Robert E. Brown. The 2 Street Chronicles

Bad Reunion
Part II. Soldiers of God

Ten minutes of silence was broken by the sounds of his return. If you didn't know better you would have thought a mob of rioters with bullhorns were walking up the street. But it was just Joe and two friends who had happened by. When I saw who he brought back with him, my heart began to race. I had to swallow a deep chill in order to put my game face on. Those spidey senses were ringing off the chart.

Joe introduced Mick and Monk (I'm not joking) Mick was a skinny bald guy who looked like he had dressed up as GG Allen for halloween. He was decked out in leather biker jacket and spiked bracelets. He didn't have eyebrows and had a long thin catfish whiskers hanging from the sides of his chin. His spindly little hands were covered with tattoos of finger bones and he had a small swastika tattoo right under his right eye and a black tear drop under the left. He had just finished a 3 year stint for possession. Monk was even bigger than Joe with a long braided ponytail and a mountain man's beard. He didn't have the swastika tattoo, but trumped Mick with a row of three black tear drops. Monk had just gotten out of prison after serving 12 years. They said the guy he killed was a priest who had tried to fondle him, hense the name. (I know, it doesn't make much sense) The two of them had been released at the same time and had been on the town for three days straight. Joe had spotted them stumbling by the bar and chased them down.

The three of them looked completely mismatched sitting togeather. All three achieving a perfect stereotype for the look they were going for. But as is often the brutal truth about so many stereotypes, they were whole heartedly the real deal.

Mick sat tiny and mute in between the hulking Joe and Monk, both of whom bellowed a mile a minute at each other like two pro wrestlers giving pre match speeches. Monk felt compelled to repeatedly shake my hand and didn't want to let go, like he wanted to have an arm wrestle on the bar but wouldn't come out and say it. "DO YOU LOVE JESUS, BROTHER?" Monk asked again for the third time as I tried to wiggle my hand from his grip.
"YOU GOTTA BE DOWN WITH JESUS ROB, WE HATE THOSE GODLESS FUCKS" Joe interjected, slamming his fist on the bar and pointing at the fading celtic cross tattoo on his arm.
"BROTHER, WE ARE SOLDIERS OF GOD." Monk proclaimed.
I didn't even try to give them an answer, they weren't looking for one.
"I worship Satan" Mick mumbled and pulled out a rolled up plastic baggy.
"OH SHIT IS THAT WEED?" Joe asked apparently oblivious to Mick's religious affiliation. "ROLL UP A FATTY"
Mick started to roll a joint.
"Seriously, you know you can't..."
My protest was drowned out.
"YO, ROB, NOT FOR FUCKING NOTHIN' THERE'S NO ONE HERE. YOU DON'T WANT TO PISS US OFF."
Joe was right. I was totally trapped, out matched, and what? I was going to do what? Call the cops on the owners friend and dealer? I couldn't leave, I couldn't kick them out. As I had done a hundred times before, I reminded myself that this was their neighborhood, their bar, their world. I was just a tourist.
Mick finished the joint and pointed towards the back door.
"NO FUCK THAT, I'M FRIENDS WITH THE OWNER. ROB'S COOL, WE CAN SMOKE HERE."
This time I tried to stand my ground.
"YOU A NARCO, BROTHER?" Monk asked and jumped to his feet and flexed his arms like the hulk. I wanted to giggle but fought the urge.
"LOOK, ROB, THERE IS NO ONE HERE. JUST US. JUST US ALONE IN THIS BAR WITH YOU. YOU KNOW NO ONE IS GOING TO COME IN THIS BAR IN THE NEXT 10 MINUTES AND 10 MINUTES IS A LONG TIME TO BE ALONE WITH US."
He was right. I didn't care anymore and told them to do it. But to my surprise Mick handed the joint to me first. "I'm not really into smoking pot" (which I'm not)
"BROTHER, YOU ARE A NARCO" accused Monk and he started his body builder flexing routine again.
They hounded and argued, getting more and more agitated. Being stoned while trapped with them seemed like hell in hell, but I knew I was just dragging things out.

I lit it, took a hit, passed it to Joe. Something wasn't right. Joe took a hit, passed it to Mick. My mouth tasted like gasoline. Mick took a hit, passed it to Monk. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, THIS IS SHITTY WEED" Joe complained. Monk took a hit and passed it to me. I exhaled what felt more like chemical fumes than smoke. I took another hit, passed it to Joe. Something was defiantly not right. Joe took another hit, passed it to Mick. "WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GET THIS SHIT, IT'S FUCKING AWFUL" he moaned. I remembered the taste from a party in college years back. This wasn't weed. "SERIOUSLY, I'M FUCKING INSULTED BY YOUR SHITTY WEED." Joe continued to complain with a sour look on his face. "GOD IT SMELLS AWEFUL."
"This is the best stuff on the market." Mick mumbled in a slightly offended tone.
"YEAH, IT'S GOOD STUFF BROTHER" Interjected Monk.
My body was starting to tingle.
"YO, YOU'VE BEEN LOCKED UP FOR TOO LONG, THAT IS NOT GOOD WEED."
"it's not weed" I said. My whole body felt light, like I was going to start floating.
"I GOTTA HOOK YOU UP WITH MY GUY CAUSE THAT SHIT TASTED LIKE A CAR BATTERY."
"It's not WEED!" I screamed shocking Joe into a brief moment of silence.
"WELL, WHAT IS IT?"
"It's pure wet." responded Mick with a "duh" tone of voice.
I was floating.
"...EXCUSE ME?" Joe stood up.
"You know, dusted." he shrugged.
I was a balloon with just enough helium.
Their voices started to echo, like there was reverb attached to their mic. You could see in Joe's face, a look of realization while fading at the same time. LIke he was looking up at you as he was falling off a cliff.
"YOU TWO... JUST SLIPPED... ME PCP... YOU TWO... JUST SLIPPED ME... A FUCKING... DIRTY GHETTO DRUG..."

The altercation escalated but I couldn't hear what they were saying anymore. They seemed really far away. Like I was watching a movie through dirty glass with static cutting through the audio. I remember Joe grabbing Mick and shaking him like a rag doll. Monk jumped in and the two hulks grappled each other. But this distant film that I was watching was edited and cut strangely. I only saw a couple of short clips and then suddenly they were all gone. I was standing (floating) alone in the morgue silent bar. I had 7 more hours left in my shift.

