A Story from the past.
Summers in Davenport were very hot. Not just hot but really hot if you lived right down near the Mississippi river like I did. We are talking about a virtual sauna with humidity you could cut with a knife. Air so thick that at times it was hard to breathe some days. If you did not have air conditioning you would be soaked in sweat at night and have to change your cloths a number of times. This place was hot as hell.
I lived in the city in a small studio type apartment. It was furnished with cheap vinyl covered chairs and the most horrible dresser and end table. There was no real kitchen. One had to eat at the kitchen counter. The place was entirely cinder block which was white washed. It was infested with roaches no matter what you tried to do to stop them. Most of the people that lived there were students.
The building was managed by a young couple, Carl and Jody. Carl served the purpose for the building owner of renting the apartments and collecting the monthly payments. His primary purpose however was to keep the "bad" element out. This meant black people. If a black person would knock on Carl's door he would look through a peep hole and remain silent until they went away. When I rented the apartment Carl emphasized that it was a good place to live because there were no blacks.
On weekends in Davenport there was not a lot to do. Especially if it was horribly hot. Just stay inside and try and stay in the sanctuary of a fan or air conditioning if you were lucky enough to have it. So one had to have some entertainment. For me this usually involved the diversion provided by a a well constructed drug collection and guzzling quarts of cheap beer. There were also the electric guitars. I had a very nice guitar set up. Marshall Amps with 12 inch speakers stacked to the ceiling and every special effects pedal one could imagine. I had two guitars. A blue and white Fender Stratacastor and a clear plexiglass Ampeg. The amplifiers were not designed for the home. They were so powerful that even on the lowest setting they radiated through the entire cinderblock building.
My building had four floors. Each floor had a long walkway that along which were the doors of the apartments. I lived on the third floor. My apartment was at the far end of the building. At night students would gather, especially on the weekends and drink. A number of these students are still my close friends. My best friend was Steve. He was from New Jersey. We had many crazy times. Steve and I were both a bit crazy and alpha males. But when you put us together the craziness was substantially greater than the sum of it's parts. I was more inclined toward drugs and Steve was a drinker. Though I had started drinking in elementary school I was no march for Steve. Steve taught me how to drink. I tried to teach him about drugs but that was not his karma, outside of an occasional hit off a joint.
Some how and some way I managed to achieve a reputation in the building. I was the buildings “bad boy”. A real hardened criminal in the eyes of the upper middle class white college kids that lived there. I imagine the reputation started with the electric guitar. I played it loud and with all kinds of distortion effects. It could be heard for blocks. I wore a black leather jacket and was very polar in my acceptance of people. There were the good people that tolerated me and there were the enemies. But the guitar music went on day and night. Basically the same song over and over in a repetitive drone. Black Sabbath’s War Pigs.
Occasionally people would demand that I stop playing because it was so annoying. I would simply set them straight. “It’s not going to happen so deal with it”. And plus they always asked me to stop in a VERY disrespectful manner. Once I remember a student came to my door. His name was Bill. He was very nice and explained that I did not have to stop playing if I did not want to and he really liked my music, but he was trying to study and he just could not concentrate with the “music”. In that instance due to his respectful approach I agreed. Later I was asked why I stopped for Bill but no one else. I replied that he “asked the right way”. Bill and I are still friends though I have not seen him in years. He has a practice as a chiropractor nearby.
But then there were the disrespectful people that I had no tolerance for. The ones that I felt were disruptive to my reality. I recall one impressive event. An event that shall live in infamy. It was one of those hot, sticky Davenport Sunday afternoons. I was in my apartment smoking pot, snorting crystal meth and drinking beer. I decided that I would perform a concert for the neighborhood. I cranked up my amps quite high. The songs for the show would be numerous versions of War Pigs with a short intermission to pack my nose with more meth and then more War Pigs. The show began and it was sheer genius. I knew in fact it was my pinnacle performance because a large crowd of people appeared at my door. I could hear them during any gaps in my playing. They were out there screaming in response to my musical talent. The window to the walkway from my apartment was like seven feet up so I could see the tops of their heads jumping to see in. Surely they were groupies that had admired me since they heard me but decided finally they wanted to acknowledge my brilliance.
They began pounding and kicking my door harder and harder. They got louder and louder. Finally I decided that I would let a small number in and allow them to see the show. I walked to the door with my Strat still strapped to me and a can of Budweiser in my hand. I was pretty high so as I walked from the amp the cord to the guitar pulled out and the amp began to feedback at high volume. It was just not feedback as it was augmented by five special effects pedals all giving their special nuances. Maybe like it will sound at Armageddon. The air was filled with pot smoke. I opened the door and came out on the walkway. There were about fifteen people. There were Americans and a number of Europeans that lived in the building. Out of the blue this guy screams. “We can’t take this anymore!”. Others then chimed in. It was like the old Frankenstein monster movie where the towns people all parade to Dr Frankenstein’s house to lynch the monster. All carrying flaming torches, pick axes, sticks and various and sundry weapons. I can’t recall all that was said but words like “Get out”, “disrespectful” and “asshole” come to mind. These people were MAD. The herd or tribal instinct had kicked in. They felt that with the large group they could do something that each one independently was afraid to do. Drive the demon out.
Now at this time we had a new apartment manager. His name was Greg. He was a student and lived with his girlfriend whose name was Monique. Steve and I always called her “Nique” but no one else did. But Greg and Nique liked me. They were a semi dysfunctional couple. They were from New York city. Greg was an insecure guy who had no friends. I accepted him. I was tougher than him. I did more interesting things than him so he clung to me. So any complaints against me by renters were diffused by Greg. Greg always defended me, lied for me and warned me if a potential problem was going to happen like someone getting the police involved. I was like a big brother image to Greg and I used it to my advantage. Thus I was not evicted. So these folks got no help from Greg.
