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A friend of mine died tonite.

He was actually a neighbor of another friend, but who’s reputation preceeded him far before the day we had met. He was described to me as the kind of person that I would love to be around, predominantly due to his guitar playing abilities.

He was a 33 year old guy, originally raised in Kearny, New Jersey and was fed on heavy metal and King Cobra beer. This, to me, was God-like in itself. We spent the 8 months that I’ve known him in the guise of a drunken stupor, along with the hopes of obtaining some type of “higher” ground from the plethora of drugs that we both had spent our days abusing. I think that ultimately, it was caused from a lack of  love we both felt for ourselves.

I can still hear him calling my name, whether he heard the opening of the front door followed by my voice cursing the gods for my misfortunes, or the creaking of the stairs when I was on my way down to his apartment to beg for one of the Phillie’s cigarettes that he so lovingly smoked.

“Uncle chris!! AAwww, yyeeeaaahhh!!!” was what he would yell from his couch, while enjoying a Yankee game or “jamming out” on his Schechter Diamond Series guitar that he played the “King Cobra” theme on. An offer of a 40 oz. of the malt liquor would be presented, as he gulped down full glasses of it while smoking those stinky cigarillos.

Usually a story would ensue about his ex-girlfriend, “Whoreen” or his disappointment in a friend of his who’d been, supposedly, playing what he called “white-boy games” with him. These tales would be repeated countless times until a new dilemma would arise, but each time with passion, as if he just HAD TO let me know the scope of his heartache.

Though, I’m not sure if I laughed quite as often, since I’d met this dude. His comical genius was one of which was so disguised in the “I’m so smooth and cool” model, that it seemed as if he had been brought up in the same school of sarcasm in which I had been; so far removed from the numerous I had met before. He called his style “Ultra Sexy”.

“You got another beer, bro?” is what I would asked upon arrival. His response was simply, “What da ya think this is amateur hour? Daddy’s home!!!!!” Refrigerator then opened to show the beauty of 6-8 “cobras”.  As twisted as it was, it always made me feel good.

I miss my friend.

It’s only been a few hours, but the building seems so quiet without you. I wish that I could have a cigarette with you, or see your bruises from riding a big wheel (TUFF ONE) down the driveway at 4 in the morning while you were piss-drunk with your boys. I remember that time you “wrestled a bear once”. I did too, but the bear played dead.

I miss you, MTA.

Thank You so much for telling me that I was one of the coolest guys you ever met, even though I laughed at you and told you to shut the fuck up. You were definitely one of the realist dudes I’ve ever met in mine.

I hope you’re finally chillin with your homeboy you lost, that you never got to speak to cause you were fuckin “Babyface”. I hope you’re kickin it with Les Paul, telling him about the ’58 you got in your livingroom. Telling Dime I said “what’s up” while you’re showing him your theme song for KING COBRA.

We only hung for about 8 months, but I feel fortunate to have met you. Thank you for giving me a perspective on life that I might not have had if I never met you. Thanx for reminding me what great music is about. And thank you, ultimately, for being my boy.

I hope you’re happy now…

P.O.W./M.T.A.

Time 2 Shyne

SUMMER.

It’s the only word other than JULY that can set the stage for this one. I don’t know. Looking back, when I hear the word(s) I can still feel that heat. Can still feel that unbearable brightness that the  sun brings when you’re forced to stare it down and say, “Get out of my way, you fuck! I gotta get to the crib!!!”

I was about to turn 17, had a job as a cashier at the local A&P and again, it was summer. All my boys had planned to meet up at our unofficial “clubhouse”, which was a pay phone (866-8584) I frequented for years to come, on the corner of 57th & Park  to get in a day of  mindless spending in NYC’s “west village” section. Up until this time, trips to the city had been rare. Unless somebody had a car at night so that we could hit the west side to harass the transvestite hookers, or if we had decided to hit up clubs now turned group homes for students, we would settle for “downing” bottles of Crazy Horse at the park on the Blvd. with the city in full view.

“I gotta work at 1″ was all I said before we started up 57th St. towards Bergenline Ave., which was where $1.00 “immy”(immigrant) vans would frequent most for cheap rides into Manhattan.

“Yo, you’re never gonna make it. Why don’t you just be responsible and stay?” one of my crew says. “You always gotta pull shit like this.”

” Nah, I got 2 hours. I’ll come back by myself”, knowing the slim possibility of me making it on time, nevermind even returning for  my $4.15/hr. on this fine day.

So, we make it to B-LINE. No bus in sight.

My stomach turns.

“Bro, I gotta take a shit. I’mma go in the restaurant”, I say to no one in particular.

