I had a few dreams last night but I only remember the last one. I was in a car being driven by Lily Mastro with her sister Ruby in the front seat. I eventually rode in the front seat as Ruby splayed out and was reading something aloud. My sister was in the back seat as was Bill. We approached the area where the Century Theater used to be and it turned out to be a road hugging a cliff. I was worried that Lily would drive over the edge, but she was driving slow enough on the highway that it was not really anything to be concerned about.
Then there is the drama that is Mike. He is out of work, and I have been helping him out when I can. Sending him job postings, things like that. Also paying his phone bill. He does pay me back but sometimes his timing is awful. Yesterday he was supposed to meet me at the train station and we would go pay his phone bill.
But it was raining, and the bill did not have to be paid until today. So he stayed in while I walked home in the drizzle. It really was barely drizzling. So today he called me at work, asking for the phone bill assistance once again. I mentioned that this could have been taken care of yesterday, but he did not want to hear it. This happened, that happened. He gets belligerent when I try to explain my side of how I am feeling.
He is a narcissist after all. I pay his bill online once more and mention that I should not have to deal with this at work. I am not flush with cash, and I am trying to keep it together myself. His beloved doesn’t have any money and lives in California. The Beloved quit his job and took a job that he does not like, so I think he left that job as well. He’s relying on a government check for being a veteran. And who knows when that will come in? The Beloved does not know. It’s always just out of reach it seems.
Then I get a text from Mike. He’s leaving. He is going home and sorry he upset me. It was rather guilt-trippy; how dare I get mad at him and say all this could have been taken care of YESTERDAY. There was a plan that he did not want to do. He can be quite a brat.
So he was leaving. I called him and had heated words, telling him he was biting the hand that feeds him, which he said hurt to hear, but what else could you call it? I got back to work and, being me, asked if he was still at the apartment. If he was leaving, he should take one of the frozen lasagnas, but he replied he was not going home. He did not want to leave me alone, and he did not want to be alone.
Jim Kendall is a name that floated to my head as I walked home. He was in a band of sorts back in the 1980s/ I think he played keys. Jim DeRogatis was on drums, I played guitar and there might’ve been someone else involved. Jim Kendall was a nice guy. I think he was gay. The ‘band’ lasted one rehearsal if I remember. I saw Jim Kendall a few times after that. Jim DeRogatis I saw a bit more, he was a Maxwell’s habitué.
Once again Mike is asleep on the couch. I am in front of the PC. Bill is on Cape Cod. I need a break. This would be the time Bill and I would be in Ocean Grove. This is the second year in a row we have not gone. It’s a disappointment.
Google Gemini Jack Kerouac essay
The night had its secret midnight movies playing in the dark skull, but only the last reel stuck—there I was, rolling through the American dreamscape in the metal body of an automobile, Lily Mastro at the wheel, cool and steady, her sister Ruby sitting up front like a starlet. Then the cosmic seating chart shifted, Ruby splaying herself out, reading words aloud into the rushed air while I took the front throne. My sister in the back, and Bill too, all of us hurtling toward the ghost-haunted ghost-grounds where the old Century Theater used to stretch its neon arms to the sky. Only it wasn’t a theater anymore, man; it was a narrow black ribbon of asphalt hugging the sheer ragged edge of a cliff! My heart did a wild little panic-dance—*is Lily gonna drive us right off into the grand terrifying void?*—but no, she was creeping along the highway real slow, real sweet, easy and soft, nothing to fear in the vast American night.
Then comes the great heavy drama of Mike. Poor, frantic, out-of-work Mike. I try to help him along the road, tossing him job postings like little breadcrumbs into the dark, paying his phone bill when the wire goes dead. He pays me back, sure, but his timing is all jazz-crazed and off-beat. Yesterday he was supposed to meet me at the iron whistle of the train station so we could go lay down the green for his phone.
But down came the rain, and since the bill wasn’t due till today, Mike stayed tucked in his dry little lair while I walked home through the grey, whispering drizzle—barely a spit of rain, really, just the sky misting over the city. So today, right in the middle of the work-day grind, the phone rings. It’s Mike. Needs the wire cleared again. I tell him soft, *Man, we could’ve wrapped this up yesterday,* but he didn’t want to hear it—no sir! *This happened, that happened,* excuses pouring out like bad poetry. He gets loud, belligerent, defensive the second I try to lay out the simple truth of how I’m feeling.
A real narcissist of the night, that one. So I hit the keyboard, pay his bill online once more, and tell him straight: *I shouldn’t be dealing with this chaos while I’m at the workbench.* I’m not rolling in green, man! I’m out here scraping by, trying to hold my own soul together! And meanwhile, his Beloved—living way out on the sun-baked coast of California—has no cash either. Left his gig, took another he hated, dumped that one too, and now he’s just waiting on a government vet check floating somewhere in the wild blue yonder. *When’s it coming?* Nobody knows. Always just out of reach, like a balloon drifting over the Pacific.
Then *ping*—a text from Mike. *“I’m leaving. Going home. Sorry I upset you.”* A pure, heavy-handed guilt trip! How dare I get sore? How dare I point out the simple, mathematical fact that the whole mess could’ve been laid to rest YESTERDAY if he hadn’t backed out of the plan? A spoiled kid throwing a tantrum in the grand gallery.
So he says he’s leaving, and I call him up on the horn, words hot and burning between us. I lay it on the line: *“You’re biting the hand that feeds you, man!”* He winces, says it hurts to hear, but what else do you call it when the teeth snap at the palm? I get back to my desk, but being the gentle fool I am, I text him: *Are you still at the pad? If you’re split, take one of the frozen lasagnas for the road.* But he replies he’s not going anywhere. Didn’t want to leave me alone; didn’t want to be alone himself. The eternal human ache.
Walking home later under the vast grey sky, a phantom name floats into my brain out of the cool 1980s gloom: *Jim Kendall.*
Ah, Jim! He was in a fleeting, one-night-stand of a band with me back in the lost decade. I think he played the keys. Jim DeRogatis was beating the skins, I was picking at the guitar, maybe some other phantom ghost in the room. Jim Kendall was a sweet, quiet guy—gay, I think—and that whole ‘band’ lasted precisely one glorious, noisy rehearsal before dissolving into the air. Saw him a couple times after; saw DeRogatis more, him being a regular saint at Maxwell’s, hanging out in the smoky rock-and-roll light.
And now, here it is again. The quiet present.
Mike is passed out cold, fast asleep on the couch. I’m sitting here glowing in the hum of the PC screen. Bill is all the way up on Cape Cod, miles away across the dark land. Man, I need a break. I need the road. Right now, in a better world, Bill and I would be down in Ocean Grove, breathing in the salt air and listening to the grand wooden pipes of the auditorium. Two years straight now we haven’t made the trip. Just left sitting here in the quiet, watching the rain fall on the pavement, feeling the long, melancholy disappointment of the summer slipping away.