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Chapter 3 - In Suspension

I woke up in my closet. As usual it was darker than a photolab and twice as smelly. It was Sunday morning. A cold Sunday morning. Standing up, I fumbled around for the string to the light. Finding it and giving it a tug, illuminated the closet in all its filthy glory. I pulled some clothes off the shelf and onto my skinny body. From the other shelf I grabbed my coffee cup and did the usual morning SSS. Shit, Shower, and Shave at the School Gym located a few blocks up the street.

After that, I went over to the Ritz and snagged my usual dollar breakfast, and then back to the Hotel to make some calls. I opened up a secretary's office (I had the keys to EVERYTHING) and called Jerry and Susan about later today. The conversation went nowhere. Susan changed her mind (big surprise there... NOT) and wanted Jerry to go with her to the City, and they were going to stay there with some friends over night.

Whatever. So I went into the painting room and set to work on a painting. It sucked really bad, and I was feeling very depressed and nervous about going to court the next morning. The whole situation was such a mess, that I had to think of a way to not let it happen again.

So I went over to the hardware store and got the keys re-copied. From the store I called Eileen. She was upset to hear of my incarceration courtesy of the local constabulary. I asked her if she would hold onto the extra set for me so I could avoid this in the future. She agreed, and said she'd keep them in a planter on her landing of the fire escape. We agreed to meet later in the week to do this.

After talking with Eileen, I hopped on the bus and went over to the Band House.

I used to be in a band in the mid 70s. We played Rock and Roll's drug addled answer to Big Band and Bop- Progressive Rock. Unfortunately, we only played covers. But we played them well. Stuff like Gentle Giant, King Crimson, Pink Floyd, and Genesis was our specialty. We rarely played out. After a while, I was too busy with school, and they found a better bass player, so I left the band.

The band consisted of:

Jim Carnes - guitar and vocals

In 20 years, he would find himself married with a family. His wife, Suzanne, has a fantastic voice, and they play in local clubs and taverns, and are releasing their own music on CD.

Mike O'Hara - lights and gin

20 years later pushes paper around for Cosmodemonic Telephone and Telegraph, clean and sober for the past 6 years.

Greg Hoffman - drums

Greg found Jesus (good thing too- He's been lost for 2000 years) in the mid 1980s, married this blonde dimwit named Clare, and installs Cable TV. Doesn't play drums anymore- work of the devil and all that...

Jack Jeffries - keyboards

Jack got married in the late 1980s, and works as a mechanical engineer, lives in a big suburban house and plays mediocre jazz (but plays it very well) in suburban hotel lounges where he lives.

Dan Panko - bass guitar

Dan got married and has 2 kids. He moved out of state, and works obscure, poorly paying jobs, none of which last very long.

They would try out singers all the time. They had a regular for while- this INCREDIBLY boring woman named Lisa. God she was awful. Couldn't really sing either, but she was a friend of Greg's, so "wuttaya gonna do"? Anyway, they all lived in this house located smack dab in the middle of a giant industrial park. The nearest residential neighborhood was the School's Heisenberg Campus high rise dorms, about 3 miles away.

Everything else was occupied by plastics factories (where Dan worked), high rise office complexes inhabited by the likes of ATT and IBM, and giant interstate highways. So they could make the Loudest Noises in the World and no one could possibly hear them. They never paid for garbage removal- everything got tossed in the IBM dumpster. The house was surrounded by a crappy lawn and some scrub woods where Mike and Jim grew pot. Just past the woods was the IBM parking lot and the dumpster.

The Saturday night I was listening to Red Crayola they had had a party. My lack of attendance was not considered a snub, as they had a party EVERY Saturday night. The following day, Sunday, had warmed up greatly, and I didn't even need a heavy coat in my trek to the Band House. How rare for late February! I arrive at the house around noon, and this is what happened...

The owner of their house, Mr Martin (a right wing uptight Jesus freakazoid from HELL), was ripping the back porch off the Band House. I disliked Mr Martin, so I hid across the backyard behind a tree from where I could see everything. I could see the light go on in Jim's room. Mr Martin is going wild with the crowbar- having WAY too much fun with what was left of the pathetic little back porch.

