Goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City here I Come…
February 12, 2008
I took a spontaneous flight to Washington D C last night. I bought a cheap ticket to Orlando, Florida from Burlington with a layover in D.C. and when the plane landed in D.C. I got off and stayed. Although it was 50 degrees warmer in Florida, I realized somewhere between Burlington and D.C. that warmth is not a good enough reason to visit a vapid Republican swamp. It’s 35 degrees today in D.C. but so what? Compared to Vermont, it’s a heat wave. I have to help my daughter pack up for Kansas City anyway. How do I help her pack? We throw everything into the back of the Volvo I am giving her, and fill the tank with gas. I wave good-bye, drive to Providence, drive to Vermont, drive randomly here and there until I find a computer and google the words Kansas City. I find a map of Kansas City. There are two of them, you know. One in Kansas and another in Missouri. Then I will go on Craigs list and see about gigs and rentals. Then I will wait six months or so and see if my daughter likes it in the middle of the country. If she decides to settle there for a couple of years, I’ll drive another Volvo to Kansas City. If I don’t like Kansas City, I can continue to drive towards California until I reach the Pacific Coast and my brother’s apartment. Being that he isn’t one of my biggest fans, I will follow the ocean south to Los Angeles, visiting my TV Producer friend, Xaque, and hope that he has, by now, slept his way to the top of someplace that needs a secretary. My doctor in Vermont will be forwarding me my medications to every CVS in the country by the time I’m done traveling. Too bad that gas is 3.09 a gallon. I have exactly 2,666 dollars left and a 2,500 limit on a paid-up credit card. It’’s very exciting. A few months ago I had too much money and became severely depressed. Money destroys my art. It pacifies me. Being close to broke again, I feel a renewed sense of purpose and desperation. Not only that, but I can begin asking friends for help, and there is nothing that binds two people together like a loan.
Many years ago, when I was certainly destitute but doing some of my best writing, an old dear friend in Vermont began sending me money whenever I mailed her a story. In other words, she rewarded me. It wasn’t the amount of money. That didn’t make a difference to me. Forty dollars, to an artist, is a fortune when we’re in a grocery store or at the gas station.
This friend kept me writing and not necessarily for the purpose of publishing, which often waters down the work. I was able to just write and not worry about the outcome. I could mail her anything I wrote. The important thing to her was that I write. The little carrot of generosity instilled in me a sense of responsibility and that most precious commodity: hope.
Travel also inspires a writer, even if it’s just to Kansas City. And Kansas City is just a place where my daughter will be and I want to be near her and she wants to be near me. Isn’t that a wonderful gift?
Last night, here in D.C. at the condo, I downloaded Fats Domino’s version of Kansas City and a few other versions, and the four of us (my daughter and two roommates, Liz and Jarod) danced interpretively for over an hour. I was able to show them some moves I learned at Studio 54 thirty years ago because I can still do them. Why? Because I have to be younger than 55 in order to survive my lifestyle. Living on the edge keeps you young as long as you don’t worry yourself to death. I would think I was crazy, but I have read too many biographies and autobiographies of artists who felt the same way. The term “starving artist” does not elude to an artist not being rewarded for their work, it is instead an artist’s birthright; to live freely in ways that others find unconscionable. (can’t find a dictionary)
I’ll admit that I still feel like a misfit, a failure, a lazy slovenly bum. I feel guilt and regret and hunger for the goodies, including money in the bank. I’m probably rationalizing my inability to live properly, responsibly, like an adult, but it just doesn’t come naturally to me. I feel no ill will against those who think poorly of me and other’s like me. I don’t blame the suckers. Meanwhile, I think I’ll spend the summer in Newport, Rhode Island at a friend’s house, take long walks on the beach and sing a few nights in the bistros. In the fall? Who knows….. Kansas City?
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The cop looked in the dumpster and noticed a picture of his wife. He had just received a complaint from the Olympic Sports store that someone had dumped bags of garbage in their dumpster. That someone was me. I’d cleaned out a few drawers of hometown memories that morning, – high school notebooks, graduation pictures, diplomas, clippings and headed into what I thought was a free-for-all dumpster tucked behind a strip mall. After I threw the bags into the dumpster I took a walk with the dog and when I returned to my car I was met by the policeman and the assistant manager of the Olympic Sports store.
