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