Suddenly, the back door opens up, and there's Jim Carnes standing there, wearing nothing but Fruit of the Loom underpants and bunny slippers with a warm Michelob in his hand. Stunned, Mr Martin just stood there squinting up at him in the bright noonday sun. Jim asked, his voice heavy and slurred from the previous night's revelry, but in an oddly chirpy mood,

"Hey Mr Martin- Wutcha doin'?"

"Why, I'm taking down this rotten old porch you kids have been complaining about for months," he replied. I got the impression he said this because it was the truth and it was better than standing there making weird uncomfortable noises.

James said, "Oh that's cool." and took a swig from the room temperature Michelob. Mr Martin was so embarrassed he didn't know what to say. He wanted to say "Jim- get some clothes on, will ya?" but it seemed too obvious, so he figured he'd be nasty and pick on him. As I said he was a right wing uptight Jesus freakazoid from HELL, and his overwhelming lack of grace and grey matter only enhanced his basically malevolent nature.

"So Jimmy" he continued, "I thought I told you boys to cut the grass at least once a month."

"Well we DO, Mr Martin" Jim replied. At that point he slightly reeled back a bit on his heel from being so plastered, but steadied himself in the door jamb. I did my best to stifle laughter....

"Well, then WHAT'S THAT ALL ABOUT!?!?!?" Mr Martin yelled, pointing his long narly finger toward the middle of the back yard.

In the middle of the backyard was an aluminium and nylon strap lawnchair surrounded by, nay, inundated with, with a carfully cut triangle of tall grasses and weeds, now mostly brown with winter, and a small ivy plant slowly making its way up one silvery leg.

"Well, gee Mr Martin, you've got a beard dontcha?" James quizzed him...

Mr Martin quickly snapped "What does THAT have anything to do with THAT MESS in the middle of the yard?"

"Well, ya see, that's the lawn's beard, Mr Martin." James took another swig from the Michelob.

At that, I just about exploded stifling laughter, I thought my eyes were going to pop out.

Mr Martin just stood there in shock, muttering....

"The lawn's beard... the lawn's beard..."

He just mulled that over and over and walked away, leaving the back porch in a half hacked up state at the back of the house, got back inside his Buick, and left.

Jim just shrugged, drank more beer and closed the door.

With Martin gone, I go over to the house and clamber up to the rear door, and let myself in.

"Hey Jimmy- It's me Art!"

Jim called from his room "Hey, how ya doin' man?"

"I'm fine. I think you really freaked old Martin out. He looked pretty shook."

"Good!" Jim yelled "He's such a nasty old fuck anyway. And besides. we didn't want the steps tore down- we just wanted them fixed. What an asshole. Now gettin in and outa here's gonna REEEEALLY Suck in a big bad way."

"Yeah no kidding" I reply. I see a bong with some pot in it, so as Jim dressed, I smoked. I tell him about my adventure the other day. He laughs.

"Think they'll throw you out of school?"

"Nah- they need the body count- cough cough... Besides, it was THEIR fault they didn't have a guard there. If Sergio'd been on time, none of it woulda happened."

"But it wasn't Sergio's fault."

"Oh for sure- but if they're going to get all technical on me, then I can get all technical back and shit. I don't think they will, so I'm not too worried about it. How was the party?"

"Fuckin' brilliant. Alan and Salvatore came by with some AWESOME weed. And some chick named Janice brought a bunch of her cute frosh buddies all the way over from Doolittle Campus! "

"Who's Janice?"

Jim finally stumbles in and says, "I dunno- some halfwit sorority bitch that Jack's been porkin' lately."

We look at each other and say in unison "Eeeeew! Sorority thing!!! Creepy! Yuck!"

Of course if some "Sorority Thing" gave either of us the time of day, we'd be walking on air for a week. Not because of her status, but just ANYBODY being nice to grungy critturs like us was a cause for celebration... But Jack was of a different sort. The band house was a wreck. A total wreck. But not Jacks room- no siree bob. It was clean as a whistle. Mike said he thinks he hires a maid to clean his room. The perverse part was that he NEVER did ANYTHING around the house. Never did dishes- even his own.

