Chapter Thirteen: Close Encounters of the Female Kind

One day during summer vacation between my junior and senior year after June and Sylvester started going out, June and I were sitting in the Girl Scout Park, a little plot beside the school and the municipal pool. I was driving, and we’d pulled over to get high. I was wearing a sleeveless shirt, and she was wearing a flannel. I don’t know why, but we traded shirts. I mean, why does anyone do the things they do when they are stoned?

She started rubbing the back of my ear, and I was getting extremely aroused. I can’t remember what was said, but soon we were driving around looking for a pullover spot. We headed in the direction of my house.

Sylvester lived a few miles past the road that I lived on. We were nearly to my turnoff, when suddenly I saw Sylvester in the rear view. He honked at us.

As it was, we both knew good and well who was behind us, though I did not know she knew at the time. I flipped on the directional and turned off down my road. I willed him not to follow us. I really did not feel like explaining why I had on June’s shirt, nor trying to cover a guilty expression. Plus, I had my mind set on the fornication I was going to commit. I guess he was in a hurry, because he kept right on going, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

We reached a hay barn near my house and pulled into the drive. We climbed out, but she apologized and said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this. I can’t do this to Sylvester.”

She expected me to be angry, but I wasn’t. I was a little disappointed and yet oddly relieved. I said, “Come here,” and when she did, I gave her a hug. Then I said, “Hey, it’s okay, Sis.”

We climbed back in and drove off and decided since we were so close that we’d go ahead and stop by my place. I don’t know if my folks noticed her wearing my shirt, but I think they sensed something strange. Ironically, I wasn’t to lose my virginity until after I started sleeping with my future wife to be, though that is no small miracle.

When I was working at KBFL I got a lot of female callers. Buffalo is such a small town, the high school and junior high girls had nothing better to do than call the DJ’s up, and bug them. Especially on the nights I had some of my friends over, this made me a little testy. It is hard to hang out with your friends and spend hours on the phone at the same time.

I had one girl who called me regularly. She said her name was Amanda. She really liked my voice and would flirt with me. She did not sound like a young, empty headed bimbo like most of the callers I was accustomed to. She was obviously quite intelligent, and I would talk absolute trash to her. Howard Stern had nothing on me! I think I fired up her hormones with my perversion and gave her something interesting to do. For whatever reason, she called at least once a night and often several times, when her mom would let her.

There were a lot of times I did not feel like talking, and I would tell her I had another call, or had to go. Usually, however, I wound up talking to her and many other girls late into the evening. It was a game of love and hate with me.

One day Amanda called and asked if I could have company. Her sister was in town and had agreed to give her a ride up to the station. She said she’d be there in five minutes, and Sylvester was with me that night. We anxiously waited to see what kind of admirer I’d dug up.

I was not prepared for the sight that met my eyes. I was expecting this cute white girl, and instead, there stood a scrawny, frizzy-haired, mulattress girl with glasses. I have never been a prejudiced person, but I lived in a mainly white community and was startled, as I had always just assumed she was white. As it turns out, she was a mixture of mainly Caucasian, Negro and Native American.

I thought her sister Wendy was hot, though. She was half-white and half-Indian. I could see in her dark eyes that she did not trust me. I found out later she had come out of a dismal history of drugs, and she did not trust too much of anyone, especially not some long haired teenage male her sister had met over the phone. She tended to have a touch of feminism about her, anyway, having been burned a few times by the men in her life.

It was obvious Amanda was wild about me and was as impressed with my looks as she had been with my voice. I quickly got over my surprise, smiled and introduced myself, but I wasn’t equally charmed. She did not seem to notice, or if she did, she did not seem to care.

Amanda started coming up quite often after that, and I did not know quite what to think about it. She was good to talk to, but I kind of shunned her when my friends were there. I was more interested in their conversation and just did not find her that attractive. I have since changed my mind. As she got a little older, she really fleshed out.

Mom and Dad were going to visit the in-laws in Michigan from whence my family originates and were going to be out of town that week. I invited a lot of people and had some show up that I did not invite, but that’s just the way parties are. Still, we lived about ten miles out of town, and I had forgotten the zest a party usually entails.

All of The Family were there, and I had invited Amanda, though I spent very little time talking to her, hovering around Evon instead. Amanda and Eva talked some, but for the most part Amanda just kind of stuck to herself, forgotten in the clutter.

