om clan,
knew Abbie from civil rights days down South before he went
hippie-yippie-zippie or whatever was driving him back then, and knew a lot of
guys, black and white, like Huey, Bobby, Dave, Bill, Jerry, political guys,
heavy political guys, and the like not as best buddies but as guys he could
give the nod to (although in that rarified air more likely that the high
school-ish nod the convoluted “revolutionary brothers” close-fisted handshake,
that handshake was not like the high school “nod” I will mention later but that
“nod” thing is just my old time way of saying that a guy who maybe you knew in
elementary school but didn’t hang with anymore in high school because you or he
got into other things, maybe played some variation pick-up ball against, or ran
into when he came around your corner to do his whatever business was “cool”
even if you didn’t consider him one of the “tribe,” one of your corner boys).
Yeah, Albie
and I could do that handshake business although I always got the sequence wrong,
bopped his fist when I should have popped his arm, popped his knuckles when I
should bopped his arm and he would laugh at me like I was some clod. Maybe we got
even closer than that a few times out in front of some holy Pacific Coast spot,
maybe Big Sur or the more desolate Todo el Mundo further down the road where
Markin and I camped out in a cabin for a couple of weeks that belonged to some
bookseller in San Francisco that he knew from hanging around that town when the
whole thing exploded, maybe you heard about Haight-Ashbury, you know the hippie
explosion if you don’t recognize that name, when high as kites Albie gave out
his vision of the new world as the whole of the Japan seas crashed on the
craggy rocks. Yeah, I think we, Albie and I, had hitchhiked there from San
Francisco one time when Aquarius Rising
was in for serious repairs after a crisscross trek up from La Jolla via Joshua
Tree desert nights and Captain Crunch was in his cups about something or we
both thought something was in “bad vibes” mode (although that “bad vibes” scene
we hated and feared as old school, totally bourgeois, really was an infrequent
occurrence given how much dope and booze got passed around and how the cast of characters who
took up residence on the bus for various periods from a couple of days to
weeks, not all of them heaven’s angels either, and a few who would later turn
up in hospitals and prisons when they crashed out).
Yeah, Albie
was a great one when he was high for building castles in the sky, for going on
and on about the new day coming, mostly dope dreams but some from literary
stuff too, books that he had read that his parents had turned him on to,
Proust, Gide, Mann, lots of Europeans who had big thoughts and who when you
read them about alienation and the hardships of existence really had it on the
nose. See, I never would run into a guy like Albie, a good guy to talk to and
share some dope dreams with if it had not been for Markin. If it had not been for
the topsy-turvy times. But enough of Albie, enough of Captain Crunch, enough of
denizens of the bus because they almost all figured to be part of that scene,
it made sense out of their whole freaking lives. Not Markin though, Markin’s
got his grafted onto his skin, hell, onto his soul.
See Markin
was the guy who broke the mold that had been pre-set for us (by parents,
educators, religious zealots, political hacks and just plain ennui) whom I knew
best from that time, knew exactly his place in the “fresh breeze jailbreak”
shake-up he brought to North Adamsville when we his corner boys were just startled
unbelievers. Know too what happened to him later, later when the whole thing
turned in on itself, which I don’t know about Albie since I lost contact with
him in the late 1970s when he said he was going to Tangiers to cool out, grab
as much opium, hash, and other drugs as he could ingest and wait for the next new
dispensation. I hope he found what he was looking for, found some solace in the
dope, in the hard edges of the Casbah, and is still with us somewhere since we
are, some of us, still waiting for the next new dispensation.
Oh sure,
Frankie Riley, the self-proclaimed although unquestionably acknowledged leader
of our corner, acknowledged as such in the key time of late high school out in
front of Jack Slack’s bowling alleys on Thornton Street got caught up too, but
Markin called the breeze coming, no question, and Frankie just bopped through
the whole thing.
By the way
for those of you from the leafy suburbs or maybe the hard-hearted big cities
now, that “corner boy” thing was central to our small-time existence and Jack
Slack’s place was kind of an end of the process, a place where you reigned
after you had paid your dues, after you had hung out at various other places in
the old neighborhood. Like getting your feet wet hanging off the wall in front
of Doc’s Drugstore across from Adams Elementary on Newbury Street in grade
school. Doc’s where you graduated from grabbing candy after school before you
headed home to hanging out checking out the girls when you got to sixth grade
and those girls who the year before were nothing but nuisances turned out to
be, well, interesting and you had thoughts about how you were going to get some
Sally to dance with you in Doc’s sofa fountain section where he had a be-bop
jukebox with everything from Elvis to Jerry Lee, if you just had the nerve to
do more than give that Sally the meaningful eye. Like once the older guys moved
on to Jack Slack’s you and your boys moved into the vacuum at Tonio’s Pizza
Parlor in junior high where you hung out in Tonio provided vinyl-clad booths
(except Friday night when Tonio needed every booth for giving Ma a break from
making dinner Family Night and we were reduced to hanging against the walls
like we were some of Doc’s elementary school dopes) sharing slices of pizza and
soda (although we called it tonic for some reason peculiar to New England which
you don’t hear expressed anymore in the world of “soda” )with some Jane who you
were able to convince to come and listen to the latest Fabian hit on Tonio’s
big ass juke box no dancing allowed since there was no space to do so (that is you had better make it Fabian, Bobby
Darin or Bobby Vee or guys like that when you put your three selections for a
quarter in the jukebox or you were not going to be sharing pizza slices, forget
it). And then as you moved through the years depending on age and whether the
previous older corner boys who had staked out the spot were still hanging
against the wall or had moved on to Jack Slack’s. Jack Slack’s only a few
blocks from the secluded section of Adamsville Beach and if you got lucky and
some Suzy decided this was her night, and yours (and had a car, or had a friend
who had a car, preferably some dreamy big fin heavy chrome high volume radio two-toned
Chevy or Ford, cars old guys with tons of money today fix up and customize and
put on display in auto shows, the fools. I know at least ten young girls,
twenty-something girls, nah, woman, who could care less about a guy’s age if
they could sit on the front seat of one of those beauties so forget the damn
shows guys).
A lot of the
corner boy stuff was hanging and wasting time but you lived for the possibility
of making it with some Sally, Jane, or Suzy one you figured out what was what.
Figured too when Frankie Riley was around who was the king of the corner boys. Always
as long as I was around Frankie was leading, leading Markin, Jack Dawson, Allan
Johnson, Jimmy Jenkins, Sam Lowell, Jack Callahan, me, and a revolving crew of
other guys at various times who all got caught up a little in the mix, but when
the deal went down followed along with Markin on the high hitchhike road when
Markin’s prediction finally came to some fruition after we graduated from high
school and a few years after that. See Frankie was smart and Frankie was not,
and is not now in that big law firm office that he works out of in downtown
Boston, a guy who would not be a part of the next big thing just as in junior
high he was the be-bop king of the rock and roll sock hop last chance last
dance scene when all the other guys, us, were hanging flowers on the wall of
the dingy gym turned dance hall at Adams Junior High. Yeah but Markin was the
hell-bent king of the search for the great blue-pink American West night and
that is why we still, Frankie too, talk about him, moan to high heaven about the
fate of the bastard.
Hell, like I
said, and if you looked at me now or maybe even a few years after the expulsion
from paradise in all my Markin-etched “square-dom” you would in no way you
would have suspected it, suspected even I got caught in the frenzy of the ‘60s for
a short time, a short time when I got high with the guys, experimenting with
whatever drug was at hand, mostly grass and speed, although after we got to the
West everything except acid, you know, LSD, which Markin swore he never touched
either but the more I think about what happened to that sainted bastard the
more I think at the end he must have done some strange chemicals because what
happened to him seems unexplainable without some heavy damage happening to his
brain cells. Yeah, I got the wanderlust too, no, got the damn itch to shake the
dust off my shoes from old vanilla nothing happening except the same old, same
old of North Adamsville before I decided that I was just a little too square,
just a little too hung up on partaking the comforts of life which I never had
growing up and which I was looking for more than the “newer world” Markin kept
yakking about on those dreary “no go” Friday nights when girl-less, dough-less,
car-less he would hold us in his grip when he went on and on about the new
dispensation from about tenth-grade on and would not let go.
Markin, and
Sam Lowell too who held out longer than most of the rest of us, had come from
even poorer circumstances than my own but Markin was different in lots of
respects from the rest of us in his sunnier days when the world looked bright
and everything looked like there was a new world a-borning and that kept his
baser instincts in check, for a while, but l am getting ahead of myself. Markin though was the guy who caught the fresh
breeze first as he would go on and on about when he was in high dudgeon on some
miserable dough-less Friday night and emphatically tell us that this breeze was
going to be his ticket out of poverty, out of his wrecked home life, out of
those same vanilla streets that I was trying to shake the dust of too. Yeah he
caught that first beautiful breeze that we thought he was crazy to project,
caught the breeze that he held on until the end, beyond the end.
You know,
and if you don’t know you can look up the information on Wikipedia or take a chance that somebody has put something about
the times, about coming of age back in the 1960s that people still refer to,
good or bad, as a hell of a time, as a time we almost did reach the age of
Aquarius, on some 1960s-related website so I will just give a little shorthand
for what went on in the “hippie”-tie-dye-“far out, man”-drugs, sex, rock and
roll-live fast and stay out of the fast lane-angry, gentle people-“seek a newer
world”-turn the world upside down-“we want the world and we want it now”-Nirvana
crash-out thing. That’s as good as I can put it in under about fifty-thousand
words which I think I would be hard-pressed to deliver up, although if Markin
was still around he would write about one hundred thousand words giving one and
all the existential meaning of the thing, where it fit into history, where it
was something new under the sun, who the literary progenitors were unto the
seventh generation before, and, and what was silly and excessive about the
whole adventure, but my summary will splash you a little.
While
everybody in those times did not go through all the connected hyphens above,
and as I have found out more recently in some places and in some social
groupings there had never been a beat skipped from the placid 1950s-etched place
set out for everybody coming of age then by a fairly large number of people
whose only association with the “hyphens” was through the third-hand lens of
the media, and that with distain. But enough got caught up in enough of the
ideas described above to form a significant mass movement in the cities, on the
campuses, and to make some inroads in the inner suburbs where even those stifled
leafy street two cars and a breezeway parents were feeling stifled, for a
while. That “for a while ” is important because Peter Paul, Markin, who had
much more invested in a good outcome that I did, or than Sam, Frankie, Jack,
Jimmy, “Thunder,” and a few less frequent corner boys did, stuck it out through
thick and thin a lot longer than most, stuck with the “new age” ideas for a
while after the ebb tide having caught him sort of flat-footed and could no
longer hold back those “wanting” hungers that flashed through his life (and the
lives of the rest of us his corner boys too who like I said craved the good
things we never had and which with a little work and lots of compromises we
could grab onto with every hand). That tension between the new world that he
invested his “angel-heart” in when he threw the dice of his life against the
back alley boards and the “satan-demon” he suppressed temporarily in the high
tide of the 1960s, early 1970s just could not stay inside that psychologically fragile
man for too long and in the end he went under, and those of us who have
survived still moan over that loss, moan high and hard.
Moan for
Markin every time we drink a glass of high-end wine, some high-shelf whiskey
for those who never broke the hard liquor habit, at Jonny Doherty’s Sunnyville
Grille in Boston when we get together, those still around, those still alive
and kicking, and after Frankie rattles off all the misadventures he led us in
we come back to Markin, even Frankie, and think about all the rotgut stuff we
drank when he was around, that cheap Southern Comfort he would steal from his
father’s liquor cabinet or paid some town rummy to get for us as long as he,
the rummy, got his bottle of Thunderbird, think about that first time he got a
bottle of whiskey at Doc’s Drugstore using his grandmother’s good credit to
grab it along with her medicine that he would pick up for her and how he got
drunk as a skunk down at the far end of Adamsville Beach with Allan Johnston
and how they looked green for days after that.
Moan as we
put on nice suits to go to Johnny Doherty’s and think about how he dressed in his older
brothers’ cast-offs, which since he was kind of the runt of the litter were
always too big for him but since he was the youngest he was stuck until he had
a little growth spurt in the ninth grade. Those hand-me-downs which were
always, always, always some odd-ball color of indeterminate fabric which his
frugal, clueless mother got up in the town’s Bargain Center. That “style” later
morphed by him to hide the awfulness of his clothes into his eclectic “beat” garb of flannel shirt,
black chinos and work boots topped off with his midnight 24/7 sunglasses when
that movement mercifully allowed him to hide behind its walls. Still later his mandatory,
hippie-mandatory, Army surplus, olive green jacket, black as night boots,
sailor’s bell-bottom pants which were cool then, some deckhand’s blouse, not
from his war, Vietnam, but World War II surplus from Eddy’s Army/Navy Store up
in Adamsville Center. Worse, worse at the end if Danny Ding who saw him last in
San Francisco can be believed, said he had lost a lot of weight, looked a
little bent over, ragged hair and beard, his blue-eyes like sullen empty dreams
wearing Sally stuff (Salvation Army), plaid shirt, moccasins, no socks, stained
khaki pants, somebody’s beaten by the wind windbreaker, before he left on that
last trip to Mexico so he must have been “tasting” the product (cocaine, just
starting to be the drug of choice for the marijuana-hash-peyote
button-mescaline-sated), although with Danny you always had to check and see if
he was high on something, or was on the hustle. Yeah, Danny had that nose
problem then, poor bastard, and knew he could always get dough if he came up
with information about Markin, anything.
Moan when we
look at the black-laced numbers on our checkbook balances now when he had almost
always been flat busted, busted hard, always “from hunger” in the money
department, always working up in his over-heated brain some silly schemes to
make money without a sweat. Moan too when he would try to con us, con us his
boys, for Chrissakes, when he had some off-the-wall gambling scheme when we
were kids to hustle dough or some midnight creep thing (which Frankie, who will
be more than glad to inform you, had to organize since Markin might have been
the idea man but Frankie was the evil genius to carry the plan otherwise Markin would have had us in some lonely
forsaken jail if he had been in charge of those dark moon capers), and then that
reaching for the brass ring when he figured to corner the dope market or
whatever his by then super-heated brain was thinking of down in Mexico when he
went off the edge. Jesus, all of that, all that crap and we still moan, moan
high and hard for that lost amigo. Jesus.
