BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

BILL CADY 

Post Office Box 567 

San Luis Rey, California 92068-0567 

(760) 803-6690 

Word Count: 111,495 

BILL Cady, THE EARLY YEARS 

By Bill Cady 

Alcoholic

Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 1 

THE EARLY YEARS 

CHAPTER ONE 

It was a bloody mess. Truly the goriest thing I‟d come upon in my entire life. 

Although I didn‟t notice it at the time, I was also covered in blood, all over my 

body. I was naked, too, but that wasn‟t important to me at the moment. Who knows 

why? 

We were surrounded, and every attacker I saw wore a mask. A woman with a 

shiny blade in her hand came within a couple inches of my stomach with a wicked slash. 

It cut something, but there was no pain, or any other indication she‟d stabbed or sliced 

me, so I kept fighting back. Undaunted, I resisted them the same way I had been, all in 

an uphill battle. 

I was still feeling the effects of being hit by the big guy behind me. Tall and 

rangy with big, powerful hands, also in a mask, he acted like he was in charge. I suppose 

it hurt, being assaulted by the guy, but in the heat of battle there‟s no time to notice those 

Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963


little things. When it‟s a matter of life or death, a guy does what he has to do to survive. 

I didn‟t have time to fool with him. Nor any of the other idiots encircling us. 

There was a woman waiting for me. A very special woman, and I loved her more 

than I‟d ever loved anyone. All I could feel was my overpowering need to get to her 

before any more time went by. 

She was pretty. Very pretty. An average size woman with long blonde hair and 

happy green eyes. Only twenty-four years old, she hadn‟t yet had time to realize all the 

pain and nastiness life can bring, so she wore a perpetual smile. It was a welcome mat to 

her inner being. A neon sign attesting she was not only harmless to all, but helpful to 

anyone. 

Very well built, it was still not her most prominent feature. More telling was the 

love in her eyes. At the moment, all that burning love was directed at me, and I had a 

deep seated need to return it. More than that, I sensed an incredible yearning to get to her 

breasts. Beyond my want for anything else in this world, I craved having her enticing 

breasts close to me. As close as I could possibly get them. 

My arms swung in all directions, flailing and punching, doing anything and 

everything I could to fight those bastards off. I absolutely had to get to her, and I 

couldn‟t possibly accept failure. Not now. Not this time. Funny, I didn‟t even know her 

name. We‟d never met before, but I could still tell she loved me. Very much. 

It was a safety net for me, her love. A promise, no matter who did what to whom 

for whatever reason, as long as she had a breath in her body, she‟d defend me from 

anyone and everyone. It was a two-way street. I‟d die for this woman, and she knew it 

without a word from me. When you have the kind of relationship we formed so 



instantaneously, that woman and me, talk is unnecessary. Things other people need to 

speak are simply understood by the two who bear such a deep and abiding love for each 

other. 

Somehow, I managed to break free. It also appeared one of the mob around us 

had turned tail and joined our side. A woman, still in her mask but obviously not my 

enemy now, helped me get to the beautiful blonde woman I was so desperately clawing 

my way to reach. Victory was in sight! 

I was still very weak from my journey and knew, without this stranger‟s help, 

I‟d‟ve never made it. There was no time to thank her, but I don‟t think she wanted or 

expected it. Once I got to the blonde woman, the stranger released me and stepped away. 

In a sense, her work was done. 

Now it was all up to me. Just me, and no one else. Success or failure would be 

mine, and I‟d share the feeling of whatever it became with nobody. The onus was on me 

alone. The prize, however, would be ours. Hers and mine. 

Those beautiful breasts were now so close. So very close. Temptation filled me 

to overflowing, and I never tried to fight it, not even a little. As if it was my destiny, I 

scrambled with every last ounce of my remaining strength to get to her. 

This was my first time. I‟d never once been with a woman before. Not in an 

intimate setting. Nothing so close and personal. I wasn‟t sure where I should put my 

hands, or even how to position my body. I had no experience, and no one to instruct me. 

This would be a solo flight and the chips would fall where they may when it was over. 

No time was wasted in kissing her. No foreplay. No sweet words of love. No 

promises of a long road of happy tomorrows. I wasn‟t going to say it, and she didn‟t 



want to hear it. More so, she knew without asking I couldn‟t say it, even if I wanted to. 

Anything like that was both irrelevant and unnecessary. She and I both knew what we 

wanted, and it was the same thing. She made the offer, and I greedily accepted it. 

If any of the masked people who assailed me before had tried to stop us now, she 

would‟ve gone into attack mode. Our bond, our kinship, our mutuality, was unstoppable. 

Seconds later, I managed to get to one of those full and lovely breasts. It was 

heavenly. More than I dared hope for. Far better than any dreams I might‟ve had, 

although I‟d never had a single dream in my life at that time. My mouth found the nipple 

and I sucked. Hard. Avariciously. As if my very existence depended on it. 

The sweet juices flowed and I absorbed all she had to give me. My joy was 

unbounded, but I had no intention of stopping. If there was anything on earth more 

wonderful than having her nipple in my mouth, I didn‟t know what it might be, and had 

no interest in finding out. 

She wasn‟t even my girl. Not really. Even though she knew my name, but I 

didn‟t know hers, we both somehow knew she‟d never be my girl. She already had a 

guy, and she‟d stay with him. Later, that is. For the moment, she was mine. All mine. 

Even if our tryst was to be temporary, and even if it had to happen before a small 

mob of witnesses, she was mine and I was hers. No one could stop us, and no one dared 

to try. As a couple, this was our fifteen minutes of fame and the damned clock was 

already ticking away. We both desperately needed to wring from it all it had to give and 

enjoy it with all we could allow ourselves to take. The moment belonged to her and to 

me. Inseparable now, we had our flash in the sun and we damned sure intended to enjoy 



it. To milk it for all we could get, because this occasion would never happen for us 

again. 

Maybe with others. For her. For me. Even a probability. Still, for us, she and 

me, this was a one-time adventure, and we didn‟t want anyone to intrude. Not at a 

spectacular stopover in time like this one. Not when she and I worked so very hard, for 

months on end, to bring about what was occurring at the moment. No, she and I busted 

our asses to get here, and this was our time. Everyone and anyone else could simply go 

to hell. We just wanted to be left alone, and the crowd somehow sensed it. 

However, recognizing my needs, and the fact there‟d be no one else to attend to 

them, she and I made a silent vow. She‟d “kinda be my girl”, as far as servicing my 

needs, until I eventually found someone else. We also knew, even if Fate should set us 

apart in that regard later on, our bond would continue as long as one or both of us 

remained alive. 

I was still vigorously enjoying that breast and all it had to offer when she was 

approached by the guy in the mask. The tall one. The leader. The one who smacked me 

without ever saying a word. 

He told her, from behind his mask, “Mrs. Cady, you have a healthy son. Of 

course, as you know, he‟s premature by almost two months, but he should be just fine in 

only a few days. He‟s five pounds, two ounces. Do you know what you plan to name 

him?” 

“Yes,” she sighed. “We‟re going to call him William, after my father, and 

Frederick, after my husband.” 

Thus, the world began for Bill Cady. 



CHAPTER TWO 

The tryst you witnessed happened Tuesday, December 28 th , 1948, in Lansing, 

Michigan, 11:19 p.m., as I was told. I can‟t verify it, since I didn‟t yet own a watch. 

I was born in a hospital. E. W. Sparrow Hospital, to be precise. Other than being 

premature by almost two months, I guess I was in good shape. I really didn‟t need to be 

in a hospital, in my opinion, but my Mom was a patient for some reason. I wanted to be 

with her. 

Things continued to get hairier by the minute after the little rumble you just saw 

finally wrapped up. Some idiot broad with another knife came after me. It‟s as if women 

want to make us suffer as early as possible. They have one favorite place to start. She 

approached me with what I‟d deem a machete. She was gonna use it on my penis! 

Jesus, woman, have you no damned shame? You‟re attacking an infant, for God‟s 

sake! The little bastard‟s never done anything bad to anyone! 



Well, not yet, but it‟s true. The little shit‟s only a couple hours old and you want 

to slice his thingamadoochy? Have a heart, damn it! 

A reasonably tall, sort of homely guy ran up to her. He was around six feet, one- 

fifty tops, a full head of black hair. Big ears, a la Ross Perot, and a schnoz that would get 

him into a Jimmy Durante look-alike contest. Skinny as a rail and, I would later learn, 

afraid of almost everyone. As I‟d also learn later, he had an incredible ability to get 

women in bed with him. Good looking women. So good looking, you wouldn‟t think 

they‟d ride the city bus he drove for a living. 

Apparently my problem was one area where he didn‟t shrink back. Wasn‟t 

prepared to back down immediately. When it involved a guy‟s dick. In my case, it was 

his son‟s dick, so he was elected to speak on my behalf. I could hear long before I could 

talk, so I took it all in. Although I could hear people, I had no idea what they might be 

saying, but I was a good hearer right away. Mom told me later about this part. It‟s as if I 

heard it myself, since it came from Mom. 

Later, when I became a speaker, it seems I liked that even better, so I did more 

speaking than listening. My practice was, obviously, a violation of the code of common 

sense. God gave us two eyes, two ears, and one mouth. Must be He was trying to tell us 

something. It took me almost fifty years to figure that one out. 

Anyway, this guy, Fred Cady, had a conniption fit. He made the bitch with the 

blade back off. I‟ve always been damned glad he did. If he hadn‟t stood up for us, “The 

Soldier” would‟ve gone the rest of his life without a coat. Exposed to all the elements, 

he‟d‟ve never been as sensitive as he is today. In my eyes, it would‟ve been a tragedy. 



Personally, I was ready to blow that pop stand. These broads in uniform were 

starting to piss me off. They continued coming in where they‟d stashed me in some rag 

basket, asking, “Has the Cady baby been circumcised yet?” It seemed every one of those 

floozies had a needle of some kind. Neo-natal unit, my ass. They wanted me hidden so 

they could assault me and not get caught. 

Maybe they brought all that sharp, slicing stuff from home. I really don‟t know. 

However, I couldn‟t, for the life of me, figure out how or why I‟d pissed off so many of 

„em. If it was just one or two, I‟d‟ve understood. Women have their moods, and they‟re 

born pissed off at guys, so a little bit of bullshit is to be expected. But, the whole crew? 

C‟mon! 

Yeah, I barfed on a few of „em, I guess. Turns out I wasn‟t able to get along like 

the other kids on Pabulum, or whatever that crap was they tried to feed us. I‟d get some 

down, they‟d burp me, and I‟d unload it on the woman‟s shoulder. 

Don‟t blame me. Damn it, I already told „em about that blonde lady. Her name‟s 

Mom. She‟s got a real nice set of jalobies and I never puke up her stuff. „Sides, Mom 

doesn‟t jab a needle in my ass, or arm, or hand. These women just like to see me bleed. 

Man, if only someone had told me about that self-defense phrase, “I‟m gonna tell Mom!”, 

I‟d‟ve been screaming it all day and into the night. 

So far, I‟ve talked about my problems. You see, I‟ve had a few. Okay, more than 

a few. Are you always this picky? Anyway, among my later-in-life problems, I was 

broke following a tragedy you‟ll hear about later. I‟d been evicted from the house I 

rented, but managed to buy a house with nothing down. In a retirement community 

where they don‟t allow kids! Fantastic! 



Hell, I never liked kids all that much when I was one. The older I got, the less I 

liked „em. They were the only things I disliked more than cats. If I‟d gotten my way, all 

those damned kids would‟ve been locked in a big room with a mean mess of cats and 

they‟d‟ve killed each other off. 

Back to recapping my adult economic woes, so you can make a comparison to 

when I was just getting started as a baby. My business was 100% commission, as I 

owned an insurance agency. We bought internet leads and sold life insurance to people 

on the phone. When I moved from the rental house in Escondido, California to the one I 

bought Oceanside, California, I had my plans made in advance. They didn‟t include 

three insurance companies changing the rules after I‟d already made the leap. Nor did 

they include a 100% increase in planned moving costs. 

Suddenly, I had no income. No way to make money. Being a white man, not 

pregnant, not on drugs, not bipolar, not black, not Hispanic, no minor children, and 

owning my own business, my “social benefits” were squat. Not a damned thin dime. 

I got lucky and God bailed my ass out of that one. However, let‟s see how that 

miserable era stacks up to the first situation I encountered. What I had to deal with when 

I was born. A matter in which I had no say, by the way. 

My old man was a bus driver. His weekly take-home pay back then, in 1948, 

wouldn‟t buy a girl dinner now. We‟re not talking about with drinks or dessert. He 

drove bus for the City of Lansing, Michigan, a position with room for advancement. If a 

guy stayed at it, day in and day out, never had an accident, got few, if any, passenger 

complaints, he‟d have something to look forward to later. After ten or fifteen years, he‟d 

be assigned to one of the new buses, leaving the rookies and peons to drive the old ones. 



Mom was a housewife at that time. It‟s now known as “Domestic Engineer”, but 

my folks couldn‟t afford a title that expensive when I was born. We had a tiny little two 

bedroom house at 412 Haze Street, on the northwest corner of Lansing, at that time. Of 

course, the northwest corner is now a whole lot farther out. When I finally left Michigan, 

(Hallelujah!), 22 JUN 90, it was already out past the corner of Jolly and Waverly Roads. 

They took me home from the hospital, but only after a battle was waged. I was 

poor by proxy when I was born. I got what‟s technically known as a “shitty beginning”. 

I didn‟t own one damned thing in my name. Not even the diaper on my skinny little butt. 

Nothing. 

I was dependent for survival on two people who had barely more than I did. They 

owned, I think, that little dinky house, but it may have been a rental. They never shared 

financial details with me. I assume that‟s because my playpen wasn‟t big enough to 

spread out a set of books and ledgers. 

When I was ready to be discharged, my parents didn‟t have the money to pay for 

the hospital stay. The closest thing my Dad had to group insurance was when all the bus 

drivers would got together in a group. They‟d moan and complain about not having 

insurance. 

Thankfully, my folks had my maternal Grandpa to deal with those hospital 

people. His name, to anyone who knew him, was Bill Thurston. He wrote his “real 

name”, when needed, as William John Thurston. If you were stupid enough to call him 

Willy, you‟d get one warning. The second time, he‟d belt you in the mouth. 

Grandpa hated that name with a passion. 

To his immense regret, since Grandpa worked at the Oldsmobile factory, he had 



to get a birth certificate for something when I was two years old. Two years before he 

died. His legal name was Willy John Thurston. I‟m sure it broke his heart. He was a 

tough little German, Grandpa was. Maybe five-six, five-seven, he was a very big guy 

when he was pissed. Bald, with a dark ring of hair on the sides and back, he was as 

stocky as a blacksmith. 

The hospital refused to release me without someone substantially reducing the 

bill. Rather than argue, Grandpa took matters into his own capable hands. He called the 

police and reported his grandson was being kidnapped. By the time all the cops left, 

Grandpa had his way. He took his daughter, her lovely little boy, and his shit eating son- 

in-law out of that damned place. Must be he‟s the one who gave Mom her “Don‟t you 

dare screw around with me!” side. 

So, not only do I own nothing, including my freakin‟ diaper, at birth, I‟ve got an 

outstanding balance owed to the hospital before I even get home. My cosigners are the 

people who couldn‟t pay the hospital‟s ransom. Helluva start, so far, wouldn‟t you say? 

My folks had two cars. Repos from Al Capone, who knows? The cars were old, 

but a ten-year-old car is very old in Michigan. With all the salt on the roads, most don‟t 

last much longer. Not like here in southern California, where a forty-year-old car only 

draws a glance from half the people who drive past it. 

I have two mementos, a legacy from my old man. A beautiful Marlin .22 rifle, 

still in showroom condition, built in 1946, and a handgun. An Iver-Johnson hammerless 

.38 revolver. He tried to kill me with the revolver in 1967 when I was drunk. We‟ll get 

to that later. All he ever killed with the rifle was crows and squirrels. I wonder why he 

used something with that much range to shoot at a raised target? 



Our shabby little house had wooden floors, except the kitchen and bathroom. 

Those were linoleum. It was one of only three houses on a long stretch of road. The 

exterior was in tacky gray shingles, with a tarpaper roof. Frames on the windows and 

doors were white. 

Our “block”, from one cross street to the other, was nearly a quarter mile. Behind 

the house was a huge field. I can only guess now. I sure as hell won‟t ever go back to 

Michigan to measure the damned thing for you, but I‟d call it a good ten acres or more. 

We used to run across to the next road to the west, Hathaway Street. A very old, very fat 

lady lived there. We called her Granny Ryan. That woman was alive for only one 

purpose, as close as I could figure it. 

She baked cookies. All the time. You could go to Granny Ryan‟s house nine 

days a week and she had fresh cookies. If I have to explain to you what an angel it made 

her in my eyes, you must‟ve been born at the age of twenty-five. An old woman with an 

endless cookie supply? To my way of thinking, Granny Ryan‟s house was a synonym for 

Heaven. 

Maybe I should‟ve paid attention to the street at the south end of ours, which was 

technically three blocks long, although it covered half a mile or more. My street ended at 

Sober Street. That‟s a condition, being sober, I really tried like hell to divest myself from 

starting at age fifteen and until age fifty-one. Talk about persistent! That‟s me, alright. 

The first road to the east was Hungerford Street. The only reason it was at all 

important back then was because Grandma and Grandpa Thurston lived two blocks north 

of us on Hungerford. I can‟t tell you if Grandma still lives there. If she‟s still alive, I 

believe she‟d be 116 years old, but I no longer see Willard Scott on TV, so I have no 



idea. That may tip you off to the fact I was evidently wearing black wool when I was 

born. I‟m apparently the black sheep of the family. 

My brother, David, lived across the street from Grandma on that glorious day in 

1990 when I saw one of the most spectacular vistas I‟ve ever witnessed. It was a sign in 

my rearview mirror telling people heading the other way, Welcome To Michigan. A 

fantastic location to “be from”, Michigan. Not to “go to”. Bad idea, but “be from” is a 

real nice feeling. Seeing that glorious sign meant I was leaving what had become in my 

life synonymous with Hell. While I readily accept almost all the blame for putting my 

life in the toilet, I doubt I‟ll ever find any joy in revisiting the scene of the crime. 

I haven‟t spoken with David since Mom died in December, 1999, six months after 

my final divorce, but that‟s also a matter for later on. Most of what I‟ll share with you 

about the “early years” is what I was told by Mom. Of course, being an “All-American 

boy” at heart, if you even dare imply my Mom would tell a lie, I‟ll come to your house 

and beat you up. Nobody says that kinda crap about a guy‟s Mom. Nobody. 

It seems romance got started early for me. There was a girl who lived across the 

street named Susie Summers. I can attest she was virtually drop-dead beautiful, based on 

the fact I hit on her. Susie was my first one. Girl. After Mom, I mean. 

See, I‟ve also figured out the Pavlovian aspects of what women do to guys. As 

you saw in Chapter One, there was nothing any more important, the instant I was born, 

than a woman‟s breasts. They get us started early, say, at the age of two or three minutes. 

They keep us coming back for more until we‟re so old and frazzled we can barely take a 

leak with the damned thing. 

If you ladies stop to think about it, that‟s the same slimy ruse drug dealers use on 



kids. Give „em a free sample for a while, then crank it up so it‟s priced like a 7-Eleven 

product and drain everything they have. 

With Susie, I was already to the next stage. No boob stuff. I wanted a kiss. From 

what Mom told me, I gather what I wanted wasn‟t a unanimous wish. Evidently Susie, 

the little absolute fox, only wanted to play and mess around. Are you beginning to see 

the similarity to an adult date? 

One more clue I very stupidly passed by was Susie‟s age. Just as it was when I 

was deflowered by another older woman. I was eleven when I lost my innocence, (thank 

you, God!), she was twelve. The brazen hussy. With Susie, I was just two. She was two 

and a half. Using the same ratio now, since I‟m fifty-five, it would mean the woman 

would be sixty-nine years old if it recurred today. Like I‟d be interested? 

Well, maybe if it was Joan Rivers. Millions of dollars of plastic surgery has to be 

accounted for somehow. I‟ll gladly admit, I still have the occasional vulgar, disgusting 

thought when I see that lady on TV. (You‟re most welcome, Joan. I‟d love to meet you 

at a Starbucks whenever we can. Have your people call my people and we‟ll set it up, 

you li‟l cutie). 

You might wonder, since it was fifty-three years ago, how I can attest Susie 

Summers was a fox. Well, I have proof, that‟s how I can say it. I hit on the woman. 

You think, even then, I‟d go after a dog? Not hardly. 

According to Mom, I planted one right on her mouth. Still too young to know she 

could get an attorney, Susie clobbered me with a pail and put a gash in my head. Mom 

said it took a few stitches. I don‟t recall that part, thankfully, but it must‟ve healed well. 

I can‟t find any bumpy scars on my head. If she‟d known about getting a lawyer, her 



family could‟ve sued my family. After a long and protracted court battle, they‟d‟ve had a 

settlement amount. From there, as long as it wasn‟t over fifty bucks, they could‟ve 

collected from my parents. Anything beyond that, they‟d‟ve had to get in line. 

Mom was the one who always paid the bills. The only thing my old man ever did, 

besides a few low-paying jobs, was read magazines and go crow hunting. Oh, and fish 

for carp on the Grand River. Yuck! 

When Mom paid bills, she used “the hat trick”. Put the names of everyone she 

owed money to in a hat, then pulled out one at a time. When she was out of money, that 

was it, even if someone‟s name was still in the hat. It just meant they‟d have to wait until 

the next time she paid bills. If a creditor got snippy with her, Mom would always put „em 

in their place. She‟d say, “If you don‟t watch your damned mouth, your name won’t even 

go in the hat the next time I pay bills!” Mom was nobody you wanted to mess with. 

She and my old man pulled another really shitty trick when I was barely two years 

old. It was in the middle of February, 1951, the 11 th , to be exact. I was starting to have 

control of the household. I‟d already learned when Mom was bluffing and when she 

wasn‟t, so I knew what I could get away with and what I couldn‟t. 

I also knew my old man was pretty regular in what he did. If I wanted to get 

attention, I‟d sit on his lap and read magazines with him. By my age two, I knew every 

damned car on the road. Today, over half a century later, there probably aren‟t a dozen 

cars on the road I can identify. Sound regressive? 

If he was asked a question, Dad had only one answer. “No”. 

He never even stopped to think about it. He said no. That was it. So, never as 



stupid as all the rumors going around town about me say I am, I soon learned which 

questions to ask him. “Do you mind if I go play with Susie?” 

“No”. 

“Do you care if I make myself a sandwich?” 

“No”. 

I also knew, if I‟d done anything, it was best to stay away from him. If I was 

disobedient, it meant he had to stop reading his magazine and deal with me. If he heard 

Mom yelling, he‟d get mad. (Moms yell at kids a lot, and make dire threats. All you 

need to do is look sorry and stare at the floor until she‟s done). He couldn‟t read while 

she threatened to disembowel me and send parts of me to twelve different countries. 

Disturbed as hell and interrupted, he‟d come whip my ass hard enough to leave 

bruises at times, then go back to read. Mouthy fuckin‟ kid! Keep your trap shut, you 

little shit! Of course, if he was in a hurry, or we were around people, he showed far more 

restraint. He‟d just backhand me in the mouth. 

If I cried or made a scene, he‟d “give you something to cry about” and whip my 

skinny little ass. Sometimes with his hand, sometimes with a belt. I learned to keep my 

crying to myself. 

With Mom, you had to ask for things when she was busy. Wait until she‟s got 

stuff strewn all over the kitchen to cook dinner. Maybe catch her when she was doing a 

puzzle, or sewing, and didn‟t want to break her concentration. Even then, you had to ask 

her in a low voice so she couldn‟t hear you. 

She‟d always say something. I‟d pretend it was the word “okay”. When she‟d 

ask later why I did it, I‟d remind her I got permission from her before I did whatever it 



was. So, I was setting up my little monarchy. I knew the rules. Who to play, how to 

play „em. I even had two pets, one of which may have started one of my lifelong 

crusades. 

We had Mimi, a scraggly little short haired dog. I seem to recall she was mainly 

white with medium brown spots and splotches. I honestly have no idea what happened to 

Mimi, so whatever it was must not‟ve been all that terribly traumatic. My other pet was 

… are you ready for this? … a cat. A gray striped cat named Bootsie. I probably loved 

her, but that‟s only a guess. It was a long time ago, after all. 

I never asked for Mimi or Bootsie, but I was glad to have „em. Every little boy 

wants pets, right? Well, in February, 1951, they brought home another pet. I didn‟t want 

this one. It became clearer by the day my parents screwed up when they bought him. 

Worse, he was different than Mimi and Bootsie in another way. I had no say in naming 

the damned thing! Talk about pissing a little kid off! Man! They brought the damned 

thing home, named it David, and said I had to let it sleep in my room! 

My goddamned room! Can you believe it? 

This damned David thing wasn‟t a dog. He wasn‟t a cat. He was what Mom 

called a “brother”. Shit! How come no one asked me if I wanted a damned brother? 

I‟d‟ve said “no” so fast they wouldn‟t‟ve gotten a question mark on the sentence. Hell, 

no! I don‟t want some damned brother! Will the hospital people take the little shit back? 

Can you get your money back for it? Why can‟t it sleep outside? Why‟s it gotta stay in 

my room? All it ever does is whine and puke and make stupid noises. Mom, take the 

little bastard back and get your money refunded. We don‟t need no stinking brother 

around here. You want a kid, you‟ve got me. What am I, chopped liver? 



Well, I also pay attention to things. I try to keep myself educated so I can deal 

with life as it happens. I personally know women are actually the smarter of the two 

genders. That‟s because, with less physical strength than men, women learned to be 

sneaky. Very sneaky. 

In that respect, women are like cats. Sneaky, quiet, self-interested, always trying 

to get what they want. Hell, if women were any more like cats, they‟d spit up a hairball 

once in a while. As a matter of fact, there‟ve been recent studies done on women in that 

regard. The results of this as yet unpublished study show why men can‟t stand cats. 

Since cats are overbearing, self-interested, haughty and disdainful at all times, we now 

have the answer. Cats are actually just furry little ex-wives! 

Back to me paying attention to women. Doing as they do. Remember what I said 

about those evil bitches in the hospital? The ones with sharp blades who only wanted to 

get at my peenie? Slash it off before I could one day use it on a girl? Well, if a woman 

did it, it must be a good idea. Must make sense. 

Mom later told me I decided, since they wouldn‟t take that damned brother back 

to the hospital, to make my own changes. Having a sister wouldn‟t be a bad idea, I 

concluded. It would‟ve worked out fine if Mom wasn‟t so damned vigilant. She said she 

caught me going into the bedroom, (it was all mine before that little prick showed up!), 

with a huge butcher knife. She learned I planned surgery on the little shit after we had a 

long and involved talk. Believe it or not, that was forbidden. I couldn‟t even make 

modifications to the little shit to have it my way. 

So, did that little prick have any more surprises up his sleeve? You damned well 

bet he did. No sooner than they decided to let the little jerk get down on the floor, (where 



I could get at him, maybe?), he started screwing up my life even more. He got sick. 

Awwwwwwwwww, poor little shit. I told you to try to get your money back on the little 

asshole, but did you listen to me? Hell, no, you didn‟t. Now the little jerk‟s getting sick 

and the doctor says it‟s an allergy. Okay, and what‟s he allergic to? 

My goddamned cat, that‟s what! 

Still, I had an answer. Bootsie was here first, ya know? Why not take that David 

thing to the pound. Maybe somebody else will want the screaming little shit and we‟ll be 

done with him? What the hell do you mean, he‟s more important? My damned cat never 

gets anyone up at one in the morning to be fed. Hell, my damned cat even shits in a box! 

No muss, no fuss. That damned David thing craps his diapers about twice an hour. Not 

only does it make him cry all night, which wakes up everybody in the damned house, 

including my damned cat, but it stinks like hell! 

I‟m thinkin‟ Bootsie should stay and that freakin‟ David thing oughta haul some 

serious ass. Whaddaya say, Mom? No sense askin‟ the old man, but maybe you can see 

my point? You can, right, Mom? See my point? No, Mom, I won‟t thank you for it 

when I‟m older. I‟m sure I won‟t. I am, really. Positive, even. You really mean it? 

Bootsie‟s gotta go? Maybe we can have that David thing put to sleep, huh? What about 

that? 

When I finally realized they weren‟t gonna give in, it broke my heart. Good ol‟ 

Bootsie was one of only four good cats I‟ve ever known. Guess I‟ve carried a grudge 

against cats all these years because of what that David thing did to me. Fifty-eight years 

later, I know I was right. I still wish they‟d kept the cat, and I can‟t stand cats. 



CHAPTER THREE 

When I was four, my parents bought a house inside the city of Lansing. The place 

on Haze street was still technically outside the city limits back then. The new one was at 

1363 Roosevelt Avenue, adjacent to the Michigan School for the Blind, in a subdivision 

called Knollwood Park. 

Personally, I thought they should‟ve told me they were moving, but they didn‟t 

say a word. I came in the house one day and all the furniture was gone. Draperies and 

everything. I ran through the house yelling, “Mom? Mom? Where are you?” 

Of course, I didn‟t give a rat‟s ass where that David thing was, and I didn‟t really 

want to find my old man. Not with all these changes. What if he doesn‟t like „em and 

decides to whip my skinny little ass to take out his frustration? Hey, my Mom didn‟t 

raise any stupid children until she got to my younger brother. Yeah, she really went to 

town with that David thing, but her oldest boy was no damned dummy. Even then, at 



four years of age, I knew enough to make sure I always stayed on the right side of any ass 

kickin‟ going on around me. 

When I confronted „em about not telling me, they both had the same bullshit 

excuse. They each thought the other one told me to come with them. Mom swore she 

would‟ve come to get me as soon as she noticed I was missing. Yeah, right. You ain't 

foolin‟ my young ass. Not with that one. 

Not a problem, however, since I was such a wily little shit. I remembered how to 

get over to Grandma‟s house, so I walked over there and went inside. I told her what 

happened and said I might have to live with her now. Grandma must‟ve seen a mouse or 

something behind me because her face got all white and pale when I told her. I never 

saw a mouse when I turned around, but those little shits are pretty quick. Anyway, 

Grandma got on the phone right away and made some calls. Not too much later, Mom 

pulled up in one of our raggedy old cars and took me to the new house. 

Many years later, I finally figured Grandma out. She loved Grandpa a lot. He 

was her first husband and they were together almost thirty years. She loved all four of 

her children: Darrell, Millie, aka Mom, Hewitt, and Bev, her daughter and my aunt, but 

only nine years older than me. Bev was an “oops baby”. 

She truly loved Bob McGeorge, my de facto Grandpa in later years, even if they 

never did get around to being married. She hated John Hayman, her second husband, a 

mean German bastard who used to pull my ears all the time. Prick. 

Beyond that, Grandma was a misanthrope. She hated everyone, especially pain in 

the ass grandchildren. On four occasions in my life, that teeny little woman whipped my 

ass with a wire handled fly swatter. 



Two of those events occurred when I was over six feet and at least a hundred and 

ninety pounds. Grandma was a tough little shit. Raised on a farm, she learned early how 

to deal with stupid, stubborn animals. I guess, in her mind, that included everyone but 

her man and her kids by the time she reached middle age. 

We had one other “family member” to take with us to the new house. His name 

was Georgie. He‟d been with us a while. Even before my folks bought that David thing. 

It seems only I knew about him. Still, if cookies were swiped, a lamp was broken, my 

room was messed up, or any other calamity, I was the only name Mom ever had on her 

“usual suspects” list. When she‟d ask me about it, I‟d tell her, “It wasn‟t me, Mama, uh- 

uh! It was Georgie! He did it!” 

In later years, as you‟ll see throughout the life of Bill Cady, “Georgie” would 

become George, and save my ass many, many times. He‟s quite possibly the nastiest 

son-of-a-bitch on earth. I‟ve never liked him since the day I met him. Still, when a guy 

saves your ass, even saves your life on occasion, it‟s hard to order him to stay away. 

In the beginning, all he did was take the blame if Mom went on the warpath. 

Mom blamed me for everything! I would‟ve even gotten pissed off over it, but we 

all know about Moms, right? Especially when you‟re a little boy. If anyone is wrong, no 

matter who‟s involved, it ain‟t Mom, damn it. She‟s always on the money and her word 

is final. It took me a while to figure that part out on the higher levels. Like with my 

folks. 

There‟d be times my old man would really put his foot down. He‟d make a 

decision and we all had to live with it. This was his home, damn it, and he ran the 

damned place. Anyone who didn‟t like it could just get the hell out and find a place of 



his or her own so they could make the damned decisions. In his house, his word was law. 

He made sure we knew about it. 

Of course, I didn‟t care what he might do to that David thing. As far as I was 

concerned, they still had my vote on putting the little prick to sleep. Yeah, my cat shed a 

lot of hair, but she wasn‟t near the pain in the ass he was to me. 

As far as Mom‟s interests, she was older. An adult. I secretly knew she was the 

one who should‟ve been in charge. For a while, I thought Dad was in charge because he 

could yell louder than she could. Maybe it was because he was the one who had that job 

thing, whatever the hell that meant. All I knew about his job was he had a uniform and a 

hat. He‟d get in the car very early every morning and take off. We wouldn‟t see him 

again until it got dark outside. 

Fine with me. I never got slapped or smacked when he was off driving a bus. I 

never saw him on one when Mom took me and that damned David thing in the car to go 

someplace. They must‟ve had more than one bus, was all I could figure. 

Still, there was something funny going on when Dad put his foot down. It always 

happened when he made a decision and Mom didn‟t like it. I could tell when it happened 

because she changed the way she addressed him. Instead of calling him “Honey”, or 

“Dear”, it was “asshole”, “bastard”, and “son-of-a-bitch”. For some reason, even early 

on, I gathered those were not what you‟d call fuzzy nicknames. Still, there was more. 

I never knew how the guy got past me, „cause I could see everything from my bed 

at night except in their room. Mom always made Dad close the door to their room when 

they went to bed at night. If he wanted to go to bed with her during the daytime, maybe 



on a weekend afternoon, she told him to go piss up a rope. That made no sense, but I was 

always careful enough to look it over before I picked up any rope I found. 

Okay, I mentioned a guy. Someone who got past me unseen. It was always when 

Dad gave an order and I knew Mom didn‟t like it. That night, some guy with a real 

whiny voice would get inside their bedroom and beg someone for something. He‟d 

whine and whine, and whimper and wail, the sniveling bastard. It was like he‟d die if he 

didn‟t get his own way. 

I knew that voice wasn‟t Mom, „cause she made a very soft and pretty sound 

when she talked. I knew it wasn‟t Dad, because his voice was deeper than that. It was 

more like a choir boy who‟d been kicked in the nuts one time too many and all his words 

were squeaky. There was only one thing that kept me from going into their bedroom and 

using my Tonka truck to brain that crybaby asshole. He was evidently lobbying for 

something I still thought I wanted. 

I vacillated back and forth on Bootsie, long gone by now. Damned near two 

years, ever since they bought that David thing. Although I hated cats, and would until the 

last day of my life, Bootsie was special. She was different than all the other cats. She‟d 

never hurt me, and I knew it. 

Jumping ahead a couple decades, substitute any woman‟s name for my cat‟s and 

you‟ll see just how well women have guys trained. Those are the same words to be heard 

from some dipshit who just got his clock cleaned in divorce court when he defends the 

fact he‟s gonna marry some other woman. You girls are smart, damn it. Very, very 

smart. Oh, and adroit, as well. 

Anyway, the cause this lobbyist was espousing is what kept me from banging the 



idiot in the head with my truck. He‟d sneak in there and whine all night long, or at least 

until I fell asleep, filled with hope over what he was trying to do. I wanted this guy to get 

his way, because the only thing he ever talked about was getting a little pussy. 

He must‟ve been a good speaker, „cause I never once heard my Dad say a word. 

It was just Mom and that whiny asshole. 

Mom was apparently against it by now. She‟d keep telling him he didn‟t need a 

pussy, but he‟d argue she was wrong. Maybe Mom was as heartbroken as I was when 

Bootsie left and it made her mad at cats, like me. The reason I say that, the longer this 

lobbyist guy would beg my folks about getting a little pussy, the madder Mom would get. 

I guess she and Dad usually found a way to make up afterward, because I‟d soon hear 

moaning and groaning from their room. 

I assume it was my old man throwing the lobbyist out of the house. It sure did 

make him happy. I could tell. As soon as the guy was gone, my old man would let out 

this huge, satisfied groan. I‟d hear nothing else for a while. 

I guess Mom would then have a change of heart and feel sorry for that poor 

lobbyist. I came to that conclusion because, right after Dad‟s groans, when he‟d start 

snoring like crazy, Mom would begin crying softly. Guilt feelings, I guess, for tossing 

the guy out on his ear. 

Some things never change. As an example, that David thing. When we lived on 

Haze Street, he competed for the position of World‟s Greatest Whiner and Champion 

Crybaby. I hoped, since our new place was in a regular neighborhood, with twenty-five 

or so houses on every block, the little jerk might lighten up. Not a chance. 

Being around more kids only gave him more reasons to cry. It seems he had even 



more kids picking on him now. However, it provided me some minor relief. Even back 

on Haze Street, David had his standards. He wouldn‟t start to cry for just anything. It 

had to be something serious, like a butterfly going past his face. A strange dog, two 

blocks away. A car driving past our yard with a bad muffler. 

Anything like that would send the little sissy on a crying jag. To my regret, my 

unhappiness wasn‟t limited to his annoying noises. No, it got worse than that, especially 

at the new house. Whenever he‟d begin sobbing, Mom always came on the run to see 

what happened. With no one around to blame but me, and that David thing pointing a 

finger at me, guess who‟s ass got swatted? 

Yup, poor little Billy. 

Keep in mind, though, Billy was a savvy little boy. Sure, some of the times he 

had a fit it was because I pissed him off, maybe even hit him. Hell, I think any boy 

would‟ve done that when he realized he had a little sister with a peenie-weenie. That‟s 

what I had, it seemed. He cried more than any girl I knew, but still had to use the stand- 

up potty. 

My vote was still pro as far as putting him to sleep. I also wanted to table a 

measure to resurrect the gelding process I attempted soon after they bought that David 

thing. If I had to have a little sister in all other respects, she might as well sit down when 

she has to pee-pee. That was my take on it. 

Of course, since Mom had line item veto power, I was stifled at every turn. My 

only measure of relief was a system I created to deal with his sobbing and all that 

whining. I figured, since I was gonna catch hell anyway, whether I did what he said or 

not, I might as well be truly guilty. After I made that decision, every time he started his 



routine, I‟d go pop him one for the hell of it. At least that way, he wasn‟t lying to Mom 

when he said I just whacked him. 

Our new neighborhood had a lot of kids. Eleventy-six times as many as the old 

one, which I thought was good. At first. 

The Armstrong brothers lived half a block down on the other side of the street. 

There were five of „em, Don, Ed‟erd, (the way they said “Edward”), Lynn, Michael, and 

Roland. Don was a year older than me, Ed‟erd was the same age as that David thing my 

folks bought. Lynn was a year younger, Michael two years younger than Lynn. Roland 

was the result of Mr. & Mrs. Armstrong having a few too many some years after they 

decided to stop having kids. 

Oops! 

Funny, and sad. Roland was a real nice kid. Since he was just a baby, as far as we 

were concerned, he never played with us. However, he grew up to be a real monster. A 

BIG kid. Six-four, two-twenty, all solid muscle. I saw a black guy start honking his horn 

behind Roland when, circa his age nineteen, he stopped his truck to chat with my Mom. 

(Everybody loved my Mom. Everybody). 

Roland got out of the pickup, walked back to the guy, and asked him what sort of 

problem he had. Evidently, he got a smart ass answer from him. He yanked open the car 

door, grabbed the guy, and threw him all the way across the street. He finished it off by 

shaking his head and saying, “Goddamn niggers” as he walked back to his truck. 

A year or so later, Roland was drowned in a boating accident. He was a college 

student and worked part-time. A good kid with a future until God called him home. 



You may have noticed “the „n‟ word” used above. I‟ll tell you about it from the 

point of view prevalent at that time, in the 50s and 60s. Our street was six blocks from 

Consumers Power Company, the local utility for gas and all that stuff. That area became 

a small population of what were then referred to as “colored people”. That‟s kinda 

stupid, since “white” was a color, last time I looked. Almost every house in that area, 

three blocks in all directions, was inhabited by those folks. 

The first black people who moved in were pretty nice, although I never got to 

know anyone too well. Mom wouldn‟t let me go that far from home. Not until I was 

around nine or ten. However, after a few years, the quality of people living there went 

way downhill. 

I‟ve met people all my life who use that phony BS line, “Why some of my best 

friends are ________.” Oh, yeah? When‟s the last time you had that person over for 

dinner at your house? Went to his/her house? Socialized? 

Uh-huh. I thought so. You lying, bigoted bastard. 

Well, when I later got to high school, I not only had quite a few black friends I 

hung with, I had a few black girlfriends. I‟ve only been able to keep tabs on one of „em. 

Her story wasn‟t too pleasant, so I‟ll call her Debbie “Smith”. 

She was cute, perky, nice boobs, a round little butt, and very nice legs. She was 

also half nuts. She‟d run toward the foyer where we gathered before class each day, drop 

to her knees and slide across the lobby. She was a lot of fun, and a great kisser. She was 

also very good at more intimate contact, but the details will stay with Debbie and me, 

thank you. Unfortunately, she did those things for a living after she was an adult. She 

became a crack whore. Her life was on a downward spiral last I heard, quite a few years 



ago. My prayers are she found a way back, but my experience tells me that‟s as likely as 

“Slick Willy” keeping his hands to himself around female staff members. 

Getting back to the residents by the power company. The people who took over 

that neighborhood were lazy, shiftless, unemployed, drunks and druggies. The crime rate 

went way up. It soon became an area no one wanted, or dared, to go. However, rather 

than use that offensive word in further descriptions, since they were all lazy bastards, I‟ll 

refer to people like that as an LB. Unless I repeat what someone said, of course. 

One safety feature, per my experience, LBs don‟t read books, so I know I won‟t 

offend one by what you‟ve read so far, or will read. 

I remember the first time I met a black kid, (not an LB, he was simply a little 

black boy, about my age). We were at Fabiano‟s Market, a local store two blocks from 

the house. Frank and John Fabiano ran it until Frank retired. John bought Frank out and 

stayed there, although the neighborhood was declining badly. 

Mom was a witness when an armed robber shotgunned John in the store in the 

mid 80s. Cut that poor man in half and he died at the scene. The robber was an LB from 

the neighborhood who needed a fix. 

When John died, he‟d already brought in his son-in-law as a partner. A guy I was 

a year behind in school named Mike Flynn. My SWAG estimate, (Scientific Wild Assed 

Guess), Mike was a lot less Italian than his father-in-law. Still, he was a very lucky man, 

Mike was. He married Ginny Fabiano. John‟s daughter, who I‟m positive has created 

millions of nasty thoughts in the minds of men over the years. She was gorgeous back 

then. I have no reason to think she‟s changed. 

That girl and her eyes! Wow! 



In any event, I was at Fabiano‟s one day with Mom while she bought a pack of 

cigarettes. I‟d never actually seen a black person up close. I‟d probably seen „em on our 

splendid 14” TV, but maybe I hadn‟t by that time. I don‟t think we got a TV until I was 

around seven. 

I remember the boy was very dark. Very. He had big eyes and gleaming white 

teeth. Maybe he didn‟t know what the hell I was, either. Hard to say. I saw him as I 

waited at the counter and yanked on Mom‟s dress to get her attention. As soon as she 

looked, I pointed at the little boy and said, “Mama, he must be a liar „cause he‟s all 

green!” I do hope that kid eventually found a place in the NFL as a kicker. He put one 

on my right shin that would‟ve sent a football a hundred yards! Man, did that hurt! 

A kid I went to school with in kindergarten, Johnny Mullins, lived a block from 

the store. I thought my family was poor, (our family portrait was in the dictionary next to 

the word “indigent”), but Johnny‟s family was worse off, I think. I don‟t know if his 

father lived there, or not. The place was very dumpy. Had a lot of trash in the yard. 

Speaking of trash, he had a sister named Lynn. She was, I believe, four years 

older. It was because of Lynn I saw the actual object, close up and live, well before I 

learned there was a word such as “slut”. Mom scolded me a couple times „cause I‟d sit 

on the porch to watch whenever I could to see if she‟d come by on her way home from 

school. 

Lynn thought it was “cute” to take off her underwear, then spin in a circle so her 

skirt would rise. It let us see “that bad thing”. Uh-huh, sure. I don‟t recall anything all 

that “bad” about most of „em I‟ve encountered in my life. I was quoting Mom there. 



Lynn also liked to touch black guys on their privates, right there in the street. 

Attitudes today are one thing, but that behavior didn‟t really play all that well in the 50s 

and 60s. 

We played a lot at the Armstrongs‟ because they had a huge backyard, big enough 

for a baseball game. They also had about 900 trees, some with fruit. I‟d get up in that 

cherry tree and be gone for hours. When I got home and didn‟t want any dinner, I‟d get 

my ass chewed. 

That was another serious spot of contention with my old man. That jerk could eat 

anything. I mean anything. He actually liked liver and onions. The only thing that saved 

me was Mom. She couldn‟t stand it, either, and wore a cloth mask on her face when she 

cooked that crap for him. Anything else, I had to eat. Not just what I wanted on my 

plate, but a little bit of anything Mom made. His directive? “Your mother made it. It 

won‟t kill you. Eat it or I‟ll smack you in the mouth.” 

Talk about “encouraging words”? Still, I must admit, I eventually learned to 

enjoy spinach. Perhaps once every year or two. Maybe, in part, he had a point. 

Another family lived cater-corner to us, the Opdykes. They had four kids. Sonny 

was three years older than me, Barb two years older. Richard was a year ahead of me in 

age, but in the same grade. (He wasn‟t even on the list for class valedictorian). Linda, 

the baby, was my age. 

I believe their heritage, (the kids), was Dutch from their father, Portuguese from 

their mother. I have to note: she was “a mom”, extremely old, (in her 30s-40s), and 

gained weight after all those kids, but that was a beautiful woman. Her name was Josie. 

She worked as a practical nurse at the nearest hospital, St. Lawrence. 



I have no idea why she ever married Al. Of course, being a kid, I never knew the 

man socially. He worked at Oldsmobile, on the line. One of the homeliest guys I ever 

met, even now. Uglier than the north end of a southbound dog. 

Sonny was an Adonis. He never had any problems getting girls. Never. He 

eventually married a pretty woman named Penny, although I saw him at other times with 

girls I thought were prettier. He took after his mother. 

Barb and Richard looked a bit like their Dad. Nuff said. 

Linda looked a lot like her Mom, and became my first official girlfriend. It was in 

fourth grade. I can testify, she was a rotten kisser. I know, because I was, too. However, 

as poorly as we did it, we liked it a lot. I think the reason we broke up is because I‟d 

rather play than sit around and hold hands. You can check with Linda to verify, if you 

choose. 

I had a friend who lived on the next street west, Lansing Avenue. A good quarter 

mile away, plus walking the long uphill block on Cross Street to reach Lansing. His 

name was Tommy Franklin. He had a sister, Sharon, a year or two younger than we 

were. Tommy was the poster boy for the Skinny Campaign. Your first reaction seeing 

him was to get him a sandwich. The kid looked like he hadn‟t eaten in days, ever after a 

full meal. 

They moved when he and I were about twelve. The new house was halfway to 

the school we both went to, Holy Cross. His family was Catholic, too, although they 

weren‟t excommunicated like we were. (I‟ll get to that in a bit). 

There were a few memorable things about Tommy that stuck with me. For one, 

his legal first name was the same as mine, but it was also his dad‟s name. So, they called 



him Tommy. Why they didn‟t just do it the easy way and name him Thomas William 

Franklin is beyond me. He also “sat like a grown-up”, meaning he‟d cross his legs at the 

knees. We, (the other idiot kids and I), thought it was “queer” to sit that way. I‟m afraid 

a few of „em even said that to Tommy. I never did. He was my friend and we played 

together. 

The other memorable thing about Tommy: he was my first fight. 

We were six years old. Our play campaign that day was in an empty lot a block 

from his house. Maybe an acre of dirt with no house on it yet. We had a fort dug in the 

ground, about four feet of cave that took us a week to excavate. One day, for reasons that 

totally escape me, we began arguing. Usually, when kids have arguments, it‟s a lot of 

mouth. Nothing ever comes of it. Well, one of us said something that pushed the other‟s 

hot button. I still can‟t recall who. 

All I knew for sure was I was scared shitless until the fight started. When it got 

going, I forgot everything but doing whatever I had to do to make sure Tommy didn‟t 

beat me up. Apparently I wanted to win more than he did, since he got the bloody nose 

and a black eye. All I got was an ass chewing from Mom after Tommy‟s Mom called 

her. That brouhaha completely killed our friendship … for about a week … until one of 

us, (unknown), went to the other‟s house and we started playing again. 

The funniest part, my fear before the fight and forgetting it when the action 

started, is the pattern. It‟s been the same way every time I‟ve ever been in any kind of 

fight since then, and that was forty-nine years ago. I‟m the biggest coward you ever met, 

until you‟ve made it a “you or me” situation. In that case, your ass is in a lot of trouble, if 

I have anything to say about it. 



CHAPTER FOUR 

There‟s another secret I‟ve never told anybody. I‟m gonna share it with you, but 

you have to promise you won‟t tell anyone. I don‟t want this information to get out so 

everybody knows about it. Mom told me I had a total of eighteen seizures when I was a 

kid. That‟s what they called „em. Personally, I think they were lying. I don‟t remember 

any damned seizures. Anyway, if they really did happen, it was supposed to be some 

kind of electrical malfunction in my brain. 

Okay, sure. Hey, “malfunction” this, huh? 

Still, if they really happened, that‟s not what it was. No, it was my “pal”, 

Georgie. That‟s what happened, I think, as he morphed into the weird, insane creature he 

eventually became. You probably think it‟s weird of me to badmouth a guy who, as I‟ve 

told you but you haven‟t yet seen, saved my ass quite a few times. Well, it‟s „cause he‟s 

a strange duck. That‟s why I say what I do about George. 



Oh, and he‟s mean. I‟m not kidding. Junkyard dogs hide their tails and run when 

George shows up. That‟s advance info, so you‟ll understand George when you finally 

meet him. If you remember the slob who came see your Dad once in a while when you 

were a kid, the mean one who was always drinking, he‟s a lot nicer than George. Take 

my word for it. 

Before we move on, there are a few things to share about that place I lived on 

Roosevelt Avenue. Lotsa stuff happened while I was there, including a bunch of medical 

crap. I went down the street one day to where Aunt Bev and her husband, “The Weasel”, 

lived with their new baby. My uncle‟s nickname is very fitting. Sorry, was. He died in 

the late 80s from cancer. 

Mom and Aunt Bev were talking in the front yard. I was playing with their oldest 

daughter, Debbie, one of the few little kids I ever liked. I was ten when she was born. I 

always loved that little girl. Bob and Bev‟s kids called me “Uncle Bill”, because they 

thought I was a grown-up. Since I babysat them until I was seventeen, it was close 

enough. 

I don‟t know how it got whisked into the conversation, but I told one of „em your 

tonsils can grow back. They pooh-poohed me, but I held my ground. Finally, when they 

insisted I show proof, I did. I coughed and my “tonsils” came up on my tongue. Hell, I 

knew they were there a couple months earlier. That‟s when they started to come up on 

my tongue whenever I coughed hard. Mom damned near passed out. I had to wonder 

why Aunt Bev started to run around in circles like a crazy woman. First thing you know, 

they hauled my sorry little butt to St. Lawrence Hospital. To the ER. If I‟d known 

everyone was gonna have a shit fit, I‟d‟ve kept my mouth shut. 



See, I was glad they grew back. I could still remember, just after what was 

deemed my “last seizure”, going in for a tonsillectomy. It was a lot like what Bill Cosby 

said on his album, but there was a very bad part. I wasn‟t aware of it before I agreed to let 

„em take my tonsils out. That‟s when they still used ether. It made you see this blazing 

yellow light, then you were gone. When you woke up, your mouth tasted like you‟d been 

licking a water buffalo‟s ass all day. Your head would throb so bad you‟d wish you died 

in surgery. It only lasts a week or two. Okay, most of a day, but when you‟re six years 

old, it seems like a week. You never forget it. 

An ugly thing happened when I was taken in for the hospital stay before my first 

tonsil surgery. The memory stayed with me and caused me trouble these last fifty-plus 

years. The moron assigned to take my blood wasn‟t very talented. She was a black 

woman. I don‟t know how old. When you‟re that age, all adults are old. Who cares how 

old? They‟re old, and that‟s it. I do know she was fat. 

She used that little pick thing on my finger. I screamed immediately. I‟m told I 

turned white. They sat me down with my head between my legs so I didn‟t pass out. 

Unfortunately, she didn‟t get any blood, so she tried again. I was screaming my damned 

head off by that point. Nasty bitch! You‟re one of those evil bitches who tried to cut my 

peeny-weeny when I was born, aren‟t you? You nasty old bitch! 

She finally poked every damned finger on my right hand, including my thumb, 

after two shots at the first finger, before she drew any blood. To this day, when they 

want a blood sample, I demand they take it from my arm. On the rare occasions they 

argue with me, I threaten to get up and leave. 

Ain‟t nobody ever gonna stick my finger that way again! Nasty bitch! 



The worst part happened after I got home. Sure, I enjoyed being able to lord it 

over everyone while I was in the hospital. Any damned time I wanted ice cream or 

popsicles, I got „em. Boom! Say the word, Billy, I‟ll go get you one. All ya gotta do is 

say it, and it‟s yours! That‟s heaven for a kid, right? 

Well, yeah. Kinda. Except, there I was, my first day at home, lying on the couch 

with a pillow and blanket. I got to watch TV. That David thing had to sit in the kitchen 

and eat with my folks. N-yeah, n-yeah, n-yeah, n-yeah, n-yeah! 

Oh, but I could still smell, damn it. I could smell, and they were having pork 

chops! Holy crap, did they ever smell good! I tried every con artist trick I could think of, 

but Mom refused to even let me have a teensy weensy taste. I was so pissed off! 

What made it worse was watching that David thing after I pitched a fit and got 

turned down. The little bastard grinned at me every time he stuck a piece of pork chop in 

his mouth! Every damned bite! When he finished it, the nasty little shit got another one! 

The pork chop that would‟ve been mine if I hadn‟t had that stupid surgery! Little prick! 

So, when the idea of having my tonsils grow back hit me, I figured I‟d lie in wait. 

Sooner or later, that David thing would have to go in and have his tonsils removed! 

That‟s when I‟d nail the little bastard! Plus, I‟d still have my tonsils! 

This time they said it was a tumor in my throat. I heard the doctor tell Mom it 

was “benign”, so I knew he was lying. Hell, it had only been there a few months. Not 

even a year, and he was telling her it was almost nine years old! It ain‟t gonna be nine! 

That‟s stupid! Hell, I‟m only ten, and it wasn‟t there last year! 

Nobody believed me, however, so I got to do that ether trip again. Yuck! When I 

got home, my throat was pretty much healed this time. That David thing was shit out of 



luck as far as tormenting me at dinner. The bad news, they had to carve out a lot of bone 

in my sinus passages. To this day, if I‟m not careful, I can get food in my nose when I‟m 

eating. Let me tell you, corn on the cob takes on a different value when you end up 

sneezing it out. 

There was yet more medical treatment in my future. Lucky Billy, huh? 

I was in the fifth grade at Holy Cross parochial school. We were getting ready for 

the intramural football league. It consisted of teams from all the churches in Lansing. 

Catholic churches, that is. They coerced parish members who were doctors to give us all 

free physicals to make sure we didn‟t need open heart surgery, (it hadn‟t yet been 

invented), or an elbow transplant, or anything else. The doctor, an old guy with a ring of 

white hair surrounding a scalp that nearly blinded me, stuck his fingers down by my 

scrotum. 

I didn‟t like hearing that word. When someone was a real butthead, we‟d call him 

a scrotum. Still, the guy was a doctor. One level above God, as far as I‟d been told, so I 

kept quiet. I started to wonder when he kept at it, sitting on the bench and feeling me up, 

for so long. I wondered if he was doing something to me he wasn‟t really supposed to 

do. Mom always said not to let anyone but Dad or a doctor touch me there. I decided to 

keep quiet, though. After all, he was a doctor. 

Mom couldn‟t chew my butt this time. I was following her orders. 

He gave me a piece of paper in an envelope after writing a note. Told me to give 

it to my parents. I almost didn‟t. I figured it‟d mean my sorry little ass was in trouble for 

something. I had no idea what I might‟ve done wrong. Then, afraid she‟d catch me 

anyway, meaning even more trouble for Billy, I gave Mom the note. 



anyway. 

No sense giving it to my old man. If it wasn‟t a magazine, he wouldn‟t read it 

Zingo! There I am, rushed off to another doctor! Damn it, what‟s the deal now? 

Every damned time I turn around, someone has me in front of a doctor and I know I‟m 

gonna suffer. However, I already had Mom‟s backing on taking blood from my finger, 

so I went along with this new program, whatever the hell it might be. 

Surprise, surprise! Your oldest boy has no balls! 

Nope, that wasn‟t an insult. It was true, kinda-sorta. It seems I suffered from 

Cryptorchidism, a condition where a boy‟s testicles don‟t descend. Usually, they come 

down just before birth, (that “year later” crap is an old wives tale). It‟s relatively 

common in boys born prematurely, and I was a seventh month baby. 

They also discovered an infection. So, in addition to taking hormone pills to 

make my nuts drop, I had to stick a long glass tube filled with some creamy stuff inside 

my penis twice per day. With an opportunity for the father figure to make himself 

valuable, my old man abdicated, as usual. There I was, ten years old, with my Mom 

helping me do that nasty job. Maybe you‟re beginning to see why there was no love lost 

between me and my old man? 

When my testicles came down, after all those hormones, I took up a new position 

on a number of matters. We‟ll get to little item that in a minute. First I want to share the 

experiences we had with two different neighbors. 

The house across the street, and one house to the right, was a rental. A girl about 

my age lived there for a while. We even kissed a few times. I can‟t recall her name. She 

must‟ve been a worse kisser than I was, even Linda Opdyke. 



It had a huge yard, about half an acre. The big white house was in need of some 

repair, but didn‟t start looking too shabby until I was in my teens. A welfare family lived 

there for a year or so. The father‟s name was Merle Cobb, an utterly despicable asshole. 

They‟d sit on the front porch at night, spring, summer and early fall, drinking beer. They 

slept very late, but still had plenty of time to get shitfaced before the average workday 

ended. 

They had nine kids, which I found appalling. Remember, I wasn‟t all that crazy 

about kids even when I was one. Their oldest boy was a kid named Bob Cobb. He was 

three or four years older than me, a foot taller, maybe thirty pounds heavier. He even 

wore a black leather jacket, the symbol at that time of a “hood”. That‟s what we called 

the really bad kids. 

I didn‟t like him much, but we had very little contact. He was allegedly one of 

the “tough guys” at C. W. Otto junior high school, grades seven to nine. 

His sister was my age. Kind of pretty. I‟m not positive about her name. I think it 

was Connie, but I‟m not sure. However, after those hormone treatments, equipped with 

what my uncle termed “a full set of balls”, I was finding a new interest in girls. 

One summer evening Merle noticed my Mom pointing at them as they got even 

drunker on their front porch. It pissed him off. Already a bit sloppy, he started yelling 

abusive words across the street. It went on a while until my folks decided it was better to 

go inside their overheated house than sit on the porch and listen to his bullshit. After that 

night, Cobb never let up. He‟d begin his diatribe every time they sat on the front porch. 

It got old in a hurry. 

One afternoon, I was in their yard talking with Connie. Uncertain how I felt those 



days, I still strongly sensed Connie was connected with whatever the solution might be. 

Now that I had balls, I mean. As we talked, Bob came out of the house yelling, ticked off 

about something she, or someone else, might‟ve done. When he screamed at Connie, she 

screamed back. Following what I assume was family history when an idiot bitch gets 

rebellious, Bob whacked her in the face with his fist. 

He shouldn‟t oughta had done that. 

Not thinking about reality, I acted. Of course, I knew Bob was a tough guy. I 

knew he‟d already whipped the asses of all the tough guys at Otto, and Otto was a 

damned tough school. I knew Bob was older, taller, heavier, experienced with fistfights. 

All I had was my victory over Tommy Franklin, and one time I pounded the piss 

out of Richie Opdyke a couple years later, when he hit me. 

If I‟d stopped to think how bad I was going to get my skinny ass kicked, I‟m sure 

I‟d‟ve merely tried to help Connie escape. After all, I‟m no idiot, right? I‟m sure as hell 

nobody‟s stupid hero. Not me, boy. That stuff‟s for dummies. 

So, knowing all that, but not thinking about any of it, I climbed ol‟ Bob like he 

had a set of stairs on him. My fists were swinging a mile a minute. I pounded every 

square inch of his body I could find. Finally, at the point my skinny little ass should‟ve 

been stomped so bad it would be unrecognizable, Bob begged me to stop hitting him. 

I almost crapped my pants when I realized I‟d won! I just stood there, my mind 

whirring to think of an apology to appease him so he didn‟t get up and beat the tar out of 

me. Bob got up. A voice came out of my mouth telling him now he had to apologize to 

Connie. 

To my astonishment, he did. 



With saucer-sized eyes, she forgave him, but wouldn‟t stop looking at me. 

I made Bob promise he wouldn‟t hit her again, using the voice that couldn‟t 

possibly belong to me. Then I did my “John Wayne routine” and strode across the street. 

I don‟t know what happened with Connie after that, but I was still a virgin. She 

wasn‟t the girl who finally deflowered me, so it must not have been much. A lesson 

learned, perhaps? Bust your ass. Risk it for some girl, only to find she gives her favors 

to someone else? 

We had one more “event” with the Cobb family. Personally, I was pretty much 

astonished when it failed to make the national news. Merle was sitting on his porch one 

evening. He‟d been insulting Mom for a good hour or more so far. I loved my Mom, and 

didn‟t want anyone to disrespect her, but I didn‟t really feel I could whip an adult. Not at 

ten years of age. 

Confidence issue on my part, maybe? 

My old man came home from work shortly after nine. Merle was running at full 

tilt. Dad went inside and removed his suit, then came back out in some casual clothes. A 

couple minutes later, this craven coward … yup, my old man … got up and walked over 

to Cobb‟s property. 

Merle was obviously a bully. I‟m sure he‟d been one since he was a little boy, 

and he surely passed it along to his son, Bob. Merle was now facing “The Coward of the 

County”, no matter what county you‟re in. 

I watched it happen with my chin hanging. I couldn‟t believe my old man had the 

guts to talk back to another adult! After a couple minutes of listening to Merle‟s filthy 

mouth, my old man hauled off and smacked the bastard! Yeah, he did! A right cross to 



the jaw. It bloodied Cobb‟s mouth and knocked him flat on his ass. My old man came 

back to sit with Mom, who thought she‟d surely found the hero of her young lifetime. 

My Dad didn‟t quit shaking for an hour or more. 

Soon afterward, the Cobbs moved out. 

Another welfare family moved in. They had a kinda cute girl my age named 

Dolly, another little brat girl around four years old whose name I can‟t recall, and a son 

three years older than me. Mike Baker. A foot taller, a good forty pounds heavier, and 

he smoked. That made him really tough. 

One day during summer vacation, Mike told me to come with him. We were 

gonna have some fun. Easily impressed at that age, I went along. 

Mike was enrolled at Otto. I was a “sissy kid from the Catholic school”. We 

went over by Otto to the house of a kid named Harold Kirby. It provided me with my first 

look at a total, complete scumbag. Harold was about five-nine, maybe a hundred and ten 

pounds, soaking wet. Had very long blonde hair, and smeared it with grease so he could 

comb it all the way back. He wore black jeans so tight you could almost see the crack of 

his ass, and pointy-toed shoes. Supposedly, that was so he could de-nut a guy in a fight. 

He wore a long sleeved white shirt with the collar open, cuffs rolled up. A 

cigarette perched behind each ear at all times, he always had one in his mouth, as well. 

With Harold as our “leader”, we went looking for something to do. 

Near C.W. Otto was an area of Lansing called “the North End”. It‟s where the 

Mexicans lived, and probably all the tough people. All I knew was Mom said I couldn‟t 

go there, but there I was. 

Harold and Mike wanted to “find some action”. I was too damned afraid to go 



home by that time. As we crossed the bridge on North Grand River, Mike saw a little kid 

he knew, maybe seven or eight years old, playing by the river. Keep in mind, the kid was 

only two or three years younger than me. 

We went down the embankment. Harold and Mike started talking with the kid, a 

scrawny little shit with big glasses. The lenses were very thick. His clothing looked like 

something I‟d get smacked for wearing if Mom caught me. Just seeing him made me 

uncomfortable. 

After a while, Harold standing next to me again, Mike came back and told me 

what they had in mind. The kid was going to give each of us a blowjob. Mike was 

willing to let me go first! Gee, this must be my lucky day! 

No, thanks. No way in hell, actually. I explained it to Mike. 

After a second look to see I wasn‟t kidding, he went down by the kid and sat on a 

big piece of broken concrete. Mike got what he was after, but Harold must‟ve changed 

his mind. Maybe because of the disgusted look on my face, who knows? 

We left Harold shortly after that and started the walk home, about a mile. As we 

walked, Mike tried to convince me what he did was okay. I wasn‟t buying it. Not a 

damned bit. I don‟t know why I stayed with him when we got home, since I lived across 

the street, but I did. It seems everything that happened with the little boy got Mike 

revved up for more. 