I ran through the bar and locked the doors, shut the windows. After sitting for a moment, I called a cab and went home. I was off for three days after that. I came back and no one mentioned the bar closing at 8 pm or the money sitting uncounted in the register. I never saw Monk or Mick again and when Joe finally returned a month later, neither of us said a word about that night. Shit just happens

The Sniveling Goat

Robert E. Brown. The 2 Street Chronicles

Bad Reunion
part I. Everyone's Pal

There are different levels of criminal. By level, I don't mean category like, shoplifter or hit man. I mean level of intensity, level of energy they subconsciously put off. If you've floated around the underbelly enough you feel it. I think it has to do with how much time they spend in the system, their experiences start to permeate their being. A hard con's mere presence lets you know how dangerous he is. You can tell the difference between a tough guy suburbanite and a city ghetto thug. Sometimes the guy asking for change is a harmless drug addict, sometimes you know he' s a true crack head and you shouldn't turn your back as you walk by. It's like spidey senses. At the 2 street bar those senses were honed. All of the neighborhood guys wanted me to believe they were bad ass, they spent a lot of time trying to convince me of it. But that subconscious spidey sense would tell me most of what I needed to know within the first minute. Generally the more they tried, the less threatening they were.

There was no trying with Joe. With Joe, you just knew. With Joe, the hair stood up on the back of your neck the second you heard his voice booming and thundering. He was so loud that you could hear him from a full block away if the windows to the bar were open. But Joe spent most of his time trying to convince you he was a great guy, a lovable guy, "HEY, YO, I'M EVERYONE'S PAL" which of course he was not. Joe was an aging neighborhood coke dealer and debt collector who tipped in 20 bags and personally supplied the owner. On sight, you knew Joe hurt people. He played his part from a text book, his pudgy fingers covered in jewelry and the obligatory gold chain around the neck. He was always smiling but it was a tense cocaine twitching smile, like there were invisible fishhooks attached to the corner of his mouth and the plastic fishing line had stretched ready to snap. Joe was huge, 300 pounds plus of mostly muscle. You could tell his growing gut was a new development. His aging metabolism matched with the quarts of heavy cream white russians had finally started overpowering the speed in his system. The veins were always popping out of his head and I was convinced that he was going to drop from a coronary at any given moment. There was a nervous feeling that permeated the bar when he was there, like the herd knew there was a predator watching. He would shout engage nervous customers across the bar in conversation that almost always led to the petrified patrons excusing themselves the second he closed the restroom door to do another bump.

Generally the racism in the bar was relegated to quiet disappointed musings about the days when "they" knew their place or discussions about who "the good ones" were and what made them different from "bad niggers." Joe took a different nerve wracking route in coping with his life long lilly white irish tavern being desegregated. He would engage anyone of color with a patronizing, threatening ebonics. All smiles with tense violence behind the eyes. "YO MAH NIGGAS" he would shout while waving at confused black patrons who didn't know him. "GET MAH NIGGAS A ROUND OF COVASIA OR APPLETENIS OR WHAT EVER SNOOP AND DRE OVER THERE ARE KEEPIN IT REAL WIT" the menace behind the courtesy was glaring. "YO MAH BROTHAS, WHO'S YO NUMBER ONE NIGGA?" He was daring them to address this blaring social faux pa on his turf. As always, there was nothing I could do, it always seemed that only the worst customers were on the owners "do not flag" VIP list. And like Cookie, I knew that I would have probably died if I had been able to try.

It was another slow summer Sunday shift. A couple italian girls in waitress uniforms, off shift from the dinner down the block looking bored over their beers and an older black couple hunched over heavy in conversation. It was hot and bright and the last person I wanted to see walk in was Joe. Within minutes it started. "HEY LADIES, YOU ARE LOOKING SO FUCKING GOOD DOWN THERE. WHY DON'T YOU SLIDE THIS WAY AND WE CAN HAVE A PARTY." The girls ignored him.
"YO, SERIOUSLY GIRLS, COME ON DOWN HERE, I ONLY BITE WHEN YOU ASK NICE."
The girl closest to him gave him a silent, palm out hand gesture without turning her head. Her intent was to give him the Jerry Springer talk to the hand, but her bright red nails were so long and pointy, it looked to me more like she was letting him know she was armed.
"YO, JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE NICE TITS DON'T MEAN YOU CAN ACT LIKE A FUCKIN' CUNT."
I braced for the fight, but to my amazement the girls just got up and left.
Two down.
After a minute it started again.
"YO MAH NIGGAS" he shouted at the old black couple "MAH NIGGAS, YOU DOWN WITH T.O. AIN'T CHO? FUCK THE EAGLES, A NIGGAAAAAA GOTS TA GET PAAAAAID RIGHT?"
And they were gone. Just me and Joe at the start of a summer Sunday shift that was too hot and too bright.

"THIS WAS THE LINE, THIS STREET RIGHT HERE, ANYTHING SOUTH OF HERE, WAS A FUCKIN' SHANTY TOWN, JUST SHACKS IN THE MUD WITH NO ELECTRICITY, THIS WAS LIKE BACK IN THE 30'S, THEY WERE STILL BRINGIN' DRINKIN' WATER IN ON HORSE DRAWN CARTS. INDIAN'S LIVED BETTER THAN THE IRISH BACK THEN, SHIT NIGGERS LIVED BETTER. PEOPLE KNEW NOT TO COME DOWN HERE..." I had heard this story a hundred times, Joe loved to discuss his humble roots. Then suddenly he stopped and his eyes started scanning out the window like a cat who might have seen movement. He jumped up and was out the door with out saying a word. I was saved.

(I thought)

My Company

Robert E. Brown: The Enunciation of a Muse

The young girl is the metaphorical idealization of my artistic muse that I have carried with me since a teenager. The abstraction of who, when and where I first realized that my own creative expression was something I would spend my life needing to pursue.
-She is blindfolded so that I will not be distracted.
-In her left hand she holds a pistol so that I will not be stopped.
-In her right hand she holds a spread of tarot cards because I know my destiny.
-her ankle is shackled to a weighted ball so that I stay grounded.
-She lounges surrounded in an opulent cornucopia of fruits, flowers and plants, because life is a feast
-Next to her is a severed (sniveling) goats head. To remind me to always try and temper my considerable darker urges
-Behind her is a classical temple to remind me that all great creation stems from a knowledge of the past.
-It is on fire with people fleeing to the hills because in order to advance forward, you often have to destroy those traditions.
-The banner reads NEUTIQUAM ERRO which means I AM NOT LOST in latin. Some people spend their whole lives trying to find out what road their on. I know where I am and where I'm going, for better or for worse, I'm staying on that path.

This tattoo has grown and grown. Initially it was going to just be the banner over my shoulders, and the girl was to be small in my upper back. Obviously the scope increased. Initially the whole plate was to be black & white, but as we were wrapping up, we decided to add some color to the girl to make her pop. But now that it's done, we've come to the conclusion that by doing this, it's become a color piece and we need to add more color.

But the back has been a serious trouble spot for me. My skin balloons up and swells horribly and I haven't been able to sit for very long (especially along the spin) So we have decided to move on to the second sleeve of circus freaks & clowns which we start next week. Then I'll be back to my muse.

Trish Sanchez does great work and I'm humbled that she agreed to do two sleeves and a huge back plate for a couple of my prints.

http://valortattoo.com/
1448 Brownsville Road
Trevose PA 19053
215-322-4455
fax:215-322-4457


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Street Zombies, Lost Gods and A City Full of Ghosts

The Zombies Rule the Night.