I was there
through some of it though, the parts which I could see coming to a bad end if
the Sixties hadn’t slowed his descend for a while, the early part mostly when Peter
Paul, hell, let me just call him Markin straight up like we all did going back
to sixth grade (or earlier for guys like Allan Johnson and Frankie Riley), was
driven more by the “better angel of his nature.” I had been there when he
sensed long before the rest of us that the fresh breeze coming through the
1960s land might wash him clean, might give him some breathing room, had been
there during the school part from late elementary school on through our first
couple of years out of high school when a lot of the 1960s stuff was getting
into high gear, when we went hitchhiking together across the country about ten
times looking for what Markin called the great blue-pink American West night. Hell
he had me half-believing that great blue-pink thing (especially when he started
railing while we were high on hash or peyote buttons that he would get, trade
for I think when we stayed in the desert and ran into Hopis and Navajos who
used the buttons in their religious ceremonies which led us lapsed Catholic
boys to eat the buttons like some old time dry as dust communion wafer proffered
by some wino priest at the rail Sunday morning and be able to say we were doing
them “strictly for religious purposes” too), half-believing a new gentler world
could be had if we just gathered in enough recruits, deprived the bourgeoisie
(his term) of our generation’s blood and sweat and release that energy to
create New Eden. Heady stuff, not original, not book-taught either, but just
kind of in the air along with the damn war, cop hassles and drug-downers. I’m
glad he is not here now to see the mess his, our generation has make of the
freaking world, he would be shocked I think, probably couldn’t handle the idea
that the utopian idealists of that age have turned in monsters blowing up half
the world with every bomb they can get their hands on in order to save their
skins as the rest of the world takes what is theirs by right, buying and
selling good, souls, out heritage, anything for filthy lucre. Jesus.
Yeah, so I
went through my paces with Markin, stayed as long as I could. Then I drifted
away with a little junior college time at Carver Junior College near our town,
an early marriage to a young woman, Betsy Binstock, from Carver, about thirty
miles from North Adamsville, whom I had
left hanging for a couple of years while I sowed my wild oats and she was still
waiting for me when I came back (and is still my wife), a quick first child
(later two more and now seven grandchildren, all loved, and all clueless about
the 1960s, about my part in it, and clueless too about the why of my/our still
moaning for the lost long gone mad daddy Markin, including Betsy being clueless
about the Markin part which had been, still is, one of the few things we have
fought over since she never cared for him even before he and I headed west
together), some responsibilities starting up a small print shop which I had
dreamed of owning since I had read about Benjamin Franklin’s start in the business
in the 1700s but, frankly, because I was never as invested in the successful
outcome of what was going on as Markin had been. Got wearisomely tired of the
constant on the road hitchhiking, sleeping on some musty, ill-kept, off-beat converted
bus home, somebody’s, some stranger’s, some churchly people’s kindly floor, or
curled up in a sleeping bag against the wide oceans, and tired of the drugs,
sex, and rock and roll run through although for about two years after high
school, no, a couple of years after we had been out of high school a couple of
years since Markin did not go on the wanderlust road seriously, except on
summer break, until he made that decisive decision to drop out of college,
Boston University, after sophomore year, I was with Markin almost every step of
the way. Some people, and thinking about those days over the years since I confess
I am one of them, were not built to be merry pranksters, to “be on the bus” as
some guy used to say, some guy met on the Captain Crunch converted bus we spent
much time on as our “home” who made Markin laugh once when he said “buy the
ticket, take the ride.” Markin picked up on that saying and would say it every
time somebody like me jumped off the bus.
I might have
drifted away, got caught up with the family ways but until a couple of years
before the end Markin and I would stay in contact, or I would get messages from
him through other old time corner boys like Frankie Riley, Sam Lowell, and Jack
Dawson.
Hey, I was just
thinking so you know what I am talking about in case you were not washed,
washed clean I hope, by that tide Markin got caught up in the
anti-establishment/anti-Vietnam War/don’t trust anybody over thirty/live free
and communally on greens and love/hippie/drugs, the more the better/louder the
better acid rock/strobe light dreams/seeking a newer world/turn the world
upside down and see what shakes out scene and if you didn’t know I have laid
out the briefest of outlines here.
Some of
those trends, stuff we called “beatnik” on the corner in disbelief at the
goofiness, our own studied ignorance of anything that upset our corner boy
existence, maybe threatened it, threatened our version of the American way of
life, the way we saw it threatened then by the hoarded Jews and atheists
mocking everything that we held dear, maybe a little fag and dyke baiting which
was a way of life to keep up our manly poses. We, Frankie Riley especially made
something of an art form out of that ritualistic sexual preference baiting
which at least once got Frankie a black eye from star football player and
fellow corner boy Jack Callahan in sophomore year when Frankie implied the
reason that Jack did not go after Chrissie McNamara, whom everybody knew he was
crazy about and she him, was that he was “light on his feet.” Needless to say
Frankie only stirred Jack once and that was that. By the way that Jack-Chrissie
thing turned out to be one of the great romances of the Carver Class of 1967
and they are still married.
Maybe we
felt some scorn too around prim Catholic “keep your eyes on God and look
neither left or right, look not unto “newer worlds” in this lifetime but later,
later after the dust has choked your grave” North Adamsville down by the shore
about twenty miles south of Boston. Although by high school, after we fell off
the Christian Doctrine class wagon in ninth grade which we all abandoned at the
same time and caused some craziness with proper Catholic parents, the only
reason any of us went to church if we went was to see if some girl we were
chasing showed up for eight o’clock Mass. Markin missed a great opportunity
when he was chasing Minnie Callahan (Jack’s twin sister) and would sit about
three rows behind her in the chapel section and stare at her ass. Here is where
he missed out though and maybe who knows if he had jumped at Minnie things
might have turned out differently for him since she was beautiful, smart and had
a nice personality and went on to become a college professor. See Minnie knew,
from one of my talkative sisters who had a “crush” on him and whom I had
mentioned it to, about the staring, about what Markin was doing and she told my
sister she wondered why Markin never went any further and actually talked to
her. Markin, the guy with the two thousands facts was tongue-tied around Minnie
(and he wasn’t the only one if I remember correctly) and by the time he got his
courage up, always a problem of his then around girls, she had already started
“going steady” with some college Joe. Once a girl was in that “going steady” condition
every other guy was hands off back then although I have a feeling, no, I know
that was honored in the breech more than the observance but Markin held to the
principle if nobody else did. I do know that at one school dance in senior year
when Minnie’s college Joe was doing some college thing she told me that
sometimes she really had wished Markin had done more than look at her ass.
We were close
enough to Boston to get news on the grapevine about what was going on in the
city, Markin, or he and Frankie once Frankie stopped harassing him about the
beatnik thing and began to be swept up by the tide too occasionally making
forays into the city to check things out. Funny Frankie, who loved Markin like
a brother in those days, called him “the Scribe” after he became something of a
flak for writing up Frankie’s doings and reading them to us on those restless
weekend winter nights, writing up total bullshit stuff, baited him mercilessly
with a big needle really, kind of limp-wristed fag-baiting him at times as then
it was part of the macho thing to do, a little fag-baiting even of guys who
loved women as we all did (and some of us, although not me, have the accumulated
divorce settlements as mementos of that desire) just to keep them in line, keep
them from “going light on their feet” as we used to say among ourselves when
some real limp-wristed guy came into view.
Yeah, we
started getting caught up in the breeze, especially when the dope started
flowing, dope, Frankie the first in the neighborhood to “connect” got his first
ounce of “grass” from a cousin over in South Boston far away in culture if not
miles from the Beacon Hill or Harvard Square hip scenes but a place like many
edgy places where flophouses, day labor, chronic unemployment and the “wanting
habits” meet. That cousin had heard about the grapevine forming and started
doing business with those far from hip scenes, guys who just wanted new kicks,
mostly. Guys like us. (Funny, we all, maybe you did too, coughed our brains out
the first couple of times we inhaled from the rawness of the smoke although
most of us then were cigarette smokers so had inhaled smoke but this was
something different, something to smooth you out). So we got hip to dope, maybe
a little after the hipsters, later than the college Joes but we got there well
before most people even knew what dope was, except to be shunned, got hip too
to stuff like longer hair and beards which we didn’t pick up from the Beatles
or anything like that but through Markin’s look after he spent some time in
Harvard Square and started wearing his hair a little longer at the end of senior
year. If you look at our high school yearbook (photographs taken the summer
after junior year) you will see nothing but short “boy’s regular” clean shaven
guys page after page. (That hair thing driving
his mother, Delores, a stern, un-relenting type filled with angst about airing
the family’s “dirty linen” in public, filled with endless sorrows about her downwardly mobile place in
the town pecking order where she had grown up, crazy and later other mothers,
including mine when I let mine grow longer, adding to the chorus, Jesus, Ma). Jack
Dawson was the first on the beard stuff and he looked pretty good, looked like
something out of an old sepia photograph of our great-grandfathers, all stately
and Brahmin-like, all like photographs by Matthew Brady of Civil War generals.
Markin tried to grow some wispy thing that never grew more than stubble and got
nothing but laughs from us for his efforts. Later on the road his did fill in
and he looked like some Old Testament prophet, like John Brown one of his
heroes all avenging angel smiting down the “life-destroyers,” and maybe he was,
although still later from that Danny Ding report I would have thought his
unkempt beard would have made him look like he just got out of a mental
hospital.
We picked up
on stuff too like folk music that Markin would drive us crazy about, would ask
us what we thought of Dylan endlessly, Woody Guthrie endlessly, Joan Baez
endlessly and a whole bunch of others endlessly that he either heard in one of
the coffeehouses where they would play in Harvard Square or on WBZ, a Boston
station that had a Sunday night folk music show and which Markin picked up on
his old time transistor radio when the airwaves were right. Me, then, now too,
could take folk music or leave it, mostly the latter, but come Monday morning
during the school year I would “yes, yes” old Markin to death just to keep him
from going on and on about the damn thing, some performer with a golden voice,
or some record he had picked up second-hand that linked up the mountain music
of Appalachia in the 1920s with what was going on then, stuff like that, when
what we wanted to hear about is whether a guy did the “do the do” with some
honey over the weekend (mostly not, not, “do the do” but guys lied, hell I
lied, like crazy and said they did). Stuff like dope, just marijuana mostly
that Frankie, like I said was always on the leading edge when it came to highs
(hell, he even had us sniffing airplane glue in junior high well before that
became a minute fad later). But you have to know this, and I didn’t really get
the full weight of what this meant until recently when I felt compelled to
write a little something about that Markin bastard and had to think about all
the things I knew about him directly and what I picked up from other sources,
that Markin was a man of profound contradictions.
Hell, like
many things that sprang up from nowhere then and had to be dealt with like the Vietnam
War, like your relationship with your parents, like your view of success and an
interesting life, and the way events totally outside their control twisted many
people, from that time he was nothing but a walking contradiction. Would go
from talking kick ass about the heathen commies and taking them down a peg in
Vietnam one minute when we were hanging around idly against the brick wall in
front of Jack Slack’s bowling alley in high school, no, for longer than that
until he had to face Charley a few years later on his own turf in Vietnam when Markin
got dragged into the Army and had to actually fight the son of bitches to practically
becoming an old-fashioned red-front street
fighter out of some Communist International propaganda film from Germany in the
late 1920s with the South Vietnamese National Liberation Front flag in his
hands running through the streets of Cambridge, Washington, San Francisco the
next. Really that street fighter stuff was after he got out of the service but
it seemed strange to see him switch up like that. Maybe that experience, the
whole panorama of Vietnam, the war that broke apart our generation, hell, broke
the country apart is the prime example I can give about Markin’s contradictions
or better those tussles that crammed his brain for almost as long as I had
known him, although I will give you more examples.
See Markin would
yell and scream about the commie menace, like the rest of us caught up in the
red scare Cold War “are we going to last until next Wednesday or is the world
going to go up in a puff.” He had been furious at the Reds when that war in
Vietnam got started up in earnest in the early 1960s when America pulled itself
into the fray while we were still in school and he practically wanted to join
the Green Berets sight unseen although given his slender physique and lack of
co-ordination he would have washed out about the first day. He would tell one
and all that we needed to stop the bad guys in their tracks. He by the way really
did have two left feet and was awkward at least for dancing and girls, except
one girl, Emma Walkins who had come to North Adamsville from some Podunk town in
Maine or someplace like that and who also had two left feet, refused to dance
with him under any circumstances. Emma well Emma was Emma and only had eyes for
Markin after one last chance last dance although she was so pretty, so smart
and so nice we all took a run at her whether we had girlfriends or not, whether
Markin liked it or not, and whether she had two-left feet or not. See on that
last dance thing they both had taken some dancing lessons for the sole purpose,
unknown to each other until the dance, of dancing with each other and hoping to
high heaven not to ruin each other’s feet. So you can see why Emma only had
eyes for Markin and vis-a-versa and why I was heartbroken for a while until I
grabbed a last chance last dance with Betsy.
Here is
where the contradictions come full turn though. At the same time as that “if
your mommy is a commie, turn her in” red scare night business was driving the
political ethos of the country, and Markin, he was very influenced by his
grandmother who was loosely associated with the Catholic Workers movement, you
know the social justice and peace people, Catholic version, who are still
around, Catholic version, and actually would some nights rant about the
Russkies and their nefarious doings around the world and in the next topic talk
switch up about how we needed to make a more peaceful world, stop making bombs,
nuclear bombs, and do something about it. Nuclear disarmament stuff that we
thought he was daffy to talk about in public and get us all in trouble for
stuff we didn’t care that much about. For petty larcenies and on some midnight
creeps not so petty well we knew the risk but for some foolish Markin blather
no one was ready to go to the mat for a guy’s unpatriotic stance.
