Everywhere I go in Reno this week I keep hearing Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmas Time.” On the radio, at Costco, Lowe’s, SaveMart, Bank of America, in the lobby of Century’s Summit Movie Theater and at Big Bear Diner, it’s a continuous loop that is driving me crazy. The only place I don’t hear it is at the Reno Triangle Club, so I’ve been going to a lot of meetings seeking refuge from this little ditty by Sir Paul. I copied the lyrics from You Tube because if you look at the block of copy without reading the text, the message appears and after all these years it still makes my annual cup of warm, Christmas cocoa taste better.

THE MOOD IS RIGHT, THE SPIRIT’S UP,
WE’RE HERE TONIGHT AND THAT’S ENOUGH.
SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMASTIME,
SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME.

THE PARTY’S ON, THE FEELING’S HERE,
THAT ONLY COMES THIS TIME OF YEAR.
SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMASTIME,
SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME.

LOVE CHOIR OF CHILDREN SING THEIR SONG.

DING DONG, DING DONG, DING DONG, DING,
OO-OO-OO-OO,
OO-OO-OO-OO-OO
DOO-DOO, DOO-DOO, DOO, DOO.

WE’RE SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMASTIME,
SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME.

LOVE CHOIR OF CHILDREN SING THEIR SONG.
THEY’VE PRACTISED ALL YEAR LONG.

DING DONG, DING DONG, DING DONG, DING DONG,
DING DONG, DING DONG, DING DONG, DING DONG. I BURIED PAUL.THE PARTY’S ON, THE SPIRIT’S UP,
WE’RE HERE TONIGHT AND THAT’S ENOUGH.
OO-OO, SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMASTIME,
WE’RE SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME.

OH,
OH YEAH.

(A WONDERFUL CHRISTMASTIME)
(OO-OO-OO)

THE MOOD IS RIGHT, THE SPIRIT’S UP,
WE’RE HERE TONIGHT AND THAT’S ENOUGH.
WE’RE SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMASTIME,
SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME,
SIMPLY HAVING A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME.

OH, OH, OH, OH,
OH, OH, OH,
FOR CHRISTMASTIME,
CHRISTMASTIME.

Thanks, John

I hope everyone is simply having a wonderful Christmas time!

 

 

 

Since surgery, the only physical activity I’m allowed to do is walk. I’ve been back to Bartley and Anderson Ranches and though they are still all burned out, the acrid smoke is gone. The park department has cleaned out a lot of the burned debris and I think after a couple of snowfalls, new life will be springing from the ashes.

On Sunday I walked down to SaveMart, a good six-mile roundtrip walk. I got there about eight-thirty and there was Greta at the third video poker machine left of the main aisle in a bank of nine. I reacted and went right up to her and gave her a big hug. I could tell it was not wanted. I sat down next to her and was holding her hand. Releasing her from my hug, I naturally slid my hand down her arm and into her hand. She didn’t like that either and I felt her pull her hand out from mine. Before we started talking I had a big, long look at her and immediately knew the fire that destroyed her house had also destroyed a big part of Greta. Her usual Hollywood Star look was now very heavy handed and I had a smear of blush running across my black sweatshirt, from where I hugged her. Her eyeliner was heavy and just punctuated the broken blood vessels in her eyes. There was lipstick on her beautiful white teeth and she had forgotten to naturally fade the blush on her face onto her neck so she looked disconnected.

Fashion wise, she still looked great, wearing a simple black on black Adidas running suit. Most of the suit had a flat finish except for the piping which was some sort of shiny Gortex and the Adidas logo was threaded into the upper right shoulder. The top part of her running suit was partly open and there was a brilliant flash of a fuchsia colored thermal shirt. She was wearing a pair of New Balance 813, cross-training shoe and they were all black except for the fuchsia piping outline of the “N.”

“Greta, I’ve been thinking of you since the fires. I’m so happy you’re safe.”

Greta’s fingers just hover above the “HOLD” and “DEAL” buttons on the video poker machine. She has over eight thousand credits and is playing her favorite game, “DEUCES WILD.”

“Oh, well, thanks John.”

Her nimble video poker playing fingers turn into fists.

“You know John, my house was the only property along the Windy Hill crest line to have burned completely down to the ground. They evacuated me in the middle of the night and told me not to worry, they would take care of everything.”

“Greta, I stayed with our neighbors as their homes burned to the ground and that was around ten in the morning. The fires were still pretty far east of you and when I finally left my neighborhood I went down to Bartley Ranch Park to get a good vantage point. Your home was fine. The parks were fine. It was the hills east of you that were burning. The next morning when I went back to the park, it looked like an atomic bomb had been dropped. When I looked up at the crest line along Windy Hill the only things left of your house were the four stone chimneys.”

“Greta, I’m so sorry.”

Greta’s fists are red she’s clenching them so tight.

“What are you apologizing for, John? Did you light the fires?

“I bet if Henry had still been alive, my home would be safe.

“They wanted me to call someone and have them come with me before I went back to look at the carnage. John, I’m a very independent woman, smart and ninety-nine percent of the times very eloquent, but when these two police women were pandering to me, I told them that I was “fucking” fully capable of going back by myself.

“They parted ways and I walked in between the two bitches, left the station and drove my Lincoln back to my home. The police were everywhere and two of them knew me and immediately let me on my property. We had over two miles of wooden fencing. Henry was a stickler about that. Salesmen had tried to sell Henry plastic fencing that they “swear no one could tell the difference” and Henry told them to beat it. Most of it was gone, except for some burned out posts. As I was driving I heard Henry’s voice describing the aftermath of some of the battles he fought in World War II. It felt that bad. Everything was black and the sky still full of smoke. You know our house was all wood, including wood-tile shingles.

The firemen told me flying embers got under them where they sat and festered and my house exploded into flames. They said there was nothing they could do.’

“Greta, do you want some water?”

“That would be nice, John. Thanks.”

I walk over to the attendant who’s a guy in his early sixties and ask him to get Greta a bottle of water. He points at the refrigerator behind his counter and says,

“She’ll be fine. She’s got plenty of money.”

I grab a bottle from the refrigerator and bring it back to Greta.

“John, may I have a glass?”

 I go back to the attendant and ask for a glass. He rolls his eyes and has trouble bending over to one of his shelves below his podium/desk. He hands me the glass and I notice the James Patterson book he’s reading. I ask him how he likes it and he says it’s great. I tell him,

“That’s amazing.”

“What’s amazing?”

“That you can read.”

Greta sips her water and stares at the screen. She has two “Deuces Wild” and two threes. Four of a kind which depending on how much she’s playing can give her a win of twenty bucks.

“Greta, where have you been since the fire.”

“Staying at the house in South Tahoe. Thank God, I kept that place. When Henry and I were younger, we’d spend long weekends there in the winter skiing and in the summer we’d take Judy there who absolutely loved it. I didn’t loose everything, John. I still have a lot of memories saved at the home in Tahoe.”

“That’s great, Greta. I’m glad you haven’t lost everything.”

“What made you come all the way back to the SaveMart in Reno?”

“I won’t play at those little convenient stores up in Tahoe. They are dirty, they don’t offer you anything to drink and I don’t like the clientele.”

“Greta, what are you going to do come the first major snowstorm?”

“What do you mean, John?”

“Driving from South Tahoe to Reno can be pretty dicey.”

In an absolute fearless voice Greta says,

“My Lincoln can get through anything. You know I drove all over the property after the fire. Parts of it were still burning but that Lincoln went through it all.”

“Greta, what are you going to do with the property?”

