Jerry Wick and Jenny Mae: Violence


There was a tenseness discharging from the kitchen, small invisible globs that melted through the walls and open doorway into the yellow painted living room. The clamoring of pots and pans, slamming of the oven and a thick muffled grumbling. My brother eyed me, and we left through the front door, outside behind the changing leaves of the large maple tree that hovered above the Cutants gold-colored house the bright blue sky promised something better than what was going on behind us. We started making our way down the street, “Bela! Zoltan! Come back here! NOW!!” yelled our father in his thick Hungarian accent. “yeah, Dad?”

“Come here!” his eyes glared from the top of the porch.

“what’s up?” we were hesitant. Deliberate.

“I did not give you permission to LEAVE!”

This coming from man who wasn’t home to make us dinner most days of the week, a man who never put us to bed and who certainly didn’t think to provide direction as we fended for ourselves during most waking hours. “C’mon, Bela” my brother spoke as we sauntered back to the house, taking our time because perhaps, just maybe, he would calm down in the fifty feet we had to walk. Glaring at us, his eyes ordered us back into the house and we went into the kitchen. On the table were eggs, toast and fried potatoes with onions. “Eat!” he commanded and as we ate slowly, my eyes settled on the runny wobbly eggs, I felt nauseous. “I’m not hungry” the words slipped out of my mouth on a velvety whisper. BAM! His fist landed hard on the table, a sudden burst of rage. The milk splashed out of my glass, staring at its soft waves, I slowly scooped some egg onto my fork and swallowed, a slight gag as the lobby mass of egg caught in my throat. Why couldn’t he just flip the fucking things over and fry both sides? “Don’t you fake being sick, I made those eggs for you and you WILL eat them!”

That night as I laid next to my brother I felt safe under his words, he was always my protector, shielding me from the anger of our father and of any neighborhood bullies. “Don’t worry Bay, he doesn’t mean it, he’s just under a lot of stress.”

The party was in the back of a large brick building that housed the excellent Monkey’s Retreat, a bookstore that stocked “HATE” by Peter Bagge, titles by Daniel Clowes, Re-Search magazine and a plethora of other underground books, comics and zines. Monkey’s was run by two Brooklyn transplants, Rosie and Daryl whose thick New York accent made them almost as exotic as the reading materials on their shelves. The party held in the rear of the building was bustling, the New Bomb Turks were filming a video for their next record on the large indie Epitaph. Against the back drop of streamers, confetti and other assortment of party-like fair, people swayed, above the yammering of voices. In the back of the room, sitting on frayed couches a group of us drank from keg beer and the small metal flask I had brought filled with Maker’s Mark. My girlfriend had stayed home, studying for her last semester of classes before graduation, slowly tiring of the episodic binge drinking that would hurtle her man into a series of blind nights.

I held court with Jerry, we felt splendid as we made the woman around us laugh, holding court while some of the cameras rolled and soon with the prompting of Jerry, I shed my clothing, walked to the keg on the other side of the room, and filled our plastic cups. He cackled at me and soon even this grew tiresome, and I winded my way through the crowd, a small feeling of anxiety climbed up my shoulders and soon, I breathed in the air. Outside a group of people gathered around smoking cigarettes, cracking jokes and discussing music, books and the general gossip of High Street. The video shoot had ended and Bill and Jim for the New Bomb Turks were laughing, Jenny pulled on my shoulder as we gabbed in a small circle. “Hey, Jim Shepard is really fucked up, maybe he needs to go home?” We all looked at Jim, he was leaning against the brick wall, next to a spray-painted wall that spelled “Art Force One” his head slunk down so his chin rested against his chest, as if his next was a broken hinge, eyes closed he nodded up. His band, V-3 had recently put out their major label debut, “Photograph Burns” an album that was tighter than the other muddled pastiche of sounds that he had caught like a rusted hook from the inside of his clever mind, a mind that held secrets that in retrospect must have been as dark and scarred as Jim had looked now, head dropping down as he leaned against the stone wall. His songs were a play-by-play of the decaying of the American dream, filled with bleak observations that celebrated the depressive thoughts of a man that never quite fit in, songs titled “Hating Me, Hating You” and “End of the Bar”, the highlight was a lonely ode to variety of women, an inverse commentary of “California Girls” this one stinging with the slow burning sound of 4 am emptiness with Jim’s deep sing-song of a voice  carving out sound, “Bristol girl always giving you crap about this and that, London girl always giving you crap about this and that, find another human willing to put up with you.” You don’t know if he’s singing about the woman, or more likely, himself. The record wasn’t selling, as the pop-punk, shit explosion of Blink 182 and Wax was going to save the record industry.  “look at him, is he ok?” Bill remarked, as is we were looking at the video of the slow-motion crash of the skier from the Wide World of Sports. Jim lifted his head, saw us and made his way over, he crookedly walked into a young well-groomed man who looked more out of place because he tried too hard to look in-place. Jim accidentally crashed into the man, toppling the beer from the man’s hand, Jim kept walking as the fellow suddenly grabbed Jim’s shoulder and threw him to the ground. It was a flash, like a car accident, foisting his hands into Jim’s side, Jim hugged the man tight and bellowed, “Jesus, stop! I’m just a lonely alcoholic! Leave me alone! Stop!” His voice was as crumpled as his body, broken and bruised.