If all this doesn’t
give you an idea of what he was about, maybe is too vague, I remember in 1960,
the fall, when we were just starting seventh grade in middle school, he would
go door to door for hard anti-communist Jack Kennedy (one of our own Irish to
boot) every weekend and a guy who was spouting in debates with Richard Nixon and
wherever else he could on the stump about the “missile gap” meaning the United
States needed more bombs, more nuclear bombs. Except one weekend, one Saturday,
to placate his grandmother, his high Easter 1916 Irish Catholic grandmother
although she was a little less enamored of the “chandelier” Irish Kennedys
doing any “bog shanty” Irish proud, he went to a Catholic Worker-sponsored nuclear disarmament
rally (along with the Quakers and a bunch of “little old ladies in tennis shoes”
as we used to call the grandmotherly do-gooders who you would see in Adamsville
Center passing out leaflets once in a while for some worthy cause, and maybe
some Universalists and Unitarians too before they joined forces together but
don’t hold me to that last group, except they did join together for some reason,
some doctrinal reason).
We all gave
him hell about that disarmament business not seeing, me as hard as anybody else
since I was as anti-red as the next guy, being clueless, about how the events
of the world were twisting him back and forth. Frankie Riley, after fag-baiting
him about dealing with limp-wristed guys and “dike” grandmothers actually bet
Markin that he would not do it, would not show up in Boston for the rally and
get the piss beat out of him by some tough guys hanging around the Common
looking to bust a guy that they though was a creep. He did though, collected
Frankie’s three dollars and got a money order and sent it off to the Quakers
showing Frankie the bloody receipt one Friday night after he had so. Frankie
was fit to be tied. Pure Markin.
The rest of
us, except maybe Sam Lowell a little, were either not consciously conflicted about
the big events in the world or never even though about them to be conflicted about.
We were so tied up in corner boy midnight
creep small larcenies, turf wars with other corner boy cohorts (except for Red
Radley and his biker boys who hung around Harry’s Variety Store, nobody, nobody
still living, messed with those guys and their whip-chains and we never went
within ten blocks of them even if we needed a soda desperately on a hot day, no
way, Jesus, no way), getting girls to “do the do” or having many male fantasies
about that idea, especially the ideas, read lies, come Monday morning before
school cafeteria talkfest about who did or did not do what over the weekend,
yes read mainly lies, getting winos or older brothers to get booze for us, no
lie, although with the winos you had to make sure they got their bottle of
Ripple or Thunderbird and watch them in and out of the liquor store to make
sure that did not break out some side door and into the dark night on you, that the fate of the world or the
vagaries and rages of our small town existence passed us by, then anyway.
But see
maybe it is best to give some other examples so that nobody gets the idea that
I have overdrawn that Markin contradictions business. No question from early
on, junior high anyway from what I remember since I only knew him beginning in
sixth grade in elementary school having moved up to North Adamsville from Bridgewater
when my father changed jobs, Markin had an idea about seeing himself as a up
and coming politician, a wheeler-dealer guy behind the scenes from what I could
figure out when he started getting on his high horse about the subject. Not the
out-front guy taking all the arrows but in the background setting things up,
making policy, “greasing the rails” as he used to call it. He really was a good organizer later but
early on I would have rated him as poor since he did not know how to delegate
tasks and also tended to like to do everything himself since that way as he
explained it to me one time in a letter he sent me from California when he was
helping to organize some anti-war march out there, he knew it would get done.
As a policy wonk he started out much better as any guy would who had about two
thousand off-the-wall facts stored in his brain for use anytime anybody wanted
to argue with him about anything. I, Frankie too, although Sam usually did not like
us to test him, usually liked to bait Markin a little to see if he had the
stuff or it was just fluff, would just let him do his thing and try, try like
hell, to keep out of the verbal cross-fire.
He had surprised
me later after he had shifted to that red front street-fighter stance once he
had been discharged from the Army after Vietnam when he called what he had
wanted to be as a kid a “bourgeois politician,” saying it with the same distain
as you would if you came up against some wino or other low-life since I knew very
well being a politico had been a big part of his earlier desire at one point. Had
then been the way out he had figured out for himself in order to satisfy some fierce
childhood “wanting habit” as he called what ailed him. Here is the
contradiction big time as if to tip the cart completely he turned into a fiery
renegade street fighter facing down the cops, a surefire way to not catch the
eye of some up and coming electoral candidate looking for a “fix-it” man. See after
the Army, after he got what he called “hipped” by some fellow anti-war Vietnam
veterans who had formed Vietnam Veterans Against The War, VVAW, at which point
anybody could see the war was irretrievably lost once the guys who actually
fought the thing were rising up against it, he got arrested more than a few
times for acts of civil disobedience, you know at draft boards, trying to shut
down federal buildings, blocking streets all in a desperate effort to end the
damn war. The big arrest, the one that I remember he called me up about looking
for bail money but also had said into the telephone that the tide of the 1960s
was ebbing, ebbing fast as the bad guys were leading a counter-offensive to
bring things back to about 1955, was the big bad mass arrests down in
Washington on May Day in 1971 when they thought they could end the damn war by
bringing down the government with a frontal attack. All they got was
billy-clubs, tear-gas, beatings and the bastinado for their efforts.
Here’s
another contradiction if the previous one doesn’t give you enough to go on.
After reading Jack Kerouac’s, his saint’s, book Desolation Angels about his solitary drying out from the world time
as a forest look-out ranger up in Oregon or Washington state I forget which
Markin became a desert-seeking latter day hermit for about one month slated for
the slab or sainthood actually having gone out into the caves near Joshua Tree
in California for a while and the next day a king hell orgy satyr (he was not
happy, despite his two short-lived failed marriages complete with two divorces,
unless he had a few girlfriends all at the same time to lie to so you know that
hermit loner trip was a hard task).
More, closer
to home, closer to something I actually saw he consumed tanks-full of Irish
working class kick ass (kick ass the commies I guess but mainly kick ass to
help me when I got into an occasional fistfight when somebody crossed me) low-shelf
Johnny Walker whiskies on sleepy Cape Cod beach strewn nights and an ascetic warrior
avenging angel “walking with the king” peyote button visions on electric Joshua
Tree days. Was as truthful as God one minute and the devil’s own hell and fire
liar the next. Got as sentimental over women as any of the Romantic poets like
Shelley, Keats, or Lord Byron one day and despite needing those women friends then
proceeded to cold-heartedly betray about four women in two hours the next.
Peter Paul, oops, Markin, by his whole being, just by his very existence, was twisted
up with each new social convulsion, twisted by who he was, twisted by who he
wanted to be but most of all twisted by his over-sized puffball dreams of his own future, and the
world’s. No wonder Sam Lowell who knew him as well as any guy used to say he
was a man not of his times but of some earlier time when the world was small
enough that the weight and fire of one man’s rages could set the world right,
or blast it all to hell.
Only Allan
Johnston probably knew Markin better than Sam, knew him from about third grade
when they had lived in the same four unit housing project complex together and
formed an eternal friendship one summer day after they met when Markin in a fit
of pique at something Allan had said threw his sneakers away when they were
down at the beach getting ready to go swimming and when the sneakers drifted
out to sea and were lost Markin gave up
his own sneakers and caught hell from his mother when he said that his
sneakers had drifted out to sea for some unexplained reason. Markin and Allan
drifted apart after Markin went to California the last time but know this before
Allan passed away a couple of years ago he used to write on various blogs and
websites for a few years before that using Peter Paul Markin as his moniker as
a sign of respect, still moaning for his long lost memory. Yeah, Markin was the
king of contradictions the more I think about the matter, did the poor sainted
bastard in. I can see that now.
Let me get
back to that corner boy designation that I started out with, a designation
let’s be very clear, which was separate from friendships, a distinction which
every corner boy knew, every corner boy who hung out on our corner. At the end
senior year in high school and for a couple of years after that before the
group started going its own separate ways that corner was in front of Jack
Slack’s bowling alleys, the one over on Thornton Street where the girls would
pass by on their way to the beach not the one on Adams Avenue just outside of
Adamsville Center where old people who actually bowled would go. Before that
starting out at Doc’s Drugstore in late elementary school, maybe fifth grade according
to Frankie Riley, Tonio’s Pizza Parlor in junior high (when Frankie, a
character worth writing about in his own right back in those days if not later,
became the acknowledged and undisputed leader of our corner boy cohort) and
before the place changed ownership in high school and the new owners did not
want corner boys hanging around their place, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor, up in
North Adamsville Square. Serious business. Serious corner boys hanging out most
of the time, especially early on, because we were flat out busted, no dough, no
way to get dough, except our little midnight creep petty larcenies, some not so
petty like the time we hit it big on a full jewelry box in one house we crept
into, and maybe hitting Ma’s pocketbook
for change when times were tough and most of us just couldn’t stand being
cooped up all the time with no space to breathe brothers and sisters (me four
sisters) coming out of the rafters. So weekend nights mainly and almost any
night during the summer you could find at least a few of us holding up whatever
age-appropriate wall we were holding up. And many nights Markin was the guy who
glued us together, the guy talking a mile a minute (or if he wasn’t talking
writing something two miles a minute) about everything under the sun that he
had read that day, or sometime.
Of course Markin
was also the glue guy when our larcenous hearts were on fire, he had a few
contradictions even then to work out. I don’t want to get into those larcenies
but I will give one example from our early days, kids’ stuff days, when we
figured the “clip,” you know, the five-finger discount up the Square where in
those days all the stores were not in the malls like now in most places,
especially the jewelry stores and department stores. Here was the beauty of
Markin, he worked out the “clips,” who to hit, how and where, although Frankie
was the “on-site” organizer I guess you would call him. Funny the way Markin got
started doing “clips” as he told us one night a few years later when we were at
wits’ end about dough to get a car and be mobile for once and we were ready to
go back to the kids’ stuff clip if something didn’t come up soon. In fifth
grade he said he was trying to impress some girls, having recently found out
that they were no longer nuisances but, well, he said in his usual understated
way, interesting and didn’t have dollar one and so he and some kid who left the
neighborhood before I got there went to Kay’s Jewelry and grabbed an onyx ring
with a diamond set in the middle, cheap stuff but all the rage then for
boy-girl “going steady” purposes and the girl loved it. I don’t know what
happened after that with those “clips,” before I got into town, how many and
for what purpose, but that probably gave Markin just the larcenous flame he
needed whenever he was in a tight corner.
The basics of
the clip were simple, have one guy clip and another lookout (which I did mostly
since I was kind of nervous and would get sweaty palms) and then clear out
slowly like nothing happened. Markin was beautiful in his planning (although as
Frankie said no way could Markin run the operation then or we all would have
been in reform school or prison) but the really beautiful part was how we made
money off the stuff. Obviously we couldn’t go to a pawn shop or something like
that so Markin would sell the stuff to high school kids who had dough at a nice
discount. Really beautiful, and here is where we might have been unconscious
socialists at that, we pooled all our monies together for whatever
entertainment we were going to use the money for.
Here’s the
difference between corner boys and friends though, okay. Friends could be
anything from some “nod” thing where you were cool with another guy (sometime I
am going to write something up about the meaning of the “nod,” in the hierarchy
of the gestures of the time because you would never nod a fellow corner boy, no
way, that would be a sign of disrespect like the guy was just somebody around
town or something, and no way, no way in hell, would you nod a girl, Jesus,
they wouldn’t know what it meant, wouldn’t know you though they were “cool,” you
dealt with them with “furtive glances,” yes, I really should write something
about gestures then but I will leave this as “cool” between guys for now),
maybe played sports together, worked together, but corner boys were expected to
be more than that, were expected to be willing to go to the mat for the other
guy, and did, and although we did not have anything as corny as some ceremonial
blood oath like some corners had that we had heard about and had dismissed out
of hand we were tight.
Markin was a
key guy in the great firmament of the different configurations that we morphed
into. I had only caught up with the guys
in the sixth grade at Doc’s to start my corner time but Markin, Allan and, I
think, Sam had all started to hang out at Doc’s in the fifth grade when they
“discovered” rock and roll and Doc’s big ass play everything, five, can you
believe it five, selections for a quarter jukebox on their way home from the
elementary school that was just down the block. That was very different from
stopping at Doc’s to grab some kids’ stuff candy to hold you over until supper,
or just assuage a sweet tooth. Hanging out, North Adamsville corner boy hanging
out at least as far back as I have been able to detail it which is somewhere
back in the 1920s, information provided by Jack Callahan’s grandfather who said
it might go back further by that is when he started hanging out at the long
defunct and passed Kelly’s Grocery Store, had its own rituals and art forms. I
already mentioned the coming of age stages of where you hung out once you hit a
certain but there were other things like the obligatory hanging one foot on the
wall and the other firmly on the ground when you were talking your talk to the
guys, and never letting a good-looking girl go by without some now male
chauvinist comment causing many virginal young woman to avoid the corners,
others and you would be surprised at some of others who had virginal
reputations like Minnie Callahan, made a point of heading to the corner to be
able to hear the latest Elvis, Jerry Lee, Beatles, Stones whatever on the
jukebox and either smile that knowing smile or cut us to the quick. Funny I
never remember Minnie cutting Markin to the quick then but then again I think
he would get un-Markin-like quiet when she was around. Also never letting some
other corner boy from some other corner get by without a sneer (unless it was
Red Riley’s crowd but they didn’t frequent any of the placid places we hung out
at) and of course the nod. The art form part is a little vague to me now but it
had a lot to do with buying stuff in order to hang out (being regular
customers, especially at Tonio’s who treated Frankie like a son, gave certain
sense of respect), with always showing up at a certain, and for a time wearing
the same collective outfit. Nothing elaborate, no uniform as such like some
hell’s angels guys with their patches and secret meaning paraphernalia, just
for a while I do remember white tee-shirts (rolled up to hold cigarettes after
we saw guys doing that in a movie, The
Wild One I think and black chinos, uncuffed (cuffed be not cool, nerdy
then). I hope that gives a little
picture of what we did and what Markin was into back then, kids’ stuff really
as I think about it now, just kids’ stuff (with a little larceny thrown in for
good measure).