I started using the term Street Zombie when I was living in Northern Liberties. For those of you not from Philadelphia, Northern Liberties is now a very posh, hip, artsy neighborhood. But it wasn't always like that. The D.I.N.K. gentrification (duel income no kids) really swept the area fast because it was all but abandoned. There were no old working class families holding out against the dog parks and B.Y.O. bistros. You didn't see the cloistered blue collar culture clash by those who felt like their multi generational neighborhood was being invaded by outsiders, like you do now in South Philly or Fishtown. Only huge, beautiful abandoned houses and warehouses just waiting for art school ex suburbanites to roll in on their quest for more space, cheap rent and a new scene. When it was finally my turn to be pushed out of center city, I arrived at that peak. That period before the developers start putting up condos and the yuppies start pushing the hipsters and artsy fartsies even farther north or south.

But I lived on "the line," the east side of 7th street. The west side of 7th street was not part of Northern Liberties. Across the street, there was no urban renewal. In front of my house was a run down public elementary school, next to a homeless shelter, surrounded by a massive fenced in public housing project. Two blocks down on the corner of Spring Garden were two huge hip hop clubs that induced so much dread in the police that every weekend they shut down the street. Every Friday and Saturday night there were enough cops to compose a small riot squad spread up and down the block.

If I stood on my corner and looked east I would see hipster D.I.N.K.s walking their dogs with lattes in hand, sitting at cafes while staring into laptops. If I turned and looked west, I could see the homeboys on their stoop, drinking 40's and slinging dope on the opposite corner. The two cultures had virtually no interaction. No one crossed to the other side.

Now when I first started dating my wife, I fell into a routine. She was managing an upscale wine bar in Center City and would usually get done around 3 in the morning. I would work on my prints until around 2 am and then walk from Northern Liberties to Ritenhouse square. It was an hour urban hike at a fast clip. Now to get there I would walk west along Spring Garden, then south on Broad. I figured since they were well lit large streets, I was safer. Most people from Philly, especially around that time, though I was insane. The stretch of Spring Garden ran through the sprawling projects, warehouses and large commercial structures that looped quiet and empty at that time of night.

If you were in a car, you would have thought that there was no one out at all. The road would seem completely quiet, the streets utterly abandoned. But my journey on foot didn't move me fast enough to keep the night denizens out of sight. I moved slow enough to know better. I could sense people in the shadows, some how camouflaged into the buildings. But if I slowed down or stopped to tie my shoe, they would start to move in. The Street Zombies. They were beat up hookers, homeless intent on hustling change, dope slingers ready to offer a deal, potential muggers. It was as if stopping put me in sync so I could see them, or perhaps it gave them a bead on me. But It was always a slow process. They always aimlessly wandered out of the shadows. I would be aware of them and they would be aware of me. As if by having stopped moving, my scent began to rouse them. No one ever called out or tried directly to approach me. If I stopped for long enough, several street zombies would be visible, Meandering towards me like some George Romero undead. Casually emerging out of the shadows and starting to cross the street. But all it took to loose them was to start moving again at a faster pace. When I would move down the street, the zombies never followed, they would just fade back into the shadows. As long as I was walking fast, I was out of sync with their world.

I would get to Beth's job and her coworkers would ask me "How was your evening?"
"It's scary out there. The zombies rule the night. Some day they're going to get me."
Her coworkers would laugh.
I wouldn't.


My Company

R.E. Brown. Fuck you Bobby Digital, I almost lost my mind.

So I'm sitting in my little office the other day, home alone. No tv on, no music playing. Suddenly I hear in this low, deep voice, barely addible someone say "yo"
Now this isn't odd since I live in south philly, but it's usually someone standing on the side walk outside our living room window. Usually something more like "Yo Mikey, not for nuthin' but when yah gonna move yer fuckin' car?"
This was a little different. My office is on the second floor of my house. The windows sealed tight to protect my prints from my own absent mindedness when it rains.
Then I hear it again. "yo"
What the fuck. that was really someone's voice.
I turn in my chair.
"yo"
I walk out into the hall.
Dead silence.
"Hello?"
No one is in the house.
I sit back down.
"yo."
Am I loosing my mind? Have the voices finally started?
I cross my leg.
"yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo."
Where is that coming from????
It's coming from my pants.
my Ipod had turned on in my pocket and is pressing up against my phone.
It seems my sanity is intact for another day.

"Can't forget Digi if I did I'd feel gypt,
like my sandwich ain't a sandwich with out miracle whip."


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Robert vs. Traffic

No matter what city you live in, people complain about drivers. There seems to be a true cliched belief that every city can proudly claim the most reckless and incompetent. So I'm not going to say Philly has the worst drivers, but my experience with them has always been tense. Especially since I don't drive any more. My feet are my main mode of transportation and being a pedestrian, I feel like I am literally at war with those who sit behind a wheel. The main battle ground- stop signs. The drivers in Philly seem to resent the idea of a stop sign. It's a suggestion, or a warning that they may have to slow down, just a little. But I'm stubborn and always in a rush. Constantly screaming, "Pedestrians have the right of way" at people who see the ton of metal backing them up as proof otherwise. The result has been my being clipped by cars rolling through the streets on a near regular basis. I have learned not to jay walk after cutting through gridlocked traffic once, only to get laid out by a bicyclist zipping along the jam of cars. But walking to the corner doesn't guarantee anything. After a dozen grazings, my reconditioning from polite south westerner (polite only by east coast standards) to transplanted south Philly resident has escalated me into a walking public altercation, always ready to scream obscenities, kick fenders and punch doors as I limp away from the car that's rolled me onto it's hood.

Now one would say that my irrational, even violent knee jerk responses are inappropriate, certainly one could say that I should just stop and wait and let the cars blast through the stop signs and stop playing a game of chicken that only has my life at steak. But at this point it's almost a vendetta against the drivers of this city. I think the grudge stems from the fact that out of the ten times I've been clipped at a stop sign, never once has anyone stopped and politely said, "I'm sorry." Now I freak out and menace the cars who hit me with mixed and comic results.

There was the suit in center city who was talking on his cell phone and literally bent me over his hood as he was rolling along. I slammed my fist and screamed, "What the fuck??" He looked up with a terrified expression on his face, then dove down into the passenger side. I mean, he just disappeared. I brushed myself off and walked around the car. He was gone. I peered into the window and he was hiding like some urban possum who thought that if he just crouched down, I would think he was gone. He looked at me with a panicked expression. Then sat up and threw the car in reverse and tore down the block backwards, leaving me shocked with laughter.