“The people on either side whose houses didn’t burn down want to split and buy the land without building anything on it. I like that idea and keep playing with that in my head.”

“You haven’t thought of rebuilding there?”

“John, you can’t replace that house. It was one of a kind. Henry designed most of that house and the cost of materials that was put into that house when we had it built would be astronomical today.”

“Greta, everyone who had the pleasure of being inside your home say it was worthy of an article in Architectural Digest.”

“They contacted us in the late fifties about doing an article. Henry loved slate floors but they were always so cold so he had heating pipes run below the surface wherever there was slate. We had an industrial kitchen stove Henry got from one of the casinos as a down payment for a car. Our shower was slate and of course heated and we had a big rain forest shower head which Judy loved to get under and sing, “Over The Rainbow,” “Over The Rainbow.” In the master suite, one side was all glass sliding doors that opened onto an infinity pool and a giant slate porch with giant rocks Henry had taken down from the mountains of Tahoe. The background was all downtown and in the sixties it was the prettiest view in the world. I had it all, John, and loved it all. Not just all the things but Henry and Judy. They were good company. When Henry wasn’t dancing with me at night, Judy was singing for me.”

“Henry was a good man, John. You would have liked him and he, you. He was loyal to his employees and had the same secretary for forty-five years. He was the only dealership in Reno to hire Latinos as salespeople. He tapped a market that no one thought of and had customers come as far as Sacramento because there was someone on the lot who could speak Spanish.”

“I would love to have met him, Greta. He sounds like one of those guys they just don’t make anymore.”

Greta looks up at me.

“Nothing’s the same anymore. I made it through Henry and Judy but I’m not doing too well since the fire. I’m not coming back to Reno and I’m selling the home in Tahoe.”

I’m slumped down on my stool. My staples are hurting along my side and Greta is bitter, angry, depressed and lonely.

She cashes out her video poker winnings and she has over nine thousand dollars on her refund stub. She hands it to the douche bag attendant whose eyes get really wide and he disappears behind a door marked private. Greta is leaning against his podium/desk with her right leg cocked behind her left one. She turns her head over her shoulder and looks at me.

“John, I’m not moving. I’m just dealing with loss again and it’s hard for me.”

She turns around and walks up to me and hugs me. She holds onto me and the cashiers look at me as if they just realized that I’m her lover. The attendant surprises me and comes out with Greta’s cash in a zippered pouch. Behind the podium he runs the money through a counter and then does thousand dollar fan spreads with hundred dollar bills. He does it twice and actually smiles at Greta.

“Looks like you just got yourself an early Christmas gift, Greta.”

Greta looks back at the attendant.

“Thirty-five hundred in less then two hours. That’s a first for me here. Isn’t it Jeff?”

“It sure is Greta. May I take your picture for the “Wall of Winners?”

“No Jeff, you may not.”

Greta opens her pouch and pulls out eight, one hundred dollar bills. I see the committee in Jeff’s head already making decisions about how the money should be spent. He doesn’t have his hands out but he inches closer to Greta and tells her,

“This is going to be a great Christmas.”

Greta folds the bills like you would a letter, smiles and says,

“Jeff, honey. Would you slip this into the Salvation Army can over there?”

The color has completely gone from Jeff’s face and his only expression is a little quiver on his upper right lip. Having never been more sure in his life that Greta was going to gift him and almost as bad as peeing his pants, Jeff says,

“Really?”

Greta and I leave the store together and she totally surprises me again and asks that we have lunch together next time she gets down to Reno.

“John, I’m complicated, even to myself. But I have to keep living and as much as I would like to think I can go it alone, I can’t. I don’t have family who can rally behind me and other people get tired of hearing Henry and Judy stories. But that’s all I have. I’m also assuming that you would want to have lunch with me.”

“Do you have a phone in that big Gucci bag of yours?”

Greta pulls out an Android, I pull out my iPhone and we put each other in as contacts.

“John, I know every bar and restaurant in Reno. I’ll pick you up here, a week from Friday at eleven-thirty. Call me if things change.”

“I’ll do everything in my power not to let that happen.”

We both look up towards the front of SaveMart and watch Jeff take the last drags off his cigarette. He sees us, takes one more, long deep drag and flicks the butt in our direction and walks back in the store.

“John, Jeff’s and asshole and worked for Henry years ago. He really messed up.

I’ll tell you about it over lunch.”

“I look forward to seeing you, Greta.”

Greta waves at me and puts on a pair of sunglasses. She slides behind the wheel of her Continental. When it starts up it has a soft rumble. She puts down her window, waves and driving out of the parking lot she hits the speed bump at about thirty-five miles an hour. She waves again and disappears in Reno.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Come back weekly to find out more about John King. Email your thoughts to: John.king1956@att.net.  Thank you for reading. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

Leslie drove me to the Reno Surgical Center at five-thirty this morning. I had surgery at seven to remove the neuro-stimulator that was implanted in my back and the battery pack that was in my side. Prior to surgery they hooked me up to an IV and administered a mild sedative to relax me. What really kept me from freaking out was practicing meditation and visually picturing in my mind the beautiful hikes I had through Bartley and Anderson Parks before the fires of Reno destroyed them.

When they rolled my gurney into the operating room I just let go. Instead of focusing on the lights, nurses in blue scrubs, x-rays of my back, neck and chest displayed on light boxes, I closed my eyes and started a vivid, step-by-step visualization of the trails. With each step, I could see the front of my shoes and the sage on either side of the trail. I saw the pine, fir and birch trees, watched a hawk sweep down from a tree and snatch a wild hare from the brush and listened to an owl perched high in a tree “hoot” before the sun rose. My doctor tapped me on the shoulder and asked,

“Mr. King, is everything OK?”

I remember looking up into a sky filled with stars and heard myself say,

“I’m fine.”

Then my doctor told me I was going to be put under and within two hours everything would be fine.

In the recovery room the nurses kept waking me up because my heart rate was only forty beats per minute. In my mind, I was still in the park, accompanied by Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony on my headset. I’ve never felt more relaxed in a surgery setting then I did today. I’ve been practicing visual meditation for the past six months and my good friend Vic leads an 11^th Step meeting on Wednesday nights that incorporates this type of meditation.

It’s now four in the afternoon and I’m going for a walk, a real one, albeit a very short one. I feel that good even though I have twenty staples in my side and thirty dissolvable stitches running down my back.

My wife has homemade lentil soup and cornbread waiting for me when I get home.  

 

 

 

 

We had dinner with friends who live behind our old home on Meadow Country. Actually we had dinner at Jake’s parent’s house, because Jake and Codi’s house suffered a lot of smoke and soot damage. Jake’s parents live off Skyline at the top of McCarran Blvd, so you get a really nice view of Reno, especially at night.

Jake’s sister Hanna was there, who like myself is also unemployed, around my age and living back home with her parents, Talia and Dave. Jake’s a gynecologist and was on call Thanksgiving Day and the weekend. He’s a very nice guy, around forty and his wife Codi is just getting set-up as a psychiatrist.

They have two little boys and life is pretty good for them: Disney cruises, skiing in Tahoe and trips to Napa Valley to eat at some of the best restaurants in the country.