Markin was as
stand-up a corner boy as the next guy, probably more so than me, since his whole
blessed life depended on that link to the world then. He took more than a few
punches and kicks defending his brethren, coming to a brother’s defense
although we didn’t use that word also expected of you as part of the package, including
me one time when Frannie Desoto was after my ass, when he could have looked the
other way. He really never was much of a fighter then, too runty and awkward
but game. They say he did okay in Vietnam, no, more than okay and I could see
that especially if like we corner boys he treated his Army buddies the same
way. They say he kept a few guys from going over the deep end, going crazy when
the constant gunfire got to them, got a couple of medals for something when the
Viet Cong, Charley they called those guys, the enemy at first to show
disrespect but later, after 1968 during Tet when all hell broke loose and
Charley went for broke they began to show a grudging respect, decided that “they
owned the night” just like they said they did. (when I checked a few years ago
when this elegy first started taking form in my head after I began once again to
moan the loss of that son of a bitch I found out he had gotten one medal, a
purple heart, for taking some slugs and the other for leading guys out of a
trap when the platoon lieutenant went down to the ground, killed. I couldn’t
find out what the medal was since the records from that period were kind of
helter-skelter). But even that Charley thing I didn’t get from Markin but from
another guy I met out in Denver on the way West. See, whatever happened over
there, Markin didn’t talk about it that much when he came back, later either, said
he did what he had to do, hated what he had to do, hated what his buddies had
to do, hated worst of all what the American government (the “the American
government” the only way he would pronounce
the words like that institution was below contempt) had turned them
into, nothing but animals, nothing more and would be sorry until the day he
died that he ever went but that that search for the great blue-pink Great
American West night was all that was worth talking about when all was said and
done.
Thing was Markin
could never be the leader, a natural leader, a permanent leader like Frankie
Riley or a million other guys who lead things just because they feel they can.
He was far too bookish for that with his eight billion facts ready to drown out
any argument with the light of pounding reason when other skills were more
necessary like how to get money fast for whatever enterprise was at hand from
date money to car money. Skills which required somebody like the truly larcenous
Frankie Riley and his midnight creep operations which were done with style, however
everybody especially Frankie appreciated Markin, called him the “Scribe,” mostly
a high honor in our corner.
This is
where those eight billion, maybe before the end nine billion, facts did come in
handy. See Peter Paul, damn, Markin had out of some almost mystic sense, or
maybe just through his overweening desire to see the thing happen, called the
breeze that was palpably running through the country beginning with the
election of our own practically neighbors but Irish in any case even if
chandelier Irish “new thinking” President Kennedy in 1960 and that fresh breeze
got translated by many of us in lots of ways from social activism to outrageous
self-indulgence, not all of them in the end worthy of remembering, not all of
them thought back on with fondness. But remember we were fighting what Markin
later on termed a rear-guard action in a cold civil war that I can feel goes on
to this day and if Markin were around he would be sure to remind us not only of
his call on the breeze but of who we were up against and why, and name names
for the forgetful, so good or bad that breeze is part of the chronicle of our
time.
It is funny
here as I write that every time I write Markin’s name I start typing Peter Paul
Markin and have to change it and I am not sure why I am doing that now. We
always called him Markin from early on and never that WASP-ish three name thing
like his forbears had come over on the Mayflower
or something rather than he to the low-end housing projects born, or once
Frankie Riley our leader anointed him in high school we began calling him, sometimes
by me just to get under his skin, “the Scribe” since he was basically Frankie’s
flak, always writing stuff about Frankie like it was scripture and Frankie did
nothing to dissuade anybody about its worthiness as such. You could always
depend on the Scribe with his infernal facts to make anything Frankie did seem
like the Second Coming, and maybe with his frenzied pen Markin actually
believed that.
Markin,
Frankie, Allan, Sam, me and a bunch of
other guys basically came of age together, the fresh breeze trying to figure
out the world and our place, if any, in it in the early 1960s when we po’ boys
used to hang around the corner in high school, like I said before the corner
right next to Jack Slack’s bowling alley on Thornton Street where sometimes we
would cadge a few free games if Jack’s son, our fellow classmate in the North
Adamsville Class of 1967, was working and if not then just hanging out, Frankie
talking a mile a minute, Markin taking notes at two miles a minute, maybe
gathering in some girls if we had money to head to Jimmy Jack’s Dinner up on
Atlantic Avenue near-by where Jimmy Jenkins who would later join with us held
forth with his corner boys and on most nights would welcome us there if there
was no beef brewing between our respective corners. Jimmy Jack’s after Doc
retired and closed his drugstore was the place to be if you wanted the best jukebox
in town (although only three selections for a quarter there unlike Doc’s five
if you can believe that now if you can find a jukebox probably a dollar just
like iTunes). Markin, big idea Markin, figured out a way in tenth grade to take
some slugs the size of a quarter that he got from an older brother who worked
in a metal stamping shop and play for free, how about that, as long as we
didn’t get too greedy and have Jimmy Jack pull the plug on the jukebox after
collecting too many slugs.
Of course,
Markin’s really big idea for playing the jukebox for no dough was to single out
some girl that had just broken up with her boyfriend, or had had a fight with
him, or didn’t have a boyfriend just then, information that he also knew
somehow along with those two billion useless facts that he got from the Monday
morning girls’ lav talkfest. Then he would go up to her all concerned and
sympathetic, not to “hit” on her but to “guide” her selections, you know, maybe
something sentimental like sappy Brenda Lee’s I’m Sorry (we always, especially Markin, would dissect a song once
we had heard it a few times and couldn’t figure what she had to be sorry about
except maybe not “coming across” for her guy and we would chuckle, yeah she
should be sorry but of course you couldn’t be that explicit in a song then in
the days before the Beatles and Stones when every so-called rock song had to
pass parental muster to get radio air play, Jesus) or vengeful like Connie
Francis’ Whose Sorry Now (that one we
could figure, figure easy when she gave her two-timing guy the sweep, that was
just a casualty of the teenage love wars, easy to figure) or just feel good
like Martha and the Vandellas’ Dancin’ in
the Streets (which even two-left feet Markin could dance to and not get all
balled up like he did when you had to show some dance style) all stuff he
wanted to hear. He was beautiful at it, I tried it once and never got selection
one, even Frankie who was nothing but catnip to the girls got nada nunca nada
with that play. Maybe they sensed the two of us were trying to hit on them and
the whole thing fell to dust. Yeah, those were Markin’s good nights.
Most nights
though no dough, no girls, we would endlessly banter back and forth about
whatever was on our minds, maybe girls, girls who did or did not “do the do”
and you can figure that out on your own without further description, whether
some Markin masterminded Frankie midnight creep thing would work out or whether
we would wind up in the clink, maybe somebody’s take on sports or politics the
latter mostly when some big event shook even our corner complacency. A lot of
times it would be Markin spouting something, maybe, to give you an example, how
religion was a joke, especially our Roman Catholic religion that didn’t make
sense to us a lot of the time and we lots of times skipped Mass as we got
older. Except of course going to Mass was just fine with Markin when he got the
“hots” for Minnie Callahan and he would sit a few rows behind her at eight
o’clock Mass and watch her ass the whole time, and she knew he was watching her
that way as she told my sister like I told you before when he never asked her
for a date (or even at junior prom from what I heard since I didn’t go since I
was in one of my no dough phases which he took Emma to and refused to even
dance a slow one with her when she practically begged him to even though she
was there with her college Joe). Nobody jumped on him for that contradiction
after all it was about a girl and that was fair enough.
But get
this, and the more I write about the guy the more I see the terrible
contradictions that he was always bouncing around in his head and I keep coming
back to that one day, that one fall day, that October day, the October before
the 1960 elections, he had heard that the Catholic Worker movement, Dorothy
Day’s social justice operation out of New York City, was going to be part of a
nuclear disarmament demonstration on the Boston Common with some Quakers and
other little old ladies in tennis sneakers and he was going to march with them.
Jesus did he take a razzing from the rest of us, Catholic do-gooders, Quakers and
quirky old grandmothers for Chrissakes. Classic Markin though. Hey, I must be
getting tired or something I think I already told you about that rally. Sorry.
Something I
am not sorry about was pretty early on Markin caught this fresh breeze idea, caught
and wouldn’t let it go, influenced a little by some “beat” stuff he read, you
know big Jack Kerouac and his on the road travels along with some other New
York guys in what sounded like great stuff, great guy stuff really with some
frails mixed in to give the thing a little be-bop play that intrigued us when Markin
told us about the why and wherefores of its beginnings in the late 1940s but which
was just winding down as a cool movement in our time and was then being
commercialized to holy hell, speaking of holy was a holy goof on television and
subject to silly jokes about guys with long beards, berets, and bongos and
girls dressed head to toe in black, maybe underneath too something for erotic
fantasy in those days.
He would
tell us too that on those nights when no corner boys were around like sometimes
happened in the summer with dopey family vacations (I had put my foot down on
those summer vacations to the Cape in tenth grade since I was sick and tired of
my sisters and the whole family thing and Markin’s folks were so poor they
never went on vacations except maybe a day trip to Revere Beach, or if they
were in really dire straits like the rent was due and they were short maybe
only a barbeque at Adamsville Beach) and he had had it with his mother’s
endless harping on him or his three brothers doing stuff to disturb his reading
or something he would fly out the back door and walk to the bus stop which eventually
took him to the nearest subway stop which took him to Harvard Square where he
would hang out in the Hayes-Bickford and just observe stuff. Stuff like goofy
guys singing songs, folk songs as it turned out when he got brave enough to
ask, that he had never heard of before then but went crazy over later and drove
us, or me anyway crazy talking about, or guys reading poets (I recall he
mentioned Allen Ginsberg’s Howl which
I read later when I was on the bus and Albie Lewin said I should read it and I
agreed with that sentiment after I had) or stories to a few people in front of
them, mostly girls. Stuff that the first time he told us about it sounded weird,
Frankie made jokes for days about Markin winding up like some lonesome hobo,
being some Harvard goof’s fetch it mascot, being some kind of a court jester to
the winos, drunks, hipsters and con artists ready to make him jump. Markin got
mad, said it was not like that, refused to write stuff about Frankie for a
while but kept pushing the point that maybe this was what we were spending all
those lonely ass nights yakking about, that we might get swept up in it too. (Naturally
when Frankie did some escapade, I think, he gave the headmaster a ration of
guff or something and got away with it the “Scribe” was back on the job telling
a candid world that Frankie was some kind of revolutionary like Lenin or
Castro.) A fresh breeze he said that was going put all our talking points
dreams about schools, jobs, marriage, kids, everything in the shade. We laughed
at him, although as the decade moved on the laughter subsided.
This fresh
breeze thing was not just goof talk although there was plenty of that toward
the end of the night if we had been drinking some Southern Comfort purchased by
Allan Johnson’s older brother or maybe like we did more than a few times by
getting one of the town winos to go to the liquor for us and who could care
less about our ages as long as he got his bottle of Thunderbird, Ripple or some
such rat poison wine. Markin was an intense reader of the news, of what was
going on in the world and maybe the rest of us should have been a little more
world-wise then too but I think what we got caught up in then was the notion
that we were born into a world that was already fixed, that somebody else had all
the strings dangling for them too. That down among the fellahin, a great word,
like one of our history teachers called us peasants, including himself, that
deal was done. (By the way that history teacher’s use was the first time I
heard the word fellahin and was surprised later when Markin had almost forced marched
me to read Jack Kerouac’s On The Road,
he a fellow working-class guy from up in Lowell and the proclaimed “max daddy”
of beat-ness, used the word too to talk about the great unwashed Mexicans and
later the North Africans in his early
books and his own French-Canadian great unwashed too). We, maybe Allan and Sam
most of all, were what Markin called alienated although he did not use that
word then but rather called us hung up on the James Dean sullen nobody cares
thing. Hell, Allan, a big lumbering guy, used to do his James Dean tee shirt,
rolled up sleeve cigarette pack, blue jeans, engineer boots complete with buckles
and a whip-chain hanging out of his back pocket sulk all the time, and had used
that whip-chain for more than ceremony as Frankie could tell you when we got
into a few scrapes with Leo Russo and his corners in front of the Waldorf
Cafeteria up in the Square.
So maybe we
were alienated but like Markin said, who could be as sullen as the rest of us especially
when he had his battle royals with his mother, a lot of young people around the
country were feeling the same way and were trying to break out of the Cold War
we-are-going-to-die-tomorrow thing what with nuclear bomb threats being thrown
around every other day by one side or the other. Stuff like that Markin was hip
to, stuff like the fight for civil rights in the South where young white people
were joining in the fight although Frankie Riley would say some very derogatory
things about black people, and about how they better not show up in North
Adamsville looking for anything and some guys, me too for a while, felt the
same then, felt we didn’t want n----rs around our way. That was the hard
reality fed to us by parents and everything else in our cramped little lives.
Of course the big thing for Markin was the music, the rock and roll we came of
age to but also this new folk stuff that he would hear in Harvard Square. Most
of it I hated, still do, but that music was another move away from the old stuff
that Markin kept saying had to change. Yeah, later we each in our own way
grabbed some of what that madman speaking about forty miles an hour would run
by us but when he presented it at first he might as well have been on the
moon.
Markin really
was the bell-weather in lots of ways, the first guy to head west to check out
what was happening in the summer after high school in 1967. He had been
accepted into Boston University on a wing and a pray, some special student deal
with money for tuition since he and his folks had zilch, because as bright as
he was he was slightly indifferent, no very indifferent to grades saying one
time when he did get on the honor roll and we were kidding him about it,
seriously kidding since such distinctions did not play well with our corner boy
mystique that he preferred to wrap himself around the eight million facts
knowledge of what interested him, mainly literature, history, and math and
neglected the rest. Neglected it too like I said because at least for public consumption
we corner boys were not supposed to be too “book smart” but needed to be
“street smart,” a very big different especially when the deal was coming down. That
whole “street smart” scene fed into what our parents expected of us (those
whose parents did expect anything like mine and Markin’s, and unlike Frankie’s
and Allan’s) to get just a little ahead of them, a little bigger house, a
little less sweated labor for a job and pass that on to our children. The whole
thing boiled down to us getting something like nice steady death civil service
jobs which was the height of aspiration at the time. The whole “hippie” thing
that caught us in its breeze blew many family relationships apart including
mine for many years and Markin’s I think forever after he blew off that Boston
University scholarship deal that was to take him off cheap street. And maybe it
would have in 1950 or 1975 but not then. (Strangely, although I personally was
never much of a student and only went to junior college for a couple of years to
learn business administration in order to help me understand that aspect of the
printing business, guys like Markin, Frankie and Sam, Jack Dawson, went to four-year
colleges in a time when that was unusual around our way and they all were the
first in their families to do so, hell, Frankie and Sam went on to be lawyers,
Frankie mine until this day.)