I don’t remember my first words, but they conveyed innocence of my wrong-doing.
“I’m in Bridport and missed dump day! I thought these dumpsters were for the public. I live in Providence now, and, well, the dumpsters are there for everybody.”
“Not in Vermont” said the cop.
“I’m sorry” I said.
“There’s a law about that here and I thought there was a law against it in most states.”
“Not Rhode Island” I lied.,
“The fine for dumping is quite high” said the policeman. “ I suggest you take your garbage out. By the way, I know half the people in that photo. My wife is in that photo. Is that your high school class? Class of 68?”
I lied and said yes. I think it was my brother’s class.
“Cindy Bourdeau?”
No clue.
“Oh, yes! Cindy! Haven’t seen her in ages! What’s she doing?”
“I married her forty years ago”
“Well, that is amazing, she was such a great—“
“Billy Cornell. Did you know Billy?”
No clue.
“Of course! Billy was such a funny–:
“Billy is my cousin.”
“That is so funny! I think I was in Billy’s algebra—“
“Karen Costello. Right? Karen was in your class”
No clue.
“Karen. I thought she moved, I don’t know, out west or”
“Karen? No Karen is still around, works with Cindy at the Court House—stenographer.”
The assistant manager folder her arms and leaned against the dumpster. She checked her watch and looked at the back door of the store. The sun was beating down hot on our heads and the dumpster smelled bad. Her eyes narrowed and studied the asphalt. I tried to meet her eyes as I charmed the cop, to let her know that I knew she’d tried to fuck me up and she wasn’t going to get away with it.
The policeman suddenly remembered the assistant manager.
“Oh, ma’am, sorry… this is just a coincidence… this woman—“ He took a postcard out of the dumpster and read the name.. “Yes, you’re Casey right? Laurie Casey?”
“Yes—“
“Yes…right…well, I’m pretty sure Cindy must know you.”
I bull shited with the cop for another half hour. This person, that person, didn’t know any of them though some of the last names seemed familiar.
“Lambert. Johnny Lambert—was he in your class?”
Etc. etc.
The dog was getting hot next to the dumpster.
“Listen, why don’t I pay for the dumpster to be emptied. I’d be more than happy to do that…”
The assistant manager perked up and smirked.
“It costs between 400 to 600 dollars to have that dumpster dumped out. We only do it once a month, and look, it’s full and we aren’t scheduled for a pick up for another week.”
Oh God, I thought, this is bad.
The policeman pondered the problem.
“Well, that seems pretty steep. But it’s less money than what it’ll cost you to pay the fine.”
“Who do I pay?” I asked the assistant manager. She pointed to a number of the dumpster.
“You’ll have to call Carreas” She said.
“The Carreas. They’ve done well for themselves” said the policeman.
“Rodney Carreas, did you know him?”
God, I wished I did.
“I don’t think so”
“Rodney has a couple of other businesses in town… Not a bad guy, Rodney. Done well”
I got the address of Carreas Waste Management Agency and went over to see if they’d give me a break, let me pay for two garbage bags, maybe go with them when they went to pick it up, help them out.
Rodney, after my explanation, sat in front of a computer to search for the Olympic Sports contract.
”You seem busy” I said, ass kissing.
“Nope. Not busy.”
“I would think waste management would be recession safe. Everybody has garbage, always”
“Well, it’s not that simple. Think about it. Nobody is building right now. No contracts for rental dumpsters, no contracts for demolition dumpsters”
I told Rodney about the cop finding a picture of his wife in the dumpster, trying to cheer him up, offering him a comic Waste Management story he could share around the water cooler.
“Here it is” he said. “Olympic Sports. Due for pick-up on Friday. 75 dollars.”
That bitch assistant manager, trying to scare me.
I offered to split the cost with Rodney.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rodney, eyes glued to the computer screen.
“I seen that cops wife. Her picture belongs in the trash.”