This is our second Thanksgiving we’ve spent with Jake and Codi, their parents and their friends. It’s always a great afternoon followed by a superb dinner that Jake usually cooks. This year I got to meet a new guest and had the privilege of sitting next to her at the Thanksgiving table. Her name is Ann and she had just turned ninety-six years old. That last sentence reads like she’s some sort of antique clock and in a lot of ways she is. Every part and feature of Ann is beautiful and it feels like time has sculpted this beautiful woman into who she is today. There are the obvious things about Ann, like her white hair, age spots and crippled fingers. But there are also the hand gestures that punctuate her feelings and memories of what it was like in Germany as a young Jewish girl during the Nazi take-over. Ann is in remarkable shape, very clever and obviously very sensible for having lived this long. Ann and I sat at one end of the table and throughout most of the night I asked her questions. Some of them were probably too personal and none of my business, but I wanted to know.

“So Ann, tell me what happened in Germany with the Nazis?”

‘Well, John, I was young girl of around twenty-two living in Frankfurt with my parents. The whole city was Nazi occupied. I worked for my father who was a tailor to the religious Orthodox Jews. It was a very hard time.”

Ann uses her hands to make a point and when something is important her hands look like they are about to clap, but don’t. When she is distressed her hands go up and down on the napkin that rests on her thighs.

“What was it like going out during the day or night?”

Ann raises her hands up and down on her thighs.

“There was always this sense of dread. You know you could be stopped any minute and be asked for your papers. The Nazis were everywhere and they scared me and they knew it. Some of them would just look at you with “this look.”

Like you weren’t good enough to be on this earth. It was frightening for a young woman.”

“My father always hugged me whenever I came home from an errand. We could not stop living but there was always this fear that one of us would never come back.”

“It was the same thing for my brothers and sisters and all our neighbors. We were Jews and not well liked.”

Ann takes the smallest sip of red wine I’ve ever seen. The glass is only a quarter full and lasts her all night.

Talia calls out to everyone that she wants to give a Thanksgiving blessing. I take Ann’s hand and gently rub my thumb over her hand as Talia talks about the recent fires in Reno, the great men and women who fought to keep the fires from spreading and thanks that we are all here together. Ann’s fingers are all bent and her index finger which my thumb is feeling, bends extremely right one way and then way left the other way. I look at her during Talia’s blessings and Ann reaches over with her other hand and pats mine.

This year, Jake has ordered a smoked, 17 pound turkey, from somewhere deep in the heart of Texas. The odor of smoke is so strong from this turkey it reminds Leslie and me of the fires from the week before. The skin on the turkey is black and I’m just not into it. I fill my plate with other dishes prepared by all of us; my favorite is my wife’s cranberry sauce with jalapeño pepper, onion and fresh lime juice. Served cold, this has a great kick in it. Talia serves Ann and there is an exact spoonful of everything that is on the table. People start talking and since we’re at the end of the table I continue my conversation with Ann.

“I heard from Talia earlier in the evening that you had trouble with the Nazis?”

“Trouble?”

Anne stops eating, puts her fork and knife down and raises her hands up and down off her napkin.

“I had to leave my family. I never saw them again after that.”

“What happened, Anne?”

“The Gestapo came to our house one night. My father answered the door and three men in dark coats demanded that I was to be taken in for questioning. This was late at night and we were all in bed when these monsters came.

“My father wanted to know w hat was going on and thee men kept pointing to me in a photograph they were holding.

“One of them kept screaming, ‘Is this your daughter? Is this your daughter?’”

“My father tried to calm these men down, but this only provoked them.

“When my father answered that yes, this was his daughter Ann, these men started screaming again.

“’Bring her to us instantly and you will not be taken in.’”

“We were all on the stairs listening to this. My mother was crying and so were my sisters and I knew I had to go and deal with this.

“I came down the stairs and one of the officers spotted me and pointed at me in his long, black gloved, hand.

“He was tall and very scary. He told me,

“’You will come with us immediately’ and put his hand on my left shoulder. My father looked like he was about to start sobbing but wanted to look strong in front of me. He told the officer holding me,

“’Please, let her stay here. We will help you with whatever you need.’

“The officer said,

“’No, she is coming with us.’

“My father pleaded with these men and demanded to know why I was being taken away.

“The officer handed my father a black & white photograph. In it were a bunch of school kids, including me. In the picture there is a boy standing with his right hand extended in the air and his hair is pushed down over his far head like Hitler.

He is making fun of the head of the Nazi party.

“My father says that his daughter just happens to be in a picture with this boy.

What harm has she done?

“The Gestapo officer says this is enough and I’m lead out of my father’s house by the two other officers and taken back to their headquarters for a night of questioning.

“Do you want to know something, John?”

“Of course, Ann. What is it?”

“I knew the boy in the picture very well. We smiled at each other whenever we saw each other. He was a nice boy and would share his lunch with me and give me some of his chocolate whenever he had a piece. I knew that boy very well, but I was not going to tell the Gestapo.

“They kept me all night long and kept asking me if I knew the boy in the picture and all night long I kept telling them I didn’t.

“They would say things like, ‘If you don’t tell us, all of you in this picture will go away to one of the camps.’ They threatened my mother and my father, my brother and sisters, all night long.

“The next morning they took me home and told my father that I could no longer live in Frankfurt, that I had to be out that evening.

“All day long we held each other and cried. My mother packed a suitcase for me and my father arranged for me to stay with friends in London. He gave me a train ticket he had gotten during the day and thirty dollars, which was about ninety-eight percent of all the money he had. I know, I kept his books in the shop.

“We said our good-byes and I never saw one of them ever again.

Anne keeps the conversation going.

“I didn’t have much use for London and wanted to escape and with the help of my parent’s friends I got a ticket on a steamship to the United States. I’ve never looked back. At Ellis Island they asked me my name, occupation and how much money I had.

“I said I was a tailor like my father and had twenty-five dollars.

“Someone heard the word tailor and came up to me and told me I had a job if I was interested. I was, but I told this woman that the first thing I had to do was see the Statute of Liberty. This woman went with me and we became friends.”

Anne takes a teaspoon sip of wine.

“I had to see the words my father always recited to me. He would say to our family that one day we would see this statue because it represented us. “

Anne recites them perfectly.

“’Give me you’re your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’

“My father burned these words into my soul and I’ll never forget them.

“I was very lucky. This young woman befriended me and I got a job as a seamstress for a small company who made very fashionable dresses for the ladies on the Upper East Side. We lived in Washington Heights and I married this woman’s brother. It was awful. He was awful.

“I came to Reno in 1946 and got my residency and got my divorce. I thought I’d just stay for the six weeks it takes to get a divorce, but I lived in Tahoe for thirty years and dealt “21.” I met Marty in Tahoe. We got married and I loved him until he passed away.”

Anne’s hands slowly move up and down on her napkin.

“In Tahoe during the fifties and sixties, you couldn’t have a better job than being a dealer. Tahoe was Hollywood’s weekend get-a-away and all the stars came. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, I would make my year’s salary in tips.

These stars appreciated a good dealer and I was one of the best.

“I’ll tell you a story, John.

“It was the beginning of the sixties and I was working at Harrah’s in Tahoe, by far the best casino and the best acts. Jerry Lewis was performing there when he was still getting along with Dean Martin. Dean surprised Jerry by coming on stage and people say it was the best act they ever saw. Dean took half of Hollywood to the show with him.

“I was told to be prepared, I had come on at 3 p.m. and normally worked to midnight. Good hours for a lady trying to make some money. My pit boss comes up to me and asks if I would work overtime that night. I was still young and still needed the money so working late was no problem.

“I see six people walking through the center of the casino. Wherever they stepped, people parted. The men were wearing tuxedos and the women were wearing spangled gowns and were draped in diamonds. They were heading straight for my table. It was Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Angie Dickinson, Jack Parr, Cary Grant and a very upset Dyan Cannon. Frank spoke for the group.

“‘Honey, what’s your name?’