We went inside and sat talking in his trashy, filthy living room, strewn with 

clothing, potato chip bags, ash trays full of butts, and more. Mike called his little sister, 

the one whose name I can‟t remember, and told her they were going to play the game he 

taught her. All smiles, happy to please her big brother, she took off her panties and was 



naked from the waist down. Mike dropped his drawers. He was ready before they 

circled his ankles. Then he hoisted her onto his lap. They didn‟t have sex, but she 

thought it was hilarious sitting there with his boner sticking up between her legs. 

I almost puked. I did leave his house that time. I went home and sat around the 

rest of the day, troubled as hell about what I‟d seen. That night, as my parents sat on the 

porch, I was with them. I didn‟t have much to say. Just kept my eyes on that house 

across the street. Finally, Mike came out and took a chair, but said nothing to us. I 

watched a while, then decided I couldn‟t do nothing anymore. I went across the street 

and accused Mike of being a pervert. 

He denied it, and our argument got louder and louder. Finally, with my old man 

apparently too afraid to do anything, Mom came over to see why I‟d gone ape on this 

older, bigger kid. During our discussion, which also let Mom know what he‟d done, 

Mike was unfortunate enough to call my Mom something nasty. I don‟t recall what it 

was, but it was dirty. 

Billy to the rescue again! 

Too incensed to recall this would get my ass handed to me on a platter, I got Mike 

by the legs and dropped him to his back. I crawled atop him, swinging. My fists must‟ve 

covered every square inch of his upper body, the main focus his head and face. I beat the 

living shit out of him before Mom, and my old man by this time, pulled me off. 

I don‟t know who said what to whom, but I never saw Mike again. A few days 

later, they moved. 

There was another family on our block, a few houses away. Same side of the 



street, in a house about eleventy-six times bigger than our dinky little hovel. Our house 

later became such a source of deep embarrassment, I wanted to die. 

No kid wants to admit being poor to anyone, especially another kid. It moves you 

down a rung, maybe more. Well, my family was poor. Damned poor. The most money 

my old man ever made was $12,000 in 1977. I convinced him the next year to retire. 

Mom went on full disability shortly after that. Believe it or not, they made more money 

that way than when they were both working. Mom had as many as three jobs at a time 

for a while, but this was still a lot better for them. 

Only one time, in my entire life, did my parents go away so I had the house to 

myself. I was in my late teens when they went to Florida on vacation for a month. I had 

a few guys over to drink beer one night. Maybe six, plus me. It was very, very crowded. 

One of the guys, Dave Chouinard, was hilarious. His brother Bob, telling me Dave died a 

few years ago, very correctly described Dave as “The funniest guy to ever shit between 

two cowboy boots”. That was Dave, alright. A good man, and I miss him. 

I didn‟t miss him when I had my “party”. Dave looked around as he sat on a chair 

drinking beer and said, “This house is so fucking small, you‟d have to go out on the front 

porch to change your mind.” 

Anyway, these neighbors I mentioned were the Cann family. Their oldest child 

was a daughter named Cary, a year older than me. She was cute, I guess, but chubby and 

not “popular”. For reasons I never understood, to be “cool”, you had to be “popular”. 

Yet, the only ones who could be “popular” were the kids who were “cool”. I wanted so 

bad to be either one, but I didn‟t have a clue as to how I‟d ever pull it off. 

Maybe it was the luck of the draw. I never figured it out, but years later I‟d meet 



former classmates and be surprised by what they told me. They all admired me in school 

„cause I was one of the “cool” kids, “popular” and all the rest of it. 

Me? Bill Cady? Huh? It made me wonder if the other “cool” kids knew they 

were “popular”, or if I was the only one left out in the cold. 

Anyway, Cary‟s mother and Mom were good friends. Mom used to walk up 

there, cigarette in hand, still wearing her housekeeper‟s uniform when she got home from 

work. Mom cleaned a sorority with forty college girls. You‟ve never seen pigs until 

you‟ve seen forty girls in the same house. It was enough to give me nightmares. 

Mom and Cary‟s stay-at-home mom would have coffee and talk about things. 

One day, evidently with no bigger schemes to hatch, they decided Bill and Cary would 

make a nice couple. It made sense to them, so they set out to arrange it. One small detail 

they overlooked was asking me about it. I have no idea if they consulted with Cary, but I 

never even got a hint. Suddenly, they had me coming up there when Mom and Cary‟s 

mother had coffee. 

They even got us to walk to the store … together … to pick up little things. I 

caught on fast when they sent us for stuff I knew we had at home. Yet, when I tried 

telling Mom we already had some, she got that look in her eyes. The one that said I may 

have only minutes to live. Maybe not that long, depending on my mouth. 

Gotcha, Mom. I‟m on it. 

Mom would have me come down in the evening while she and Shirley, Cary‟s 

mother, talked. What‟s up with this crap? Mom, you never come down here after dinner. 

You‟ve always got things to do at home. Uh-huh. 

Pretty soon, one thing led to three or four others and Cary was officially “Bill‟s 



girlfriend”. A year older, she went to Otto. She was in the seventh grade, I was in the 

sixth. At a parochial school. Not a school with “cool kids”, a parochial school. I wasn‟t 

sure Cary‟d like the idea, since I was a year younger, a grade behind her, going to a 

parochial school. 

Like Mom used to say, That‟s where “thought” gets ya. 

Cary liked the idea just fine. Well, ain‟t this just freakin‟ wonderful? I have a 

girlfriend now. Not one I would‟ve picked, but I have one, all the same. Wondraneous. 

What‟m I gonna do with a girlfriend? 

You‟ve got me by the ass. I had no idea. 

Cary was “too old”, (her words), to associate with kids in our neighborhood. We 

had little in common, with different schools and none of the same friends, but I made a 

stab at it. I went every day to spend time with her, to be a good boyfriend. After a while, 

when it got old, I wasn‟t all that interested in a girlfriend. I wanted to waste time the way 

I did before, although I‟m not sure what that might‟ve been. 

So, Cary and I broke up. At least, I thought we did. 

The next day, Mom went diddy-bopping to see Shirley, found out what a mean 

and nasty thing I did, and climbed on my ass like I had stirrups. Later that day, I had the 

same girlfriend again. This went on for a while, but I was always a rebellious little shit. 

It‟s changed now, since I‟m a very rebellious big shit, but that‟s how it was back then. 

After we broke up the seventh time, the mothers got us back together. 

By then, Cary was gathering a hint. We went for a long walk, holding hands, and 

our hands got sweaty after a while. Yuck! We stopped a few blocks away at “the blind 

school”, which is what all the locals called The Michigan School for the Blind, (where I 



met and played bongos with a kid named Stevie Wonder). We sat by the fence and I 

explained a few things to Cary. Before I started my explanation, I did something suave. 

I kissed her. 

It was her first kiss. With three or four girls already under my belt, I was an old 

hand. Unfortunately, I missed her mouth the first time and got her nose. So, I pretended 

that‟s what I meant to do, then kissed her mouth. 

Suddenly, Cary wasn‟t chubby. She was more “popular” than I might‟ve thought. 

She was suddenly popular with a guy I call “The Soldier”, a nickname for my male 

organ. He liked her a lot! 

Cary also had, at the tender age of twelve, what‟s technically known as “a nice 

rack”. Her blouse was hard pressed to cover those puppies. I soon found my hands were 

equally hard pressed to leave „em untouched. 

It was the last day of October, 1960, Halloween Day, and I was horny! Man, was 

I horny! Therefore, I carefully explained to Cary the way it would have to be. If she 

wanted to be my girlfriend, I wanted sex. I wasn‟t positive what it was yet, or even what 

it might feel like. Didn‟t even have any idea how to do it. An instinct or two. Snatches 

of conversation I overheard at different times. That was it. 

Faced with an ultimatum, Cary still said she wanted to be my girlfriend. If I 

wanted sex, she was willing. 

Well, shit! Now what? I never expected her to say yes. I thought she‟d tell me to 

go to hell and break up with me. That way, I could waste my time like before. Now she 

told me I can do it to her, and I wasn‟t sure how. 

Damned if I was gonna tell her how stupid I was. I told her, “Let‟s go”, and took 



her hand. We were at the far end of the School for the Blind. I walked half a mile with a 

hard-on. Cary acted like she didn‟t see it, but started giggling a lot, and I knew why. 

Since I was about to partake of “the forbidden fruit”, she could do any damned thing she 

wanted, as long as she took her pants off when we got to my house. 

When we arrived, that David thing and Cary‟s brother Tommy, age six, were 

playing with trucks in the dirt driveway. That David thing planned to come in the house. 

I quietly promised to kill him if he did, so he changed his mind. 

I knew Mom wouldn‟t be home for an hour, due to traffic. It was around three 

o‟clock. She normally got there about four. I hoped I had enough time. 

It took a good ten minutes or more to get Cary‟s clothes off. She kept changing 

her mind. and I had to talk her back into it. No way in hell was I gonna get this close and 

still have a dry dick when she left. Uh-uh! 

Finally, she was naked. Eight or nine seconds later, I was, too. I even had 

enough composure to play with her breasts and suck „em a while. I couldn‟t remember 

the other times, with Mom. Still, it felt so special with Cary. Okay, let‟s say that took 

three minutes. Five, even. If so, we had forty-five minutes to screw and be done before 

Mom would walk in the house. If that happened, it would be the proverbial “Dark Day at 

Black Rock”. 

Always the hero, I made it with time to spare. Pressured, a mere forty-five 

minutes leeway, I made it with forty-three and a half minutes left! I was all done, getting 

my clothes on again, when Cary asked, “Is it over?” Her face was the expression of a 

disbeliever. I bet she couldn‟t believe she just lost her virginity and neither of us even 

worked up a sweat. 



I was eleven years old and had finally tasted “the forbidden fruit”. No one told 

me the wonderful aftertaste. The desire it creates to go back for seconds. I had to learn 

that on my own With Cary, I mean. 

Not long after, for reasons I honestly can‟t remember, we broke up again. This 

time, it stuck. Well, almost. She‟ll visit our story again when you learn about the first, 

and only, time I ever went head to head with a Green Beret. 

isn‟t funny. 

I can say this much about you ladies. You‟re so much like Lay‟s potato chips, it 

Nobody can eat just one. 



CHAPTER FIVE 

Holy Cross grade school was where I got my learnin‟. B‟fore I started there, I 

couldn‟t even spell writer. Now I is one. Actually, I could spell it. I knew my ABCs 

and could read, sort of, by the time I was eighteen months. 

Holy Cross was a small parish school. If I had to estimate, I‟d say maybe 750 

students, total, grades one through nine. Oh, that was another shitty switchypoo I had 

pulled on me. All the years I attended, from first grade and after, ninth graders were the 

elite. They were the crème de la crème, the “gifted ones”. When they graduated, they‟d 

be in high school at St. Mary‟s, which also had a grade school. Years before, the bishop 

had his office at that school. 

So, whaddaya think the news was when I started eighth grade, knowing in one 

more year, I‟d be in that king of the hill group? They announced the diocese was 



building two brand-new high schools! Guess what, boys and girls, especially you eighth 

graders? You‟ll get to be the first four year class to graduate from those new schools! 

Uh-huh. So, instead of being top of the hill as a ninth grader, I start at the very 

bottom as a freshman, right? And the happy part of that is …? 

Wunderbar! I‟m so happy I can‟t shit. Yippy ki-yay! 

Anyway, it was a wonderful school. 

Every word in that last sentence is a damned lie. I hated Catholic schools. 

That said, I wish all kids had to go to one. We were taught mostly by nuns, with a 

few lay teachers due to shortages in the Habit Crew. Those women damned sure meant it 

when they said we were going to learn. There was no “or else”. You had to do it. No 

ifs, ands or buts. You learned. 

They believed in corporal punishment when I was there. Hell, if she‟d had a 

chance, our principal, Sister Mary Adrian, would‟ve used sergeant punishment to get her 

point across. She had a yardstick with a metal edge. For the bad guys. She also had a 

barber‟s strop. For the really bad guys. It hurts. I say that from experience. 

Those nuns weren‟t a damned bit afraid to take hold of an ear and use it to drag 

you anywhere they wanted. If you ever wanted to hear again, you went where she told 

you to go. Sister Mary Flavian, my sixth grade teacher, was later committed to a loony 

bin. She once locked me in the broom closet for an entire afternoon. That woman had a 

temper. 

She disliked the lack of uniformity caused by using names. Everyone got a 

number, instead. I was number eleven. Each day a student was appointed as class 

monitor. We had all our classes in the same room, so we each had a desk. All our junk 



went into it. When it was my day, the first class was spelling. I watched the clock like a 

hawk. When the hand ticked, I said, “Get your glad rags on, kids, it‟s time for spelling 

class.” I doubt it was a reward, but I spent that hour in the principal‟s office with a sore 

butt from her yardstick. Hey, if she can‟t take a joke, piss on her, right? 

We had the “privilege” of going to Mass every day, Monday through Friday. We 

were thusly blessed again on Sunday. Saturdays we could be lustful sinners, I guess. 

With no alternative to going six days per week, I seem to have missed the part that made 

it a privilege. Attention span trouble, must be. 

Although we could go to communion any day we wanted, you had to fast all night 

before doing so, from six o‟clock the evening before. I don‟t think Mom was any crazier 

than anyone else‟s Mom about not giving us breakfast after we‟d gone all night without 

even a piece of bread. However, on Friday, everybody in school took communion. 

A parish member owned Paul‟s Pastries, a local bakery. He‟d make up tons of 

trays with jelly rolls and real long johns. The kind with crème in „em, not that custard 

garbage that makes me want to barf. I think they also offered doughnuts, but there was 

no way I‟d waste the space. Not when I could have two each of the others, and two pints 

of milk. Mmmmmmmmmm! Damned awfully good! 

There were a few kids I find memorable. Terry Lovell was one. He had long, 

black hair and was kinda loud. I thought he was one of the really cool guys, but I saw 

most of „em didn‟t hang around with him. Still, I liked him, so we were pals, sort of. 

I think the nuns called him an asshole, as I‟m sure they did with me. One or both 

of us was always in trouble. 

Terry brought me in on a scheme once. I couldn‟t pass it up. We snuck into the 



sacristy and stole the wine they use at Mass for communion. Took it out under a big 

yellow school bus and got shitfaced. I don‟t remember everything when the nuns pulled 

us out from under it, beyond swearing and insisting I wasn‟t fuckin‟ drunk, in those 

words. That didn‟t go over well. Terry and I erased a lot of blackboards after school for 

a long time after that day. 

I later learned Terry lived across the street, two doors down, from Grandma. I 

liked it because Terry had another nice thing about him. Something I really liked. His 

sister, Sheila. She had a medical condition known as “one helluva nice rack”. It caused 

me a related, reactive medical condition called a “major boner”. She was also pretty 

damned good lookin‟. “Fine”, we called it then. 

Unfortunately, she was two or three years older. That age difference may be 

acceptable up to age nine or ten, but it‟s unheard of again until your thirties. 

Sheila, wherever you are, sweetheart, you‟ll never know what you missed. 

There was a long string of thefts in our school. Over two full years. Some no- 

good, lowdown skunk(s) snuck into classrooms during recess and lunch hours. Once 

inside, the bastard(s) would steal the money from the girls‟ purses. Finally, with 

everyone totally clueless, no way they‟d catch these sporadic marauders, two kids 

managed to learn the names of the guys doing it. Denny Costello and Bill Cady 

discovered these guys, but never turned them in. 

Actually, near the end of the second year, we nearly got caught. After that, we 

decided to make an honest living and mow lawns instead of mugging purses. 

We used to crawl into the huge closet that took up most of the wall and hide until 



the room was empty. Then we‟d steal all the money in the purses and get out to the 

hallway from a “locked room”. Yeah, it was … but, not from the inside. 

Two Lebanese brothers went to our school, John and Rick Adado. I believe their 

sister was Sharon. Rick was in my grade, John a grade ahead of us. Rick was kinda fat. 

It embarrassed him, so he wore sweaters, hoping he didn‟t look so fat. What he looked 

like was a hot fat kid, but it‟s not my business, I guess. It got pretty bad in the summer, 

with Rick still wearing sweaters. Shit, he stunk like hell at times. No big deal to me. I 

just stayed upwind. Let the guy work on his problem. I had enough of my own. 

John‟s parents owned a medium-size supermarket, half a mile away from 

Grandma‟s house. Can you believe that? A Lebanese family owning a market? Of 

course, there was no such thing back then as a 7-Eleven. Their choices were limited. 

John used to swipe the family station wagon when his mother was working. It 

was a nine passenger model, and we‟d fill all twelve seats, crowded as a circus car full of 

clowns. John smoked, too, which we knew made him tough. He always said the cops 

wouldn‟t think he was a kid because he was smoking. 

Are you kidding me? With a nose that size? A Lebanese kid who shaved by fifth 

grade? No way, man! Besides, when he was ten, John probably looked thirty. He 

could‟ve bought beer without getting carded by second grade. 

John was “cool” until later, when we got to high school and other kids had cars. 

Suddenly, he wasn‟t as popular. Can you imagine that? Kids being disloyal? Hell, that‟s 

how everyone is in California, but I never thought kids would act that way. 

There was another guy, a ninth grader, named John Horaney. I met him again in 

my early thirties at a poker game I regularly sat in. He was a pretty good lookin‟ guy, 



although I don‟t do guys, and a lot of fun. We even played poker a few times at his 

house. I liked John. 

Then, I did. Not back in school. He was “God‟s gift”, and he knew it. He was a 

ninth grader. He wanted us to know it, and treat him deferentially. He could make fun of 

us, but we were never allowed to make fun of him. 

There was a drugstore on the corner called Warner‟s. I think it was because Mr. 

Warner owned it. Right after school, that place was so full of kids you couldn‟t turn 

around. Jammed. Denny and I used to go there the days we mugged purses. We‟d treat 

the girls we stole from, since they had no money. Couldn‟t even buy a Cherry Coke. 

around, huh? 

Come to think of it, that never got me laid. Makes it look like a bad idea all 

I was there one day, hoping no one would embarrass me for the same reasons all 

kids are horrified to be with the crowd they want to be with. John Horaney said 

something taunting to me. Everyone laughed. 

To his chagrin, I said something in reply that drew even more laughter. That was 

on John‟s “no-no” list, so he came over to make me apologize. 

I‟d just recently started using a word I learned the very hard way when I was 

younger. Seeing no adults close by, I trotted that word out and let everyone hear it. 

“Fuck you, Horaney.” 

Oh, wow! Super “no-no” list! You can‟t say that! Not to a ninth grader! Not 

one as big as John Horaney! He‟s gonna kick your ass! 

I‟m positive those were the thoughts on everyone‟s mind. Bill Cady will die in a 

minute or so. He should‟ve never talked that way to John. 



There were a number of other ninth graders watching. They wanted to see what 

John would do to and with this upstart eighth grader. 

He threatened me, so I repeated what I told him. Then he really threatened me, so 

I really repeated what I said earlier. He overplayed his hand by pushing it one step too 

far. “Wanna go outside and settle this, Cady?” He knew that would make me see the 

light. No way will some smart ass kid in the eighth grade go one on one with a tough 

ninth grader. He waited for me to apologize. To grovel, so he could magnanimously 

forgive me. 

“Let‟s go, asshole.” I pointed toward the door. No way on earth was I going to 

lose face that bad. I‟d never be able to look those kids in the eye again if I backed down. 

I was horrified of what I knew would happen. John was gonna kick my ass all over the 

parking lot. Yet, so strong is peer pressure at that age, I was willing to suffer a vicious 

beating to avoid being totally ashamed in front of my “friends”. 

I‟m sure John‟s reasoning was the same, plus he had more to lose. He was a ninth 

grader. What the hell would everyone say if some punk eighth grader cleaned his clock 

after getting mouthy? 

We got to the parking lot and squared off. Funny, guys do that, even when they 

don‟t know how to box. John sure didn‟t. When I figured I might as well get it over 

with, I advanced. Stopped all the circling we‟d done so far. We‟d made two or three laps 

and the only “action” was from the people circling us. They had a crowd mentality, were 

urging their favorite to kill the other guy. 

I was thrilled to hear more than the occasional voice backing me up. 

“Fuck „im up, Cady!” 



“Kill that bastard, Cady!” 

“Beat his fuckin‟ ass, Cady!” 

“Stomp the shit out of „im, Cady!” 

I loved every word! 

When I started at him, John looked like he didn‟t know what to do. So, with the 

idea doing something‟s better than doing nothing, he wound up and launched a 

haymaker. It swished far overhead, since I‟d already dived for his knees. I did what‟s 

known in wrestling as a double leg takedown. John hit the asphalt and I clambered atop 

his chest. This is a killer position in a street fight. I placed both knees on his biceps and 

pressed down hard with all my body weight, around 170 at that point. 

John could no longer use his hands. He couldn‟t move. He absotively, posilutely 

could not move out from under me. 

My fists began a back and forth rhythm that‟s been known to kill people in a 

street fight. My right would slug his face. His head would slam into the blacktop, then 

bounce up. When it did, my left was already coming at him while I cocked the right 

again. I‟d gone through numerous cycles already. John was close to unconscious when a 

hand grabbed my left trapezius. 

Although I‟d heard a lot of cheering for Cady, I was pretty damned sure that hand 

belonged to a ninth grader who didn‟t want to see one of his own thumped any longer. 

Well, TFB, pal. Too fuckin‟ bad! I was not about to stand up and have some “hero” 

knock me flat on my ass. 

I came to my feet spinning, turning as I rose. My right hand was in full swing 

before I saw who grabbed me. By the time I was able to ID the grabber, it was too late, 



by far. I couldn‟t stop the fist that crashed directly into the middle of Sister Mary 

Theonilla‟s face. Her eyes went blank. She stood straight up for a moment before 

continuing her backward fall. No referee needed here. She was out for the count of a 

thousand, maybe more. I clocked her completely. 

After conferences with everyone in that damned school, a lot of witnesses who 

said I never started it, and a host of apologies, John and I were suspended for three days. 

That was the end of it. After all, it was near the end of the year. No one wanted any 

undo fuss, and Sister Mary Theonilla swore it wasn‟t my fault. 

The only other incident significant enough to share, at least while I was at Holy 

Cross, involved Mrs. Lott. She was my seventh grade teacher for homeroom and a 

couple other classes. Seventh graders and above got to change classrooms a few times 

per day. We loved that part. 

Mrs. Lott had seven children. This woman was a good Catholic. Damned good. 

She was also my first “teacher crush”. Almost inevitable for a boy when those old 

hormones start to kick in, it‟s much more difficult when most teachers are nuns. 

It‟s a mortal sin for a boy to even think about doing that to a nun, we were told, 

because every nun is God‟s wife. Well, I‟ll tell you this much. If that‟s true, God had 

damned well better never stop for an extra beer when He‟s done bowling! It‟d be His 

ass! 

Mrs. Lott could have nursed all seven of her kids at one time, since she had a 

monstrous pair of jalobies! Huge! I was in love! Okay, lust. Big deal. At that age, we 

think it‟s the same thing we think when we‟re older, but there‟s never an attorney 

involved, and no one gets divorced. It‟s all the same thing, in the end. 



I was in a capricious mood that day. I was near the front of the room doing 

something when someone opened the door and called Mrs. Lott. I never missed a chance 

to watch her walk, since she had a great ass, but decided I should hurry to my seat so no 

one would see my boner. I knew it‟d be in a full erection before she‟d even made it to 

the freakin‟ door. 

On the way to my seat, for reasons I still can‟t fathom, I reached down and took 

her keys. These were keys to pretty much every door in the school, as well as her house 

and car. With added foresight, although it made it harder to watch her, I had the presence 

of mind to hide her keys before I sat. Not a soul was watching me, so I went to the pencil 

sharpener and hid „em in the part that holds the shavings. Then I took my seat a few rows 

away. 

Mrs. Lott noticed her keys were gone almost immediately. I played as dumb as 

any kid in the room. Suddenly, she was uncertain when she might‟ve lost them. With no 

cell phones, intercoms or anything like that, she chose one of the girls to get the principal. 

Every last one of us was grilled. Nobody, including me, knew a damned thing. 

They even searched us for the keys, including the girls‟ purses. The whole school was in 

an uproar. They kept us late, but finally had to let everyone go when parents began to 

call. 

When we were let out and headed to Warner‟s is when I made my first real stupid 

mistake. The theft was all anyone was talking about, so I eventually let it slip to a few 

“close friends” who promised to stay quiet. They did, for almost five minutes. Suddenly, 

I had kids I never even talked with asking questions about those keys. Finally getting 



wise, I clammed up, but it was too late. The next morning a brigade was waiting for me 

when I got to school. They all knew I‟d taken the keys. It was gonna be my ass. 

“Oh, yeah?” I inquired. “Okay, prove it.” 

They kept me in the principal‟s office all day. Called both my parents. Even got 

them to come to the school. I swore all their witnesses were lying. The witnesses, now 

thinking over what I might do to them later, all suddenly started changing their stories. 

Maybe they made it up, or heard it from someone else. 

Eventually, they started offering me “deals” to confess. To admit I did it and tell 

„em where they‟d find those keys. “Not a chance,” I explained. “Not a chance. Prove 

it.” 

My father threatened to whip my ass. Since I now outweighed him by ten or 

fifteen pounds, I told him to take his best shot. Mom cried. It hurt me to do it, but I stuck 

to my guns. Finally, by mid afternoon, they‟d gone from rational to irrational, and back 

to rational again. They asked what it would take for me to tell them where I put Mrs. 

Lott‟s keys. 

I insisted on no punishment of any kind, at school or at home, and no future 

problems because of what happened. I also insisted I get the rest of the day off, which 

was only a couple more hours. Flabbergasted, they objected and argued, but I hung in 

there. When they finally agreed, I told „em where to find the keys, then told Mom I 

needed a ride home. End of story. 

There‟s one last anecdote about Holy Cross grade school I‟d like to share. The 

people involved have stayed on my mind for almost fifty years, and it‟s about time they 

knew it. Holy Cross ran the St. Vincent‟s Home for Orphans. It was a large building 



located at the front of a nice cemetery. My parents are buried there, as a matter of fact. 

That place is full of good Catholics. If the adage, “Only the good die young” has any 

merit, I figure I‟ve got at least another fifty years to go yet. 

Two members of the St. Vincent‟s home, Bill and Susie Blainey, brother and 

sister, were students at the school. Actually, I always thought Susie was kinda cute, but I 

was afraid to ask about seeing her because of where she lived. I‟ve had a lot of years to 

kick myself in the ass for that one. 

While I can‟t be sure, I think the “memorable event” happened in December, 

1960 or 1961, sixth or seventh grade. We were anxious to get out of school for the 

holidays. I could restate that sentence, omitting the “for the holidays” part, and still be 

exactly on the money. 

A vacation sounded good to everyone. Okay, to everyone I knew about. I‟m not 

so sure the idea brought a smile to either Bill or Susie‟s face. 

I‟m not certain, but I don‟t believe they had any living relatives. I think both 

parents were deceased, which is bad enough for any kid to suffer. Even if I was sure I 

wouldn‟t‟ve missed my old man a damned bit, I‟m certain there‟d‟ve been more than a 

few problems if he‟d died when I was a kid. 

If Bill and Susie were reticent about the Christmas season, it had to be based on 

where they‟d spend it. Different people would come to St. Vincent‟s, or to Holy Cross, 

to collect kids to share the holiday with them. Personally, I find it very pitiful to have no 

more than that to look forward to, but again, I wasn‟t in the spot they had. 

Susie was expectant, I‟m sure, but had evidently learned not to get her hopes up 

too high from years past. Then, one day it appeared she‟d gotten lucky. One of the nuns 



came to our classroom and called Susie to the door. Not for purposes of drama, because 

it seems real to me, I believe it was the last day of school before we left on vacation. 

As the nun spoke, Susie began to bounce up and down, eyes shining, a million 

dollar smile on her face. Every kid in the room knew someone picked Susie to stay with 

them for Christmas. We were happy right along with her, since we all shared some of the 

guilt. We knew what we had waiting for us. No one wanted to damage their own good 

time by thinking about all the fun Susie wouldn‟t be enjoying. 

Suddenly, as the nun spoke further with an unhappy expression, Susie quit all the 

bouncing. She hung her head and started to cry. Then she shook her head. We knew 

what it meant. Some family agreed to take Susie, but it seems Bill wasn‟t welcome. Not 

enough room, maybe, or they couldn‟t afford presents for two kids. Who knows? 

In Susie‟s mind, it meant she wasn‟t welcome, either. The nun took Susie away 

so she could recover her dignity in private, but I never forgot that moment. 

I never will. 



CHAPTER SIX 

Christmas isn‟t always a happy time. Especially for poor kids. It gets worse 

when poor kids intermingle with middle class kids, or even well-to-do kids. In truth, it 

can get rather ugly. If memory serves me, it was the Christmas I was in sixth grade, circa 

1960. 

My Dad had advanced his career from driving a city bus to selling Cutco knives 

door-to-door, then selling fire extinguishers door-to-door, then selling encyclopedias 

door-to-door, even used cars for a while. Finally, he went to work downtown selling 

furniture for J. W. Knapp Company. It was owned by the Mott family out of Flint, 

Michigan, a wealthy group of people. 

Knapp‟s was the finest department store in Lansing, Michigan. Bar none. It had 

all the latest-greatest everything. Keep in mind, at that time, if you asked some guy what 

a mall was, he‟d say “a big hammer”. There was no such thing as a mall as we know 

them today. If you wanted to shop, you went downtown. No exceptions. 



Dad made a reasonably pissy living by selling the highest priced furniture within 

a few hundred miles, everywhere outside the Detroit area. Most of his buyers were 

wealthier people from the nicer neighborhoods. Not anyone who‟d invite a guy like Fred 

Cady to dinner. 

Mom was the housekeeper for a sorority in East Lansing, plus she worked at 

Gamble‟s Hardware, on the west end of town, evenings and weekends. What a lazy 

bitch, right? Then she had to keep house. Tend to two growing boys. Shop for food and 

prepare meals. Do the cleaning. On and on. No wonder she never spent any time 

reading. She had too damned much to do. 

Still, with all that, we were barely getting by. 

The history of our cars should give you a better understanding. Dad only bought 

new cars. He knew that was the wisest way. So, he bought a 1955 Willys. No shit. A 

passenger car made by Willys-Overland, the company that also made the Jeep. A two- 

tone coupe; red on the bottom, white on top. At least it was a two-door. 

They traded it in and came home one day with a brand-new Studebaker Lark, a 

1960 model. A cream colored two-door, “three on the tree” stick shift with an AM radio. 

That was the only option on our car. 

In 1964, we traded up. He bought a 1964 Studebaker Daytona, light blue, a four- 

door. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to have my pals see me in that 

squared off, boxy car? Well, at least it was an automatic. Their first. 

Dad traded again in 1969 for a Dodge four-door, light green with a black vinyl 

top. Automatic, power steering, and a radio. What a luxury ride. I don‟t recall the 

model, but it was a full-size car. Years later, with my folks still driving that Dodge, I was 



in the car business. I helped them get a 1975 Delta 88 Royale, loaded and brand-new. 

Powder blue with a dark blue vinyl top. 

A few months later, I was able to help them into of a fully loaded brand-new 1975 

Olds 98 Regency coupe. A sexy two-door in cranberry with a white vinyl half top. He 

drove it until shortly before his death in 1991, when he traded it for a 1984 Olds Cutlass 

four-door, used. I was long gone to California by then. 

Back to unhappy Christmases. It was sixth grade. There was a neat new fashion 

sweeping the scene. Banlon shirts. If you were a kid back then, a sexy Banlon was the 

greatest thing since canned beer. Nobody but nobody would ever want to go to school in 

anything but a Banlon. It was the “in” thing. 

Uh-huh. Well, I inherited a trait from my old man. I almost never perspire, other 

than from my face. Mom‟s side of the family swelters just thinking about getting out of a 

chair. Since the old man rented clean white shirts every day, and never sweated, I was 

big enough during sixth and seventh grade to wear those shirts. Every morning I‟d put on 

the shirt he wore the day before and go to school in it. That helped Mom, and reduced 

my clothing budget, but they were not the Banlon shirts everyone else wore. 

My school said we had to wear a tie every day; string ties were okay. The girls all 

had to wear the same bluish-green plaid uniform skirts and white blouses, apparently to 

avoid embarrassing the poor girls. Hey, what about us poor boys, damn it? We get to 

wear “dress slacks” and a shirt, but you can sure as hell tell I don‟t live in Mar-Moor, 

can‟t you? 

That‟s a subdivision built by Margeurite Moore, a local realtor who had a ton and 

a half of cash. Wealthy people bought those homes for outrageous amounts of money. 



There were houses priced at over $100,000, and mansions with $200,000 price tags. We 

lived in a house my folks bought for $7,000 and paid $58.33 per month to live in it. 

Gasoline was priced at 12-15¢ per gallon, to put it in perspective. 

Both of us, that David thing and I, had been bugging Mom to get us Banlons for 

Christmas. To wear them to school would show we could look as good as any other kids. 

We wanted that. 

There we were, early Christmas morning, at the tree grabbing our presents, like all 

kids. I hoped like hell I‟d find a few Banlons, but they were very expensive. I really 

doubted Mom would find a way to make it happen. 

However, when I tore open a package, I found a Banlon! Son-of-a-bitch! Man, 

I‟ve died and gone to heaven! Two more packages showed the same thing. I had three 

Banlons in different colors! I ravaged the clear plastic packages to get them open and 

look at my new shirts. Hold one in front of me and see how gorgeous it would make me. 

That‟s when I noticed something wrong. My stomach felt like I was going to be 

sick for a moment. Both parents were watching us, smiling like crazy. Glad to be able to 

bring us something we both wanted so much. They stopped smiling at my remark. “Aw, 

they‟re long-sleeved.” 

“Real” Banlons were short-sleeved. Mom found these at some big discount place 

and managed to find enough money to buy them. They were far less costly than “real” 

Banlons. 

“Goddamned kids!” stormed my old man. He walked into the kitchen, then hid in 

the bathroom and smoked a cigarette. Soon after, he did what he always did when he was 

really hurt. 



He drove over to Fabiano‟s Market, which was open Christmas Day, and bought a 

six-pack of beer. Then came home and slammed it on the kitchen table. Those fuckin‟ 

kids were such ungrateful little bastards he didn‟t even want to look at the little assholes. 

Although I never liked that man as long as I knew him, I was truly sorry for 

hurting him so terribly. He really suffered. 

In any event, since we were poor and the money was already spent, we had to 

wear those “stupid imitations” to school. I was totally against it. Embarrassed to the 

point I wanted to die … until I started getting compliments on my “neat new shirt”. Kids 

were asking where they could get „em. 

I “kept forgetting” to ask Mom about it. No way I wanted anyone to know these 

“great new shirts” came from a discount store. 

### 

Age six was a big year for me. One example came at my birthday. Maybe I 

should say the Christmas before my sixth birthday, in 1954. I was born on the 28 th of 

December, 1948. That's the only year my folks made money on me at tax time. 

That David thing was born February 11 th , 1951, three days before a happy event 

called Valentine‟s Day. Like that matters, unless you‟re dating or, in a few extremely 

remote cases, married to a woman you still honestly love? 

I was three days short of being six that year, nine months from my first day of 

kindergarten. The rule was any baby born after December 5 th had to wait a year longer 

before kindergarten to avoid always being the youngest student in class. I was, therefore, 

always the oldest kid in my class. It never did a damned thing to help in any way. 

So, very early, maybe around five-thirty in the morning, December 25 th , 1954, we 



were bouncing around that freakin‟ tree, waking up our parents. Sleep, my ass! C‟mon, 

it‟s Christmas Day! Let‟s get at the loot! 

They staggered out to join us, but my old man headed for the kitchen to get a cup 

of coffee. That was good, since he might hurt someone if he didn‟t get it. Mom sat us 

and showed us our presents, all nicely wrapped. I had five presents. That David thing 

had six. “Oh, and that one over there,” Mom told me, “is your birthday present.” 

Uh-huh. My birthday present is wrapped in Christmas paper, I noticed. I have as 

many presents as that David thing, if we count my birthday present, but I have one less 

gift than that David thing, if we don‟t. 

It stunk. The whole idea smelled to high heaven as far as I was concerned, and I 

was only six years old. What kinda dummy do you guys think I am? Like I don‟t see 

you moved a Christmas present over there so I can wait three days before I open the son- 

of-a-bitch to be happy about it? 

Will I get something three days before that David thing has his birthday in 

February? I think not. Rip-off! 

If they really wanted to get me a present I wanted, they could‟ve sent that David 

thing to the pound, like I suggested. There‟s no way they‟d ever get their money back 

after four years. Even though I knew that David thing was defective, „cause it cried and 

whined and sobbed all the time like a girl, I knew they couldn‟t turn it back in. Still, the 

pound finds homes for everything. Cats, even! 

You‟d think, if I had to get a sister when I really wanted to be an only child, I‟d at 

least get one without a peeny-weeny. Life sucks, ya know? Even when you‟re only six 

years old. 



I did get a chance to do some payback. I guess that‟s what you‟d call it. My 

youngest child, a boy we named Tyler Langdon Cady, was the first baby to be born in 

Lansing, Michigan on Christmas Day, 1977. 

Every year, even after his mother and I divorced when he was three and a half, I 

insisted on the same thing. Any birthday presents had to be wrapped in birthday paper, 

not Christmas wrapping. Further, those gifts were to stay hidden until seven in the 

evening, at which time it was no longer Christmas day. That‟s when it became “Happy 

Tyler Day”. No way was I gonna let my boy suffer the way I did. 

### 

When we talked about John Horaney, I mentioned I‟d learned a “new word”. 

Actually, I learned it much earlier; when I was six. 

My cousin, a few steps removed, lived two houses south of us, on the same side 

of the street. His name was John Thurston. He died from cancer about a year or two 

before I came to California. Remarkably, he took faith and counsel from me as far as 

facing death, since I died in 1965 in an accident. By that time, being adults, all the old 

business was behind us. When we were kids, however, things were rather tense for a few 

years. 

John was older, maybe five or six years. He was strong and burly, but not as tall 

as most kids his age. He wasn‟t retarded, but he wasn‟t too far removed from being that 

way. Because of some tumors no one could explain, John had a few big bumps on his 

lips. Of course, all the kids made fun of him. Teased the poor bastard so much, it‟s no 

wonder he grew so mean. He started taking it out on me when I was six, old enough to 



play in other yards than just mine. He‟d pick on me a lot. Whenever I reacted, he‟d beat 

me up and laugh at me. 

When we weren‟t fighting each other, John and I had a “fort”, a half attic in his 

garage. It had a foldaway door, each section three feet high. In the rear of the garage a 

piece of the ceiling folded upward, the trap door to the attic. There was an opening above 

the garage door, letting us see out the driveway and to the street. We‟d go out and gather 

rocks by the bucketful, then store them in our fort. Once armed with enough ammo to get 

it started, we‟d head over to Knollwood Avenue and hit a couple guys with rocks. 

They‟d all get pissed, gather a few guys together and come after us. By that time, 

John and I were upstairs in his garage with the trap door shut and locked. We‟d throw 

the bigger rocks at „em, and use slingshots for the smaller ones. The attackers would 

usually stay and throw rocks until one of them started bleeding, then go home after 

threatening to kill us when they caught us. 

I guess the unnecessary violence was the second “stupid part” of what we did. 

The first was the fact Fabiano‟s Market was on the corner of Knollwood and Willow 

Streets, where we went almost every day to buy something. Based on that deficiency in 

the male mind that always wants to fight, or go to war, I see where it must‟ve made sense 

to us at the time. 

John was in high school, obviously, many years ahead of me, so he learned things 

I hadn‟t yet seen about life. Bad language was a part of it. To impress me, or anyone he 

thought he could impress, John would use what he learned around me. I had no one to 

explain it to me, and sure didn‟t want to look stupid, so I never asked for definitions 

when he insulted me. 



One evening my parents had company. Grandma was there, along with one of my 

three stepsisters from Dad‟s first marriage. I had Mary, Kay, Jeannie and a stepbrother 

named Allen, in addition to a “surprise” I‟ll explain later. It was Jeannie and Allen who 

stopped by to see their Dad. They both lived a long way from us, down in Detroit. 

With everyone ringed around me in the few chairs and sofa, plus some extra 

chairs Mom had the old man fetch, they were talking amongst themselves. At six years 

of age, damned little of what they had to say interested me, so I was playing on the floor 

with my truck. It was a white semi with Gamble’s Hardware on the side of the cab and 

the trailer. I guess I was having fun the way kids do with those things. 

I‟m sure a light bulb formed over my head because an idea came to me. Why not 

ask Dad? He‟s old. He must know what that word means. If I find out from him, I can 

say it to John and I won‟t look so stupid. Great! Now I had a plan. “Dad, what‟s a 

fucker?” 

teeth. 

He backhanded me right in the mouth. Bloodied my lips and loosened a few baby 

Aha! That’s what it means! Don‟t ask or you‟ll get your scrawny little ass 

kicked! Gotcha! Even though I knew it would get me hit a few more times, it hurt so 

bad, I started screaming in pain. My old man was sure to whack me again just to shut me 

up, but it really hurt, damn it! I couldn‟t keep quiet. 

As it turns out, I didn‟t have to. Mom started screaming at him so loud, and using 

so many nasty words I had no idea she‟d ever heard, he didn‟t dare touch me. Even 

Grandma jumped up and told him what she thought of him. The mean son-of-a-bitch was 

getting it from all sides at once. 



Mom took me in the bathroom and cleaned me up, but kept taking verbal shots at 

him all the while over her shoulder. The company was gone when we came out. My old 

man spent the evening reading at the kitchen table while we used the living room. 

Shortly after that, I decided I‟d had enough of John and getting the shit knocked 

out of myself twice a month, or more. He got mad and came running after me, like 

always. Instead of running away, I ran at him. Not only was I tired of the ass kickings he 

administered, I was still pissed off about that word he used on me that made my old man 

beat my ass like that. 

I slugged John right in the mouth, tumors and all. He was a bloody mess after I 

smacked him a few more times. I was able to see the only reason he chased me was 

because I‟d run. The only reason he‟d whip my ass was because I‟d cower and let him do 

it. Well, John, Bill Cady has had enough ass kickin‟s to last him an entire lifetime, and 

more. Take your ass kicking business somewhere else from now on. 

### 

While I was in eighth grade one of the neighborhood kids, Richie Opdyke, got me 

involved in one of the most tragic events of my life to date. He didn‟t “do anything” to 

me, but he abetted the freakin‟ crime, all the same. 

Richie‟s Dad smoked Chesterfields. Unfiltered. A nasty cigarette. He swiped a 

brand-new pack and got a bunch of us together so we could share in this ritual passage 

into manhood. We went to Mrs. Donelli‟s side yard. A big one where the neighborhood 

kids often played football. We hid in the dark next to the house where Kim Van Nocker 

lived. (She‟s another super cutie I wish I‟d had guts enough to approach, but she was too 

young). 



Richie had matches and away we went. There must‟ve been at least ten of us, 

ready and willing to go on to that next step in life. We all took a cigarette and lit up. I 

still remember my reaction. It tasted just like shit. Burned my mouth and throat, not to 

mention my lungs. Even got in my eyes and made „em water badly. A couple of the 

guys didn‟t make it. In only a minute or two, they were down on their knees, losing 

whatever they‟d eaten for dinner. 

Me? Hey, ain’t no way I‟m admitting I came within an inch of barfing up my 

guts, just like those guys. Piss on that stuff! No way. I went back and got another one, 

just to show how smart and “cool” I could be. Bill Cady ain‟t no damned sissy, ya know? 

Now, forty-six years later, the pukers still don‟t smoke, but I‟m addicted to the 

point my doctor says I‟m the most nicotine addicted patient of his career. Thanks, Russ. 

That‟s an award I truly coveted. Not! 

I kept smoking, since I didn‟t dare let the guys know I was faking it. Pretty soon, 

I was no longer faking it. Instead of smoking only when one of them could see me, I 

found I was smoking while all alone. If I hadn‟t “enjoyed it” so much and never started 

smoking, a habit harder to kick than using heroin, I‟d own a much nicer house, and it‟d 

be paid off. I guess it‟s not so bad, though, considering. I honestly wouldn‟t want to live 

anywhere other than Oceanside, California, where I am today. 

### 

The new high schools built by the Lansing Diocese were called Gabriel‟s and 

O‟Rafferty High Schools. Gabriel‟s was on the east side of Lansing. The one I went to, 

O‟Rafferty‟s, was on the west. It was clean, neat, new, things I‟d never before seen in a 

school, but it was nothing all that special. 



O‟Rafferty was divided into two wings. One side for boys, the other for girls. 

That completely sucked. We were becoming what I termed when I was an adult and 

fought them away from my daughter, piles of raging hormones. HP‟s, for short; 

Hormone Piles. 

Worse, the girls were getting a thing called “tits”! Come on! Why move „em 

where we can‟t even see „em when they‟re all getting nice tits? That‟s evil and low 

down. Really nasty. 

Now that I was a confirmed smoker, there was one nice thing about the new high 

school. It had Rack ‘n’ Rail, a brand-new billiards parlor, less than two blocks away. 

That‟s where I got started on what you‟ll soon see was a crucial part of my life in later 

years. It was one of the building blocks. 

We could smoke while shooting pool, except when one old fuddy-duddy was in 

charge. He wouldn‟t let minors smoke in there. When he was running it, we had to go 

outside. Maybe it was training for life as I know it today. If I go somewhere like a 

restaurant and there‟s no patio, I spend half my time standing outside the front door with 

a cigarette in my hand. 

There wasn‟t a lot worth mentioning about my time at O‟Rafferty beyond two 

incidents involving the same kid, Pat Finnerty. He was a prick back then. I‟d be willing 

to bet he‟s still a prick today, forty-five years later. He wasn‟t all that big, maybe five- 

six, one-thirty. I was five-eleven, one-eighty by ninth grade. Okay, my “freshman year”. 

Jesus, get over it, okay? 

I saw Finnerty a couple times in Lansing when I was in my 30s. We never talked, 

but I saw him around town. He had a ponytail, leather jacket, biker‟s boots and a nasty 



lookin‟ motorcycle. It was supposedly something akin to a Harley pig, which isn‟t much 

of a bike in its own right. He also looked rather unclean, but I found that no big surprise. 

As I said, he‟d always been a prick, as long as I knew him. 

We had music class in the auditorium. One of the very few classes where it was a 

mixture of boys and girls. We got to sit close, right next to girls who were growing tits! 

I loved that class! 

Being truly adult in all aspects, we guys were throwing spitballs at each other one 

day in class. I took extra paper with me so I‟d have enough to chew, make into a wad, 

and zap someone. None of those sissy balls of rolled up dry paper for me, boy. Not 

when I could do the real thing. 

For reasons I never unraveled, Finnerty targeted me that day, not shooting anyone 

else. I was getting‟ kinda pissed, to tell the truth. Finally, after I‟d had all I could take, I 

chewed a big wad of paper. A real big wad. It made a huge ball of mushy paper. When 

it was ready, and Finnerty looked away, I launched that sucker. He was maybe fifteen 

feet from me. 

It hit him smack on the side of his head and splattered, leaving a huge glob of 

paper, wet from my spit, on the side of his face. Finnerty was furious. So furious he told 

the nun who was teaching us what I did to him. Little crybaby prick. Maybe I should‟ve 

arranged for him to hang around with that David thing so they could sob together? Little 

crybaby prick. 

I quickly countered, saying he did it to himself to get me in trouble. Since he‟d 

been an asshole to a few other kids, some of them backed up my lie. Finnerty was 

ordered to knock off the crap. 



That pissed him off more than anything! He mouthed, “I‟ll get you, Cady!”, 

perhaps thinking I‟d quake in my boots in fear, then apologize. 

Dream on, asshole. Dream on. 

Because of his threat, I wasn‟t done with the silly bastard. Not yet. I made an 

even bigger spitball. Sopping wet to the point it barely hung in one piece. A real juicy 

one. When Sister turned around again to face the board, I snuck over to stand in a line 

behind Finnerty and threw my spitball. 

I didn‟t throw it at him. 

Nope, I nailed the nun. Then I skedaddled back to where I‟d been sitting. 

Sister wasn‟t screwing around this time. She was madder than any wet hen you‟ll 

ever come across. Of course, Finnerty accused me, but I pointed out the direction the 

spitball came from. Common sense said it couldn‟t be me, meaning it either had to be 

Finnerty, or one of the girls or the sissies sitting around him. 

Again, I had witnesses. Finnerty didn‟t. 

I forget what he was given as a punishment, but I came up to him after school and 

asked, with a bunch of guys standing around, if he was ready to kick my ass yet. So, he 

started out with some bad mouthing. When I told him I‟d kick his ass just for being ugly, 

he shut up and went away. 

### 

The last event worth mentioning while I was still at O‟Rafferty also involved 

Finnerty. Maybe this is also payback for Miss Fowler, my algebra teacher. Telling her 

story out loud like this. She never helped me learn what I needed to know about algebra, 

and it caused me a lot of trouble afterward. Not in business, since I‟ve never had any 



need for it. Just in school, because I couldn‟t manage to learn it and I was on a college 

prep program. 

Algebra‟s a class where, if you get each item down cold, in order, you‟ll do okay. 

However, if you learn points A, B, C, D, don‟t quite get E, and still try going ahead with 

it, you‟ve got a lost cause. You can‟t learn the next one without knowing the last part. I 

missed a few parts, it seems. I ended up taking Algebra One four times, three of those 

times at other schools. 

Miss Fowler was probably new to teaching. I was fifteen, interested as hell in 

girls, but not in Miss Fowler. She was the kind of woman who‟d be a rather versatile 

date. If you took her to a dog fight, she stood a good chance of winning. She had two 

pop bottle bottoms as glasses. She couldn‟t see shit if it was in her hand. She‟d just 

wonder what all that gooey stuff was until she smelled it. 

A tall woman, over five-ten, she had long, frizzy, dark brown hair and was a good 

thirty pounds overweight. I assumed her face caught fire once when she was young and, 

glasses burnt up, she ran headlong into a barbed wire fence. She must‟ve wiped her face 

back and forth to put out the flames. It was red and scarred. 

I felt I was on solid ground with my diagnosis. 

The first day of class she gave us our assigned seats. What‟s up with this 

bullshit?, we wondered. Assigned seats? When we‟re in the ninth grade? Okay, we 

were “mere freshmen”, but why the hell do we need assigned seats? We aren‟t little 

kids? 

It didn‟t take us too long to figure it out. If a student in the first row stood, Miss 



Fowler would only see a blob. Had no idea who it was … unless she looked at her 

assigned seat list. Aha! We have an answer! 

That much taken care of, we sat wherever we wanted after that. 

On this particular day, within two or three weeks of the end of semester, we were 

in algebra class doing whatever we‟d normally do. Since I hadn‟t a chance in the world 

of passing that class, I was screwing around, talking to my friends. 

Finnerty was in the seat assigned to me. He‟d just come up with a brand-new 

trick to amuse everyone. He‟d unzip, pull out his penis, and move his thumb up and 

down as if he was flicking a lighter. There were no girls in the room but the teacher, if 

you choose to include her in that genre. When someone looked at him, Finnerty would 

whisper, “Caught your eye!” and laugh like hell. 

Funny thing, what happened. Miss Fowler wasn‟t able to recognize Finnerty in 

my seat, second row, but she was able to discern a male penis on display. Sorta makes 

you wonder where her dreams and idle thoughts were directed, doesn‟t it? 

She left the classroom on some pretext, but the look on Finnerty‟s face said he 

knew his ass was grass and he heard the lawn mower coming his way. Smugly, we sat 

back to watch when they handed him his ass in a basket. We knew how the Brothers who 

ran the place would look upon something like that. 

Still, it was only Finnerty, right? Not someone important. 

Miss Fowler returned, accompanied by Brother Bernard. He was the Boss Hog in 

our sty. I was watching Finnerty sweat when Brother Bernard said, “Bill Cady, come 

with me, please.” 

It wasn‟t a question. 



Now what? Is he gonna talk to the witnesses first? Why call me? All my 

buddies watched as I went around the room. Each face wore the same expression. Sure 

glad it‟s your ass, Bill, not mine. Good luck, dude. You‟re gonna need it. 

They took me to the office and he sat me on a chair. Evidently they‟d found 

someone to watch her classroom. Miss Fowler was there, too. Then they asked me why I 

did it. 

Did what? I wasn‟t admitting to one damned thing. 

They finally had to use that word, penis, and ask why I pulled mine out in her 

class. I denied it vehemently. That went on for a while. The most I‟d relent to say was I 

didn‟t do it. Yes, I knew damned well who it was, but I wasn‟t going to say a word. Not 

one word. Code of silence stuff. 

Still not believing me, after an hour or so, they called my folks, who came like 

two bats out of hell to find out what was happening. I told them the same thing. No way 

was I gonna snitch, but it wasn‟t me. Hours later, they suspended me and sent me home. 

I don‟t know if my parents were in cahoots with the school, but I was told I‟d be 

grounded until it was settled, one way or another. I guess I‟d‟ve made a good reporter. I 

kept quiet and stayed grounded, not even a phone call, for three days. 

Then I got a phone call Mom said I could take. It was Brother Bernard. 

He didn‟t know what I learned later. A bunch of my friends got together with 

Finnerty and whipped his ass. They said if he didn‟t confess, they‟d whip it again 

tomorrow, and the next day, so he went to Brother Bernard and owned up to what he‟d 

done. 

Brother Bernard apologized to me and said he‟d been wrong. He now knew I‟d 



been telling the truth and was sorry for any inconvenience it caused me, but I was 

welcome back Monday, this being a Friday afternoon. 

“You‟re „sorry for any inconvenience‟ this caused me? „Inconvenience‟? I‟ve 

been grounded here in this little house for three days, treated like a criminal, and you call 

that an „inconvenience‟? Well, Brother Bernard, here‟s an „inconvenience‟ for you. 

Take that whole fuckin‟ school and shove it inconveniently up your fucking ass!” 

I hung up. 

The old man was still at work, but Mom was gawking at me. 

I said, “I‟ll go over to Otto on Monday and enroll. I‟m all done going to any 

damned Catholic school.” 



CHAPTER SEVEN 

Here‟s good news. It‟s a Monday morning. I‟m standing at Otto junior high 

school wondering what the hell to do next. I‟ve registered, but it‟s gonna be a while 

before anything happens. 

They assigned an “office assistant” to help me acclimate to the school. I have no 

idea what his name was, but memory tells me he looked like a Duane. He was fat, brown 

hair in a soup bowl cut, thick black glasses with lots of back tape wound onto the bridge. 

Pretty much what the kids now call a nerd. I believe we called „em dweebs, but I‟m not 

sure. After all, it was forty years ago. 

Duane walked me around the school. If you‟ve ever entered a new school, you 

know what I mean. You can‟t even find your own ass with both hands. Top that off with 



the innate insecurities of being a teenager, you‟ve got all the primary ingredients to build 

as much internal pressure as needed. 

I made my best attempt to swagger, hoping anyone who saw me knew it was a 

very bad thing to mess with Bill Cady. My thinking was, if they‟re as afraid of me as I 

am of them, they won‟t attack. That way, I won‟t get my ass kicked. An ass, by the way, 

I could no longer call scrawny or skinny. I was six-one, one-ninety-five, and in pretty 

decent shape. Although reluctant to press the issue, it was gonna take a pretty tough kid 

to whip my ass by then. I‟d grown too big, and already had a few ass kickings to my 

credit, to remain what you‟d call a pushover any longer. 

With a general plan now in mind, I asked Duane, “Who‟s the baddest guy in this 

school?” I figured I‟d start at the top. I‟d meet the son-of-a-bitch. If he gave me any lip, 

I‟d whale his ass in front of witnesses. That way, once I‟d become the king of the hill, 

nobody would screw around with me. 

“I think that‟d probably be Bob Chouinard,” Duane informed me. 

Well, shit! I‟d heard of him. Even met him a couple times at the park. He wasn‟t 

all that big, but he was burly. He acted like you really ought not to screw around with 

him if you knew what was good for you. Damn, Bob Chouinard? Shit! 

Okay, Plan B. “Yeah? Well, who‟s the second baddest?” 

“Oh, I don‟t know. Bob Haywood, maybe, or Gilbert Puente.” 

I took that under advisement and we went on our tour. Later that day, after school 

was out, all the kids went across the street to the McDonald‟s to get a Coke or something 

to eat. I followed, hoping to meet a few potential friends, and to scope out those three 

guys. I recognized Chouinard, but he was laughing and talking with a bunch of kids, so I 



didn‟t interrupt him. I asked around and found Bob Haywood. Remember how pissed 

off I was when I was born, in Chapter One? Well, Haywood was also born pissed off, 

but it looked like he never got over it. He‟d be fourteen now, since I was older than all 

the other kids. That seemed like a helluva long time to stay mad, but he was. Inside. 

Down deep. At everyone, and most likely at himself, too. 

He was talking with a pretty blonde. I later learned her name was Judy Schultz. I 

wouldn‟t ever date a girl that tall. I think she was five-eleven, maybe even six-feet. A 

damned tall girl, way too tall for me. 

I like girls feminine, and find nothing feminine about someone almost my size. 

„Sides, she was also kinda skinny. Pretty face, but skinny legs. I didn‟t see a lot of 

“overgrowth” under her blouse, but didn‟t do an “advanced scope”. I knew that would 

start the aforementioned tussle with Haywood, for sure. 

later action. 

Little did I know, she saw me, too. I guess she included me in her battle plan for 

Then I found Gilbert Puente, a short little Mexican guy. Uh, maybe we need to 

edit “little” out of what I just said. Short, burly Mexican guy works better. He was only 

about five-six, one-sixty, and damned near all of it was muscle. I was told he placed high 

in all the wrestling meets, and usually won. 

Well, ain‟t this freakin‟ wonderful? I‟ve got Chouinard, only five-eight or nine, 

burly as hell and tough as goddamned nails. I‟ve got Haywood, about my size and as 

mean as a junkyard dog. Practically looking for a fight, and we haven‟t even met each 

other. I‟ve got Puente, and he looks like a lunch guy. If you‟ve come to whip his ass, be 

sure to pack a lunch. You‟re gonna be at it all day long, if you can even get the job done. 



Great. I can establish a “rep” at this school, which will keep me from getting my 

ass kicked regularly. All I need to do is take as many as three chances where I might not 

only get whipped, I might be stomped senseless. Mom! Damn it, Mom! Now what? 

### 

Since I mentioned it in my last story, then brought it up again here, I guess I 

should tell you about the time Stevie Wonder was given the opportunity to meet Bill 

Cady. Stevie attended the Michigan School for the Blind, (MSB). The campus is, or 

was when I lived there, mammoth. Best guess, a hundred acres, maybe more. It‟s almost 

twice the size of Comstock park, situated next to it, on the north. It had a manse on the 

side facing Pine Street where the dean, Dr. Thompson, and his family resided. Dr. 

Thompson‟s only child, Bobby, was in my grade and went to Otto when I did. 

We used to cut through the MSB campus to get to the park when we went ice 

skating. Even played in the park during the warmer months. The MSB grounds were so 

huge the school marching band would practice and I‟d find times I could no longer hear 

them because they walked out of range. 

Bobby was an okay guy. He thought, and acted, as if he was a lot more popular 

than was true, but who the hell could blame him? He suffered from the same anxieties as 

the rest of us. You never dared look or appear anything other than cool, or you were a 

dipshit. Nobody, including me, wanted to be a dipshit. 

My calendar, since I was in ninth grade, tells me it was in 1963 when Stevie was 

able to meet me. (You‟ll notice the insecurity cover up when I explain he was able to 

meet me, not vice versa). I was slowly becoming friends with some of the kids at Otto, 

including Bob Chouinard, Gilbert Puente, Bobby Thompson, Buddy Frahm, Jerry Fatura, 



and a few others. I‟ll tell you about them in a while. For now, let me get the “Stevie 

thing” out of the way. 

I was with some guys I knew that day, but I can‟t be sure who they were. If I had 

to guess, it was Bob Chouinard, Buddy Frahm, and Jerry Fatura, but I may be in error on 

some or all of „em. As I recall, Bob didn‟t like Buddy much at time. You‟ll see why he 

felt that way when I tell you about Buddy. 

It was warm, so it was either the end of spring or the start of fall. I think the MSB 

kids went home for the summer, just like we did. I know we just stopped by Bobby‟s 

place to find something to do as we walked to the downtown area. Bobby had a neat dog, 

a Great Dane who slobbered on everyone. Because he was so huge, I just had to pet him. 

I was already in love with the Irish Wolfhound breed, the tallest dogs in the world, (yes, 

taller than a Great Dane), but Bobby‟s mutt would do in a pinch. So, when Bobby came 

out, we all started shooting the bull a little. 

Bobby played the drums. He was actually pretty good. At least, I felt so. He was 

later part of a band that went absolutely nowhere, but they played rock „n roll at a few 

parties we had, so it was still a lot of fun. 

Somebody with us, no idea who, could pick away at a guitar, and there was a nice 

one available. I‟m not sure how the next part happened, keeping in mind it was forty-five 

years ago. Either Bobby made a call and asked him to come over, or Stevie came to the 

Dean‟s house for some reason, but we got a chance to meet him. Then, as happens when 

boys are screwing around, a little jam session formed. 

Of course, Stevie did the singing. Bobby played drums, and someone was on the 

gee-tar. I took up an old set of bongos I found laying around, something I‟d played 



before, but I never had any lessons or instruction. We did a few songs, three or four, and 

everyone was happy as hell to have bragging rights to the event. I even used “On The 

Beach”, one of Stevie‟s earliest songs, in a drama sketch I had to do at school shortly 

after that. 

If, for some inane reason, you don‟t believe me, don‟t think that happened, 

contact Holy Cross School, or J. W. Sexton High School, and get a picture of me at that 

age. Then, show it to Stevie and ask if I wasn‟t one of the guys he jammed with that day 

at MSB. Don‟t let him give you any bullshit about it being so long ago, either. I was 

right in front of Stevie a few times. Only a yard away, so he has to remember me. 

Tell him I was the tall guy with blond hair. That certainly oughta trigger some 

memories for him. As we all know, blind people have better than average memory. 

Oh, one final thought. Eddie Murphy was right in what he said about Stevie 

Wonder. Stevie can‟t ever seem to accept an opportunity to shut up. He does more 

talking than I do looking. 

### 

There‟s a very good reason I suggested you seek a picture of me when I was 

young from anyplace but C. W. Otto. Oh, we had a class picture taken, but I wasn‟t in it. 

I couldn‟t be in it, since I was in the nurse‟s station all day. 

This was another adventure with Bobby Thompson. He wasn‟t my closest friend, 

but I liked the guy, all the same. As I said, Bobby was good people. He swiped some 

whiskey from his old man‟s stash, a quart of Old Grand Dad, 100 proof. Supposedly 

premier stuff. If the truth be known, I thought it tasted like something you‟d use to get 



the grease off an auto repair room floor. However, reacting that way would totally not be 

cool, so I kept my opinion to myself. 

I have no idea how our “misadventure” came to be, but Bobby and I took the 

bottle down under the Logan Street bridge. We were heading to Otto, taking the long 

way, for some dance, as I recall. When we got under the bridge, Bobby opened up this 

HUGE bottle of booze and took a long, healthy swig. 

At least, I thought he did, at the time. I later came to realize Bobby stuck his 

tongue against the opening and held the bottle while pretending to drink from it. It was 

darker than the inside of a coal miner‟s ass where we sat, below the bridge, so I couldn‟t 

see a damned thing. Each time Bobby took a slug, he handed me the bottle. Sort of an “I 

dare you” move. Never willing to look weird, or be the coward I actually was and still 

am, I took it with a smile. 

My tongue didn‟t cover a damned thing. Each time I had that bottle, I took a 

super-duty pull on it. I actually hope Bobby Thompson contacts me after he‟s read this, 

just to verify. Personally, I think I drank that entire quart by myself. No matter what 

your age, 100 proof booze will hit you pretty fast, and pretty damned hard, if not used in 

moderation. 

My only experience at that time with any kind of booze was when Frankie 

Gadaleto swiped a bottle of Mogen-David wine from under the kitchen sink. We took it 

to the Grand River, maybe a quarter mile west of the Logan Street bridge, and got pretty 

shitfaced. Frankie barfed up the last three day‟s meals before it was gone, so I finished it 

and staggered the six blocks to my house, where I immediately crashed in my bed like a 

crippled puppy. That was it. All my drinking experience to date. 



Little did I dare imagine how much I‟d add to that experience, or how soon the 

addition would begin. I had a lot of years of drinking in my future to get out of the way, 

as it developed. 

With Bobby faking it like that, I guzzled a quart of high octane booze. Now well 

beyond shitfaced, I staggered along with Bobby, who also pretended to be as drunk as I 

was, the two miles left to get to Otto. The dance was pretty much over when we got 

there, which was actually a good thing. If I‟d gone in and danced with anyone, I think 

the first set of circles, fast dance or slow, would‟ve put me on my knees losing my lunch. 

I was reeling around, wearing a new black nylon ski jacket, when I heard someone holler 

my name. 

“Cady, you motherfucker, your ass is mine!” 

Okay, I had an objection to that, whoever said it. It was my ass, and I wasn‟t done 

using it yet, so I was hostile right away. Somehow, I even managed to get turned around, 

which was rather courteous of me. That put my chin right out there for Bob Haywood to 

whack it. He didn‟t have to move to the side to knock me on my ass. 

I always try to do right by the other guy. The old, “Do unto others …” story, ya 

know? Of course, when Bob smashed his fist into my chin, it didn‟t hurt me even a bit. 

Hell, they could‟ve taken my tonsils out with no damned ether at that point. I was truly 

feeling no pain. 