Then there was the mini van that turned a corner and grazed me, bouncing me back on the sidewalk, popping the lid off my fresh cup of coffee and half the contents onto my jacket. Two fat south philly house wives screamed out a warning, preventing a far worse impact. The mini van stopped a few feet past me. The women were off their stoop bellowing insults at him and waving their fists in my defense. Two asian tottlers were in the back seat with their hands and faces pressed against the glass, staring with wonder at the spectacle outside. The car sat there for a moment, and at the women's behest, I winged my coffee against the window. The children didn't flinch at the impact but the van tore off while the women continued to scream. I think they just needed an excuse.

Strangely, the meat heads and tough guys never seem to respond with more than a "fuck off" or giving me the finger. Chest beating is a way of life and everyone does it. They're more likely to fuck with you if you don't respond like they would. The one altercation that nearly went violent was from an old woman. She was rolling through a sign with her head turned away from me to look for traffic down a one way street. She rolled so close to me that I literally fell into her open window. I screamed "Jesus Christ" inches from her face and she looked up terrified like her car was being invaded. She never let off the gas. As she coasted across the intersection I screamed "moron" at the top of my lungs. She screeched to halt as I started to walk down the street. I turned back and the 65 year old woman was our of her car, banging a baseball bat on the street and waving it over her head. She was screaming the most amazing string of obscenities at me and challenging me to come over and get some. I thought it best to keep walking.

My wife says I'm going to get shot someday. Maybe I will. I should probably buy a bus pass.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Robert Brown Number 1 Success

Part III. Work will set you free

And so, the sales madness began. Or perhaps, the lack of madness began. Employees of the Small Accounts Division made their bonus' based on the size of the phone bills of the accounts they got. But since you have to wait for the bills to come in, they offered large starting bonus' to get employees through the first couple of months. But I knew I was only going to be there for two more months. Being the smartest man working for the Sprint Corporation, I came to the logical conclusion that there just wasn't any profit in making new sales. And seriously, everyone hates telemarketers. People are fucking mean. Every beaten down secretary and soul crushed administrative assistant relished the chance to finally tell someone to go fuck themselves on the phone. I was just passing through, a tourist looking for a fast paycheck and no headaches.

So I mastered the art of wasting time. It wasn't that hard to do. There was a half hour meeting at the beginning of the day, a half hour meeting at the end, an hour after lunch. Two hours dedicated to maintaining accounts in the morning, an hour in the afternoon. That only left me with three hours to get hung up on and fake calls. I would photocopy chapters of Bukowski novels and shuffle them in with my paper work so I could read without being obvious, I would disconnect my brain and flip through folders or endlessly scroll through billing records while in a blank meditative state. Eventually I just openly fucked off, drawing cartoons of my team members or making paper airplanes that didn't fly.
"I've given everyone new names. You are no longer Jo Jo Jackson. You are now "the Captain" because you have pirates in your pants" I said to the old black dude in the cubical next to me as I pinned a scribbled sign to his grey wall over his name tag.
"What the fuck?" he said laughing and shaking his head. "You know, eventually they're going to expect you to do some work around here."
"Don't question my genius" I laughed.

For a full month June didn't question my genius at all. After all, I was practically super human in her book, a superior to everyone around me, including her. The fact that my name on the board had a zero next to it was not of consequence because it was only a matter of time before I overwhelmed the center with my greatness. By the end of my second month she was starting to get a little nervous and started calling me into her office for pep-talks.

"Robert, I know you are super success, but I worry about your slow progress."
"I made this for you June" I said changing the subject. "It's an origami of a storm cloud." I placed a crumpled, balled up sheet of paper on her desk."
"Uh, I am honored" she said looking nervous. "It is a magnificent origami. I cherish your gift." she said, delicately placing the paper wad on her book shelf. "But your progress..."
"Don't worry June. I've got like, 6 accounts almost in the bag. Huge accounts. You know you can't rush these guys. I'm working them slow so that I don't chase them away."
"I apologize for questioning your strategy Robert. I know you are going to be great winner."

But there were no big accounts and I started hiding, literally. Because the managers made so much noise with their whistles and noise makers, the sales reps had developed a technique to get some quiet while talking to their clients. Sitting under the desks. I however, just laid under there and read. Then I started a new project. I laid on my back and made a collage mural on the bottom underside of my desk, cutting out photos and text from the Sprint Corporate newsletter. I defaced photos of Sprint executives and placed slogans next to them. Slogans like "Work will set you free" and "Down with Capitalist Stooges" spliced together with tape like a ransom note. A Shrine to Robert number 1 left behind for the next beaten down sales rep to find after I split for the east coast.

By the end of the third month June was very worried about her star recruit. It was clear she had failed to motivate me and unlock the genius that my test score showed. Sprint bussed the whole office to the mountains for a day of team building and barbecue. The day was spent at a camp ground and June latched on to me, forcing me to stand on picnic benches and recite positive self affirmations. She was convinced that my self esteem was the issue. I just needed the confidence to utilize my super human IQ.
"You are a winner!"
"I am a winner!"
"You are the greatest sales rep at Sprint!"
"I am the greatest sales rep at Sprint!
"You are the greatest sales rep in the world!"
"I am the greatest sales rep in the world!"


I put in my notice the next day. June was almost in tears. "No, no, you won't give up. I will not let you quit Robert, you are number 1." I didn't have the heart to tell her that I had planned to move to Philly long before I started the job. I told her Christianne's mother had just been diagnosed with colon cancer and we had to move there to care for her. "I understand Robert, you are a good man" she said. She picked up the wadded up piece of paper she had on display on her bookshelf. I will always keep your unusual origami and think fondly of the great Robert Brown, super success.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Robert Brown Number 1 Success

Part II. The greatest prize

The Sales division was a surreal environment. While it had all the trappings a stale corporate office, they also had a mandate to keep the staff motivated and in a state of "high energy." There were balloons everywhere. Managers with bull horns and silly hats wandered through the building screaming out encouragement. Whistles and noise makers were constantly going off around the building as people made sales. A never ending stream of announcements of incentives were being called out. The team that has the best customer revenue stats for the week gets a free lunch at the steak house down the street. The team who gets the most sales for the day gets to dress down on Friday. Whoever gets the next sale wins a diskman. Monday is Hawaiian shirt day.

There was always cake.

After lunch, they held a building wide hour long meeting to announce who had the biggest accounts, the most accounts and what teams were on top. It was like a mix between a game show and an award ceremony. Hundreds of dollars in cash and prizes as well as plaques and trophies were handed out each day. But the enthusiasm was managerial policy. On close examination, the managers and team leaders were the only ones blowing the whistles, the only ones running around with balloons. The tie clad grunts were always expressionless and grim in the mist of confetti and free clock radios being thrown at them.

After my "graduation" June led me up to the cluster of cubicles that she insisted would be my new home and family. "Team, this is Robert Brown. He is number 1 who will be insuring Team Success will stay on top. Welcome him to his new family." A few disinterested faces looked up. There was a couple of slow sarcastic claps and someone weakly blew a whistle. I waved with a big grin on my face. Not because I was happy to be a part of the team, but because towards the end of training I had gotten the low down on Team Success, June, and why Robert was number 1.