“Yo, we’re not waiting for you,” my boy Mario says. “If the bus comes, we’re out.”

“Stop being a dick,” I say. “I’ll be quick.”

A sharp “NO” was the response from all those involved.

“Fuck it. I’m cool. I’ll wait till we get to the city.”

About 6 minutes later, a van is seen on the horizon. About 6 minutes after that, the same van is pulling over curbside to gather the group for what seems to be the start of the perfect day, but I am very uncomfortable.

Upon my head entering the cool confines of the vehicle, my right leg drops back earthward, and it is at this point that I realize, “I’m not gonna make it”.

“I’m out,” I say as I turn hurriedly away from my friends, and what had started out to be a day in the quest of the future of my manhood. “I’ll see you guys later,” were my last words.

As I crossed back over Bergenline Ave. heading in the general direction of home, my body went on full alert. This wasn’t the first “s(h)ituation” I had been in, and once again, it was a predicament that forced me towards the comfortable confines of my OWN home.

11:13am

EASTERN SKY

The sun is at my forehead, as 5-7 is situated in a direct alignment with the furious star.

The cramps are getting worse. My hands are massaging both sides of  which my intestines lay, as I try and ease this terrible discomfort I’m feeling.

A light jog. Maybe not.

I’m finding out quickly that the more movement I make, the less my sphincter is inclined to hold back.

“I HAVE to make it”, I whisper to myself as the tears well up in my eyes.

I am now approaching the supermarket where I worked. Due to my refusal to listen to the advice of good friends, combined with the fact that my body (not brain)was now in full control of “it’s” actions, I crossed the parking lot in full view of the market for my supervisors and boss to see me. This was going to be a rough day and I hadn’t supposed I was going to work. There is no way they would have expected me in, had they seen my condition.

Sweat.

Covered in sweat, yet now cradled in the beauty of shade. If not only for 1 block, it gave hope that the next block and a half would be a cinch.

And I’ve made it!

My building. The projects.

Throw in a building that’s made out of layers of  brick, block and concrete, and you’ve just tripled the heat index.

Elevator’s not happening. The amount of time it takes to come down from five, I can basically kiss my ass goodbye.

It’s only the third floor. I’ve run these steps countless times in love and in laughter. Now, I’m mindless. Almost barbaric.

I’m at the front door stumbling to place the key between my thumb and forefinger and frantically knocking for someone to get me where I belong. I didn’t have a prayer.

I carefully directed the key inside the lock, turned the door knob and pushed my way through the doorway into the safety of my home.

Now…

I must have spread my legs a little too wide when I crossed the threshold.

Gravity takes over, pulling her pursuit towards the kitchen floor. It felt as if everything below 5 feet was non-existent.

I spring for the bathroom.

Through the kitchen, into the living room where new, plush carpet lay  throughout the apartment in a pale beige comparison to which I lost the load.

Down the hallway, past 2 bedrooms and a large closet—

And finally the bathroom.

The holy grail!!!

By this time I am engulfed in pain as well as caked in feces from the waist down, but as I sit on the toilet crying on the verge of puking, I thank the Almighty for giving me the opportunity of dealing with this in private.

“WHAT THA FUCK???!!!!!”, my mother’s voice travels through the apartment, as I am pulled from my shame and forced to announce my condition to the woman who gave birth to me.

“I had an accident! I’m sick, Ma!”

“What the hell is this all over the floor? The carpet?!!” she inquires in disbelief, yet realizing the unthinkable was existent at that moment.

“I told you! I had an accident! I don’t feel good!”, still crying on the toilet.

And all I heard was, “Well, I’m not cleanin’ it up!!!!” and the beauty of the front door slamming shut.

I continued to cry…

Last night, a friend came through to a studio of another friend where we do an internet radio show(FJSRADIO.COM).  Starting off with a magnum of Grey Goose, and what seemed to be the equivalent to an acre of the greenest green, the invited proceeds with a story.

“So, this guy makes Chris look like a productive member of society! I swear to God, kid! This guy actually makes you look like a choir boy. 100 times worse!!!”

“Look up TUCKERMAXX.COM”, he says, passing the 3rd stick of “ick” to the studio owner.  I carefully read through the first story, classically titled “The Sushi Pants Story”. I have found God. If not a deity to show that peace is a way towards fulfillment, to show that I am not alone living with the fact that going to Hell is a huge possibility.

The following stories are true. Same goes to say that they are mine. I had been toying with the idea of pointing this site in the direction of exploiting myself in order to get a laugh, tears, puke and/or any sign of recognition. That is until I read the aforementioned story on that website that was “sent from Heaven” in order to help me clean out the demons that be.

Thank you, TUCKERMAXX.

CHEERS,

ME

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