However, shitfaced or not, I take exception to people crashing a hard punch into 

my jaw. After all, it‟s the only one I have, and I use it pretty much every day. 

I knew he was a hothead, but figured even Bob Haywood would need a good 

reason to hit me. Something more than just the fact I was at least twice as good looking 



as he was. I managed to make it to my feet, somehow. I think even Bob could see it 

wouldn‟t require a punch to put me down again. He could blow real hard in my face and 

I‟d probably hit the dirt with a loud thud. 

eaten that day. 

Of course, if I blew in his face, he‟d either pass out or barf up everything he‟d 

As I swayed side to side and back and forth in front of him, I stammered a request 

to find out why he cold cocked me that way. As I burbled out my message, I saw Judy 

Schultz standing behind him with a big smile on her face. I figured it out in a big hurry, 

drunk or not. Judy had stopped me in the hallway, I even think it was that day, and talked 

with me a few minutes. While she wasn‟t my kind of girl, she was still pretty. She was 

also popular. Of course I talked with her. Who wouldn‟t? 

Yes? You there, in the fifth row? The girl with the yellow sweater? 

Oh, you know the answer to that one? Okay, what is it? 

Yes! You‟re exactly right! The only guys who wouldn‟t talk with Judy that way, 

in the open hallway like I did, are guys who don‟t want to have Bob Haywood come jack 

their jaw when he finds out! Very good! 

You may take your seat now, but see me when we‟re done, if you don‟t mind. 

You‟re kind of a cutie. You even remind me of Mary Booth, a mistake I made while I 

was at Sexton, which I‟ll touch on later. 

(Did you see how well she‟s built? Nice butt, and no deficiency up front, by any 

means. Pretty eyes and smile, too. Gotta get to know her better.) 

So, we now know who shouldn‟t talk like that with Judy, out there in an open 

hallway. Guys who want to stay healthy shouldn‟t do that. 



Umm, folks? Judy already knew that. Really, she did. 

She was setting it up so I‟d get the living shit smacked out of me by Bob. Hell, 

he‟d kill the Virgin Mary on a whim or a bet. Judy set it up because it made her look 

good to the other girls. She had guys fighting over her, don‟t ya know? 

I‟ll admit I was afraid of Bob Haywood, but that‟s nothing special. I was also 

afraid of Bobby Thompson, and I could‟ve kicked his ass all over the parking lot, even as 

drunk as I was that night. Hell, I‟m afraid of everyone. I just forget about it when I‟m 

attacked and go at my opponent hard enough to make sure he can‟t hurt me. 

It wasn‟t fear of Bob that promoted the conversation we had that night. It was 

more being pissed at Judy for setting it up. Of course, she could‟ve pointed at a kid she‟d 

never seen before and said, “Bad kid, Bob!” He would‟ve torn the bastard apart just on 

principles. Bob liked kicking ass, and he was good at it. 

No, Bob and I settled things when I said I knew Judy was his girl, and she was too 

tall for me, anyhow. “Besides,” I added, “I‟m actually more interested in Debbie Miner 

than Judy.” 

Debbie was a really cute brunette I ended up taking to our prom. She was a sweet 

girl, very pretty, very, very well built, and I wanted very much to kiss her. I also wanted 

to “get some tit”, „cause she had nice ones. It was primarily my ineptitude, although 

Debbie was a very nice young lady, that kept it from happening. I know she liked me, 

but I couldn‟t find a way to pull it off. I bought her an expensive dinner at Dine‟s 

Restaurant, one of the nicest places in town, and took her home. 

We never dated again. I don‟t know why, but I have a comment to pass along to 



the guy who ended up with her. You lucky son-of-a-bitch, you got better than you 

deserve, so be damned nice to that lady. She‟s a class act. 

Back to the Bobby Thompson/Bob Haywood event. I was “skunker than a drunk” 

that night, and apparently got mad at myself. I think it was a combination of letting 

myself get so shitfaced, and the embarrassment of having everyone who mattered see 

Bob knock me flat on my ass. 

Oh, and I was a little pissed at Judy, too. 

I took out my frustration on some trees over by McDonald‟s. I don‟t know what 

the trees told their Moms, but I told mine I fell and scraped my hands. Every knuckle on 

both hands. I don‟t think she believed me. 

Hold on, it gets worse. I had a nine o‟clock curfew, which I always thought was 

ridiculous. Nothing any kid wanted to go to was ever over early enough to be done and 

get home by nine. Since it was a school dance, they extended it to eleven that night. 

Believe it or not, when I staggered onto the porch somewhere after two in the 

morning, they were both still up. Don‟t old people ever get tired and go to bed, for 

Christ‟s sake? I mean, damn, it’s late! You guys should be in Shut what? Oh, my 

mouth. Gotcha. 

There was puke all over the front of my jacket and pants. Probably on my face 

and in my hair, too. I know I stunk terribly from all that booze. They more than likely 

smelled me when I was still on the sidewalk and the door was closed. I had the dry 

heaves after I got home, but there was nothing left in my gut to puke up. It was empty. 

That night, my old man made one of the few wise parenting decisions of his life. 

At least, as far as I knew about. Our school pictures were being taken the next morning. 



Actually, I guess it was that morning. It was now after three. We had to be up at seven 

in order to get there on time for school. 

He insisted I was going to school and would get me up himself in about four more 

hours. He did, the son-of-a-bitch. Made me clean up and go to school, just like I wasn‟t 

really dying, although I was. If my folks had even tried to make me eat, all it would've 

accomplished was a new series of dry heaves, so they didn‟t. 

They let the school nurse do it for them. 

I never even went to my homeroom class. I went straight to the nurse‟s station, 

where she wanted me to eat something. When I finished dry heaving and crawled back to 

the cot, I laid and moaned like I really should‟ve been at death‟s door. 

Later, in sparing doses, I was able to take down some chocolate milk, so she 

ended up giving me four, altogether. It would take half an hour to drink a half pint, 

another half hour of nausea working to keep it down. Half an hour later, I‟d want 

another, and the cycle would start anew. 

My folks made it worse that day. They did it on purpose. Mom wasn‟t there to 

pick me up. I had to walk home, all the goddamned way. I checked MapQuest, and it 

says the distance is 1.96 miles. Well, the day I walked it with a hangover that would 

knock a Missouri mule on its ass, it was 19.6 miles, maybe more! 

I dry heaved a dozen times, at least, then made it to the house and literally 

crawled into my bed. I never wanted to drink any form of alcohol again as long as I 

lived. Damn, I wish that resolve had stayed with me. It would‟ve saved me a lot of 

money, even more trouble in my life, and a great deal of pain to many who loved me at 

one time or another. 



Sorry, Nanc, I know you wished that, too. 

### 

I screwed around that last semester of junior high, after resigning at the end of my 

first semester of high school at O‟Rafferty. There were new kids to meet and tons of 

pretty girls to chase, so I had my hands full. However, it seemed my hands weren‟t full 

of the right things. I learned, at the end of the year, I had two options. I could skip going 

on to high school with my friends and repeat the ninth grade, or attend summer school 

and make it on schedule. Oh, joy. 

However, some of Bill‟s innate brilliance came to the fore when I relented and 

accepted my fate. It turned out a lot of my buddies screwed up the same way. They also 

had to attend summer school. They all signed up for classes like welding, shop, auto 

mechanics, woodworking, and a host of other crap that didn‟t interest me in the least. 

Sure, I liked working on cars, and later became a pretty decent mechanic, but that wasn‟t 

in my plans. Not during a hot, muggy Michigan summer, it wasn‟t. 

Instead, I signed up for Home Ec and Typing. 

Those guys all laughed their collective asses off when I told „em which classes I 

had. I chuckled as I watched „em stride off to hot, smelly garages and work labs before I 

turned and went into the much cooler school to serve my sentence. Later, when I saw 

their sweaty asses dragging out at the end of the day, I pointed out a few “significant 

details” they missed when they jeered at me. 

Not only was I fresh and peppy from a cool afternoon in the school building, I 

spent that time with thirty-two lovely young ladies. Not forty or fifty sweaty guys, half 

of „em Mexican, but with pretty, smiling young ladies. 



Then I reminded each asshole he was free to eat his heart out. 

The typing teacher was, of all people, Mr. Clark, the football coach. How he 

managed to type with those huge fingers, ten mini baseball bats on his hands, was beyond 

me. He noticed before the first day of class was over how hard it was for me to keep up 

with the girls. I was the only boy in the class. I think he also knew, if the class waited 

for me to catch up on each step, it would take twelve weeks, not the six they allocated. 

So, as a kindness to me and everyone else, including himself, Mr. Clark made me 

a deal. If I could get to 25 wpm with only five errors by the end of the six weeks, he‟d 

give me a C for my efforts and I‟d pass. With that, he pretty much left me alone the rest 

of the class. I used my right index finger on the keys, my left one on the shift bar. When 

class was over, he timed me. I got 32 wpm with no errors. 

He gave me an A and was proud as hell of me. 

These days, I use three fingers, and my left thumb, on occasion. My typing speed, 

or keyboarding, since I use a computer, is 110 wpm with no errors. I was able to improve 

just a bit using my system, but I‟ll be damned if I‟d ever try teaching it to anyone. Too 

freakin‟ complicated. 

A thought in memory. Gilbert Puente, a really nice kid, was murdered in the early 

70s, shot in the heart with a .22 handgun. We all miss you, Gilbert, but I know you‟re up 

there in Rock & Roll Heaven where, as the Righteous Brothers told us, they‟ve got one 

helluva band. Rock on, Amigo, rock on. 

### 

The vice principal at Otto was Mr. Chapman. He made a special visit to see the 

vice principal at my new high school, J.W. Sexton. I wish I could recall that one‟s name, 



but it‟s slipped my mind. I think it was Mr. Rosenraad. In any event, he saw me as he 

was leaving the building and told me what he‟d done. He said they were on to me now, 

and I‟d be very sorry when I tried pulling the same crap here I did while I was at Otto. 

Believe it or not, I paid attention to what he told me. I vowed to myself I‟d do 

whatever I had to do to stay out of trouble. Promised myself I‟d get good grades. I 

didn‟t want to be the worthless loser he said I was. Well, my good wishes and a quarter 

would get me coffee all over town at that time. 

There‟s a guy I we all know about, a real nasty prick named Murphy, who created 

a set of laws. In my lifetime, I‟ve violated every last one of them, more than once or 

twice. Murphy was just getting started with Bill when I made myself all those fervent 

promises. 

I know I lasted longer than anyone would‟ve thought possible, because I kept it 

under control until the very last day of the first marking period. That‟s six weeks, and I 

thought I did a magnanimous job, especially with my deportment. 

There was an LB, also a sophomore, named Terrell Husband, who also started at 

Sexton that year. He was an asshole, a bully, and a punk. He was also big. At least five- 

ten, two-twenty-five, and strong. He also fit the stereotype of the LB who isn‟t all that 

mentally keen, if you get my drift. 

One day, very early in the semester, it got started. I believe it was still the first 

week of school. I was talking with some kids in a hallway on the second floor when I 

turned to leave and accidentally bumped into Terrell. 

I remembered right away about being nice, polite, and courteous. Unfortunately, I 

overdid it with Terrell. After I apologized profusely, he decided this big white boy was 



afraid of him. It wasn‟t long, I think even later that same day, when he encountered me 

in the hall between classes. He ordered me to get out of his way, and I did it. 

Looking back, I should‟ve just told him to go fuck himself and that would‟ve 

been the end of it. Like the Lou Rawls song, “Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda”. I didn‟t, and I 

would later pay a price for not doing what I should‟ve done. Terrell would pay an even 

greater price. 

From there, Terrell did nothing but gather steam. He‟d order me out of his way, 

then even got to making me back up and stand flat against a locker until he was past. 

Finally, he started approaching me in the foyer each morning, the place where everybody 

gathered to talk before class. He‟d ask, “White boy, whatchoo doin‟, talkin‟ t‟ these here 

white girls? Get yo‟ ass away, mothuhfuckah, b‟fo Ah whips it!” Then he‟d stand and 

glare at me, as if he was on the verge of kicking my ass right there in front of everyone. 

Each time, although I was humiliated, I walked away. What I really wanted to do 

was mop the floor with his burly black ass, but I knew that‟d get my ass in a jam. Make 

Chapman‟s theory about me come true. So, I‟d simply leave. I tried telling my friends 

the truth. All I got was a sarcastic smile and an, “Oh, sure, Bill. Yeah, I bet.” 

Still, I kept trying. For six weeks, I kept trying. That fateful day, we were getting 

ready for gym class. Our coach was Doug Herner, a man not too many years older than 

me. Our “social group”, in the entirety, included maybe three-hundred people, ranging in 

age from fifteen, like me, to twenty-five, in some cases. Doug recently departed our 

group, after graduating and getting his teacher‟s certification. Not more than two years 

earlier, I‟m sure. 

I remembered talking with him a few times at beer parties. All I ever called him 



was Doug. Of course, in school, he was Mr. Herner. He wasn‟t in the locker room we 

were using when the altercation began. There were thirty-three lockers in there, the 

basketball locker room. I had one for gym class and was getting out of my clothes and 

into the shorts and T-shirt I used in this class. 

Terrell hadn‟t had a chance to humiliate me today, as he missed me in the foyer, 

so he evidently was playing catch-up. He walked over to stand behind me and run his 

mouth. “White boy, yo‟ bes‟ get yo‟ ass movin‟ „fore Ah kick yo‟ ass an‟ get it outa this 

fuckin‟ room!” 

Of those thirty-three lockers, twenty-nine were used by black kids. Three white 

guys, plus me, were using the rest. Probably not the wisest place to bring matters to a 

head, but I‟d already made it six weeks. To be honest, that was five weeks and four days 

longer than I expected of myself, with all the bullshit he was spreading around on me. 

Terrell reached up and took a hold with his fingers on my left trapezius. It was, 

shall we say, an “other than wise” move on his part. 

I spun to my left, right hand coming the way it would if I was gonna punch him. 

My widespread hand landed on his left cheek with a sharp, resounding crack. Terrell 

went flat on his ass at my feet. Every black kid in that room erupted in hoots and 

laughter. 

doin‟ shit!” 

“Terrell, that white boy done knocked yo‟ niggah ass down, boy!” 

“Terrell, ya ain‟t shit, niggah! That white boy gonna whup yo‟ ass!” 

“Yo‟ a fuckin‟ wimp, Terrell. That white boy‟s whuppin‟ on yo‟ ass an‟ ya‟ll ain‟ 

“Careful, Terrell, that white boy might jus‟ kill yo‟ mangy niggah ass!” 



They were unrelenting. Terrell had shamed himself in front of all his “black 

brothers”, although I don‟t think many of them cared for him all that much. This was 

1965, the year of the Watts riots. Racial tension and hatred flooded our country. If I‟d 

been going at it with him over a racial issue, I probably would‟ve died right then, at that 

very moment. However, since he started it, and the only reason it happened is because he 

was a bully, and they all knew it, they just laughed at him. 

Terrell was still getting off the floor when Doug Herner came into the room. 

Doug asked what was wrong. Thirty-three voices said, “Nothing”. 

He told us to get our asses up to class and watched until we started leaving the 

room. Doug gave me a raised eyebrow question, asking if everything was okay. 

“No sweat,” I told him with a nod and went on to class. Now we‟re done upstairs, 

back at our lockers, taking things off. Terrell hasn‟t forgotten anything about what 

happened, and couldn‟t if he wanted to. All the black guys needled the hell out of him 

during gym class about how that white boy could whip his ass anytime he wanted and 

Terrell was just a fuckin‟ punk niggah. 

He came up to me again, still running his mouth, and put his hand the same place 

as last time. I repeated my earlier response exactly. He hit the floor in the same place, 

just as hard, or harder. The crowd went wild. 

“Terrell, tha‟ white boy done whupped yo‟ sorry niggah ass again!” 

“Terrell, ya‟ll bes‟ be gettin‟ yo‟ lazy niggah ass outa heah b‟fo‟ that mean ol‟ 

white boy kills ya!” 

“Terrell, yo‟ such a pussy, even them white girls is gonna be whalin‟ on yo‟ fat 

niggah ass pretty soon!” 



“Terrell, my momma c‟n prob‟ly whip yo‟ fat niggah ass!” 

“Terrell, ya‟ll ain‟ shit, niggah!” 

Yeah, they really gave it to him. Both barrels. Terrell was apparently too 

embarrassed to walk away this time. He‟d been shamed terribly in front of “the 

brothers”. By a white boy. That was just too much for him to accept. 

When he got up, with no coach in sight to break it up, I knew our showdown was 

finally coming to pass. Granted, there were probably hundreds of places where I‟d rather 

go at it with this asshole, but we don‟t always get to pick what we want. You can pick 

your seat, you can pick your friends, you can even pick your nose. You can‟t pick your 

family, who you‟ll fall in love with, or the time and place of things that happen in your 

life. 

Terrell wanted it here, and he wanted it now. 

Bill decided Terrell was gonna get his wish granted. 

He came charging at me like a wounded bull. Keep in mind, although I was 

taller, he outweighed me. May even have more physical strength. While that may look 

nice on paper, it don‟t necessarily mean shit when two guys go at it, nose to nose, seeking 

blood. 

As I got started, I remembered the only fight I‟d ever had with a black kid. His 

name was Greg Davenport, a student at Holy Cross. He was a very black kid, and had a 

mouth on him like Malcolm X. (I‟ll share something on that at the end of this part). 

Greg wasn‟t so much a troublemaker as a rabble rouser. He got pissed off at me one day, 

although I don‟t recall why. He hit me. In accordance with my code, I took exception. 

As a result, I thoroughly beat the livin‟ shit out of him, but the first few crushing blows I 



struck were more victory for Greg than Bill. That old saying is true, although I‟ll modify 

one word. Never slug a black guy in the head with your fist unless you want to break 

your hand. It‟s true. Every black guy I ever fought had a head like granite. You simply 

don‟t punch those guys that way with your fist. Not unless you get a kick out of breaking 

bones in your hand. 

When Terrell came at me, I forgot for a moment. In a rapid spatter, I bet I jabbed 

him half a dozen times in the sides and top of his head. It felt like maybe I‟d broken a 

couple bones! Jesus Christ, it was like slugging a cement wall! 

I know my punches hurt him because he screeched in pain. They didn‟t do me a 

helluva lot of good, either. I revised my assault and used jabs directly into his ears, 

which can stun a man, even knock him out. I pummeled the sides of his face, and 

managed to get a few shots at his nose and mouth, but he kept lowering his head so I 

couldn‟t reach it. While he wasn‟t doing any damage to me, I was afraid he would if I let 

him in too close. I know I‟d‟ve wanted to be in close on his body, because I would‟ve 

broken half a dozen of his ribs if I could‟ve gotten into position. 

Then he did two of the things I‟ve always had on my “super no-no” list. You 

don‟t ever slap, bite, or spit on Bill Cady. Not unless you‟re ready to kill him, or you 

want Bill to kill you. That‟s a very, very, very bad idea. 

Terrell slapped my face, on the right side, then bit my left wrist. 

I saw nothing but red. This motherfucker’s goin’ down! I shoved him away as 

hard as I could, then commenced a furious blitz on his face with my fists. 

He hunkered down, covering his face with his fists, making it impossible to hit 

anything but the backs of his hands. 



Using my left hand, the one I normally use for set up and jabs, I yanked his hands 

away from his face. Right on the heels of clearing my target, I came in with a jolting 

right uppercut that straightened him up. From there, I threw a few vicious haymakers, 

punches I pulled from way back behind me. I was only able to hit him four or five times, 

with all the damage my blows were causing, before one of my punches spun him around. 

It left him running full tilt, head down like a running back with a football, but his arms 

hung limp at his sides. He didn‟t really run all that far. 

Terrell stopped when his face met the glazed windows that, when raised, let us 

look out onto the athletic field. Those closed windows were laced with chicken wire, so 

he didn‟t continue through them. It simply peeled off the side of his face and left him 

standing before us gushing blood in all directions. Terrell screamed like a woman being 

gang raped and raced out of the locker room, blood trailing behind him in blotches, it was 

pumping so hard. 

To this day, I can‟t recall the three white guys in the locker room with me when it 

got started. I do know, whoever they were/are, I had no idea those guys could run that 

fast. I don‟t think they knew it, either, until twenty-some black guys started to drop their 

towels and shirts, slowly moving toward the white guy who just sent Terrell out of the 

room to die. Those white guys soon found out how fast they could move, and the 

gigantic whoosh kind of made my ears hurt. 

Shows t‟ go ya who your friends are, right? 

That left Bill Cady, about eighteen to twenty feet from the only way out, with 

twenty-some goddamned awfully pissed off black guys. No joke, no attempt at humor, I 

knew I was about to die. Never a quitter, no matter how ugly things might get, I only 



hoped to take a few of „em with me before I was killed. On the good luck side, I sure 

wouldn‟t need to worry about who I hit so I didn‟t accidentally hit a friend. Hell, I didn‟t 

have any friends in that room. All the guys I hoped were my friends just rabbited on me. 

At least, I didn‟t think I had any friends. Not at that moment. 

Suddenly, I felt an arm cross my shoulders from my left side to my right. Some 

incredibly strong fingers landed on my right trapezius. I heard a deep, bass voice, a black 

man‟s voice, come to my rescue. “Anybody wanna fuck wi‟ mah man Cady, gonna have 

t‟ fuck wi‟ me, first! Terrell ain‟t nothin‟ but a fuckin‟ punk, an‟ Cady done give „im th‟ 

ass whuppin‟ that niggah had comin’!” 

I looked to my left and saw Alvin Mask, very possibly the meanest, nastiest guy 

in the entire school. He managed to get down to 165 pounds to wrestle, and usually 

placed high in the state championships. However, what he could do on a wrestling mat 

wasn‟t even close to what Alvin could … and would … do to you in a street fight. Alvin 

was one bad son-of-a-bitch. 

I immediately voiced my disapproval of his interruption. “Alvin, Alvin!” 

Of course I was pissed. I was spoiling for a fight and these idiots thought twenty- 

something to one odds gave „em a fair shot at me. The damned fools! 

He had twin brothers, Lonnie and Donnie. Both were in prison at the time. I 

believe there were a total of five Mask bothers, all of whom spent time in prison, none of 

whom I would‟ve ever wanted to screw around with. 

On the heels of Alvin‟s remarks, Charley Davis and Jim Manuel stood and faced 

my angry crowd. “Yeah, Alvin, Terrell‟s a fuckin‟ punk niggah. We on yo‟ side, Alvin. 

Cady‟s coo‟ wi‟ me.” 



Of the twenty-eight black guys in the room, three were among the baddest guys to 

be found in the entire school, if not the district. They were all openly in support of Bill. 

The other twenty-five started to get dressed again, all the while agreeing with Alvin, 

Charley and Jim. Nobody but Bill Cady had any idea how happy Bill Cady was to hear 

all those encouraging words. 

In the end, I was suspended until Terrell was out of ICU, a three day rap. Since 

he started it, I wasn‟t guilty of anything, they assured me. 

The riots happened that year. Many of my friends were accosted and beaten. 

They finally stopped going anywhere in groups of less than three or more. 

Me? I was able to walk alone and was only jumped one time. As I was whipping 

that guy‟s ass, a tall, muscular guy named John Something, a few of his buddies began to 

form a circle around me. I was almost done with John, had just started hitting a big guy 

I‟d never met, when a car screeched to a halt behind me. 

John Something had been coming at me from behind and would‟ve wiped my 

poor ass out. I didn‟t think he‟d be able to get up so fast from the whipping I just gave 

him. Bob Chouinard tore out of the car, slugged John in the face so hard I thought his 

head might come off, then grabbed him by the collar and belt. 

Bob lifted him straight up over his head and dropped John flat on his back in the 

street. He was unconscious immediately, so Bob and I faced the rest of „em to see if 

anyone else wanted a piece of us. Evidently fearing cops would come, also not wanting 

to screw around with two white boys who wouldn‟t run away and cry, the crowd 

dispersed in a hurry. I guess they figured if John ever came around, he‟d find his own 

way to escape. Bob and I went and got a few beers and celebrated our victory. 



I mentioned Malcolm X a while ago, so I‟ll give you some insight, and a little 

credit where credit is due. Malcolm went to a grade school in Lansing, Michigan, which 

I understand is where he grew up. Darrell Thurston was Mom‟s older brother by a year. 

He and Mom went to that school at the same time as Malcolm. 

I understand Malcolm was a bigger boy, and older than my uncle when this 

happened. The two boys got into it one day, and Darrell apparently decided to haul ass 

while he still had some ass left. Malcolm was right on his heels, telling Darrell as they 

ran all the mean and evil things he planned to do to his sorry white ass when he caught it. 

Mom saw it unfold and got in position. When she heard the boys come full tilt at 

the corner where she was hiding, she stepped around and swung her metal lunch pail. It 

hit Malcolm square in the face and, as Mom told me, “knocked his black ass out cold”. 

Remember what I told you earlier? Never, under any conditions, should you even 

think about messing around with my Mom. She never took shit from anyone. 



CHAPTER EIGHT 

I‟ve mentioned a few guys I met in school, so I‟ll introduce you to them now to 

help you follow the story better. 

Jerry Fatura was a guy I met through Bob Chouinard. Jerry lived a few blocks 

west of Bob on Comfort Street. It‟s not nearly as good as Easy Street, but his folks 

bought the house without consulting Jerry. I‟m not sure if he was an only child, or not, 

which tells you Jerry and I didn‟t really hang together. We were with each other only 

when in the company of other people, usually Bob Chouinard. 

Jerry was in love, from junior high and after, with a girl named Becky Alford. 

She lived two houses south of him. If there ever was a true storybook romance, those 

two were the hero and heroine of it. I don‟t remember a lot about Becky, other than she 

was cute. She‟d certainly pass through those doors of determination, “Seems Okay To 

Me”, and “Not With My Dick”, on the first side. 



I haven‟t spoken with, or heard about, Jerry in over thirty-five years. All I can do 

is hope it was one of the truly happy marriages, a status more like fiction these days. If it 

turned out she took him to divorce court, where she and her attorney economically raped 

him beyond recovery, don‟t tell me. I‟d prefer to continue my fantasy. 

Jerry was tall, over six feet, a good two-hundred pounds. Dark haired with real 

dark eyes, well-behaved in all respects. He was pretty quiet, but had a sense of humor. 

He‟d drink a few beers with us, but I don‟t think I ever saw him drunk. I also don‟t recall 

him ever being in a fight. If he ever had one, I‟d‟ve sure hoped it wouldn‟t be with me. 

Those quiet guys are the ones with the ugly surprises when you push „em too far. Worse, 

as I said, Jerry was a big son-of-a-bitch. 

Always cheerful, a ready smile, intelligent, fun to be around. That‟s Jerry, in a 

nutshell. In short, if you have sons, he was exactly what you want your boy to be. 

### 

“T” Townsend. “T” was from neighboring Everett High School, not our rival, not 

an enemy school. That was Eastern High School, across town. The biggest difference 

between Eastern and Sexton: Mexicans went to Eastern, blacks went to Sexton. My 

school‟s student population was 30-35% black. 

Everett was where the rather well off families lived, at least back then. It‟s also 

the school that provided a tall, black kid named Irvin “Magic” Johnson to play basketball 

at a quiet university known as Michigan State. He played rather well in 1979. I believe 

Magic went on to play a little pro basketball. Feel free to correct me if I‟m wrong. He 

was a nice kid and seemed reasonably talented. 

“T” was different, in many respects. Six feet tall, 130 pounds, he could get lost 



from sight by turning sideways. He looked like a combo of Tommy Smothers and Paul 

Newman, with a sense of humor at least that good, maybe better. It was very hard not to 

like “T”. Even harder to understand him. I‟m not sure he understood “T” Townsend. 

That may have something to do with why I couldn‟t. 

We, as a group, found a party place at the apartment of Jan Stetson, a foxy young 

brunette. I don‟t know what kind of work Jan did, or if she even had a job. I do know we 

could party there any and all hours of the day and night. Still in our late teens, it was nice 

to have a private place to drink. Or, as was too fast becoming the case for too many kids, 

do dope and get stoned. 

Jan had a tall, fritzy looking roommate. I can‟t even remember her name. “T” 

and Jan began a sexual relationship soon after they met. For a while, I‟d sit and drink 

beer with the roomie while “T” and Jan screwed their brains out. One night, while they 

were hard at it, I asked the roommate, “Wanna go fuck until they get done?” 

She said it sounded good, so we did. After that, I‟d usually have sex with her 

while “T” and Jan were shaking the apartment walls. Our sessions never lasted as long as 

theirs. The sex was always good, but was the only thing we had in common, enjoying 

each other in bed. Maybe that‟s why I can‟t recall her name. 

Jan was certainly pretty enough to look at, and also to talk with when the sex was 

finished. Her roomie looked like it‟d be a damned good idea to get up and leave as soon 

as the screwing was over, which I did. 

One night we were at Jan‟s place drinking and shooting the shit. I‟d already had 

sex with the roomie and she was gone. Either she went somewhere, or off to bed. I don‟t 

know. It was a hot summer evening. We all decided to go for a walk to cool off. 



Jan‟s apartment was the second floor of a house on the corner of Capitol and West 

Madison, on the northern edge of downtown. We walked a block east, each of us 

drinking a beer, then turned south. “T” had a whim, so he asked Jan to hold his beer. He 

put his hands on the ground, his feet straight up, and walked an entire block on his hands! 

Amazing! 

When we got to the next corner, he was understandably winded, so we stood there 

drinking while he regained his breath. A car came by with a few guys in it. I believe 

there were three. One guy yelled something vulgar to Jan, a damned sexy little thing. 

Pretty, nice body, and small. Barely over five feet. Just my size, but she was with “T”, 

so she was verboten. 

“T” bellowed instructions to the guy describing the best way for him to have sex 

without a partner. He also cited a few sexual tricks the guy‟s mother was very adept at 

performing. His remarks instigated a return trip for that car. They all piled out to whip 

our asses. They thought they were jumping two guys and a girl, but they actually faced 

more than that. There was a fella named “George” on our side. 

George is the name I used when an imaginary person did something Mom 

accused me of when I was little. When I grew older, I assigned that name to a part of me 

I don‟t like. A part of me I‟d prefer remain deep inside. A part I only want present if 

someone‟s about to hurt me. George has absolutely no conscience. If it comes to the 

point where either you or Bill will be hurt, George demands it be you. As much as 

possible, and he doesn‟t care how much you suffer. As long as Bill doesn‟t get hurt, 

anything else is all well and good. After he knows I‟m safe, that evil side of me slinks 

back into whatever dark recesses of my mind he was hiding in and waits until the next 



time he needs to defend me. When those guys came piling out of that car, George saw it 

was time to do whatever he needed to do to cover Bill‟s ass. To hell with Jan, and “T”, 

George was only concerned about me. 

My customary position when George goes into action is to stand in the back, 

fifteen feet away, maybe, watching him. I need to be close so, when he‟s done with all 

his mayhem, he has a place to go to. I watched him get started when those guys began 

piling from the car. The first one never made it all the way out. He had one foot on the 

ground when George sent a swooping uppercut, gathered from his ankles, into the guy‟s 

chin. Out for the doo-ration, that kid slammed into the rear fender and sat out the fight in 

the gutter. 

“T” was already mixing it up with the next guy to jump out, so George and I 

ignored that one. George hustled around the back of the car, stepping over the inert body 

in the gutter, and interrupted a fat kid getting out from behind the wheel. I think the guy 

wished he hadn‟t stopped in the first place by that point, but he was committed now and 

had no other choice. The kid was almost out of the car when George peppered his face 

with a dozen jolting jabs, threw some damaging cross punches, then moved in close. 

After he‟d been hit thirty or so times in the belly and ribs, the fat kid who never wanted to 

fight in the first place was out of it. George left him moaning and groaning in the street, 

hands clutching the testicles George slammed with a knee. 

George and I headed back to make sure “T” was okay, although I had little doubt 

he‟d be in trouble. “T” later went on to be a professional boxer in Nevada for a while, 

then Caifornia, fighting as a middleweight. I don‟t know his record, but I‟m sure there 

were far more wins than losses. “T” had fast hands and long arms, plus he threw a 



helluva punch. When we got there and started watching, I noticed something funny. “T” 

was only feinting with his right hand. He‟s a southpaw, so his right‟s the one he‟d use to 

jab and set up. His left was reserved for doing serious damage and knocking a man out. 

He was purposely not making contact with his right. Using it only to keep the 

other guy off him until he saw a chance to unload the left. I watched for at least a full 

minute before I figured it out. “T” broke his right hand when he hit the guy and couldn‟t 

throw a punch with it. Every time he‟d feint at the guy, “T” laughed. A weird cackle he 

must‟ve pulled from a Halloween movie. 

Finally, not interested in seeing someone I loved be hurt, I stepped in. “„T‟, if it‟s 

okay with you, can I fuck this guy up for ya?” 

“T” started laughing again. I‟m sure he was about to “give permission”, when his 

opponent got scared. “Not two of you assholes! No way! C‟mon, guys, let‟s haul ass!” 

Helping each other, the three jerks got back in the car and took off. 

We took “T” back to Jan‟s to put ice on his hand. He never stopped his loony 

laughing until after we arrived at her place. That‟s just “T”. 

Only for comparison do I include this tidbit. In my lifetime, from one date 

meetings, to relationships, to some regrettable marriages, I‟ve met more than two- 

thousand women. To my knowledge, every damned one of „em is more capable of 

working on a car than “T” Townsend. That man has to be the most incompetent auto 

repair person on the planet. 

I wouldn‟t tell you this part if I hadn‟t seen it myself. It‟s almost too much to 

believe. “T” had a car in high school, a 1961 Olds F-85. The early version of the 

Cutlass, a two door. What Mom called shit-brindle brown. To a high school kid, 



anything with a key, an engine and four wheels is practically a limo, but it was as tacky 

as anything the rest of us drove. Like any kid‟s car, there were times it wouldn‟t start. 

“T” would turn the key and hear a whine, but the car wouldn‟t start. Sometimes he‟d turn 

the key and hear nothing. He used the same solution in each instance, and it worked. 

“T” would clean out the glove box, tighten up the license plates, and start the 

damned car! Unreal, but I‟ve seen him do it. 

There was a time we were in his car in downtown Lansing. “T” and I were 

especially close around my age eighteen, which would‟ve made him twenty. We were 

together seven days per week for quite a while, until I started my trips down south. 

It was a scene from a TV show, I swear. “T” was driving, an experience in and of 

itself. Based on his incredible inability, “T” could‟ve qualified to drive taxi in New York 

City, Chicago, Hong Kong, or Hanoi. That man was the second worst driver on earth. 

He was superseded years later by a woman to whom I was engaged, but never married, 

Cammie Shelton. 

We were headed east on a cross street, can‟t recall which one, south of the 

downtown section. We stopped at a sign before crossing Washington Avenue, the main 

downtown drag, north and south. “T” was running his mouth the way he did at times. 

He was sort of a crossbreed. He had an irreplaceable smile and laugh, much like Paul 

Newman, and was often like Newman‟s characters in the way he acted. There were times 

you couldn‟t get a word out of him. Other times, he did his Stevie Wonder imitation and 

left his mouth on idle, so you didn‟t need the radio. You‟d be lulled into a stupor as his 

mouth went on and on and on and on. I‟m not sure if he didn‟t also drive like Stevie. 

However, I have to say, a blind man could probably drive better than “T”. 



He looked at me as he talked, his face a melded replica of Tommy Smothers and 

Paul Newman. Jabbering happily, he started to cross Washington Avenue. Looking 

right, I saw a car bearing down on us. The driver wasn‟t even watching the road. He was 

stupidly screwing around with something him on the car seat. Casually, as if suddenly 

remembering I had a dental appointment next week and might miss our bridge game, I 

remarked, “„T‟, we‟re getting killed.” 

That son-of-a-bitch never broke his train of thought, or missed a word of what he 

wanted to say. He simply turned left, a lane too early, and drove north in the southbound 

lane. When the errant driver passed by, he got into the correct lane. “T” kept on going 

without missing a beat in whatever he wanted to finish telling me. 

Incredible! 

There was another incident involving “T” too hilarious to omit. He knew a guy 

named Al. I didn‟t know him that well, myself. He went to Eastern or Everett and was a 

couple years older than me. Yet, he had a long term relationship with an incredibly 

beautiful girl named Connie Turpin. 

I knew her, but not well. I can‟t think of any occasion since I met that little fox I 

didn‟t have a long list of really dirty ideas that included her. I came to know her a little 

better a few years later when I married her younger sister, Donna. While that increased 

my looking opportunities, it was a death knell for any remote chance I‟d ever get 

something going with Connie. 

Al had the bottom floor of a house on a side street off East Michigan Avenue, the 

main east-west road from downtown. We‟d go there and party. I never went by myself, 

only with “T”. As I said, I didn‟t know Al that well. 



A girl named Barb Wight had an apartment over a business a few blocks from 

Al‟s house on East Michigan Avenue. Her place was an un-air-conditioned, seedy, hot 

little dump. She had one thing Al didn‟t offer at his place. She‟d have sex with just 

about any guy who walked through her door. 

Al was different. He‟d only have sex with any woman who walked through his 

door, or any other door. Or stood outside it. Maybe went by on the sidewalk. 

My philosophy was pretty much the same as Al‟s, except with Barb. I never 

minded what‟s called “sloppy seconds” with some sluts we knew in high school. Girls 

who liked what‟s called a “gang bang” and had sex with a dozen guys in one night. I 

guess, with Barb, I chose to be on the smaller list. The more elite group. I was among 

the very few guys in Lansing who never slept with her. I think there were only a dozen 

of us, but we stopped having meetings years ago, so I can‟t be positive. Check with 

Barb. I‟m sure she knows. 

Anyway, Barb gave “T” something as a present. A “gift that just keeps on 

giving”. Crabs. It made me doubly glad I‟d passed on her favors. 

Those crabs had been bothering “T” for a while. At least a week. We were tired 

of hearing him bitch about it. Since I spent more time with him than the other guys, I 

was also weary of watching him scratch his crotch all the time. Some guys wouldn‟t 

even let “T” sit next to „em, fearful they‟d get what he had. We were at Al‟s one night, 

drinking beer and getting shitfaced, when “T” had a miraculous idea. He figured out a 

way to get rid of his crabs. He was gonna shave all the hair on his crotch so he could 

smash the dirty little bastards to death with his hands. 

We thought that was great, and asked him to please stop interrupting the fucking 



conversation with more bullshit about his crotch lice. Just go do what you gotta do, man, 

and tell us about it later, okay? 

That part went well. “T” went into Al‟s bathroom and shaved. I assume he used 

Al‟s razor, although I never heard him ask permission. If it‟d been my razor, I‟d‟ve made 

him buy me a new one. After a while, “T” came out to show us the results of his 

handiwork. 

Just that was pretty damned funny. “T” was very tall, and extremely thin. Maybe 

130 pounds and six feet, or better. When he came out of the bathroom, he wore nothing 

but the standard knee-high black socks. That‟s it; nothing else. Not a hair left on his 

crotch, and he does have a pretty good sized kabonger. He also wears size thirteen shoes. 

My small hands and size elevens disprove that old theory, „cause mine‟s even 

bigger than his. 

We asked him if it worked. He looked like Paul Newman for a moment with his 

sad expression. He said it hadn‟t helped. They were still driving him crazy. 

We lost interest and started talking about other things. 

Soon, “T” had another inspiration. He disappeared. No one knew where he‟d 

gone until a couple minutes later when we heard him scream. It was the sound of a 

woman being gang raped by a heard of buffalos. Awesome, eerie, wailing noises that 

made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Completely naked except for his knee- 

high black socks, “T” sprinted into the living room, his face a mask of pain. He began 

bouncing around the room, always on one foot, changing feet every yard or so. The man 

was acting insane. 

I looked at his groin, skin chafed and raw from shaving with a razor, and asked 



what the hell was wrong. At first, he just bounced and whined. A plaintive appeal for 

anyone who loved him to put him to sleep. Blow his brains out with a handgun. No 

matter what, just kill me. That was the message. 

Finally, he regained enough control to speak. Pointing at his crotch, yet still 

jumping and bouncing, “T” said, “I sprayed my balls with Raid!” It got the biggest laugh 

of the night. Al finally loaned “T” his car, (we‟d arrived in mine). Al made him put a 

towel on the seat before driving to the hospital less than half a mile away. 

I waited until he got back, mostly from a sense of duty. After all, who else would 

watch our beer and keep those assholes from drinking it while “T” was gone? 

Sometime later, while I was “touring” down south as a semi-pro boxer and pool 

hustler, “T” had a conflict with law enforcement. They accused him of selling drugs to 

minors. Everyone argued about it in court. There were, as I heard it, a dozen people 

who didn‟t believe “T‟s” story. Twelve of his peers. He made a deal with the State of 

Michigan. They gave him free room and board for a few years to settle it. By the time he 

was released, we‟d had gone in different directions. 

“T” relocated to Las Vegas, after a couple years of professional boxing in 

California. He drove taxi for a while, then became another kind of dealer. This time at a 

craps table, sometimes a roulette wheel. The State of Nevada had no objection to that 

kind of dealing. All was well for “T”. 

A few years later he discovered a non-life threatening medical problem and 

relinquished his driver‟s license. He was no longer dependent on driving a cab to live, so 

he‟s probably still working the casinos. I learned he was dealing in Vegas and got in 

touch before I came out. I was with a junket that included a woman I‟d broken up with a 



few months earlier. As the trip was pre-paid, I went, hiding my broken heart from her. 

When we arrived at the airport, “T” was there to greet me. It was wonderful to see an old 

friend again, someone I once loved as a close friend. 

I had my former girlfriend with me, a very pretty woman named Carole Lynn 

Williams. Yet another someone I loved very much, and lost. 

When I saw “T”, I was overwhelmed with happiness. Carole Lynn told me she‟d 

wait a minute, so I hurried toward “T” to greet him. 

I guess he planned on a handshake. I did what first came to mind and hugged 

him. Hell, I hadn‟t seen the guy for a dozen years. I was thrilled to be in his company 

again. 

“T” stiffened up like a board. It was as if I was “outing him” as a raging 

homosexual. It‟s sad when people let appearances come ahead of what they really feel. 

In advance of any questions, I have no reason to think “T” changed from what he always 

was, straight as an arrow in every inch of him. Prison, or not, he never gave me any 

reason to feel he‟d “gone over to the pink side”. 

advice. 

“T” and I had fun. I made a little money while I was there, mostly because of his 

I remember an occasion when, if I‟d snapped a picture of him, you‟d‟ve thought 

he was Paul Newman. We‟d stopped at a buffet where I got a sixteen ounce T-bone and 

dinner for $4.95, a helluva good meal. As we were going to get our food, I had my coat 

hanging on the chair next to me. I asked, “„T‟, is it safe to leave my coat here? Will 

anyone steal it if I leave it on the chair?” 

He turned to look at me, his Newman smile in full regale. “Not that coat!” 



Damned clothing critic! 

I made one more visit to Vegas where I spent time with “T”. We went gambling, 

and I fronted for both of us. We lost. A lot. 

“T” had been telling me how much he hated casinos. How he didn‟t like to 

gamble. He only wanted to deal. The part I didn‟t catch was when he said how tired he 

was of “all these fucking people who come to Vegas and want me to be their tour guide. 

I‟m sick of it.” My losses, his and ours, totaled about $2,500. Money I really couldn‟t 

afford to lose. I think “T” was trying to give me a very strong hint. I wasn‟t listening, I 

guess. 

I tried a few times after that to reach him. He never returned my phone calls, 

never answered my letters. Since they didn‟t come back as undelivered, he got „em. 

Therefore, I‟ll respond here, so he knows I understand. 

“T”, I got your message. I‟m fucking off. I won‟t ever bother you again. 

### 

Another guy I remember from our group, one who was in our graduating class, is 

Pete Vitums. We called him “Fat Pete”. I think I know why. He was about five-ten, and 

weighed around three-hundred pounds. Personally, if I‟d been assigned to give him a 

nickname, I‟d‟ve called him “Portly Pete”, but I‟m not in charge of everything in life, so I 

didn‟t. 

Pete weighed a little over thirteen pounds when he was born. I never asked why 

he was an only child. I was surprised his Mom didn‟t smother him as a baby out of a 

need for revenge. 

We were all partying, drinking beer one afternoon and into the evening at the 



Chouinard residence. There must‟ve been thirty or more guys. We were all having a lot 

of fun. Although I can‟t understand today why I had fun doing that, I enjoyed it then. 

I was on a chair in the dining room. Every other seat was taken. Guys were 

standing around, slouched in all three doorways, against walls, any place they could find. 

Pete was saying something where he stood in the middle of the room. I have no idea 

what he was talking about. All I knew was he stood in front of me, pretty much blocking 

my view of everyone except the guys on either side of me. Since that makes having a 

conversation a tad difficult, I spoke up. “Pete, you‟re in my way! Move your fat fuckin‟ 

ass someplace else, huh?” 

He turned around, smiling, and said, “I know, I know. I‟m so fat, you can‟t see 

around me, right?” 

“Are you kidding me? Pete, you‟re so fuckin‟ fat, I can‟t even hear around you!” 

Some of the guys were still laughing five minutes later. 

We spent a number of weekends in my favorite place in the world for many years. 

Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Even the neighborhoods have bars where you can drink, often as 

many as four in a block. No place I‟ve ever been, including Munich, Germany, is as 

dedicated to drinking beer as the people I met in Milwaukee. Of course, to me, that was 

heaven. I was slowly working my way around to becoming a full-time, first class drunk, 

so Milwaukee was the place for me. Bet on it. 

Bob Chouinard‟s father came from that area, so he had a lot of relatives there. 

We‟d often drive over for a weekend of total drunkenness, then promise ourselves all the 

way home we‟d never do it again. The promises would last about a month and we‟d be 

in the car again, heading back to Milwaukee. It was always Bob Chouinard and me, and 



occasionally another guy or two. I had a car, thankfully. Bob drove a total, complete 

piece of shit. A badly beaten old Nash Rambler he got somewhere. The fenders were all 

rusted out, and the doors, too, so Bob found some Bondo and applied it by hand. Then, 

using the light blue paint left over when Buddy Frahm‟s folks painted the house, Bob 

applied it to his Rambler. 

He used the same brushes Buddy‟s father used on the house. No shit. 

It was comical as hell to see that car. Pretty soon, a rod started knocking on the 

oil pan. Pretty soon, it wore a hole in the pan and all the oil drained out. Bob never 

noticed it, so he fried the engine. As of this writing Bob‟s still unable to secure work as 

an auto mechanic. Wonder why that might be? 

Pete didn‟t have a car, and he went with us one weekend to Milwaukee. I always 

made sure I had a car, since I was so damned insecure. Funny, but I always felt I was 

held at a distance by my friends. Back in kindergarten, Tommy Franklin was my best 

friend. During grade school, Denny Costello was my best friend. At Otto, then at 

Sexton, Bob Chouinard was my best friend. After high school, “T” Townsend was my 

best friend. 

In every case, I always felt, although those guys were my best friends, I was never 

their best friend. It‟s like I was allowed to come along, but nobody would‟ve missed me 

if I hadn‟t been there. To this day, the only times I‟ve ever felt the feeling was mutual 

was with my dogs, three in particular. 

Punky Beagle was the best damned rabbit hunter ever born. She loved me and 

was my best friend. Thug, aka Thuggerton Quincy Cady, Esq., was my best friend. He 

often risked his life for mine. You‟ll hear about him in a while. Movuggah, my Irish 



wolfhound who had to be put down January 17 th , 2004, was quite probably the best friend 

I‟ve ever known. His death almost killed me. I cried many times every day for over 

three months after he was gone. 

So, massive bundle of insecurity that I was, I always made sure I had a car. I 

could go where the other kids went, even without an invitation, since I could at least 

follow the other cars. I once followed them all the way to Houghton Lake, 160 miles 

north of Lansing. 

We‟ll talk about my cars a bit later. I think you‟ll find it entertaining. This trip, I 

was driving my ‟63 Chevy, a Biscayne, the cheapest model Chevy built in a full-size car. 

They made the Impala, the Bel Air, and the Biscayne. It had a municipal title, meaning it 

had once been government owned, which is why I bought it as cheap as I did. The car 

was used as an interceptor by the state police in northern Michigan, and was fast as hell 

on the highway. No takeoff speed at all, but it had a top end of 155 mph, so I loved it. 

Bob, Pete and I had fun all weekend in Milwaukee. They say you can never drink 

the brewery dry. It‟s probably true, but I did have „em working a swing shift, just to keep 

up with me. I don‟t recall what Pete was eating that weekend. Whatever it was should be 

banned from human consumption. Even if it was pizza. I‟m serious. 

The weather was colder‟n a car dealer‟s heart. The temp was never as high as ten 

degrees all the way home. The wind was blowing like crazy. Add the fact we were 

driving at 80 mph on tires with very little tread along snow covered roads, and we‟re 

lucky we weren‟t killed coming home. However, if you‟d asked Bob and me at the time, 

we might‟ve chosen it as an option. 

Pete was asleep in the back seat. He easily took up the entire seat, one side of my 



car to the other. He was also snoring, which caused me to entertain thoughts of homicide 

for about a hundred miles. However, Pete had something more noxious and offensive to 

foist on us, and did it repeatedly. For those not in the know, an SBD is what‟s known as 

a “silent, but deadly” fart. You can‟t hear a thing. I suppose, if either of us dared watch 

Pete as he slept, we might‟ve seen greenish-yellow fumes rising from him, but there‟d be 

no other advance warning. 

Pete launched his first salvo only a few miles out of Milwaukee. It crept up on us, 

and I noticed it first. Since I smoked and Bob didn‟t, I kept my window ajar an eighth of 

an inch to draw the smoke out. It also summoned Pete‟s residue. When it hit me, I 

turned to Bob, looking at him as if it he, not Charles Manson, did the Sharon Tate 

murders. “You fuckin‟ prick, did you do that?” 

He glared back at me. “Did I do wh oh, fuck me! What the hell is that?” 

We eyeballed each other a second, then accepted our penalty. We knew what we 

had to do, even if it was a gruesome idea. At eighty miles per hour, with a chill index 

around twenty degrees below zero, we opened our windows. Rolled „em all the way 

down. Bob spun and gave Pete a look of loathing. “Wake up, you fat motherfucker! 

Wake up and stop that shit!” 

Pete never once interrupted his snoring. Not even when Bob shook him. Every 

mile, all the way back to Lansing, three-hundred miles or more, he farted. It seemed 

we‟d just get the air cleared enough to remove our noses from our coats, put the windows 

up, and we‟d smell another stink bomb. I‟m not sure I can recall an uglier trip in my life. 

So, here‟s to you, Pete. You earned the title of World Champion Farter, at least, as far as 

Bob and I were concerned, that weekend. 



CHAPTER NINE 

One of the guys in our crowd was an enigma in every respect. His name was 

Buddy Frahm. I‟ve only known one other person in my life much like Buddy, a guy 

named Rick Taranto. Rick was an Italian-Jew I met while I sold cars. He was a little 

guy, maybe five-four, with a big guy complex. He was every bit as sarcastic as Don 

Rickles. A complete wiseass in every respect. Most of the guys I knew couldn‟t stand 

Rick. Almost all his customers were women. They liked him, for some reason, but men 

seemed averse to Rick moments after they met him. 

I could take Rick in small doses. Maybe an hour at a time, and not every day of 

the week. We‟d get along, then he‟d say or do something to piss me off, and I‟d have to 

walk away before I killed him. 

When he found his ex-wife was having sex with most of the officers in a small 

town outside of Lansing, the Williamston, Michigan police department, he didn‟t take it 



well. Then, when she began having sex and living with a crippled foreman who worked 

at Oldsmobile, he snapped. Supposedly. 

Personally, I never believed Rick was guilty. He was alleged to have come up 

next to their car in the dark, pre-dawn hours of a Michigan winter morning on a snowy 

road to make his attack. They said he rolled down his passenger window and used a bolt 

action rifle to shoot the man three times, all while both cars were still moving on the icy 

road. One shot, I might‟ve been able to buy it, but not three. It takes two hands to use a 

bolt or lever action rifle. I know. I have one. It can‟t be done with one hand. Not if 

you‟re trying to drive a car. Even on clear roads, it‟s impossible. 

Rick was sentenced to life in prison. I did visit him, and it was a very sad affair. 

He never got another trial, and died in 1993, still a prisoner. Here‟s to you, Rick. I 

believed in you then, and I still do. 

Rick had a lot in common with Buddy Frahm. As a matter of fact, it may have 

been knowing Buddy that allowed me to tolerate Rick in small doses. It may also be why 

I felt a distaste for Rick the moment I met him. Sounds a little like a conundrum, doesn‟t 

it? 

Buddy was, in many ways, the original Tom Cruise. He‟s about the same size, 

around five-six. They even look a lot alike, as memory serves me. Buddy was, believe it 

or not, even more of an asshole than Cruise, and he‟s pretty bad. I don‟t mind a little guy 

being cocky, as long as he can back it up. When he acts like he‟s a real tough guy, but 

can‟t follow through on it, it pisses me off. A lot. 

I‟d have no problem with a guy like that, as long as he acted like what he was, not 

what he wanted to be. If you can‟t whip anyone but little guys, and you don‟t try to 



pretend you can get ugly with big guys, it‟s fine with me. In that case, if a big guy picks 

on you, I‟m probably gonna feel obligated to defend you, even if it means I suffer some 

damage while whipping that guy‟s ass. 

What I can‟t stand is a mouthy little prick who purposely annoys some huge 

bastard to the point the guy wants to hurt him. Then, just before the battle begins, when 

the little guy involves me in solving it for him, I‟m conflicted. Badly. 

On one hand, the little guy is one of ours. Part of our group. The big guy isn‟t. 

On the other hand, the little guy started it and most likely deserves a real good ol‟ down 

home ass kickin‟. Which is best? 

All I know is Frahm used to get more people than I dared imagine pissed off. 

Then, just before the fireworks would start, he‟d wangle his way in my direction and let 

me witness the pre-ignition to launch. Sometimes he‟d even ask, “Cady, are you gonna 

put up with this guy‟s shit?” 

Half drunk by that time, I always waded into the fray. The other guy always got 

the shit beat out of him, of course, but I was usually scarred and a bit bloody by the time 

it ended. Then Frahm would start running his mouth again, indicating the only reason he 

didn‟t finish the bastard off himself is because I stepped in. All the guys knew better, but 

Buddy loved to run his mouth. He was also known as a fair weather friend to anyone and 

everyone. 

Buddy was a wrestler. A pretty good one, as I recall, although the only way he‟d 

ever get into the state finals was by buying a ticket. That usually helps a guy enormously 

in a street fight, being able to wrestle. All street fights longer than a half dozen punches 

end up on the ground. 



He had a great sense of humor. Although I don‟t do guys, I thought he was a 

good looking kid. His basic makeup was that of a nice guy, but his complex, a “big man” 

syndrome, nearly made me want to puke. He was a smart ass, which is okay in small 

doses, but Buddy had only Econo-sized versions. He couldn‟t hope to back up what he 

put out, and it really pissed me off. 

We, meaning our group, had a party place we called “The Stuck”. If you weren‟t 

careful, that‟s what happened to your car. It was part of a farmer‟s field, located in a 

section of woods the farmer never cut down to plow. We had to drive back a couple 

hundred yards on a dirt trail, park and walk to the clearing, which held a couple hundred 

drunken kids. 

In bad weather, we couldn‟t get in very far. In real bad weather, we couldn‟t get 

in at all. Had to park on the road. For some reason, a quarter mile of cars on both sides 

of the road would usually make the sheriff‟s deputies suspicious. They always managed 

to catch us back there at such times, which is why I was smarter. 

I parked half a mile away in bad weather and walked to the party. 

One night we were drinking at The Stuck when Buddy got obnoxious again with a 

big guy. Someone I‟d never met before. Quite honestly, I had no worry about being able 

to whip this guy‟s ass, even though I was drinking. Even with the fact I‟m always scared 

shitless of everyone. Like I said, that feeling always “goes poof” the instant any trouble 

starts. George takes over and I stand around watching. No sense getting my brains 

knocked out when George wants a piece of the guy‟s ass, right? 

I watched Buddy egg him on. I watched the guy get madder and madder. If it 

was a stage play, I even knew when my cue was coming. The very moment Buddy 



would decide he was an inch or two from getting his ass handed to him in a bag and 

suggest I step in and trade punches with this freakin‟ monster. 

My thoughts were, Fuck that shit. My Mom didn‟t raise any stupid children until 

she got to my younger brother, that David thing, whereupon she went crazy and did it up 

brown. 

Buddy looked at me, right on time. With stopwatch precision. “Cady, you gonna 

take that shit from this prick?” 

With a big smile, I said, “Yup. Go ahead, Buddy, you handle this asshole.” 

The big guy was confused. “You ain‟t gonna step in?” 

I shook my head. “Naw, not unless I think you‟re gonna kill the little fucker. Go 

ahead, guys, have at it.” With that, I took a slug from my beer and watched Buddy 

Frahm get the shit knocked out of him. The guy stopped pounding on him before there 

was any permanent damage. No teeth lost, no mortal wounds. He‟d be sore and achy a 

couple of days, then go back to being a mouthy little asshole. 

When Frahm got up I told him, “You can handle your own shit from now on, 

okay, you little prick?” Then I went to drink with someone I liked. 

I wasn‟t sure who it would be, but I knew the first person I recognized would be 

someone I liked better than Buddy Frahm. 

### 

There was another girl I liked, and I feel I was a failure of sorts with her. If I‟m 

right, it was certainly more my loss than hers. Her name was Mary Boothe. I‟m sure 

some guy snapped her up right after high school, taking advantage of the opportunity I 



missed. It can be a little bit saddening, all these years later, to look back on what 

might‟ve been. And wonder. 

Mary lived over on Pine Street, only a block or two south of the MSB. She was a 

pretty girl. Maybe I thought she was prettier than some other guys did. If I did, it was 

because of what she showed me from inside. Her persona. 

Mary was simply a damned nice person, and she made no extra effort to be that 

way. It was just Mary being Mary. As I recall it, she was sort of small. The way I like 

„em. I doubt she was over five-four, one-ten, tops, if that. Pretty dark hair, close enough 

to black to call it that, with beautiful dark eyes. Funny, isn‟t it, how a guy can remember 

something like that forty-five years later? 

I know I asked to see her, and she said okay. I went to her house a few times, but 

not enough, it seems. We were young. I was only fifteen, if memory serves me, making 

her fourteen. 

Oh, and for that guy who did get her? She‟s just about to turn thirty-eight. Mary 

doesn‟t age as fast as most girls. Oh, by the way, mister? There ain‟t even a snowball‟s 

chance in hell you‟ll ever truly deserve that woman, so be damned nice to her. Make sure 

she lets you stay in her life. I know from experience how much fun it isn’t to be gone 

from it. 

We went for a few walks, held hands, and I think we kissed a couple times. For 

the guy who got her? She never let me touch her anyplace else. Damn it! 

For some reason, I thought of her often, even after we stopped going for walks. 

Even while we were both still students, although she did that longer than I did. Because 

of something I‟ll explain soon, I became an HSDO. 



why I did it. 

High School Drop-Out. 

You‟ll see why when we get to it, although you may not agree with what I did, or 

Not much more to report on Mary, beyond the fact she was easily significant 

enough to stay in a good man‟s mind all these years. If that doesn‟t tell you she‟s a very 

special person, I guess you‟ll never catch it. 

Here‟s to you, Mary, and what could‟ve been, but never was. 

### 

Speaking of things that stay on a guy‟s mind, I have another memory from my 

misspent youth. I hope none of you who are Dads ever leave your kid in this spot. It‟s 

bad enough to have one person carry it with him for so long, let alone two or more. I 

tried my best to avoid this problem for my boys, but you can check with them, if you 

want, to see how I did. They‟re in the book. 

A father‟s duty is to be there. Not always. Hell, I watched Father Knows Best 

when I was a kid. I know all that stuff can‟t really happen. Not when you have a life to 

live and a family to care for. Still, when your kid needs you, damn it, you‟re obligated to 

be there for him or her. 

My old man worked hard at his job. Don‟t get me wrong. I wouldn‟t ever say he 

was lazy. Matter of fact, that‟s a trait we share. 

Many, many, many years ago I was a damned good mechanic. I decided at an 

early age I didn‟t want to make my living with my back. I preferred to use my mind. It‟s 

a damned good thing I did, as you‟ll see when the full Bill Cady story unfolds in these 

pages. I wouldn‟t‟ve been able to make a living that way, as it turns out. 



In that sense, I‟m lazy. If something needs doing, and it‟s not something I enjoy, 

I hire it done. I figure I can make more money in the amount of time it takes someone 

else to do it by doing what I do well. I once replaced the clutch in our washing machine. 

It only took me all day Saturday and half of Sunday. 

A repairman would‟ve finished it in an hour or two. 

What was my weekend worth? More than the fifty bucks I‟d‟ve paid to get a pro 

to fix that freakin‟ machine, I guarantee ya. 

My Dad worked long hours selling furniture. Did it for twenty-three years and 

retired to rot at the kitchen table, or in his chair, another fourteen years. It was what he 

didn’t do in the earlier years I remember. One specific event stands out. It happened at a 

very crucial age. I was six years old when I finally learned what was wrong with my life. 

I didn‟t want to grow up poor, and stay poor. I had dreams, ambitions and goals. 

Things I wanted to have happen for me. What made it difficult, should‟ve even been 

impossible, is the fact I‟m an introvert. Honestly, I am. 

Bill Cady‟s as shy as anyone you‟ve ever met, or ever will meet. If I had my 

preference, I‟d always be in the shadows. If-dog-rabbit. If the dog hadn‟t stopped to shit, 

we‟d still be skinning rabbits. The dog stopped, we went hungry. That‟s it, in a nutshell. 

Since the things I needed … not wanted but needed … to be happy required an 

extrovert, and I couldn‟t afford to hire one, I ad libbed. Faked it. So many times, I can 

now fake it on command. Just as if it was an honest reaction. It isn‟t. 

I‟m always afraid someone‟s going to get mad at me, which is why I try so hard to 

avoid pissing people off. (Okay, all four of you ex-wives can just knock it off and stop 

jeering at me. I didn‟t mean you, particularly. Jeez, get over it, already). 



Back to the crux of my story. I was six years old. The Willow Street School, 

where I‟d be starting kindergarten that fall, was a block and a half from our house. It had 

two baseball diamonds. All the neighborhood kids started going up there to play ball. 

You can only get away with borrowing another kid‟s mitt just so many times before they 

start telling you to get your own. 

That‟s a “Dad job”, goin‟ to get that freakin‟ mitt. A boy‟s supposed to be able to 

count on his old man for that. I asked, and asked, and asked, and asked him to take me to 

get a mitt. In one huge ear and out the other. Finally, just after summer vacation started 

for kids who were already going to school, Mom took care of it for me. She worked at 

Gamble‟s Hardware in the Edgemont Shopping Center, 2.4 miles away from our house. 

After a call to Bob, her boss, he agreed to guide me when I got there. 

Funny, she gave me a five dollar bill to get my first mitt. I bought a mitt in 2003 

for a boy whose father was as big a shirker as my old man, but it cost me $90. 

I pedaled my Hiawatha bike, cream fenders with an emerald green frame and 

racing stripes, the entire five mile round trip. For every stroke of my legs the entire ride, 

I grew angrier and more hurt because that asshole would rather read a freakin‟ magazine 

than take care of his boy. Don‟t do that to your kids, unless you want the story in Harry 

Chapin‟s song, “Cat’s in the Cradle and the Silver Spoon”, to happen to you. Don‟t do it. 

### 

Perhaps I‟m feeling a need to pick on someone, so I‟ll tell you another funny part 

of my life. I was born a bastard. Technically. My folks went before a Justice of the 

Peace before I was born. Not before the seed was planted, but sometime before I was 

born, anyway. 



There‟s a sub-story to go with that. When I was thirty-six years old, just before I 

filed for a divorce from the woman with whom I cohabited, I received a phone call from a 

woman named Shirley Bailey. Particularly because I knew I‟d soon be single again, I 

was interested. She wanted to know if I‟d be willing to come see her at her house. 

She‟s lucky I didn‟t drop the phone and run to my car. In addition to the crap I 

was going through, she had a sexy voice! It got me all fired up. 

Since I had appointments that day, and she had things to do, we set it for that 

evening. I believe it was around seven. The minute she answered the door, I had a 

damned good idea why she‟d called me. Shirley was the spitting image of my old man. 

She was the daughter he turned his back on. Disowned her. 

Remember I said that homely bastard could sweet talk his way into so many 

women‟s beds? Well, Shirley‟s mother was one of „em. It seems “Fast Fred” found out 

he‟d gotten two girls pregnant around the same time. He had to make a choice, and I lost. 

He married my mother and left Shirley‟s mother in the lurch. She was adopted a 

couple years later by her mother‟s new husband and felt her Dad was a wonderful man, 

all the way up until he died a few years before she and I met. So, I would many years 

later come to learn I had a sister 47 minutes older than me. We had the same Dad, but 

different Moms. Oh, joy. 

My Mom used to meet Shirley‟s mother once per week at the soda counter in 

Walgreen‟s to give her ten bucks. That was a condition required for her to leave my old 

man out of it. He had to pay for the birth of his child. 

Remember what happened to me? Shit, I left the hospital in freakin‟ debt when I 



was born! If it hadn‟t been for Grandpa Thurston, who knows? I might still be mopping 

floors, trying to pay off my servitude indebtedness. 

I met Shirley. She seemed like a nice person, but I‟ll be more honest with you 

than I was with her. We didn‟t ever associate much because she looked so damned much 

like him I didn‟t want to see her face. She and I are also shirt tail connected another way, 

but I‟m not sure if we‟ll include that in this part, or not. 