June was a company zealot. She was from a super wealthy Taiwanese family and had disavowed a life of luxury and opulence to come to America and prove here ambition and drive as a self made woman. She was the top sales woman for several years who insisted that she be assigned to the top team when she received her promotion. She had only recently taken over and renamed Steven's Slaughter House as Team Success. Steven's Slaughter House, named after the previous manager Steven Glendale was in trouble. Glendale had been fired after it had come to light that numbers were being fudged and many of the sales were fraudulent. Team success was still on top, but just barley. June was undaunted by the soiled rep of Team Success and saw a challenge to prove herself a winner yet again. Her first step, find a ringer. She was under the impression that I was that star.

Now I'm not sure if I'm really that good, or if the rest of the people employed by the Sprint Corporation are that bad. I know what my past IQ test scores have been and they're very high. I don't know what I scored that first day, but I do know that apparently I had scored higher than any employee in the entire corporation. According to their records, the Albuquerque Business Accounts Division found themselves in the possession of the smartest man in company history. Whether it was a million to one testing fluke, a grading error or I'm really a super genius, it didn't really matter. June associated that test score to great salesmanship. I was her greatest prize. Robert Brown Number 1.

I sat down at my desk and pulled out a pen. I wrote on a piece of paper, PHILADELPHIA 53 and put a tick mark underneath. Only 52 tick marks to go.

My Company

Robert E. Brown. Robert Brown Number 1 Success

Part I. Surreal world

My last job in New Mexico was my first real foray into "the real world" and how it did terrify me. I had all but finished school and knew the exact day set for the move. Christianne was bouncing back and forth between Philly and Albuquerque making all of the arrangements, doing the packing. My only chore was to sludge to a day job for three months and save us some money. There is something so freeing about knowing exactly when you are going to get out.

I got hired as a small business accounts rep for Sprint. The job was part good old fashioned telemarketing, part maintaining and servicing the accounts already acquired. When I applied they gave us a full battery of IQ tests. I thought it a little odd for a corporation to do this but I've taken plenty before and I buzzed through them. Did they need written proof to see if someone was a fucktard?

I was called back in and offered the position and the HR rep explained job. This was at the time right before cell phones really took over. Sprint PCS had a building there too, but didn't even have service in New Mexico yet. The long distance wars were in full effect and the sprawling office of grey cubicles were laid out in clusters of sales teams. While I dreaded the idea of working there, they had a huge system of incentives and bonuses. I was getting a shit load of money and they didn't even expect me to make a sale for the first month. A lot of the money was up front just for even starting. When I walked out of the office, a tiny chinese lady was waiting for me. "My name is June" she said "I am team manager and you Robert Brown, are going to work on my team because you are number 1."
"Uh, Okay."
She showed me to the grey cubical cluster like it was a wonder to behold. "We are Team Success" June announced waving her hand over my future desk like a game show girl displaying a prize. "Team Success is number 1 sales team in all of Sprint. We would be honored if you chose us, Robert Number 1."
"Uh, sure. I guess." (what the fuck?)
A frazzled balding suit came running up to us. ''Damn it, I guess June got to you first" he said to me.
I just stared at him. June Grinned.
"Well either way, it's good to have you on board" he said shaking my hand.
"This was Tim" June said after he left. "His team number 3 sales team. That's no good for you."

My training class lasted three weeks. Three weeks of intensive training. The answer was yes, they needed written proof that someone was a fucktard. "This is a mouse. We use it to move the cursor around the screen like so..." the instructor demonstrated as I quietly banged my head on the table.

June would periodically check in on me to make sure the class was going well, that I didn't have any issues or concerns and generally to make sure I was happy and comfortable.
"The team is eager to have you join us Robert number 1" she would beam. "Soon you will be with your new family."
I had no idea what was going on. There were 30 people in my training class. None of them had their managers dooting on them or even checking on them for that matter. I was nervous and uncomfortable with the attention, convinced there had been some error they would discover or my star status was due to some mistaken identity.

One day June interrupted the class to bring me a slice of cake.
"What makes you so special?" the bitter middle aged woman next to me quipped under her breath.
"I have a huge cock." I said out loud and took another bite.

It was as good an explanation as any other.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Trash Storm

If you haven't been to Philly, you might not know that it is one of the dirtiest cities in the United States. I reside in South Philly where the trash collectors give a shit even less than the residents and there is no street cleaning service. There are third world cities that have less garbage on the streets. Now wading through piles of trash, I mean walking on the sidewalk can be pretty sick, but today was a new experience.

You see today we had mad crazy March winds. My wife and I were out running errands on foot and the winds were shoving so hard one had a difficult time standing upright. But there was that extra element that made life truly grand. The South Philly street waste. Suddenly God had turned into an evil jedi with a mean sense of humor. Not only did one have to fight the frigid winds, but also had to dodge the constant onslaught of McDonalds wrappers, dirty paper plates and empty cigarette packs. I was actually hit in the head by a flying plastic gallon milk container. It was as if some distant land fill had risen up and rioted through the streets of Philadelphia.

But then I saw something I will never forget. We walked around a corner and straight into a garbage whirlwind. Remember that kid in American beauty? He saw God in that spinning plastic grocery bag. Well I wonder if he would have felt the same if it was six bags,
and five dirty napkins,
and a cheese steak wrapper,
and two paper cups,
and an empty toilet paper roll
and a chocolate bar wrapper
and a used tampon dispenser
and
and
and
and...



My Company

Robert E. Brown. The 2 Street Chronicles

No one takes the piss out of me.

It was the start of another shift at the 2 street bar. I walked in and tapped out John the day bartender. I looked around. An old rummy nursing a mug of beer, a couple of construction workers with five empties in front of them, flirting with a bored neighborhood housewife who was decked out in a purple velvet track suit. In the corner there was a kid playing the video golf game in a tee shirt three times too big and his cap pulled to the side of his head. Just another shift. As John was leaving, he pointed to the farthest booth back at a body propped against the wall.
"So uh, when that guy wake up, you'll want to throw him out."
"Shit man, he's passed out over there. Why don't you throw him out now?" I asked.
"Well, he's got a gun in his pants that he was waving around earlier so I figured we would let him sleep it off."
"Cops?" I said putting an imaginary phone to my ear with a "duh??" expression on my face.
"No cops. You know the rule."
The bar had just been listed by the South Philly Review as one of the worst nuisance bars in the city. While the owner had won the battle to re-open after the big drug bust, we were still on the city's most wanted list and the LCB was trying to take the liquor license away. The owner was very clear. No cops.
"I'm sure he'll be more reasonable after he sleeps it off" he said over his shoulder as he rushed out the door.
I stood there with my mouth open and my heart pounding while the construction workers barked at me for another round.