Unthinking, I dropped my beer, flicked my dark plastic glasses to Jenny and pulled the up the man, my fists dotted his head and chest the fight was over as quick as it took the plastic beer cup to roll across the gravel driveway. “Help!” I heard the voice below me, Jim Weber pulled me off and I heard Jenny say, “There’s Bela, fighting again, he has such a temper.” Eric Davidson’s girlfriend walked up to me, as I tried to calm down, blood splattered over a homemade silk-screened tee-shirt that had “Blood Family” written across it, “Jesus, Bela. You just beat the shit out of my hair dresser.” “Mother-fucker” to know one, while someone handed me a beer. Jim Shepard had gathered himself up, his clothes filled with tiny bits of gravel and beer. “uh, thanks Bela, I don’t know what that guy’s problem is.” When I got home, my girlfriend looked at me aghast, “what happened? Were you in a car accident? Oh, you are bleeding so much!” “

“I’m ok, it’s not my blood, I was in a fight.”

“What do you mean, a fight?” eyes aglow with surprise.

“yeah, sometimes I fight.” I said, slipping past her.

“You do?!” as if she just discovered I was secretly a woman.

“yeah, sometimes.”

From the other room, I heard her say, “what the fuck?”

The house was filled with broken things, a hole there and there, a chipped telephone there and smashed plates in the garbage can. There were times I went to the hospital because of hitting a wall, or putting my arm through a door, learned behavior from the earliest times in my life. Therefore, we can’t have nice things. There were other times where cars were filled with dents, or CD’s smashed, plates thrown or tables topped in a fit of explosive rage. Jenny came home one day, after I had tried to vacuum the house and surprise her. The vacuum was new, money saved from a waitress’s paycheck, it caught on the rug, and clogged. Outside the sky was melting into the atmosphere, the house thick with humidity and frustration, we could not afford an air conditioner. Wanting to please her by cleaning, I flipped the machine over and saw nothing. “Fucking piece of shit!” Grabbing the vacuum by the long metal handle, it was chucked out the front door into the yard just as she was walking up. Skidding across the lawn, she gazed down at it, as if it were a slow-moving ice puck as it rested near her feet. “What the fuck, Bela? What is your fucking problem?” “It’s a piece of shit, doesn’t work!” Pulling it inside, taking the machine apart she started giggling, “what’s so funny?” I asked as I drank a beer on the couch in the other room. “You are such an idiot, Jesus.” She walked in with a long white tube-sock dangling from her hand, “you fucking vacuumed up a sock. And because you destroyed one of my things I’m going to destroy one of yours.” She ran upstairs and locked the stairway door behind her. Standing in the back yard, gazing up at her as she climbed onto the back-porch roof, she held the first Galaxie 500 record on the small imprint Aurora. “What the fuck? Don’t you destroy that record! It is so hard to find!” Laughing and slowly taking the black vinyl from the white sleeve she paused, took a sip of her beer and as if she were doing a slow teasing strip tease she turned, swung her sun dress in the air, took another sip of beer and placed the record on the steamy roof. “Hey, it’s not funny anymore!” “You destroy one of my things, I’ll destroy yours”, tossing her head back she jumped upon the record and shimmied the record into the roof. It was utterly destroyed.

The end of the summer was fast approaching, and rural Ohio felt as if it were burning one corn stalk at a time. Tractors hummed across the valley from our house, grasshoppers jumped hither dither, while the laundry blew rhythmically across the backyard, a simple ballet of fabric and wind that was being replicated countywide in that instant. Rick’s brown sedan crackled into the driveway, Jimi Hendrix blaring “you gonna be ok, man? Do you think your mom can give me $20 to get back to Athens?” He had driven 2 hours to Catawba, to get me home. School was starting in a few days and I didn’t have a ride back. Speaking to my brother the day before he explained, “I can’t come down and get you, I have football practice, and mom isn’t coming to get you either.” My mother and step-father had wanted me to return from my summer working in Athens about a month earlier, knowing that there was nothing in Catawba to do over the month of August I stayed, continuing to clean chickens at Case Que Pasa, drink beer and be on the search for teenage sex. Rick had agreed to take me under the condition that he have gas money to get home, he had to work back that night. Eric Zudak had come with us, he could placate an angry mother, who came outside upon hearing the snapping stones of gravel. “Hi, Bela’s mom” Eric spoke first, his erstwhile charm trying to break the burning anger of a mother waiting for her son to be home weeks ago.