That first
trip out in the summer of 1967 Markin did not hitchhike whatever he may have
told the girls around Adamsville, Boston, and Harvard Square trying to cash in
in the “romance of the road” residue from the Jack Kerouac-induced fervor which
fired all our imaginations after Markin force-fed us to read his big “beat”
book On The Road. Markin and some of
the rest of us did the hitchhike road later to save money and to “just do it”
but the first time out he took the Greyhound bus which he said was horrible
going out over several days of being squeezed in by some fat ass snorer, some
mother who let her child on her lap wail to the high heavens, and some wino who
along with his dank urine smell was drifting west. He said though despite his
feeling like some unwashed hobo as he got off the bus it had been worth it once
he got to ‘Frisco and saw right in front of him the wild west show stuff at
places like Golden Gate Park that put the “hip” action in dingy staid Harvard
Square in the shades. Had his first taste of dope other than marijuana which we
had all tried that graduation summer when a cousin of Frankie’s from South
Boston made a “connection” for us, several kinds, mescaline, peyote buttons
that some wild man had gotten out in Arizona from one of the tribes whose whole
existence centered on use of the drug to enhance their spiritual lives, some
hash another guy brought in from Morocco or someplace like that in North
Africa, had a few quick, easy and non-committal affairs (that was his term,
okay, like he was a guy out of a Fitzgerald novel, maybe the guy from This Side
of Paradise, Amory somebody), and that non-committal was on the girls’ parts
unlike in old North Adamsville where every girl in those days, especially the
“do the do” girls expected marriage and kids and white pickets fences and
everything that Markin said we would leave behind, and gladly.
He also went
west the first couple of years when he was in college during semester breaks
and summers, a few times with me along until I tired of it and by then we were
all pretty much going our separate ways and I was starting up my first small print
shop in the Gloversville Mall. So I missed a bunch of what Markin was about
before he announced to the world one night at Jimmy Jack’s where we were
grabbing something to eat and trying to find some non-Beatles tunes on the
jukebox that he was tired of college, that he wanted to pursue the fresh breeze
that was starting to build a head of steam while he could and he would probably
catch up with college later, later when we had won, when the “newer world” as
he called it after some English poet whom he had read called the search, was
the implication. Unfortunately poor old Markin had made his what might have
previously been reasonable decision just as all hell was breaking loose in
Vietnam and every non-college guy was being grabbed to fill the ranks of the
army and he got drafted which clipped his wings for a couple of years (I was
exempt as the sole support of my mother and younger sisters after my father
died suddenly of a massive heart attack in the winter of 1967).
But that Army
death trap was a little later because I know he got caught up in the summer of
love in 1967, before they clipped his wings with that freaking draft notice.
That was the summer that he met Josh, Josh Breslin from up in Podunk, Maine
(Josh’s expression, but really Olde Saco by the ocean up near Portland ) who
has his own million stories that he could tell about that summer, about being
on some Captain Crunch-led merry prankster ex-school bus riding up and down the
coast, getting high about thirteen different ways, playing high decibel music
coming out a jerry-rigged stereo on the front top of the bus, picking up freaks
(later called hippies, male and female), got “married” to one Butterfly Swirl
and had a Captain-sanctioned acid-blessed “honeymoon,” and stayed on the bus
for a long while after Markin headed back east to face the Army music. I had
met Josh on the first trip out with Markin and he really was, is, a character
and I still keep in touch with him now that he is back East over in Cambridge. Yeah,
Markin while out there got caught up in the acid-etched music from the Dead,
the Airplane and a million other minute niche rock bands (I just realized I had
better tell you that acid being not “throw in your face” acid but LSD, take a
tab, a blot and fly in your head,yeah, “colors, man, colors,” okay, just in
case you were worrying), the drugs from ganja to peyote although he always
claimed not LSD but I still insist with some of the stuff he did toward the end
I don’t know. Most interesting though as I know when I got caught up with the
“on the bus” scene was the sex in about seventeen different variations once he
got the hang of the Kama Sutra and a couple of adventurous West Coast women to
indulge him. Although in the end I had heard that he betrayed them as well, if
that is not too strong a word for the loose but mainly sincere attachments of
the time, left them high and dry with the rent due and their drug stash gone once
he was ready to move onto some new woman, a woman he had met in La Jolla. Maybe
that was the first stress sign, I don’t know but it wouldn’t be the last time
he “stiffed” somebody including me but that didn’t matter to me, ever. Yeah, the
madcap adventure of hitchhiking west the times we went out together could be a
subject for more than a few pages of interest, the bummer of riding freight
when Markin tired of the hitchhike road (and had sworn off cross-country buses
as had I after one jaunt to Atlanta), which he often said when we would run
into each other periodically later was not for the faint-hearted, not for those
who didn’t breathe train smoke and dreams the way he put it to me one time when
he was in high dudgeon.
Markin not
only got caught up in all the commotion of the counter-culture that kids today
scratch their heads about the minute some old geezer like Josh Breslin, Jack
Dawson, Sam Lowell, Jimmy Jenkins, or, hell, me starts going on about “wasn’t
that a time” but brought me, Frankie Riley, Jack, Allan, Jimmy Jenkins, Josh,
Sam, Phil Ballard and a few other guys from around our way (except Josh who was
from Olde Saco up in Maine although in the end he was as much a corner boy
refugee as the rest of us from North Adamsville) into the action as well. All
of us (again except Josh whom he had met out on Russian Hill in Frisco in the
summer of love, 1967 version) at one time or another travelled west with the
Scribe, and lived to tell about it, although it was a close thing, a very close
thing a couple of times, drug times and wrong place at the wrong time times.
But as the
1960s decade closed, maybe a little into the early 1970s the luster faded, the
ebb came crashing in, and most of the old corner boys like Frankie and Sam who
took the lead back to the “normal” went back to the old grind (both of them to
the law, lawyers if you can believe that, Frankie mine of course). Markin could
have if he were still with us or Josh can tell more about what happened when
the fresh breeze gave out about somewhere between 1971 and 1974, when the
Generation of ’68 as both of them liked to call it for all the things that
happened that year, although Markin was on the sidelines or rather he was
trying to keep his ass from being blown away by
Charley (remember the name for the enemy in Vietnam, usually in some
guerilla unit) when he, Charley, decided to come up over the hill some dark
moonless sweaty night. According to stuff Markin wrote later for some journal
that was interested in such things (and I think Josh said he had “cribbed” some
stuff from Markin’s article to fill out an article he was doing for Esquire and for once some big money) a
lot of the ebb flow had to do with political confusion, a lot believing that we
were dealing with reasonable opponents when they didn’t give a damn about us
(and put me in that category of thinking we were dealing with reasonable
opponents too when I got “religion” on the war pretty late and got caught up in
some actions which were pretty brutal on the cops side, their sons and
daughters, when they let us to hang out to dry when they decided to pull the
hammer down. But Markin insisted one night when not doped up or shacked up with
some woman and was in another of his many high dudgeon moods were also done in
by our studious refusal almost on principal to listen to the old-timers the
guys and gals who fought the social and labor battles in the 1930s and 1940s
and could have helped figure us out which way to go, how to defend ourselves
when a fast freeze cold civil war, a cultural counter-revolution according to
him, was brewing in the land.
Some stuff I
think, frankly, had to do with the overweening self-indulgence that set in once
we took a few hits to the head from the powers that be, taking drugs to the
point of stupor, contended ourselves with half-baked “theory” like that “music
is the revolution” a theory that even I balked at although Markin said he went
through a stage where he thought that might do the trick, turned to “know
thyself” self-help in one of a hundred forms, new age stuff, before you go out to
slay the dragon while he (or now as likely she) in the meantime is arming to
the hilt, and a whole segment of “heads” and politicos (my term from high
school on which annoyed Markin endlessly the way I would draw it out) just
withdrew literally to the hills, abandoned any thought of confrontation, finding
the going “heavy, man, heavy.”
Josh told me
a few years ago to go to the back roads of Maine, Vermont, Oregon, places like
that to see what happened to the remnant of that crowd, he said it wasn’t
pretty, not pretty at all. Sure they still had the now greying hair in
ponytails (guys and gals), the gals still wearing granny dresses now not
barefooted but wearing sensible earth shoes, the guys showing significant bellies
overhanging those forever bell-bottom trousers and moccasins, maybe cultivating
a little grass patch but mainly acting like proper burghers in the small towns
where they reside. Maybe the old Volkwagen bus is out in the back, a couple of
peace symbols on the doors but they have not been to a demonstration against
war, social injustice or the like since about 1971 (although when they light up
the pipe for a few tokes they will endlessly talk about how we almost, almost
had the bastards on the run. But remember before the nostalgia hits that it was
“too heavy, man, too heavy, bad vibes.” (Put me there with them too, okay).
But I think Markin
was on to something when he said in that article I am talking about said that after
arguments about the hubris and defiance of any coherent political strategy settled
down if you wanted to really understand what went wrong you could point to the
fact that we never despite appearances, despite half a million strong Woodstock
nation or million-massed marches in Washington, got to enough people to get
seriously into the idea of turning the world upside down. Could not despite the
baloney main media stories, turn all those millions on our generation who did
not indulge in the counter-cultural life, who did not have a clue where Vietnam
was, who did not jail-break out in any real sense when there was plenty of cover and mobility to do into active allies.
People like Josh’s friends up in Maine who went into the dying textile plants in
the 1960s just like their fathers and mothers after World War II, or like the
vast majority in our class in North Adamsville who also went on the traditional
school-job-marriage-three kids-two dogs and that coveted white picket fence
(which I wound up doing after the road tired me out). We were pariahs in some
spots in town, seen as commies or some exotic wild life, and that attitude got
repeated many places when the steam ran out, or people had had their groovy drug,
acid rock concert minute (or maybe a little longer) and that was that, that was
enough.
That last
idea hit home with me. I had been, despite a few flings at the west with Markin
or one of the guys and some weekend hippie warrior action around Harvard Square
or on the then tent city new age Boston Common, grinding away at that printing
shop I had built up from scratch after sowing my wild oats after high school.
That business was starting to take off especially when I made one smart move
and hired a professional silk-screener out of the Massachusetts School of Art
and grabbed a big chunk of the silk-screening trade which was starting to
mushroom as everybody needed, just needed, to have some multi-colored
silk-screen poster of Che, Mao, Lenin, Trotsky, the NLF, Ho, the Stone and
Beatles, or something psychedelic and multi-colored hanging from their walls or
have their tee-shirts, guys and gals, done up the same way. The same with a guy
like Allan who took the trips west too but who was just on the cusp of the new wave
and had gone into the almost dying shipbuilding trade, as a draftsman if I
recall, since although he was not much of a student he had been the ace of our
drafting classes even in junior high, had been hard ass old drafting teacher Mister
Fisher’s “pet” and took it up in high school as well. Even Josh, a late
hold-out with Markin, went to writing for a lot of what he called advanced
publications (meaning low circulation, meaning no dough, meaning doing it for
the glory to hear him tell it now, now that he is out of the grind).
And Markin, the
last guy standing, well, Markin, as we all kind of expected, once his Army time
was up, after he had exorcised whatever ghosts of Kontum ate at his blasted
heart, yeah, once that experience was over had crisscrossed the country in one converted
yellow brick psychedelic school bus (his term) or Volkswagen minibus (which was
never as good as the converted school bus but at some point out on the West
Coast all you had to do is stand on the Pacific Coast Highway and one of the
brethren would stop, tell you to hop in and pass the pipe before you even sat
down. Hell, one time we were just standing on the road NOT looking for a ride
and two mini’s stop. Yeah, those were the times, times which ain’t coming no
more from what I see) or another searching for, desperately searching for that
great blue-pink American West night which would get him well and which he/we
never found. I can be blasé about that quest now, talking about it now like
some half-mad scatter-brained utopian dream but then I was into it up to my
ears as long as I was into it and I mean no mockery of Markin for his
steadfastness if that is what you think. We all need a holy grail trip one way
or the other and I believe Markin even when he went down shattered by the whole
thing, shattered by his whole existence at the end probably still had that
vision in the back of his mind. Hell, he is probably still waiting, waiting
impatiently, wherever he is waiting for the new dispensation to get here, Albie
Lewin too as far as that goes.
But don’t
let me stop there the man also indulged in more dope than you could shake a
stick at, although then it was innocent pot and peyote buttons mostly not the
cocaine that burned his brain at the end so he could “experience” what it was
like for the ghost warriors of the West, those Apaches, Navajos, Hopis and a
thousand other tribes I can’t name just now to get ready to battle the white
devil, to make peace with their ancestors, to avenge some half thought out
thing that had passed them by. Got into more in-your-face-street confrontations
with the cops, soldiers, rednecks, including the famous one down in Washington,
D.C. when on May Day 1971 he and a bunch of ex-veterans and thousands of reds
and radicals (or that is what they called themselves and were called whether
they were or not) thought that could call the government’s bluff and end the
war in the streets. As Josh, who had gone down with some Cambridge radicals,
later said all they got for their efforts was mouths full of tear gas, heads
full of cop billy-clubs and the bastinado (and a war that dragged on until 1975
until the Viet Cong, Charley, and his brethren from the North put an end to the
thing themselves in about a month).