I tried to go about my business like everything was normal while my eyes darted to the dark booth every 30 seconds. No one seemed to notice the snoring corpse. About 20 minutes into the shift, I heard the loud thump of a metal object hitting the floor. The body was slouched over the table. I tip toed to the booth. He was out cold and I could see the .38 by his foot. I got on my hands and knees and crawled under to retrieve the weapon. I picked it up, it was wet. What the fuck? I looked up over my shoulder with my face right at crotch level and realized he was peeing his pants. This was no tinkle, there was a torrent of beer piss poring down his leg. There I was, on my hands and knees, under a table, in a rapidly growing puddle of another man's urine, while holding a .38, in a shit hole bar in deep south Philly. Just freeze that moment in your head. Freeze it and ask yourself, why was I there? I certainly did.

No one understood why I would put myself through working in such a sketchy place. The answer lies in a basic understanding of my personality. While the 2 street culture wasn't all that alien to me, I was alien to them. Most of my regulars rarely ventured out of the neighborhood. Most were born, lived and died on the same block. Center City was only five train stops away but to them it might as well be on the other side of the country. Not only was I not from the neighborhood, I wasn't from South Philly, I wasn't from Philly, I wasn't even from the east coast.
"Where were you born?"
"Kansas."
"You grew up in KANSAS?" they would ask with a look of wide eyed astonishment.
"No, I grew up in New Mexico."
"....you...grew... up..."
It was enough to shut down their brains. Here was this college educated wacko from some strange land that had suddenly invaded the neighborhood. Sometimes I got the feeling that they were coming into the bar just to gawk at me. The 2 streeters were fiercely proud of their blue collar roots and there was a basic assumption that since I wasn't one of them, I was weak. It didn't matter that I had spent my teens and twenties hanging out with thugs and drug dealers, that I had been involved in plenty of fights, that I've seen people beaten into the hospital and shot. I spoke funny and wasn't from there so I HAD to be weak. The bartender Tommy, pulled me aside once to try and help me assimilate.
"Not for nothin' but it's like this, everyone knows you ain't one of us. See cause you read."
"I read? Tommy I read the fucking Weekly."
"Yeah, but see, we don't read. You stand down there readin' and it makes you look like a snob. Like you're better than us. And you talk like some kind of snooty professor."
"Jesus Christ, you make it sound like I'm quoting T.S. Eliot for fuck sake."
"Yeah, it's talk like that, you gotta stop it. Also, I gotta be honest, a lot of the guys think you're a faggot. It's not just all the big fag words you use, but it's those shoes. The second people see you they know you ain't one of us.
"My Chuck Taylors?"
"Yeah, only those punker weirdoes over on south street or the faggots wear those. I try and stand up for you and tell the guys you ain't a queer, but you ain't makin' it easy. I mean for real, this place really ain't for you."

Pep talks like that were regular occurrences from everyone around me. There was a betting pool to see how long I would stay that started the first week. The neighborhood goons constantly tested me to see if I would stand my ground. The fact that no one believed that I would survive, and that no one wanted me there was exactly why I stayed. I worked at the 2 street bar for a year and a half out of spite for my customers and a need to prove I could do it. I knew I would never earn their respect and didn't want it, I just needed to show that I could last.

After I disarmed the drunk of his piss soaked pistol, I flopped him onto the floor with a loud painful thud. He moaned but didn't wake up. After dragging him outside by the dumpster and kicking him in the stomach as payment for my troubles, I went to the bathroom and did my best to wash off the urine. Then I went to the end of the bar and started to read.

My Company

Robert E. Brown. Street Zombies, Lost Gods and A City Full of Ghosts

All you have to do is look.

I relinquished my car after the nasty breakup with my first fiance. For the last eight years I haven't had the insulating sanctuary of my own four wheels to escape the crush of urban humanity and I'm glad. Public transit and long urban hikes have been my primary form of transportation, this has allowed me important moments with the cities most alien underbelly.

Urban denizens have always fascinated me, the homeless, street walkers, loitering drug addicts, the mentally ill and abandoned low income elderly. All unwanted and turned out to wander the streets with nothing to do but let time pass by. They are American untouchables who inhabit a cityscape in a primitive existence completely separate from "the real world." Most functioning members of society don't register their presence as they speed past in cars or brush by on foot with eyes averted. I am not a social critic or activist. My place is that of an observer who believes in realities and worlds constructed by the viewer. Their world is like an alternate ghost world that doesn't need a magic key or a wardrobe portal to enter. All one has to do is stop and LOOK- and you're there. But the civilized are wise in averting their eyes, most aren't ready or equipped to focus and engage those ghosts who stand all around them.

After becoming the fixated target of the Sansom Street Witch simply by making eye contact, you might think I would start averting my eyes too. (see previous entry entitled Sansom Street Witch) My crime against the Street Witch was that I acknowledged her, thereby entering her world. During every encounter she screamed. "I see you." But I'm not one to look away, I've found myself keenly, continually aware of this alternate shadow, this reality inhabited by those who don't seem real.

The things you see when you LOOK while living in a city are almost enough to drive suburbanites and residents of Palin's America into madness. Once my wife contended that you haven't really lived until you've stepped in a warm pile of human feces on an underground subway platform. I contend that while this is true, one doesn't achieve true enlightenment until one WATCHES another human being taking such a shit.

I was walking out of 30th street station and there he was squatting in broad daylight just feet from the door. Commuters were passing by this invisible troll completely oblivious. Not a cop in sight. I pulled out my ipod and turned up the soothing sounds of James Brown. A sound track for his shame as he squatted bouncing and jittery. Like a nervous bug in human form, hissing and waving at me because I didn't pretend it wasn't happening. Because I LOOKED while other's around refused his existence. But my eyes weren't a spotlight on his crime, they were an acknowledgment of his reality. By doing this, the crime is mine.

I recall sitting at a bus stop watching a tore up disheveled transvestite hooker beat a homeless crack head bloody with a 6 inch stiletto heel. She was swinging the shoe down on his head like a high fashion sickle. They were three feet away from me, him on the ground trying to fend off her blows with limp low energy kicks while dragging himself away with one arm, the other in the air defending his bleeding head from her attack. He scooted down the street while she hobbled after him with shoe in pursuit, screaming "die mother fucker die."

A girl asked me once "What did you do?" What did I do? I ate my Doritos and I watched. It wasn't my place, it wasn't my world. But it was important to me that I saw it. For a brief moment I peered into this portal, into this other reality.

No one else wanted to look.

My Company

Robert E. Brown. Tales from the Land of Entrapment

The Holy Triumvirate of the Freshly Baked Perspective.
Part III: Vic

If there ever was a person who truly qualified as Freshly Baked, it was Vic. Vic already held legend status amongst the crew before I met him. He was 5 years older than everyone else and had moved away to San Diego. He had returned because of an unfortunate PCP incident. (that's all anyone knew) The first time I saw him was at Lance's mother's house months after I had met the others. He was sitting on an exercise bike wearing a sun visor. They were watching a beat up video tape of the notorious footage of Bud Dwyer blowing his head off at a press conference. Every time the scene would end, Vic would say "again."
After the fifth viewing Lance started to protest. "Dude, there's other stuff on the tape."
"Again" Victor would command. And they would rewind the tape. By the tenth time everyone was numb to it and bored and left Vic in the living room to watch the shooting ad nauseam. From the kitchen we could hear the scene being played out over and over.
"Everybody get back, this thing is loaded." BANG...
..."Everybody get back, this thing is loaded." BANG...
I didn't know what to make of him.