“’Mr. Sinatra, I’m Anne.’

“’Well honey, I’m Frank and this is Dean, Angie, Jack, Dyan and Cary. See what they need and I want a bottle of Jack Daniels, a lemon and two glasses. Make sure one is always filled with cold water, no ice.’

“The ladies drank champagne, Cary drank scotch and Dean and Jack ordered only a couple of drinks throughout the next twenty hours they played “21.”

Throughout the night other celebrities would stop by the table, including Jerry, who stood up on the table and bugalooed for everyone. When he got off the table he gave me five hundred dollars.

“Three hours into my shift I had over three thousand dollars in tips from people stopping by and the chips that Frank and the guys would throw my way. I worked until 6 a.m. the following morning and when these guys were leaving they each took out a stack of one hundreds and laid them on the table.

“Frank said, ‘Honey, you’re the best’ and kissed me on the lips. They looked as good as they did the night before and before the evening was over, Dyan Cannon was running her hands up and down Cary’s thigh.”

“I looked at the pile of money in front of me on the table and my pit boss smiled and said, “Congratulations Ann, you earned that one.”

“When I got back to our apartment, Marty and I counted twenty-one thousand dollars and brought the home I still live in today.”

A video camera interrupts us and Jake says,

“Hey Anne and John, what are you two grateful for this Thanksgiving.”

Ann nudges me with her elbow to say something.

“Hi, I’m John. I’m grateful for meeting my remarkable dinner companion Ann and the wonderful meal I’ve shared with everyone tonight.”

I nudge Anne back.

She smiles and says,

“I’m grateful to be alive.”

No finer words were spoken on Thanksgiving.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Come back weekly to find out more about John King. Email your thoughts to: John.king1956@att.net.  Thank you for reading. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

It’s 3 a.m. Friday morning and I’m standing in our empty house on Meadow Country Drive. During the day the movers came and took our belongings to our new townhouse a mile away. The only things left at Meadow Country are some valuables in our floor safe: emergency cash, some of Leslie’s jewelry, a Rolex I never wear, passports, birth certificates, our marriage certificate, property papers, wills and some other odd shit. No matter how hard I try, I can’t open the safe and I’m holding an industrial flashlight directly on the dial. Our power went out an hour ago and the flashlight is my only source of light. The house is covered in a low layer of smoke and even though I’m in a closet where the safe is, I know the neighborhood is on fire.

I tried driving up to the house twice somewhere between 11pm and 12am. The second time a female officer threatened to arrest me if I tried again.

“Your neighborhood has been evacuated. The fire is coming down the hills. Get it through your head that you’re not allowed up there.”

I wanted to tell her to “Fuck Off,” but swing a U-turn and drive a quarter of a mile away and park in the mini-mall. From there I walked through the woods in the darkness to get back to my house. It takes almost an hour and a half to walk a mile through thorn bushes, brambles, sage, birch and pine trees. When I get there the power is still on, my hands are bloody and the upper hills behind the house are burning. Wind gusts are anywhere between eighty to one hundred and twenty miles per hour and the night sky is full of burning embers flying everywhere. The neighborhood is quiet and thankfully in the garage the movers have left the shovel, rake and garden hose.

I still can’t fucking open the safe and have spent forty-five minutes turning the dial to the numbers written on the paper I have. The smell of smoke and layers of it are getting thicker in the house when the power finally goes out. I head down the street, which is a dead end, and behind the houses is Evans Creek, a dried out ravine full of brush and smaller trees. The winds are pushing me closer to the Creek and looking up at the top of the hills are flames that are twenty-five feet high. I’m not freaking out, I’m not ready to run. I stand and stare at this immense orange blaze and through the smoke I’m happy I can still see in the night sky the Little Dipper. It’s terrifyingly beautiful. I have a flashback to college sitting around a bonfire with my roommates on three hits of Windowpane. I’m caught in the moment of this reality that is not normal to me. I also start thinking about the scene from the movie, “The Right Stuff,” when the Aborigines are blowing embers from their fire up into space where the astronauts see them. Then there’s a gust of wind and Evans Creek explodes into flame. The heat flash is so strong it feels like my skin is starting to burn. I turn around and see two of my neighbors.

In the midst of this carnage and we have a normal conversation.

“Hi, John. I see you didn’t leave either.”

“Hi Jeff, hi Darlene, I walked back in the neighborhood. The cops wouldn’t let me drive in.”

Jeff and Darlene’s house borders Evans Creek and I can see the panic in their eyes.

“John, what are we going to do?”

“I’ve got a shovel and rake. I’m here for you guys. Do you have hoses hooked up to your outside taps?”

“John, what good are my garden hoses against this?”

“Jeff, I plan to fight this fucker with my hose and you’ll do the same rather than watch it burn to the ground.”

Darlene is crying.

“I haven’t moved anything from the house. This is happening so quickly. Jeff, what should we get out of the house?”

“Darlene, get your jewelry, the framed pictures on the piano, the silver and some clothes and start packing the car. I’ll get the TV.”

“Jeff, fuck your television, get the stuff that can’t be replaced.”

“Ah, you’re right, John.”

“John, where are the firefighters?”

“They’re not here. They’re up in the hills. This thing is jumping everywhere with these winds.”

Another neighbor named Teddy appears and tells us the fire is headed right towards us. I turn to Teddy and say,

“Teddy, look in front of you. It’s here.”

“God, John, have you seen yourself? You’re completely black with soot.”

“I’ll shower before I go to bed, Teddy.”

We have a moment of laughter and then the gusts pick up and over our heads burning embers are flying over the street. Jeff and Darlene’s roof is smoking and before we can react it implodes. Again, I’m watching and not believing that their house just exploded with flames that are over fifty feet high. Darlene pulls the car around and steps out screaming. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life and Jeff pulls her into his chest and I can hear her sobbing over the wicked screams of wood burning, appliances exploding and the very weird sound of metal twisting. The flames jump across their lot and the back porch of Barbara’s house is ablaze. She evacuated when she was told too and is staying at one of the casinos. All of them are offering twelve-dollar room nights for the more than ten thousand people who have left their homes.

Darlene keeps screaming into the night,

“Where are the firefighters? Where are the firefighters?”

Her answers are somewhat heard when three patrol cars pull up and out of one of them is the female officer who wouldn’t let me in my neighborhood. She sees me.

“I thought I told you, you couldn’t come back here?”

“Hey lady, if it isn’t Marshall law, you can’t tell me to leave my house or keep me from it and I would be thinking about how you can help these people.”

The officer turns to Jeff and Darlene and says,

“Is this your house?”

She’s pointing to their home totally engulfed in flames.

“I’m sorry we can’t do anything about this. We’re run thin with the fires jumping streets from the high gusts. The top of Evans Creek is completely engulfed and out of control. We’ve got squads coming in from across the valley and Northern California. This is a state of emergency and I recommend you leave now.”

Darlene looks at the female officer and says,

“Just give me a few fucking minutes to go inside and get my make-up kit. I’m not fucking leaving. Do you understand?”

The officer nods her head and says,

“Yes, ma’am. I’m truly sorry.”

The other officers are on their radios trying to get some help, but it’s obvious from our vantage point that most of the hills are on fire and if it’s not gotten under control, hundred of homes will burn to the ground.

The female officer asks me,

“Where’s your home and how can we help.”

“Thanks, but there’s not much you can do. If the winds move south I’m screwed.”

Earlier that day I cancelled my insurance on the house because the new owners would be taking it over at noon on Friday. This could become one of the most catastrophic events in my life.