Markin never
went back to college but also took up the pen, for a while. Said to me when I
asked him why he didn’t take advantage of the GI Bill or go ask for a
scholarship again (which he would have won hands down with his new resume of
war veteran and peace veteran at a place like Boston University) that what
could school teach him that a couple of years of war, raw war bringing a man
down to the basics, down to primitive man and a few years of “waking with the
king” (his “hippie” drug insights and understandings) had already steeled him
about. Personally I think that just like when he was a kid, a high school kid
anyway he was inordinately proud of those eight billion facts that he knew and
could count on in a pinch. No school could do that for him, no way. Wrote,
according to Josh, some pretty good stuff that big circulation publications
were interested in publishing, especially memoir type stuff from a guy who saw
things from both sides in the 60s and could articulate that to a waiting
audience. Wrote lots of stuff in the early 1970s once he settled down in
Oakland about his corner boys, his old working class neighborhood, about being
a screwed-up teen filled with angst and alienation in the old days. Josh lived
out there with him then and I know Sam visited and stayed with him one summer
after he graduated from college and maybe Frankie too, once I think, visited
him there. Good stuff from what I read, the drafts Josh showed me which might
have benefited from a thoughtful editor (just like this piece could if it had
been meant for wide-scale publication and not as a commemoration of Markin’s
time which I will get to in a moment. Good stuff even if I was a little miffed
when he constantly referred to me as a guy who could screw up a simple “clip”
and get us all in the slammer, as a guy who was clueless on money-less nights
to get girls to play stuff I wanted, a guy with two left feet, two left hands
and who was too left out with the girls which wasn’t exactly true, well only a
little.
One big
series before the fall that Markin did, did as homage to his fellow Vietnam
veterans, although like I said he never talked much about his own experiences,
said he did what he did and that was that just like our fathers would say when
we tried to asked about World War II from them. Yeah, he took up and made
public the voices of Vietnam veterans who had trouble getting back to the “real
world” and who had wound up under
bridges and along railroad tracks mainly in Southern California where he
interviewed them and let them tell their stories their own way. That series for
a soon thereafter defunct alternative newspaper in San Francisco, The East Bay Eye went under the by-line Going to the Jungle (a double-reference
to the jungle in ‘Nam and the railroad “jungle” of hobo legend where those
forlorn shattered vets then resided doing the best they could, trying some days
just to put one step ahead of the other just like guys I would see in North
Adamsville Square when they came back all broken up). He was also short-listed
for some important award not for that series but another but I forget which
one.
And then he
stopped. Fell off the earth. No, not really, but the way I got the story mostly
from Josh and Sam, with a little stuff from Frankie thrown after the dust
settled is what the thing amounted to. Markin had always been a little volatile
in his appetites, what he called in high school (and we started calling too)
his “wanting habits” coming out of the wretched of the earth North Adamsville
deep down working poor neighborhoods (me and Sam too but unlike Markin who was
always pressing against that fate we just thought it was natural until we
escaped the damn thing and could see how down at the base of society life
tough, very tough). At some point in about 1976 or 1977 but probably the
earlier date he started doing girl, snow, you know, cocaine that was no big
thing in the 1960s. I had never tried it and has only heard about it from guys
who went to Mexico for weed and would pick up a couple of ounces to level out
with when the pot got weary as it started to do when the demand was greater
than the supply and street hipsters and junkies were cutting what they had with
oregano or herbs like that, or maybe I heard one time all oregano and good-luck
to your high, sucker. Cocaine then was pretty expensive so if you got your
“wanting habits” on with that stuff, if you liked running it constantly up your
nose using some freshly minted rolled dollar bill as a funnel like some guys
did until you always sounded like you
had a stuffed up nose then you had better have either started robbing banks, a
dicey thing, a very dicey thing the one time me and a couple of the guys tried
to rob as little a thing as a variety store or start dealing the stuff to keep
the demons away. He choose the latter.
Once Markin moved
up the drug dealer food chain that is where things got weird, got so weird that
when I heard the story I thought he must have taken too much acid (LSD) back in
the day no matter what he claimed. He was “muling” a lot for the boys, for the
hombres, down south, for what was then a far smaller and less professional drug
cartel, meaning he was bringing the product over the border which was a lot
easier then as long as you were not a Mexican or a “hippie,” or looked like
either. Josh said Markin had shaved his telltale beard and his ponytail long
hair as part of his new “career” to avert the border guards on both sides of
the borders attentions. So looked just like a lot of guys, like me, once the
tide ebbed and people drew serious distinctions again from the way you looked
just like before, just like in the later 1950s when Markin and Frankie did
their faux “beat” thing and got endless comments from irate mothers (their own
included) and the whole “square” universe of North Adamsville (except some
girls, girls like that Emma who I mentioned was Markin’s girl high school who
thought such things were “cool.” From what Sam said things went okay for a
while but see, and this I know from my own growing up story, those kid “wanting
habits” play funny tricks on you, make you go “awry” as Markin used to say when
something in his life did go awry. In the summer of 1977 (we are not sure which
month) Markin went south (Mexico) to pick a big (for him) two kilogram batch of
coke to bring back to the States. And that was the end of Markin, the end that
we can believe part anyway. They found his body in a back alley down in Sonora
face down with two slugs in his head. Needless to say the Federales did next to
nothing to find out who had murdered him. Or why and dismissed the thing as a
crazy gringo going over the edge bothering polite Mexican society. Sorry, I am
still bitter about their role in this whole mess.
Frankie,
then just a budding lawyer, just starting to make a name for himself in a big
law firm in downtown Boston (where he is now “of counsel” whatever that means,
basically he is semi-retired but still draws a big paycheck ) once the news got
back to Boston, sent a private detective down there but all he was able to find
out, unlike Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe who we all grew up watching at the
second-run Strand Theater on Beale Street and who got whatever information they
needed or else by fair means or foul, from a shaky source, a junkie, an
ex-patriate on the run from some beef in Arizona, whom he met in a cantina on
the seamy side streets of Sonora was some “maybe” stuff. Met the junkie in the
“red light” district according to the gumshoe, sorry, detective which figures a little since Markin was
always drawn to such places in his off-beat moments, said that is where his
kindred from the wretched of the earth dwelled and that he could find a home
there if the “clean” hippie” life didn’t work out. Liked to say that one of the
early attractions of Harvard Square beside the “new breeze” folk song, poet,
budding writer denizens that he could reach out to there if things went the way
he expected early on were the winos, homeless hags, apple Annies, hookers, con
men, ragged broken down hipsters, fugitive felons and ladies of the evening as
he called them (college girls working the trick streets for tuition he said, or
they said). Yeah, figures that is where he would head if that dusty Sonora place
was like in the United States where pimps, street hipsters, drag queens, easy
and hard tricks, sullen street drug dealers and plain low-life sports hung out
and fed on the refuse of society. The junkie said Markin would stop and drink
there before going on to “business up the street” (unspecified by said junkie).
Said Markin liked to talk to him as one of the few gringos hanging there, said
too that Markin would get him “well” meaning of course giving him a few lines
of snow to dream by. That too figures since Markin was always generous with his
stash.
This gringo junkie
who may or may not have actually known Markin, you never know with a junkie,
who can make things up out of whole cloth and who had probably seen plenty of
gringo mules running through the place said he needed a “fix” before he would
say word one. That figured too. Here is what he said anyway and you can take it
as that. Markin had either stolen the two kilogram shipment and was going to go
independent (not a good idea even then when the cartels were nothing like the
strong-arm kill outfits they are today, Jesus) or the negotiations on the deal went
bad, went off the track, and somebody got offended by the El Norte gringo
marauder. Life is cheap in that league. That too figures. The detective and
later Frankie were seriously warned off further investigation by “people” in
Sonora and in the United States and Frankie was told straight out that if he
showed up in Sonora, which he had intended to do if only to talk to the
Federales, you know how lawyers are, well they knew how to deal with all El
Norte marauders. To this day that is all we know, and old Markin is buried down
there in some miserable potter’s field unmarked grave still mourned and missed.
Yeah, still missed.
And that foul
end might have been the end of it, might have been the end of the small legend
of Markin. Except this. I mentioned above that in the early 1970s Markin before
we lost contact, or rather I lost contact with him since Josh knew his
whereabouts outside of San Francisco in Daly City until about 1974, did a
series of articles about the old days and his old corner boys in North
Adamsville. A couple of years ago we,
Frankie, Josh, Sam and I agreed (Allan
had passed away after a long-term losing fight with cancer before this, RIP,
brother)that a few of them were worth publishing if only for ourselves and the
small circle of people whom Markin wrote for and about. So that is exactly what
we did. We had a commemorative small book of articles and any old time
photographs we could gather put together and had it printed up in the print
shop my oldest son, Jeff, is now running for me.
Since not
all of us had everything that Markin wrote, what the hell they were newspaper
or magazine articles to be used to wrap up the fish in or something after we
were done reading them, we decided to print what was available. I was able to
find a copy of a bunch of sketches up in the attic of my parents’ home which I
was cleaning up when they were putting their house up for sale since they were
in the process of downsizing. Josh, apparently not using his copies for
wrapping fish purposes, had plenty of the later magazine pieces. Unfortunately
we could not find any copies of the long defunct East Bay Eye and so could not include anything from that Going To Jungle series. So Markin can speak to us still. Yeah, that’s
about right for that sorry ass blessed bastard saint with his eight billion
words.
Below is the
introduction that Sam Lowell wrote for that book which we all agreed should be
put in here trying to put what Markin was about in content from the guy who
knew him about as well as anybody from the old neighborhood, knew him even
before I did, knew his dark side when that came out later too:
“The late Peter
Paul Markin, also known as “the Scribe, ” so anointed by Frankie Riley the
unchallenged self-designated king hell king of the schoolboy night among the
corner boys who hung around the pizza parlors, pool halls, and bowling alleys
of the town, in telling somebody else’s story in his own voice about life in the
old days in the working class neighborhoods of North Adamsville where he grew
up, or when others, threating murder and mayhem, wanted him to tell their stories usually gave
each and every one of that crew enough rope to hang themselves without additional
comment. He would take down, just like he would do later with the hard-pressed
veterans trying to the best they could out in the arroyos, crevices, railroad
sidings and under the bridges when they couldn’t deal with the “real” world
after Vietnam in the Going To The Jungle
series that won a couple of awards and was short-listed for the Globe award,
what they wanted the world to hear, spilled their guts out as he one time
uncharitably termed their actions (not the veterans, not his fellows who had
their troubles down in L.A. and needed to righteously get it out and he was the
conduit, their voice, but the zanies from our old town), and then lightly, very
lightly if the guy was bigger, stronger than him, or in the case of girls if
they were foxy, mainly clean up the language for a candid world to read.
Would bring
out what they couldn’t say, maybe didn’t want to say. That was what the stories
he wrote about the now very old days in growing up in North Adamsville in the
1960s when “the rose was on the bloom” as my fellow lawyer Frankie Riley used
to say when Markin was ready to spout his stuff, ready to make us laugh,
cringe, get red in the face or head toward him to slap him down if he got too
righteous. Here is the funny part though. In all stories he mainly gave his
“boys” the best of it. Yes, Bart is still belly-aching about a few slights that
old Markin threw his way, and maybe he was a little off on why I gave up the
hitchhike highway but mainly that crazy maniac with the heart of gold, the heart
of lead, the heart, nay, that’s enough I have said enough except I like Bart
still miss and mourn the bastard. Here is what he had to say one time when our
world was fresh:
The Face Of Old Irish Working-Class
North Adamsville- In Honor Of Kenny Kelly, Class Of 1958
From The Pen Of Late Peter Paul
Markin
Another
Moment In History- A Guest Post, Of Sorts
Kenny
Kelly, Class of 1958? comment:
A word.
I, Kenneth Francis Xavier Kelly, around Jimmy’s warehouses they just call me Kenny, although my friends
call me “FX”, am a map of Ireland, or at least I used to be when I was younger
and had a full head of very wavy red hair. I was never called “Red” since that
moniker was taken by my mother’s brother and I never liked that name anyway, or
maybe I never liked him, or red-heads, inevitably Irish, and inevitably running
me ragged with their “do this, do that” every time they wanted something in or
out of bed like they were the flames of life, like they had come out of some
druid moon, as women friends, or wives like my first one who thought she was
some gift from the gods with her mass of red hair and dew-like skin but who
proved to be a bigger bitch than Shakespeare’s witches and good riddance. Yeah,
had a mass of freckles to go with that hair and which came like out the plague
in the sunny weather instead of a whiskey and beer chaser-driven mass of very
high-proof wrinkles. Had too my own, rather than store-bought, rattlers, teeth
I mean, bad teeth being the genetically inherited curse of the Irish, or maybe
just from the diet or lack of dentist dough, especially when the old man
slipped and cashed his paycheck at the Dublin Grille before he got home on
payday.
That
whiskey-wrinkled business is no joke since I started drinking Johnny Walker Red
when I was about twelve, the nectar made only a few miles away in Boston so
maybe it was in the air provoking me with its siren call or more truthfully
just easier to obtain than most others like Canadian Club or Seagram’s my
choices now except when somebody is buying them I’ll grab a Chivas. See the
guys I hung around with dared me to take a dram, maybe seven, or else make me
seem “light on my feet,” you know, a fag [gay] sneaking a thimbleful at a time
and then putting a splash of water into the bottle to maintain the same level
in my grandmother’s, Grandma Curran, Anna, from my mother Dorothy’s side of the
family, quart of whiskey that she kept out of sight in her china closet. Boys,
the stuff was nasty tasted like some awful, hold your nose childhood medicine
and gulp that first time and I think I almost threw up after the first gulp but
I acquired the habit, and did hold my nose a couple of times to break that
noxious feeling as I swallowed the liquid down and it took, mostly.
By the
way that hidden whiskey thing of my grandmother’s was not to keep the devil’s
brew away from childish harms, from me and my four younger brothers but from
Grandpa Curran, Daniel, who, having been abandoned by a drunken father who
would beat his mother until he took off one day for parts unknown with her
sister with whom he had been keeping time apparently since shortly after their
wedding, was a tee-totaler, a “dry” they called them in his day, his coming of
age time in the time of Prohibition, who hated even the idea of liquor around
the house. So that was Grandma’s secret cache, her sacred blessed medicine to
keep her spirits up when he hit the roof over whatever was on his mind,
whatever slight he took personally out in the world, whatever inflamed him to
the point of turning red-faced and bilious and she had to take it. What else
was she to do, where could she go, who would take her part in those days when
men and women, stolid working-class Irish Catholic men and women since this is
what I am telling you about, about how they kept themselves together then in
the diaspora. Hell the way I remember him, and this idea was not original with
me since my mother no knowing that I was taking my nips would always say that
to us when she heard from her mother than the old man was in one of his rages
again, she could have had gallons hidden to ward off that angry bastard’s rants.