Everyone hated Jack, but he was a KICK ASS keyboard player, and with Mike, his name was on the lease. So everyone just sort of "dealt with him." This fool- here it was 1981 - we're all hanging out with people who make the cast of Liquid Sky look tame, and there's Jack. Hungover as hell, stiffly making his way to the kitchen, and HE'S WEARING AN ASCOT AND BLAZER. God what an idiot...

Jim says "Jack, you asshole. What's with the suit, you moron? And what happened to that pneumatic bimbette Janice?"

Janice cleared her throat, and walked down the hall to the bathroom, wearing Jack's monogramme emblazoned bathrobe.

Jim replied to himself "uuuuuh- nem-mind..."

The house had no fridge. But since it was winter, they kept their food in the attic where it stayed frozen. Unfortunately today, it seemed everything might melt, but a massive cold front was due in tonight...

Jack went to the attic stairs and got some milk for his coffee.

I said, "Jim- let's get outa her and see what Al and Sal are up to."

Al and Sal were musicians, like Jim. Al was a drug dealer from the East Coast and Sal was, well, Sal was a nutcase. Al was into PrawgRawk and Sal was into Heavy Metal. They shared a room in the Music Dept. Dormitory. The School determined that music students have "special needs", which were more easily met by keeping music majors together in a single building with a basement full of practice spaces. The actual needs of the Music Students was access to sex and drugs, none of which were met by the architecture of the building.

Sal and Al lived in Room 752, and when Jim said "Let's Go!", that was our destination- "Room Seven Fifty Two." When we arrived, Al and Sal were, as usual, getting stupid blind paralytically drunk on Schlitz Tall Boys they got from the liquor store across the street.

Sal was 5 foot 6, had a super square jaw, very long blond hair, and was the object of desire by the guy who ran the liquor store. Sal would take advantage of his misguided crush (Sal was about as hetero as it gets)- go in there, smile, make small talk, give the guy 5 bucks and walk out with a case of Schlitz Tall Boys. For those who don't remember, Schlitz was really lousy beer, not very different from Schaefer or Budweiser. Tallboys were pint cans of the crud. We called it Shits Tallboys.

Upon arrival I cracked a beer, and gave my plan-

Over the next several weeks we were going to go defacing public property in the Subway Renovation tProject hat was happening in the City. This was a big plan, as the Subway was under continuous surveillance. The idea was to spray paint the word DEMENTIA on the wall, using a stencil I had cut and folded into my portfolio case. It would be done in Yellow and Red. We would pick places that were not so visible from the TV cameras.

This major project required some assistance, and I knew I could count on Jim, Sal and Al to help me. We slugged down a few more Shits and celebrated our conspiracy. Al and Sal said- let's practice- RIGHT HERE! So I whipped out the spray cans and stencil, Al and Sal held the stencil and Jim pretended to be on the lookout. In seconds it was done and back in the portfolio case. We all slapped each others backs, sucking on ice cold can of Shits, and were ready to face our destiny- to leave stupid art behind for the 47th century.

Rm 752 was a wreck because Al and Sal were not worried about losing their security deposit. In Al's room the flecked orange and grey carpet had a hardened stain in the corner- someone had puked up a nights worth of Shits and pizza. I think it was Al, but he always denied it. It had soaked in and gone stiff. The carpet was dotted with hundreds of little black spots from people putting their cigarettes out on it. Al and Sal had a third roomate, who was rarely around, as he was always off servicing his girlfriend. His name was Larry and he was into pornography and Tower of Power. He had the entire bathroom covered in centerfolds from Hustler. Mice were everywhere. Al and Sal fed them food from the cafeteria. They figure "Hey- these mice have lived here longer than we have- WE'RE the Guests..."

I'm astounded to this very day that none of the mice died from that crap. Every year at least a half dozen people got sick from salmonella or some equally lurid food disease. Al and Sal disabled the smoke alarms so they could cook in their room. As they were usually "stupid blind paralytically drunk", half the time they would set fire to the dresser where they prepared the food. Once, Sal came in really plastered, got mad and tried to throw Al out of the window. He only succeeded in breaking the window, and making Al laugh so hard he nearly broke a rib. Winthin moments the room was filled with smoke, which billowed out of the broken window... The place smelled like beer. Stale spilt beer. And cigarettes- dead ashtray cigarettes.