Back to my bastard status. 

I mentioned some step siblings earlier. Mary, Kay, Jeannie and Allen, plus 

Shirley, whom you‟ve now met. My understanding was the others all lived in the Detroit 

area, but I could be wrong. I know Dad also had a sister, Mary, who lived in Jackson, 

Michigan. That‟s a long way from Lansing. A good thirty-two miles, but I never once 

met the woman. Guess you can say I wasn‟t brought up to value family ties as much as 

most other people. 

Of those five people, I estimate I‟ve spent a collective twenty hours with them in 

my life entire, so I don‟t know them at all. If you meet any of them, please send me a 

brief bio at my web site, http://www.atmyfriendsplace.com/contact/. As for that David 

thing, I haven‟t had much to do with him since 1973, which you‟ll discover before much 

longer. If you learn anything about him, please keep it to yourself. 

“Fast Fred” married a woman named Betty years before he ever hooked up with 

“Slow Millie”. The ceremony was in a Catholic church. He had four children with 

Betty, then they divorced. That‟s something right near the top of that church‟s “no-no” 

list. You might even grow to where you despise each other to the point you make life 

hell for everyone living in that house, but you must stay married, no matter what. 



I have no idea who initiated the divorce, but the SWAG system, (Scientific Wild 

Assed Guess), tells me Betty threw his ass out. So, he and my Mom went before a JP 

sometime before I was born. Afterward, according to society, I was legitimate. I wasn‟t 

a bastard child. 

But, according to those in charge of the Catholic church, I was. I learned things 

weren‟t gonna change for me in that regard. Still, he must‟ve believed something, 

because Mom essentially had no religion when they met. Her family would allege 

themselves Lutherans, if asked, but they never went to church. 

It reminds me of the guy at a supermarket check-out lane. He saw a man in 

clerical clothing and asked if he was from a nearby church. The religious man said, 

“Why, yes. I‟m Father Murphy. I‟m the priest at St. Thomas Church, just a few blocks 

down.” 

The other fellow said, “Really? Heck, that‟s my church.” 

Father Murphy was a bit confused. “You say it‟s your church? I‟ve been the 

pastor there for seven years, and I don‟t recall ever seeing you at services.” 

The other guy merely shrugged. “Hey, I never said I was a fanatic.” 

Still, that David thing and I were raised Catholic. My folks spent money they 

needed for other things on our tuition. We went to church every Sunday, and Mom 

always had us fill in our tithing envelopes, including a fifty cent piece. It‟s equal to more 

than $10 in today‟s money. They also put money in. 

To tell you how lecherous the church became, they once posted a listing in the 

annual church bulletin with the names of every family in the parish. Next to those names, 

they showed the amount tithed by that family the previous year. 



Can you believe anyone would be that low? 

Oddly enough, although it infuriated “Fast Fred”, he and Mom retaliated in a way 

far more passive than I‟d‟ve elected. They kept on contributing the same as before, but 

did it in cash and stopped using the envelopes with their code number. 

Fast forward to my age twenty-seven, a year where I did another stupid thing by 

jumping out of my first marriage and beating Cher‟s record to remarry. She was single 

four days after divorcing Sonny Bono before she married Gregg Alman. I was single 

three days when I married Nancy, the mother of my children. 

My parents came to me with a request shortly after we married. Would I be 

willing to be their best man? They were getting married in the Catholic church. 

You‟ve gotta be shitting me! It was all I could say, but they weren‟t. I did some 

checking to find out why. It seems people had been leaving that church, in deed, if not in 

name, in droves. Tithing was down. Way down. So, in order to boost their income, they 

recalled their castaway members. 

My parents had to get letters from people testifying why they thought this man 

and woman should be married, for Christ‟s sake. Grandma Thurston wrote, “So my 

grandchildren won‟t be bastards anymore” in her letter. 

During the waiting period, (yup, they had all the hocus pocus you could ask for), 

Mom went to catechism classes and studied hard. She was admitted to the Catholic 

Church and was happy afterward. She even made a faint effort to coax her oldest son, 

Bill, into rejoining the Catholic Church. Apparently she didn‟t like all the laughter it got 

her, so Mom soon desisted in her efforts. 

### 



Something else I considered major in my life was connected to the Catholic 

Church. At least, the dissolution was, if nothing else. 

As is customary for almost every young man, straight or gay, I fell in love. We 

get all those hormones moving, testosterone running amok in our bodies, and it happens. 

There‟s soon one special girl. It can be almost rote from then on. 

It‟s worse when you have a Catholic mindset. I was never able to totally ditch 

mine. After all, they pounded it into me during all my formative years. It gets ingrained 

after a while. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Boy wants girl. Maybe even to the point 

boy doesn‟t really like girl, but fools the hell out of himself because she‟s VE, (Vaginally 

Equipped). That‟s extremely important to boy. 

It can stop there. The guy‟s already in deep shit, but it usually goes a bit farther. 

Girl likes boy, too. Girl has ideas about wanting boy her way, but has to hear all 

that whining from boy. In every case, it‟s because boy doesn‟t like one big thing about 

girl‟s legs. 

They aren‟t spread for him. 

Girl eventually accedes to boy‟s wishes and a fluid swap occurs. 

Boy really likes girl now. They‟re together all the time, swapping fluids as much 

as he wants. She knows, without doing that, her long range plans ain‟t gonna happen. 

If boy is Catholic, he‟s been trained in advance to know what a dirty, lowlife 

bastard he is for what he‟s doing to girl. Screw her once or twice and leave the scene, 

that‟s bad. Not too bad, just bad. Screw her on a regular basis, where all God‟s children 

know it‟s happening … but she doesn‟t have a plain gold band on her finger … and you 

know what you‟ve done. 



Boy has branded her a slut in the eyes of the entire community. The only way 

boy can save his scrubby ass now is to visit a jeweler and get a sparkly thing for her left 

hand. On the heels of that, a date is chosen. If boy is lucky, he‟ll get a bachelor party, 

but it‟s the same next step, either way. Give your soul to the Lord, boy, because your ass 

now belongs to girl. Bend over and grab your ankles my man, ‟cause the shit‟s about to 

start flyin‟. 

That‟s pounded into the head of every Catholic boy I ever knew. I have no reason 

to assume it‟s changed since I walked away from that church forty-two years ago. 

I met a girl. A very pretty girl. An extremely unusual girl, as well. Her name 

was Jackie Fox. I was eighteen, Jackie was seventeen. She hung around with kids from 

Everett, not Sexton, because she lived closer to them, but she was a Sexton student. 

That‟s how we met. 

There was another reason I wanted to meet Jackie. The same reason almost all 

the guys wanted to get together with her. No, it wasn‟t a slutty reputation. Only one guy 

“bragged” about screwing her, and we all knew he was full of shit. It was more likely 

fact than not, although he already claimed he had a horde of conquests, the guy was still a 

virgin when he graduated. 

No, this was better. Jackie had big tits. Ask any high school boy, what does it 

take to make a woman someone you might want to spend the rest of your life with? Big 

tits is the number one answer you‟re gonna get. As if it makes a real difference? The 

silly assed kid won‟t ever stop to think, even if he does stay all those years with Sally 

Bigtits, those puppies will one day be bruised all over the bottom from banging against 

her knees as she walks. 



Well, it sure as hell captured my attention. That‟s all you need to get something 

started, as we all know. 

Actually, Jackie was a pretty special person. She was smart as could be, clever, 

innovative, well read and well spoken. Jackie had a heart of gold, and was very talented 

in many areas. She lived on the far side of town from me, about three miles away, near 

Logan and Mt. Hope Streets. 

Her father was a foreman at Oldsmobile, so he made good money. Her Mom was 

a housewife. She had a brother, Dwayne, a few years younger, but I never got to know 

the boy. Didn‟t need to, and didn‟t want to. As you surely recall, I disliked kids even 

when I was one. Still, their home was in a rather nice area, neat and clean, and she had a 

pleasant, happy family. She even smoked, which I saw as a tremendous plus, although it 

wasn‟t the big deal back then it is today. We had a lot of things in common with each 

other, and our relationship was pretty good for a year or so. 

With one big exception. 

Jackie had something else I thought was remarkable about her. I doubt anyone 

will see it as spectacular, but I was just a kid when I was a kid, so I liked it a lot. The 

first time she ever showed me her special trick was a Saturday morning. We were 

driving to Grand Rapids, fifty-two miles away, for her cousin‟s wedding. Jackie‟s folks 

wanted her to ride with them, but we were already full swing into the rote system. 

I‟d gone to Zale‟s Jewelers and established an account. With that I bought her a 

diamond ring, the first of seven such purchases in my life. That‟s not really too bad when 

you think of it. I bought seven, but was only stupid enough to carry out four. If a major 



league baseball player did it, he‟d be batting .430, getting more money than anyone in the 

game. 

So, as my fiancée, she convinced her folks she should ride with me. We were be- 

bopping along on I-96 to Grand Rapids, drinking beer, as usual. When I‟d drink beer, 

there was a funny reaction. It earned me a nickname, “Dime Bladder”. I could usually 

stow away the first six with no problem. After that, once I‟d taken a leak, it was at least 

two times per beer. That‟s another reason I was glad I had a car. I almost always drove 

so I wouldn‟t be forced to beg some asshole to stop before I pissed my pants. We did a 

lot of drinking while driving on remote country roads. 

In this case, Jackie and I were cruising along in my 1958 white two-door Olds 

around the 65 mph speed limit. I‟d already taken a leak the sneaky way. Held an empty 

can in place and, with a dexterity acquired by a great deal of repetition, peed in the can, 

then tossed it out. (I know, an ecological pig. I never toss anything from my car 

anymore, even cigarette butts). 

Jackie had to pee. It wasn‟t just normal girl stuff, since they pee just to pass the 

time, or to annoy the guy they‟re with. It was a legitimate request from a girl who drank 

beer. That trait set her a notch above the others. Most girls wanted wine or sloe gin. 

Very few would drink beer with a guy. 

We‟d been talking about timing. She was worried we might arrive late. Her 

concerns weren‟t out of line, but I sure as hell wasn‟t gonna speed with beer in the car, 

both of us being minors. Jackie came up with the answer, one I‟d never dare suggest. 

She pulled down her panties, scooted forward on the seat, held a can with only the tab top 



removed below her, and filled that damned thing to the top! Never spilled a drop! I was 

absotively, posilutely amazed! So proud of my girl I couldn‟t believe it! 

We made it to the church on time and everything came out fine. 

The exception I mentioned had to do with one part of a relationship many feel is 

frivolous. It‟s called “the sex part”. I‟ve never felt that part of a boy/girl relationship 

was frivolous. Sex definitely can‟t “make” a relationship, but it can damned sure kill 

one. I speak from experience on that idea. Vast experience. 

I was nineteen, she was eighteen. I‟ve loved sex ever since Cary gave me that 

sample when I was eleven years old. I don‟t anticipate ever being the kind of guy who 

doesn‟t love it. Granted, my values are vastly superior now, in comparison to what they 

used to be, but I‟m still a big fan of sexuality being a part of my life. 

Jackie understood that. Kinda. However, she had Catholic girl phobias to worry 

about. That, and a fear she never expressed to me. She was horrified of getting pregnant. 

You male readers are gonna think I‟m making this part up. Either that, or you‟re 

gonna figure I‟m the weirdest guy you ever heard of, but this is the truth. 

Jackie understood a guy wants sex. Had no argument with my “needs”, if you 

will. She was willing to satisfy me just about any time I wanted it. You might wonder, 

what the hell‟s your problem, Bill? We all know some people would bitch even if you 

hung „em with a brand-new rope, but what‟s Bill‟s problem? The woman‟s good 

looking, they‟re in love, she has big tits, and he can have sex any damned time he wants 

it. Where‟s the beef, damn it? 

Okay, but this sounds hard to believe, even for me. Jackie would happily give me 

all the sex I wanted, as long as it was a blowjob. Only that. 



Yeah, I‟ll wait until you guys quit laughing. Go ahead. Great. Ya finished? 

Oral sex only. That‟s how she wanted it. She didn‟t care it meant she got nothing 

out of it. She was adamant about not letting me be inside her the way I wanted. That 

only happened about once per month. Maybe. If that much. 

Oddly enough, it was almost a one-eighty from what Nancy, the mother of my 

children, wanted. Nancy would “submit to sex”, (there‟s a lot of definition in that phrase, 

none of it good), but oral sex was very near and dear. Damned near impossible to get 

unless she wanted something. Oh, it also worked if one of our kids had done something 

wrong. Gotta have the old man in a good mood when he hears about it. 

Still, in almost anything we find in life, what‟s the thing we want the most? 

Whatever we can‟t have. We all know that‟s true. 

Therefore, the minute she placed conventional sex on the “no-no” list, it was what 

I wanted most. During our year and a half as a couple, Jackie claimed I got her pregnant 

twice. She told me she miscarried both times, meaning she flushed my kid down the 

toilet. I have no idea if what she said was true, but that‟s what she told me. 

With that kind of problem looming on the horizon, what the hell can a young 

engaged couple do to find an answer? Where can they go? Who can they ask? 

Okay, you there, the pretty lady in row six, third seat from the end. 

Good one! Since she‟s a Catholic, maybe her priest can help? Very good idea. 

Matter of fact, that‟s the solution we came up with. 

What? You think oral sex is just fine, but conventional sex is also a very strong 

part of a relationship? Well, I‟ll tell you what. I think we should talk about it in more 

depth. Will you have some time when we‟re finished here? 



Great! Meet me backstage afterward. If anyone tries to stop you, get his name so 

I can kill him with my bare hands. 

Now, where were we? Oh, yes, getting a solution. That's what we did. 

Jackie made an appointment at the rectory to speak with her priest. I was worried. 

Quite concerned, actually, but willing to try almost anything. She was my girl, man. We 

planned to make her my wife and have a great life together. She had magnificent tits, she 

smoked, and she drank beer. Don‟t you guys see the makings of a perfect woman in all 

those details? I sure as hell did. 

I picked her up a few minutes before her appointment. The church was less than a 

mile away, so we got there a bit early. Jackie said it wouldn‟t be helpful if I came along. 

At least, not this first time. 

I agreed. We kissed, swapped “I love you” promises, I felt her up, (hey, she was 

my girl and had those great tits. Get over it, already), and she went inside. 

Per our agreement, I drove around the neighborhood drinking beer for a while. 

There was no such thing as a cell phone back then. Not in 1968. I was to come by every 

ten minutes. I made my first pass ten minutes after I dropped her off. 

She wasn‟t there. 

I went through an entire six-pack. Still no Jackie, so I went and bought more beer 

and continued driving. After two hours, I started to get a little shitfaced, so I pulled into 

the rectory parking lot and waited. When another ten minutes went by, I was by then 

both frustrated and afraid for my girl. 

We hadn‟t discussed this possibility. Finally, wanting to know what the hell was 



going on, I went inside. I figured if there was a reasonable answer, I‟d drive around a 

while longer. 

When I heard unidentifiable sounds in the back, I went to see what it might be. 

The closer I got, the more identifiable those noises became, but it was something I had to 

see for myself. I couldn‟t leave it to my imagination to determine what was happening. 

Not with what it sounded like. I pushed open the doors and learned my ears weren‟t 

deceiving me. Jackie was on the couch, naked. So was the priest. He was between her 

legs fucking the hell out of my girl. 

I know it‟s part of a priest‟s job, one way or another, to help his parishioners 

“remove the evil” from themselves. I simply didn‟t agree with his methodology. I didn‟t 

think he should “fuck the hell out of her”. I could‟ve bought into it if he‟d “prayed the 

hell out of her”, but the way they were going at it didn‟t sit right with me. 

I went back outside and waited in my car. 

Jackie knew I‟d seen them. I have no idea what she and her new “tryst partner” 

decided to tell me. She got in the car and neither of us said a word. 

I drove her home and stopped in front of her house, still in the middle of the 

street. I didn‟t get her door. Didn‟t walk her to the house. Didn‟t kiss her. Didn‟t even 

say good-bye. I waited until she got out and drove off without any squeal of the tires, a 

common reaction among young guys when hurt or angry. 

I felt both, but was more stunned than anything else. I stayed drunk for a week. 

Every day, every night. Whenever anyone asked me about Jackie, I only said skip it. 

Wouldn‟t talk about it. About her. 



At the end of that week, drunk as hell at one in the morning, I called and woke her 

up. Her father was swearing and wanted her to hang up, but she stood her ground. 

I drove to her house and waited. She came out in her pj‟s and robe, then got in 

my car. All I could ask was, “Why, Baby? Why?” 

She said nothing. Had no reply. 

We looked at each other a few minutes. It was a very long time. A good five 

minutes, maybe more, of complete silence. Finally, I said, “Give me back the ring.” 

Jackie had beautiful dark brown eyes. There‟d been times I could honestly get 

lost in them. There‟d also been times they shimmered, indicating something very deep 

within her was in terrible torment. Telling me there was something very seriously wrong 

with Jackie. Her crazy look. It filled her eyes and face at that moment. 

Wordlessly, she removed my ring and gave it back to me. I never saw the girl 

again until one day in 1971, after I married Donna Turpin. In the ER at Sparrow 

Hospital. My brother staged yet another phony suicide attempt with a drug overdose. 

My folks begged me to come to the hospital. 

Jackie and I exchanged pleasantries, but there really wasn‟t anything to be said 

between us. Anything that might‟ve been died the night I caught her. She later moved to 

Arizona. I heard she was married and really hoped she was finally happy, but I don‟t 

think it happened. 

Jackie died in 1973. Her mother had the body flown home and arranged a closed 

casket service. She “leaked” to a few of Jackie‟s former close friends it was a kidney 

problem. Word on the street was drugs caused her death. 



I had no idea what really happened, although I had an interest in finding out why. 

However, my biggest “why” was about her and that priest. 

That question still rolls around in my head, unanswered. 



CHAPTER TEN 

Anytime I had to be over on Sunset Avenue, meaning I drove past the Humane 

Society building, I always had a brief daydream. I knew it was only that. A moment of 

imagination. My folks were never gonna drop that David thing off at the pound and I 

was faced with accepting it. 

I recall one time I went by and enjoyed my momentary flight of fancy. I could 

really see that David thing sitting in a cage, whining and whimpering for someone to 

come get his sorry ass. I could see him watching with a deep sense of longing as mangy 

mongrels, shiteating little yap-yaps like Pekinese and Yorkies, even those damned cats, 

were taken to freedom. Yet, each time he‟d hear the metal door close, he‟d still be in his 

cage, whining for all he was worth. 

Which wasn‟t much, in my opinion. 



I started going back through the “differences”. All the things for which I suffered 

and that little prick gained. At no cost to him. Nasty, whining little shit. 

Curfews? That‟s one bone of contention. Remember, that David thing was two 

years younger. When I was fifteen, I had curfews worse than the girls I went to school 

with. I‟m not kidding. I had my choice, sort of. Friday and Saturday nights. I could 

stay out until ten one night, had to be in at nine on the other. 

Why, I wondered? Damn it, nothing gets done before nine at the earliest, usually 

ten or eleven. When you count travel time, even if I leave early, I‟m screwed. Oh, and 

what about dating? How cool is it for a guy to take a girl somewhere, not considering the 

transportation end with a kid too young for a license, who doesn‟t have a car, when you 

have a curfew? Especially when I have to be home before she does? You know, we go 

to a movie that starts at 8:30, but I have to be home by ten, so we miss the last half hour 

so I don‟t get in trouble? That sucks. 

It also had a “minor effect” on “the goal” … getting laid. So “minor”, it didn‟t 

happen. The goal, I mean. I stewed over it for quite a while, then had some help when I 

needed to make the decision. My help was in the form of Stroh’s beer. 

The favorites in our group, starting when I was fifteen, were Stroh’s, #1, Pabst, 

(PBR), #2, with Bud holding on at #3. Later, Coor‟s made a showing, but it was a very 

brief fad. Stroh’s was tauntingly referred to by people as “Dee-troit river water”. It was 

my favorite, but only for a short period of time. 

They sold out later and changed the beer quite a bit, to the point I didn‟t like the 

taste. So, while I started out as a loyal Stroh’s fan, to the point I have six years of 


Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 149 

Christmas cards from Kathy Hatfield in Stroh customer service, I eventually had to make 

the switch. When I was fifty-one, I changed to Pabst Genuine Draft beer. 

In any event, one night when I was fifteen, I‟d already consumed at least a dozen 

little soldiers from the Stroh Brewery. Then, much to my regret, I had the guys drop me 

off at home. Fuckin‟ curfew! I hate it! 

I came in the house mad. My old man was still up. Asked me if I‟d been 

drinking. Too bad they didn‟t have that “Doh!” expression back then, or even “Duh!”, 

„cause I‟d‟ve used it. Instead, I made up my own response. “What the fuck do you 

think?” 

cease? 

Believe it or not, that didn‟t go over too well. He got pissed. Will wonders never 

He ordered me to bed. 

The Stroh‟s soldiers offered suggestions in my ear, and I took one. “Just go fuck 

yourself, okay?” 

That got him mad. Now he really ordered me to go to bed. 

In response, I told him to really go fuck himself. 

Mom was up by that time. Therefore, Dad had to stand strong and show his 

woman he was still the man of the house. 

I‟d decided I‟d had all of this shit I planned to take. I knew where the guys were 

going, and was willing to walk a couple miles if I had to. Anything to get the hell out of 

there and away from him. 

Mom wanted me to go to bed, but he was now playing the tough guy. He said if I 

didn‟t go to bed, (I now slept in the basement), he was gonna put me there. 



I laughed, an honest reaction. “Yeah? You, and what fuckin‟ army?” 

He threatened to hit me. That‟s all it took. 

I said I was leaving. 

He stood between me and the front door. Said I‟d have to get past him. 

“No fuckin‟ problem, asshole!” I started toward him, which I know scared the 

piss out of the old bastard. He was just starting to raise his fists when I ducked, grabbed 

his legs and did a double leg takedown. I threw him to the floor, got across his chest and 

slugged him once. Truthfully, I pulled the punch quite a bit or it would‟ve really trashed 

his face. Still, it left him with a swollen jaw, I‟d see later the next day. I only hit him 

once. That‟s all it took to see the fight was over. I got off him and stood. “I said I was 

leaving, and I meant it.” 

I headed out the door and eventually found my buddies after a long walk. 

No mention was ever made of me jacking his jaw, but that curfew bullshit was 

suddenly a thing of the past. So, when that David thing was a couple years older, he 

started with eleven o‟clock curfews, both nights. Never even told me thanks. Whiny, 

lucky little prick. 

When I got my first car, Mom helped. Aunt Bev‟s husband, “The Weasel”, sold 

cars at the Pontiac dealership. New and used. The girls caucused and Mom took me to 

see Weasel about a used car. I did pay part of the money, but my parents ended up 

paying most of it. So, what‟d I get? 

An extremely ugly, flat medium green, 1961 Ford Fairlane, four-door. An 

automatic with no power steering. The only freakin‟ option was an AM radio. Plus it 

was a damned Ford. I hated it, with one exception. 



I loved that car! 

Yeah, it was a piece of shit, but with a difference. It was my piece of shit! 

Suddenly, I had freedom! I never stopped to think about how I‟d pay for the 

insurance. The repairs, (lots of those). Gas, (my friends were conveniently “short” a 

little too often). But, so what? I had a car! I could date. Screw in the back seat, (got 

that part handled within the first two weeks). Go drinking beer on country roads listening 

to the radio while we got shitfaced, (first night I had it). 

Dreams were coming true for Bill Cady. Yeah, they were. But, wait. What about 

that David thing? What did it get to drive when that magic age happened and it had a 

driver‟s license? Did that David thing get an old raggedy Ford, like I did? 

I think not. 

Worse. My folks paid 100% of the cost. That little prick didn‟t kick in a damned 

dime. His car, however, was “a little bit” nicer than mine. They got him a 1964 Olds 

Cutlass 442 convertible! With a four-speed! A damned dream car for that little asshole, 

all for free! Silver with a black top, black interior, bucket seats, and all the goodies. 

Little prick! 

Of course, he wasn‟t so little by that point. Matter of fact, he was bigger than me. 

He eventually maxed out at six-four, about two-twenty until he got older. That meant he 

could kick my ass now, right? 

Again, I think not. He never even had the balls to try. He may have been a bit 

bigger, but he still had no idea how to fight. Knew it would be nearly fatal for him if we 

ever went nose to nose. In all honesty, I have to admit I picked on the little bastard all his 

life. 



When my folks bought him, I wanted the little asshole returned, but they wouldn‟t 

do it. I honestly had to wonder, when it came to my cat or that David thing, why they 

even had to think about it. I saw it as a no-brainer. Even then, when that David thing 

was sixteen and I was eighteen, I was still in favor of putting it to sleep. Admittedly, I 

knew it‟d gotten so big it‟d take us all damned day to bury it. 

It was way back then when I first gave that David thing a nickname. In the 

beginning, I called it “Davidilyo-dum-doglo”. No idea where my youthful mind came up 

with something so stupid. After a couple years, it became “Triple D”, then just “Trip”. 

That version worked better than all of „em, and he never caught on as far as avoiding it. 

There were more conversations than I can imagine that went just like this. 

“Trip, Trip.” 

“What?” 

“Trip.” 

“What?” 

“Trip, Trip, Trip.” 

“What, Goddamnit? What the fuck do you want?” 

Then I‟d ignore him and walk away. That damned idiot would follow me, trying 

to find out why I called him. Hell, the only reason I ever did it was to piss him off, but he 

never saw that angle. 

Smoking. That‟s another one. Ever since Richie Opdyke helped me get started, 

I‟d been, (and, unfortunately, still am), a smoker. So, what happened when we got 

caught? Oh, that was different, too. 

I had to skulk around, acting like I didn‟t smoke to avoid repeats of the huge ass 



chewing I got when they caught me. That David thing got a polite conversation, then had 

permission to smoke in front of them. Shit, they even bought his cigarettes most of the 

time. Life ain‟t always fair, ya know what Ah mean, Vern? 

I started another little sideline when I was a kid. I was always looking to make a 

better mousetrap, and thought I‟d stumbled on a way to do it. When I was fifteen I got 

hold of a draft card. For those of you too young to remember, we had a draft system, the 

Selective Service System, (SSS). One more “S” than Hitler‟s elite crew. The one I 

obtained belonged to a John Lee Carver. His date of birth made me twenty-three, 

meaning he was born in 1943. I used that for a while, but only a few places would take 

it, since I had no drivers‟ license, or any other false ID. So, I went looking for material. 

Trips to the library and their copy machine helped. With borrowed and stolen 

documents. Lots of stuff like that. And a razor blade. That was my coup de main, the 

artistic stroke of my plan. I “lost” my drivers‟ license, so I had to get another one. Back 

then, they had no pictures. Razor blade in hand, I changed my home address to 1863 

Roosevelt Avenue, and my date of birth to 12-28-43, making me out to be twenty-three 

years old, with a lot of other pieces. Twenty-two other pieces, to be exact. 

When I was fifteen, I‟d walk into the Saginaw Bar on the way home from school, 

park my books on the bar, and order a beer. I was “set up” to buy beer in a lot of places 

around town. It soon made Friday and Saturday nights a nearly comical event. 

I‟d go to one of my stores. Other kids, seniors and even kids who already 

graduated, would meet me there. They had to pay extra, of course, so I‟d make a few 

bucks on the deal. I‟d go in and buy what would come to $200 or more in beer and cheap 



liquor in today‟s dollars, then cart it out to the cars. Keeping the change, plus the fee, I‟d 

drink free all weekend and still have money left. 

I didn‟t stop there. I started manufacturing ID sets for other kids, the same way I 

did mine. I charged fifty bucks a set. Keep in mind, gasoline was selling at 18¢ per 

gallon then, so it was a lot of money. I did that for a while, but quit after the second time 

I was visited by the U.S. Attorney‟s office out of Grand Rapids. I liked making money 

by selling ID, but not enough to go to a federal prison. They were all over the draft 

dodgers by that point, so making a false draft card was a serious offence. 

### 

Someone very important in my life was a man named Rex Riddle. He was four 

“est”” things to me. He was the nicest, kindest, and gentlest man I‟ve ever known. He 

was also the biggest. Six-nine, three-hundred twenty-five pounds, that was Rex. 

He was the “baby” of a family of six boys, although he was the biggest of them 

all. The “runt” in that group, as I understand it, was six-two. Rex was part white, part 

black, and part Native American, on his mother‟s side. In all the years I knew him, I 

never once heard Rex swear, or use a dirty word. No vulgarity of any kind. He‟d say, 

“Oh, gosh!”, or, “My, my”, “Golly!” He never used bad words for any reason. Only two 

things I was aware of could get him angry. 

However, when he did get angry, any man I‟ve ever met would pray he wasn‟t the 

reason Rex got pissed off. Rex would be infuriated if anyone hurt a friend of his. No 

matter why the other guy was doing it, even if he was “entitled” by our code, Rex 

wouldn‟t allow it. He‟d always step in and finish it for his friend. 

The other thing was his mother. She died when he was a teenager, and he loved 



her very much. Saying anything bad about that woman, even as a joke, was tantamount 

to suicide. Rex would go berserk. When he went berserk, someone went to a hospital. 

Rex worked at Fisher Body, moving bumpers around. No joke. He‟d lift an 

entire car bumper and put it on a frame. Eight, ten hours in a row, Rex would hoist those 

damned things and not leave the job worn out. His strength was incredible. 

However, Rex wasn‟t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He wasn‟t retarded, but it 

was a near miss. A photo finish, so to speak. He could read at about a third grade level. 

I‟m not sure I ever heard him use a word with more than two syllables, and I doubt 

he‟d‟ve known what it meant if he used one. 

Rex was just very sweet and lovable. To pretty much anybody. 

One of his friends was a crippled kid named Danny. He‟d suffered from polio, 

one of the last to be so afflicted before the vaccine. His right leg was badly deformed 

and, of course, he walked funny. I think Danny was a year behind me in school, and he 

went to Eastern. One night, Rex found out some guys beat Danny up and took all his 

money. Four big seniors from Eastern. 

Rex never said a word. He got in his car, a 1963 dark green Plymouth two-door 

with “three on the tree”, and drove to the house where these kids were at the time. There 

were no adults present, just those four boys. Maybe the parents were at work, or out 

drinking. Who knows? 

Rex parked in front of that house and walked up to the door. He didn‟t kick it by 

the knob, which would slam the door open against a wall. Oh, no. Not Rex. Not when 

he‟s pissed. He kicked the other side of the door! Where the hinges are located! The 

whole damned thing crashed flat on the floor! 



He proceeded to beat the living shit out of all four, so bad they were all taken by 

ambulance to a hospital. Then he walked back to his car and drove away. When these 

kids were questioned, since they knew Rex wouldn‟t get a life sentence even if he was 

convicted, meaning he‟d be back, they had no idea who attacked them. All they knew 

was it had to be at least five, maybe six guys they‟d never seen before. 

Those four never hurt Danny again. Neither did anyone else. It wasn‟t worth it. 

Not when Rex would find out and come seeking vengeance. 

There was another occasion Rex was a star. I tell this secondhand, as I wasn‟t 

there. I understand Rex was in Dave Chouinard‟s ‟55 Ford, along with Dan and a unique 

guy named Bill Palmer, and maybe one other kid. I believe Bill, who lived near Rex, was 

the one who introduced him to our group. 

As I understand, they were driving north on Logan Street. One car passed 

another. The other car was full of guys. Someone did something truly unforgivable. 

Maybe scratched his nose, who can tell? When teenage boys are in pack mode and see 

anyone do anything, it can very easily be interpreted as an offense. 

The standard practice at that point is to start a fight. One group will beat the 

livin‟, screamin‟ shit out of the other. Kind of an SOP deal. 

Someone offended someone. Words were exchanged. Both cars pulled to the 

side of the road. Kids started piling out. A severe ass kicking awaited someone, for 

damned sure. 

The car parked in front had six guys. Our guys numbered only five, but they had 

Rex. He allegedly evened the odds a bit. Oops! Our guys began to rethink matters when 

the passenger got out of the car in front. His name was Dave Porter. 



That guy was a legend. Sexton was a Class A school; the best. Dave was a 

heavyweight wrestler who took state champion honors all three years, even when he was 

a sophomore. He later went to the University of Michigan State and took the NCAA 

heavyweight championship two years out of three, losing only to a mammoth animal 

named Curley Culp from Arizona State University. 

Curley later played professional football. Was an AFL All-Star and six-time Pro- 

Bowler. After beating Dave Porter, he later finished as the 1967 NCAA Heavyweight 

Wrestling champion, then went on to wrestle in the Olympics. 

He rudely interrupted the reign of the other NCAA Heavyweight Wrestling 

champion for 1966 & 1968 … Dave Porter. Porter compiled a three-year record of 51 

wins and three losses, for a 94.4% winning percentage. In NCAA wrestling tournaments, 

Porter had a 13-1 record. He received the 1968 Michigan Senior Athlete Award and still 

holds several Michigan wrestling records, including 32 falls. He pinned opponents in less 

than 30 seconds on three occasions. He still holds the Big Ten Conference records for 

most consecutive falls with seven. 

Porter also played defensive tackle during the 1966 & 1967 football seasons. He 

wore No. 70 and compiled 46 tackles, four pass breakups, two fumble recoveries. His 

best game for the football team was the 1967 game against Minnesota in which he made 

11 tackles. In all, Porter won five letters at Michigan, three in wrestling and two in 

football. 

Dave was big, strong, mean and damned awfully capable. I honestly think our 



own local legend, JC Chouinard, might‟ve backed down before facing a monster like 

Dave Porter. The guy was scary. 

When Porter got out of the car, Dave and Dan Chouinard both recognized him 

immediately. I‟d be willing to bet they were desperately trying to think of some way to 

amicably solve this situation. I mean, come on, he‟s Dave Fucking Porter, for Christ‟s 

sake! Porter was heading for their car with a pissed off look on his face. The time for 

reconciliation was gone. Some dumb son-of-a-bitch was about to have his ass handed to 

him in a crumpled bag. 

That‟s when Rex, who somehow managed to squeeze into the back of Dave‟s 

Ford, got out of the car. He stood up, and stood up, and stood up, then finished standing 

up. Six-nine, three-twenty-five. 

Porter stopped. Looked at Rex. Shook his head. “Fuck it. I ain‟t takin‟ on that 

big motherfucker!” He got back in his friend‟s car and they drove off. Rex was good at 

preventing fights. It‟s as if he had a knack, ya know? 

On two occasions I sat in a bar drinking with Rex. One I only include because it 

was so unique. A lasting time in my memory. It was the weekend of the 1965 state 

wrestling championships, held at Eastern High School. We‟d been in and out all day, 

making sure we were present whenever someone we knew wrestled. 

Buddy Frahm was complaining it was only because he‟d injured his leg … I think 

it was the right one … he wasn‟t in there competing at whatever pissy little weight class 

he was in. 112 pounds, maybe. I told him if he didn‟t shut the fuck up, I‟d be happy to 

completely break his other fuckin‟ leg and he‟d have an excuse all ready to go for next 

year, too. 



Shit, I had two legs. Each one weighed about what he did when he got down to 

the weight he wrestled. Mouthy, whiny little prick. He should‟ve told that David thing 

about it so they could cry in a duet. 

We retired as a group to a nearby bar. It‟s hard to figure out why the day was so 

perfect. The bar was called “The Clique”, long since gone from the scene. It was a nasty, 

dirty little dump. Located off East Saginaw, on the north side, you could only reach it 

using whatever side street ran alongside Saginaw for half a mile. 

Maybe eight or ten of us sat around drinking draft beer and telling lies, all bigger 

and bigger as the beers went on. I don‟t think I ever had such an enjoyable afternoon in 

my life by that time. The memory has always stayed with me. 

I damned near ruined that memory in the late 80s when I tried to relive it. The 

name was changed, although it was still a dump. I gathered some of the same guys 

together to revisit old times. It didn‟t work. Never even came close. However, in a few 

months, I was able to recall that wonderful afternoon again, not spoiled by bad the 

memory of taking a second stab at it. 

The other time, Rex was also with us. It was much the same crew, albeit in a 

different bar. This time it was the Saginaw Bar, about half a mile from my house, where 

I often drank beer after school. We were having a great time, laughing and telling dirty 

jokes, along with the standard lies about anything and everything. Our tables were a 

messy concoction of at least two or three shoved together, so we may have numbered as 

many as twelve. 

Other people came and went, as is always true in a poor man‟s bar. We paid no 

attention. We were having fun. I believe I was seventeen at the time. I saw the guys 



come in, three of „em. All pretty good-sized. Not monsters, but big, anyway. My size, 

maybe bigger. Their table was close to ours, five or six feet away. 

Rex, of course, wasn‟t saying much. He never offered anything. Only gave an 

answer when asked a question, if he could. We‟d learned not to ask any hard questions, 

since it would likely embarrass the man. It‟s safe to say, in our own way, we all loved 

Rex. I know I did. 

One of the three guys was telling a joke, which was fine with us. We weren‟t 

even listening, but we were doing the same thing, so what the hell? However, he felt his 

joke was so good, he had to stand up to emphasize the punch line. He also said it very 

loud. His punch line included the word “nigger”. As soon as he said it so loud, the guy 

was ready to shit his pants. Rex gave no one a reason to think he wasn‟t black. A light 

skinned black guy. Nobody would guess the Native American blood in him. 

The one who told the joke seemed horrified. Complicating his error, he stared 

directly at Rex. Looked right at the poor man. I think he was trying to see if his wisest 

move was to run like hell, since he was already on his feet. Let those other two assholes 

save their own asses. If that huge nigger wants a piece of my young ass, I‟m outa here! 

I also saw Rex. Watched him hang his head in shame. I knew why he did it. He 

was thinking, I‟m a nigger, and this will embarrass my friends. It made him feel very 

bad. 

After a couple minutes, the joke teller realized he wasn't gonna die. It made him 

feel a lot better. I could see it on his face. He was happy. If he‟d only let it go at that, 

everything would‟ve still been okay. 

The man was also drinking beer. Not many of you know this, but every beer ever 



bottled or canned has an immense dose of false courage in it. This guy started feeling 

his. He told another funny joke. The word “nigger” came up a half dozen times. Each 

time he said it, he‟d look at Rex. 

Every time he heard it, Rex would lower his head a bit more. I figured, if this 

asshole didn‟t lighten up, he‟d have Rex on the floor pretty damned soon. When Rex did 

nothing, that false courage infected the other two guys. For some uncanny reason, all 

three of them suddenly remembered a nigger joke, and told it loudly. It got so bad, Rex 

started crying. He made no sound, but tears were rolling down his cheeks. The assholes 

thought that was even funnier. They‟d come across a great big, huge, sissy nigger, and 

they were gonna have themselves some fun. 

Personally, I was really disgusted, getting ready to go over there and knock one of 

those pricks on his ass. I sure as hell had enough backup if they got the idea of all three 

jumping me at the same time. Before I could do anything, one of „em told a new joke. 

Practically screamed nigger when he said it. He spoke loud enough a few guys at our 

table finally noticed. We all felt sorry as hell for Rex. 

“IF” it continued that way, I‟m sure the ending would‟ve been different. The 

guys at our table would‟ve most likely either insisted those assholes leave, or beaten the 

shit out of „em and tossed „em out. If-dog-rabbit. 

One of those morons looked right at Rex and said something nasty. I don‟t recall 

the words, but I know the topic. He said something vulgar about Rex‟s dead mother. 

Something sexual. All I could think was, Huge mistake, motherfucker! Very huge 

mistake! 

Everyone at our tables knew it. We wouldn‟t be doing anything to help or defend 



Rex. He not only wouldn‟t want it, he wouldn‟t allow it. For damned sure, he wouldn‟t 

need our help. Not now. Not after they‟d trashed his mother like that. Nope, give your 

souls to The Good Lord, you pricks, because your asses now all belong to Rexford T. 

Riddle. 

Rex stood, which took a long time. You don‟t raise your head six feet, nine 

inches above the ground all that fast. His facial expression was no longer that of a gentle 

giant. More accurately, it nearly scared the piss out of me, and Rex was my friend! 

He walked slowly over to that table. Never said a word. Not, “Come with me,” 

no insults, no invitations, nothing. He just grabbed two of those bastards by the collar 

and took off for the men‟s room. They both started yelling for their buddy, either for 

additional help, or to make sure they all died at the same time. 

Hard tellin‟. Anyway, the guy followed and started slugging Rex in the back of 

the head. It made Rex smile. I really thought he was gonna kill all three of those pricks. 

I knew, even if I‟d wanted to, there was no way on earth I could stop him. Not at that 

point. Not without a gun. A big gun. 

Rex kicked the door open and went inside, shoving two and being slugged by the 

other. The crashing and banging started to get hot and heavy inside the men‟s room. It 

sounded the way you‟d imagine if someone took an adult bull into a small room like that 

and tried to castrate him with a razor blade. 

In no time at all, those three were screaming bloody murder, and I was sure that‟s 

what Rex was committing. When it finally died down, we went to look. I was one of the 

first at the door. Rex had one guy face down in a toilet, his foot on the back of the dumb 

bastard‟s head. Another, in Rex‟s left hand, had his face jammed in a stand up urinal. 



Both toilets were so blood filled the water looked like plasma. The third guy was held in 

Rex‟s right hand. Rex repeatedly smashed his face into the concrete wall while making 

an eerie sound. “Hee-hee-hee! Hee-hee-hee!” 

We somehow managed to get hold of Rex, but it was only when we were able to 

coax him into letting go that he stopped. He was so damned strong, all of us at one time 

wouldn‟t‟ve been able to tear him away. When we finally saved the lives of those three 

miserable bastards, we took Rex outside, got in our cars, and went somewhere else to 

drink. 

Rex was simply not the guy you wanted to piss off. Not unless you wanted to die. 

We had another “adventure”, Rex and I. I can‟t quite give you the exact time and 

location. The closest I can get is Sunday, June 15 th , 1965, at 6:15 pm, at the corner of 

Robertson and Greenwood, in Lansing, Michigan. At that time, I was sixteen years old, 

due to turn seventeen in six months. I hadn‟t spoken to my Dad in nearly three years, 

except to insult him, beyond, “Yes”, “No”, and “I don‟t know”. You‟d be amazed how 

many times you can get away from talking to someone, yet still not ignore that person, 

using those words. 

Okay, here come the twists of fate. My folks were I.O.O.F. members, which is 

the International Order of Foresters. Something they did, I think, to find friends. I‟m 

sure it had to be Mom‟s idea. My old man wouldn‟t‟ve suggested it. The Order was 

having a big picnic and Mom wanted me to come along. I don‟t have any idea why, but I 

asked if I could bring a guest. In her mind, it meant I‟d accepted, so she happily said yes. 

She wanted to do whatever it took for me and the old man to be close again, although I 

could‟ve told her that wasn‟t in any deck of cards ever printed. 



Still without knowing why, I asked Bob Chouinard if he‟d like to go. He said it 

sounded good, so we went to the picnic. We planned to see if any worthwhile daughters 

hanging around might want to go in the bushes and swap fluids. That part was a crashing 

dud. The few girls we saw were either very pretty, but way too young, or old enough and 

way, way, way too damned ugly, or fat as hell. Bob and I contented ourselves with 

eating about one whole chicken apiece, a huge amount of potato salad, some watermelon, 

and even tried to score some beer while we were at it. 

The beer was nixed, but that was okay. There‟d be a party tonight over at Doctor 

Badgely‟s house. His son, Dave Badgely, a senior last year, was holding it because his 

folks were out of town. Rich people and a fancy house, we knew it‟d be a blast. 

Finally too full to eat anymore, turned down on the beer and knowing we‟d never 

get laid, Bob and I were ready to go. We talked Mom into leaving. They took us to our 

house, where I got my car. Bob and I then headed to his Grandma‟s house on Robertson. 

His Grandma was in her late 70s. I‟m not sure I ever saw that old girl without a 

cigarette. She just sat in her rocker and smoked all day and into the night before going to 

bed. Bob‟s parents‟ house was a touch crowded. I think it had four bedrooms, but there 

were five boys, two girls, and the parents who needed them. So, Bob and one of the 

twins, I think it was Dan, lived at Grandma‟s. It had a huge yard that went back a couple 

hundred feet. 

When we arrived, some of the guys had already shown up. There were a good 

dozen or more standing around talking, so we joined them. The topic was the Badgely 

party that night. We were all looking forward to it with great anticipation. 

A few minutes later we saw what anyone else would‟ve considered comical as 



hell. Rex Riddle came riding down the street on his red Sears Vespa motor scooter. This 

huge man was riding a dinky little bright red scooter with an automatic tranny, looking 

like a toy beneath him. 

Rex parked and stood talking with us. He stood a good seven inches above me, 

and I think I was the tallest guy there. He wanted to go to the party, too, but we all knew 

better than to let him drive his scooter. First, it wouldn‟t keep up with us on the way to 

the party. Second, if he got drunk at the party, a virtual certainty, he‟d be sure to get 

stopped on the way home that night. A DUI at that time meant a $100 fine and a night in 

jail. That‟s it, but we didn‟t want Rex to sleep it off in jail. Nobody wanted Rex to ride 

with them, either. He‟d take up the space of two guys, at least, and might even damage 

the springs in the car with his weight. 

So, who‟s gonna be the hero? 

Alright, you there, the foxy little blonde in the pale blue sweater. Yes? 

Uh-huh, that‟s it. Exactly. Bill Cady will be the hero. By the way, you little 

cutie, would you like my autograph when we‟re finished? 

Where will I put my autograph, you wonder? 

Umm, would you like to have me put it on your cute little ass? 

You would? Great! You be sure to meet me backstage when we‟re done here. 

I‟m looking forward to it, sweetheart! 

Okay, where the heck were we? Oh, that‟s right. Bill‟s the hero. Gotcha. 

So, our plans were made. I‟d ride with Rex on his scooter back to his house. 

We‟d get his car and he‟d bring me back to Bob‟s Grandma‟s, where I‟d get my car and 

Rex would follow me to the party. 



Sure does sound good. On paper. Okay, it looks good. Jesus, who‟s ex-wife are 

you, lady? Get over it, already. 

The guys were still standing there shooting the shit when we took off. We were 

riding what I think was a five horsepower scooter. Between the two of us, that teeny 

little machine was toting around 525 pounds, so it wasn‟t the fastest thing on the streets, 

by any means. 

Rex lived on the far side of the north end of Lansing. It was gonna take us half an 

hour just to get there. I figured we‟d be at the party shortly after seven. Maybe seven 

thirty, since we‟d both need to stop and buy beer. 

As we approached the intersection of Robertson and Greenwood, heading south, 

there were yield signs for the traffic on Greenwood. The intersection was at an angle, 

kind of. If we‟d turned left, that part of the street was about ten feet farther to the north 

than the part on our right. A jog, if you will, on Greenwood where it went across 

Robertson. 

A young lady named Virginia O‟Dell was driving a dark burgundy 1964 Ford 

Mustang, heading east on Greenwood. The signs said she had to yield to any traffic on 

Robertson. She either didn‟t look, couldn‟t read, or didn‟t care, „cause she just kept right 

on goin‟ when she got to the intersection. 

Rex knew he had the right of way, so he never let up on the gas when we got to 

the intersection. We‟d already traveled the length of that very long block, which would 

be two blocks in most places, and he still wasn‟t doing more than 20 mph. He didn‟t want 

to slow down if he didn‟t need to. We were in the middle of the intersection when 

Virginia O‟Dell tooled on through around 40 mph. 



She broadsided us. Things got a little ugly after that. 

I didn‟t see what happened to Rex, since I was busy being killed. I learned later 

he suffered two compound fractures in his lower right leg, along with various cuts and 

bruises. His recovery was much, much faster than mine. 

I smoked a pipe at that time, in addition to cigarettes. I had it in my mouth, as it 

was easier than a cigarette in the open air without the full use of my hands. The impact 

threw me, they said, up and over the street sign. I bit through the stem of the pipe when I 

landed on my back and shoulders. 

My injuries were far worse than Rex‟s. I had four compound fractures of my 

right leg. His upper leg was a lot higher than mine, explaining the difference. My leg 

was shattered in two places below the knee, and two places above it. Bones stuck up in 

the air. My right ankle was also broken, but the biggest problem was my upper leg. 

Sharp pieces of bone tore the main artery in two pieces. An injury such as that causes 

what‟s technically known as a “monster leak”. It‟s one of those things, if you saw it on 

TV, they‟d caution you not to try this at home. 

My buddies were there immediately. One of the guys, Bob Kendregan, was an 

AWOL paramedic. He came home on leave from Vietnam and never went back. I sure as 

hell couldn‟t blame him, but he had to be damned careful. If he even got stopped for a 

ticket, it would be his ass. The FBI was looking for him. Not all that hard, but they‟d 

come pick him up if he was otherwise detained. Sort of like a bench warrant, I guess. 

Bob Kendregan was the last thing I remember seeing. He tore the rubber 

stripping off the scooter and used it to make a tourniquet on my leg. While he was doing 

it, I did something I still, to this day, don‟t understand. Actually, I did two things. 



I never called Bob Chouinard anything but Bob. Sometimes just Chouinard. He 

had no nicknames I ever knew of. I just called him Bob. This time, it was different. He 

leaned over me, his face as white as a sheet. I whispered, “Bobby, you‟d better go get my 

Dad.” 

Not a clue, even today, on the “Bobby” part. Not even a remote hint as to why I‟d 

have him go get my old man. None. Our house was six blocks away. Bob busted some 

serious ass to get there and back, but I was dead before he made it. I can remember Bob 

Kendregan telling me to hold on, everything was gonna be okay, and I died. 

It wasn‟t anything like that scene from Magnum, P.I., swirling white clouds and 

heavenly blue colors. I merely became a spectator at my own death. I was around thirty 

feet above the scene. I don‟t recall having any bodily formation or vehicle to carry my 

soul. I was just there, watching. 

I looked down to the street and that poor white boy. A very white, white, white, 

white boy. A very dead white boy. There was a massive pool of blood. I assume that, 

and shock, are what killed me. I saw the ambulance arrive, paramedics jumping out and 

getting right at it. They knew it would be an uphill battle to save this kid. The odds just 

weren‟t all that good. Bob Kendregan was still trying to help me. He said something to 

the medics, then got the hell out of there before any cops showed up, which wouldn‟t be 

much longer. 

Bob Chouinard came back with my parents. Mom looked the saddest I‟d ever 

seen her in my life. Bob was still very ashen, looking as if he needed the EMTs even 

worse than I did. 

My Dad was absolutely pitiful. His most disadvantageous feature, in my opinion, 



was perpetual failure to face bad things on behalf of those who depended on him. Now, 

with everyone watching, he was expected to go to his son, a dead body being put into the 

ambulance. Accompany it to the ER on a forlorn mission without hope of any good 

news. 

There can be no uglier moment in life than watching your child die, and/or seeing 

your dead child‟s body. Not possible under any scenario. It was one of only two times I 

recall him showing any strength of character, the other being the time he decked Merle 

Cobb. He got into the ambulance with me and held my hand, begging me to come back. 

As I watched from above, I was given a fantastic, delicious taste of what awaited 

me. In years since, I‟ve been asked to recount what happened that day. At times I 

learned new information, just hearing the words as they came out of my mouth. 

It was a time of absolute peace. No exceptions. Total serenity. No human traits 

… our emotions … existed. No anger, jealousy, envy, hatred, sexuality, covetousness, 

greed, malice, even aspirations. None of that. It‟s unnecessary and has no place. No 

purpose. 

The closest example I‟ve concocted is this: Imagine the happiest moment of your 

entire life. It was probably when you were falling in love, or at least thought you were. 

Everything was perfect. If it was hot, it was supposed to be hot. If it was rainy, it was 

supposed to be rainy. If it was cold, the chill was delicious. You simply couldn‟t get 

enough of it. 

If you ate something, it tasted better than anything you‟d ever put in your mouth. 

If someone spoke to you, they said exactly what you wanted to hear. If you spoke, it was 

with eloquence and precisely what needed to be said. 



Everything, with no exception of any kind, was perfect. 

Now, multiply that imagined feeling by the largest number you can concoct, and 

you won‟t even be close. It‟s much better than whatever you came up with. 

Everything is perfect. In fact, we‟ll have no emotions. Those are only needed to 

be human, to deal with other humans. To survive in this weakened state as we exist in an 

imperfect world. What we have awaiting us is that perfect world we use as a figure of 

speech. 

I swear to you, the idea of coming back sure as hell wasn‟t mine. If it‟d been left 

up to me, instead of a street address in Oceanside, California, I‟d have a lot number in St. 

Vincent‟s Cemetery. I was right where I wanted to be, and saw no reason under the sun 

to come back to what I had. Even if I‟d known a happy life, which was far from the case 

for me, I wouldn‟t‟ve wanted to return to it. Not if it meant leaving what I‟d found in 

death. Not a chance. Unfortunately, that wasn‟t my call. The Big Guy was running 

things at that point, as always, and He decided to grant my old man‟s fervent prayers, for 

some reason. I was whisked from true heavenly bliss to, “Damn, that hurts like hell!” 

As a measurement, I‟d‟ve been elated and joyful beyond description to return to 

mere agony. It hurt much worse than that. The pain was, and will always be, beyond any 

descriptive abilities I, or any other mortal being, might create. It was intolerable, but I 

had to tolerate it. To endure. To suffer such as I‟ve never suffered before or since. 

Over the next six weeks, I received 270 pain injections. That comes out to around 

six and a half per day. The first ten days it was morphine every two hours. Blessedly, 

they kept me stoned as could be in an effort to numb the raging pain. My drug was soon 

changed to Demerol. They gradually moved the shots to three hours apart, then four. 



My leg was so badly damaged, I later learned, the doctors were positive beyond 

doubt they‟d never save it. An amputation was planned. Inadvertently, my Dad came to 

my aid without intending to help me. They put me in a hospital bed in ICU, all the while 

knowing my leg had to come off as soon as I was strong enough for surgery. 

Since I was only sixteen, I had no voice in the matter. Parental consent was 

mandatory. Because my injuries were so serious, and were no longer immediately life 

threatening, it required both parents‟ signatures. “Fast Fred” chickened out. He didn‟t 

even have the balls to take part in the discussion, let alone sign to okay it. 

A premier orthopedic surgeon, Richard Pomeroy, MD, was brought in the night of 

the accident, so I was his patient. He also had a young doctor joining in his practice who 

would soon assume it entirely, Harry D. Allis, MD. They were both, in my opinion, 

stellar surgeons and excellent physicians in every respect. 

After they‟d tried numerous times to speak with my Dad, all to no avail, Dr. 

Pomeroy came to speak with me. His intention was to tell me what I faced and have me 

convince my old man to sign the forms. It seemed they had another problem to deal with. 

A brand-new problem. Very deadly. 

I‟d noticed something wrong after a few days, and continually asked Mom why 

the neighbors were burning garbage all the time. Even at night, for God‟s sake. It stunk 

like hell, and I was getting pretty damned sick of it, I explained. I‟d already gone through 

a few cans of antiperspirant spray. Right Guard. I‟d spray it all over my room, but it 

only lasted a short time before that heathen stench assaulted my nostrils again. I even 

had my buddies bring me a few extra cans of Right Guard so I wouldn‟t run out. The 

smell was nauseating. 



Dr. Pomeroy explained it wasn‟t garbage being burned. No, that wasn‟t what I 

smelled at all. What I smelled was the gangrene in my leg. Rotting tissue that, if I didn‟t 

get it removed, would soon kill me. With a heavy heart, he explained I had to either let 

them amputate my right leg, or die within a week. Maybe less. 

I surprised him with a lie, but it became true even as I spoke it. By the time I 

finished my proclamation, I meant every word of what I said. “If I ever come out of 

surgery and that leg is gone, I‟m going to kill myself. I‟ve been hiding some of the pain 

pills they give me when they try to talk me out of a shot. I‟ll take every fucking one at 

one time if I ever find my leg‟s gone. I came into this world a whole kid, and I‟ll leave 

this world the same way. You either save the whole kid, or lose him. I don‟t care, either 

way, but I do not want to live without my leg.” 

Dr. Pomeroy wasn‟t too sure how to reply, so he left. He was back later that 

afternoon with another grim look on his face. There was a small chance, he told me, but 

not that good. A new antibiotic was available. Achromycin, now known as tetracycline. 

He cautioned it was very powerful. They‟d be giving me a massive dose in hopes 

it would kill the infection. He reminded me he didn‟t think it would work, but it was the 

only possible chance I had without surgery. I‟d have to take it with milk, something I‟ve 

always loved anyway. Even then, it might make me barf. If it worked, a real long shot, 

they‟d start my surgeries and try to fix the leg as best they could. 

I told him to get right on it. No sense wasting time. 

As far as I know, it worked because, unfortunately, I‟m not dead. I‟d‟ve been 

elated to return to what I was able to sniff and quickly taste test, being dead, but God has 

other things He wants Bill to do first. So, until I‟m finished doing whatever He wanted 



done enough to bring me back, I guess you … the world at large … will be stuck with 

good ol‟ Bill Cady. 

Regarding my dear friend, Rex Riddle, he found what I haven‟t been able to enjoy 

yet. His life went downhill after it happened. He eventually lost his high paying job at 

the factory, primarily because of his drinking. Rex became a wino, living in the streets 

half the time. One day, circa 1972, he hanged himself in his father‟s basement. One of 

his brothers later discovered the body. 

Rex, I hoisted a beer to you when I learned your fate. I loved you then, I love you 

now, and I‟ll always love you. Rex Riddle, you were a champion of a man. I don‟t drink 

much anymore, so all I can do is offer you a toast with my can of Sprite. 

I think a few of my readers will include you in their prayers after this. 

To Rexford T. Riddle! Here, here! 

Now, if you‟ll excuse me for a while, there‟s a foxy little blonde in a pale blue 

sweater who wants me to autograph her round little ass. I‟ll be right back with you in a 

chapter or so. 



CHAPTER ELEVEN 

The injuries I sustained at age sixteen bothered me for a while. Now, at my age 

sixty, (yeah, I‟m updating this after almost five years of being homeless), I can safely say 

they only caused me problems for forty-five years, so far. Film at eleven. 

There were even a few “fun events” as a part of my hospital stay. Among my 

many oddities, I‟ve always enjoyed hospital food. Can‟t say why I do, really. Brain 

wave defect? Who knows? However, airline food still makes me a little queasy, so I‟m 

not totally out of touch. 

They initially put me in a semiprivate room with two beds. Because of the smell 

from my gangrenous leg, they left me alone in that room for a couple weeks. Only one 

other patient stayed with me the entire six weeks I was there. I think his complaints 

about how much I smoked were what kept it private after that. 



Hospitals didn‟t have air conditioning then, which can be pretty damned bad in a 

muggy Michigan summer. However, they permitted smoking, right there in my bed, so it 

seems a decent trade-off. While I could‟ve handled it back then, not being able to smoke, 

(it might‟ve even been what I needed to quit), all it would do now is send me into fatal 

state of shock. 

I‟m too heavily addicted these days, I guess. 

The fractured bones in my leg weren‟t even set the first two weeks. Since they 

planned to take it off, why bother? They never did set the ankle. Just left it as was when 

I came into the ER. Then, after Dr. Pomeroy and I made our deal, things were different. 

Still, they first had to get rid of the infection before they could do any fixin‟. 

He was right. Achromycin does make you want to puke. I never did, but I had a 

lot of times when I really wanted to. However, I was more determined to keep my bent 

wheel than I was unwilling to offload lunch, so it worked out okay. 

The staff was something else, in a few different ways. There was an x-ray tech I 

suspect was also a registered asshole. I‟m quite sure, if I‟d made him show proof, one 

way or the other, that bastard was a Democrat. 

I knew how they were supposed to do it whenever my leg had to be raised for any 

purpose, particularly before the fractures were set. It required two people, always nurses 

until the day this bastard came into my room. I was in 433, in case you want to check. 

June fifteenth to July thirtieth, 1965. If they can‟t remember me, ask some of the nurses 

who were on then. They will. 

This x-ray asshole said he had to get films on my leg. I explained it required two 

people. One for my upper leg, one for the lower leg. Each person needed to put one 



hand under from the outside, and one from the inside. Then they had to lift at the same 

time and same speed. Otherwise, I faced a personal disaster, and I told him that wasn‟t 

on my wish list that day. 

Oh, no. This big prick knew it all. What right, or reason, did I, the stupid ass 

with the crushed leg, have to tell him what to do? So, all filled with attitude, he put his 

negative plates on the mattress, then reached for my leg. One hand lower, one hand 

upper. His hands were about in the middle of each, very nicely placed to do it exactly 

wrong. When he lifted my leg, a hand beneath each major break, the jagged ends of 

bones rubbed against each other. The medical term for my condition at that precise 

moment is “ungodliosis painititis”. Speaking technically, that fucking hurts! 

I had a partial remedy. I hadn‟t had anyone empty my urinal yet that day. It was 

almost full. Too full, actually, to be used again until someone emptied it. Therefore, I 

emptied it. In his face, on his chest, and all over his hair. Not only did I scream every 

dirty word at him I‟d ever heard, I think I may even have coined a couple new ones. 

Honest to God, boys and girls, I think that siege of pain was worse than what I felt after 

coming back to life there at the accident scene. 

My screams brought everyone wearing anything white on the fourth floor into my 

room. I‟m sure the look on my face testified under oath I wasn‟t lying about a damned 

thing. I even threatened the idiot, telling him I was gonna kill him. 

Yeah, right. How, stupid? I couldn‟t even move. Couldn‟t get out of bed if the 

damned place was on fire. I‟d already done the worst thing I could do to him, and I know 

he stank to high heaven, „cause I could smell him all the way across the room. 

The nurses got him out of there right away, perhaps in hopes it might chill out my 



vulgar tirade. I was worse than the fly who hangs around the toilet seat until, one day, he 

gets pissed off and leaves. Or, pissed on and leaves. I forget. 

Another memorable person was Mrs. Skehan. I give great credibility to the idea 

the word beautiful was coined primarily to describe her. I‟m not sure I‟ve ever seen a 

more beautiful woman in my life, with the possible exception of Nancy, my ex-wife and 

mother of my children, and Janey Rhoads, a woman who will forever own a piece of my 

heart. 

Mrs. Shehan had beautiful blue dancing eyes and wore the most provocative 

reddish lipstick in memory. Her mouth was a vision to cause visions in a man. What I 

could see of her body promised no disappointment was possible to anyone who saw her 

naked. The woman was incredible. Simply stunning without trying to be that way. It 

was just her. She was the head nurse, and came around often with the nurses in training. 

One day the trainee had to give me a bath. Oh, joy. This is gonna hurt like a 

bitch, I realized before she even started. She‟s a rookie, and I‟ll be a payee in pain. 

To make things worse, the trainee was a goddamned fox all by herself. A blue-eyed 

blonde with a great body and a million dollar smile. However, she had the makings of a 

good nurse. She was very careful and worked slowly to be sure she didn‟t hurt me more 

than necessary. In truth, she didn‟t really cause me any pain. She did a fine job, all in 

all. 

It was the side effects that got to me. She raised my hospital gown, (didn‟t take it 

all the way off at any time, which I‟m sure was only to preserve my dignity), to wash my 

penis. Oh, wonderful. Here she is, a girl who‟d give me cause to take on our school‟s 

offensive football line all at once just to get to her, and she‟s grabbing my dick! No 



sooner thought then done, I developed what‟s known as a “hard-onus erectus”. That cute 

li‟l feller just stood right up straight and said, “Howdy!”, just as proud as you please. As 

I watched him pop up, “The Soldier” grew another inch while he was in her sexy little 

hand. 

That trainee was about to have more to clean up than she thought. Either a 

discharge from “The Soldier”, or I was gonna shit the pants I wasn‟t wearing from pure 

embarrassment. That is, until a real pro saved the day. Mrs. Skehan pulled a pencil from 

behind her left ear, out of all that long chestnut hair she kept pinned up behind her head. 

She leaned forward and gently whacked “The Soldier” with it, saying, “You stop that.” 

Like a sentry felled by a sniper, he flopped onto my belly and shrank away to 

nothing in only seconds. Mrs. Skehan never said a word, and her facial expression was 

as if nothing ever happened. She glanced at the trainee and said, “Continue.” 

Damn, she‟s good! 

Two of the trainees became what I‟d dare call “special friends”. I can be a very 

likable guy, on a good day, with the wind hitting me just so. Oddly enough, although I 

haven‟t shown any of it to you, I also have a dry sense of humor. I‟ve been known to be 

funny, but only on the days that end in “y”. 

Two trainees, a blonde and a brunette, used to come sit with me at times after 

visiting hours ended at eight. We‟d talk, laugh and joke, and share information about 

ourselves. Sometimes they‟d come as a pair, sometimes only one would show up. They 

visited me two or three times per week. I was sixteen, they were anywhere from a 

minimum of nineteen to maybe as old as twenty-five. Hard tellin‟, especially when 



they‟re in uniform and I‟m flat on my back. Oh, and stoned twenty-six hours per day. 

Forgot that part, I did. 

One night the conversation got a little racy. Both girls were there. They asked, in 

general, if I ever got any. If the truth be known, at that age I was lucky to have sex with 

eight to ten girls per year. Sometimes even less. However, in the interest of manhood 

and false pride, the real figure sort of doubled as we talked. 

Then we discussed my forced abstinence, and all three of us agreed that was a 

very bad thing. Personally, I agreed on the idea at least twice. They each gave me a kiss 

when they left that night, which only meant I had an erection until somewhere around 

three a.m., when I got my middle of the night pain shot. 

The next night, only one of them came to see me. The brunette. She even had a 

good idea. A very, very, very good idea. She‟d developed the crazy notion that I, a 

bedridden kid who wasn‟t getting any from anyone, might possibly enjoy a nice, quiet 

blowjob. She had no idea how exactly on the head she hit that nail, take my word for it. 