When Anna wanted to entertain her sisters, her four sisters, May, Bernice,
Lizzy, and Alice, hearty drinkers all if I recall who had their own man sorrows
as well with divorces, abandonments, and drunks in the mix although since the
rule of thumb was to not “air dirty linen,” I wasn’t privy to most of the
information about their personal lives and after I got old enough I didn’t want
to know since I had begun my own sorrows, red-headed lovely sorrows if you want
to know, I didn’t care to know, they would have to repair to the “Ladies
Invited” Galway Grille by taxi about a mile up the road in “the Square”
[Adamsville Center] to toss down a few (and smoke some cigarettes since Grandpa
didn’t like that vice either although he wantonly smoked a stinking corncob pipe
filled with rank brown tobacco strips which smelled up the piazza [front porch]
where he liked to smoke and have conversations with his cronies if he was not
mad at them for some total bizarre reason, usually involving money). When I
came of age to drive they, no, Grandma, would give me five dollars for the task
and when I would pick them up after their libations they would appear be
pickled, maybe had guys hanging around them, but such is the fate of Irish
ladies after they have lost their bloom, lost whatever they had dreamed of in
their youth about what their world would be like. Grandma would always be
smiling then, and not just from the drink as far as I could tell. I am not
ashamed to say that I felt glad that she did her little escape now and then even
if her sisters sometimes got sloppy and wanted to hug me and all that “auntie”
stuff.
Later,
after Grandpa Curran had to be put in a nursing home when he had his stroke, a
stroke everybody from his doctor to his cronies to Grandma to my own mother said
was brought on by his rants, his angers at the world, his feeling slighted by
the ways of the world, I would pick up Grandma’s medicine at Doc’s Drugstore up
on Newbury Street across from the old Josiah Adams Elementary School where I
gave the teachers all the hell they could use, or take. By that time Grandma
Curran, who everybody had called a saint for putting up with Daniel all those
fifty some odd years had her own medical problems which kept her increasingly
housebound and I became her runner, the guy who would do the odd chores. You
know, get her groceries from O’Shea’s Market over on Emmet Street, pay her
bills at the telephone, electric, and gas offices “up the Downs [the shopping
area of North Adamsville] when you used to do that to save money since they
gave you a discount for in-person payment, do the yard work and simple house
maintenance and the like. I guess it fell to me as the oldest son of her oldest
daughter which from what Grandma told me one time when she was feeling
well-disposed toward me (which later would not always be the case) was some
kind of family tradition, maybe going back generations in the old country. All
I know is when I moved on to do my thing, started working for Jimmy the Mutt,
Eddie, the next oldest brother took over, and my cousin Sean who was older than
Eddie and the oldest son of my mother’s younger sister did so as well so there
was probably some old hoary truth to that going back to the mist of time.
Sorry
about that, about cutting off the story I was telling you but I just was
thinking about doing all that stuff for Grandma, nice stuff for a nice old
lady, and glad to do it, before I got wrapped up in lots of stuff I don’t feel
good about. Maybe Grandma Curran will put a word in for me when my time comes.
So when I did her medicine order every few weeks or once a month sometimes when
her pills ran out the order would include a pint of the usual Johnny Walker Red
that I told you I was taking swipes out as a kid as part of the delivery. In
those days, maybe now too, druggists could dispense small bottles of liquor for
medicinal purposes, no joke, like when people say that is the reason they are
drinking themselves under the table to chase away the blues or some other
demons, so there was nothing wrong with that, nothing illegal. What was wrong,
my wrong, happened one day when I was fourteen or so when I decided to grab a
bottle for myself, making that two bottles, as part of the order and Doc didn’t
blink an eye filling it for me since Grandma’s credit was good with him for whatever
she wanted (and she would give me a dollar for running the errand so the dough
I gave back to her would be right since if you can believe this what with the
price of hard liquor now the price for a pint was a buck and a quarter).
Later
that day Harry Johnson, the late Harry Johnson who joined the Army just out of
high school when he got into some trouble with the law, serious trouble, like
for robbery of a gas station and when he went to court the judge gave him the
“Irish penance, the rosary” three to five in the county jail or enlist in the
service and who was among the first American soldiers to die in Vietnam when
that war was raging in the world and whose name is now etched forever down in
Washington and on the memorial plinth for the guys from that war over on the
Commons in Adamsville Square, and I went down the far end of Adamsville Beach,
the Squaw Rock end, and drank the thing straight up and fast. Boy we were sick
that day and for a few days after. But like I said I acquired the “taste” so maybe
I really should blame old Grandma, rest her soul, for my lifetime of
debauchery, although that red-headed first wife, Kathleen wouldn’t you know,
was the one who “drove me to drink.”
For work,
yah, I’m still rolling the barrels uphill, I work, well, let’s just say I do a
little of “this and a little of that” for Jimmy the Mutt and leave it at that.
I met Jimmy when I was in high school before I dropped out which I will tell
you about later and he, a little older, maybe four years older had also dropped
out school at sixteen and has been going at the “this and that” business
full-time ever since, when he and his corner boys were hanging around holding
up the brick wall at their hang-out place in front of Harry’s Variety over on
Sagamore Street. Harry’s had everything Jimmy needed, a cool jukebox, a cooler
filled with sodas and beers, although the beers were illegal since Harry’s was
not licensed to sell liquor, particularly to under-aged corner boys but that
didn’t stop the brisk trade, nor did anything happen to Harry for this
transgression the “why” of which I will tell you in a second, a couple of
pin-ball machines, you know like the ones you would see down at the arcades,
the ones with the busty, buxom babes showing plenty of cleavage calling you
forth to play their game and win, well, win something, and Harry’s friendship
with half the cops in town which washed over Jimmy and his operations. See
Harry, Harry O’Toole, was “connected,” connected with the cops since he was
openly using the store as a front for his book-making operation and you would
see cops coming in day after day in their cops cars to make their bets in the
“book” Harry kept right on the counter, and connected too with the big boys in
South Boston, the Irish Mafia if you want to give it a name, not Whitey’s and
his guys then but the guys who made big in illegal liquor back after World War
I and branched out, because nobody, no town cops anyway were going to touch
that “goose that laid the golden egg” operation. (If any cops had any squawks,
or scruples, they could see the Captain, in my time that was Captain Murphy, a
friend and relative by marriage of Harry’s who lived up on Atlantic Avenue near
where the town Mayfair swells, and either be walking the midnight beat rousting
drunks and riffraff or getting cut off from the pie, or both. So no cop
squawked, not and live (one cop, Franny Larkin, the father of a friend of my
brother Eddie, who died under mysterious circumstances sometime after he had a
run-in with Murphy, said he was going to talk to the DA or something was enough
to scare any other do-gooders or snitches).Harry, a single guy, although he had
this busty, blue-eyed blonde Irish woman who wore tight cashmere sweaters and
got the double-take, and no more, by every breathing guy from about six to
sixty who saw her, or better smelled that jasmine perfume as she passed who
kept him company, treated Jimmy like a long lost son.
Yeah, and
Jimmy treated me like a long lost brother, which automatically gave me the nod
from Harry. Jimmy from the beginning,
from when I, bored, started to hang around the pin ball machines and he would
give me his “free” games when he had other business to attend to, his
girlfriend or Harry business, always liked me, always knew that I had a little
larceny in my heart, had some serious “wanting habits” as one of the guys
called what I had and so I did a little of
“this and that” then and am still at the business since those wanting
habits have not flickered out. When I am not doing this and that for Jimmy I
work in one of his warehouses moving material around, and don’t ask what kind
of materials or where it goes since I told you that it was this and that,
barrels too so I wasn’t joking about that barrel thing if you think I was.
I am also the map, the Irish map part
anyway, of North Adamsville, from the Class of 1958 at the old high school, or
at least I should have been, except for, well, let’s leave that as at a little
of this and that, for now, as well. I’ll tell you that story another time, if
you want to hear it. Or talk to that old bastard, Headmaster Kerrigan,
“Black-Jack” Kerrigan, and he’ll give you his lying side of the story if he can
still talk the bastard. Hell, I started to tell you so I might as well tell you
all of the story now so you don’t get all huffy about it like I would lie to
you about it or something. As you probably can guess from what I already told
you I was restless, always restless, maybe bored too, a little but restless
from early on from elementary school where I gave those poor benighted teachers
all they could handle, and got boxed on the ears from Dorothy for my pains. Or
if it was really bad then my father Seamus, but it had to be really bad to get
him involved since he was working over on the Southie docks and didn’t have
time to bother with disciplining his five sons what with work, his drinking
buddies and his girlfriend, that last one not known to us until many years
later when Dorothy and Seamus divorced and I found out there was a sixth Kelly,
a bastard half-brother sired by Seamus out of Lucy Leahy, his girlfriend. See
what I mean about the “not airing dirty linen” business. The “shawlies” [the
women, young and old, some who actually wore shawls against the cold of their
cold-water triple-decker flats when the bastard absentee rack-rent landlord
kept the heat low, who ran the “back porch” hanging out the laundry “grapevine”
effective as any high tech digital communications today and fed the gossip
mills of the neighborhood] had a field day when that news came out since my
mother as a fourth generation denizen of the town put on certain airs against
the second or third generation “new arrivals” from Southie and they hated her
for that arrogance. It was only because the old man left town and left her high
and dry with five growing boys that allowed her to survive since she got
something like a sympathy vote for being abused by one Seamus Kelly whom they
didn’t much like since he was first generation and not from Southie but some Irish
outpost down in the South.
So you could say I was no student,
getting in trouble and behind in my studies all through elementary and junior
high school. I was probably what today would be called a “special needs”
student but they didn’t have that designation then so by the time high school
came around I was assigned to what everybody, teachers, administrators, parents
and most cruelly other kids publicly called the “slow” class, the shop kids if
you want to know. The kids who maybe if you taught them how to saw wood, weld
metal, fix a toilet or repair an automobile might not wind up in Walpole [Cedar
Junction], or on death row before their twenty-first birthday for their
troubles. So they assigned me to the auto body shop. But here is what they
didn’t know, or care to know, I was not mechanically inclined, I was restless,
like I said so I wound up pulling “guard duty” in front of the boys’ lavatory
most of the time once old man Pringle, the auto body teacher, saw I had two left hands. And it was doing
that job that got me in Kerrigan’s cross-hairs.
See the boys’ lavatory in the shop area
by tradition if not law was off-limits to everybody but shop guys. You could if
you had to take a leak and were a guy go to any other “lav” in the school but
not ours, although various lavs also by tradition were used by particular
groups like the “jocks” used the one in the gym and seniors used the second
floor lounge (which had windows you could open and grab a quick smoke and blow
the smoke out the window while you were in there). That “nobody but shop guys”
was on the shop master Mister Pringle’s orders too and enforced by having guys
like me pull guard duty. Pringle, an old Army guy before he took up teaching
shop didn’t want his “latrine” [his word] messed up by a bunch of wise-ass
regular students, especially college jerks and school jocks[his words again].
One day this guy, this college joe type
guy, Jimmy Jenkins, who I had seen around for years in junior high and in high
school although I never knew him personally and would never have given him the
nod (the “nod” a sign that you knew the guy, knew he was okay, had some
connection with him maybe sports but did not hang with him), not a bad guy but
you know full of himself, a student government type, a guy who thought every
word he uttered came down from the mountain (and maybe he really thought it
had) but maybe thinking that shop guys were below human or something the way
that the whole school social order made shop guys the “slow class” guys, maybe
too worried about his own manhood being a college-type guy, didn’t want to be
taken for a “fairy,” decided that he had to take a leak in our “lav” and was
headed in until I stopped him and told him “no go.” Told him Pringle didn’t
want anybody but shop guys using his lav. Jimmy though seemed to have decided
he wanted to make an issue of it, said some baloney about “not being able to
hold it” or some such bullshit and I told him to get lost. He still headed in,
or tried to, because for his disrespect I grabbed hold of his arm, spun him
around and threw him though the nearest window in the wood-working shop which
was adjacent to the bathroom. He was a mess by the time they got to him.
Bleeding little blobs and all although not needing hospitalization or anything
like that, minor cuts like maybe you get from shaving, if you shave. But I
taught him a lesson in any case. (I heard later that he had to see a shrink for
a while to steady himself, also that guys, his guys, the college joes wouldn’t
hang with him for a while since he had been taken down by a guy who was shorter
although more wiry than him so they were probably razzing the hell out of him,
maybe “fag-baiting” him like every other guy in the school would do to every
other guy just because that was how macho everybody was, and scared that like
the dink, a real sissy, Ellis Murray, they were “light on their feet.”
About fifteen minutes later, while
Pringle who chuckled about the whole thing and I think would have patted me on
the back and said “well done” if it had been up to him had me sweeping up the
chards, who comes down but Black-Jack, all crazy about what happened, or what
he had heard happened like I killed the guy or something. So after identifying
me as the villain he took me to his office up on the second floor and had me
sit there in his waiting room or whatever you call it for about an hour until
school was over and then he brought me into his office. And laid down the law.
Said I was going to be expelled for the good of the school and that while what
I had done was serious no charges would be brought as long as I accepted my
expulsion with “grace” [Kerrigan’s word]. Otherwise he implied I would be
breaking rocks somewhere, or maybe doing the “Irish penance.” Frankly I freaked
out about that possibility since it had been drilled into me by my parents that
I needed to pass the shop class and get a certificate if I was to avoid the
county farm [the welfare solution in those days].
See what I didn’t know then was how
successful I was going to be without school, working that “this and that” for
Jimmy the Mutt so I was in a rage about what was going to happen to me. What
were Dorothy and Seamus going to say, or do. I guess too I was pissed off
because everybody knew what a suck-ass Kerrigan was and how he kept a lid on
all kinds of things like teachers beating on students when they couldn’t
control the situation, male teachers “hitting” on the girls for sex or else
down the back stairway when it was empty after school after they had the girls
serve some faked up detention, maybe threatening to flunk the poor girl so she
had to go to summer school or would not graduate or threatening to tell her
parents what she had done with her boyfriend down on Adamsville Beach Saturday
night that one of their “snitches” told them about to get out from under own
troubles.