My initial weariness of Vic got worse the next time I saw him. He and Louie were having a barbecue at their mother's house. They had a half pipe in their back yard and beer in coolers so there was no reason to go inside. When I finally needed to get one from the fridge, I froze staring at the door. There were dozen's of obituaries cut out from the paper and taped to the fridge. Louie walked by and I asked "What the fuck?"
"Yeah man, my brother's pretty fucked up." Now I was seriously rattled by this quiet dead pan weirdo and I avoided him for several months. No one told me Vic was a hospice nurse's aid, these were the people he cared for, got to know, and had tended to on their death beds.

After my reservations were put to ease, I became utterly fascinated by him. Vic was far more into his hispanic roots than Louie and when he did speak, it was always in soft, low volume home boy slang. "Yo bro... it's time."
"Uh, time for what Vic?"
"Cerveza."
"Uh, do you want to get a beer?"
He would just stare for a moment and then get up and leave. "Ok, I guess we're going to go have a beer now."

His man of few words persona constantly drove my imagination wild. I pictured him being a mixture of the man with no name, the Fonz and an Aztec prince all wrapped up in a piercing & dread lock package. This fascination hit overload one night when Vic, Jonathan and I decided to eat mushrooms. The three of us sat in my living room and tripped our faces off. Vic pulled out an ounce of weed and dumped the whole thing on a T.V. tray in front of him. He rolled a joint and offered it to me. I declined. Jonathan was sitting at the kitchen table oblivious to the offer, he was intensely sculpting with play dough and talking a mile a minute. He was rambling at both of us but really he just enjoyed the sounds his mouth made. After about two hours I realized Vic hadn't said a word, and was still smoking a joint. As Jonathan continued to chatter on, I started watching Vic. He would roll a joint, casually smoke the whole thing, then roll another. Always with the most nonchalant, I'm a bad ass look on his face. By the end of the night he had smoked the whole ounce. He was smoking joints like I was smoking cigarettes. I began believing Vic was some sort of super human. He wasn't like you or I. I started picturing Vic as this alien who had superior knowledge. His wisdom was beyond our earthly comprehension and he only spoke occasionally and briefly because his thoughts and awareness were too powerful for us to grasp. There were deep meanings and cosmic ideas percolating in his mighty cranium and-
Vic stood up. "Hey Robert."
It had been so long since he spoke that Jonathan went silent mid sentence. We both stared at Vic a little spooked.
He pointed to his eye and then pointed at me. "It's all good Vato... you know, everything is going to be o.k."
He sat back down.
Jonathan and I glanced at each other and there was another moment of silence. Then Jonathan yelled "Fuck yeah it's o.k. We are OFFICIALLY tripping balls." and started to chatter again. But I wasn't o.k. Now I knew Vic could read minds too. I looked over at him and he was leaning his head back on his chair grinning at me. Shit, Vic knew I knew he could read minds, after all, he was reading my mind thinking about how he could read minds. Fuck, he IS super human after all. Then I realized, the super human said it was going to be o.k. and I felt amazingly calm. It's all going to be... O.K.

After the psilocybin wore off, I stopped believing Vic was psychic. However, for a long time to come I held the belief that he was the silent thinker of great thoughts. But as with all things familiar, the shine on Vic's mythos began to wear off over the years. I came to realize that while Louie seemed drunk even when he was sober, Vic held himself together amazingly well no matter how fucked up he was. I overlooked the fact that Vic could smoke a whole ounce of pot in one sitting. Those few words he uttered were the only one's he could muster in his drug haze. There weren't great thoughts hiding in his mind, he was usually blank. Even with that realization I still felt like Vic was my favorite and I had to agree with Lance's proclamation "Vic is truly, undeniably, the most Freshly Baked of all."

The Sniveling Goat

Robert E. Brown. Tales from the Land of Entrapment

The Holy Triumvirate of the Freshly Baked Perspective.
Part II: Lance

His full name was Lance Steele. I shit you not. He was given that name at birth. But in sharp contrast to Louie's sloppy rock n' roll Otis the drunk vibe, Lance Steele looked like he would be named Lance Steele, except perhaps that he was as short as Louie. He had rugged, chiseled Fabio pretty boy features and matching long blonde hair. He was in amazing shape considering I never once saw him exert any energy and he always seemed to be shirtless; showing off his gen X style matching tribal tattoos that accented his ripped body. I used to describe him as Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers crunched down like a beer can. Clearly it was the look he tried to mimic.

Like so many stereotypical pretty blondes, Lance was dumb as rocks. When I first heard the term Mimbo, I blurted out "Lance." But no one told Lance that and right after he had started his third band with Louie (Louie always got kicked out within a month) he began fancying himself a lifestyle rock star philosopher. He developed a whole set of rules and philosophies behind the name of the band- "The Freshly Baked Perspective." He was convinced that his newly inspired slang would take off across the country and people would start following him like some new Manson.
"Dude, that would be cool... Manson was like... he got chicks dude."
He would hold court in their dingy pot smoked house, ankle deep in beer cans and preach to the rocker girls that would come by to buy weed off him. i loved to be there.
"So it's like this dude, you see Freshly Baked... it's like, it's a perspective dude. It's all about how you live." Lance said stretching his arm around the girl with blue pig tails.
"Like there's us, right. We're Freshly Baked."
"I will be if you pass that joint." she mumbled in an irritated tone. He winked and handed her the joint. "So there's us, right. And then dude, there's the All Americans. See the All Americans, they're suckers right. Like that's the only two types of people there are dude."
"What about the French?" I quipped from across the room. He was confused. "Can the French be All Americans? I mean, they're French."
"Robert Brown has a good point dude, the French are cool, cause they're into legalizing it and being all... cool with shit. The French are Freshly Baked. See now-"
"What about Germans Lance? You're not going to say the Germans are Freshly Baked right? Because, well they did the holocaust."
"The holocaust was definitely NOT Freshly Baked, Robert Brown."
"So does that mean the Germans are All Americans? Or just the German Americans? But what about the German's in Germany, Lance?" The processing bar on Lance's internal pc froze and the blue haired girl saw her escape.