Four houses that border Evans Creek are on fire. Jeff and Darlene’s home is completely gone, the fire searching for fresh wood to burn. I keep snapping back and forth between this hypnotic spell of flames jumping from one house to another, from tree to tree, watching burning embers fly across the sky and ignite new areas and then I hear the cries of Darlene and now Jeff who is also sobbing. The officers give us news that fire crews are being sent down from the top of Evans Creek to work our area. They get back in their patrol cars and the blue and red lights disappear depending how thick the smoke is. I wipe my eyes and realize how irritated and burnt they feel. I haven’t had any water and my throat is filled with smoke and soot.

By morning, a fifth house has burned to the ground but the firefighters are making sure it doesn’t spread through the rest of the neighborhood. Darlene looks at me and laughs.

“You should see yourself. You’re all black, including your teeth.”

“Darlene, you should see yourself. The only difference is my black teeth are real.”

We laugh and Darlene asks,

“What are we going to do?”

I tell them to come to my place but they won’t accept. Jeff offers to give me a ride and I’d rather walk. I hug them both and feel myself crying. I don’t say anything because the fire has said it all.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Come back weekly to find out more about John King. Email your thoughts to: John.king1956@att.net.  Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 

       

Today’s blog is quick and to the point. We short-sold our house and are moving into a three-bedroom townhome 1.2 miles away. It’s still in the beautiful area of Reno we love and the trails I walk will be closer to me.

Our home was appraised six months ago and is worth less than half of what we paid for it. At the title company, the person handling our sale told us that 66% of her business is foreclosures and short sales. My postman told me that in our zip code alone there are over 500 homes a month people are walking away from.

We did everything through our bank and walked away without a deficiency judgment or bad credit. The fact is, I have been unemployed for over a year now and it doesn’t make sense to hold onto this house, especially with job prospects in Reno looking so grim. Vegas leads the country in unemployment at 14.6 %. Reno is right behind 14.3%.

On December 6^th, our fourteenth wedding anniversary, I go back in for surgery and have the stim removed from my back, and the battery pack that runs it, taken out of my side.

This Thursday, I interview with Mystic Lake Casino and Hotel, twenty-five miles southwest of the Twin Cities in Prior Lake, MN. The property is owned by the Shakopee Mdewakanton Sioux Community and here’s the kicker: they don’t serve alcohol. I respect that but your average “Joe”, especially in Reno, equates gaming with one hand pulling a slot handle and the other hand throwing back a free bottle of beer.

The upside, Mystic Lake boasts not only a great indoor showroom but also an 8,500-seat amphitheater and they bring in some great acts. The job I’m applying for, Director of Marketing, would be heavily involved with contracting acts for the property. I’ve already drafted letters in my head to Keith Richards, David Johansen and Buddy Guy. I know they will come, especially with a refrigerator full of Hershey’s chocolate milk!

I’m really glad that I work my AA program. I have learned that everyone, sober and addicted, develops powerful attachments to the notions of “me” and “mine.” This attachment usually becomes an exaggerated sense of the importance of self and we spend a lot of time trying to satisfy our egos. On a daily basis, I try and keep mine in check. Through meditation and prayer I live life on life’s terms. When someone gives me that “poor you” stare and asks  “How are you doing?” I smile and say, ”I’m good.”  

 

 

 

 

 

There’s a chain of supermarket stores in Reno called SaveMart. They’re a lot cheaper than Whole Foods and their produce is just as good and at a third of the price. I go in there every morning after I finish my walk, drink a cup of coffee and talk to Greta. She’s there every day at seven when the store opens. She’s seventy-nine years old, has lots of money and always sits in front of third video poker machine in a bank of nine. I’ve gotten to know Greta over the past three years just by sitting with her and watching her play. Her favorite game is “Deuces Wild” and her hands are in constant, speed of light motion as she hits the HOLD and DEAL buttons and has a conversation with me. She likes to call me Johnny.

‘Johnny, you know they’re giving me a cake today.’

‘Great, I had no idea. What for?’

‘It’s my eightieth birthday. Can you believe that?’

‘Greta, you don’t look a day over sixty.’

And she doesn’t. Greta is beautiful and wears the latest sports fashions. Today, she’s wearing an “Under Armour” black shell with orange piping, black tight track pants and a pair of Puma running shoes that you don’t find at any retail store. Sitting on the floor next to her is a black oversized Gucci leather bag and the closure clasp is a big gold Gucci logo. She has white-blond hair and it always looks like a Hollywood make-up person does her face. She’s looks radiant every morning I see her. As I talk to her she occasionally reaches into her purse and pulls out a crisp one hundred dollar bill from a petite black leather wallet and feeds it into the video poker machine.

‘Johnny, you’ll stay for cake, won’t you?’

‘Greta, thanks for asking. I’d love to.’

Greta tells the slot attendant she’s ready and at seven-fifteen the store manager and red apron clerks come over to the video poker machines. The manager is holding a big sheet pan of chocolate cake with a number eighty candle sitting on top. There’s only a couple of customers in the store so all the employees have gathered to sing Greta, “Happy Birthday.” I can tell that she’s sad but she smiles through the song and blows kisses to everyone. The manager cuts the cake and everyone gets a piece and comes up to Greta to wish her many more “Happy Birthdays.” The whole time, Greta’s hands have never stopped moving, cards flashing on the screen, some of them disappearing and being replaced with new ones. Some of the hands are four-of-a-kind, straights and flushes. She always makes the max bet, which is five dollars, and if she were to hit a Royal Flush, she’d take SaveMart for twenty grand. Greta’s piece of cake sits uneaten on the stool next to her. When everyone goes back to work I ask her what’s wrong.

‘Johnny, we had a horrible tragedy in our family this past month. I had to put Judy down.’

‘Greta, who’s Judy?’

‘Judy was my parrot and she was with me for forty-five years.’

‘Shit, Greta, I didn’t know a parrot could live that long.’

‘Henry got him for me as a tenth wedding anniversary gift.’

‘I named her Judy, after Judy Garland because she was the biggest star in Hollywood then.’

‘I taught Judy to say, “Over the rainbow” and ‘There’s no place like home.”

‘Everyday, Judy would say over and over again, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” When she wasn’t saying that she would say. “Over the rainbow, over the rainbow.” It’s just so sad getting up in the morning now and not hearing her sing to me.’

‘I’m really sorry Greta. Judy must’ve been great company.’

‘Oh, Johnny, she was the best. Especially after Henry passed. She was such good company.’

‘Judy loved the sunroom and spent most of her time there looking out over the city.’

‘At night, she’d hop across the house and into my bedroom where I had another perch and she would tuck her beautiful head under her wing and sleep.’

‘Sometimes during the night I’d wake up and hear. “There’s no place like home.”

Another hundred gets fed into the machine. I try keeping count of how much money she won and how many games she’s played and figured she’s about seventy dollars out of pocket. Greta never lets her balance go below thirty bucks.

‘Johnny, when I was about forty-five I got really guilty about keeping Judy as a pet. I had too many Manhattans and it was a hot summer’s evening. I opened the sunroom doors and told Judy she was free to fly away. Henry said, ‘Greta, What the fuck in God’s name are you doing?’ and I told him to shut up and keep watching “The Rockford Files.”

‘Johnny, did you know what that bird did?’

I shake my head no, at Greta and shake my head at the machine. Greta has just hit five “Deuces Wild.” She doesn’t even flinch. She keeps hitting the hold and deal buttons.

‘Johnny, that bird flew out the doors and perched itself on one of the big pines on our property.’