A charred dresser, carpet covered with cigarette butts and puke, a window covered in cardboard, porno magazines everywhere, mice scampering about....

Amidst such an array, a 7 foot stencil of DEMENTIA in bright red and yellow on the wall was hardly noticeable.

With our practice session complete, we hopped a bus into the City, and then flew down into the bowels of the Subway. We went to a main station in the West Side. Jim got into position and Al and Sal held the stencil in place. I sprayed quickly, and just as I finished Jim yelled- "Train's Here!" We hurriedly popped the stencil back into the portfolio case and get on board the train. The train driver got off the train, looked at the DEMENTIA driggling down the wall, and spoke to the man in the tollbooth. We sat in the back of the train looking as innocent as possible. We figured- we're cooked. The authority figures got on the phone. They started nodding. We started plotting. We agreed to get off at different stops. The first off was Sal. As we pull away from the station,we waved to him as if he'd been sent to a leper colony against his will. Next was Al. He just stormed off the train, cursing.

"Fuck this bullshit try to help a friend and fuckin' cops and subway bullshit gets me pissed off fuckin nonsense dead of winter crap...."

Jim is very nervous. I'd known Jim longer than alomst anybody outside my family, and we'd been through a lot together in high school. Drugs, girlfriends, the works. He said,

"I swear if they fuckin' hit me, I'm going to fucking kill you, Art."

"Well, Jimmy, it's like this- it's all for a good cause, stiff upper lip and all that, right?"

"I'm going to fucking Kill You, man..."

He smiled, so I knew he was joking. I hoped. He scampered up the stairs to a fate I feared. I had to plan... Hmmm. I noticed I was coming into the Hub station, where several subway lines converged. What I could do was walk across the platform, THROUGH the next train, and then onto the other platform which had a hallway to another line a block or two away. GREAT IDEA....

So I do just that, and up the stairs I go, and sure enough, the stupid cops are there on horses waiting for me to come up the stairs from another line, 2 blocks away in the middle of the park. Morons. I took off into the side streets, and jumped in a cab to the bus station, and from there back to 752. Far Away from the horses and police.

I go back to 752 and Al, Sal and Jim are there, sitting around, smoking and drinking Shits Tallboys.

"SO what happened to you guys?" I ask...

Sal described it thusly, "Well, ya know I go up the fuckin' stairs and there's all these fuckin' cops there, and one of 'em grabs me and says "This is one of 'em, one of those fuckin' Art Students" and I'm like, "No Way, mofo, I play guitar! I ain't no fuckin' intellectual art student types. Fuck that shit." So the stupid fucker lets me go! HA!"

and he guzzled more of the piss colored Shits.

Al and James say the same thing. Cops on Horses hassling them. I told 'em how I got away. They were impressed.

"Geez Art, you're always thinking about that kinda shit. You musta been a refugee in a previous life or something..."

I was happy that everyone got out of it with no physical damage. Especially Sal. He was such a feisty son of a bitch, I thought for certain that he'd pick a fight with a cop and get his butt kicked.

So I crack a Shits Tallboy and start to relax, when the fire alarm down the hallway went off. We all ran into the other room, to see if someone had set fire to the dresser again, and found that such was not the case- it was a REAL fire alarm.... Uh Oh.

The entire building was cleared. Hundreds of students were herded onto the sidewalk while the fire marshall checked the building. We had the forethought to grab a few extra Shits on the way out, so we were standing on the corner drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and generally carrying on, and that seemed like a cool thing to do for the evening. So we're standing there slurping from our Shits cans making animal noises, talking about who the greatest guitar player in the world is.

S'fuckin Fripp man. Fripp's the best.

No way- fuckin' McLaughlin's way faster- he totally shreds.

Man- you think so, but check it out- some jazz head told me that the real poop is Joe Pass. I dunno, tho' I never heard him before.