But no amount of logic was going to stop Lance's new pr campaign. Everything was either Freshly Baked, or not Baked.
"Robert Brown, That shit you pulled with the blue haired girl was not baked."
Louie and Vic were the only ones who used the new slang or sat through Lance's pontifications. But he was unfazed and hellbent on getting more converts. One night Lance and I went to a strip club named Knockouts, and at Knockouts he nearly did.
"So it's like... it doesn't matter if you're German or Irish or anything dude... Freshly Baked is how you use your mind."
"Wow. You are like so amazingly smart. I wanna give you a free lap dance."
What? Wait. Did I just hear her say that? I snapped out of the pole focused trance I was in. Oh shit, I think she's giving Lance a free lap dance. For the next hour the girl sat in Lance's lap. I was pouting and fuming. Lance was getting mad attention from this hot chick, his Freshly Baked shtick worked, and I was getting no play at all. I couldn't believe it. They called the girl's name and she slipped him some tongue and got on stage. She began dancing and it was clear that Lance was the only guy she saw in the room. He leaned over the table to me. "I'm going to score dude. She understands the Freshly Baked Perspective." I glared at him.
"And she's a nasty bitch. It's going to be a good night Robert Brown. She asked me if I liked anal."
"You better clarify that statement with her" I giggled. He was confused.
"Lance, you said she's really kinky right? She asked if YOU like anal. You might just end up with a dildo in your ass. I really don't think that's too Freshly Baked, is it?"
She was squeezing her tits and blowing him kisses from the stage but Lance just sat there with a nervous blank look of realization on his face.
"You better find out who's ass fucking who" I laughed feeling evil and satisfied.
When she got off stage she ran straight back to Lance and straddle sat on his lap. He leaned in and they whispered back and forth for a moment. She stood up and slapped him in the face. As she stormed off he pleaded "Babe, I never said you had a dick." But she was gone.
"Robert Brown, dude... that was seriously not Freshly Baked."

My Company

Robert E. Brown. Tales from the Land of Entrapment

The Holy Triumvirate of the Freshly Baked Perspective.
Part I: Louie

People always thought Louie was drunk. His whiney voice sounded like a gene spliced version of Barney from the Simpsons and Tommy Chong. He was a hispanic stoner rocker who always seemed to be hiccuping. His tough 90's punk/grunge attire did nothing to off set his short stocky, unshaved droopy dog features or his busted up coke bottle glasses. Police would stop him while he sat quietly at a bus stop, threatening vagrancy charges while demanding he produce an open container. Bartenders would would cut him off before he had his first drink. You might think this would be an irritating cross to bare but fortunately for Louie, he was usually drunk. Only his friends could tell by the steady amplification of his cartoony slurs and mannerisms. The booze bubbles I imagined popping around his head would steadily increase through the night.

Louie, his heterosexual life mate Lance and his brother Vic composed the holy triumvirate of the Freshly Baked Perspective. They were key parts to my Lost Causes crew from the end of my senior year of high school until my mid 20's when the townies self destructed. The three of them were inseperatable and at least two always lived together at any given time. I met Louie and Lance six months before Vic at a desert kegger. We pulled into the clearing where half the crowd was trying to push Lance's beat up van out of a ditch. I went over to help and after we got the van out Louie invited me to a party at Lance's while climbing into the drivers seat. He then promptly tore out spraying gravel, shattering two car windows in his wake. A hundred yards down the dirt road, he drove into another ditch. How could I miss that party?

The next night I rolled up to Lance's house late for what would end up being a three day bash. His mother was away and their punk band "The Drones" had canceled the last set because Louie had already passed out. Around 2 am he stumbled out of a bedroom and gave me a big hug. He was eager to show me his new "mark of the Drone" on his arm but I couldn't take my eyes of the words "SHIT HEAD" written on his forehead with thick sharpie ink. Lance and their bassist Big Dave stood behind him giggling and giving the shhhsh sign over their mouths with upward pointing index fingers. I choked back my laughter and looked down at his special mark. He had a festering circular burn a little larger than a quarter smack in the middle of his upper arm. "Dude, I've got one too" Lance declared lifting his sleeve with pride. "We heated up beer bottles."
"Where's yours?" I asked Dave.
"I'm not a moron." he answered.
I couldn't argue with his logic.
Somehow no one managed to bring up the "SHIT HEAD" sign on Louie's head for the rest of the night. It wasn't pointed out to him until the next day when he rolled through a McDonald's drive thru and the window girl fell to her knees laughing.

He was exasperated but resigned. Fucking with Louie's drunk corpse was a ritual for their crew. The party continued the next night and the other two Drones had special plans for Louie. They had decided that he needed a mohawk. Everyone was bouncy with anticipation, waiting for Louie to pass out like some set timer would just shut him off. But Louie bucked the routine and managed to wobble on.
As the night progressed it was obvious that he suspected something. Fearing his plan was going awry, Lance took the precaution of stealing Louie's keys only to give the plan away minutes later.
"Dude, you're going to ruin the party if you don't pass out."
Louie was ready to bolt. Big Dave maliciously dangled the keys out of his reach and Louie jumped for them. Five of us stood in a circle like sixth grade bullies and tossed the keys back and forth as Louie jumped from person to person.
Fed up, he made his escape on foot. Lance and Dave waited for a while and then set out to search for him in his own truck. A quarter mile down the country road they found him. Under the weight of the betrayal he had laid down on train tracks, calmly waiting for his own demise. They put him in the back of the truck and when they pulled into the driveway, Louie bolted thought the party into the bathroom. Lance kicked in the door. Louie was standing in the tub and turned on the shower.
"Ha! You guys won't get me now" he laughed as the water began to soak his cloths.
Dave and I looked at each other and reached in and yanked him out. He began kicking and screaming. It took four of us to pin back his swinging arms and kicking legs. He was screaming like he was being murdered. l dropped his leg and the others continued to drag him down the hall, his flailing limbs shattered photos off the wall as they went. It didn't feel right. It was clear to me that we had crossed a line and I stood frozen as I watched them pry his fingers from the molding around the doorway to the room where the scissors and clippers waited. They tugged him in and slammed the door, slightly muffling the sounds of his rape like cries. I felt sick to my stomach. I rounded up my girlfriend and left.

The next night The Drones were in the lineup along with several other bands for a show on campus. I was surprised they were still playing after what had transpired the night before. I was even more surprised to see Louie setting up his drum kit with his new hair cut. His mohawk looked amazingly bad. It was crooked on his head which made him look a little askew and there were whole patches of hair that they had missed. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and his burn had swollen his whole shoulder beet red and was festering and bloody. With his taped up coke bottle glasses as a final accent, he truly looked insane. I walked up to him with my shoulders slumped and tried to apologize for my part in his violation.
"Dude, what are you talking about?" he laughed. "We play rough, man. Tonight's the night. I got the mark of the Drone and I got my rockin' new do. The Drones are gonna be the new Ramones."
"The Drones! Yeah!" Lance screamed from across the stage.
"Brother's for life dude" Louie screamed back as he ran over and high fived Lance.
I stared blankly at them for a moment and then walked away.

A week later Dave and Lance kicked Louie out of the band. They said he was always too drunk to play.

My Company