‘The neighbors called the cops at about three in the morning because they were sick of Judy singing, ”There’s no place like home” and “Over the rainbow.” When the cops showed up they said Henry and I were disturbing the peace. Things worked differently back then. Henry took a wad of one hundreds out of his pants pocket and gave those two cops two hundred dollars each and told them to beat it. Judy sang all night long and when she was hungry and it was getting too hot outside, she flew back in the sunroom where Henry and I had passed out.’

Greta is laughing telling me this, but big tears are rolling down her cheeks.

In the sixties and seventies Greta’s husband Henry had the biggest car dealership in the valley. He made millions of dollars. I’ve seen Greta’s house. It’s in the Windy Hill section of south Reno and has five acres and overlooks the city. It’s a beautiful ranch style house with three chimneys and boasts its simplicity not its opulence. Outside the SaveMart in the Handicap spot closest to the store entrance is a mint-condition, 1967 Lincoln Continental Coupe. It’s got a beautiful yellow body and black roof. The license plates say, “JUDY.”

I’ve gotten to know Greta over the years I’ve been in Reno. She plays every day at SaveMart because she hates the Italian families who run the different casinos in town.

‘Plus, Johnny, there’s so much goddamn smoke and the shows are awful. They got Tanya Tucker coming to the Atlantis. The only thing she was good for was banging Glen Campbell and he can’t even remember it now!’

Greta starts laughing again and dips back into her purse for another hundred.

‘Greta, what do you do the rest of the day? I never see you here past ten in the morning.’

‘Johnny, I only play till nine and then I go visit Henry and Judy. They’re buried next to each other. I bring them flowers that I get from here. I spend an hour with them and go back to Windy Hill and exercise for two hours. I walk the trail around my property, fix lunch for myself and in the afternoon I read. I get all my books from the library so it’s another place I can go to.’

‘Johnny, I like biographies about the Hollywood legends, like Judy Garland and Clark Gable and Lana Turner. You know they were all sleeping with each other and sometimes killing one another when they got caught sleeping with the wrong person. And I go to the movies. I’m going to see “Tower Heist” tomorrow with Eddie Murphy. You know he’s hosting the Oscars this year?’

‘Greta, would you like to have dinner with me and my wife one night?’

‘Oh, Johnny, I really like seeing you here but that’s as far as I’m going to take it. I’m pretty private.’

‘Greta, are you happy?’

‘Johnny, I’m as happy as a broad my age can be. I had a great life with Henry, he made a lot of money and I live well. And Judy, she was the best gift Henry ever gave me.’

‘At night I sit in the sunroom and hear Judy sing to me. I look at the city and have one Manhattan. At nine, I say my prayers and go to bed.’

‘What do you pray for Greta?’

‘I pray that Henry isn’t chasing Judy with a broom and trying to smack the shit out of her.’

Greta laughs again and cashes out four hundred and change. During the time I sat with her several hundred dollars were fed into the video poker machine.

‘Johnny, are you happy?’

‘I’m happy, Greta.’

‘Johnny, you always have a big smile when you come in here.’

‘You know, Greta, doing my walk and seeing you make me smile.’

‘Johnny, I’m going to let you in on a secret.’

‘What’s that, Greta?’

‘Parrots are the cleanest pets in the world and they love you more than humans.’

‘So, what are you telling me, Greta?’

‘You have cats, right?’

‘We have two.’

‘Get rid of them and get a parrot. Teach it to talk and you’ll be happy for the next forty years.’

I give Greta a big Birthday Day hug and leave the store.

It’s eight-thirty. Where’s the day gone?

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Come back weekly to find out more about John King. Email your thoughts to: John.king1956@att.net.  Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the beginning of the year I was suffering from extreme legs pains due to one of my lower vertebrae shifting off the rest of the spine. The shift was so severe that the spinal canal in that area had completely closed. After my neurosurgeon looked at a series of MRIs he described my nerves as looking like ribbons because they had been so flattened from the closure. It was a painful winter. If I wasn’t seeing my pain management doctor, I was at physical therapy, the hospital or a nerve specialist who would put needles in my legs to determine the amount of nerve damage.

I kept seeing my neurosurgeon who outlined two options for me. The first was surgery and he rated me on a scale of one to ten in terms of other patients who he treated for back problems. I was rated a nine and surgery would be long, and he could cause thirty to forty percent more nerve damage. The second option was neuro-stimulation therapy for chronic pain. I had no idea what that meant and he explained that a five-inch lead (it’s called a stim as in stimulator) is implanted along your spinal cord. Along with the stim implant, a battery pack is implanted in your left side about three inches below the rib cage. The battery pack is 2½ inches square and a ½ inch thick. When turned on, the stim sends electronic impulses down the legs to stop the pain signal from reaching your brain. My doctor and the manufacturers of this product told me they had a strong success rate and patients were leading normal and happy lives.

I was given packets of information and DVDs explaining the procedure and results which were scenarios of people riding motorcycles, hiking in the woods, playing golf and tennis and graphic depictions of people making love. The last part is not true. I talked with my wife, my pain management doctor, my older brother who’s a doctor and combed the web looking for lawsuits and other people’s reviews after having the implant. Then we decided that this was the right thing to do.

The surgery was smooth and the implant was working well for the first month. After that, things went down hill fast and the stim was not working in my right leg. Every two weeks I was at the pain management clinic with a nurse technician from the manufacturer trying to get the stim to work. He would hook me up to his hand held computer and try different configurations. I would get severe electronic vibrations in almost every part of my body except the right leg. The worst was getting a jolt in my ball sack and along with water boarding this could be a Dick Cheney approved form of torture. Once the signal is sent, you have to endure that electronic impulse for at least thirty seconds before the technician can stop the signal. And the best was the technician’s response,

‘Gee, I’m really sorry.’

These torture sessions have gone on for five months and on Monday I was back at my neurosurgeon’s office. He reviewed my recent history with me with machine gun rapidity. Then, he said it first: let’s take the stim out. That was my goal. I am sick and tired of having the irritation of the battery pack in my side for no significant benefit. I was relieved that the doctor was on the same page.

Now the reason I tell you all this, is that pictured below are all the accessories that come with the implant. After the surgery, I’ll get back the stim and the battery pack. If you have chronic back pain and are looking for an alternative to major back surgery, I have all the necessary parts.

Bidding starts at $12,000.  

Come back weekly to find out more about John King. Email your thoughts to: John.king1956@att.net.  Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 

      

  

 

 

 

Vic and I were standing outside the Reno Triangle Club. It was after a 5:30 pm meeting and fairly warm. We’re talking and watching a very old man in a corduroy overcoat and wearing a wool cap, picking cigarette butts out of the flowerbed. Vic turns to the man and says,

‘Ronnie, are you staying out of trouble?’

Ronnie looks up at Vic and smiles.

‘Vic, I’m doing pretty good.’

He stands up with a handful of butts, most of them smoked down to the filters. He puts them in his pocket of his coat and then reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a quarter.

‘Vic, can I buy a cigarette from you?’

Vic hands Ronnie two non-filtered American Spirit cigarettes.

‘Keep your change Ronnie. Have you been going to any meetings?’

Ronnie tilts his head to one side and says,

‘I’ve been to three this week,’

Vic asks,

‘Does that mean you’re clean.’

Ronnie smiles and lights one of the butts from the flowerbed. He gets two drags off it before the filter starts burning.

‘I’m clean today Vic, but you know how it goes.’

Vic nods, smiles back at Ronnie and asks him,

‘Are you staying out of jail?’

‘Vic, I haven’t been there for over a year now.’

