The Weapon
The river house was never really my home; it was where my brother, sister and I went on weekends to see our Dad, Stepmom, several ill-kept horses and ponies and a vagabond-ish assortment of dogs and cats. There was nearly always some sort of coming and going, the wayward cousin that temporarily got thrown out of his mother’s house; Johnny-come-lately wanna be hippies, preaching the gospel of Ram Daas, Hinduism and the next ashram they’re going to crash; a Mexican migrant worker finding his way to Chicago, seeking out his wife before she gives birth to her child; homosexuals, tramps, and general fugitives. I loved that place. It was misfit haven.
I understand why most people might not think it was the proper environment for a ten, seven and five-year-old. The combination of horses, gypsies, loud music and the general lack of rules was the perfect weekend environment for a Catholic school boy, at least in my mind. I can’t remember having any rules while we were there. You wanted to climb on the roof of the house and shoot bottle rockets into the woods and maybe at a dog, no problem. Felt like getting on a horse and riding wildly bareback, shooting cousins and friends with pellet guns, no problem. There was always an adult nearby - well, at least a mile or so away - with a nearly steady hand, rubbing alcohol, and a knife, willing to dislodge and wiggle that pellet out from under your skin. Every Monday back at Saint Cecilia’s while other kids where talking about the Big Red Machine, their sister’s confirmation and how much money she took in, or a trip to the zoo, I was trying to recreate the album cover of Fragile or impersonating Carlin’s famous Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV: Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker and Tits. Of course, I generally got ratted out by one of the girls and, of course, I generally got whacked several times and mercilessly by Sister Louise and, of course, by fifth grade my desk was in the closet for the entire year. Not an issue as far as I was concerned - it allowed me more time to come up with my future band’s name and the artwork for our premiere album cover.
Stress was rarely an issue on those weekends, at least when I was at the river house. Sunday mornings before pickup, on the other hand, were extremely stressful. It always started with Mass, back home, a quick change into our “grubbies”, breakfast and the wait. I learned patience those Sunday mornings, waiting for my dad to pull up in that shit green 68 Thunderbird. I’d sit in my step dad’s sterile living room or kneel on the back of the couch peering through the curtain, trying to distract myself from the possibility of a no show - the rationalization skills of a ten-year-old are uncanny. Generally he was always there, generally always late. Occasionally though, the phone would ring, I’d hear my mother’s voice, apathetic at first then growing into an angry whisper. She’d mutter something like “Typical” or whatever, hang up the phone, walk into the living room and tell us to go outside and play, we’re not going to dad’s, something came up.
If I was not outside at the river house, I could probably be found in the living room. The ceiling was so low it was repressive and stifling, I always felt like I had to walk sort of hunched over. There was nowhere else to go; the living room was fairly big with a step at the back leading down to the unheated kitchen. The house was decorated in what you might call “Pier One-Highway Department-Head Shop Chic.” On a cinderblock and wood shelf unit sat the hi-fi, reel-to-reel, a giant oversized chrome jack; the love is… couple book ends holding up the Lord of the Rings, Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Little Prince. (I don’t get the “the love is…couple book ends” line. Am I missing something?) Walls were covered with a few Bill Graham presents posters, traffic signs and a giant Jesus Christ Superstar Painting hanging over the couch, complete with a bird shit streak down the side. The other furniture included a rattan hanging chair, oversized bean bag, a giant cow skin pillow which could accommodate six heads for sleep overs, and an immense Mexican chess board.
The piece de resistance was something called the Big Jim. The Big Jim had no function, use or role. It was a box, covered in blue shag carpet that rose about eighteen inches off the ground or so. An electric cord came out of the side of the box which would plug into a wall socket and nothing would happen. Supposedly it was purchased somewhere in Hollywood out of a store front window for short money. It rested in the middle of the room to be sat on, walked around or over. At parties people would crowd onto it and dance wildly to Three Dog Night’s “The Show Must Go On.” or anything by Cat Stevens or Neil Diamond. It also served as a stage where every long hair with a guitar would sit around and have a jam session of “Take Me Home Country Road.”; “A Train They Call the City of New Orleans” or “Here Comes the Sun.” Most of them were likely pretty good musicians but they we’re either too stoned and spent too much time tuning up, forgetting and fighting over lyrics, keys, harmony and chords, or bickering about what song to play next. It almost always ended in feelings getting hurt and some burn-out sulking in the corner or stomping off into the woods, only to get lost until morning.
In that living room on one of the upper planks of the make shift cinder block and wood shelf, sat a pipe that I don’t think I was supposed to know about. I heard it quietly referred to as the weapon, it’d show up in different places of the house, just out of reach. I’d hear an older cousin or family friend say, “Should we use the weapon?” Initially my father would say it was much too dangerous and shouldn’t be handled by people with such limited experience; with a bit of what sounded like good hearted badgering, he eventually gave in, got the weapon and everyone would disappear for a spell. Obviously, no one knew I was within ear shot or eaves dropping; if they had they wouldn’t have been talking about the weapon in such a flippant manner. My imagination ran wild. What sort of weapon was the weapon? Was it a gun, a small cannon? I only had a few glimpses of it and it looked like the pipe from under a sink to me. Clearly it had some secret power. I envisioned some Viet Nam Vet buddy bringing it back to my dad for safe keeping, only to be used in a state of extreme national emergency. I thought maybe it had a trancelike capability that placed its victims into a coma only to awaken after they were preprogramed. The weapon confused and concerned me - if it was so powerful, why wasn’t it locked up? Why was it left on high shelves, behind cabinet doors, on top of window and door jams? My only hope was that at some point in my life I’d reach an age and level of maturity that would allow me entrance into the secret society of the weapon.