That little sweetie provided me with the aforementioned treasured gift, and I was 

in seventh heaven when she left. Two nights later, the little blonde, who was almost as 

cute as the brown-haired girl, did the same thing. There was never any untoward activity 

when they were on duty, and they treated me like any other patient in front of their 

supervisor, but I can attest they made the last four weeks of my stay much better than 

they would‟ve been normally. I lost track of them after I was discharged. It‟s probably 

just as well, since I was too young for either woman as a date. I‟m just glad I wasn‟t too 

young while I was a patient. 

********** 



We‟d had a few dogs since I was born, but nothing spectacular. There was Mimi, 

and I don‟t know what happened to her. Then my folks got Patsy, a cocker spaniel. She 

was okay as a pet, but that breed is among the bottom few percent of the stupidest dogs in 

the world, so she was no great shakes. A foxhound, (just picture a super-sized beagle), 

followed me home when I was about eight and Mom let me keep him. I called him 

Spotty. (See how original I was, even as a kid?) 

He was a good dog, and I had a lot of fun with him. I knew he was smart because 

he didn‟t much care for that David thing. Then my old man wanted to go out and shoot 

some crows one Sunday afternoon in the fall. He took me and Spotty along. I had my bb 

gun in case I saw a squirrel up close. 

Foxhound, or not, Spotty appeared to enjoy chasing rabbits, too. He saw one and 

took off after it. A few minutes later we heard a blood-curdling yelp. My old man made 

me wait while he went to check. When he came back he was dragging Spotty by the skin 

of his neck. It turned out the farmer‟s cows were getting out, even with his electric fence, 

so he turned the juice way up. It was hot enough to teach a cow never to go there again. 

It was also hot enough to kill a foxhound. We took Spotty home and I buried him 

in the back yard. 

After that, we got Scampy. Half German shorthair, half Brittany spaniel, she 

came from good hunting stock. Probably, if she‟d been taken out, she‟d‟ve done a good 

job, but my old man didn‟t hunt all that much. She was a beautiful palomino gold. Her 

ideal body weight would‟ve been around forty to forty-five pounds. She weighed about 

seventy-five. Scampy was a fat little girl, for sure. One funny story about her comes to 

mind. She was very well trained about going to the john outside. Never a problem after 



she was a few weeks old. One day, around my age nine, it was the last time my parents 

ever insisted I go to St. Johns to Mom‟s goddamned family reunion. As if I wanted to go 

hang with a bunch of farm kids from Ovid, Elsie, St. Johns and DeWitt? I think not. 

Or, just to get a spot on the Greatest Losers of All Time list, maybe I could go to 

my damned family reunion to meet some girls? I truly think not. No, sir. Anyway, we 

were gone all day. Far later than we thought. I think I got in a fight with some kid and 

whaled his ass, but that may have been at a company picnic held by my Dad‟s employer. 

When we got home, it was around nine at night. 

Scampy had been in the house all day long. Mom was horrified at what she knew 

she‟d find. She just knew that damned dog probably developed diarrhea and left a trail 

from one end of the house to the other. When we got inside, the dog acted as if she had 

mixed emotions. She was really glad to see us, but also acted kind of guilty. We were all 

pretty sure she‟d made a huge deposit somewhere, so everyone but my old man started 

looking. 

I found it, and it cracked Mom up so bad she had to sit down. 

There was an end table next to the end of the couch. I wondered to myself if the 

fact it was at the end of the couch had anything to do with calling it an end table, but I 

digress. My apologies. Mom always kept a napkin or two there in case she came into the 

living room carrying a cup of coffee and needed to set it down, perhaps to answer the 

phone, or maybe just to pick her nose. Who knows about Moms, anyway, right? 

This napkin had fallen off the end table and landed beneath it. 

Scampy must‟ve had to shit. Bad. Couldn‟t hold it one damned minute more. 

No matter who was gonna get upset, she needed to take a dump. So, she searched all 



over the house and finally found a piece of paper, just like when she was a puppy. I 

would‟ve loved to see that fat dog scrunch down and back her butt under that end table, 

„cause that‟s what she did. Her pile was right there, two feet back on the napkin, just the 

way she‟d been taught. 

When I grabbed her and hugged her, a very happy Scampy licked my face in 

appreciation. And here she thought she‟d be getting her ass chewed. A few years later, 

circa my age fifteen, Scampy developed uremic poisoning from bad kidneys and had to 

be put to sleep. It was sad, and I cried a lot that day, but I got over it after a while. 

Being a teenager is a stressful and busy time. I remember it only too well. 

Still, I wanted a dog. It was important to me. I bet I asked Mom about it a 

hundred times or more, but she always said no. She didn‟t want to suffer the pain of 

losing another dog. If I wanted one, I could wait until I had my own house and get one. 

My old man just said, “You heard your mother.” He said that a lot, the prick. 

That was another thing that always pissed me off. “Wait until you get your own 

place and you can 

stay up as late as you want.” 

have anyone over you want.” 

talk any way you want.” 

eat whatever you want.” 

go to bed when you feel like it.” 

get up as late as you want to.” 

drink beer around the house.” 

go away for the weekend without asking.” 



walk around in your damned underwear whenever you want.” 

have all the dogs you want.” 

So, it looked like that was my only choice. I was almost seventeen and I wanted a 

dog a lot. Dogs have always been my best friends, and I was lonely. I gave up on the 

idea again, but only for a while. A guy I knew told me about a friend of his who was 

selling shepherd-mix pups for only five bucks apiece. Even though I knew I couldn‟t 

have one, I went to look at „em, anyway. 

Man, was I glad I went. 

I think there were eight puppies in the pen, all black, with the gold trim you see 

on shepherds. They were three-fourths Shepherd and one-fourth Border Collie. When I 

got to the pen, seven of „em came running to the fence to lick my hands and be petted. 

One pup, a male, just sat there in the back of the pen looking at me. His head was cocked 

to one side and he had an intelligent look about him. The expression on his face said, 

“I‟m bored, dude. Show me whatcha got.” 

I told the guy I wanted to see that one, so he went in and got him. When I held 

him in my hands, he wagged his tail and licked my face. “Damned glad you had the 

good sense to pick me,” he advised. “Now, let‟s blow this pop stand and go have us 

some fun!” No sooner said, et cetera, et cetera. 

I took my little bundle of joy back to the house. He cost me five bucks. Ears that 

came up halfway, like a shepherd‟s, then flopped at the tip. Beautiful soft black hair that, 

even as a puppy, formed sheets of waves on his back, sides and shoulders. 

The goddamned animal was gorgeous. 

Mom was half talked into it when he licked her face, but she said she‟d have to 



discuss it with the big prick, that David thing being the little prick, in my book. When 

the old man got home, he adamantly said no. I could not have a dog in his house. 

next two days. 

Yeah, you and the horse, asshole. I took my puppy out and slept in my car the 

That David thing had a friend, a divorced man who worked at Oldsmobile, living 

a block over on Knollwood. His name was Lynn Clarke. He said I could build a pen in 

the dinky little garage he never used, as long as I regularly cleaned it up. So, I had a 

home for my puppy. He lived there for about six months. I‟d bring him over to the 

house when Mom was there, but not when that asshole was home. She loved the puppy, 

whom I named “Thug”. I also gave him a full name: “Thuggerton Quincy Cady, Esq.”, 

just to add some class. 

When Mom was pretty much all the way on Thug‟s side, since it was truly 

impossible for anyone who had a heart not to love him, she started a womanly attack to 

get what she wanted. She took anything she had that even resembled a nice attitude and 

put it all away in a drawer someplace. She made sure the prick knew exactly why she 

was so unhappy, then let him beat himself off whenever he had an urge. She clearly had 

no intention of doing one damned thing to help him beyond making dinner at night. 

After a few more months, his right hand now all calloused, so practiced at 

masturbation he could probably gain two strokes changing hands, he gave in. I brought 

Thug to the house and there he stayed, until I got married and moved away. Guess what 

happened then? 

My old man got all pissed off at me for “taking the family dog”. 

You asshole. 



Thug was extremely unusual in a number of different ways. For starters, he was 

an autocrat. He ran his area of authority as he saw fit. Anyone who disagreed with his 

edicts got their ass kicked. Real simple way to live. Obey Thug, or he‟ll make you wish 

you had. He made allowances for people, since we were the primary providers of food. 

The truly unusual part about Thug was his incredible prejudice. He hated dogs. 

Of course, he killed cats, but who the hell wouldn‟t if they could catch „em and do 

away with the scheming little shits without even getting a scratch? He was okay with 

people, although he wouldn‟t allow anyone to hurt me, or anything I owned, which 

included my folks and that David thing, as he saw it. 

I tried to explain to him about that David thing. I told him anybody who wanted 

to was free to kill it, but a dog can only grasp just so much at one time. 

He just had this huge hard-on to hurt dogs. Any dogs. All dogs. There was only 

one way they could stay safe from him, and he taught those dogs well. If he saw a dog on 

its own property, he‟d stare at it and scare the piss out of the animal, especially if it was 

one he‟d already whipped. Yet, even if he hadn‟t thrashed this mutt in the past, none of 

„em wanted to mess with him. 

If he found any dog off its own property, not even on ours, but anyplace that 

wasn‟t that dog‟s yard, he‟d attack. He fought just like a wolf, using that big front 

shoulder to hit the other one and knock him down. Once the dog was down, Thug would 

chew the hell out of him. 

If a dog stayed up and wanted to fight face to face, Thug always managed to 

overpower him and knock him down. His ultimate panache was after he defeated the 

errant mutt. He‟d stand over the dog, now on its back with the tail between its legs on the 



belly, and growl menacingly. He purely threatened that dog with some perilous future if 

he ever dared break the rules again. Then, with an unmistakable mark of disdain, Thug 

would raise his leg and piss all over that dog‟s belly and chest. He‟d walk a few feet 

away, use his back paws to toss some grass and twigs on the pile of shit he just left, and 

strut on home. 

A class act all the way to the end. 

He only weighed about seventy pounds, standing maybe 24” at the shoulder, but I 

never saw a dog he couldn‟t whip. Some people from two blocks down the street had a 

huge St. Bernard weighing over two-hundred pounds. They brought him past our house a 

few times on a leash. 

Thug had his rules, as I said. If a dog was on a leash, he did nothing. It was as if 

the dog was on his own property, „cause he had a human with him. Well, these people let 

go of the leash one day when they stopped to talk with someone. I watched Thug, and he 

saw it right away. However, he didn‟t do anything until the St. Bernard wandered off on 

his own and stopped to take a dump. 

Thug shot off that porch like a greyhound. He hit that huge dog, about three times 

his size, and knocked the animal over so it rolled. Before it could regain its feet, Thug 

was biting him all over the place. The owner was screaming his head off, but the St. 

Bernard managed to get to his feet and took off like his ass was on fire. I watched Thug 

chase him for about a block, biting him on the ass and the back of his legs. I don‟t know 

if it was the dog‟s refusal, or the owner‟s fear, but I never saw that dog again. 

There were two other dogs, both around a hundred pounds each, at the far south 

end of our block. Almost to Willow Street. Both were mixed breeds, but they looked 



like they had some shepherd in them. One was white with shepherd ears, the other was 

black with floppy ears. Thug had chewed the holy hell out of both dogs at different 

times, two or three times apiece. He simply couldn‟t stand to see a dog walking all alone 

in his neighborhood. Didn‟t fit with his rules. 

These two mutts never had a chance to learn about the leash rule, so they thought 

they had an ass kickin‟ coming if they even made an appearance anywhere near Thug‟s 

house. The kids who owned those dogs would try to take them for a walk, but the dogs 

would actually lean back until their paws skidded on the cement to avoid coming past. 

Thug would lay there on the porch watching. Those animals were scared shitless. 

The moment they were past the midpoint, instead of dragging back, they were pulling the 

kids on the leash to get the hell out of there before that crazy black bastard watching them 

from the porch came over and killed „em. 

One day there was a set-up. Some kids came walking north on our street, on the 

far side, with a big white dog. He also had pointy ears, and some other shepherd features, 

but he was bigger. A hundred twenty pounds, or more. 

It was hot, so I was in a rocking chair on the front porch with a Coke. 

Those kids started talking to me, asking how tough my dog was. 

I assured „em he was a helluva lot tougher than what they had, and they‟d save 

their dog a severe ass kicking if they just took him home. Since this was a set-up, they 

played their roles well. They cast all kinds of insults my way, about Thug, me, my Mom, 

my car, you name it. 

Finally, I bit. I‟d really had all their shit I wanted to take, so I came off the porch 

and Thug followed me. I told „em to let their dog loose, and they did. 



He came at us right away, as I‟d expected. What saved my dog was the timing. 

The other participants weren‟t quite yet in place, and Thug did his part quicker 

than anyone might‟ve expected. He hit that big white dog like a freight train, knocked 

him on his back, and had the poor son-of-a-bitch all chewed to hell in about fifteen 

seconds. It was bleeding all over, its ears were in tatters, and it finally just laid there 

whining while Thug made his threats. 

After he pissed all over the damned thing, then scooped leaves and grass on it, 

Thug came proudly prancing across the street to me. That‟s when I saw the latecomers. 

Four LBs, kids in their late teens from down by Consumer‟s Power, were hiding 

behind a huge bush on the corner. As Thug headed my way, they unloosed a huge 

Doberman, at least a hundred twenty pounds, on my boy. 

The Dobie attacked as they usually do, without a sound. He was headed at a very 

fast trot to intersect Thug in the middle of the street. I‟ll never know why I used those 

words, but I hollered, “Thug, get that ring-tailed son-of-a-bitch!” as I pointed to the 

oncoming Doberman. 

My boy never hesitated, not even half a step. He threw his left leg across his 

chest, like a quarter horse does when it quarters on you, and he was at top speed in only a 

few feet. They collided at the chests and raised up, their faces slashing and gnashing, 

feral sounds that would make your blood curdle rolling from slathering jaws. I couldn‟t 

believe how either dog could be so vicious, as I‟d never seen Thug be that savage, and I 

wondered how either could withstand all that violence. 

Thug opened some terrible slashes on the Dobie, then practically tore off an ear. 

When he bit down on a foreleg, which I suspect he broke, the Doberman called it off and 



tried to get away. As I watched, Thug went half a block down the street, headed back 

toward Consumers, biting that animal all over its body. 

In the meantime, there were four terribly surprised LBs watching their dog run 

away, and I was watching them. “Okay, motherfuckers, let‟s you and me have at it a 

little bit!” I went after the closest one. They never stopped to consider they had me 

outnumbered four to one. I guess they figured the whole thing was a bad idea and it was 

best just to haul ass. 

I caught one, a skinny bastard around fifteen, and hit him once. In the face. He 

slammed backward into a parked car and slumped to the ground like he was dead. I 

started after the next one, but Thug heard it when I yelled at them the first time and was 

already back. He put two of „em up on top of a car, crouched on the roof on all fours, too 

horrified to try to get down. 

I hit the other one a few times and, after his face was all bloody, he started to cry. 

He was maybe sixteen, not much more than that. The other two just looked at me, their 

eyes the stereotypical huge patches of white ringing the dark centers. Suddenly, I was no 

longer in a mood to hurt these assholes. At least, not physically. 

I walked over by the car and glared at them for a long time before I spoke. “You 

two fuckin‟ niggers will stay there on top of that car until I say you can come down.” I 

pointed to Thug. “If you think your skinny black ass can outrun this fuckin‟ dog, go 

ahead and try. I‟ll let him kill ya. Otherwise, you stay right there until I say you can go.” 

I looked at the one I just beat up, who was still crying. “Get that fuckin‟ nigger 

on the roof of that car,” I ordered, pointing to the one he‟d slammed into, “and you get up 

there with him. I‟ll tell you when you can get down.” 



Nobody said a word, but he helped his friend get on the roof of the other car. I 

stopped, halfway across the street, and faced them again. “By the way, the dog doesn‟t 

speak English. If you get down, for any reason, and I‟m not there to hold him, I bet he‟s 

gonna kill your black asses.” 

I went back to the house, went inside, got another Coke, and came back out on the 

porch. They were all still where I told „em to be. A couple hours later, I let „em all go 

home, after warning each one I‟d let Thug kill him if I ever caught his mangy ass around 

my house again. 

### 

I was up at the cottage one weekend with my folks. Grandpa Thurston built it 

with his own hands the year I was born, and the year after. It‟s a one room cottage with 

an enclosed bathroom which makes the rest of the place C-shaped around it. It gained a 

screened in front porch a few years after he died, courtesy of my unofficially adopted 

Grandpa, Bob McGeorge. 

I still drove my Ford, and was up there Friday and all day Saturday with my dog, 

Thug. He and I came back late Saturday evening. I think it was because I had a date on 

Sunday, but I‟m not positive. I was hungry as hell when we hit Lansing, and I know 

Thug was, too. We hadn‟t eaten, really, all day. I went to the north end and stopped at 

White Castle, the only place open that late, except for a Mexican restaurant I liked, but 

Thug couldn‟t go inside there. 

I left him in the car and went in to order some food. I asked for three double 

cheeseburgs for myself, and three for him with nothing on „em but meat and cheese. 

When I had the food, I went back to the car. Being a pretty damned good guy, I tried to 



feed him first. He turned up his nose at one of his sandwiches. It freaked me out. The 

damned dog hasn‟t eaten hardly anything all day, and he‟s turning away food? What the 

hell‟s going on? 

I tried another of his sandwiches, then the third one. Same thing. 

More than a little concerned, I offered him one of mine. No dice. 

Okay, now I‟m pissed. I went back inside. The girl at the counter who first 

waited on me was still there. I told her what happened, and she just rolled her eyes. I 

could see what she did with her paycheque. Those eyes, as an example, had around 

eighty bucks worth of green mascara, and her eyebrows, nose and ears held a good 

hundred dollars worth of paste jewelry, all firmly planted in the skin. She‟d saved a great 

deal on dental, too, since most of her teeth were rotted away, unusual for a girl who 

probably wasn‟t yet even twenty. 

I demanded my money back. 

She tried to refuse, saying I took the food outside. 

I pointed out three were for the dog, who wasn‟t allowed inside, and that was 

good, since he‟d probably bite me if I tried to make him come in. It made sense, since 

that hungry dog couldn‟t stand the smell of their rotten food. 

She started crying, and a Mexican guy around twenty or so came from a table and 

held her. The manager, a skinny white guy in his 30s, came to see what all the fuss was 

about. I was getting a bit pissed, and it more than likely showed in my tone of voice. 

When I‟d explained it all again, he gave in and refunded my money. I told him thanks 

and walked out. As soon as I stepped outside, the Mexican who‟d been hugging that girl 

was waiting for me. Him, and two other Mexicans. They all looked pissed. 



He called me some names and said I was an asshole for making his girl cry like 

that. They were gonna have to teach me a lesson, he explained with a big smile on his 

face. Then he pulled out a switchblade. 

I heard the sound of Thug‟s toenails on the side of my car as he came out. “You 

think so, motherfucker? Do ya?” I reached into my own right front pocket. From the 

way I learned the rules, a good Sexton student was a lot like a good Boy Scout. Be 

prepared. Oh, and never leave home without it. I pulled out my straight razor, opened it 

with a flick, then used my thumb to hold it ready. “Which fuckin‟ spic should I cut up 

first?” 

One of the guys off to my left howled something nasty, something I guess was 

meant to scare the piss out of me. I turned my head a bit to look at him, but didn‟t move, 

even though he was running my way. 

Thug came whipping out of the darkness between two cars. He hit that guy in the 

chest and slammed him back onto a concrete picnic table, his teeth flashing in the glow of 

the lights as he bit that son-of-a-bitch about twenty times. 

I went after the asshole with the knife, who finally remembered to flick it open as 

I approached him. I slashed his arm, making him drop the knife, and saw a long white 

mark across his flesh. Whether he knew it, or not, I knew it was gonna take a few more 

minutes for a cut that deep, that fine, to actually start bleeding. Then, when it got started, 

it would take a few hours, and a damned good surgeon, to make it stop. 

When he reached down for the knife, I kicked him in the face. He quickly 

straightened back up in pain and I slashed him across the cheek to leave this dumb 

asshole a reminder of who he shouldn‟t fuck with. He bent over, holding his face, which 



was slowly beginning to bleed, with an arm that would soon begin to gush. I looked for 

the other guy and saw he was going after Thug with a knife. 

Thug was about done with the first one he attacked, the guy now slumped on the 

ground, his arms covering his head, crying like a baby. Isn‟t it funny how “tough guys”, 

when they get bested, all want to cry like little kids? 

I was about to go after the third guy when Thug saw him and got there well ahead 

of me. His jaws clamped on the forearm with the knife and ground viciously for a long 

moment before the guy jerked free. He left a piece of his jacket, and a whole lot of blood 

from the artery Thug just severed, on my dog. 

I knew the other two would live. Scarred, certainly. Unhappily, probably. Yet, I 

knew they‟d live. The third one, I had my doubts. He was bleeding badly. It formed a 

pool at his feet. He looked at his arm in horror and started screaming. Then, before I 

could do anything, assuming I even wanted to, he took off running down the street. I 

watched him wobble and sway for about half a block, then he stopped. He looked at his 

arm, then turned and saw the bloody trail all the way back to where Thug and I were 

standing. One more terrified scream and he fell down. 

I decided not to hang around and explain anything to the cops, especially since 

carrying a straight razor is a felony if you‟re not a practicing barber. We took off and 

made it home. If you‟d‟ve asked me, the guy probably died. However, I saw nothing 

during the following week about it, so I kept it to myself. All the way from then, at my 

age seventeen, until now. 

That‟s my story and I‟m stickin‟ to it. 

There‟s one final event about that rental house across the street from where I 



lived. A woman, damned good looking but with very small boobs, moved in there with a 

slob named Curt Brown. Her name was Lynn, and she told me they were married, but I 

think she was embellishing the point. 

Other than small boobs, her body was fantastic. Her fanny was a model for what 

all women wanted, and she could‟ve modeled nylons and sold millions with no effort. 

Dark brown hair to her shoulders and deep, dark brown eyes. Lynn was a total fox in 

anybody‟s book, and that included mine. 

This Curt Brown asshole was, I later learned, on parole from California. I have 

no idea what he did for a living then, although I encountered him five months after this 

was over in his other job. I was nineteen at the time. Just barely. I came home one night 

around three in the morning in my standard condition. Drunk as hell. I parked the car in 

front of the house and was gonna head inside to get some sleep. Then I noticed a light in 

the back yard across the street. 

The people living there, John and Erna Noland, were there when we moved in, 

fifteen years earlier. They were both legally blind. Their oldest son, Duane, was married 

and long gone. Their youngest, a daughter named Janice, was off at college somewhere. 

Erna used to baby-sit us once in a while when we were little. She and John were 

very nice people. They were also pretty defenseless, both in at least their 60s at the time. 

I went halfway across the street and finally noticed two shadows there in the back, 

a couple guys in the yard. “Who‟s back there?” 

“Fuck you.” 

Well, that was certainly refreshing. It‟s nice to get to know people, and it always 

seems better when you begin with a few friendly words. 



“You wanna come out here and try, motherfucker?” I moved a bit closer, now 

almost at the curb. 

Two guys came out of the darkness, extinguishing that bright lamp as they 

approached. The one in front wore a near-white trench coat. The one in back had on 

jeans and a dark blue windbreaker. 

I was curious when I started, drunk before I started, and a little bit pissed at his 

attitude now. “What the fuck are you doing back there at this time of night?” 

here before?” 

“We were lookin‟ for night crawlers.” 

Uh-huh. Dressed like that? “Where are you from? I‟ve never seen you around 

“I live right here,” he intimated, gesturing toward the rental house with the hand 

holding the lantern, his right hand. I then saw he‟d been a polio victim. His left arm was 

withered and had only a long, pointed end, like a single finger. 

I also took stock of what was going on. Three in the morning, I‟m drunk, he has 

an alibi, and I‟m making a scene. Hmmm? Any chance I might go to jail? 

I saw all kinds of possibilities that way. Cop cars with bright flashing lights. Big 

officers with flashlights, using them to beat the shit out of me, as they‟d already done a 

few times. Me sitting in a concrete drunk tank, no place to lie down, listening to some 

wino snore like a buzz saw while some fairy wants to make me happy. 

Not a pretty picture. Nope, not at all. I stuck out my hand. “Okay. I apologize. 

It‟s just, I know John and Erna, and I was kind of worried at first. Let‟s just say it was a 

misunderstanding, okay?” 

“Fuck you, asshole.” 



Hmmm? I began to sense noncompliance. Perhaps even just a tinge of shitty 

attitude. “Okay, you wanna try it, motherfucker?” Screw those cops. I‟m pissed now. 

I‟ll mess these assholes up as best I can and hope I‟m in the house when the cops show 

up. 

The one behind, whom I learned a bit later was named Danny, also carried an 

implement I didn‟t see was germane to worm hunting. A ball-peen hammer. I found out 

about it when he threw it at me and it whirled like a boomerang. I ducked and it sailed an 

inch or two above my head. If it‟d hit me, the damage would‟ve been pretty serious. 

It didn't hit me, but it slammed into the door of my car. He might as well have hit 

my Mom. “You motherfuckers are dead!” I screamed. “I‟m getting‟ my brother and 

we‟re gonna kick your fuckin’ asses!” 

Only my drunkenness could‟ve caused me to think of that David thing as an ally 

in something like this, but he was bigger than me, so maybe that‟s why I said it. I ran 

into the house, turned left, and was at his bed in two steps. (Damned small house). 

“Trip, get your ass up, man! I need your help!” 

He was out of it. “Huh? What?” 

While I yelled at him a moment longer, it appears “Fast Fred” had already been 

up and was waiting for me. Either that, or he awakened easily. He‟d slipped on pants 

and his jacket, along with his slippers. Then he went across the street. 

Who knows? Maybe he was doing his fatherly duty, trying to keep my drunken 

ass out of jail. After all, if I was arrested, again, he knew Mom would bail me out, and 

they never had any extra money. Especially not for things like bail. 

I went back to the rental house front yard. Curt Brown was standing near the 



steps to the raised porch, on the left side of the house, as you faced it. My Dad was in the 

yard, fifteen feet away, by a tree close to the sidewalk. That Danny asshole, the one who 

threw that big hammer at me, was in the driveway on my right, next to the raised porch 

with railings and vertical slats. Curt had a gun aimed at my old man. A handgun. 

Son-of-a-bitch! This shit‟s getting serious as hell in a hurry! “Dad, go on home. 

I‟ve got it.” I started circling Curt as I spoke, moving in front of my old man, in case the 

guy took a shot before I was ready. Shit, if I started it, I should be the one to take any 

bullets they fired, right? 

Danny, who scurried across the length of the porch there in the grassless front 

yard, got behind Curt, then moved out by the sidewalk. 

“Dad, get the hell out of here!” I kept circling. Moving closer to the porch at 

every step. Curt now had the gun aimed at me, so I figured my old man was safe, as long 

as he got his ass out of there, anyway. However, he‟d been paralyzed with fear since the 

moment that handgun appeared. He hadn‟t moved an inch. 

Fuckin‟ wonderful! Now I‟ve got a hostage situation to worry about, and the 

freakin‟ hostage won‟t even run when I put my ass on the line! Shit! At a loss for 

anything else to do, I followed my street training, and what I‟d learned as a loyal J. W. 

Sexton student. I pulled out my straight razor. “I‟m gonna cut you bad, asshole, and 

watch you bleed to death right here.” 

Evidently, Curt Brown believed me, because he fired a shot. The gun looked like 

a .22, and I saw the flash when it fired, but didn‟t feel anything. Even drunk as a skunk, I 

thought I oughta feel something if I‟d been shot, but there was nothing. 

I was wearing blue jeans and a Madras shirt, something very popular back then, 



the “bleeding Madras”. The colors would change after each washing, which is where 

they got the name. It was a very blousy shirt, the sides coming out a few inches from my 

body if not properly tucked in. Because I‟ve always been loath to stop and tuck my shirt 

in during a street fight, mine was plenty blousy at that moment. 

Curt‟s bullet went through the shirt, missing my body by an inch or so. 

I decided, since I‟d felt no wound, it was merely a starter‟s pistol. It made me 

laugh. “That‟s a fake gun, you motherfucker, but I‟m gonna tell the cops I thought it was 

real, after I kill you. Ready to die, motherfucker?” I started his way, still fully intent on 

saving my old man, and regaining my honor, by cutting him the proper four ways: long, 

deep, wide, and repeatedly. 

For reasons I couldn‟t fathom, this dumb ass started shooting at me with that 

goddamned blank gun. Okay, asshole, if you wanna make a lot of noise on your way out, 

it‟s no skin off my ass. You‟re gonna die, either way. I assumed that Danny asshole had 

moved closer to my Dad, and it hurt like hell when he kicked me in the left thigh, right 

about in the middle. “You‟re next, motherfucker, so don‟t go away!” 

I wanted to get the gimpy armed bastard with the “gun” first, since that was to be 

my alibi. No sense going down for manslaughter when I could prove I acted in self- 

defense. I even figured I‟d say I grabbed the razor when I went in the house to get that 

David thing to help me, so I was gonna look pretty damned slick when the cops got here 

and asked me about the dead guy. 

A couple steps later that Danny asshole kicked my left ankle, and that one really 

hurt! “I‟m gonna punish your ass, motherfucker, in just a few seconds!” Until he 

started kicking me, all I think I‟d planned to do to that shithead was to beat him senseless. 



But, after what he‟d done, I‟d probably cut him up a little bit, just to keep things fair. I 

was never a guy you wanted to fuck around with, and these bastards were about to learn 

why. 

Then Danny kicked my right ankle and knocked me to the ground. I wasn‟t able 

to figure out how he did that, standing over on my left, but it felt like he‟d just broken the 

ankle. That meant I wouldn‟t be kicking anybody‟s ass, since I could no longer walk. 

Okay, I just got the first ass kickin‟ of my life, I guess. I lost, although I still 

didn‟t know how or why, but it was about time to get the hell out of Dodge. I began to 

crawl away and Curt Brown shot at me again, but he missed. 

As I relate these stories, I‟m beginning to think that house was haunted in a way 

that instigated courage in cowards, and I‟ll give you my reasons. 

viciously. 

I took on Bob Cobb, a guy who scared the hell out of me, and whipped his ass 

I took on Mike Baker, a guy I had no business messing with, and whipped his ass 

to a fare-the-well. 

My old man, definitely the guy “who‟s afraid of Virginia Wolff” and almost 

everyone else in the world, knocked Merle Cobb on his ass in the front yard. 

Now, as I‟m crawling away on my hands and knees, unable to even stand, that 

David thing came to my old man‟s rescue. And, mine, I guess, although the gun was now 

empty. He brought the baseball bat he kept in his room and put it nicely upside Danny‟s 

head, arranging an immediate naptime for that asshole. 

Then he chased Curt Brown up onto the porch, damaged a few ribs with the bat, 

and bloodied up the bastard‟s head before the cops finally showed up. 



Only when grabbed by an officer was my old man able to free up the feet he stood 

on that had frozen to the ground. By that time, I‟d made it across the street, up the steps, 

and inside the house. My straight razor went into a basket of laundry Mom had set out to 

fold when she got around to it, so all was well. 

I was hospitalized eleven days, given a private room. I was led to understand it 

came at the behest of the Lansing Police Department, who also apparently also paid for it, 

thankfully. A detective interviewed me a few times, then came up with his summary, 

although it made no sense to me. 

Curt Brown was on parole from California, as I said. A parolee may not, in either 

state, possess a handgun, even registered. That gun was unregistered. He was driving a 

car with illegal California plates, out after curfew, and off his own property. Common 

sense told me that was enough to put the bastard back into the joint in a hurry. 

Apparently, he had some sort of connections, and I gathered it pissed the cop off 

to tell me what he had to say. If I wanted to press charges, the DA would prosecute 

Brown. However, in that event, they‟d also prosecute me for intent to do great bodily 

harm, including murder. I could go to prison for ten or twelve years. 

Suddenly, forgive and forget sounded very appealing to me. I let it go. 

A couple days after I was released, I was sitting on the front porch having a 

cigarette, watching the world go by. I could walk, but just barely. I still had three .22 

slugs in my legs. The doctor told me they always take out the bullets when you watch 

Gunsmoke, but in real life, removing them would only do more damage. The doctor 

would need to make an even larger hole just to reach the bullets, so they treated me 

against infection and left „em in place. 



I still have all three in my legs, so there‟ll be some clinking noises when they 

scatter my ashes after I‟m gone. 

Lynn came over to apologize, looking sexy enough to take my mind off any pain 

still remaining. To be honest, I‟d‟ve screwed her right there on the front porch if 

she‟d‟ve let me. She told me she really wished there was some way she could make it up 

to me, after what that bastard did. 

I suggested she move his ass out and have a real man, namely Bill Cady, move in. 

Guess what? Lynn liked the idea. 

When Curt Brown got home in the late afternoon, all his things were on the front 

porch in paper bags from the Kroger store. Her father sat in a chair with his .12 gauge 

double-barreled shotgun in his lap, and an explanation. Curt Brown no longer lived at 

that address. If he gave the old man any shit, the explanation would be changed to say 

Curt Brown no longer lived. Period. 

I moved in that night and stayed three weeks. The sex was incredible. Both 

superior in quality and frequency. That woman was unbelievably passionate. At that 

time, although I did far more drinking than anything else, I was dabbling with marijuana, 

and even hashish on occasion. I came home one night, about three weeks after I moved 

in, stoned on hashish. Lynn‟s fervor and passion was so heated her nails dragged through 

the scabs her previous scratches left on my back. Reluctantly, I decided the next day to 

move back across the street. 

Curt Brown was back a few days later, on a sultry, humid summer evening, to get 

a few things Lynn had overlooked. If he‟d hated me before, it was nothing compared to 

now. I‟d gotten him evicted at the point of a shotgun, then moved in and spent three 



weeks screwing either his wife or his girlfriend. Seems I exacted some enjoyable 

revenge, was my take on it. 

He was still driving that bronze ‟62 Ford Galaxy, a four door. It was parked at the 

curb, facing the wrong way, as he retrieved his items. Lynn‟s Daddy, and shotgun, were 

in a chair on the porch. Her Daddy still didn‟t want any mouth out of that asshole, and 

meant to see he didn‟t get any. 

We were on the front porch, my folks, that David thing, and Thug. As Brown 

completed his final trip, he looked across at Mom and asked, “Got your eyes full, bitch?” 

I know, I know, don‟t keep you in suspense, right? Okay, you tell me. Did I 

object to what he said, or not? 

Alright, you there, the pretty black lady with those mesmerizing eyes. What do 

you think, sweetheart? 

Really? You think I should‟ve gone over there and whaled his ass so bad he 

wouldn‟t even be able to shit for a week? 

Well, guess what, Angel? That‟s exactly what I set out to do! By golly, it seems 

you‟re not only beautiful, you‟re insightful! 

You what? You‟d like me to take you home when we‟re done so you can show 

me some other talents you have? 

Well, since it would be unfair to deny such a pleasant request, I guess I‟ll be 

forced to go along with it, Princess. It‟s a dirty job, I guess, but somebody‟s gotta do it, 

and it seems I‟m elected. See me when we‟re done, you little fox. 

Okay, I went over there. All I intended to do, quite honestly, was to beat the man 



until he couldn‟t move. Nothing serious, simply a pro forma procedure. When I got 

there, he was standing right behind the opened driver‟s door, meaning it was between us. 

“C‟mon, asshole. I‟m gonna finish the ass kickin‟ you deserve. Let‟s go.” 

He raised his good hand and surprised the hell out of me. Either they never 

confiscated his illegal weapon, or he had another one just like it. “I‟m gonna shoot you 

again, motherfucker, but this time it won‟t be in the legs. You‟re gonna die.” 

To his surprise, I smiled at him. “I don‟t think you can get both of us, you dumb 

cocksucker. You‟re the one who‟s gonna die.” 

His eyes took in the area all around me and saw no one. Of course, my old man 

and that David thing were on the porch, but that was seventy-five feet away, and he did 

have a gun. “Both of who, prick? You‟re all by your fuckin‟ self.” 

I laughed again. “Nope. Look behind you, asshole. Your best move is to shoot 

him instead of me, but it won‟t matter, either way. One of us is gonna kill you in just a 

couple more minutes.” 

“I ain‟t fallin‟ for that bullshit. There ain‟t nobody behind me.” Smug and 

confident, he glared at me in one-upmanship. 

“Oh, yeah? Thug?” 

“Grrrrrrrrrrr!” Thug was maybe ten feet behind him, crouched and ready to 

spring into attack. Brown had a minimal chance of turning in time to get off a shot, but I 

was worried he might retain possession of the gun after Thug hit him. If so, my dog 

would probably get shot before we could kill this asshole. The man‟s normally well 

tanned face went white. 



I told him, “Get your fuckin‟ ass in that car and get the hell outa here now, or 

we‟re gonna kill you, prick.” 

He only wasted a few seconds thinking it over, then jumped in his car and tore out 

of there. The first fifty feet were on the sidewalk, since his wheels were cranked when he 

floored it. 

Five months later, at the start of winter, I was working for a man named Tex 

Dendinger. Tex owned Tex‟s Wrecker Service, which consisted of one old, beat up truck 

with a wrecker boom. I drove it during the daytime on commission, while he worked at 

his paying day job. His brother, Bill Dendinger, owned one of the biggest wrecker 

services in the state, also located in Lansing. Maybe Tex, whose real name was Gerald, 

was Bill Dendinger‟s “that David thing”, who knows? 

We‟d called Muth Oil Company for a fuel delivery for the furnace. The driver 

was Curt Brown. I saw him getting the hoses ready to drag up to the house and leaned 

out the front door. “Curt Brown, you son-of-a-bitch!” 

He looked at me and almost shit his pants. 

I grinned. “Can you shoot any better than you could the last time I saw you?” 

He didn‟t know what to say, just took a very long time getting those hoses ready. 

After a while, I went out and shook his hand, since I usually don‟t carry a grudge forever. 

It‟s not worth the hassle, since a poison can be more harmful to its own vessel than any 

intended target. 

He asked if I was still mad at him. 

I responded, “As good a piece of ass as your wife was, you could‟ve even shot me 



again and I‟d probably still forgive you. That woman‟s some pretty wild pussy, ya 

know?” I left him with that emasculating insult and went back inside. 

As I understand it, but this is only a rumor I heard, he pulled a gun in 1973 on 

someone he really shouldn‟t‟ve screwed around with. A Detroit police officer. 

Detroit has some damned tough cops, and that officer evidently had little, if any, 

sense of humor that day. Not seeing the funny side of being drawn down on, the cop shot 

him dead. If that story‟s true, I‟ve already finished all my suffering over it. I missed 

nearly a full minute‟s sleep, but then I was past it and moved on with my life. 

Thug stayed with me until 1974, which would‟ve made him around nine or ten 

when I lost him. I was then living in a mobile home on property I purchased out in the 

country. I came home one day and a window was busted out from the inside. I looked in 

the woods and fields for days and never found a trace of him, but he went out being 

loved. Truly loved. 

Here‟s to you, Thug. God ain't never done as good since he did you, big boy. 



CHAPTER TWELVE 

Cary Cann will always bear a special place in my heart, since she took away 

something I really wanted to have taken. My virginity. Remember? A hot October 

afternoon. Michigan muggy, even that late in the year. She suavely let me think I was 

talking her into it, then had nearly ninety seconds of pure ecstasy. 

Hey, you. The big guy in the fifth row. Yeah, you, in the Grateful Dead shirt 

with all those stupid emblems. You think it‟s easy being up here trying to entertain 

people, using only my miserable life as a guideline? 

Yeah, well, you, too. Just don‟t quit your day job, okay? 

Sorry, that prick was getting on my nerves. 

Alright, back to Cary. This is the funny part. Really funny, actually. 



She married some guy who was in the service. Like I knew? Cared, maybe? I 

don‟t think so. Anyway, I guess they hadn‟t been married long. The story I got later, but 

didn‟t know when this happened, was that he hit her rather often. If that‟s the case, the 

dirty son-of-a-bitch needed his ass kicked royally, anyway. 

Men don‟t ever hit women. Males almost always hit women. Men hate males. 

Men kick males‟ asses, sometimes just because the bastards are kinda ugly. Not even for 

any special reason. Males often just need to have their asses kicked on general 

principles. 

He came home on leave and they had more problems. Wow! Brand-new story 

there, isn‟t it? You‟d‟ve thought that one would make the national news. You might 

have to bear with me a moment. First thing today, right after I got up, I had a nice, hot 

cup of sarcasm and I‟m nearly burping it up by now. 

So, he went back overseas. Nothing got better in the letters they wrote and, after 

a while, Cary said that was it. She‟d see the military lawyer ASAP and get “the Big D”. 

He could get leave if that happened, she knew, but it wouldn‟t make any difference, as far 

as she was concerned. They were finito. 

As I later came to understand it, he started pressing her for the names of any and 

all past lovers, including the name of the guy who popped her cherry. That guy would, of 

course, be Bill Cady. However, any man would know it‟s none of his damned business 

who a woman‟s been with before. Only today and tomorrow are any of his business, and 

only when she‟s his girl. 

Only some insecure, pissy-assed male would bother a woman on something so 

trivial. Apparently, somewhere in their letters, my name came up. I don‟t know what she 



told him, or if it was all his in imagination, but I was suddenly the guy who wanted to 

take his wife away from him. 

Give me a goddamned break, huh? I‟m not interested in her. If I was, I‟d still be 

with her, and I wasn‟t, so that should‟ve answered any questions this jerk might‟ve had 

about me. 

I stopped one night at the Saginaw Bar with five of my buddies. Again, I‟m not 

sure who they were. I think Bob Chouinard was there, and one of the twins, maybe 

Dave, and a few other guys. We were inside, hoisting a few beers, telling jokes and lies 

with equal abandon. I saw a few military people come in the back door. 

The bar was in a small shopping center with a lot of parking in back. The street 

out front offered very little parking, so most traffic entered by the back door. 

It was my understanding military people didn‟t go around in uniform when they 

were on leave. All my buddies who were in the service either wore whatever they had at 

home that still fit over all that new muscle, or fatigues from boot camp. I couldn‟t 

remember anyone ever going out socially in full dress uniform. 

Maybe it was because all these guys wore a green beret. Perhaps that was part of 

their code. Again, it was like asking me the difference between ignorance and apathy. I 

don‟t know, and I don‟t care. 

We paid them no attention, just kept drinking beer. At that point in my life, 

beyond getting laid whenever I could, getting drunk was about the most important item 

on my daily agenda. We were still going on as before when one of those guys came over 

to our table. 



He wasn‟t that big, maybe five-nine, one-seventy, but he sure as hell seemed to be 

in good shape. I guess that‟s to be expected when the military creates a new killing 

machine. He also looked a little angry, and I didn‟t see the good part in that. Before 

anybody could ask a casual question, like, “What the fuck do you want?”, he started 

talking. 

“You Bill Cady?” He looked right at me. 

I looked back. “Last time I checked. Why?” 

“I‟m gonna kick your fuckin‟ ass.” 

“Yeah? Well, nice to meet you, too.” I stared at him. What the hell‟s wrong with 

this monkey? I smell an ass kickin‟ on the horizon, and it doesn‟t look like I‟m gonna be 

on the good side of it. Shit! 

“You been fuckin‟ my wife, prick.” 

“You think so?” I turned in my seat, my hand holding the longneck bottle in case 

I needed to break it to fashion a weapon. “Could be, I guess. I fuck a lot of wives. 

What‟s her name?” 

“Don‟t get smart with me, motherfucker!” 

I couldn‟t resist, and my answer got all my buddies laughing like hell, which did 

nothing to appease the guy‟s mood. “Now, wait a minute. Let‟s get this straight first. 

Are you accusing me of fucking your wife, or your mother?” 

I swooped my eyes around my table to show the guys I wasn‟t afraid of him, 

although I was scared out of my damned mind at the time. “That‟s important, you know. 

I don‟t wanna get my ass beat for fucking one of „em when I was really just fucking the 

other one.” 



His eyes closed into slits. “I‟m gonna kill you, motherfucker!” 

“Ahh, so it is your mom. Funny, I don‟t usually do old babes, and she‟s gotta be 

in her forties, at least.” I was playing my hole card out of desperation. I knew this guy 

had been trained to fully discombooberate me in about nine seconds, so I was hoping to 

get him mad. Really mad. 

Just as it is in the ring, it holds true in a street fight. Get a guy pissed off and he‟ll 

react with emotions, instead of what he‟s been trained to do. If I got this dude really 

yanked off, maybe I had a chance. Not a good chance, mind you, but a chance, all the 

same. 

Then, it happened. You‟ve had this feeling before, but this should remind you 

what it was like. You step into an elevator. You‟re the one closest to the door. Your 

appointment is near the top, maybe the ninth floor, so you push that button. The elevator 

stops at the third floor, not your spot. From behind you, you sense someone is there, 

suddenly. Not a word‟s been spoken, but you can almost feel the person behind you. 

Your body subconsciously adjusts, rotating your shoulders a bit to the left, but 

your feet don‟t move at all. The person, guy or girl, moves forward, goes past you. 

There may possibly be a gentle brush against each other, but more likely you don‟t even 

touch. Finally, without a word, that person is past you, walking away to his or her 

destination, and the doors close again as your shoulders return to normal. 

That‟s how it was with me at that moment. George felt the call to defend me and 

got off at that floor. He was now in my chair, and I was fifteen feet away, my arm on the 

bar, wondering if I could possibly get another drink. I knew I wouldn‟t get one, though, 



„cause the barkeep was intently watching the scene unfold at our table. So, with nothing 

else to do, I watched George. 

Goddamned good thing he showed up, I concluded. That mess was already way 

above my pay grade by the time he got into the deal. 

“You say one more word about my mother, you cocksucker, I‟ll kill your sleazy 

ass right where you sit!” 

I guess George couldn‟t pass that one up, either. I know I sure as hell would have 

liked it if they‟d replaced the beer nuts. This was getting a bit entertaining. 

“Huh? „Cocksucker‟? Now you‟re accusing me of getting‟ it on with your father, 

too? Ya know, soldier, you‟ve got one very slutty fuckin‟ family, if you ask me.” 

their comrade. 

My guys roared. For a moment, anyway. That was funnier‟n hell. 

His guys, four more green berets, stepped to our table and formed a ring around 

My guys shut up. That part wasn‟t a damned bit funny. 

The green beret‟s voice was honed steel by now. “I‟m gonna pull your ass out of 

that chair and fuck you up right here, you prick!” 

George was already coming to his feet, his hand closed on the top of the same 

longneck I planned to use to save my ass. Good move, George. That bastard‟ll tear our 

asses off if you don‟t do something clever as hell and pretty damned quick. 

Before anyone could do anything, the bartender stepped in. Shit, I never saw him 

move. I‟d‟ve asked for some nuts if I‟d known he wasn‟t still in the audience. He moved 

close to the soldier. “Take this shit outside, and I mean right fuckin‟ now, fella.” He had 



a Louisville slugger in his right hand and tapped it in his other palm a few times to be 

sure the guy saw it. 

“You got the balls, Cady?” the green beret inquired. 

“I may be the only one who does,” George chuckled. He finished standing and 

started toward the back door. “C‟mon, guys. I want you to watch me wipe out this sissy 

in the green suit.” I got in step right behind our guys, wondering what the hell George 

had up our sleeve. 

A few other people were heading that way to see the no-ticket fistfight, but the 

barkeep turned „em around. I couldn‟t blame him. Why lose a paying customer to a fight 

where you‟re not even running an ad? „Sides, once some guy got outside, he might not 

come back in. Bad for business. 

When everyone was outside, I looked at our guys, George‟s and mine. I saw their 

expressions and realized it was only our code of honor that kept all five of „em from 

running to the car. We had six guys with varying abilities to street fight, all the way from 

super asskicker to barely more than a mama‟s boy. 

These other guys, unfortunately, were people our government spent a huge 

fortune on so they‟d know how to kill with their bare hands. I tallied up the list of 

numbers in my head and running for the hills came out way ahead of standing up for a 

friend. I guess that‟s why we have codes of honor. They explain why a guy will do the 

really stupid thing instead of covering his own ass as fast as possible. 

Everyone gathered in a semicircle about twenty feet from the back door. I knew, 

without even looking, the barkeep had called the cops. That meant we had at least five, 

probably not more than ten, minutes before the “crew in blue”, Lansing‟s finest, would 



have three or four cars in the lot. Oh, and a lot of guns, too. That part would tip the odds 

their way. 

The green beret started talking again. Funny, I noted, this guy does a whole lot of 

talking. Where I come from, you don‟t talk about it, you just do it. 

“Tell me about it, Cady. I want your side before I fuck you up.” 

“”What? Fuck me up? Man, your whole family‟s kinda sick, asshole. First you 

say I‟m fucking your wife, then I‟m fucking your mother, then I‟m getting‟ it on with 

your old man, and now you wanna fuck me? Perverted bunch, aren‟t ya?” 

The green beret laughed, but it still looked like he was mad enough to be a good 

step or two off his pace. Good one, George. Good one. 

“Keep it up, Cady. Get me just a little more pissed and I won‟t just beat you to a 

bloody fuckin‟ pulp, I‟ll kill yer no-good ass.” 

“Yeah? Tell me, shithead, what makes you think you can do that? How, in your 

wildest fuckin‟ dreams, do you think you can whip me?” 

Okay, that was a real good one, George! I can see you got this dude all lit up. 

He‟s madder‟n a bitch now. I kind of wished I‟d brought a chair from the bar, and my 

beer, so I could enjoy this more. It looked like it was gonna be a helluva show, so I 

didn‟t dare go back inside right yet. 

The green beret launched into an explanation of all the things he‟d learned in 

training to become one of our most elite fighters in any branch of the armed forces. He 

started to outline a list of all the things he could do, including an estimate on each as to 

how badly George would be damaged when it was over. 

It ran into quite a menu of atrocities. 



It was George who chose to rudely interrupt the man. If I was asked to make a 

guess, I wouldn‟t‟ve thought he was even a fourth of the way finished with all his threats 

and intimidation attempts. They were getting juicy as hell, and I was right on the edge of 

the seat I forgot to bring out. George even used our right leg, the one that was so badly 

damaged about three years ago in the accident. He swung it in a savage kick that landed 

precisely at the point of the inverted vee that made up the soldier‟s crotch. 

I swear, if there‟d been NFL scouts present, George and I could‟ve had a contract 

with at least a dozen teams if that kick was on a football, instead of a soldier‟s nuts. 

The green beret immediately switched from alto to tenor and let out a scream so 

high, all I could think of was a nun‟s fingers running down the blackboard to get the 

class‟ attention. He grabbed his balls with both hands and held them as he went to the 

ground in a heap. 

George wordlessly stepped forward and kicked him in the face. It was so hard, 

blood sprayed all around them. He continued kicking the man in the head, the back, the 

ribs on each side as the guy rolled over to avoid him, and stomped on both legs a few 

times. With one more kick to the face, a blow I‟m sure left the green beret in need of 

some plastic surgery, George looked to the other green berets. “Any of you guys want a 

piece of me?” 

The sergeant stepped forward. “No, we‟re cool.” He motioned toward the one on 

the ground with a nod of his head. “I think he‟s had enough, though.” 

“Okay, but keep that motherfucker away from me,” George advised. “The only 

thing I hate more than a punk is a mouthy punk. Where I come from, we don‟t talk about 

it, we just do it.” 



The sergeant was forced to smile a moment. “He was feeling awfully proud of 

himself, wasn‟t he?” In concert, they gathered their buddy and took him back to the car. 

### 

This was a funny quirk. A couple months later, on a Friday night, I had no date 

and there was nothing going on that I knew about. So, with no other plan of action, Thug 

and I got in my car and went to a drive-in movie. I stopped and bought some beer, hid it 

in the trunk, and arrived at the Starlite Theater, out on M78, just west of Waverly Road. 

We got situated and watched the first film, whatever it was. The next one wasn‟t 

anything worth watching, but I still had some beer left, so we stayed. After a little while, 

I was getting hungry. Since Thug was a dog, someone who‟s always hungry, I went to 

the concession stand. I got myself some popcorn and two nearly raw hamburgers for 

Thug, and was about to head back to the car. 

Then I stopped. 

Cary was standing right in front of me, smiling away. She told me she was here 

with her girlfriends, a passenger in some other girl‟s car. We talked a while and decided 

it would be more fun for both of us if she finished watching the movie with me, in my 

car. 

I walked her back to her friend‟s vehicle and she announced her change in plans 

before we went to my damned nasty old Oldsmobile. I‟d long since wrecked the Ford, 

then bought a 1958 white Old 88 coupe, which I also wrecked, both times when I was 

drunk. 

The Ford was a broadside accident where I was only a block from the party at 

Tony Redfern‟s. I ran through some back yards, then waited until around three before I 



called in a stolen car report. I said I went out to get in my car and it was gone. Sure it 

was. It left the corner a couple hundred yards away on a wrecker when the police found 

it empty. I got out of that one scot-free. 

The Olds was too badly damaged to bother with after I ran it off the road, so I 

bought a 1957 powder blue 88 coupe. It‟s the car I was driving the night I met Cary in 

the concession stand. 

She played with Thug and we talked about him a while, but then the kissing 

started and things got intense in a hurry. I remember, oddly enough, she sure must not 

have planned to be with anyone this evening because my finger found a hole in her 

panties as I excitedly groped her. 

Soon, with my windows so steamed you couldn‟t see outside, we were headed for 

her place, over on the Waverly Golf Course. I never said a thing about beating the living 

shit out of her ex, but I did learn the divorce was in process. So, since it wasn‟t yet 

concluded, she was temporarily still his legal wife. I felt good about living up to what 

he‟d accused me of, because I sure as hell did have sex with his wife that evening. I 

guess all the brouhaha he caused over it made the event all that much more memorable to 

me. 

We both enjoyed ourselves, and there was no talk of further commitment by either 

of us. When we were done, I kissed Cary good-bye, walked to my car, where Thug was 

still waiting, and headed for home. I haven‟t seen Cary since that night. 

### 

Looking back again to my accident, it was far more serious than I may have let 

you understand. Of course, at first, they thought I‟d lose the leg, so they did nothing to 



treat my injuries. Then, after Dr. Pomeroy and I made our deal, they started me on those 

powerful antibiotics, which kept me wanting to barf for more than a week. 

When the infection miraculously cleared up, I started going in for surgery every 

Tuesday morning. That meant all the rest of every damned Tuesday was spent moaning 

in pain and demanding more Demerol shots. When the shots went from every two hours 

to every three, I continued using my call button after the two hours ended. 

On Tuesdays, it was exclusively based on need. The pain was always more than 

unbearable. Other days, it was 50% need and 50% “junkie wish”. Those shots got me 

stoned like a leper. It was wonderful, and the buzz was heavenly. When the shots got to 

every four hours apart, I still buzzed after two hours, and every ten to fifteen minutes 

until someone showed up with a needle. I was so hooked it wasn‟t even funny. 

The nurses truly were a crew of angels, and they all did everything they could for 

me. Against my wishes, that included purposely getting busy when my shot was actually 

due. That meant I got my shots fifteen or twenty minutes late. All done, I suppose, to 

help wean me away from Demerol. That makes as much sense as the way my fiancée, 

Cammie Shelton, tried to wean me away from sex. I guess she thought reducing my 

dosage to getting laid quarterly would make the need go away, but it was quite the 

opposite. 

Demerol works the same way. If I laid very quiet, didn‟t move a damned thing 

other than to use the remote on my TV or reach for a book, the pain in my leg would 

subside greatly. That way, when my shot showed up, I was free to enjoy it just as a high, 

and it was wonderful. 



Hell, if I had a shot due at three in the morning, I‟d automatically awaken 

anywhere from two fifty-five to three oh five and press the button. That would start the 

waiting game, meaning I couldn‟t get stoned until three twenty to three thirty. 

I was later able to see how unfair I was to Mom, too, as far as all my rehab 

sessions. Of course, it was her job to get me there, to take care of me. She was my 

Mom. However, I acted as if it was her job, not a duty of love, and that was wrong on 

my end. Very wrong. 

I had whirlpool baths, walking exercises, stretching exercises, all kinds of 

goddamned exercises, and pain I can‟t even explain to you. Pain that would often leave 

me in tears of pure frustration. The first ninety days were spent at home, in bed, with the 

Meals On Wheels people bringing me something to eat every day. I smoked as many of 

my old man‟s Raleigh cigarettes as I could steal, then very cleverly dumped the butts out 

my window, into Mom‟s flower bed. How could they possibly have known I was 

smoking in bed at home? I was sure that David thing told „em, and it pissed me off. I 

never considered they might see that huge and growing pile in the ground, right outside 

my window. 

One of my “most wonderful” moments came a few days before my discharge. I 

hit the call button for my three pm shot, and Mrs. Skehan, the utterly adorable, foxy head 

nurse, was there in only a couple minutes. She even had a beaming smile on her face, 

increasing her uncanny beauty. 

I realized it would look bad, since I was a crippled teenager, I smoked, I was still 

in a hospital bed, needed a haircut badly, and she was already married, but I was still 

mentally composing a marriage request. That woman‟s beauty was purely astounding! 



She continued her smile as she positioned me for my shot. I felt the needle enter 

my thigh, (everything else was so hard by then from injections they couldn‟t even shove a 

needle into my body), and I heard her voice. “Enjoy it, honey, „cause this is your last 

pain shot.” 

Goddamned fuckin‟ doctors! Who the hell said I didn‟t need any more pain 

shots? Why, this thing‟s gonna hurt like hell until, oh, I don‟t know, 1975, maybe? Why 

the hell cut me off now? This sucks! 

And suck, it did. It sucked the life out of me for a while. The shot got me one 

more incredible buzz, and I reveled in the first two or three hours. After that, it was pills, 

only. Not even Demerol, damn it. Some kind of pain killer that was only good for 

killing pain. How goddamned smart is that, I ask you? Not very, as I saw it. 

I spent the next three and a half days with six quilted blankets covering me up 

because I was freezing so bad I shook. However, I sweated like a pig because I was so 

damned hot. I was nauseous beyond belief and couldn‟t even think about eating, let 

alone allow anyone to put a spoon of anything in my mouth. My head ached and the 

throbbing pain was relentless. I suffered without end from some ugly hallucinations, and 

my paranoia was like someone being asked if they ever voted for Jimmy Carter, when 

they had voted for him. 

Eventually, my roller coaster ride through Hell was over and I calmed down 

enough to talk in a weak voice. I was so drained I wanted to die. 

I suppose that‟s why I was so easily able to resist the temptation to sample all the 

drugs my friends tasted in our high school years. I‟d been addicted and made it back. 



Not only did I never want to take that trip again, I didn‟t think I‟d make it back a second 

time. 

The doctors at first told me I‟d never walk normally again, and might never even 

be able to regain the strength in that leg to walk at all. Then they said it would be a year, 

maybe two, before I‟d be off crutches. I‟d definitely be in a wheel chair for at least six 

months. They were sure of that. 

I made Mom get rid of the wheel chair after three weeks. I practiced on my 

crutches each day, using them to make it to the bathroom, instead of using my urinal. 

Even when the pain was nearly unbearable, I forced myself to use those damned crutches 

and get out of the house. Sometimes I just went for a walk on the sidewalk out front. I 

even used our driveway, which was harder, as it was dirt and had an upslope as it neared 

the garage. I also tried going up the hill on Cross Street, but that was too much. I had to 

scoot back down on my butt after a while. 

One day, when Mom was due home from work, I was sitting on the front steps, 

watching for her car. When I saw her heading toward me, I got up and limped the ten or 

twelve feet to the tree at the end of our walk, by the sidewalk. Swinging it like a baseball 

bat, I demolished one crutch, then the other, and watched her pull in the driveway with 

her eyes agape. “Take me to Sears, Mom. I‟m gonna get a cane.” 

We did, three months after I was home from the hospital. At least a year and half 

ahead of what the doctors predicted. I was goddamned awfully tired of being a cripple 

already. Supposedly, being a cripple and using a cane made me more vulnerable. I 

didn‟t see it that way. Although I no longer had my previous agility, and wouldn‟t for a 

while, I was openly walking around with a weapon. That‟s how I saw it. 



We were at a dance at the Frandor Shopping Center one muggy Saturday night 

when I was seventeen, about a year after the accident. A guy I knew slightly, I think his 

name was Mike Mead, from Everett, got mouthy with me. Then he looked at my cane 

and laughed. “Okay, Cady, I‟ll let you go „cause you‟re a fuckin‟ cripple.” He added 

some more laughter. 

Since I was unable to grasp the humorous aspect as well as he did, I reacted 

differently. I swung a vicious right hook into his jaw that sent him sprawling on the 

concrete. “Don‟t worry about me, prick. I‟ll be just fine. C‟mon, asshole, let‟s see what 

you‟ve got.” 

The fight was surprisingly short. Mike was pretty burly, and it might‟ve ended 

differently if we‟d gone into a wrestling tussle, especially since he was a wrestler and I 

was a boxer. A crippled boxer whose leg still caused him a lot of pain. 

When he charged, head down and intending to really mess me up, I swung my 

cane at him. It made a loud crack on the side of his head. After that, I used it to beat the 

living shit out of him before turning away from him to face all his buddies. “Any of you 

lousy motherfuckers want a piece of my crippled ass?” 

No one did, so they collected Mike and hauled him to the hospital. I heard later 

he was a patient for a week. 

Another guy, a farm boy, got mad at me a couple weeks later, again at a dance in 

the Frandor Shopping Center parking lot. He was big and burly, five-ten, a good two- 

thirty or more. Blond hair, kind of long, and a teeny goatee on his chin. 

I was hitting on this girl, a pretty blonde I‟d never met, and even considering the 

bold idea of trying to dance with her and use my cane at the same time. This guy cut to 



the chase with no bullshit, no playing around. He walked up to me and gave me a shot, 

right in the mouth, with his fist. 

Must‟ve been his girl, was all I could assume. 

I kept it that way. Strictly business. No conversation. No covert moves. None 

of that crap. I just got down to it without any undue ceremony. I swung my cane at him 

and it smacked the side of his head. Since I was following through on it to increase the 

impact, my cane and my hand trailed his unconscious body to the ground. Once at my 

feet and unmoving, he was a perfect target. I began beating him with my cane until Bob 

Chouinard pulled me off, telling me, “Cady, you don‟t need to kill the motherfucker. Let 

„im go, huh?” 

Our crowd was big on sports. Some guys even played „em. Most of our guys 

were either on the football team, or wrestlers. A few, not many, played basketball. Not 

too many were into playing baseball, but we still found things to do. 

Sexton had a home wrestling meet with Everett one night. Bob Chouinard was 

wrestling at 154 pounds, Alvin Mask at 165, and Ed Toomey at 180. I think Buddy 

Frahm was at 112, but who gives a shit about watching a friend lighter than your 

girlfriend get into it with another fucking pipsqueak? Plus, I think I stretched it a lot 

when I just used the word “friend” in the same sentence with the name Buddy Frahm. 

As I recall, Bob lost. Not by much, but a loss is a loss. Bob‟s what you might 

call a temperamental guy. If he was littler and younger, you‟d have to use the words 

“spoiled brat”. That means, when he doesn‟t get his way, it relaxes him a little bit to cave 

in someone‟s head. 



They started at the mouse fart weights, so Bob‟s match was a long time in the 

making. We‟d all had a few beers before we got there, then periodically slipped out for 

more whenever someone we weren‟t all that interested in came up. I‟ll admit, we stayed 

for Frahm‟s match, and I think he won. It was like watching two third graders fight, but 

it‟s not his fault he‟s the size of a hemorrhoid, it‟s only his fault he acts like one. 

It seems some guys from Everett were doing the same damned thing we were, 

sneaking out to the parking lot for a beer or twelve during matches of little interest. 

Somebody said something derogatory to one of our guys. I think it was one of our 

“fringe guys”, Bob Silky, who didn‟t really go places with us. He‟d sit with our group at 

a game, maybe, but went home, or with other people, afterward. Bob was as tall as the 

Empire State Building and suffered some terrible acne scars from his early teens. I think 

he also talked with kind of a lisp, but he was a pretty good guy, all the same. 

Whatever the friction was when it began, it worsened throughout the rest of the 

meet. By the time the heavyweights finished wrestling, we had an unofficial meet set for 

the parking lot. 

I was among the first of our guys out there. I know both Chouinard twins, Dan 

and Dave, were there, along with the oldest Chouinard, JC. He was a special guy. He 

had a high school letter in practically every sport, was tanned even in the winter, and all 

the girls seemed to think it was both an honor and a duty to have sex with him. That guy 

could shit gold and burp dollars. 

Dan Chouinard was the first of our guys to be involved. He was yelling in some 

big guy‟s face and apparently saw the time was right for some action. He used a nasty 

right cross that took the guy out of the rumble immediately, then turned and started 



whaling on someone else. From there, all hell broke loose. I waded into the fray, not 

able to move all that fast or turn very well because of my leg, but I unleashed a few 

punches and hurt a few guys. 

Then I started using my cane as a club and it worked a whole lot better. I‟d just 

finished wiping out some kid even taller than myself with a smack to the left side of his 

head, then the right, followed by hammering him between the eyes with my fist, when JC 

did something rather stupendous. He grabbed a guy by the collar and the crotch, raised 

him over his head, and dropped him onto the concrete. Unfortunately, it was the Sexton 

janitor, who‟d come along to help the teachers now trying to break things up. 

Someone grabbed JC‟s shoulder in an attempt to turn him around. The guy who 

grabbed him was obviously an adult, as he was bald on top. If he‟d actually seen JC, who 

was very well known around Sexton, it would‟ve meant a great deal of trouble later on 

for our local hero. Thankfully, I prevented an ID. I swung my cane in a vicious arc at 

that bald head and caught him right on the pate. He fell like a deer shot in the heart. 