I knew that last actually happened to
one of my girl cousins, Cookie [not her real name], who got in a mix mess with
her best girlfriend, Elizabeth, and in revenge she told a male teacher who was
“hitting” on her to lay off her and try my cousin who had shared with her like
girls do with best friends what she was doing with her boyfriend over at his
house when his parents were out and my poor cousin could hardly hold her head up
in school after some jock saw her giving “head” to that teacher down that back
hall (we called giving “head,” you know, oral sex, “Irish contraception” back
then since it was more likely an Irish girl would do that if you could coax her
to do anything other than regular sexual intercourse in order to keep
“virginal.” Many girls kept their novena and prayer book reputations intact by
doing that deed rather than “going all the way.”). Every guy in the school was
after her then, looking to get a little something since they thought she was
“easy.” Poor Cookie, poor Cookie later
when some guy left her in the lurch in senior year and she had to visit an “aunt
in Tulsa,” meaning she had gotten pregnant and had to leave town to have her
baby someplace else unlike now when such things while still frowned get a pass.
After that I don’t know what happened to her because she fell off the face of
the earth as far as I know.
So everybody knew, or everybody who
wanted to know, knew what was going on, all kinds of stuff like that including
Kerrigan so I took old Kerrigan and pushed him through his door and he fell
down, all crumbled up. One of the secretaries yelled was he okay and he said,
get this, that he had tripped, no big deal. The next day though everybody knew
that he had taken a beating from me, everybody that wasn’t a student
government-type, a snitch, or a suck-up brown nose. So I got the boot but you
got the real story in case you hear otherwise from that lying bastard. Got a
nice legend reputation too which helped me later, and a couple of hot dates
from girls you would never suspect would go for a guy like me, not Irish girls
and not Irish contraception either, but you would think would go for a guy like
Jimmy Jenkins. They said he was too tame for them. And they were “hot” too. Go
figure.
Let’s also put it that I grew up, rough
and tumble, mostly rough, very rough, on the hard
drinking-father-sometimes-working, and the plumbing-or-something-don’t-work-
and-you-can’t- get- the-tight-fisted-landlord-to- fix-anything-for-love-nor-
money walk up triple decker just barely working class, mean streets around
Sagamore and Prospect Streets in one-horse Atlantic. At least my dear
grandmother, sainted Anna who had been born there as had her mother, and maybe
yours too, called it that because there was nothing there, nothing you needed
anyway. You know where I mean, those streets right over by the Welcome Young
Field, by Harry the Bookie’s variety store who I already gave you the skinny on
(you knew when you were in Harry’s, with the always almost empty shelves except
maybe a few dusty cans of soup, a couple of loaves of bread and a refrigerator
empty except maybe a quart of milk or two, those active pin-ball machines, and
like I said before his “book” right on the counter for all the world, including
his cop-customer world, to see), and the never empty, never empty as long as my
father was alive, Red Feather (excuse me I forgot it changed names, Dublin
Grille) bar room. Maybe you came up on those same kinds of streets and my hat
is off to you too but it was rough, it was Irish shanty rough with no hope,
maybe no desire or will to move up to “lace curtain,” and forget Kennedy-etched
“chandelier’ Irish which gives you the whole social structure of the diaspora.
We never saw “lace curtain” in that neighborhood and only read about the
“chandelier” in the newspapers. Maybe it was something in the Curran/Kelly
bloodline but after the Kelly clan with Seamus in tow came up from the South to
North Adamsville (the Currans were already here) that seems to have exhausted
the stock so for the next three generations including mine were nothing but
“shanty” living about the same way each generation just doing this and that and
nothing outstanding but we sure knew the ethos of the neighborhood, what you
could and could not do to keep up with the Joneses.
Let me
explain how I wound up as a “guest” here and see if that gives you a better
picture of what went on, what goes on in the old burg since it relates to all
these little Irish-flavored tidbits I have been enticing you with. Seems like
Peter Paul Markin, that’s the half-assed, oops, half-baked, Irishman whom I
first vaguely met when I was hanging around Harry’s with Jimmy the Mutt and the
boys and he, in his turn, had come around like almost every young kid in that
neighborhood to watch the pin ball wizards, including me, hoping to cadge a few
free games when the older guys had other things to attend to, wrote up some
story, some weepy cock and bull story, about the Irish-ness of the old town, A Moment In History… As March 17th
Approaches on the North Adamsville
Graduates Facebook page and my pride and joy daughter Clara(from my second
marriage, since divorced, that time a brunette who proved to be almost as
troublesome as that first enflamed red-head wife but whom I still see now and
then with her new husband over at Fast Eddie’s Bar and Grille in Carver where
she lives and where Jimmy the Mutt has one of his many warehouses), North
Adamsville Class of 1983 (and she actually graduated), saw it and recognized
the great-grandparent names Curran, Kelly and Welcome Young Field that I had
told her about and asked me to read it. I did and I sent Peter Paul, hell,
Markin an e-mail, Christ, where does he get off using three names like he was a
bloody heathen Boston Brahmin and him without a pot to piss in, as my dear
grandmother used to say, growing up on mean streets on the wrong side of the
tracks, over near the marshes which even the shanty Irish have always avoided
if possible since those triple-deckers and single family shacks, there is no
other word for them, for Chrissakes, wronger even than the Sagamore streets. Or
my baby Clara did, did sent the e-mail to him after I told her what to write.
I’m not much of hand at writing or using this hi-tech computer stuff, if you
want to know the truth. My skills are more old-fashioned and more reliable, get
things done quicker and done, finished.
I don’t
know what Markin did with that e-mail, and to be truthful again, I don’t really
care, but in that e-mail I told him something that he didn’t know, or rather
two things (except that cadging pin ball games but that didn’t count since a
lot of younger kids were onto that gag and he was mostly just a pesty face in
the crowd). The first was that I “knew” him long before he sent his reply
e-mail, or rather knew his grandmother (on his mother’s side) Mary O’Brian,
because her sister, Bernice, and my dear grandmother, Anna, also born an
O’Brien but with an “e.” who both lived in Southie (South Boston, in those days
the Irish Mecca, for the heathens or Protestants, or both, both heathen and
Protestant, that might read this) were as thick as thieves. When I was just a
teenager myself I used to drive his grandmother, like I did with my grandmother
and her sisters including Aunt Bernice up to the “Square” where they drank
themselves silly, over to her sister’s in Southie so that the three of them,
and maybe some other ladies joined them for all I know, could go to one of the
Broadway bars (don’t ask me to name which one, I don’t remember) that admitted
unescorted ladies in those days and have themselves a drunk. And smoke
cigarettes, unfiltered ones no less, Camels I think when I used cadge a few,
which his stern grandfather, Matthew, refused like my grandfather to allow in
the house over on Young Street.
I know, I
know this is not the way that blue-grey haired Irish grandmothers are supposed
to act, in public or private. And somebody, if I know my old North Adamsville
gossips, wags and nose-butters, and my North Adamsville Irish branch of that
same clan especially, is going say why am I airing that “dirty linen” in public
and against the dearly departed as well. That’s a good point that Markin talked
about in his story about Frank O’Brian and not airing the family business in
public in that foolish essay, or whatever he wrote that got me to having Clara
writing that e-mail.
So what
am I doing taking potshots as the blessed memories of those sainted ladies?
That is where my second thing comes in to set the record straight – Markin, and
I told him so in that e-mail (or Clara did) with no beating around the bush, is
to me just another one of those misty-eyed, half-breed March 17th Irish that
are our curse and who go on and on about the eight hundred years of English
tyranny like they lived it, actually lived each day of it. Yes half-breed, his
father, a good guy from what my father told me when they used to drink
together, so he must have had something going for him, was nothing but a Protestant
hillbilly from down in the mountain mists hills and hollows Kentucky although
his mother, Delores (nee Riley), was a good as gold Irish girl as the old town
produced.
Now don’t
get me wrong. I am as patriotic as the next Irishman in tipping my hat to our
Fenian dead like old Pearse did back in 1913 or so at the gravesite of some
ill-treated, ill-treated by the bloody British, member of the Irish Republican
Brotherhood, and the boys of ’16 fighting off the bastards in the General Post
Office in Dublin when the boyos put up the proclamation for the Republic under
old Jimmy Connolly who they later executed after the British had burned their
own colonial town down, what did they
care, and the lads on the right side in 1922, the guys who wanted to hold out
for a whole island-wide republic and the lads fighting in the North more
recently under General McGuiness and the boyos in Derry but Markin has got the
North Adamsville Irish weepy, blessed “old sod” thing all wrong. No doubt about
it. So, if you can believe this, he challenged me, to tell the real story. And
I am here as his “guest” to straighten him out, and maybe you too.
Sure, he
is helping me write this thing. I already told you I’m a low-tech guy. Jesus,
do you think I could write stuff like that half-arsed, oops, half- baked son of
an expletive with his silly, weepy half-Irish arse goings on? I will tell you
this though right now if I read this thing and it doesn’t sound right fists are
gonna be swinging, old as I am. But let’s get this thing moving for God’s sake.
Let me
tell you about the shabeen, I mean, The Red Feather, I mean the Dublin Grille,
bar room on Sagamore Street. That’s the one I know, and I am just using that as
an example. There were plenty of others in old North Adamsville, maybe not as
many as in Southie, but plenty. If you seriously wanted to talk about the
“Irish-ness” of North Adamsville that was the place, the community cultural
institution if you will, to start your journey. Many a boy got his first drink,
legal or illegal, at that, or another like it, watering hole. Hell, the “real”
reason they built that softball field at Welcome Young was so the guys, players
and spectators alike, had an excuse to stop in for a few (well, maybe more than
a few) after a tough battle on the base paths. That’s the light-hearted part of
the story, in a way. What went on when the “old man”, anybody’s “old man,” got
home at the, sometimes, wee hours is not so light-hearted (or like my father
didn’t show up at all trying to tell my mother that he was working the very
early ships at the docks shift and so headed to Southie to be ready for work.
Ready for work messing up the sheets with his Lucy Leahy lady friend, goddam
him as tough as it was to live under my mother’s tyranny in his frequent
absences).
See, that
is really where the straightening out job on our boy Markin needs to be done.
Sure, a lot of Irish fathers didn’t get drunk all the time. Although the deep
dark secret was that in almost every family, every shanty family for certain
and I know, and many “lace curtain” families they was at least one reprobate
drunk. Hell, the local city councilor’s brother, Healy I think it was, was
thrown in the drunk tank by the coppers more times than he was out. They could
have given him a pass-key and saved time and money on dragging him to the
caboose. But the king hell takes-the-cake was old “Black-Jack” Kerrigan’s
brother, Boyo (sorry, I forget his real name but everybody called him Boyo when
he was in his cups). Yah, the North Adamsville High headmaster’s brother, the
bastard that I had a run-in with and had to hightail it out of school, although
it was not over his brother.
See
Black-Jack’s family thought they were the Mayfair swells since Black-Jack had
gone to college, one of the first in the old neighborhood, and they had that
big single-family house over on Beach Street. But more than one night I found
Boyo lying face-down on Billings Road drunk as a skunk and had to carry him
home to his wife and family. And then head back to the other side of the
tracks, that wrong side I already told you about. Next day, or sometime later,
Boyo would give me a dollar for my services in his hour of need. Naturally when
I went to school after that I went out of my way to flash the dollar bill at
Black-Jack, saying “Look what Boyo gave me for helping him out of the gutter.”
That’s all I had to say. Black-Jack always turned fuming red, maybe flaming
red. Of course that was before that grab-ass tussle we had over the use of the
shop boys’ lavatory so maybe he held that taunt against me and saw expelling me
as his sweet-laced arsenic Irish revenge.
A lot of Irish fathers didn’t beat on
their wives all the time either. And a lot of Irish fathers didn’t physically
beat their kids for no reason. Plenty of kids go the “strap” though when the
old man was “feeling his oats.” I never heard of any sexual abuse, but that was
a book sealed with seven seals then and with all the exposes about the faggot
boy-loving priests the last few years maybe that went on too more than you
would think because almost every Irish guy, me too, was totally screwed up
about sex under the guidance of the Church and parents and probably did things
as bad as those black-hearted priests. It took a heathen Protestant girl, Laura
Perkins, to show me what was what about the beauties of sex but that was much
later. And more than one wife, more than one son’s mother didn’t show her face
to the “shawlie” world due to the simple fact that a black eye, a swollen face,
or some other wound disfigured her enough to lay low for a while. I had to
stop, or try to stop, my own father one time when I was about twelve and he was
on one of his three day Dublin Grille whiskey straight-up, no chaser toots and
Ma just got in his way. He swatted me down like a fly and I never tried to go
that route again. But he didn’t try to beat my mother again either, at least
not when I was a around or I would have heard about it on the “shawlie” wire.
And a lot
of Irish wives didn’t just let their husbands beat on them just because they
were the meal ticket, the precious difference between a home and the county
farm [like I said before the welfare deal of that time when you were down and
out] or, worse, the streets. And a lot of Irish wives didn’t make excuses (or
pray) for dear old dad when the paycheck didn’t show up and the creditors were
beating down the door. And a lot of Irish wives didn’t let those Irish fathers
beat on their kids. And a lot of Irish mothers didn’t tell their kids not to
“air the dirty linen in public.” But, don’t let anyone fool you, and maybe I am
touching on things too close to home, my home or yours, but that formed part of
the scene, the Irish scene.
Maybe, because down at the Atlantic
dregs end of North Adamsville the whole place was so desperately lower
working-class other ethnic groups, like the Italians, also had those same
pathologies. (I am letting Markin use that last word, although I still don’t
really know what it means, but it seemed right when he told me what it meant).
I don’t know. Figure it out though, plenty of fathers (and it was mainly
fathers only in those days who worked, when they could) with not much education
and dead-end jobs, plenty of rented apartments in triple-deckers as homes , no
space, no air, no privacy rented housing and plenty of dead time. Yah, sure, I
felt the “Irish-ness” of the place sometimes (mainly with the back of the
hand), I won’t say I didn’t but when Markin starts running on and on about the
“old sod” just remember what I told you. I’ll tell you all the truth, won’t you
take a word from me.
[Tell me, damn it, try to tell me this is not
an elegy worthy of a fallen corner boy, yeah, go on and tell me. BW]