One early December day, I was the only one of my siblings that wanted to go to my Dad’s for the weekend, so my mother did a righteous thing and drove me the forty-five minutes out to the river house one dark Saturday night. It was always a bumpy ride down that road, dark and a little bit spooky. My step dad wouldn’t drive down it, he’d make me get out and walk the mile down the road because it was so bad for his shocks. My mom always did the right thing though and took me to the door. I opened the door to the house and the only light being thrown was from several candles plugging up and dripping down empty bottles of Mateus. Pink Floyd’s “One of These Days” was playing, light and soft voices where coming from the kitchen, incense permeated the air and big Jim sat there quietly in the middle of the room. The air was a bit repressive with incense and smoke hanging in blue gray swirls. It was heady. Rather than announce myself, I decided to cop a squat on the couch. I sat there, eyes closed, breathing in the incense and the music, listening to the muffled voices of my father and his friends coming from the kitchen. I couldn’t distinguish anyone else’s voice; it was just nice, like the soft drone of a bee.
Slowly I opened my eyes to take in the rest of the room and reassure myself of my surroundings. After a slow scan of the room, I looked down on the coffee table, and amongst the collection of ashtrays, cigarette packs, carved Indian wooden boxes and the latest edition of Mother Earth’s News, there it sat, its shiny surface reflecting the flickering candle light. It sparkled at me, as if to say hi. The weapon.
I lost my breath for a second - what sort of infraction was this? Who was so careless as to leave the weapon in such a vulnerable location?! Someone certainly didn’t understand its value. I was sure when my dad found out he would be livid, out of his head with anger. I knew I should run into the kitchen and tell my dad the weapon was out of place, within reach… of anyone. Even me. I could pick it up… examine it, figure out its mysteries. I closely bent over it to get a better look. It certainly looked like a pipe - I thought it was an elbow joint, but it was the piping apparatus found underneath a bathroom or kitchen sink. Later I learned that’s called a P-trap. Odd, it didn’t look like a “P.” It had smooth, heavy-looking, white tape around the long end and it was slightly discolored with a burnt copper-ish look around the short end. I slowly picked it up from the short end. Ouch, it was hot! I dropped it and it clattered on the glass topped coffee table for a second. I was sweating and panicked, waiting for the people in the other room to come in and catch me, literally red handed. I’d burned myself a little. I didn’t think it’d be hot.
I waited for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, maybe waiting to get caught in the presence of the weapon, waiting to get my nerve to touch it again, waiting for the weapon to tell me what to do. I got tired of waiting so I gently touched the weapon, the long end this time. It was cool. Then the short end. It was cool too. I picked it up, felt its cool metal surface and turned it around in my hands. I lifted one end of the pipe to my eye and looked in, nothing but darkness. Turned it around, took the short end, lifted it to me eye, looked in and got an eyeball full of ashes. I stuck my finger in it; it was plugged up with ash, dust and residue. Strange, must be gun powder. It smelled pungent and grassy.
It would only be a matter of time before I’d be busted holding the weapon, so I decided to face the music on my own terms. I stood up, held the weapon in both hands, deliberately walked across the room to the kitchen door and stepped down. Standing in the shadows for a few minutes, I tried to discern how many people where actually in there to witness my possible embarrassment and humiliation at the hands of my father. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the light and down the step into the kitchen. I held the weapon out in front of me like a prize or trophy.
There were several people sitting around the kitchen table, long haired men and women, smoking butts and drinking canned beer. No one turned to look at me, they missed my entrance. Disappointed I coughed and held the weapon a little higher. Their conversation continued. I coughed a little louder, held the weapon a little higher and screamed, “Dad, one end of your weapon is stopped up!” Everyone turned and looked at me; again, I repeated myself and said in what I thought was a more grown up voice “Dad, your weapon, one end is stopped up.”
There were a couple of chuckles and everyone smiled. Someone said, “Cute kid. You need a minute to handle this Bob?” My dad said yes, took the weapon out of my hands, laid it on the table and told me to sit in the chair. He sat across from me, picked up the weapon and looked at it, set it back down and said, “Well, it seems to be okay.” Then he pointed to the pipe. “You know what this is?”
“It’s a weapon.” I replied.
“What sort of weapon?”
I shrugged and felt ignorant.
Very seriously, he said “I’m going to tell you something and you can’t tell a soul. Not your friends, not your brother or sister, no one. Can you handle that, can you handle this secret?”
I was sweating and nervous, my palms where itchy. I was finally going to find out the secret of the weapon. Finally included into the inner sanctum. Leaning close into my father, hanging on his every word I waited for its mystery.
“Have you ever heard of marijuana?”
I nodded, waiting for more of an explanation.
“This is a pipe I use to smoke marijuana.”
That’s it? A marijuana smoking pipe? Wow, the disappointment - it wasn’t a weapon, it was a pipe. I felt betrayed, crushed, relieved, but mostly I felt scared. Marijuana was bad. Really bad. It made people do bad, crazy things; it made you think hot dogs, talk and walk naked through parks at least that’s what we were told in health class. People who smoked marijuana got arrested and went to jail. I knew this because the nuns and priests had told me. I think I must have been more scared than I ever was in my life. I was afraid for my dad, for losing him to the marijuana. I sat there and cried a little bit and told my dad I didn’t want him to smoke it or go to jail. He held me, patted me and dried my tears. He guaranteed me it wasn’t so bad and that there was no way he was going to jail.
After a couple of minutes, I moved back over to my chair, picked up the weapon, smiled weakly, looked at my dad and said, “So, what’s it feel like?”