Only then did I identify my victim. Ed Majeski, our football coach and the school 

athletic director. Well, dumb ass, you shouldn‟t‟ve been fuckin‟ around out here when 

we were settling things. That was the way I saw it. However, with someone that far up 

the food chain as a declared casualty, we decided that was enough and everyone took off. 

Don‟t tell me I‟m a helpless cripple, damn it. I can still take care of myself. 



CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

As we leaf gleefully through the rhapsodies that were my life in the younger 

years, I recall another time I met Dave Porter, the monstrous wrestler I mentioned who 

gave up upon seeing Rex Riddle. It was at “The Stuck”, our outdoor watering hole in the 

country. As memory serves me, our place was located at the south end of Waverly Road, 

kind of. Then again, it wasn‟t. 

Waverly Road is the dividing line between Ingham and Eaton counties. When it 

gets out there, toward Eaton Rapids, South Waverly Road becomes North Waverly Road 

for a mile or so, until it hits a point where the east-west pavement changes from 

Columbia Road on the west to Columbia Highway on the east. 

Waverly Road, whatever it is at that point, takes a quarter mile jog to the east and 

a jog to the north, where it once more becomes South Waverly Road, again the dividing 

line between both counties. It‟s no wonder we used that as a drinking spot. All that 

confusion makes me want a drink just telling you about it, and I hardly drink at all these 



days. So, we‟d turn left on Columbia Highway and the entrance was only a couple 

hundred yards down, on our left. 

With all that info, if the farmer hasn‟t turned it into tillable land yet, you can go 

have a grasser, like we did. Of course, if you‟re old enough to want to read this, you‟re 

probably well past grassers by now, but at least I gave you the information. If you do go 

out there, let me know if there‟s still a big patch of poison ivy at the north side of the 

clearing. “T” Townsend was bragging to us one night about just meeting a girl and then 

taking her back into the bushes for some wild sex. 

It turns out their two person orgy was conducted in a patch of poison ivy. I‟m not 

sure what “T” told his parents about his badly infected knees, lower legs, the tops of his 

feet and both forearms. Still, I‟d‟ve loved to hear what the girl told her parents. She‟d‟ve 

been a mess from her ankles to her neck in back. 

So, we were at “The Stuck” drinking beer. There were only five of us in the 

entire crowd who could remember a vulgar, filthy, extremely funny poem called 

Stackely. The entire group of kids, male and female, loved it for entertainment. 

Bill Palmer and, I believe, Bob Kendregan, brought it back to us after a trip to 

California, circa 1964 or 1965, where they allegedly heard it from an LA chapter of the 

Hell‟s Angels. Believe it or not, I heard it once and had it totally memorized. Of course, 

since it‟s mostly just vulgar words, if you can remember the story line, it‟s not that hard 

to do. 

I‟ll include it at the end of this chapter. If you want to read it, after my warning, 

go ahead. I‟m sure you‟ll get a kick out of it. If not, when you get to the poem, just go 

on to the next chapter. There won‟t be anything after that for you to miss. 


Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 227 

While there were five who remembered it, Bill Palmer, Bob Kendregan, me and 

two guys I can‟t recall, I‟m led to believe the delivery is equally important. Evidently the 

kids liked my way best, as I was almost always the one called on to recite it. 

The story was later plagiarized and made into a multi-million selling song, I 

believe in 1978, called “Stag-o-lee”. 

There‟s a history of it at www.stagoleeshotbilly.com, if you‟re interested. 

That said, I was called on, and I performed as requested, standing atop a huge 

fallen tree. I was about three feet off the ground, in the dark except for the bonfire we 

had going a few yards behind me. When I finished, I started mingling with the crowd, 

receiving praise for being able to remember it. Of course, what I hoped was to have 

some girl come up to praise me, whereupon I‟d steal a kiss and hope it led to an episode 

in the bushes, but not near any poison ivy. 

In a takeoff on what Mom used to say, “that‟s where hoped gets you”. 

What I attained was the fervent attention of a guy named Ken Carr, a man of age, 

as he was twenty-one. I was eighteen at the time, and I‟d bought beer for Ken, with a fee, 

for about three years before he turned old enough to buy it himself. Ken was about five- 

nine, one-fifty, average build. He had a reddened face and acne scars, but that wasn‟t 

totally unusual at his age. He was drunk as hell and had an idea. 

Lord, spare us these people with ideas, please? 

He‟d heard I was quite a decent boxer, he said, and wanted to congratulate me on 

being so good. I didn‟t see where that was relevant to anything, but I thanked him and 

tried to get away. There were still a couple of girls nearby, and I knew they were all VE, 

(Vaginally Equipped). I truly wanted to get laid, if at all possible. 



Ken wouldn‟t leave me alone. He kept on and on about my reputation as a boxer, 

then asked me if I‟d teach him to box right there, right now. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Why the hell would I do that, way out here 

at a party, in the freakin‟ dark, when we‟re drinking? Go sober up and see me some other 

time, okay? I wanna get laid, if I can, before all these girls haul ass.” 

No, he really wanted me to teach him. Kept insisting it wouldn‟t take long, and it 

would be a lot of fun. I was thinking about teaching him what it‟s like to feel a knockout 

punch when Ken went to Step #2 of his grand plan. He slapped my face. Hard. “Why 

not teach me slap boxing?” was his idea. 

Oh, joy. “Fuck off, Ken. I said I really wanna get laid, if I can.” 

He slapped my face again. Harder this time. 

Ya know, maybe that‟s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. I waded into him, 

slap boxing, and if his cheeks weren‟t red when he showed up tonight, they sure as hell 

would be when he left. I slapped the piss out of him in a two minute flurry that left him 

with his arms crossed for protection over his head. Then I repeated my “get lost” 

instructions. 

Regrettably, Ken was now pissed off. 

In addition to the fact I really wanted to get laid, which now seemed to be an 

impossibility, that was another reason I didn‟t want to slap box a drunk out in the open air 

at a party. When I beat his ass, a foregone conclusion, what‟s to keep him from getting 

pissed off and taking a swing at me? 

his fist. 

Nothing, that‟s what. So, he did. The son-of-a-bitch hit me right on the chin with 



I felt I‟d gone out of my way so far to humor this asshole, but taking one on the 

chin is something I rarely find I‟m willing to do. This moment wasn‟t on that “rarely 

list”. I swung back and knocked him flat on his ass with a right cross. It was a pretty 

damned good punch and more than likely would‟ve put most guys I knew in the same 

position. 

I started to turn away, hoping even an ugly girl had hung around, since they‟re 

also VE. In the darkness, they‟re a lot more desirable than at other times. However, Ken 

was really pissed now, and was getting up to come after me. 

Fights on TV seem to last a long time. Three, four, five minutes. I know I 

couldn‟t withstand that kind of punishment, and I don‟t know if I‟ve ever met any man 

who could withstand even the beating I can give for that long. A real fistfight is usually 

over in sixty to ninety seconds. Two minutes would be where you wanted the Ripley 

people on the scene, maybe the Guinness crew. 

Over the next sixty seconds or so, I beat that man to a bloody pulp. I could barely 

see his face for the gore, and I know he was unrecognizable. I‟d also gotten in close and 

landed at least twenty or more very solid blows to his body trunk. 

That requires about ten to fifteen seconds. If he didn‟t have some broken ribs, 

they were so damned close to it, they‟d do until broken ribs actually showed up. Finally, 

I drew one from way back behind me, a punch I‟d be using a year or two later that would 

knock out more than a few of my boxing opponents. I blasted Ken on the chin, the 

premier knockout location, and he was gone before he hit the ground. Out like a match 

after you blow on it. 

Some guys picked Ken up and carried him, an inert pile of flesh, over to Bill 



Palmer‟s ‟61 Chevy Biscayne. The sprawled him across the hood and left him there in 

hopes he‟d wake up. I suppose, if he didn‟t, we‟d‟ve left the body there, waiting to see if 

anyone reported it to the police. Who knows? 

Now I was trying to find the beer can I set down when I was forced to begin 

kicking Ken‟s ass. I felt a tap on my shoulder and started to turn with a fist cocked, just 

in case Ken had a vengeful buddy who wanted to coldcock me. No, it was another avid 

participant. 

Son-of-a-bitch! Lord, deliver us from drunks with aspirations, please? 

It gets worse. The guy standing in front of me was Mike Sanborn, a burly 

redhead, maybe six feet, over two-hundred pounds, a hero I remembered from Holy 

Cross and O‟Rafferty. Two or three years older than me, Mike was a star football 

running back, and a champion wrestler at around one-eighty. Far and away more than I 

wanted to deal with unless I absolutely had to. 

Mike later became an attorney and, as I understand it, had a flourishing law 

practice in Lansing. According to the newspapers, he had some clients involved in drugs 

on a large scale. I believe he formed an addiction himself, and began working with his 

clients to move larger and larger amounts of drugs. He was convicted, I think it was in 

the early to mid 80s, and was given ten years federal time. The feds offer no good time 

reductions. I think the minimum you serve is 85% of the sentence, so Mike was gone for 

quite a few years. He also lost his ticket to practice law. 

I have no idea what happened to Mike, but I hope he recovered and is now in 

good stead. You‟re in my prayers, Mike. He wasn‟t, however, in my prayers at that 

moment. He had an idea. “Me next, Cady. Let‟s get it on.” 



“Mike, are you out of your fucking mind? Why the hell would I take on a guy 

like you for no reason?” 

He was really drunk, but that didn‟t mean he wasn‟t also still really strong and a 

lot more than I wanted to mess with. “„Cause I wanna fight, that‟s why.” 

“Yeah, right. Mike Sanborn, I‟ve known you since I was a little kid. You‟d kick 

my ass, you idiot. There‟s no way I‟m fighting you.” I smiled at him. “Just go get 

another beer, Mike. You‟ll get over it.” 

Simple minded as most drunks, he chuckled and walked away. 

I turned around, still looking for the beer I was drinking, or even all the beer I 

brought with me, hoping no one stole it. I was also futilely hoping yet to get laid. 

Another hand touched my shoulder, followed by a deep voice that made me think 

of that Jimmy Dean song, “Big John”. “Me, next,” he challenged. 

Shit, I was scared just hearing the damned voice. I couldn‟t wait to turn and see 

which Superman clone was next, hoping to bash the holy hell out of Fred and Millie‟s 

oldest boy. 

It was Dave Porter. 

In case he might‟ve forgotten, I reminded him. “Um, you‟re Dave Porter.” 

“Yeah, I am. I‟m next.” 

“You‟re shitting me, right? You can‟t honestly expect me to fight you.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you‟d kill me. Are you out of your fucking mind? I‟m not fighting you. 

No way in hell.” 

“But, I wanna fight.” 



Oh, wonderful! He‟s fuckin‟ drunk, too. Mom! Damn it, Mom! Now what? 

Then I saw Dave Chouinard. I grabbed him and pulled him close. “Dave, you 

know who that is, don‟t you?” 

He took a pull on his beer, then looked at me, his mouth drawn tight in that 

special smile of his. “Yup. It‟s Dave Porter. He‟s gonna fuck you up, man. Bad.” 

fuck up?” 

“That‟s kinda what I was thinking. Any way you can talk to him?” 

“About what? You want me to tell him you‟ll kick his ass if he doesn‟t shut the 

“Shit, Dave, I don‟t know. Maybe, if you think that‟d do it. Tell that big bastard 

anything you want, but I ain’t fightin‟ him. Not tonight, not ever.” 

Dave took another swig. “Lemme see what I can do.” With another glimpse of 

that tight lipped smile, he walked over and started talking with Porter. 

I went looking for my beer. All the girls were gone, but I knew, as a last ditch 

plan, Carolyn would still be available. She was always available for me. 

There‟s an add-on to the story. I believe it was one of my nobler deeds ever, 

except for the Jim Chouinard event, which I‟ll tell you about in a moment. 

It seems I kicked Ken‟s ass even worse than I thought. He even refused to go to 

work the following Monday, and things really went downhill from there. He was totally 

embarrassed, to the point he confided in a friend he was considering suicide. 

I heard about it around Tuesday, I think, of the following week. That‟d be three 

or four days, minimum, after the fight. When the guys told me, I honestly felt bad. I 

mean, I was pissed that he‟d hit me, and really pissed when he kept me from getting laid, 

but it didn‟t hurt that much when he hit me. Plus, Carolyn and I made love all night long 



when I got to her house around three. It was a no harm, no foul deal, as I saw it, and I 

was ready to blow it all off. 

That wasn‟t Ken‟s take, not by any means. From what I was told, he was still 

hiding in his room at his parents‟ house, considering taking his life. 

We all talked about it, and I had an idea. Once we thrashed out the details, a few 

of us headed for Ken‟s house to enact it. Bill Palmer had to go in first. He let slip part of 

the story I came up with, just enough to entice Ken to let the rest of us inside. I wanted 

witnesses to what I had in mind, both to add credibility for Ken, and to back me up, in 

case he didn‟t believe the whopper I‟d concocted. 

When I saw Ken, I almost screwed it up with my astonished reaction. His entire 

face was varying shades of purple, yellow, and an ugly tinge of red. His nose was a good 

two times normal size, broken more than once. His eyes were still so swollen he could 

barely see. From the way he moved, I‟m certain I broke a few of his ribs. He even had 

bruises visible where his shirt collar hung open. I figured, if a cop saw this man, I was 

going to jail, for sure. 

I didn‟t have a mark on me. The only blow Ken ever scored was that first shot to 

my chin, and it wasn‟t even that sore the next day. 

I know Bob Chouinard was with us, and I think Dave Chouinard was the other 

one, along with Bill Palmer. When I got started with my story for Ken, they collectively 

backed me up, affirming every piece of bullshit I fed this poor, beaten man. 

I began by asking Ken for his forgiveness. He was surprised and told me he 

didn‟t know what there was to forgive. We convinced him he was so drunk he didn‟t 

realize it was actually me who started the fight. Worse, after all that happened, and 



because I hurt him a little bit, too, I was worried he might later decide to seek revenge 

against me. 

Ken looked me over, seeing not a mark on me while he looked like someone from 

a county fair sideshow, and asked what the fuck I was talking about. 

That‟s where the other guys were most helpful. We convinced Ken I‟d suffered 

severe internal injuries from his fists, and it was only due to receiving prompt medical 

attention I was still alive today. I almost got tears in my eyes, even if not for the reason 

he thought, telling him this bullshit tale. The man was a sad and pitifully beaten human 

being. Still, we convinced him he won the fight, even though his injuries were “a little 

more noticeable than mine”. 

I explained I was most afraid he‟d decide later on to exact a measure of the 

vengeance he might be feeling. As a group, we convinced him it was only fair to feel I‟d 

already suffered enough. With the ongoing pain of all my internal injuries, I‟d be paying 

for quite a while to come. 

Believe it or not, he bought all that hogwash. Even gave me a sermon on how to 

manage my temper. He was almost finished when I was ready to take it all back and tell 

him to stuff his fucking sermon, but I managed to grit my teeth and let him wrap it up his 

way. When he did, he and I shook hands, he forgave me again, and we all left to get 

drunk. 

********** 

I mentioned the good deed I did for Jim Chouinard. So, while you‟re all still 

forming an opinion on this Bill Cady asshole, I‟ll toss it in and see if it helps me. As I 

mentioned, Jim, better known as JC, was Cool with a capital “C”. He was the man, long 



before the phrase “you da man” ever came to be. He got the most beautiful women, 

could drink the most beer, (not the fastest, however; that title was all mine), and was the 

superlative in every aspect. JC was a uniquely handsome man in everyone‟s eyes. 

He later married a girl named Jeannie, but I can‟t find her name in any of the 

Sexton alumni logs, so I won‟t use a last name. I can attest this woman was what can 

only be called drop-dead beautiful, nothing unusual for JC. They‟d only been married 

two or three years when this happened, and I think I did the right thing. 

read it. 

You, however, will have your own opinion of what kind of guy I am after you 

There was a nightclub located out past East Lansing, closer to Lake Lansing than 

anyplace else, called The Dells. It was a meat market, and I‟m now reminded of yet 

another story I‟ll include when this is finished. It certainly wasn‟t right, what JC did, but 

it‟s also not anything all that unusual in a younger man, especially when a little alcohol is 

poured into him to feed the fires lurking below. 

He was with a few guys after they finished playing either a softball or baseball 

game, and they went to The Dells to suck down a few beers. As too often happens, a few 

beers became many and it was suddenly much later than JC had in mind when things got 

started. He was talking with a young woman I‟m led to understand wasn‟t at all hard to 

look at, but I wasn‟t there, so I can‟t say. Either he instinctively put the move on her, or 

it was her idea, or both, but the end result was the predictable one. 

Jeannie was out of town for some reason. I don‟t know if I was ever told why, but 

it‟s irrelevant. With a lot of beer sloshing around inside his gut, and a monster hard-on 

big enough to do some serious damage if used the wrong way, he took this young lovely 



back to his place. I‟ll leave any details to your imagination, but will include one very 

pertinent fact. The temptress who accompanied JC and granted his every sexual wish had 

one teeny-weeny “flaw”, albeit temporary in nature. She was having her period. 

JC took her home, or to her car, or somewhere, the following morning. Since 

Jeannie wasn‟t due back until evening, he went to his parents‟ house to see some of his 

brothers and shoot the shit. 

A small problem arose. Jeannie, for reasons unknown, came back in the late 

morning. JC hadn‟t yet gone back home. He also hadn‟t stripped the bed. 

Jeannie, being one of those “too quick to fly off the handle females”, saw all the 

bloodstains and immediately jumped to only one conclusion. She was somehow positive 

JC had cheated on her and didn‟t even offer him a chance to explain. 

As if he‟d be that stupid. As we all know, when you‟re accused of doing anything 

serious, from cheating on your woman to anything else, probably even murder, you don‟t 

answer questions. You also do not, under any conditions, offer possible scenarios to 

explain it. If you do, it leads down a long and winding path where, at some point, the 

woman will trip you up. From there, your ass is grass and there‟s a Snapper mower on 

the way. 

She went to his parent‟s house and confronted him, calling JC pretty much 

everything but a white man. She was pissed, and she was getting a lawyer, and he could 

look forward to a nasty divorce, a lot of child support, and nothing but the memories he 

once had of her in his bed from now on. 

In summary, things were what JC deemed a little grim. 

I dropped by that afternoon and was informed what was going on. JC was as sad 



as I‟d ever seen him. In truth, he really loved Jeannie, and they had a child he also loved 

very much. His entire world was coming apart. He was as sorry as he could be. It was 

all due to one stupid mistake, an error he swore he‟d never make again, but he knew his 

marriage was beyond saving. 

I asked JC, in front of everyone, if he was serious. If he meant it. If he‟d be at all 

grateful if someone could fix it. 

JC asked me if I‟d completely lost my fucking mind, and why would I ask such a 

stupid question when there was no possible way to fix the mess he was in? 

Okay, let‟s look at the situation. JC was the coolest guy anywhere, and all the 

guys wanted to be his friend. After all, not only was the Chouinard name a truly well 

respected name with kids all over town, JC was the ultimate Chouinard. 

I was a friend of his brother on the third tier. There was JC, then the twins, Dan 

and Dave, then Bob, then Marty, who was really still a little kid at the time, maybe ten or 

eleven years old. 

You bet your ass I wanted him indebted to me! I told him, still standing in front 

of everyone, I knew could fix it for him. They all laughed at me, but I elicited a promise 

JC wouldn‟t leave those premises until I got back. Then I asked him where I could find 

Jeannie. 

She‟s at home, packing to move out, I was told. 

Fine. Everybody sit tight, I‟ll be back in an hour. 

I drove to where JC and Jeannie lived, in an apartment with the most often used 

entrance in the back. I knocked on the screen door and Jeannie appeared a few moments 

later. She had absolutely no idea who I was, which I expected, being so much younger 



than she and JC. “Jeannie, my name‟s Bill Cady. Can I come in and talk with you for a 

moment?” 

“What about?” Leery, wondering who the hell I was, and what I wanted. 

“I‟m a friend of Bob‟s,” I began, “and kind of a friend of JC‟s. Not close, mind 

you, but I know the guy.” 

Her eyes hardened. “That son-of-a-bitch!” She started to close the wooden door. 

“Wait, Jeannie! Hear me out, please. I owe you, and Jim, I guess, an, um, an 

apology. I‟m trying to set things right, if I can.” 

“Why on earth would you owe me an apology? I don‟t even know you?” 

I shuffled my feet, looking down at the porch, penitent as hell. “Yeah, I know 

that, and it makes me feel even worse. Can I come in, just for a minute?” 

Probably more from confusion and curiosity than anything else, Jeannie let me 

inside. She sat at the white kitchen table on a red plastic covered chair and made a 

motion with her head for me to take a seat. 

I remained standing. “I don‟t think I should sit, Jeannie. You‟re probably gonna 

hate my guts when I tell you what I have to say, but I just can‟t bear to keep it inside any 

longer.” Then I looked at her, my face as mournful as I could make it. “Plus, I can‟t let 

someone else pay for my mistake.” 

Now she really wanted to know what the hell was on my oddball mind, but she 

merely watched my face, waiting for whatever was coming next. 

“I was at the Dells last night, Jeannie. I was with a girl.” 

“Yeah?” Her implication was, And I give a rat‟s ass about that because ? 

“JC was there, having a beer or two with some guys on his team.” 



She kept watching me. Okay, stupid, and that‟s important because ? 

I looked at the floor again, too ashamed to face her with this part. “I asked JC if I 

could borrow the keys to this place.” I looked around for a moment at this apartment I‟d 

never been to in my life. If she had any questions, I wanted to be able to answer them. 

“Jeannie, I brought my girl back here and, um, and we had sex.” My eyes met 

hers for a moment. “Jeannie, I had no idea she was having her period! Honest to God, if 

I‟d had any idea ” 

“You son-of-a-bitch! You dirty, rotten son-of-a-bitch! Do you have any idea 

what you‟ve done? Well, do you, you motherfucker? Do you?” 

I shrunk back. “Well, I heard ” 

“I don‟t give a fuck what you heard, you asshole! I accused my husband of 

cheating on me because of you, you dirty motherfucker! I was all ready to go get a 

divorce from the man I love, all because of you, you dirty, rotten bastard!” 

“Jeannie, if there‟s any way I can make it up to you ” 

“Get out! Get out, you rotten motherfucker! Get out before I kill you! Now I 

have to go apologize to my Jim and all I can do is pray he‟ll forgive me and take me 

back! You rotten motherfucker! I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” 

“Wait, Jeannie! Maybe I can help!” 

“How, you son-of-a-bitch? How the hell can you help me, as if I‟d even let you, 

you rotten motherfucker!” 

“I‟m heading over to his folks‟ house. He‟s there and ” 

”I know that, asshole! That‟s where I‟m going right now, hoping I can undo all 

the shit you‟ve caused in my life!” 



“Please, Jeannie, I‟m begging you. Just let me confess to JC myself, with no one 

else around. He might kick the shit out of me for it, but at least that way, I‟ll know it‟s all 

behind me. Please, Jeannie? Let me go see him, and I‟ll confess it all, then tell him to 

come see you. Believe me, when I talk with JC, I‟m sure I can make him understand. 

Please?” 

She glared at me, her eyes seething with hatred. “Okay, but if JC‟s not here in 

one hour, I‟m going over there.” 

Backing out, I said, “Thank you, Jeannie! Thank you, so much! You won‟t 

regret it. I promise you, you won‟t regret it.” 

She looked at me and snarled, “I hope JC kicks your fucking ass, you prick!” 

Then she slammed the door. 

my ass. 

When I told JC, he almost cried. Even hugged me. By the way, he didn't kick 

All the guys thought I was not only a hero, I was the best actor and greatest liar 

they‟d ever known. 

As a postscript to that story, I recently learned their marriage didn‟t last a whole 

lot longer, and I‟d say Jim was better off that way. Jeannie got really pissed off at him 

one night when he was drunk. (Like guys in their 20s never get drunk, for Pete‟s sake?) 

She decided she was leaving him, but she also left a “calling card”, of sorts. He 

was passed out in bed. Jeannie packed everything she was taking with her, put the baby 

in her car, then came back and shat on his chest! 

She wanted him to remember her. That really took care of it. He did. He always 

will, now. No one can say Jeannie “didn‟t give a shit”, since she did. On his chest. 



### 

One more incident comes to mind, as I mentioned, concerning The Dells. I was a 

reasonably regular customer there, since my false ID was so good I even got arrested 

once for public intoxication, and wasn‟t charged with being a minor in possession of 

alcohol. They booked me as twenty-three years old and never even caught on until after I 

was released the next day. 

I met a really pretty college girl we‟ll call Kim one night, and we hit it off right 

away. We ended up at her apartment, and I didn‟t leave until almost sunup. She was a 

really great lady. Her parents were pretty well off, so she had an apartment instead of 

living in a dorm. She was a senior at Michigan State University. We dated a while and 

the sex was fantastic. None of our dates were all that special. Usually, we‟d just dance 

and have a few drinks at The Dells before going back to her place to make love. 

She asked me to meet her one evening at her apartment, so I did. I got there on 

time and she let me in. After the standard kissing and groping, Kim said she had 

something to tell me. I was all ears, so we sat on the couch, getting cozy with my arm 

around her shoulders. 

Kim said she wasn‟t making a request, even a suggestion, but she‟d be very happy 

to marry me if I wanted. As I was gathering my chin out of my lap, she added the fact 

she was pregnant with my baby. 

Before any questions could be asked, if they would‟ve been, she swore she hadn‟t 

been with anyone but me, and she was two months pregnant. She didn‟t feel I owed it to 

her to get married, but she‟d happily go along with it, if that‟s what I wanted. She‟d also 

understand if I didn‟t want to be married. To her, or anyone. 



I was extremely shocked, which only shows how stupid a guy can be. Here I was, 

putting all my good stuff into her, and I was shocked when she got pregnant. Duh! Bill, 

do you remember biology class, you dipshit? 

I‟ve never in my life been one to shirk my duty. I wasn‟t sure how I felt about 

Kim, but whatever I did feel was very positive, and she was also damned good looking. 

I‟ve never liked the idea of abortion for anyone, but I also don‟t feel it‟s any of my 

business unless the pregnant female is a minor who calls me Dad. 

I thought about it a moment, then gave Kim a surprise of my own. I said I‟d 

marry her, if she‟d have me, but I‟d have to ask my folks first. That made absolutely no 

sense to Kim until I added I wasn‟t the twenty-three she thought I was, I was still only 

seventeen. I drove laundry truck part time in the evenings for Nick at Capitol Laundry. 

She was shocked, to say the least. We talked a while, kissed a bit, and she shooed 

me out the door. Kim had a plan of her own, I later learned. 

Kim called an older man she knew was interested in her, a man I don‟t think 

she‟d‟ve ever even considered dating under other circumstances. She invited him to 

come over and bring some wine. He did, and they somehow got romantically carried 

away that very evening. It all ended up in her bed, and Kim had a devoted love slave she 

could keep as long as she wanted the man. He was an engineer at Oldsmobile and made 

very good money. He was also head over heels in love with her by the time he left that 

evening. 

A few weeks later, Kim “discovered” she was pregnant. He wouldn‟t hear of 

anything other than getting married right away, and they eloped. When school was done, 

she moved to the huge house he owned in Owosso, Michigan, and they set up 



housekeeping. Their little boy, explained away by Kim much the way as I was born, as a 

premature, seven month birth, was named William. Kim just said that name made it feel 

special to her, and he thought that was fine. 

Billy is their only child. 

I used to go see him a few times every year, bringing him gifts like a baseball 

glove, a football, things like that. I was an old friend of Mommy‟s from college and we 

liked to keep in touch. Her husband even welcomed me, never mentioning the fact Billy 

looks an awful lot like Mom‟s college friend. 

Nancy, my second wife and the mother of my first children, disapproved. She 

argued so much, I finally stopped going to see Billy. Still, whether you know it or not, 

Billy, Daddy loves you, boy. He really does. 

### 

I met Carolyn Ramsey when I was working at Ford‟s Standard station, an Amoco 

gas station owned by Bill Ford. She drove a green VW and bought gas at our place. As 

is usual with me, I was flirtatious when I first waited on her, and she liked the idea a great 

deal. 

I find it hard now to imagine how I could‟ve impressed anyone at that point in my 

life. I worked about sixty hours per week at Bill‟s place, both as the night mechanic and 

on the drive during the day. We had two islands with two pumps on each. I was so good, 

I could service eight cars at once, including cleaning the windshield on each car, as well 

as checking the oil, water and air filter. 

The only guy I ever saw faster than me was Al Heksem. I think Al could‟ve done 



all that and even filled some tires at the same time. He was incredible to watch when he 

got going. 

About the only clothing I ever wore was my Amoco uniform, some grey pants 

and a light blue shirt. My hands were always grimy as hell, and I never could get the 

grease out of the skin cracks or from under my nails. I wore work boots and a grimy T- 

shirt, although I skipped the stupid looking cap Bill wanted me to wear. 

I‟d usually get to work at noon, earlier if Bill needed me, and work until at least 

nine at night. Then, Al and I would often pull our own cars inside to work on them. I‟d 

just gotten the 1966 Chevelle Malibu SS I‟d later turn into a full blown race car, so we 

worked on it quite often. 

When we were done, we‟d get some beer and go cruising the country roads with 

the radio on, telling each other jokes and lies. One of our favorite roads, if we didn‟t plan 

on being out real late, was called “Stroh‟s Alley”, even when I was still in high school. 

You couldn‟t drive fifty feet without seeing an empty beer can, and most of „em were 

Stroh‟s beer. 

In an ironic twist, I lived on that road with my ex-wife, Nancy, for three years. 

She still lives there in a house her father built for her next door. 

Back to Carolyn. She was crazy about me, grimy hands, grungy uniform, and all. 

She kept hinting we should go out some time. I kept thinking not only was she not all 

that pretty, although she had a fantastic body, I didn‟t have a lot of money at the time to 

spend on a girl. I was putting all the money I could spare into my car, building it up. 

I bought the car used, three years old, for $1,995, and put another $6,000 into it 

building it into a race car. Gas was 20.9¢ per gallon, to give you a reference. 



One night Al had something to do, and I wasn‟t gonna work on my car. She came 

by to get gas and asked me, I‟m sure with a degree of pessimism, if I wanted to come to 

her place when I got off work. 

I surprised her by saying yes, and asked if I could bring some beer. She said that 

was fine and offered to make me dinner, which I refused, since I wouldn‟t want food until 

I was all done drinking. I figured I‟d go later to The Eat Shoppe in the north end and get 

one of their one pound burgers, which were more than most people could hope to eat. 

I once ate two of „em at one sitting. I ate a lot when I was a growing boy. 

Carolyn was in a negligee when I showed up. I only finished two beers before we 

were in bed. Back then, I had the ability to make love half a dozen times or more in one 

night, and she taxed that ability before I went home with the sun already rising. 

Poor baby. She worked in a clerical capacity for some insurance agency out on 

East Michigan Avenue. I‟m sure she suffered a lot that day. 

I called Bill Ford and said I‟d be a couple hours late. He chewed my ass a little, 

but Bill always chewed my ass anyway, even when I‟d done nothing wrong, so it was no 

biggie. 

Before long, I was stopping by to see Carolyn, and have some great sex, just 

about every night. However, I didn‟t give up my beer rides with Al, or with one of both 

of the Radigan brothers, Brian and Kevin, twins. I‟d go out drinking with my buddies 

until one or two in the morning, then trudge on over to Carolyn‟s place with a huge hard- 

on and ask her to fix it. 

I‟m sure, since she had to be up around seven each day, she started taking naps in 

the evening to be ready for me. 



One night, drunk and ready to go see Carolyn, Brian Radigan didn‟t want to go 

home. He wasn‟t tired yet, he insisted. Another guy, Ray Hagerman, a kid two years 

younger who was originally a friend of that David thing, was in the back seat of my 

Chevelle. He wasn‟t tired, either. 

That was fine, and I wouldn‟t even mind drinking some more, but I was horny 

and already in the habit of having sex pretty much every night. When I told „em what I 

wanted to do, they said they‟d sit in my car and drink beer until I was done. They also 

wanted me to leave the key so they could listen to jams on the radio while I was inside 

screwing. 

I believe I mentioned Mom didn‟t raise any foolish children until she had that 

David thing, when she went gaga with the idea, so I nixed that part. I could just imagine 

these drunks firing up a car that powerful and wrecking it while I‟m bonking Carolyn for 

the third time, all because they got bored waiting for me. 

After I finished climbing the stairs to her third floor apartment, I went in and we 

got in bed. We made love three times, and I was having a cigarette while I recovered. 

Carolyn was beside me, naked, her head on my chest, as usual. She‟d always wait like 

that in case I wanted her again when I finished smoking. 

This time, I had another idea. A nasty, sneaky, dirty, lowlife plan. I told her I‟d 

lost a lot of money gambling and there were some guys outside who were willing to make 

a trade. They‟d let some of the money slide if she was willing to have sex with them. 

I‟d already had some pretty strong suspicions Carolyn was a nymphomaniac, and 

it seemed I was on the right track. She agreed to do it without a helluva lot of coaxing on 

my part. So, I got dressed and went down to tell the guys. 



Ray Hagerman was out of the car like a shot. I had to call him back to make sure 

he knew the cover story. Then he ran up all three flights. Brian went up next, almost an 

hour later, after Ray finished his mini-orgy with her and came back down. I then started 

taking other friends over there once in a while, and a few even became what you‟d have 

to call regulars. Carolyn never complained, telling me she was glad she could help me 

out. 

One time, on a Friday night, there were four cars, counting mine, that pulled into 

the driveway and went out back to park. A total of nineteen guys went up and down 

those stairs that night, and I doubt any of them stopped at just one time. When I went up 

to see her after about a dozen guys had been there and gone, she had a sheet on the floor 

and was servicing the guys from there. She said the bed was now too messy for her to be 

in it, since she was usually on the bottom. 

Very lovingly, I thought, she even said she‟d put on clean sheets whenever I was 

ready to take another turn. Considering she‟d already had sex forty to fifty times so far, 

and a couple of the guys were talking about “one more for the road”, I passed. I did, 

however, give her a very affectionate kiss. 

It went on like that for a year or more, but then I became pretty involved in the 

boxing and hustling pool down south, so we drifted apart. 

I stopped one day, I believe it was in 1978 and I was happily into my second of 

the four marriages, in St. Johns, where I knew she‟d moved because she‟d sent me an 

invitation to her wedding a couple years past. We didn‟t have sex, of course, since I was 

married to Nancy by then, and Carolyn was married to a factory rat who worked at 

Oldsmobile. She had two kids and was in her seventh or eighth month with another. 



She also weighed about the same as I did, which would‟ve meant we‟d‟ve been 

divorced if she‟d ever gotten me to marry her, as she‟d frequently suggested when we 

were lovers. We had two cups of tea together and I went home to finish up another day 

of the fighting Nancy and I seemed to do about eight days per week. Details will follow 

in the section dubbed “The Marital Years”. 

The poem I mentioned about Stackeley, if you choose to read it, is added at the 

bottom, after the Epilogue. 



CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Things got pretty tough for me after the accident. The pain in my right leg was 

unrelenting. A large hole on the inner side of my lower leg didn‟t heal closed for a year 

or so and was always draining fluids into the gauze bandages I had to replace a couple, 

three times per day. The doctors installed two metal rods inside the bone, knee to ankle 

and knee to hip. They left some extra rod sticking out of my hip bone so they‟d be able 

to grip it when it was time for removal. 

That “extra” prohibited me from sleeping on my left side without a big pillow 

between my legs because it would dig into the muscle in my rump when my knees came 

together. It often did the same thing when I was driving, sometimes even just walking. 

The upper rod was finally removed four years later. As far as the lower rod, the 

surgeons even had to call Hospital Maintenance to borrow some vise grips, but they 

couldn‟t get it out. I sometimes wonder what‟ll happen to that silly thing when they 

cremate what‟s left of me after I‟m gone. Clank. 



The bones in my leg were still knitting for about four years afterward, so the pains 

were both frequent and varied. Nice touch of excitement, I guess. A change of pace, if 

you will. It hurt to do anything but drink beer and have sex, so I initially spent as much 

time as I could doing both. It was very hard to keep up with the guys I‟d been running 

with, and we began drifting apart. 

I soon became an HSDO, (High School Drop-Out), in my junior year, about 

halfway through. The pain of all that walking in school was pretty bad, and I felt like a 

third wheel anytime I got together with anyone I knew. Easy to do when you‟re a six-feet 

two and a half inch, two-hundred-twenty pound bale of insecurity, and I was. 

Soon after I dropped out, my future began to look up. I found a good job at 

Morris Auto Parts, driving the delivery truck, for $1.50 per hour! Man, talk about goin‟ 

places! I was! To Holt. To Mason. To DeWitt. To Grand Ledge. All over Lansing. A 

new world opened up for me, and it stunk. 

Ironically, I graduated six weeks ahead of my class. I went out to MSU and met 

with some counselors. Using my trusty silver tongue, I somehow attained a waiver of the 

normal requirement of waiting until after your class has graduated to take the test. It was 

a five hour test I aced in less than three, and the results arrived six weeks before the class 

had their ceremony. Oh, joy. 

If I‟d gone the regular three years, when I started my senior year in 1967 that 

David thing would be starting as a sophomore, which it did but I wasn‟t around. I 

think that was good, since it would‟ve only been another problem I didn‟t need, and I was 

long since finished defending it or sticking up for it. 

Many people might say this would be a good opportunity for me to tell you a few 



nice things about that David thing, but that ain‟t necessarily so. That‟d be a lot like me 

asking you to take Grandpa‟s old pickup truck, the one that hasn‟t even been driven since 

he turned in his license in ‟87 when his eyes went bad, and get it ready to run in the Indy 

500. That dog won‟t hunt. No can do. 

However, I will recap what I know, keeping in mind a lot of this is what I heard 

from Mom, making it secondhand. 

Thinking back, and I mean all the way back to when my folks first bought that 

David thing, I can‟t recall it was ever in a fight. Not once. Not in grade school or high 

school. Not in any neighborhood squabbles. Nothing I heard about when it was an adult. 

I don‟t think that David thing ever had the balls to fight anyone. 

Nothing miraculous in school, either. I‟m not sure that David thing ever got an 

“A” in anything. It‟s not stupid, but no one ever volunteered its name when they voted 

for class valedictorian. It probably came up in the Class Sissy category, but I‟m not 

much on details in that regard. 

That David thing was never with the “in crowd” in school, but the drug crowd 

was an altogether different situation. No arrests, however, of which I was ever made 

privy, and I know Mom would‟ve had to tell me that part if it happened. It would‟ve 

turned fifty-eight on February 11 th , 2009, and any successes are, to my knowledge, still to 

come. They haven‟t shown up yet, at last reporting. 

Mom tried a reunification effort in 1979, at Thanksgiving. She arranged for “the 

entire family” to have dinner at that David thing‟s house. It was married to the third wife 

at that time, Barb. She had a daughter, Nikki, by some other guy before she met that 



David thing. They later had a little boy, Matthew, who eventually turned out to be the 

most annoying little spoiled brat I can ever recall suffering. 

It originally married a girl named Becky, who I have to admit, I tried to sleep with 

when she left it and stayed with my then wife and me for a while. She wanted to, but my 

wife was sleeping in a bedroom down the hall, so she was too afraid. After that, the 

opportunity didn‟t come up again. 

They divorced and it later married a little fox named Nancy Corbeil from Eaton 

Rapids, a great lady. It was getting heavier and heavier into its dope, so she finally bailed 

on it in disgust a few years later. I assume it made Barb a million “I‟m gonna change” 

promises, because she‟s not a stupid woman, but that‟s only a guess. I wasn‟t there, and 

wouldn‟t‟ve wanted to be, if asked. 

At this Thanksgiving dinner, my parents were there, along with Barb and both 

kids, that David thing, some guy he ran around with named Slick, my wife Nancy, my 

daughter Stephanie, and my sons, Stuart and Tyler, who was two years old. We tried 

watching the football game, since the Detroit Lions always play that day, but that David 

thing was in rare form. I didn‟t dare tell Mom the asshole was stoned on cocaine, but 

knowing it made me want to kill the son-of-a-bitch. 

Everything no exceptions was hilarious to it and its friend. They both 

cackled like a couple drunken chickens all afternoon. That David thing kept standing in 

front of the TV on purpose, particularly during any big play, and laughed like hell when it 

pissed me off. It was as stoned on cocaine as anyone I‟ve ever seen. I finally apologized 

to Mom, but I said I had to leave before I killed that annoying asshole. We still hadn‟t 

eaten yet. 



Surprisingly, Nancy thought so, too. She also wanted to smack it with a brick. 

When that David thing was married to the other Nancy Cady, whom I think is 

long remarried by now, I was still married to Donna, better known as “TJ”. I gave her 

that nickname. It stood for “Thunder Jugs”, as she had a thirty-nine and a half inch bust. 

That was mostly why we got married in the first place. 

That David thing was still married to its Nancy when I divorced TJ and married 

my Nancy, who was even prettier than its Nancy. This entire section of the story is 

beginning to sound like that soap opera, As The Stomach Turns. 

We lived in Laingsburg, at 6960 East Grand River Road, on a lot I bought to put 

my mobile home on when we left the trailer park in 1971. TJ and I didn‟t have much 

money, since I was laid off the day after our honeymoon and didn‟t find a job for eight 

months. I did mechanical work for people at my house every day, but we were very short 

on cash. She worked in Lansing for American Bank & Trust, so I took her to work each 

day while I worked at home. We drove a banged up ‟69 Nova, (my fault). 

Anyone who knew us was well aware it would be wrong to ever ask us to drive 

anywhere unnecessarily. We simply didn‟t have the money for gas, which had reached 

the outrageous price of 33¢ per gallon. Yet, the Nancy that David thing married called 

me one night. I believe it was a Saturday. She was horrified because that David thing 

said it planned to kill itself and she didn‟t know what to do. I said I‟d be right there. 

MapQuest shows the trip is twenty-six miles. I always felt it was longer, but I 

don‟t argue with computers. In any event, I made it there in twenty minutes, with TJ 

riding along in horror as I swerved in and out of traffic. Of course, I knew it was as 

phony as all the other suicide attempts made by that David thing to get attention, but I 



was fed up. To no one‟s surprise, at least, not mine, Nancy was on the porch when I got 

there. I imagine, when she said she‟d called me and it knew why I was coming into town 

madder than hell, that David thing told her to make me go away when I arrived. 

Fat chance of that, asshole! I ran up on the porch, only to discover that David 

thing had locked the door. It knew I was pissed. Rather than waste time, I kicked in the 

door. When it saw me, that David thing ran like hell through the kitchen to the back door 

and made it almost outside. 

Bad leg and all, I caught up when it was going out the back door. The 1970 

Chevelle Malibu SS in the driveway was only a few feet from the door. I slugged it once 

on the jaw and knocked that David thing across the trunk onto the ground, then lifted it 

up and slammed it against the car. “If you really wanna commit suicide, asshole, just tell 

someone again that‟s what you plan to do. Then, have that person tell me. When I hear 

it, I‟m gonna come kill you myself, just so I don‟t have to listen to anymore of your lousy 

fucking whining!” Then I hit it in the face to make sure it‟d have a good reason to cry 

now, since it started doing that when I slammed it against the fender. 

I looked at it in disgust. “I can‟t stand you, you motherfucker, and I don‟t ever 

want to see you again. If you come by Mom‟s and I‟m there, just keep going. I don‟t 

even want to see your ugly fuckin‟ face!” TJ and I left. I never stopped trembling with 

rage until after we were back at home. 

In all the years I knew it, that David thing never made more than $25,000 in any 

given year, if that much. It drove truck for Triquet Paper for a few years, then switched 

to working in pest control. I thought that was odd since that David thing was deathly 

allergic to bee and wasp stings. It almost died once in my car when a bee stung it on the 



arm forty miles from the nearest hospital, up at the cottage. However, if that David thing 

had died, I doubt I‟d‟ve taken the day off at work unless Mom begged me to do it. It sure 

wouldn‟t‟ve bothered me any. 

The next time I heard from that David thing was in 1975. I‟d divorced TJ and 

married possibly the most beautiful woman I‟ve ever met, my Nancy. It was a month or 

so before the wedding, in May I think, so she and I weren‟t fighting yet. We lived on a 

farm in Grand Ledge, a few miles outside of Lansing. 

I received a call around two in the morning from a treatment facility over in 

Dimondale. It seems that David thing was alleging yet another suicide attempt, but it had 

the rare good sense not to let our parents hear about it. Mom was already having heart 

problems and she sure as hell didn‟t need the extra stress of his phony bullshit. They 

wanted to know if I‟d take that David thing off their hands later that afternoon. 

It was in the process of a divorce from its Nancy, had no job, no house, and 

apparently no friends. At least, none who‟d be straight and sober enough to pick it up at 

the drug house. Uncertain why I agreed, I said I‟d be there that afternoon. 

When I collected it, that David thing looked much like one of Mom‟s favorite 

descriptions, as if it was “shot at and missed, then shit at and hit”. The story it told was 

of taking a good sixty amphetamines, but the doctor said that more than likely would‟ve 

actually been fatal. He said it was wired and bouncing off the walls all night, so he‟d 

guesstimate maybe six pills, no more than ten at the most. 

I was driving a beautiful new 1975 Olds Toronado. The Sunday temps were just 

right and I had both windows down as we cruised I-496 on the way over to Grand River 

Avenue, where I‟d exit and go west a couple miles. 



That David thing never once thanked me for going to all this trouble. It did, 

however, need a place to stay. From a sense of obligation to Mom, I told it I‟d let it stay 

with us for a while, but there were some conditions. I had two little kids, eight and seven, 

in my house now. No drugs of any kind. None. No exceptions, and none of his druggie 

friends were to come to the house. I added the “no drugs” rule meant he wouldn‟t have 

any on my property, and he wouldn‟t be on my property if he‟d been using them. 

That David thing seemed to think we were in negotiations somehow, so it made a 

counter offer. No chemicals of any kind, but it had to have the marijuana. That was non- 

negotiable, it told me. 

I asked, “What the fuck part of „no fucking drugs at all‟ are you having so much 

trouble understanding? I said no drugs, and I meant it. No drugs at all. None, under any 

conditions.” 

That didn‟t sit well with that David thing, and it was quiet most of the way to my 

house. Nancy had taken the kids somewhere, figuring I‟d need some time with good ol‟ 

shit-for-brains to explain the ground rules. She was right. I didn‟t seem to be getting 

through to that drug hazed mind. 

After we discussed it a while, with me not even budging on my position, that 

David thing went out and sat in the side yard for about an hour. Then it came back inside 

with a battle plan. “You probably shouldn‟t‟ve even picked me up.” 

“You‟re probably right, but I did, so here we are. You know the rules if you 

wanna stay here, so what‟s it gonna be?” 

“I think I‟ll just do what I was gonna do. I‟m gonna kill myself. I can‟t stand it 

anymore. Not like this.” 



Assuming that was done as a pity ploy, and probably to get me mad enough to 

kick the shit out of it, I ignored the whole thing. Instead, I had an idea. “You wait right 

here. I‟ll be back in a minute.” 

I went upstairs and got my .12 gauge shotgun and one shell, #6 birdshot, then 

came back down. I handed that David thing the shotgun and held out the shell. 

“Go out behind the barn,” I instructed, “and be sure you‟re facing the barn when 

you do it. I don‟t want all that shit on the back wall where I‟ll have to scrub it off. Blow 

your fuckin‟ brains out by putting this end in your mouth and pulling the trigger. I‟ll use 

the backhoe to bury your sorry ass, and I‟ll tell Mom you decided to move to California 

and start over.” I again foisted the shell at it. 

“You really want me to kill myself, don‟t you?” 

“It‟d be one goddamned good way to make you stop all that fuckin‟ whining I‟ve 

listened to since you were born. C‟mon, asshole, don‟t just talk about it, do it! You have 

a shotgun and one shell, which is all you‟ll need. If you want to commit suicide, I say go 

for it.” 

That David thing just looked at me for a while, incomprehensive. Unable to 

fathom what I‟d said. That I meant it. Finally, setting the shotgun aside, “I can‟t.” 

“Wow! There‟s a big fuckin‟ surprise.” 

“You‟d let me do it, wouldn‟t you?” 

“In a fuckin‟ heartbeat. Yup, I would.” I pointed to the gun. “There it is. Go out 

behind the barn and all your troubles will soon be over.” 

“You‟d probably like that, wouldn‟t you?” 

“Doesn‟t sound like all that bad an idea to me.” 



“I can‟t stay here. Not with you bein‟ like that, and all these fuckin‟ rules.” 

“Awwwwwwww, poor little shit. Too bad. Where should I take you, then?” 

“Take me to Slick‟s.” 

“Not a problem.” We got in my car and I dropped it off at the house of a fellow 

doper out near Logan and Jolly. When it got out, I said, “Don‟t ever call me again.” 

“I won‟t, you motherfucker.” It shut my door. 

The only other times I heard from it over the next twenty-five years were when 

Mom had a medical emergency, which was every few weeks starting in the early 90s, just 

after I moved to California. It‟d keep me up to date in a civil conversation about how 

she was doing, always per Mom‟s request, then we‟d hang up. That David thing seemed 

to almost like it that way, calling on my 800 number with the freedom to hang up on me 

if it heard anything it didn‟t like. 

People have a tendency to draw extra courage on the phone. They‟ll say things to 

you they‟d never dare say to your face. 

I drove my Z-28 to Ontario, Canada in September, 1996, to collect an adult Irish 

wolfhound, Siobhan. Realizing it would be the last time I might ever see Mom, I came 

through Michigan on the way back. For my own safety, uncertain if I still had any 

outstanding warrants, I called Mom a couple hours out and told her I was on my way. I 

cautioned her not to tell anyone I was coming, but asked if she could have my uncle 

Hewitt, her younger brother, be there, too. He was really the closest thing to a father I‟d 

ever known. 

He was there, along with Grandma Thurston, who looked as if she had about a 

week to live. I believe she said she was ninety-six, and she sure as hell looked it. I also 



wanted to collect the handgun my old man tried to kill me with, which I‟ll get to pretty 

soon. 

My old man finally died in 1991, just six days before his eightieth birthday, 

ending a long period of penance for whatever atrocities he must‟ve committed in his last 

existence. I guess that shows I believe in reincarnation. When he died, since everyone 

justifiably thought Mom might be suicidal, that David thing took the gun to its house. 

She called and that David thing brought it over. We had nothing to say to each 

other, so it stayed long enough to pet my dog, a one-hundred sixty pound girl, and left. 

The only other update I had was on the drugs and booze. I learned, even at the 

time of the Thanksgiving Day brouhaha, that David thing had an $8,000 per month 

cocaine habit. A $25,000 yearly income falls a bit short that way, so it‟s no stretch of the 

imagination to assume drug sales were a big part of its support. 

That David thing evidently got past the drugs. I believe AA and NA were a big 

help, from what I was told. Last I knew, that David thing was an “AA Nazi”, someone 

who‟s called in with hard case drunks unwilling to follow the rules. When a court order 

puts you there, one must be on one‟s best behavior. If not, they call in an “AA Nazi” 

who will browbeat you into behaving. 

Sounds like a good spot for that David thing. It can verbally beat up on people 

and fear no retaliation. I suppose the best one to deal with a fucking crybaby is another 

fucking crybaby, so it makes sense. 

Last report from Mom, who died December 9 th , 1998 at 5:55 p.m., that David 

thing was making a living cleaning some bar at night after it closed. As far as what it‟s 

doing now, we‟re back to the difference between ignorance and apathy. 



I don‟t know, and I don‟t care. 

In short, I do not know the man. Not after all these years. Like it says in Harry 

Chapin‟s song, Through the too many miles, and the too little smiles 

I have no idea what it‟s like, where it‟s going, or what‟ll happen to it. I really 

disliked the little kid, couldn‟t stand the teenage version, and always wanted to just beat 

the living shit out of the young male it became. That there‟s been a change is pretty 

obvious. Without one, that David thing would surely be dead by now. However, what I 

knew all those years ago isn‟t anything I‟d ever want to know again, and the chances 

we‟ll meet up again in this lifetime are somewhere between slim and none. 

### 

From what you‟ve seen so far, you‟ve probably formed an opinion of Bill Cady. 

It‟s good or bad, perhaps even a mixture, based upon you and the way you interpret 

things. This next part is where it‟ll be a little divided for me. I‟m unsure how the girls 

will react to what happened, but I think every guy will agree with me completely. I guess 

you could say it‟s “a guy thing”. 

Of course, it involves sex. Who didn‟t suspect that was coming? 

Yes, the young lady in the damned nice fitting black skirt and that sexy red 

blouse? Over in, let‟s see, row seven? Seat hang on number four, is it? Yes, 

sweety? 

Why do all “guy things” seem to involve sex, you ask? 

Well, that‟s a good question. Perhaps it‟s because most guys think about sex 

almost constantly. That, and guys have some of their own weird ideas about sex. 

Pardon? Are these weird ideas hurtful? 



No, sweetheart. They‟re just different. I guess that‟s the best way to say it. 

Would I be willing to what? To show you how they‟re different? 

Are you sure you want that, honey? I mean, golly gee, we‟d need to be naked if I 

showed you my ideas. 

Oh, I see. That‟s fine with you, huh? Well, would you like me to just ditch all 

these damned people and pardon? 

excuse me? 

while longer? 

Yes, of course that would be rude of me, but when you tell me you want me to 

You think you‟ll get even hotter and readier than you are now if you listen in a 

Well, heck, why didn‟t you say so? Please, Princess, take your seat and listen to 

your heart‟s content. An usher will bring you a drink in just a moment. 

You there! Chop-chop! The lady‟s waiting! 

Gee, sorry „bout that. I almost lost control of my earlobe for a moment. So, I was 

about to refer to the way I reacted to something, the same way I think all the guys will 

react. For you ladies, there are cards on the seats in front of you, right there on the back. 

Please jot your thoughts and an usher will be by to get your card soon. 

No, ma‟am, not that usher. He‟s getting a drink for my hot little friend. 

This “sex thing” didn‟t even involve me. Not as a participant and, before you 

dare ask, I don‟t ever watch porn. I don‟t feel sex is a spectator sport. I either start every 

game, or I demand to be traded. 

I was sixteen and I came home drunk one night. No big surprise from what 

you‟ve seen so far, right? I had some money stashed in the basement, where I‟d slept the 



last six months or so, as soon as I was healed up enough to get up and down the stairs. It 

meant I no longer had to share a room with that David thing, but I did share it with a 

mean mess of spiders. 

None of them whined or cried, so I felt I traded up. 

I went downstairs and got my money, came up and was heading for the front 

door. I planned to get some more beer and head back to the party. I knew a bar on the 

way where I could get some take-out. 

Then I heard a funny noise, like someone was in pain. It was coming from my 

parents‟ bedroom. Alarmed, I stepped across the room and stood listening by the door. I 

heard the same sound, like an exclamation of pain, so I opened the door. “Are you guys 

okay? What‟s that aw, fuck!” 

I slammed the door and took off. I‟d just caught Mom giving him a blowjob. 

Now, you ladies should mark your cards, expressing your varied opinions. Guys, 

we have all of you listed the same way as, That’s fuckin’ disgusting! 

On the off chance any guy might want to change it, see that slim, wavy haired 

blond fellow at the back in the pink tuxedo. His name‟s Percy, and he‟ll probably say he 

agrees with you. He‟ll make the changes for you. 

There are certain facts relating to sexuality that remain unpublished, but I intend 

to share some of that information with you right now. As but one example, there are 

three specific kinds of women in his world who absolutely do not, under any conditions, 

have sex of any kind or form. You can verify this information by asking any guy. 

The women who do not have sex with anyone for any reason are: a) mothers; b) 

daughters, and c); sisters. 



Go ahead, ladies. Check with the guy closest to you. Ask him if his mother, 

daughter, or sister has sex, and he‟ll swear they don‟t. As to a blowjob, not one of those 

women would even consider something so disgusting. While I‟m sure every man here 

loves a good blowjob, we all know damned good and well which women would never do 

anything like that for any guy. 

Well, my illusions were shattered. Mom was having a tube steak dinner, by golly, 

and I flat outright wanted to puke! That shit ain‟t supposed to happen! Not in what we 

call a civilized society! Damn it, anyone else, but not my Mom! Jesus, the whole thing 

about made me sick! 

Thankfully, I had a solution. Deciding I was, by no means, even close to drunk 

enough, I went out and finished the job. I got so shitfaced I could barely remember my 

name was John Lee Carver. 

Wait a minute. That was the name on the draft card I had when I was fifteen. My 

name is shit, don‟t say anything. It‟ll come to me. 

Yeah, I was that bad. I think it was around eleven when I stopped at the house 

and witnessed the heinous debauchery I encountered. When I came back around three, I 

was as plowed as any farmer‟s field can ever get. Stinko. I damned near fell on my face 

when I opened the front door, then stood there swaying a minute until the room got off 

those ball bearings and stopped spinning. I figured it was a new alarm system to confuse 

burglars, making the room tilt and swirl in circles like a merry-go-round. 

To no one‟s surprise, my old man was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and smoking 

cigarettes, waiting for me. I can‟t honestly tell you what he said, or what I might‟ve said, 

because I was that shitfaced. However, I was mad at him. Damned mad, and I‟d‟ve had 



trouble containing that degree of anger if I was sober. In my condition, there wasn‟t a 

prayer. 

Whatever he said, I know all my responses were very loud. Slurred goes without 

saying, and I doubt I‟ll see a show of hands among you wondering if I was at all vulgar. 

At that moment, I hated that son-of-a-bitch so bad, it made whatever I felt for that David 

thing seem like doting affection. I suspect, but can‟t confirm, I was standing there hoping 

he‟d say something that would give me what I‟d dare construe as a good reason to hit 

him. You must‟ve gathered by now, I had a helluva punch. Whenever I threw it, there 

was almost always a casualty. The strongest likelihood is I wanted him to be the next 

casualty I caused. 

Mom came out, and I‟m positive she was embarrassed down to her toes. I‟m also 

positive she knew me well enough by then that, if she didn‟t get me downstairs to my bed 

so I could sleep it off, something bad would probably happen. 

Mom was trying to push me gently toward the kitchen, where I‟d cross it and head 

down the basement stairs. My old man then came back out of the bedroom for some 

reason, so I put my hand against his chest and shoved. He flew back all the way into the 

bedroom and collided with a dresser. 

Fucking fine, I thought. Wanna try that one again, you motherfucker? Or, maybe 

I should call you mother sucked by, you asshole! I‟m sure those were my thoughts but, 

again, all that alcohol. Sheesh! 

More than likely he said something. Much more than likely, I replied to him with 

a very violent threat. Next thing you know, there‟s “Fast Fred” standing in the bedroom 

doorway with a .38 in his hand. I honestly believe he was scared enough to kill me at 



that moment. I need to digress a moment to give you some important information so 

you‟ll understand everything. 

From my early teen years, maybe even thirteen, until I was twenty-seven, I was 

one of the most dangerous kind of people on earth. Not because I was a violent predator, 

like Charles Manson, or Hannibal Lecter. No, it was because of the way I felt inside. 

I honestly didn‟t care if I lived or died. I had no wish to die, beyond the fact I still 

remembered, as I do yet today, how much more wonderful that existence is than what we 

have. I also didn‟t really have a wish to live. 

Why? Why would I? My life wasn‟t happy at all. It wasn‟t something that 

brought me new challenges and opportunities every day. I did what I did each day, went 

to bed, got up the next day and did the same thing. I had nothing to live for. No reason 

to continue, if you will. While I wasn‟t suicidal, I placed little value on my own life. I 

was a helluva lot more afraid of being injured than of being killed, although I knew by 

that point I could survive the most painful injuries and continue undaunted. 

How do you deter, or fend off, a man who‟s willing to die if he has to raise a fist 

against you? You don‟t. You can‟t. A man like that won‟t be scared away by anything, 

and you‟ve gotta kill him to stop him. If you‟re not willing to go that extra yard against a 

guy like that, it‟ll mean your ass. 

I was that guy. 

It lasted until, at age twenty-seven, I got my oldest kids, Stephanie and Stuart. 

Suddenly, I cared. I wanted to be there to watch „em grow up. Suddenly, my life 

mattered a little bit. Those feelings stayed with me until I finally accepted a few years 

ago my kids have turned away from me. What I have now is, in essence, much as it was 



before, but without the steam pressure I felt back then. I‟m not afraid to die, and more 

than likely wouldn‟t feel any kind of regret as I passed into the next existence. The one 

thing I can still sense that makes me want to stick around is the unfinished business of my 

life. Dutiful to the very end, I‟ll plod on until that‟s all been done. When I‟ve reached 

that point, I‟ll make my next decision. 

So, there we stood. Mom and me in the front room. Her in a nighty, me in my 

street clothes, swaying like a tall California redwood in a hurricane force wind. “Fast 

Fred” in the bedroom door with a .38, wondering if someone was going to die in the next 

few minutes. 

Wondering if it might be him, at my hand. Killed by his own son. 

Wondering if it might be me, at his own hand. The killer of his own son. 

Everyone wondering. 

Mom went ballistic, yelling at him to put that goddamned gun down. I told him to 

go ahead and shoot. Said it didn‟t matter to me, and I was telling him the truth. It made 

absolutely no difference at all to me. None. 

Then, when Mom started crying, that made a difference. I loved her too much for 

that, particularly when I was the reason she was crying. I kissed her on the forehead and 

went drunkenly downstairs, where I fell into my bed in a sodden stupor and slept until the 

afternoon. When I got up the next day, nothing was ever said about that incident. We 

never again discussed it, and you‟re the first one I‟ve ever told since it happened. 



CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

Pool. Eight ball. Nine ball. Good stuff, that, and a lot of fun. I began learning to 

play at Rack and Rail, the pool hall down the street from O‟Rafferty. I enjoyed it, and I 

wasn‟t bad, but I‟d‟ve probably gone on to be nothing more than an average player if I 

hadn‟t made the move I did. 

When I left O‟Rafferty and started at Otto, my group of friends changed faster 

than a stripper can switch outfits between acts. There was a pool hall called House of 

Billiards located at the corner of North Grand River and Willow Street, in the same 

shopping center with the Kroger store. It was around halfway from my house to Otto. 

That‟s where I used to go with my Mom when I helped her shop for groceries. 

Yes, the sexy little Asian lady in the fifth row, on the aisle? You have your dainty 

little hand raised, sweetheart. Do you have a question? 

Am I the kind of man who enjoys going with his lady to buy groceries? 



Yes, Princess, I am. I enjoy it, actually, and it gives us time together without 

other people around. Why do you ask? 

Will I go with you, and am I against kissing in public? 

Well, of course I‟ll be happy to accompany you, and I‟m not at all against kissing 

in public as long as the kissing doesn‟t stop when we get home. 

Am I a good kisser? 

All I can say, Angel, is I‟ve received numerous compliments in that regard, and 

never a complaint in my life. 

Am I willing to show you? Prove myself, in a manner of speaking? 

I certainly will. By the way, did you know kissing is more comfortable when 

both people are lying on a bed, naked and relaxed? 

angel. 

You didn‟t, but it sounds good, huh? 

Great. Be sure to wait for me when we‟re done here, you ungodly beautiful little 

So, back at the ranch, I started going to the House of Billiards every day and left 

my former haunt as former. I made a friend over there named Jim Mataya, who went on 

to become one of the most successful professional pool players in the country. He was 

great even back then, in high school. To date, I understand he‟s been world champion of 

8-ball at least six times, maybe more. He‟s dog nuts at playin‟ pool. 

We finally found a regular rhythm when we played. I was consistently able to 

beat Jim Mataya “my way” whenever we played. It seemed to go like clockwork! About 

every twenty-eighth game, I‟d beat him by a ball or two. The rest of the time, Jim merely 

kicked my ass all over the table. 



Not a problem, really, unless I was ever stupid enough to play Jim for money. 

The only way I‟d‟ve done that would be if it was your money, „cause I knew he‟d whip 

my sorry ass nine ways from Sunday. Still, you can‟t play regularly with a great player 

and not learn something. 

In pool hustling, it‟s not just being the best player that makes you money. It‟s 

knowing who to play, and how to beat the guy. Those guys you see come into a bar with 

a cue stick in a case aren‟t hustlers, they‟re showoffs. Any real hustler never wants you 

to know how good he is, or isn‟t. 

I had a day of glory, and I refused to expose it to any risk after I got it. Jim 

Mataya married a woman who would probably be insulted if you told her she was 

beautiful. She‟d be offended because she‟s a lot prettier than just beautiful. Her name is 

Ewa, and she‟s an ABSO, (Absolute Fox). She‟s also a pretty damned good pool player. 

Up until I left Michigan in 1990, I used to go visit the VFW post in Grand Ledge 

on Tuesday evenings to drink beer and shoot pool. There was a tournament starting at 

seven, lasting until somewhere between ten and eleven. It was fun, and a chance to see 

some guys I knew, plus a guy I really liked named Dave Marion, whom I called DW. 

Ewa was there one night and DW told me she was ranked third in the world 

among women pool players. Hell, I knew she was at least third if they based it on her 

looks, but I saw why she was ranked that way when she played. That woman was kickin‟ 

ass and takin‟ names. She beat around eleventy-six guys in a row. 

They started calling, “Whose turn is it to lose now?” after she whipped each guy, 

and my name was finally called. Everyone thought it was pretty exciting, since I was 

considered pretty good and Ewa was about to kick my ass badly. 



I beat Ewa by three balls. 

Then she asked me for a rematch. 

“Are you shittin‟ me? Who the hell do I look like, Muhammad Ali?” 