‘That’s great, Ronnie. You stay out of there. You’ve had enough time there.’

Ronnie laughs and says,

‘Yea, tell me about it.’

Vic introduces me to Ronnie and we shake hands.

Ronnie tells me,

‘I’ve seen you at meetings. You sit up front and smile a lot.’

‘I guess I’m happy.’

‘I can tell that. Can you spare any change?’

I give Ronnie five bucks. He looks at it like its fake money and holds it with both hands. He finally looks back into my eyes.

‘I’ll pay you back one day.’

I tell him,

‘Don’t worry about it.’

He nods his head at Vic and nods his head at me. He starts heading south down Wells Avenue.

We watch him for a couple of minutes and Vic says,

‘I’ve known Ronnie for a long time. We both were in the pen together at one point and he’s probably spent more then forty-five years in different state pens, mainly High Desert about an hour north of Vegas. He’s a junkie. Shoots heroin everyday, even when he was in the pen. He knows more about this program than anybody here, including me. He just can’t get it together.’

‘Vic, how old is Ronnie?’

Vic folds his massive arms over his chest and tells me,

‘That dude is eighty-three years old.’

I’m wide-eyed and ask,

‘He shoots smack everyday and is still alive?”

‘Everyday, for over fifty years.’

‘How is that fucker still alive?’

‘Ask him about it next time you see him.’

Vic and I bullshit for another fifteen minutes. He tells me about a documentary he just watched about Maxwell Street in Chicago.

‘I watched this and kept thinking about you. Did you ever go down there.’

‘Shit Vic, I had a loft over in that area and would go every Sunday. It was a trip walking around and looking at all the crap people had to sell. I would eat the best blintzes in the city on Maxwell Street. It was a great place. Every vendor had a story and a name. Every race of people shared the street. It had a carnival atmosphere and you could get just about anything you wanted.’

‘John, it’s on Instant Netflix. Put it on your queue.’

‘I’m out of here Vic. I’ll see on Wednesday night.’

Vic gives me a big hug and I drive home.

That Saturday I go to another meeting early in the morning and head to Costco to pick up beef chuck strips for a spicy Indian curry dish I plan to cook on Sunday. I’m checking out and look over at the food court and see Ronnie at one of the inside picnic tables with umbrellas, drinking a cup of coffee. I get a cup for myself and push my cart over to his table.

‘Hi Ronnie. How are you?’

Ronnie stares at me for a long time.

‘How do I know you?’

‘Outside the Triangle Club earlier this week with Vic.’

Ronnie doesn’t remember.

‘I gave you five bucks.’

Ronnie squints his eyes at me and I can feel his brain turning over and over trying to remember who the fuck I am.

‘Can you buy me one of those chicken rolls?’

‘Sure Ronnie. I’ll be right back.’

I sit down and give Ronnie his sandwich roll and take the lid off my coffee and take a sip. I scald my tongue. This is one hot cup of coffee.

‘So, Ronnie, Vic told me you would tell me your story.’

Ronnie seems very comfortable. His corduroy jacket is opened and his wool cap is on the table. He puts his hand through a full head of hair and starts off by asking,

‘Vic told you a little bit about me, didn’t he?’

‘Yea, he told me you’ve spent most your life in the pen.’

‘Which ones?’

‘He wasn’t specific but did tell me he spent some time with you.’

‘You ever drive to Vegas?’

 Yea, a couple of times.’

‘We spent some time in High Desert, about an hour before you hit the strip.’

‘We’ve driven by there. Shit, that place is so isolated and really big.’

‘Almost five thousand inmates. Vic I crossed paths for about a year in the early seventies. He was released within that year and I stayed.’

Ronnie sips his coffee.

‘I remember you. You were with Vic in front of the Triangle Club.’

‘That’s right Ronnie. I told you that earlier’

‘Vic tells everybody to ask me about my story. It’s pretty simple.’

‘I got busted for smack and they put me in jail and I kept getting busted for selling smack in jail. Every bust added another five to seven years and some shit happened while I was in the pen.’

Another sip of coffee, a bite of his sandwich and Ronnie keeps talking.

‘My cellmate kept threatening to kill me. He kept calling me a useless old man and without me he’d have more room in the cell. Back then, chewing tobacco had thin metal tops, so I took it and turned that thing into a razor-sharp knife. I could’ve skinned squirrels with that thing. Anyway, my cellmate came back from lunch and I attacked him. I cut him up from head to toe. The guards never had seen so much blood. He went to the prison hospital and I was put in the mental ward.’

Ronnie looks up at the ceiling.

‘Shit, I wish I could smoke in here.’

He takes a deep breath and continues.

‘For eight months they had me on thorazine. Every morning a little paper cup full of it and in the afternoon another cup. It would take me a half hour to walk from bed to the food hall. But I got use to that stuff. Hell, anything they put in me didn’t work. I knew and they knew heroin is the only thing that keeps me cool. Different strokes for different folks, right kid?’

Another sip of coffee.

‘My body was so full of heroin when I first was put on the ward they didn’t know what to do, so they tried sedating me and thought I’d just lie on my bed. But as soon as I started coming off the smack I was like a wild mustang in an antique shop. Before they could restrain me, I knocked two teeth out of one attendant and even being sedated they finally had to taser me. It was rough. For two weeks I just lay on the bed thinking about my next fix. When I was well enough to take thorazine, I was well enough to get smack and fixed myself everyday. After eight months they put me back in general population and life went on. My cellmate was transferred but before he left word got to me that he would kill me one day.’

Ronnie looks up at me and says,

‘I’m out and not dead yet.’

Ronnie stares at me.

‘What’s your name again?’

‘John King.’

‘You should’ve been named Elvis.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because he’s the king.’

Ronnie laughs and starts coughing and puts his head into his chest.

‘Ronnie, what are you doing at Costco?’

‘Cheapest coffee in town and people usually give me money.’

‘Is that how you get by?’

‘I get some money from the government and live like I’m in prison.’

‘How’s that?’

‘My room is no bigger then the cell I was in, I share a bathroom with five other guys and the food I eat still sucks, except for this chicken sandwich. I’ll save the rest for later.’

‘So, what’s up for the rest of the day?’

‘A fix and listen to the radio. I like the World Series.’

‘Hey, kid. You wanna make a bet?’

‘On the series?’

‘Yea.’

Ronnie reaches in a pocket on the inside of his coat and pulls out a baseball card. It’s a 2007 Topps shot of Ron Washington as manager of the Texas Rangers. On the back it tells how Ron was an infielder and worked with the Mets, Oakland and finally became skipper of the Rangers.

‘How much did you pay for that, Ronnie?’

‘Cheap. I got this downtown for seventy-five cents. If they win, this thing will be worth at least ten bucks and I’ll sell it.’

‘So kid. I say the Rangers win. You want to bet those fucking birds?’

‘OK, five bucks.’

‘You’re on. Can you give me five now and if you win I owe you ten?’

‘And five bucks gets you fixed?’

‘Not close kid, but that’s why I’m here. People feel sorry for an old fuck like myself and I make decent money.”

‘It’s a small town, Ronnie.’

‘You know kid, people still come to Reno from all over the country. I do OK at The Sienna, you’d be surprised. Being old has its advantages.’

‘Maybe I should join you?’

‘I work alone, kid.’

‘Ronnie, I got to go. You need a ride somewhere?’

‘You heading to Alaska?’

‘Funny, Ronnie. No, but I can take you downtown.’

‘I’m good here for now. I’ll make enough to take a cab back to Virginia Street.’

‘Kid, do you have a cigarette?’

‘No, Ronnie.’