She was rather drunk and ended up sprawled on Mom and Dad’s bed. She started getting sick, and an acquaintance of ours named Jason had to hold her head out of the pan she was puking in. She awoke next morning next to Jason with Sylvester throwing marshmallows at her. To this day, she still refuses to discuss that incident.

I don’t remember too much of the finer details, except that people kept asking for me, and I was in my bedroom with Evon, and the door was closed. She was sitting next to the window smoking, and I got onto her for it, since it was my parents’ house. She told me to lighten up and assured me that the smell would clear out, so I lit one up too, and we smoked by the window together.

The details are hazy, because I usually did not hold back at parties, and this was no exception. I was pretty messed up, but I remember Evon had taken her jeans off as she felt more comfortable sleeping in panties. She was pretty inebriated too, and she slipped under my covers. I was trying to comfort her and slipped in beside her, trying to maintain my brotherly resolve.

We were both virgins and curious about our sexuality. Sometime shortly thereafter, she asked me if I would touch her breasts. I asked her what she had said, seeking affirmation, but she did not repeat herself. I pursued it anyway, but soon she pushed my hand away. I plead with her, striking a bargain that she could touch me too. I gently slid her panties down and tried to be careful, but I apparently still hurt her a little, or scared her. She wasn’t super thrilled with the whole idea anyway. She once again told me to stop in no uncertain terms, and I did.

Needless to say, the next day brought on the guilt. She told Eva that I had raped her and was extremely disconcerted about the whole thing. Eva questioned me about it, and I denied all charges except what was true. While she wasn’t happy about it, she just told me, “That’s between the two of you. I’m staying out of it.” We were both a little upset she hadn’t stuck up for us, though she made it clear she was more sympathetic with her sister and would stick up for her if it came down to it.

A few days later Evon was out alone with me, and I was holding her in my arms. She told me if she were to have slept with anyone, it would have been me, but she’d tried it and did not enjoy it. She then said, “If I had enjoyed it, we wouldn’t be standing here now. We’d be doing it.” She had a way with her words, huh?

That one little encounter put a very fatal kink in our friendship, and I got worse into my pot smoking. I’m nearly certain before long she had tried it too, which is typical of the snowballing degradation among friends. I think we both really went off the deep end.

Quite a few things around the house got trashed at that party. I cleaned and cleaned and the twins helped some, but Mom and Dad still noticed some things missing and asked me about it. I told them simply that my friends had thrown them away, which was the truth. When they read these words, it will be the first time they’ve heard the full story so far as I know, though I doubt if they’ll exactly be surprised. I am sure they would have been delighted with me had they known it then.

Sylvester lived on Highway 64. This road traveled past Louisburg, and he was one of the luckiest people, because we would often stop and pick him up on our way to Vo-Tech, which meant that he could sleep in about half an hour longer. Near the house he lived in at the time, the highway is very straight and very hilly. We liked driving entirely too fast down that road and “catching air” as we’d go shooting off the crest of the hill, momentarily suspending the wheels in mid-air. It was a bit of a rush right down to the pit of your stomach.

I can remember one occasion where we were particularly bored and stole some traffic cones. There really was no challenge to it at all, actually. He just drove up to them, and I’d jump out and toss another one in the back, and we’d drive off again like madmen, though there was absolutely no one around. Actually, I guess there was about a one in ten chance that the sole patrolman might happen by, but that was about it. It was not nearly as novel as the stories I’ve heard from other friends who would steal those yellow flashing lights right out in plain sight and really run the risk of getting caught by Johnny Law in the process. (Incidentally, I understand they take two of those big six-volt flashlight batteries and can be turned off from the hole in the center with an allen wrench, if you know what you are doing.)

Anyway, we used those cones as props in the band days, and I ended up giving them to Mom and Dad, concocting some story I’ve long since forgotten as to how I’d gotten them. Shortly before this article was written, Mom and Dad’s church was using them to keep people from driving into the section of parking lot that had been uprooted in order to install the support poles of a roof that stretched out over the side door. This was, or course, intended to keep the church-goers dry in case of rain or snow. The ironic thing is that two of the cones got stolen from the parking lot.

Anyway, it is a very large wonder we did not die with the way we drove. One of my favorite sayings was, “It’s a nice day to die,” as I’d go driving under the bright moon on the wrong side of the road going up a blind curve with the lights off, Sylvester clinging on for dear life beside me. When we did occasion to see an oncoming vehicle, I’d swerve just in time, rapidly exclaiming, the words blurring together, “Ohshit!Ohshit!Ohshit!Ohshit!” and after the scare was over, laughingly follow it up with, “Well, maybe it’s not such a nice day to die”

One time he more than paid me back. There is an extremely curvy road that took us to Buffalo, called C Highway, which in turn met D Highway, which was the main road that stretched between my house and his. C Highway was famous for its blind, 90º curves, often right over the peak of a hill.