Yes these people were mad. The yelling escalated. I was backed into a wall. I was high and a bit drunk. I had to find a way out of the maze. I just started raving. “How can you treat me this way after I defended you in the rice paddies of Vietnam?”. “I fought for this country!” “You don’t know the things I have done!” . “You don’t know what I have seen!” This managed to calm them down quite a bit. I went back in my apartment and slammed the door. The crowed left. I decided that perhaps it was better to resume the concert another day.
From then on in that apartment things were different. People talked to me. Gave me a pat on the back now and then. Always a “Hey Bob. How’s it goin?” . Most would make sincere eye contact. After all I had done so much for them in the war. I was the reason they had their freedom. I had every right to be “disturbed”. But still they treated me in a condescending manner to a degree. Like I was “OK but had issues”. But then there was the day I moved from being the disturbed Vietnam vet to being the savior. Next door to me lived a woman. She was obviously single and had a baby. She always gave me a nice look. I sensed for some reason that she had been abused in some way and the father of her child had abandoned her.
For some reason she was never intimidated by me. I think she may have seen me as a prospect to be her “man”. But it is always hard to tell motives in this world.
One day this girl was walking down the walkway that connected the apartments. She had her baby in one hand and a bag or groceries in the other. I was talking to “Nique” and a number of people and drinking a beer. There were quite a few people out that day. Many of them were of the group that had complained about my concert. Suddenly the girl slipped and landed on the ground. She still had her baby in her arms but her groceries were everywhere. Nique and I reflexly walked toward her. Other people proceeded in the same manner. I looked down at her and despite the fact I had never seen one I knew exactly what was wrong. She had sustained a full patellar dislocation. In these cases the patella dislocates quite severely. The knee will appear extremely distorted. I had been taught how to reduce it but had never done it. My mind quickly reflected back to my classes in the reduction of dislocations. And you have to understand. I am a bonesetter. Not only by education but by birthright. It is said the intuition cannot be taught and the ability was passed down in families for centuries. Not really today but in times gone by. The families brought the arts from Europe and then they passed down in the decedents ending up in the Midwestern planes. It is deeply embedded in me and was popping bones even as early as seventh grade. It is what it is.
I looked down at this girl who was writhing around and crying. All the good people from the apartment complex just stood there. I leaned down and asked her if she had hit her head. I think I just did this to look “doctorly” for the crowd. She said she had not. In one quick maneuver I reduced the dislocation. There was a loud “Pop”. The knee was straight. There was a silence in the crowd. Like a combination of PT Barnum and a tent show preacher I commanded “get up and walk”. She looked up at me and replied “really? Can I?”. I said again “get up and walk”. She looked at me with such faith. Like a wounded animal that knew a kind person had found it in the street and was going to take it home and nurture it. I and another person helped her up. Everyone marveled how she could walk. From that point on I could do no wrong to anyone in the apartment. The people were completely accepting of me and the tone had changed. I in turn for some reason stopped my War Pigs concerts. A few days after this happened the girl I helped showed up at my door with cookies to thank me. She hugged me and told me how much more secure she was in having a “doctor” in the building. Everything changed.
It was funny but since then I have come across a number of people that have been quickly disabled by patellar dislocations and been the “star” that reduced them in public. What this strange relationship with this phenomena I have I do not know. Some strange universal karma I fondly think. But after this public display of healing I could do no wrong. Maybe the people projected that I had not only fought for their freedom but saved dying soldiers on the battle field. All I know is that the texture of the universe had changed.
Now Greg, the insecure dysfunctional apartment manager was extremely impressed by this. It made him idolize me even more. He always came to me to “tell me things”. In fat he began to play his trumpet as loud as he could. He would tell me how the neighbors would call him and complain and he would refuse to stop. He would tell them to “deal with it”. If I had a thousand of him I could form a personality cult of some type. Not like Charlie Manson. That is a little over the top for me. But living in a commune in Hawaii with a ton of people to cater over me and beckon to my call would be more my style. You know. Sitting under a banyon tree with a bunch of young girls nodding their heads and telling me how profound my revelations are. Maybe on Kauai. I have always loved Kauai.
Yes Greg was my right hand man. Totally submissive and dedicated. Once I took Greg to a series of deep caves in Iowa. These were deep and rangd from situations where you had to crawl on your stomach to places that expanded to large caverns, You could just go deeper and deeper for hours. You needed a number of flashlights. If you died in there nobody would find you for years. So Greg was very excited about this trip. You see the purpose of the trip was to enhance my occult powers. To ground me. Greg was ecstatic. I can remember once being in a biker bar with Greg. It was called Cal’s Club. It opened at midnight and had a larger motorcycle chain that kept the door locked. You knocked and if you were not a cop they let you in. It had picnic tables and sawdust floors inside. All over the walls were those black light posters from the sixties. The only lights were black lights. Greg had told the bikers that I had great occult powers. I remember a long negotiation with a couple of bikers at the bar. They wanted to pay me to cast a spell on an enemy. I declined in the end but they always treated me with great respect. I really think they were afraid of me.
So we got to the caves and entered. Everything was fine. Greg was excited. I instructed Greg on the “power spots” of the caves. All was well. Then the darkness fell. Greg for some reason stopped speaking to me. We were like an hour into the caves. He became stoic and unanimated. He proceeded to shake and cry, He froze and sat down. He became like a scared child. Talking to me like I was his parent. I calmly talked with him and got him out of this. We smoked a little pot and that helped shift his perspective. We made it out of the cave. But in order to get out I had to basically tell him what foot to put forward. How to walk. As we drove home he said “Your not gonna tell anybody, Right?” I promised I would not.
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You need help brother