“Hello Eric, how are you?”

“I’m good, Bela’s mom.”

“Bela, come here I need to speak with you.”

“Ok, but we need to give Rick $20 for gas.”

“You didn’t discuss this with me, come inside and we will talk about it.”

Angry and frustrated, she glared at me, “you could have come home a month ago, and now you want me to pay for your friends’ gas?” “Uh, yeah, he drove me 125 miles to get home because you didn’t come and get me.” “Bob, come here please.” She yelled behind her, Bob, her husband the minister came out of his office. He looked like Andy Griffith, wearing a blue sweater over a buttoned-up shirt and carrying his wooden pipe. “Why the fuck is he wearing a sweater?” I thought. He didn’t address me but looked at my mother, “yes?” “Do you have twenty dollars to pay Bela’s friend for gas?” “I suppose, but didn’t you tell him he’d have to pay his own way home.” “Jesus, he drove me home, because you wouldn’t come and get me, you didn’t have to spend a dime on me this summer because I worked and stayed with Erica! Just fucking give him the $20 to get home.” “Don’t you talk to your mother that way!” Taking the money from his hand, my mother went outside and thanked Rick for driving me home. Bob and I went at it in the living room, I heard Rick and Eric drive away.

“Well that was fucking embarrassing. Guy drives halfway across the state to bring your son who you have seen all summer and you don’t want to pay him.” Full-on teenage rebellion bounced out of my sweaty mouth, I had grown up that summer, both physically and emotionally, breaking out of the isolated pimply shell that had been burnishing for years, I had found myself in the back kitchen of Casa, on darkened train tracks drinking whiskey mixed with grape Kool-Aid, various record stores and uptown college parties. The turntables cranking out the new sounds of the Replacements, R.E.M., the Smiths, and the Tom Tom Club, was the soundtrack that summer. Small town, Ohio this wasn’t. “I said don’t talk to your mother that way!” Bob bellowed. Turning, I thanked him for the $20 and reminded him, “you guys could have easily picked me up and seen Erica but you decided not to!” In my room, I put on an R.E.M. tape and blared it, pacing, with blood rising into my ears, I wanted out. Suddenly, the door flew open, Bob all 6 foot two of him stood scowling, “go apologize to your mother!” “Get out of my room, she should apologize to me for leaving my friend hanging!” I didn’t back down. He lunged at me, pulling me into him and tossing me across the room into the wall, a small end table buckled under my legs. While I was a bit stronger, I was still only 125 pounds or so, surprisingly I had no fear and I rushed him, arms flailing, into his stomach. Just as quickly, he turned me into myself and chucked me headlong into the wall where a chunk of plaster fell into my soft curls, my glasses fell into the floor. My mother appeared behind him, “what on earth is going on here?!” Horrified she looked at both of us. “Apologize to your mother!” “Fuck off!” He made his way towards me, “Stop it! Stop it!” wailing she stepped between us.

 

Violence was always present, like a silent spring just waiting to be sprung, from father to son. Alcohol didn’t help. Later, I would learn, depression and Attention Hyper Activity Disorder would help fuel it, as impulse control is greatly compromised in people with ADHD. Nearly 18 years later, struggling with addiction to alcohol, sitting on bare knees in the summer oven of Gainesville, Florida, thousands of pieces of glass surrounding me like rice on a wedding day, behind me, the large upturned dining room table directly to my back, I realized then that something had to give. Over the course of the next few years, sans alcohol but adding meditation, support groups and various sober activities, I tried to make sense of my anger. At times, it is there, especially when frustration settles in, it moves quietly within me, and I see it in my son when he is frustrated. Turning inwards, he can fling his small soft fists into his head. At these moments, a deep sense of shame fills me, as I do not want the rage to be handed down. In the nearly fifteen years after putting down the drink I have not bloodied myself or anyone else but have had uncontrollable rage, that continues to frighten those whom I love the most, a towering yell from my chest can freeze everybody present. And then, suddenly as soon as it rose and exploded it is gone and I am left with the small quiet space of unease at what just transpired.                                                                                                                                                                                                                     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ht6J5stphHs

 

 

 

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