Sylvester was driving his old, white Chevy pickup, and we came flying up this steep hill. Right when we got to the crest of the hill we saw that in about ten feet the road veered into a sharp curve we hadn’t seen while barreling up the hill. We had mere nanoseconds to slow down enough to miss shooting straight off the road. He stomped on his brakes hard, tires squalling as we went sliding, almost right off the road. It just about scared me to death; I almost literally had to check my pants! I suppose it’s always worse when someone else is driving, but I think it gave him a good scare too. Stupid, stupid, cheap adrenaline junkies.

Oh, and not to forget another time I was driving Mom and Dad’s little Ford Escort down some gravel roads. It was winter, and there was more ice on the road than I knew. One minute I was nonchalantly driving along, the next I’m sitting back straight again as if nothing happened, my heart stuck in my throat. I’d hit an icy patch sending the car into a sudden 360, barely clearing the trees and barbed wire fence on both sides of me, as the car spun rapidly around. I was fortunate. That was another merry-go-round ride I did quite a bit of exclaiming about feces over. And these were only a few of the many near mishaps I have had with vehicles over the years. By the law of averages, I should have been dead a hundred times over by now, I’m sure.

And then there were the times I’d come down that road drinking and driving. I can remember partying in Buffalo, and for a time I was obsessed with the Passion drinks, particularly Purple Passion, which is basically grape soda and everclear. I vividly remember one time that I bought a couple of two liter bottles of it, and they did not get quite all guzzled.

I had nearly an entire two liter bottle left, and I had decided that I wanted to get a good buzz going on while driving home, so every time I’d go around a curve I’d take another swig. I seemed to have a death wish, though I really did not want to die. I was usually reckless because I was running from the pain of life. As Dr. Anderson says so well, “Depression often signals that you are desperately clinging to a goal you have little or no chance of achieving, and that’s not a healthy goal.”¹ I was usually moping over my hopeless obsession with Evon, knowing it was destined for failure, so a thrill a minute was a welcome relief from my feelings of self-inflicted gloom.

I actually do not remember being as wasted as I surely was by the time I got home, but I do well remember what it was like seeing the liquid vomit coming out a pure purple when I’d had too much. I’d think to myself, “What a waste of perfectly good alcohol.” I liked playing, I just did not like paying afterward. But I never learned. In excess was a way of life for me. For a thrill, I would do almost anything. I sure took some ridiculous risks! I was young, stupid, and felt that I had nothing to loose.

I used to savor listening to A Momentary Lapse of Reason in particular by Pink Floyd, especially when stoned, as it mellowed me out and calmed me down. I used to light a black candle and watch the smoke slowly rising, seeming to float with the rhythm, getting intertwined and lost in the entrancing music to the point where I could scarcely tell where the smoke stopped the sound started, circling and swirling. Anyone who has ever listened to Pink Floyd knows exactly what I am referring to. Their music is mesmerizing. I related to every word, finding a great deal of saddened truth there, but here are some I found particularly comforting in a dark way. When you listen to the song, the almost synthetic-like texture of David Gilmore’s voice seems to suddenly sneak up on you out of nowhere, speaking a language that is felt, not just heard, only to disappear until the next wave unexpectedly breaks. These are the lyrics of “A New Machine, Part 1.”²

You know, my dad isn’t getting any younger, and he has pointed out that you never feel any older inside, no matter how old the shell gets. Funny thing about it is, I can remember feeling so, so very old, and decayed. Sometimes I felt as though Death himself were living in my bones.

In the band days I frequently would hold up the joint that I was toking on, and tell Joe, before passing it on to the next person, “This is the only sunshine that I ever see.” He would just nod, knowing what I meant, but uncertain what to say—though he did not get high—understanding that there was more pain in the honest truth of that statement than met the ear.

He’d grown up around the partying life-style, and for that matter, admitted to being an alcoholic at an early age who had curbed his habit a lot. He never seemed too extreme to me, but he definitely could down a beer when he was a mind to. Usually, he was just the silent spectator, catching a “buzz” off our moods. He liked to be around us when we got high, and he understood our mentality.