Joe PASS??? Are you fuckin' crazy? Man- he just SUCKS. His shit is like SO boring. Makes me wanna like vomit.

Yeah like ya did in your room in the corner.

Man, I didn't do that shit- I told you. It was that chick- what's her name- the one with the acne who plays clarinet. Lives on the second floor.

Uuuh, they ALL live on the second floor.

Well, anyway it was her, not me. And Joe Pass sucks big hairy donkey dick.

right sure- like you got proof.

No man- oh fuck you guys. Gimme another Shits. Art- whaddya you think?

I think Steve Hackett's real good. But I think the best are people like Bream and Williams and Parkington and Segovia when he was younger. They kick ass. And Fripp's pretty fuckin' awesome.

Yeah- I got that Bream record of him playing stuff by Villa Lobos. Stuff kicks ass.

But that's classical shit man- fuck that! Metal rules and Fripp is god-like! Art- you're just bein' a pissant!

The conversation meandered about like that until they let us back into the building about an hour later.

We stumbled up the 7 flights and find to our horror that somebody tried to steal Al's guitar!!!

Al owned a double neck Rickebacker 12/6, packed away in an Anvil Flight Case, all of it chained to the heating register. We could see this because the would be theives had smashed the front door to flinders. We could tell that they tried to steal it, because the steam heating register was halfway yanked out of the wall. God Bless Anvil Cases....

Al screams "FUCKERS!!! LOUSY STUPID FUCKERS!!!"

Jim pipes up, "Gee, you're gonna have to tell the floor proctor about this." Al and Sal blanch. The words "Oh Shit." appear on their foreheads and a sense of gloom descended on the room. Sal goes down the hall and summons the floor proctor. His name was Willy. Willy lived with his wife Bernice on the 7th floor. They got free rent and free food to be the floor proctor for these animals. What kind of nutcase would do that? I still wonder about that.

Willy was an alky and weighed about 300 lbs, and Bernice had all the emotional depth and steadiness of a chihuahua. She was a total bitch. Nobody really cared about Willy- he was usually harmless (unless you lived next to him- then he was impossible), even though he was the one with the title "Floor Proctor". Bernice was scary. She had this dyed yellow hair and wore hip trendy disco blue jeans. To quote a country music tune she never heard- Too much rouge, too much booze, too many movie magazines.

Al goes to fetch the couple. In moments they are there. She sees the graffiti on the wall, the black spots on the carpet, the toasted dresser, the stiff stuff in the corner... She says "What's that in the corner?" In unison we all say "Puke."

"OH MY GOD- THAT'S GROSS!!! How can you people live like this?"

A mouse runs across her foot, and she yelps "Eeee! This is disgusting- I have to go to the bathroom!!!"

When the door shut we started counting off the seconds with our fingers like a referee at a pro wrestling match.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5

and the door slowly opened. Her upper lip curled in a snear, her face pale from keeping down nausea, and with one eye slightly crossed in a look of comeplete disgust, she quietly and solemnly spoke,

"You boys are going to be thrown out of here."

Al and Sal said, "But we didn't do it- the guys who broke in wrecked the place".

Bernice was unimpressed and yelled back,

HORSESHIT!

"OK. I want to see some IDs. You! ID!" She yells at Jim, "You live off campus. Get the fuck out of here! YOU! the one with the Portfolio! ID!!!"

"Uh... I go to the Art School."

"Then GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! NOW!!!! SCRAM!!!"

When she yelled these weird blue veins would stick out of her temples. It's funny what one notices under stress.

Jim and I walked out and into the late night air, now quite frosty. He took his bus back to the Industrial Park and the Band House, and I went back to the Hotel. Tomorrow was a big day. I had to be at court at 9 AM for the hearing on charges of Criminal Trespass.

I hardly slept as visions of a tiny jail cell swirled through my head in the shivering sable night of my tiny closet. I Had To Get Out Of This One. BUT HOW???? How was I going to beat the rap? How was I going to pull this one off? Will I get kicked out of school? Will I??? That's what I was thinking. So many questions, and I just lay there thinking:

"I don't know.

I just don't know."