Ali was my hero, (still is, actually), but he hung around after he stopped being 

great and got his ass handed to him by punks. Now, when I‟ve just whipped the second 

best pool player to ever come to Grand Ledge, Michigan, (her husband, Jim, lived there 

for a while), she wanted me to expose my title to risk. 

row. 

What, with an asterisk next to it? Bill Cady whipped Ewa Mataya at 8-ball.* 

* She then was given a rematch and savaged his mangy ass thirty-eight times in a 

No way. Mom didn‟t raise any stupid kids until she got around to that David 

thing, where she really went to town, and I wasn‟t about to let that part change. I retired 

my crown. 

However, many, many years before that, I played a lot of pool. When I was 

playing at the House of Billiards, I became pretty good. That‟s it, just pretty good. I 

could go into most bars and, unless they had a local star with some real talent, beat just 

about anyone in the place. Whenever I came up against someone good, really good, I‟d 

just finish my beer and hit the road. 

The whole idea behind pool hustling is to make money, not to have fun playing 

pool, or impress someone. As soon as you impress someone, he‟ll tell a few people, 

which leaves you playing each guy after that for a beer. Can‟t hardly eat right with those 

kind of stakes. 

Jim Mataya could go anywhere and hustle back in the day. He‟d win big. He 



probably could still do it, as long as no one recognized him. When that happens, 

depending on where he might be, the possibilities of a severe ass kickin‟ rise steeply. 

People don‟t enjoy being hustled. It costs „em a whole bunch of their hard earned money 

and embarrasses the hell out of „em. 

It‟s never good to be in a country bar, or a small city bar, with about twenty 

drunks who find out you‟ve been running a game on „em. They have a tendency to take 

out their joint frustration on the frustrator‟s ass. Yet, those are the bars where the good 

money is to be made. When you get to places where it‟s a hundred bucks a game, two- 

fifty, maybe five-hundred, those people are pros. They‟re consistent. Trained to whip 

the ass off a lucky hotshot and send his ass home broke. 

Again, that won‟t help a guy eat. Only winning helps you eat and lets you have 

the dough to afford a room that night, which beats the hell out of sleeping in your car. 

Take my word for it. I did both. 

I never really hustled around Lansing. For starters, if I did, people would come to 

know me too soon and all the games would dry up. Worse, when you‟ve beaten a guy, or 

a few guys, regularly, there‟s a secret revenge plan they all eventually get around to using 

on you. Sometimes it will take a couple, three weeks, other times, it can happen in only a 

few days. 

You go to the same bar and win carefully, five bucks a pop at first, then ten, even 

twenty. If you ever get to fifty bucks a game, you‟ve probably overstayed your welcome, 

and they may well have their revenge plan in place. That means they‟ll bring in a ringer. 

Maybe it‟s a hustler, but it‟s normally just a local boy with a helluva good stick. He, in 

effect, will try to hustle you. He‟ll lose a couple cheap games, maybe at five bucks, and 



ask for a chance to get even. However, even if you whip him, there‟s already animosity 

in the crowd. When you try to collect, they may whip your ass for you, instead, which is 

why I always carried a gun in the back of my pants when I hustled. 

There were a few occasions where I really needed it and would‟ve been hurt or 

killed if I‟d been unarmed. We‟ll get to those when we discuss my road trips down 

south. 

There was another part of “my training” that included boxing. I‟m still, to this 

day, not certain how I “discovered myself” that way, but I did. I had a few friends who 

hung out at some boxing gyms downtown and in the north end. My first few visits were 

just tagging along with a friend. Then, when we were watching some guys spar one day, 

this big guy said he thought I looked like a heavyweight, then asked if I was any good. 

I told him I was good enough to whip either guy I saw in the ring, and he laughed 

at me. Those guys were two of his best heavyweights, so I should count myself lucky he 

wasn‟t gonna tell „em what I just said. 

My reply was both those dudes were the lucky ones, since getting in a ring with 

me would get „em an ass kicking. Part of what I said was teen bravado, but I meant it, all 

the same. I watched those guys and saw how slow they moved. How uncoordinated they 

were. How easy it would be to avoid those punches, and it didn‟t really look as if the 

punches would hurt all that much. Guys that size should‟ve had a lot more oomph in the 

blow, the way I saw it. 

The Golden Gloves people wouldn‟t let me fight because of my injuries. They 

said their insurance wouldn‟t cover me. Although I always thought I‟d be a good boxer, 

primarily based on all my street fighting, I didn‟t really care that much when they blew 



me off. The match arranged because of my smart mouth changed all that from my 

perspective. 

He told the two in the ring what I‟d said and it seemed they each wanted a piece 

of me. They argued a bit and settled on the one I‟d be fighting. It would be a three round 

sparring match, but I had no headgear. There were extra gloves to be found, and I had a 

mouthpiece from my football days, but no headgear. 

I told „em not to worry about it, the silly bastard wasn‟t gonna hit me in the head, 

anyways, so it wasn‟t important. That drew some more laughs, but I got into the ring, all 

the same. Actually, I was dressed the same way I‟d later be outfitted many times when I 

boxed down south as a semipro heavyweight, in my tennis shoes and blue jeans. (We had 

no such thing as jogging shoes or Levis at that time). 

My “coaching” to date had been my own self-instruction when fighting some 

asshole in the street where I didn‟t want to get hurt. I was always wary of letting some 

guy close enough to hit me. Yeah, I know what boxing‟s all about, but I never saw any 

rule book that said a fighter must get hit. It may be okay for the other guy to hit me, if he 

can, but no rule said I had to permit it. 

My opponent was a good two and a quarter, while I was at the one-ninety-two 

pounds where I stayed for a few years. It was the slimmest I‟d ever be as an adult, but 

my diet consisted of something from McDonald‟s every second or third day, and all the 

beer I could drink any and every day. I didn‟t eat much when I was younger. 

Maybe you‟ve never “enjoyed the experience”, but most people really don‟t want 

anyone to hit them, especially on purpose, and extra specially when you get hit as hard as 

possible. Try to imagine getting hit repeatedly by a guy weighing well over two-hundred 



pounds and you may come to grasp my position. Even a poor quality heavyweight boxer 

hits hard. It‟s no fun to be on the wrong end of his punches, so I made it my practice to 

avoid them whenever I could. 

We got in the ring and someone rang a bell. He and I started circling, both 

moving to our right. I knew he was sizing me up, as I was him, so I gave him a bit to 

think about as he looked me over. After every third or fourth step I‟d let fly with a 

snapping left jab, always hooking him in the face. It wasn‟t doing him any real physical 

damage, other than a bloody nose by the fourth punch, but it was getting me something I 

wanted. I was pissing him off. 

He was supposed to be good. I was a banged up cripple the association wouldn‟t 

even let in the ring. I‟m sure he thought I wouldn‟t even last one full round, yet I was the 

only one scoring any points. A boxer is awarded points based on the number of punches 

thrown, even more by the number that land, even more when a punch does some damage, 

better yet when it draws blood. The boxer gets a bag full of points for a knockdown, and 

scoops the whole board for a TKO or a knockout. 

Now I had him getting mad at me, so he tried taunting me. “You sure that gimpy 

fuckin‟ leg ain‟t hurtin‟ bad, motherfucker?” 

“Your Mama said she wasn‟t gonna say anything after I fucked her. Why‟d she 

tell you, asshole? Maybe I oughta stop fuckin‟ her, huh?” 

Little things like that can become big things in a boxing match. This guy was 

white, so there was no racial angle, but he was also not too bright. In a battle of wits with 

this monkey, I was drawing down on an unarmed man. He tried a few more shots at me 

and I had him even questioning what a slut his mother must be with all I said to jeer him 



on. I continued goading him all the way through the end of the second round. He was 

getting pissed off from more than just my mouth and the fact I was an alleged cripple 

who was whipping his ass. I was scoring all the points. He hadn‟t yet even hit me with 

anything a judge could mark in his favor. 

If this was a real bout, the only chance he had of winning was to knock me out, 

since I had him slaughtered if we scored it by points alone. I‟m sure he knew that as well 

as I did, because he began with the real home run punches. They swished by above my 

head, or where I used to be but had vacated by the time it arrived. I also discovered I 

could move left almost as easily as I moved right, and that‟s confusing as hell to a boxer. 

It smacks of southpaw, something a lot of so-so fighters never learn to deal with. 

When I switched stances and took him on as a southpaw, he was lost, trying to 

figure me out and make everything balance. He couldn‟t do it. It only made him angrier, 

therefore more clumsy. He started throwing punches so hard he‟d race on by me from 

the follow through. Each time he went past, I‟d hammer him with a one-two-three, left- 

right-left, and I was hurting him quite a bit. 

Then he just came at me. Stalked me. Walked straight into me with the hope of 

crowding me into a corner and beating my brains out. I saw his “Plan B” was to hope I‟d 

try to slip away to either side, but we were already too close to the corner. He‟d land a 

haymaker on me, then beat me to a pulp in the corner. 

Remember how Mom didn‟t have any foolish children until they bought that 

David thing? Well, I proved I was right again. Maybe it was George coaching me, who 

knows? I crouched and went at him, instead of backing up as he wanted me to do. I 

ducked my head low, leaving only my back and shoulders as a target, and began to beat 



on his ribs like they were a set of drums and I was with a band. He was the one who 

backed up. When he did, I never sampled the sucker bet of following him to continue. 

He had way too much room to reconnoiter by now. Instead, I kept after him, tagging his 

face and moving. He‟d swing back, swishing the air with a punch where I used to be. As 

he recoiled from it, I‟d hit him again and move to a new spot. When the bell rang, I was 

pretty much untouched, but I knew I had a brand-new talent I could use. I just wasn‟t 

sure how I‟d use it. Not then, I wasn‟t. 

I lost once. To a guy I later learned went to Sexton the same time I did. A Black 

Muslim named Lincoln Ashford. If nothing else, Black Muslims always had one thing in 

common: they hated all white people. 

Lincoln was a light heavyweight. Just barely. The maximum weight for light 

heavy was 172, and the only way I could hope to lose another twenty pounds would‟ve 

required a surgeon. One-ninety-two was as light as this white boy was gonna get. 

I‟m sure Lincoln had to bust ass to make weight, but he managed to do it. I 

assume his normal weight was around one-eighty-five, so he could do it. I couldn‟t. 

He was also fast. Very, very fast, and he hit hard. Like a heavyweight. That man 

was a damned good boxer. Damned good. 

We sparred once, a three-rounder. The first two was a couple damned quick 

fighters almost landing good punches, but having the other guy slip away each time. 

Then, maybe halfway through the third round, Lincoln slipped under my guard. He 

started with a right uppercut and made it a one-two-three. 

I saw three black guys with gloves on standing in front of me. I knew it was all 

over unless I got damned awfully lucky, so I decided to play the game. Never let the 



other guy know when you‟ve been hurt. If he‟s any kind of fighter at all, that‟ll bring 

him in for the kill like a shark in bloody water. 

Add the fact there‟s almost surely never been any human being whiter than my 

untanned body to the fact Lincoln was a Black Muslim, and things were looking a bit 

grim for the home team. Somehow, Lincoln must‟ve allowed his respect for my fighting 

ability to momentarily overcome his religious tenets, since he stopped when he could‟ve 

put me in a pile on the canvass. “You okay, my man?” 

I think I smiled. “Yeah, if you don‟t hit me anymore, I think I will be.” 

Lincoln dropped his gloves. There was no prize, no award, no money to be won. 

Only the honor of beating the other guy. That honor was his. One pissy little tap and 

I‟d‟ve been gone. So, being the champion he is, Lincoln let me wobble out of the ring 

instead of being carried out. 

I was even able to recall it well the next day. My ears were ringing all day so 

damned bad, the only thing I wanted to do was answer the phone, since it wouldn‟t stop 

ringing. At least, I thought it was a phone. 

Lincoln Ashford, J.W. Sexton Class of ‟67, I salute you. Thanks for being so kind 

and minimizing the severe ass whuppin‟ you were giving me. 

I believe Lincoln went on to take second or third in the nation at light heavy but, 

if you wanna know for sure, call him. He‟s in the book. 

### 

The employers I last worked for before I began my journey were Wahl‟s Standard 

Service, The Board of Water & Light, and Oldsmobile. Nothing really worth mentioning 



happened at The Board of Water & Light, except for an incident that opened my eyes, in 

a manner of speaking. 

Ralph G. Carlson, M.D., was our family doctor back there in Lansing, Michigan. 

When I outgrew my pediatrician, Mom started taking me to see him. Even as a kid, I 

never liked him. He was a bit overweight. Had brown hair in a crew cut with a flat top. 

He was, in my still juvenile opinion, even kinda ugly. He also smoked while treating 

patients, which I thought was gross as hell until I started smoking, circa age fifteen. 

I recall the time I made an appointment with him in 1980 to see my dad and me at 

the same time. As the family doctor, he was to advise my retired old man, a very heavy 

smoker, why he had to quit. How it was killing him, and the slow death he‟d soon face 

without making some immediate changes. 

Dad and I were both waiting in a treatment room when Carlson came in and took 

a seat. To my undying surprise and astonishment, just before he began his lecture on the 

evils of smoking, the son-of-a-bitch lit one himself! He put it in an ashtray and puffed 

away while he lectured his patient. 

You might not believe this, but that visit seemed to have no effect on my old man. 

He kept smoking, like always, and died of emphysema and the beginning of lung cancer 

at age seventy-nine, six days short of his eightieth birthday. 

I drank like a fish until I was about fifty-one, then dialed it down to almost 

nothing, voluntarily. It just seemed right, so I did it. The drinking began when I was 

fifteen and did nothing but increase until later in my life, when it faded out. 

I had a job with the Board of Water & Light, Lansing‟s power and utility 

company. I worked in Building Construction and Maintenance. We did everything, from 



sidewalk work to sewer repair to boiler repair to cleaning out an eight story furnace six 

feet in diameter to changing the lights outside that chimney on the top, to servicing 

turbine engines, and more. Lotsa stuff. 

It was a Monday morning during a hot summer month. Muggy, very sticky, the 

humidity almost off the charts. I had a hangover that would stop a charging water buffalo 

in his tracks. Even that early, around nine in the morning, the outside temp was a bit over 

eighty and as muggy as any day Alabama will ever see. Inside, up atop the boiler where I 

was assigned to work, the temp was around a hundred and ten. I could‟ve had lunch by 

dropping some eggs at my feet on that boiler. They‟d‟ve fried up in no time. 

Head pounding, feeling I had to barf every two or three minutes, I kept at it. 

Then, as if predestined, it overcame me. I passed out and fell from twenty feet up. 

Landed on a steel box about halfway down, then continued my flop to a concrete floor. 

It was, all in all, what you‟d have to call “A Bad Day At Black Rock”. 

Unconscious, I can only assume an ambulance came and sped my sorry ass to 

E.W. Sparrow Hospital. I was admitted, then probed, picked, and examined by every 

person in that damned building with a white coat. Careful investigation revealed I had, at 

the tender age of eighteen, a peptic ulcer, aka a bleeding ulcer. 

Just to slip you some insider info, so you can stay with this whole deal, a peptic 

ulcer is generally seen in the medical community as “not a good thing”. To anyone who 

suffers from it, nightmare is a much better term. 

They explained I‟d need a tube down my throat to suck out the acid and a host of 

other disgusting items when I came out of surgery. Their attempts to insert it before my 

operation always left me gagging and in pain. 



Since I was then six-two, one-ninety-two, and meaner than any junkyard dog, I 

believe my threats to “send every fucking one of you assholes down to the ER” were 

somehow believed. It was decided they‟d install it under anesthesia and I‟d deal with it 

that way. Um, that was their decision, not mine. 

Next day, after the pre-op shot, groggy and goofy, I was being wheeled down the 

hall on a gurney, heading for surgery. I changed my mind and refused it. Told ‟em to get 

me back to my room. Discharged later that day, I went back home to my parents‟ house, 

where I still sponged off them, and went to bed. Sick. Very sick. 

A surprise call the next day from Ralph G.‟s office resulted in Mom setting me an 

appointment. The next afternoon, I was in his office. His personal office, at the back of 

the building. We sat down and he lit a cigarette. 

I didn‟t, since I‟d learned early in life doctors were the only ones who could cause 

God to step into the gutter when passing on the sidewalk. A gesture of well deserved 

respect. I sat and listened, wondering what the hell he had in mind, and what it would 

mean to me. Maybe for me. 

That‟s when I received the shock of my life. Even someone you might think is an 

asshole beyond salvage can, at some point, be a good guy. Have something of value to 

toss into the pot. Cigarette in his left hand, leaning back in his chair, that huge mole on 

his cheek fascinating me even more than usual, he began. “Bill, I think I know what‟s 

wrong.” 

“What, Dr. Carlson?” responded the boy who still had no idea a doctor is but an 

employee of the patient. A highly educated, very knowledgeable, perhaps even gifted, 

contract employee. Someone who, contrary to popular belief, actually has a first name. 



Someone who, in the grand scheme of things, isn‟t a damned bit better than the patient. 

Almost certainly a great deal wealthier, but still not a damned but better. Someone who, 

if he calls me by my first name, better expect the same in return. If not, he can call me 

Counselor Cady. If I have to call him doctor, that freakin‟ street goes two ways. 

“I think your problem, or problems, are all vocabulary related.” 

Okay, I had a handle on that one. What he meant to tell me was wait a sec. 

Just exactly what the hell did he mean by that? My response may well have formed a 

significant part of my lifelong speech pattern, so this could be a noteworthy date for more 

than one reason. I came right back at him. “Huh?” 

“You‟ve apparently never learned to say „fuck it‟.” He drew on his cigarette and 

awaited my reply. 

The outrageous thud of my young chin hitting the floor with such velocity may 

well have startled the nurses up front, but it never phased ol‟ Ralph G. a bit. Going ahead 

with my best reaction, I again said, “Huh?” 

“When you‟ve done the best you can with something, with anything, and you 

can‟t do it any better right now, then fuck it, Bill. Put it aside and go on with your life 

until whatever it is needs your attention again.” 

He drew on his cigarette, then flicked ashes I feared would land on his desk, 

maybe even on him, into an ashtray. “If you‟ve done all you can do, if you‟ve done your 

best, fuck it. To worry and fret after that means you‟ll only drain away your own energy. 

Doing it that way means, the next time you face that problem and you will face it 

again you won‟t be as strong, won‟t be as ready and prepared, as you would‟ve been if 

you just said „fuck it‟ and went on with your life.” 



I was glad I heard it in his office, since shitting your pants anywhere else would 

prove very embarrassing. Okay, I didn‟t really, but it was close. 

He must‟ve been right, because I got my act together after that and the bleeding 

ulcer they once feared would kill me was soon gone. Completely. That was forty-two 

years ago, and I haven‟t seen anything yet to indicate it was back, so now I‟m a believer. 

When I‟ve done my best at anything, fuck it. We‟ll see how it all comes out later. 

After all, I heard it from a doctor. They are the only ones purported to be smarter 

than God. Of course, those who purport thusly are all doctors, so it leaves me with only 

one option regarding medical personnel. Fuck it, or them, maybe. 

While I worked for Wahl‟s Standard, there were two interesting events that 

involved me. One was a tussle I never reported for what it was, and the other was an 

armed robbery attempt. However, I think I got it backwards those times, since I called in 

a robbery report on the tussle and never let the cops know about the armed robbery 

attempt. 

I worked afternoons and evening for Jim & Fred Wahl, two black guys who 

opened a couple service stations in the black part of town. Jim was in his late 30s, and 

he ran the place. Fred was a couple years younger and he just dicked around. I don‟t 

know if he did any kind of work, but he was funny as hell and I liked him. 

Although I don‟t “do guys”, Fred was also pretty good looking, according to the 

women I heard talking about him, and all the foxes he brought by the station for one 

reason or another. He must‟ve been prejudiced, too, since he only dated white women. 

Jim was a good looking guy himself, and drove a Porsche Carrera 941, a dark 



green. However, he was very busy, always working, and I never saw any of his ladies. I 

reported to Jim and got my work assignments from him, so he was my boss, as I saw it. 

I was out drunk one night when I was eighteen, hungry at around four in the 

morning. I‟d worked until ten, then gone out to get plowed at a bar. It was during the 

week and Mom was getting pissed at all the noise I made when I‟d stagger into the house 

and warm up something to eat, so I decided to go to a restaurant. 

The Senate Grille was downtown at Washington Avenue and Ottawa Street, if 

memory serves me correctly. I went in and got something, but have no idea now what I 

ate. I was just finishing up when a couple came in for service. 

They were both black. He was in his late twenties, a runty looking little bastard 

about five-two, a hundred pounds, with a bushy Afro. He was smoking and trying to 

walk like a bad ass. The woman was maybe nineteen or twenty, very good looking. 

Medium height, large boobs, a very nice ass, and full lips I thought were pretty sexy. Her 

skin was the color of coffee with two creams. His was the color of coffee, period. 

He noticed me eyeballing her and they came to my booth and stopped. He asked 

if I was looking for a date. I told „em to sit down, but grabbed her hand and pointed at 

the other side of the booth for him to use. 

During our discussion, I learned she was tired and hungry. The name she gave 

me was Karen, although I have no idea if that‟s her real name. Still, it fit, and she was 

good looking. However, she‟d rather eat than turn another trick as it was late and, as I 

said, Karen was hungry. 

His name was Coochy Hall. He was more interested in making a buck, if there 



was one to me made, then in feeding his whore. Fuck, she can eat after the damned sun 

comes up, ya know what I‟m sayin‟? That was Coochy‟s take on it. 

He wasn‟t much of a pimp, as you‟ll soon see. He managed to talk me into it, 

(although Karen‟s thigh rubbing against mine did a far better job), so we left. I made him 

let Karen ride in my car with me, and we followed him to a house over on Logan Street 

someone had already abandoned. It had almost no furniture of any kind except a beat up, 

shaky old bed with dirty sheets and a couple blankets. 

We‟d settled on twenty bucks for me to get a roll in the hay with Karen back at 

the restaurant, so I paid him and he left us at the bed upstairs. I doubt Karen was a very 

experienced whore, since she never objected to kissing me, and I loved kissing that sexy 

mouth. Keeping in mind my youthful zest and energy, we‟d already made love three 

times when Coochy got tired of waiting. He came back into the “room”, which was 

missing half the wall facing the street, and said my time was up. 

I told him I wasn‟t done fucking Karen, and she even chimed in with support by 

adding, “Yeah, Coochy, the man ain‟t even done yet.” She smiled at me, since she knew 

how many times I‟d already finished inside her. 

Here‟s where Coochy really got stupid. He said he wanted more money if I 

wanted more time with Karen. He seemed surprised when I agreed. I asked if he‟d take 

a cheque, since I‟d already given him all the money I had when I gave him that twenty. 

Then I asked if I could write the cheque for $120 and get my twenty back so I‟d have 

some money on me. 

The damned fool said okay. 

I wrote a cheque for $120.00, dated it sometime in 1983, and signed it with only 



my first name, Bill. He looked it over closely, pretending he could read, and said he‟d be 

back later. Karen and I messed around in various ways until sometime after six, when I 

kissed her good-bye and went home to get some sleep. 

Three days later, Coochy pulls into Wahl‟s Standard in a big Cadillac, about ten 

years old, but not too rusted. He accused me of writing him a bogus cheque. Can you 

believe that? No honor among thieves, it seems. 

I told him to stick it up his ass and consider he was getting the same thing I got 

from Karen. Fucked. Not the way he wanted it, but he was getting fucked. 

It was what he did next that caused me to later coin an expression: “The baddest 

guy in town might be only five-two, but he carries a .45 in his pants.” Coochy had one, a 

.45 semiautomatic, and he hauled it out. It was a very big gun, far, far too big for a runty 

little bastard like him. I knocked him on his ass with a right cross before he could even 

jack a shell in the chamber, then took the gun away. I promised to use it on his scrawny 

ass if he ever bothered me again, and told him to get his black ass out of there before I 

shot him. 

All mouth and no balls, Coochy did as instructed. Then, because I didn‟t want a 

gun that big, and I had no idea what crimes it might‟ve been connected with, I called the 

cops and reported an attempted robbery. I made up a story about how I disarmed an 

armed robber and gave them the weapon. 

I never heard from the cops, or Coochy, again. Sadly, I also never heard from 

Karen, and she was damned good at her work. 

Then there was the armed robbery. The one I didn‟t report. 

It was late afternoon, around five-thirty, when a black guy in a dark slacks and a 



black leather coat came into the station. It was early fall and getting colder each day. I 

was behind the register while the guy working with me tended to the customers on the 

drive. I‟d only go out if he got behind, since I was the manager. 

The black guy had his right hand in the outside pocket of his coat, on the side. He 

thrust his coat forward and said, “This‟s a fuckin‟ rob‟ry, mothafuckah, gimme all yo‟ 

fuckin‟ cash!” 

I‟d somehow suspected he was up to no good when he came in, so the drawer to 

the till was already open. He couldn‟t see it, or my hands, so I quietly pulled it open and 

reached in past the bills. My hands clasped a .32 semiautomatic Jim kept in the drawer 

and I freed the safety with my thumb before raising the weapon. 

“Yeah, motherfucker, but my shit‟s out, and I can‟t even see your fuckin‟ piece!” 

His eyes grew huge! He was horrified. 

I told him, as I came around the counter with my weapon aimed between his eyes, 

“You even move, motherfucker, there‟s gonna be one more dead nigger than you see 

right now!” My hand went in his pocket and found a Smith & Wesson .38, an older gun, 

worn but well kept. I took it and slipped it into the back of my pants. “Now, nigger, you 

give me your fuckin’ money, or I‟ll just blow your skinny ass away and call the fuckin‟ 

cops to remove your dead ass from the building.” 

He had less than forty dollars on him, so it was more the thrill of me being able to 

turn the tables on this asshole that made me feel so good. After I took his money, I said 

he had until the count of ten before I shot his skinny ass. He took off running and never 

looked back. I never heard from him again, but I did get a hundred by selling the gun. 

There was one other episode at Wahl‟s I feel is worth mentioning to you. It 



included my alleged nemesis, Terrell, the black guy I tussled with after gym class who 

lost most of his face going through that window. 

I went out to wait on a customer at the pumps one day. I could see from the car, a 

sleazy old four-door Olds Ninety-Eight, the driver was one of the typical blacks from the 

neighborhood. Only when I got to the door did I notice it was Terrell. 

He glanced at me, then looked away, but it gave me time to see the long white 

scar, a jagged streak running all across his face, starting well above his right eye to past 

the point of his chin on the left. “Two dollah woof,” he instructed me before turning 

back to the fat black girl he had as a passenger. He was really trying to talk his shit to her 

and impress her with what a man he was. 

Personally, she fit a phrase I find I have to use once in a while to “classify” a 

woman. “Not with my dick”. No way in hell would I ever dare disrespect my penis 

enough to put it in something that fat and ugly. I didn‟t really want his business, and his 

attitude pissed me off. “Mind tellin‟ me who fucked up your face like that, nigger?” 

He spun around like a dog who‟s just felt a nasty flea bite and looked at me. It 

only took him a few seconds to recall who I was. His hand grabbed the door, as if he was 

coming out to stomp my white ass for being so impertinent. 

are.” 

“C‟mon, Terrell, get out here and fuck me up, asshole. I‟m ready whenever you 

He just glared at me, so I motioned with my fingers. “ 

C‟mon, Terrell, I ain‟t whipped a nigger‟s ass all day long. You‟ll be the first, 

motherfucker. Let‟s go.” 



Terrell stared at me, wishing he could do so many things to get revenge, and 

afraid to try anything. 

I told him, “The Shell station across the street serves niggers, asshole. We only 

serve black people, so get your nigger ass out of here.” 

He gave me a stare so filled with hatred and rage I almost, but not quite, felt sorry 

for him. Then I spat on his car and got over it. 

He did manage to squeal the tires a little when he left, but he didn‟t even go to the 

Shell station. Maybe it was because he knew I‟d see him as he ran away with his tail 

between his legs again. 



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

By my age seventeen I‟d already learned a little bit about the court system, both 

civil and criminal. The civil side sucked, from my point of view. My leg was so badly 

damaged in the accident I wasn‟t ever expected to walk again. At all. Then, when I 

fooled the doctors and started walking, I wasn‟t ever supposed to walk properly. 

I handled that part, too. 

I was expected to be in pain the rest of my life. That prediction was right on the 

money, and still is, forty years later. 

My parents shelled out a lot of money in medical expenses, most of which was 

never reimbursed. Mom thought the lawyer we hired sold out on us, and her argument 

made some sense when the final tallies were in. The settlement was a grand total of 

$12,000.00, with the lawyers taking five-grand and my folks getting the seven-grand 

remainder. 



Me? I didn‟t get squat, but there wasn‟t much I could say about it. After all, they 

fronted all the money and helped me get through it, so I just let the entire idea go and 

went on about my life. 

The criminal system was just about as silly as the civil side. Between my ages 

sixteen and twenty-one, I was arrested twenty-two times. The charges were never 

anything to be concerned about, at least, not individually. Minor in possession a few 

times, public intoxication, and drunk driving, (a ticket offense back then), made up my 

“criminal background”. 

Even a drunk driving charge only meant seven hours, or less, in the drunk tank. If 

the jailing officer felt you were sober enough after four or five hours, he‟d let you go with 

an O.R. release, (Own Recognizance). It always meant a court date, where I‟d plead 

guilty and pay a hundred dollar fine. That was it. Done. 

There were, however, a few things they didn‟t nab me for. One had to do with my 

summer job when I was seventeen, the year after the accident. I hired on as the $1.50 per 

hour “extra guy” working for a builder named Don Govan. I worked along with Lupe 

Delapaz, his property manager, doing yard work, general chores, running errands, and 

finally at job sites. 

I was even allowed to drive the ‟64 Ford pickup, black with a V-8 and “three on 

the tree”, home some weekends. Of course, an hour or two after I got home, my friends 

and I were at a beer store stocking up. We had a ride, and I had money to drink, since my 

job paid the monumental sum of $60.00 for a full week‟s work. 

Of course, beer was $1.25 per six-pack, so it all worked out nicely. 



Then I hit some cash flow problems. Too much partying. More of that than I had 

money to spend. Oh, what to do, what to do? 

I came upon a brilliant scheme. I‟d just steal it and then I‟d have enough money 

for the partying I wanted. My first mistake was the kind of stealing I was doing. My 

second was the way I did it. My third was where I did it. However, at times I‟ve been 

known to have a run of luck I really didn‟t deserve. This was one of those times. 

The other similar event was when Denny and I were mugging the girls‟ purses for 

almost two years. Only dumb luck kept us from getting caught, then bounced out of the 

parochial system, and probably right into juvenile detention. 

Lord knows I didn‟t need that. The courts, and Family Protective Services, had 

already forced me into three stints with a child psychologist, the first one when I was 

eight years old. If you can believe it, they actually tried to tell me I was doing wrong 

when I‟d hit that David thing, with or without a reason. 

I always acted like I was buying their line of bullshit for a few weeks, or even 

months, until they‟d say I was cured. Then, I‟d hurry home and smack that dumb little 

bastard for causing me all that goddamned grief. Little prick, anyway. 

My crimes were what‟s known as a B&E, Breaking and Entering, although I 

never “broke in”. Maybe that would‟ve reduced it to unlawful entry. Except. 

Yeah, there‟s always an “except”, right? I knew, since I helped build that first set 

of apartments, how to get in. I made a sort of master key and, if that didn‟t work, could 

often pick the locks. Better yet, a lot of people were so stupid, they‟d leave the apartment 

door unlocked and go to bed. Opportunity was knocking for Bill, but I never knocked on 

those doors. I only tiptoed around to get what I wanted. 



The “except” part was the fact I always carried a weapon. Not just because of 

what I was doing, but from force of habit. I always had a switchblade in my early teen 

years, then a straight razor by age seventeen. For a while, most of the half year I was still 

in school as a junior and after, I also carried a gun. 

My “weapon of choice” was a .32 semiautomatic, a Davis P-32. Actually, it 

wasn‟t “my choice”, but “what I could get”. It was, I have to admit, better than no gun. 

Even better than a .22 caliber or .25 caliber, but those two aren‟t much better than fists. 

Neither will stop a man unless you unload the whole damned magazine or cylinder into 

him, and even that‟s kind of iffy. 

A .32 is a teeny-weeny bit better, but it most likely wouldn‟t stop some guy 

stoned on PCP or any other tough drug. It probably wouldn‟t even stop someone who‟s 

really drunk unless you scored a head shot. 

My piece had a total of six rounds, little tiny things, but I later recalled the way I 

was convinced to give it up after being shot three times with a .22, so maybe it wasn‟t 

completely crazy to carry it. Thankfully, I never shot anyone at least, not with that 

gun, I didn‟t. 

Still, since I even had that with me once in a while when I broke in to commit 

burglary, it would‟ve been an ugly felony if I‟d been caught. Robbery, as I was told, 

meant taking money off a person. Burglary meant taking things from a dwelling. 

Whether the dwelling was occupied at the time of the crime makes a monumental 

difference in the charges against the criminal. 

It‟s always better if there‟s no one present. 

There are degrees of burglary, and it seems mine was the worst. I was armed and 



there were people at home when I committed those crimes. I think the words “first 

degree” would‟ve been on my list of charges in court. 

If I‟d ever killed anyone, which I thankfully didn‟t do, it would‟ve been second 

degree murder. In Michigan, if you get lucky, you can get out of prison for that one after 

seven years. 

I was told, but never verified it, my stepbrother Allen widened a black guy‟s smile 

from ear to ear, and lowered it a couple inches. Apparently with the relocated smile, the 

guy laughed himself to death. Or, bled to death. Like I say, I was never able to verify it. 

I was told he did a few years in prison, but you can ask Allen, if you want. He‟s also in 

the book, I believe. 

There were only a few fracases during my burglaries. One night a woman in her 

late twenties came out of the bathroom as I was leaving her apartment. If I‟d had a split 

second more, I‟d‟ve ducked out of her sight. If-dog-rabbit. 

She looked to her right and made out my shape in the darkness. As soon as she 

determined someone was there, she started to scream, but the sound never got out of her 

throat. At least, not while I was still in the building. I stepped behind her and shoved 

against her shoulders with all my strength, which was considerable at that age. She 

probably got one helluva rug burn from sliding on the carpet, but I was already out the 

door when I heard her land, so I never stopped to verify a damned thing. I just ran like 

hell to my car, parked two blocks away, and drove home slowly because it was after 

three. 

Burglaries are best done between three and four in the morning, when the people 

are still sound asleep and its darkest outside. Any earlier, they might still be having sex, 



eating late, watching a movie, and the list goes on. Any later is when some light sleepers 

first begin to stir, or a neighbor with a service job of some kind is leaving for work and 

gets your description. Neither option is desirable to a burglar. 

One time a guy came walking in the living room as I was heading for the door to 

leave. He screamed, “Stop, thief!” 

I turned, raised my empty hand, and faced him. “Okay, motherfucker, now you‟re 

gonna hafta die!” 

He squealed a loud, high-pitched noise, very similar to the sound a piglet makes 

when castrated with no anesthetic, as he sped from the room in fear. I ran to my car, even 

more afraid than he was, since all I had in my hand when I raised and aimed it was my 

fingers. 

Another time I was finishing up in the bedroom, which is where you usually find 

wallets. Purses were almost always in the living room, dining area, or kitchen, but guys 

take their wallets to bed with them. Just as I pilfered his wallet, this guy woke up and 

started screaming. If I had that brunette beside me in bed like he did, I doubt like hell 

I‟d‟ve been asleep yet, but he had been until he heard me. 

The idiot was pretty well built. Far too muscular to fight with, since that can take 

a lot of time, and might leave clues. There‟s also the possibility of losing any fight you 

get into that way, meaning the intruder stays captured until the cops get there and put on 

the handcuffs. He stood erect, maybe five-ten, two-hundred pounds of muscle, then ran 

at me while screaming, even as he was still on the bed. He leapt into the air and spread 

his arms, which I assume meant he planned to tackle me. 

My right cross caught him directly on the point of his chin, leaving the hero an 



inert pile of flesh as I hauled ass for the door. The brunette came half awake when she 

heard his swan song, and started scratching her head and rubbing her eyes at the same 

time. All I heard from her was, “What the fuck?” and I was gone. 

Shortly afterward, I decided that wasn‟t the life for me and gave it up. 

There was another time, over near Owosso, circa 1967 or 1968, when I was out 

drinking and driving, just enjoying the radio around one in the morning. Thug was with 

me, but he never requested I change stations. Either we both liked the same kind of 

music, or he simply didn‟t care. 

I stopped along the road to take a leak, and let Thug out so he could do the same 

thing, even though he wasn‟t drinking. He wouldn‟t go too far and would always come 

back if I called. That dog was many good things, but he wasn‟t a hunter. That was his 

“wife” in later years, after I got married, Punky Beagle. 

Suddenly a car pulled up behind me. At least, I first thought it was a car. I was 

immediately unhappy. I was still a minor, at least half drunk, maybe more, with an open 

container in the car and the rest of a twelve-pack on the rear seat. If it was a sheriff, I‟d 

be going to jail in Shiawassee County, a long way from home and anyone I might ask to 

bail my sorry ass out in the morning. Oh, joy. 

Then he walked around my car. It was a farm boy, obvious from his duds and the 

way he walked and acted. However, he had a law and order streak, as well as a handgun, 

and it didn‟t sit well with me. He identified himself, but I couldn‟t recall his name thirty 

seconds later, so I don‟t have it for you now, after all these years. 

The son-of-a-bitch looked in my car, then told me he was placing me under 



citizen‟s arrest and was gonna call it in on his CB radio. He said when the sheriff sent a 

car to take me into custody, I‟d learn not to fuck around in Shiawassee County after this. 

Then the dumb ass turned around and started toward his car, after turning my car 

off and taking the keys. He didn‟t turn off my protection system, however, and it went to 

work as soon as he started away from me. Thug hit him on the dead run and immediately 

gashed his left arm with those big teeth. Instead of being smart enough to shoot my dog 

with the pistol in his hand, the moron started backing away toward his truck. 

I followed for a moment, strongly considering pulling my straight razor and 

cutting him all four ways: long, deep, wide and repeatedly. Then I saw a slightly more 

peaceable solution behind him. 

Darting to his black pickup truck, I pulled a short-handled general purpose shovel 

with a flat pan on it loose and swung it like a Louisville slugger. The clang it made on 

the back of his head was what I had to call a “ringing endorsement” of his ability as a 

peace officer. He hit the ground with a thud, out like a light, and I had to pull Thug off 

before the moron lost any more blood. I secured my keys from his pocket, tossed his 

keys and gun out into a field, and we got back in my car. 

It was a few months before I cruised those back roads again. Too much grief in 

Shiawassee County for my way of thinking. To be honest, I thought I might‟ve killed 

him. Yet, when no news stories said anything, and I saw no likely obituaries, I calmed 

down after a time. 

One of my favorite places to drink, when I went out to a bar, was the Willow Bar. 

If it‟s still in existence, it was changed to DeLuca‟s Restaurant in the late 80s and became 

a pretty nice place to eat. 



That family went to Holy Cross church, and I went to school with some of the 

kids. They had a claim to fame I‟ll still stand behind, if the place remains open. The 

Willow Bar, later DeLuca‟s, made the world‟s finest pizza. Bar none. No exceptions. 

I‟ve had pizza in many places, many states, many cities, and I‟ve never found anything 

that good. Never. 

However, since I started drinking there circa age sixteen, pizza wasn‟t my primary 

reason for being a customer. I fell in love at age seventeen with a waitress named Bunny 

who worked days. She was kind of fun, and the sex was so-so, but I fell out of love not 

long afterward. 

I shot pool there, usually winning, and drank a lot of beer. Once in a while I‟d 

pick up a girl, so there was also a sexual aspect to liking the place. Still, more than 

anything else, I found other drunks to drink with. That was the real magic. 

One night there was a baby faced asshole, I assume he‟d just turned the legal age 

of twenty-one, and he thought we‟d become buddies. I tried subtly to convince him that 

wasn‟t the case, but he was already drunk, so he stuck to his ideas. I was only nineteen 

and was acting far more mature than he was, plus I wasn‟t that drunk yet. There‟s an 

incredible amount of truth in the adage, “Nobody enjoys a drunk except another drunk”. 

Well, Goddamnit, I wasn‟t drunk yet and he was pissing me off. Finally, sensing 

he‟d never get the hint, I told him to fuck off and let me drink with my buddies. I was 

swapping lies with some guys I knew from that bar and didn‟t want to spend time with 

some Mama‟s boy on his first legal drunkenness. 

I was also being “called on stage”. 

I set a number of records, even while still in high school, for drinking. My 



specialty was emptying a draft glass faster than anyone would believe possible. I even 

had a scheme set up to encourage people to bet. When asked how fast a man could 

consume a twelve ounce draft beer, some morons even started at three full minutes. 

More common was a minute. 

Some of the “wiser people” would tell me thirty seconds, maybe even twenty. I 

always knew I had a real mark when he‟d start out at fifteen, or even ten seconds, so I‟d 

try to negotiate a bet. A lot of suckers thought they‟d really conned me when it got down 

to five seconds. I wouldn‟t even get into it at those “quickie times” for less than a 

hundred bucks, which was a fortune when you consider gas was 20¢ per gallon. 

Sometimes I‟d even let the real “con artists” back me into a corner and make me 

bet I could do it in three seconds. That was my “always and anytime” duration, meaning 

I could be guaranteed to finish in three seconds, unless I was sick with some illness when 

I started. I never once, not ever, barfed from chugging beer. If really pushed, my best 

time ever, with my own stop watch keeping track, was one and a half seconds. 

Nobody dared believe that was possible, sometimes not even after they‟d seen me 

do it. Once, in 1967, at a place called Les‟s Pub on South Waverly near M-78, I drank 

four ten ounce drafts in fifteen seconds. I won $120.00 and four cases of beer, which we 

all consumed the next night at “The Stuck”. 

So, I was being called to perform my speed drinking. One of my friends had 

negotiated a bet, which would be half mine for doing the drinking and half his for putting 

up the money. I don‟t recall it being unusual, so it was probably a ten or twenty dollar 

bet. Of course, I won. Need you even ask? Then my friends and I went to a booth to 



finish getting shitfaced. (I still don‟t know why I thought it was so much fun, but I did it 

a lot, so I must‟ve liked it). 

The Mama‟s boy wouldn‟t leave me alone, even when I was with my friends, so I 

finally had to explain it to him. I said, if he didn‟t leave me alone, I was gonna kick his 

ass right there in the bar. 

That was a big thing, saying that. If I did it, I‟d need to be done in only a few 

seconds. The bartender was a little guy named Frenchy, probably in his early 40s. He 

was small, maybe five-seven, one-sixty, but he was a tough little bastard, all the same. 

He carried a two foot billy club, or riot stick, but he really didn‟t need it, even for a guy 

my size. Frenchy could kick some serious ass, and wasn‟t afraid to do it if you screwed 

around in his bar. 

I guess all the beers the Mama‟s boy drank that night were loaded with false 

courage, because he didn‟t back away when I made my promise. It wasn‟t a threat, it was 

a promise. I meant it, and I sure as hell wasn‟t gonna back away from some pudgy 

Mama‟s boy with soft, white cheeks. I stood to whip his ass, wondering if Frenchy 

would banish me from the bar for a week or more, even when he learned it wasn‟t me 

who started it all. 

Then the fat boy pulled a switchblade. “I‟ll kill ya, you motherfucker!” was his 

advice to me. “Leave me alone or I‟ll fuckin‟ kill ya!. 

Hmmmm? Let‟s think about this. I tell him to leave me alone or I‟ll kick his ass. 

He doesn‟t believe me and keeps on pushing. So, with fair warning given, I get up to 

beat some sense into this prick. In response, he pulls a very deadly weapon and tells me 

to leave him alone. 



Goddamnit, isn‟t that what I was asking him to do? To leave me alone? 

Okay, it‟s now gone way the hell past being funny. Of course, I could‟ve pulled 

my own straight razor. If he didn‟t pass out from fear just seeing it, or from the expertise 

I used in handling it, I might even get a chance to kill this simpleton. 

For what? Annoying me? Like I‟m willing to go to prison for many, many years 

because this asshole annoyed me? I don‟t think so. 

However, I also wasn‟t gonna let him get away with it. Not only did I have a 

reputation to protect, this prick had really pissed me off by that point. I started his way 

and he was gonna begin talking again. Maybe he thought that‟s how the big boys do it. 

If so, he would always have the inalienable right of any and every good American to be 

as wrong and as stupid as he wanted to be. 

Where I come from, we don‟t talk about it. We just do it. 

So, I did. I raised my left hand, palm open, and got what I wanted. 

He looked at it. When he averted his eyes, my right hand, fully equipped with a 

longneck Stroh‟s, came whistling around from behind me. I crashed it against the side of 

the asshole‟s head and dropped him like a stone. 

Frenchy was looking the other way when it all took place, but spun around to take 

it all in. He was reaching for his riot stick as he asked what happened. 

I told him it was nothing. The kid‟s a little drunk and he dropped his beer, but 

we‟d be leaving in a minute, anyway. It was already after last call, and I had my 

customary four beers delivered in time. 

Two other guys helped me prop the shithead in a chair and we ignored him as we 

all finished our beer. I did take his switchblade as a souvenir. As we were going out the 



back door Frenchy asked if we were taking him with us. I said no, I thought he was 

passed out. 

We were all standing outside a few minutes later, getting in that one last lie or 

joke before weaving down the road to go home. I only had a mile or so to drive, so I 

wasn‟t worried. Don‟t know why I wasn‟t, since I was drunk, but I was all copasetic, 

anyway. 

Frenchy must‟ve shaken the asshole awake. Either he never noticed the gash in 

his brown hair, or he didn‟t care, because shithead soon came stumbling out the same 

door we just used. Believe it or not, this asshole was still mad! At me! 

He came swaggering over toward us. The guys I was with all faded back to give 

us room in the event we‟d start fighting. Then the asshole made his problem known. 

“You took my fuckin‟ knife!” 

I couldn‟t help laughing. “Yeah, asshole, I did. This is the third one I‟ve gotten 

that way.” What I said was true, but nobody ever had the balls to accuse me of stealing 

when I disarmed them after they attacked me. 

“I want it back, motherfucker! Gimme my fuckin’ knife!” 

“Asshole, are you out of your mind? You tried to kill me with your lousy fuckin‟ 

knife, and now you want it back?” 

“You heard me, you prick!” He bunched up his shoulders, maybe to scare me and 

make me give in. 

I had to laugh. This was too funny to believe. Finally, with all the other guys 

laughing as well, I told him, “C‟mon, motherfucker, take it away from me if you‟re so 

fuckin‟ bad. Come an‟ get it.” I pulled it from my pocket to taunt him. 



“Give it back!” he demanded. 

“Fuck you,” I explained. 

Things kept getting better by the second. Now he started crying, sobbing about 

how it was the only one he‟d ever get and he wouldn‟t be taking another vacation to 

Mexico soon, so he had to have his knife back. 

“Okay,” I told him, “here‟s what I‟m willing to do for ya.” I shifted the closed 

switchblade to my left hand and started walking toward him. 

His eyes were glued to the knife, and his hands began rising, as if he‟d just take it 

back, no harm, no foul. When he reached for it, I jerked my left hand back and sent a 

jarring right cross into his jaw. He did that “sack of cement thing” again and flopped to 

the ground. 

I faced the guys, a huge grin on my face. “Can you even believe just how stupid 

some people can be?” Then I got in my car and left. I never saw that Mama‟s boy again, 

and can‟t even recall what I might‟ve done with the knife. I carried a straight razor by 

that time, so I probably tossed it in a drawer and forgot about it. 

There was one more noteworthy event that occurred at the Willow Bar. It was 

when I was nineteen, so I must‟ve been back home between road trips down south. I 

went in one night when the party I was at died down, shortly after one. As soon as I 

came in I recognized some guys I barely knew, but enjoyed drinking with. 

They looked like typical bikers. Early 20s through late 30s, enough grease on any 

head of hair to lubricate a half dozen cars. Black leather jackets and leather pants, or blue 

jeans so oil encrusted they almost looked like leather. Tattoos beyond imagination, dark 

glasses in a dark bar, and a general look of griminess. 



My kind of people, back then. 

I sat with „em and got a beer, so we all started talking. One guy asked me to play 

pool, so we did. I beat him in a hurry, since The Willow wasn‟t anyplace I‟d ever be 

hustling. 

There was a table with four tall black guys, all in their late 20s, all looking kind of 

tough. Surly, even. One of them wanted to play pool. I explained I‟d won the last game, 

therefore I had the table. He didn‟t want to play with me. His plans included playing 

with one of his friends. 

I told him that was too bad, but agreed to play him for five bucks. After he tried 

to argue and I told him it made no difference, he‟d either play me or nobody, as the other 

table was occupied, the asshole relented. Honestly, I didn‟t even care. If he‟d asked me 

nicely, I more than likely would‟ve given up the table and gone to drink with Jack and the 

rest of the bikers. Jack was their leader. 

The black guy expected me to rack, and I patiently explained that‟s not how it 

works on a bar table. The challenger pays the money and racks the balls. The winner, 

me, then gets to break. That winner also gets to set the betting stakes for the game. If the 

challenger doesn‟t like the amount of the bet, he takes his money back and sits down so 

someone else can challenge the table. 

He then suggested the bartender wouldn‟t approve of betting, so I‟d have to play 

him for nothing. I suggested Frenchy might just throw his black ass out of the bar, and he 

could go fuck himself if he didn‟t want to play by my rules on my table. 

Apparently, he saw the light, so he got the balls down. 

Then, while we played, he talked with his friends about his “hot car” out in the 



back parking lot. He allegedly drove a ‟66 GTO, a tri-power, truly one of the fastest 

production cars on the street. I emphasize the words “production car” because, while the 

GTO, aka the “Goat”, could outrun almost any production car, my ride wasn‟t in that 

category any longer. 

My car, depending on which track I took it to, was either Super Stock D, or C 

Gas. My car was a true hotrod. His was a showroom hotrod. 

There‟s a difference. Somewhat akin to the difference between Muhammad Ali 

and Fats Domino. I‟m not sure Ali was ever a dancer, singer, or piano player, but I know 

damned well Fats wouldn‟t‟ve gotten in the ring with him. 

I beat the black asshole in three turns, took his money, and let him challenge me 

again. Why not? It was easy money, and he was an asshole, so it all made sense to me. 

Perfect sense. I finally grew tired of listening to his mouth and told him my car would 

kick the hell out of his. When he asked about it, all I‟d admit to was a ‟66 Chevelle with 

a 396, nothing more. 

Of course, if it was that simple, his 389 cubic inch GTO with a tri-power setup, 

three two-barrel carburetors, would handily defeat a stock Chevelle with a four-barrel 

396 engine. Everybody knew that, and so did he. 

Now he was excited and saw a chance to get his money back. He wanted to race, 

and we finally settled on a hundred bucks for a quarter mile race. We‟d line „em up right 

there on Willow Street and race to the other end of the Oldsmobile plant, give or take, a 

quarter mile. 

I was happy. I‟d raced a lot of cars on that same “track” and never lost a race. 

Never even had a serious challenger. 



Sort of as a footnote explanation, I‟d recently had another experience in my car on 

this same street. I was in the Willow with some buddies and my motorboat mouth soon 

overloaded my rowboat ass. I was bitch racing with a guy from another table and finally 

bragged my car was so fast, we could tape a hundred dollar bill to the dashboard and he 

wouldn‟t be able to grab it until I reached fourth gear. 

He took me up on it. Even pulled a crisp new hundred out of his pocket. 

Well, shit! Who‟d‟ve thought the asshole would make a bet like that? 

I knew I was dog meat, but I was in too far to back out, so I took up a fast 

collection from my friends. They suddenly weren‟t so friendly, but after a lot of 

grumbling, we pieced together a hundred dollars. We showed it, then used his real c-note 

to tape to my dash. With that guy riding shotgun, I idled my beast out to the street and 

got ready. 

The average car today, doing seventy on a freeway, turns around 3,000 rpm, 

(revolutions per minute). The same average car, if taken to 5,000, or 5,500 rpm, will 

blow the engine in a minute or less. 

I‟d rev my Chevelle SS up to 7,000 just to bring it out of the hole, meaning to get 

started, for those who don‟t speak “drag strip”. I‟d watch my Sun tachometer and shift 

gears when the engine reached 8,000 rpm, so my car was not a standard model, by any 

means. 

The guy sat back, all ready and waiting to claim the money. 

My buddies gave me dirty looks and mumbled ugly names, positive I'd lose, 

wondering how soon I‟d pay „em back. So, I tached it up to seven grand, dumped the 

Shiefer clutch, and shifted three times at 8,000 rpm. 



The hundred was still on my dashboard. He couldn‟t even lean forward in the 

seat to grab it, my car‟s takeoff was so powerful. The G forces kept him pinned to the 

seat back. After that, I even believed myself, and so did my pals. So, tonight, I had no 

worry about blowing this asshole‟s doors off. We finished playing pool, and I made him 

pay me before we went out back. I told Jack and his crew I was leaving and they all said 

good-bye. 

When we were in the parking lot, the black guy saw my car wasn‟t stock, as he‟d 

thought. He began hedging, and finally insisted I start it up so he could hear it run. 

I think I explained, the car was now a 412 cubic inch engine putting out 540 

horsepower. It came from the factory with 325 horses, so it was a tad improved. My 

Chevelle also had to idle at 1,500 rpm to avoid stalling, and the only exhaust off the 

headers was a pair of Thrush mufflers. The car was very loud. 

The black guy, and his three buddies, (did I mention there were four of them and I 

was all alone?), now called off the race. Oh, and the bet. 

Half shitfaced by that point, I was now even more pissed at him than I was before. 

Unfortunately, I told him so, including my opinion of his sorry black ass and his car. 

Somewhere in my tirade, I crossed a line I shouldn‟t‟ve crossed. For reasons I can only 

guess at, (like all the nasty things I just said), he was pissed. Very pissed. 

He decided to exact revenge, but wasn‟t so blind pissed as to take me on all by 

himself. No, all three friends were gonna join in. 

Hang on, boys and girls, it gets worse. All four had switchblades. 

In my opinion. That‟s worse. A whole lot worse. 

Then it got even more severe. The mouthy black guy, the one I‟d had all this 



contention with, pulled a gun. A snub-nosed .38 revolver. Well, fuck me! Mom! Hey, 

Mom? Now what? This spade‟s gonna blow the ass off your favorite kid! Mom! Hey, 

Mom? 

My car was at least thirty feet away. No chance to reach it, even without that 

goddamned gun. I realized I was going to die, but it really didn‟t matter all that much to 

me at that point in my life. Facing the problem I‟d brought on myself, I got out my razor 

and prepared to do all the damage possible. I wanted to at least take the mouthy bastard 

with me, and a couple of his buddies, if I could. 

Still, I knew I‟d never survive something like this. It was impossible. 

Then I heard a shell being jacked into the firing chamber and the sound of it 

closing up. The black guy‟s expression told me almost as much as I saw when I turned to 

look over my shoulder. 

Jack had a round in his .45, which is a very damned big gun. It even looks like a 

damned big gun. The .45 is a scary weapon. He also had four or five bikers with him, all 

looking as if they‟d slit your throat for a quarter, maybe less. “Ya want us t‟ fuck „em up 

for ya, Bill?” He kept the muzzle trained on the mouthy black guy. 

“Not right away, Jack,” I told him as I put away my razor. “For right now, that 

skinny nigger with the gun is all mine.” 

“You c‟n kill „is ass, far‟s we care,” Jack opined. He moved the barrel once 

again. “Drop that fuckin‟ peashooter or I‟ll blow yer black ass away.” 

The black guy complied and I went after him. Since I had forty or fifty pounds on 

him, I demolished the son-of-a-bitch in less than a minute. When I got to my feet I 



noticed Jack didn‟t want his boys to get bored. He‟d turned „em loose on the other three, 

who all looked about as bad as the one I‟d just pummeled senseless. 

Jack‟s guys took their knives, and the .38, before they left. 

I never saw any of those black guys again. Must be they didn‟t like the 

hospitality they received at The Willow Bar. 



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

In case you feel the room just got a little darker, don‟t call the usher just yet. It 

happened because I‟m going to tell you about the darkest black sheep in our entire family 

line, Darrel Thurston. Uncle Darrel. Or, his preference, “Unc”. 

He was Mom‟s older brother by a year, maybe two. Darrel was a peculiar, 

alcoholic, eccentric, enigmatic conundrum. Yup, Unc was a trip through all the bad 

words in any Thesaurus you can find. He was also one of the toughest bastards to ever 

hit the north end of Lansing. Ever. 

I recall Mom telling me about a time he got in a bar fight, I believe it was at The 

Grenadier, and it took six cops to subdue him. Keeping in mind they all had billy clubs, 

saps, riot sticks, metal flashlights, guns and handcuffs, that says a lot. The most it ever 

took to subdue me was three, and I was both broken hearted and drunk that night. 



I liked Unc about half the time. He was also sober just about half the time. I 

should‟ve taken a message from that. Gotten a hint, I guess, for what my kids faced in 

later years. Sorry, kids. Honestly, I am, since I remember what it was like when I was in 

your position. 

When sober, only in the daytime for many years, and not before too late in the 

afternoon, he was a happy, humorous, gregarious man. Lots of fun and as warm hearted 

as anyone you‟ll ever meet. When he started drinking, not if, but when, he‟d be the same 

way up until someone crossed him. Intentionally, unintentionally, with purpose or by 

accident, it was all the same. 

That happy smile would leave his face. The belly laugh always so evident was 

gone in a heartbeat. Big, burly hands otherwise accustomed to welding would close into 

hammy fists, one or both of which may then come flying at the antagonist without a 

moment‟s notice. If there was a street brawler or barroom fighter who could whip his 

ass, I never saw the man. Unc was a mean, tough son-of-a-bitch. 

Five-ten, two-fifty, tons of muscle coated in fat, he looked a lot like a Sumo 

wrestler. Huge biceps, strong, thick legs, and a neck he might‟ve stolen from a pier by 

cutting up one of the posts. He was big, burly, and a mean drunk. 

It‟s a very bad thing when a mean drunk is also a frequent drunk. 

He had blondish-brown hair, always in a crew cut, the same way he wore it when 

he left the Navy in the early 40s. I‟m not sure if he ever owned a house, and I know he 

seldom owned a car. Houses he found by falling in love and moving in with the woman 

who might‟ve become his fiancée the first evening they were together, which would also 

be the first time they had sex, knowing Unc. Cars were an item he borrowed, too often 



from Mom, who doted on him. Unc was also after the “Mickey Rooney Trophy”, but 

came in second, if my memory serves me correctly. Mickey Rooney was married eight 

times. I think Unc only made it to six. 

I believe he married a woman named Mickey when he left the Navy. They later 

had three daughters, Carol, Yvonne, aka “Tookie”, and Margaret, who was my age. 

Carol was about four or five years older than me, and Yvonne was a year or two older. 

Funny thing, I always had the hots for Yvonne. Cousin or not, I wanted to get in that 

girl‟s pants, but I never even got close. 

He and Mickey divorced and I never saw those girls again. 

He married a rather attractive woman with black hair. I believe her name was 

Helen, but that only lasted a year or so. I know he married a woman named Linda Love, 

who had a daughter my age, Maria. I actually tried to get in Maria‟s pants, but never got 

any closer than kissing a few times. Bummer. 

There were two more whose names I can‟t recall. Each ended in divorce, as did 

all but one of his marriages. He beat the divorce court, just barely, by dying not long 

before the decree was final. That left his last wife free to collect Social Security and 

Veteran‟s benefits without having to listen to Unc‟s shit to get it. 

Her name was Mabel. That may be a clue as to where she came from, since the 

outdated names are still being used down south, but nowhere else. Mabel was from West 

Virginia. She had a nineteen-year-old daughter named Rita who had a small problem. 

She was pregnant by a Cuban guy a year ahead of me in school. He was happy to screw 

her, but not at all interested in marrying her. 

Although what he did was pretty tacky, I could at least understand it, since I 



wanted to screw her myself. Of course, I had no such noble intention as marriage. I only 

wanted to get laid. I hadn‟t, at that time, ever had sex with a pregnant woman, which is a 

time of delicacy and caring, and a helluva lot of fun. It‟s also worry free with regard to 

things like child support. Sort of a double jeopardy thing, I guess. 

When he wasn‟t drunk and living who the hell knows where in the north end, or 

married to the floozy du jour, Unc normally wound up living at Grandma‟s until he could 

get his shit together. There was a small second bedroom, which he often used, and the 

entire basement was actually made into an apartment. 

However, Grandma didn‟t want him living down there because he could sneak in 

drunk and skip the ass chewing. When he slept fifteen feet from her room, she‟d hear 

him stagger in and go chew his ass for him. That did almost as much good as standing in 

front of a tidal wave throwing rocks at it, but Grandma must‟ve felt it was her motherly 

duty. 

Unc once borrowed one of our cars to “run an errand”. My ass! He wanted a 

way to his favorite bar in the north end and didn‟t want to walk three miles or more in the 

freezing Michigan winter. Mom gave him two dollars, (gas was 5¢ per gallon, as a 

reference), and made him promise he‟d get some anti-freeze for the radiator. 

He didn‟t. Unc put the money in his tank, instead. His belly, that is, at the bar. 

The temps hit around zero that night and the block cracked in the car, making it a piece of 

junk when we needed it as transportation. 

“Hey, a guy‟s only human, ya know? Get off‟n my ass about it!” he explained. 

Unc always had an answer for everything. 

Once, when I was ten, he was again trying to dry out, so he was staying again at 



Grandma‟s. It was the week of Halloween and got pretty cold at night. Unc told me he‟d 

take me to a football game at Sexton, and I was really excited. I was his favorite, and he 

paid very little attention to that David thing at all. 

After the game we were walking home, a distance of less than ten blocks, and I 

saw a mailbox a few houses from Grandma‟s. The name was FUCKETT, and it made me 

laugh. When Unc asked why I was laughing, I told him. To my surprise, he used his 

leather gloves to beat the shit out of me, so I ran away to Grandma‟s and called Mom. 

She wasn‟t too terribly surprised, and arrived very soon to pick me up. 

In the interim, Unc talked with Grandma and learned that was the house of her 

neighbor, Mr. Puckett, so he went back and looked. Sure enough, some vandal playing a 

Halloween prank scratched off the loop of the P in his name. When he got back, I wanted 

nothing to do with him. I was scared and he was a big fuckin‟ bully I didn‟t want to have 

beating my ass anymore. 

That was all it took. Unc went out, on foot, and got about as shitfaced as a man 

can be. Then, sometime in the middle of the night, he was pounding on our door. He 

begged for a chance to apologize to me, and my folks finally made me come out and 

listen to him, so they could get some sleep after he left. 

He was sobbing like a baby with snot running out of his nose and he even got 

some of it on my pj‟s. It was disgusting. I listened to him blubber a while, then talked 

my way free. Once in my bedroom, I got rid of my pj tops and slept in just the bottoms 

the rest of the night. 

Unc asked Mom if he could take me with him once on a Saturday afternoon. I 

think he tied one on the night before. When we got to the auto repair business his friend 



owned, the friend had an ice chest full of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. I was in awe when 

Unc picked up the first one, a twelve ounce bottle with a twist off cap, and drank it all in 

one huge swig. He had two more in the next ten or fifteen minutes before we left. 

As we drove along in the Willy‟s he‟d borrowed from Mom, Unc took out a pack 

of cigarettes and handed „em to me. Then he told me to light one for him. I wasn‟t too 

big on the idea of being disobedient, especially with him, but I simply had to refuse. He 

wouldn‟t believe me at first, saying he knew I smoked already, but I held fast to what I‟ 

said. He eventually lit his own, which made me pretty damned glad. 

He came to our house once when Mom and Dad were fighting. Verbal only. One 

more mark to the prick‟s credit was he never hit Mom. I would‟ve taken him on, no 

matter what my age, if he ever did that. However, they were still going at it when Unc 

arrived. He may have even had a couple by then, since it was already dark. 

In any event, my old man said something pretty nasty to Mom, I guess, and Unc 

went running out to the kitchen. I saw that big, muscular arm cock back. I watched his 

huge, hammy fist descend toward my old man‟s face. I heard the thud, like a raw roast 

landing on a cement floor, when his fist landed. I can‟t say if my old man made any 

noise, or not. All I could hear was Mom‟s screech, “Darrell, you son-of-a-bitch! Leave 

him alone!” 

We were at the cottage one weekend, my folks, that David thing, me, Unc, and his 

wife at the time. I think that was Helen, but I‟m not sure. Unc and Helen slept out on the 

screened in porch, where a bed was made from a fold-out couch. 

It was Saturday. On Friday night, they all went into Lake George, 1.7 miles away 

on a sandy road. It was the closest thing to a town for twenty miles in any direction. 



There was a lumber mill on the north side of town, owned by my still unofficial Grandpa, 

Bob McGeorge. A small general store with mostly food items, a bait shop, a hardware, a 

gas station, and a bar, The Swiss Inn. That‟s just about it. You now know all about Lake 

George, which got the name by being, in some places, only a few feet from the waters of 

Lake George. 

Must‟ve been The Swiss Inn was about to do inventory and would rather sell it 

than count it, „cause Unc did everything he could to totally eliminate their entire stock in 

one night. The hangover he had the next day would‟ve felled any moose who ever lived 

in northern Michigan. That man was sick. Goddamned awfully sick, and even a kid like 

me could see it very plainly. 

That was the first time I ever heard of anything called “the hair of the dog”. He 

and Mom were arguing about it until she told him to kiss her ass and went down to the 

beach, maybe 150 yards from our cottage. It stems from an old adage for use when bitten 

by a dog. The wisdom of the ages suggests putting a hair “from the dog that bit you” on 

the wound to promote healing. 