Ronnie reaches into the pocket on the outside of his coat and pulls out a package of rolling papers. In his other pocket he pulls out a pile of cigarette butts and empties the tobacco onto a sheet. The tobacco is black from having been smoked through and he rolls a really good-looking smoke.

‘You get good at this when you’re in a cell most of the day and most of your life.’  

Outside, Ronnie inhales deeply and holds it in like pot. Finally a wave of smoke comes out his nose and mouth. He looks at me.

‘I can’t quit the smack but I like the meetings. At the end of everyday before I go to sleep I reflect on what I’ve done. It’s never that good but I promise myself that tomorrow I might be better. You probably can sleep pretty well at night.’

‘Ronnie, we all have bad days.’

‘Kid, you wouldn’t know a bad day if it hit you in the face.’

In bed that night I think about Ronnie and wake up eight hours later.

High Desert State Prison. Indian Springs, NV.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Come back weekly to find out more about John King. Email your thoughts to: John.king1956@att.net.  Thank you for reading. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The 7^th Annual North American Bhopal Conference was held this past weekend at Stanford University in Palo Alto, California. And I went.

The Bhopal gas tragedy was the biggest industrial disaster in the world. It occurred at the Union Carbide plant in the Indian city of Bhopal at midnight on December 3^rd, 1984. The plant was built in hopes of building India’s future by producing the pesticide Sevin, a product to protect the crop of four hundred million farmers. Composed of methyl isocyanate (MIC), a highly toxic compound, Sevin was to be spread by hand or sprayed from airplanes to stop the scourge of aphids, weevils and beetles. After the plant was built in the mid-seventies, there were years of drought and sales projections were not met. In order to save money all the factory’s safety systems had been deactivated. Maintenance and safety procedures were ignored due to continual budget cuts and when water got into the tank holding this compound the reaction released 42 tons of MIC and spewed a toxic gas 500 times more poisonous than cyanide over the city of Bhopal.

Half a million people were exposed to the gas and an estimated 8,000-12,000 died within 72 hours. Over 25,000 have since died from gas-related diseases. To date it is estimated that over 700,000 people have been affected by the toxic waste abandoned at the Union Carbide plant. More horrific than the deaths was the dying. Men, women and children ran around in madness: some stampeded to death by cows, others by their own people trying to escape and scrambling to save their own lives. Survivors said it felt like red chillies had filled their bodies but it was the gases that burned the tissues of their eyes and lungs and destroyed their nervous systems. People lost control of their bodily functions, went into convulsions and immediately died of cardiac and respiratory arrest throughout the streets and alleyways of Bhopal. The hospital had no antidote for Sevin because Union Carbide had never revealed the composition of the gas.

In a very quick settlement mediated by the Indian Supreme Court, Union Carbide accepted responsibility and paid $470 million to the government to be distributed to the claimants. To avoid further litigation Union Carbide left the country immediately and abandoned Bhopal forever. Upon announcing the settlement, shares of UCC stock rose $2 or 7%. The distribution of money averaged between $500 and $2000 per victim for lifelong injury or death. In comparison, after the Exxon-Valdez disaster, Alaskan sea otters were fed airlifted lobster at a cost of $500 per otter per day.

I signed up for this conference after I saw a piece on ESPN :60, a journalistic sports show featuring stories on athletes throughout the world. The segment that got my attention featured a twelve-year old boy in Bhopal with mangled legs (a birth deformity due to the toxic chemicals still polluting the ground and water) who has a passion for cricket and plays it everyday on the grounds of the rusting Union Carbide plant. This piece triggered my memory of the disaster and how easily I forgot about it.

For the past five months I’ve been gathering information about the disaster, reading hundreds of articles on the internet. Of particular interest were articles written by the Indian journalist Rajkumar Keswani who, prior to the disaster, was editor for the Rapat Weekly where he often warned about the dangers of hazardous chemicals like phosgene, chlorine, carbon monoxide and methyl isocyanate. His voice fell on deaf ears and the tragedy, that might have been prevented, reduced “Bhopal into a city of dead.”

I went to the Union Carbide site and starting writing Tomm F. Sprick at the Information Center. In his emails back to me Sprick details how Warren Anderson, then CEO of Union Carbide, took to address the situation. Among the many efforts, Anderson offered $10 million to build a hospital and establish a vocational center, all thwarted by the Indian government. On Union Carbide’s Bhopal.com website you can read all about it. There are so many ambiguities about Bhopal that I kept researching and accidently found the Bhopal Conference website listing the conference in Palo Alto and screening of the documentary, “Bhophali” directed by Van Maximilian Carlson and produced by Kirk Palayan.

I was excited to go to this conference and see what I could contribute. I drove down to Stanford University and was at the campus at 8am Saturday morning so I could register early and avoid the crowds. At 9am when the conference started, there were only fifteen people, most of them students or new graduates who have attended all the other conferences. I was surprised and disappointed thinking that people would be interested in what’s going on in Bhopal today. In 26 years since the disaster the people in Bhopal still live in a chemical dump. The soil and water are still contaminated with chlorines, mercury and heavy metals. There are at least 15 highly toxic chemicals in the drinking water causing high rates of birth defects, cancer rates, neurological disorders, disrupted menstrual cycles and mental illness. The site itself has never been cleaned up.

Our little group had a Skype conversation with one of the lawyers representing people from Bhopal. It’s a Catch 22 with lawyers from Dow and Union Carbide saying that the case can’t go to trial in New York because Indian law does not apply and Dow and Union Carbide are not going back to India. They will pick another third world country and build another pesticide plant with promises of jobs and a bright future when in fact an estimated 3 million people a year will suffer the effects of pesticide poisoning in developing agricultural parts of the world. After the Skype conversation our moderator asked the group to divide into two parts: those that think this will be resolved and those that don’t. I was a group of one on the side that nothing will happen and explained that the sad truth is Bhopal is not news anymore. It stopped being news after the settlement and I said that CEO’s of corporations like Dow and Union Carbide are making the laws as they go into third world countries and are always protected. When things go bad they leave the carnage behind and start somewhere else.  

The screening for the documentary “Bhopali” was at six-thirty and I really felt the theater would be full of people like myself who are interested in what is happening. Sadly when the screening started there were only seven of us, including the producer.

The film is a passionate piece about the sordid living conditions that exist there today, with the most prevalent problem being contaminated drinking water causing a myriad of health issues affecting men, women and children. Miscarriages are up 300% and birth defects, cancers, reproduction disorders and retardation continue to grow. The colorful saris the women wear, men sitting around in circles talking and smoking beedis, children playing in cricket in the fields, makes you want to visit the jewel of India until the camera pulls back and reveals skeletal remains of the Union Carbide plant and tank number 610 which held 42 tons of methyl isocyanate. I wish more people could see it. I suggested that the producer cut a two-minute piece for Facebook. We’ll see what happens.

The highlight of the conference was meeting a young Indian woman named Prem. She made an effort to get to know me and throughout the course of the day we talked. Her compassion for Bhopal is a sign of how much some people really care. Her commitment to make it better is even more worthy and she will be the person I will stay in touch with to help in this cause. I admire her energy, intellect and most importantly her kindness to me.

The toxic waste Union Carbide left behind continues to spread and the responsibilities now belong to Dow as it purchased Carbide in 2001. Dow continues to claim that it isn’t liable for the Bhopal disaster so the people are left to slowly decay like the factory itself.

The Human Element does not apply in Bhopal.

Come back weekly to find out more about John King. Email your thoughts to: John.king1956@att.net.  Thank you for reading.