June and I got stoned a lot, and one day she and I wanted to get high. The only problem was that I had to work at KBFL that night, and I did not have much time. This was quickly resolved when she told me she would drive me if I wanted to get high. I wasn’t one to back down from smoking pot.

I usually wasn’t stoned when I went to work, and this was about the first time, though it wasn’t the last. It’s not really that hard, but it takes more concentration than what you might think to keep the show flowing, catching the news feeds on time, making sure you announce all your legal ID’s and playing the allotted commercials. Fortunately, we had a log sheet that detailed what got played when, though it was a nuisance to fill out. We had to verify that we played what we were supposed to and that we took the intermittent transmitter readings, which ensure that the tower and transmitter are within proper power and frequency range.

If your shift gets busted, the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) looks none too kindly upon you. They can take a station’s permit away or force them to pay a heavy fine: in some cases, because of profanity used over the air. Obviously, this doesn’t settle too well with the station, and the DJ usually isn’t very high on their list anymore, to say the least. It almost always includes a pink slip.

Anyway, I was high, and it seemed really strange to do a radio shift stoned. June had the special edition Cinderella album Night Songs. The record itself was a full color vinyl of the band’s picture—rather than the usual boring black—and I thought that it looked pretty cool spinning on those professional turn-tables. She stayed up there with me for awhile, loaning me her Cinderella record and Hotel California by the Eagles. When she left, I played the “trippiest” music I could find, knowing she would be listening while driving home, and it was dusk. I also knew that she was not much of a night driver as she had poor depth perception, especially at night—not to mention being stoned.

My strategy worked. The next day she asked me what I thought I was doing—trying to kill her? I honestly do not remember how I got home—perhaps June came and picked me back up—I don’t remember. I know that it seemed pretty strange trying to talk to Amanda that night. Oh, and my dad called and confronted me about the G.D. word in the song “The Fast Lane” by the Eagles. I lied and told him I did not realize it was there, but I frankly couldn’t have cared less.

Without being high, I was usually a little unorganized, and it was even worse then. I’d space out to the tune, forgetting I was at the radio station, suddenly scrambling for another record when the song ran out and reality sank in. In fact, there were several double hitters from the actual albums that I played, though the singles did not afford me the luxury. Also, it could be a bit tedious trying to talk to your friends, carry on a conversation on the phone while trying to answer the fifty-thousand incoming calls of hormone-ridden teenage girls and lovers wanting this special tune played to that special so-and-so and still manage to get all your music played, your readings checked, your news feeds caught on time, your back timing⁴ caught up, your transmitter readings taken and so on. Add to that being stoned, and it was a nightmare waiting to happen.

My usual shift consisted of a few mellower groups such as the Eagles, Cinderella, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, etc., but for the most part it was pretty heavy metal. I got a lot of compliments from the teenagers and a lot of flak from the older population, who felt I was disgracing their town with my filth. Ah well.

I bet no one knew that not only did I play our band’s songs—announced as being “from a local band”—but I would often fill two or three minutes worth of air space playing an acoustic guitar live on air. This made up for my poor back timing preparation. I was the world’s worst (or best) DJ, depending on who you talked to. Most felt strongly one way or the other; few were left undecided. At any rate, I rarely ever played by the rules, coming in with an armload of records and tapes of my own to play and leaving the majority of the top 40 radio station blah for the other DJ’s to contend with.

Mike had gotten onto me several times for my unorthodox approach, as some of the more conservative listeners had called in to complain. He finally tired of it. I really think he thought it was kind of funny, but he had repeatedly warned me and was up to his ears with all the ballyhoo. This time he told me that if he continued to get complaints, he would be forced to yank me from my shift. But he still left me a legal loophole. We had just gotten a new station manager—the uncle of Mikey D., one of my fellow metal head students—and as long as he said it was okay, I could play anything I wanted. He was into metal himself and would let me play all but the most extreme of my picks.

¹ Anderson, Dr. Neil T. Victory Over the Darkness. Ventura: Regal Books 1990. (129.)
² Copyright © D. J. Gilmore 1987. All rights reserved.
³ Copyright © D. J. Gilmore 1986. All rights reserved.
⁴ Back timing is a term used to describe the procedure of adding the total minutes of the songs you intend to play and then subtracting them from the precisely timed “have to’s” on the log sheet. For instance, a news feed comes in off the satellite—virtually live. You either catch it, or you miss it entirely—unless, of course, you record it, which I rarely could find a cassette in time to do.