Drinking more alcohol, as long as it‟s not a sugary sissy drink, will only add 

liquids, which helps a lot, and assist in stabilizing the former drunk‟s system. So, Unc 

overdid it, as usual. While one beer might‟ve helped out, maybe even two, he sucked 

down about six in a row. Then he insisted he was right and Mom was wrong, since he 

felt good again. 

Why shouldn’t he no longer have a hangover? Hell, he was drunk again. I think 

it‟s one of the natural rules of life; you can‟t be hungover and drunk at the same time. 



The “big adventure” came when I was nineteen, just shortly after I broke it off 

with Jackie Fox, when I found her and that priest getting a little too close for my liking. 

Darrell and Mabel were moving back to West Virginia, “where things are a lot 

happier”, as I was told. Oh, but I wasn‟t told about “a lot slower”, nor was any mention 

made of “mostly stupider”, but that may have been only the people I met when I was 

down there. I can‟t condemn an entire state based on a couple hundred nitwits. 

However, I can attest some of the women I met sure as hell enjoyed sex, so my 

trip was by no means a loss. 

As I mentioned, Rita was pregnant. About six months, I think. I also had a secret 

desire to screw the hell out of her, so my motivation wasn‟t entirely chaste, not by any 

means. To be accurate, my motivation was largely prurient. 

Darrell and Mabel had rented a house in Wonderland, West Virginia. It‟s a 

couple miles outside of Minden, which is also not listed on any internet maps I was able 

to find. It‟s just outside Oak Hill, which is just outside Whipple Junction, which isn‟t 

close to anything. It‟s maybe twenty-five miles north of US 64 on 19, if that matters to 

you. 

I learned very quickly as I drove in those mountains a speed limit suggestion, the 

numbers on a yellow sign in black letters, is very important. If it says 15 mph, it does not 

mean 16 mph. I‟m not kidding, it‟s that bad. If you speed in those areas, your next of kin 

will pay a lot of money to have your body hauled up to the road. That‟s why you can see 

cars down there before they get overgrown by brush. Anything that goes off the side of a 

mountain isn‟t worth hauling back up unless you want it for scrap metal. 

We had two nice days down there, and Unc was sober both days. By his age fifty, 



he extended things. He was a six month drunk, then a six month Baptist. In either case, I 

often wanted to kill the man. 

We all know what a drunk is like, especially a mean drunk who then turns into a 

crying, slobbering drunk after a while. Pretty disgusting, all around. 

I‟m not sure it‟s any better than a six month Baptist. A saved Baptist. Every 

goddamned thing I said was met with, “Hallelujah!,”, “Amen!”, or “Praise The Lord!” 

Okay, God and Bill have our own deal. We like it, and it works for Us. Still, hearing 

those words from the same guy who called you a motherfucker last month can be a bit 

disconcerting. Hearing them all day and all night, every time something is said, gets even 

worse. 

If Rita and I hadn‟t been in my car, following behind theirs, I probably would‟ve 

murdered my uncle on the trip down there. 

I think Rita knew I wanted some pussy, and I think she knew where I hoped to get 

it. She coyly asked me about scoring some grass down there. Although I had no idea 

where I would‟ve looked, I did have a dime bag in my glove box. To be honest, I‟d never 

sampled that bag. I had it on hand only for friends, as I preferred drinking beer after my 

addiction in the hospital. 

So, it quickly became a real estate matter. Every woman has a small area, about 

4” x 4”, that can be rented for more money per hour than any piece of land that size, even 

in Texas oil country. It‟s a very valuable property called a ting-tang, a nookie, a snatch, a 

muff, or a pussy. Or, a woman‟s real estate. It‟s damned awfully real. 

Rita had one, and I was an interested party. Very, very interested. 

We discussed it, and even did a saliva swap, but hadn‟t yet gotten down to brass 



tacks. Then she did something stupid. However, she did it with all the loyalty of a 

rattlesnake, so it evened things out. 

Mabel and Darrell caught Rita smoking some marijuana and they both flew 

immediately off the handle. Stalwart to the end, Rita held out for damned near a full 

minute before confessing I gave it to her. 

That put Unc in a rage, and it was all directed at me. This is the same guy who 

smacked me around when I was fourteen for sassing Mom, so bad I ran away to Chicago 

for a week. Now he‟d caught me “being a dope peddler” and my “sweet little customer” 

was his pregnant daughter-in-law. He also had her sworn testimony I talked her into it 

and it was her first time ever. 

Man, stick a fork in my ass, „cause I‟m all done! 

It only came down to a very loud conversation since, even with my bad leg, I was 

able to outrun him. That conversation was unique in yet another way. It was the first 

time in my life I ever heard a mixture of “Hallelujah!”, Goddamn you!”, “Amen!” and 

“Motherfucker!” all in one string of comments. 

If you haven‟t drawn it as a conclusion, Unc was as pissed as I‟d ever seen him. 

That meant I needed something, a modification of what any realtor will tell you are the 

three most important items. Relocation, relocation, relocation! I needed to relocate my 

ass somewhere Unc wouldn‟t find it, and I did so posthaste. 

My “job” at that time was working on the line at Oldsmobile. Around the end of 

the second month, I strained my back lifting something. Pretty soon, I could barely even 

walk, so they sent me home. After a couple weeks the doctor told me I could come back 

to work, but on restricted duty. 



Oh, joy. 

You see, I really loved that job. I loved it almost as much as being married to my 

last wife. Okay, I really did like the job a lot better than being married to her, but let‟s be 

real. I also enjoyed root canals more than I enjoyed that woman. 

My duties consisted of sitting on a chair in front of boxes of bolts, which I had to 

assemble. I‟d take out a bolt, put a lock washer on it, then screw a nut onto the bolt. 

After putting that finished product in a box, I‟d start all over again. I‟m telling you, “a 

thrill a minute” doesn‟t do that job justice. 

Therefore, every time my back hurt, which came faster than labor pains, I‟d tell 

the foreman, Bob Meyers. After a while, he had to send me to see the company doctor 

who, upon hearing my dismal report, sent me home on paid sick leave! I was being paid 

$120.00 per week, after taxes, for working forty boring hours. Now they paid me $80.00 

per week and told me not to set foot in the door. 

hell! 

Not to worry, folks! There ain‟t gonna be no Billy buggin’ you guys! No way in 

Since I still lived with my folks, the cheques were mailed to their house and 

arrived every week in Wednesday‟s mail. I called Mom and gave her a bullshit story 

about Unc falling off the wagon as my reason for moving on. 

I knew it made her so pissed at him she wouldn‟t call, and I knew he‟d be too 

embarrassed after he lost his temper that way to call her. I told Mom I was gonna drive 

around the state a few days and take pictures. We agreed she‟d sign my cheque and send 

me the money via Western Union. Being Mom, which was synonymous with “being a 

big sucker for Bill”, she even paid the fee to wire me my money each week. 



I didn‟t have a pool cue, but a hustler never brings his own stick, so I was fine 

with that. I did have some gloves in the trunk, eight ounce, ten ounce, and twelve ounce, 

so I figured I was okay if I decided to fight for a while, although I had no idea where or 

how that might happen. 

The rest of that day, and all the following day, I drove around in my ‟63 Chevy, 

just taking pictures. West Virginia really is a beautiful state, and they also have some 

incredibly beautiful, very enticing women. I slept in my car the first night, and found a 

fleabag hotel the next. 

The day after, I was in a rundown bar in some little town, still in West Virginia. I 

stayed in that state my entire first sojourn into the world of backroom boxing. Somehow, 

during a conversation I had with the bartender and another drunk at the bar, the topic was 

soon shifted to boxing. Unashamedly, I told „em I was pretty damned good with my 

hands. Even stretched the point and said I was undefeated, which excluded Lincoln 

Ashford and a Polish guy named George Piclik, a student at O‟Rafferty, then later at 

Sexton. He was six-five, two-forty, and had a reach on me I couldn‟t get past. We 

fought in the driveway outside Joe Jolly‟s house, three rounds, and I‟d say he was the 

winner. 

The conversation at the bar seemed to stay on boxing until, after a while, the other 

drunk told me to follow him. We went down the street to a building I thought might be 

an auto repair facility gone bad. He started asking me a lot of questions about how good 

I was, what were my best talents, and so on. Finally, in what I‟m sure he thought was a 

surprise test, he took a rat from a cage and tossed it at me. 

The rat was squeaking in terror as it sailed at me, so I solved two problems at 



once. I snapped a jarring left jab at the rat and shut it up before the damned thing hit the 

floor. I don‟t know if I killed it, or just knocked it out, since we left a short time later. I 

can say I didn‟t hear even a sound from the rat, or see it move, after I gave it that punch. 

Anyway, I must‟ve passed my test. 

The guy, whose name I don‟t recall, had a fight for me that night. It would pay a 

whopping fifty bucks, which I thought was a good deal. I didn‟t know that was at the 

bottom of the low side, although five-hundred bucks is the most I ever made for any 

fight. Most paid between a hundred and two-fifty, depending on the location, how many 

fighters, and how much betting they anticipated. 

Being new, I had the advantage of being unknown. However, being new, I had 

the disadvantage of being unknown. No, I‟m not drunk, and neither are you. To be 

unknown to the other guys I'd be fighting was good. I didn‟t look all that tough, not 

when I wasn‟t mad, and no one had any advance dish on me. That meant they‟d often 

take me for granted. 

When a guy took me for granted, I took him to the cleaners. However, being an 

unknown meant there was no one who knew how I fought I could tell the promoter to call 

for a reference. For a while, that kept my price down a bit, but I soon got past it. 

All my fights were with heavyweights, since I weighed 192, way too heavy for 

the 172 pounds of light heavyweight. I fought guys from 175 pounds to 350 and more. I 

didn‟t really care, and the big guys were easier fights than some real fast bastard who 

weighed in around two-hundred. 

My first fight was a black guy. A goddamned big black guy. Five-ten, not any 

taller, and a good two-eighty. Pretty much all muscle with a coating of fat from too many 



barbequed rib dinners. It was a six-rounder, and I was scared for my life until just before 

the fight. When I looked over my shoulder I saw George, my figurative bully side, and 

he gave me a thumbs up, along with a wink. Somehow, I knew I‟d be okay after that. 

As I suspected, all that muscle was probably a big help in a street fight, but it sure 

as hell wasn‟t in the ring. It slowed his punches and abbreviated his range a lot. Those 

powerful legs also wouldn‟t move around as fast as mine, damaged or not. My left jab 

was always very fast, but I don‟t think I ever knocked anyone out with just the left. In a 

combination, sure I did, but not with only the left. 

I used it to keep people away from me, since it always hurt a guy and was hard to 

avoid, and to set things up. Jabs can be used to move a man into a position where the 

right will get him, if used properly. 

Of course, when I could get inside on a guy, head down and pounding his belly 

and ribs, both fists were rather lethal. Yet, in regular boxing, my long arms, fast left, and 

rapid foot movement were my biggest tools. 

My right, to the surprise of many, had a knockout punch most never saw coming. 

I could hit very hard and, once I had a man set up, he was unlikely to avoid my punch. 

Keep in mind, if I‟d ever run into my hero, Muhammad Ali, that fight would‟ve been my 

last. He‟d‟ve kicked my ass so bad I‟d‟ve gone back home and put nuts and washers on 

those bolts for Oldsmobile. If-dog-rabbit. 

The black guy I fought had some vicious punches. I heard most of „em go by, 

whooshing overhead like airplanes. Each time, as he tried to recover, I‟d pepper him a 

half dozen times in the head and bounce away. Madder each time, he‟d just launch 

another haymaker and we‟d go through the process again. 



He hit me a few times, of course, or they wouldn‟t‟ve allowed him in the ring. 

All his punches landed on my shoulders, which were damned sore the next day, and even 

grazed my head a couple times. Had any punch he threw landed, the outcome might have 

been different, but they didn‟t. I was too fast for him to hit. After the last bell, I had no 

doubt who won, and neither did he. We hugged and smiled at each other. No hostility 

involved. It was just business, and I won. 

The next few days were spent hustling pool, since I was a little sore and wasn‟t in 

a mood to get hit right away. The same guy who tossed me the rat had another fight for 

me, this one paying a hundred bucks. I took it, being stupid enough to believe him when 

he said I‟d be fighting a guy well past his prime. 

Bullshit! The guy was a truck driver, late 30s, and I knew what he‟d do if his 

semi ever ran off the road and got stuck. He‟d tie a goddamned rope to it and pull it out 

by hand! Son-of-a-bitch, was this guy big! Six-five, two-fifty, a lot like George Piclik, 

the Polish kid I feel beat me sparring in Jolly‟s driveway. 

This was another six-rounder, which I learned was the norm in most places. I 

came out worried, but I had the customary assurances from George before we got started, 

and that helped. It also caused some confusion because I was inspired to start “talking” 

to George. 

I never really had a corner man in any of my fights, just someone to give me a 

scoop of water, maybe wipe my face. Very few times, since it was important to me, did 

anyone ever have to wipe blood off me. At least, when they did it, it wasn‟t my blood. 

Lots of times, when I‟d bloody some guy‟s nose, he‟d drip or smear it on me in the rare 

times I permitted a clinch. 



I always wanted that shit wiped off right away. 

In this second fight, I learned a few things I really didn‟t like in the first round. 

He had a long reach, longer than mine. That meant he could hit me, but still be too far 

away for me to hit him. That was usually my advantage over those other fighters. He 

was fast, almost as fast as me, which I found even scarier. Part of what made it so hard to 

hit me was my speed. 

It worked for him, too, so I scored very little in the first round that way. 

He could also deliver a punch. I found out the hard way when he landed one on 

my cheek. It hurt like a bitch and made me dizzy for a few seconds. Any training, and 

the instinct you need to be a fighter, tells you there‟s one thing you must do immediately 

if you get hit with a telling blow. Hit back. Hard, and often. No matter what else you 

do, you can‟t ever let the other guy think you‟ve been hurt. If you do, he‟ll beat your 

goddamned brains out before you can get your act together again. 

I know. I messed up a lot of fighters that way. Even if I was so exhausted all I 

wanted to do was go to bed, alone, I knew what to do when I saw I‟d stunned a guy. I‟d 

immediately land at least twenty-five to fifty punches. I wanted that sucker on his back, 

and it was always easier to do when he couldn‟t really fight back. 

When this guy rocked my boat, I started swinging like I was being paid on a per 

punch basis. There was so much going on, he couldn‟t get at me before I got it back 

together. Of course, that tired me out quite a bit, so I coasted the rest of the round. 

Instead of attacking, I watched him and did some deep thinking. 

It came to me in my corner. The way he was moving, and the fact he kept his 

elbows low and close to his body, caused me to be suspicious. I wondered if maybe he 



didn‟t have the same problem I had. Mine stemmed from another drunken bash at Joe 

Jolly‟s place. 

Alvin Mask, the black guy who saved my ass in the locker room that day in 1965, 

was with us. Like most black guys I knew, Alvin drank Colt .45, which I thought tasted 

like horse piss. He also couldn‟t hold his booze too well, again typical of the black guys I 

knew. 

He‟d seen me beat someone sparring in the driveway that day and as he sat on the 

couch, his paranoia took over. I was coming back from the bathroom after taking a leak 

when Alvin came to his feet. I smiled, wondering what he‟d say, and had no chance to 

defend myself against what he did. Alvin swung a vicious uppercut directly into my 

belly, hitting me so hard it blew every bit of air out of my body. I honestly feared I‟d 

suffocate before I was able to finally take a breath. That punch nearly killed me. 

I couldn‟t really blame Alvin. He was drunk, and no Rhodes scholar in the first 

place, but it was a few hours before I drank any more beer. He really got to me that day. 

After that, with such a damaging blow to the liver, I had the equivalent of a “glass 

jaw” with my stomach. It was never a big problem, since I shied away from all infighting 

unless I instigated it. Even then, as soon as I lost position to do a lot of damage, I‟d just 

dance away and jab again, always to avoid getting hit. 

So, I concluded this monster had the same problem. Just to be sure, I tested my 

theory. I stayed in position long enough for him to get off a good shot, but it was a left 

hand punch, and I didn‟t stay where it fully landed, meaning I wasn‟t hurt. When he let it 

go, I moved in and planted a hard jab to his belly. 

The sick look on his face, along with the huge gush of air after I hit him, told me 



my hunch was on the money. After that, for the rest of the second round and all of the 

third, I‟d decide when to make a trade-off. When I stepped in that close, he‟d always 

score a head punch. Still, if I moved in on him fast enough, it wasn‟t too bad and didn‟t 

hurt much. 

Once inside, I‟d follow him all the way back to the ropes, even to a corner one 

time, beating the living shit out of his ribs and his belly. Every time I did it, the guy 

looked like he wanted to call it off right there. 

He refused to even answer the bell in round four, giving me my first TKO, 

(technical knockout). I was elated at being two and oh, happy to have earned twice as 

much money as my first fight, (more than a week‟s workmen‟s comp), and even more 

delighted the fight was over. If I hadn‟t figured him out, a big, hard hitting, fast as hell 

guy like that might‟ve beaten the hell out of me. 

That‟s something I‟ve never wanted to experience. Knock on wood, it ain‟t ever 

happened to me. Not yet, it hasn‟t. 



CHAPTER NINETEEN 

Between my activities down south, I‟d always return to Lansing. At times I‟d 

work for Bill Ford at his gas station, but he had a minor problem arise. It seemed Bill 

was playing some kind of game with taxes he withheld and got caught. I don‟t think he 

ever went to jail, but Standard Oil sure closed him down in a hurry. 

I sent him a letter with my sympathies, although he never replied. I later saw 

some ads for him as a real estate agent in Grand Ledge, so I can only hope life was good 

to Bill afterward. 

I worked a few times for Jim and Fred Wahl, but it wasn‟t steady, and I wanted to 

get back down south. Most of my buddies were either married, involved with some girl 

and getting ready to be married, or in the service. 

I had seven calls from the Selective Service System to report for my induction 



physical. I went the first time and the seventh, over a period of two years, starting just 

after I turned eighteen. The rest of the time, with all my reasons for not going, Shirley 

Pope, my case worker at the draft board, would merely send them my file. Finally, after 

all that screwing around, they wanted me to get a “yes or no” physical. I‟d either be 

inducted on the spot, or I‟d never hear from them again. 

Actually, that part was a bit comical. 

I had friends in excellent health who were very worried about the lottery system 

they started using. All the birth dates were tossed in a bin and chosen one at a time. I 

had buddies with fantastic health who drew numbers like 22, 38, 44, even a few in the 

teens. Each one immediately enrolled in whatever college was willing to take him, many 

using LCC, (Lansing Community College), which we all referred to as “Last Chance 

College”. 

I‟m an alumni, although I doubt I spent a total of thirty days in class over a two 

year period. It was something to do, and a way to meet girls. Besides, even with all my 

health problems, an injury/illness menu my doctor and I compiled containing fifty-seven 

legitimate deferments, my damned lottery number was 334. If I wasn‟t as big as I got to 

be, I feel a few “friends” with those low numbers would‟ve kicked my ass from all that 

pure frustration. 

I was given a special exception and allowed to drive my car to Detroit for the 

exam so I wouldn‟t have to wait all day and ride home on a bus with all those guys. I 

took the Chevelle, which had a rear axle gear meant for going fast from a stop, but wasn‟t 

by any means meant for the highway. My top speed in steady driving was 55 mph and I 

got 3.5 mpg on premium fuel. 



Shortly after we arrived and I‟d parked my car out front, ready to haul ass, they 

had a couple hundred of us in a big room. We were all stripped to our shorts, and I felt 

like an idiot. I damned sure wasn‟t looking at anyone, since I didn‟t want to be labeled “a 

queer” and get my ass kicked by a half dozen guys at once. 

The sergeant told us all to squat, and every guy in the room obeyed. Except our 

hero, Bill Cady. The NCO strutted over to me, fully prepared to kick ass on this fuckin‟ 

smart mouthed bastard, but a doctor followed and listened in. 

The sergeant said in a gruff voice, “Boy, did you hear me when I just said for 

everybody to squat?” 

“Yes, sir! I did, sir!” 

“Then why the fuck are you still standin‟, boy?” 

“Sir, I can‟t squat, sir!” 

The doctor looked at my leg. “You got any steel in there, young man?” 

“Yes, sir! Knee to ankle, sir, and knee to hip, sir! Yes, sir, I do, sir!” 

He chuckled. “You don‟t have to call me „sir‟, son. I‟m just the doctor.” 

“Yes, sir! Doctor, sir! Yes, sir!” 

He looked my leg over some more, felt his way around, then wrote on the chart on 

his clipboard. Taking it off the clipboard, he handed it to me. “Go all the way to the end 

of the line and give this to the corporal at the duty station.” He began to turn, adding, 

“Oh, and put your clothes back on before you leave here.” 

“Yes, sir, Doctor, sir!” 

I looked pompously at all those guys, knowing damned near every one of „em was 

headed for Vietnam to risk his life for Shell Oil Company, then hurried to get my clothes. 



Once dressed, I moved in and out and around people until I reached the corporal at the 

last desk. I handed him my papers and stood waiting. He looked at the papers, then back 

at me. Back to the papers, then to me again. Once more on the papers, then back to me, 

shaking his head with true regret. “Sorry, boy, you didn‟t make it.” 

I grabbed the paperwork he handed me. “Yahoo! „S'cuse my draft dodgin’ ass! 

Pardon my 4-F! Get the fuck outa my way!” I doubt like hell I seemed all that crippled 

as I legged it out to my car. I backed up, revved the engine to seven grand, and tore up 

the parking lot with my slicks as I raced away. A mile or so down the street I saw a beer 

store, so I stopped. Minutes later, fully equipped with a twelve-pack of Stroh‟s, I set out 

for a long drive home at 55 mph, but I knew my military worries were over. 

I‟d already lied twice to the Navy, trying to enlist, and even bullshitted the people 

at the Marine Corps, since they were owned by the Navy. Both turned me down. When 

the Army called, I decided those shit brindle green uniforms would clash badly with my 

piercing light blue eyes and had no more spirit to serve my country in the military. 

They had their chance with Bill Cady and they lost out. That‟s the way I saw it. 

Somehow, and I have no idea how it happened, I then met a girl in Lansing named 

Donna Turpin. If the last name sounds familiar, she had a sister, Connie Turpin, who was 

dating that guy named Al. He was the one who rented a house on East Michigan Avenue 

where we drank a lot, where “T” Townsend tried to divest himself of crabs by using Raid. 

From the very first time I ever saw Connie, I wanted her sexually. I never had a 

snowball‟s chance in hell, of course, but that never once got in the way of me wanting 

her. Heck, if she still looks that good today, I‟d still want her. Connie was a damned 

good looking woman, much prettier than her sister, the one I married. 



I still can‟t remember how Donna and I met. I know she once had a dating 

relationship with a guy named Don Pinkston. He was a friend of some degree of my 

somewhat perverted cousin, Doug Thurston, the jerk who had an ongoing affair with his 

own teenage daughter. Maybe that connection had something to do with it, but I still 

can‟t be sure. 

I was interested in Donna right away, however, primarily because she was pretty, 

and had a thirty-nine and a half inch bust. Try telling any nineteen-year-old guy that‟s 

not a reason to fall in love and he‟ll say you‟re full of shit. She eventually gravitated to 

the nickname “TJ”, which stood for “Thunder Jugs”. To be truthful, I think she even 

liked hearing it. 

I know I loved exploring those puppies. 

I made a number of trips back down south, always going to new towns, but I was 

already building a rep among the fight promoters. That raised my price a little, but it was 

still more for fun than anything else. I vowed to quit immediately as soon as I lost my 

first fight. However, I was still undefeated when I decided to hang up my gloves and 

shoes. 

I‟ll try to tell you here about the few fights I can truly remember. So many other 

things come back to me crystal clear about my past life, but that period of time in my life 

was almost a blur. 

I was first just dating TJ, then she had a pearl ring, sort of a “Promise Ring”, as I 

was led to believe. Later I bought her a diamond, one I‟d most likely be far too ashamed 

to offer a woman at this time in my life, although the possibility of that happening is 

somewhere between slim and none. 



As you‟ll see in the pages to follow, marriage is something I‟m really bad at 

doing. Since it‟s always ended in sadness and unhappiness for both, I can‟t think of a 

woman I dislike enough that I‟d decide to actually marry her. If it ever comes up, I‟ll ask 

if she wouldn‟t simply prefer a vicious beating and we can call off our relationship while 

she‟s healing. 

That way, all the pain will be over much more quickly, and at far less cost. 

As far as TJ and her connection to my fighting, it was really only my moral code 

that mattered. Back then, in the late 60s, no one ever said AIDS without first saying 

BAND- as part of the word. The worst things that could happen were the crabs “T” got, 

or a burning in your dick indicating syphilis or gonorrhea, which necessitated a $50 

doctor‟s visit and a few terribly embarrassing phone calls. 

Thankfully, even that never happened to me. Of course, I haven‟t been with that 

many women in my life. Not like Kareem Abdul-Jabar or Wilt Chamberlain, with lovers 

in the tens of thousands. Even now, my number‟s only a little over 550, and it was barely 

100 at that age. So, either I was careful, or lucky, or both, but I never had to make those 

shame-ridden phone calls. 

Initially, I felt bad when I‟d meet some girl down south and have sex with her. It 

was as if I was actually doing something wrong, which I can now see was true. At the 

time, I rationalized it. I was enjoying myself, the girls were always very happy when we 

finished, and TJ would never hear about it. 

That made everything okay, as I saw it. 

Of course, I now realize it was a violation of trust, and I‟m a bit ashamed I let my 

“little head” control the “big head”, but that‟s water over the dam by now. I guess I‟ve 



also missed on TJ never finding out about it, since she can read, but she‟s happily 

married to some guy in Charlotte, Michigan, or was, the last I knew. 

My next trip down south started in West Virginia, then moved to Virginia when I 

received a tip. I‟d already had fights in Charleston, then Parkersburg, and I headed over 

to the Roanoke area with my tip. That week helped me pick up a few hundred bucks, but 

the fights weren‟t all that exciting. After a couple wins I found in Lynchburg, I set out 

for Richmond. 

Altogether, over the two years, I had fights in West Virginia, Virginia, then 

Tennessee and Kentucky. I loved „em all, and never had a favorite state. 

One of my fights in Richmond was kinda amusing. My opponent was a white 

guy, a real big, real fat son-of-a-bitch, the biggest man I‟ve ever fought. He weighed in 

around three-fifty, fatter than hell, but that also provided a big cushion for him. 

It was after about ten seconds, when he let fly with a punch I determined could‟ve 

taken down a wall, when I decided I wasn‟t gonna get in close with this ape for any 

reason. I‟d take this bastard out on points and earn my money, but there was no way in 

the world I‟d take a chance of him connecting. My Mom didn‟t raise no foolish children 

until she got to that David thing, then she went nuts with the idea. 

We were about halfway through the fourth round and the fight was mine. No 

question. He hadn‟t hit me even once, and I must‟ve tagged him a hundred times or 

more. His nose was bloody, even after his guy in the corner worked on it, so I figured it 

was broken. His heavy breathing reaffirmed my guess. He‟d have at least one black eye 

the next day, and his cheeks were all red from my gloves. 

Before I left Lansing I‟d made some purchases. I had two pairs of trunks by then, 



one red with a white stripe, the other white with a red stripe. Whichever the other guy 

wore, if he had trunks, I put on the opposite. 

I also had boxing shoes, which gave me much better foot control. I could slide 

easier when needed, but had all the traction I wanted. It actually improved my speed in 

the ring, making things all that much easier. Of course, since I had no pockets then, I had 

to hide everything in my car. I put it under the back seat. I‟d be in a world of hurt if 

someone stole all my money while I was in the ring. 

When you drift into town and people know you won‟t be staying, you don‟t really 

have any friends. Not anyone you can count on, anyway. 

I was wearing my white trunks when I fought the big fat guy, and he almost 

pissed me off with what he was doing. Remember, that was one of my tactics, piss a guy 

off so he‟d stop thinking and act on emotion. That way, I could beat the shit out of him 

before he realized his mistake. I caught myself in time, but what he was doing was pretty 

disgusting. With his nose all bloody like that, leaking blood all during each round, that 

asshole would lean my way and sneeze! On purpose! What a prick! 

I was afraid he‟d get blood all over my nice, white trunks, which would mean Bill 

would be forced to sit in some sleazy Laundromat to get them clean again. So, I changed 

my tactics a little. Every time he‟d come at me and lean ahead, my left hand would swat 

his glove and knock it down toward his feet. At the same moment, I‟d uncork a right that 

wasn‟t enough to knock him down with the cross angle, but I know damned well it hurt 

when I hit him. Finally, with my gloves so bloody from his nose I had to go to my corner 

to wipe „em off, he got the idea and quit sneezing on me. 

The crowd, as I expected, wasn‟t all that happy with me. Sure, I was easily 



winning the fight, and they all knew it. I was literally beating the shit out of their local 

hero, but there wasn‟t a prayer I‟d knock him out. They knew he could knock me out if 

he ever got close enough, but I know you still remember that part about Mom and foolish 

children. 

One spectator was an old man, very possibly in his 80s. He had a gruff, very 

raspy voice, and he never stopped screaming at me. These people didn‟t just want to 

watch a boxer, they wanted to see a fighter. Well, there‟s a helluva difference in the two. 

Believe me. 

Back in Lansing there was a middleweight I saw as a true fighter. His name was 

John Stage, from Owosso. A burly farm boy, John was solid muscle, his entire body. I 

believe his max weight was one-sixty, but I might be a bit off on that. He had absolutely 

no talent as a fighter, but I think he was undefeated until he died in a car crash one night 

near Owosso. 

John would stick out his left hand, almost fully extended, so he could jab you if 

and when he got close enough. The right stayed back near his head, all cocked and ready. 

Then he‟d start following his opponent. John Stage was a stalker with a death punch. 

The other guy could hit him as many times as he wanted, damned near any place 

he wanted, and John just kept going. A savage blow to the head might move his skull an 

inch. Tops. His neck, maybe eighteen inches, was all solid muscle. Yet that‟s how you 

knock a guy out, snapping his head back to break the electrical contact in the brain and 

interrupt the flow of blood to the brain. The jolt doesn‟t need to be for very long, but it 

requires some snap. 

You didn‟t get that by hitting John Stage. He just kept coming, no matter what 



you did to him. If he‟d possessed any real speed, I‟m sure he could‟ve gone pro, but the 

way he was, a world class middleweight would‟ve killed him. Still, this was amateur 

boxing, the Golden Gloves. 

John would keep plodding along until, at some point in the fight, he‟d get the 

other guy in one of the corners. That‟s it. Lights out. John would offload a punch he 

could‟ve used to knock down a wall and land it on some kid‟s poor head. 

Next! That fight would be all over and done with. 

People loved watching John because there was a lot of punching. Granted, it was 

all landing on John, except for that single punch he‟d throw to end the match, but they 

thought that was boxing. 

Wrong! That ain‟t boxing, folks. 

Yes? The foxy little blonde with those enchanting blue eyes in the second row? 

What can we do for you, Princess? 

What is that if it isn‟t boxing, you wonder? 

Well, it‟s one or two guys getting the living shit kicked out of them to make a 

crowd happy. The stupid part of it, since that‟s just fighting, is a decent boxer can avoid 

almost all that damage by doing it the right way. 

Am I willing to show you “the right way”? 

Well, yes, but not in boxing. Would you like to go a few rounds with me doing 

what‟s called “messing around”? 

You‟d like that, huh? Well, so would I. Meet me there by the door when we‟re 

finished tonight, okay? 

Oh, and thank you for wearing such a short skirt this evening. Oops! And thanks 



again for tugging it up a little more just now! I‟ll see you as soon as we‟re finished here, 

Punkin. 

This old man actually climbed up on the edge of the ring, purely incensed at what 

I was, or wasn‟t, doing. “Why doncha get yer fuckin‟ ass in there an‟ fight the som‟bitch, 

ya fuckin‟ cowardly asshole?” He screamed it at me a yard away from my head. 

I turned long enough to glance at him. “I‟m kinda busy, old man. Why don‟t you 

just go fuck off, huh?” I moved away to avoid a haymaker. 

“Yer just a fuckin‟ punk!” he howled. “If ya had any fuckin‟ balls, ya‟d get yer 

ass in there and fuckin‟ mix it up, ya goddamned pussy!” 

I rapped the other guy three sharp jabs and got the hell out of there before he 

could throw a murderous response my way. A minute or so later, I was back by that 

nasty old fart. 

“What th‟ fuck‟re ya doin’ in there, any fuckin‟ ways, if ya ain‟t even got the 

fuckin‟ balls t‟ trade no fuckin‟ punches, ya fuckin‟ punk? Ya fuckin‟ pussy!” 

I stopped, turned, and walked right up to him. Taller by a good eight inches, I 

jammed my gloves against my hips and stared down at him. Then, in a voice even louder 

than his, I made a suggestion. “Look, you beat up, knocked around old shit for brains! If 

you wanna have somebody get in close with that big motherfucker, I think it‟s time we 

got your grungy old ass in the ring with him! You want that big motherfucker to be 

hittin‟ on you? Well, you old fuck, do ya? Do ya?” 

“Well, hell no, but ” 

“Then shut the fuck up, old man! Just shut the fuck up!” I “pushed him” away 

with my glove, hard enough that he landed on his nasty old ass and everyone started 



laughing at him. When I turned around, the big guy had finally overcome his total 

mesmerization at my speech and was resuming the fight without notifying me. I 

ducked as fast as I could, just in time to avoid either a 747 going over my head, or his 

punch. From the noise it made, I wasn‟t all that sure. 

We rocked and rolled the last two rounds and, as I expected, I was declared the 

winner. The big guy never won a single round, and I wasn‟t hurt, so it ended the way I 

wanted it to end. 

I had another fight I dare deem memorable. It was in 1968, maybe 1969, outside 

of Louisville, Kentucky. I was fighting a black guy. A goddamned awfully tough black 

guy. I had some size on him, and some reach. Damned little of either. I was still 192 

pounds, he was 184. I was a shaving above six-two, he was a trace over six feet. 

All the “sissy classes” used today didn‟t exist back then, especially in semipro 

boxing. Light heavyweight peaked out at 172 pounds. Anything, and everything, over 

that was heavyweight. No exceptions. 

This black guy was almost as fast as me, and I‟m safely able to say he hit as hard 

as I did. I include the fact I had a headache for a week after the fight as my evidence, 

along with the fact he landed a right cross that gave me serious thoughts about leaving the 

boxing scene altogether. 

I don‟t mean not taking another fight. I mean right then, when he hit me. I 

thought it was a goddamned Buick that hit me, not a mean looking black guy who 

probably hadn‟t smiled once since first grade. 

In round three, sensing there was an ass kicking in the offing and I had a seat on 

the wrong side of it, I tried something funny. A stolen technique, but modified by me. 



One I took from my ultimate hero, Muhammad Ali. I did the “Ali shuffle”, then spun 

360 degrees. As I returned to “Point A”, I hurled both arms to the side and yelled, 

“Wooooo!” 

As expected, and hoped, the man was shocked. Surprised. Better yet, quite 

confused. He had a “What the fuck?” look on his face. He also dropped his guard. 

My swooping right uppercut probably wasn‟t enough to put him out. It‟d slow 

him down a lot, sure, but I doubt it would‟ve knocked him out. What it did, to my 

everlasting benefit, was stun him. It kept his guard down, and prevented him from 

punching for a very long time. Say, three or four seconds. 

That‟s a lifetime in the ring. Almost forever and a day. 

One-two-three! I stepped in with my best shots. With what was needed to keep 

him from putting my tired white ass right where I intended to put his tired black ass. “In 

a romance”. I hit him with a right, left, right, the last one a devastating cross I pulled 

from way down low. Near my knees. His face looked like one of those scenes from 

Rocky, where a man‟s kisser gets so contorted you wouldn‟t think he‟d ever look normal 

again. Blood and spit flying ahead of him as he stumbled, the man was able to “find 

romance”. He kissed that damned canvas like it was true love. 

No one, not the ref or a single person in the crowd, had any doubt when he was 

splayed out at my feet. If the count required a thousand instead of ten, I‟d‟ve gone to my 

corner and had a cigarette as I watched the ref count his way into oblivion. 

a stretcher. 

That man was not gettin‟ up. No way in hell. Not without some paramedics and 

There was a fight in Tennessee, I believe it was twenty or thirty miles out of 



Knoxville. We fought in a huge barn, all cleaned out with no livestock I could see. My 

opponent was a big black guy, a touch taller than me, a good twenty pounds heavier, and 

meaner than a snake. He was maybe twenty-five, tops. Muscular, well-built, with long 

arms and great big hands. Hands he planned to curl into big murderous fists and slam 

them against the head of Fred and Millie‟s oldest boy! Not a pleasant thought! 

He had a black girlfriend, but my guess would be only half black. Her skin was 

the color of Halle Berry, and she was damned good looking, too. She had a real good 

body, gorgeous breasts, and a “bubble butt”. Round, firm, it looked like it would nestle 

into my hand as well as my bowling ball. 

Even with George‟s encouragement, I was a bit worried. This guy was big, 

looked trim enough to be fast, and I had no doubt he could hit damned awfully hard, as 

well as hit often. Not a good combination, that. Not at all. 

She even came to see me just before the fight. She wore a knit yellow dress that 

stopped halfway up some very well shaped thighs. Her lipstick was a glossy red, and her 

eye make-up was a sexy pink. In short, the woman was gorgeous! “Hey, baby, Ah‟m 

Sheila. What‟s yoah name, sugah?” Her fingers trailed on my left cheek, the nails only 

riding gently on my skin, taking a break when they reached my chin. Her smile enlarged, 

making me worry I‟d step in the ring with a huge erection. 

“Hi, Sheila. I‟m Bill, and you‟re absolutely beautiful!” 

The smile got even bigger. “Yeah, Ah know. Ah‟m Gregory‟s woman, ya 

know?” She pointed in the general direction of the huge, mean looking black guy. 

“Well, until now, I guess.” 

“What do ya mean, darlin‟? Ah‟m Gregory‟s woman, baby, an‟ that‟s that.” 



beautiful. 

“Not for much longer, Sheila. Not for too much longer.” 

“Why ya sayin‟ that, baby?” Her eyes grew even bigger and all that much more 

“Because I‟m gonna go whip his ass, and then I‟m gonna want to fuck a really 

beautiful woman.” I looked her up and down. “You‟ll easily do, honey.” 

She laughed happily. “Ya say yoah gonna fuck me when yoah done?” Her finger 

turned and the tip landed between her breasts in that low cut top. “Me? Ya think yoah 

gonna fuck me, baby? Why ya sayin‟ all that trash t‟ me?” 

“Because, sugar, I also eat pussy, and I want to fuck you. So, when I beat that 

bastard‟s ass, you gonna get naked for me?” 

Sheila burst into laughter, but pointed at me when she started walking away to 

rejoin Gregory. “Ah‟ll tell ya what, baby. If‟n ya do beat Gregory, an‟ ya do eat pussy, 

Ah think Ah jes‟ might take ya up on yoah kind offah!!” 

The next part wasn‟t thought out, but it fit in perfectly with my plan. Sheila had 

given me the beginning of an erection, so I moved it around with my right glove to avoid 

looking like an idiot. When I turned around, I saw Gregory was now staring at me with 

murder in his eye. He was positive, I could see, what Sheila and I were joking about 

actually came to be as fact. It pissed him off and I hadn‟t even said a word to him so far. 

He glared at me while we were given our instructions by the ref, then stood facing 

me after we were supposed to touch gloves, a ritual we skipped. “Ah‟m gon‟ kill yoah 

mothahfuckin‟ white ass fo‟ talkin‟ all that shit t‟ mah woman! 

“You think so, asshole?” I laughed at him. “Just because she‟s leaving you for 

me, knowing I‟ve got a bigger dick than you do, you think you have the balls to kill me? 



Shit, motherfucker, I was gonna go easy on your ugly ass, but I think now I probably 

oughta just fuck you up bad.” 

“Yoah gonna see, mothuhfuckah! Jes‟ ya‟ll fuckin‟ wait!” 

When he came back after the bell started the round, it was even easier than I dared 

hope. This guy was so mad all he could think about was killing me. If he‟d ever landed 

one of those punches, he might‟ve even gotten his wish, but I stayed calm and avoided 

almost everything he threw. What I couldn‟t dodge, I took on the shoulders. Each punch 

hurt, but you have to expect some pain or you shouldn‟t be in the ring. 

I made things worse, on purpose. Every time I hit him I yelled, “I got him again, 

Sheila. You‟re gonna be all mine, baby!” My words put him into a boiling rage, so hot 

he couldn‟t even think straight. All that guy wanted was to beat me to death. 

He wasted time in his corner attempting to draw Sheila close enough to talk to 

her, but she already seemed unhappy. I was making her guy look bad. Very bad. I later 

learned he was the undefeated local hero until Bill Cady showed up. 

In the fourth round, just after we started, Gregory lost it. I yelled over to Sheila, 

“Goddamn, baby, I‟m really gonna love playin‟ with those sexy tits!” 

That put him over the edge. He was throwing haymakers as he approached. I'd 

bet at least four were thrown just to show me his arms could keep moving. When he 

drew near enough I knew I‟d be in range for his next punch, I let it whoosh by, then 

attacked. 

I threw the most powerful right cross I could manage and hit Gregory right on the 

chin. His feet made it almost another yard in my direction, but his torso went a yard the 

other way. The ratios were perfect, since he ended up flat on his back. 



I sneered at him and went to a neutral corner. When the ref counted him out, I 

stepped to the ropes and looked down at Sheila. “I told you I was gonna fuck you, baby. 

Meet me over by the locker room in a few minutes.” 

pussy, huh?” 

She looked at me a moment, then gave a hearty laugh. “Yoah sure ya like t‟ eat 

“I‟m gonna show you, baby. Just be ready.” 

“Oh, Ah‟ll be ready, sugah, an‟ theah‟s some things Ah‟m gonna do fo‟ ya‟ll, 

kinda like what yoah gonna do fo‟ Sheila.” It turned out later, I wasn‟t lying to her, and 

Sheila damned sure wasn‟t lying to me, either. Like that line from the Four Seasons‟ 

song, “Oh, what a night!” 

Oh, and she confirmed something I said as an attempt to piss Gregory off, but 

never suspected to learn was true. Sheila confirmed I was bigger than Gregory. 

### 

As far as the pool hustling, there isn‟t a lot to tell you, beyond the last time I did 

it, which was also my last trip down south, effectively ending my fledgling career as a 

boxer, still undefeated. 

I was in a little bar a few miles outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. My primary 

reason for stopping was to get a burger. It was late afternoon and I was hungry. I was 

also considering heading back to Michigan. This trip left me kinda tired, and I knew 

things were coming to a head with TJ. The little things she said told me she was pretty 

interested in discussing marriage. With me. To me. 

Since I‟d never done it before, gotten married, I was only nervous and a bit 

concerned over the idea. Of course, if I‟d known then what I know now, I‟d‟ve been 



terrified. I honestly didn‟t realize our society had gotten to the point where a “first 

marriage” also meant a “training marriage”. If I‟d been wise enough to see it, I‟d‟ve 

introduced TJ as “my first wife” the day of the wedding, and after. If-dog-rabbit. 

So, with my thoughts on TJ and what might happen later between us, I walked 

into this little bar on the side of the road. It was, as I recall, part of a “town” with less 

than a dozen businesses. A bump in the road, but those kind of places often have the best 

food, as long as you‟re not after anything fancy. 

It reminded me of a place called The Airport Bar in Lansing. The way it was 

built, I almost felt it was the same place, and I drank often at the Airport. When I came 

through the door I saw a dining room, of sorts, off to my right. Nobody was eating, but 

the small two person tables were half filled with beer drinkers. The far side of that room, 

away from the door, had four pool tables and I think two were being used by a few guys. 

To my left was a longer area, only half as wide, with the kitchen taking up the 

room behind it. The part out front, where I could see it, was basically the standard bar 

arrangement. A big mirror on the wall, with dozens of liquors and liqueurs on the shelves 

in front. A long wooden bar with brown imitation leather padding all along the edge. 

Round barstools in the same pretend leather lining the bar back to the far wall, with more 

two person tables at the front wall, on my left. 

I ordered a cheeseburg, a Coke, and onion rings. As soon as I said it, I was glad 

I‟d stopped. Just using those words made me even hungrier, and the whole damned idea 

sounded better and better to me. I got a draft beer, since most places didn‟t carry many 

beers I knew from back home, and drank it while my food was being prepared. 

When the barkeep set the basket in front of me, I finished what was left of the 



beer and dug into my food. Hell, it was better than I hoped, so my outlook was picking 

up. 

There was only one woman in the place who even partially interested me, and I 

figured I‟d need maybe three more beers before she‟d be good looking enough to hit on 

her, so I just relaxed. Then a tall, skinny kid, early twenties with dark hair hanging past 

his shoulders and a fuzzy moustache on his lip, came out of the other room. He had a 

pool cue in his hands as he ordered a beer. 

He looked at me and we both nodded in a friendly manner. I figured he‟d head 

back to his game when his beer showed up, but I was wrong. Instead, he faced me and 

asked a question. “Ya‟ll shoot pool, buddy?” 

I nodded. “A little. Why? You lookin‟ for a game?” 

He shook his head. “Fuck, no. Ah‟m tryin‟ t‟ find somebody c‟n beat that mealy 

mouthed mothuhfuckah Ah been shootin‟ agin. Som‟bitch‟s whippin‟ mah young ass 

somethin‟ terrible.” He ran his eyes up and down me. “Ya‟ll any damn good with a pool 

stick?” 

After a swig of beer I said, “I do okay.” 

“Think ya‟ll c‟n beat that mothuhfuckah?” 

My eyebrows came up. “Can‟t say. I haven‟t seen him shoot.” 

He pulled out a ten and handed it to me. “Heah. Go back in theah an‟ shoot that 

mothuhfuckah a game fer ten. Beat „is fuckin‟ ass, will ya, so‟s he gets on outa heah? 

Som‟bitch‟s pissin‟ mah ass off.” 

I stood and finished my beer. “I‟ll do my best. Fifty-fifty?” 

He shrugged. “Sounds okay. Go fuck „im up, okay?” 



“What if he wants a second game? You still backin‟ me?” 

He smiled lazily. “Only if‟n ya‟ll wins the first one.” 

I shook his hand. “You‟ve got a deal.” 

Heading into the room with all the tables, I picked out the guy he was after right 

away. Shit, the guy‟s a hustler. I could tell it by the forced nonchalance, the way he tried 

to act disinterested, and the way he closely watched the players at the next table. He was 

looking for some action. 

I decided to let him chase me. Instead of directing a question at him, I asked in 

general, “Anybody know where I can find the john?” Although I saw it across the room, 

that was the closest thing I could come up with on short notice. 

One of the guys playing at the other table laughed and pointed to it. “Good thing 

that mothuhfuckah don‟ bite, ya know? Ya‟ll woulda lost a whole fuckin‟ hand to it, er 

somethin‟.” 

I mumbled thanks and went inside to take a leak. When I came back out I headed 

toward the other part, where I‟d been sitting before. The hustler asked me, “You play 

pool, mister?” 

I acted surprised, but stopped. “Me? Uh, yeah. Sometimes. I guess.” 

“Wanna shoot a game?” 

I looked at my watch and pretended to think it over. “No money, right?” 

He sized me up again, then nodded, so I put in the quarter, (that‟s all it took back 

in the olden days), and got the balls down. I gave him an amateur rack, with all the balls 

tight as hell. If I was racking for money, I‟d‟ve left „em so loose you‟d think you could 

possibly walk between some of the balls. 



When you make the rack tight, it allows the balls to carry the energy of the cue 

ball and send it out to the other balls. When they‟re loose, the shooter doing the break 

loses a great deal of power. 

He wasn‟t bad. He made a ball on the break, then got two more before I saw him 

miss on purpose. I made a couple and it went on like that until only the eight ball was 

left. Of course, as I suspected, he sank it and scratched on that shot. He did it on 

purpose, again, but I doubted anyone not working the tables would‟ve caught it. As I 

said, he wasn‟t bad. 

Since I‟d only seen what he wanted me to see, I didn‟t know how good he was, 

but I was reasonably comfortable I could beat him. I caught it when he waited for me to 

suggest playing for money, but I said nothing. In a moment he suggested we play again, 

and I made sure it was also for free before I agreed to play him. The game was a 

reenactment of the first one, but I beat him with him still having one ball on the table 

because I purposely shot good enough to have it come out that way. 

It‟s hard to hustle a guy who honestly can‟t shoot, unless he‟s drunk, since a guy 

who‟s no good doesn‟t get embarrassed when everyone sees it happen. Hell, they already 

knew he wasn‟t any good, so there‟s no motivation. 

He asked if I wanted to make it interesting by playing for money. I told him no, 

that I didn‟t really have twenty bucks to lose. When he asked why I used that amount, I 

said I thought that‟s what all games were played for, adding some asshole took me for a 

hundred bucks in five lousy games last month in Knoxville. 

He understood, and was willing to play for only ten, if I wanted. I let him work 



on me a couple minutes before I gave in. I think he honestly intended to let me win a 

close game, so I purposely beat him by three balls, but made it look as if I was just lucky. 

He paid up, then wanted to go double or nothing. He may have even meant it, 

wanting to get even quickly. If so, he was underfunded for what he was doing. He 

should‟ve had at least a couple hundred on him, although most of it should be in a back 

pocket, only to be used if needed. 

I refused, acting scared, so we played again for ten. I beat him by two balls. 

The third game was for ten, and I almost lost it. He missed on the eight when I 

still had one ball left, but my ball was near a pocket and the eight ball was dead meat, so I 

won. I let him talk me into twenty for the fourth game, and beat him by only a ball. That 

was intentional. Now he was out fifty bucks and wasn‟t happy about it. Not at all. He 

was real insistent on double or nothing, but I wouldn‟t go past twenty, so he racked „em 

up again. 

When I beat him again, it was close. I wanted it that way, but I intended to beat 

him by one ball. However, he made a lucky shot I really think was successful only for 

that reason, then barely missed on the eight. He left it pretty close to the side pocket, so I 

cut it in and collected again. 

Although I had my own money, it was all in my back pocket by the time I left the 

restroom. So, I started with ten bucks from my sponsor and I now had $80.00, including 

that first ten bucks. 

The hustler insisted on playing for fifty, telling me I already had $70.00 of his 

money, so I let him push me into saying yes. He‟d already loosened up his racks, so I 

made nothing on the break. Then, when he shot his second ball, the cue ball went where 



he wasn‟t expecting it and sunk the eight. He‟d now blown another fifty bucks and I 

could see he was both worried and a little bit pissed off. However, he didn‟t seem to 

have any idea how good I was, beyond what I‟d already shown him. 

He pushed for a double up, but I held it at fifty. Annoyed, getting more pissed by 

the minute, he racked the balls. Even though it was a lot of money, my plan was to let 

him win, then talk me into shooting for a hundred bucks. I‟d beat him twice at that rate, 

then cash in and leave. It would be a tidy profit for me and my sponsor. 

The best laid plans of mice and men 

He shot a combination in the corner, two of his balls with one of mine in between 

them. He made the shot, but my ball came off the rail, crossed the table, and sunk the 

eight. 

His face made me wonder if he was gonna pull a gun on me. The dude was mad 

as hell. Now he nearly demanded I shoot for a hundred, so I agreed. I wasn‟t planning 

now to let him win, but he almost did. He absolutely stopped fucking around with me 

and shot the best game he could. 

The hustler got three balls, then had no shot because my seven balls were 

blocking the four he had left. I shot four, was preparing to run out all seven, then missed 

a corner shot by the fabled silly millimeter. He ran out his three and lined up on the 

eight. That silly millimeter came back into play against him. His ball looked like it was 

going in the far corner, but it nipped the edge and sat there on the brink of the pocket. 

I was practically afraid to take my eyes off him by now. The man had reason to 

shoot me, almost, and he was pissed. At me, at himself, at the game, at the table, and 

pretty much everyone south and east of Oregon. 



by then. 

I ran my three, since there was nothing in the way, and the eight was duck soup 

Surprisingly, he was the one who called it off. He paid me and left, shaking his 

head in disgust. 

retirement. 

or what?” 

I was smiling, wondering if I hadn‟t just put a hustler manqué into a forced 

My sponsor showed up with a big grin. “Damn, dude, ya‟ll some kind o‟ hustler, 

“Naw,” I told him, shaking my head, “I just got lucky. Here, this is your cut.” I 

handed him ninety dollars, the 50% we agreed on at the start. 

He shook his head, then gave me a baffled look. “This heah ain‟t right.” 

“Yeah, sure it is.” I went back over the history of it, showing him how I got the 

total to $180.00, and kept half, $90.00 for me and the same for him. 

He saw it differently. He insisted the money backing each game was his, meaning 

only $90.00 was “winnings”, and I was only entitled to forty-five bucks. 

In case he hadn‟t heard it, I explained how Mom didn‟t raise any foolish children 

until she got to that David thing, but he started getting angry. Then he accused me of 

trying to cheat him. 

I saw the whole thing getting out of line, way out of line, and was tempted to just 

shove all the money at him and tell him to fuck off. All I was out so far was the price of 

my meal and a couple beers, maybe five or six bucks. Then the principle of the damned 

thing struck me and I decided not to give in. Hell, for all I knew, he was only pretending 

to be stupid so he could screw me out of half my money. 



“Well, pal, I‟m sorry you can‟t understand it, but that‟s what we agreed on, and 

that‟s what‟s fair, so I‟m not giving you any more money.” I looked at him to see how 

he‟d react and started to walk past him. It was time for Bill to blow this fuckin‟ pop 

stand, and in a big assed hurry. 

Before things could get ugly. 

His palm landed on my chest and he pushed me back with a surprising amount of 

strength. “Ah say ya‟ll‟re gonna gimme the rest o‟ mah money, an‟ Ah ain‟t playin‟ wit‟ 

ya‟ll, mothuhfuckah. Not a goddamned little fuckin‟ bit.” 

Shit! Things are already getting ugly! “Really? That‟s how you see it, huh?” 

I‟d already made up my mind. This was getting too damned serious. I‟d be best 

served by knocking this asshole out with a super punch and then hauling some serious 

ass. Yet, before I could do anything, he spoke in a loud voice. “Buzz? Wilbur? Tony? 

Ya‟ll wanna step in heah foah a sec?” 

They did, and each one was bigger than my sponsor. 

Okay, this is now completely out of hand, I decided, and things are really lookin‟ 

bad for Fred and Millie‟s oldest boy! I was still wondering what to do when the change 

happened. It was practically automatic. 

In a flash, I was standing back near the restroom door watching George as he 

faced the sponsor. George didn‟t look a damned bit worried, and I was glad as could be. 

This whole mess had skyrocketed way above my pay grade before I even knew what was 

going on. However, if George wasn‟t even a bit rattled, I was fine with it. Shit, I‟ll let 

George do it, ya know? George pointed to the sponsor‟s backup crew. “You think that‟s 

fair, do ya? Four against one? That‟s okay with you?” 



The sponsor chuckled, happy to be in total control of the situation. “Ah‟d say it 

comes out pretty decent. Shit, all ya‟ll got‟s t‟ do is gimme mah money an‟ ya‟ll c‟n jes‟ 

haul ass outa heah.” 

I was watching George, wishing I‟d had time to step out and get another batch of 

those onion rings and a Coke. They were pretty damned good, but all my history with 

George told me I wouldn‟t even get served before he had everything all wrapped up. So, 

with everyone who mattered between me and the spot where I‟d place my order, I just 

stood and watched. 

George pointed at the three guys. “Uh-huh. And, again, you think that‟s fair? 

Having all those assholes as backup against only me?” 

“Ah ain‟t so sure Ah‟d be a pissin‟ them theah dudes off if Ah was ya‟ll, but Ah 

still think it‟s fair. Yeah, boy, Ah do.” He turned, the smile already in place, and faced 

his crew. “Ya‟ll think Ah‟m bein‟ fair wi‟ this heah Yankee?” 

Before anyone could answer, George took action. “Then this will probably be 

okay by your rules, too, motherfucker!” Faster than the eye can blink, he had our .32 in 

his hand with the barrel rammed hard against the sponsor‟s right temple and his left arm 

in a chokehold on the guy‟s throat. “Think any of these motherfuckers is willing to get 

shot for you, asshole?” He ground the barrel against skin already starting to bleed a little. 

“Of course, you won‟t see me shoot your buddies, you cocksucker, because you‟re gonna 

be dead before I even aim at any of them.” George laughed happily. “Seem fair to you, 

motherfucker? Hmmmm?” 

The sponsor couldn‟t even talk, he was so scared. 

George looked at the three guys. “By the time I reach three, unless every one of 



you cocksuckers is on his belly on the floor, I‟m gonna shoot this motherfucker, then start 

putting holes in you three pricks. One ” 

He never got to two. They all assumed the position he ordered. 

George gave another laugh and, still jamming the gun against the asshole‟s 

temple, used his other hand to take back the other ninety bucks. “That‟s for trying to 

cheat me, you prick. Now, nice and easy, we‟re gonna head out to my car. You hearing 

me, motherfucker?” 

“Yeah, boy! Ah heah ya‟ll!” 

George‟s fist still held the other money as he forced the sponsor out the door and 

over to our Chevy. When the front door to the bar opened, George shoved the sponsor 

hard, knocking him to the ground, and aimed the .32 at the three guys on their way out to 

help, if possible. 

asshole?” 

All three spun and raced back inside. 

George fished the sponsor‟s keys from a pants pocket. “Which one‟s your car, 

The guy pointed to a Ford pickup, which matched the keys in George‟s hand. 

“What‟re your buddies driving?” He jammed the barrel against the torn spot on 

the guy‟s temple to add an exclamation point. 

The sponsor pointed to a GTO and a Chevy pickup. 

George left him on the ground and walked the few feet to each vehicle, where he 

put a bullet in one front tire of each. Then he came back to the sponsor. “Just think 

about it, asshole. If you‟d been fair with me, you‟d now have ninety bucks in your 

pocket, and I wouldn‟t be doing this!” 



The savage kick George exploded against his ribs made the sponsor scream in 

pain, so George spat on him as he and I got into the Chevy. I started it up while George 

went back to wherever he hides inside me. 

Satisfied the matter was finally settled, I put the Chevy in gear and aimed it 

toward Michigan. 



EPILOGUE 

Everything written in my story actually happened. The characters are people I 

know, or knew, but one of the names was changed to protect the character, and the writer, 

if needed. When I look back over the life I led, I‟m honestly surprised to still be alive 

today. 

You‟ll find out what happened in my adult years in the next section of this saga, 

“The Marital Years”. I truly hope you‟ve enjoyed learning what happened so far. I know 

you‟ve enjoyed reading it much more than I enjoyed living it, but I guess that‟s how it‟s 

supposed to be. God brought me back for some reason, and I believe these books are that 

reason. That, and taking care of the homeless, a job that truly needs doing. 

Some people say this is only my autobiography with quite a few imaginary action 

scenes tossed in to make it work as a drunk‟s life story. 

Some people say I used myself as a model for the main character and wrote a 

fictitious story from my imagination. 

Some people just say it‟s a damned good book and don‟t care about anything else. 

Some people say, after a start like this, being anything other than an alcoholic 

would be possible. 

Some people are right. 

Bill Cady 

That poem, Stackely, is below if you‟re interested in reading it. 



STACKELY 

I‟m gonna tell ya a story ya‟ll oughta know, 

like it came t‟ me a long time ago. 

You‟ll hear it exactly as it came to me, 

from a mean motherfucker they all called „Stackely‟. 

Ol‟ Stack says, Bill … 

It was back in ‟32, when times was hard, 

I packed twin .45s an‟ a marked deck of cards, 

wore a pencil-striped suit 'n' a slouched down hat, 

drove me an ol' "Model T" Ford, --- I ain't paid fuck on that. 

Well, I swam through the water 'n' I crawled through the mud 

'til I came to this place they called "The Bucket o' Blood". 

I was gettin' a little hungry 

so I ordered me sumpin' ta eat 

'n' this sleazy-assed motherfuckin' bartender 

brought me a muddy glass o' water 'n' a stale piece o' meat! 

Disgustedly, I said, "Look here, motherfucker, 

don't you know who I am"? 

An' he said, "No, 'n' frankly, son, 

I don't believe I give a good goddamn". 

So, I said, "Why, I came here from across the sea 'n' 

I'm that mean motherfucker they all call Stackely". 

Then it comes ta this dumb son-of-a-bitch, 'n' he says, 

"Oh, yeah, 'Stack', believe I heard o' you from 'cross the way; 

but, it seems t‟ me I kick your kinda ass 

each 'n' every fuckin' day"! 

Well, people, when I realized 

what the motherfucker'd said, 

I put a few .45 slugs 

in his fuckin' forehead! 

'Long about then, this bitch runs in, yellin', 

"Bartender, bartender, bartender --- please"!!! 

'N' I said, "Why, he's b'hind the counter, Baby, 

with his mind "at ease". 

"What??? Who shot this good man?? 

Why, I cain't believe he's dead"!!! 



"N' I says, "Sister, count the bullet holes 

in the motherfucker's head"!! 

Then this other bitch comes up, lookin' like a witch, 

'n' says, " 'Stack', you ain't nothin' but a son-of-a-bitch"!! 

"You may think you're 'bad', 'Stack', 

but you won't be 'round when Billy Lyons gets back"! 

So I sez to her, "Shit, fuck you, bitch, 

I been here from time to come 'n' time to pass 

'n' I'll personally 'do my number' 

on Billy Lyons' ass"!! 

Then, this other babe, she comes up 

'n' she says with a smile, 

"'Stack', you ol' cuntsucker, 

bet you ain't had none in quite a long while". 

With a big, shit-eatin' grin on my face, 

I sez, "Really, baby"! 

So, we went upstairs 'n' 'ol' Stack' started to hustle, 

I had in twelve inches 'fore she ever moved a muscle. 

We fucked on the table 'n' we fucked on the floor, 

we fucked 'til 'ol' Stack' couldn‟t make it straight anymore. 

And then, when it was so quiet 

you could hear the drop of a pin, 

was the time 

that mean motherfuckin' Billy Lyons walked in!! 

He tells me, "You're gonna pay for that crack, 'Stack', 

'cause I'm gonna leave ya dead, layin' flat on your back"! 

I says, "Well, Billy Lyons, 

you know that's been tried, 

but you cain't talk ta none o' them motherfuckers, 

'cause all of 'em died"!! 

A second or so later, out went the lights, 

but I already had Billy lined up in my sights, 

when the lights came back on, Billy lay at rest, 

twin forty-fives engraved in his chest! 

My girl started shoutin' "Call the law, call the law"!! 

That's when I shot the bitch in the jaw. 



A man said, "I'm goin' for the sheriff, 'Stack'", 

so I shot the motherfucker in the middle o' the back! 

Well, here it was the next mornin', long 'bout quarter after ten, 

I was sittin' in a courtroom with ten other men. 

Billy's lawyer stood up 'n' he started to talk, 

I said, "Sit down, you silly cocksucker, 

my time cain't be bought"!! 

Then my Momma jumped up 'n' she started to scream, 

I told her, "Take it easy, Momma, it ain't but a bad dream". 

'N' then Billy's sister stood up, 

'n' she started to shout; 

I said "Put yer pussy down, slut, 

you don't know what it's all about"! 

That's when the Judge --- he says, "Stackely, 

I don't know where you think you rate, 

but, boy, I'm here t‟ GUARANTEE --- 

ninety-nine years oughta put yer young ass straight"!! 

But I said, "Shit, fuck you judge, 

ninety-nine years, that ain't no time! 

I got a brother in Sing Sing doin' a hunnert 'n' ninety-nine, 

'n' I think my Pappy's in Alcatraz doin' 'bout twice that time. 

I dropped dejected hands to my pockets, 'n' much to my surprise, 

my eager fingers encircled a pair o' twin forty-fives, 

'n' I put myself a bullet 

'tween that fuckin' judge's eyes!!! 

Right then 'n' there, I shot my way out the courthouse door, 

I shot 'til I just couldn't shoot no more. 

Then, thinkin' my shootin' was mighty neat, 

I bowed to the people standin' there on the street, 

'n' they was lined up as far as the eye could see 

just to get a look at that mean fuckin' Stackely!!! 

'Long about then I met a man named "Killer Brown", 

just about the baddest motherfucker walkin' that side o' town. 

Well, we walked uptown (this was me 'n' "Killer"), 

'n' we walked downtown, 'til we came to this place called "Sin", 

'n' this was where all o' the 



meanest motherfuckers was supposed to have been. 

I just busted on through the doorway, yellin', 

"I'm so fuckin' happy I could just shout; 

right here, 'n' now, I wanna see ten - twenty 

o' you motherfuckers try to throw my young ass out"!!! 

"People, I was born in a barrel o' knives, 

I was hit over the head by twin forty-fives, 

I fucked a she rattlesnake, 

the slut rolled over 'n' died, 

I fucked me a she gorilla, 

the bitch turned over 'n' sighed, 

I fell off the Empire State buildin' 

landed smack on my fuckin' head, 

'n' I just jumped up quick 'n' did 'the bone jack', Jim, 

T‟ PROVE I WASN'T DEAD"!! 

A second or so later, history repeats itself, 

again, out go them goddamned lights!! 

But, I already had every motherfucker there at the bar 

lined up in my sights. 

When them lights came back on, at least "Killer" knew 

I meant every fuckin' word I said, 

'cause each motherfucker standin' there at the bar 

had a big fuckin' hole in his head!! 

'N' it's 'long 'bout now that I'd like to propose a toast, 

to that dick kickin, asshole stompin', pussy-eatin' 

son-of-a-bitch that we all call "Stackely", 

did you know that man drinks "Stroh's"?

BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

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